The Parthian

The Parthian Page 10

by Peter Darman

  Chapter 10

  The army’s morale soared on hearing the news of the capture of the silver mine, though I did not know why as we took what we wanted from the land anyway and there was no opportunity to spend any of the gold and silver we possessed. I was bemused by the conversations among the soldiery about how wealthy the army was and how they would all go home as rich as lords. Still, anything that raised spirits was to be welcomed, and even Crixus seemed to be in a good mood as the captains of the army gathered in Spartacus’ tent and made themselves comfortable in well-appointed chairs around the large oak table, a ‘gift’ from a local villa. Present were Spartacus, Akmon, Crixus, Dumnorix, now second-in-command of the Gauls, Castus, Cannicus, Godarz and myself. Crixus propped his war axe against his chair’s right arm, as usual drinking wine from a large cup.

  ‘It appears,’ started Spartacus,’ that we are at this present time rich. We have acquired the wealth of Nola, Forum Annii and Metapontum and now have possession of a silver mine. I have instructed Akmon to build a camp within this one where all the gold and silver will be stored. However, I do not intend to keep it for it will be a burden when we begin our march north in the spring. Therefore, I intend to spend it.’

  There was a stunned silence. We all looked at each other in confusion, and for once even Crixus was lost for words. Castus frowned, Akmon was bemused and Godarz sat stroking his chin.

  ‘Spend it, lord?’ I said.

  ‘That’s right. Buy something useful with it, things that can help us in our mission to get out of this Roman-infested land.’

  ‘And where are you going to purchase these items?’ said Crixus, burping loudly as he finished his cup.

  ‘From Thurii, of course,’ replied Spartacus, straight faced.

  ‘You’re joking of course,’ said Crixus. ‘You’ve dragged us over here for no other reason than to ridicule us.’

  ‘Not all at,’ said Spartacus, ‘it makes perfect sense. We will make an offer to the rulers of the city. We will pay handsomely for the things that we require, and in return the city’s merchants will grow fat and we will not burn the place to the ground.’

  ‘The plan has merits,’ said Godarz.

  ‘Merits!’ bawled Crixus. ‘It’s madness. They will probably cut the head off the poor bastard who has to deliver your message, like they did at Metapontum, and then I had to attack and exact vengeance. That’s the only language the Romans understand.’

  ‘They also understand the language of wealth and commerce,’ replied Spartacus, calmly. ‘But I think they will listen to the man I will send to bargain with them.’

  ‘Bargain? I’ll wager that his head will end up on a spike on the city walls,’ added Crixus. ‘Who is the poor wretch?’

  Spartacus looked at me. ‘I intend to send Pacorus to negotiate our terms.’

  Crixus clapped his hands in delight. ‘On the other hand, perhaps your plan does have merit.’

  All eyes were on me, watching for my reaction. ‘What say you, Pacorus?’ said Spartacus, ‘will you accept this challenge? I do not command, only ask.’

  Castus looked alarmed but said nothing, whereas Crixus and Dumnorix looked delighted. Godarz was shaking his head at me and Akmon was admiring the cup he was drinking from and clearly intent on avoiding my stare. I had to accept, of course, for not to do so would be a fatal loss of face. Spartacus knew this, but I don’t think he was putting me in this position out of malice. He knew that he had to keep on winning or he and his army would be destroyed. But he also did not become the commander of this army by not being ruthless. I believed that he both liked and respected me, but by placing me in this position he was also showing that he would stop at nothing to achieve victory.

  ‘I will do as you ask, lord,’ I replied.

  ‘Thank you, Pacorus. Upon your shoulders rests the hopes of the whole army.’

  ‘And don’t worry,’ added Crixus, ‘when they lop your head off, I promise to find it afterwards and give it a decent burial.’

  ‘If that happens, Crixus,’ said Spartacus, ‘then you and your Gauls will be the first to assault the city, and we will keep on assaulting the walls until we have battered them down stone by stone. And then we will pull down the buildings brick by brick. This I swear.’

  Afterwards Spartacus pulled me aside and spoke to me.

  ‘I hope you do not think that I do not hold your life dear, Pacorus.’

  ‘No, lord.’

  ‘This plan either succeeds or I will be forced to attack the city. If we attack we will lose thousands.’

  ‘I will do my best to bring you success.’ I said.

  ‘Remember, the Romans are ruthless but they are also a pragmatic people.’

  I doubted that, but I knew that we could not remain idle before this Roman city forever. In the next two days Godarz briefed me on what to expect when I met the city’s officials, if I met the city’s officials! He told me that each major city was ruled by a municipal council called a curia, which was named after the Roman Senate itself. This council administered the food supply, public services, religious festivities, town finances and local building projects. The silver mine, though, would be owned by the Senate in Rome itself, as its valuable ore was used to pay for the legions fighting in foreign lands. Nevertheless, it would be administered on behalf of Rome’s Senate by a powerful local individual, who presumably was resident in the city. I asked whether it was a possibility that the city’s élite would have fled the city by boat, but Godarz assured me that Roman civic leaders usually prided themselves on their courage and their responsibility to the citizens they ruled over, and as such they would never want to be seen fleeing the city. Godarz also told me that Roman civic leaders often built public baths and other buildings at their own expense, both as a sign of their wealth to the lower orders and as a display of power to their fellow senators, who were often bitter rivals.

  I decided that I would look my best to meet the dignitaries of Thurii; after all, I was a member of the Parthian aristocracy and therefore a representative of the empire, albeit in strange circumstances. Therefore I wore a white tunic edged with blue, a silk vest underneath, leather boots, brown leggings, my Roman helmet with a new goose feather plume and a white cloak. Nergal said I should have refused to be an envoy, as did Burebista, though Godarz, rational as ever, suggested that it was probably the best hope to resolve the situation quickly, and he added that there was no guarantee that an assault would succeed in any case. He said Spartacus probably knew this and that’s why he wanted to find another way out of his predicament. And he had no interest in taking a city that he would have to abandon come the spring when we marched north. All things considered, therefore, it seemed perfectly sensible to treat with the city. I just hoped that the city was in a reciprocal mood. The one good thing about my new mission was that Gallia was greatly concerned that I might be killed and became very tactile, linking arms and resting her head on my shoulder as we walked through the cavalry camp in the early evening. I have to confess that I deliberately played on her fears, which served to tighten her grip on my arm and send my spirits soaring.

  ‘It was unfair of Spartacus to ask you to go.’

  ‘The interests of the many outweigh the interests of the few,’ I said solemnly.

  ‘The Romans may kill you.’

  I shrugged. ‘That can happen any time in battle.’

  ‘But you will not be in battle, you will be alone.’

  I stopped and faced her. ‘If I have your affection, I will never be alone.’

  Her eyes filled with tears and I moved closer to her to kiss her, but she instead threw her arms around me and embraced me in a vice-like grip. Failed again!

  ‘Promise me you will be careful,’ she whispered.

  ‘Of course,’ I replied, finding it difficult to breathe.

  That night Spartacus sent a messenger to the city walls, a man on horseback who shouted up at the western gatehouse, announcing that we would be sending an envoy in the morning to open
negotiations that would be mutually beneficial. The messenger was not shot by an arrow, which was hopeful at least. But then the Romans could have simply ignored him.

  The morning dawned bright and sunny, though because it was winter the air was cool and I felt chilly. I ate breakfast in my tent with those I held dear for company. They included Gallia, Diana, Praxima, whom I had grown to like as she kept Nergal very happy, Byrd, Gafarn, Godarz and Burebista. Rubi sat on a stool behind Gallia, hissing at all the men. The mood was subdued and everyone ate little, but I was glad of their company. Afterwards I told Nergal that he would command the cavalry in the event of my death. I emphasised to him that his over-riding duty was to get those in his charge back to their homelands, and himself and the rest of my Parthians back to Hatra. Gallia sat white-faced at the table as I told her that she would have Remus if I failed to return. There was nothing else to say. I stood and buckled on my sword belt and went outside.

  My eyes misted as I saw rank upon rank of horsemen drawn up each side of the main avenue that led from the camp, Rhesus saluting me with his drawn sword. I knew that if I looked at even one in the eye I would blubber like a baby, so I paced stony faced through the middle of them, out of the camp and towards the palisade. I felt cold, but perhaps it was the cool embrace of fear. Behind me walked my breakfast companions, but I did not turn to look at them. Spartacus, Castus, Akmon and Claudia met me at the palisade, though not Crixus. I was glad; I had no desire to see his leering visage on what might be my last day on earth. Spartacus looked troubled as half a dozen of his Thracians removed some of the tree trunks that had been sharpened to a point and made up the palisade, to let me through.

  ‘Are you sure of this, Pacorus? I do not command you to go.’

  ‘Yes, lord,’ I knew he was giving me an opportunity to save myself, but by now the whole army would know of my task and what would they think of me if I turned back now? Besides, I was a Parthian and we were not raised to run away from danger. I embraced Claudia and shook the hands of Castus and Akmon. The posts had been removed and my route to the city was open. The distance from the palisade to the western gates of the city was about half a mile, a wide expanse of empty space in which nothing moved, apart from today. I turned to look at the people I classed as my friends and the one who I hoped was far more than that. I took off my helmet and walked up to Gallia, clasped her hands in mine and kissed her on the lips.

  ‘I love you,’ I said to her, then turned about, put on my helmet and strode away.

  I felt strangely calm as I walked alone towards the walls, which seemed higher and more formidable the nearer I got to them. But I wasn’t thinking about the Romans, I was thinking about Gallia, my darling Gallia. I had told her the feelings in my heart and that was all that mattered. If I died today then at the very least she would know how I felt about her, and as I walked along I started to smile to myself. Any guards watching me probably thought that I was mad, and they may have entertained the thought of putting some arrows into me rather than letting me enter their city. I carried on walking. It seemed that I was the only person on the face of the earth as I walked onto the bridge across the ditch and finally reached the western entrance, two huge wooden gates beneath a stone arch, each one studded with iron spikes. The gatehouse itself comprised two large square stone towers topped with tiled roofs, each tower having two high-mounted rows of ports for archers and slingers, which were now covered by wooden shutters. The top of the wall between the towers was deserted, but my sixth sense told me that I was being watched by many eyes.

  I went over in my mind what Spartacus had told me, that I was to negotiate on his behalf, and to remember that we might only be freed slaves but we possessed the province’s wealth. No wonder the leading citizens of Thurri were rich. The province of Bruttium was prosperous indeed, not only because of its silver mine but also due to its large herds of sheep that produced wool and that were taken into the mountains in the summer to avoid the intense heat of the plains. The province also produced excellent wines from its many vineyards, plus massive quantities of olives from the great estates that littered the coastal plain. All of these were now in our hands, presumably much to the consternation of their owners. We had come across few villas, leading Spartacus to speculate that the owners lived in Thurri itself. The province was also home to a beautiful breed of horse that was characterised by a thin head, strong and well-proportioned neck, high withers, strong back, a slightly inclined rump, powerful joints and broad, solid hooves. Godarz told me that the stock had come about because of cross-breeding between Italian horses and those brought from Africa by a general called Hannibal, who belonged to a people called Carthaginians from Africa. Apparently he had campaigned for twenty years against the Romans in their own homeland before being finally defeated. But his legacy was a superb breed of horse that was raised in Bruttium and then sold throughout the Roman Empire. And now these fine horses were being drafted into my cavalry. I also discovered that they had a patient nature, which made the training of new recruits much easier. Spartacus had given strict instructions that no unwarranted destruction should be inflicted on the province, though the Gauls had unsurprisingly ignored these orders until Spartacus himself had marched over to Crixus’ camp and demanded that they desist their activities.

  I had halted a few feet from the gates and there I stood, for what seemed like an eternity. I said a silent prayer to Shamash that I might have a quick death at the hand of a skilled archer, but instead one of the gates slowly opened inwards. I remained stationary as the gate was fully opened and a Roman officer, wearing a red-plumed helmet and scarlet cloak, strode onto the wooden bridge across the ditch, halted and shouted ‘follow me’, before he about-turned and marched back into the city. I swallowed and walked forward at a brisk pace. I was nervous but determined not to show it as I left the bridge and entered the city of Thurii.

  I walked under the gatehouse and onto a paved street that was flanked with two-and three-storey buildings, many of which were shops that opened up onto the street. I was immediately surrounded by a group of legionaries, ten of them, with a centurion standing at their head. Their commander patently ignored me as he gave the order to march forward, and so I began my journey through the city. It appeared to follow the usual Roman town layout, with streets bisecting at right angles the one I was walking along. I noticed that many of the buildings were large and well maintained, with ornate, over-hanging balconies. The streets were filled with people and all the shops seemed to be open. Clearly the port area was still bringing in supplies of food and other essentials. Few people bothered to pay me any attention as the legionaries shoved aside any who got in the way. After about fifteen minutes we came to the forum, a massive square enclosed on three sides by colonnaded passages and the fourth fronted by a massive basilica with whitewashed walls and a terracotta-tiled roof. My silent escorts and I marched across the square and up the steps of the basilica, then through its main entrance, which was framed by two enormous marble columns. Godarz had told me that the basilica was both a business centre and law court, but today I had the feeling that it was definitely the latter as my escort halted at the entrance. I was left alone to walk towards the dignitaries assembled at the far end of what was in effect a large rectangular central aisle, flanked by two other aisles, one either side of the main one. The central aisle was taller than the sides and there were windows in its top section, through which poured light. The central aisle was supported by thick stone columns and arches, and in front of every column stood a guard in full war gear. I took off my helmet and walked across the grey marble-tiled floor towards the raised apse at the far end of the basilica, upon which were seated three men in chairs. A fourth chair beside them was empty. When I reached the apse I saw that more guards stood against the wall behind the chairs and clerks sat at tables to one side. I halted a few paces in front of the apse and bowed my head to the three seated men. An awkward silence followed. Finally, the man in the middle, dressed in a white toga, addressed me.
He was about fifty years of age, with a long, lean face and dark, receding hair flecked with grey. His voice was slightly effeminate as he looked at me with pale grey eyes.

  ‘I am Gnaeus Musius, the governor of this great city. Your name?’

  ‘I am Prince Pacorus, son of King Varaz of Hatra, and I speak for General Spartacus.’

  The governor looked surprised. ‘And where is Hatra?’

  ‘In Parthia, lord.’ I replied.

  The man next to him, who looked twenty years younger and who had curly light brown hair, was clearly agitated by the way he fidgeted in his chair. The governor looked from me to him.

  ‘You have something to say Titus.’

  The younger man, dressed in an officer’s tunic with a muscled cuirass and a red cloak hanging from his shoulders, leaned forward and looked at me intently.

  ‘I am Titus Sextus, garrison commander. Why is a Parthian in my country?’

  I bowed my head to him, too. ‘The simple truth is sir, that I was captured in Cappadocia and find myself a guest in Italy, albeit a reluctant one.’

  ‘You mean you are a slave,’ he said.

  ‘I was a slave,’ I replied. ‘Now I am making my way back to my homeland, along with others who have the same desire.’

  ‘We do not treat with slaves, we own them, we command them, and when it suits us, we execute them. That will be your fate, slave. What is to stop me killing you right here, right now?’

  ‘Nothing,’ I replied, calmly. ‘Though you must also ask yourself what is preventing those camped outside your walls from attacking and putting you all to the sword?’

  ‘So what is preventing them?’ said the third man, a rotund figure with a double chin and fat fingers whose large bulk was wrapped in a toga and who had thick, unruly hair.

  ‘This is Marcus Aristius, the leading merchant in the city who represents the business class,’ said Gnaeus Musius.

  ‘We have no desire to attack your city.’

  ‘He’s clearly a liar,’ sneered Sextus. ‘They obviously lack the means to take the city and hope that by posturing and threats they can capture Thurii by deception.’

  ‘I can state quite clearly, sir,’ I said, beginning to lose patience, ‘that if we had intended to take this city we would have done so by now. General Spartacus does not wish it so.’

  ‘General Spartacus?’ said Sextus. ‘This general is nothing more that a runaway gladiator, a deserter who has gathered around him a band of bandits who murder and rape innocent citizens.’ He pointed at me. ‘This wretch should be flogged and then nailed to a cross for daring to stand before such an august body.’

  ‘That is your prerogative,’ I said. ‘But if you kill me General Spartacus will attack the city and will take it.’

  Sextus waved his hand at me dismissively. ‘Empty words.’

  ‘I do not think that they are.’ I turned to see an elderly gentleman walk into the apse and occupy the empty seat. He had grey wispy hair and a kind face. I could tell that he held some authority by the way the others stood as he took his seat, then waited until he nodded at them to sit down again. I thought that I knew him, but how could that be?

  He looked at me and smiled. ‘You don't remember me, do you? Not really surprising, as the last time we met the situation was very fraught and I looked rather dishevelled, but allow Quintus Hortonius to thank you for saving him and his family at Forum Annii.’

  The others sat open mouthed as he stepped forward and offered me his hand, which I shook, and then I recognised him. He had his family were about to be murdered by Oenomaus before I had interceded on their behalf.

  ‘You know this man, Quintus?’ asked the governor.

  ‘I do,’ said Quintus, ‘and were it not for his good offices I and my family would have been murdered.’

  He took his seat and frowned. ‘Have we forsaken basic manners? Has Roman hospitality sunk so low that we have forgotten basic courtesies? Where is a chair for our guest?

  ‘He is a slave, senator,’ snapped Sextus.

  ‘Is he?’ replied Senator Quintus. ‘I thought I heard him say that he was a prince of Parthia. We can argue about his status later, but does it not offend our Roman morality that we all sit while our guest is left standing?’

  Without waiting for a reply he signalled to a clerk, who found a chair and placed it behind me. The senator invited me to sit.

  ‘You speak for those who are camped outside our walls?’ he asked me.

  ‘Yes, lord.’

  ‘What are your terms?’

  Gnaeus Musius inhaled loudly and Titus Sextus banged his fist on the arm of his chair and stood up. ‘I must protest. We debase ourselves by speaking to slaves.’

  ‘Believe me, said Quintus, ‘being helpless while a town is destroyed around you and seeing its citizens butchered before your eyes is far more debasing.’

  Sextus sat down, his face red with rage and his eyes full of loathing for me.

  ‘I ask again,’ said Quintus, calmly, ‘what are your terms?’

  It was obvious that he was the senior-ranking person present, which I was thankful for.

  ‘We wish no harm against your city. We merely wish to purchase the things we need.’

  ‘Which are?’ enquired Quintus.

  ‘Iron, steel and bronze,’ I replied.

  ‘For weapons, no doubt,’ spat Sextus.

  ‘Yes,’ I replied, seeing no gain in trying to deceive them.

  ‘With which to kill more Romans. This is an outrage, senator, which we should have no part in,’ said Sextus.

  ‘Under normal circumstances I would agree with you,’ replied Quintus. ‘But these are not normal circumstances. Tell me, Prince Pacorus, if we refuse these terms what action will this Spartacus take?’

  ‘He will attack the city, lord.’

  ‘So gentlemen,’ reflected Quintus, ‘it would seem that we have two choices. To do business with this slave general or defy him. If we choose the latter option then we place our lives in the hands of the gods and Titus Sextus. Can you guarantee that this city will not fall, commander?’

  ‘I am certain that we can resist the feeble attempts of slaves, senator,’ gloated Sextus.

  ‘Forgive my interruption,’ I said, ‘but the garrisons of Forum Annii and Metapontum thought the same thing, as did the commander of the army we wiped out some weeks ago. The fact is that we are here for the winter, whether you like it or not.’

  ‘You dare threaten me?’ said Sextus.

  ‘I threaten no one, sir, I merely point out the situation as it exists at this moment in time,’ I replied. ‘If I may try to assuage you, my general has issued orders that the area we occupy is not to be devastated or unnecessarily molested. This means your vineyards, olive trees and silver mine will all be returned to you once we have left.’

  ‘Words are cheap,’ said Sextus.

  ‘Indeed they are, sir,’ I said, Sextus smarting at the implied insult. ‘And we would pay generously for all supplies.’ I added.

  ‘How do you propose to pay for goods?’ enquired Marcus Aristius,

  ‘In gold and silver, sir. And the merchants of the city may set the price.’ I saw his eyes light up and I knew then that I had won him over. His chubby fingers started to twitch excitedly and I smiled at him.

  ‘If we agree to trade with you, we will want supplies of food to be included in any arrangement,’ remarked Gnaeus Musius.

  ‘I’m sure that your request could be accommodated,’ I said.

  ‘And rent,’ said Quintus.

  ‘Rent, lord?’ I replied.

  ‘Of course. The land that you occupy is mine, or most of it, and I would be lacking in business acumen if I did not charge you rent.’

  ‘I would have to liaise with General Spartacus first, but I’m sure he will be conciliatory towards your request.’ Their demands were bordering on effrontery, but I said nothing.

  ‘I think we need to discuss your offer among ourselves, Prince Pacorus,’ said Quintus. He looked at hi
s Roman companions. ‘I think we can give you an answer by tomorrow morning. I will deliver it to you in person at the western gates two hours after dawn. And now I think our meeting is at an end, unless anyone has anything else to say?’

  Quintus looked at each of his companions, but he had decided that all discussion was at an end and no one challenged his authority. Quintus stood.

  ‘Thank you, Prince Pacorus. The guards will escort you from the city.’ I stood and bowed my head to them, then turned and walked from the basilica, flanked by the same guards who had met me at the gate. I felt a great sense of relief when I walked through the gates and back towards our own lines. I did not know how long I had been gone, but when I arrived back at the gap in the palisade everyone was waiting for me. Gallia ran down the earth rampart and threw herself at me, wrapping her long legs around my waist and holding me tight. I was nearly bundled over as she kissed and hugged me. Our lips parted and I saw tears running down her cheeks.

  ‘I thought I would never see you again,’ she said. I did not tell her that I had entertained the same thought.

  We walked back to the others where Spartacus and Claudia embraced me. As a group of soldiers fastened the poles back into place, we all walked back to Spartacus’ tent, Gallia holding onto to me tightly. On the way I told them about the meeting, about Quintus Hortonius and that I believed they would accept our offer, though it may come at a high price. When I told Spartacus about the demands for rent he burst into laughter. Godarz simply said that pragmatism was an integral part of Roman nature and they were never averse to turning a profit. Spartacus remarked that as long as they supplied what we needed, it mattered little how much gold and silver they wanted as we had taken it from the Romans in the first place. I told him about the garrison commander, Titus Sextus, and how he had wanted to refuse our offer, but Spartacus believed that practicality would triumph over a fool’s lust for glory.

  The city agreed to our offer. Senator Hortonius told me of their decision the next morning at the appointed hour. He walked out of the western gates, across the bridge and met me halfway between the city and the palisade (a part of which had again been dismembered to allow me through). He came alone and unarmed, a sign of his trust in me I liked to think. He informed me that Sextus had been vehemently opposed to any deal but had been over-ruled by the governor and Marcus Aristius, who had been seduced by the prospect of a handsome profit. The senator told me that no goods would be exchanged via the city gates, but would instead be shipped to a stretch of beach five miles south of the city where the waters were calm and boats could come and go with ease. He and the others must have spent many hours thrashing out the details of the agreement, for at the end of our meeting he handed me a scroll, upon which were listed the days and times when deliveries would be made, the persons who would supervise the offloading of supplies and the payments for the metals we needed. Deliveries were to be made on the second day of every week, at two hours after dawn (a time he seemed to like) and I was to be present at each delivery. He also informed me that the prices for the goods we required were listed on the scroll. Before he left, I told him that I wanted to add a thousand saddles to our list of wants. He smiled and told me he would pass on my request to Marcus Aristius.

  A week later the first shipment of iron came ashore at the inlet at the pre-arranged time. There were four boats, vessels with symmetrical hulls. The sides of their hulls were protected by wales and had wing-like projections that protected the side rudders. They had a cabin at the rear. Also at the stern were the two steering oars, which were controlled by a tiller. Unlike warships, these vessels were powered by means of a single large square sail. Under the terms of the agreement neither side was permitted to have armed soldiers present, so I stood on the beach along with fifty of my men in tunics plus fifty more who waited on a track that ran off the sands with a dozen carts, one of which was loaded with the chests of gold. The day was calm with a slight wind, the sea as smooth as a pond. The vessels came into the shallow waters and their crews heaved anchors over the side. Then they stood still in the water, their crews peering at us. I decided to grasp the bull by the horns and walked into the sea and waded over to the first vessel. The water was shallow and barely came up to my chest. A burly man with a ragged beard and a large grizzled face squinted at me from above. His massive, tattooed forearms rested on the gunwale.

  ‘Are you the Parthian?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘You’d better bring those carts into the water and alongside each boat. How many have you got?’

  ‘A dozen,’ I replied.

  ‘More than enough. What about the payment?’

  ‘Loaded on one of the carts.’

  He gestured behind him. ‘There’s an official from the city on board who’s to check everything is in order. We might as well start.’

  It took us all morning to load the iron onto the carts and load the four chests of gold bars onto the ships. The captain’s eyes lit up as I lifted the lid of the first chest and showed him and the pale, slightly effeminate clerk who had been sent by Marcus Aristius to oversee the exchange of goods. The clerk, no doubt a slave, showed no emotion as he meticulously counted the number of bars in each chest. I was standing beside the captain when the chests were hauled aboard by means of a winch and he saw me looking at the clerk.

  ‘A eunuch, that one,’ he sniffed in disgust.

  ‘What?’

  ‘They would have lopped off his crown jewels years ago. They like to do that with slaves. Keeps them docile, you see.’

  ‘That's disgusting,’ I said.

  He shrugged. ‘If they catch you lot they’ll do far worse.’ He looked at me intently. ‘They say you’re a prince.’

  ‘That’s right,’ I replied.

  ‘Then what are you doing with a load of runaways?’

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  He pulled me to one side. ‘I’ve been a sailor all my life and I know the way the winds blow, and I’m telling you that all of you will end up dead. The Romans are unforgiving bastards and they will want revenge for what you’ve done.’

  ‘You’re not a Roman?’

  ‘No, no,’ he protested, ‘I’m Cretan. They just hire me and my crew when they need us. If you give me a crate of gold I’ll take you where you want to go, no questions asked.’

  ‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ I said dismissively.

  He moved closer so no one could hear. ‘Don’t dismiss the offer too lightly, it’s better than being nailed to a cross. Just get yourself down to the docks in Thurii and ask for Athineos. Everyone knows me.’

  ‘Like I said, I’ll bear it mind.’

  After the clerk had tallied everything to his satisfaction, I said farewell to Athineos and we headed back to camp. The iron was taken to a vast clearing that had been made in the forest at the base of the mountains. The chopped wood was used to build roofs to shelter the furnaces that would be used to forge swords, javelins and spearheads. Slaves who had been used to produce agricultural tools could just as easily turn their hands to making weapons, their years of hammering metals on anvils made them experts in creating blades that were neither too brittle or too soft. In the clearing lines of furnaces were established, each one a having a wide, low chimney with an opening at the bottom to supply the fire with air. The furnaces were filled with charcoal (which itself had been made from the cut-down trees), which heated the iron bars until they glowed red. The bars were then removed from the white heat of the fire and hammered into shape on an anvil. Any brittle metal left on the bar would shatter as it was hammered into shape, showering the smith’s leather apron and his forearms with red-hot splinters. The blade was then quenched in a barrel of brine, to produce a steel blade that would make a gladius. Spartacus told me, as we were watching teams of smiths heat the iron in the furnaces and others hammering glowing metal on anvils, that some Romans liked to quench a new blade in the body of a living slave to make the steel harder, or so they believed.

  Once each bl
ade was had been forged, it was taken to the finishing sheds where it was sharpened with files, hand scrapers and natural stone. Each sword blade was double-edged with a flat diamond cross-section, without grooves or fullers. Then it was sent to another shed where the handle was attached. These were intricate affairs. The hilt itself was made of wood with a thin brass plate set into the bottom of the guard, with a round pommel. While this process was going on other workers made the scabbards, which were two pieces of wood covered with thin leather. I marvelled at the level of activity, which went on day and night as the efforts to arm all our troops intensified. I got talking to one old smith, whose arms were covered with burn scars, who told me that it took about a week to produce a finished sword.

  Spartacus made Godarz quartermaster general of the whole army, responsible for distributing weapons and also collecting any surplus gold and silver that we might have. There was a large quantity of the latter, as the spoils of Forum Annii and Metapontum included expensive drinking vessels, jewellery and religious items looted from temples. The Gauls in particular had a vast horde, which Godarz demanded and Crixus refused. It took the personal intervention of Spartacus himself before he relented, but relent he did. The precious metal was melted down and cast into gold and silver ingots, which were placed under heavy guard in Akmon’s treasury camp. Crixus had his sense of grievance soothed somewhat when Godarz sent him a thousand new swords for his warriors. There was neither the time nor the resources to produce mail armour, Spartacus remarking that new shirts would have to be taken off dead Romans. The same went for helmets, though wicker shields covered with leather sufficed for those who would not be fighting in the front ranks. We certainly had no shortage of leather, having amassed thousands of cattle during our journey from Mount Vesuvius, plus tens of thousands of sheep and goats. And we certainly had no shortage of milk, meat or honey, for Bruttium was famous for the quality of its honey and multitude of beehives.

  During the weeks that followed, each day had the same routine as I moulded the cavalry into a force that could beat the Romans on the battlefield. All my Parthians were assigned to lead and train one-hundred man companies. Nergal and Burebista each had their own dragons now, a thousand men divided into ten companies. I commanded the third dragon, with Rhesus as my second-in-command. Nergal and I commanded horse archers but Burebista led horsemen equipped with spears and shields. Not all those who could ride were able to master the bow, even less when on horseback, so they were trained to fight as Roman cavalry. I ordered the shields, oval shaped and covered in leather, to have a white horse’s head painted on them to display Hatra’s emblem in the heart of my enemy’s kingdom.

  Thus did the army’s mounted arm number two thousand horse archers and a thousand mounted spearmen. No matter what dragon they were allocated to, each day was the same for all those who rode. Up at dawn for an hour of marching fully equipped on foot, followed by breakfast, three hours of riding drills, an hour grooming and checking our mounts, a light midday meal, and then the afternoon spent practising archery and close-quarter combat with spears, swords and shields. Burebista and his Dacians made a point of keeping their bows, even though the other men of his dragon were not horse archers. Byrd and his men took no part in our daily routine, they were a law unto themselves, being mostly a collection of loners, oddballs and undesirables, but they were excellent scouts who rode far and wide and made sure no Roman army would surprise us in our winter quarters. Nergal grumbled that they set a bad example, but they lived apart from us in a separate camp in the foothills of the mountains and we rarely saw them. Byrd reported to me once a week in his usual curt manner, but I was reassured that he and his men were watching over us, and as long as they did their task properly they were worth their weight in gold. Bozan had told me that the key to success on the battlefield was hard and relentless training, ‘train hard, fight easy, that’s the secret, boy,’ he used to tell me. And so it was. I had to admit that former slaves made excellent recruits. They had known nothing but cruelty and harsh discipline, so it was no great transition at all for them to live each day with hard physical toil. The difference being that with us they were fighting to maintain their newly won freedom, and they took to the task with gusto. There was no grumbling or sedition, just a desire to learn the skills that would enable them to kill Romans and stay free.

  It was nearly a month after we had taken delivery of the first shipment of iron from the city of Thurri when Nergal burst into my tent in an agitated state.

  ‘We’ve got trouble, highness.’

  I strapped on my sword and followed him outside into the morning light, expecting to see Crixus and a horde of his Gauls drawn up in battle array over some imagined slight. Instead I was greeted by a frowning Godarz, a smiling Gafarn and a column of horsemen a couple of hundred feet away, all in full war gear. About company strength, they looked smart and were armed with bows and swords. All wore mail shirts and helmets whose cheek guards enclosed their faces.

  ‘Shouldn’t they be on the training field?’ I said to Nergal.

  ‘Take a closer look, highness,’

  I really didn’t have time for this but I walked towards the horsemen, Nergal, Gafarn and Godarz falling in behind me.

  ‘Who is your commander,’ I shouted at the two men who led the column.

  He took off his helmet and a great cascade of blonde hair fell about ‘his’ shoulders.

  ‘No man commands us,’ said Gallia, ‘but we are willing to fight alongside you for freedom.’

  I was momentarily speechless, but then turned on Nergal.

  ‘Is this some sort of joke?’

  ‘No, highness.’

  The individual next to Gallia also took off her helmet; it was Praxima and behind her sat Diana.

  ‘We can all ride and fight,’ said Gallia, proudly, ‘and demand the right to do so.’

  ‘Demand!’ I said.

  ‘Feisty lot, aren’t they,’ mused Gafarn, mischievously.

  ‘Be quiet, Gafarn. Godarz, where did they get their weapons?’

  Before he could answer Gallia spoke. ‘We took them from the armoury. I told the guards that you had given me permission.’

  I looked at Godarz, who shrugged then looked down at the ground. I walked over to Gallia, who had acquired a fine mail shirt, as had Praxima. I stood next to her horse, which I had to admit looked magnificent, its mane and coat shining in the sun. All the woman’s horses had red saddlecloths edged with yellow, loot taken from Roman mounts.

  ‘Are you going to get down so we can talk about this?’ I asked her, quietly.

  ‘Are you going to let us fight in your cavalry?’ she said, defiantly.

  ‘It’s not as simple as that.’

  ‘Yes it is,’ she replied, ‘we can fight as well as any man.’ There was now a crowd of sightseers gathering round us, which annoyed me intensely.

  ‘Get these men back to their duties,’ I snapped at Nergal, who ordered them away.

  ‘If I can prove that we are as good as any man, will you let us fight?’ said Gallia, loudly enough for all those around to hear. She had given me a way out of this predicament.

  ‘Of course,’ I replied. ‘But how can you prove such a thing?’

  I looked at Nergal, who nodded in acknowledgement, though Godarz was frowning and Gafarn was shaking his head.

  ‘An archery contest, to decide the matter, such as you have in Parthia,’ said Gallia. ‘I will pit my bow against yours.’

  I burst into laughter and moved closer to her. ‘My love, you know you cannot win such a contest.’ She was not amused.

  ‘Well, if I cannot win then you can have no objection to competing against me.’

  I accepted her challenge. This was the woman I loved, but I was a Parthian prince, whose blood had inherited the skills of the fabled horse archers of legend from the great Asiatic steppes. I had held a bow since leaving the cradle, but I promised myself that I would not humiliate the woman whom I was going to one day marry.

  Our
training area was a wide expanse of open land near the foothills of the mountains. It was divided into several archery practice courses, each one the same in length and purpose, and were identical to the ones we used in Parthia. Each course was five hundred feet long, with targets on the left-hand side placed at intervals along its length. The targets were square shaped, just over three feet in diameter and each one was divided into five scoring areas, with the inner bulls-eye being eight inches in diameter. All the targets were placed sixteen feet from the inside of the course rope. At its most basic, a horsemen rode up the course and shot at each target as he passed, though only skilled archers were able to hit the bulls-eye of all five targets. Standing opposite each marker, about thirty feet away, was a scorer, who held a coloured flag aloft after his target had been hit, or not as the case may be. A red flag indicated a strike on the bulls-eye, a green the next three scoring areas out from the bulls-eye, and a yellow flag to mark a hit on the outer scoring area. A white flag indicated a miss. To simulate battle conditions, each attempt at the course had to be performed at the gallop with the archer drawing arrows from his quiver. Easy enough for a Parthian, but I doubted that those unused to shooting from horseback would be able to achieve this, much less a woman.

  The competition had been arranged to take place in mid-afternoon and I expected that only myself, Gallia and a few others would attend. How wrong I was. Word of the competition between ‘the Parthian’ and ‘his woman’ had spread like wildfire through not only the cavalry camp but throughout the army. When I rode Remus over to the training area, a multitude had gathered to watch what was going to take place. All Gallia’s women were there, plus Nergal, Godarz, Rhesus, Gafarn and several dozen Parthians who should have been instructing their men, but had decided to bring their charges along to watch an archery competition. Then Spartacus and Claudia arrived, together with a horde of Thracians, and Castus with even more Germans. I rode over to where Spartacus was talking with Nergal and Godarz. I dismounted and embraced Claudia.

  ‘A pleasure to see you, lady,’ I said.

  ‘How do you think my Gallic girl will do?’ she asked.

  ‘She rides well enough,’ I replied, ‘but archery is in every Parthian’s blood. She will not win, I fear.’

  ‘Would you like a wager on that, Pacorus?’ said Spartacus, winking at Claudia.

  ‘I would not want to take your money, lord,’ I replied.

  At that moment Gafarn walked over from where he had been talking to Gallia. He bowed his head to Spartacus and Claudia, and then looked at me, a stupid grin on his face.

  ‘The Lady Gallia asks if you are ready to start, or whether you would like to concede defeat now.’

  Spartacus burst into laughter, as did Castus and others behind them and several of his Germans cheered. I was not amused and felt my face blush. I mounted Remus and took out my bow from its case. I pointed at Gafarn.

  ‘I blame you for this.’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, unconcerned. ‘The sequence is single shot, fast shoot and serial shoot.’

  ‘I’m well aware of the rules, Gafarn,’ I snapped.

  ‘Good. You will shoot first, please begin when you are ready. And good luck.’

  ‘I do not need luck,’ I said, irritably.

  ‘Oh, I think you do.’

  I rode Remus over to the start line, the course stretching out in front of me straight as an arrow. Behind the markers, all along the course, were gathered the spectators, hundreds of them. It was traditional for a judge to lower a spear to indicate the start of a charge, and sure enough Gafarn had furnished Claudia with a shaft, and she now walked purposely to where Gallia and I waited on our horses. Claudia’s black hair shone like a horse’s mane in the sun as she stood and lowered the spear, signalling me to begin. I jammed my knees into Remus’ sides, causing him to rear up on his hind legs and then to thunder down the course. Single shot entailed striking a target three hundred feet from the start line. Remus ran like the wind as I pulled an arrow from my quiver, strung it and let it loose as the target flashed by me on my left. The moment it left my bow I glanced behind to my right to watch the scorer. Red flag! I patted Remus’ neck as I slowed him to a canter as we neared the end of the course. Polite applause greeted my shot as Gallia began her run.

  Her horse ran arrow-straight as she galloped towards me, the reins around her left arm as she drew an arrow, strung it and pulled back the bowstring. Her posture in the saddle was perfect, her upper body upright, eyes looking along the arrow and her legs tucked in tight. She let her arrow fly and raced down the course. Wild cheers greeted the scorer as he hoisted his red flag. Gallia halted her mount, turned him around and cantered back to the start line. All her concentration was on the competition; nothing else mattered to her at that moment.

  We were back at the start line for the fast shoot. This is where the horseman has to hit two targets, the first one being placed two hundred feet from the start line and angled towards the start, not to the side, making it a forward shot. But the second target, about eighty feet forward from the first target, is angled towards the finish line and thus requires the archer to make a back shot over the rear quarters of his mount. This was a Parthian speciality and I doubted that Gallia would even attempt it. Claudia gave the signal and once more Remus thundered down the course. I loosed the first arrow, pulled another from my quiver quickly, strung it, swung in the saddle to my left and fired it over Remus’ rump. I halted him at the finish line and saw two red flags being held aloft. Again, polite applause. Then came Gallia, riding hard and fast, leaning forward in the saddle to take the shot at the forward-facing target. The arrow left her bow and she strung another as her horse galloped up to and then past the second target. She effortlessly twisted her torso to the left and took the shot, the arrow hitting the target. But which part? The crowd erupted into cheering again as two red flags were hoisted aloft. So we were dead level. This girl had been taught well, that much was true, but she also must have spent hours and hours on the training field to reach such proficiency.

  But now came the hardest task: the serial shot. This was a five-target run, the first target placed a hundred feet from the start line and the other four targets placed at one hundred feet intervals after that. All targets were side shots but they came fast, one after the other. For the final time Claudia gave the signal and I thrust my knees into Remus’ flanks and once more he reared up and then shot forward into a gallop. I shot five arrows and all five hit bull’s-eyes, and once again I received polite applause from the crowd. Gallia followed me, unyielding, iron-willed and at one with her mount. I saw Gafarn in the way she rode, her legs seemingly having been bolted onto the horse but her upper body moving rhythmically as she fixed her eyes on each target and shot her arrows, stringing an arrow, aiming and shooting it at the target in one seamless movement. First target, red flag; second target, red flag; third target, red flag; fourth target, red flag; the scorer hesitated, then raised a fifth red flag as the crowd erupted in a deafening roar. Praxima and Diana ran over to Gallia when she returned to the start line and grabbed her hands as others thronged around her, offering salutations. I walked Remus back to the start line as the crowd parted to let me through. The noise quietened down to nothing as I halted Remus a few feet from Gallia, who watched me from behind the cheek guards of her helmet. A wide circle had formed around us. I saw Spartacus watching me, as well as Claudia, Gafarn, Nergal and Godarz. There was silence as I dismounted and walked with my bow over to Gallia. She took off her helmet and watched as I unstrung my bow and held it out towards her. This gesture was an old Parthian custom that showed respect for an adversary, usually after a battle.

  ‘I Pacorus, prince of Hatra and a son of the Arsacid Dynasty, do hereby grant you your wish, lady. You and those who ride with you shall fight by our side from henceforth.’

  Gallia vaulted from her saddle and threw her arms around me, kissing me on the lips as she did so. Thus it was that the cavalry of the slave army of General Spartac
us had in its ranks a company of women warriors under the leadership of a Gallic princess named Gallia, one whom I hoped to make a princess of Parthia if we ever escaped from Italy.

  As the weeks passed the tempo of training increased to prepare the army for the hard campaigning it would face in the spring. Fewer recruits came in to us now, as the country had largely been denuded of slaves as far as the Gulf of Scylacium. Spartacus had been right when he told me that few town or city slaves would join us. Their lives were mostly ones of ease and good food, and many were given their freedom by their masters, especially if they served as private secretaries or teachers of their children. Almost no slaves fled Thurri to join us, apart from the odd runaway or slaves who had committed crimes against their masters, or had even killed them. Spartacus had such men (and they were always men) executed, which I found inexplicably harsh. But he told me that for such a crime all of the master’s slaves would be put to death, and so a man who murdered his master was responsible for their murders as well. I could not understand the logic, but he was our leader and his decision was final.

  The shipments of metals from Thurri took place at the allotted times at the assigned beach. The boats commanded by Athineos were filled with iron plus bronze for my arrowheads. And as per the contract we delivered more chests of gold bars, each one carefully examined by the eunuch. On one occasion, after the last cart had been loaded, I waited for the eunuch to finish tallying his records.

  ‘Everything in order?’ I asked him.

  ‘It is,’ he sniffed.

  ‘Good. I need you pass on a message to your master that I need to meet with Senator Hortonius.’

  ‘Why?’ he asked.

  ‘That is none of your business, woman.’ I replied.

  He smarted at my remark but said nothing. Athineos laughed.

  ‘He is a very busy man,’ said the eunuch.

  ‘In two days’ time,’ I said, ‘two hours after dawn at the western gate.’

  The eunuch threw his head back like a woman, sniffed in disgust and walked away from me.

  ‘You want to watch yourself, young Parthian,’ Athineos said to me as the last load of iron was placed on one of the carts beside his boat. ‘Word is that there is a big price on your head. The Romans want to take you back to Rome and parade you through the streets, before...’

  ‘Before?’

  He spat into the sea. ‘Before they feed you to the beasts in the area or think up some other fancy death for you. I’ve heard that they had a bull rape a woman in the arena.’

  ‘What?’ I was disgusted.

  ‘Yes, recreating some sort of myth or something. Inventive bastards, I’ll say that for them.’

  ‘They are a people with no honour,’ I said.

  ‘But buckets of pride,’ he replied. ‘And they can’t stand their precious pride being dented, and that’s what you and this slave general have done. They also don’t take kindly to their cities being looted.’

  ‘They loot other peoples’ cities quick enough.’

  ‘Course they do,’ he said, ‘because to the Romans all other peoples are barbarians, fit only to be slaves, ruled over and the like. It’s their mission, see, to civilise the world.’

  ‘There is nothing noble in the way they conduct their affairs.’

  ‘That’s another thing they dislike about you,’ he said. ‘They got rid of their nobility a few hundreds years ago, and they think kings and princes don’t belong in the modern world.’

  The carts were being driven off the beach now, back to camp for the contents to be turned into weapons.

  ‘They don’t mind taking money from their enemies,’ I mused.

  Athineos shook his head. ‘Totally different. Trade is trade and money has no smell, as the saying goes. They’ll take your gold, sure enough, but that will have no bearing on the final reckoning.’

  ‘Time to go,’ I said, offering my hand to him. His grip was vice-like as he shook it.

  ‘Remember what I said, look for me at the docks in Thurii when your little adventure turns sour.’

  I climbed down the side of his boat and jumped into the cool, chest-deep sea. On the beach I watched as the boats pulled up their anchors and sailed back from whence they had come, then rode on the last cart back to camp. It occurred to me that Athineos was right. The Romans would neither forget nor forgive what we had done to them, and in the spring Rome would send another army to fight us.

  ‘We all have a price on our heads,’ said Spartacus, his strong profile highlighted by the oil lamp that hung from one of the posts in his tent. He had called a council of war that same evening, having supervised the unloading of the iron at the forges. He had immense pride that they were working night and day producing weapons for the army.

  ‘It’s different for you, Pacorus, for you have a home and a kingdom to go back to.’

  ‘So do you all,’ I said to all those assembled.

  ‘What, some shit-hole in a filthy, damp forest?’ as usual Crixus was drunk and spoiling for an argument. ‘I would rather stay in Italy, at least it’s warmer.’

  Dumnorix banged the table with the hilt of his dagger in support of his commander’s words.

  ‘He has a point, Spartacus,’ said Akmon, his long arms folded in front of him as he sat back in his chair. ‘Thrace isn’t much of a land, all rock and dirt-poor villages.’

  ‘I have no desire to stay in Italy,’ said Castus, ‘and my Germans feel the same.’

  ‘Of course they do,’ pondered Crixus, ‘they feel at home in the dark forests, that’s because their women are so ugly that they don’t like to look at them in daylight.’

  ‘Enough,’ interrupted Spartacus as Castus drew his sword and in jest threatened to trim Crixus’s beard. ‘Have we enough iron from the Romans?’

  ‘Enough, lord,’ replied Godarz, ‘to equip each man with a sword and javelin.’

  ‘I would like to ask for more silver, lord.’ I said.

  Spartacus looked at the table in front of him. ‘For what?’

  ‘A thousand mail shirts, a thousand helmets and three thousand cloaks for my horsemen.’

  ‘And women,’ mocked Crixus. I ignored his provocation as Dumnorix stifled a laugh.

  ‘They will command a high price,’ said Spartacus. ‘Is the mine still working, Godarz?’

  ‘Yes, lord. But much of the gold has now gone.’

  Spartacus stretched back in his chair and placed his hands behind his neck, staring ahead. ‘Very well, Pacorus, unless anyone has any objections I will grant your request.’ He looked at each man gathered around the table. Castus shook his head, as did Cannicus. Crixus merely belched and shrugged his shoulders, while Dumnorix just played idly with his dagger. Godarz shook his head. I had my silver.

  ‘After we’ve finished trading with the Romans, we should take the city and take all the gold and silver back,’ said Crixus.

  ‘That will cost us a lot of men, Crixus,’ remarked Spartacus. ‘And to what end?’

  ‘To show the Romans that we aren’t dancing to their tune, that’s why. For as long as we stay here we are still their slaves.’ Suddenly Crixus seemed remarkably sober. ‘I look at those walls every day and they remind me of the walls of the arena, and I can see all those Roman bastards looking down at me, laughing and drinking and waging whether I will live or die. And that’s what they are doing now, earning a fat profit and waiting to see how long it will be before we are all dead. That’s why we should storm the city, to kill them before they kill us.’

  ‘In the spring we will march north, Crixus,’ said Spartacus. ‘There will be no attack on the city, not unless they provoke us. We will need every man if we are to fight our way out of Italy.’

  Crixus drained his cup of wine and stood. ‘I respect you Spartacus, but I tell you that none of us will leave Italy, so we might as well take as many of them with us as we can.’ Then he marched from the tent. I wondered how prophetic his words would be.

  I met Senator Hortonius at the appointed ti
me and place. The guards on the gatehouse no longer bothered to rouse themselves as I approached their position, merely casting me a glance and then returning to their conversations, wrapped in their red cloaks to keep out the chill early morning air. Quintus Hortonius was similarly attired, though his cloak was far more luxurious and was edged with purple. I saluted him as he approached me on the wooden bridge.

  ‘I will be glad when the spring arrives and the weather gets warmer. My old bones do not like the cold.’

  ‘I am sorry to have inconvenienced you, sir,’ I said.

  ‘Is there a problem with our arrangement?’

  ‘No, but I would like you to arrange a meeting between myself and Marcus Aristius, the merchant.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘I thought we had agreed the proper procedure for the conduct of trade.’

  ‘We had,’ I replied, ‘but there are some special items that I require that you will probably not want to be involved with.’

  Now he was intrigued. ‘How so?’

  I saw no reason to try to deceive him as he was bound to find out anyway. ‘I need a thousand mail shirts, a thousand cavalry helmets and three thousand cloaks, and I believe that he’s the only one that can deliver them, probably from Roman stores somewhere in the east. I suspect you would not want to be involved in such a business.’

  ‘And he would?’

  I shrugged. ‘He’s a rich merchant whose only duty is to his pocket. You’re a politician whose duty, presumably, is to Rome.’

  ‘A rather cynical view,’ he said. ‘In any case Marcus would still run a considerable risk if he acquiesced to your request. And the cost would reflect that risk.’

  ‘I’ve no doubt,’ I added, dryly.

  He noticed my tone. ‘You would do well to remember your position, young Parthian. We do not have to deal with you.’

  ‘I realise that, sir, I merely make a request.’

  He smiled. ‘In that case I shall pass on your request to Marcus Aristius. His clerk will give you his answer at the same time tomorrow morning, here at the same hour. I think that concludes our business, so I will wish you good day.’

  He nodded at me, turned and walked back into the city, the gates closing after him.

  Marcus Aristius agreed to my request.

  The meeting took place ten miles south of the city and about half a mile offshore, aboard a well-fitted ship, to which I was rowed on a grey wind-flecked sea in a small boat with the eunuch at the bow, a slave rowing in the middle and myself sitting perched on the stern. The eunuch said nothing during the journey. I had ridden to the spot with a dozen horsemen, who looked after Remus while I carried out the negotiations. When we were almost at the boat it occurred to me that I could be killed by an archer quite easily, or run through with a sword and then dumped overboard. However, I believed the promise of further riches would keep me safe, at least for the moment. Later, standing on the deck, I could see that the ship was a sturdy, broad-beamed vessel with a high stern post, which had been fashioned into a gold-leafed decorative finial. There was a deck cabin at its stern. The boat was powered by a row of oars on each side and had a single square, red and blue sail. I was led to the cabin by two huge black soldiers dressed in white tunics, white sandals, mail shirts and armed with long, curved swords which they carried across their chests. Marcus Aristius sat behind a large ornate table in the middle of the cabin, the walls of which were painted white. Two young black boys stood behind him, each one holding a large feathered fan to cool him. In truth it wasn’t particularly warm but Aristius was sweating, his brow being mopped by an even younger black boy. Clearly this merchant had a penchant for black male slaves. The boys themselves were attired in pure white tunics with gold earrings and gold torcs around their necks. He motioned for me to sit opposite him in a plush chair that had been placed for my convenience. The two guards stood menacingly behind me, yet the atmosphere was friendly rather than hostile. Yet another black slave brought in a tray of fruit, which Aristius picked at greedily with his podgy, ring-adorned fingers. I was offered the tray next, along with a silver platter and a silver goblet, into which was poured wine. The eunuch walked behind me and sat at a smaller table off to one side, then proceeded to ready a parchment for note taking.

  ‘I believe you wish to do business with me, young Parthian,’ said Aristius, holding out his hands to be wiped by one of his slaves.

  ‘I need some specific items that may prove difficult to acquire,’ I said.

  Aristius waved his slaves away. ‘Difficult but not impossible, though of course the price will reflect the effort required to obtain said goods.’

  The room smelt of incense, which was sickly to my nostrils but seemed to have a calming effect on Aristius, who lent back in his chair and closed his eyes. He then rested his hands on his fat belly.

  ‘I need a thousand mail shirts for my horsemen, a thousand cavalry helmets of the finest quality, plus three thousand white cloaks.’

  ‘Is that all?’ asked Aristius, his eyes still closed.

  ‘Yes.’

  He said nothing for a while, the only sound being the scribbling of the eunuch’s reed pen as he noted down my request. Aristius took a deep breath, opened his eyes and leaned on the table, placing his thumbs under his chin. He looked at me, his piggy eyes excited by the thought of much profit.

  ‘You have gold?’

  I shook my head. ‘Only silver.’

  ‘Twenty chests of silver bars, then.’

  I drained the goblet of wine. ‘That’s a lot of silver.’

  ‘My final offer, take it or leave it.’

  I had little choice, but it irked me that I was being dictated to by this odious barrel of fat surrounded by his catamites. He disgusted me, but I reasoned that the sooner we concluded our business the quicker I could be off his floating brothel.

  ‘Agreed,’ I said.

  He beamed with delight and told me that the goods would be delivered at this point on the shore in two months’ time.

  With the approval of Spartacus, Godarz organised the collection of the silver bars. The mine, now worked by the Roman soldiers who had formerly guarded it, produced ten chests of silver, the rest being from the treasure the army had taken the year before. The army had enough weapons now, and Spartacus was confident that he could capture enough mail shirts and shields to equip those who still lacked them, though he was not unduly worried as he had enough to ensure that in battle all of his front line cohorts would be as well armed as their Romans opponents. It was still cool in the evenings and snow still covered the mountain peaks, but the early signs of spring were everywhere. Suddenly almond trees were covered in white blossom, and then meadows, mountain slopes and the valleys were filled with primroses and violets.

  It was on such a spring day, with a slight westerly wind in the air, when I set out at the head of fifty two- and four-wheeled wagons south to rendezvous with the ships that were delivering the weapons and equipment for my cavalry. Each wagon had a driver and guard, while the four wagons loaded with the silver had four guards marching beside each one, armed with spears and shields. This was to deter the Gauls as much as the Romans, for I would not have put it past Crixus to try and steal the silver just to spite me. But as we ambled south, parallel to the coast, we saw no other signs of life, and it appeared that my only worry was whether I had brought enough carts. It did not matter; anything that could not be transported immediately would be left on the beach under guard and fetched back the next day. Nergal and Burebista had wanted to accompany me, but their presence on the training field was far more important. In any case, there would be nothing for them to do. The previous exchanges had gone off without incident, and according to the agreement I was supposed to appear unarmed, though I always wore my spatha and instructed those accompanying me to likewise carry swords. It was foolhardy to travel without any protection at all. But we had no bows, helmets or armour.

  It was around midday when the ships appeared on the horizon, twelve of them, all si
ngle masted vessels being powered by oars as the wind had almost died away. They were different from the vessels that had delivered the iron and bronze on previous occasions, but I thought nothing of it. The sea was as flat as a table and within an hour the ships were at the shoreline. In fact they ran aground on the beach, their iron-plated rams at the bows cutting a channel through the soft sand. I strode forward to the line of ships as the crews folded their sails and the rowers rested their oars in the water. Gangplanks descended from the bow of each vessel. I saw the haughty, gaunt face of the eunuch standing at the bow of one vessel, who beckoned me over to him.

  ‘Prince Pacorus,’ he shouted in a high-pitched voice, ‘I trust you have the silver.’

  ‘I have, but I want to see the goods first.’

  ‘Of course, of course, please come aboard.’ He pointed a pale, thin hand at the gangplank. I ascended and jumped onto the deck. The vessel was sturdy, broad-beamed and in the centre of the deck sat some sort of cargo, over which had been placed a large canvas cover secured in place by ropes. At the stern was a cabin, the doors to which were shut. The eunuch ordered a group of sailors to remove the canvas cover, to reveal wooden crates filled with mail shirts. I pulled one of the shirts out and held it up. It was a waist-length, armless garment comprising alternating rows of riveted and ‘solid’ rings (links with no riveted join). It had overlapping shoulder sections to provide two layers of protection for the upper body. Though I could not be precise, by its feel I put its weight at fifty pounds, maybe less. I picked up other shirts and found them to be of the same high quality.

  ‘Is everything in order?’ asked the eunuch.

  ‘When we have checked your inventory, I’m sure it will be,’ I replied, before waving to my men on the beach to board the other ships and begin checking their cargoes. The wagons containing the silver were driven onto the beach and up to the water’s edge. The eunuch scuttled down a gangplank and insisted that the chests be opened, one by one. I signalled my approval and his narrow eyes lit up as he caressed the silver bars, counting them meticulously then counting them again. Two of my men came aboard and we began counting the mail shirts. The eunuch came back on board and scuttled past us, heading towards the stern. I noticed that suddenly I and my two soldiers were the only ones on the deck and instinct told me that something was wrong. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up and so I told the two men to stop what they were doing. The eunuch had also disappeared. Time seemed to slow as the cabin doors at the stern flew open and Roman soldiers burst out, legionaries with short swords in their hands. They wore no helmets and carried no shields, though they were wearing mail shirts. We wore tunics and leggings and carried only our swords. The Romans ran towards us and I screamed to my men to get off the boat. They never made it. One tried to stand and fight but was slashed, stabbed and felled by three legionaries. The other tried to run but tripped on the canvas sheeting, stumbled and had a sword rammed through the back of his neck. I drew my sword, raced down the gangplank and jumped onto the sand. I turned just as the first Roman following caught up with me. I feinted to my left and let his momentum carry him onto my extended blade, which went through his mail shirt into his sternum. I yanked the blade free and swung it at a second Roman behind me, slashing his face with the edge of the spatha. I saw more legionaries jumping from the other ships, surrounding and then killing my men where they stood. We were being slaughtered one by one. There was no time to try to form a line as the Romans were swarming all around us. Within seconds I too was surrounded, three legionaries circling me menacingly.

  ‘He’s mine,’ came a shout from behind one, and he stepped aside to reveal Titus Sextus, garrison commander at Thurri, advancing towards me, sword in hand. His white face was red with rage and his eyes burned with hate as he charged at me, slashing at my head with his gladius. I deflected his blade and circled him, but he turned, faced me and then thrust straight for my belly. I jumped aside but he slashed sideways with his sword and gashed my left forearm. He then delivered an arcing strike, which I ducked under and stabbed him in his right thigh. He yelped with pain and then launched a frenzied attack despite his wound, aiming blows at my head and neck. I managed to block his strikes but was forced back as I did so. He moved his sword across the front of his body, alternating forehand and backhand strikes with dexterity, strikes that I was able to block with difficulty. But in doing so I stepped back, lost my footing on the sand and dropped my sword. Then Sextus was standing over me, ready to thrust his blade into my chest. A look of satisfaction, akin to pure joy, briefly flashed across his face. Then the arrow struck him.

  The arrowhead went through his mail shirt and into his left pectoral muscle, and within seconds a large red stain appeared around the shaft. He coughed and dropped his sword, looking down in abject misery at the wound that was draining his life blood away. Then he collapsed backwards onto the sand. I pulled my dagger out of my right boot and rammed the point down hard through the left foot of the legionary standing behind me. He screamed and fell to the ground as I drew the dagger out of his foot and thrust it at the groin of the soldier standing to my left, who was gaping at his commander lying in front of him. He didn’t make a sound as I drove the blade between his legs, but his face was contorted in agony as I retrieved my sword and, with the dagger still embedded in his genitals, ran him through the stomach. I turned to face my last remaining opponent, but his eyes were glazed and he merely collapsed face down in the sand, an arrow in his back. Horsemen were now flooding onto the beach, firing their bows from the saddle and cutting down legionaries and sailors alike. Nergal rode up to me with Gallia by his side. He looked at my arm covered in blood.

  ‘Are you hurt, highness?’

  ‘Nothing that will not heal. Don’t let any get away,’ I ordered.

  He saluted and rode away to instruct his company commanders. He must have brought his whole dragon, as the beach suddenly seemed a very crowded place. Gallia dismounted and pulled off her helmet, her blonde hair plaited and her expression one of grim determination.

  ‘Nice shooting,’ I said, walking over to a dead Roman and retrieving my bloody dagger from his groin. Just a few feet away, his chest covered in blood, but still breathing, lay Titus Sextus. I stood over him, his eyes still full of hate for me.

  ‘And this, my sweet,’ I said to Gallia, ‘is Titus Sextus, garrison commander at Thurri and a man who violated our trade agreement. What should I do with him?’

  Gallia walked over, bow in hand and sword at her hip. ‘Kill him.’

  The killing all around us seemed to have stopped as Nergal’s men rounded up the surviving legionaries and placed them under guard. Some of the sailors had jumped onto the beach and had attempted to push their ships back out to sea, but they had been killed by arrows and so their companions surrendered, shuffling off their boats with their arms raised and sitting in sullen groups on the sand. My men went aboard all twelve ships and searched them thoroughly, but only the vessel I had boarded contained any supplies. The rest had piles of sackcloths heaped under canvas covers to give the appearance of bulky items. When my men had gone onboard to inspect the goods, they had been killed immediately. So much for the word of a Roman.

  I told Nergal to search all of the vessels thoroughly for weapons, clothing and anything else that might be of use to us, including the mail shirts that had been used to deceive me, and then to take all the oars from each ship and stack them on the beach. There would be a funeral pyre for our fallen comrades, so treacherously murdered by the Romans. The oarsmen, legionaries and other crew members were then herded back onto their ships and secured below the decks with chains. Gallia bound my arm while this was going on, while Titus Sextus gurgled bubbles of blood.

  ‘It was worth getting wounded just to have you look after me,’ I said to her.

  ‘Someone needs to look after you. If we had arrived a moment later it would you be you lying there instead of him,’ she nodded at Sextus.

  ‘One question, though. Why are you here
? Not that I am ungrateful.’

  She finished tying off the bandage, took the bow from her shoulder and strung an arrow from her quiver.

  ‘Claudia had a dream last night. She saw you on a beach being killed.’ She walked forward a couple of paces, drew back her bowstring and shot the arrow, which whistled through the air and hit a wounded Roman soldier who was crawling across the sand, leaving a blood trail behind him. He moved no more. ‘So she told me and I told Nergal that you were in danger.’ She placed her bow back over her shoulder. ‘So here we are.’

  ‘Claudia had a dream!’

  ‘She has the gift of foresight,’ she said.

  I laughed aloud. She looked daggers at me. ‘She was right about today was she not, prince of Parthia. Do not dismiss what you do not understand.’

  I was saved by Titus Sextus, who let out a groan. I ordered two men to pick him up and carry him to his ship, and then to put him in the rear cabin and nail the doors shut. All deck hatches were similarly nailed shut. The fifty bodies of our dead comrades were heaped onto the pyre, which was set alight. I ordered the carts to be driven back to camp as groups of horses were led off the beach to save them from the nauseating smell of roasting human flesh that now filled our nostrils. Nergal appeared and threw a figure at my feet.

  ‘He says he knows you, highness.’ It was the eunuch.

  ‘Indeed he does, Nergal, and he shall stay with us a while.’

  ‘I was not my idea, lord,’ he whimpered. ‘Marcus Aristius was the progenitor of the plan.’

  I grabbed his throat and pulled him up. ‘I’ve no doubt, but he’s not here and you are, which is unfortunate for you.’

  ‘What about the ships, highness?’ asked Nergal.

  ‘Burn them.'

  He gave the order and soon each vessel was alight as the piles of sackcloth on the decks, soaked in oil, were lit. They were soon ablaze as the flames devoured wood, canvas and sails, the screams of those entombed within their holds competing with the roar of the infernos as the flames took hold. I watched as the boats burned fiercely and as the screams gradually died away until the only sound was the spitting and crackling of the burning hulks. I told Nergal to leave me a score of men and to take the rest back to camp. I embraced Gallia and told her to go back with Nergal.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ she asked.

  I looked at the eunuch. ‘Repay a debt.’

  We took the whimpering creature a mile inshore, dragging him behind me on a rope that had bound his wrists together. All the time he was trying to save himself, explaining that he was only doing his master’s bidding. He probably was, but I was uninterested. All I could think about was how I had been betrayed and nearly killed, and how many of my men’s charred bodies remained on that beach, piled onto a funeral pyre. We halted at a place where two dirt tracks crossed each other. I ordered two of my men to find a young tree and cut it down, then cut the branches off the trunk. We dismounted and I drank some water, for I was suddenly very thirsty. The track had been churned up by the horses and wagons that had passed by earlier. I made no attempt to speak to anyone, for I was still seething over the Roman treachery. I do not know why this was so, for what did I expect from my enemies? Yet the fact that they had broken their word offended me greatly.

  After what seemed like an age, the men returned with a trimmed tree trunk about twenty feet in length and four inches in diameter. I ordered one end to be sharpened into a point, then instructed the eunuch to be stripped naked and spread-eagled face down on the ground.

  ‘No, lord, no. I beg you,’ he screamed as ropes were tied around his ankles and wrists, four men holding the end of each rope. I was impassive to his cries of mercy as the sharpened end of the pole was rammed into his rectum and then driven further into his body by a hammer wielded by a muscled warrior. His screams rent the air and several of my men winced as each blow of the hammer forced the wood further into his anus. The eunuch repeatedly smashed his forehead into the earth as intense pain shot through his body, but there was no release from his torment, which got worse as the minutes passed and as the pole was forced through his body inch by inch until the point came out of his right shoulder blade. As two men dug a hole I handed the man wielding the hammer, and who was now covered in sweat, a water bottle and told him to rest. The eunuch was still alive, still writhing in pain, but made no sound save for barely audible groans. We hoisted him up and planted the hammered end of the pole in the freshly dug hole, then packed it with earth to keep it upright. Then we rode away, leaving the impaled eunuch to endure a slow and painful death. It would take two or three days for him to die, perhaps longer if he was unlucky, and during that time ravens would come and feast on his body. They would peck out his eyes first, and then tear at his flesh with their beaks. It is a cruel death, but pity is wasted on such treacherous people.

  When we reached camp I reported to Spartacus, despite my arm being on fire and the bandage soaked in blood. Nergal had informed him what had taken place.

  ‘Are you surprised?’ he said, handing me a cup of wine as I sat in his tent and Claudia pressed herbs onto my wound and then re-bandaged it.

  ‘They broke their word.’

  He laughed. ‘Of course they did. We are mere slaves and are nothing in their eyes. Did you think that being a prince would entitle you to be treated differently?’

  ‘They have no honour,’ I replied.

  He sat opposite and looked at me. Claudia finished applying the bandage and kissed me on the cheek. ‘Listen, my young friend. For the Romans, honour is for equals. We have wounded their pride by rising up, defeating their soldiers and sacking their towns. And now we have held one of their cities to ransom. Forced it to do our bidding. Their sense of outrage had become intolerable for them to bear. Therefore they tried to kill you. The fact that they failed will only increase their thirst for vengeance, especially when they discover their charred ships full of blackened bones.’

  ‘No mercy for those who break their word,’ was all I could say.

  ‘You did the right thing,’ said Spartacus.

  ‘How’s the arm?’ asked Claudia.

  ‘It will heal,’ I said. ‘I owe you my life, lady. Gallia told me that you had warned her that I was in danger.’

  Spartacus rose from his chair, walked over to his wife and cupped her face in his large hands. Then he kissed her.

  ‘Useful thing to have a woman to whom the gods talk.’

  ‘I do not talk to the gods,’ she chastened him, ‘they reveal things to me, that is all.’

  ‘A wondrous gift,’ I said.

  ‘Or a curse,’ she replied. ‘Not all the visions I have are happy ones. I have no control over what is revealed to me.’

  ‘Crixus was right, we should attack the city,’ I said, changing the subject. For in truth the only thing that was in my mind was revenge.

  ‘Were you hit on the head as well?’ said Spartacus.

  ‘We should put Thurri to the sword.’

  Spartacus poured himself more wine. ‘We have no time for you to settle your personal vendetta. The army is almost ready. We are done with this place, and we are marching north.’

  ‘They have offended us!’

  ‘They have offended you.’

  ‘Their treachery should not go unpunished.’

  ‘What is hurt more, Pacorus, your arm or your pride?’

  He was right, the army was ready and in truth my horsemen were also ready. Deficiencies in mail shirts and helmets would not hinder our effectiveness greatly. But my desire for vengeance still burned brightly within, and I was determined to settle my affairs before I left.

 

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