The Parthian (18 page)

Spartacus spoke first. ‘Welcome, Pacorus. I am glad to see you on your feet again.’

‘Thank you,’ I replied, ‘and thank you for releasing me and my men from our bonds.’

‘Your servant speaks Latin well,’ continued Spartacus, ‘and he has been telling me a little about how you came to be in Italy. But perhaps you could enlighten us further.’

‘If I can, lord.’

‘Ha, he’s no lord, boy,’ the big man had a voice as big as his frame. He slapped Spartacus hard on the shoulder. ‘He’s a killer, trained by the Romans to entertain them on special occasions. He’s a Thracian, which in the order of things is below a Gaul but,’ he leaned forward and smiled at the man with the long face, ‘above a German. Isn’t that right, Castus?’

‘I’ve been remiss,’ said Spartacus, ignoring the interruption. ‘I must introduce you to everyone.’ He turned to the big man. ‘This is Crixus, a brawler from Gaul who was rescued from his life of tending pigs by the Romans, who introduced him to the art of killing men with a sword. One day he might be good at it.’ Crixus sniffed in mockery. Spartacus turned to the other man. ‘This is Castus, who the Romans took when they raided his village and found him sleeping off a hangover.’

‘Bastard Romans, we signed a treaty with them and they agreed not to cross over the river into our territory,’ there was a genuine look of indignation on Castus’ face. ‘We are a people who respect treaties, but the Romans just broke it like a shot.’

‘Imagine that,’ said Crixus, mockingly.

‘What is your story, Pacorus?’ asked Spartacus.

So I told them, of how we were raiding into Cappadocia, of how Bozan had been killed and we had been captured. I told them about Hatra and the Parthian Empire, and how my father had led another raid into Syria. I must confess I was slightly nervous concerning their intentions towards me, and was reluctant to tell them all about me. Spartacus looked down at the table and occasionally nodded as I relayed my tale. He abruptly looked up at me.

‘And who is your father?’

‘His name is Varaz,’ I replied.

Spartacus leaned forward and fixed me with his hawk-like eyes. ‘That would be King Varaz, would it not, Prince Pacorus?’

‘Son of a king, eh. He should fetch a nice ransom,’ quipped Crixus.

‘Much gold to equip our army,’ mused Castus.

I was indignant. It appeared that I had escaped one lot of gaolers only to land in the midst of a set of cutthroats. I leaned forward and tried to look purposeful, staring directly at Spartacus.

‘I will not be treated like an animal. You saw fit to free me from my chains. I have to tell you that you will not be putting any back on me. I am just one man, but I will fight each and any of you. Give me a sword and I will show you how a Parthian fights.’

It was, I thought, a brave speech, though in my weakened state I wouldn’t have lasted long fighting any of them, let alone all three. I prayed for a quick death at least. Spartacus looked at first Crixus and then Castus. Spartacus and Castus burst into laughter. Crixus sat stony faced. 

‘We don’t want spoilt, royal bastards who have slaves to wipe their arses,’ he spat.

‘We need all good soldiers we can get our hands on,’ said Spartacus.

‘He can’t be that good if the Romans captured him,’ replied Crixus.

‘They captured you too, didn’t they?’ I said. ‘What does that say of you?’

Crixus jumped up and glared at me. ‘Why don’t we see who is the best, here and now.’

‘Sit down, Crixus.’ Spartacus’ words were stern.

Crixus did as he was told, fixing me with a hateful stare as he did so.

‘We want you and your men to join us, Pacorus.’

‘Not all of us,’ mumbled Crixus.

‘Join you?’ I was somewhat taken aback. They were hardly my idea of a disciplined army.

‘We will not sway you either way,’ said Spartacus. ‘But we might be your best hope of getting home. You are, after all, in Italy, and a long way from Parthia. Fight with us and you might see your family again.’

‘And what do you fight for?’ I asked.

Spartacus smiled. ‘The same thing that you used to take for granted, my young prince. Freedom. The freedom from a life of bondage and cruelty. The same cruelty that you yourself have experienced, if only for a while. Am I not flesh and blood like you? Am I not a man that deserves to life his life free from the whip and branding iron? 

‘Do your men follow you because they are loyal or because they fear you? Will you let them decide their own fate or will you be as a tyrant to them? You think we are base because we were slaves, I can see it in your eyes. But do not slaves have thoughts, dreams, fears and the capacity to love? Few of us were born slaves, Pacorus, and yet Rome saw fit to condemn us to a life of servitude. You have killed Romans to defend your home; why shouldn’t we be allowed the same privilege?

‘Our plan is to organise ourselves here, around Vesuvius, and then march north to the Alps. Once there we will cross over the mountains and then head for our homes. I have no doubt that the Romans will try to stop us, but we will fight them every inch of the way if necessary. All we wish is to be out of Italy and never to see any Roman again.’

‘My people lived in peace until the Romans butchered most of my village and forced the survivors into slavery,’ added Castus, the pain clear in his voice.

‘I can still see the corpses of my friends with Roman spears stuck in them,’ spat Crixus.

‘Whatever your decision,’ continued Spartacus. ‘We will respect it. Do not decide now. Think on it, discuss it with your men.’

The conversation was at an end, so I nodded, rose from the chair and made to leave.

‘One more thing,’ said Spartacus. ‘Your slave.’

‘Gafarn?’ I replied.

‘Yes. He too is free. He is your slave no longer. He may follow you of his own volition, but you have no sway over him. There are no slaves in this camp.’

I never thought of Gafarn as being a slave, though of course he was. We had been companions for so long that I thought of him as, as what? A friend? I knew not, because I had never had to think about it. I assumed he would always be with me.

‘Yes, lord,’ I replied.

‘Oh, and Pacorus,’ said Spartacus.

‘Lord?’

‘You don’t have to call me lord.’

When I returned I gathered my men and we sat on the ground. The afternoon sun was beginning its decline in the west and disappear behind Vesevius’ crater as I explained to them the offer made by the slave leader. They, like me, wished to return home, but we were faced by a host of difficulties. We had been brought to Italy by boat and were in the south of the country. It would be almost impossible to return home by the same method of transport, as we had no boats. That meant we would have to go across land, land that was the enemy’s heartland. From what little I could remember from the maps I had seen, and which I doubted were accurate, Italy was a long land that ran north to south, and we were in the south. They listened intently as I explained that the slaves were marching north to some mountains called the Alps, after which they would disperse to their homelands. I told them that each of them was free to make their own decision as to their course of action, for I was no longer their lord and commander but just a man like them, intent on seeing Hatra again. I looked at Byrd, who was not one of us and who had lost his family and his home. What would his decision be? Most of them were of a similar age to me, though whether they had wives and children I knew not. In fact, the more I thought of it the more I realised that I had never known anything of the men I had led into battle. They were just soldiers, men on horses carrying spears or bows who obeyed orders, who sometimes died carrying out those orders. But here, in this volcanic crater in an alien land, they suddenly were not faceless individuals. They were fellow Parthians, comrades in arms. Dare I think a sort of family?

Afterwards we dispersed and went about our duties. We may each have a decision to make, but we still had to maintain discipline to make life in camp bearable. Latrines had to be dug and then filled in, water had to be fetched from nearby streams and food had to be prepared. I was still in a weakened state so after I had instructed Nergal to take the men out on a long route march the next day, I retired to my bed. Gafarn rubbed more ointment into my back, which was heeling nicely, or so he told me.

‘You’re free, Gafarn,’ I said casually as I lay on my front in the cot.

‘Free, highness?’

‘The slave leader, Spartacus, has told me that you are now free.’

‘That’s very kind of him,’ said Gafarn, nonchalantly. ‘What does that mean?’

‘It means that you can do want you want, go where want and follow your conscience.’

Gafarn re-sealed the ointment bottle and carefully placed it back in the wooden tray on the table beside my cot.

‘We are in Italy, are we not?’

‘We are,’ I replied.

‘And we have no gold or horses.’

‘That is correct.’

‘And the Romans will be sending more soldiers to try to either kill or enslave us once more.’

‘That seems likely.’

‘To sum up, then,’ said Gafarn. ‘I am free but am in the land of my enemies, with no gold, no horse and little prospect of seeing Hatra alive.’

I said nothing. He sighed.

‘The next time I see Spartacus, I must thank him personally for this great privilege he has bestowed on me. I hardly know how to contain my excitement. Good night, highness.’

With that he was gone.

Two days later a mounted Spartacus arrived at our tents with a spare horse. He wore a mail shirt over his tunic and a shield slung over his back. We had just finished our breakfast and I was preparing to take the men out on a march. Though we had no armour or weapons we still drilled in the morning and afternoon, both to build up our strength and to keep boredom at bay. I also sent groups off to the stables to help with the care of the horses. Our assistance was gladly received, for Parthians know more about the care and breeding of horses than any other peoples.

‘Are you fit enough to ride, Pacorus?’

I was delighted by his offer. It had been many weeks since I had been in the saddle, and the chance to ride again was an offer I would not pass up.

‘Indeed, lord,’ I replied.

Spartacus pulled on the reins of the spare horse and brought her forward. She was a healthy chestnut brown Arabian mare with an arched neck and high-carried black tail that she used to brush away the flies. I took the reins and stroked the side of her head. Her eyes were bright and her coat shone in the morning sun.

‘My stable hands are indebted to you and your men for their help with our horses.’

‘No thanks are necessary,’ I said, stroking the mare’s neck. ‘We love horses and love being around them.’ I grasped one of the horns of the saddle and heaved myself onto the mare’s back. I felt a surge of elation sweep through me as I felt a horse beneath me once again. Strange to say, I also had to choke back tears — I never thought I would ride again.

‘Shall we ride?’ asked Spartacus as he nudged the flanks of his horse with his knees and trotted forward. I followed, catching up with him and riding by his side. As we rode through the camp towards the giant gash in the rock face that was the entry and exit point, I discerned that it had increased in size. There were dozens of brown tents, and other makeshift shelters made from canvas sheets with wooden supports. But all were arranged in neat rows either side of us. I saw that we were riding down what seemed to be a main thoroughfare through the camp, while leading off it right and left were smaller avenues between the tent blocks. The whole resembled the layout of a town or city.

‘Your camp is neatly arranged, lord.’

‘Laid out exactly as Roman camps are when they are on campaign.’

‘You have studied the Roman army, lord?’

‘I was in the Roman army,’ he replied.

I looked at him in surprise. He saw the expression on my face and laughed.

‘That’s right, Pacorus. I was once an auxiliary in one of their legions. Served for five years hauling a shield and spear around Germany and other parts.’

‘You were conscripted?’

‘In a way. I was young — eighteen — and after the Romans had conquered my homeland their recruiters came looking for men to serve in their army. I could ride, wield a sword and spear and I thought, why not? Thrace, the place where I come from, is poor and I could see myself spending the rest of my life looking after goats and living a miserable existence. The thought of loot and glory had some appeal. My mother had died giving birth to me and my father died of the plague when I was young, so I had no ties. So off I went.

‘It was, I have to confess, a great adventure at first. The food was passable, the pay was regular and I got to be very good with a sword.’

‘So what path led you to this place? I asked. We had passed through the camp and had reached the slope that led to the gap in the rock face, through which a steady stream of people on foot were coming and going. Most looked as though they were poor farm hands. We trotted up it and out of the great rock bowl.

‘Rome is a hard taskmaster. I soon discovered that there was very little loot to be had sitting in a wooden fort by the side of a German river. So I got bored. As an auxiliary you sign up for twenty-five years of service, and at a third of the pay of a legionary, so I decided to leave, me and a few others. We earned a living of sorts as bandits, living in the woods and robbing travellers, sometimes hiring ourselves out as mercenaries to tribal leaders. But the Romans never forget and certainly never forgive, and it was only a matter of time before we were caught. We were stupid, you see. We should have kept moving but we stayed in one place and eventually they trapped us.’

‘Why didn’t they kill you all?’ I queried.

‘Oh, they nailed a few to crosses as an example, but the Romans are a practical people. We could still be of use to them, and as we were good with weapons they sold us to be gladiators. And that’s how I ended up in these parts.’

I had more questions but decided they could wait. Now we were on the grass-covered slopes of the mountain and could see for miles around. In the distance was the sea beyond a massive plain that stretched from the slopes of the mountain to our left and right. The land we rode across was an ocean of lush grass, while in the distance I could make out large, square fields. The sky was cloudless as we rode down the slope. All around us were groups of individuals making their way towards the slave camp. In fact, the more I looked I could see that the entire landscape was dotted with figures making their way towards the crater. Two riders came galloping up and halted before us. One I recognised as Castus, the German with the long face and trimmed beard. He wore a mail shirt and carried a shield and spear, as did his companion. He acknowledged me with a nod.