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

by William Kelso

  “There Sir,” a centurion called out suddenly as he pointed at a small party of horsemen riding towards them. The party of riders was kicking up a cloud of dust as they hastened towards the Roman column. Patiently Fergus watched as the horsemen drew closer. At last he recognised Dio.

  “Well,” Fergus demanded as the centurion and his men came galloping up to him.

  Dio hastily wiped the dust from his face.

  “Emperor Trajan’s camp is a mile south of the city on the right bank of the Euphrates,” the centurion called out, as his face lit up in a grin. “The city of Babylon is still under Roman control. Trajan is here Sir.”

  Chapter Seven – An Audience with an Emperor

  The playing-card shaped Roman army marching camp stood on the banks of the Euphrates within a mile of the walls of the shimmering city of Babylon. It was late afternoon and, in the bright blue sky, not a cloud was to be seen. On the side facing the river the local levees protected the camp, whilst landwards the only defences were a shallow V-shaped ditch and a low, rudimentary earthen rampart. Beyond the fixed defences Fergus could make out long rows of dusty army tents pitched in the fertile fields. A few guards were standing up on the embankment and a moment later, from within the camp, a trumpet rang out. Up ahead, at the camp entrance, more and more soldiers were rushing up and gathering, as news of the new-comers arrival spread. Fergus, marching at the head of his silent column, his left arm still stuck in its dirty, torn and stained sling, led his men straight towards the entrance. He looked stern and unsmiling. Just behind him came his staff, holding up the proud square vexillation standard of the Fourth Scythica Legion. Behind them, as if on parade, came the legionaries carrying their spears, marching packs and shields - in smart and neat ranks of eight men abreast and led by their officers. The main column was followed by a convoy of wagons he’d requisitioned in Babylon. The carts were of all sorts and upon them he’d placed the wounded, sick and those who couldn’t keep up. Dio and the twenty of so cavalrymen of the Third Legion brought up the rear walking their horses calmly towards the Roman camp.

  Approaching the entrance into the camp, Fergus was aware of the hundreds of curious and eager faces peering and craning their heads to get a glimpse of him and his men. Fergus kept his eyes fixed on the horizon. Now that they’d had confirmation that Emperor Trajan was present, he was determined to make his men’s entrance into the camp as grand and perfect as possible. It would be a shame to let an opportunity slip by to make an impression on the old emperor. Marching into the camp, Fergus led his men straight down the main avenue towards the principia, the centre, where a collection of grander and larger tents indicated an HQ. Along the sides of the track the legionaries clustered, gazing at the newcomers in silence. The rhythmic tramp of the legionaries’ boots dominated the silence as the proud vexillation of the Fourth came on in their smart unit formations.

  Close to the HQ tents, a party of senior legionary officers had gathered and were standing waiting for him to reach them. The sunlight gleamed and reflected from their magnificent body armour and plumed helmets. As he marched up to them Fergus suddenly raised his voice.

  “Column will come to a halt,” he roared and abruptly he stopped in front of the group of officers, straightened up and rapped out a smart salute. Behind him the legionaries and slingers came to an immediate halt. Silently and stiffly the men remained standing in formation, gazing straight ahead, as if waiting to be inspected on the parade ground.

  “Sir,” Fergus cried in a loud voice as he addressed himself to one of the legionary legates. “Vexillation of the Fourth Scythica Legion reporting for duty Sir.”

  ***

  The army tent was large and spacious, much larger, grander and luxurious than Fergus was used to. Around the edges stood an array of expensive and finely crafted furniture, a chest, a table, a camp bed and a rack on which hung a splendid coat of armour. Several burly and tough looking praetorian guards were standing outside the entrance, the sunlight reflecting from their armour and helmets. One of them was holding up an imperial banner. The bronze Imagine depicted the face of emperor Trajan. Two more hard faced praetorian guards were standing stiffly to attention at the entrance that led into the secluded and curtained off main section of the tent. Fergus licked his lips, as he sat gazing at a jug of water that stood on the table opposite him. His face and red hair was still covered in a fine layer of dust and his beard was an untrimmed riot. Behind the heavy curtains he could hear voices, but they were muffled, and he could not hear what was being said. Nor did he have any idea of what was going on. They had told him to sit here and wait. That had been some time ago. There had been no time to get a wash or have his arm checked out by the legionary doctors. The debrief had lasted for more than an hour. The officers on Trajan’s staff had wanted to know everything. The situation in Seleucia. The strength of the rebels. Names of their leaders. Their supply situation, levels of support. The state of the defences. The questions had gone on and on until Fergus had the feeling he was just repeating himself. It was only at the end of the debrief that he’d been able to mention to the senior officers that he would be sending Britannicus home in disgrace.

  Suddenly the heavy curtains parted, and two senior officers appeared, heading purposefully for the exit. Hastily Fergus rose to his feet and quickly saluted and, as he did he recognised one of the officers. It was Lusius Quietus, his former commanding officer who had sacked him from his command a year and half ago. As Quietus glanced at him in passing and recognised Fergus, the small, darkish-skinned Berber cavalry general looked equally surprised. For a moment he paused in the middle of the tent gazing at Fergus. Then a little amused smile appeared on his lips, as if he was recalling some memory, and without having uttered a word he turned and disappeared out into the daylight.

  “He will see you now,” a voice said sharply. The voice had come from behind him.

  Fergus turned around to see a tribune standing beside the heavy curtains. Hastily he crossed the floor of the tent and followed the officer through the gap in the curtains. Beyond, he found himself in a dim, stuffy and airless space. Several comfortable looking couches lined the sides of the tent and the middle of the room was dominated by a large wooden table, upon which lay a large-scale map, several papyrus scrolls, writing materials and a solitary sheathed gladius. A group of senior officers were standing to one side, but all were silent. Amongst them Fergus recognised the aquilifer, the legionary eagle standard bearer. The soldier was clutching the aquila, the sacred gold and silver eagle standard of the Sixth Legion. The eagle’s beady eyes gleamed in the dim light and with its outstretched wings the eagle seemed ready for take-off. Its razor-sharp talons were outstretched, gripping the base of the standard.

  “So, this is the man who has brought me a thousand valuable soldiers,” a voice called out breaking the silence. Coolly Fergus turned to look in the direction of an old man sitting on his own on one of the couches. Trajan, conqueror of Dacia, Armenia and Parthia, emperor of Rome, father of the Roman people and lord and undisputed master over a quarter of the world’s population, looked old, tired and unwell. But his physical ailments did not seem to have affected his mind. The sixty-three-year old emperor was studying Fergus keenly from his couch. He was clad in a purple cloak and fine, personally tailored body armour. His fingers were adorned with glittering rings and he was bareheaded, his hair trimmed short.

  Instinctively and hastily Fergus turned, straightened up and saluted smartly. There was no mistaking who this man was. Trajan might be old and unwell but, as he stared at the emperor, Fergus quickly became aware of Trajan’s formidable and fearless eyes examining him. It was easy to see why this old soldier and grizzled warrior remained boundlessly popular within the army and the populace. There was a greatness about him that was hard to describe but it was there.

  “Sir,” Fergus said quickly, unable to think of any other way in which to address the emperor.

  “Stand at ease son,” Trajan growled in a weary voice. “And
come a bit closer so that I can get a good look at you.”

  Obediently Fergus took a few steps forwards and Trajan grunted. For a moment the tent remained silent.

  “I remember you now. It’s your red hair. That’s unusual. You served under Quietus last year,” Trajan said at last, as he looked up at Fergus. “Commander of the 7th Auxiliary Alae of Numidians. You were at Elegeia when king Parthamasiris of Armenia surrendered to me. You are one of Hadrian’s men.”

  “Correct Sir,” Fergus said stiffly. “At Elegeia I provided the escort for Parthamasiris Sir.”

  For a moment Trajan gazed at Fergus in astonishment. He had clearly not been expecting that. Then a little bemused smile appeared on the old warrior’s lips and he looked away. Fergus remained silent. It had been Trajan himself who had ordered him to execute the Armenian king and make it look as if Parthamasiris had died whilst trying to escape. The “death trying to escape version” had become the official story.

  “And now in this time of great crisis and betrayal you have brought me nearly a thousand highly valuable men,” Trajan said with a sigh. “I can see why Hadrian trusted you. You are his man. Did you know that I have promoted him to overall commander of our Syrian and Armenian armies? You must be pleased. He’s now effectively my deputy in this war.” Trajan paused, as a brief distasteful look crossed his face. “I thought it wise in case something was to happen to me.”

  “I was not aware of this Sir,” Fergus replied. “Maybe Sir, you have met my father,” Fergus said quickly and boldly. “His name is Marcus. He is a senator back in Rome Sir. He served with the 2nd Batavian Auxiliary Cohort. And my wife Sir. She is friends with your wife and niece.”

  “Marcus,” Trajan said slowly, savouring the name. For a moment the emperor remained silent as he pondered on the name. “Ah yes Marcus,” Trajan said at last. “The senator who opened that veteran’s charity. Quietus was talking about him. Yes, I believe that I have met him a few times back in Rome. A good man I believe. He has raised a fine son.”

  “Thank you, Sir.”

  “I placed you in command of the garrison in Seleucia,” Trajan said rounding on Fergus in a tired sounding voice. “Why did the people of Seleucia rise-up against me? I was lenient with them. I treated them fairly. Did you fuck it up?”

  Fergus lowered his eyes and took a deep breath. The question had come up in the debrief, but he’d not been expecting to be asked again. Trajan was looking up at him and there was a sudden streak of cunning in the old warrior’s, wise and fearless eyes. As if he was about to judge him on the answer he provided. Across the room Fergus was suddenly conscious of the group of officers closely observing him. For a moment he paused. He had to be careful in what he said if he wanted to avoid having the uprising blamed on him.

  “I did not fuck it up Sir,” Fergus replied. “I treated the civilian population with respect and according to the rules set down by your staff. I guess it is the nature of men everywhere to crave freedom. There was just not enough time to teach them to be loyal to Rome, but I tried Sir. Everyone under my command tried and when it became apparent that we were going to fail, I decided to lead my men to safety and bring them here to you. I guessed that you would be needing us Sir.”

  Trajan did not reply. Then slowly the emperor rose to his feet and patting Fergus on the shoulder, he walked across to the table and gazed down at the map.

  “Relax,” Trajan said sharply. “No one is accusing you of a dereliction of duty. I have been a soldier for forty years and I can tell when a man is telling the truth. You did the right thing in evacuating your men and bringing them here. Seleucia is not the only city to have risen in revolt. I have received reports that Doura too has risen, as have Edessa in Osrhoene. Hatra too and Nisibis and apparently most of Armenia. They have all chosen to defy me, to betray me. Quietus heads north, as I speak, to gather our forces to crush the rebellions in Osrhoene and northern Mesopotamia. The Consul Maximus is trying to delay Sanatruces’s advance and in Armenia the governor Severus will no doubt have his hands full. So, Seleucia is just another fucking headache amongst many and it doesn’t look like it’s going to get better any time soon. Prince Sanatruces marches on Ctesiphon with an army intent on liberating the Parthian capital. I must face him in battle, but I can’t, not yet anyway, not with just two understrength legions and a few praetorian cohorts.”

  “Ctesiphon and Babylon remain loyal Sir,” Fergus said quickly. “And most of the countryside we passed through is quiet and peaceful.”

  “Yes, yes,” Trajan said in an irritable voice. “Ctesiphon and Babylon remain loyal because my presence here scares them shitless. That’s the only reason. But if Prince Sanatruces manages to liberate Ctesiphon then every fucking Parthian peasant and his dog is going to feel entitled to rebel against us.”

  With a sudden and surprisingly swift move for such an old man, Trajan slammed his fist down on the table.

  “It must not happen,” the old, worn out looking warrior cried. “It will not happen. I will defeat Sanatruces in battle and crush these Parthian peasants and their presumptions if it is the last thing I do. This uprising will not succeed. These Parthians will learn to fear me. We shall bring them back under the shadow of our eagles. Once the rest of the troops arrive you and I, Fergus, are going to march out to confront this Parthian prince and we’re going to kill him.”

  ***

  Carefully the doctor raised Fergus’s left arm and peered at the scab that covered the knife wound. Stoically and bare-chested Fergus sat on the chair, as he waited for the army doctor to finish his examination. The two of them were in Fergus’s sparsely decorated tent. A day had passed since his audience with Trajan and he and his men had been assigned quarters in the camp. It had been a welcome improvement to finally be able to sleep on a camp bed under shelter from the elements, have time to prepare a proper dinner, repair his equipment, have a wash and tend to his beard and scars.

  Muttering something to himself, the doctor lowered Fergus’s arm.

  “Has it healed?” Fergus asked in an anxious voice.

  “Looks all right,” the doctor said. “You were lucky that it did not get infected. The sling can come off, but you should use your arm sparingly. You should make a full recovery, gods willing.”

  “Thank you,” Fergus growled in relief, as he reached for his tunic.

  As he started to dress himself and the doctor packed away his medical equipment, Fergus turned to the surgeon with a quizzical look.

  “I saw you in the emperor’s tent yesterday,” Fergus exclaimed. “I thought I recognised you. You were there when I had my audience with Trajan. Are you the emperor’s doctor? Are you tending to him?”

  The doctor sighed. “I am an army doctor,” the man replied, as he turned to leave Fergus’s tent. “I belong to the Sixth Legion. The emperor has his own personal doctors that take care of him.”

  “I have heard rumours that Trajan’s health is deteriorating. Is that true?” Fergus asked quickly.

  At the exit leading out of the army tent the doctor paused.

  “The emperor is in denial,” the doctor snapped at last. “All I know is that he is refusing to believe what his doctors are telling him. But yes, his health is deteriorating.”

  And with that, the army surgeon stepped out into the daylight. For a moment Fergus gazed thoughtfully at the exit to his tent. Adalwolf had been right when at Antioch he’d told him about Trajan’s declining health. Stiffly Fergus turned, slipped into his tunic and reached for his body armour and belt. As he dressed himself, his hand brushed against the Celtic amulet hanging around his neck. The finely woven iron work felt refreshingly cold as it touched his skin. Pausing Fergus looked down at the amulet. According to Trajan the kingdom of Osrhoene had risen in rebellion and Zeugma was right on the front line. But he could not dwell on his family’s fate. He had to trust that they would be all right. It would be impossible to continue otherwise.

  “Sir,” a serious sounding voice said suddenly. Looking around, Ferg
us saw Dio standing in the entrance to his tent. The centurion had removed his helmet and had tucked it under his arm. He looked grave.

  “May I have a word Sir?” Dio asked.

  “Go on,” Fergus replied, as he turned to fasten his belt around his waist.

  A moment later the flap to his tent was pulled aside and a group of officers from his vexillation entered. Calmly Fergus stopped what he was doing and straightened up. What was going on? Dio and the centurions silently formed a semi-circle around him. Looking at them, Fergus saw that nearly every centurion from his command was present, their faces grave and serious looking.

  “It is regarding Britannicus Sir,” Dio said. “We are here to plead leniency on his behalf. All of us here feel the same way Sir.”

  “Britannicus disobeyed orders,” Fergus snapped. “I am sending him home in disgrace.”

  “He is young. He was rash. He made a mistake Sir, but he is nevertheless a good man, a good officer,” Dio replied quietly. “He saved all of us by holding the palace in Seleucia. He is devastated by your decision to send him home in disgrace. His career will be over. He will be a broken man. We ask you to reconsider Sir. Give Britannicus a second chance Sir.”

  Fergus turned to look away in silence. Then he sighed. The intervention by his officers irritated him, but deep down he knew that as overall commander he was ultimately responsible for everything that went on under his command. He too shared responsibility for the debacle out in the desert.

  “I will consider your request,” Fergus said brusquely as he turned to look at Dio.

  Chapter Eight - There is always a Cost

  On the pontoon bridge that had been thrown across the Tigris, thousands upon thousands of legionaries, praetorian guards, auxiliary infantry, Batavians, Numidian cavalry, wagons, camels, archers, slingers and artillery from across the empire, were on the move. The Roman column was endless. The rhythmic tramp of thousands of hobnailed boots, the cries of the officers, the snorting of horses, the baying of mules and the trundle of hundreds of wagon wheels filled the evening with noise. Out on the water, under the big cloudless skies, a solitary fisherman had cast his nets into the river and was gazing in silence at Trajan’s army as it crossed the Tigris. With the setting sun to his back, Fergus led his men up onto the bridge and as he did, he peered at the eastern bank of the wide, peaceful river. Amongst the arid fields and clumps of palm trees, Roman engineers and work parties of legionaries were busy constructing the marching camp. The evening light reflected from their armour and pick-axes. Fergus licked his cracked lips, as he turned his attention to the Tigris. His deeply tanned face, hair and body armour were covered in a fine layer of dust and sand and streaked with sweat. The sling and the bandage around his forehead had gone and he could use his left arm again, although it remained a little stiff. Maybe, later tonight when he’d completed all his duties, he would get the chance to have a quick dip and swim. He’d been on the move since dawn and even though the intensity of the day’s heat was receding, he could feel the sweat and sand clinging to him.