Veterans of Rome (Book 9 of the Veteran of Rome Series)

by William Kelso

  “Legionaries drive them back,” Fergus roared.

  With a defiant cry of their own the eight men packed into the narrow passageway began to slowly inch forwards, one foot at a time, driving the enemy back with their shields, whilst maintaining their tight formation. Using their spears to stab and jab at the enemy, the men behind the front rank cried out to each other as if they were participating in a well-practised exercise. Within seconds of the order the rebels broke, turning and fleeing in panic down the alley and back towards the main thoroughfare. The bodies of the slain and the wounded filled the passageway, partially blocking it.

  “Let’s go. Follow me,” Fergus yelled, as the enemy fled. Turning in the opposite direction to the one down which the rebels had retreated, he started down the alley at a run. The clatter of hobnailed boots followed him down the passage. Amongst the buildings and streets around him the city seemed suddenly to have come alive with panicked and wild, confused shouts and screams. The rebels knew where they were now. It would not be long before they attacked again. As he burst out of the alley Fergus nearly slipped on the smooth paving stones. Through a passageway across the street he caught sight of flames leaping up into the night sky. Dashing across the street he stormed into the alley with his men close behind. He could hear them cursing and gasping for breath. Tripping over an obstruction in the dark Fergus went crashing painfully to the ground. Scrambling to his feet he leapt forwards and stumbled onwards until he came to the end of the passage. Raising his fist in the air he silently commanded the men behind him to a halt. Hastily he poked his head around the corner and quickly surveyed the scene. Across the street the canal was ablaze, a roaring wall of petroleum-soaked fire. Shouts rang out along the street running along the canal, but he could not see anyone. Corpses, overturned wagons, dead animals and discarded shields and weapons lay littered about across the road. Hastily Fergus pulled his head back into cover. His chest was heaving from exertion. In the darkness, above the roar of the flames, he could hear his men panting and gasping for breath.

  Exhaling Fergus poked his head around the corner for a second time. Amongst the debris and the blasts of heat coming from the canal he caught sight of the bridge leading to the ex-governor’s palace. The bridge was perhaps fifty yards away along the street. It was nine or ten yards wide, but it was completely blocked and barricaded by overturned wagons, debris, corpses and large stone blocks placed there before the uprising. Amongst the barricades he could see no sign of movement or the presence of Roman troops. But they had to be there, watching. Quickly Fergus withdrew into cover and turned to the men pressed up against the wall behind him.

  “The bridge is blocked by debris,” he called out. “But we should be able to climb over it if the defenders let us. We go on my command. Don’t stop running until you are across.”

  Taking a deep breath Fergus poked his head around the corner for a third time.

  “Roman soldiers,” he screamed at the top of his lungs. “Roman soldiers. We are coming across the bridge. For fucks sake don’t shoot. Roman soldiers! We’re coming across now.”

  “Let’s go, go, go,” Fergus roared as he turned to the men behind him. Then without hesitating he was away, sprinting down the street towards the bridge. As he ran something smacked into the paving stones close by before bouncing away. A moment later a pebble struck his chest armour bouncing away and nearly sending him crashing to the ground. Behind him Dio and the others were racing down the street towards the bridge. The legionaries had discarded their cumbersome shields and were screaming at the top of their voices. Staggering on towards the bridge Fergus grimaced in pain. He had just reached the first barricade when two men came charging towards him clutching knives. They were shouting. With a savage triumphant cry one of them tackled Fergus and the two of them went crashing and tumbling to the ground in a wild, chaotic tangle of arms and legs. Fergus shouted in pain as the sharp blade of a knife sliced into his left arm, but fear lent him desperate strength. Furiously he grappled with his assailant, but his left arm would not work. Suddenly and violently the man’s head jerked backwards and Dio appeared and half decapitated the man. As he staggered to his feet, Fergus caught sight of the second attacker frantically being stabbed to death by two legionaries. The other soldiers were already scrambling and climbing over the barricades that blocked the bridge. There was no time to acknowledge Dio.

  “Roman soldiers, Roman soldiers, we’re coming across the bridge. Don’t shoot,” Fergus roared as he turned, stumbled and started to clamber over a large square stone block. The pain in his left arm was growing worse. The whole arm hung limply at his side. He gasped as he slithered over the obstruction. Rolling onto the ground his head struck something hard and sticky blood started to seep down his cheek. With a savage determined grunt he heaved himself onto his feet and launched himself at a wagon that had been turned onto its side. Close by, the roar of the flaming petroleum in the canal was blasting with him heat and smoke. Around him he could hear his men shouting in frantic voices. It was every man for himself now. As he squeezed past the wagon, in the eerie reddish fire-light, he was suddenly confronted by men in armour, clutching spears and shields. They were legionaries and they seemed ready to stab him.

  “Roman soldiers,” Fergus yelled frantically as he stumbled over a rock and went crashing to the ground.

  Chapter Three - “We’re in a Shit Load of Trouble”

  The Roman officers looked grim and anxious. Some of them showed signs of having sustained battle-wounds, their body-armour stained by blood, grime and dust. They were standing in the room that acted as the garrison’s command post, gazing silently at Fergus. Outside, through the open doors, in the direction of the mansion’s swimming pool the balmy night was far advanced. Dawn was not far off.

  “Thank fuck you are back Sir,” Britannicus said as he gripped Fergus’s shoulder and grinned with relief. “We thought you were dead. We’re in a shit load of trouble. The rebels have us besieged within this palace complex. We’re completely cut off. They have us pinned down in the palace with our backs against the city walls. All routes in and out are barred. If the whole city has risen, then the rebels outnumber us six-hundred to one. It’s a complete-shambles, Sir.”

  Fergus nodded as he stood in the middle of the room. A fresh bandage had been wrapped around his forehead and his left arm was in a sling. He looked exhausted, but this was no time for rest.

  “Talk to me,” he said quickly as he turned his gaze to the mosaic floor.

  “The first sign of trouble Sir,” Britannicus said hastily, “came when the rebels tried to storm the bridges. We had no warning, but the men were alert Sir and we fought them off. I then implemented our contingency plan and set the canal alight. We have plenty of petroleum supplies. The enemy tried a second time to storm the bridges, but we drove them back. Since then it has been quiet. We are in control of the canal line, the bridges and the section of the wall directly behind us but that’s it. I am rotating the companies every two hours.”

  “Morale, casualties, strength reports,” Fergus snapped.

  “Morale is good Sir,” Britannicus replied. “That’s about the only thing that is holding up. We lost twenty-three men holding the bridges, eleven of them dead. Two more are expected to die from their wounds tonight. Excluding yourself and Dio’s party we had two other patrols out in the city together with four squads guarding the city gates, plus one squad on its way to relieve their comrades at the southern gate. There were also a few men out in the city for private reasons. We have not seen or heard from any of them. You are the only ones to have made it back. We must presume that the men are lost Sir.”

  Britannicus paused.

  “Current garrison strength is eight hundred and twenty-nine legionaries fit for duty, sixty-eight wounded and sick,” he said in a quieter voice.” Fortunately, the company of Balearic slingers who joined us a few days ago had not yet left for Hatra when the uprising broke out. I have posted them to the canal line. There may be only eighty
of them, but they are some of the finest slingers that I have ever seen Sir.”

  Fergus grunted as he remembered the pebble that had struck his body armour during the mad dash to the bridge.

  “What is the state of our supplies? Has there been any contact or news from the garrison across the river in Ctesiphon? Do we know how wide-spread this uprising is?” Fergus growled.

  The young tribune sighed.

  “We have enough food to withstand a lengthy siege Sir,” he said. “It is our water supply that is the problem. With the rebels in control of the city and the countryside outside our only major source of water has become that swimming pool out there. I have started to ration water but even so, we calculate we have three or four days at the most before supplies run out.”

  Britannicus sighed again. He too looked exhausted. “Regards the garrison in Ctesiphon. We have had no contact. News from beyond the walls is very limited. The rebels control the countryside and the river. They are preventing anyone from getting through. Gangs of them are roaming at will. It’s fucking anarchy out there. But it seems that Ctesiphon has not risen in rebellion. The city seems peaceful. We have had this confirmed by Parthian civilians. Maybe they are waiting to see the outcome here in Seleucia before declaring their hand. Or else the presence of Trajan scares them into obedience. It’s hard to say Sir. However, the Roman garrison have made no attempt to come to our aid.”

  “They lack the man-power to come to our aid,” Fergus snapped. “Don’t expect any help from Ctesiphon. They will have their own problems to deal with.”

  “Sir, there is also another explanation,” Britannicus said quickly. “All through the day we have had Parthian refugees slipping across the bridges. They are fleeing the rebels Sir. Most have collaborated with us. They are terrified. They are seeking protection with us. I am holding them in the women’s quarters under guard.” Britannicus paused. “They brought some interesting news with them. It seems Sir, that Prince Sanatruces has finally managed to raise an army in the east and is marching on Ctesiphon to liberate the city. Maybe that is why the city is biding its time. Maybe this uprising has been co-ordinated with Prince Sanatruces’ advance.”

  “Prince Sanatruces,” Fergus exclaimed with sudden interest. “Are you sure?”

  Britannicus shrugged. “That’s what the Parthian civilians told me. There is no way of knowing whether they are speaking the truth.”

  Softly Fergus swore to himself. How come no one had warned him about this. If true, it would be bad news. A monumental intelligence failure. Until now the Parthians had made no attempt to take to the field and confront Rome in a pitched battle. But that seemed to be changing.

  Forcing the thoughts from his mind he turned to look around at the grim and anxious officers standing around him. They were looking to him to lead them out of this mess. They were looking to him to save them. They were hoping that he had a plan, a way out.

  “Good work,” Fergus said at last with a grateful nod. “Well done all of you.”

  “What are we going to do Sir?” Britannicus asked quickly. “What’s the plan?”

  Fergus lowered his head so that his officers would not see the sudden indecision in his eyes. Trajan had instructed him to garrison Seleucia. His job was to hold the city for Rome. If he now abandoned Seleucia how would the emperor react? Without orders allowing him to abandon his position, he could be accused of a dereliction of his duty; a decision that could easily land him at a court-martial. But holding the city was clearly becoming impossible.

  “Our position is desperate Sir,” Dio suddenly exclaimed as if sensing Fergus’s dilemma. “There would be no shame in abandoning the city.”

  “I agree,” Britannicus said. “There is no fucking way we can regain control of the city. Not with our limited man-power. The rebels massively outnumber us. And we are going to run out of drinking water within three or four days.”

  Fergus bit his lip. It was decision time.

  “All right,” he said at last, making up his mind and looking around at his officers. “We’re not going to sit here and await our fate. If the reports of Prince Sanatruces marching on Ctesiphon are true, then Trajan is going to need every trained soldier he can muster. Our first task will be to defeat Sanatruces before he can recapture Ctesiphon. After that we can return to reduce Seleucia and stamp out this rebellion. So, the plan is to break out, find and join the emperor. The last report of Trajan’s movements that I received had the emperor camped on the banks of the Euphrates, at Babylon, around fifty miles to the south of here.”

  “How many men does Trajan have with him Sir?” a centurion asked.

  But Fergus shrugged. “I don’t know. But probably not enough to face Sanatruces in a pitched battle. The emperor’s strategy was to garrison all captured cities with strong garrisons. The army is spread out across the length and breadth of Mesopotamia. It’s a big fucking province. It will take time for Trajan to recall his men and form a proper field army that can meet Sanatruces in the field. The Parthians seem to have caught us by surprise. Trajan will need us.”

  “How are we going to break out Sir?” another centurion asked. “The enemy control all the city gates and we are hemmed in here. The nearest city gate is half a mile away through dense urban terrain. Those fuckers out there will ambush us as soon as we cross the canal.”

  “We are not going to fight our way out,” Fergus said sharply. “We’re going to go over the wall under the cover of darkness. We are slipping away during the night. The men are going to have to construct ladders. Once we are outside the city we head west until we reach the Euphrates. From there we head south towards Babylon and we take our wounded with us. No one gets left behind.”

  “It’s risky Sir,” Britannicus said with a little shake of his head. “Such a plan will mean leaving the bridges unguarded. If the rebels guess what we are up to, there will be no one to hold them back if they storm our line. Our men could get caught between the enemy and the city wall. And the wounded will slow us down Sir. And what if the Parthian horse archers catch us out in the open. We have no cavalry in which to drive them off and limited numbers of slingers. If they catch us in the open those horse archers will be able to pick us off at leisure. It will be a fucking massacre just like what happened to Crassus at Carrhae.”

  Angrily Fergus rounded on his deputy and the anger in his voice took all by surprise.

  “What would you have me do,” Fergus shouted as he stared at Britannicus. “This is the situation we are in. It’s a fucking mess I know, but this is the best plan that I can think of. The plan will work. It’s got to work. So, let’s make it work. Years ago, my father and grandfather managed to extricate a whole battle-group from Tara on the island of Hibernia right under the noses of the enemy. We’re going to do it again. And we are leaving no one behind. That’s a fucking order. Now see to it that preparations are made. We go over the wall tomorrow night.”

  Chapter Four – Over the Wall

  The canal was still on fire. A roaring wall of thick, black smoke was pouring and billowing into the sky and drifting away across the huge city. Beside the canal a few men were pouring fresh petroleum into the water to keep the flames burning. Fergus paused to gaze at them. His forehead was wrapped in a fresh bandage and his left arm was still in a sling. The army doctor had told him that the wound was serious, but that it would eventually heal unless he was unlucky, and it got infected. In the meantime, the arm was useless, but he still had his right hand, the doctor had added.

  Through the thick smoke it was difficult to see the other side of the canal. But now and then he heard a scream or shout coming from the city. It was late in the afternoon and Seleucia seemed peaceful. There had been no attempt to renew the assault on the palace. Calmly Fergus, accompanied by Dio, turned and started to make his way along the canal. The legionaries and slingers, grouped together in their company and squad formations, were resting and waiting amongst the fine palace gardens and neat lawns, immediately behind the canal. Clad in thei
r full body armour and helmets, and clutching their shields and spears, the men looked tense and few seemed in the mood to talk. Nodding greetings to familiar faces and little words of encouragement to others, Fergus moved on down amongst his men, inspecting their readiness and equipment. It was all he could do to try and raise morale.

  As he reached the end of the canal, Fergus paused to look up at the mighty city walls. A company of legionaries had occupied the battlements, protecting the palace from an assault along the walls and securing the garrison’s line of retreat. In the fierce afternoon heat the sun glinted off the soldier’s armour and shields. And just behind the palace buildings he could see three long ladders leaning against the walls. For a moment Fergus remained silent. Then he turned his attention back to the wall of smoke and flames, wondering as he did, what had become of the beggar girl who had saved his life. In all-likelihood he would never find out.

  “Do you have a family? Is there someone waiting for you back home?” Fergus asked as he turned to glance at Dio.

  The veteran officer shook his head.

  “I am an orphan Sir,” Dio replied. “No family. The army is my life Sir. Always has been. I have been in for twenty-eight years. Started my career during Domitian’s Dacian war as an ordinary soldier. They offered me retirement and a nice pension a few years ago. But I told them to fuck off and leave me alone. When you reach my age Sir, you realise that there is no time or point in trying to become something else. I don’t want to leave the army. I don’t want to retire, ever. I am going to hang on until I die.”