The Parthian (62 page)

The final part of Spartacus’ retribution against the Gauls was an attack against the residence of King Ambiorix himself. Gallia’s father had been conspicuous by his absence during the battle, no doubt preferring to pay others to shed their blood on his behalf. Spartacus led the attack, which he announced would be on foot and would comprise a thousand Thracians personally commanded by Akmon. He asked me to accompany him with a hundred of my best archers. I asked Gafarn to be one of them but forbade Gallia or any of her women to attend. I knew that we were going to kill and burn and it was not appropriate that she should witness the death of her father, even though she despised him. She did not protest and I was glad and so, on a warm summer’s day under a blue sky littered with white, puffy clouds, we entered the forest that shielded the king’s fortress. We walked in a long column along the same track that I had ridden on after Gallia had been kidnapped, and had then driven a cart along when we had bought her freedom with gold and I had killed her brother. And now I came a third time, this time to extract vengeance. Spartacus and his Thracians were dressed in Roman attire — sandals, tunics, mail shirts, helmets and shields painted red with yellow lightning bolts emanating coming from their central steel boss. The Thracians all had short swords at their waist and hoisted javelins, though Spartacus and Akmon carried only swords and shields. I walked next to Spartacus at the head of the column, with Akmon on his other side. Behind us marched Domitus, who had risen to be first spear centurion in one of the Thracian legions, a rank of some importance and prestige I was informed. Out of site, Byrd and his scouts rode ahead and on our flanks to ensure we were not surprised. I had my
spatha
at my waist with a full quiver slung over my right shoulder. I wore my white tunic, trousers, boots and my silk vest next to my skin. I left my cuirass in camp.

‘Good to see you, sir,’ said Domitus.

‘You too, Domitus. I’m glad that you survived the battle.’

‘Not much to it, sir,’ he replied. ‘Just a case of keeping your shield tight to your body, your head tucked down and stabbing with your sword. Easy enough. Easier than fighting on horseback.’

‘Fighting on foot is a new experience for Pacorus,’ said Spartacus. ‘But he still could not leave his bow behind.’

‘You and your men need not have brought their weapons with them,’ I chided him. ‘We will kill all the enemy before they get near us.’

Akmon was in his usual irritable mood. ‘Horses are all very well, but once you lock shields they’re done for.’

‘But once that happens,’ I said, ‘then you are like a statue, and my horse can assault you on every side and nibble away at you.’

Spartacus slapped Akmon on the shoulder. ‘Can’t imagine any horse wanting to nibble Akmon.’

Domitus laughed. ‘They ‘re fine horsemen, I’ll say that for you. Are all Parthian soldiers horsemen?’

‘Mostly, yes,’ I replied. ‘At Hatra we have a garrison that defends the city. They are foot soldiers. But aside from them my father’s army consists of horse archers and cataphracts.’

‘What’s a cataphract?’ asked Domitus.

‘A man in armour that covers his arms, legs and body who sits on a horse that is also encased in armour, and who carries a heavy spear that takes two hands to hold.’

‘I would like to see one of those,’ he said.

‘You would be welcome to come back to Hatra with me, Domitus, should you so desire.’

He seemed delighted. ‘Truly?’

‘Of course. Parthia has need of good soldiers.’

Spartacus finished the apple he was eating and threw away the core. ‘Are we all welcome in your father’s kingdom, Pacorus?’

‘You, especially, lord,’ I said.

He laughed. ‘He might not take kindly to a band of former slaves invading his lands.’

‘He would welcome all those who fight the Romans, and especially one who saved his son’s life.’

‘Well, Akmon,’ he said, ‘looks like we are going to Hatra.’

‘If we don’t get killed first,’ he sniffed.

‘Death is a constant companion of the soldier,’ I said casually.

‘And the gladiator,’ added Spartacus. ‘Would you have liked to been a gladiator, Pacorus?’

I was aware that both he and Akmon were veterans of the arena and was careful in my answer.

‘I do not think so, lord.’

‘Why not?

‘Because I have no appetite for killing for sport.’

‘Ah, I see, so you do not regard war as sport?’

‘Of course not, lord.’

‘Then what is it?’

I thought for a moment. ‘The highest expression of honour,’ I answered.

Spartacus and Akmon burst into laughter.

‘I’ve never heard it called that before,’ said Spartacus. ‘So you wouldn’t kill just for the sake of it.’

‘No, lord.’

‘But what about that merchant in Thurii whose throat you slit, wasn’t that killing for sport?’

I was indignant. ‘Of course not. He broke his word and tried to have me killed. He
did
get some of my men killed. He deserved no mercy. I gave him my word, but he broke his.’

Spartacus continued with his questioning, clearly enjoying himself. ‘But you were just a slave to him, and lying to a slave is nothing to a Roman.’

‘I am not a slave,’ I insisted.

‘No, you are far worse,’ chipped in Akmon. ‘You are a runaway slave.’

‘I am not a slave,’ I said again.

‘You are to the Romans,’ said Spartacus.

‘They have no honour,’ I said, ‘no offence, Domitus.’

‘But they do have half the world,’ retorted Spartacus. ‘You see, Domitus, that once you are born into royalty you have a view of the world that is unique from that of all others.’

‘It has nothing to do with that,’ I snapped.

‘It has everything to do with that,’ insisted Spartacus. ‘You fight for honour and glory, Pacorus, which is a dangerous game.’ He slapped Akmon on the shoulder. ‘Akmon and I fight to stay alive, nothing more. Same here, same as in the arena.’

‘But today you fight to avenge treachery,’ I remarked.

‘Not so,’ he shot back. ‘We are going to kill Gauls because they are our enemy. You of all people should be able to relate to that. They did, after all, kidnap Gallia.’

‘But we defeated the Gauls in battle.’

‘True,’ said Spartacus, ‘but their commander is still alive and while that is so we are under threat of attack. Besides, fire and sword is a useful method of intimidating the enemy. We can’t all fight just to please the gods, Pacorus, some of us must bear in the mind the practicalities.’ 

We tramped through woodland teaming with life. I saw boar, wildcats, deer and heard the tap-tap-tap of a woodpecker, which ceased abruptly as we neared him. Above us, through the trees, I saw sparrow hawks, falcons, redshanks and ducks. White butterflies with grey spots on their wings fluttered around us, and at one time a huge brown bear lumbered out of the undergrowth and stared at us with its small black eyes set in a massive head. Then he grunted and disappeared back into the bushes. The sun-dappled forest was a beautiful place, so different from the sun-bleached land of Hatra, and I could understand why a people would want to live within it.

After three hours at a steady pace, two horses galloped up to the head of the column. It was a dust-covered Byrd and one of his scouts, a man with a sallow complexion and sunken cheeks who looked as thin and haggard as the horse he rode. Byrd looked concerned.

‘Gauls coming this way.’

‘How many?’ asked Spartacus.

Byrd shrugged as he looked at the soldiers behind us. ‘More than you.’

‘How far away?’ said Akmon.

‘Mile and a half, maybe less,’ he replied. ‘You turn around and go back?’

‘No, Byrd, we advance to meet them,’ said Spartacus, determinedly.

Byrd exhaled loudly. ‘Best place is here. Track narrows further on, no room to spread out.’

I looked around. Though there was around fifty yards or so of clear ground either side of the track until the trees began, it was hardly the best place to fight.

‘They could flank us by moving through the trees, lord,’ I remarked. ‘And they know this country better then we do.’

Spartacus stared at the track ahead, which narrowed considerably three or four hundred yards from where we had halted. Akmon was scraping the earth with his foot while Domitus had drawn his sword and was examining the blade. Spartacus turned to me.

‘Pacorus, I want you and your archers to run ahead and find a good place to hide. Spring an ambush and then get back here as fast as you can. If we annoy them enough they might forget about flanking us and come straight at us in a rage, like most Gauls like to fight.’

‘Yes, lord.’

I went to where my archers had been marching as Domitus began getting his two cohorts into line to span the clearing. Gafarn stood at the head of the column.

‘Gather round,’ I shouted.

The men shuffled into a semi-circle around me. They were a mixture of Parthians, Dacians, Thracians and Spaniards, all of them excellent archers.

‘We are going to run ahead and ambush a war band of Gauls that is heading towards us. The plan is that we hide, we shoot as many as we can, and then we get back here as fast as our legs will carry us. No heroics, just make your arrows count.’

Five minutes later, sweating and out of breath, we melted into the oak trees either side of the track, fifty archers on one side and the other fifty on the other. We had barely concealed ourselves when I heard the crump of feet upon the ground and peered round the thick trunk I was using as cover, to see a mass of Gauls marching towards us. I was nearest to them, with my men spread among the trees behind me. I glanced across to Gafarn who was behind a tree and stringing an arrow in his bowstring. He nodded at me, his face calm and hard. I glanced back at the Gauls, a dense but disorganised column of men with long moustaches and hair drawn into points. Some wore helmets and carried brightly coloured shields, none had armour save one or two who were mounted. They were about five hundred feet away, moving slowly, shields by their sides and spears resting on their shoulders.

I shot from slightly behind and to the side of the oak tree, aiming at a bare-chested Gaul who carried an axe in his right hand and wore red, baggy trousers. There was no wind and the distance was around three hundred feet; it was an easy shot. The arrow hit his belly and he slumped forward onto the ground. Seconds later several dozen arrows began to hiss through the air, each archer waiting until he had a clear shot. The Gauls were not marching in ranks; those at the front of the column, six or seven men, were all felled by arrows, then those immediately behind them were likewise hit, and another ten or twelve were struck before the enemy halted. For a few seconds they were stunned, like a man who has taken a heavy blow on the head. I shot another four arrows before they rallied, a burly warrior with a spear and shield, his face a mass of swirling blue tattoos, pushing through the mound of dead and wounded in front of him and charging forward with his spear levelled. He screamed as he ran towards us, and in an instant hundreds of warriors were racing down the track.

‘Back,’ I shouted, ‘back.’

We broke cover and ran as fast as we could from an enemy bent on revenge. The Gauls were big men, obviously the most fearsome of King Ambiorix’s warriors, but they could not outrun us and so we were able to keep a safe distance between them and us. I saw two arrows planted each side of the track ahead of me and ran past them, then stopped and turned. The others also stopped and turned around, then began jeering at the Gauls pursuing us. The warriors must have thought we were dead meat, for they slowed and licked their lips in anticipation of slaughtering us. The tattooed warrior pointed his spear at me and smiled, revealing a mouth full of brown teeth. He hardly flinched when the first arrow hit his chest, just looked slightly bemused as he glanced down to see the shaft buried in his body. The two arrows had denoted the position of the rest of my archers, who now began cutting down the Gauls with fearsome efficiency from either side of the track, which was soon littered with dead. The enemy checked their advance and locked their shields to the front to form a wall against our arrows.

‘Fall back,’ I shouted, and again we ran back towards the clearing. The Gauls watched us go and then charged after us, urged on by their leaders on horseback, richly attired warriors in mail shirts, silver horned helmets and blue leggings.

We raced back to the edge of the clearing where the Thracians were massed in their centuries. Behind us were the Gauls, screaming their fury and yelling their blood-curdling war cries. Whether they saw the wall of shields in front of them I did not know, but I did know that they wanted to kill me and the rest of my archers, reduce us to pieces of offal for what we had done to them. Then I tripped, I don’t know what tripped me, a tussock of grass or a large stone, but whatever it was it sent me sprawling to the ground, scattering the arrows I had left over the hatd earth and spilling my bow from my hand. Ahead of me my archers were streaming through two paths that had appeared in the Thracian ranks; behind me the yells and screams got louder. Time seemed to slow as I rolled over on my back, to see a fat, ugly brute with a huge double-headed axe slow to a walk as he neared me. Then he was standing over me and grinning. I could smell his pungent odour of sweat and age-old dirt and lay transfixed as he raised his mighty axe above his head. This was where I was going to die, in a forest clearing in northern Italy at the hands of a rancid Gaul.

The Gaul was screaming in triumph, his mouth wide open, when the arrow went through it and lodged in the back of his throat. Then Gafarn was standing over me and roughly yanking me to my feet. I quickly regained my wits, gathered up my bow and ran as fast as I could for the sanctuary of the Thracian ranks. We made it with seconds to spare, and as I rushed past the first two ranks I heard a sword blade clattering on the rim of a shield, missing me by inches. Because we had been between the Thracians and the Gauls, Spartacus’ men had been unable to throw their javelins, but as I and my men collapsed on the ground gulping for air, safely behind the Thracian line, the last two ranks in each century turned around, marched back a few paces, then ran forward and hurled their
pila
over the ranks of those in front and into the Gauls who were now hacking and jabbing against the Thracian shields.