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

by William Kelso

  Fergus grunted as he reached over to readjust the sling in which his left arm was resting. The arm was aching and in addition to that he was suffering from a raging headache. Glancing around to look behind him, he could see that the darkness to the east was already a very dark blue. Sunrise was not far away.

  What was he going to do when he reached the Euphrates? The plan once they reached the river was to head south from there to Babylon and hopefully find and link up with the emperor’s troops. Grimly he lowered his head. He was in command. His men were counting on him to lead them to safety. That was his job and his duty but what if the rebellion had spread to the kingdom of Osrhoene? What if Zeugma was suddenly on the front line. What if the people of Zeugma had risen too. Did he as a father and husband not have a duty to protect his family? Were his soldiers more important than his own family? Carefully he reached up to touch the stained, dirty bandage that was wrapped around his forehead. Galena and his daughters house was on the banks of the Euphrates. All that he would have to do was take a horse and follow the river home. He could be home in a few days if he rode fast.

  “Where is the commander? Where is Fergus?” a voice suddenly called out from the darkness behind him.

  “I am here,” Fergus replied in a loud voice as he turned to peer into the night.

  In the darkness a horse snorted and a few moments later a rider appeared from the gloom. It was Dio. Finally recognising Fergus and his staff, the centurion slowed his beast and started to keep pace with Fergus.

  “Well, what is it?” Fergus growled impatiently.

  “Sir are you going to make us march until we drop dead,” Dio snapped, and the strong disapproval in his voice was clear. “I have men back there in the rear-guard who are not going to last much longer. When you led us out of Seleucia you told us that you would lead all of us out of this mess. All of us. That’s going to mean fuck all if we don’t halt soon. Our line of march is going to be littered with corpses. Men that did not need to die. Please Sir. Order a halt. If only for an hour or two so that we can sort ourselves out.”

  Fergus took a deep breath as he kept on walking.

  “We will halt at dawn, centurion,” Fergus said sharply. “You can sort out the stragglers then.”

  “Thank you, Sir,” Dio said in a tense, toneless voice and a moment later he was gone, vanishing into the night.

  ***

  Fergus was woken by laughter. He’d been sitting with his back slumped up against a tree. Opening his eyes, he hastily raised his head in alarm. He’d only meant to close his eyes for a few brief moments. It was morning. In the crop-covered fields that stretched away along the banks of the Royal river he could make out narrow irrigation ditches and a few scattered palm trees. The smell of fresh manure lay heavy on the land and annoying flies were buzzing around his head. Amongst the crops, parties of legionaries had flung themselves to the ground. Their body armour and helmets gleamed in the sunlight. Some of the soldiers seemed asleep whilst others were busying themselves with repairing equipment, preparing cooking fires and their breakfast. Out in the fields two horses were grazing on a patch of grass and up on the earthen dyke that ran along the canal, a couple of sentries were leaning on their spears. All seemed peaceful. Quickly Fergus turned in the direction where Dio and a few of his fellow centurions were sitting together in a circle around a small camp fire. The officers were laughing.

  “What are you laughing about?” Fergus called out.

  Dio paused as he turned to glance at Fergus and the centurions fell silent.

  “I was telling the boys here Sir the story about the time that I was taken prisoner by King Decebalus of the Dacians,” Dio replied with a little amused smile.

  “I didn’t know that you had been captured,” Fergus growled as he slowly got to his feet and ambled over to the group.

  “Yes Sir, it happened when I had just joined the army, straight out of basic training,” Dio said with a chuckle. “The army sent me to some god forsaken outpost along the Dacian frontier. Soon after I arrived the Dacians surrounded us and my commander chose to surrender rather than fight it out. I was held as a POW for nearly a year, a guest of the king, as my captors like to call it.”

  “So, what’s so funny?” Fergus muttered.

  “We were joking about the Batavian regiments Sir,” Dio replied quickly. “It’s nothing.”

  “No go on,” Fergus said sharply. “My father served his entire career with the 2nd Batavian Auxiliary Cohort. He spent fourteen years on the Danube. About the same time that you were there. So, if you have something to say, then just say it.”

  Quickly Dio exchanged glances with his fellow officers and for a moment none of them spoke.

  “Go on,” Fergus snapped. “I would like to hear your story.”

  “Well it was like this Sir,” Dio said taking a deep breath as he looked up at Fergus. “After I and my comrades were taken prisoner, the Dacians, marched us back to their homeland. We must have walked two or three hundred miles. It was fucking awful. The worst time in my career. In some of the border villages through which we passed, the locals were friendly and would come out of their houses and place buckets of water at the side of the track. They were meant for us, so that we could drink. But our guards would kick the buckets over. They treated us like shit.”

  Dio paused and lowered his eyes to the ground as the memories came back to him.

  “I was telling the boys here Sir,” he continued, “that I remember one day marching beside a Batavian soldier. The Batavians have these distinctive helmets. You know the ones with a feather sticking out. Well this Batavian prisoner, he was being picked on by one of the guards. A proper sadistic Dacian arsehole. Not a moment went by when this guard didn’t try to humiliate and bully him. But on this day the Batavian seemed to have had enough for when his guard came up to him, he floored him with the most perfect punch I have ever seen. Knocked him out with one blow.” Dio paused. Then he sighed and looked up at Fergus.

  “As we marched on I tried to get this Batavian to swap helmets with me,” Dio said, as his voice turned melancholic. “His friends urged him to swap positions in the column with them and hide his appearance. Anything to make the guard confused. We were all worried what the guard would do in revenge. But my Batavian friend told me, no way would he give up his cap with his regimental insignia. He just flatly refused to hide. He was that proud of his unit.” Dio sighed and turned his eyes to the ground. “So, a few hours later we are still marching down this road and the sadist returns. And he is looking for revenge. He’s fucking pissed. And as soon as he spots my Batavian friend, he comes up to him and stabs him in the throat; murders him right in front of us. We were not even allowed to bury his body. I shall always remember that Batavian. He had courage. He had guts.”

  Dio fell silent and Fergus stood motionless looking down at the ground. An awkward silence descended on the group of officers.

  “Get the men ready to move right away,” Fergus snapped at last. “We have wasted enough time. We need to keep moving. See that it is done.”

  And with that he abruptly turned around and started out towards the dyke and the Royal river. Dio’s story had not been what he’d been expecting. It had caught him off-guard, but he had no time for stories. He was in command and it was a lonely job. The responsibility of leading his men out of danger and the lack of news concerning Galena and his daughter’s safety, were getting to him, irritating him, weighing him down. But that was his burden to bear; to be born alone and in private.

  ***

  The Euphrates river gleamed in the sunlight and beyond, the wide-open and empty desert extended to the horizon. Carefully Fergus surveyed the river and the thin strip of greenery that extended along its banks. It was nearing noon and out on the blue waters, there was no sign of any people or ships. Three full days and nights had passed since their night-time retreat from Seleucia.

  “I never thought I would be glad to see this river again,” Britannicus said wearily, as he too gazed
at the placid and wide waters.

  Fergus remained silent. Along the banks where the Euphrates and the Royal river merged his men were resting, grouped together in their units. And as he turned to look at them, he felt a tiny spark of elation and hope. They had made it this far. They had managed to escape from Seleucia. But now he faced a choice. The original plan called for him to head south along the banks of the Euphrates to Babylon; the last known location where emperor Trajan and his forces had been based. If the rebellion was as widespread and serious as he feared, then the emperor would need him in the coming fight. But if he turned north he would be able to retreat towards Zeugma, Galena and his daughters. In the chaos of the uprising who could blame him if he retreated northwards. Fergus sighed. He had a decision to make.

  Just then a shout rose from one of the Roman pickets placed along the river bank. Turning to stare in the direction of the noise, Fergus suddenly caught sight of horsemen galloping towards his men’s positions across the open ground. In the fields the legionaries rose to their feet in alarm, but as he stared at the newcomers Fergus could see that they were few, barely more than twenty riders. And there was something oddly familiar about their armour and uniforms.

  “I think they are ours Sir,” Britannicus exclaimed in a puzzled but excited voice, as he raised his hand to shield his eyes from the sun.

  Fergus muttered something to himself as he watched the horsemen thundering towards him. Britannicus was right. They looked like Roman cavalrymen. Without saying a word, he started out towards the newcomers, striding across the open stony and barren ground. A crowd of legionaries were milling around the horsemen as Fergus hastened up to them. The riders were sitting on their horses looking lost. They were covered in dust and they looked utterly exhausted. But they were Romans. What looked like the remnants of a legionary cavalry turma, squadron.

  “Who are you? Where have you come from” Fergus called out, as he pushed his way towards the small band of horsemen.

  In reply one of the cavalrymen turned to Fergus.

  “Are you in charge,” the man cried.

  “I am the commanding officer,” Fergus shouted back as he came towards the man. “We’re the 1st Cohort of the Fourth Legion, formerly the garrison of the city of Seleucia. Who are you?”

  “Sixth squadron of legionary cavalry of the Third Legion Sir,” the cavalrymen gasped, with sudden relief in his voice. “Thank fuck we found you. You are the first friendly faces we have seen. We’re all that’s left from our patrol. Bastard Parthians ambushed us to the north near Doura-Europus. That was five days ago. We have been heading south along the river ever since. Do you know what is going on Sir? We have been trying to evade Parthian cavalry for days and my men have not eaten in two.”

  “We will give you some food,” Fergus replied. “What news do you have?”

  On his horse the cavalry decurion slowly shook his head.

  “All we know is that Doura-Europus has risen in revolt. The locals massacred the garrison. There was no warning. We were lucky to escape. The city belongs to the rebels Sir. I don’t know what has become of the rest of our units. They seem scattered to hell. It’s all one big cluster fuck.”

  Slowly Fergus nodded as he took in the news.

  “Any news from further north?” he called out in a tense voice. “Any news from the kingdom of Osrhoene or Zeugma? Have they joined this rebellion? Has the uprising spread to those regions?”

  “I wouldn’t know Sir,” the cavalryman said with a shrug. “All I know is that Doura-Europus is no longer under Roman control. We were hoping that you would be able to tell us more.”

  Deflated, Fergus allowed his shoulders to sag.

  Chapter Six – The Hollow Square

  Fergus crouched, his head bowed to the ground, his eyes and mouth firmly closed as he tried to protect his face with his arms from the raging sandstorm. In the flurry of dense whirling sand and small pebbles it was impossible to make out a single object, even though he knew his men were close by. Calmly he forced himself to breathe through his nose, supressing the thought that he was about to choke. This was not the first sandstorm he’d been caught up in, but nevertheless panic hovered close by. There was nothing he could do but be patient and sit it out. Each man would be in a world of his own – struggling with the same thoughts and fears. Nothing could move in such a storm. But the storm would pass. It would end.

  Three days had passed since the encounter with the Roman cavalrymen from Doura. Fergus groaned as a small flying pebble painfully struck his head and silently he cursed about having given that girl his helmet. It had taken a whole day and a half for his engineers to make the rafts which had ferried his men across the wide, placid Euphrates to the western bank. But they’d done it and their crossing had not been contested by rebel forces. He’d turned south along the Euphrates. Avoiding the marshy, reed and crocodile-infested river bank and the narrow strip of green, irrigated fields sandwiched in between the river and the desert; he’d kept his men out in the open, barren and stony desert, where they could easily see danger approaching.

  At last the fury of the buffeting, whirling and whining sandstorm seemed to slacken. Cautiously opening his eyes, Fergus raised his head and looked up to see the blue sky once more. It was noon. The sling in which his left arm was resting was filled with sand and small stones and for a moment, he struggled to clear it out. Around him his men were slowly rising to their feet, strange shapes covered in dust and sand. Hastily Fergus got to his feet and turned to survey his troops. The column was strung out on the gravelly desert, a hundred yards from the edge of the green strip of land that ran along the river. As he looked around, men’s voices started to call out as the legionaries checked up on each other. Close by, Fergus’s military staff, his cornicen and standard bearer slowly got to their feet. Their faces were completely covered in fine dust and as the standard bearer caught Fergus staring at him, he grinned. Then he spat something from his mouth.

  “Would be nice to have a swim in the Euphrates Sir,” the standard bearer said, as he turned to shake the sand and dust from the vexillation standard. “Get rid of this sand and dust. The shit’s gotten absolutely everywhere.”

  “We keep heading south,” Fergus said. “There is no time for swimming. Cornicen, give the order that the march is to continue.”

  “Yes Sir,” the trumpeter said hastily, as he reached up to wipe his mouth and lips. Then hastily cleaning his trumpet, he raised the instrument to his lips.

  As the trumpet rang out across the desert, Fergus started walking.

  “Let’s go. Let’s move, we head south,” Fergus cried out as he made his way along the columns of dust-covered soldiers. Along the edge of the irrigated belt where the pleasant green land abruptly gave away to the grey yellow of the barren desert, the legionaries were milling around, forming up and hoisting their marching packs over their shoulders. A few of their luckier comrades mounted on horses came riding past. The beasts too were cloaked in dust, giving them an alien appearance.

  Pausing beside a column of wounded, being carried along on crude, improvised stretchers by their comrades Fergus spoke a few encouraging words to the men. The need to carry eighty-five wounded and sick men with them was clearly slowing down the column, but they had made it this far and there was not a man now who advocated abandoning their comrades to their fate. The determination that they were all going to make it, had united them.

  The small fortified Parthian watchtower and fort stood on its own, looking forlorn and abandoned. Its gates had been half-torn from their hinges and the mudbrick walls showed signs of having been attacked. After entering and examining the place the scouts had returned, reporting that everything of value had been looted long ago. Idly Fergus turned his attention to the south as he strode through the desert. A quarter of a mile away from the fortified watchtower, along the green, fertile banks of the Euphrates, the small village was nothing more than a collection of mudbrick huts. It looked poor. Out in the patchwork of irrigated fields tha
t surrounded the small settlement, a few farmers, their families and farm animals were at work amongst their crops. Batting away the desert flies that buzzed around his head, Fergus turned to gaze on the locals, as the Roman column marched on by. The Parthians had stopped what they were doing and were staring at the Romans in silence. They seemed unafraid and made no attempt to run or hide. In an enclosure a herd of goats was bleating noisily and out of sight a dog was barking. This was a strange war Fergus thought, as he walked on, gazing at the villagers. It was hard to know who was friendly and who was the enemy. One moment the locals were doing deals with you, the next they were at your throat. The column had been moving for the best part of an hour since the sandstorm and this was the first settlement they’d come across.

  “Sir,” a voice called out and looking up, Fergus saw Britannicus striding towards him. The tribune’s face was covered in fine dust apart from a trickle of sweat that had made its way down his cheek.

  “What is it?” Fergus growled, as he left the party of wounded and strode over to his deputy. Britannicus seemed to be in a bullish, confident mood.

  “Some of the men are wondering how long it is going to take us to reach Babylon Sir” the young tribune said quickly. “I told them that we will be there soon. But what if Trajan and his troops have already moved on Sir? There is no way of knowing where the emperor could be? Is it not prudent that we make plans in case Trajan has already left Babylon?”