Veterans of Rome Read online

  Veterans of Rome

  Book nine of the Veteran of Rome series

  By: William Kelso

  Visit the author's website http://www.williamkelso.co.uk/

  William Kelso is also the author of:

  The Shield of Rome

  The Fortune of Carthage

  Devotio: The House of Mus

  Caledonia - Book One of the Veteran of Rome series

  Hibernia - Book Two of the Veteran of Rome series

  Britannia – Book Three of the Veteran of Rome series

  Hyperborea – Book Four of the Veteran of Rome series

  Germania – Book Five of the Veteran of Rome series

  The Dacian War – Book Six of the Veteran of Rome series

  Armenia Capta – Book Seven of the Veteran of Rome series

  Rome and the Conquest of Mesopotamia – Book Eight of the Veteran of Rome series

  Published in 2018 by KelsoBooks Ltd. Copyright © William Kelso. First Edition

  The author has asserted their moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the copyright holder, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  To the enduring friendship between the United Kingdom and the Kingdom of the Netherlands

  ABOUT ME

  Hello, my name is William Kelso. I was born in the Netherlands to British parents. My interest in history and in particular military history started at a very young age when I was lucky enough to hear my grandfather describing his experiences of serving in the RAF in North Africa and Italy during World War 2. Recently my family has discovered that one of my Scottish/Northern Irish ancestors fought under Wellington at the Battle of Waterloo in 1815.

  I love writing and bringing to life the ancient world of Rome, Carthage and the Germanic and Celtic tribes. It’s my thing. My aim is to write 100 books in my lifetime. After graduation, I worked for 22 years in financial publishing and event management in the city of London as a salesman for some big conference organizers, trying to weave my stories in the evenings after dinner and in weekends. Working in the heart of the original Roman city of Londinium I spent many years walking its streets and visiting the places, the names of which still commemorate the 2,000-year-old ancient Roman capital of Britannia, London Wall, Watling Street, London Bridge and Walbrook. The city of London if you know where to look has many fascinating historical corners. So, since the 2nd March 2017 I have taken the plunge and become a full-time writer. Stories as a form of entertainment are as old as cave man and telling them is what I want to do.

  My books are all about ancient Rome, especially the early to mid-republic as this was the age of true Roman greatness. My books include, The Shield of Rome, The Fortune of Carthage, Devotio: The House of Mus and the nine books of the Veteran of Rome series - Caledonia (1), Hibernia (2), Britannia (3), Hyperborea (4), Germania (5), The Dacian War (6), Armenia Capta (7), Rome and the Conquest of Mesopotamia (8) and Veterans of Rome (9). So, go on. Give them a go.

  In my spare time, I help my brother, who is also a Winston Churchill impersonator, run his battlefield tours company which takes people around the battlefields of Arnhem, Dunkirk, Agincourt, Normandy, the Rhine crossing and Monte Cassino. I live in London with my wife and support the “Help for Heroes” charity and a tiger in India.

  Please visit my website http://www.williamkelso.co.uk/ and have a look at my historical video blog!

  Feel free to write to me with any feedback on my books. Email: [email protected]

  Veterans of Rome

  Book nine of the Veteran of Rome series

  Chapter One – Garrison Commander

  The City of Seleucia, province of Mesopotamia, late summer 116 AD

  The narrow, dusty, mud-brick coloured city-street was packed and teeming with people going about their daily business. It was noon and, in the blue, cloudless sky, the relentless sun beat down on the populace, smothering the city in a blanket of stifling, airless heat. The locals however seemed not to notice the heat, the dust, that got everywhere, or the clouds of annoying flies. Nor did they seem bothered by the smell of rotting piles of garbage in the alleys and the stench of raw sewage coming from the nearby canal. It was always like that. More noticeable were the cheerful advertising cries of the vendors, operating out of their shops or their small push-carts. They filled the street, competing for attention with barking dogs, the mooing of the great horned water buffalo, the rattle of wagon wheels and shrill, excited children’s voices.

  It was just another day in the vast, complicated metropolis over which he had been appointed the Roman military commander Fergus thought, as he led the small band of Roman soldiers down the street. In the fierce sunlight, the legionaries’ body armour, shields, equipment and weapons gleamed and jangled. The crunch of the hobnailed army boots on the paving stones sounded menacing and alien. In the street ahead, the people lowered their gazes, as they caught sight of the approaching Romans and quickly stepped aside. In their shops the voices of the shopkeepers seemed to falter. Fergus, clad in his fine tribune’s cloak and wearing a plumed helmet over his short red hair, ignored the furtive glances and the occasional hiss as he pushed on down the street towards the temple of Mithras. His tanned, handsome face remained stoic and expressionless. As commander of the thousand strong Roman city garrison, in this city of six-hundred thousand people, he was in ultimate charge of everything that went on. He had quickly learned that it was a difficult and thankless job. It was a grave responsibility that made him feel much older than thirty. Most of his time had been taken up trying to sort out and reconcile the various competing political, ethnic, economic and religious factions that inhabited Seleucia. Then he had to deal with the interests of the rich versus the poor; the tensions between different religious and ethnic factions; problems with the food supply and trade as well as disputes over water resources and land boundaries. On top of that he had been tasked with implementing Roman law in a city where no one spoke Latin and where no one was used to Roman legal concepts. But the hardest task of all, and yet the most important, was how to effectively tax the locals without causing them to riot. That was indeed a delicate balance. He’d had absolutely no advice or training in how to run the affairs of such a huge, complicated cosmopolitan city. The best he could do was try to apply common sense and a certain amount of diplomacy and charm. But the emperor Trajan was counting on him to do a good job and his career prospects hinged on how he handled this command.

  Up ahead along the crowded street, Fergus caught sight of the temple of Mithras. The large mud-brick building looked inconspicuous, but Fergus had been there before. Hiding his irritation, he continued down the street. He was a busy man, with a shed-load of administrative work stacking up back at HQ. He really had better things to do than be out here today. The priests of Mithras had better have a good argument for forcing him to come all the way out here to meet them.

  Close to the entrance, a girl of around eleven or twelve was sitting in her usual spot, pressed up against the temple wall, with a small terracotta bowl placed on the ground before her. She was begging.

  “Dio,” Fergus said sharply, glancing at the old centurion who was accompanying the eight-man Roman close-protection squad, “let’s try and keep this brief. You and the men will remain outside the temple. The translator and I will be the only ones to go inside. I don’
t want the priests to get nervous. You know how these Parthians feel about us going into their temples.”

  “Isn’t that the whole point Sir,” Dio said in a sour voice as the old veteran officer cast about him. “A people should know when they are conquered. I am getting tired of respecting their feelings and customs. This city has more mood swings than a company’s worth of women. The men are growing frustrated Sir. They were trained to fight. Not this shit.”

  “Just do it,” Fergus said wearily, as he turned to the little beggar girl sitting close to the temple entrance.

  The girl had seen him and, as she recognised him, her eyes seemed to light up. As the eight-man legionary squad came to a halt at the temple doors, Fergus broke away from his escort and strode up to the girl and looked down at her. Bravely she looked back up at him. For a moment the two of them said nothing. Then solemnly Fergus bent down and placed a single silver coin in the girl’s bowl. The girl’s eyes widened, and she blushed as she saw the colour of the metal. Fergus sighed. For as long as he could remember the girl had been sitting begging in the same spot. On his many journeys out into the central market and business district, he had never failed to give her a coin, for the girl reminded him of his eldest daughter Briana. The likeness between the two girls was truly remarkable. It had been nine months since he had last seen Galena and his girls.

  “Sir, the priests,” Dio called out impatiently.

  Fergus gave the girl a wink. Then he turned away and strode up the temple steps towards the doors leading into the building. As he did, the Greek translator hastily appeared at his side. The Greek seemed nervous.

  Inside the dark, stiflingly hot building Fergus was greeted by a silent, tense looking priest. Reaching up to undo his plumed helmet, Fergus tucked it under his arm, wiped the sweat and dust from his forehead, and followed the servant of Mithras down a flight of stairs and into the dark subterranean world. Burning oil lamps lit up the staircase and the thick scent of incense hung in the air. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, Fergus was confronted by three solemn and silent men with their arms folded across their chests. The priests were barring his way. Fergus paused to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness. The priests were waiting for him in a long rectangular room that was completely empty but through a doorway, close by, he caught sight of a stone statue of a man killing a bull. The mysteries of Mithras were just that – mysteries and had been of no concern to him until the Parthian priests had refused to allow some of his soldiers to be initiated into the cult. That refusal had forced him to come to speak with them – using precious time that he could ill-afford.

  The three stubborn-looking Parthians were watching him carefully. They didn’t seem intimidated by his presence. For a moment Fergus studied their faces. He and all the Romans in the city garrison were fully aware that the locals didn’t want them here. Rome was viewed as a foreign occupying force. The simmering hostility and resentment from the populace had been limited to passive resistance, small acts of disobedience, mutterings in the street and the odd stone thrown at his troops. But now the temple of Mithras had refused his soldiers permission to join the cult and that was unacceptable. With a little respectful nod, Fergus addressed the three Parthians with a greeting in their own language. The few words in the Parthian language which he’d picked up, were only enough for the most basic of greetings, but as he had learned, it was the best way in which to get the discussion with the locals off to a good start.

  “Tell them,” Fergus said as he turned to his translator, “that I fully respect their right to choose who may be initiated into the seven grades of the Mithras mysteries but that I cannot accept having my soldiers excluded, just because they are Romans. Tell them that this is unacceptable. Religion should be open to all.”

  Quickly the Greek translated, but across from him the three Parthians seemed unmoved. At last, one of them spoke in reply.

  “He says Sir,” the Greek stammered, “that you are correct. They have the right to refuse to initiate men into the mysteries. So, they don’t know what wrong they have done.”

  “They have refused all the requests of my troops,” Fergus said sharply. “They have refused to accept a single Roman into the mysteries. That is unacceptable. I am here to see that the temple changes its ways.”

  As one of the Parthians replied, the Greek hastily translated.

  “He says that they have broken no laws,” the translator said, speaking quickly. “He says the fact that no Romans were initiated is because the men were not of the right character. They are not true believers. That’s all.”

  Fergus took a deep breath as he fixed his eyes on the three priests.

  “Mithras accepts Romans in other places, why not here?” Fergus shot back.

  “They say they cannot speak on behalf of other temples,” the Greek translated as one of the Parthian priests spoke up. “But here in Seleucia none of the Romans who have come forth have been suitable.”

  Fergus grunted in frustration. He was losing the argument. He could not leave the temple without a result to show his men, but equally he could not force the priests to allow his men to join the cult. Turning his eyes to the floor he remained silent for a long moment.

  “Tell them,” Fergus said at last, as he turned to the Greek translator, “that if they allow some of my men to be initiated into the mysteries, that I shall consider providing the temple and its priests with a tax break.”

  As the Greek translated his words, Fergus studied the Parthians carefully. Most issues and problems in this city, he had found, could be solved by using money. But that created its own problems, for Trajan and the Roman High Command expected the flow of money to be coming out of the city and not going into it. As the Greek fell silent the airless room too, fell silent. The Parthians seemed to be considering his offer in silence. Then one of them spoke up, his dark eyes gleaming in the light from the burning oil lamps.

  “He says it doesn’t matter anymore,” the Greek translated and as he did, the translator frowned. “He says that you should not have come here.”

  Across from Fergus the three priests of Mithras had turned and were filing out of the room through another doorway. Confused, Fergus called them back, but the Parthians didn’t heed his call.

  “What the fuck was that all about?” Fergus hissed, as he rounded on the Greek. “What did they mean, “it doesn’t matter anymore?”

  “I don’t know Sir,” the translator stammered. “It’s very odd behaviour indeed. Shall I ask them to come back into the room?”

  For a moment Fergus hesitated. Then he shook his head in disgust and turned towards the staircase.

  “No, I think I have had enough for today,” he growled. “We have wasted enough time already. Let’s get back.”

  ***

  Fergus blinked and squinted as he emerged into the fierce and bright sunlight. Outside in the street, Dio and the eight legionaries were standing around looking bored. As Fergus reappeared Dio came towards him.

  “Sir,” the veteran growled as he fixed Fergus with an inquisitive look.

  Fergus shook his head and frowned.

  “Odd,” he murmured, “I thought I had made them a good offer, but it was as if they suddenly lost interest. I can’t explain it. A fucking waste of time.”

  It was Dio’s turn to frown.

  “What did they say Sir?” Dio pressed.

  “That it doesn’t matter anymore and that I shouldn’t have come here,” Fergus replied, as he turned to gaze around at the people in the street. Amongst the throng of locals going about their business, no one however seemed to be paying the Romans any attention.

  Then before Fergus could say anything else, he suddenly felt a small hand clasp hold of his arm. Surprised he turned and looked down to see the beggar girl holding onto him. The girl was looking up at him with her large brown eyes. She seemed completely unafraid, dwarfed as she was by the big burly and heavily-armed Roman soldiers standing around her. For a long moment none of the Romans spoke or mad
e a move as they stared at the girl holding onto their commander’s arm. Sensing that Dio was about to raise his voice and chase the girl away, Fergus quickly pre-empted him.

  “It’s all right boys,” Fergus said sharply as he gazed down at the little girl. “It’s all right. Ask her what she wants?”

  The girl was gazing up at him, staring in fascination at Fergus’s red hair. At Fergus’s side the Greek hastily spoke but the girl did not answer. And as she continued to gaze at his hair Fergus suddenly understood. The girl must have never seen red hair before.

  The Greek repeated his question and this time the girl answered and as she did, she started to walk away, still clutching Fergus’s arm and trying to pull Fergus with her.

  “She says that you are in danger Sir,” the translator stammered. “She says that you should come with her.”

  “Danger,” Fergus blurted out, as he refused to move.

  At his side the girl tugged at his arm again and spoke out once more in her childish voice, oblivious to her surroundings and who was listening.

  “Yes,” the Greek hissed. “She says people are going to try to hurt you. She says you are her friend. She will help you.”

  “What the fuck,” Dio hissed, his eyes widening in alarm. “What is she talking about?”

  “Ask her who is going to try to hurt me,” Fergus said sharply, as he kept his eyes on the girl tugging at his arm.

  In response the girl replied with a single word and as she did, she looked up at Fergus, silently imploring him to follow her.

  “Everyone,” the Greek translator gasped.

  For a stunned moment none of the Romans was capable of speaking. Then a grim look appeared on Dio’s face.

  “If she is speaking the truth, she is talking about an uprising Sir,” the centurion hissed with sudden urgency. “A fucking uprising. We should get back to the garrison right now. Even if it’s a false alarm.”