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

by William Kelso

  Grimly Fergus turned his gaze across no-man’s land towards the massed ranks of Parthian warriors who were drawn up facing the Roman lines, a half a mile away. The Parthians were too far away to make out their clothing, armour or weapons, but there was no doubt that they significantly outnumbered the Romans. Their ranks looked at least ten or twelve men deep.

  Sat around him on horseback, were his cornicen and standard bearer, holding up the square vexillation banner of the Fourth Scythica, together with the eight legionary bodyguards who were on foot. The cornicen’s trumpet hung suspended across his chest and the standard bearer’s helmet was covered by a wolf’s head. The legionaries’ shields were resting on the ground, leaning against the men’s legs and, in their hands, the men were clutching their pila, throwing spears. All were staring across the open, arid plain towards the enemy lines.

  “Looks like we are facing Prince Sanatruces’s own guardsmen Sir,” the standard bearer called out, gesturing at the massed Parthian infantry ranks facing them. “The skirmishers say they spotted men holding up Parthian royal banners. Looks like it’s going to be a tough fight. They say Sanatruces’s personal guard are the best of the best Sir.”

  For a moment Fergus didn’t reply, as he studied the enemy army.

  “I have met Sanatruces once before,” Fergus said at last, and as he did his staff and the men around him, turned to look at him in surprise. Fergus hesitated as he remembered the rescue of Adalwolf a year ago. “It was on a Parthian vessel anchored off Derbent on the Hyrcanian Ocean. I helped rescue a friend from aboard Sanatruces’s own ship. He was trying to ransom him for gold.”

  “What happened Sir?” the cornicen asked eagerly.

  “I threw a knife at Sanatruces and jumped overboard,” Fergus replied. “Shame that I missed or else we wouldn’t be here right now, would we.”

  “Shit Sir,” the standard bearer exclaimed, as his lips slowly cracked into a grin. “That’s a fucking brilliant story. You never told us Sir.”

  “Sir,” the decanus in charge of his eight bodyguards called out suddenly in an urgent tone. “Imperial banners approaching Sir.”

  Hastily Fergus turned to look in the direction in which the decanus was pointing, and there coming towards him along the rear of the Roman battle line, was a group of horsemen. “Oh, fuck its Trajan,” Fergus exclaimed in surprise, as he caught sight of the imperial banners being carried by the horsemen. Hastily Fergus urged his horse around so that he was facing the group of riders. Leading them, Trajan was clad in a splendid coat of armour and purple imperial robes, but he was bareheaded. As he rode on past, surrounded by his senior officers and mounted praetorian guards, Fergus and his staff quickly rapped out a salute. On his horse the old warrior emperor turned and idly glanced at Fergus, and as he seemed to recognise him, a little crooked smile appeared on Trajan’s aged face. Raising his right hand slightly, the emperor clenched his hand into a fist making sure that Fergus had noticed. Then he was gone, riding on further down the line.

  ***

  Across the battlefield multiple Parthian horns and trumpets suddenly rang out, shattering the eerie silence that had existed until then. Fergus tensed. This was it. The battle was about to begin. Across the half a mile of flat open ground that separated the two armies, the Parthian infantrymen had started to advance towards the Roman lines. As they came on, banging their weapons against their shields, their shrieks, yells and shouts grew in volume. Tensely Fergus watched them approach. Amongst the ranks of Roman legionaries, not a man made a sound as they grimly awaited contact. Out in front, the lightly clad skirmishers were already in action. Whirling their slings high above their heads and throwing their javelins at the great advancing masses of Parthian infantry. But their efforts went barely unnoticed and, as the Parthian infantry began to close, the skirmishers hastily fled, filtering through the narrow gaps in the main Roman battle line.

  From the Roman lines a trumpet suddenly rang out and, as it did the signal was quickly picked up by more trumpets. As Fergus recognised the signal, he calmly turned to his cornicen.

  “Signal the men to start their advance,” he snapped.

  A moment later the cornicen’s trumpet rang out. The sound was swiftly followed by a few shouted orders. In front of Fergus, the long lines of Roman legionaries had picked up their large shields, decorated with thunder and lightning bolts and had started to advance at a slow, but steady walk, straight towards the oncoming Parthian masses. Tensely Fergus observed his men. They were maintaining their close formation, each man’s shield nearly overlapping with that of their comrades beside them. The legionaries had raised their pila above their shoulders, their long iron spear heads pointing at the Parthians. There was no need to tell the men what to do. The legionaries were professionals. Each man had been trained for this, prepared for this moment but nevertheless, as he watched his men, Fergus was deeply impressed by their discipline. It required utmost self-control and self-discipline to calmly and silently keep walking straight towards the great masses of shouting, screaming Parthian infantry, who were bearing down on them. Urging his horse on behind the ranks, Fergus could do nothing but watch.

  Closer and closer the two armies moved until, when they were less than a hundred yards apart, the Parthian ranks raised a mighty roar and charged. Fergus felt the hair on his neck stand up, but the spark of panic passed as quickly as it had come, and his training took over. Ahead of him, the silent legionaries were still advancing at their slow but steady walk, directly into the oncoming flood of running, screaming men. Then as the enemy had closed to less than twenty yards, the legionaries as one, flung their spears straight at the great mass of Parthian infantry, tore their short swords from their scabbards and charged, and as they did a great defiant and furious roar rose from the Roman ranks. The volley of spears at such close range had a devastating effect on the Parthian charge. Men went down in great numbers and those that fell were swiftly trampled underfoot, by their comrades coming on behind them. Here and there the Parthian charge seemed to lose some of its impetus. As the two battle lines made contact, a furious, screaming melee developed. Huddled behind their large shields and tightly packed together, the Roman legionaries formed a solid wall of wood and iron, from behind which they stabbed and lunged at their opponents with their short gladius swords. Shrieks and screams filled the air, but as he looked on from his horse, Fergus could see that his men had stopped the Parthian charge dead in its tracks.

  “Hold them boys. For fuck’s sake hold,” a deep Roman voice screamed above the din.

  All along the battle line, screaming, yelling men were shoving and pushing at each other with their shields as they sought to find an opening into which they could thrust their swords and spears at their enemy. Then abruptly the two sides recoiled from each other, swiftly creating a space of ten or fifteen yards wide between the two armies. Grimly, furiously, gasping and panting for breath, the men in the front lines stared at their opponents as they sought to build up the courage and the momentum for another charge.

  “Wedge formation,” Fergus roared, as he hastily urged his horse on down the line behind his men. “Wedge formation. Get stuck into them. Break them apart. Break them apart.”

  Along the Roman battle line as far as he could see the Parthian and Roman infantry were locked in furious hand to hand combat, that rippled forwards and backwards as men made contact and recoiled from the ferocious, savage stabbing contest. Fergus had just turned his horse and was racing back down the line, when a Parthian spear shot passed him and struck his cornicen full on in the chest, knocking him clean out of his saddle and onto the ground. There was no time to see if the soldier was still alive. In the front line some of the legionaries seemed to have heard his orders, for led by their officers and with a loud savage cry, they charged the Parthian line. Here and there the legionaries had begun to form small V shaped wedges, some composed of only three or five men, as they tried to hack their way into the solid Parthian line. The hand to hand combat was frantic. Shri
eking, screaming, desperate men fighting for their lives, filled the morning with noise, but Fergus was not listening. Yelling encouragement at his men, he rode along at the back of the battle line oblivious to the fine target he made for enemy missiles.

  In the front line the legionaries had started to make inroads in the Parthian line. With grim, savage determination the Romans, led by their officers, were hacking their way deeper into the Parthian ranks. Using their large shields to protect each other’s flanks, the legionaries short stabbing swords flashed and lunged at the enemy with deadly efficiency. Block, stab, move forwards. Block, stab, move forwards. Block, stab, move forwards. The Roman equipment, discipline and superior training was beginning to tell.

  “Sir, for fuck’s sake get yourself a shield,” the standard bearer screamed, as he rode up to where Fergus was shouting encouragement at a group of legionaries struggling to make headway. Fergus ignored the man and instead, urged his horse on down the line. This was no time for such matters. A critical moment in the battle was approaching. He could sense it. Beyond the Roman lines the Parthians were putting up a stout resistance, but their men lacked the Romans quality body armour and organisation. Some instinct told him that they were not going to be able to endure this ferocious contest for much longer.

  “Sir, please Sir,” the standard bearer yelled, as another spear narrowly missed him. For the briefest moment Fergus turned to stare at his standard bearer. Then reaching across, he snatched the square vexillation standard from the man’s surprised hand and, digging his heels into his horse’s flank, he cried out and started off back down the line.

  “No, no, no Sir,” the standard bearer shrieked, as he realised what Fergus was about to do.

  Charging down the battle line behind his men, Fergus held up the proud banner for all to see and as he did he roared, before sending the standard flying over his men’s heads and deep into the Parthian ranks. From behind him, he heard a strangled, desperate cry of sheer horror. To lose one’s battle standard was the ultimate shame, a shame that belonged to every man in the unit and which would never be erased. A shame that would endure for all eternity.

  “Bring me back my standard,” Fergus roared as he reigned in his horse. “Bring me back my standard. You are men of the Fourth Scythica. You are not going to lose your battle standard. Not today. Not today!”

  It was impossible to tell what effect his dramatic action had on the men, or even if they had noticed, but some had. Immediately in front of him, the Roman assault took on a new frantic aggression and purpose. With furious, fearless violence the legionaries renewed their attempts to break through the Parthian line. Hacking, shoving and stabbing at their opponents, the Romans forced their way deeper and deeper into the Parthian masses. The screams of the wounded rent the morning air and, along the contact line the bodies were beginning to pile up. With a savage expression, Fergus stared at the fighting. He had no fresh reserves to commit to the battle, nothing by which he could force a result except his men’s pride in themselves and their unit. Would it be enough, or had he just committed his men to an eternity of shame and contempt?

  Dimly he was aware of his standard bearer screaming at him, but the man’s words would not register. Nothing else mattered but to win this contest, this frantic, savage, bloody and murderous fight to the death. And he was going to win. They were going to break the enemy.

  Suddenly his horse was struck by a spear and, with a startled cry Fergus was flung from his saddle and tumbled to the ground. He landed with a painful thump and for a moment he was unable to move. Staggering to his feet, the sound of the battle just yards away came back to him, as a loud frantic rush of noise. For a moment Fergus struggled with a blurred vision and his breathing was causing him pain. As he turned to look around, a loud triumphant cry rose all along the Roman line. Turning to stare at the fighting, Fergus gasped as he saw that the Parthian resistance was beginning to crumble. A trickle of men had started to flee and within seconds, the panic and confusion spread, and more and more Parthians turned and began to run. The collapse was sudden and had come without warning and as the Parthians fled, the Roman legionaries set off in pursuit. The battle had turned.

  Pulling Corbulo’s old gladius from his scabbard, Fergus raised it in the air and grimly started to follow his men as they charged after the routed enemy. Gazing to his left and then to his right, Fergus saw that the whole central section of the Parthian battle line had collapsed into chaos. The Parthian infantry were in full retreat, streaming away across the plain in huge panic stricken and disorganised masses. This then was the moment, after all organisation had been lost, when the battle turned from a contest into a bloody massacre. As he stumbled along after his victorious men, Fergus paused as one of his bodyguards came hurrying towards him. The man was clutching the vexillation banner of the Fourth Scythica. Handing it back to Fergus, the soldier glared at him silently with wild, furious and accusing eyes.

  “We were never going to lose it,” Fergus growled, as he turned away and started out after his men.

  Ahead of him across the plain the Parthians were running for their lives. The bodies of the slain and wounded lay scattered across the arid ground, but the legionaries were not in the mood to show mercy. As he staggered on after his men, clutching the soiled vexillation standard, Fergus suddenly became aware that the ground was shaking. To his right clouds of dust were being kicked up into the air, and suddenly he caught sight of figures on horseback racing across the plain. The Numidian and Batavian horsemen had struck the Parthian centre from the rear and were mowing down the fleeing men with contemptible ease. The rout was turning into a massacre. Close by, a Parthian infantryman was down on his knees and trying to surrender. The man was holding up his arms in a pitiful attempt whilst crying out in his foreign language. But it did not save him from a legionary who viciously stabbed him in the neck and the man crumpled to the ground. Fergus kept moving. Ahead of him across the corpse-strewn plain, the legionaries advance was beginning to slow and come to a halt, as the men paused from exhaustion and turned their attention to finishing off the enemy wounded. The task of completing the enemy rout now belonged to the cavalry who were superbly well equipped for this role. Fergus had just caught up with the front ranks, when an excited cry rose a hundred yards away. Turning to gaze in that direction he caught sight of a group of legionaries milling about in excitement.

  “What the fuck is going on over there?” Fergus roared, as he started to walk towards the group of men.

  As he approached he caught sight of Dio standing amongst a group of legionaries. The centurion’s body armour was splattered with blood and he was clutching his gladius in one hand. Spotting Fergus, Dio turned and hastened towards him, his eyes and face filled with raw excitement and triumph.

  “We think we got him Sir,” Dio yelled in savage delight. “Come and have a look. We think its him.”

  “Who? Who are you talking about?” Fergus shouted.

  “Prince Sanatruces Sir,” Dio yelled. “He’s dead. Come and have a look. It must be him Sir. We got the bastard. It was us Sir. The Fourth Scythica who got him. It was us. We just fucking killed Sanatruces.”

  Chapter Ten – Return to Seleucia

  Autumn 116 AD

  Fergus finished washing himself with his sponge, stuck it into his belt and raised the small shaving knife to his chin. The cool, refreshing waters of the Tigris tugged at his body, but the current was not strong. It was morning and he stood in the river, not far from the muddy bank, stripped to his waist. Closing one eye, he raised his chin and carefully applied the knife and began to shave himself. A couple of hundred yards away, the massive city walls of Seleucia came right up to the water’s edge and across the wide, placid river, just visible on the opposite eastern bank, he could make out Ctesiphon, the Parthian capital. Hidden behind the tall green river reeds along the embankment, a battery of Roman onagers, catapults were hurling their projectiles at the besieged city. The desultory crack and whir of the war machines had sta
rted at dawn, but the bombardment of Seleucia seemed to be having a minimal impact on the rebel defences.

  Ten yards away, two prostitutes were washing themselves in the river and trying hard to catch his eye. They were making a good show of letting him see their breasts, and as they chatted they kept on glancing in his direction. Ignoring the girls, Fergus continued to shave himself. He was in good physical shape, he had money and his seniority meant he could have had any of the hundreds of desperate local women who had flocked to the Roman army encampments that surrounded Seleucia. But he’d abstained. He had stayed faithful to Galena. It had been hard, sometimes very hard, but somehow, he’d managed it. It was not something many of his fellow officers could claim. It was not something his grandfather Corbulo or his father Marcus or even his mother Kyna, had been able to do. But he had. So too had Galena. He was certain of that. She too would remain faithful. It was what he loved about her. Glancing at the prostitutes, Fergus sighed. Watching the girls washing themselves in the river had suddenly reminded him how good it would be to see his wife again. It had been nearly a year since he’d last seen her and his five daughters. He had tried not to think about them too much for that would not do him any good, but now in this unguarded moment he could not help himself.