The Parthian (38 page)

‘Who, the Romans?’ I asked.

‘No,’ said Claudia, ‘the Gauls.’

‘It was Forum Annii all over again, only much worse,’ said Spartacus. ‘Metapontum has ceased to exist.’

Claudia rested her hand on his arm. ‘They brought it open themselves, my love. There was nothing you could have done.’

Her husband agreed, but he seemed particularly morose. But perhaps that was due to the wine. We slept in his tent that night and in the morning I washed and groomed Remus. Claudia came to me as I was brushing his shoulders.

‘Crixus grows ever more bold,’ she said, stroking my horse’s side. ‘That is why Spartacus is unhappy. Romans mean nothing to him, but he thinks that Crixus will challenge him for control of the army.’

‘Do you want me to kill Crixus?’ I asked, ‘for nothing would give me greater pleasure.’

She threw her head back and laughed. ‘That would be one solution, but I don’t think even you, my brave Parthian prince, can kill ten thousand Gauls single-handed.’

‘Ten thousand?’ I was surprised at the number.

‘His numbers grow large, and with each increase Crixus becomes more powerful. I fear he will split the army apart.’

‘But he and Spartacus have the same objective, do they not?’

She shook her head. ‘Crixus dreams of being a king, here in southern Italy. He has no interest in returning to Gaul, where he lived in a stone hut in a small village.’

‘He does not speak for all the Gauls, surely.’

‘As long as he gives them victory they will follow them,’ she said. ‘But the strategy and the victories are Spartacus’, not his. Crixus is very good at killing, little else.’

She was right, and I could see how Spartacus had unwittingly created a monster in his midst.

Metapontum was worse than Forum Annii, if that was possible. Because the Gauls had entered the city via the canal, the citizens had no method of escape. The result was wholesale slaughter, and because his fellow countryman had been beheaded by the townsfolk Crixus ordered that every man, woman and child in Metapontum should suffer the same fate. I rode with Spartacus, Akmon, Nergal and Burebista into the city the next day, when the gates had been finally opened. The streets were filled with the dead, whose heads had been hacked off. The main street into the city was awash with blood, which had also been smeared on the walls of buildings. Blood-smeared Gauls sat on the pavements or rested against walls, exhausted by a day and evening of killing and looting. Smashed pottery, clothes and personal items were strewn everywhere, while from balconies and rooftops hung corpses. Because they had had their heads cut off, the bodies could not be strung up by their necks, so ropes had been tied to their ankles or wrists to facilitate then being hoisted up. The result was a grotesque display of flesh, like a giant butcher’s shop where the goods on display were human carcasses. I rode beside Spartacus, who sat stony faced in the saddle and said nothing as we made our way to the forum. The horrors of the streets were as nothing compared to what greeted our eyes when we arrived at the city’s central square, where stood a huge pile of severed heads. There must have been thousands of them, a dreadful mound of leering visages with tongues hanging out and eyes closed. Already the stench was overpowering, and Nergal retched in disgust at the sight and the smell.

On the opposite side of the square, sat in a huge chair that had been placed at the top of wide stone steps that led to a temple, was Crixus. Around him were dozens of his men, most lolling on the steps or carrying loot from the place of worship. We dismounted and tied the horses to a stone column. The forum was enclosed on three sides by covered colonnades, with the temple filling the fourth side. Nergal and Burebista stayed with them as Spartacus, myself and Akmon walked over to the king of the Gauls. As usual he was drinking wine but barely acknowledged us as we stopped at the foot of the steps. He looked drunk and tired, as did his men. The orgy of violence had obviously exhausted them.

‘That’ll teach them to cut off the head of one of my men,’ said Crixus, who finally stood up and descended the steps. He was stripped to the waist, his chest and arms smeared with some poor soul’s blood, his cheeks too.

‘We march at dawn tomorrow, with or without you’ said Spartacus curtly.

‘Where?’ queried Crixus.

‘South. We have no use for this region now.’ Spartacus turned and walked briskly back to his horse, mounted it and rode from the forum. We followed. He said nothing more as we left him to join our comrades. Later that day I met with Castus, who as ever was in good spirits. He told me that Spartacus’ plan was to head south into a province called Bruttium, which was a mountainous region considered by the Romans to be a wilderness devoid of decent people and a haven for bandits. We would stay there for the winter and organise the army, then march north in the spring. He told me that the only garrison that might bother us was in a city called Thurii, which would have to be taken.

‘Herdsmen who have joined us have said that its defences are strong, with high, thick walls and catapults mounted on its towers.’

‘We could starve them out,’ I said.

‘Maybe,’ replied Castus, ‘but we need the winter to turn recruits into soldiers, not waste our time laying siege to a place that we can’t take.’

The army marched the next morning, thousands of men and livestock filling the countryside in a huge, dense column that moved slowly south. Spartacus and his Thracians formed the vanguard, marching six abreast, followed by Castus and his Germans and then Crixus and the Gauls. Each contingent had its own mules loaded with food, plus carts filled with spare weapons, shields, mobile forges, kitchen utensils, tents, medicines, clothing and tools. Spartacus had had all the captured gold and silver ornaments and the like melted down and cast into bars, which were loaded onto carts and moved under his personal escort. Gold and silver coins had been placed in bags and placed in a separate cart, and the legionary gold that had been captured in the battle on the plateau was likewise under Thracian protection. The army had certainly reaped a rich harvest when it came to the spoils of war. The weapons, armour and shields that had been taken after the battle had been distributed evenly among the army, but I noticed that there were still many men without helmets, shields, javelins and swords. Some still carried wooden spears with their points fire-hardened and little else. Those who had joined us in Lucania and Apulia were armed only with what they had brought with them, perhaps a dagger and a club. They invariably had nothing on their feet. The cavalry was in an even worse state, for with Burebista’s new recruits we were sadly deficient in horses, weapons and equine furniture. I had nearly two thousand men who wanted to be horsemen, but only twelve hundred horses. The rest walked with the carts and mules on the march, while I tasked Byrd and his scouts to ride ahead of the army and on its flanks to make sure we weren’t surprised. I was still smarting from being caught out by Burebista, and was determined that no enemy would take us unawares.

It was sixty miles from Metapontum to Thurii and it took the army six days to reach its destination. We march along the coastal lowlands, but as we moved south the terrain changed from undulating hills to mountains and a more rugged landscape. We moved through areas rich in vineyards and citrus fruit orchards on the lower slopes of the mountains, while higher up I rode through dense forests of oak, pine, beech and fir trees. These woodlands were thick with game and wolves, while eagles flew overhead. Of people we saw none, though perhaps most had fled on our approach. It was cold on the upper slopes, with snow covering the tops of the mountains.

Finally the army arrived before Thurii, a large port in the coastal plain. Its walls were impressive and must have measured five miles in length, encompassing the whole of the city and the port. There were three gates, one in the northern wall, one in the western wall and one leading to the south. Each gatehouse was protected by two large square towers either side of the two gates, the access to which was across a wooden bridge, as the Romans had dug a deep, wide ditch around the whole city. Spartacus deployed the army around the city on the morning of the seventh day in a show of force, but it elicited no response from the city officials. Troops lined the walls and I could see that catapults were mounted on the towers.

Crixus moved his men up to within a hundred feet of the ditch, and promptly withdrew them when great holes were torn in their ranks by machines mounted on the towers. I was with Spartacus watching the whole sorry episode as what looked like darts shot out from the tops of the towers and into the densely packed Gauls. 

Spartacus shook his head. ‘They are called Scorpion bolt throwers and they can hurl a three-foot dart over five hundred yards. That’s about the range of your bows, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, lord,’ I replied. 

‘The difference being,’ he continued as more Gauls were skewered while pulling back to a safe distance, ‘is that the Scorpion is operated by two men and consists of two wooden arms that are pushed through ropes made of animal sinew. The sinew has been twisted, making it a very powerful spring. The arms are then pulled back by levers, which further increases the tension. The bolt is notched into a large bowstring and then placed in a trough cut in the firing block. Then it’s released. You can see the result.’

‘You have seen these things before?’ I asked.

‘Many times. Each century in a legion usually has one Scorpion attached to it, and there are similar weapons that a legion also deploys in battle.’

‘I saw none on the plateau.’

‘No, strange that. Makes me think that those we killed were freshly raised from veterans who were retired then called back to the standards.’ The Gauls had pulled back to a distance out of the range of the Scorpions and were now taunting the garrison with obscene gestures and exposing their genitals to those on the walls. 

‘Those walls look strong,’ said Spartacus.

‘At least thirty foot high,’ replied Akmon, ‘Perhaps higher. Storming them will be a bloody affair and we’ve got no siege engines.’

‘Even if we did we have no one to operate them,’ said Spartacus, glumly. 

‘With one side open to the sea we also have little hope of starving them into surrender,’ I added to the general despondency.

‘The best we can do for now is to dig a rampart to face their walls and put a wooden palisade on top of it,’ said Spartacus.

In two days the rampart had been erected. The tree-covered slopes of the nearby Sila Mountains provided the materials for the palisade, which was completed within a week. Thereafter little happened. Ships continued to leave and enter the harbour and we continued to train our army. I established the camp for the cavalry five miles south of Thurii at the base of the Sila Mountains. The many streams that cut through the valleys and gullies provided fresh water for the horses and men and kept both man and beast away from the camps around the city, which soon became overcrowded and disease-ridden. As a result, Spartacus pulled the army back and dispersed it to prevent pestilence doing more damage than the Romans. The various contingents took turns in manning the palisade that surrounded the city, though we were excused as Spartacus informed me that it was well known that Parthians were useless in sieges and in any case we had the responsibility of providing an outer screen for the whole army. To this end Byrd and his scouts worked tirelessly in being our eyes and ears. I think Byrd was happiest when he was riding alone far and wide. He rode on a mangy looking horse and carried no weapons save a long dagger. His clothes were threadbare and his appearance scruffy. He reasoned that if he was spotted or captured the Romans would think that he was just a poor traveller, though just as likely they might execute him as a bandit. He had never been a soldier and he never professed any desire to be one, but he and his scouts were happy in the task they performed and I was delighted that he was so diligent in his work. His years spent travelling far and wide in Cappadocia had taught him to read the landscape and it served us well. He and his fifty scouts answered directly to me and paid no attention to anyone else. It annoyed Nergal and amused Burebista, but the arrangement worked and so I left well alone. He had recruited his scouts personally and they were similarly attired, but to his credit Byrd had taught himself Latin and lived with his men. Like him they were outsiders, and that sense of being outcasts bonded them together.

Despite the fact that it was now winter it was still warm during the day, though at night the temperature did drop markedly. And on one particularly cold evening when the wind was blowing off the snow-caped mountains, Byrd rode into camp on his shaggy beast. I was sat on the ground warming myself by a large fire set by Godarz and some of his veterinary officers when he thundered up. He was breathless and his horse was sweating heavily, which drew mutterings of disapproval from Godarz as he inspected the animal and calmed it down. He then ordered that its saddle be removed and the beast be watered and fed, totally ignoring the wishes of its owner. But then, Parthians love their horses above all things and can’t bear to see what they perceive as mistreatment. Byrd was indignant.

‘Horse fine, he no need food. I feed him.’

‘Obviously not enough by the look of him,’ sneered Godarz as the horse was led away. ‘I doubt he has been groomed for a week, it’s a disgrace.’

‘You no talk to me like that,’ said Byrd, squaring up to the older but bigger and stockier Godarz.

‘Enough,’ I said, getting to my feet. ‘What do you want, Byrd?’

He smiled at me. ‘Have found Romani silver mine.’

‘What? Where?’ I asked.

‘A few miles away, in the mountains. I ride to tell you. No time to stop and feed horse.’

After he had eaten some stew and bread and drunk some wine I rode with him to the Thracian camp. It was dark but the route was easy to follow as the whole plain around the city was filled with campfires. Akmon had established the Thracian camp directly in front of the city’s western entrance, approximately a mile back from the walls, with the palisade in between. I often wondered what the garrison thought of a legionary camp built in their midst, but one full of enemies. We rode through the camp to the tent of Spartacus, who was sitting with Akmon when we entered.