The Parthian (17 page)

‘Have no fear, brothers, we will be back for you.’

Then he went back to killing Romans. The sounds of battle, which had begun at the far end of the camp as muffled noises, now increased in volume and swept around us as the attackers made it to the camp entrance near where we were standing. Individuals were cutting down Romans, wielding their weapons with dexterity and ease, each of them seemingly an expert at close-quarter combat. We were cheering wildly by now, cheering every time a Roman skull was cleaved in two or a legionary’s stomach was ripped open. It was as if the gods had descended from heaven and were wreaking vengeance. Then I saw him. Cookus, my tormentor during the past few weeks. Cookus, bare headed and wearing only a tunic and sandals, staggering around in confusion. Was he drunk or suffering from the effects of a wound? I could not tell.

‘Centurion Cookus,’ I shouted. He turned and looked in my direction, unsure as to who was hailing him.

‘Centurion Cookus, you miserable piece of filth.’ He was in no doubt who was shouting at him now. His eyes narrowed to slits as his gaze locked on me.

‘What’s the matter, Roman dog, frightened of a slave now you haven’t got your guards to back you up.’

He spat and strode towards me and I saw that he had a sword in his right hand. ‘So, you speak our language, pretty boy. I was going to kill you anyway, but it might as well be tonight rather than tomorrow.’

‘It is the language of the sewer, the place where you and all your kind were born.’ I was relishing insulting him. I felt ten feet tall because of it. Was I mad? Probably.

He was totally oblivious to the slaughter that was going on around him, as was I to a certain extent. This was between him and me. Like all bullies he had an unshakeable belief in his own superiority, and like all bullies he was to prove a paper tiger when someone faced up to him on an equal basis. Equal? In his eyes I was a beaten, broken and chained slave, so he could not lose. It was unthinkable that a Roman, the masters of the world, could be humbled by a slave.

As he neared me he raised his sword above his head. He was going to swing it and slice my skull in two. One swing and that would be the end of me. But in his rage and arrogance he had failed to spot that I too had a sword, a short Roman sword like his, which I had in my right hand but which I had kept tight to my right leg. Before he cut me down I lunged with as much effort as I could muster and thrust the sword forward. I used both hands because my wrists were chained to each other.

It was not the expression of pain that was etched across Cookus’ face when the blade went effortlessly into his stomach to the hilt, more surprise, with perhaps a hint of disappointment. For an instant I thought that he was still going to bring his blade down onto my head, but he just seemed to sigh, then cough. He tried to speak, but though his mouth opened a little nothing came out. My men behind me were silent. Cookus looked down to where my hands clasped the grip of the sword, which were now being covered by his blood that was pumping out of his stomach. I yanked the blade from his body and he still stood there, though his hand released the sword and his arm fell limp by his side. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest as I took deep gulps of air. I screamed and swung the sword low at his legs, cutting into his left thigh. He collapsed on the ground. Then I was on him, thrashing wildly at his head and torso with my sword, hacking chunks of flesh out of his face, neck and shoulders. He was dead but it didn’t matter. I wanted to cut him into little pieces to erase all memory of him from the earth. As I slashed at his corpse I also shouted at it.

‘I am Prince Pacorus, son of King Varaz of Hatra, a lord of the Parthian Empire and a son of the Arsacid dynasty. We are masters of the east, conquerors of the steppes and horse lords. And you are Roman filth not fit to lace our boots. You miserable vermin, I will kill a thousand of you before I have washed your filth from my body and can go back to my land. We are Parthians, Roman, and no Roman army will ever conquer us. Hatra will stand for a thousand years and more, and she will see Rome ground into the dust.’

I swung with fury, aware only of the bloody pulp that lay before me. But I was also aware of Nergal’s voice, which seemed faint as though far away.

‘Highness, highness,’ he was saying.

I stopped my thrashing and saw that I was covered in blood, though it wasn’t my own. I turned to look at Nergal.

‘What?’ I snapped.

But he and Gafarn were staring ahead, as were all of my men. I turned to see what they were looking at. In front of us, arranged in a loose semi-circle, was a large group of warriors, all looking at me. I raised myself up and stood before them, the sword still in my hand. Others were joining the group, some armed with swords, others with spears and axes. A few carried torches to illuminate the scene. I suddenly noticed that there was almost no sound now. The battle, if it was ever a battle, was over. The odd scream and moan pierced the night air, but quickly disappeared as a soldier was killed or a wounded man was put out of his misery. Parts of the camps were still on fire, which produced a red backdrop to the figures that stood before us. My eyes were drawn to one man in particular, who stood in the centre of the group, a few paces in front of the others. Tall, bare headed, his expression was one of unyielding determination. His eyes were fixed on me. His chiselled face had a strong jawline and he had broad shoulders under his mail shirt. His arms were thick and muscular, which made the Roman short sword he was holding seem small, like a toy. His tunic reached to just above his knees, and his shins were protected by silver greaves. I felt that he was studying me, weighing me up to determine his next course of action. His hair was cropped short, like all Romans. But was he a Roman? His dark eyes were boring into me, like a cobra does with a rabbit before it strikes. I glanced left and right and saw that others were also looking at him, waiting for his orders. They were fearsome lot, with blood on their weapons and bloodlust in their faces. But their leader held them in check by. By what? For he had not spoken. By his will, I guessed, the same will that was now looking into my soul.

My heart was still pounding in my chest. The silence was excruciating. I decided to break it, even though it might cost me my life. I looked at their leader, this fearsome man of stone who stood before me.

‘Who are you? What do you want?’

He took a few steps forward until he was but a few paces from me, his piercing eyes looking momentarily away from mine to glance at my sword that I held at my side. Then he fixed me with his iron stare.

‘I am Spartacus.’

Then I passed out.

Chapter 5

I
spent five days lying in a cot in a Roman tent, a tent made of oiled calfskin. It smelt pleasant enough, and the cot I lay in was low but had a mattress admirably stuffed with hay. I liked the aroma of the dried grass as it reminded me of a stable, and my thoughts turned to home. The first four days I spent drifting in and out of unconsciousness. On the fifth day a doctor, or at least I assumed he was a doctor, visited me and tended to my wounds. He reassured me that the injury to my nose was only superficial and that it would heal without leaving any scars or being misshapen. I have to confess that my vanity was relieved by his assurance.

‘I can’t say the same about your back, though,’ he said after examining the whip marks. His voice was slightly high-pitched and he appeared agitated. ‘I have given your slave, er, your friend, some ointments which must be applied every four hours. The wounds will heal, but you will have some permanent marks on your back. Nothing too gruesome. Well, if that is all I will take my leave of you. Good day.’

He was obviously keen to be away.

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I am in your debt.’

The doctor cleared his throat. ‘All debts have been settled. Goodbye.’

Then he was gone. Gafarn entered the tent, the front flaps of which were open to provide some ventilation. He was carrying a tray of bottles.

‘Medicine, highness, for your wounds. This lot must have cost a lot of money. What is the currency in these parts?’

‘I have no money.’

‘I know that,’ he said, putting down the tray on the small table beside the cot. ‘So does he, but the big man fetched him and gave him gold.’ He sat down in a small chair the other side of the table and stretched out his legs.

‘I’ve got some porridge cooking outside, should be ready in a few minutes. Got to get your strength back up. Now,’ he picked out a bottle and uncorked it. ‘This is to be rubbed into your back every four hours, apparently. Smells nice.’

He started to apply the ointment, which had a sweet smell but felt cool on my skin.

‘Who’s the big man?’ I asked.

‘You know, their leader. What’s his name? Spartacus.’

‘Why do you call him the big man?’

‘Well, he’s bigger than you for a start, and for another he’s seems to be the head man of this little group. Slaves, or most of them are.’

‘What?’ for some reason I was outraged.

‘Nothing wrong with slaves. After all, you have been tended by one for years, and you yourself were one, for a while at least.’ I went to raise myself up but he forced me back down. ‘Lie still. Actually, they are gladiators.’

‘Gladiators?’

‘Yes,’ he applied more ointment to my shoulders. ‘Apparently they fight to the death in an arena.’

‘I know what a gladiator is.’

‘Of course you do,’ he said. ‘Anyway, turns out that they escaped from their school and ended up here, luckily for you, and me.’

I was finding it hard to stay awake, so after I had eaten a dish of porridge I slept again. Over the next few days I at last began to recover my strength. I shaved the beard off my face and Gafarn brought me a change of clothes — light brown trousers, red linen tunic and leather boots.

‘They’re Roman,’ he said as I fastened the fine leather belt around my waist. ‘Thought you might want to keep this.’ He hand me a dagger in a beautiful silver sheath. It looked familiar but I didn’t know why.

‘It belonged to that bastard centurion who gave you a hard time.’

‘Cookus,’ I said involuntarily. I pulled the blade from its sheath. The brass handle and steel blade were of the highest quality. ‘I’ll keep it,’ I said as I slammed the blade back in place and attached the sheath to my belt.

I walked outside and was greeted by my men, who gave a cheer and closed around me. It was good to see them and in truth I found it difficult to hold back the tears. They looked well, having lost their chains and having been groomed and fed. They did look odd, though — they were all dressed in Roman uniforms and could have been Romans had it not have been for their long hair. After I had embraced each one I suddenly realised that I did not recognise my surroundings. As I looked beyond our group I saw that we were in a vast rock bowl, with sheer sides all the way round, the ground we stood on being carpeted by grass and the rock face covered in foliage, though what kind I could not tell. I saw there was but one gap in the tall rock wall, a V-shaped ingress through which a steady stream of individuals were coming and going.

‘It is called Mount Vesuvius, highness,’ said Nergal, anticipating my question.

‘Vesuvius?’

‘The mountain we saw when we were captives, just before we were rescued.’

‘After you passed out the gladiators stripped the Roman camp bare and brought everything here,’ said Gafarn. ‘They released us from our chains and invited us to accompany them to this place. I’ve picked up a few words of Latin. They said it would be safer. We carried you and others of our party who were too weak to walk.’

At that moment one of the gladiators sauntered up. He was dressed in the uniform of a Roman soldier, but was bare headed and had a spear and shield only, no sword. He looked at me for a few seconds; I assumed he was weighing me up in his mind. His arms were bare and I could see that he carried scars on both. He saw that I had spotted them.

‘Momentos of my time in the arena.’ His accent was strange, guttural and vulgar. ‘Spartacus will see you now. Follow me.’

Without waiting for my reply he turned and strode off. Nergal shrugged. I nodded to him and Gafarn and then followed my guide. I caught up with him and walked beside him as he maintained a steely gaze ahead. He obviously felt no compunction to say anything and I had little interest in engaging him in conversation. All around were tents similar to the one I had been recovering in, and I noticed that they were all arranged in neat lines and rows. To my right I could see groups of men being drilled, with figures shouting and barking orders at the recruits. I would have liked to see more but my guide walked briskly, past pens full of pigs and goats, forges with white-hot fires where burly leather-aproned men were hammering red-hot iron bars on anvils, and past stables where men were grooming horses. We eventually arrived at a tent that was larger than the others, and which was positioned, as far as I could tell, in the middle of the camp. It was taller than the height of a man and the two front flaps were tied back to reveal the interior, which comprised a large-rectangular space, on the right-hand of which was a large table at which sat three figures. The entrance was flanked by two guards dressed as Roman soldiers, each one armed with a spear and shield. My guide gestured for me to enter and then left. I stepped inside the tent, the roof of which was supported by three thick poles arranged in a line down the middle. I recognised the man who sat in the middle, it was the one they called Spartacus. He wore a simple mail shirt over a red tunic. His gaze was as I remembered it — piercing, alert. He was obviously a man of some intelligence, not given to rashness but more calculating. I estimated his age to be around thirty, maybe older. He extended his right arm and invited me to sit in a leather chair that was on the other side of the table. I eased myself into the chair and stretched out my legs. My limbs still ached, and I was glad to be able to take the weight off them. I looked at the two men who flanked Spartacus. On his right side sat a man with a long face, brown eyes and a full head of brown hair, which was cut to just above his neck. His beard was neatly trimmed, his grey eyes staring at me intently. He wore a simple blue tunic, his hands folded across his chest. I put his age at about twenty-five. The one to the left of Spartacus was a bear of a man, a wild-looking individual of the same age or thereabouts with an untidy mass of long, red hair. On each side of his face were long plaits that rested on his huge chest. He had no beard, but rather a long, thick moustache that had plaited ends. His head was massive, as were his arms that were bare and shot out from either side of his green tunic. At his throat he wore a thick silver torque, with smaller silver bands around his wrists. He looked at me with disdain with his blue eyes, no doubt weighing me up as he did an opponent in the arena.