The Parthian (15 page)

As I was in the front rank I could hear the conversation that followed. The well-dressed Roman’s mood quickly turned sour. As he surmised that none of us could understand Latin, he made little attempt to subdue his voice.

‘Centurion Cookus, I was informed by dispatch that you started out with three hundred captives.’ The centurion shrugged nonchalantly, but made no attempt to answer, so his superior continued. ‘And yet, I find myself confronted with only two hundred and fifty, which means fifty are missing. Do you know where they are?’

‘Dead, sir,’ replied Cookus, flatly.

‘Dead? How did they die?’

Cookus was clearly bored by the proceedings, but indulged his questioner. ‘Some died of exhaustion, others were killed because they rebelled.’ He cast me a hateful glance.

‘Legate Tremelius entrusted you with the safe conduct of these captives to this port, from where they are to be transported to his estates in southern Italy. And yet you present me with these miserable creatures, half of whom I doubt will survive the sea voyage. And, to add insult to injury, you have managed to lose fifty dead.’

‘They’re only slaves,’ replied Cookus.

‘No!,’ snapped the other Roman. ‘They are valuable property of the legate, you idiot. I’ve a good mind to report you for dereliction of duty.’

Cookus marched up to him and glared at the somewhat flabby civilian, who involuntarily shrunk back from the grizzled veteran soldier with the big sword hanging from his belt.

‘Captives, die, sir,’ Cookus said slowly and loudly. ‘And my job is to kill Rome’s enemies not play nursemaid to slaves. So, here they are and my duty is done.’

‘Not quite, centurion,’ smiled the Roman, who held out his pink right hand, into which one of the clerks placed a scroll. ‘These are your orders from the legate. You are to personally escort the captives to his estate at Capua, there to hand them over to his chief bailiff.’

Cookus went red with rage. ‘In the name of Jupiter, this cannot be!’

‘Indeed it can, centurion. So I would advise you to take better care of your charges from now on. So rest them, get them fed and then see to it that they are shipped to Italy tomorrow. I have already paid the Cilicians to escort the three ships, so you have no fear of being boarded by pirates.’

‘The Cilicians
are
pirates,’ said Cookus, indignantly.

The Roman official raised an eyebrow as he pondered the statement. ‘Technically, you are correct, but at the moment it is convenient for Rome to pay the Cilicians dues so that they do not interfere with our ships. The spoils of the war taken from Mithridates are considerable, and Rome presently sees no need to create difficulties for what is a very lucrative agreement, albeit temporary. Rome will deal with them in time, but for the moment they are tolerated. You see, centurion, it’s all about strategy, something I don’t expect you to understand. It is better to fight one war at a time. Once we have destroyed Mithridates, then we will rid the sea lanes of pirates. Quite simple.’

‘The Cilicians are no better than this lot of bandits,’ he jerked a finger at us Parthians.

‘That may be, but just concern yourself with getting your cargo to its destination. Now I must have a bath and a massage, the aroma coming from them,’ he indicated us captives, ‘is really quite distasteful.’

With that he turned and strode from the warehouse, followed by his clerks. Cookus was left alone with us, and his thoughts. He called over two of his men and spoke to them quietly for a couple of minutes, then marched from the warehouse. We were ordered to take our ease on the floor, and we grabbed the opportunity to lie down. I stretched out my aching and bruised limbs and closed my eyes. What a nightmare we were living, with little prospect of matters getting any better. But for the moment at least we were allowed to rest. I drifted into a deep sleep, only to be wakened by what seemed seconds later by a loud whistle being blown. I raised myself up, though my arms felt like lead weights, and saw other slaves carrying buckets of water walking among us, while others handed out bread. A slave stood before me and offered me water from a wooden ladle. I hesitated, then pointed at Gafarn, who eagerly accepted the gesture and drank greedily. After he had finished I also slated my thirst. The liquid was the sweetest I had ever tasted, and the bread was like the eating the finest feast I had ever attended. Ludicrous of course, but when you thirsty and hungry even the simplest fare seems like the food of the gods. Cookus, sitting on a bench and leaning against the far wall, observed us with his cold, black eyes.

I had come to change my mind about Byrd over the past few weeks. At first all I saw was a mercenary, a man who would sell his soul for gold, but as he guided and accompanied us during our expedition in Cappadocia I saw that he was a man whose life had been destroyed, and who lived only for an opportunity to get revenge on the Romans. One evening, in the black, humid prison that was the ship’s hold, I spoke to him as we both lent against the hull while other men slept fitfully at our feet.

‘I am sorry, Byrd,’ I said.

‘For what, lord?’

‘For being responsible for getting you enslaved.’

He didn’t speak for a few moments, then sighed. ‘It does not matter, lord. My life was empty when Lord Bozan hired me to act as your guide. I was glad to be given a chance to strike back at the Romani.’

‘Even though you are now their slave?’

I could barely see his face in the half-light, the hold dimly illuminated by moonlight streaming through the iron grating above us, which was located in the centre of the deck. Without that, we would surely die of suffocation.

‘Romani killed my family when they attacked Ceasarea. I was a trader in pots, and so travelled far and wide in my land. I was away when they killed them, and since then I have wished that I too had died that day.’

‘And yet you live,’ I said, flatly.

‘Yes, lord. Perhaps I too will get to kill Romans. Like you.’

I feared that my Roman-killing days were over but remained silent. The Romans were the least of my worries, for as the days passed several of my men became weaker and weaker. On the seventh day what I feared happened: two died. They had never recovered from the wounds they had received in the battle with the Romans, and the ill usage they had received since killed them. In the dawn their bodies were unchained and taken up to the deck, and then unceremoniously thrown overboard. We were then ordered onto the deck, the guards using their spear shafts to beat us as we climbed the wooden steps, which proved difficult to manoeuvre with the manacles on our wrists and the chains on our ankles. But it was pleasant to stand in the sun again and feel a light sea breeze on our faces. The day was cloudless, and we squinted in the bright sun, our eyes unused to the light. Centurion Cookus, standing on the raised aft deck, was chewing on a piece of bread, and watching us intently. Beside him stood a burly, bearded man with a large scarlet cloth wrapped around his head, the captain I assumed. Unfortunately, Cookus did not choke on his food and after he had finished his meal he descended the steps to the main deck and walked up to me, his usual evil grin on his face.

‘So, pretty boy, how do you like your quarters aboard this fine ship?’

I looked at him quizzically, making out that I did not understand him. He had his cane in his right hand, and he brought it up as if to strike me across the face. But the blow was lazy, probably made to impress the captain, and despite my manacles I was able to block the strike and grab the cane from his hand, which I hurled overboard into the sea. Why did I do it? Perhaps it was the hopelessness of my situation that made even a small victory all the more appealing, or maybe a part of me wanted to die and end the unbearable humiliation of enslavement. Not the physical pain of chains on my wrists and ankles, but the mental anguish of being treated like an animal. So I grabbed that damned stick and threw it into the sea.

For a moment Cookus looked stunned, amazed that I, a slave, would have the audacity to do such a thing. I could swear he also looked hurt that his beloved cane, the instrument with which he inflicted so much pain on all and sundry, had been taken from him. And in those few seconds I realised that I had made a terrible mistake. I remembered my father’s words — better to die on your feet than live on your knees — but the fear I felt in the pit of my stomach made me think that I was certainly about to die on my feet. But Cookus was not only a bully and a thug, he was also an accomplished sadist. I expected to be beaten to a pulp and then thrown into the sea, but instead, with all eyes on him, Cookus merely smiled and walked calmly back to the aft deck, where he had a few brief words with the captain. The captain then signalled to two of his men, who grabbed me and hurled me against the rigging. My arms were then forced above my head and lashed to the rigging and my tattered tunic was ripped from my back. My fellow Parthians, who were murmuring in anger, were then speedily herded back into the hold, some being thrown down the steps, which pulled down others they were chained to. The iron grilles were then shut and locked, leaving myself alone with my captors. I looked at where Cookus stood, his arms crossed in front of him. The captain lent forward and whispered something in his ear, Cookus threw back his head and roared with laughter. How I hated that man.

Suddenly there was a searing pain across my back as the first blow of the whip struck my flesh. The pain resembled a severe sting, which was followed by another strike, this time slightly lower on my back, just below the shoulder blades. I flinched involuntarily as the leather thongs bit deep into my back, this time near the base of my spine. He pain was unbearable and I screamed as the cords lashed my flesh. Each strike wracked my body and sapped my strength, and my body sagged as I hung on the rigging limply. My back felt as though it was on fire as waves of nausea swept through me. I lost count of how many times I was lashed. Then, mercifully, the flogging ceased. I could feel liquid running down my back — my own blood. I was aware only of the gentle rolling of the boat, everything else was silence. Then I was aware of the voice of Cookus in my right ear, his words calm and methodical.

‘Well, pretty boy. That was for stealing my cane. But we don’t want you too damaged otherwise you won’t be much use when I deliver you to your new master, who no doubt will want to assault your arsehole every night until you are all used up.’ He patted my face. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll make sure you won’t die on this boat.’

He snapped his fingers and a sailor passed him a bucket. He stepped back and threw its contents on my wounds, which caused me to arch my back and scream. The other sailors repeated Cookus’ actions and sprayed me with salt water. My groans of agony made them laugh out loud until Cookus told them to stop. I was almost unconscious now, noises seemed distant and muffled and I could feel nothing. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Cookus, who was standing on a wooden box. He then lifted his tunic and pissed over me. I barely heard the bouts of laughter as I drifted into unconsciousness.

They left me there for what seemed like hours, my back throbbing with pain, my mouth dry and my arms numb from being lashed tightly to the rigging. Eventually, as the sun was dropping on the western horizon, they released me from my bonds and hurled me back into the hold. Nergal and Gafarn tried to make me comfortable, but I was so weakened that I was barely aware of them or anything else, and drifted in and out of unconsciousness. I probably would have died on that stinking hulk had it not have been for the fact that two days later we docked in Italy. I did not know it at the time, but in the previous forty-eight hours dead bodies had been thrown off each boat into the sea as captives succumbed to their wounds or died from heat, exhaustion and lack of food. The women and children were the main victims, and as we were unloaded onto the quay in a fierce heat and under a vivid blue sky, our Roman guards suddenly seemed concerned. Not out of consideration for us, but rather from the realisation that our numbers had dropped substantially. Cookus was berating his men.

‘Get them off the boats as quickly as possible. Don’t let any more die.’ He barked his orders to his soldiers, who scurried about, cajoling us and making threats, though I noticed that they did not actually beat us. I was finding it hard to breathe, my body weakened by the flogging I had received. My back hurt like fury, causing me to wince each time the course cloth of the stinking tunic I had been given rubbed against a weeping sore.

‘Are you all right, highness?’ asked Gafarn.

‘I’ll live,’ I replied , unconvincingly.

Gafarn supported me on one side and Nergal on the other.

‘How many did we lose?’

I saw the look of pain in Nergal’s eyes. ‘Thirty have died, highness.’

‘And the civilian captives?’ I asked.

He shrugged. ‘I do not know, highness, but there are hardly any children left.’

I could have wept at that moment, wept for those we had lost and for what lay ahead. It seemed so long ago when we had left Hatra, all of us proud warriors of the Parthian Empire. Now, what was left of us stood chained on a quay in a Roman port. Our clothes were in rags, our faces unshaved and our hair matted and filthy. Our legs and arms were covered in welts and sores, out feet bare and bruised because we had been stripped of our footwear when we had boarded the boats. We were all mostly in our early twenties, but anyone who cast us a glance would have thought we were twice that age.

As we waited I looked around at the harbour at which we had been offloaded. It was massive, being hexagonal shaped and enclosed within two breakwaters. The waterfront comprised a long row of warehouses, which teemed with workers loading and unloading carts of varying size. Sacks, livestock and pallets holding clay jars were being offloaded from huge ships moored along the docks. Clerks were tallying lists and merchants were supervising the shipment of their goods. The level of activity was amazing and dwarfed anything I had previously seen. As we waited, we were given no food or water.

Eventually a chariot arrived, pulled by a pair of black horses and driven by a slight young man dressed in a pure white tunic. Beside him stood a portly middle-aged man, also in white, wearing a wide-brimmed hat who was sweating profusely. The chariot stopped a few feet in front of us and the rotund man stepped off and walked over the Cookus, who saluted stiffly. The elder man spoke to Cookus, who nodded and then pointed at us. The older man then strode over to where we were being guarded. The day was getting hotter and I was getting weaker, having to rely increasingly on Gafarn and Nergal to stop myself from collapsing onto the ground. The man pulled up a couple of yards from us as our stench reached his nostrils. He put a handkerchief to his nose.