The Parthian

The Parthian Page 9

by Peter Darman

  Chapter 9

  When it was light parties were sent out to strip the Roman dead of their armour and weapons. Most had thrown away their shields and swords when they had attempted to flee, so it took a considerable amount of time to trawl the plateau for weapons and equipment. I sent Nergal and Burebista with five hundred horse to scout the area up to and beyond Forum Annii for anything that could be of use to the army, while I attended a council of war. I took Godarz with me, as it was fitting that he should be accorded the proper rank due to his age and experience. I told him this on the way to the meeting but it meant little to him. He was a man who was more concerned with the here and now rather than theoretical musings.

  The battlefield was a sea of men and some women pulling mail shirts off corpses and piling them onto carts, while on other carts were placed sandals, belts, shields, swords, daggers and pila. The latter was a curious item of weaponry, as it consisted of a long wooden handle onto which was fitted a thin iron shaft. The shaft bends upon impact with a shield and thus cannot be thrown back. Quite extraordinary. Godarz assured me that bent pila could be straightened for re-use, but I didn’t see the point.

  The atmosphere at the meeting was relaxed and cheerful, and in the afterglow of victory even Crixus was in a good mood, and for the moment seemed to have forgotten about our mutual animosity. His head was still bandaged, but the wound seemed to concern him not and he made a point of slapping everyone on the back as they entered, though not me, merely nodding his head when Godarz and I arrived. I did embrace Claudia, though, as I liked her greatly.

  ‘How are my girls?’ she asked me.

  ‘Excellent, lady. Gallia and Diana have a new friend,’ I replied.

  ‘So I hear. I also hear that you don’t approve of her.’

  ‘Perhaps I was being unkind. She makes Nergal happy so I should be grateful for that, at least.’

  ‘What don't you approve of, that Praxima was a prostitute or that she slit a Roman’s throat?’

  ‘Both,’ I replied.

  ‘You don’t like the idea of women on the battlefield, or just a blonde-haired one in particular?’

  ‘I gave explicit orders that they should remain behind.’ I was aware that my cheeks were beginning to colour.

  ‘Gallia doesn’t take kindly to orders,’

  ‘I wasn’t talking about Gallia.’

  ‘Weren’t you?’ she teased. ‘I understand that you want to protect her, but you can’t put her in a cage. Her father made that mistake, as did Cornelius Lentulus, and you know what happened to him.’

  I did not want to have this conversation. It was as though Claudia was peering into my soul and I found the experience unsettling. I was saved by Spartacus, who ordered us to be seated. Claudia smiled mischievously at me as I took my seat beside Godarz. Around the table also sat Spartacus, Akmon, Castus, Cannicus, Crixus and Dumnorix.

  Spartacus started. ‘We have won a great victory. Three Roman legions destroyed and thousands of their soldiers dead, the rest scattered. Once we have finished collecting what weapons and equipment we can use, we will move south into Lucania and Bruttium for the winter.’

  ‘What garrisons are there, lord?’ I asked.

  ‘I do not know. We will find out when we get there.’

  Godarz rose. ‘May I speak, lord?’

  ‘Who are you?’ said Crixus, menacingly. Clearly his good mood had its limits.

  ‘My name is Godarz and I was a slave for many years at Nola. But my duties required me to travel throughout southern Italy and so I have a certain knowledge of these parts.’

  ‘Please enlighten us,’ said Spartacus.

  ‘There are two large towns that have garrisons, Thurii and Metapontum, and both are walled.’

  ‘How large are the garrisons?’ asked Castus.

  ‘I do not know,’ replied Godarz. ‘But they are garrison troops, second-rate, not like soldiers of the legions.’

  ‘We took Forum Annii,’ said Crixus, ‘we can take these two places.’

  ‘Metapontum is worth taking, lord,’ added Godarz. ‘It is a very rich port and the land around it is very fertile, with many farms and more potential recruits for your army.’

  ‘Thank you, Godarz,’ said Spartacus. ‘We will move in five days’ time.’

  ‘To where?’ said Crixus.

  ‘Which is closer, Godarz,’ asked Spartacus, ‘Thurii or Metapontum?’

  ‘Metapontum,’ replied Godarz.

  ‘Then we march to Metapontum.’

  The next day, Nergal and Burebista returned with carts loaded with the fruits of victory. In their haste to destroy us, the Romans had not built a fortified camp but had just left their baggage and mules under a small guard three miles behind their army. These had been abandoned in the general rout, which meant that my horsemen came across hundreds of mules and a few dozen horses, many wandering free over the plateau, and dozens of carts that a Roman legion used. The carts came in very useful and were loaded with the legions’ supplies, which included heavy sacks of grain, entrenching tools and other implements; baskets, cooking utensils and hundreds of leather tents. To these were added cloaks, tunics and even small forges. It was a rich haul, and when the cavalry returned it reminded me of a large caravan that Hatra was used to seeing every day. Three hundred carts winding their way into camp was certainly an impressive sight.

  It took three days of hard toil for the captured equipment to be distributed equally among the army. I found it rather bizarre, but Spartacus was insistent that all should benefit from our victory. ‘For if we fail, all will share equally in our defeat,’ he told me. He did, though, give me most of the horses, which meant I now had over a thousand horses and several hundred carts, plus mules to pull them. I also acquired a large commander’s tent similar to the one Spartacus resided in, though it was bulky and large and required several men to put it up. I had it stashed away on a wagon until we found a more permanent camp. Gallia and Diana shared a tent but Nergal had also acquired a Roman officer's tent and had moved in Praxima. All three women trained every day with their bows under the watchful eye of Gafarn, and I had to admit that their archery and riding skills had improved markedly. Gallia still retained a slight aloofness towards me that I found enticing yet frustrating.

  On the day the army moved south I asked her and Diana to ride with me as we followed the course of the River Aciris. I left Byrd behind with a party of scouts to make sure that no Romans followed us and attacked our rearguard, but in truth it appeared that, for the moment at least, the Romans had disappeared from the world. We left the high limestone mountains behind and entered a wide verdant plain to follow the course of the river. Winter was approaching now and the air was cooler, and already snow was capping the mountains. The army retained its discipline as it marched south, the Thracians in the van, followed by the Germans and Crixus’ Gauls in the rear. The cavalry rode ahead, partly to scout the route and also to avoid the dirt, dust and general unpleasantness of trailing in the wake of a large body of people and beasts. I felt like an eagle that had plucked a mighty fish from the river as I rode next to Gallia. Were it not for her long blond hair she could have passed for one of my horsemen, with her newly acquired mail shirt, boots, leggings, bow, helmet, quiver and sword. She also had a dagger tucked into the top of her right boot, a gift from Praxima no doubt. Despite her warlike garb she still looked gorgeous, but then she would look alluring dressed only in a sack. Behind us rode Diana, Gafarn, Godarz and nine hundred horseman, spare horses and our carts, while Nergal and fifty men were scouting ahead. He had taken Praxima with him. Diana and Gafarn had become close and to be fair her soft features, kind nature and large brown eyes seemed to invite a man to protect her. She did not have the inner steel that Gallia possessed, but I thought that she was amiable and extremely likeable. She did have strength, though I did not see it until the time of adversity. She and Gafarn were laughing, about what I could not tell.

  ‘Why don't you amuse us all, Gafarn,’ I said.


  ‘I was merely telling Diana of how you were nearly married off to the Princess Axsen of Babylon.’

  Gallia turned and looked at me but said nothing.

  ‘I’m sure Diana doesn’t want to know about things that have no bearing on the here and now,’ I said, slightly annoyed.

  ‘On the contrary, highness,’ said Gafarn, ‘taking all things into account, I would reason that getting captured by the Romans saved you from a worse fate.’

  ‘I was not going to marry the Princess of Babylon,’ I insisted. I glanced at Gallia. ‘The person I marry shall be my choice, and mine alone.’

  ‘Of course, highness,’ retorted Gafarn, ‘as long as your mother and father say so.’

  ‘Be quiet,’ I ordered.

  We rode on in silence for a while before Gallia said to me. ‘What is she like?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Princess of Babylon.’

  I shrugged. ‘I do not know. I’ve never met her.’

  ‘She’s fat,’ said Gafarn. ‘Not beautiful like you, lady.’

  ‘Why should I care what she looks like?’ asked Gallia.

  ‘Just to reassure you, lady, that she is no rival to you.’

  ‘Is she a rival?’ queried Gallia, mischievously.

  ‘No, lady,’ he relied, ‘for Prince Pacorus has eyes only for you.’

  I halted Remus and turned him to face Gafarn. ‘That's enough, Gafarn. I don’t want to hear any more about the Princess Axsen.’

  Gafarn nodded his head gravely. ‘Of course, highness.’

  ‘And you’re embarrassing the Lady Gallia,’ I added.

  ‘Really? I thought I was embarrassing you.’

  The light-hearted mood was interrupted by a rider from Spartacus, who wished to see me. I found him with Claudia sitting on the ground under a beech tree. The army tramped by them, soldiers who looked like Romans marching six abreast, kept in line by slaves turned centurions wielding those wretched vine canes. I had to admit, though, that the army conducted itself in a professional manner, testimony to the leadership of Spartacus.

  ‘Apulia,’ he said to me.

  ‘Lord?’

  ‘Apulia, Pacorus. A region rich in olive farms and slaves. A runaway slave was brought to me earlier and he told me that he had been working on a large farm in Apulia and he gave me an idea. I want you to raid into the region and see if you can get us some recruits. We march to Metapontum, but cavalry is no use in a siege. Therefore, take your horse into Apulia and give the Romans a taste of what they have done to the lands of other peoples.’

  ‘You mean fire and sword,’ I said.

  He smiled. ‘Fat Romans make easy prey.’

  And so it was that we rode into Apulia, nine hundred horsemen divided into three columns. I led the first, Nergal the second and Burebista the third. I left Godarz, Rhesus and the rest of the new recruits to the cavalry with the army, as I thought his knowledge would be useful to Spartacus, and I wanted to leave a cadre of horse behind because slaves were still coming in, even during our march.

  Apulia, located along Italy’s eastern coast, was a strange land, very different from Lucania and Campania. It consisted mainly of flat land divided into huge agricultural estates. The towns in the area were few and poor. We bypassed one called Silvium on the Appian Way and struck north. Any villas we came across we burned and we released the slaves from their wretched barracks, which were invariably well away from where their masters lived. These were large, square stone buildings with thatched roofs that had small windows with grills in the walls for ventilation. Men, women and children were kept under lock and key and chained to each other during the hours of darkness, before being released in the morning to work another day under the lashes of the overseers in the fields. The latter, slaves themselves, earned their masters’ goodwill by administering brutality towards those in their charge. As their reward they were given their own accommodation, which was little more than a hovel next to the slave barracks. By such methods did a few Romans control the lives of thousands. One morning we came across a long column of slaves being herded to pick olives, the main crop of the region.

  The morning was overcast and windless, and the only sounds that could be heard were the curses of the overseers and the crack of their lashes across scarred backs. At first the overseers thought that we were Roman cavalry and started to shove the slaves aside to make way for us, but I halted the column in front of them to block their route. We disabused them of the notion that we were their friends and freed the slaves, and as I was in a charitable mood I let the overseers go, though they were promptly killed on the spot by those they had formally terrorised.

  Most of those liberated from the fields were told to head into Lucania, towards the port of Metapontum. I reasoned that even if the port had not fallen to Spartacus there would be thousands of his men in the countryside around it, and the slaves would run into them sooner or later. Most seemed happy to be free, though I noticed that some just stood there after the overseers had been killed, unsure what to do. Gallia told me that they had probably been slaves from childhood and had no concept of freedom. Others formed themselves into bands and declared that they would not be joining the ‘gladiator Spartacus’, but would take to the hills and live off the land instead. I doubted whether they would survive for more than three months before being hunted down and nailed to crosses. However, they were in the minority and as most slaves who worked the land were captives taken in war, I reckoned that Spartacus would be receiving thousands of valuable reinforcements from those freed by our raids.

  Any towns that we neared shut their gates and their inhabitants cowered behind their walls. Though as my column numbered only three hundred riders the fear that we struck into the enemy’s hearts was out of all proportion to our size. And thus it was that as we were riding near the town of Rubi, along deserted roads and empty fields, we came across the camp of a slave-hunting gang pitched near a field of giant olive trees, which must have been thirty feet high and had thick trunks. The gang saw us coming but barely acknowledged us, no doubt thinking that we were a Roman patrol. When we got nearer I could see that there were about a dozen gang members, unshaven, dressed in filthy tunics with an assortment of weapons dangling from their belts or in their hands. Their horses were tethered under an olive tree, with a cart and two mules also tied to it off to one side. Dangling from the cart was a collection of shackles and branding irons, the tools of their trade.

  We halted and their leader, a fat, ugly man with a bald head, ambled over. Behind me my men sat in silence on their horses. I looked past him to where a naked girl was being held down by four of his associates, each one holding one of her arms and feet. She was struggling fiercely but without success as they forced her legs apart. A fifth man walked over from where the others were sitting around a fire and stood over her. He removed his tunic and stood naked with his back to us.

  ‘Don’t see many soldiers in these parts,’ said their leader, looking up at me.

  ‘What’s going on here?’ I asked him, nodding towards where the naked man had now knelt and was about to rape the girl. They had stuffed some sort of rag in her mouth to stop her screams, but she was still writhing frantically in a futile effort to stop her imminent violation.

  He looked round at the commotion behind him. ‘Oh, her. Runaway slave. Mostly when we catch runaways we brand them and return them to their owners, but this one’s pretty so we thought we’d use her for some recreational duties. We’re just about to start.’

  I heard a hiss and saw an arrow slam into the back of the naked man, who collapsed forward onto the pinioned girl. I turned and saw Gallia with her bow in her hand, who was reaching into her quiver to string another arrow. Everyone was so surprised by what had happened that nobody moved. The men holding the girl just stared in disbelief at their dead comrade with an arrow in his back sprawled in front of them, while their leader’s mouth opened and closed like that of a fish out of water as he took in what had happened. Then another of
Gallia’s arrows hit one of his men and he himself drew his sword. Behind him his men released the girl and grabbed their weapons, while those around the fire sprang to their feet and likewise armed themselves. They were quick, but my men were quicker and Gafarn in particular was one of the fastest archers in Parthia. He had dropped two of the gang before they had a chance to draw their swords. Beside him Diana released her bowstring and saw her arrow go through the mouth of a gang member who was charging at us with a spear. I smiled in admiration then drew my own bow, strung an arrow and pointed it at the gang leader. He stood, frozen to the spot as his men were killed quickly around him. One of the gang members did not try to fight but instead attempted to flee, running away through the olive trees. He ran like the wind and I thought he would escape as Gafarn aimed an arrow at him. I kept my gaze on their leader as Gafarn shot and my men cheered as the arrow found its mark.

  Gallia took off her helmet, handed it to the now shaking Diana and ran over to where the naked girl lay curled up on the ground. She gently knelt beside her and covered her with her cloak, all the time talking quietly to her.

  ‘My name is Pacorus, prince of Parthia,’ I told the gang leader, ‘and I ride with Spartacus. Drop your sword.’

  Some of my men had now moved to the left and right behind me and there were around twenty bows aimed at him. He dropped his sword on the ground.

  ‘Where’s Parthia, then?’

  ‘Far from here,’ I said, replacing my bow in its case.

  ‘Gonna kill me, too?’ he sniffed.

  ‘We should, for all the atrocities you and your men have committed.’

  ‘Against slaves?’ He was indignant. ‘They’re not real people, just animals, and most Romans are glad that men like me are prepared to round them up for them.’

  At that moment Gallia passed him, her left arm round the shoulders of the young girl. The gang leader saw her pass and spat at her.

  ‘Bitch.’

  In a blur Gallia reached for her boot, whipped out the dagger with her right hand and stabbed it into the man’s neck. She left the blade in his flesh as blood gushed out from the wound in great red spurts. He didn’t scream or shout, just looked surprised as he toppled forward onto the ground, which quickly turned crimson. He made some faint gurgling sounds and then fell silent, then my men cheered loudly as Gallia jumped into her saddle and pulled the girl onto the back of her horse. I retrieved her dagger.

  We took the cart, mules and horses and left the dead to rot. The girl rode behind Gallia, holding her tightly around the waist, a sullen, sad-looking creature who said nothing and looked down the whole time. When we stopped to make camp Gallia and Diana cleaned her up and found her a set of leggings and a tunic, then they fed her and cut her matted hair. She clung to Gallia like a frightened child, and always looked down at the ground, never at anyone directly. Later, in the evening, when she had fallen asleep in Gallia’s tent, I sat with her, Diana and a few of my men around a campfire, over which was cooking a pair of rabbits we had caught. I asked if she had spoken about her experience.

  ‘That would be very difficult for her to do,’ said Gallia, icily.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because they had cut her tongue out.’

  ‘What are you going to do with her?’ I asked.

  ‘She can stay with us.’

  I poured some water into my cup. ‘She won’t be much use, she looks deranged.’

  Gallia knocked the cup out of my hand. ‘For someone who is supposedly educated, you can sometimes be an idiot.’

  She got up and walked back to her tent. Everyone around the fire looked down and averted my gaze. Suitably chastised, I too walked back to my tent.

  We had acquired considerable loot from the country villas we had raided, mostly gold and silver coins. Our rapid appearance had prevented the families from burying their treasure in some hiding place, and in truth they were lucky to escape with their lives at the hands of vengeful slaves. Gallia said little to me in the days following the incident with the slave hunters, though I could detect there was a mighty rage inside her. She called the girl Rubi after the town she was rescued near, though the creature still averted any eye contact. Gallia and Diana chatted to her constantly and soon had her trust. And Gafarn seemed to win her over a little, though even his easy charm and good humour found little enthusiasm with her. No doubt her experiences had left her with an unshakeable distrust of men. We kept watch for any enemy patrols, but from what Godarz had told me I was confident that there were few Roman troops in the area. Apparently most of the legions were in foreign lands, stealing territory from the local inhabitants. Italy itself was largely devoid of soldiers save low-grade garrison troops and veterans who had been given land to farm. The latter might be a problem, but in the south of the country it was slaves who worked on the land, thousands of them. And most of them were now flocking to the banner of Spartacus.

  On our way to Metapontum we came across a large and exquisite villa approximately ten miles west of the town of Genusia. The villa stood on a large but not high hill and was surrounded by neat rows of olive trees, birch trees and beehives. Slaves were working in the fields among the hives, and they barely gave us a moment’s notice as we rode up the tree-lined drive that led to the villa, its white walls contrasting sharply with the green landscape it sat in. We halted on a large expanse of well-tended grass in front of the villa and I dismounted.

  ‘No violence,’ I instructed, ‘and be watchful. Those field hands seemed unusually unruffled by our appearance.’

  ‘Do you want an escort, highness?’ asked Gafarn.

  ‘I’ll shout if I need assistance,’ I replied.

  ‘It’s difficult to shout if someone has slit your throat,’ retorted Gallia.

  ‘I’m sure you can avenge my death many fold.’ I looked at Rubi who had me fixed with a wild stare. ‘You and your cohorts.’

  I walked into the courtyard, the atrium as the Romans called it, the floor of which was decorated with mosaics, small rectangular black-and-white stones arranged in geometric patterns. In the centre stood a water fountain on a marble base, the sound of running water filled the courtyard with a calming noise. I took off my helmet and suddenly became aware of a man standing on a marble step between two columns in an open doorway. I assumed that he was in his sixties, with thinning white hair and a wrinkled face. He wore a simple beige tunic and leather sandals, which revealed bony arms. In fact, his face and neck were also lean, which led me to assume that he was a slave.

  ‘Fetch me your master,’ I told him.

  ‘Who shall I say is calling?’ he replied in a firm voice.

  ‘Pacorus, prince of Parthia, and be quick about it.’

  ‘Well, Prince Pacorus, as I have your name it is only proper that you should know mine, despite the fact that you have arrived at my house uninvited and with armed men at your back.’

  ‘Your house?’

  ‘Of course.’ He stepped forward. ‘I am Gaius Labienus, one time general of Rome and now a pensioner living quietly in the country.’

  I looked around at the marble columns, decorated walls and floor mosaics. ‘A rich pensioner, it would seem.’

  He shrugged. ‘A present from a grateful senate for services rendered,’ he said. ‘Would you like some wine?’

  He clapped his hands and moments later a servant dressed in an immaculate white tunic edged with blue arrived carrying a tray holding two silver goblets. The slave offered me the tray first. I took a goblet and nodded my thanks to Gaius. The wine tasted excellent, being obviously of the finest quality.

  ‘What services?’ I asked, for surely such wealth was not given lightly.

  ‘Twenty years fighting Rome’s wars overseas, in Macedonia, Phrygia and Syria.’ He drained his goblet and the slave took it away.

  ‘Your slaves are well trained,’ I said with disdain. He noticed the inflection in my voice.

  ‘They are not slaves but freedmen, slaves that I have freed and thus are part of my family.
’

  ‘All of them?’ I asked.

  ‘All of them. Those in the fields and the ones in my household. All are free to go anytime should they wish it so. That being the case, young prince, I doubt you will find any recruits here.’

  ‘Am I looking for recruits?’ I asked, innocently.

  ‘I may be old but do not take me for a fool. I know that you serve under the outlaw Spartacus and that you have killed a Roman tribune.’

  I must admit that I was pleased that he had heard of me, but I resisted the temptation to boast.

  ‘He was killed in battle,’ I said, ‘and his army was destroyed.’

  ‘I know that, and I also know that the slave army looted Forum Annii and now lays siege to Metapontum, and that horsemen ride hither and thither freeing slaves and robbing innocent people. Is that not why you are here, Prince Pacorus? To rob me, perhaps kill me?’

  ‘I am not a murderer,’ I bristled.

  He was silent for a while but stared at me unblinking. ‘No, I do not think you are. But you fight alongside murderers, and when Rome’s vengeance is turned against you, and it will be, it will make no distinction between those who fought with honour and those who fought for vengeance and loot.’

  ‘All I want is to get home,’ I said.

  ‘An admirable objective, but many of those who fight with Spartacus have no homes. Some are the children of slaves who were born in Italy. Where is their home?’

  ‘At least they are free now, not chained like animals.’

  ‘Are there slaves in the Parthian Empire, Prince Pacorus?’

  ‘Yes,’ I admitted.

  ‘And are the chains that bind them any less cruel than Roman shackles? Perhaps chains in Parthia are made of gold, but even if they are I’ll warrant they chafe just as severely.’

  ‘I have never killed a slave,’ I said indignantly.

  ‘Neither have I,’ he replied. ‘And neither do I own any slaves. But you were quite prepared to kill me when you marched into my house, were you not, for the sole reason that I was a Roman? Is that not correct?’

  ‘I am not a murderer, neither are my men. But I am an enemy of Rome.’

  ‘Of that I have no doubt,’ he said. ‘But you should not hate your enemies, prince of Parthia, for it will surely cloud your judgment. Above all, a general must remain aloof from such emotions. You fight for freedom, but the freedom you talk of is the liberty to rule your kingdom and command armies, the freedom to live like a god in a palace. Freedom to most means back-breaking work and trying to stay alive day-to-day. Do not confuse the freedom of privilege with the freedom to starve. You have little in common with those you fight alongside.’

  ‘Did you have anything in common with your soldiers when you were campaigning with them?’ I shot back.

  ‘Of course, the strongest bond of all, the bond of blood, for we were all Romans.’

  ‘That may be, Gaius, but there are thousands, like myself, who were taken fighting Rome and are bound by a burning desire, the wish to return to our homelands.

  ‘And now, sir, I must depart. Have no fear of your person or property being molested. My men are under strict orders.’

  He followed me out of the villa to where my men were waiting in their saddles. When he appeared a group of around twenty of his servants armed with wooden clubs and pitchforks ran over from one of the fields. In an instant my men had arrows in their bowstrings ready to shoot. Gaius held up a hand to calm his men.

  ‘I am unhurt,’ he shouted.

  I likewise indicated to my men to lower their bows. The two groups eyed each other resentfully. Gaius walked with me to Remus, whose reins were held by Gafarn.

  ‘The famous Parthian bows. I remember them from my time in Syria, though not with affection,’ said Gaius. He stroked Remus’ head. ‘A beautiful horse.’

  ‘His name is Remus,’ I said, vaulting into the saddle.

  Gaius laughed. ‘Somewhat ironic, is it not?’

  ‘Farewell, Gaius Labienus,’ I said.

  ‘Farewell, Prince Pacorus,’ he raised his right arm in salute. ‘From one soldier to another, I hope you eventually find peace.’

  I saluted him and wheeled Remus away. My horsemen followed, leaving an old Roman in front of his lavish villa.

  ‘We are not plundering him, highness?’ asked Gafarn with surprise.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘We are soldiers, not robbers.’

  I decided that we had finished with playing at being brigands. Gaius was right. If we carried on down that route we would be no better than murderers. And I was not a murderer. I was a Parthian prince and better than any Roman. But I had to prove that worth, for actions speak far louder than words. I sent riders to the columns Nergal and Burebista were leading, instructing them to desist their activities and rendezvous with me at the coast, ten miles north of Metapontum on the coast of the Gulf of Tarentum. We made camp in a small, sheltered inlet that had a sandy beach. While we waited for the other cavalry to join us, we exercised the horses in the sea and practised our archery skills in the dunes. I came across Gallia and Diana showing Rubi how to use a bow, and the young girl appeared to be enjoying herself shooting at a tunic stuffed with grass that had been fastened to a post. All three were under the watchful eye of Gafarn. The sea breeze made Gallia’s untied locks blow wild and Rubi’s eyes were wide with excitement as she shot arrows into the target, all the while making grunting noises as she held Gallia’s bow.

  ‘How’s she doing?’ I asked Gallia as Gafarn showed Rubi how to hold the bowstring correctly.

  ‘Her progress is slow, but physically she is well. But I fear her mind may be damaged permanently. But I am glad that she is with us.’ She eyed me, daring me to contradict her.

  ‘Well, lucky we found her when we did.’

  ‘I suppose,’ she mused. She looked at me again with her piercing blue eyes. ‘Why did you leave that old Roman at the villa alone.’

  ‘I do not wage war on old men.’

  ‘He would not hesitate to have you nailed to a cross if the roles were reversed.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, Pacorus. To you it’s just a game, isn’t it? But it’s not about honour or glory, it’s about survival. We are fighting for our lives. What are you fighting for?’

  I could have tried to give her a deep, philosophical answer, but I smiled at her and said. ‘For you.’

  ‘You’re impossible,’ she replied, sticking out her tongue at me and going back to Rubi.

  Nergal came to us two days later, brimming with excitement and full of tales of how he and his men had laid waste to the land with fire and sword. The flame-haired Praxima was with him, dressed in a mail shirt, helmet and carrying a shield and spear. Nergal also had a column of mules loaded with treasure with him. Praxima nodded to me curtly (doubtless she had heard about my disapproval of her) but embraced Gallia and Diana warmly. That night we slaughtered a bull that had been plundered from a nearby estate and roasted it over a huge fire on the beach. The wind had dropped and the evening was warm as we ate and drank with abandon, though I was careful not to drink too much wine. To my delight Gallia came and sat beside me as Gafarn, who had appointed himself chief cook for the evening, cut slices from the roasting carcass.

  ‘They seem happy,’ I said of the men who were laughing and joking in groups on the sand.

  ‘Yes, they do. Are you happy, Pacorus?’

  ‘Always, when I’m with you,’ I kissed her on the cheek.

  She rested her head on my shoulder. ‘I too.’

  The both of us stayed on the beach until the dawn broke in the eastern sky, along with dozens of snoring drunk and semi-drunk soldiers who woke with hangovers on a calm and windless day. I felt a surge of joy sweep through me as I became aware of Gallia’s head on my chest as she slept. I wanted the moment to last forever as, bleary eyed, I watched the seagulls fly and hover over a calm blue sea. Perhaps this could be our future, just the two of us and no one else, no Romans and no wars. I dreamed of pe
rfection but out of the corner of my eye I saw reality, as one of my men bent over and threw up on the sand. Others held their heads, which were obviously throbbing after a night of heavy drinking. The price of ‘liberating’ wine from the Romans. Others stripped off and walked naked into the sea in an attempt to refresh themselves. I rested my head back on the sand and looked up at the clear blue sky. Suddenly the panting figure of Rubi was beside us, frantically tugging at Gallia’s sleeve, who woke up with a start. Rubi was making grunting noises and pointing behind us. She was almost as tiresome as Praxima.

  ‘What is it, Rubi?’ asked Gallia, who rose and brushed the sand from her clothes.

  I too rose and turned to see what she was pointing at, and saw on the horizon what looked like a column of horse and foot on a distant crest of a hill, heading towards us. Panic suddenly gripped me as I realised that no sentries had been posted the night before. How could I have so stupid, again? This was just like the day when we had been captured. Had I learned nothing? Perhaps that old Roman at the villa had pursued me with a town garrison? I cursed myself and reached down for my sword, hurriedly buckling it to my belt.

  ‘Enemy! Enemy forces approaching! Rally to me,’ I screamed at all who would listen.

  For a few seconds nothing happened, apart from a few dazed individuals staring at me with irritation as my shrieking voice added to their headaches. Then their fuddled minds grasped the significance of what I was saying, and suddenly the beach was a scene of chaos. Men waded ashore to grab weapons and clothing and race to where their horses were tethered. Others still asleep were kicked awake, pulled to their feet and told to saddle their horses. Gallia and I ran to where our horses were, Gallia pulling Rubi along with her, who bizarrely seemed to be loving the sense of impending doom that was spreading over us. I threw a cloth and saddle onto Remus’ back, buckled the straps and then fitted his bridle. Gafarn and Diana emerged from behind a distant sand dune, both of them running fit to burst. I ran to the top of a nearby dune to see where the enemy was, and spied a solid mass of foot steadily marching towards our position, no more than three miles away, I guessed. The enemy horse was flanking each side of the column of foot, with a small mounted party at the head of the whole force.

  Nergal galloped up to us as I fastened my water skin, rations, bow case and rolled-up cloak to the saddle. I threw on my mail shirt, helmet and quiver and mounted Remus.

  ‘There are hundreds of them, highness,’ he said.

  ‘We have to get off the beach. Form up inland on firm ground.’

  ‘What about the carts and mules?’

  ‘Leave them here,’ I said. ‘They will only slow us up. Better to live than die with a saddlebag stuffed full of gold. Go.’

  We managed to deploy into a two-rank line a short distance inland from the beach, facing the direction from where the enemy was approaching. The latter had made no effort to increase their pace or deploy into battle formation. Indeed, they seemed oblivious to us. As I sat just forward of the first line beside Nergal, I debated our course of action. Though we had been surprised, the enemy had failed to take advantage of this. As they heavily outnumbered us I decided that the most prudent course of action would be a hasty retreat, though it galled me that we would have to leave the booty we had taken. I was just about to turn about when Nergal spoke.

  ‘They have no shields.’

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘They have no shields, highness. In fact, those on foot don’t have weapons at all, or uniforms.’

  I stared at the black mass approaching and he was right. No shields, no spears and they were not wearing helmets. Then one of the horsemen broke from the group at the head of the column and began to gallop towards us.

  ‘Ready!’ I shouted. It was obviously some sort of fanatic who wanted to make a name for himself. He would be the first to die.

  ‘It’s Burebista,’ said Nergal.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s Burebista.’ Nergal kicked his horse forward and rode to greet him, while behind me the two lines erupted in cheers. I too rode forward to meet the commander of my last raiding column. He was beaming like a man who had found a chest of gold.

  ‘We thought you were Romans,’ I told him. ‘Who are those with you?’

  ‘Recruits, lord,’ he replied. ‘All these men can ride so I asked them to join us.’

  ‘And they accepted your invitation?’ I looked past Burebista to where the column was trudging towards us. They looked a ragged band to say the least.

  ‘I told them that they would be serving under “the Parthian”. They have all heard of you, lord, and I told them that they would have a horse, weapons and an unending supply of Romans to kill. They took little convincing.’

  I doubted that all of them could ride, but no matter, he had done well. Burebista had an infectious enthusiasm that drew men to him like a moth to a flame.

  ‘How many are there’ asked Nergal.

  ‘Seven hundred,’ he replied, proudly.

  I extended my hand in congratulations. He had done better than any of us and deserved praise. And now he had his dragon.

  ‘Has there been a battle?’ he said to me though he was looking past me.

  ‘Battle?’

  ‘There, lord,’ he pointed behind me. I turned in the saddle to see a large plume of black smoke ascending into the morning sky. It was many miles away but it could mean only one thing: Metapontum had fallen to Spartacus.

  After a rest of two hours, during which we groomed, watered and fed the horses and ate a late breakfast, we moved southwest along the coast towards Metapontum. The terrain was flat and crisscrossed by large fields growing wheat, olives and grapes, though the wheat had already been harvested and only the olives and grapes remained. But there was no one to do so, as the slaves had all fled to join us or make their own bid for freedom. I noticed the absence of cattle and sheep, all of which had no doubt been taken on the orders of Spartacus. I sent out patrols ahead, more to cover our right flank and riders behind us to ensure we were not surprised, but in truth there appeared to be no Roman troops anywhere near us; indeed, there appeared to be few Romans of any type at all. I wondered if those who had lived in villas in the countryside had taken refuge in Metapontum? The thickening large plume of smoke that hung in the sky indicated that they had chosen unwisely.

  During the journey I went to see for myself the calibre of Burebista’s new recruits. For the most part they were barefoot and dressed in threadbare tunics, their exposed arms and legs weathered and tanned by a harsh Mediterranean sun. I was told that farm slaves owned only one tunic and cloak, which was replaced every two years, by which time many were all but naked. I saw ankles with deep scars where leg irons had been worn for years, and some who had the marks of the lash on their limbs. Others had the letters ‘FUG’, ‘KAL’ and ‘FUR’ branded on their foreheads, abbreviations of Latin words denoting ‘runaway’, ‘liar’ or ‘thief’ respectively. Some of these individuals had misshapen limbs where their bones had been broken as a punishment for their crimes. Slaves who killed their masters were crucified, but the Romans had a curiously ambivalent attitude towards their chattels. Slaves were an expense and as such were an investment. A dead slave was a financial loss, so the Romans were reluctant to kill them outright. Far better to whip them, brand them and then set them back to work under the watchful eye of an overseer. I thought about our own slaves in Hatra and wondered if they too were mistreated. I dismissed the idea, and yet the thought of hundreds of individuals living their lives in servitude for the sole purpose of maintaining the high living standards of my father and his family and court made me uneasy. Gafarn himself had been a slave, of course, and in all the years I had known him I had never asked him if he was satisfied with his lot. Why should I? I was a prince and he was a slave. But now, in a foreign land and fighting for a slave general, my head was filled with strange ideas. I wanted to be free and so did the hundreds of others who now marched with me. Were they so different from me?
/>   I dismounted from Remus and walked alongside a group of Burebista’s new recruits. It was around noon now, and the day was warm though not hot, with a light breeze coming from the sea. As I walked along the dirt track I caught the eye of a man walking parallel to me, a thin, lean individual in his fifties whose arms were covered in scratches and small scars and who carried a walking stick in his right hand. He was striding along purposely, his feet bare and his head bald.

  ‘He’s a fine horse, sir.’

  ‘Yes, he is,’ I said. ‘His name is Remus.’

  ‘Are you the one they call “the Parthian”, sir?’

  ‘Prince Pacorus, yes.’

  ‘An honour to meet you, sir. My name is Amenius.’

  ‘You are from these parts?’

  ‘Not originally. I was captured in Macedonia over thirty years ago. Have been a slave ever since. Always promised myself that I would end my days in my homeland. Have you been to Macedonia, sir?’

  ‘No, never.’

  ‘Beautiful it is. Mountains and valleys, and the air the purest you’ve ever breathed. There’s not a day goes by when I don’t think about it.’

  I was humbled by his fortitude. Thirty years a slave and still the dream of freedom burned within him. With such men perhaps Spartacus could indeed defeat Rome.

  ‘I hope you see your homeland again, Amenius,’ I said.

  It took us all day to reach Metapontum, and as the evening crept upon us our column reached the outer ring of sentries that had been posted to warn of any relief force. I was riding with the advance party when we came across a motley band of Gauls who were preparing a fire for their evening meal. A pony was tethered nearby to speed a rider to warn the army if we had been Romans. Their leader, a young man with bristly fair hair and a large moustache typical of his race, stood up and walked over to me. They must have recognised us, or me at least, for the others ignored us and carried on with their culinary preparations.

  ‘The city fell this morning,’ he said.

  ‘Where’s Spartacus?’ I asked.

  He pointed down the track. ‘The Thracians are camped behind their wooden palisade to the north of the city. We Gauls took it, on our own.’

  ‘My congratulations,’ I said without any enthusiasm, for I knew that the streets would be running with blood by now.

  With that I nudged Remus forward and carried on past them. Behind us the rest of the column was appearing, riders walking their mounts and the former slaves shuffling along silently. They made almost no sound, as their feet were bare, unlike Roman soldiers with their hobnailed sandals who could be heard for miles, especially when they marched down a stone-paved road. I rode back and instructed Nergal to pitch camp a mile down the track and wait for me there. I took Gafarn, Gallia, Diana, Praxima and Rubi as well, as I didn’t want them out of my sight with thousands of blood-crazed Gauls in the vicinity. Ten minutes later we were at the gates of the camp that Akmon built wherever the army was located, looking exactly as it did on previous occasions with its neat rows of tents and perfectly aligned avenues. Spartacus and Claudia were glad to see us, and there were many embraces before he insisted that we sit with them and share a meal. As usual Claudia was the cook, but Spartacus insisted that we all help. Later, as we sat, ate, joked and drank wine, Spartacus told us how Metapontum fell to Crixus and his Gauls. Like most Roman cities it was enclosed by a wall, in its case four miles in length. Curiously, though it was inland from the coast, it was linked to the sea by a canal around five miles long. On the day the army arrived some of the citizens had tried to escape using the waterway, but the canal was only forty feet wide and Spartacus had ordered his men to line the banks. When the boats loaded down with human cargo came within range they were showered with rocks, stones, flaming torches and pila. Half a dozen boats tried to make a run for the sea but all were stopped and set alight. Most of their passengers were burned alive, some drowned and a few made it to the canal banks, where they were hacked to pieces. No more boats left the city.

  I noticed that Spartacus continually drained and refilled his cup with wine as he recounted how he had ordered the city to be surrounded. After a week, during which the garrison and citizens had had enough time to see the strength of the army that lay before their walls, under a flag of truce Spartacus had offered the inhabitants safe passage if they took with them only the clothes they were dressed in.

  ‘But we are only slaves, and after they had opened the gates to allow the envoy to deliver his message they killed him, cut off his head and threw it from the city walls.’ Spartacus took another mouthful of wine.

  ‘What followed was a slaughter. I was foolish, you see, because it was a Gaul that was sent as an envoy. And when Crixus saw what had happened he unleashed his men against the walls. At first they took heavy losses, many being cut down by arrows and javelins, but the citizens had forgotten that if boats could leave their city via the canal, then men could easily get in the same way. Crixus had selected those who could swim to jump into the canal and swim into the harbour. I have to admit it was a cunning plan, and while the garrison manned the walls his men swept into the city like a plague of rats. Then the screaming started, and went on for hours. Only when it was over did they throw open the gates and let us in.’

  ‘Who, the Romans?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ said Claudia, ‘the Gauls.’

  ‘It was Forum Annii all over again, only much worse,’ said Spartacus. ‘Metapontum has ceased to exist.’

  Claudia rested her hand on his arm. ‘They brought it upon themselves, my love. There was nothing you could have done.’

  Her husband agreed, but he seemed particularly morose. But perhaps that was due to the wine. We slept in his tent that night and in the morning I washed and groomed Remus. Claudia came to me as I was brushing his shoulders.

  ‘Crixus grows ever more bold,’ she said, stroking my horse’s side. ‘That is why Spartacus is unhappy. Romans mean nothing to him, but he thinks that Crixus will challenge him for control of the army.’

  ‘Do you want me to kill Crixus?’ I asked, ‘for nothing would give me greater pleasure.’

  She threw her head back and laughed. ‘That would be one solution, but I don’t think even you, my brave Parthian prince, can kill ten thousand Gauls single-handed.’

  ‘Ten thousand?’ I was surprised at the number.

  ‘His numbers grow large, and with each increase Crixus becomes more powerful. I fear he will split the army apart.’

  ‘But he and Spartacus have the same objective, do they not?’

  She shook her head. ‘Crixus dreams of being a king, here in southern Italy. He has no interest in returning to Gaul, where he lived in a stone hut in a small village.’

  ‘He does not speak for all the Gauls, surely.’

  ‘As long as he gives them victory they will follow them,’ she said. ‘But the strategy and the victories are Spartacus’, not his. Crixus is very good at killing, little else.’

  She was right, and I could see how Spartacus had unwittingly created a monster in his midst.

  Metapontum was worse than Forum Annii, if that was possible. Because the Gauls had entered the city via the canal, the citizens had no method of escape. The result was wholesale slaughter, and because his fellow countryman had been beheaded by the townsfolk Crixus ordered that every man, woman and child in Metapontum should suffer the same fate. I rode with Spartacus, Akmon, Nergal and Burebista into the city the next day, when the gates had been finally opened. The streets were filled with the dead, whose heads had been hacked off. The main street into the city was awash with blood, which had also been smeared on the walls of buildings. Blood-smeared Gauls sat on the pavements or rested against walls, exhausted by a day and evening of killing and looting. Smashed pottery, clothes and personal items were strewn everywhere, while from balconies and rooftops hung corpses. Because they had had their heads cut off, the bodies could not be strung up by their necks, so ropes had been tied to their ankles or wrists to facilitate t
hem being hoisted up. The result was a grotesque display of flesh, like a giant butcher’s shop where the goods on display were human carcasses. I rode beside Spartacus, who sat stony faced in the saddle and said nothing as we made our way to the forum. The horrors of the streets were as nothing compared to what greeted our eyes when we arrived at the city’s central square, where stood a huge pile of severed heads. There must have been thousands of them, a dreadful mound of leering visages with tongues hanging out and eyes closed. Already the stench was overpowering, and Nergal retched in disgust at the sight and the smell.

  On the opposite side of the square, sitting in a huge chair that had been placed at the top of wide stone steps leading up to a temple, was Crixus. Around him were dozens of his men, most lolling on the steps or carrying loot from the place of worship. We dismounted and tied the horses to a stone column. The forum was enclosed on three sides by covered colonnades, with the temple filling the fourth side. Nergal and Burebista stayed with them as Spartacus, myself and Akmon walked over to the king of the Gauls. As usual he was drinking wine but barely acknowledged us as we stopped at the foot of the steps. He looked drunk and tired, as did his men. The orgy of violence had obviously exhausted them.

  ‘That’ll teach them to cut off the head of one of my men,’ said Crixus, who finally stood up and descended the steps. He was stripped to the waist, his chest and arms smeared with some poor soul’s blood, his cheeks too.

  ‘We march at dawn tomorrow, with or without you’ said Spartacus curtly.

  ‘Where?’ queried Crixus.

  ‘South. We have no use for this region now.’ Spartacus turned and walked briskly back to his horse, mounted it and rode from the forum. We followed. He said nothing more as we left him to join our comrades. Later that day I met with Castus, who as ever was in good spirits. He told me that Spartacus’ plan was to head south into a province called Bruttium, which was a mountainous region considered by the Romans to be a wilderness devoid of decent people and a haven for bandits. We would stay there for the winter and organise the army, then march north in the spring. He told me that the only garrison that might bother us was in a city called Thurii, which would have to be taken.

  ‘Herdsmen who have joined us have said that its defences are strong, with high, thick walls and catapults mounted on its towers.’

  ‘We could starve them out,’ I said.

  ‘Maybe,’ replied Castus, ‘but we need the winter to turn recruits into soldiers, not waste our time laying siege to a place that we can’t take.’

  The army marched the next morning, thousands of men and livestock filling the countryside in a huge, dense column that moved slowly south. Spartacus and his Thracians formed the vanguard, marching six abreast, followed by Castus and his Germans and then Crixus and the Gauls. Each contingent had its own mules loaded with food, plus carts filled with spare weapons, shields, mobile forges, kitchen utensils, tents, medicines, clothing and tools. Spartacus had had all the captured gold and silver ornaments and the like melted down and cast into bars, which were loaded onto carts and moved under his personal escort. Gold and silver coins had been put into bags and placed in a separate cart, and the legionary gold that had been captured in the battle on the plateau was likewise under Thracian protection. The army had certainly reaped a rich harvest when it came to the spoils of war. The weapons, armour and shields that had been taken after the battle had been distributed evenly among the army, but I noticed that there were still many men without helmets, shields, javelins and swords. Some still carried wooden spears with their points fire-hardened and little else. Those who had joined us in Lucania and Apulia were armed only with what they had brought with them, perhaps a dagger and a club. They invariably had nothing on their feet. The cavalry was in an even worse state, for with Burebista’s new recruits we were sadly deficient in horses, weapons and equine furniture. I had nearly two thousand men who wanted to be horsemen, but only twelve hundred horses. The rest walked with the carts and mules on the march, while I tasked Byrd and his scouts to ride ahead of the army and on its flanks to make sure we weren’t surprised. I was still smarting from being caught out by Burebista, and was determined that no enemy would take us unawares.

  It was sixty miles from Metapontum to Thurii and it took the army six days to reach its destination. We march along the coastal lowlands, but as we moved south the terrain changed from undulating hills to mountains and a more rugged landscape. We moved through areas rich in vineyards and citrus fruit orchards on the lower slopes of the mountains, while higher up I rode through dense forests of oak, pine, beech and fir trees. These woodlands were thick with game and wolves, while eagles flew overhead. Of people we saw none, though perhaps most had fled on our approach. It was cold on the upper slopes, with snow covering the tops of the mountains.

  Finally the army arrived before Thurii, a large port in the coastal plain. Its walls were impressive and must have measured five miles in length, encompassing the whole of the city and the port. There were three gates, one in the northern wall, one in the western wall and one leading to the south. Each gatehouse was protected by two large square towers either side of the two gates, the access to which was across a wooden bridge, as the Romans had dug a deep, wide ditch around the whole city. Spartacus deployed the army around the city on the morning of the seventh day in a show of force, but it elicited no response from the city officials. Troops lined the walls and I could see that catapults were mounted on the towers.

  Crixus moved his men up to within a hundred feet of the ditch, and promptly withdrew them when great holes were torn in their ranks by machines mounted on the towers. I was with Spartacus watching the whole sorry episode as what looked like darts shot out from the tops of the towers and into the densely packed Gauls.

  Spartacus shook his head. ‘They are called Scorpion bolt throwers and they can hurl a three-foot dart over five hundred yards. That’s about the range of your bows, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, lord,’ I replied.

  ‘The difference being,’ he continued as more Gauls were skewered while pulling back to a safe distance, ‘is that the Scorpion is operated by two men and consists of two wooden arms that are pushed through ropes made of animal sinew. The sinew has been twisted, making it a very powerful spring. The arms are then pulled back by levers, which further increases the tension. The bolt is notched into a large bowstring and then placed in a trough cut in the firing block. Then it’s released. You can see the result.’

  ‘You have seen these things before?’ I asked.

  ‘Many times. Each century in a legion usually has one Scorpion attached to it, and there are similar weapons that a legion also deploys in battle.’

  ‘I saw none on the plateau.’

  ‘No, strange that. Makes me think that those we killed were freshly raised from veterans who were retired then called back to the standards.’ The Gauls had pulled back to a distance out of the range of the Scorpions and were now taunting the garrison with obscene gestures and exposing their genitals to those on the walls.

  ‘Those walls look strong,’ said Spartacus.

  ‘At least thirty foot high,’ replied Akmon, ‘Perhaps higher. Storming them will be a bloody affair and we’ve got no siege engines.’

  ‘Even if we did we have no one to operate them,’ said Spartacus, glumly.

  ‘With one side open to the sea we also have little hope of starving them into surrender,’ I added to the general despondency.

  ‘The best we can do for now is to dig a rampart to face their walls and put a wooden palisade on top of it,’ said Spartacus.

  In two days the rampart had been erected. The tree-covered slopes of the nearby Sila Mountains provided the materials for the palisade, which was completed within a week. Thereafter little happened. Ships continued to leave and enter the harbour and we continued to train our army. I established the camp for the cavalry five miles south of Thurii at the base of the Sila Mountains. The many streams that cut through the valleys and gullies p
rovided fresh water for the horses and men and kept both man and beast away from the camps around the city, which soon became overcrowded and disease-ridden. As a result, Spartacus pulled the army back and dispersed it to prevent pestilence doing more damage than the Romans. The various contingents took turns in manning the palisade that surrounded the city, though we were excused as Spartacus informed me that it was well known that Parthians were useless in sieges and in any case we had the responsibility of providing an outer screen for the whole army. To this end Byrd and his scouts worked tirelessly in being our eyes and ears. I think Byrd was happiest when he was riding alone far and wide. He rode on a mangy looking horse and carried no weapons save a long dagger. His clothes were threadbare and his appearance scruffy. He reasoned that if he was spotted or captured the Romans would think that he was just a poor traveller, though just as likely they might execute him as a bandit. He had never been a soldier and he never professed any desire to be one, but he and his scouts were happy in the task they performed and I was delighted that he was so diligent in his work. His years spent travelling far and wide in Cappadocia had taught him to read the landscape and it served us well. He and his fifty scouts answered directly to me and paid no attention to anyone else. It annoyed Nergal and amused Burebista, but the arrangement worked and so I left well alone. He had recruited his scouts personally and they were similarly attired, but to his credit Byrd had taught himself Latin and lived with his men. Like him they were outsiders, and that sense of being outcasts bonded them together.

  Despite the fact that it was now winter it was still warm during the day, though at night the temperature did drop markedly. And on one particularly cold evening when the wind was blowing off the snow-capped mountains, Byrd rode into camp on his shaggy beast. I was sitting on the ground warming myself by a large fire set by Godarz and some of his veterinary officers when he thundered up. He was breathless and his horse was sweating heavily, which drew mutterings of disapproval from Godarz as he inspected the animal and calmed it down. He then ordered that its saddle be removed and the beast be watered and fed, totally ignoring the wishes of its owner. But then, Parthians love their horses above all things and can’t bear to see what they perceive as mistreatment. Byrd was indignant.

  ‘Horse fine, he no need food. I feed him.’

  ‘Obviously not enough by the look of him,’ sneered Godarz as the horse was led away. ‘I doubt he has been groomed for a week, it’s a disgrace.’

  ‘You no talk to me like that,’ said Byrd, squaring up to the older but bigger and stockier Godarz.

  ‘Enough,’ I said, getting to my feet. ‘What do you want, Byrd?’

  He smiled at me. ‘Have found Romani silver mine.’

  ‘What? Where?’ I asked.

  ‘A few miles away, in the mountains. I ride to tell you. No time to stop and feed horse.’

  After he had eaten some stew and bread and drunk some wine I rode with him to the Thracian camp. It was dark but the route was easy to follow as the whole plain around the city was filled with campfires. Akmon had established the Thracian camp directly in front of the city's western entrance, approximately a mile back from the walls, with the palisade in between. I often wondered what the garrison thought of a legionary camp built in their midst, but one full of enemies. We rode through the camp to the tent of Spartacus, who was sitting with Akmon when we entered.

  ‘A silver mine,’ he said to Byrd, ‘you’re sure?’

  ‘Romani only dig mines for gold or silver,’ he replied. ‘No bother with anything else. One of men tell me. Many soldiers at mine to protect precious ore.’

  ‘Makes sense,’ said Akmon, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his tunic after drinking some wine.

  ‘We could take it easily enough,’ I added. ‘I could leave in the morning with two or three companies.’

  Spartacus leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping on the table. ‘A silver mine explains why the city is so well protected and large, and therefore prosperous. The Romans must ship the silver from Thurii, across the gulf to Tarentum and then up the Appian Way to Rome. How far to the mine?’

  ‘Half a day’s ride, lord,’ replied Byrd.

  Spartacus looked at me. ‘You and I will ride there tomorrow. But we’ll take some of my Thracians as well as your horse.’

  ‘That will slow us up,’ I said.

  ‘True, but if as your man says the garrison at the mine is large, cavalry won’t be enough.’ He pulled his sword from its scabbard. ‘Besides, a bit of fighting will blow the cobwebs away. Akmon, you will command in my absence.’

  ‘What use is more silver if we can’t buy anything with it?’ said Akmon.

  The next morning we left early, two hundred horse and the same number of foot. Claudia embraced her husband who seemed in high spirits, the prospect of adventure clearly preferable to spending another day inspecting the ditch and palisade and talking Crixus out of making a direct assault on the city. The day was sunny and warm and soon we had left the plain and were heading up into the mountains, along a track that lanced through thick woods of beech and gorges cut by fast-flowing streams. The air became cooler as we climbed, and our pace slowed as men dismounted to lead their horses on foot, the Thracians in their mail shirts and helmets hauling shields, swords, food and javelins behind us. We made a lot of noise that seemed to irritate Byrd, who was clearly enjoying our company not at all. The area was alive with different flora, such as silver fir, maple, laurel, oak, holly, water mint and Dog Rose. It was also teeming with wildlife – black squirrel, deer, Red Kites and otters. We once saw an eagle soaring above us through a gap in the trees, which Spartacus reckoned was a good omen. Halting mid-afternoon, Byrd, Spartacus and I continued on foot, leaving the track and moving through the trees.

  We followed Byrd through the forest, climbing steadily until we reached the top of a large outcrop, one of several that dotted the immediate area. We crawled to the edge of the cliff and peered down. Below us was a large camp containing wooden huts, a fenced-off area filled with rows of tents, a stable block and big sheds where the silver was processed. The camp had been established next to a rock face, the whole area having been cleared of trees and foliage. There was a track leading from the camp. In the rock face itself were two large entrances to the mine, from which emerged periodically slaves hauling sledges piled with ore. Guards stood at the entrance to the camp, which was surrounded by a wooden fence, and at the entrances to the mine, and also at the entrance to the fenced-off area where the slaves who worked the mine were housed. The site echoed with the sounds of men barking orders, while overhead a pall of smoke hung over the camp.

  We crawled away from the edge and then walked back to the men. Spartacus said nothing during the journey, though when we got back he collected the officers around him and announced that we would attack in the morning.

  ‘No fires tonight and we move before dawn,’ he told us. ‘Pacorus, leave the horses here under guard and put fifty of your men with bows on the cliff edge we were looking down from earlier. They are to kill as many Romans as they can from their vantage point while my men and the rest of your Parthians force the gate and take the camp.’

  The plan seemed simple enough, though I wondered why we were bothering to capture a silver mine. He told me later as we sat huddled with our cloaks around us, as I leaned against the trunk of a tall pine. The night was cool and the sky clear, the moon casting a pale glow over the forest through the gaps in the treetops. Most of the men tried to snatch a few hours’ sleep, but Spartacus could not sleep and neither could I, though my insomnia was due to the cold and knots of bark digging into my back.

  ‘I thought we had captured large quantities of gold and silver,’ I said.

  ‘You can never have enough gold or silver,’ he said, grinning.

  ‘So we take the mine because we need more treasure? The army lives off the land, so why do we need the mine?’

  ‘To deprive the Romans of it, of course.’

  I was conf
used. ‘To what ends?’

  ‘Deep vein mining they call it,’ he replied. ‘I remember talking to a gladiator back in Capua, a man who had worked in a similar mine before being sold to the ludus. He told me that the Romans only dig underground for gold and silver. The mine we saw today would have taken a lot of time and money to build and more to maintain. And silver mines don’t grow on trees, so to speak. So if we take it and threaten to destroy it then the rich owners, who you can bet live in Thurii, will be more amenable to talks.’

  ‘Talks?’ I queried.

  ‘Crixus wants nothing more than to storm the place and kill all the inhabitants, and the longer our desultory siege drags on the greater the clamour for him to try, especially among the Gauls. If he succeeds then he will try to take command from me. However, if I can cut the ground from beneath his feet then his power will wane.’

  ‘I thought he was a friend of yours.’

  Spartacus looked directly at me. ‘Gladiators have no friends, at least not while they are fighting. The ludus is called a family, but it is really a brotherhood, in which we respect each other and promise that we would give those killed a decent burial, but you cannot be a friend to someone you might one day face in the arena. I respect Crixus because he is a good fighter and also uncomplicated. But he is all brawn and no brains and eventually that will be his undoing.’

  ‘I do not like him,’ I said.

  ‘And he dislikes you, but you are in good company. He hates me as well.’

  ‘He does?’ I was shocked.

  ‘Of course, for I stand in the way of the one thing he desires?’

  ‘You mean Claudia?’

  He laughed. ‘No, command of the army. Crixus wants to be a king with his own kingdom. He thinks the Romans can be brushed aside easily, leaving him to rule the whole of southern Italy. That’s the real reason he dislike you.’

  ‘Because I want to rule the south of Italy?’

  He shook his head. ‘The cold has obviously addled your brain. No, because you already have a kingdom, or at least are an heir to one. And Crixus thinks that is most unfair.’

  ‘If he thinks at all,’ I added.

  ‘He will never leave Italy,’ said Spartacus, solemnly. ‘He exists to fight. He could have fought in the Roman Army, but he hates discipline and so he kills Romans instead. I assume all Gauls are like him.’

  ‘Not all, lord.’

  ‘Gallia is unique, I agree. You think to take her back to Parthia with you?’

  I flushed with embarrassment. ‘I had not thought that far ahead, lord.’

  ‘I wager she has. She’s a smart one, beautiful too. And now she’s good with a bow. She’ll take some taming.’

  ‘I don’t want to tame her, lord.’

  ‘Very sensible, for I doubt any man can. Anyhow, that’s one Gaul who wants to be with you.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Claudia told me, though you are not to say that I told you.’

  I felt elated and could have shouted out loud. The cold and discomfort fled from me as I mulled his words in my mind over and over again.

  We left the horses and a few guards two hours before dawn and moved slowly through the trees, two hundred Thracians carrying shields and pila and nearly two hundred horse archers with full quivers with swords at their hips. A handful we left behind to guard the horses. We moved slowly so as to make as little noise as possible, but even though our eyes had grown accustomed to the moon-washed night, the shadows cast by the trees meant some tripped over tree roots and dead branches lying on the forest floor. Byrd led us. I noticed Spartacus was very light on his feet and seemed to be weightless as he moved through the trees. I followed him and the rest of the men followed me in a long column behind. It seemed an eternity before we neared the camp, and by then I was both cold and hungry. I knelt beside Spartacus and we waited until the last of our men had arrived. He called the officers to him and we had an impromptu council of war. He talked in a hushed voice as he told us his plan of attack. Fifty archers would provide covering volleys from the top of the rock outcrop that we had used to observe the camp. Byrd led these men to their positions.

  We stealthily approached the gates to the mine, which were nothing more than crude barriers made from cut-down trees flanked by two wooden platforms, on each of which stood a guard. The gates and the fence were obviously designed to keep people in, not attackers out. But then that was no surprise, being in the heart of Italy. Spartacus and I moved to the edge of the tree line that surrounded the mine.

  ‘Think you and one of your men can kill those guards with the first arrows?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course,’ I replied. ‘Do you want them shot through the neck so they don’t make a sound.’

  ‘Don't get cocky, just drop them and we’ll rush the gate.’

  I tapped one of my men on the shoulder and we moved into position, either side of a tree facing the gates. The distance was about two hundred feet, maybe less. In the eastern sky the first hint of dawn was appearing, barely discernible cracks of red and orange. Bozan had always told me that the best time to surprise the enemy was as the dawn was breaking, when men involuntarily eased after seeing through another night. Subconsciously the arrival of a new day made the mind relax after the tension of the darkness, when the black could hide a host of enemies. Day means light, warmth and safety. ‘Hit them when dawn breaks,’ he once told me, ‘and your victory will be swift.’ I eased back the bowstring and released the arrow; the other archer did the same. The arrows made little sound as they each struck their targets. My man was leaning against the wooden rail on the platform, wrapped in his cloak with his shield propped up against the same rail. He was rubbing his hands together and peering at the interior of the camp. My arrow struck him in the middle of his back, sending him sprawling onto the platform. The second sentry was standing leaning on his shield looking towards the forest when the arrow hit him in the right shoulder, sending him spinning off the platform and landing on the ground with a crump.

  Spartacus tapped me on the shoulder as he ran past me towards the gates, followed by the others. I too rushed forward as he stopped at the gates and pointed at two of his men, who placed their backs against the gates and cupped their hands together. Spartacus ran at one of them, put his right foot in the man's hands and was hoisted onto the top of the gate, then dropped over the other side. I followed him, landing hard on the ground inside the camp. He picked me up and we released the iron bar that had been dropped into brackets fastened to each gate to keep them shut. The guard that had been shot off his platform was moaning and trying to crawl away, but Spartacus pulled his dagger and slit his throat. I opened the gates and the others poured into the camp. The dawn was breaking now and in the half-light figures could be seen coming out of the huts that housed the guards. Morning roll call! Spartacus led his Thracians towards the straw-roofed huts, racing in front of the sheds where the silver ore was separated. In front of the huts, about a hundred yards away, was the slave compound, a fenced enclosure containing tents. Two guards stood at its iron gate. These were quickly felled by arrows. But now an alarm bell was being rung and out of the doors of the huts poured legionaries frantically adjusting helmets, belts and tunics. They formed up at the far end of the compound, two centuries of them being roughly shoved into their ranks by two centurions. Spartacus halted his men and formed them up into two groups eight ranks deep, the men standing ready to advance and hurl their pila. I ordered the majority of my men to deploy behind the Thracians, ready to loose their arrows at the Romans, deploying others to act as flank guards at the ore sheds and in front of the two entrances to the mine, as I did not know if there were any guards in the mine itself.

  The Romans started to move forward, but then my archers on the outcrop overlooking the camp began a steady hail of arrows against them, which stopped them in their tracks. I gave the order to shoot and arrows flew over the Thracians and into the front ranks of the Romans. The latter, true to form, locked their shields to the fron
t, sides and over their heads, to produce what looked like two large red boxes sitting on the ground. The men on the outcrop continued to shoot at the shield blocks, while Spartacus yelled, ‘Swords!’ and rushed forward. The Thracians dumped their javelins on the ground and charged the Romans. As they raced forward we loosed another volley of arrows, which hit their shields seconds before the Thracians smashed into their ranks. I was told later by those watching from above that this charge buckled the front of the Roman formations, and then broke them as Spartacus and his men stabbed repeatedly at their enemies. Seasoned troops may have stood and fought as their comrades in front of them were disembowelled and lacerated by expertly wielded swords, but these were prison guards and in a few seconds the two formations had fallen apart. I led my men forward in the wake of the Thracians, as the fighting suddenly became a mass of individual fights, and soon only one. Most of the Romans threw down their weapons and begged for mercy, while others who carried on fighting were soon cut down. And so it happened that in the end Spartacus stood alone with sword and shield challenging the Romans to fight him. There was no shortage of takers. We formed a semi-circle around our general as he fought against five Romans who circled him. I must confess I was worried, but his men merely yelped and cheered him on.

  He fought with skill and speed, using his shield as a weapon as well as his sword, parrying sword strikes and smashing the shield boss into faces and ribs. He moved quickly, light on his feet and swivelling his body expertly to face his multiple attackers. Spartacus also used his enemies, assuming positions where one Roman blocked the attack of another. He split one adversary’s skull with his sword, ducked low and swept his right foot to knock another off his feet. He threw off his helmet and fought bare headed, goading his assailants and deliberately exposing his chest to invite attack. One did so recklessly and died as Spartacus feinted to the man’s right, tripped him and then shattered his spine with a sword strike as he lay face-down on the ground. The men were shouting ‘Spartacus, Spartacus’ as he crouched low and delivered a fatal blow to the groin of the fourth Roman, his high-pitched squeal piercing the morning air. The fifth Roman probably knew he would die, but to his credit he attacked with vigour, but died instantly when Spartacus brushed aside his sword with his shield and then rammed his own blade through the man’s throat and out of the back of his neck. He left the gladius in the man’s flesh and walked away, the body momentarily remaining upright before collapsing on the ground. Spartacus stood with arms raised, accepting the rapturous applause given him, before retrieving his sword and helmet from the bloody ground.

  I joined him as he wiped the blood from his sword and put it back in its scabbard.

  ‘I enjoyed that,’ he beamed. ‘It was like being back in the arena.’

  ‘You liked being in the arena?’ I said with incredulity.

  He was shocked. ‘Of course, why not? I was good at it and everyone likes doing something that they are good at.’

  Those Romans who had surrendered were quickly herded into the slave pen, while the slaves were let out and informed by Spartacus that they were free. Most just stood around looking confused, but one individual pushed his way to the front of the group and spoke to Spartacus. A thickset man with a chiselled face and narrow black eyes, he had manacles on his feet.

  ‘Lucius Domitus at your service. I thought I would die in this place but now, thanks to you, it appears that I shall die elsewhere.’

  ‘You are a Roman?’ asked Spartacus.

  ‘Ex-centurion of the Thirteenth Legion and for the last six months resident of this shit-hole.’

  ‘And why are you here?’ retorted Spartacus.

  Domitus shrugged. ‘I had a disagreement with a tribune which resulted in him getting a beating and me being sent here.’

  ‘You were lucky,’ remarked Spartacus.

  ‘That’s my middle name,’ smiled Domitus. He tugged at his chains. ‘Any chance of getting these off? At least tell me your name.’

  ‘I am Spartacus, a Thracian,’ the name made no impression on the Roman, ‘and this is Pacorus, a Parthian.’

  Domitus regarded me coolly, obviously assuming that my long hair indicated a lack of discipline and fighting ability. He had, however, noticed the effectiveness of our bows. He nodded. ‘Clever trick, that, putting archers up on the rocks.’

  Behind us the last of the garrison had been thrown into the slave pen, whose iron gate was shut. The slaves, including Domitus, were being led to the smelting sheds where their fetters were broken on anvils. Spartacus ordered that all the weapons, armour, helmets and shields were to be loaded onto carts to be taken back to camp, while all the chains were likewise to be transported back, there to be forged into weapons. I sent twenty men down the track to fetch the horses, and ordered fifty more to retrieve any usable arrows. The garrison’s rations were distributed among the slaves, who sat on the ground and consumed them with frenzy. Spartacus and I wandered over to the entrance to the mine: two large passageways side-by-side cut into the rock face. Each tunnel was illuminated by means of oil lamps set into small recesses in the rock. Spartacus ordered that Domitus be fetched to us, and moments later he appeared, delighted to be no longer chained.

  ‘Who’s down there?’ said Spartacus.

  ‘Fifty guards and a couple of hundred slaves. They rotate us every five days in groups of fifty, which means most of us are underground most of the time.’ He looked at the dead guards strewn about the entrance to the mine. ‘They’ll know what’s happened by now.’

  ‘Any other ways out of the mine apart from here?’ said Spartacus.

  ‘No,’ replied Domitus.

  Spartacus thought for a moment, pacing up and down and kicking at the ground. At length he spoke to Domitus.

  ‘I intend to keep the mine working, at least for the time being. You are free to go, but if you help me then you may join us, if you desire so. If you wish to help, then I ask you to go into the mine and tell all those below to come to the surface. Those who guarded you will henceforth mine the ore. What is your answer?’

  Domitus rubbed his chin with his right hand and then scratched his filthy tunic. His arms were sinewy and scarred. ‘And if I don’t want to help you?’

  ‘It’s of no consequence to me,’ replied Spartacus. ‘I will seal the entrances with wood and set light to it.’

  ‘You’ll kill everyone inside, slaves and Romans.’

  ‘Like I said,’ remarked Spartacus, ‘it’s of no consequence to me.’

  Domitus laughed. ‘I like you, Thracian, and seeing as I am in your debt I will run your errand. Give me a sword and some of your men and I’ll fetch them up.’

  Spartacus picked up a gladius lying beside a dead Roman and handed it to Domitus, who started to walk down the tunnel. Spartacus ordered a squad of his men to follow him.

  ‘You trust him?’ I asked.

  ‘Trust has to be earned, Pacorus. Let’s see if he returns.’

  ‘He might have been lying about this being the only way in.’

  ‘Perhaps, but if he betrays us I will still fire the mine.’ He nodded towards the Roman prisoners. ‘What should I do with them if we have to destroy the mine?’

  ‘Keep them as slaves for the army.’

  ‘I was thinking more of killing them, but I’ll bear in mind what you suggest.’

  As we waited for Domitus and the soldiers to return we walked around the camp, whose storerooms were filled with the tools required to mine silver ore. There were spiked hammers, mauls, chisels, single- and double-pointed picks, mattocks, shovels and rakes. Other sheds were full of baskets and leather bags for carrying ore, plus ropes, ladders, buckets and windlasses for hauling it up pit shafts. One heavily bolted shed contained neatly stacked bars of silver arranged on wooden shelves, each one weighing two or three pounds. There must have been at least fifty of them, all ready to be shipped to the city. Spartacus walked among the slaves as they ate and drank water, telling them who he was and asking them to join us. Most seemed willin
g to do so, probably out of gratitude and a desire to leave this dismal place. At last Domitus appeared at the mine entrance, followed by a line of Roman soldiers. I quickly formed two lines of archers either side of them and had them place arrows in their bowstrings, lest they had an idea to fight us. But Domitus merely led them out of the mine to a distance of about a hundred feet, stopped and pointed at the ground, whereupon each Roman unbuckled his sword belt and threw it down, followed by his helmet and mail shirt. I stood beside Spartacus as the guards thus disarmed themselves and were then moved to join their comrades in the slave enclosure. Afterwards came the slaves who had been kept down the mines, emaciated, dirty figures squinting as they tried to get accustomed to the daylight. Some were children, who I was informed were used to drag the wooden sleds containing ore along the mine passages. Many collapsed or sat on the ground as soon as they had left the mine, obviously exhausted, frightened and bewildered by the morning’s events.

  I rode back to the army with Spartacus and half a dozen others, though most of the cavalry was allocated to escorting the carts loaded with captured supplies and the silver bars. He left all the Thracians behind to guard the Roman prisoners, while Byrd and a group of fifty horsemen accompanied the slaves who followed us on foot, including Domitus, who had told Spartacus he would like to stay with us. When we got back to camp Spartacus told Akmon to send another hundred soldiers to the mine to reinforce the garrison he had left behind. Domitus was astounded by the size of the slave army when he saw its camps that surrounded Thurii, and he was even more impressed when he saw that the soldiers drilled in exactly the same manner as Roman legionaries, were armed and equipped the same and used the same tactics. He asked Spartacus if he could be a centurion in one of the Thracian centuries and was granted his request. Thus did our army gain its first Roman recruit, though he was told in no uncertain terms that thrashing soldiers severely with a vine cane was discouraged in this army. He seemed upset by this, but more than made up for it by his later use of threats, insults and foul language that he hurled at those he was training.

  Godarz had the cavalry camp organised and running smoothly and had sent out riders to sweep the land to the south and west for horses. New recruits came to the army on a daily basis, mostly runaway field hands or herdsmen and shepherds, and of those any who could ride were sent to us. As usual, those who were Gauls were immediately recruited by Crixus, whose camp was positioned to the north of Thurii and occupied a vast area of the coastal plain. Castus and his Germans were camped to the south of the city, with the Thracians positioned to the east. Our camp was in the foothills of the mountains, behind the Thracians. Patrols were sent out far to the north and south, as far as the River Siris in Lucania and down to Petelia in Bruttium, groups of horsemen also travelling north and south along the Via Annia, the road that began at Capua and ended at Rhegium in the far south of Italy. Daily we expected reports of Roman soldiers marching south or north to fight us, but our patrols reported an empty country, empty of slaves, empty of civilians and empty of soldiers. It was obvious that the Romans had no legions to send to the relief of Thurii. The city was alone and isolated, and although ships entered and left the harbour with impunity, I wondered how long Spartacus would do nothing with an army at his back and an inviting target before him. Its walls were strong, but was the garrison large enough to defend them in the face of an assault thrown against three sides of the city? Would he launch an attack? It was a month exactly after our arrival in front of Thurii that Spartacus requested me at a council of war, where I received my answer.

 

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