The Parthian (65 page)

Spartacus had never told them that they could topple Rome itself, but many must have dreamed so. They had, after all, smashed every Roman army that had been sent against them. Did Rome have any more armies left? Victory was intoxicating, addictive, especially to those who had only experienced the bitter taste of slavery. Even if many of them suspected that their adventure would eventually end in defeat, every one of them knew that it was indeed better to die on one’s feet than live on their knees.  

Chapter 15

I
often thought of that summer’s day, the day when we had seemed invincible. We would march south, attack Rome itself perhaps, cower our enemies into submission and treat Italy as if she were our plaything. Everything seemed possible. Even my fellow Parthians had become intoxicated by victory and believed themselves to be immortal. Nergal, loyal Nergal, forgot about Hatra and could think only of sweeping Romans before him with the wild-haired Praxima riding beside him. He and his company commanders drank and boasted of how they had destroyed the armies of Rome. Burebista dreamed of leading his Dacians into Rome and torching the city, and thereafter laying a host of captured legionary eagles in the great forum itself. How the Romans diminished in size at the end of that summer; whereas our legions stood as titans astride the Roman world, and the mightiest titan of all was Spartacus, our general. Our undefeated leader who had become like a god to many of our troops. And in the intoxication of victory all thoughts of crossing the Alps disappeared. The truth was that in our desire to reach northern Italy no one had thought of how we would actually cross the mountains, and once over them what route we would travel. It mattered not now, for the undefeated army was not dissolving but was going to inflict further torments on the enemy.

We marched south in high spirits, wanting the Romans to fight us again so we could defeat them once more. The battles that we had fought, brutal bouts that had been long, bloody affairs, in the minds of many became easy routs that were over in a matter of minutes. How the memory quickly erases reality and blocks out unpleasantness. We marched west and then south, sweeping down the east coast of Italy, making use once more of well-engineered Roman roads. I got restless marching with the army, which for the cavalry involved guarding the flanks, covering the rear and scouting ahead for any signs of the enemy. All very important tasks, but ones that could be done by a handful of horsemen and not hundreds. Trudging along on foot, amidst a constant cloud of fine dust thrown up by thousands of people and animals, with our horses beside us, was both boring and irritating. The army, strung out over many miles, barely covered ten miles a day, and my mood darkened considerably when Godarz informed me that Sicily was around four hundred miles away. He was in his element, of course, organising columns of march, being kept informed daily of food supplies, the quantity of spare horse shoes, the number of sick animals, allocating teams to drive and repair carts and wagons, and all the other myriad of duties that were essential to keeping the army functioning. His staff of clerks and quartermasters grew.

‘Organisation is a necessary evil, Pacorus,’ he reminded me.

It was early, just after dawn, and he had barely finished briefing his subordinates on the coming day’s march, which would begin in three hours following the dismantling of the massive camp in which everyone slept during the night, even my cavalry. I was visiting him because Nergal had complained to me that he had commandeered two of his companies of horse archers to hunt down wild boar for food, and another company to plunder the countryside of any cattle they came upon.

‘That may be, but my men are not farmers, Godarz, to be set gathering the harvest.’

He handed me a piece of bread and cheese. The cheese was strong and firm, the bread appeared freshly baked. 

‘No, they are not, but at the moment they and their horses do nothing but eat rations. Might as well have them doing something useful to earn their keep.’

‘You should have asked me first.’

‘And what would you have said?’

‘I would have agreed with you.’

He grinned. ‘Excellent! Please inform Nergal of your decision.’

‘I would prefer that you speak to me first before you send my cavalry out on food-gathering expeditions.’

‘This may come as a surprise to you,’ he remarked, stiffly, ‘but men and horses eat a lot of food, as do princes and their betrothed. It is quite amazing how much Gallia and her women consume. Looking at their frames you would never think so.’

‘That may also be, but get my permission first.’

But he was right, of course, and during the next few days I agreed that more horsemen should be sent out to undertake foraging duties. Byrd and his men were riding far and wide, and I only saw him occasionally. I decided that I too would partake of a little scouting, and selected a hundred men from my dragon. I told Spartacus that I was going to spread a little terror among the Romans. He was walking as usual, like a common soldier, with Claudia beside him. It always struck me as strange that they did not ride, but then he said that he preferred to fight on his two feet as he had done in the Roman Army, in the arena and now as a free man. 

‘You should try it some time.’

‘I did try it, when we killed Gallia’s father. I found it limiting. In any case, Parthians prefer to fight on horseback, lord.’

‘That’s because if things turn bad they can flee faster than everyone else,’ quipped Akmon, mischievously. 

‘Only the enemies of Parthia flee,’ I reminded him.

‘Ha. You hear that Spartacus. There speaks a man whose homeland has never been touched by the enemy’s sword.’ Akmon looked at me. ‘I used to think that, but the Romans taught me otherwise.’

‘That’s very glum, Akmon,’ said Claudia, ‘and its’ such a nice day.’

Akmon spat, looked at the sky and shrugged.  It was a pleasant day, true enough, though Claudia appeared exceptionally happy today. Gallia and Diana had joined me and they were walking either side of her, the mad Rubi, in a world of her own, trailing in their wake. I noticed that she kept glancing at Spartacus, who smiled back at her like a naughty boy. Most strange.

‘Why don’t you tell them?’ he said. ‘They are our friends, after all.’ 

Claudia blushed, and then linked arms with Gallia and Diana. ‘I’m pregnant.’

They kissed and embraced her, while I offered my hand to Spartacus. ‘That is truly wondrous news, lord. My congratulations.’ Rubi jumped up and down in delight, though she knew not why.

He slapped me hard on the shoulder, almost knocking me over. ‘Thank you, Pacorus.’

‘When is the birth?’ asked Gallia.

‘Spring next year,’ replied Claudia, embracing Diana who had tears in her eyes. 

The news of Claudia’s pregnancy spread like wildfire throughout the army and its morale soared accordingly. It was reckoned a good omen, for the son of Spartacus would be an even mightier warrior than his father, and would surely be blessed by the gods. Whether that was true or not, that autumn the whole army seemed to be blessed. We raided far and wide, often reaping a rich haul, for this was harvest time when vineyards yielded grapes for central Italy’s crop of red wines and olive groves heaved with fruit. The country estates teemed with slaves who were stripping grapes from their vines, carrying them in baskets to the end of each row of trees and then heaving them into carts. I took Gallia with me as part of my company. She had wanted to lead her women to make up another party but I forbade her. I had visions of her and her women being ambushed, raped and then crucified and the thought terrified me. So I said she could accompany me but that her women must stay with the army. I even increased the number of men who rode with me to two hundred to ensure her safety, and also made sure that they were the best archers and swordsmen in my dragon. 

The countryside of central Italy was beautiful that autumn, with misty olive groves interweaved with rows of cypresses and vineyards covering gently undulating hills. And always in the background were the mountains with their lush alpine meadows, streams and tracts of savage wilderness. Nearer the coast were thick forests and marshland, the woodlands filled with wild boar and wolves. We camped hidden in the trees at night, and in the dawn light visited fire and sword upon unsuspecting towns and villages. It was easy enough. Two of Byrd’s scouts accompanied us, and on their mangy horses they would ride to a habitation the previous day, taking note of any walls or barriers that might impede our assault. Frequently there were none; indeed, often there was no official Roman presence at all. The cities and big towns had their walls and garrisons, but we weren’t interested in those. We killed any overseers we came across when we raided the large agricultural estates and freed the slaves, giving them directions to the army. Whether any made the journey or merely fled to the hills and woods and became bandits, I do not know. When we attacked we came out of the pre-dawn mist, my huge scarlet banner with its white horse’s head billowing behind me. We carried flaming torches that we tossed into carts, barns and haystacks. We killed only those who offered resistance. Most fled for their lives, clutching a few possessions and some mothers holding infants at their breasts. These we let live. Occasionally a group of men, perhaps veterans who had been granted land by a grateful Roman senate, made a stand against us — a ragged line of men with cracked shields, no helmets and rusty swords and old spears for weapons. They remembered their legionary training well enough, but had no answer to our speed and arrows. We rode round and behind them and shot them to pieces. We torched villas, farms and staging posts for the Roman mail system, always scouring for gold and silver before we did so. We collected a tidy sum of both. But I got bored of striking easy targets and so we ventured towards towns, raiding Luna, Faesulae, Ad Fines, Ad Novas, Vepete and Sahate. I often sent half a dozen riders to the main gates and had them hurl insults at the guards. Then the gates would open and a detachment of riders would gallop out to apprehend them. But my men were merely the bait, and over the crest of a hill or hidden among trees we would be waiting, and the Romans would fall into the trap and would be slaughtered to a man. Or we would burn a large villa, then conceal ourselves and wait for the nearest garrison, who would see the tall columns of black smoke billowing into the sky, to send troops to investigate. And when they arrived we would cut them down from our hiding place with arrows, or charge them on horseback, screaming and yelling. The shock momentarily froze them to the spot, giving us just enough time to reach them and hack them down with our swords before they had chance to organise themselves into formation. 

One of the scouts reported that the city of Arretium, located on a steep hill beside the floodplain of the River Arno, had walls that were half demolished. A local had told him that they had been destroyed during a civil war and had not been repaired. There were four gates into the city, located at the four points of the compass, but on the southern side the walls had been torn down after an army had stormed and sacked it. They had not been repaired. Instead, the masonry had been plundered to erect new dwellings that now stood outside of the original circuit. A rampart of earth had been erected around these new homes with the purpose of building a new wall to encompass the city’s overspill, but the rampart stood neglected. The city authorities had grown lax; but then, they were in the centre of Italy and what threat was nearby?

We camped around five miles from Arretium, in a wooded gully through which ran a stream of fast-flowing, ice-cool water. We lay up during the day and rested. Two hours before dusk, after we had eaten a meal of biscuit and fruit, I gathered everyone in a semi-circle.

‘We ride tonight and attack before dawn.’ I looked at the scout who had visited Arretium, a tall, wiry man in his late twenties with black eyes and an evil grin. His name was Diaolus and he was a Greek. No one knew anything about him except that he had been a slave, but had lived as a bandit before he had joined Byrd’s men. He spoke Latin well and had not been branded, as far as I could tell. I believed he had some sort of an education, but he resisted all attempts to extract information from him.

‘The gates have guards, but they are not always closed at night. The soldiers are fat and lazy and are only interested in bribes.’ He cast a glance at Gallia. ‘And women.’

‘How large is the garrison?’ I asked.

He threw up his hands. ‘Maybe one cohort.’

‘That is more than we are,’ said one of my officers.

Diaolus smiled. ‘But they are lazy cowards and you are warriors.’

‘And you are sure about the earth rampart?’ I said.

He nodded. ‘It is nothing more than a large tussock. It is no barrier at all’

‘Very well,’ I said, ‘that will be our way in. We ride in fast, hit them hard and get out quickly. No bravado, no loitering and no getting into fights. We burn, we kill, we leave.’

Before we left we checked and re-checked weapons, straps on the horses and then the animals themselves, especially their iron shoes. After night had fallen we walked for the first three miles of the journey, moving through waist-high grass, along dirt tracks and through trees. There was no moon and at first it was difficult to follow Diaolus. After a while, though, our eyes grew more accustomed to the night and three hours later we reached the paved road that led to Arretium. The smooth, perfectly dressed flagstones seemed to exude a ghostly glow in the dark, showing us the way to our target. We mounted our horses and rode them on the verge, for the horse shoes on the paving stones would make a racket loud enough to raise the dead. We rode in silence to the city, swinging away from the road half a mile from its walls. Moving parallel to the stone defences, we were soon at the gap in the masonry that Diaolus had spoken of. He had not exaggerated. The wall was missing for at least half a mile, the glow from the night lamps and from within buildings providing an illuminated backdrop. I saw the mound, a gently rising heap of earth, in front of which stood a motley collection of poorly constructed dwellings, hovels in truth. In the east the first rays of dawn were emerging over the high Apennines in the distance, making the clouds glow red and yellow. Soon the city folk would be stirring. It was time to wake them up.