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

by William Kelso

  “If you mean that we should be moving north along the Euphrates instead of south,” Fergus replied sharply, “then the answer is no. If Doura has risen in rebellion the route north will be blocked. We head south and find the emperor. Trajan will need us. We have a duty to recover Seleucia. That’s the plan. That is what we are going to do.”

  “Of-course Sir,” Britannicus said smoothly. “I just thought I should mention it.”

  Fergus was silent for a moment as he gazed at his protégé. Ever since he’d successfully managed to hold the palace, back in Seleucia, there had been a new cockiness about Britannicus. An overconfidence and aggression that was annoying and worrying him. Fergus was just about to raise the issue and reprimand Britannicus, when a cry of alarm rang out from the small band of Roman cavalrymen guarding the desert flank of the column. Turning in the direction of the horsemen Fergus saw them turn and start to race towards him.

  “Shit, trouble,” Fergus hissed.

  The cavalrymen did not need to explain themselves. Out in the desert, on the horizon, a cloud of dust was approaching, and it was not another sandstorm.

  “Who are they?” Britannicus snapped, as he peered out into the desert and the fast approaching cloud of dust.

  “We will find out soon enough,” Fergus said. “But anything moving that fast will be on horseback.”

  With sudden urgency he turned to his cornicen.

  “Give the order for the men to halt and take up positions to receive enemy cavalry. We will form a hollow square, three ranks deep. Britannicus, I want our slingers arrayed in a line facing the desert. They are to stand in front of the legionaries and be ready to use their slings. Get the wounded into cover inside the square. Now go. Hurry. Go.”

  As the trumpet rang out and Britannicus hastened away yelling his orders, Fergus gazed at the approaching cloud of dust.

  “Could be Parthian cavalry Sir,” the standard bearer said as he too gazed at the approaching cloud of dust.

  “Maybe,” Fergus said sternly. “Wait and see.”

  As the officers screamed at their men, the legionaries rushed to take up their positions in the hollow square formation that was rapidly taking shape. The front ranks of the formation were down on one knee, their shields lined up next to each other, forming a protective wall. The butts of the men’s pila were wedged into the ground and their gleaming iron spear-heads were pointing outwards, bristling like a hedgehog. Their colleagues in the second and third ranks were standing upright, shoulder to shoulder, tightly packed together. Their armour and shields gleamed and reflected the fierce sunlight. Calmly Fergus surveyed the preparations. The high quality of his legionaries training and drill was showing itself in the smooth and efficient way in which each man knew exactly what to do. As the last of the stretcher bearers came running into the hollow square formation and placed their charges on the ground, Fergus called out to his staff and hastened towards the side of the square that faced the desert. His staff followed at a run, just as the eighty slingers came racing up to take their positions.

  Jogging to the front of his men some instinct made Fergus turn and gaze at the villagers. The locals too had noticed the cloud of dust approaching out of the desert and were running back to their huts. Whoever was coming towards them, the locals seem to know who they were. They looked spooked.

  “Have your men ready to use their slings,” Fergus shouted at the auxiliary centurion in command of the slingers. “If they press their attack your men are to fall back behind the legionary lines. Got that.”

  “Yes Sir,” the centurion shouted.

  Fergus came to a halt and turned to gaze out into the desert. On the horizon he could make out figures on horseback. There were at least two-hundred of them and they were galloping straight towards him. Peering at the approaching riders, Fergus suddenly grunted in surprise. Amongst the horsemen were camel riders. As they drew nearer he saw that the riders had nomadic and Arab style keffiyeh scarfs wrapped around their faces and heads. Hastily Fergus retreated to behind the slingers. The newcomers were not Roman or from any auxiliary alae that he recognised.

  “Slingers let them know we are here,” Fergus shouted. “Bring them down.”

  Close by, the auxiliary officer opened his mouth and roared an order in his native Hispanic language and in response the slingers raised their slings and confidently began to whirl them high above their heads. Out in the open, flat desert the horsemen made a perfect target. Faster and faster the slings spun around as the little men from the Balearic isles steadied themselves and took careful aim at the approaching horsemen. Another shout from the auxiliary officer and, with a quick flick of their wrists the slingers released, and their small stones and lead bullets went shooting away with incredible force and accuracy. Out in the desert horses, men and camels went down in a furious, screaming tangle. With grim satisfaction, Fergus watched as the remaining horsemen swerved away and beat a hasty retreat. But after a hundred paces or so they seemed to regroup and turn once more to face the Roman column. In front of the ranks of legionaries, the slingers had reloaded and were once more whirling their deadly slings above their heads. Out in the desert however the riders had come to a halt and seemed content to watch the Roman column from a safe distance.

  “Stand down. Save your ammunition,” Fergus yelled at the slingers. The riders were clearly too few to pose a serious threat to the Roman column.

  “That will teach them Sir,” the standard bearer said in a satisfied voice. “The lesson is. Don’t fucking approach a Roman column like that.”

  Fergus was peering at the horsemen. They were milling about, gesturing and shouting but they were too far away for him to understand what they were saying.

  “They are not Parthians,” he snapped at last. “They look like desert nomads. Arabs or Bedouin from one of the desert tribes. I have met these men before. They are fiercely independent. They are raiders preying on the trade caravans. They owe no loyalty to anyone but to their tribe.”

  “But why are they here Sir?” the standard bearer replied. “Why attack us? There are far too few of them to take us all on. It would be madness Sir.”

  Slowly Fergus shook his head as he gazed at the riders out in the desert. “I don’t know, but if there is anything that I learned about these desert men, it is that they are not mad. They will have come here with a purpose.”

  “Maybe that explains that ruined Parthian fort back over there, Sir,” the standard bearer said quickly. “Maybe that was put there to keep the villagers safe from these Bedouin raiders. Fuck lot of good it’s going to do them now.”

  “Maybe,” Fergus muttered.

  “What are your orders Sir?” the cornicen called out.

  For a moment Fergus hesitated. The Arabs did not look like they were about to retreat. What were they waiting for? What did they want? Quickly Fergus turned to look at his men. The legionaries were massed in their impregnable position, gazing impassively at the enemy.

  “Go find Dio and Britannicus and bring them here. I need to speak to them both,” he snapped.

  As the trumpeter sped off in search of his two most senior officers, Fergus turned to gaze at the desert raiders. The Bedouin seemed content to stay where they were. Amongst their ranks he caught sight of a black banner flapping in the breeze. Staring at the men from the desert, he was reminded of his time as commander of the 7th Auxiliary Alae of Numidians in charge of policing the desert road from Sura to Palmyra. That had been his first independent command and the first time he had encountered these men from the desert.

  “Sir,” Dio called out as he and Britannicus, accompanied by the cornicen hastened towards him.

  “We need to keep moving. Babylon cannot be much further,” Fergus said quickly, as he turned to address his officers. “We will continue our march in a hollow square. Have the men of the third row take care of carrying our wounded. We will keep them in the centre of the square for protection. Dio, I want you to take that cavalry squadron on up ahead and use them as scout
s.”

  “The decurion from the Third is a capable man Sir,” Dio said quickly. “He can handle a scouting mission.”

  “No,” Fergus said patiently shaking his head. “We are nearing Babylon. If Trajan is still in the city there will be Roman outposts and patrols. If we run into the emperor’s patrols or outposts I need you to be there. I don’t want any misunderstandings. It’s fucking easy to get killed by one’s own side out here. No fuck ups. I don’t want to lose any more men, not after coming this far.”

  “Sir,” Dio said in an obedient voice.

  “Britannicus,” Fergus said turning to his young protégé. “Take a single company and bring up the rear-guard. See to it that you bring all the stragglers with you who will drop out from the column. I don’t want anyone left behind, not with that fucking band of thieves and robbers watching us out there. Stay with the stragglers and guard them. If they attack, take up a defensive position. Stay in position. Understood?”

  “Yes Sir,” Britannicus said in a quick confident voice. “What do you think they want Sir” he added, gesturing at the Arabs. “They are just sitting there as if waiting for something.”

  “I know what they want,” Fergus growled as he lowered his gaze. “It’s the same thing that these nomads always want. Slaves and loot. They must think that we look vulnerable and ripe for an easy picking. They are going to go after our stragglers. Our high-quality weapons, shields, armour, equipment. It will all be useful to these Bedouin.”

  “Fucking hell,” Britannicus snorted with sudden disgust, as Fergus’s words sank in. “Slaves and loot. We’re the fucking Roman army. No one is taking me as a slave.”

  ***

  The silence of the desert was disturbed by the rattle and clink of equipment and the crunch of hundreds of army boots on the gravelly desert floor. As the Roman column headed south along the banks of the Euphrates, high in the blue sky the fierce afternoon sun glared down on them. Swarms of desert flies buzzed around the men’s heads. Keeping abreast of the legionaries who were moving along in a hollow square formation, Fergus grimly turned to glance at the Arabs. Out in the desert the nomads were following and shadowing them from a safe distance. There had to be around one hundred and fifty of them. Some were mounted on camels and others on horses and all were wearing their traditional long flowing robes with keffiyeh wrapped around their heads and faces. Their encounter with his slingers had not put them off. Contemptuously Fergus looked away. The decision to march in a protective hollow square had slowed his progress but it would provide near immediate all-round defence if the nomads attacked or they were ambushed. Up ahead Dio and the twenty or so cavalrymen from the Third Legion had nearly vanished from sight on the horizon.

  “Sir looks like Britannicus and his men are falling further behind,” a centurion called out.

  Turning to look towards the rear Fergus grunted, as he saw that Britannicus and his men were indeed lagging. The need to cajole and keep the stragglers and those men who couldn’t keep up with the column moving, had already created a gap, a third of a mile wide from the main column.

  “Shall I order the column to a halt Sir,” the centurion called out. “Give them time to catch up with us.”

  Fergus came to a stop as he gazed back at the rear-guard. If he ordered the column to a halt, then effectively he would be conceding that they would be moving at the pace of the stragglers. That could put them in danger if the Arabs were just the advance party of a larger force. Irritably he bit his lip. The Arabs were smart. By threatening his stragglers, they were slowing his progress. Yet he had to keep moving. There was safety in mobility. In other circumstances the stragglers would have been placed on the supply wagons and a strong force of cavalry would have protected the rear-guard, but he had neither wagon’s or cavalry.

  “We keep moving,” Fergus called out to the centurion. “But if the gap grows any larger we will call a halt and let them catch up.”

  Fergus was just about to move on, when out in the desert the Arabs turned around and started to gallop away towards the Roman rear-guard. Perplexed Fergus watched them go. The Bedouin were crying out to each other. Suddenly they divided into two parties. The camel-born infantry trotted straight towards Britannicus and his men, whilst the horsemen raced away in a lazy curving move that brought them around the rear of the party of Romans. As he watched the manoeuvres, Fergus felt a sudden and growing sense of alarm.

  As the camel riders came on they began to extend into a wide line. They seemed intent on attacking the Romans. Amongst the rear-guard Britannicus had seen the threat and his men and some of the stragglers were rushing to form a defensive formation. Closing in on the Romans, the camel riders came to a halt, dismounted and stormed towards the Romans on foot, shouting and brandishing their weapons.

  “Call the column to a halt,” Fergus yelled at his cornice, as he saw the danger. “Get a company down there to re-enforce Britannicus. Go,” he shouted at the centurion. Tensely Fergus watched as the first of the Romans started to hurry towards their comrade’s aid. To the rear Britannicus had formed his men in a small defensive box, bristling with gleaming spear points. It was text book. Fergus grunted in approval. If Britannicus sat tight he would be able to see off the desert raiders until his comrades came to his aid.

  Close by the trumpet rang out, ordering the Roman column to a halt. All by now had seen the fast-moving Arab strike against the rear-guard. In the desert the Arabs on foot were closing with the legionaries but just as they seemed to get drawn into hand to hand combat, the Bedouin suddenly began to retreat. Stay in your position Britannicus. “Stay in your fucking position,” Fergus hissed to himself, as he stared at the confrontation. Then he groaned in dismay. Instead of remaining in their tight defensive box Britannicus and his men raised a cry and went charging off in a wild pursuit of the enemy. In an instant the tight defensive formation was shattered and lost. “No, no,” Fergus cried out. But there was nothing he could do. The distance between the main column and the Roman rear-guard was only a third of a mile, but the company hastening to their comrades’ aid was not going to get there in time.

  Fergus’s eyes widened in horror, as on cue the Arab horsemen came charging in from the rear where they’d been biding their time waiting to attack. Too late Britannicus and his men seemed to spot the new threat. Caught spread out in a disorganised state across the desert floor there was no time to form a defence. Within a few moments, the Arab horsemen were in amongst the legionaries, their horses’ hooves kicking up small clouds of dust, as they cut down the men with swords, bows and spears. The cavalry attack was so sudden and furious that it caught many by surprise and the consequences were devastating. Screams and yells erupted across the desert and men went crashing and tumbling to the ground. Triumphantly the Arab infantrymen turned and joined in the battle.

  Fergus started to run and, as he did he sensed the whole column doing the same. Up ahead all was shrieking confusion as the legionaries did their best to defend themselves. But they were outnumbered and disorganised. As the Romans closed the gap, the Arab horsemen suddenly fled, galloping away into the desert with loud blood curdling cries. The camel-mounted infantry still locked in vicious hand-to-hand combat with the legionaries, also broke away and began racing back to their mounts. Fergus cursed. He was too late. Across the desert floor the bodies of dozens of legionaries lay scattered about. Only a small band of men had managed to come together and seemed to have fought back-to-back and had survived. On the ground the wounded were screaming in agony.

  As he reached the scene of carnage and saw the blood and the corpses strewn across the gravelly desert floor, Fergus shook with rage. This debacle had been avoidable. But there was no way he could seek vengeance on the Arabs or pursue them. He had no cavalry. Rushing up, the legionaries fanned out, trying to do what they could for their wounded comrades, but the scale of the disaster was clear to all. Slowing to a walk, Fergus made his way through the devastation towards the small band of weary men still clustered together i
n their tight defensive position. They had survived because they had stuck together. The twenty or so legionaries covered in dust and some smeared with blood, had held their own. Around their battered position a dozen Arabs had been killed and several more badly wounded. Amongst the band of men, Fergus suddenly recognised Britannicus. His protégé face was splattered with blood and he was clutching a blood-stained gladius.

  Britannicus’s eyes widened as he saw Fergus striding towards him. His shoulders sagged in relief and he was just about to speak, when Fergus slapped him hard across his face. The force of the blow sent the young tribune staggering backwards where he tripped over a corpse and landed on his back in the dust. A moment later the sharp point of Fergus’s gladius was furiously hovering over Britannicus’s throat.

  “You disobeyed me. I told you to hold your position,” Fergus roared, his voice shaking with fury.

  ***

  The massive and spectacular mud-brick walls of the ancient city of Babylon rose up from the earth. The two and a half-thousand-year old city occupied both banks of the Euphrates with the river running through the heart of the metropolis. Its rectangular walls seemed in good condition. Fergus, surrounded by his staff and principal officers, stood in the desert gazing at the famous settlement where Alexander the Great had died. At his side the standard bearer was proudly holding up the square vexillation standard of the Fourth Scythica. Behind the officers the Roman column had come to a halt and the legionaries and slingers were resting and sitting around in the desert. A day had passed since the debacle with the desert raiders. The Arabs had not returned but the fight had cost him fifty-one dead and wounded. Fergus’s face looked stern and hard and something seemed to have changed in him. Gone were his handsome youthful features and instead he seemed to have grown older and more mature over the past few days. Standing around him his officers, clad in their plumed helmets and body armour, their hands resting on their belts, remained silent, as all gazed at the city a mile away.