The Parthian (16 page)

‘They smell disgusting, centurion.’

‘Yes, sir,’ replied Cookus. ‘You know what these eastern types are like, sir. Never wash, live in filth most of the time.’

‘It never ceases to amaze me how disreputable these barbarians are. They look as disgusting as they smell.’ His gaze fell on me as I stared at him from black-rimmed eyes. ‘What happened to that one?’

‘Trouble-maker, sir,’ Cookus replied. ‘We had to give him a flogging.’

The elder man nodded his approval. ‘Good. Slaves need to be reminded that they exist for one purpose, to serve their masters. If you have any more trouble from him, I would advise nailing him to a cross.’

Cookus smiled. ‘Of course, sir. You want them shipped to Capua.’

‘Mmm, er no. They are to be transported to the legate’s estate outside Nola. The eastern war has been very rewarding with regard to slaves. His estates around Capua have enough slaves. The one at Nola has need of them. The legate owns that warehouse,’ he pointed to a large wooden structure that fronted the docks. ‘Put them in there for the night and start out early in the morning. I’ve arranged food and water to be delivered, it should be here within the hour. Also some wine for you and your men.’

‘That’s very kind, sir.’

‘Well, I must be away. The legate is a very important man and I have to be in Herculaneam this afternoon. Hopefully the rest of my journey will be uneventful.’

With that he turned and went back to his chariot, gesturing with his right hand to the driver, who shouted to the two immaculately groomed horses, who walked forward at his command. Then they were gone and were herded into the warehouse. I was glad to be out of the sun and even more relieved when we were allowed to lie on the floor. I rested on my side as it was too painful to lie on my back. I wanted to sleep, but Nergal and Gafarn wanted to know if I knew anything.

‘We are going to be transported to a place called Nola.’

‘Where’s that?’ asked Nergal.

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘How long will it take?’ asked Gafarn.

‘I don’t know.’

‘What will happen to us there?’ enquired Nergal.

‘Enough,’ I snapped. ‘Enough of your questions. Get some rest. Food and water are on the way. Now let me sleep.’

I knew what lay ahead: more chains and whips, and being worked like animals on the land. I did not want to demoralise them, but they must have known that we were slaves with little hope of escape. Escape. We had talked in hushed tones about how we would escape, but in truth the further away we got from Parthia the likelihood of a successful escape diminished. The Romans were not fools. Each of us had manacles on our wrists and was chained to at least one other person via our ankle. The guards watched us like hawks and checked our iron bonds every day. And we were weak, with all our efforts aimed at staying alive rather than dreaming up complex escape plans. Any spare moment was devoted to rest and, most precious of all, sleep. Merciful sleep, where one could escape from the nightmare we were living.

The next morning we were woken early, Cookus kicking me awake and forcing me to my feet with his cane. His new cane, which he had obviously acquired while we were resting. He gave me a sharp whack across the face that sent me spinning to the floor. Gafarn and Nergal helped me back up.

‘You like my new stick, pretty boy?’ Cookus grinned maliciously at me. He reeked of ale; obviously he had been drinking heavily last night. He spat in my face then turned around and started barking orders to his men.

‘Get these bastards moving. It’s a long march to Nola and I want to be back here within the week.’

We were roughly organised into a long column, three abreast, and then our guards used their shields to shove us out of the warehouse and onto the road. Dawn was just breaking, but already the port was bustling with activity. After half an hour we had left the city and were on the road. Roman roads were a marvel to behold, and even in my debilitated state I could appreciate the engineering that had gone into them. The road itself was made up of flagstones laid side by side, with well-tended verges on either side that were flanked by ditches, for drainage I assumed. The road itself was around thirty feet wide, the verges ten feet wide or thereabouts. Curiously, only people were walking on the road, donkeys and their carts were travelling on the verges. I had no idea why this was, but I was thankful that the road, arrow straight, was at least not taxing to walk on and also that the day was still cool. Myself, Nergal and Gafarn trudged at the front of our ragged column, while ahead of us strode Cookus and half a dozen of his men. Guards were positioned on each flank of the column.

To our right was the sea, while on our left rose a massive hump-backed mountain the like of which I had never seen before. It was like a huge green tent with a flat top, and I could not but help stare at it. We had left the port and were tramping on a road in a lush green landscape. There were large fields on our left that were filled with workers, slaves no doubt. The chains that held our ankles dragged on the flagstones, producing a metallic shuffling sound. The sound was melodic, almost trance-inducing. But then I was awakened from my daydream by the sound of screams. At first they were muffled, but as we continued on our journey they became louder, and then I saw why. Ahead, about a quarter of a mile, a cross had been erected by the side of the road, upon which an individual was writhing in agony. As we got closer I could see that a soldier was frantically nailing the man’s feet to a block of wood that was attached to the vertical part of the cross. The impaled man screamed in agony with each blow of the hammer, as the nail was driven deeper into the block of wood. When the soldier had finished we were only a hundred yards or so from the scene, and I could see that another man was lying on the ground, his arms held in place by two more soldiers against a wooden crosspiece. The Roman in charge, who wore the same type of helmet as Cookus, halted the proceedings as his fellow centurion greeted him.

‘Salve, friend, Centurion Cookus delivering this bunch of rogues to the estate of Legate Tremelius at Nola. What’s this, a bit of sport?’

The other centurion ambled over and the two men clasped arms in greeting.

‘Centurion Sextus. Runaways from Capua. We found them yesterday and were ordered to plant them here’

‘Capua?’ said Cookus ‘That’s a long way from here.’

‘There’s a whole band of them camped on Vesuvius up there,’ Sextus pointed to the flat-topped mountain. ‘I’m here with Praetor Caius Glaber to wipe them out.’

The crucified man was moaning in pain, which seemed to annoy Sextus. He pointed at the soldier holding the hammer.

‘Put another one in his feet if he wants to annoy us with his voice.’

Clearly sadism was inherent in all centurions. The soldier reached into a bag that hung from his belt and fished out a long nail that had a mushroom-type head, then held it against the bloody foot of the victim and hit it hard with the hammer. The air was filled with an ear-piercing shriek as the iron was driven through the man’s foot into the wood. The man screamed again and again as the grinning soldier hit the nail on the head, the iron being driven expertly into the foot until the head was compressed against the bloody pulp. Convulsions gripped the victim and he shook violently, which only increased the pain in his pierced feet and arms. Blood streamed down the cross from his feet. I was revolted but transfixed by the horror that was unfolding before me. Sextus looked at the other man who was being held on the ground.

‘Gag him first, I’ve got a headache and I don’t want his screams making it any worse. Where are you camping tonight, Cookus?’

‘By the road, looks like.’

‘Why don’t you camp with us?’ asked Sextus. ‘There are six cohorts below the summit, so there’s enough food and wine for you and your men. The garrison of Rome eats well, I can assure you.’

‘Six cohorts of the garrison of Rome?’ Cookus was clearly surprised. ‘For a bunch of runaways?’

‘Not ordinary runaways,’ they had begun to nail the other man to his crosspiece, his screams of pain being clearly audible despite his gag. ‘This lot are gladiators and they know how to fight. They’ve already killed the Capua police sent to fetch them back, and a few citizens unlucky enough to cross them.’

The new victim was hoisted into place beside his unfortunate comrade by means of ropes, the cross slamming down into a hole dug into the roadside verge. Thus it was that as we were marched away, two forlorn figures played out a grisly dance of death beneath a merciless Roman sun. Most of us Parthians had seen crucifixion before; indeed, it had been invented in the east, and were not unduly troubled by its proximity. No doubt the thought had flashed through everyone’s mind that they would suffer the same fate — it had certainly gone through mine. After another hour’s walking we came to a dirt track that led off the road to the left, up towards the large mountain that dominated the landscape. We followed this track for another two miles or so, the sun now beating down on us and causing us to sweat. Our pace slackened, though the guards did not use their fists or spear shafts to quicken the pace. They and Cookus seemed in good spirits, and as we crested a small hillock I understood why.

In front of us was a Roman camp, containing line upon line of neatly arranged tents. It had been laid out with precision beside the track and there must have been hundreds of tents, most small, some large and ornate, covering dozens of acres. The whole camp was surrounded by a freshly dug earth rampart about a man’s height, with a ditch on the outer slope of the rampart from where the earth had been dug. Guards stood on the rampart every ten paces or so, their red shields resting on the earth and the men facing outwards. A gap in the rampart indicated the camp’s entrance, which was flanked by more guards. I had to admit it was an impressive site, and had I been in better physical shape I might have appreciated it more. As it was, I just wanted to collapse on the ground and rest.

We were herded off the track and made to sit in a field just outside the camp — obviously no one wanted us inside. After talking and laughing with Sextus, Cookus came over to where we were sitting. We had no shade, water or food. My mouth felt parched. As usual, the centurion singled me out, shoving his cane under my chin and painfully dragging me to my feet.

‘This, pretty boy,’ he said, pointing with his cane at the camp, ‘is the might of Rome. While your mother was whelping you in a stinking mud hut, Rome’s legions were conquering bastard heathens such as you. And now, son of a whore, you will live out your miserable life serving her. You and all the rest of you. Tonight I intend to get very drunk with my comrades of the garrison of Rome, and tomorrow I will deliver your stinking hide to your new master.’

He whipped the cane across the side of my face, splitting my nose and sending blood shooting over my face. The pain made me feel as though I was going to throw up. My knees buckled, but before I collapsed he grabbed my hair and yanked my bloody face to face him. ‘Or perhaps I will crucify you tomorrow. Over there, on the rampart, where everyone can see.’ He grinned and let me go. I collapsed in a heap at his feet. He delivered a sharp kick to my back before he turned and marched off. I lay on my side and felt blood trickle down my face. I was so very weak.

‘Try to rest, highness.’ Gafarn looked at me with some concern.

‘It’s all right, Gafarn,’ I said. ‘I’ll live.’ But I no longer believed that.

My men and the rest of the captives were lying or sitting on the ground, a sad, miserable collection of humanity wrapped in chains. I heard crying and turned my head to see two guards prodding a lifeless body with the butts of their spears shafts. A woman was weeping over the obviously dead individual. A friend, a relative, a husband? The Romans unchained the corpse and hauled it away — just another dead slave. In stark contrast, the sounds of merriment and laughter coming from the camp filled the air. The Romans were obviously enjoying their slave hunting. I was totally drained of energy, made worse by the fact that I had had nothing to eat or drink since early morning. The blood had stopped running down my face now. That was my last thought as I drifted into sleep.

I was woken by Nergal and Gafarn shaking me roughly.

‘Wake up, highness.’ As I regained consciousness I was aware of the alarm in his voice. It was dark — I must have been asleep for a long while — and my arms and legs felt heavy. My back ached, but then my heart started to pound as I heard the familiar sounds of combat. The sharp smack of metal against metal, the shrieks and yelps of men being cut down, and the whinnying of frightened horses and the smell of leather, sweat and blood in the air.

‘Get me up,’ I said, and Nergal and Gafarn hauled me to my feet.

My men were also on their feet, along with the rest of the captives, though they were scared and some were wailing in alarm. I tried to understand what was going on. In the darkness it was difficult, but it was obvious that the camp was not being assaulted; rather, the battle seemed to be taking place within its confines. Some of the tents were on fire, producing a red glow that shone on our faces and cast a supernatural pall over everything. Then the first runaways appeared, legionaries fleeing from inside the camp through the gap in the earth rampart. Frightened men, without weapons or mail shirts, stumbling and falling as they fled the source of their terror. One soldier, obviously wounded, staggered towards us, a sword held in his right hand.

‘‘Over here, soldier,’ I shouted.

‘Highness?’ said Nergal.

‘When he gets close, use your manacles to beat him to the ground.’

‘I hope your trick works,’ remarked Gafarn.

‘So do I,’ I replied.

The legionary wove a haphazard path towards me. He was obviously disorientated and scared.

‘It’s fine, I said, ‘just come to us. Everything will be fine.’

The sword was still by his side as he reached me, his eyes bulging with terror.

‘They just came out of the dark, we didn’t stand a chance, I…’

He said no more as Gafarn, Nergal and Byrd swung their chains in his face, smashing him off his feet. I lunged at him and snatched the sword from his grasp. He was probably unconscious as I plunged the tip of the blade down hard into his throat, causing blood to shoot upwards. We took the dead soldier’s knife attached to his belt and tried to free ourselves from our bonds using it and the sword. The ends of the iron bars through our wrist and ankle shackles had been hammered flat on an anvil, though, which meant they would have to be cut with a chisel on an anvil to break them. We were trapped still. By now the sounds of slaughter filled the air as men were being cut down. Individuals began to appear on the ramparts, not soldiers but men dressed in rags and cloaks and wielding axes, spears and swords. One jumped down and caught a legionary with a vicious swing of his axe that took the man’s head clean off. Then a legionary, his clothes aflame, careered past us waving his arms wildly as the heat peeled off his flesh. This night was filled with horror, which transfixed us all. A figure ran up to me, his face blackened with soot and his eyes wild. He carried a huge sword, which he swung around expertly with his right arm. He stopped and saw our chains.