The Parthian

Chapter 18

We 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Spartacus had been strangely withdrawn since the breakout.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.

‘I have news, lord. Many Romani cavalry riding south down Popilian Way.’

‘When?’

‘Two days ago.’

‘How many, Byrd.’

He shrugged. ‘Maybe fifteen hundred, riding hard. Led by a man with angry face and red hair.’

‘Thank you, Byrd. Go and get some food and take your horse to the veterinaries. Get him groomed and seen to.’

As Byrd rode towards the makeshift stables we had constructed from felled trees, I unstrung my bow. Gafarn noticed my concern.

‘His news troubles you?’

‘Roman cavalry riding south means that they are going to link up with Crassus, which means that once that happens he will be at our throats like a wolf with a newborn lamb. And to rub salt into the wound, I can guess the commander of those horsemen.’

‘Who?’

‘My old adversary, Lucius Furious.’

Gafarn put another arrow into the centre of the target.

‘You should have killed him when you had the chance.’

‘You know, Gafarn, for once you are absolutely right.’

Worse news came three days later. Two of Byrd’s scouts who had been sent into the west to keep watch on the Roman forces at Brundisium had ridden through the mountains, pulling their horses through snow-blocked paths to reach us. They sat in my tent, looking wet, bedraggled and filthy, as they recounted what they had seen on the Appian Way just west of Tarentum.

‘The Romans are on the march, lord.’

‘How many?’ I asked, my heart sinking.

‘We counted five eagles, lord, plus auxiliaries,’ said the other man, who had told me that he had been a shepherd in the hills of Lucania for ten years, and who knew all the high passes in the area.

I relayed this information immediately to Spartacus, who convened a council of war. As yet there was no news of the army of Crassus.

‘But that force poses the greatest threat,’ said Spartacus, ‘pointing at the map that lay on the table, around which myself, Castus, Cannicus, Godarz, Akmon and Afranius were assembled.

‘They’ll march along the Appian Way to Capua, then swing south and either reinforce Crassus or, if he hasn’t got here by then, perhaps assault us themselves.’ Spartacus looked up at us.

‘That’s thirty thousand men,’ said Akmon, his shoulder no longer bandaged, ‘plus whatever Crassus has.’

‘Another thirty thousand,’ said Castus, whose colour had mostly returned to his cheeks.

‘And we have?’ Spartacus looked at Godarz.

‘No more than fifty thousand, probably less, and five thousand of those are only half-fit for duty.’

‘They can still stand and carry a sword,’ remarked Spartacus. He looked at me. ‘Those scouts of yours.’

‘The shepherds?’

‘Yes. They came through the mountains, you say.’

‘Yes, lord.’

He peered at the map. I looked at Akmon, who shrugged unknowingly.

‘If we could stop one of those armies, then we might stand a chance of defeating the other. We could send some of your cavalry through the mountains to attack the Romans on the Appian Way. Nothing big, maybe a thousand horse, and they would only try to slow the Romans down.’ He was talking more to himself now, speaking aloud his thoughts. ‘They won’t be expecting that. They don’t have any cavalry so they won’t have any patrols out, and in any case their guard will be down because they are on home ground and as far as they know we are bottled up here. So, what do you think?’

‘In theory it sounds as though it might work, though if something goes wrong then we lose half our cavalry,’ said Akmon. ‘Why can’t we hit Crassus before the others arrive?’

‘Because this is a good defensive position,’ replied Spartacus. ‘It can’t be outflanked, we have plenty of water and we can make the enemy fight on a ground of our choosing, not his.’

‘I will lead this raid, lord,’ I said.

‘No, Pacorus,’ said Spartacus, ‘I need you here. Let Nergal lead it. With any luck he will be back within a week.’

I thought of a thousand men and their horses going through the high passes, which may still be full of snowdrifts and lashed by high winds. It was not an inspiring vision. And it might take more than a week.

‘A thousand horse cannot stop thirty thousand troops, lord,’ I remarked.

‘I know that,’ snapped Spartacus. ‘But their task will be to interrupt and disrupt, not defeat.’

‘I doubt they will be able to do even that,’ added Afranius.

He sat with his right leg dangling over the arm of the chair, with a stupid grin across his face, and was displaying that annoying arrogance that had always been his trademark. Ordinarily I would have ignored it, but today was different. Maybe it was because I was annoyed that nearly half my cavalry, which I had recruited, trained and led in battle, was being taken away from me, or more likely was the realisation that the army was living on borrowed time and I would never see my home again. But whatever the reason, I sprang from my chair and lunged at Afranius, knocking him to the ground. I grabbed his tunic with my left hand and hit him hard across the face with the back of my right hand, then clenched my hand into a fist and smashed it into his nose, which began to bleed. I threw him to the floor.

‘I have heard enough of your voice to last a lifetime.’

Enraged, he sprang to his feet and drew his sword, and I retaliated by drawing my spatha and faced him. His eyes burned with rage and his face was contorted in a mask of fury. He stood five inches shorter than me and blood was trickling from the corner of his mouth, but like an angry dog he stood his ground. I welcomed the opportunity to fight him. I found him irritating and my frustration at the position we were in needed an outlet. I smiled at him, willing him to attack. It would be a joy to kill him. No doubt he thought the same about me.

‘Whoever wins this little schoolboy scrap,’ said Spartacus calmly, ‘I will kill. Put down your weapons or you will both die. Decide!’

Afranius still glared at me but did not move. I glanced at Spartacus who stood with his muscled arms crossed in front of his chest. He had a look of contempt on his face. His friendship meant a lot to me; after all, he was the reason I was with this army. But I also remembered that he was also my commander. I replaced my sword in its scabbard. Afranius smiled in triumph.

‘Put it away, Afranius,’ growled Spartacus, ‘otherwise I will cut off your right hand and have it nailed to your head.’

Akmon rose and pushed the point of his dagger into the small of Afranius’ back.

‘You heard your commander, put it away. You don’t want you to cut yourself, boy.’

Afranius sheathed his sword and sat in sullen silence.

‘Idiots,’ said Spartacus. ‘Sixty thousand Romans marching against us and you want to fight each other. Perhaps we could build an amphitheatre and then the Romans could watch you both fight to the death. A matched pair, just like the old days.’

‘They wouldn’t last ten minutes,’ said Akmon.

‘Perhaps even less,’ added Castus.

‘This is what is going to happen,’ continued Spartacus, regaining his seat. ‘Nergal will take a thousand horse through the passes and interrupt the march of the Romans on the Appian Way. We will stay here and fight Crassus lower down the valley when he returns. Once we have destroyed Crassus, we will make a lunge for Rome and win the war. Questions?’

What could anyone say? It was an insane plan born of desperation. But who was I to assume that it would fail? After all, this was Spartacus, the man who for two years had defeated army after army that Rome had sent against him. The more I thought about it, the more I believed that it might just succeed.

‘You really believe that?’ Gafarn offered me plate full of freshly roasted venison, one of the brace of deer that he had killed that afternoon and which was now roasting over a log fire.

‘Why not?’ I replied, biting off a great chunk of meat, whose juices ran down my cheek.

‘You don’t think the Romans might have thought of that, also?’ He sat down next to Diana, handing her a plate of meat.

‘Better to fight one Roman army at a time than both combined.’ I replied.

I had arranged the feast to bid Nergal farewell and god-speed, for he and half the horse would be leaving tomorrow, guided though the mountain passes by Byrd’s scouts. Byrd was present, as were Diana, Gallia, Castus, Nergal himself, Godarz and Praxima. The insane Rubi sat behind Gallia and Diana, eating her meat and occasionally looking up and snarling at one of the menfolk who caught her eye. The evening was cool, still being early spring, and made worse by our location in the uplands, so we sat wrapped in our cloaks around the fire that was cooking our venison.

Byrd jabbed a finger at Gafarn. ‘That one is right, the Romani could attack us here from every direction. My men know of many passes and tracks through these mountains. Fortunately, Romani legions do not know of them.’

I was alarmed. ‘Does Spartacus know this?’

Byrd shrugged. ‘Does not matter, I have posted men all around who will warn us of any attack. Besides, it would take long time for Romani army to move through the mountains. And Romani legion doesn’t like to leave its carts behind. Prefer to use roads.’

‘And what about my horse?’ enquired Nergal.

‘My men show you quick way through mountains, have no fear.’

Praxima, sat next to her love, looked at me. ‘I would go with Nergal tomorrow, lord.’

She certainly did not lack for boldness, nor courage come to that. I nodded.

‘You may accompany him, and take some of your Amazons with you. I’m sure Gallia will not object.’

‘I sanction it willingly,’ she said.

‘Good, that’s settled, then.’

I hoped that they would both return, though if they did not then they would die together. I could grant them that privilege at least.

‘Perhaps we should all go with Nergal over the mountains,’ remarked Castus, his face illuminated by the red glow of the fire. He threw a piece of gristle into the flames.

‘Tired of killing Romans, my friend?’ I asked

‘Tired of living in their backyard, more like. We should get our arses over those hills and then march north as fast as we can.’ He took a large swig of wine. ‘Then we can get over the Alps because it will be summer, and then…’

‘And then?’ I queried.

He sighed loudly. ‘It doesn’t matter now. We are set upon a new road. To be masters of Rome.’

‘You think Spartacus’ plan is ill-advised?’ asked Godarz.

‘I think,’ replied Castus, ‘that Spartacus is a greater general than any that Rome possesses, but he loves this army too much and that will be his downfall.’

‘And you, Castus?’ I asked.

‘I love Spartacus like a brother, as do you, and so our fate is sealed my friend.’ He refilled his cup and drained it. ‘So let us drink and not torment ourselves with what might have been.’

‘Everyone loves this army,’ remarked Diana, staring into the flames, ‘and I love all of you, and that is why no one will leave as long as Spartacus lives. For of all the thousands who stand beside us, it is him that we love above all. That is why we are here. And despite the dangers we face, we are all happy.’

I had never heard Diana talk so much.

‘Because we are free?’ I asked.

She smiled at me. ‘Yes, Pacorus, because we are free. I was but a kitchen slave, destined to live my life no better than an animal.’ She looked at Gallia. ‘But then the gods sent a guardian angel to watch over me and I became free. And I realised that freedom was the greatest gift that a man or woman could receive, greater than any wealth or titles or fame. And I think that it is better to die free than live a lifetime in chains. That is why we are here, and that is why we have no fear.’

The next morning Nergal left an hour after dawn. I watched the horsemen file out of camp and ride north into the forest that blanketed the hills all around us. Led by Byrd and two of his scouts, they would travel on horseback for around an hour, then dismount for the long, slow trek through the mountains. Each rider carried two weeks’ supply of horse fodder, plus two weeks’ rations, though they would supplement their food with whatever they could catch on the way. Nergal said he had never tasted bear and was determined to shoot one. As ever he was in high spirits, especially with Praxima riding with him, but as I watched them diminish in size and then disappear altogether, I suddenly felt a great loss. I did not know why.

In the subsequent days the valley was, as usual, filled with the sounds of workshops and forges mending weapons, fixing mail armour and shoeing horses. Hammers shaped metal on anvils, forges cast new arrowheads and farriers attended to the hooves of our horses. Swords were sharpened, drill filled the lengthening days and patrols ranged far and wide into Campania. I knew that it was only a matter of time before Crassus’ army would be upon us, and so it was, six days after Nergal had taken his men into the west, that a patrol galloped into camp in the late afternoon with news that a large number of Roman troops were leaving Lucania heading towards us. Like so many times before, a council of war was summoned, and then abruptly cancelled. I asked the messenger who brought the news why. He told me that Claudia had gone into labour. As I rode with Gallia, Gafarn and Diana to Spartacus’ tent, the sun disappeared behind grey clouds and the low rumble of thunder came from high up in the valley. The sky continued to darken as black clouds began to gather above us, and then our faces were being assailed by rain, a hard, pelting deluge that appeared as if by magic. The air was rent with loud, violent claps of thunder that startled the horses and caused Remus to rear up in fright. It took all of my skill to regain control of him. As we trotted through the shallow Silarus the rain increased in intensity, striking us like hundreds of tiny darts and soaking us to the skin. A mighty clap of thunder roared overhead and I was thrown from the saddle as Remus reared in terror. He bolted away.

‘Let him go,’ I shouted at the others.

‘Are you hurt?’ asked Gallia.

I shook my head. ‘Only my pride.’

Epona was less frightened, and so Gallia galloped after him, grabbed his reins, and then led him back to me. He was still alarmed, his eyes wide with terror, so I took his reins and walked beside him towards the camp, talking to him in a futile attempt to sooth his fears. The others did the same, four rain-lashed figures pulling frightened horses as overhead thunder and now lightning filled the sky. We arrived at Spartacus’ tent looking like drowned rats. We put the horses in the stable block nearby and I ordered the attendants to stay with them. The rain was still lashing the earth as we entered, and after Gallia and Diana had dried themselves and changed into some of Claudia’s clothes, they went into the bedchamber to see their friend. Already attending Claudia was the Greek doctor Alcaeus in the bedchamber, who ushered Gallia and Diana out after a few minutes. Akmon arrived dripping wet and complaining, while overhead the cracks of thunder grew louder. Guards brought hot porridge and wine from the kitchens positioned just behind the tent. I could hear low groans coming from the bedchamber, and I caught the worried look in Spartacus’ eyes.

‘She will be fine, lord. I shall pray for her.’

‘Is your god strong in this land, Pacorus?’

‘He is lord of the sun. He rules everywhere.’

At that moment a loud crack of thunder filled our ears, while driving rain battered the side of the tent and rattled the centre poles. Alcaeus appeared and beckoned me.

‘She wants to speak to you.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes. And hurry, we are not here for your benefit.’

I looked at Spartacus in confusion. ‘Go, Pacorus, go.’

I walked briskly into the bedchamber where Claudia lay on a cot, covered in a blanket and with beads of sweat on her forehead. She smiled weakly when she saw me, offering me her hand. I knelt by the side of the bed, bowed my head and kissed her hand. She laughed weakly.

‘Oh, Pacorus, I meant for you to hold my hand.’ I did so.

‘We are all praying for you, lady.’

‘Thank you, I…’ a spasm of pain wracked her body. She looked at me.

‘You remember your promise?’

‘I remember.’

‘You still hold to it?’

‘On my life, lady.’

She smiled again. ‘Good. And Pacorus.’

‘Lady?’

‘Take care of my girls for me.’

She looked very pale, her eyes no longer full of fire but pools of hurt and fatigue. Her grip was weak and her breathing fast. I felt tears welling in my eyes and so I averted my gaze lest she saw my weakness. I was ashamed of myself. I forced myself to be strong.

‘Every person in this army is praying for your safe deliverance, lady, and the gods will surely hear their voices.’

The doctor laid a hand on my shoulder.

‘It is time to leave now.’

I lent over the bed and kissed Claudia on the cheek.

‘I will stay with Spartacus, lady.’

‘Thank you, Pacorus.’ Another wave of pain shot through her body and she grimaced as she fought it. I left the bedchamber as Diana passed me with a bowl of water.

The hours passed and I sat staring at the floor, as in the next chamber the strength drained from Claudia as the baby refused to come. Spartacus paced up and down incessantly, occasionally stopping to peer at the curtain that was drawn across the entrance to the bedchamber. Claudia never screamed during her ordeal, but her moans of pain grew fainter and fainter as the evening ebbed. Eventually Spartacus could stand it no more and strode into the bedchamber. I looked at Gallia, whose face had drained of colour, who just stared at me with a blank expression. Akmon, sat in the corner of the tent and drinking from a large jug of wine, looked at me and shook his head. He suddenly looked old and tired. Then I suddenly became afraid, the emotion coursing through me like a tidal surge. And still we waited, and still the groans of Claudia grew fainter and fainter. I don’t know how long we sat there as the rain battered the outside of the tent with unremitting fury, but it suddenly became very cold, signalling that dawn was about to break. And from within the bedchamber came a loud wailing shout from Claudia. Then there was silence. I stared at Gallia in bewilderment. My throat was bone dry and it felt as though a massive weight was bearing down on my shoulders. Then we heard the cries of a baby and for a moment I was elated. Then the pale, drawn figure of the doctor came out of the bedchamber and looked at me. He didn’t have to say anything; the pained look in his eyes told me that Claudia was dead.

Gallia ran into the bedchamber and screamed in anguish as the doctor poured water into a bowl on the table and splashed it on his face. Akmon buried his head in his hands and began to weep silently. I walked slowly into the bedchamber where Diana held the newborn babe. Spartacus stood beside the bed looking down at his dead wife who lay still and covered with a blanket. Gallia, knelt beside the bed, was rocking to and fro and sobbing. It was the first time I had seen her cry. I knelt beside her and placed me arm round her shoulders but she was inconsolable, tears coursing down her cheeks. I looked at the face of Claudia, now serene and its beauty restored. Spartacus was like a statue, his face displaying no emotion as he looked at the lifeless body of his wife. Behind him, Diana held the babe wrapped in its swaddling clothes.

‘Do you wish to hold your son, lord,’ she said, offering the boy to Spartacus. There were no tears in her eyes, just a face that was a mask of determination

He turned slowly to look at his son, who looked at his father with blue eyes. Spartacus slowly extended his right hand so the baby could grasp one of his thick fingers. He kissed the boy gently on his head, cupped Diana’s face with his palm and then walked from the chamber. As the tears welled in my eyes I looked at Diana.

‘What happened?’

‘She haemorrhaged badly after she gave birth. Her life just drained away and there was nothing the doctor could do.’

I wiped the tears from my eyes and gently lifted Gallia to her feet.

‘We must be strong for Spartacus’ sake,’ I whispered to her. ‘Come, let us attend to his son.’

I led Gallia out of the bedchamber as Diana followed with the baby. I went outside the tent and told the guards to spread the word that a wet nurse was needed urgently. Hopefully one could be found among the hundreds of women who were still with the army. The valley was filled with pale early morning light, though everywhere was grey, cold and wet and it was still raining, though not with the intensity of the previous night’s violent storm, but a steady, heavy drizzle that was soaking everything. The river, which the day before had been a shallow, gently flowing watercourse, was now a raging torrent of brown water that separated me from my cavalry which was camped on the other side. Then I saw Spartacus walking slowly down the central avenue of the camp, away from his tent. I went inside the tent and retrieved my sword and fastened it to my belt. I walked after him, the going slow on the ground made soft with rainwater. I caught up with him after a hundred paces or so. He was bare headed, a shield held on his left and a sword in his right hand.

‘Where are you going, lord?’

‘To join my wife.’

‘Why don’t you come back to the tent, lord. Your son needs you.’

He stopped and looked at me, his eyes full of despair.

‘Without Claudia I am nothing and do not wish to go through this life without her by my side. You made her a promise. Do you keep to it, Pacorus?’

‘You know that I do, lord.’

He began walking again. ‘Then keep your word.’

With horror I realised that he was going to fight the Romans on his own. I ran back to the tent, shouting at anyone within earshot to sound assembly. Trumpets began sounding.

‘Akmon, assemble the army. Spartacus intends to fight the Romans on his own. He wishes to die.’

Akmon at first did not realise what I was saying, he was still gripped by grief, but then sprang to his feet as my words sunk in. I grabbed Gafarn by the shoulder.

‘Stay here and look after Gallia and Diana. The river is swollen, you won’t be able to get back across it. If the worst happens, get to the hills. I will find you.’

I kissed Gallia and then raced outside. All around me disorientated and tired men were forming up into their centuries. I saw Domitus hitting a man with his vine cane.

‘Get your helmet on, and look sharp.’

I walked over to him. ‘What is happening, sir?’

I pulled him to one side. ‘Claudia died giving birth. I believe Spartacus wants to get himself killed.’

‘Ill tidings indeed, sir. I am truly sorry’

Around us centuries were forming up to form a cohort in column formation.

‘Follow me, Domitus. We have to protect Spartacus.’

I paced away south, to follow my lord and no doubt die by his side. Behind me Domitus barked his orders and his cohort followed at double pace. Akmon joined me, shield in hand.

‘It will take hours to get the army assembled,’ he said. ‘You keep Spartacus alive in the meantime.’

Around me hundreds of men were donning mail shirts and helmets and falling in, while centurions, hungry and wet, were screaming orders and taking out their misery and frustration on those they commanded. In every army it was ever thus. Akmon paced away to speak to a knot of officers, while in front of me the solitary figure of Spartacus walked steadily towards the enemy.

The Romans had built two camps, one on each side of the river, and they were located around a mile south of where our army was positioned. My scouts had kept a close eye on them since they had arrived, but thus far they had made little attempt to interfere with us. Today, however, as I ran after Spartacus in an attempt to catch him up before he reached the Roman lines, I saw that there were parties of legionaries digging some sort of ditch several hundred feet in front of their camp. They obviously intended to repeat the tactics they had used at Rhegium. They were wrapped in their red cloaks in the rain as they hacked at the mud with entrenching tools. I caught up with Spartacus and walked beside him.

‘I think this is ill-advised, lord.’

‘Then go back,’ he said, cutting the air right to left with his sword.

‘I cannot let you fight them alone, lord. Why should you have all the glory?’

He laughed grimly. ‘It doesn’t matter now. Everyone dies, but I would prefer to do so at a time and in a manner of my own choosing.’

The Roman party to our front, about a dozen legionaries, had spotted us walking towards them and had dropped their entrenching tools, and were picking up their shields and drawing their swords. We were now about two hundred yards from them.

‘Last chance to save yourself, Pacorus.’

‘I will not desert you, lord.’

‘Then I who am about to die salute you, Pacorus, prince of Parthia.’

I quickly looked behind me and saw the cohort of Domitus marching towards us, though too far away to reach us before we ran into the party of Romans to our front. I said a silent prayer to Shamash for a good death as Spartacus suddenly sprang forward, screaming at the top of his voice. I pulled my dagger from my boot with my left hand, then drew my spatha and raced after him as the Roman soldiers likewise charged, no doubt in anticipation of an easy victory. Spartacus literally hurled himself at the first Roman, smashing his shield boss into the man’s chest and thrusting his sword deep into his neck. He extracted the blade as the second legionary came at Spartacus with his sword low, ready to deliver a mortal upwards thrust into his groin or chest, but my lord and former gladiator was too quick for him, and merely leapt aside as the Roman stabbed air, then died as he passed Spartacus who reversed his sword and ran it hard into the man’s back. A third Roman came at me and tried to kill me using an overhead stabbing action. I deflected the blow with my spatha and then thrust my dagger around the edge of his shield and into his right armpit. He screamed and dropped his sword, then collapsed on the ground, clutching at the wound. I left him there as another Roman swung wildly at me with his sword, missed and then tripped over his wounded comrade and sprawled face down on the ground. I put the heel of my boot on the back of his neck and rammed my spatha through his spine. He never got up.

Spartacus killed the last Roman of the party, who, seeing his comrades being slain, lost heart and attempted to run away, but was killed when Spartacus caught up with him, tripped him, ripped off his helmet and then caved in his skull with the pommel of his sword.

Another party of Romans, who had been digging the ditch nearer the river, were approaching us, as was a third group from the opposite direction. At least a score of legionaries were now bearing down on us and we would now certainly die. Spartacus was a man possessed, though, shouting curses at the Romans, calling them women and maggots and spitting on the corpses of their dead comrades. Then he lifted his tunic and pissed on one of them, which served to enrage the others who were running at us. I stood beside him as the first group, four Romans in a line with shields to their front and swords in their right hands, came at us with hatred on their faces. Spartacus laughed like a demented man, picked up a gladius lying on the ground and then threw it with all his strength. I stared in disbelief as the blade whirled through the air and went straight through the throat of one of the Romans, who collapsed in a heap on the ground. The others stopped in disbelief as Spartacus charged them, screaming again like a wildcat. He killed a second legionary who simply stood, like a rabbit hypnotised by a cobra, waiting to die. He offered no resistance as Spartacus thrust his sword through his heart. Spartacus killed the other two in blur of sword strikes that cut down the Romans as a farmer scythes corn. Spartacus threw down his shield and raised his sword at the second group of Romans, numbering at least a dozen soldiers, formed into line and shuffled towards us. They were more hesitant than the others, having seen their compatriots killed by only two men.

‘I am Spartacus, general of slaves, and I piss on the people and senate of Rome, on its senators, its gods and its maggot-ridden army.’

Then the Romans came at us running, shouting their rage and hatred. Spartacus picked up a gladius and waded into them, a blade in each hand, slashing and hacking in wild abandon. I raced after him and thrust my sword into the face of a legionary, whom Spartacus had wounded with a deep cut on his sword arm, which now hung limp by his side. The man died easily on my sword. I leapt at another who was behind Spartacus and about to run my lord through, but he did not see me and so was skewered on my spatha, its point going through his mail shirt and into his spine. I managed to wrench the blade free just in time to deflect the gladius of a legionary who came at me from my right. His blade met mine, but the momentum of his charge carried his shield into my body and bowled me onto the ground. He sprang to his feet and drew back his sword to plunge it into my chest. A split-second later a javelin pierced his chest and he collapsed onto his knees. The next moment Domitus was hauling me to my feet and his men were making short work of the Romans who surrounded Spartacus. Amazingly, he was unhurt.

‘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.

For my horsemen had come.

They swept across the plain as they galloped forward to assault the Roman legion situated on the enemy’s right wing. Its first line of legionaries was already in the water as the first companies swept around its flank and behind its rear-most cohorts, firing arrows into the packed ranks of the Romans. Other companies charged forward between the troops in the water and the legion’s second line of cohorts waiting to cross the river. The result was chaos, as those in the water were struck from behind by arrows and their comrades on the bank momentarily panicked. But moments were all it took for centuries to collapse in panic and attempt to flee. Some ran back into the third line and broke the latter’s formation, others tried to withdraw south towards their camp, but only succeeded in crashing into and disrupting other units deployed on their left. Soon, what had been an impeccably disciplined Roman legion became a disorganised rabble assailed on all sides by horsemen shooting arrows and hacking at individuals with their swords. My company commanders kept their men under tight control, working their way in and around isolated groups of Romans and then killing them with arrows, then withdrawing and reforming, before once again seeking out easy targets and destroying them.

Castus led his legion forward to the river to allow his men to hurl their javelins at the men still in the water. The Scorpions were still firing, those whose crews had not been killed by my horsemen, but they soon stopped as hordes of fleeing Romans turned tail and tried to escape back out of the water. Those were the lucky ones. Hundreds were speared in the river as the Germans hurled every javelin that had at the men in the river, whose waters were soon turned red by the butchery.

The three Roman legions, what was left of them, now withdrew badly shaken, so assured of victory and now demoralised and disorganised. My horsemen kept them under attack as they shuffled back to the safety of their camp, leaving the field littered with their dead and dying and most of the Scorpions, whose crews had abandoned them. Two cohorts disintegrated and ran towards the trees that covered the slopes of the valley. None made it, being ridden down and slaughtered to a man by horsemen. The Roman legions on that side of the river would take no further part in the battle.

A company rode across the river and headed towards us. The Germans cheered them loudly and the horsemen raised their bows in acknowledgement. They were led by Nergal. Gallia was behind him leading Remus, and behind her Vardanes carried my banner. He dismounted and I shook his hand.

‘We did not know where you were, highness.’

Gallia jumped down from Epona and we embraced. She looked at my tunic splattered with mud and blood.

‘Are you hurt?’

‘No. Where is Diana and the child?’ I asked.

‘Safe with Gafarn and Godarz,’ she replied. ‘Where is Spartacus?’

I told them what had happened but Gallia did not cry; she had used up all her tears.

‘When did you get back?’ I asked Nergal.

‘Yesterday, highness. We sheltered among the trees in the hills while the storm was raging, and then came down this morning. Godarz told me what had happened. I moved the cavalry down the valley but kept it hidden among the trees. The Romans were so busy preparing to cross the river that they didn’t think to put scouts out. We waited until they began to cross and then hit them.’

‘You did well, Nergal.’ I turned to Domitus. ‘I must rejoin my men. Stay here and inform Castus where I have gone.’

To our front, the sounds of battle had once again died down as the Romans withdraw once more, the failure of their river crossing having dented their morale somewhat. Gallia rode beside me.

‘I thought I told you to stay in camp.’

‘My place is with my women,’ she replied.

My horsemen were reforming in their dragons on the plain across the river. Their ranks looked somewhat depleted.

‘What happened on the Appian Way?’

‘We lost three hundred men, highness,’ said Nergal. ‘We achieved surprise at first and killed many Romans, but those troops we fought are veteran soldiers. We were too few and they too many.’

‘Do you think you slowed their march?’

He shrugged. ‘Maybe for a day or two, but no longer.’

It was a poor reward for losing three hundred men but I said nothing. It was my orders that had sent them to their deaths. I pulled my bow from its case and fixed its bowstring in place. I checked my quiver. It was full.

‘Has anyone got anything to eat?’ I enquired, ‘I’m starving.’

Gallia passed me some bread and cheese, which I devoured greedily, then washed it down with lukewarm water from my waterskin. Around me horsemen lay on the ground resting while their mounts chewed at the lush grass that filled the valley. I was weighing up in my mind my next course of action when a scout thundered up and halted in front of me. One of Byrd’s men, no doubt, by the threadbare state of his attire and unshaven face.

‘Roman cavalry are forming up two miles or so to the south.’

‘How many?’ I asked.

‘Twelve hundred, maybe more, deploying into line and heading this way.’

I turned to Nergal. ‘It appears that our old friend, Lucius Furius, has arrived.’

‘What do you intend to do, highness?’

‘We must fight him, otherwise he will cross the river and charge our forces in the flank. Pass the word: all archers in the front rank to shoot at their horses first.’

Nergal rode away to take command of his dragon while horns blared and men remounted their horses. My standard was held behind me.

The large scarlet banner barely fluttered in the light breeze, but would billow as our speed increased. The sky was cloudless and the sun was beating down, drying out the ground nicely — perfect for cavalry. I wondered why the enemy’s horse had not appeared earlier. I could only surmise that they had been camped some miles away and had received a desperate summons when Crassus’ army had been assaulted.

Gallia and her women formed line immediately behind. I motioned for her to take her place beside me. It was useless to try to persuade her to ride back to camp, so I didn’t bother. Her face was a mask of stern concentration. I nodded to her; she did likewise, then replaced her helmet and closed the cheek guards. I nudged Remus forward then turned him to face my horsemen. I raised my bow over my head; two thousand others did the same. Then I returned to face the front and urged Remus forward.

We began at a steady trot, covering thirteen feet a second. I reached into my quiver, pulled an arrow then placed its nock in the bowstring. I could see the Roman cavalry now, a great black mass growing larger by the second. Men in steel helmets and mail coats carrying long spears and green shields. Some carried standards of square pieces of cloth mounted atop a pole. In front of them rode a rider on a black horse, his red cloak fluttering behind him and his helmet crested with red. His outstretched right arm held a sword that was pointing directly at us. Furius himself.

We were nearing them; perhaps a mile now separated the two groups. I urged Remus to increase his speed and he moved into an easy gallop, his mighty hooves traversing nineteen feet of ground a second. I could hear the Romans cheering and see their spears levelled to ram their points through our bodies. I screamed and Remus increased his speed, charging at a full gallop of over thirty feet a second. If the Romans had reached us unbroken they would have hit us like a steel blade being rammed though a wicker shield, but once more they underestimated us and our tactics, for in their arrogant eyes we were but slaves fit only to be slaughtered.

They were already thinking of victory and glory when the first volley of arrows hit their mounts and riders, sending both crashing to the ground. We opened fire seven hundred paces from them and kept stringing and loosing arrows. In ten seconds each horse archer had fired at least three arrows. For the Romans it was like riding into a steel rain. Their front rank went down and their second crashed into the wounded and flaying horses in front of them, throwing many to the ground and causing others to rear up in panic. At once their charge disintegrated and then we were among them. I galloped past one rider and swung around in the saddle to shoot him in the back, then shot another rider who was bearing down on me with his long spear, the arrow piercing his chest and throwing him from his mount. We had broken the Roman formation as each of our companies kept its arrowhead formation, thirty of so riders in each of its three ranks. We charged straight through the Romans and out the other side, leaving the ground strewn with dead and dying men and horses. Horns blasted and we halted and turned. We had also suffered losses, many horses running around with empty saddles. I glanced to my left; Gallia was still with me.

We charged back into the Romans, this time not galloping but moved our mounts forward at a gentle trot. The Romans were disorganised and stationary, and so presented easy targets. We emptied our quivers, each rider firing up to seven arrows a minute. We didn’t fire wild, we made each arrow count, creating a swathe of death in front of us as we neared the enemy. Some Romans attempted to charge but died before they got close to us. The Romans were being slaughtered. As one rider ran out of arrows another behind him moved forward to take his place and began to shoot at a diminishing number of Roman cavalry. I heard a man shouting and screaming wildly and saw Lucius Furius riding up and down the line, frantically trying to restore some order. He failed. The surviving Romans broke and galloped away, this time north, in the direction of our camp. We charged after them.

I had no arrows left now, so I drew my sword and rode level to an enemy rider. His shield covered his left side so I swung my sword to strike the side of his helmet. He squealed like a stuck pig and toppled from his saddle. During the next half hour or so we methodically hunted down and killed most of the Roman horsemen, who had become nothing more than a host of desperate fugitives. Some were still dangerous, though, and one group of around fifty led by Furius turned and charged straight at me, killing a number of Gallia’s women before we surrounded and then fought them in a desperate melee. I reached Furius and tried to run him through, but he blocked my thrust with his shield and then swung his sword to try and decapitate me. I ducked and hacked at him, but again his shield saved him, though his horse became frightened and reared up in alarm. Furius fell from his saddle and sprawled on the ground. I jumped down from Remus as he staggered to his feet and I thrust the point of my spatha into his right shoulder. He screamed in pain and fell to his knees. I drew back the blade to send him to hell when I heard Gallia’s shout of ‘Pacorus’, and turned to see a Roman horseman bearing down on me with his spear aimed at my chest. Gallia shot his horse with an arrow and the beast collapsed to the earth, spilling its rider onto the ground. I stood over him, rammed my foot down on the base of his spine, grasped the handle of my spatha with both hands and then rammed it down as hard I could through his back. I nodded at Gallia and turned to see the wounded Furius being hauled onto a horse by one of his men, who rode away with my nemesis laid flat across his horse’s back. I ran to Remus but my quiver was empty. Lucius Furius lived again. How many lives did this man have?

I ordered recall to be sounded and over the next hour or so horsemen regrouped around my standard. We were now at least a mile south of where the battle was being fought on the other side of the river, and I was eager to get back to offer support. The news was not good. We had lost five hundred riders in the fighting with the Roman cavalry, though they must have lost perhaps three times that number. Gallia had lost forty of her women killed and now her company numbered a mere thirty riders. I sent them back to camp in case any Roman cavalry had found their way there, and told them to remain there until I returned. Then, as the sun began its descent into the western sky, we rode south again.

The battle had ended. Both sides were exhausted after hours of close-quarter fighting in which thousands had been killed. Among the dead was Castus, who had died while leading a desperate charge against a Roman assault that had threatened to split his line. His attack succeeded in driving back the Romans, but he himself was killed under a plethora of sword blows. Cannicus now led the Germans, what was left of them, but he himself was also wounded.

‘It’s not too bad, Pacorus,’ he said, holding his right side that was soaked in his blood.

‘I am sorry about Castus.’

‘He was a good man and my friend. But still, at least we beat the bastards.’ He grimaced and coughed, spitting blood onto the ground.

The Romans, what was left of them, were leaving the field now, crawling back to the safety of their camp, many of them limping and others being loaded onto stretchers. They left thousands of their comrades dead on the field. There would be no more fighting today.

I left Cannicus and rode over to the centre of the line where Akmon’s Thracians were located. I had to navigate Remus around mounds of dead Romans and Thracians; their corpses intermingled in a ghastly embrace of death. Most of the Thracians still alive were either sprawled on the ground or resting on their shields. They barely looked up as we rode past them. I found Akmon lying on the ground surrounded by his officers, one of whom was Domitus. His face was white and his eyes were closed. He had joined Spartacus. I knelt beside his lifeless body and bowed my head in respect.

‘You had better get your men back to camp,’ I said Domitus. ‘You lead the Thracians now.’

‘I will, sir, when they have the energy to walk.’

He looked numb, as though he had seen a vision of hell. Looking round, he probably had. How strange fate was. Here was a Roman leading the Thracian warriors of Spartacus, and I for one was glad for he was a brave and loyal soldier. We rode over to the right flank where Afranius and his Spaniards had fought. There were barely any of them left, while in front of them the ground was carpeted with dead Romans as far as the eye could see, Afranius himself stood alone among the dead, far in front of his still living troops. He sneered when he saw me.

‘Where were you, Parthian?’ he shouted. ‘Where were you?’

It was useless to try to talk to him. He was obviously still possessed of blood lust. We rode through the remnants of his command back to our camp with his words ringing in my ears.

‘Where were you, Parthian?’

We still lived, but the army of Spartacus was no more.