Authors: Peter Darman
The next day we groomed and fed the horses after dawn had broke and kitted ourselves out in our new arms and armour. Spartacus joined us after breakfast.
‘Make sure you and your men tuck their long hair into their helmets. Roman cavalry don’t have flowing locks.’ His attention to detail was excellent.
I had selected a magnificent steel helmet that had silver cheek guards, a brass visor and a large red crest. It was clearly an officer’s helmet and its thick leather lining meant it was comfortable to wear. I insisted Spartacus wore a similar design, as he and I were going to ride at the head of the column and we had to look the part.
We left early in the morning, riding west by the side of well-maintained, stone-paved roads through lush green countryside interlaced with fields. There wasn’t a soul in sight. The slaves who had worked the fields had either joined Spartacus or fled, to where I did not know. There was an odd silence around us, as though the land itself was waiting to see what would happen. As we rode in silence, twenty red-cloaked warriors disguised as the enemy, we passed burnt-out houses set back some distance from the road, no doubt the slaves of the estate had taken their revenge on their masters before they had left.
Two hours later, on the orders of Spartacus, we halted beside a large wood that sprawled across a hillside and waited. We dismounted and led our horses into the shade of the trees and rested. Spartacus walked away into the wood and reappeared a few minutes later with Castus by his side. The two of them walked over to me and squatted beside me. Castus nodded at me and smiled. Spartacus’ face was hard and expressionless. His briefing was short and to the point.
‘Nola is five or so miles down this road. The town sits in a plain, so anything that approaches it from any direction can be seen by the guards on the walls. Castus, you and your men will follow Pacorus and I down this road. If we have succeeded you will see that the gates are open. If they are, get your men down the road and into the town as soon as possible. If the gates are closed then we’ve failed, in which case get yourself back to Vesuvius. Good luck, Castus.’
Spartacus rose and embraced Castus, then mounted his horse. I too embraced the German and vaulted onto my horse, the same chestnut mare that I had first ridden in this army. Then we rode towards Nola, two abreast, keeping off the road. We did not want to appear out of the ordinary. Roman horses were not shod, though we had fitted the horses we rode with shoes, as was the custom in Parthia. We crested a small rise and entered a wide plain dotted with fields and copses, in the centre of which stood Nola. It was encompassed on all sides by a wall, and from our slight vantage point I caught a glimpse of red roofs and white-faced buildings. We maintained an even pace as the road led us straight towards one of the town’s gatehouses. I was sweating as we rode up to the gatehouse, which comprised two square, two-storey towers with red-tiled roofs, either side of an arch that was barred by two wooden gates. Guards stood on the rampart above the gates, in front of which we halted.
As we approached the gates we slowed to a gentle trot. My mouth was dry as I viewed the gatehouse with trepidation, saw guards on the wall above the gates themselves, and windows in the two towers with closed wooden shutters, which no doubt could be opened to make effective ports from which to fire arrows. Spartacus’ plan suddenly seemed a very bad idea.
‘Stay silent,’ he snapped, ‘leave the talking to me.’
We halted about twenty paces from the gates as a soldier wearing the distinctive helmet of a centurion peered at us from atop the wall.
‘State your business.’
Spartacus, his face enclosed by his helmet and its cheek guards, raised his hand in salute.
‘Decurion Batiatus to see the garrison commander.’
‘On what business?’ replied the centurion.
‘On military business, centurion.’
The centurion placed both hands on the wall and leaned over to look at Spartacus more closely.
‘Who is your commander?’
‘The Praetor Varinius Glaber.’
‘I thought he had been killed by the gladiators.’
‘You thought wrong. He is camped twenty miles from here with two ala of horse and half a legion.’ Spartacus pulled a scroll from a saddlebag. ‘Here is his orders for the garrison commander. I am to deliver them in person.’
The centurion said nothing as he gazed at Spartacus. I could feel rivulets of sweat run down the sides of my face as I purposely stared directly ahead at the gates. The centurion pulled away from the wall and shouted down.
‘Open the gates.’
There was a scraping sound as some sort of barrier that held the gates closed shut was removed, and then they both opened. Spartacus turned to me.
‘You take the right-hand tower, I’ll take the left.’ He jabbed his knees into the horse’s flank and moved forward, as did I and those who were following. Then we were through the gates and inside the town. Spartacus halted his horse and dismounted. I did likewise.
‘Centurion,’ shouted Spartacus, looking up at the Roman on the wall, ‘ I have something here that will be of interest to you.’
I could see three other guards on the wall, but doubted not that others were in the two towers. There were shops and red-tiled houses either side of the road, though there were few people milling around. No doubt the garrison commander had imposed rationing until the emergency of the slave rebellion had passed. The centurion came down the stone steps from the ramparts and ambled over to where Spartacus was standing. There were two other soldiers standing a short distance from my horse, leaning on their shields and idly watching us.
‘What is it? I have to report back…’
Spartacus’ right arm flashed as he plunged a dagger through the centurion’s throat. He left it there, drew his sword and then raced up the steps and onto the ramparts. His agility was astounding as he cut down two other soldiers before they had time to draw their swords. The other Romans stood open-mouthed at what had taken place, while the centurion, a fountain of blood gushing from his throat, collapsed in a heap on the ground, dead. I drew my sword, leapt from my saddle and plunged it into one of the soldiers standing to my right.
‘Clear the towers!’ I bellowed at my men as a Roman came towards me with his spear levelled and shield protecting his body. Seconds later my men were running up the steps and into the stone towers. Mercifully, they contained only a handful of men. The Roman came at me but I parried his clumsy spear thrust with my sword, drew Cookus’ dagger from its sheath on my belt with my left hand and slashed his right calf as he went past. He screamed in pain and turned to face me again.
‘You don’t have to die,’ I said to him. ‘Lay down your weapons and your life will be spared.’
He seemed to relax a little, but then tensed as the spear slammed into his back, thrown by Spartacus, who had reappeared on the ramparts. He pointed at me as the Roman breathed his last. ‘Get up here and stop pissing around.’
Along the street people were fleeing in terror, women sweeping young children into their arms and running fit to burst. I raced up the steps and stood beside Spartacus. The gatehouse was secure, but it would only be a matter of minutes before the garrison was alerted.
We stood on the rampart above the open gates and peered down the arrow-straight road. Roman roads were a marvel, I had to confess, always straight and topped with perfectly trimmed flagstones, and this one was especially dear to me because at that moment I saw a column of men pour over the crest of the hill, heading towards the town. Then I heard horns being blown and knew that the garrison had been alerted to our presence. I looked behind me and saw, at the far end of the street, Roman soldiers forming up, perhaps thirty or more. Spartacus saw them too.
‘Scatter them, don’t let them form otherwise they’ll shut the gates in Castus’ face.’
I cast a glance back up the road to see Castus and his Germans running towards us, still a mile away. I bounded down the steps and vaulted onto my horse, my men following.
‘Mount!’ I shouted to them. They likewise reclaimed their lances and saddles. Ahead a centurion was organising his troops into a block in order to retake the gates. The street was about twenty feet wide, so we couldn’t form into a line. I levelled my lance.
‘Straight at them. They’ll break before we reach them.’
I jabbed my horse in the flanks with my knees and she bolted forward. My men followed. We discarded our shields and used the Parthian way to hold our lances, grasping the shaft with both hands and holding it on the right side of the horse. A horse won’t charge at a solid object, but will either attempt to go around it or rear up at the last moment. If the Romans held firm then we would fail and end up as a tangled heap of men and horseflesh. But they didn’t hold. The sight of twenty horsemen charging towards them, screaming and carrying lances created panic among them. Perhaps they were ill-trained levies, but whatever they were in seconds those in the front had turned and were trying to get out of our way. But they ran into those behind and in the blink of an eye what had been a group of soldiers became a rabble. Some were running back down the street as my lance went through the back of a legionary, through his body and into the chest of the man in front of him. I let go of the shaft and drew my sword as my horse careered through one of the gaps now appearing in the dissolving Roman line. I slashed right and left at fleeing figures as the rest of my men thundered past.
‘Don’t let them reform,’ I shouted. But in truth the engagement was over. The Romans had melted away. I reformed my men into a column and led them forward at a gentle pace. We had suffered no casualties, but I told everyone to be on the lookout for archers on the rooftops. We were still very exposed to enemy missiles should the Romans want to launch some at us. I heard muffled shouts coming from behind me and turned in the saddle. All of us instinctively halted as dozens of men, Castus’ soldiers, came racing through the gates and into the town. I ordered my men to dismount, lead their mounts to the side of the street and take off their helmets and cloaks, lest the Germans thought we were Romans. Castus was leading his men, a Roman short sword in his right hand held aloof. He ran past us and on into the town. Several minute passed before all the Germans were inside the town. After they had swept into Nola I ordered my men to stay alert and went to speak with Spartacus. He was still on the ramparts, but when I reached him he had taken off his helmet and was sat on a bench beside the wall. As I approached he looked up and grinned.
‘Well, that worked out well. Never thought it would, actually, but glad it did.’
‘Lord?’
‘The main thing is we’re in. Should be plenty of supplies for the army.’
‘Not if the Germans burn the town,’ I said.
‘Don’t worry about that. Castus has strict orders to keep his men in check.’
‘And he will obey?’
Spartacus looked at me with an intense stare. ‘We are an army not a bunch of bandits. Only through discipline and organisation can we hope to defeat the Romans.’ Then he flashed a smile. ‘That and a bit of luck.’
Thus did Nola fall into our laps like a ripened fruit.
Chapter 6
N
ola was systematically emptied of anything and everything that was of value. This included weapons, gold, silver, food, sandals, boots, tents and tools. Castus and Spartacus had obviously spent much time thinking about the hoard that the town might yield, for the Germans quickly organised themselves into search parties to scour it from one end to the other for things the army needed, while other groups guarded the captured garrison — three hundred downcast men. And the Germans were very thorough. Their task was made easier by the layout of Nola, which was essentially a large rectangle divided up into a network of streets around square blocks of buildings. I later discovered that there were thirty-two such blocks, each one the same size. The Romans were certainly precise when it came to their town planning. Four gates gave access to the town, one at each point of the compass, and Castus placed guards at all of them to ensure no one escaped. Unfortunately, the garrison commander and several of the town’s leading citizens had managed to flee on horseback via the eastern gate before it had been sealed.
The town’s population was roughly herded into the centre of Nola, to a place called the forum. Castus informed me that all Roman towns and cities had such a place, and they were always located in the centre. It was a large, open square surrounded by temples, government buildings and shops. The town’s residents were divided into three groups: men, women and children, and its slave population. As the day wore on the forum became increasingly crowded as Castus’ men entered houses and dragged out their occupants. A few resisted and were killed, but most trudged sullenly into the forum. I also noticed, strangely, that the slaves also looked unhappy.
Castus had brought two thousand men to Nola, a thousand of whom now stood guard over the population. The garrison had been disarmed and locked in the town’s jail. I had sent my men on foot with a party of Germans to look for horses, and was delighted when they reported back that they had acquired two hundred and a corresponding amount of riding equipment. Around midday Spartacus went over to the group of town slaves and talked to them. He was there a long time, and as I stood beside Castus on the steps of the temple to a god called Saturn, I asked him how many would join us.
He shook his head. ‘A handful, if any.’
‘Surely not?’
‘Town slaves have it good. Nice clothes, light duties, even a chance of freedom and Roman citizenship if they are lucky. You might be unlucky and get a bastard of a master who keeps you cleaning the latrines, but generally slaves who live in the towns are well looked after. They have to be. If you’re a Roman, you don’t want to go to sleep at night knowing there’s a slave in your house that hates you.
‘That being the case, why would you want to throw in your lot with a load of country slaves? Besides, town slaves are soft. Mainly Greeks and pretty young boys from Africa who are dressed in nice clothes and taught to recite poetry. Can’t train them to use a sword.’ He spat on the steps. ‘Next to useless.’