The Parthian (53 page)

Spartacus declared it to be the funeral games for Crixus and thousands stood by as pairs of fighters, some armed with
gladius
and shield, others with a trident and a net, fought each other to the death. The combat went on for hours, the audience, former slaves now turned masters, hooted and cheered in their drunken state, while all the time a stony-faced Spartacus sat on a wooden dais and observed the slaughter. Beside him, squat and rock-like, stood Akmon, with a black-haired and stern-faced Castus stood on his other side. Under a hot sun men sweated, bled and died, each death greeted with rapturous applause from those present. Some refused to fight and threw down their weapons, then stared in defiance at the dais. Spartacus merely nodded to one of the many guards who surrounded the temporary arena, who then speared the reluctant gladiator with his javelin. Claudia and Gallia had been present at the start of this gruesome spectacle, but had departed soon after the first blood had been spilt. I had been asked to attend, as had Rhesus, Nergal and Burebista, though I had little enthusiasm for this organised slaughter. Spartacus noted my discomfort.

‘You do not approve, Pacorus?’

I shrugged. ‘I see no point in it, lord.’

‘Crixus was my comrade, so it is fitting that I should celebrate his life.’

‘With death?’

‘The first gladiatorial contests took place at the funerals of rich Romans,’ he said. ‘So I thought it right and proper that we should return to the old ways to give Crixus a proper send-off.’

In front of us two more men died, one screaming as his belly was sliced open by a
gladius
. Burebista smiled while Castus remained unmoved.

‘That used to be us down there,’ said Spartacus, ‘spilling our guts for the amusement of the Romans. Now the roles are reversed.’ He cast me a glance. ‘You waste your pity on them, Pacorus, and pity will get you killed if you’re not careful.’

‘Tempted to try your hand, Spartacus?’ Castus was being mischievous.

‘It had occurred to me,’ he replied.

‘Then why don’t you?’

Akmon look alarmed but said nothing. ‘I would advise against it, lord.’ I offered.

He turned to me and smiled, the first time he had done so that day. ‘Why? Do you think they can beat me?’

Before I could answer he had stood up, drawn his sword and leapt from the dais and into the temporary arena. He walked calmly among the fighting pairs until he was about a hundred feet from where we stood. He raised his sword to me in salute, and then bellowed to those around him to attack him, shouting that whoever cut him down would win his freedom. Within seconds five Romans were circling him like ravenous wolves. They had swords and shields and wore helmets on their heads; Spartacus wore just a tunic and had only his sword. Any lesser man would have surely perished, but one did not become a champion of the arena by being ordinary. And whereas gladiators were trained to fight on their own, the Romans facing him had been trained to fight as a unit. On their own they were clumsy and uncoordinated. One, his shield tucked tight to his body, thrust at Spartacus but the slave general pounced to the man’s right and stabbed the point of his sword into the man’s upper arm. The Roman yelped in pain and dropped his sword, whereupon Spartacus pounced and thrust his sword through the man’s neck. He used the Roman’s body as a shield as a second attacker lunged at Spartacus’ chest, only to become entangled in the corpse as he fell to the ground. He died with a
gladius
thrust through his back into his heart.

Spartacus was in his element now, his strong jaw thrust forward and his eyes alight with the thrill of the deadly drama he was involved in. He killed the third Roman at the end of a series of rapid sword strokes that his opponent could not parry, Spartacus driving his sword through the man’s groin. The fourth died after Spartacus feinted a trip and the man, thinking his opponent would fall, rashly charged forward, only to be tripped himself and then have his belly sliced open as he fell. Thus the last Roman, a pathetic figure who clearly did not want to fight, threw down his sword and shield, fell to his knees begged for mercy. Spartacus walked up to the man, placed his left hand on his shoulder and then looked to where we were standing. He smiled at me, turned to look at the man before him and then rammed his
gladius
through his throat. He left the blade in place, his hand still on the Roman’s shoulder, as the
gladius
was covered in a red froth. He then placed his foot against the dead man’s chest and pushed the corpse onto the ground, extracting his sword as he did so. He then walked calmly back to the dais and retook his seat.

‘Like I said,’ he said to me, ‘pity is a weakness.’

I confess that the gladiatorial contest was not to my liking and had seemed to me to be nothing more than sport. 

‘Of course it’s sport,’ remarked a surprised Gallia. ‘Why are you so surprised?’

The two of us had ridden into the vine-clad hills surrounding our sprawling encampment, which was growing larger each day as new recruits joined us. The scenery we rode through was breathtaking, with deep gorges among the limestone peaks. The day was very warm, an intense sun beating down as we made our way upwards along an old goat track. The area teemed with wildlife and we saw deer, porcupine and a peregrine falcon fly overhead as our horses walked along the dirt track. Either side of us tall beech trees filled the landscape. 

‘I would have thought that having been forced to fight in the arena, he would have wanted to banish all traces of it from his mind.’

‘It is not that simple.’ She looked striking today, her hair flowing freely down the back of her blue white-edged tunic. She wore brown breeches and leather riding boots, her sword in its scabbard at her hip and her bow, like mine, tucked in its case and fixed to her saddle. 

‘He was a gladiator for a long time,’ she continued, ‘and that sort of experience leaves a permanent imprint on the mind. That’s why he hates the Romans and that sort of hatred burns for a long time.’

‘I hate the Romans, but I do not butcher defenceless ones.’

‘You do not hate them, Pacorus.’

‘I fight them, do I not?’

‘Yes, but you fight for glory and because you are good at it. Spartacus is like a cornered animal. He is fighting to stay alive.’

‘And I am not?

She looked at me and smiled. ‘Oh, Pacorus, your men say that you are a great warrior and leader, but you have a kingdom to go back to and an empire that will embrace you. Spartacus has nothing save the clothes he stands up in.’ 

‘He has a homeland to go to.’

‘Does he? Most of Thrace is under Roman rule. If goes back there he will have to live the life of a hunted man. And that’s true of the Spaniards and Gauls also.’

‘Then where is he to go?’ I asked.

She shrugged. ‘Where indeed?’

We rode on in silence for a while, but then came to a small lake surrounded by trees whose waters were crystal clear. At the far end side of a lake was a white rock face, over which teemed a small waterfall. It was an idyllic place, the birds singing in the trees and the scent of wildflowers filling the air. We tied up the horses in the shade of a beech tree, disrobed and plunged into the water, and afterwards we made love in the sun beside the waterfall. I lay face down on the warm, smooth rock gazing over the water, her lithe body lying beside me. She began tracing lines over my back with her finger.

‘How did you get these marks on your back?’ Her voices was low and sultry, her touch sensuous. The marks were the small scars bequeathed me when Centurion Cookus had whipped me. 

‘A present from a Roman.’

‘They look rather striking, like scars earned in battle. What happened to the Roman who whipped you?’

‘I cut his head off.’

She laughed and dived into the water. 

‘Well then, come and get your prize, lord prince.’

We were truly happy at that time, in that wonderful summer when we had destroyed Rome’s armies and reached northern Italy. The world seemed to be at our feet, but perhaps it was because I was in love and I believed the impossible was possible.

We continued our march north, bringing us into a region called Cisalpine Gaul. Though it was a Roman province, it was populated by the Gauls, Gallia’s people, who were ruled by a Roman governor who resided in the city of Mutina. The Gauls lived under their own rules and customs and were not Roman citizens. They paid tribute to Rome, but as long as they stayed loyal Rome left them alone. Spartacus was keen to enlist their help and so convened a council of war, to which he invited Gallia. She was not intimidated as she sat around the large table in the company of Spartacus’ warlords. Claudia had made herself scarce.

‘We move north in two days,’ began Spartacus, a sudden storm outside shaking the sides of the tent and rattling its central supports. ‘We will be moving through the land of the Gauls, your people, Gallia. I wish to know if they will help us.’

A thin smile crossed Gallia’s face. ‘They are a beaten people. They will not help you. You would be foolish to think otherwise.’

Nergal, Rhesus and Burebista were shocked by her words, while Akmon glanced at Spartacus and nodded.

‘Nevertheless,’ continued Spartacus, ‘we must travel through their province. If they will not aid us, will they then fight us?’

Gallia snorted at the suggestion. ‘They are a broken people. I doubt they will fight us, as even my company of women would be a match for a host of their warriors. But they will betray you to the Romans if they have a chance.’

I laid my hand on her arm. ‘Yet there are stills Gauls with courage.’ She snatched her arm away.

‘You delude yourselves with thoughts of the Gauls helping you. They pay tribute to Rome. They would earn much esteem among the Romans if they delivered us up to them. Even now their scouts will have reported our position to the nearest garrison.’ She bristled with anger.

‘I have to ask you one more thing, Gallia’. Spartacus looked at her with a grave countenance. ‘Byrd has reported that our army will march though the land of the Senones, your tribe, I believe. If your father is still their king, would you speak to him on our behalf?’

There was silence as Gallia stared at the table in front of her, her arms resting on the surface. I noticed that her fists were clenched and her knuckles were white. She stood up slowly and looked at Spartacus.

‘No.’ 

She then turned and walked out. 

‘Sorry, lord,’ I mumbled.

Spartacus rose. ‘For what? If I had a thousand like her I could take Rome itself. We leave in two days. That is all.’

All my efforts to discuss the matter further with Gallia were to no avail. She did not want to talk about her father. Why should she? He was, after all, the man who had sold her into slavery. 

The army moved along a splendid road called the Via Aemilia, which Godarz informed me had been built over a hundred years before. As with all the roads that I had seen, it was as straight as an arrow and had beautifully tended verges on either side. It would lead us to Mutina, the administrative centre of the province and the place that we would have to take if we were to reach the Alps and thereafter freedom. The morale of the troops was extremely high; indeed, the march started out resembling a carnival until a disgruntled Akmon issued orders for all cohort commanders to keep their men in check. I threw out a cavalry screen a few miles ahead of the army and on the flanks, while Burebista and his dragon was assigned to the army itself, under Akmon’s command. He was most unhappy because he wanted to undertake scouting duties, fancying himself as fighting skirmishes with Roman horsemen rather than walking alongside bullocks and goats. However, I told him that I would rotate duties between myself, Nergal and him, which kept him reasonably happy. 

The first two days were uneventful as we advanced through the valley of the River Pagus, a fertile area crisscrossed by marshes, swamps and pine and oak forests. The area teemed with wildlife, chief among them being wild boars who ignored us as they rummaged through the undergrowth searching for acorns. Near the road itself the Romans had established a number of settlements and farms, which Godarz informed me were populated by veteran soldiers and their families. They had also started the construction of dykes and canals to drain the area and turn it into farmland. How industrious these Romans were. All the farms and villages had been abandoned on our approach, however. We found only empty houses and fields.

Though she had made it clear that she wanted nothing to do with her people, I was still curious to find out more about these Gauls who lived as part of Rome, not free but not slave either. When the army camped I ordered Byrd to join me in my tent to discuss the Senones. My cavalry were spread across the area in a number of small encampments, none of which was fortified like the main camp.

‘Senoni very dangerous, lord,’ remarked Byrd, his unkempt appearance disguising the fine scout he had become. ‘They all around, have eyes everywhere.’

I poured him some wine and we sat in two chairs outside my tent. The evening was warm and pleasant, with a slight breeze freshening the air. ‘I have patrols out at all times, Byrd. They will not surprise us.’

He stretched out his legs. ‘These Gauls not like Romans. They have lived here for hundreds of years. They move unseen. Killed one of my scouts yesterday.’

Now I was alarmed. ‘Why?’

He shrugged. ‘Do not know, lord. We found him tied to a tree with his throat slit. They had stripped him naked and blinded him first.’

‘How do you know they put out his eyes first?’

He took a drink from his cup. ‘No point in killing someone then blinding them. No sport in that.’

I shuddered. The thought of hundreds of men like Crixus prowling the forests all around us did not fill me with glee.

‘Do you know where their main camp is?’

He finished his wine. ‘Yes, lord, but would not advise you go unless you take many horsemen, but perhaps…’ He turned away and looked at a group of mail-clad horsemen returning to camp, their mounts sweating after a hard patrol.