Grimly Fergus turned to peer down the street ahead. The suburb was not large and in the distance, he thought he caught a sudden glimpse of sunlight reflecting on armour. Were those Britannicus’s men? It was impossible to tell. Behind him his men were crouching along the wall, clutching their shields and swords. To his right a column of black smoke was rising into the air, as another building went up in flames. Down an alley he could hear Roman voices shouting to each other. The defenders had not been soldiers, Fergus realised with a shock. They had been civilians defending their homes. Surely, they must have realised that they didn’t stand a chance? What madness had induced them to stay behind and fight?
Moving forwards, Fergus kept to the side of the street as behind him his men followed, their hobnailed boots crunching on the stone paving stones. The resistance seemed to have faded away and suddenly as he came around a corner, he saw that he had reached the harbour. In front of him, drawn up on the muddy river bank, were dozens and dozens of Parthian fishing boats and transports.
“Shit. We made it,” Fergus cursed, with a sudden surprised look.
Chapter Forty – Parthia Capta
The whirring crack and wild kick back from the Roman onagers and ballistae was continuous as the Roman artillery targeted the mighty walls of Ctesiphon. It was morning and Fergus stood waiting patiently at the entrance to the command post occupied by the Third Cyrenaica legion. A week had passed since the capture of the river harbour and the start of the siege of Ctesiphon. During the day in which he and the men of the First cohort had secured the harbour, thousands of legionaries and auxiliaries had poured across the Tigris on the boats which they had dragged from the Royal river. The Parthian capital had however closed its gates on the Romans, refusing to surrender and forcing Trajan to order a siege.
As he stood waiting for the legate to see him Fergus turned his gaze to the Roman siege fortifications that surrounded the mighty city. The legionaries had dug defensive trenches and had lined their front with sharpened wooden stakes and littered the ground outside the main city gates with caltrops, small iron anti-cavalry spikes. And for the past week nothing had come in or out of the besieged metropolis. Fergus sighed wearily as he rubbed his unshaven cheeks. His men and he needed some proper rest but there could be no question of that until Ctesiphon surrendered. The legate of the Third Cyrenaica had assigned the sector covering the Royal road to him and the vexillation from the Fourth legion. His men had spent the last few days manning and strengthening their siege works. The Royal road, the ancient Parthian highway leading from the city of Susa, far to the south-east, via Ctesiphon to Sardis, a distance of some sixteen hundred miles, was now barred.
“He will see you now Sir,” one of the young Tribunes from the Third legion said as he appeared and gestured for Fergus to enter the army tent. Fergus nodded and the legionary guards at the entrance to the command post saluted as he pushed passed them. Inside the large tent a wooden table had been placed in the centre and around the edges were stashed a camp bed and the legate’s personal belongings. The legate of the Third was without his armour and was holding up and reading a scroll of papyrus. Seeing Fergus, he rolled up the scroll and gestured for Fergus to take a seat on a looted Parthian chair.
“Some wine,” the legate said offering Fergus a cup. “We captured a vast supply in Seleucia. It’s not bad either.”
Gratefully Fergus took the cup and sniffed at it. Then he took a sip and sat down on the Parthian chair.
“You wished to see me Sir,” Fergus said in a tired voice clutching his cup.
“Yes,” the legate replied. “How are your men? How is morale? Are they getting the supplies that they need?”
“Morale is good Sir,” Fergus said with a little nod. “Our rations are adequate Sir. No complaints have been brought to my attention.”
“Good, good,” the legate said sounding pleased. “I thought I would take this opportunity to update you on our situation. Trajan is concerned about morale. He has asked all his commanders to report to him on the matter. It’s been a long and hard journey from Doura.”
“Parthian resistance has been light Sir,” Fergus said. “The men do ask me when we shall face them in a proper pitched battle. They are keen to finish this war.” Fergus paused as he gazed at his commanding officer. “Has there been any news on the whereabouts of the king of kings, Osroes?”
“Nothing specific,” the legate shrugged. “We believe that he fled Ctesiphon before the siege began. He probably went east. There is no Parthian field army to speak of within a hundred miles of here. That’s what our scouts and spies report. The Parthians seem to be more concerned with their civil war than with us.”
“But Ctesiphon refuses to surrender,” Fergus said frowning as he took another sip of wine. “Who is command of the city if not the king of kings?”
“Ah yes,” the legate nodded. “That’s a delicate matter. We believe that Prince Sanatruces is the military commander inside the city.”
“Prince Sanatruces,” Fergus exclaimed in a surprised voice. “Are you sure of this?”
“I said we believe he is in command in the city, yes,” the legate replied. “Why? Do you know this man?”
“I have had dealings with him,” Fergus muttered as he looked away.
For a moment the tent fell silent as Fergus considered what had been said.
“Well the facts are these,” the legate said at last. “Such a large, populous city as Ctesiphon will soon run out of food. They are going to starve. Most of the population know it. Trajan believes that Sanatruces and a few supporters want to hold out and continue to resist. However most of the leading citizens want to surrender the city and negotiate with us. It’s a delicate balance. But to swing it towards us Trajan has agreed to announce that a bounty of one hundred thousand denarii has been placed on Sanatruces’s head. Trajan wants Sanatruces captured, dead or alive.” A smirk appeared on the legate’s face. “Let’s see how long our dear prince survives inside Ctesiphon once his compatriots realise the reward they can gain by handing him over to us.”
***
It was night and Fergus was just about to settle down to sleep on his camp bed in his command post, just behind the Roman siege fortifications, when he heard a sudden loud commotion. The noise was coming from outside and amongst the uproar he heard the thud of hooves and the whinny of horses.
“What the hell is going on out there?” he shouted at the legionary guard posted outside his tent. For a moment there was no reply. Then from outside Fergus heard the noise of running boots coming towards his tent. Annoyed he had just risen from his bed and was groping for his cloak and army belt when the flap to his tent was thrown aside and Britannicus appeared in the gloom, holding up a burning oil lamp. The young Tribune was clad in his full armour and his young face looked flushed.
“Sorry Sir,” Britannicus gasped. “But there has been an incident. The night watch report that a small party of horsemen have just broken out from Ctesiphon. They were upon us and away before the men could stop them.”
“What?” Fergus growled with a frown. “Are you saying that a party of Parthian horsemen just rode straight through our defences and no one stopped them?”
“That’s right Sir,” Britannicus replied looking down at the ground with sudden shame.
“Well where the fuck are they now, these horsemen?” Fergus snapped.
“They are gone Sir. Fled into the night heading away down the Royal road. My men tried to stop them, Sir, but they took us by surprise and it was difficult to see in the darkness. I am sorry Sir.”
“Shit,” Fergus hissed as he turned to look away. Then with a weary sigh he slowly pulled on his cloak and fitted his army belt around his waist. Making sure his belt with his sword was firmly secured he reached for his boots and pulled them on.
“Any idea who they were?” Fergus growled unhappily.
“No Sir,” Britannicus replied stiffly. “But we managed to capture one of the riders. His horse impaled itself on one of
the sharpened stakes and threw him to the ground. He’s badly hurt but he is conscious. Shall I take you to him Sir?”
“Yes please,” Fergus said in an annoyed voice as he fastened his cloak to one shoulder and moodily stomped out of his tent and into the night. “And fetch the fucking Greek translator.”
Outside in the night, stretching away into the darkness in a giant semi-circle that vanished away behind the dark walls of Ctesiphon, hundreds of Roman camp fires lit up the darkness. Stomping across the field towards the front line of the Roman field fortifications, Fergus was silent as he gazed at the besieged city beyond. Inside the city and along the walls a few pin pricks of light were visible. As he approached a group of legionaries one of the Roman’s raised a torch and in its flickering light Fergus caught sight of a man lying on the ground. The Parthian was groaning softly in pain and his eyes were closed. Nearby lay the corpse of his dead horse.
“Where is the damned translator?” Fergus bellowed. In the darkness he heard footsteps hurrying towards him.
“I am here. I am here,” the Greek from Doura called out hastily.
Fergus grunted as he caught sight of the translator hurrying towards him. With an annoyed gesture he pointed down at the wounded Parthian.
“Ask him who he is and what he thinks he is doing,” Fergus snapped in an annoyed voice. “Tell him that if he cooperates we shall give him medical attention. If not, he will die where he now lies. Go on, tell him.”
Quickly the Greek translated. On the ground the Parthian groaned and muttered a few words one of which that made Fergus frown.
“What was that?” Fergus growled. “What did he just say?”
“He says Sir,” the translator replied hastily. “He says Sir that he is one of prince Sanatruces’s bodyguards. He says that he has fulfilled his oath and does not fear death now that he has helped the prince escape.”
“Sanatruces,” Fergus bellowed as his eyes widened in shock. “That was prince Sanatruces, nephew to king Osroes whom just rode straight through our lines? We have allowed the prince to escape?”
Amongst the group of legionaries no one answered him.
“Fuck,” Fergus hissed as he spun round on his heels and start to run back to his command post. “Where is the stand-by cavalry squadron? Tell them to prepare to ride out immediately,” Fergus roared as Britannicus and a centurion appeared from the gloom. “Those horsemen included Prince Sanatruces. He’s only the nephew to king Osroes and military commander of Ctesiphon. I am going after him. Where are those fucking cavalrymen?” Fergus roared again.
As the thirty cavalrymen of the night watch, on permanent stand-by, came hurriedly rushing up to his command post Fergus ordered one of the men to dismount. Swiftly he swung himself up onto the horse instead and with a shout he was off charging away in the direction of the Royal road and bellowing at the cavalrymen to follow him.
***
It was dawn. To the east the sun was a red rising ball on the horizon when Fergus finally reined in his tired mount and paused to gaze up the road at the dead horse lying abandoned beside the edge of the gravelly road. In the darkness it had been impossible to see much but he had managed to keep to and follow the Royal road south-eastwards for maybe twenty miles. There had however been no sighting of Prince Sanatruces and his escort. For a moment Fergus gazed at the dead beast in silence and without moving. In the dry, brown, waterless, hilly countryside on both sides of the road he could see a few stunted trees and isolated bushes. Slowly at a walk Fergus urged his horse onwards down the road towards the dead animal. The horse seemed to have slowly bled to death judging by the trail of blood that stained the dusty track. And as he approached Fergus saw the tell-tale wounds left by spiky anti-cavalry caltrops. This horse had been there at the breakout from Ctesiphon.
“Sir look,” one of the Roman cavalry troopers called out as he pointed at something a hundred or so paces from the road. Turning in the direction in which the sharp-eyed cavalryman was pointing Fergus suddenly caught a glint of reflected light. As he peered at the stunted tree he saw two figures lying propped up in the shade of the tree and one of them looked like a woman.
Carefully Fergus nudged his horse off the gravelly track and began to walk his beast towards the two figures and as he drew closer he saw that one of the figures was a young woman of around eighteen or nineteen. Slowly and silently the Roman cavalry troopers surrounded the pair and Fergus dismounted. The woman looked like she had badly twisted her ankle for it was red and horribly swollen. Maybe from falling from the horse Fergus thought. She was gazing up at him in silence but the defiance in her posture was clear and she seemed fearless. The other person, an elderly man of around fifty, with thick Egyptian style dark eye shadow around his eyes was watching Fergus carefully. There was an intelligent gleam in his eyes and he too seemed unafraid. He was unarmed except for a coiled whip tucked into his belt.
“Who are you?” Fergus said speaking in Greek as he took a step towards the girl. The two strangers however did not answer, warily watching Fergus’s every move. “Can you walk on that leg?” Fergus snapped in Greek as he reached out and grasped hold of the girl’s arm. In response she cried out in an outraged, unintelligible language and before Fergus could react the girl bit him in his arm. With a cry of surprise and pain Fergus lashed out and struck the girl in the face knocking her to the ground. Then he stumbled backwards and stared down at the teeth marks left in his skin.
“What the hell did you do that for?” he roared in Latin.
On the ground the girl was nursing her bruised face with her hand as she stared up at Fergus with fierce defiance and hatred. Beside her the elderly man rose to his feet and raised his hands in a sudden calming gesture.
“It is forbidden for you to touch her,” the man said quickly in near perfect Latin. “My name is Volagases. I serve my mistress, daughter of the king of kings Osroes. I demand that you treat the king’s daughter with respect.”
***
It was well into the afternoon when Fergus finally caught sight of the outlying Roman pickets on the Royal road. Directly behind him, her hands tied behind her back and her head blindfolded, escorted on both sides by several cavalrymen, rode the daughter of king Osroes and her loyal servant. He had placed both of them on the same cavalry mount. Fergus had blindfolded both and had tied their hands, but the precautions seemed unnecessary for the prisoners had made no attempt to escape. In fact, both seemed oddly relieved that their ordeal on the Royal road had come to an end. Fergus had interrogated Volagases about the whereabouts of Prince Sanatruces but the old man had been reluctant to talk except to say that they had got separated early on from the prince and his men. It was a disappointing end to the chase, to know that Sanatruces had managed to escape, but the surprise capture of Osroes’s daughter would make up for it to some extent.
As he trotted down the road towards the Roman pickets, Fergus caught sight of the walls of Ctesiphon in the distance. Something seemed different. Closing in on the Roman positions Fergus frowned. The legionaries were standing around with their weapons raised in the air. They seemed to be in a jubilant mood. Then Fergus felt a tingle run down his spine as he heard the cries coming from the Roman camp. The words were being taken up by more and more soldiers.
“Parthia Capta. Parthia Capta. Parthia Capta,” the men were crying out in triumph as they hugged each other in delight.
And suddenly a grin appeared on Fergus’s lips as he realised what must have happened. Ctesiphon had surrendered. The Parthian capital had fallen. The war was over.
Chapter Forty-One – Thoughts of Home
Late summer 116 AD – The Roman occupied city of Seleucia, Roman province of Mesopotamia
The night sky looked amazing. Fergus stood alone on the top of the vast flat roof of the former governor’s palace in the heart of the great city of Seleucia. It was late and in the dark, balmy summer air he could hear music and laughter drifting up from the streets far below. The large fortified residence, which had been tur
ned into the HQ and barracks of the thousand strong Roman garrison, abutted the massive outer walls of the metropolis and was protected on the other side by a canal and several bridges which separated it from the rest of the city. Raising his cup of wine to his lips Fergus took a sip and turned to gaze up at the fantastic carpet of stars that stretched away across the night sky. He had never seen such a clear view of the stars and as he took another sip of wine he marvelled at their beauty.
Several months had passed since the fall of Ctesiphon and the capture of the daughter of the king of kings. Osroes it seemed had in his haste to abandon his capital left behind his throne and one of his daughters. It was the action of a weak and cowardly man Fergus thought with a sigh. But if he and the rest of the Roman army had believed that the war was over they’d all had a rude shock. The Emperor Trajan, overcome by the greatness of his achievements and flattered by the shower of congratulatory messages he’d received following the capture of Ctesiphon, may have decided to take a leisurely pleasure cruise down the Tigris to the port city of Charax in the far south, but the war had continued, and no Parthian peace offering had arrived. Instead, Fergus thought sourly as he took another sip of wine and gazed up at the beautiful twinkling stars, the emperor had seen it fit to place him in charge, as provisional military governor of the city of Seleucia. It was supposed to be a reward for the ruse with which he’d helped capture the metropolis, but it didn’t feel like a reward. Fergus sighed as he turned to look out across the vast city. Trajan had ordered him to garrison and occupy the city with the men from his vexillation from the Fourth legion. He was there as an occupying force. To impose Roman rule and taxation. It had not been a new experience but the fragility of his position, with just a thousand men to control a city of three hundred thousand potentially hostile inhabitants worried him. There was no love lost between his men and the inhabitants of Seleucia and what was worse, his men had little in common with the townsfolk whom spoke a completely different language and whose customs and culture were alien to the legionaries.
Rome and the Conquest of Mesopotamia (Book 8 of the Veteran of Rome Series) Page 38
