“Keep them moving as best as you can,” Fergus said, giving Dio an encouraging pat on the shoulder. “I am going to call a halt at noon. We will rest for an hour and replenish our water supplies. Maybe we can use the time to build some rafts to tow behind the boats we have got.”
Dio nodded.
“That may work but it will slow us down even more,” he said wearily.
***
Fergus was standing atop the high earthen dyke that lined the bank of the canal, supervising the construction of the crude rafts, when a sudden a cry caught his attention. Across the flat expanse of neat, irrigated fields below him, hundreds of legionaries were sitting around resting and eating. But it was not his men that had caught his attention. Frantically racing towards him upon a horse was a solitary Roman soldier. As the legionary caught sight of the vexillation standard of the Fourth Legion he veered sharply towards it. Fergus’s expression darkened as the lone horseman came galloping towards him. Where the hell had the man managed to get a horse from?
“What’s the matter man?” Fergus shouted.
“Sir,” the man yelled, his face streaked with sweat and mud. “Parthian cavalry. Enemy horsemen. They are closing in on us fast. I saw them. Hundreds and hundreds of them.”
Chapter Five – Fight for Survival
Fergus stood on the earthen dyke and looked on as, in the muddy irrigated fields, the legionaries rushed to form up in their formations. The shouts and cries of the Roman officers were harsh and urgent. At Fergus’s side his cornicen, trumpeter, blew again on his trumpet ordering the men to prepare to receive cavalry. From the corner of his eye Fergus noticed Britannicus running towards him.
“Sir, what’s the plan?” the young tribune cried.
“We form up here with our backs against the canal,” Fergus snapped, as he gazed in the direction from which the enemy were about to appear. “We stand our ground. The men will stay in their formations.”
“Sir,” Britannicus gasped, as he came to a halt beside Fergus.
Fergus didn’t look at his subordinate. His gaze was firmly fixed on the fields to the east.
“We stand our ground,” Fergus hissed. “We have no cavalry. We can’t outrun these Parthians. So, we stay here until I have seen what we are up against. The men will stand their ground.”
Hastily Britannicus nodded and for a moment he looked lost.
“You men,” Fergus bellowed as he turned his attention to the soldiers who had been busy constructing the rafts but were about to rush back to their units. “Stay where you are and keep working on those rafts. Nothing has changed. We are going to need those rafts. Quickly now. Get to work.”
Obediently the legionaries returned to their labour. In the muddy fields, at the base of the earthen dyke, the Roman heavy infantry companies had managed to form a four-rank deep line. The Roman position stretched away along the canal with the dyke immediately to their rear. Their flanks were protected by two companies who had taken up positions on the dyke itself. Amongst the crops, the front rank of legionaries was down on one knee and were holding their large shields in front of them, forming a solid and continuous wooden protective wall. The spear points of their throwing pila were pointing outwards, their butts wedged firmly into the ground. Amongst the front ranks the company centurions, easily identifiable by their magnificent plumed helmets, stood amongst their men.
“Form up your slingers along the dyke,” Fergus roared at the auxiliary officer in command of the eighty Balearic lightly armed slingers. “Have them lie down on the ground. I don’t want the enemy to know who they are just yet. Quick about it.”
“Britannicus,” Fergus snapped, as he quickly turned to the tribune. “Have the men on the boats bring their craft into the shore and keep them there. The dyke should give them some protection from arrows. And keep those men working on those rafts. We are going to need those fucking rafts.”
“Sir look!” the vexillation standard bearer suddenly cried out, pointing to the east. Hastily Fergus turned and peered in the direction in which the man was pointing. And there surging towards him, across the green open fields, were a mass of horsemen. The Parthians looked like they were in a hurry.
“We hold our positions. Not one step backwards,” Fergus roared.
No one answered. Every Roman eye was fixed on the approaching enemy cavalry. As the Parthian horsemen caught sight of the Romans they didn’t hesitate nor did their pace slow. Instead their foremost riders started to bunch together and form a single fast-moving column. They were heading straight towards the Roman position. The riders looked like they knew what they were doing. Clumps of mud were thrown into the air as the horsemen thundered across the fields, tearing up the crops, and as they did, Fergus suddenly heard their triumphant cries and yells. Amongst the enemy ranks he could make out no banners or standards giving away the presence of a leader or general. The Parthians seemed to be lacking body armour, shields and helmets and they seemed rather rag-tag; more a locally raised militia than long standing professional soldiers. But there were hundreds of them and they seemed confident.
Stoically and silently the Roman legionaries stood their ground as they awaited the assault. However, when the Parthian column was less than fifty yards from the Roman positions their lead horsemen suddenly changed course. Sweeping and racing along down the front of the Roman lines a hail of arrows came whining and thudding into the densely packed Romans. Here and there a man cried out as he was struck. The hail of arrows did not slacken as the Parthian horsemen went charging along the front of the Roman positions.
“Fucking hell,” Fergus swore, throwing himself to the ground as several arrows went whining over his head.
Amongst the Roman lines, cries and shouts rose as the officers struggled to maintain order and keep their men in position. Close by, a Roman was struck nearly instantaneously by two arrows and went staggering backwards off the dyke and into the canal behind it, vanishing into the water with a loud splash.
“Give the order for defensive testudo,” Fergus bellowed, turning to his cornicen as he pressed himself into the dirt. Bravely the trumpeter scrambled up onto his knees and a few moments later his trumpet rang out. Over Fergus’s head the arrows continued to zip and whine through the air. Grimly Fergus lifted his head to see what was going on. The Parthian column was still racing along the front of his men and subjecting them to a merciless barrage. Forcing himself to watch, Fergus saw that amongst the enemy horsemen there was no sign of infantry or heavily armoured cataphracts, shock cavalry. The enemy force seemed solely composed of light, fast moving and highly mobile horse archers.
“Keep working on those rafts,” Fergus roared as he turned and saw that the party of legionaries working on the boats had taken shelter behind the dyke. Where the hell was Britannicus? He was supposed to be supervising those men. But there was no time to look for him.
At the base of the dyke the Roman officers were screaming at their men and, as Fergus turned his attention to them the second and third ranks began to raise their shields in a protective embrace forming a densely packed testudo. Grimly Fergus bit his lip as he lay stretched out in the dirt. The testudo would provide some protection from the Parthian arrows, but the enemy had him pinned down.
Out in the fields the Parthian column had completed its first pass and were wheeling around for a second attack. Along the top of the dyke a legionary, half bent over, came rushing up to Fergus and handed him a large infantry shield. Gratefully Fergus grasped hold of the legionary shield and swiftly scrambled to his feet. In the canal, the two civilian barges packed with the wounded and sick had sought shelter immediately behind the dyke. Several legionaries were standing up to their waists in the water holding the two boats in place and straining to fix them together with thick ropes.
Close by lying down on the ground, was the auxiliary officer in command of the eighty slingers.
“On my command,” Fergus yelled at the officer, “have your men stand up and shoot those fucking horsemen. I don�
�t care if you think the range is extreme. I don’t care if you hit them or not. Just discourage them from attacking us.”
As the officer turned to scream his orders along the levee, Fergus caught sight of Britannicus. The tribune was down at the water’s edge with the work party, furiously assembling the rudimentary rafts.
“Sir, here they come again,” the standard bearer yelled, as he went down on one knee still holding up the vexillation banner. Fergus turned. Out in the fields, some four hundred paces away, the Parthian horsemen were surging forwards once more. Their fierce, savage yells and cries carried across the open ground.
“Now centurion,” Fergus shouted turning to the auxiliary officer. “Have your men stand up and shoot at the enemy. Drive them off.”
He had barely finished speaking before the officer relayed the order to his men in his native Hispanic language. As one, the slingers, small dark-haired men, clad solely in simple sleeveless white tunics and leather body armour leapt to their feet. In their hands they clutched their slings, whirling them above their heads, faster and faster. Then with a little flick of their wrists they released and their stone or lead bullets when zipping away across the fields.
“Reload,” the auxiliary officer roared. “Swing. Release.”
Out in the fields a few Parthian horsemen and their mounts went crashing to the ground. But the distance was at the extreme range and the volley did not halt the Parthian charge. On they came, thundering towards the Roman line in a well-practised and expertly carried out manoeuvre. As a second volley of stones and lead bullets slammed into their ranks, more riders went down in a horrible, screaming tangle of horse and man, but it was not enough.
“Down,” Fergus roared as he braced himself for the approaching assault. “Get your slingers down now. And stay down until I say so.”
If he lost his slingers now, that would be a disaster. They were the only unit he had, capable of fighting back against the enemy. There was however no need to tell the slingers. Hastily they dropped to the ground, face down in the dirt. Exposed, high up on the dyke, Fergus and the slingers made a fine target for the Parthian bowmen. As the foremost Parthian riders swerved and started to race down the Roman front, some fifty yards from the legionaries, Fergus lowered his head, crouched behind his shield and braced himself. Close by, the standard bearer flung himself flat onto the ground. A moment later something thudded violently into the shield and over his head another arrow went whining across the canal.
“Shit,” Fergus swore again as he heard a man shriek in pain.
Another arrow struck the earth close by with a thud. Then another went whining just over the top of his shield. Risking a quick peek to his left and right, Fergus saw that everyone up on the dyke was lying flat on the ground or had taken shelter at the water’s edge. Down at the base of the levee, facing the Parthians, the densely packed ranks of legionaries, fixed in their immobile testudo formation, could do nothing but take the aerial pounding.
“Fuck,” Fergus hissed as he quickly raised his head to gaze at the enemy. The last of the Parthians were wheeling away as they prepared to come around for a third assault. They may be just a militia, but the enemy knew exactly what they were doing. They had pinned down the whole of his force. There was no way he could continue his march with such a threat menacing his flank. The Parthians would pick off his men if they broke their testudo. And all the enemy now had to do was to wait for infantry re-enforcements or heavy cataphracts, capable of attacking and breaking into the tightly-packed legionary formations. Or else they could simply wait until hunger and thirst eventually did the job for them. Tensely Fergus turned to gaze at the legionaries. They could not stay here. He had to do something.
“Keep shooting at those horsemen,” Fergus yelled at the auxiliary officer. “When they come around again - get down. Show them that every attack is going to cost them.” Then resolutely Fergus stood up and yelled at Britannicus. A Parthian arrow was sticking from his shield and close by, two more were protruding from the soft earth. At his side, the standard bearer and cornicen hastily scrambled to their feet. They looked shocked by the ferocity of the attack.
As Britannicus came scrambling up the steep embankment, Fergus hastened towards him.
“Sir,” Britannicus gasped, his face covered in sweat and mud.
“Get those wounded across the Royal river and into cover behind the dyke on the other side,” Fergus snapped. “Then come back to this side of the canal with the empty boats and rafts. We’re going to retreat across the canal. One company at a time – just like we did when we went over the wall. It’s your job to get the men across. Ferry them across on the boats. Once we are on the other side the levee will protect us from those horse archers. We can’t stay here. We need to keep moving.”
Britannicus blinked rapidly as he considered the plan.
“We have not yet finished constructing the rafts and what about the Parthians?” he said quickly. “What if they manage to swim their horses across the canal? We will be back where we started.”
But Fergus shook his head. “No,” he retorted. “Do what you can with the rafts. Improvise. The waters of the canal are deep. The only cavalry who can swim their horses across open water are the Batavian regiments. I should know. My father served in one. Those Parthians may eventually get across the canal, but they are not going to fucking swim across. Now go. Get it done.”
As Britannicus slithered away down the dyke towards the water, Fergus quickly turned and crouched behind his shield. He had no idea what the Parthian horsemen were capable of, but the decision to retreat had been made and there was nothing else he could do now but pray that it worked. In the fields to the south the Parthian horsemen were galloping towards him again. Along the top of the levee the soft noise of the slingers, whirling their slings above their heads, was nearly drowned out by the thud of hundreds of hooves. Tensely Fergus looked on as the aerial duel between his slingers and the Parthian horse archers quickly reached its climax with the lightly armoured slingers flinging themselves to the ground.
***
Grimly Fergus watched, as another company of heavily armed and laden legionaries came hastily clambering across the makeshift and improvised bridge that spanned the width of the Royal river. It was late in the afternoon and the retreat across the canal was taking longer than he had anticipated. But Britannicus and his men had proved their worth by some brilliant engineering. Instead of ferrying the troops across the water, the young tribune had managed to create a bridge across the canal by lining up the two barges nose to tail. He had lashed them together with ropes and had filled in the gaps with the tree trunks destined for the rafts. It was not a pretty construction, but the rudimentary bridge was doing its job.
As the legionaries made it across the canal the soldiers surged up the steep embankment, some clambering on all fours. In the middle of the Royal river, a solitary half-submerged raft, nothing more than tree trunks tied together by ropes, was being hauled across the water by a party of legionaries. Onboard the dangerously overloaded raft, their comrades, recently wounded and still clutching their shields, packs and weapons could only look on in silence, as they slowly drew closer to the bank.
Quickly Fergus turned his attention back to the two remaining companies of heavy infantry under Dio’s command who remained on the opposite shore. The hundred and fifty or so men of the rear-guard still packed together in their dense testudo formations had taken up defensive positions atop of the dyke. Their rows of shields and spear points gleamed in the fierce sunlight. They had been there for hours without moving. In the muddy corpse-strewn fields beyond, the Parthian cavalry were arrayed in a long line. The horsemen had come to a halt and seemed to be watching the retreat from a safe distance. For the last hour they had made no serious attempt to disrupt the evacuation.
“They haven’t contested our withdrawal?” Britannicus said with a frown, as he crouched beside Fergus and gazed at the tense stand-off across the canal. “I wonder why? Maybe they know
something we don’t. Shall I call in Dio and his men Sir?”
Fergus did not reply as he glanced up and down the high dyke. The slingers were standing in a line, ready to provide cover for the final stage of the withdrawal.
“All right, order Dio and his men to retreat across the bridge,” Fergus said at last. “Once they are across, burn the bridge and the rafts. We can’t use them, not with the Parthians in control of one side of the canal. Make sure that nothing is left that can be useful to the enemy.”
“Sir,” Britannicus said with a quick nod. But instead of turning away the tribune hesitated.
“And our wounded and sick Sir?”
“We will have to carry them like we originally intended. Each company looks after its own men,” Fergus replied. “From here we follow the canal westwards. You will take the vanguard like before. We need to keep moving. If the Parthians pin us down, we are finished.”
***
The night was alive with the tramp of army boots, the jangle of metallic equipment, coughs and the occasional shriek and shout. In the dark skies the stars twinkled, too many to count and in their faint light, Fergus could make out the endless fields and crops that stretched away into the darkness. Wearily Fergus kept on walking, following the column of men in front of him. His face was covered in mud and dirt and fine sand seemed to have gotten into every orifice. The balmy night air provided no refreshment and his lips were cracked and bone dry. There had been no further sign of the Parthian cavalry which had earlier pinned them down against the canal. For a few hours the Parthian horsemen had followed the Roman force, keeping to their side of the canal, but come the darkness they had vanished from view.
Finding their direction in the darkness had not been hard for all they had to do was follow the Royal river; the sliver of still water that was just about visible in the celestial light. All day and now for most of the night he’d kept his men walking westwards, pausing only now and then to rest. The need to carry their wounded with them had slowed the column down. In some of the small villages, which they had passed the legionaries had forcibly taken carts and horses from the inhabitants, but most of their wounded were still being carried by their comrades on crude stretchers. A truly exhausting effort for all concerned. The need to carry their wounded and the long night march, combined with a lack of time to prepare food, was slowly sapping and exhausting everyone. Some of the centurions had suggested that they halt for the night and make a camp, but he’d said no to that. They had to push on. They had to keep moving.
Veterans of Rome (Book 9 of the Veteran of Rome Series) Page 5
