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

by William Kelso

  Grimly Fergus bit his lip as he tried to decide what to do. He was rapidly running out of time, for the missing sentries would surely soon be missed. And then the hunt would be on. He had to do something, and he had to do it quickly. Behind him he could hear his men’s soft laboured breathing as they crouched along the wall.

  “We could go over the wall Sir,” the Greek translator whispered as he quickly pointed at the makeshift wall that the rebels had constructed. “Look at how it had been constructed. It’s a poor, hasty job Sir. There should be enough ridges and edges for a man to clamber over.”

  Fergus frowned as he leaned forwards and peered at the wall in the dim light. It was impossible to see for sure, but the translator’s idea could work. If he could get across the wall, the outer doorway set into the gates would be only a few yards away.

  “Why the hell did you volunteer for this mission?” Fergus whispered as he tore his eyes away from the gatehouse and turned to peer at the Greek crouching behind him. “You did not need to do so. You know that.”

  “To earn your respect Sir,” the translator whispered. “I have to share all the same dangers and hardships like you soldiers do, but no one has ever given me credit for anything.”

  Fergus leaned his head back against the wall and raised his eyebrows in surprise and for a moment he wanted to laugh.

  “Well if this works,” he hissed at last. “Then you shall have my respect.” Then quickly he turned and hissed at the men crouching along the wall. “I, Timo and Antonius will go for that wall. We climb over it. If you see us get across you all follow. Beyond are the gates. You know what to do.”

  Turning his head, Fergus peered at the wall. Then he shifted his gaze up towards the top of the massive city walls. In the darkness he could see a few flaming torches moving about on the battlements. Slowly he tightened his grip on his knife. It was now or never.

  “Go,” he hissed as he leapt to his feet and raced across the open space that separated the homes from the city walls. As he reached the newly built wall, he launched himself at the masonry. The translator had been right. The rebels had done a poor job and the wall was uneven and lined with edges, handholds and ledges. With furious energy, Fergus reached up, grasped hold of an edge and heaved himself upwards. A few moments later he heard his two companions start to do the same. The task was simpler than he had expected and after a few moments of laborious activity, he had reached the top. Directly ahead, in the confined space beyond the makeshift wall, he caught sight of the massive wooden gates. They were shut and the huge cross bars had been raised into position just as he had expected. There was still no response from the guards up on the walls. With a grunt, Fergus slid his legs over the top of the wall and slithered to the ground, landing painfully on his arse.

  Pulling his knife from his belt, he rose to his feet and turned towards the doorway to his right, that was set into the walls and that led into the gatehouse. It was closed. If there were guards inside he could not hear them. Two torches had been affixed to the stone walls in iron holders either side of the gates and, in their flickering, hissing light, he caught sight of the small outer doorway set into the massive wooden gates. Silently Fergus moved up to the gates and tried the doorway. It was locked just as he had expected. As his two companions made it over the wall and slid to the ground, Fergus turned and gestured for them to take up position beside the door leading into the gatehouse. Fumbling within his civilian tunic, he produced the solid iron keys and inserted one of them into the lock. With a metallic snap, something turned and with a push the outer door swung open. Softly Fergus swore in triumph. Beyond the doorway the night remained silent and peaceful. There was no hint in the darkness that three thousand Roman soldiers were about to storm the gate.

  A soft noise alerted Fergus that the rest of his men were coming over the wall. He’d just managed to turn around, when he heard a loud voice call out from within the gatehouse. Without warning the door leading into the gatehouse swung open and a figure poked his head out of the doorway. Without thinking Fergus launched himself at the man. With a crash Fergus slammed into the guard and his momentum sent both careening into the guard room. A startled cry rang out. It was followed by another. Savagely Fergus punched his opponent in the face. Then he stabbed him and was rewarded with a shriek. Staggering to his feet, Fergus was just in time to see the surprised faces of three guards staring at him in horror. Then Fergus’s companions were onto them. The legionary’s short swords flashed wickedly in the light, cutting down two of the men before they even had a chance to respond. The third man managed to yell a loud warning and make it onto the first step of the stone staircase that led upwards onto the battlements, before Fergus caught him in the back with his knife. Savagely Fergus silenced him, allowing his body to collapse onto the stone floor of the guard room. The man he’d punched in the face was groaning and trying to drag himself across the floor. Quickly Fergus stepped towards him and cut his throat. A moment later the translator and the rest of his men came storming into the guardhouse, clutching their swords. Wild eyed they paused to stare at the bloody chaos and the four corpses strewn across the room.

  “You five - get up onto the battlements and silence the sentries up there,” Fergus hissed in an urgent voice, gesturing at the narrow stone stairs that led up onto the top of the walls. “The rest of you hold the guard house.”

  Just as he finished speaking a loud cry of alarm rose from above their heads. “Hurry, hurry,” Fergus cried as he stuffed his knife into his belt, turned and shot out of the doorway through which he’d just come. In the confined space beyond, the door set into the gates was open. Hastily Fergus reached up and yanked the two torches from their iron holders. Holding the flaming torches in both hands, he kicked the door so that it opened wider. Then he slipped on through it and into the dark night beyond. For a moment he could see nothing. On top of the walls an alarm bell suddenly started to ring out, its urgent dong, dong, dong shattering the tranquillity.

  Raising the two torches high above his head, Fergus turned to face the darkness. Then quickly he crossed the torches and repeated the sign three times. It was the signal to confirm that the gates were open.

  On top of the walls an outraged bellow was suddenly followed by a shriek and, in the darkness close by, a body came tumbling down from the battlements, hitting the ground with a thud. From the darkness beyond the walls Fergus suddenly heard a Roman voice. It was followed moments later by the sound of running feet and the clink of metal against metal.

  ***

  The wide colonnaded avenue that ran the length of Seleucia was filled with frantic people, wailing women, crying children, harsh male voices and the sound of cracking whips. Under the elegant Greek style covered walkways, the stoas, that lined the avenue on both sides, every shop and business of the once flourishing mercantile district was closed, looted or abandoned. It was afternoon and in the clear blue sky the sun shone supreme. Fergus, clad in his body armour and army uniform, accompanied by Dio, the Greek translator and a few legionaries, strode along the avenue casually gazing at the long lines of prisoners and slaves. There had to be thousands of them. The lines stretched away into the distance. In the street the citizens of Seleucia were kneeling on the paving stones, arranged in long parallel lines, their hands clasped behind the back of their heads, their faces turned to the ground, as the slave merchants and their lackeys, armed with whips and iron chains secured and inspected their catches. In the direction of the ex-governor’s palace and former Roman garrison HQ, part of the city was already on fire. Thick, black columns of smoke were belching up into the sky.

  Fergus looked tired but satisfied. Seleucia had fallen. The siege was over. The great city was once more under Roman control. The disgrace he’d felt at having been forced to abandon Seleucia had been wiped clean. Dark circles had formed under Fergus’s eyes and his cheeks were covered in a fresh layer of stubble. The operation the previous night to secure the northern gate and let in the main army had been a success. Once
the legionaries had gained a foothold, the street fighting that everyone had been expecting had fizzled out surprisingly rapidly and most of the city had surrendered without a fight. It seemed that many of the citizens of Seleucia did not after all, have the stomach for a protracted battle. A few die-hard holdouts still refused to surrender, but their position was hopeless. Seleucia was to be torched and if they refused to surrender, they would die in the flames. Grimly Fergus turned to gaze at the long columns of people kneeling in the street. It seemed that half the population of the city had fled before the siege had begun but those that had remained behind were now about to learn what it meant to rebel against Rome.

  “What a fucking mess. Look at them. Fools,” Dio hissed, as he strode along gazing at the long lines of kneeling, miserable and broken people who were being enslaved. “Did they not think? Did they not realise that this is what would happen? And look at their city. It will be nothing but rubble and ash by the end of the week. What a mess.”

  Fergus did not reply as he continued along the avenue, keeping under the covered walkway. The rules of war dictated that the victor might do with the vanquished what he pleased.

  However, as he approached the cross roads where the main avenue was intersected by another wide street, a sudden commotion caught his eye. Out in the street a slaver, clutching a coiled whip, had raised his voice and was trying to take something from a girl, one of the slaves. The girl looked around ten years old and she was putting up a spirited fight. In her hands she was protectively holding onto a magnificent plumed Roman officer’s helmet. The slaver was trying to take it from her, but the girl was having none of it and their fierce quarrel was getting noisier and noisier. As he caught sight of the helmet, Fergus’s eyes widened. That was his helmet. The helmet he had given to the beggar girl whilst he had taken refuge in her mother’s house during the start of the uprising.

  “Heh you,” Fergus bellowed, as he left the shade of the walkway and strode out into the street straight towards the struggling girl and the slaver. “Leave her alone. Back off.”

  Seeing Fergus and Dio approaching, the slaver let go of the helmet and hastily stumbled away.

  “Get out of here,” Fergus roared at the slaver.

  Then he turned to look down at the girl. She was staring back up at him in alarm and defiance. Her bare feet were dirty and shoeless, her clothes were torn and soiled and she had an angry purple bruise across her left cheek. Fergus grunted, and at his side Dio swore softly under his breath as both recognised her. It was the same girl. The little beggar who had warned them about the uprising and who had saved their lives. There was no mistake. For a moment Fergus remained silent as he stared at her.

  Crouching beside her he gestured at the helmet.

  “That’s mine,” Fergus said in Latin. “May I have it back?”

  On the ground the girl was staring at him with her large eyes. It was clear that she had not understood a word of what Fergus had just said. Fergus sighed and turned to glance up at the translator. The Greek was about to speak, when the girl reached out and hastily placed the helmet into Fergus’s hands. Surprised, Fergus looked down at his tribune’s helmet. He had not been expecting to see it again. Turning to the girl he nodded his gratitude. Then fishing into his tunic pocket, he produced a silver coin and held it up in the air. As she caught sight of the gleaming coin, the girl suddenly smiled.

  “What is her name? Ask her?” Fergus said sharply glancing up at the translator.

  Obediently the Greek translated the question. The reply came quickly.

  “Hera,” the translator replied. “She says she is called Hera. Wife of Zeus, King of the Gods,” the Greek added with a note of pride in his voice. “And she says Sir that you are her friend.”

  “Ask her what has become of her mother and family,” Fergus said as he handed the girl the silver coin which she boldly snatched from his hand.

  “She says her mother is dead and her father has not come home. She doesn’t know where he is. She has no one else Sir. She begs for food every day,” the Greek said as he translated the girl’s muttered words.

  Fergus nodded and then straightened up and turned to look down the street.

  “They should have got out of the city before the siege,” he growled. “I warned her mother. I told her to get out.” Then he sighed and turned to look down at the girl. “Tell her that I am taking her as my slave,” Fergus said. “Tell her that she will no longer need to beg in the streets. She is coming with me back to Zeugma. Galena can always use another household slave.”

  “Sir,” Dio exclaimed in surprise. “You want to take her with you? On campaign, during this uprising?”

  “She saved our lives,” Fergus replied, as he turned to look at Dio. “And she’s an orphan just like you are. So, yes, I am taking her as my slave. She will have a much better life with my family than with these slave traders. You know what those men will do with a girl like her.” Fergus paused and then he reached out and slapped Dio on the shoulder. “Cheer up. Maybe something good has come out of this mess after all,” Fergus said with a grin.

  Chapter Eleven – This is Not a Retreat

  The wide, placid waters of the Euphrates cut through the desert, a refreshing and reassuring sight in the bleak, featureless landscape. Fergus, accompanied by his staff and a small mounted escort, rode on down the flank of the long plodding column of legionaries and auxiliaries. Their horse’s hooves kicked up little clouds of dust. It was afternoon. Fergus clad in his body armour, plumed helmet and tribune’s cloak had fastened a Bedouin keffiyeh scarf around his face, but the desert sand and dust had still managed to get into his eyes, ears and nostrils. Ignoring his discomfort and the swarms of little flies, he glanced at his men as he rode on past. The three and a half thousand men of his battle group were heading north along the Euphrates. After the fall of Seleucia, he had watched the city burn. Rome’s revenge had been brutal and thousands upon thousands of citizens had been sold into slavery and thousands more had died. It had been a tragic end to an old and famous city, for Seleucia would probably never recover from this. A few days later, he had been given command of a battle group formed around his own vexillation and ordered to march north and retake Doura-Europus, which was still in rebel hands. Fergus sighed. Officially this was not a retreat, for he had orders to retake Doura, but it felt like a retreat. The possibility that he would see the grand walls of Ctesiphon again was remote. Slowly Fergus bit his lip as he trotted on down the side of the column. He was going back to Doura. The place from which the advance into central Mesopotamia had started less than a year ago. It would be the second time that he would be attacking the city and the thought was depressing.

  Grimly he studied his men. They looked worn out and covered in dust. Morale was holding up so far but there was no doubt that the long relentless campaign was having an impact. What his men needed was some proper time to rest and recover, repair their equipment, heal their wounds and receive replacements for the heavy losses they had suffered. But there was little chance of that. The uprising and hostility to Rome showed no signs of abating. With the six hundred or so battle-fit legionaries from the 1st Cohort of the Fourth Legion as its core, the battle group had been re-enforced by the remnants of vexillations from the Third Cyrenaica and the First Italica, several units of slingers, combat engineers, Syrian archers and the Ninth Batavian Auxiliary Cavalry Alae. All units were understrength, some severely so. The losses in men had become a growing problem but there was no chance of them being replaced, not in the short term at least. For that, the war would have to end. For some army officers it had become an unspoken scandal that no provisions or preparations had been made for a system of replacements, capable of sustaining the field army. No new legions had been raised for the war. That, Fergus had heard it whispered, was Trajan’s failure. The growing manpower problem, Fergus had heard it acknowledged amongst the senior Roman commanders, was beginning to dictate strategic choices.

  “Sir, look,” the centurion accom
panying Fergus suddenly called out, as he pointed out into the desert.

  Turning to look in the direction in which the officer was pointing, Fergus grunted. Just visible and far out into the desert, tiny figures on horseback were galloping along parallel to the Roman column. The horsemen were moving in the same direction as he was and kicking up a cloud of dust as they sped along. Fergus said nothing as he studied the distant figures. Prince Sanatruces may have fallen in battle and his army routed, but there was no doubt that in the past few months the Parthians had recovered their warlike spirit and determination. The humiliation of seeing their capital city captured, occupied and a Roman consul made governor of Mesopotamia had undoubtedly focussed Parthian minds and resources.

  “They must be either Bedouin out of the desert or Parthian cavalry Sir,” the centurion said as he peered at the riders. “Not enough of them to attack us. They are shadowing us. Somehow, I don’t think the rebels in Doura are going to be surprised to see us. Shall I order the Batavians to drive them off?”

  “No, leave them alone,” Fergus replied, as he lowered his keffiyeh. “Let them report on our progress. We were never going to surprise the rebels.”

  Fergus turned to look away. The enemy scouts were the least of his problems. Doura was still at least two days march to the north and it would be four or five days before he would be ready to assault the city. His real problem was a lack of supplies. The countryside between the Tigris and the Euphrates had been stripped bare of wood, food and animal fodder during the previous nine months of active campaigning. It meant no resources from which to construct assault ladders and his horses were dangerously low on fodder and hay. Turning in his saddle, Fergus looked back towards the rear of the column where the massed ranks of Batavian cavalry and a unit of slingers formed the rear-guard. Amongst the column of supply wagons being pulled along by oxen and water buffalo, was a solitary battering ram. The vehicle, with its massive bronze-headed ram protruding from its protective shed, was surrounded by a unit of combat engineers. Crossing the Euphrates at Fallujah they had nearly lost the war machine, when one of its axels had broken and the ram had threatened to roll into the river. The delay in fixing the battering ram had cost a whole day. But without the war machine the assault on Doura would be impossible.