The Parthian (80 page)

‘Get your men into line,’ Spartacus barked at Domitus.

‘Thank you, Domitus,’ I said.

‘A pleasure, sir, looks like we arrived just in time.’ He motioned towards the Roman camp where a great column of legionaries was filing out and deploying on the flat ground in front of their defences.

‘Time to retreat,’ I said.

Spartacus swung round and glared at me. ‘No! We advance.’

With that he began striding towards the Romans who were deploying into line half a mile or so in front of us. Akmon raced up, panting heavily.

‘Where’s he going?’

‘To get himself killed, I fear,’ I replied.

Akmon cleared his throat and spat out the phlegm. ‘Him and the rest of us, I reckon. Well, let’s get on with it.’

He signalled to one of his officers who stood in front of the Thracian cohorts who were flooding the valley to the left and right of where we stood, while behind us cohort after cohort was marching from our camp as reinforcements. And in front of us the Romans were doing likewise.

Thus began the last battle of the slave army of Spartacus.

I looked over to our left flank, which was anchored on the flooded river, and across the fast-flowing brown water to where more Roman soldiers were marching from their second camp to form into battle formation. On that side of the river their only obstacle was my cavalry, of which there was no sign. It had stopped raining now, and slivers of sunlight were appearing through the clouds as the slight breeze began to clear the rain clouds away to reveal small patches of blue sky. Around us trumpets blared, signalling the advance, while a similar sound emanated from the Roman ranks. Domitus moved his cohort forward at a trot until it and we caught up with Spartacus. I took my place beside him with Domitus on his other side as we approached the first Roman formation — two cohorts drawn up in line. Domitus had found me a shield and a Roman helmet that was smeared with blood, though I had no javelin. I replaced my dagger in my boot.

Spartacus dashed out of front and raised his sword. ‘Straight through them. Follow me!’

There was no pause, no opportunity to dress our lines, just five hundred soldiers in a mad rush at the Romans. These were among the best troops that Spartacus possessed and they did not let him down, throwing their javelins and then charging into the enemy, stabbing at thighs and bellies with their swords. We carved our way into the Romans, who then broke and ran headlong towards the safety of the cohorts standing behind them. We halted to redress our lines. I looked over to the right, to where Akmon’s Thracians were coming to blows with the Romans. Spartacus was wounded. He clutched his right side and I could see blood appearing on his torn mail shirt.

‘You are wounded, lord,’ I shouted at him.

‘It’s nothing. Form ranks,’ he shouted. ‘Follow me.’

This was madness. We had broken two cohorts of the enemy, but now whole legions were deploying in front of us and still Spartacus wanted to attack. I saw bolts flying from Scorpion catapults tearing holes in the front ranks of Akmon’s Thracians. On our left Castus’ Germans were moving forward to engage two legions that were likewise advancing. The clash, when it came, sounded like a loud grating noise, and then came the shrieks and screams of hundreds of men fighting for their lives.

A fresh line of Roman soldiers appeared to our front, advancing at a steady pace with a long wall of red shields facing us. The battle that was developing was haphazard and disorganised, a collection of separate actions in which cohorts and legions tried to destroy those enemy formations in front of them. But there was no overall control. We charged again, Spartacus wearing a grimace of pain on his face as he did so. Again we cut our way into the Roman ranks, literally scything down their first five ranks and then grinding to a halt as more and more Romans reinforced the cohort we had assaulted, the legionaries forming new lines behind their comrades in front. Then the Romans surged forward, stepping over their dead comrades to get at us. The mud, blood and dead flesh at our feet made keeping our footing very difficult, and several times I slipped and stumbled as I hacked, thrust and parried with my
spatha
. Myself and Domitus flanked Spartacus as he fought bare headed and with wild abandon. A giant centurion attempted to decapitate him but was too slow and had his sword arm severed at the elbow. He screamed and clutched his shortened arm as blood gushed from the wound, and then died as I swung my sword and buried its blade deep in his chest. The Roman tide was unending, though, and as the time passed my strength began to ebb. I don’t know how long we fought in that melee, but it seemed to last for hours. Eventually sheer fatigue brought a temporary halt to the fighting. Both sides, battered and bloody, retired a hundred paces or so and stood facing each other, men bloody, sweating and panting profusely. A raging thirst gripped me, and I drank greedily from a water bottle that was shoved into my hand. Runners were despatched to the river, heavily laden with empty water bottles, while I rested on my blood-splattered sword. I wore no mail shirt and had, miraculously, sustained no wounds but my limbs felt like lead.

The sounds of battle still raged around us Castus’s men fought the Romans on our left and the Thracians battled the enemy on our right. But eventually those conflicts too died down and a strange quiet descended over the battlefield. An orderly wrapped a bandage around Spartacus’ midriff, and then he put his mail shirt back on. Akmon demanded that Spartacus withdraw to the rear to consult with him, though he had to make do with standing behind our depleted cohort as Spartacus drank water and chewed on a loaf of bread. Castus joined us, limping slightly from a leg wound.

I was concerned. ‘You should get that seen to.’

‘It’s not serious,’ he shrugged.

Akmon was angry. ‘We need to pull back now, Spartacus. We are too close to the Roman camp and they are tearing holes in us with those damned catapults.

‘Then advance and destroy them,’ replied Spartacus.

Akmon threw up his arms in despair. ‘The Romans are also deploying on the other side of the river, and I don’t see any of our troops standing in their way. Where are your horses, Pacorus?’

‘I know not. But they won’t let us down.’

‘Forget about the other side of the river,’ said Spartacus. ‘If we win on this side, we win the day.’

‘We should pull back and let the Romans attack
us
,’ spat Akmon.

Spartacus smiled grimly and laid a hand on Akmon’s shoulder. ‘It’s too late now, my friend, it’s all too late.’

The conversation ended there, for a great blast of trumpets signalled that the Romans were now advancing all along the front and the focus of their attack was our position. This time a legion was directed against us, its centuries packed tight in a solid mass to our front. I could see a group of Roman officers mounted on horses immediately behind their first line. One was bare headed and I recognised him. At first he was too far away to identify, but as the enemy slowly drew closer, I saw that the man was Marcus Licinius Crassus.

‘That’s Crassus,’ I shouted, pointed my sword at the man in the silver cuirass with a red cloak around his shoulders.

Spartacus looked at me. ‘What did you say?’

‘That is Crassus, lord. The bare-headed man with the silver armour mounted on the horse.’

Spartacus laughed and then raced forward to stand in front of our line. He turned to face all of us.

‘That man wearing the fancy silver armour sat on a horse is Crassus, general of their army. Kill him and we win this war. Your orders are: kill Crassus.’

Our men cheered and began chanting ‘kill Crassus, kill Crassus’, and then suddenly we were running as fast as our legs could carry us at the Romans. One understrength cohort against a legion. Their volley of javelins cut down many in our front ranks but then we were among them, hacking and thrusting. Crassus had told me that his legions would be made of stern stuff, but on that mad, glory filled morning the troops that we fought were always second best to us. They may have been well trained and equipped, but we were veterans, undefeated, and we were quicker, more ruthless and possessed of a contempt for death. Against these qualities the Romans had no answer.

Spartacus was screaming like a demon as he sliced, stabbed and carved a path of dead Romans as he made a superhuman attempt to reach Crassus. Did he get close to his prey? I do not know, but I do know that I saw the death of my lord, killed when he tried to fight three centurions at once. He killed one, wounded another as I desperately tried to reach him, but the third plunged his sword into his heart. Spartacus died instantly, his body slumping to the ground as I, screaming like a madman, swung my sword with both hands and lopped the centurion’s head off. I grabbed the body of Spartacus and hauled it back as Domitus shouted ‘back, back,’ as what was left of our cohort gave ground.

The Romans inched forward warily. They had been badly shaken by our mad charge and were reluctant to counterattack. Their dead and wounded lay in heaps on the ground. As we pulled back, two fresh cohorts of Thracians closed ranks in front of us to form a new battle line. A stretcher was brought forward and the body of Spartacus placed upon it. I wiped away the tears as I covered it with a filthy cloak that I found on the ground so no one would see who it was. Domitus stood opposite me with a gash on his neck and his mail shirt ripped.

‘Have him taken back to camp,’ I ordered.

It was past midday now and the sun was high in a clear blue sky, for the rain had ceased and the clouds had dissipated. Steam rose from the sodden ground while the river on our left still frothed with dirty brown water, though less so now than earlier. Though wide at this point, some one hundred yards, it was shallow, no more than three feet, though now bloated with fast-flowing water running down from the mountains after the storm. There was a blast of trumpets to our front — the Romans were attacking again. This time we stood on the defensive, the Thracian front ranks locking shields to form a wall facing the Romans, while those in the rear ranks hoisted their shields overhead to protect themselves from the deluge of javelins that would surely come. Domitus reformed the cohort, now down to around two hundred men, into two centuries, each one ten across and ten deep. At that moment a panting and sweating Cannicus ran up.

‘Pacorus, where is Spartacus?’

My expression gave him his answer.

‘No!’ he wailed. ‘We are finished.’

I grabbed him by the shoulders. ‘Not yet. We fight on, Cannicus, that’s what he would have wanted. Why are you here?’

‘We are holding the Romans but more are forming up on the other side of the river, and they are going to wade across to hit us in the flank. If they do, they will sweep in behind us. Castus asks if you can spare any men.’

The sounds of battle had erupted once more to our front as the whole Roman line surged forward against the Thracian legions. Behind us there were no more troops coming from the camp. There were none left. The whole of the army, save my cavalry, was now fighting.

‘Only these men with me.’

Cannicus looked at the paltry and grubby soldiers grouped behind me in close order.

‘They will have to do.’

We followed Cannicus at a fast pace to where the Germans were located beside the river. Two legions arrayed side-by-side were battling the Romans to their front, with a Thracian legion kept in reserve half a mile behind them, ready to reinforce any part of the line under threat of giving way. The third German legion was deployed at the extreme left of the line, but was facing the river at right angles to the others. I found this curious, for if the Romans to our front broke through they would smash into the right flank of this legion and roll it up like a carpet. I laughed out loud as I remembered that legions were not carpets. We found a battered and unhappy Castus berating a group of officers. He sent them away when he saw us. We embraced and I told him about Spartacus. He closed his eyes with a few seconds.

‘We will grieve later.’

‘I do not understand your dispositions,’ I said, pointing to the German legion facing the river.

‘Do you not? Then follow me.’

He led us through the legion’s ranks that were facing the river. We walked through the gaps between the centuries grouped in close order to emerge two hundred paces from the river, which was flowing less speedily now. Across the water were massed three Roman legions; their silver eagles glinting in the sun, while between them were massed groups of slingers and archers. Other Romans were hauling forward Scorpion catapults. Centurions were barking orders and shoving men into position.

‘They are getting ready to cross,’ said Castus, ‘and when they do I have only one legion against their three. They will outflank me and get in behind us, then slaughter us. You see those catapults. They will open fire first, tearing great gaps in our ranks. Then the slingers and archers will open fire and drop more of my men, and all the time their legionaries will be wading across. And when the Scorpion bolts, slingshots and arrows have finished flying, fifteen thousand Roman soldiers will hit us like a thunderbolt from the gods. How many men did you bring with you.’

‘Two hundred.’

He laughed aloud and placed his hand on my shoulder. ‘Then die well, my friend. For surely we are doomed.’

And it was as Castus had said. Dozens of trumpets sounded across the river and then the Scorpions opened fire, their bolts streaking across the water to cut through mail, shields and flesh. Then the slingers and archers joined them, lead pellets and steel-tipped arrows slamming into shields, helmets and mail shirts. The discipline and courage of Castus’ Germans was magnificent as they stood defiantly, despite their front ranks being methodically mown down under the hail of enemy missiles. And then the Romans began to cross the river — three legions, a total of twelve cohorts in the first line marching in perfect step to the river and then slowly wading through the water. And we were powerless to stop them.

Soon the whole of the Roman front line of cohorts was in the water, with their second following close behind, when a high-pitched sound echoed across the battlefield, and not since that day have I heard a sweeter noise, which was soon joined by others of a similar note. And then the ground started to shake and the air was filled with the low rumble of thunder. But there were no clouds in the sky and this thunder was not made by the gods but by the hooves of hundreds of horse. And as I looked across the river to where there had been a flat, empty plain, I saw that it was now filled with a dark mass. And the victory that the gods had seemingly granted the Romans, which dangled tantalisingly in front of their eyes, was suddenly snatched away. The slaughter would go on, for the gods had sent a new instrument with which to torture the eagles.