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

by William Kelso

  “Barricade is to the right, twenty, thirty paces away,” he gasped, as he straightened up. “We have to clear the street. Right, follow me.”

  And with that, Fergus took a deep breath and shot out of the doorway and down the narrow street towards the group of defenders. Most of the rebels had their backs to him and did not see the Romans charging towards them. But a few did and as their warning cries rang out, the defenders panicked and tried to scatter. Catching a man in his shoulder with his sword Fergus bowled him over and onto the ground, stamping on his face as he charged on towards the barricade. He had covered half the distance to the obstruction, when ahead of him men came pouring out of doorways. There were dozens and dozens of them. At the same time a stone slammed into Fergus’s helmet, making him gasp in pain and shock.

  “There are too many of them Sir,” a Roman voice cried out, from behind Fergus.

  “Back,” Fergus yelled as the rebels stormed towards him down the narrow street. “Back. Back into the house. We will defend the doorway.”

  Hastily the eight Romans beat a retreat down the street, as more missiles rained down on them from above. Piling back into the house Fergus slammed the door shut after the last of his men had made it inside. Outside in the street he could hear confused shouting, and a moment later someone tried to force their way inside. Straining and grunting the legionaries pushed back and the door remained closed. Fergus stumbled backwards into the room and turned to look around but there was nothing useful which he could use. Unlike the other building there was no stairs leading up onto the roof. He and his men were trapped. Frustrated, Fergus swore out loud. What was he doing, trying to personally lead his men into battle. That was not his job. He was in command of the whole assault force. He should have been directing the battle, not getting himself cornered like this.

  Outside in the street, confused shouting had broken out, but no one tried to force their way into the building. Around Fergus in the gloomy light the legionaries were staring at each other in silence. Their sweat drenched, stoic faces were trying to figure out what was going on outside. Suddenly the voices in the street seemed to recede and Fergus heard running feet followed by a scream. Pushing one of the legionary’s out of the way, Fergus boldly opened the door a crack. There was no response and quickly he opened it wider and cautiously peered around the corner of the doorway. The rebels had gone but a few of them remained behind the barricade. The street, that had been filled with armed men just a few moments ago, was now practically deserted bar a sleuth of corpses, discarded weapons, stones and broken roof tiles. A noise from one of the roofs made Fergus look up. He was just in time to see a figure leaping across from one roof to the next. Across the narrow street a door was open, and through the doorway Fergus saw a ladder protruding up into a hole in the ceiling. A trail of blood had stained the dusty floor.

  “Follow me,” he hissed. Then he shot out of the doorway and across the street and into the building opposite them. As he entered the dwelling, a groan made him raise his sword. In the back room, slumped on the floor with his back leaning against the wall was a wounded man. The rebel had his hands pressed to a wound across his abdomen and he looked in a bad way. As behind him his bodyguards piled into the building, Fergus ignored the dying man and turned his attention to the ladder, that led up onto the roof. Quickly he peered up at the hole. Then grasping hold of the ladder with both hands he started upwards. Poking his head out, he saw that the roof was deserted. Hastily he clambered up out of the hole, crouched and surveyed the scene. One by one his men came climbing up and scuttled across the roof. Fergus bit his lip as the pain in his leg manifested itself again.

  Across the strange and weird landscape of flat roofs and under a clear blue sky, small parties of legionaries and rebels were moving, fighting and hurling projectiles at each other. The cries and shouts were everywhere. It was impossible to know where the Roman and rebel positions were or indeed, who occupied a building or street. This was unlike any battle he’d ever fought in. There were no battle lines, no strategic moves, nothing but confusion, Fergus thought as he turned this way and then that way. The assault on Doura had become a chaotic and confused fight, involving small squads of men fighting to the death in a labyrinth of narrow streets and alleyways. A game of cat and mouse. One in which the rebels had the advantage for they knew their city better than the Romans did and they’d had time to prepare. This was their plan. He could see that now. Fergus grunted as he came to a decision. He had to get back to his main force. He needed to try and direct the battle, that was his job. What was needed was a plan to methodically seal off and clear a section of the city at a time. Every house and street had to be cleared and its defenders rooted out, their barricades torn down. There was no doubt that Doura would fall, now that his men were in the city, but he could not afford to take high casualties. He had to try and minimise his casualties and end this crazy urban battle as quickly as possible. Catching sight of the city gate and walls Fergus swiftly rose to his feet and jumped across the gap onto the next roof.

  ***

  Smoke was rising into the clear blue skies from the mounds where the dead were being burned - out in the desert. Holding his hand to his mouth and nose, Fergus stared sombrely at the fires. Gathered around him, his bodyguards were doing the same. The stench of the corpses and the sheer number of the dead had quickly become a hygiene threat, and fearing the spread of disease, he’d ordered that the corpses be burned as quickly as possible. However, throughout the city they were still finding and bringing in the dead and many of the wounded were still succumbing to their injuries. It was late in the afternoon. From his vantage point up high up on the wall, Fergus had a good view of the city and the Euphrates that ran along its eastern walls. A week had passed since the assault and successful capture of Doura-Europus. His plan to seal off and methodically clear each district had worked and despite ferocious, at times fanatical resistance, the rebels had been methodically isolated from each other, cornered and cut to pieces. Thousands had died. Men, women, children, the elderly, the young, the sick. Some had perished in the flames when the legionaries, out for bloody revenge after the hard fight for Doura, had set fire to a district of the city. Others had killed themselves and their families, preferring that to a life of enslavement. Most had died in the fighting. Fergus knew that the bitter resistance that the Romans had encountered had surprised everyone and had enraged and shocked his men.

  Sombrely he turned to look at the eight wooden crosses that stood out in the desert, lining the approach road coming from the north-west. He had a decision to make. A decision that he alone had to make. A decision that could not be put off for much longer. He’d crucified the remaining rebel leaders, as a warning to anyone thinking about joining the rebels. It was his right, but much to the slavers annoyance he’d stalled on the terms of enslavement for the city’s surviving populace. Doura had refused to surrender, and because of that decision, the populace had forfeited their right to be called free men and women. To decide the fate of the populace was a right that belonged to the victors. Selling the survivors to the slavers who had accompanied his task force, was not something Fergus was however thrilled about. But his men were eager for the transaction to take place, for the profits from the sale would be shared out amongst every soldier. Fergus sighed. Slowly he turned around and gazed back out across the city. He would not be able to postpone the decision forever. If he went ahead and agreed the transaction, no one would think it unusual and yet there was no honour in such an action even though he had the right. But, if he decided to be magnanimous and refuse to agree to the transaction his men would be severely pissed off.

  Along the top of the wall, Fergus suddenly noticed a legionary hastening towards him. As he came up to Fergus the soldier saluted.

  “Sir, you are needed at HQ,” a legionary said quickly. “Centurion Dio is asking for you. He says it’s important Sir.”

  Without saying a word, Fergus turned and started off down the ramparts followed quickly
by his close protection detail. As he strode along the battlements, Fergus cast a final glance at the crosses standing out in the desert. A few scavenger birds were circling overhead. The matter must be important he thought, for Dio did not make it a habit of calling for him unless it was indeed urgent.

  The mansion of the former Parthian governor of Doura had been badly damaged during the fighting and it was missing most of its roof, which had gone up in flames. Black scorch marks adorned the walls and the once fine floor mosaic, was covered in soot, debris and old bloodstains. Some of the Roman wounded had been placed out in the gardens in neat, ordered rows. The men were lying on mattresses and looted couches, whilst an overworked doctor and some of his slaves and students busied themselves amongst them. Further away along the mansion’s perimeter wall, groups of legionaries and auxiliaries were busy preparing their meals over small cooking fires. The smell of freshly baked bread wafted across the gardens. The guards at the entrance to the Roman HQ saluted, as Fergus strode into the building.

  As Fergus came into the main chamber of the house, he caught sight of Dio and a few of his centurions. The officers were standing about taking to each other in quiet, solemn voices that ceased abruptly as Fergus entered. All eyes turned to stare at him. In a corner, the standard bearer of the Fourth Scythica hastily rose to his feet from where he had been reclining in a chair.

  “Well what is it?” Fergus growled, as he turned to Dio.

  In response Dio cleared his throat. The centurion looked troubled and refused to meet Fergus’s inquiring gaze and Fergus felt a sudden unease. Not much ever bothered Dio but something was certainly bothering the old veteran officer now.

  “Sir,” Dio said quietly. “An imperial messenger has just arrived in the last hour. He says he has come direct from the emperor’s camp. Trajan was encamped close to Ctesiphon when the messenger left them. That was several days ago. The man has brought us new orders. He brought us this,” Dio added, holding up a tightly rolled papyrus scroll. “Apparently,” Dio said in a deliberately breezy voice, “Trajan sent us three messengers, all three taking different routes to find us and all three carrying the same instructions. Just in case one or two of them got caught. I expect the other two messengers will probably be arriving soon. There is nothing like a bit of proper Roman planning and organisation is there.”

  Fergus was staring down at the sealed scroll.

  “I take it that the fact that the wax seal has been broken means that you have read the letter,” Fergus growled.

  “I have Sir,” Dio replied in a grave voice. “And I believe the letter is genuine. Trajan’s hardened soul shines through in the writing. It’s a proper master piece of literary genius. Shame it could not have gotten here a bit earlier.”

  “Well,” Fergus replied raising his eyebrows. “What does it say?”

  “It says Sir,” Dio said taking a deep breath. “that Trajan, in all his great wisdom, has decided to officially depose the king of kings of the Parthian throne. That maggot Osroes has been sacked and the Parthians have got a new king. A boy named Parthamaspates is to become the new ruler of Mesopotamia. He is to act as a puppet and client king of Rome and because of that, there will no longer be any need for Roman garrisons in Mesopotamia. Trajan has decided to pull out Sir. He is abandoning Ctesiphon and all our other conquests. He is retreating northwards.”

  “What about Doura-Europus?” Fergus snapped.

  “The city and its people shall be handed over to Prince Parthamaspates,” Dio replied and the anger in his voice suddenly became palpable. “Doura will come under his jurisdiction as part of the agreement with Trajan. We have been ordered to evacuate the city and head north Sir.”

  Dio paused, and then without warning, he flung the letter onto the ground with sudden rage.

  “One hundred and seventy-three of our men died to take this fucking city,” the centurion roared. “And it now seems they died in vain. If these orders had reached us a week ago those men would still be alive. It’s a fucking disgrace. Trajan has given up. He has abandoned us. Everything we have fought for and bled for this past year, has been for nothing.”

  Fergus was staring at the scroll lying on the floor. Then slowly he looked up and turned to his officers. All seemed to share Dio’s disappointment and anger, but Trajan’s new orders had spared him from making the difficult choice over the fate of the town’s population.

  “North? Where does Trajan want us to go?” Fergus asked at last in a calm voice.

  “We have been ordered back to Zeugma,” Dio hissed, trying to control his anger. “They are sending us back to our old legionary base. We are going home, Sir,” Dio added in an icy voice.

  Chapter Thirteen – A Letter from Hadrian

  January 117 AD

  Along the road leading to the legionary fortress at Zeugma the bodies of crucified rebels lined the highway, one bloody mutilated corpse after the other. Perched on top of the crosses, the silent scavenger birds had paused in their feasting and were watching the weary Roman column making its way through the bleak, arid countryside. From the state of the corpses they must have been there for some time, Fergus thought sombrely, as sat on top of his horse, he led his men towards their camp. It was around noon, but it was a cold, overcast and miserable day. To the east where the peaceful Euphrates meandered its way through the countryside, several ominous columns of black smoke were just visible on the horizon. For a moment Fergus peered at the smoke. The Euphrates marked the border between the Roman province of Commagene and the client kingdom of Osrhoene to the east and it was clear that the uprisings against Roman rule had spared neither.

  Looking tired and unshaven, Fergus sombrely turned his attention back to the legionary fortress. The vexillation’s long journey from Doura to Zeugma was over. They were nearly home. Coming on down the road behind him, eight abreast, were the remnants from the First Cohort and the legionary cavalry from the Fourth Scythica Legion. The deeply tanned legionaries had their marching packs and spears slung over their shoulders and their shields were in their protective dust covers. The tramp of their hobnailed boots on the stones; the metallic rattle and clink of their equipment and weapons; the thud of horses’ hooves; the bellow of a water-buffalo and the trundle of wagon wheels were so familiar to him that Fergus no longer noticed them. The mood amongst the men was grim. No one seemed willing to break into any of the usual bawdy marching songs they’d sung on their way south, at the start of the conquest of Mesopotamia. As he approached the fortress gates, Fergus sighed. The homecoming was no triumph. It felt like a defeat, a bitter disappointment. He’d led over a thousand men out of these gates a year ago and now, barely half were returning. Casualties had been heavy, and they had precious little to show for it.

  Along the ramparts of the legionary base, Fergus suddenly caught sight of figures manning the battlements. The soldiers up on the walls were staring at the approaching column. Just then, from inside the fortress, a trumpet rang out and moments later the gates began to swing open. The garrison were welcoming them home. Grimly, Fergus turned to the standard bearer and his new cornicen who were riding their horses behind him. The standard bearer, a wolf’s head drawn over his helmet, was proudly holding up the square vexillation banner of the Fourth Scythica.

  “Announce the return of the vexillation,” Fergus growled, addressing himself to the trumpeter.

  “Yes Sir,” the cornicen replied.

  As Fergus stiffly and silently led his men through the gates and into the fortress, he was conscious of hundreds of pairs of eyes watching him. The eager, curious legionaries manning the walls and lining the main street, were gawking at their comrades as they marched on past. From their youthful, inexperienced faces and their posture, the soldiers of the fortress looked like a cohort of brand new recruits still undergoing basic training. Here and there though, amongst the eager crowd welcoming him home, Fergus caught sight of a familiar face and a couple of weapons instructors saluted smartly, as he slowly rode on past. Leading his men out onto
the large open parade and exercise ground opposite the long rows of barracks blocks, Fergus finally brought his legionaries to a halt in the centre of the square.

  “The vexillation will form up for inspection. Give the order,” Fergus snapped, as he turned once again to his cornicen.

  As the trumpet rang out and the legionaries silently began to form up in rows, Fergus urged his horse forwards and then turned the beast around so that he could inspect his men. Behind the vexillation, the crowd of curious new recruits had spilled out into the parade ground and were gazing at their comrades. From the corner of his eye Fergus suddenly noticed a small group of senior legionary officers hastening towards him. Amongst them he recognised Gellius, the legionary legate, resplendent in his gleaming cuirassed armour and red cloak. Dismounting stiffly from his horse, Fergus saluted as Gellius and his staff came up to him.

  “Good to have you back Fergus,” Gellius called out as he reached out to lay a hand on Fergus’s shoulder.

  “Thank you, Sir,” Fergus replied stiffly. “Permission to address the men Sir?”

  For a moment Gellius said nothing as he peered at Fergus. Then his gaze shifted to the legionaries and cavalrymen drawn up ready for inspection. At last, turning back to Fergus, Gellius nodded.

  Handing the reins of his horse to one of the young tribunes, Fergus calmly and without hesitation strode out into the parade ground, a lone figure out in front of the massed legionary ranks. The homecoming may have felt like a defeat, a disappointment but Dio was right. It could not end this way. He would not allow it to end this way. He had to try and salvage something from this military debacle. Calmly Fergus turned to face his men and as he did, the large exercise ground abruptly grew quiet. The legionary officers and standard bearers were standing out in front of their companies and amongst them he caught sight of Dio.