The Parthian (77 page)

I raced up the ladder and through the trapdoor to gain entrance to the platform, which had wicker screens on three sides. Behind these screens archers and legionaries were launching javelins and arrows down upon the army of Spartacus. They were all facing away from me as the others scrambled up the ladder, all that is until one turned to take a javelin from one of the racks that was stacked on the platform. He froze in terror when he saw us, then died as one of my men shot him through the chest with an arrow. Instinctively we strung arrows and loosed them at our targets. Most of the Romans never even knew we were there before we killed them. I pulled a second arrow from my quiver and shouted at those men appearing through the trapdoor.

‘Up, keep going, we have to clear the tower.’

They duly carried on up the second ladder that was just behind where I stood. The last Roman on this platform was killed when one of my men raced up to him and thrust his sword into his groin, and then he grabbed his collapsed form and hurled it through the wicker barrier. I ran to the edge of the platform and stared ahead, transfixed by the sight that greeted my eyes. 

In front of the tower, stretching left and right and into the distance as far as I could see in the darkness, were thousands of soldiers, their shields hoisted horizontally above their heads for protection against the deluge of missiles that was being hurled against them. Dotted among their ranks were burning bundles, which were being fired from the top platforms of the towers. I recognised the smell of sulphur and realised that the Romans were firing incendiary projectiles at the attackers from their catapults, no doubt sulphur mixed with tar, rosin and bitumen. 

I raced up the ladder to the second platform, which had also been cleared, but looked up to discover that the trapdoor leading to the one above had been shut. 

‘Oil, oil,’ I shouted down at those below. ‘Get lots of oil. Move.’

The lamps that lit the platforms were quickly collected and their contents poured over the wicker screens. More lamps were passed up from below, plus anything wooden that could be broken up and used as firewood. This was heaped in the centre of the platform and then also covered in oil. Then we lit the screens and the woodpile and retreated back down the ladders. When we had reached the bottom the second platform had flared into flames, which licked the thick corner supports and then lit the wicker screens of the top platform. Soon, frantic Romans were looking for ways to escape the platform, but the only way was to jump, which meant death. I looked, both fascinated and horrified, as some of the Romans did jump while others waited to be roasted alive. 

‘Back, back to the horses,’ I shouted as the flames engulfed the tower and its wooden supports began to fracture and disintegrate. A few minutes later it collapsed with a mighty crash. We hauled our frightened horses forward and secured ropes to the sharpened logs of the palisade, then tied the other end to our saddles, mounted our horses and then screamed our encouragement as they used their strength to pull each log down. I looked across at the watchtower to my right, which was now in the hands of my men — they had succeeded in taking it with surprise. The tower on my left was also intact and no longer firing at Spartacus’ men. I heard a mighty cheer, and suddenly hordes of men were flooding through the breach made in the palisade, a breach that was widening by the second as more of the palisade was torn down. We had done it, we had beaten the Romans once again. Perhaps we would always achieve easy victories; perhaps we were blessed by the gods. As thousands of troops swept through the breach and headed north, cheering my horsemen as they did so, I began to believe that we were invincible. 

But even in that moment of triumph disaster was unfolding on our left, for the gods can be cruel as well as kind.

Burebista’s companies had charged with fury into the Romans forming up in front of their camp, and his men had cut deep into their ranks, killing and routing century after century. He and his men had never seen so many Romans flee in terror, and so they rode them down, speared them, hacked them with their swords, and the Romans kept on running. The horsemen swept into the camp and began firing the tents, until it was aflame. And while this was going on, Burebista was leading the charge with wild abandon, taking him further and further away from the coast road. But not every Roman was running; indeed, the second legion’s camp two miles to the west was stirring, having been alerted by the sounds of battle and then the red glow of the fires that signalled that the palisade and first legionary camp were under assault. And in the half-light and with heavy snow falling, fresh cohorts formed up to face Burebista and his horsemen. The Dacian, flushed with victory, instead of withdrawing steadily in the face of a wall of locked shields, led a glorious, insane charge against the Romans. I heard later that he was the first to fall, pierced by a javelin that went through his chest. Amazingly, with the enemy spear still through him, he carried on advancing until both horse and rider were cut down by a hail of javelins. At first the horsemen actually stopped the Romans, but they could make no impression upon the locked shields and saddles began to empty under volleys of javelins. Leaderless and taking heavy losses, the horsemen fell back, leaving scores of dead on the snow-covered ground.

While this tragedy was being played out, I was marshalling my dragon to provide a protective screen to allow the army to escape north. As I sent two companies to the west to find Burebista’s men and keep a watch for the enemy, behind me the cohorts of the army marched into the darkness and safety. First came the Thracians and Spaniards, the men who had traversed the obstacles in front of the rampart and palisade, and who must have taken heavy casualties. I was dismounted, instructing one of my company commanders to man the two watchtowers directly to our front with more archers, with Gallia’s women grouped around me, who had become my sort of personal bodyguard. I heard Gallia shout and then saw her vault from her saddle and race away. I turned and saw her embrace Spartacus.

I bowed my head to him. ‘Still alive, then,’ he grinned.

‘Still alive, lord.’

‘Where is Claudia?’ asked Gallia.

‘She’s with Akmon and the carts. They are in the rear of the column.’

‘How long will it take to get everyone out?’

‘Two hours, maybe longer,’ said Spartacus. ‘Can you cover our retreat?’

I nodded. ‘Good. I am going to fetch my wife. Keep watch for the Romans. They’ll know something’s up by now.’

‘Did you lose many, lord?’

A pained expression suddenly crossed his face. ‘Too many. But at least we’re out of the pig pen. Keep safe, Pacorus.’

Then he disappeared into the darkness.

I moved my dragon further to the left, past the burning Roman camp, each man straining to see what was happening ahead. It was perhaps half an hour before the first rider’s of Burebista’s dragon came into view, half companies and individual horsemen, tired and demoralised, the heads of their horses cast down. Many bore wounds to their bodies. I ordered them to go north with the army. I stopped one rider, a Dacian with no helmet whose mail shirt was torn and with blood running down a gashed cheek.

‘Where is Burebista?’

‘Dead, lord. Killed in the first charge.’

I sent him on his way and sat in silence, remembering the brave Dacian who had shared in my victories for the past two years. Now he was a corpse covered in snow. It was with a heavy heart that I covered the retreat of the army, as the first light of a grey dawn signalled the beginning of a new day.

We had escaped the Roman noose, but for how much longer I did not know.

Chapter 18

W
e marched all that day, and the next and the day after that, travelling north along the Popilian Way. We tramped through Bruttium and into Lucania, Spartacus pushing the army hard to get us to safety.

‘If the Romans are moving west from Brundisium, and with Crassus pursuing us from the south, we will be caught in a trap and all our efforts will have been for nothing.’

‘My scouts report nothing on the road to the south, lord.’

‘Keep as many out as possible and as far as possible. The Romans know that they have us on the run and they will scent blood.’

It took us two weeks to reach the River Silarus, the barrier between the provinces of Lucania and Campania. There we found a spot near the upper reaches of the river and made our camp. We at last were able to take stock of our situation. At least the cold weather had abated and the snow had disappeared, leaving a landscape of undulating hills covered in vegetation. The Silarus Valley was known locally as the ‘land of a hundred springs’, and it lived up to its name, with clear, ice-cold water flowing down from the high peaks. Dotted with meadows and woods, the Silarus itself teemed with fish and otters. Spartacus established his camp on the slower, tree-covered slopes of the mountains. I thought it a good position, as no army could approach us from the north as in that direction stood the high peaks of the Apennines, while the east and west were also barred by rocky barriers.

‘It’s a bad position,’ growled Akmon, his usual dour expression made worse by the sword wound to his left shoulder, which he suffered during the breakout from Rhegium. ‘There’s no way out of this valley and we’ll be trapped again.’

‘I have riders out in all directions,’ I said. ‘If the Romans approach to within fifty miles of us we will have plenty of notice.’

‘We need time to rest and reorganise,’ said Castus, who though unwounded looked gaunt and ill, no doubt as a result of half rations during the time at Rhegium.

‘That’s true enough,’ offered Godarz. ‘Our supplies are in a woeful state.’

‘We should be attacking the Romans, not running from them.’ Afranius was his usual arrogant self, and totally oblivious to the position that we were in.

Spartacus had been strangely withdrawn since the breakout. Worried about Claudia, no doubt, but also seemingly weighed down by a great burden. I wondered if it was the realisation that our options were fast disappearing. He looked at Afranius.

‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you. A final, heroic battle in which you can throw the rest of your men’s lives away in a fruitless display of idiocy.’

Afranius stood up. He may have been headstrong, but he did not lack for courage. ‘My men and I have shed blood for this army. It was not I who led it into a trap at Rhegium. Perhaps it is time for a new leader.’

There were gasps around the table at his words. Spartacus merely sighed and slowly rose to his feet. Afranius stood his ground, the two men facing each other across the table. One small and stocky, the other tall and muscular and immovable like a rock. Spartacus drew his sword and threw it on the table.

‘If you want to lead this army you will have to kill me, Afranius. There is my sword. Use it or your own, but do it quickly. Otherwise, take your seat.’

Our general stared intently at Afranius, not blinking once, his face expressionless like stone, as the younger man crumbled before Spartacus’ presence, first licking his lips, then looking round at each of us nervously, before regaining his seat. Spartacus retrieved his sword and did the same, then nodded at Godarz.

‘Pay attention, Afranius, you might learn something,’ he said, sliding his sword back into its scabbard.

Godarz then gave us a summary of the army’s current state. ‘We lost five thousand men at Rhegium and during the breakout, many succumbing to the cold and disease as well as to Roman weapons, with another two thousand seriously wounded. And not forgetting those lost when the Spaniards attacked Crassus by way of a diversion.’ I glanced at Afranius, who was actually blushing, his eyes downcast. ‘Of the wounded, less than half will be able to carry a weapon in the next two months. Prince Pacorus,’ he nodded at me, ‘lost a further eight hundred horsemen and a similar number of horses during the breakout. He has an additional three hundred men recovering from wounds of varying severity.

‘We consumed all our cattle, pigs and goats at Rhegium, and are therefore relying on our supplies of grain, which will last three weeks, plus any food we can take from the surrounding country. Prince Pacorus has his own supplies for the horses, which are enough to last for a month.’

‘We are raiding into Campania,’ I added, ‘gathering any food we can.’

Spartacus stretched back in his chair. ‘So you see, Afranius, if we don’t find enough food the Romans won’t have to kill us, as starvation will do that for them.’

After the meeting I walked with Akmon, as Afranius strode past us, heading for where his Spaniards were located.

‘That little bastard’s on thin ice,’ said Akmon.

‘I fear we all are.’

‘You do not trust Spartacus?’

‘With my life,’ I replied, ‘but there are still three Roman armies converging on us, and I don’t think we are in any position to fight even one at the moment.’

Our position over the next two weeks improved somewhat, however, as I sent parties of horse into Campania, towards Picentoni, Salernum, Paestum and Pompeii. They reaped a rich haul of foodstuffs, and effectively emptied the area of cattle and goats, which they were herded back to our camp in the hills. There was still no news of the army of Crassus.

A month had passed when Byrd rode into camp on a beautiful spring afternoon. We had established the cavalry camp in the hills on the opposite side of the River Silarus from the main camp, in a pleasant area between the trees of the slopes and the river itself. The plain through which the river ran was wide and bisected by a number of small streams, which provided fresh water for both horses and riders. We had set up a shooting range plus workshops for repairing bows and making fresh arrows, and I was practising with Gafarn and Gallia when my chief scout appeared, dressed in a shabby tunic and with a threadbare cloak around his shoulders. His horse as usual looked dreadful, with a matted mane and hooves that needed filing. He dismounted and bowed his head as Gafarn put an arrow through the middle of mine in the centre of the target.

‘We are trying to preserve arrows,’ I said to him.