Armenia Capta (Book 7 of The Veteran of Rome Series)

Chapter One – Charity - July 113 AD

The city of Rome shimmered in the morning light. From his vantage point on the balcony of his villa, perched high up on the Janiculum hill, Marcus had a splendid view of the vast metropolis. Slowly, savouring the scene, he took a sip from his regular breakfast mug of posca, watered down wine with added spices, which he was clutching in his right hand. Indus had not yet showed up at the villa and he had a few moments to himself before the start of a busy day. For a fifty-year old he still looked in good shape, thanks to a regular work out and by declining to indulge in too much food and wine, which in Rome, were constant temptations. His red hair had not thinned away and he was clean-shaven and clad in a fine white toga with a broad purple senator’s stripe running down it. Age it seemed had not yet physically slowed him down but these days he noticed that he craved peace and tranquillity more than he used to.

It was still early but he could already feel the oppressive heat starting to build. Down at the bottom of the steep and bone-dry, scrub and boulder-strewn slopes of the Janiculum, the greenish waters of the Tiber glistened in the sunlight. Beyond them, on the eastern bank, surrounded by numerous buildings and apartment blocks with red roof tiles, stood the old city walls that had protected Rome for nearly five hundred years. Idly Marcus ran his fingers across his clean-shaven chin. He was still missing his beard. It was a casualty of his new senatorial position and that meant that it had had to come off. In the senate only supporters of Hadrian wore beards in the Greek fashion and he was most definitely not a supporter of Hadrian.

Somewhere far off, a bell was ringing and the perfumed scent of the colourful flowers in his garden filled the air. A black cat had appeared in the garden and was lazily sniffing one of the plants. Rising above the city on top of the summit of the Capitoline hill was the great temple of Jupiter Optimus Maximus, the patron god and protector of Rome. Nudging the cat away from his flowers with his foot, Marcus stared at the magnificent temple. Ahern liked to argue that the temple of Jupiter was the home of pious, dutiful Rome whereas the Colosseum was the home of wild, riotous fun-loving Rome. And according to Ahern, both were competing for the soul of the city.

Slowly Marcus turned to gaze towards the enormous Flavian amphitheatre, the Colosseum that stood at the southern edge of the Forum. He had refused to set foot inside the Colosseum after he and Petrus had met Abraham, the fake Christian priest and had watched the Christians being eaten alive by lions, some seven years ago. It was not a religious issue. He did not believe in the Christian god but there was something not right and dishonourable about persecuting a man simply for his faith and he had no desire to see it again. After all, Rome had become a great power by tolerating and allowing men to do and believe what they wanted; as long as they did not harm the empire.

Marcus nodded as he thought about it. Was he himself not proof that Roman meritocracy worked? He had been born in an army camp in Britannia, the poor, bastard, illegitimate son of a Roman-citizen soldier and a Celtic mother. He had been a no-body with little prospects. At seventeen he had run away to join and serve in a Batavian auxiliary unit, had become a proper Roman citizen on his army discharge, then a man of equestrian rank. Now finally, the poor bastard son with no prospects had become a senator of Rome, a highly-privileged position, held by no more than six hundred men amongst the tens of millions in the whole empire. He had reached the very top. He had made something of himself. It was something to be proud of and it demonstrated that Rome could work for all. Marcus lowered his eyes to the ground as he suddenly wondered what his father, Corbulo would make of him now. He’d had help of course in his career advancement and luck had played its part. The fortune which Fergus, his son, had brought back from his Dacian war, and which he had deposited with him, had been more than enough to materially qualify him for candidacy to the senate in Rome. And with the help of his influential upper-class friends, Lady Claudia, Paulinus and Nigrinus, he had been appointed a senator by imperial decree. That had been five years ago now.

Marcus blinked and awoke from his daydreaming. The cat had returned to harass his flowers and once again he nudged it away with his foot. Shortly after Fergus’s return from the Dacian war, Efa had died and they had buried her beside her husband Corbulo on the battlefield where Corbulo had once fought against Boudicca, the barbarian queen. They would be together now for eternity and for that he was glad. The farm on Vectis was booming under Jowan and Dylis’s careful management. As a senator of Rome, he was under no obligation to attend the senate meetings in the city. Many senators, he had discovered, were not active members. Yet despite not particularly liking Rome, there was one important reason, which each year, brought him back to the eternal city. He and Kyna, his wife, together with Ahern and Elsa had taken to spending half their time in Rome and half on their estate on the Isle of Vectis in Britannia. He’d also decided to take young Ahern and Elsa with him to Rome because it gave them a chance to further their education and the two youngsters had loved it. Ahern, Kyna’s boy by another man and now Jowan’s adopted son, was fifteen. With Lady Claudia’s help, he had become an apprentice to one of the leading scientists in Rome. Elsa, Lucius’s daughter, was twenty-one and was going to marry a brilliant young doctor, a relative of Paulinus, later in the summer.

To the east just behind the temple of Jupiter, the sun was rising into the clear blue sky and as he gazed at the vast, magnificent city, Marcus sighed and slowly shook his head in wonder. He loved this view. He loved standing here or pottering around in his small peaceful and well-tended garden, surrounded by pleasant scents and the wild animals that seemed drawn to the place. It had been the reason why he had purchased the small, smart villa and garden on the Janiculum hill. The thought of having to live in the cramped, noisy and stinking city had been too much, but as a senator of Rome, Marcus knew that he needed to be close to the capital. The Janiculum hill was a good compromise. Far enough away from the city to avoid its sins and close enough to be able to conduct his business when he was in Rome. And one day when he became too old to work and finally retired, he had promised himself that he would spend all his time in this garden. But in the meantime, there was business to attend to. There was a reason why he returned to Rome each year. Using his own funds and initiative he had set up a small military charity and hospice for army veterans who had fallen on hard times. There were hundreds and hundreds of them sleeping rough on the streets of the capital and more arrived every day, drawn from all parts of the empire. If the Roman state would not tackle the plight of her veterans then he would, he had resolved. He could not just walk away. People’s lives were dependent on him.

***

The mausoleum of Augustus towered above the roofs of the buildings that lined the street. It was a large imposing building on the eastern bank of the Tiber and, as he strode along the narrow city street, Marcus could not help but gaze up at the circular construction with its pillars and fine conical roof. The mausoleum was over one hundred and forty years old and contained the cremated ashes of the first emperor of Rome, Augustus and those of his family. Augustus had ordered it to be built on the fields of Mars, the flattish area north of the city, where for centuries the army of the Roman republic had gathered before marching off to war. The open fields had long since disappeared under the urban sprawl of the expanding metropolis, but Marcus had thought it a fitting place to set up his military veteran’s hospice.

The street was busy with pedestrians but this section of the city, beyond the old walls was newer and less populated than the posher areas around the Forum. Marcus, dressed in his distinctive senator’s toga, ambled along and as he did, he ignored the furtive and respectful glances of the crowd as they recognised him. As Marcus stepped up onto the high stone-pavement to avoid an ox-drawn wagon that trundled past, he turned to glance at Indus. His Batavian bodyguard was following him closely, a gladius tucked away in his belt and he was clutching a stout stick. Indus was built like a brick, a huge man of around fifty who didn’t say much. His eyes were tensely searching the faces of the passers-by, looking for signs of trouble. Marcus allowed himself a little smile. Indus took his job very seriously and being Marcus’s bodyguard seemed to be the only thing he wanted to do. He had once been a soldier in the 9th Batavian auxiliary cohort before being discharged after twenty-five years’ service. Marcus had found him sleeping rough on the streets of Rome and he had been one of the first veteran’s Marcus had helped to get back on his feet. In gratitude Indus, without being asked, had appointed himself Marcus’s bodyguard and now followed him everywhere he went. Kyna had a theory that Indus simply had not been able to adjust and cope with life outside the army after twenty-five years. He needed a routine and someone to tell him what to do she had said. Whatever the reason Marcus thought, as he turned and started out again, Indus was the only man whom he allowed to stay permanently at his hospice.

Turning down a narrow side street just before the mausoleum of Augustus, Marcus grunted in pride as he caught sight of the front entrance of his small hospital. The building may not have the grandeur of Augustus’s mausoleum, but helping his fellow veterans off the streets and back onto their feet had meaning and gave him a purpose in life, a purpose that seemed to have grown more important the older he’d become. The veterans came from all backgrounds. Many had lost their army pensions to gambling, whoring, drinking or had been robbed and conned out of their pay-offs. Many were ill and not right in the head and had been deserted by their wives and families. Other’s had simply not known what to do after they had left the army. The only two full time employees of the hospital were himself and Kyna. Elsa would come by now and then when she could to provide the men with medical attention and apart from Indus, there were one or two veterans who helped with security. Early in the project Marcus had decided that he could only help military veterans who’d been giving an honourable discharge or a discharge based on wounds or illness. The hospital’s policy was not to accept any deserters, nor would it treat men who had visited once before. He simply did not have the resources to look after everyone whom showed up at his door. The deal was that he would provide the veterans with a roof over their heads for one night only, food, a small gift of money, counselling, medical attention and finally a list of contacts where the veterans could find work. After that they were on their own. The purpose was not to make them dependent on him but to give them a chance to start afresh. And it seemed to work most of the time. As he approached he glanced up. Above the doorway leading into the non-descript three-storey brick building a simple sign read - Marcus’s military veterans hospital.

A man was standing outside the doorway trying to wash away the graffiti of a naked woman with large tits, which the local gang of youths had daubed onto the walls. He turned and, recognising Marcus, he hastily lowered his head in a respectful and courteous manner.

Inside the hallway on the ground floor, Kyna was sitting at a table sifting through a mass of accounts, letters and receipts that lay scattered across the desk. She looked vigorous and in rude health, her skin a healthy brown. Spotting her husband, she sighed, rose and quickly came across to Marcus and gave him a hasty kiss on his cheek. She looked in fine shape for a woman in her late forties.

How is he? Marcus asked running his hands affectionately through his wife’s hair.

Elsa is with him now, Kyna replied, as concern crept into her voice. She has done her best for him. She says that if he survives the coming night he will stand a chance of recovering but his fortune is evenly balanced. She says that death is close by. It could go either way.

Marcus nodded and looked away. Elsa was one of the most gifted medical experts he had ever come across and if she had done her best, then there was nothing more that could be done. The unconscious veteran had been brought in last night by two friends who had once passed through the hospice. They had found him in the street after someone had beaten him up. When he had been brought in, he had been in a very bad state.

It means breaking our rules, Marcus muttered quietly, as he looked down at Kyna. We only allow men to stay one night. It’s the golden rule.

I know, Kyna replied looking down at her feet. But he is near death. We can’t just throw him out onto the street. Not now that he has a chance.

Marcus closed his eyes and ran his hand across his face as he tried to make up his mind.

All right, he whispered at last, turning to look at his wife, He can stay but tell Elsa that she must keep this quiet. I don’t want the whole city knowing that we bend our own rules. We will be besieged by hordes of beggars. Our credibility will be in shreds and everyone will demand the same treatment.

I have already told her, Kyna said as a smile appeared on her lips. She understands the situation.

I thought I made the rules here, Marcus snapped but there was no anger in his voice. Instead he held up his hand telling Kyna not to bother replying.

How many do we have staying tonight? Marcus asked, looking away.

Seven and there is a new one waiting to be interviewed, Kyna replied. He says he was an auxiliary in one of Germanic units. Got a thick accent and he stinks. He is waiting for you in the office.

Great, Marcus replied, glancing at the closed door of his office. A stinking German. Just what one needs for breakfast.

Go and interrogate him and let me know if he is genuine, Kyna said with a smile, pushing her husband towards the office door.

***

Marcus was alone in his office, sitting at his desk when Elsa appeared in the doorway. She looked exhausted. In her hand, she was holding a small vial of liquid. Hastily Marcus rose to his feet.

Thank you for giving my patient a chance, the young woman said as she lowered her eyes to the floor. His fate is evenly balanced. We will know by tomorrow morning. I have prepared this potion for him. Make sure that you give it to him every two hours and see to it that his bandages are kept clean.

We are lucky to enjoy your expertise, Elsa, Marcus replied as he came across to her and affectionately touched her on the side of her shoulders. He had long ago recognised that Elsa’s devotion to the science of healing was genuine and her skill undoubted. But apart from becoming a midwife, everyone knew that she would not be allowed to practice her trade in public, for she was a woman and women working in medicine was frowned upon by society.

In reply Elsa nodded. I must go now, she said quietly. Cassius wishes to spend some time with me too. But I shall be back tomorrow morning to check on my patient.

Of course, Marcus replied. For a moment, he stared at her. As he did so, he was suddenly back in Britannia, ten years ago, standing in the snow with Cunomoltus outside Lucius’s filthy hut near the Charterhouse lead mines, handing Elsa a coin to place in her father’s mouth before they buried him. The little orphan girl, whose father he had killed that day, had grown up into a beautiful and talented young woman. And as he stared at Elsa, he was suddenly glad about the decision he had made that day. Some good had at least come out of that sordid mess with Lucius. He had done the right thing in honouring Lucius’s last request to look after his children.

Are you all right, Marcus, Elsa asked with a frown.

I am just getting old, Marcus replied, snapping out of his day dreaming. Then he smiled. Go on, get out of here. I will see you later.

After Elsa had gone Marcus was once more disturbed by a polite knock on the door of his small office. A moment later Kyna appeared.

What is it? Marcus asked.

You have a visitor, Kyna replied in that neutral, professional voice of hers, which she would take in the company of his upper-class friends. It’s Paulinus Picardus Tagliare. He says it is urgent. It’s always urgent with him.

Startled, Marcus quickly rose to his feet to welcome his friend, as Rome’s finance minister barged into the room. Paulinus was older than himself and the bookish-looking man was wearing his senator’s toga. He was followed into the office by a single slave carrying an official looking leather satchel. Briefly Marcus embraced his friend.

Everything all right? Marcus inquired, examining Paulinus carefully.

Yes, Paulinus said as he wiped the glistening sweat from his forehead with a little cloth before handing the soiled towel to the slave. Gods, this heat is driving me mad, he groaned, but they said you were here and I had to come in person. I have a litter waiting outside. Nigrinus has summoned us both to the imperial palace on the Palatine. A meeting is taking place at which the whole council will be present. The emperor has called it. Says he has an important announcement to make. So, let’s go. I don’t want to be late, not when Trajan is present.

A meeting at the imperial palace? Marcus frowned. What could that be about?

It’s either a new war or Trajan is going to publicly announce who his successor is going to be, Paulinus replied grimly. Nigrinus is nervous. He wants us to tow the faction line if Trajan asks us for our opinions. That’s why he wants us at the palace. There is a possibility that Trajan will announce Hadrian as his son and heir. That would be catastrophic for us.

Chapter Two – The Eastern Question

The emperor’s garden was not nearly as nice as his own, Marcus thought, as he, Paulinus and a dozen or so other toga-dressed senators and advisers slowly followed emperor Trajan through the halls, peristyles and around the large internal garden of the imperial palace on the Palatine hill. Marcus was tagging along at the back of the group of distinguished and finely dressed men. It was not his place to walk closest to the emperor. That was a privilege reserved for the most senior members of Trajan’s cabinet. Beyond the columned porches that provided a view onto the emperor’s internal garden, silent slaves were tending to the flowers, gurgling fountains and small statues. The fountains seemed to be depicting mythical scenes and to Marcus, it all seemed rather overdone. He had never been in the palace before and it was a huge maze. Corridors, halls, rooms, all richly and finely decorated, led off in every direction. Everywhere armed men of the Praetorian guard were on duty, standing stiffly and silently at their posts. The heavy smell of incense hung over the complex, banishing the stink of the city. Marcus Ulpius Traianus, emperor of Rome was laughing at one of Nigrinus’s jokes. Trajan was wearing his splendid ceremonial imperial toga, completely dyed with Tyrian purple and made from the rarest, finest and most expensive materials. He looked around sixty years old and he was clean-shaven and bareheaded, his short hair brushed forwards and neatly trimmed across his forehead.

Marcus took a deep breath as he turned his attention back to the emperor and the group of senators. Trajan was a popular emperor amongst the ordinary people and particularly with the army, in which he had served for many, many years. He was known to be a heavy drinker; a soldier’s emperor, who it was said, could drink anyone under the table. But now into the sixteenth year of his reign he was getting old and the issue of the succession was beginning to press.

There was an air of excited, nervous expectancy about the senators as they followed on behind Trajan like a gaggle of ducks. Marcus could sense it in the haste and keenness in which they kept up and focussed their attention on the emperor. Trajan had summoned them to the palace because he had come to a decision and was going to make an important announcement. A decision that could affect the fortunes of every man present including himself.

They were all here. Marcus could see all five of the most prominent members and leaders of the powerful War Party to which he himself belonged and to whom he had sworn a solemn oath of loyalty and support. Nigrinus, the faction leader who had persuaded Trajan to issue a decree raising Marcus to the senatorial class. Paulinus, one of Rome’s finance ministers and still in charge of the state treasury and his good friend. Lucius Pubilius Celsus, ex Consul and bitter enemy of Hadrian. Aulus Cornelius Palma, conqueror of the empire’s newest province, Arabia Nabataea and another sworn enemy of Hadrian. The bitterness and hatred between Palma and Hadrian was infamous, deep and raw for it was rumoured that Hadrian had managed to seduce Palma’s wife and sleep with her. Finally, there was the man whom Marcus most respected amongst the successful battle-hardened military leaders of the war party - the Berber prince from Mauretania in northern Africa, Lusius Quietus, descendant of an illustrious Berber royal house.

As he shuffled on at the back of the group of senators following Trajan around the edge of the imperial garden, Marcus lowered his eyes to the ground, in thought.

In the senate, he had quickly learned, that because Trajan had no natural sons, there were two main factions competing to get their man publicly announced as Trajan’s successor.

The War Party led by Gaius Avidius Nigrinus, counted amongst its members many of Trajan’s loyal, successful and prominent battle-hardened generals. They were committed to the limitless expansion of Rome’s empire.

The Peace Party led by Hadrian, had the support of many of the more junior commanders and crucially, it seemed, the friendship and support of the women closest to Trajan. For it was rumoured that the empress Plotina, Trajan’s wife and Salonia Matidia, Trajan’s niece, were all big supporters of Hadrian and worked tirelessly to further his cause. In the senate debates, Marcus had heard the Peace Party argue that the empire’s resources were limited and that a better strategy would be to consolidate and strengthen the imperial borders and call a halt to military expansion. It was a position that was completely unacceptable to Nigrinus and his war hawks.

Trajan however, had stubbornly refused to nominate a successor and from Paulinus, Marcus had heard that he refused to do so because he did not want to alienate his support from either senatorial faction. Every time the succession and his successor was brought up in the emperor’s presence, Paulinus had quipped that Trajan would simply provide the same answer, "let him be more fortunate than Augustus and better than Trajan."

As he thought about the great split within the senate, caused by this struggle to secure the imperial succession, Marcus raised his head to study Nigrinus, the man to whom he had sworn an oath of loyalty. Nigrinus had done so much to help raise him to his current privileged position. Yet despite the help, the favours and the protection Nigrinus had provided him with, Marcus could still not shake off the thought that the man was really a bit of a dick. Nigrinus was walking along maintaining a careful position at Trajan’s shoulder, a masterpiece of professional charm, wit, persuasion and calculated political cunning and Trajan was smiling as he listened to him.

He, Marcus, although now a senator, was still very much a junior member of the War Party, whose leaders far outranked him in wealth, power and influence. And his usefulness to the party was limited. He had pitched himself to Nigrinus by claiming that, as a respected and well-known Batavian war hero, he could command the allegiance and loyalty of the thousands of Batavian auxiliaries and veterans, who were stationed and living scattered around the empire. It was a tenuous claim for which there really was no basis, but it seemed to have worked on Nigrinus. Marcus sighed. And now that he had made his bold pitch, he dreaded the day when Nigrinus would demand that he put his claim into practice. It would either work or it would expose him as a fraud.

Friends, Trajan said at last, raising his voice and coming to a halt. The senators and advisers abruptly fell silent as they gathered around the emperor waiting for him to speak.

I have made my decision, Trajan said with an amused smile, as he turned to look at the tense and anxious faces that surrounded him. Then slowly as the silence lengthened, Trajan’s face changed and he grew sober and serious minded.

Osroes, the emperor said at last, the so-called king-of-kings" of Parthia, has broken the long-standing agreement with us. He has dared appoint a king to the throne of Armenia without seeking our consent. It is a clear violation of the treaty that emperor Nero made with the Parthians more than fifty years ago. And what is worse is that this new king on the Armenian throne - this man called Parthamasiris, is the nephew of Osroes. This insult; this breach of faith is unacceptable and cannot be allowed to stand.

We are going to war, gentlemen. Rome will be going to war with Parthia."

Trajan paused for a moment to glance at the faces around him. Now recently, he continued, I received a Kushan ambassador from Peshawar, a great city that lies to the east of Parthia, close to India. This man had an interesting story. He told me that the Kushan empire is no friend of Parthia and that his ruler is looking to make war on Parthia from the east. He encouraged me to do the same from the west.

Trajan paused to gage the reaction from his advisers. Then he cleared his throat. Since the time, he continued, when Crassus suffered his humiliating defeat against the Parthians, a hundred and sixty years ago, Rome has struggled to find a solution to the eastern question. How do we handle a power like Parthia? Throughout all that time, we have tried everything to stabilise our eastern frontiers. We have a history of defeat in this region but I am going to change that. We are going to solve the eastern question once and for all. So, it is my intention to not only drive Parthamasiris from his new throne in Armenia, but to annex the whole kingdom of Armenia and bring their lands into the official domain of the senate and people of Rome. That gentlemen, has not been tried before and that is what we are going to do.

For a moment, the hallway remained silent. Then dutifully the leaders of the War Party turned to Trajan, saluted and dipped their heads respectfully.

A wise decision Trajan, Nigrinius replied smoothly. You are right. Such a blatant breach of a treaty cannot be allowed to stand. War is the only way to resolve this and I have no doubt that you and our armies will be victorious.

Yes, yes, Trajan said, raising his hand in an annoyed gesture. I have not summoned you here to laurel me with compliments. You are my best generals and closest advisers. If I wanted compliments I would go to my wife. But I want your thoughts and advice on the upcoming campaign. So, talk to me and speak plainly.

Sir, Quietus was the first to speak and, as he did, Marcus studied the darkish skinned Berber prince carefully. Parthia is a large and powerful empire as we all know and for a hundred and fifty years we have struggled to solve the eastern question - how to handle such a power on our eastern borders. I agree with you. Now we must go to war. Do not waste time seeking a diplomatic solution. Do not let yourself be trapped into agreeing a poorly conceived peace. The Parthians are weakened and distracted by civil war. They will only be able to put up a feeble resistance at best. We have the advantage. My spies tell me that Osroes rules in the west of Parthia but that his rival to the Parthian throne, Volagases the third, rules in the east of Parthia. Now is the time to strike and strike hard.

I have heard, Nigrinus added, in a calculating voice, that Osroes had Parthamasiris placed on the Armenian throne because Parthamasiris actually has a very good claim of his own to Osroes’s throne. Osroes gave him the throne of Armenia because he did not want his nephew becoming another rival to his own power. It follows therefore that Osroes must support his nephew if he is to avoid having another claimant to his own throne. Osroes wants to stop a two-way civil war becoming a three-way civil war in which he is attacked by two enemies. The correct conclusion is that no amount of diplomacy will get Osroes to stop backing his nephew. Only war with Parthia can settle this.

Trajan nodded as he took in what had been said but remained silent and carefully kept his thoughts to himself.

Emboldened Nigrinus opened his mouth again. Once Armenia is ours, he said thoughtfully, "we shall also gain informal control over the Armenian vassal states that inhabit the southern slopes of the Caucasus mountains, Colchis, Iberia and Albania.