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

by William Kelso

  “Sir,” a voice suddenly called from the bank. “You are needed over at the legate’s HQ. They said that you should come right away.”

  Fergus paused shaving and slowly turned to look at the soldier standing on the shore. There was always something or someone interrupting him. It was the inevitable consequence of his rank.

  “All right,” he growled. “Give me a moment to finish this.”

  ***

  The legate’s tent had been pitched in the centre of encampment B, one of several Roman camps that hemmed Seleucia in on three sides. As Fergus approached, the two legionaries on guard duty stiffly snapped out a salute. The military situation remained finely balanced Fergus knew. Several weeks had passed since the great battle that had killed prince Sanatruces and routed his army. There had however been little time to celebrate the victory. Ctesiphon and Babylon had refused to join the rebellion, no doubt overawed by Trajan’s presence but Seleucia, stubborn Seleucia on the Tigris, had refused to surrender and was prepared to fight it out with the legions. Trajan had left the task of forcing a surrender to two of his legionary legates and had moved northwards to try and quell the rebellious cities in northern Mesopotamia, taking half of his army with him.

  Entering the tent, Fergus was struck by its lavish furnishing. All of it looted. Along the edges of the tent stood a fine couch and a table, covered in an abundance of food and drink. Expensive looking carpets had been placed on the ground and, in a corner stood a stone bust of the emperor. For a moment Fergus said nothing as he allowed his eyes to adjust to the gloomy light. The two legionary legates who were in command of the Roman troops besieging Seleucia, were engaged in a deep earnest conversation. Nearby, a mock-up of the besieged city stood on a table in the middle of the tent.

  “Sir, you wished to see me,” Fergus said.

  “Ah Fergus,” one of the legates replied, beckoning him over. “Yes, come and have a look at this,” the legate said, gesturing at the mock-up of Seleucia. “We have just received some good news from the north. Quietus has sacked Edessa. The city is back under our control.”

  Fergus nodded and obediently he approached the table and looked down at the model made of stone, wood and sand. The mock up clearly showed the city’s walls, gates, the Roman camps, siege lines and the course of the Tigris.

  “We need your opinion on how best to take Seleucia,” the other legate growled. “You were its former garrison commander. You know the layout of the city better than any of us. Well, what can you tell us about the city’s weaknesses?”

  For a moment Fergus remained silent as he stared at the model.

  “Listen Fergus,” the first legate interrupted sharply. “I will explain the situation. Our losses have been heavy. We are stretched. We have only nine thousand men to besiege Seleucia, garrison Ctesiphon, Babylon and half a dozen other settlements, plus guard against any hostile Parthian moves from the east. Our supply lines to the north and west are threatened by the rebels in Doura-Europus and Hatra. Trajan has ordered that men are not to be sacrificed unnecessarily. We just don’t have the man power anymore. Nor can we replace our losses. So,” the legate paused. “We need to come up with a plan to recapture Seleucia that involves minimal casualties, and we must do it quickly. Trajan wants Seleucia taken as quick as possible. The city’s continued resistance could be an inspiration to others.”

  “So that rules out a direct assault,” the second legate growled. “And we do not have the time to sit here for weeks or months and starve the city into submission. That leaves only one viable option, subterfuge.”

  “It seems that you have already decided on what course of action to take Sir,” Fergus said with a forced smile, as he looked up at the legates.

  “I believe,” the first legate said in a stern voice. “That you were responsible for capturing Seleucia the first time by using subterfuge. We need some ideas on how we can repeat that feat. Well?”

  Fergus remained silent as he turned his attention back to the model of the city. Then at last he cleared his throat, reached forwards and with his fingers, tapped the section where the docks protruded into the Tigris.

  “The city walls are massive and well laid out,” Fergus said with a sigh. “The gates into Seleucia too, are well protected. There are huge crossbeams that need half a dozen men to lift into place. But once in place they will keep those gates standing. They have been designed to withstand a battering. They are made of solid wood – reinforced by iron cladding, impervious to fire and two feet thick. But set within the gates there are smaller doorways. When we were in control of the city we closed the gates at night but kept the smaller doorways open. They are easily defendable and locked in an emergency and it meant we did not need to constantly open the gates. A city like Seleucia has a lot of traffic going in and out.”

  “So, what are you suggesting?” one of the legates growled.

  “I know the city and its streets fairly well, as do my men,” Fergus replied, looking up at the Roman officers. “A party of volunteers and a raft, say eight or ten men, dressed in civilian clothing could be launched from here, just upstream from Seleucia. The operation would be conducted at night and with a massive diversion; say an artillery barrage to catch the defender’s attention. The party would enter the city through the docks, make their way to the northern gates here, kill the guards and open the doorway letting in your troops.”

  Abruptly the tent fell silent, as the legates stared at the model of Seleucia.

  “How would you open the doorways in the gates? Presumably the rebels will have locked and barred them.”

  “I have the keys,” Fergus replied quickly. “I have the keys to the city. When we were forced to evacuate from the palace during the uprising, I took the spare set of keys with me. Each gate had a spare set in case the originals were lost. They were kept in the former governor’s mansion. Obviously, the keys can only be used to open the door from the inside, but I thought maybe one day they would come in handy.”

  The two legates stared at Fergus in stunned silence. Then slowly one of them shook his head in disbelief.

  “Shit Fergus,” the officer hissed. “And you only thought about telling us this now. You are full of surprises.”

  Fergus shrugged. “I am telling you now,” he replied sharply. “And I would like to lead the mission into the city. Seleucia was my responsibility. It was my job to hold the place and I know it’s streets. I would like to have the opportunity to be able recover the city for Rome Sir.”

  “Agreed,” one of the legates snapped. “Handpick your men. We want this done as soon as possible.”

  Fergus turned to look down at the model of the city.

  “May I ask Sir,” he said. “What will become of Seleucia once we have recovered the city?”

  “The city will be sacked and burned,” one of the legates replied grimly. “Anyone who surrenders will be sold into slavery, the rest killed. Anyone who dares rebel against Rome will suffer the consequences.”

  Fergus nodded and lowered his eyes.

  ***

  The raft bobbed up and down on the gentle current. In the cloudless night sky, the stars twinkled and glowed. Fergus lay stretched out on the raft, his legs protruding into the cold water. He was clad in civilian clothing and his face and forehead was camouflaged with mud, that had been smeared into his skin. Ahead in the darkness, he could make out the rebel camp fires along the docks. Slowly and silently the raft drifted towards the river harbour. The night was quiet. On either side of the raft a man was in the water, clutching hold of the craft, swimming and guiding the vessel towards a spot along Seleucia’s river front. The remaining six men, all hand-picked volunteers, all clad in civilian garb, lay beside Fergus, stretched out on the raft. They too were gazing intently and silently at the approaching harbour. The docks ahead looked crowded and congested by all kinds of river vessels, large transport barges, fishing boats, pleasure craft, all driven into the harbour by the Roman naval blockade on the Tigris, north and south of Seleucia. As
the raft drew closer to the mass of ships, Fergus suddenly heard voices in the darkness. They were Parthian. Turning his head, he gazed at the Greek translator who had volunteered to come with them. The translator, sensing Fergus looking at him, shrugged.

  Suddenly to the south the night sky was lit up by three flaming projectiles that went arching gracefully through the air, over the tall walls and into the city. They landed with a crash and instantly the night was rent by uproar. Along the southern wall it was as if a thousand voices were shouting and screaming. Moments later another barrage of Roman missiles went arching through the sky towards Seleucia. Grimly Fergus stared at the spectacle. The diversion had begun. Along the harbour front the Parthians were crying out to each other in the darkness. In the light from their camp fires that partially illuminated the water front, Fergus caught sight of shadows flitting through the gloom. Slowly but steadily the raft drew closer and closer to the docks. When they were but a few yards from a large moored river barge, Fergus silently slithered off the raft and into the river. The water was cold. Holding onto the raft with one hand he and the other men silently pulled the craft into contact with the larger vessel. Quickly Fergus turned his head to listen.

  Nearby Parthian voices were calling out to each other, but from the tone of their voices the rebels didn’t seem too concerned by the bombardment to the south. A moment later a laugh punctured the darkness. Carefully Fergus raised his head and peered at the stone embankment. A dozen yards away, along the waterfront, a camp fire was blazing, and in its light, he caught the outline of a sentry peering out into the river. The man was armed with a spear and a flaming torch. Calmly Fergus’s gaze swept along the embankment. There were more camp fires stretching all the way along the docks. Clearly the rebels had realised the danger of an attack from the river. Closing his eyes, he tried to picture the layout of the docks and the streets leading to the northern gate as they had been, when he’d been the city’s garrison commander. Once they were on land they would have to move fast. There was no room for cock-ups or missed turns. One slip up and they would be done for. He hadn’t needed to volunteer for this mission Fergus knew. It would have been much easier to do nothing, to keep his head down but the legates would have just sent other men to do the job and that was not right. Seleucia had been his responsibility. It had been his duty to hold the city. And it was his job to erase the shame and humiliation of being forced to withdraw his men, sneaking away under the cover of night as if they were thieves.

  Opening his eyes, Fergus turned to his men who were crouching silently on the raft behind him. In the darkness he could not make out their faces. Boldly he reached up and began to hoist himself up over the side of the river barge. After a few frantic exhausting moves, he managed to haul his body up and over the side of the hull. For a moment Fergus lay on his back staring up at the stars, as he tried to regain his breath. Along the southern edge of Seleucia, the burning Roman artillery missiles continued to arch through the sky like blazing meteors. Having regained his breath Fergus carefully raised his head to peer at the sentry, but the man had not noticed anything. Silently Fergus began to crawl along the empty boat towards the embankment. There was no way they were going to be able to sneak into the city without the sentry spotting them. He had to be taken out.

  Reaching the embankment, Fergus pressed himself up against the cold, damp stone work and glanced upwards. The sentry was no more than a few yards away. The man was softly humming a tune to himself, completely oblivious to danger he was in. Lazily he began to pace up and down. In the darkness Fergus felt around until his hands found the small ladder that led upwards onto the waterfront. Swiftly he pulled a pugio army knife from the folds of his civilian clothing and as quietly as possible he started to climb. The sentry had his back turned, when Fergus swiftly rose up behind him. With a few quick steps he reached the man, clamped his hand around the sentry’s mouth and swiftly cut his throat. The man’s spear clattered to the ground and his torch tumbled into the river where it sizzled and died. The action had taken no more than a few seconds. The dying man was spilling a huge quantity of blood down his throat and across his chest, as Fergus hastily lowered him to the ground. Crouching beside the corpse, Fergus turned to look around him, but in the dim firelight he could see no one. No had noticed the attack. So far, so good then.

  A few moments later, Fergus sensed movement out on the river. Grasping hold of the corpse, he quickly rolled it over and holding onto the arms he lowered the body into the river, where it vanished into the darkness. Quickly Fergus picked up the sentry’s spear and discarded it too into the Tigris. As he crouched in the shadows, his men appeared, hastily and silently clambering one by one up onto the embankment. When they’d all made it up onto the land, Fergus raised his fist in the air and gestured for them to follow him. Pulling his hood over his head, he boldly started out towards the main street leading away from the docks.

  The darkness to the south was still being punctured by the spectacular Roman artillery barrage. Clutching his knife in his hand, Fergus silently and purposefully led his men in single file through the harbour area. Around him, the docks were clogged with a chaotic mass of crates, barrels, sacks of grain, cranes, large numbers of amphorae and piles of wood. The place stank of fish. The siege and rebellion had meant that all commerce and trade had come to a stop. Somewhere in the darkness amongst the merchandise, a man was snoring loudly. Up ahead blocking the entrance into the narrow street that led away from the docks, Fergus caught sight of another camp fire. Three armed figures were standing guard around the fire, warming their hands and chatting to each other. Calmly Fergus strode straight towards the men. As the rebels noticed him they turned to face Fergus, and one of them called out to him. Fergus quickened his pace, strode straight up to the nearest figure and before the man could do anything, he stabbed him in the head. A horrified scream of alarm rent the night, but it died as quickly as it arose, as the men with Fergus pounced on the other two guards and quickly silenced them. The fight was over within seconds. Dragging the corpses into the shadows, Fergus turned to peer down the narrow street. It looked deserted. In the buildings that lined the road there were no lights showing. Most of the city’s inhabitants seemed to be asleep.

  “Follow me,” Fergus hissed turning to his men. “We don’t stop until we reach the northern gate. Keep your eyes open. Kill anyone who gets in our way.”

  Calmly but quickly, followed in single file by his companions, he began to move on down the darkened, deserted street, keeping to one side of the road. High above him in the night sky, the stars twinkled and glowed. To the south, the Roman missiles seemed to have set a building on fire, for flames were flickering and leaping up into the darkness. Fergus hastened onwards. The street was just wide enough to allow two donkeys with paniers to pass each other and the paving stones were stained with old squashed animal droppings. As he moved on deeper into the city, Fergus strained to listen, but apart from the Roman barrage all seemed quiet and peaceful. He was approaching a cross roads, when suddenly he caught sight of a large group of torches coming towards him down the street. The crunch of boots and men’s voices accompanied the torches.

  Hastily Fergus shot into an alley filled with rubbish and pressed himself up against the wall, as his men scattered into the shadows. A few moments later a large troop of well-armed men came marching past. Silently Fergus stared at them as the men headed off down the street towards the docks. How long before the missing sentries would be discovered? How long before the alarm was raised? Poking his head out of the alley, he turned to look up the street, but it seemed clear. Silently Fergus slipped back into the street and shot across the cross roads. The soft patter of feet followed him. Crouching in the shadows, he paused to allow his companions to catch up. Then he was off again, slipping quickly through the darkened street. Pausing again at another crossroads, he turned to get his bearings. If he remembered correctly the northern gate was not far away now.

  “It’s that way Sir,” the translator w
hispered, as he hastily crouched beside Fergus and pointed down one of the streets. “I remember Sir. I am sure of it.”

  Fergus grunted as he turned to stare in the direction in which the Greek translator was pointing. The darkness was disorientating but something in the translator’s voice sounded truthful.

  “All right let’s go,” Fergus hissed.

  Hastening across the intersection, he darted into the street to which the translator had pointed. In one of the homes a man and a woman were having a loud, furious argument and in another a baby was crying. As he pushed on down the narrow road, a dog suddenly started to bark. Ignoring the noise, Fergus paused as he reached the end of the street. Crouching in the shadows he suddenly hissed in frustration. Ahead in the dim light, across an open space he could see the outline of the city walls and the massive gatehouse that housed the northern gates. But the rebels seemed to have constructed another makeshift wall across the entrance to the gates, blocking them off completely. As he peered at the defences Fergus hissed again. The only way to access the outer doorway for which he had the keys, was by going through the main gatehouse; the only entrance being a narrow, no doubt locked, and guarded doorway set in the walls.

  “What’s the problem Sir?” a Roman voice whispered from behind him.

  “They have blocked the gates with a second wall,” Fergus whispered. “It means that the only way to get to the outer doorway is through the main gatehouse and fuck knows how many guards could be inside or up on those walls.”