by Peter Darman
Chapter 14
After spending a night fitfully sleeping on the ground, we awoke on a mist-filled dawn with aching limbs, dry mouths and unshaven faces. I stood, bleary eyed, amid a group of similarly dishevelled and unwashed horsemen and their mounts. The air stank of sweat, leather and horse dung. An hour after dawn I held an impromptu meeting with Burebista and his senior officers. We chewed on hard biscuits and drank lukewarm water from our water skins, those who had any. Gallia also attended, her eyes puffy from lack of sleep and her hair tied in a plait. My hands were filthy and my tunic was smeared with blood, though none of it my own. The edge of my sword had been blunted somewhat in the previous day’s fighting. I had four arrows left in my quiver, most had less or none at all. Burebista was downcast, as ten of his men had died of their wounds during the night.
‘We will take them back and their bodies will be consigned to the balefire with all the others, including Rhesus,’ I told him.
I glanced at Gallia, for Gafarn had informed me that eight of her women had also been killed in the battle and a further thirty wounded, but she said nothing, looking ahead with a face as hard as stone. The battle must have been a sobering experience for her and her comrades, but she and they had fought well. She could take comfort from that at least.
‘We will walk the horses back to camp, but two companies will serve as flank guards at all times. I don’t want to be surprised by a war party of Gauls.’
‘The Gauls in this region will never again carry their weapons to war,’ said Gallia, curtly. She looked at me. ‘The best of them lie dead upon this ground. The rest are now broken in spirit. They will trouble us no more.’
On the way back to camp we skirted the battlefield to avoid the piles of carrion that were even now providing a feast for the mass of crows who had come to add to the horror that stretched for miles around. Their squeals and squawks got on our nerves and made our horses jittery, and made us even glummer. We had won a great victory, though all I wanted to do was eat a good meal, wash my filthy clothes and body and rest, above all, rest. I walked beside Gallia as she led Epona, her stare fixedly ahead. The mist had been burned away by the sun now; it was going to be another warm day. I broke the silence first.
‘I am sorry.’
‘For what?’
‘For the deaths of so many of your warriors, the Gauls I mean.’
She smiled wryly. ‘The Romans used them and now they have paid the price. You think I would weep for such wretches?’
‘But they are your people.’
‘My people? What does that mean?’
‘Well,’ I replied rather meekly. ‘Gauls.’
‘How big is Parthia?’ she asked me.
‘Thousands of square miles,’ I replied, proudly.
She continued to look ahead. ‘And in that territory so you class all the people that live there as your brothers and sisters? Do you feel an affinity with them above all others.’
‘No.’
‘Then why should I have any bonds to a people who yesterday were trying to kill me, much less to a king, my father, who sold me into slavery and then enslaved me himself and again tried to profit from me? I feel nothing for these people except contempt.’
I persisted. ‘But...’
‘Enough, Pacorus,’ she snapped. ‘Your talk is giving me a headache.’
Her mood improved when Spartacus and Claudia arrived escorted by Nergal and two companies of his horse archers. The reunion between Claudia, Diana and Gallia was an emotional one, and all three wept as they embraced. The battle had obviously been harder on Gallia than I had imagined, and Diana must have been terrified and horrified in equal measure. It was good to see Spartacus again, and he looked as though there was not a scratch on him. He embraced me and slapped me on the shoulder.
‘Still alive, then,’ he beamed.
‘Still alive, lord.’
‘Let us walk together back to camp.’
After I had greeted and embraced Claudia, I walked beside him as we headed south towards the camp of wagons.
‘It was a hard fight, Pacorus, but you did well. Once you had broken their wing it was just a matter of rolling them up.’
I smiled. ‘Like a carpet.’
‘Carpet?’
‘It matters not, lord.’
He shrugged. ‘Anyway, we are making a rough count of the enemy dead and it looks as though thousands of them have perished. And I’ve also got a couple of thousand Roman prisoners that I don’t know what to do with.’ He looked at me mischievously. ‘Perhaps I should kill them, what do you think?’
I had to admit I was appalled at the idea, but said nothing. ‘It is your decision, lord.’
He laughed aloud. ‘Do not worry, my young friend, I promise I won’t kill them. In any case they are proving useful at the moment. Godarz has them prising arrows out of their dead comrades and Gauls. He was complaining earlier that your men shot too many arrows during the battle. He’s a typical quartermaster. When I served in the Roman Army they were often worse than the enemy, as they were most unwilling to surrender their carefully hoarded stores.’
‘You have done it, lord,’ I said. ‘We are free to leave Italy and leave the Romans behind us.’
‘Yes, we are finally free, though not quite yet. The army will need a few days to recover, and afterwards I have a small task to perform.’
‘Small task?’
A thin smile spread across his lips. ‘All will be revealed, my friend. But first we bind our wounds, bury our dead, rest and take stock of our losses.’
The next few days were occupied with the task of recovering from the effects of battle. Men and horses were tired, many were wounded and some were dead. The fact that we had Roman prisoners was fortuitous, as they dug great pits into which the dead were thrown. Normally we would have left the enemy dead to rot. But because we were staying in the area rather than immediately marching north, the dead had to be dealt with lest disease broke out. At the very least we would be rid of the crows and their incessant cackling. Under the watchful eyes of our guards the prisoners stripped the Roman dead of their mail shirts, sandals and anything else that our army could use. It was a grisly business, though Spartacus had no qualms about using what fell into our laps. The haul meant that all of his foot now had shields, mail shirts, helmets and swords. Many were still armed with spears, but each legion now had enough javelins to equip their first line cohorts, though Godarz still grumbled that the men had been wasteful during the battle when I found him directing a group of prisoners to search among the bodies of the dead Gauls and extract any arrows that were still usable. The blood-encrusted shafts were thrown into the back of a cart, one of many that dotted the carrion-filled ground. The stench of dead flesh was nauseating, and the area was alive with large black flies and the accursed crows.
Godarz, his nose covered by a cloth veil, was yelling instructions at guards and prisoners alike. ‘Once you have taken anything useful, get the bodies over to the pit and throw them in.’
He was referring to a large rectangular hole that had been dug by the prisoners and which was now rapidly being filled with the dead. Our own dead we had burned on massive balefires made from the thousands of stakes that had kindly been fashioned by the Gauls. We had lost nearly three hundred horsemen killed, most from Burebista’s dragon. The army as a whole had suffered an additional two thousand killed but the enemy had suffered more grievous losses. No one counted the enemy dead, but Godarz and his team of quartermasters estimated that each pit that was dug was filled with around three thousand corpses.
‘This one’s the sixth we’ve dug and I think we will have to dig at least three more.’
‘Lucky you had these prisoners to help.’
He sniffed. ‘If we hadn’t we would not have bothered. But it gives me a chance to salvage some iron and steel.’ He shot me a glance. ‘The foundries will be busy replacing all the arrows your men fired.’
‘You can never have enough arrows, Godarz.’
‘So it seems.’
He looked at two Romans, their faces dirty and their tunics drenched with sweat, hauling a dead Gaul towards the death pit. ‘Any idea what Spartacus intends to do with them?’
I shrugged. ‘No.’
‘For some reason he wants to stay in this area, otherwise we’d have left the corpses to rot where they fell. But seeing as we are apparently staying a while, we have to get them buried as quickly as possible.’
The reason Spartacus wanted to remain in the area was revealed to me a few days later. Castus and Cannicus had both recovered from their wounds, while Akmon and Afranius had survived the battle unscathed. Spartacus’ expression was one of stone when I entered his tent.
‘We must punish the Gauls for their treachery,’ he said. ‘Pacorus, your scout, Byrd, will lead us to the berg of Gallia’s father.’
‘To what end, lord?’ I asked.
‘To burn it, of course, and all those within it.’
The others banged their fists on the table in agreement. ‘First they kidnap one of our own, then they steal our gold and finally they take up arms against us,’ raged Akmon. ‘I say let them reap the whirlwind they have sown.’
Spartacus held up a hand to silence the din. ‘Our retaliation will be swift and merciless.’
And so it was. We formed four flying columns of horse, each numbering three hundred men and composed of my best horse archers. We burned everything – homes, villages and farms. The dwellings of the Gauls were made out of wood with thatched roofs, and they burned beautifully. It took only a single torch or firebrand to ignite them, and once alight the dry timbers were soon consumed by fire. The larger settlements, the villages surrounded by palisades made from sharpened logs that mounted fighting platforms, we first surrounded. Then flame arrows were used to set the wooden houses inside them alight. It was so easy. We wrapped straw soaked in pitch in pieces of cloth and tied them to arrows, lit them and shot the arrows into the village. The straw roofs were bone dry, and soon flames and smoke were billowing from inside the palisade. Then the screaming began as those inside realised that they would die in the flames. The Gauls barricaded the gates so we could not batter them down, but when the flames erupted they desperately tried to escape from the settlement. And we were waiting. Spartacus had thought of everything, and afterwards I realised why he was such a capable commander. He weighed up all the options available to him and then chose the one that suited his purpose. So when the villagers, in their desperation to escape the flames, managed to open the gates, they ran straight onto our swords. In return for their freedom, the Roman prisoners were forced to cut down the Gauls as they fled their settlements. Each Roman was given a sword, nothing else, and told that he would be cut down instantly if he tried to use it against any of us. They were told that they were going to be killing Gauls. Only by shedding blood could they buy their freedom. Spartacus told them this when they had been gathered in one place after they had buried all the dead. And when asked what would happen if they refused, he ran the man through who had asked the question with his sword and then hacked off his head. One sword, nothing else. And so at village after village the Roman prisoners were the ones who did the killing, as we exacted revenge on the Senones and their allies.
Most of the tribes’ warriors had been slaughtered at Mutina, or were hiding in the forests, so those who were left were the very young and the old. But many still summoned a courage born of desperation, and in the brief fighting before the raping and the slaughter began, some Romans were killed. And Spartacus watched impassively as Gauls and Romans, former allies against him, killed each other. I also realised then that Spartacus possessed another quality that contributed towards his skill as a general: utter ruthlessness.
The final part of Spartacus’ retribution against the Gauls was an attack against the residence of King Ambiorix himself. Gallia’s father had been conspicuous by his absence during the battle, no doubt preferring to pay others to shed their blood on his behalf. Spartacus led the attack, which he announced would be on foot and would comprise a thousand Thracians personally commanded by Akmon. He asked me to accompany him with a hundred of my best archers. I asked Gafarn to be one of them but forbade Gallia or any of her women to attend. I knew that we were going to kill and burn and it was not appropriate that she should witness the death of her father, even though she despised him. She did not protest and I was glad and so, on a warm summer’s day under a blue sky littered with white, puffy clouds, we entered the forest that shielded the king’s fortress. We walked in a long column along the same track that I had ridden on after Gallia had been kidnapped, and had then driven a cart along when we had bought her freedom with gold and I had killed her brother. And now I came a third time, this time to extract vengeance. Spartacus and his Thracians were dressed in Roman attire – sandals, tunics, mail shirts, helmets and shields painted red with yellow lightning bolts emanating from their central steel bosses. The Thracians all had short swords at their waists and hoisted javelins, though Spartacus and Akmon carried only swords and shields. I walked next to Spartacus at the head of the column, with Akmon on his other side. Behind us marched Domitus, who had risen to be first spear centurion in one of the Thracian legions, a rank of some importance and prestige I was informed. Out of sight, Byrd and his scouts rode ahead and on our flanks to ensure we were not surprised. I had my spatha at my waist with a full quiver slung over my right shoulder. I wore my white tunic, trousers, boots and my silk vest next to my skin. I left my cuirass in camp.
‘Good to see you, sir,’ said Domitus.
‘You too, Domitus. I’m glad that you survived the battle.’
‘Not much to it, sir,’ he replied. ‘Just a case of keeping your shield tight to your body, your head tucked down and stabbing with your sword. Easy enough. Easier than fighting on horseback.’
‘Fighting on foot is a new experience for Pacorus,’ said Spartacus. ‘But he still could not leave his bow behind.’
‘You and your men need not have brought their weapons with them,’ I chided him. ‘We will kill all the enemy before they get near us.’
Akmon was in his usual irritable mood. ‘Horses are all very well, but once you lock shields they’re done for.’
‘But once that happens,’ I said, ‘then you are like a statue, and my horse can assault you on every side and nibble away at you.’
Spartacus slapped Akmon on the shoulder. ‘Can't imagine any horse wanting to nibble Akmon.’
Domitus laughed. ‘They‘re fine horsemen, I’ll say that for you. Are all Parthian soldiers horsemen?’
‘Mostly, yes,’ I replied. ‘At Hatra we have a garrison that defends the city. They are foot soldiers. But aside from them my father’s army consists of horse archers and cataphracts.’
‘What’s a cataphract?’ asked Domitus.
‘A man in armour that covers his arms, legs and body who sits on a horse that is also encased in armour, and who carries a heavy spear that takes two hands to hold.’
‘I would like to see one of those,’ he said.
‘You would be welcome to come back to Hatra with me, Domitus, should you so desire.’
He seemed delighted. ‘Truly?’
‘Of course. Parthia has need of good soldiers.’
Spartacus finished the apple he was eating and threw away the core. ‘Are we all welcome in your father’s kingdom, Pacorus?’
‘You, especially, lord,’ I said.
He laughed. ‘He might not take kindly to a band of former slaves invading his lands.’
‘He would welcome all those who fight the Romans, and especially one who saved his son’s life.’
‘Well, Akmon,’ he said, ‘looks like we are going to Hatra.’
‘If we don't get killed first,’ he sniffed.
‘Death is a constant companion of the soldier,’ I said casually.
‘And the gladiator,’ added Spartacus. ‘Would you have liked to have been a gladiator, Pacorus?’
I was
aware that both he and Akmon were veterans of the arena and was careful in my answer.
‘I do not think so, lord.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I have no appetite for killing for sport.’
‘Ah, I see, so you do not regard war as sport?’
‘Of course not, lord.’
‘Then what is it?’
I thought for a moment. ‘The highest expression of honour,’ I answered.
Spartacus and Akmon burst into laughter.
‘I’ve never heard it called that before,’ said Spartacus. ‘So you wouldn’t kill just for the sake of it.’
‘No, lord.’
‘But what about that merchant in Thurii whose throat you slit, wasn’t that killing for sport?’
I was indignant. ‘Of course not. He broke his word and tried to have me killed. He did get some of my men killed. He deserved no mercy. I gave him my word, but he broke his.’
Spartacus continued with his questioning, clearly enjoying himself. ‘But you were just a slave to him, and lying to a slave is nothing to a Roman.’
‘I am not a slave,’ I insisted.
‘No, you are far worse,’ chipped in Akmon. ‘You are a runaway slave.’
‘I am not a slave,’ I said again.
‘You are to the Romans,’ said Spartacus.
‘They have no honour,’ I said, ‘no offence, Domitus.’
‘But they do have half the world,’ retorted Spartacus. ‘You see, Domitus, that once you are born into royalty you have a view of the world that is unique from that of all others.’
‘It has nothing to do with that,’ I snapped.
‘It has everything to do with that,' insisted Spartacus. ‘You fight for honour and glory, Pacorus, which is a dangerous game.’ He slapped Akmon on the shoulder. ‘Akmon and I fight to stay alive, nothing more. Same here, same as in the arena.’
‘But today you fight to avenge treachery,’ I remarked.
‘Not so,’ he shot back. ‘We are going to kill Gauls because they are our enemy. You of all people should be able to relate to that. They did, after all, kidnap Gallia.’
‘But we defeated the Gauls in battle.’
‘True,’ said Spartacus, ‘but their commander is still alive and while that is so we are under threat of attack. Besides, fire and sword is a useful method of intimidating the enemy. We can’t all fight just to please the gods Pacorus, some of us must bear in the mind the practicalities.’
We tramped through woodland teaming with life. I saw boar, wildcats, deer and heard the tap-tap-tap of a woodpecker, which ceased abruptly as we neared him. Above us, through the trees, I saw sparrow hawks, falcons, redshanks and ducks. White butterflies with grey spots on their wings fluttered around us, and at one time a huge brown bear lumbered out of the undergrowth and stared at us with its small black eyes set in a massive head. Then he grunted and disappeared back into the bushes. The sun-dappled forest was a beautiful place, so different from the sun-bleached land of Hatra, and I could understand why people would want to live within it.
After three hours at a steady pace, two horses galloped up to the head of the column. It was a dust-covered Byrd and one of his scouts, a man with a sallow complexion and sunken cheeks who looked as thin and haggard as the horse he rode. Byrd looked concerned.
‘Gauls coming this way.’
‘How many?’ asked Spartacus.
Byrd shrugged as he looked at the soldiers behind us. ‘More than you.’
‘How far away?’ said Akmon.
‘Mile and a half, maybe less,’ he replied. ‘You turn around and go back?’
‘No, Byrd, we advance to meet them,’ said Spartacus, determinedly.
Byrd exhaled loudly. ‘Best place is here. Track narrows further on, no room to spread out.’
I looked around. Though there were around fifty yards or so of clear ground either side of the track until the trees began, it was hardly the best place to fight.
‘They could flank us by moving through the trees, lord,’ I remarked. ‘And they know this country better then we do.’
Spartacus stared at the track ahead, which narrowed considerably three or four hundred yards from where we had halted. Akmon was scraping the earth with his foot while Domitus had drawn his sword and was examining the blade. Spartacus turned to me.
‘Pacorus, I want you and your archers to run ahead and find a good place to hide. Spring an ambush and then get back here as fast as you can. If we annoy them enough they might forget about flanking us and come straight at us in a rage, like most Gauls like to fight.’
‘Yes, lord.’
I went to where my archers had been marching as Domitus began getting his two cohorts into line to span the clearing. Gafarn was at the head of the column.
‘Gather round,’ I shouted.
The men shuffled into a semi-circle around me. They were a mixture of Parthians, Dacians, Thracians and Spaniards, all of them excellent archers.
‘We are going to run ahead and ambush a war band of Gauls that is heading towards us. The plan is that we hide, we shoot as many as we can, and then we get back here as fast as our legs will carry us. No heroics, just make your arrows count.’
Five minutes later, sweating and out of breath, we melted into the oak trees either side of the track, fifty archers on one side and the other fifty on the other. We had barely concealed ourselves when I heard the crump of feet upon the ground and peered round the thick trunk I was using as cover, to see a mass of Gauls marching towards us. I was nearest to them, with my men spread among the trees behind me. I glanced across to Gafarn who was behind a tree and stringing an arrow in his bowstring. He nodded at me, his face calm and hard. I glanced back at the Gauls, a dense but disorganised column of men with long moustaches and hair drawn into points. Some wore helmets and carried brightly coloured shields, none had armour save one or two who were mounted. They were about five hundred feet away, moving slowly, shields by their sides and spears resting on their shoulders.
I shot from slightly behind and to the side of the oak tree, aiming at a bare-chested Gaul who carried an axe in his right hand and wore red, baggy trousers. There was no wind and the distance was around three hundred feet; it was an easy shot. The arrow hit his belly and he slumped forward onto the ground. Seconds later several dozen arrows began to hiss through the air, each archer waiting until he had a clear shot. The Gauls were not marching in ranks; those at the front of the column, six or seven men, were all felled by arrows, then those immediately behind them were likewise hit, and another ten or twelve were struck before the enemy halted. For a few seconds they were stunned, like a man who has taken a heavy blow on the head. I shot another four arrows before they rallied, a burly warrior with a spear and shield, his face a mass of swirling blue tattoos, pushing through the mound of dead and wounded in front of him and charging forward with his spear levelled. He screamed as he ran towards us, and in an instant hundreds of warriors were racing down the track.
‘Back,’ I shouted, ‘back.’
We broke cover and ran as fast as we could from an enemy bent on revenge. The Gauls were big men, obviously the most fearsome of King Ambiorix’s warriors, but they could not outrun us and so we were able to keep a safe distance between them and us. I saw two arrows planted each side of the track ahead of me and ran past them, then stopped and turned. The others also stopped and turned around, then began jeering at the Gauls pursuing us. The warriors must have thought we were dead meat, for they slowed and licked their lips in anticipation of slaughtering us. The tattooed warrior pointed his spear at me and smiled, revealing a mouth full of brown teeth. He hardly flinched when the first arrow hit his chest, just looked slightly bemused as he glanced down to see the shaft buried in his body. The two arrows had denoted the position of the rest of my archers, who now began cutting down the Gauls with fearsome efficiency from either side of the track, which was soon littered with dead. The enemy checked their advance and locked their shields to the fro
nt to form a wall against our arrows.
‘Fall back,’ I shouted, and again we ran back towards the clearing. The Gauls watched us go and then charged after us, urged on by their leaders on horseback, richly attired warriors in mail shirts, silver horned helmets and blue leggings.
We raced back to the edge of the clearing where the Thracians were massed in their centuries. Behind us were the Gauls, screaming their fury and yelling their blood-curdling war cries. Whether they saw the wall of shields in front of them I did not know, but I did know that they wanted to kill me and the rest of my archers, reduce us to pieces of offal for what we had done to them. Then I tripped, I don’t know what tripped me, a tussock of grass or a large stone, but whatever it was it sent me sprawling to the ground, scattering the arrows I had left over the earth and spilling my bow from my hand. Ahead of me my archers were streaming through two paths that had appeared in the Thracian ranks; behind me the yells and screams got louder. Time seemed to slow as I rolled over on my back, to see a fat, ugly brute with a huge double-headed axe slow to a walk as he neared me. Then he was standing over me and grinning. I could smell his pungent odour of sweat and age-old dirt and lay transfixed as he raised his mighty axe above his head. This was where I was going to die, in a forest clearing in northern Italy at the hands of a rancid Gaul.
The Gaul was screaming in triumph, his mouth wide open, when the arrow went through it and lodged in the back of his throat. Then Gafarn was standing over me and roughly yanking me to my feet. I quickly regained my wits, gathered up my bow and ran as fast as I could for the sanctuary of the Thracian ranks. We made it with seconds to spare, and as I rushed past the first two ranks I heard a sword blade clattering on the rim of a shield, missing me by inches. Because we had been between the Thracians and the Gauls, Spartacus’ men had been unable to throw their javelins, but as I and my men collapsed on the ground gulping for air, safely behind the Thracian line, the last two ranks in each century turned around, marched back a few paces, then ran forward and hurled their pila over the ranks of those in front and into the Gauls who were now hacking and jabbing against the Thracian shields.
As Spartacus had predicted, the Gauls attacked in a mad, disorganised rush of feral rage, hoping that the fury of their charge would carry all before it. But their assault broke like a wave against a seawall. For a few seconds the Thracian line buckled but did not break, then the front rank went to work with their swords, stabbing them at exposed thighs, legs, bellies and groins. Very few of the Gauls wore armour, some were naked, and though they hacked and jabbed with their swords, spears and axes, they could not find a way through the disciplined ranks of their opponents. The first rank held their shields in front of them, the second rank held their shields above the heads of those in front, and all the while the front rankers stabbed with their swords. Three inches of steel, Spartacus had once told me, was all it takes to kill a man. And how the Thracians were killing now, grinding their way forward one pace at a time. The Gauls in the rear were pushing those in front forward, hoping to create enough momentum to push through our ranks, but all they did was push their comrades onto Thracian swords. Death in battle is seldom instantaneous; rather, it is a long drawn-out process. A few, the lucky ones, are pierced through the heart or have their throat slit, but most are run though the belly by a spear, slashed by the edge of a sword or stabbed by its point, or hit by an arrow or slingshot. They die bleeding from the resulting hideous wounds, screaming or weeping as they watch their lifeblood gushing from shattered limbs and sliced bellies. If they stumble and fall in the mêlée they are crushed to death by their comrades or the enemy in the ebb and flow of the battle line, or are suffocated by a press of the dead and dying piled on top of them. In their terror they foul their leggings and piss themselves, the stinking effusion mixing with blood and churned-up earth to create a disgusting manure of death. And so it was today as the Gauls were slaughtered. The terrible din of battle resounded across the clearing and reached a crescendo as the Thracians gave a mighty cheer and then began to advance. They stepped on and over their dead enemies, ramming their feet down hard on faces, necks and arms, shattering bones as they did so.
‘They are breaking,’ I said to Gafarn.
‘Yes, highness, they are.’
I turned to him and offered my hand to him. ‘You saved my life, I am in your debt.’
He grinned. ‘I had no choice, Gallia would never have forgiven me.’
In front of us the rear rank of the Thracians threw another volley of pila, the shafts angling through the air to pierce flesh and strike shield. If they hit a shield the soft iron of their shaft immediately bent, making it impossible for it to be freed from the shield and thus rendering it useless to its owner. I saw a riderless horse bolt in terror into the trees, and saw another horse carrying a man wearing a green cloak, steel cuirass and helmet, and armed with a long sword in his right hand and a round shield on his left side painted with some sort of animal symbol. He was riding up and down behind his men, waving his sword, urging his men on. He gestured to and instructed other mounted warriors, who rode away to do his bidding. I recognised him. It was King Ambiorix, who by his frantic activity was obviously seeing any hopes of victory rapidly disappearing. The Thracians were still pushing forward, grunting like pigs as they cut through the wall of flesh in front of them.
I turned to Gafarn. ‘An arrow, quick.’
He passed me a shaft and I placed it in my bowstring. I could see Ambiorix, waving his sword in the air and shouting. Though he was several hundred feet away I could not discern his voice amid the general tumult of the battle.
‘You’ll never hit him from here.’ Gafarn had guessed my intention and his archer’s instinct told him that the shot was too long against a target that only fleetingly showed itself. I took aim but realised that Gafarn was right. Ambiorix was riding up and down the line, shouting encouragement, and he frequently disappeared behind other riders.
‘You’re right,’ I said to Gafarn. ‘I need to get a clear shot.’
I called my men to gather round me.
‘We need to get into the trees and behind the Gauls. Share out the arrows you have remaining.’
A quick count revealed that there were only enough arrows for each man to have two each, thus I picked ten men at random, including Gafarn, told the rest to surrender their arrows to us, and led them towards the right flank and into the thick oaks that surrounded the clearing. We slowed as we moved through the trees, fanning out in a line with bows at the ready. I was at the far left of the line, and out of the corner of my eye I could see the two sides hacking and stabbing at each other. We kept moving forward until we were well behind the Gaul battle line. I raised my right arm and gestured to the rest to close up on me. I knelt on the ground and they huddled round me.
‘That man on the horse, with the green cloak, steel cuirass and shiny helmet, that is their king. Kill him and it’s all over.’
I looked at each of them to make sure they understood. They all nodded solemnly. One of them suddenly looked wild-eyed at me and lurched forward onto the ground. In his back was a spear, and then there were shouts and cheers as the Gauls came at us. There were around a dozen of them, all carrying square shields and spears, their half-naked bodies covered in tattoos and filth. They must have been sent into the woods to scout, and now they had found an easy prey. I raised my bow and shot the man who had thrown the spear, while the rest of my men likewise loosed arrows. We cut down another five but then they were on us. I threw my bow aside and drew my sword, just in time to deflect a spear that was aimed at my belly. The Gaul’s momentum carried him past me and I hacked down hard on the back of his neck as he did so, sending him sprawling to the ground with blood oozing from the wound. He did not get up. A wild man, naked aside from a silver torc around his neck, came yelling at me with a long sword held above his head clasped with both hands. I jumped aside and rolled on the ground to avoid the blow, then sprang up as he turned and came at me again with great sc
ything sweeps of his blade. They were easy enough to avoid, but his attack was relentless. I could smell his sweat and foul breath as he threw insults at me. His bloodshot eyes were bulging in their sockets. He swung his blade again, he was amazingly quick for a big man, but as it swept past me I lunged with my own sword and stuck the point into his upper arm, just below the shoulder. He screamed in pain. He came at me once more, raising his sword above his head and then bringing it down where he thought my head would be, but once again I leapt aside and he cut only air. Blood was pouring from his wound, and every time he raised his sword he winced in pain. He attacked once again, but this time his strikes were slower and more predictable. He cut down at my left shoulder, missed and as his blade swept towards the ground I lunged and stabbed him in the belly. He gasped with surprise, stood for a moment and then sank to his knees. I screamed and aimed a downward cut against the side of his neck. The steel blade cut deep into his flesh, sending a fountain of blood into the air as he collapsed on the ground. I glanced around me. I could see three of my men lying lifeless on the ground, but the others had fought off the Gauls and were now shooting arrows at the last three who were alive. They felled two but the third escaped. I retrieved my bow and ran up to Gafarn.
‘Are you hurt?’
‘No, highness, but we have few arrows left.’
There were seven of us left and each clutched his remaining arrows in his right hand. Not one had more than two, three had none at all. I took all the arrows, gave half to Gafarn and told the men to get back to the others. They could do nothing here. They saluted and departed, while Gafarn and I went to kill a king.
We ran forward through the trees and then swung left into the clearing, where we emerged well behind the enemy’s position. In front of us hundreds of men were still fighting each other.
‘You see him?’
‘I see him, highness.’
‘Then let’s kill him.’
We both shot but it was Gafarn who hit him. It was a masterful shot, a once-in-a-lifetime shot, for as my arrow went though the air and disappeared into the mass of fighting men, Gafarn’s arrow hit Ambiorix in the face at the moment he was turning his horse. He immediately fell from his saddle onto the ground, dead. Gafarn whooped with joy and I slapped him on the shoulder, but within seconds men on horseback were coming at us, for we had been spotted. We ran as though a demon was snapping at our heels, back into the trees and then raced through the oaks until we reached the safety of our own lines. Gafarn and I were like excited children as we jumped, embraced and laughed with delight, for he had given us victory because the Gauls, seeing their king killed, lost heart and began to flee the battle. Their chiefs and knights tried to stop them but they had had enough. Soon their retreat turned into a rout and Spartacus and his Thracians stood triumphant on the battlefield.
I went to search him out and found him in the front rank of his men, who were drinking greedily from their water bottles. Beside him Akmon was nursing a nasty wound to his shoulder, his mail shirt having been ripped open.
He spat blood on he ground. ‘These Gauls love their axes.’
I was concerned. ‘Are you badly hurt?’
He grinned. ‘Nothing that won’t heal. I’ve suffered worse as a gladiator.’
Spartacus embraced me and I told him about King Ambiorix. ‘So, the bastard’s dead. I wondered why they gave way so suddenly.’ He looked around at his men sitting on the ground and taking off their helmets. ‘Akmon, get them back on their feet. We are going to march on.’
‘They are tired, Spartacus.’
‘They can sleep tonight. We are near to their royal headquarters, and I want it to be a pile of ashes before we turn back.’
And so, after only half an hour to gather ourselves, we continued on towards Ambiorix’s berg. We had suffered fifty dead and a hundred more wounded but the clearing was littered with slain Gauls, most lying in a long strip from tree line to tree line where the battle had been fought, hundreds of them. We found the body of Ambiorix with an arrow through its right eye socket. Spartacus cut the head off, rammed a spear into the earth and stuck the bloody head on top of it.
We left the wounded and a hundred uninjured Thracians to escort them back to camp as we tramped onwards. Our pace was slower now for battles are tiring affairs, but we ate hard biscuit, drank and refreshed our water bottles from the stream that cut through the meadow on the route that led to the berg. It was here that I had killed Gallia’s brother when we had delivered the gold, and now we were back. How unnecessary it had all been, really. If only Ambiorix had left us alone. But his cunning and ambition had led him to believe that he could use us to free himself of Rome’s rule and become the king of kings of the Gauls. And now he was dead, his warriors slaughtered and his people emasculated. Like Gallia told me, they were a beaten people.
The berg fell without a fight. When we arrived the gates were open and the walls and platforms unmanned. The people, no doubt having learned of the death of their king, had fled. Byrd reckoned they had gone into the mountains, though Spartacus suspected that some still watched us from the forest. It didn’t matter. We took firebrands and threw them into the royal hall, which was soon a raging inferno as the flames devoured the Senones’ centre of government. Here, generations of their kings and princes would have sat and carried out their duties, and now it was being turned into ash. The rest of the buildings were also set alight, the loud roar of the fires at our backs as we marched away.
In the evening, after we had reached camp and I had washed and changed, I told Gallia that her father was dead. She looked into my eyes, then put her arms around me and kissed me.
‘I am glad you are safe.’
‘I am sorry for your loss.’
She shook her head. ‘I was nothing to my father, so why should I weep for him? You and the people that I am close to here are my family. I have no other.’
In the next few days the army moved north to the River Pagus, a great, winding river that flowed east to the Adriatic Sea. Here, we made camp and enjoyed, for the first time since we had left Thurri, a period of rest. We pitched our tents on the south side of the great river, which was a thousand feet wide at this point, with Thracians in the centre and the other contingents either side in a great but organised sprawl that extended for miles. My horsemen were established on the right flank of the army, occupying a spit of land half a mile across on a great bend in the river. The grassland either side of the river was lush and the river itself full of fish. Very soon, a host of men were fishing along the banks and reaping a rich haul of rainbow trout, lake trout, brown trout, grayling, whitefish, barbel, catfish, pike, perch, tench, carp, chub, dace, bream and roach. Immediately west of our camp was a stretch of open ground on the concave bend of the river. Here, the riverbank was almost flat and we could take the horses up to the river and walk them into the water. The river itself, though deep, flowed gently so it was possible to coax a horse into the water up his shoulders quite safely. I did this with Remus, and though at first he was slightly reticent, he soon got to enjoy the experience.
The wounded were tended to and began their recovery, weapons were mended in the forges that were set up and Godarz organised the making of thousands of new arrows. As usual, Byrd established his camp on the perimeter of the army and sent his scouts out each day to watch for the enemy. But no enemy came. Indeed, his men found scarce evidence of anybody. Clearly our fearsome reputation had spread far and wide and had terrified all and sundry.
We had been at the Pagus two weeks when I rode with Gallia, Diana and Gafarn to find Spartacus after receiving an invitation to attend him. Byrd had just returned from one of his scouting missions and had informed me that a great trail of people were fleeing towards Mutina, but that he and his men had seen nothing to the north, which meant that our route to the Alps and freedom was open. We found Spartacus in the river, stripped to the waist, standing up to his thighs in the water with a javelin in his hand. Beside him stood Domitus, likewise stripped t
o the waist, both of them looking at the water intently. On the bank sat Claudia and Akmon, with two wicker baskets between them. We halted and dismounted, tying the horses to a wagon lying nearby. Claudia raised her hand to us then put a finger to her lips to indicate that we should not make any noise. Suddenly Domitus jabbed his pilum down and extracted an impaled wriggling trout from the water. He grabbed the fish and threw it onto the bank, then Akmon put it in one of the baskets.
‘Ha,’ exclaimed Akmon, ‘that’s three to nothing, Spartacus. Looks like you and Claudia will be going hungry tonight.’
Spartacus drew back his javelin so the tip was near his waist and then thrust it down as hard as he could. He missed.
Domitus shook his head. ‘No, no, no. You’re not trying to kill a man, just tickling a trout. Let them swim near the tip, then strike.’ And just to prove his point, he flicked his wrist and speared yet another fish.
Spartacus threw the javelin onto the bank in frustration and then waded ashore. The sun glinted on his thick, muscular arms, huge shoulders and broad chest, the left side of which carried a long white scar that coursed down from his shoulder blade. He saw me looking at it.
‘A gift from a big Nubian in the arena at Capua. Occupational hazard when you are a gladiator.’ Claudia passed him a tunic and he then embraced Diana and Gallia, both of them now sitting beside Claudia on the riverbank.
Spartacus frowned when he heard a splash and an exultant yell from Domitus, then saw another fish being tossed onto the ground beside him. ‘Enough fishing for one day, Domitus. We have other things to attend to.’
At that moment Castus and Cannicus appeared, dressed in tunics and sandals, swords at their waists. Following behind came the stocky shape of Afranius, who had shaved his head so that he appeared fiercer than ever. He nodded curtly to all assembled and stood bolt upright with his arms by his side.
‘Sit, Afranius,’ said Spartacus, gesturing to some stools placed in front of a table that was loaded with bread, fruit, jugs of wine and plates of meat that had been cooked earlier. ‘Have something to eat and drink. All of you, please, refresh yourselves.’
As we were eating and indulging in idle chat, Godarz and Byrd arrived, which was the signal for Spartacus to reveal the reason he had summoned us all.
‘Friends,’ he began, ‘we have travelled a long way together and have won many victories.’
I, Domitus, Castus and Cannicus cheered. Spartacus held up a hand to still us.
‘But now we have reached the end of our journey. Tomorrow I will assemble the army and release every man and woman from my service. They will be free to march north and cross the Alps, thence to travel to their homelands or wherever they will. I can ask no more of them, or you. Thus today I wished to share the company of my friends one last time, before we all go to fulfil our destinies.’
He walked over to me and placed his hand on my shoulder. ‘For Pacorus, this means going back to his father’s kingdom.’ He smiled at Gallia. ‘And he will take with him a great prize that he has won, perhaps the greatest prize in the whole of Italy and Gaul.’ I blushed and Castus slapped me on the back. Spartacus looked at Godarz and Domitus in turn. ‘I know that others will join our young prince in Parthia, and it fills me with joy that they will do so, for I know that they will be safe there.’
‘And you, lord?’ I said.
He looked at Claudia. ‘I fear that for us there may not be a happy ending. Rome will hunt us down wherever we go.’
‘You will always be welcome in Hatra, lord,’ I said. ‘Roman reach does not extend to Parthia.’
He smiled. ‘Thank you, but no, Claudia and I have our own plans. We think it best if we slip into the mists of anonymity and disappear from history.’
‘You’re too big to be anonymous,’ grumbled Akmon.
‘What about you, Afranius?’ said Castus.
‘I will stay in Italy. I have not finished with Rome.’ He reminded me of Crixus, bursting with hate.
Yet it was a happy day, full of laughter and good company, and as the sun began to set in the west we toasted our friendship and our freedom, for what I had always taken for granted had become a precious thing for me, though the most precious of all was seated beside me and I was taking her back to Hatra. But freedom was the idea that bound us all to each other, the invisible sinew that tied the whole army together. And on that day I made a vow that I would never own a slave again, for I had been one and knew what misery they had to endure. And on a warm summer’s evening in northern Italy, by a mighty meandering river, I fell asleep in the midst of my friends and in the arms of the woman I loved.
Two days later the army was assembled by noon, nearly sixty thousand troops and another five thousand women and children we had somehow collected on our travels through Italy. We looked magnificent that day. We still had much Roman gold and silver that we had taken from the enemy, and I had earlier sent Byrd into Mutina to purchase the finest black leather bridle, breast girth and saddle straps money could buy for Remus, Roman money that is. To the Romans Byrd was just another trader with a wagon, albeit one with a strange accent. When he returned I had the leather inlaid with silver coins that were pierced through the centre and then sewn onto the leather. I cleaned my black cuirass and hung alternating strips of thin steel and silver from its base so that they shimmered in the sun. Byrd also purchased a new thick woollen cloak for me that was pure white with a silver clasp. Remus’ mane was tied in place with black leather strips and his tail was wrapped with a black cotton guard that was also decorated with silver strips. He looked like a steed of the gods, as befitting a prince of Hatra. On my head I wore my Roman helmet with a thick white crest of goose feathers and at my waist I wore the sword that Spartacus had given me many months before.
During the time we had spent by the Pagus I had asked a number of women, who had been weavers for their Roman masters, to make me a standard. The review of the army was the first time it was displayed, and I had to fight back tears when I first saw it. It was a six foot square of heavy cotton, coloured scarlet with a white horse’s head stitched on each side. When we rode onto the parade field it was carried behind me by a large Parthian named Vardanes, who had served with me since Cappadocia. The slight easterly breeze that blew that day caused it to flap in the wind and everyone could see the white horse on a scarlet background. And behind the standard rode just over three thousand horsemen, two thousand horse archers, Burebista’s thousand mounted spearmen and Gallia’s one hundred female horse archers. Every quiver was full of arrows, and at camp more wagons were full of replacements, for Godarz and his quartermasters had worked tirelessly to replenish our stocks. The surrounding countryside, made up of thick forests, had been plundered ruthlessly for wood for shafts and great tracts had been cleared.
We formed up in our dragons on the right flank of the army, each one composed of ten companies of one hundred horsemen. The sun glinted off whetted spear points and burnished helmets, while every man in Burebista’s command wore a mail shirt, carried a shield and a sword at his waist. As we were moving into position, to our left the legions of Spartacus were forming into line. Beside us were the three legions of Germans under Castus, which included the remnants of those Gauls who had fought under Crixus but who had managed to escape north after the Romans had defeated him. Occupying the centre of the line were Akmon’s four legions of Thracians, with another legion filled with Greeks, Jews, Dacians, Illyrians and even a few Egyptians and Berbers attached to the Thracians. On the left flank stood the three Spanish legions of Afranius, who Akmon now reckoned to be the best trained in the army, and also the most unpredictable, like their leader. They were, nevertheless, a credit to the angry young Spaniard who led them. In front of the army, mounted on a line of wagons, were the standards we had taken from the enemy – silver eagles, red pennants, poles with silver discs fastened to them, and cavalry flags – dozens of them, testimony to the generalship of Spartacus, one time gladiator and lowly auxiliary, now master of all Italy.
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The orders had been issued the night before. Word had been passed to all commanders of cohorts and centuries that the army would parade on the morrow for one last time. And then those assembled would be dismissed from their service at the sound of one hundred trumpets being blown, after which the men would make their way back to their respective camps where they would be issued with one month’s food ration and then they would be free to go. They were to take their weapons and clothing with them, and those who were determined to make their way in groups would be issued with one tent per eight men. All remaining coin was to be distributed evenly, and Godarz and his assistants had worked out how much gold and silver was to be issued to each century, after which each centurion would divide the amount among his men accordingly. Byrd had sent parties of his men to the foot of the Alps themselves, and they reported that there were no Roman garrisons along the route, or indeed any Roman soldiers anywhere. To all intents and purposes they had fallen off the edge of the world.
Before the trumpets were sounded Spartacus rode to every cohort assembled, speaking to their commanders and thanking the men for their valour and loyalty. It took him over two hours before he had completed this task, and at the end there were many with tears in their eyes. I rode over to where he and Claudia sat on their horses. That day Claudia looked the beauty she was, her long black hair flowing freely around her shoulders. She wore a simple white tunic edged with green, with light brown leggings and red leather boots. Spartacus, as usual, was dressed in his plain tunic and mail shirt, with an ordinary legionary’s helmet on his head. He never pretended to be anything more than a common man and soldier, and that was why thousands were devoted to him. I halted Remus beside him. He looked at my horse and smiled.
‘Remus has certainly put on his best attire today, Pacorus.’
‘Yes, lord. I thought it fitting that today he, and the rest of your horsemen, should look their best. It was the least we could do.’
‘Well, my friend,’ he said, ‘it has been an interesting journey that has led us to this place. But now it is time for all of us to start a new adventure.’
‘You know,’ I said, ‘you can both come to Parthia with Gallia and me.’
‘We know that, Pacorus,’ answered Claudia, ‘but to do so would only bring war and destruction to your people and we think too much of you to let that happen.’
Domitus walked up dressed in his war finery. He had once been a centurion and he was now dressed as one, with steel greaves, red tunic, mail shirt adorned with silver discs and a transverse red crest on his helmet. He looked a different man from the poor wretch we had rescued at the silver mine at Thurri, and I liked to think that he was happy to be with us. He acknowledged me and then spoke to Spartacus.
‘We wait on your signal, sir.’
Spartacus looked around him and sighed. At that moment there was a deathly silence. It seemed that even the birds had stopped flying. The only thing that stirred was the wind, which made my scarlet standard flutter, revealing glimpses of the white horse’s head that it sported. Remus chomped at his bit and scraped at the ground with his right front foot. I leaned forward and stroked his neck. I felt a trickle of sweat roll down the right side of my face, for the sun was at its height, the sky was cloudless and it was warm.
Domitus turned smartly and signalled to the trumpeters, whose piercing sound blasted across the assembled massed ranks. Remus shifted nervously at the sudden noise, as did a number of other horses among the cavalry's ranks. So this was the moment when the army that was undefeated would simply melt away. The trumpets ceased blowing and I watched to see the ranks break as the troops made their way back to camp. Nergal and Burebista had relayed my orders to their company commanders, who had in turn informed their men that they were free to leave when the signal was given. As they had no food or water with them whilst on parade, this would necessitate them also riding back to camp and being issued with food for both horse and man, enough to take them over the Alps at least.
As the seconds passed I realised that nothing had happened. Nothing. No one had moved, not one. Had they not heard the trumpet blast? Of course they had. Then what? Then a new sound began to be heard, this time from the ranks, barely audible at first, but then gaining in strength and volume until the whole plain was filled with the mighty din of thousands of voices shouting as loud as they could. Troops were raising their javelins in the air in salute as they shouted, while those on horses were holding their spears and bows aloft. And into the air they shouted the same word over and over again, tens of thousand in unison acclaiming their general.
‘Spartacus. Spartacus. Spartacus.’
The chanting was getting louder and men on horses were having difficulty controlling their mounts as I glanced over to the man whose name they were hailing. He sat rock-like on his horse, staring straight ahead and seemingly oblivious to what was going on in front of him, but as I looked more closely I saw that there was a thin smile on his face. I looked across at Claudia who had tears running down her cheeks. Spartacus suddenly snapped out of his daze and turned to me.
‘It would appear that my troops are disobeying me.’
‘It seems so, lord.’
Across from us strode Castus, Akmon and Afranius, who all stopped in front of Spartacus’ horse. Akmon spat on the ground.
‘What are you going to do now?’
‘Well,’ replied Spartacus, ‘it would seem that no one wants to go over the Alps.’
‘The south, then. Sicily, perhaps?’ said Akmon.
Spartacus nodded. ‘Sicily would offer us hope, though how we get across the sea I do not know.’
And so it was that the army of the slave general Spartacus stayed in Italy. I often looked back on that moment, how absurd it appeared at the time but how it actually made perfect sense. The ranks of the army were made up of individuals who had nothing, had been condemned to a life of back-breaking servitude, many born to slave mothers and fathers. To Rome they were mere beasts of burden to be used and abused. But Spartacus had given them hope, and what’s more he had given them victory over the hated Romans. Not just one, but a string of triumphs. Those men who had fought in those victories, and who had formed bonds of friendship with those they stood beside in battle, had no wish to meekly lay down their arms and crawl away like whipped dogs. I should have thought of it myself. Gallia herself had told me the same when she had announced that her family was here, with me, with Spartacus, with the army. In each legion, in each cohort and in each century men felt the same bonds to their friends and comrades. They wished to remain with the family that was the army of Spartacus.
Spartacus had never told them that they could topple Rome itself, but many must have dreamed so. They had, after all, smashed every Roman army that had been sent against them. Did Rome have any more armies left? Victory was intoxicating, addictive, especially to those who had only experienced the bitter taste of slavery. Even if many of them suspected that their adventure would eventually end in defeat, every one of them knew that it was indeed better to die on one’s feet than live on their knees.
