The Parthian

Chapter 4

It would have been convenient for me to report that I had decided to engage the Roman horse and foot, that I took a command decision after weighing up all the possible outcomes. But the reality was that I was caught totally unawares. Roman scouts had obviously been tracking us for a while, though our own scouts had failed to detect them. Worse, whoever led them had a more intimate knowledge of the country we were travelling through than we did. And so it was, that as we were journeying through Cilicia, moving in column between two widely separated woods through a field of lush grass, that we were confronted by a line of Roman cavalry that blocked our route. They looked the same as the ones we had defeated in Cappadocia. I gave orders to form a wedge, as the woods protected their flanks and we would be unable to sweep around them. No matter. We had beaten them once and we would beat them again.

So I gave the order that we would adopt a wedge formation with four ranks. We would be outflanked but would simply punch right through them. In each rank every other man was armed with a spear and shield to match the weapons of the Roman cavalrymen, but the others were horse archers who would unleash at least one volley of arrows before the two forces clashed. In this way the enemy would be disordered at the moment we hit them. We moved rapidly into formation and I gave the signal to advance. I was at the tip of the wedge, spear in my right hand and shield in the other. As we moved forward I noticed that the Roman cavalry remained where they were, not moving an inch. I found this slightly odd, but saw no reason to interrupt our advance as we trotted forward. As we gathered pace I suddenly heard loud ‘hurrahs’ coming from my right and left, and looked to see Roman legionaries pouring out of the woods to the right and left. My horsemen saw this too, and several pulled up their mounts in surprise. In no time at all our ranks were disordered and we had to halt to redress our lines. Still the Roman cavalry remained rooted to where they stood. I understood now that they were the bait, and we had taken it. My instinct was to charge forward regardless, but as I looked ahead I saw that the enemy cavalry was moving towards us. On the flanks the Roman soldiers were not halting to address their lines, but were closing on us fast — two blocks of iron and steel closing to crush us.

‘Forward!’ I yelled, and kneed my horse towards the Roman cavalry.

My men followed, but we had no time to build up any momentum before we smashed into the enemy, horses rearing in terror as arrows and spears found their mark. A horseman charged at me on my left side, his spear levelled at my chest. His thrust was ill aimed and I glanced away the blow with my shield and aimed my spear at his shield. A wooden shield offers protection against blows, but not the combined weight of a horse and its rider hitting it square on. I gripped the shaft tightly as the point went through his shield and into his body. I let go of the shaft, pulled my sword from its scabbard and slashed at another Roman rider that passed me on my right, the blade hitting the flesh of the neck between his mail shirt and helmet. He dropped from his saddle as I clashed with a horseman in their second line. He tried to jab me with his spear but I easily deflected the blow with my shield and lunged with my sword. His shield was held high to protect his chest and face, so I aimed a blow that pierced his thigh; he screamed in pain and dropped his spear. He tried to pull his horse away from me, but the beast whinnied in terror and reared up on its hind legs. He lost his balance and crashed to the ground, and managed to limp away from me.

I looked around and saw Roman legionaries closing in from both flanks. The first ranks had already thrown their javelins and had drawn their short swords to hack and slash at our horses. My men could not manouevre as they were trapped in the middle of a Roman vice, so they tried to shoot down as many of the enemy as they could. It was a savage battle; the Romans tightly packed and jabbing at our horses with underhand sword blows as they held their shields high; our men trying to control their horses as they searched for targets with their bows. Horses, maddened by sword cuts, reared and kicked out with their hooves. Roman soldiers had their helmets crushed by an iron-shod hoof or were trampled underfoot as their comrades in the rear ranks shoved them forward to get at us. I sheathed my sword and began to shoot my bow. A Parthian is an expert with a bow even at long ranges; at short distances he cannot miss. Gafarn was next to me as we put arrow after arrow into the enemy. After a while no Roman horsemen would come near us, and we were free to shoot at the legionaries. I thought we might yet save ourselves, but more infantry were assembling to our front and many of our men had fallen. Then I reached into my quiver to string another arrow and felt that it was empty. As the air was filled with less and less arrows I realised that others, too, had exhausted their ammunition. We were beaten. Then a javelin slammed into my horse’s left shoulder and he went down, throwing me to the ground. I tried to get up but received a blow to the side of my helmet. Then all was night.

When I came to the fighting had ended. I was next to Gafarn, who was sat on the ground beside me. When I regained consciousness he was sat with his knees drawn up to his chin looking at the earth.

I tried to rise, but the pain in my head forced me to abandon the idea.

‘Gafarn?’ I muttered, weakly.

He turned and looked at me, his face full of misery.

‘Try to rest, highness. We are captives of the Romans.’

I didn’t take in what he was saying at first. I was only interested in the battle’s outcome, which, had I considered my position more closely, would have seemed obvious. Gafarn helped me to sit up, and glancing round I realised that I was on the edge of a large group of my men, who were all sat on the ground. We were guarded by legionaries, who stood facing us with their javelins levelled. My wrists hurt and as I looked down I saw why — I had been manacled. My sense of outrage expelled all feelings of pain. That I, a prince of Hatra, had been shackled like a common criminal was an insult to all I held dear. The anger began to well up inside me. A hundred paces away, the Romans were hurling our bows, quivers and shields onto a raging fire. Gafarn was watching me.

‘They put the shackles on while you were unconscious.’

‘And you didn’t protest?’ I said, naively.

‘Oh yes, highness. I insisted that they should not wrap me in chains, but then they held a sword to my throat and a spear at my belly, so I changed my mind.’

‘All right, all right.’ I was thoroughly dejected, as were those of my men who still lived, though for how long I did not know. After a few minutes a small group of what I assumed were officers came towards us. I noticed that one had a transverse crest on his steel helmet, in the same style as the man who had nearly killed me before Bozan had saved me. I tried not to think of Bozan, for it would only serve to increase my despondency. The group of Romans halted a few paces in front of us and observed our motley band. The leader, a senior officer of some sort I assumed, began to speak. He was of average height, dressed in a white tunic that ended just above his knees, with a highly polished steel cuirass and a rich white cloak edged with purple hanging from his shoulders. He was bare headed and bald, aside from two thinning bands of grey hair above his ears. I put his age at around fifty. He turned to the soldier wearing the transverse crest on his helmet.

‘So, centurion, how many have we taken?’

‘Two hundred and fifty, sir, though some are wounded and may not survive.’

So the man with the crest was a centurion, who must command one hundred men. They obviously thought none of us understood what they were saying. The older man continued.

‘Well, they will have to do. Add them to the others and send them south.’

The centurion was shaking his head. ‘We should crucify a few, sir, to set an example.’

His superior got annoyed at this suggestion, which I was grateful for. The older man, his skin pale and his body running to fat, shook his head, which wobbled his flabby chin. ‘No, no, no, centurion.’ He looked directly at the Roman soldier, whose lean, scarred face was in stark contrast to the chubby visage of his commander, who started to wag his finger at the centurion.

‘You see, what you don’t understand is that I have to think about the wider picture.’

‘The wider picture, sir?’

‘Indeed, centurion. How long have been in the army?

‘Twenty years, sir.’

‘You see, twenty years killing barbarians and all and sundry with a sword has blinkered you. I, on the other hand, have responsibilities, both to myself and to Rome. I have considerable estates in southern Italy. Estates that have to be worked to produce a profit. And who is going to work my estates, for they don’t work themselves?’ He gestured towards us. ‘Slaves, centurion. Slaves are the key. These are valuable chattels that I intend to put to good use on my land. You want to nail them to crosses, whereas I want them to produce a healthy profit before they leave this life. Have I explained myself clearly enough?’

The centurion looked bored and resentful. ‘Yes, sir,’ he replied curtly.

The elderly Roman turned to his other companions, who had been eagerly listening to his little lecture. By the look of them, all appeared to be in their early twenties, clean-shaven and well dressed, I surmised that they too were officers of some sort.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘after our victory I think we deserve a celebratory banquet.’ He waved over another soldier who was standing a few feet behind the group. The soldiers stood before the man and snapped to attention.

‘Legate.’

So the old man was a legate, though I knew not what this was, but of some importance for certain as he was the centre of attention.

‘Arrange a banquet for this evening in my tent.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The soldier turned and marched away. The legate and his group followed in the same direction. The legate then stopped and looked back at the centurion.

‘And feed them something,’ he nodded at our group. ‘I don’t want any of them dying before they even reach Italy.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said the centurion. Then the legate was gone. The centurion scowled at his back. ‘The sooner you’re back in Rome, playing with your boy slaves, the better,’ he spat he words with bitterness.

He turned to look at us. His sword was sheathed, and in his right hand he carried some sort of cane, which he was tapping lightly against his thigh. He walked slowly up to us and halted in front of me. We were still all seated on the ground, with all eyes on the centurion. As I looked at him he placed the tip of his cane under my chin.

‘You long-haired little bastard. If I had my way, you and your all bandit friends would be nailed to crosses by now. That’s the penalty for killing Romans where I come from. But the barrel of fat who commands this legion has decided that you are going on a little journey.’ He then drew back his cane and hit me across the face with it. The blow had a vicious sting that sent me reeling. Gafarn made as though he was going to spring at the Roman, but I shook my head at him.

‘Who’s this, then,’ the Roman said, looking at Gafarn, daring him to attack him, ‘your lover?’

He spat on me and then squatted down so his face was near mine. ‘There’s a long way between here and Italy, and I guarantee that the route will be littered with your corpses. Savages. You don’t even understand what I’m saying, do you?’

He stood and marched away. I was somewhat demoralised, but tried to hide my despondency.

‘Are you hurt, highness?’ asked Gafarn.

‘No,’ I said, feeling the side of my face, which was throbbing with pain.

‘What was he saying?’

‘He’s annoyed that he can’t execute us.’

‘What are they going to do with us, highness?’

‘We are going to Italy, apparently, to do some sort of work.’

‘Where is that?’ asked Gafarn.

‘A long way from Parthia.’

Surprisingly, the Romans fed us that night. The food was a sort of thick porridge, and I passed orders that everyone was to eat as much as they gave us, as I didn’t know when we would get fed again. They also gave us copious amounts of water, which I was glad about as I had had nothing to drink since early that morning. Then the Romans threw us loaves of bread, which were hard and stale. Again, I ordered that we should eat as much as we could. The centurion was stalking around like a wolf, delivering the occasional kick to one of my men but generally keeping away. I could see that he was an individual who was full of anger. Later that evening, as we were preparing to get some rest, he stomped over and squatted before me. For some reason, he had picked me out as a target of his wrath, which unnerved me I had to admit. For a few moments he just glared at me, and I was aware of Gafarn fidgeting next to me, which made me even more nervous. I sat up and tried to match his stare, though I was in a position of helplessness and he had supreme power over me. He reeked of ale.

‘So, pretty boy, you and your band of thieves will be making a journey to the sea tomorrow.’ Did he realise that I could understand him? Surely he must. And yet, perhaps he was just giving voice to his thoughts. ‘It is my misfortune that I have been ordered to take you back to Italy. My misfortune and yours.’

He stood up and whipped the end of his cane under my chin. He then forced me to stand. He grabbed my hair with his left hand, twisting it painfully as he pulled my face toward his, until we were only inches apart.

‘You’d better pray to whatever miserable god you worship that my temper improves, otherwise I guarantee that the road will be littered with your carcasses.’

He then threw me to the ground and marched away.

‘More bad news, highness?’ queried Gafarn.

‘Yes. But it appears that our centurion friend is going to be our escort from tomorrow. Pass the word that we should be wary of him. We must do everything to avoid any conflict with the guards.’ I saw the forlorn look on Gafarn’s face. ‘Don’t worry, an opportunity will arise for us to make a bid for freedom, but for the moment we must bide our time.’

I was lying, of course, but better to offer a glimmer of hope than none at all.

The next day we were disturbed early by a host of legionaries, who used their feet to waken us from our slumbers. As we stood bleary eyed and with aching limbs, we were ordered to form into a column, four abreast. I was in the front rank. Then each of us was chained to the man in front and behind, so that not only did we have manacles on our wrists, but also one on our left ankles.

‘Be strong, soldiers of Parthia,’ I shouted, ‘Shamash will protect us.’ As soon as the words had left my mouth a cane was lashed across my face, causing a shooting pain that made me feel sick. The centurion’s face was contorted with rage.

‘Silence, you sons of whores. The next one who says anything gets a flogging.’

Satisfied that his example had done the trick, we were then shoved forward by the guards who flanked us to begin our march. The pace was slow, though we had had no breakfast and I wondered when our first rest period would be. After two hours our column was joined by another group of slaves, who included women and children. They too were formed into a long column, in front of us, and ordered to march. I estimated their numbers to be around fifty. And so we trudged for another two hours, along a dirt track through an arid landscape dotted with trees and bushes. The sun was up and the heat was increasing, which made my mouth dry, though as I observed the column of captives ahead I wondered how long it would be before one of them got into difficulties. We were soldiers and in our prime, but they appeared to be civilians, at least the women and children were.

It must have been around noon, with the sun burning our faces, when a woman who was at the rear of her column suddenly dropped like a stone. The man who was shackled to her in front stopped as he felt the dead weight on his ankle, and within seconds the whole group had shuffled to a halt. A guard went over to the prostrate figure on the ground and examined her roughly, grabbing her hair and bellowing at her to stand up. As she was a local, I doubted whether she understood what he was saying, though if she were still conscious she would have got the gist of what he was shouting. He yanked her to her feet, but as soon as he let go she fell to the ground again. She was clearly totally exhausted. The centurion, who had been marching at the head of the column, arrived to see what the hold-up was. He looked at the woman and ordered her to be unshackled. Perhaps he was not a monster after all. Another Roman ran up with a small hammer and chisel and released her from her chains, taking them away. The centurion then whipped out a dagger from a scabbard on his belt, bent down and slit the woman’s neck. She made a faint gurgling sound as the red liquid oozed from the wound onto the ground. I stared in horror as he looked up at me and grinned. He then barked an order to his men who shoved the other captives forward, leaving the body in the road. Soon the air was filled with the wails of frightened people who had witnessed the murder. The guards, annoyed at the commotion, began using their shields to shove and push individuals forward. We Parthians walked along grim faced, passing the corpse whose lifeblood was seeping into the earth.

The next few days saw more horror as we were marched under a merciless sun towards the sea. The centurion maintained a cruel pace, which caused many captives to collapse from exhaustion, starvation and dehydration. We were given little to eat and not enough water. My limbs began to ache and blisters broke out on my feet. But at least we still had our boots; those who trudged in front were barefoot, and I could see that the manacles on their ankles were chafing flesh and their feet were bruised and bloody. Some were hobbling now, while others were limping badly and had to be helped by their neighbour.

At night we lay exhausted on the ground, trying to keep our spirits up through hushed conversations. One of my officers, Nergal, a man in his mid-twenties who had a thick black mane of hair, a round face and a long nose, was a great help. He had been with the army when we took the Roman eagle and had fought well during our raid into Cappadocia. His ability to always see something positive in adversity was infectious. He had tramped for four days beside Gafarn without complaining, though he was badly sunburned on his neck. I think he was slightly in awe of me, mainly due to my capture of the Roman eagle. He appeared to have forgotten that it was my poor leadership that had contributed to our capture, for which I was grateful.

‘I saw it, highness,’ he said as I was trying to find the paradise of slumber.

‘Mmm?’

‘The eagle you took. I saw it in the temple after it was laid there. I prayed to Shamash that he would also grant me the privilege of one day taking an enemy standard.’

‘It could have been anyone,’ I replied. ‘I was in the right place at the right time, that’s all.’

He was indignant. ‘Oh no, highness, it was your destiny. You are destined for greatness, and that is why I am untroubled by our present circumstances.’

‘Really?’ I was taken aback somewhat by his confidence.

‘The gods protect those whom they love, highness.’

‘You think the gods love me, Nergal?’

‘Yes, highness.’

‘Why?’ I asked.

‘Because they gave you the eagle, no one else. I have heard that to the Romans each eagle is sacred. So only a god could grant you the power to steal it from under their noses.’

‘And what of our present situation?’ I asked him.

‘The gods are saving you for great things, highness, of that I am sure.’

‘Get some sleep, Nergal. It’s going to be hot tomorrow.’

The night was cool and during the hours of darkness we lost five of our men. They had been wounded in the battle with the Romans and their injuries, plus the hard usage they had been subjected to, was more than their bodies could endure. The first rays of the sun revealed their ashen faces. We said a prayer to Shamash and tried to bury them, but the guards hurried us along after a sparse meal of hard biscuit and a mouthful of water. They left our comrades beside the road, carrion for crows and wild animals. The nights were always the worst, not only out of fear that we would lose more comrades, but also because at night the Romans raped the women prisoners. We heard their screams and could do nothing. Some of my men wept tears of rage at their impotence. All we could do was hold our hands over our ears to try to shut out the cries of pain and misery.

In the morning we were given a meager meal and a few mouthfuls of water and then we were on the road again. This day was different, though. Four of my men had decided that they had had enough. As they shuffled along in their chains, they passed a group of legionaries who were laughing and joking with each other. They didn’t give my men a second glance as they passed by, but then my men lunged at the guards, wrapping their wrist chains around necks while other made a grab for spears and swords. One Parthian, a large man with long arms and legs, choked a guard with his right forearm and with his left hand pulled the Roman’s sword from his scabbard and rammed it through his back, the point bursting out of his chest. We stopped and hollered encouragement, but within seconds other guards stood around us, brandishing spears at our bellies and sword points at our throats. A notable feat given that his wrists were chained. Those who had attacked the guards were swiftly killed as more Romans rushed up, the big man going down only after being literally hacked to pieces by four Romans, their swords and arms wet with his blood. But five Romans were also dead.

The centurion was beside himself with rage, and would have killed us all there and then had it not have been for another soldier, who must have been of the same rank, reminding him that he was responsible for delivering us to the legate’s estates. At first denied his revenge, he nevertheless ordered that the dead Parthians be beheaded, their severed heads were then hung around the necks of the front rank, which included me. Thus we marched, it taking all my efforts not to throw up in disgust at the gore that was dangling from my neck. The centurion decided to amuse himself by trying to goad me, though I had to smile internally at the fact that, as far as I knew, he still did not know that I understood Latin.

‘Do you like your new necklace, pretty boy?’

I stared ahead with a stony gaze.

‘You son of a whore,’ he hit me hard on the arm with his vine stick, the blow made me grimace and I looked down to see that he had cut my flesh. He saw that I was looking at the wound.

‘Your flesh cuts easy, little girl. You won’t last long in the fields. Your girly locks and baby flesh will be food for crows before the year is out. My only regret is that I will not be there to see it.’

He wacked me again with his cane, this time across the back, but the one-way conversation was clearly boring him and he took himself off, bellowing at the guards to move us along at a faster pace. The first column of civilian captives was clearly incapable of doing so, and the plethora of blows and insults delivered at them resulted only in several men and women collapsing. In the end, the centurion had to order a halt to allow his beaten, half-starved victims time to recuperate. Even his tiny brain must have realised that if he continued his thuggery, all his captives would be dead before they reached the sea.

As we rested beside the road I tore off a piece of my tunic to fashion a makeshift bandage. By now all our trousers and tunics were frayed, cut and dirty. We were not allowed to leave the column to relieve ourselves, so had to perform our bodily functions where we stood or lay. This meant that we stank to high heaven, though as we all emitted a foetid odour I suspect that our guards were more repulsed than we were. I had to remind myself that I was a prince of Parthia, for our filthy, stinking, unshaven column barely resembled humanity. I certainly didn’t feel like a prince, or even a man.

On the sixth night of our nightmare journey we received more rations than we had since we had been captured, and the guards then came and took the rotting heads that we had been forced to wear away. We were also given ample quantities of water to drink.

‘What’s happening, highness?’ asked Gafarn, between great gulps of water.

‘I do not know,’ I replied, though I suspected it was all part of the centurion’s cruelty. I rubbed my shin, which was bruised and bloody as a result of the constant chafing of the manacle.

‘Are you in pain, highness?’ asked Gafarn, with concern.

I smiled. ‘No more than you, Gafarn.’

‘How much longer do you think we will walking on this accursed road?’

‘I do not know. But I suspect it won’t be for much longer.’ He seemed happy at this prospect. ‘But remember, when our journey ends we will begin another, by sea, which will take us further from Parthia.’

In fact, it was the next day that our long walk ended, for after we had travelled through a mountain pass we joined a highway that was thronged with traffic of every kind. Camels, horse-drawn carts and donkeys laden with goods jostled for position on the road, going in both directions. The centurion halted our two columns before we reached the road and bunched us all up. The guards were deployed at the front, on each flank and behind — clearly he feared some making an escape attempt, though in truth we were so weary that we barely had the strength to walk, let alone run. As we trudged forward the air was filled with a refreshing cool breeze and after an hour we crested a hill and entered a plain that swept down to a deep blue Mediterranean. Though we were in chains, our spirits rose as we temporarily forgot we were captives and looked upon a calm sea and a port whose harbour was filled with ships. Our guards were more interested in keeping other travellers away from us than they were in tormenting us, so the final leg of our journey was not that arduous. The pace was slow — the traffic was heavy as we neared he port — and we had to halt frequently along the road.

When we reached the port we were marched through the streets and straight to the harbour area. The docks were filled with pallets of goods being loaded and offloaded onto ships. On a long stone cob that stretched out of the harbour were moored a dozen or so biremes: wooden-hulled vessels with a single square-rigged sail positioned amidships, with two tiers of oars for rowers along each side of the hull. These vessels were, I supposed, designed for war, as I could see what looked like a ram at the bow of each. Other warships moored in the harbour were triremes, masterful vessels of war that had three rows of oars each side. The ship’s staggered seating permitted three benches for oarsmen per vertical section. The outrigger above the gunwhale, which projected laterally beyond it, kept the third row of oars on the deck, out of the way of the first two rows that were below decks. The triremes also had a mast amidships.

By comparison, the merchant boats that crowded the dock area were squat and ugly, designed to carry goods and not sailors or marines. They were sailing ships and had no rowers, as they required the greatest possible amount of space for their cargo. They were broad-beamed and had large square linen sails, off-white in colour. Their hulls were lined with tarred wood, and over that had been secured lead sheeting. With this protection, the water could not penetrate into the hold and the merchandise was kept safe and dry. Ropes and pulleys attached to crossbeams, operated by burly dockers adorned with black tattoos, swung loads of oil, wine, fruit, grain and cattle onto and off the boats. The activity was frenetic. We were herded into one of the wooden warehouses that lined the docks, where a well-dressed Roman in a toga attended by three clerks waited for us. The warehouse was large, cavernous and empty, and so could accommodate us with ease. It smelt of freshly cut corn. The centurion barked orders to the guards, who shoved us into ranks and files, after which the aforementioned clerks began to count us. As they did so I saw the toga-clad Roman screw up his face as our stench reached his nostrils. The clerks finished their tally and scurried to their master. The Roman listened to what they reported, frowned and gestured to the centurion for him to attend him.

As I was in the front rank I could hear the conversation that followed. The well-dressed Roman’s mood quickly turned sour. As he surmised that none of us could understand Latin, he made little attempt to subdue his voice.

‘Centurion Cookus, I was informed by dispatch that you started out with three hundred captives.’ The centurion shrugged nonchalantly, but made no attempt to answer, so his superior continued. ‘And yet, I find myself confronted with only two hundred and fifty, which means fifty are missing. Do you know where they are?’

‘Dead, sir,’ replied Cookus, flatly.

‘Dead? How did they die?’

Cookus was clearly bored by the proceedings, but indulged his questioner. ‘Some died of exhaustion, others were killed because they rebelled.’ He cast me a hateful glance.

‘Legate Tremelius entrusted you with the safe conduct of these captives to this port, from where they are to be transported to his estates in southern Italy. And yet you present me with these miserable creatures, half of whom I doubt will survive the sea voyage. And, to add insult to injury, you have managed to lose fifty dead.’

‘They’re only slaves,’ replied Cookus.

‘No!’ snapped the other Roman. ‘They are valuable property of the legate, you idiot. I’ve a good mind to report you for dereliction of duty.’

Cookus marched up to him and glared at the somewhat flabby civilian, who involuntarily shrunk back from the grizzled veteran soldier with the big sword hanging from his belt.

‘Captives, die, sir,’ Cookus said slowly and loudly. ‘And my job is to kill Rome’s enemies not play nursemaid to slaves. So, here they are and my duty is done.’

‘Not quite, centurion,’ smiled the Roman, who held out his pink right hand, into which one of the clerks placed a scroll. ‘These are your orders from the legate. You are to personally escort the captives to his estate at Capua, there to hand them over to his chief bailiff.’

Cookus went red with rage. ‘In the name of Jupiter, this cannot be!’

‘Indeed it can, centurion. So I would advise you to take better care of your charges from now on. So rest them, get them fed and then see to it that they are shipped to Italy tomorrow. I have already paid the Cilicians to escort the three ships, so you have no fear of being boarded by pirates.’

‘The Cilicians are pirates,’ said Cookus, indignantly.

The Roman official raised an eyebrow as he pondered the statement. ‘Technically, you are correct, but at the moment it is convenient for Rome to pay the Cilicians dues so that they do not interfere with our ships. The spoils of the war taken from Mithridates are considerable, and Rome presently sees no need to create difficulties for what is a very lucrative agreement, albeit temporary. Rome will deal with them in time, but for the moment they are tolerated. You see, centurion, it’s all about strategy, something I don’t expect you to understand. It is better to fight one war at a time. Once we have destroyed Mithridates, then we will rid the sea lanes of pirates. Quite simple.’

‘The Cilicians are no better than this lot of bandits,’ he jerked a finger at us Parthians.

‘That may be, but just concern yourself with getting your cargo to its destination. Now I must have a bath and a massage, the aroma coming from them,’ he indicated us captives, ‘is really quite distasteful.’

With that he turned and strode from the warehouse, followed by his clerks. Cookus was left alone with us, and his thoughts. He called over two of his men and spoke to them quietly for a couple of minutes, then marched from the warehouse. We were ordered to take our ease on the floor, and we grabbed the opportunity to lie down. I stretched out my aching and bruised limbs and closed my eyes. What a nightmare we were living, with little prospect of matters getting any better. But for the moment at least we were allowed to rest. I drifted into a deep sleep, only to be wakened by what seemed seconds later by a loud whistle being blown. I raised myself up, though my arms felt like lead weights, and saw other slaves carrying buckets of water walking among us, while others handed out bread. A slave stood before me and offered me water from a wooden ladle. I hesitated, then pointed at Gafarn, who eagerly accepted the gesture and drank greedily. After he had finished I also slated my thirst. The liquid was the sweetest I had ever tasted, and the bread was like the eating the finest feast I had ever attended. Ludicrous of course, but when you thirsty and hungry even the simplest fare seems like the food of the gods. Cookus, sitting on a bench and leaning against the far wall, observed us with his cold, black eyes.

I had come to change my mind about Byrd over the past few weeks. At first all I saw was a mercenary, a man who would sell his soul for gold, but as he guided and accompanied us during our expedition in Cappadocia I saw that he was a man whose life had been destroyed, and who lived only for an opportunity to get revenge on the Romans. One evening, in the black, humid prison that was the ship’s hold, I spoke to him as we both lent against the hull while other men slept fitfully at our feet.

‘I am sorry, Byrd,’ I said.

‘For what, lord?’

‘For being responsible for getting you enslaved.’

He didn’t speak for a few moments, then sighed. ‘It does not matter, lord. My life was empty when Lord Bozan hired me to act as your guide. I was glad to be given a chance to strike back at the Romani.’

‘Even though you are now their slave?’

I could barely see his face in the half-light, the hold dimly illuminated by moonlight streaming through the iron grating above us, which was located in the centre of the deck. Without that, we would surely die of suffocation.

‘Romani killed my family when they attacked Ceasarea. I was a trader in pots, and so travelled far and wide in my land. I was away when they killed them, and since then I have wished that I too had died that day.’

‘And yet you live,’ I said, flatly.

‘Yes, lord. Perhaps I too will get to kill Romans. Like you.’

I feared that my Roman-killing days were over but remained silent. The Romans were the least of my worries, for as the days passed several of my men became weaker and weaker. On the seventh day what I feared happened: two died. They had never recovered from the wounds they had received in the battle with the Romans, and the ill usage they had received since killed them. In the dawn their bodies were unchained and taken up to the deck, and then unceremoniously thrown overboard. We were then ordered onto the deck, the guards using their spear shafts to beat us as we climbed the wooden steps, which proved difficult to manoeuvre with the manacles on our wrists and the chains on our ankles. But it was pleasant to stand in the sun again and feel a light sea breeze on our faces. The day was cloudless, and we squinted in the bright sun, our eyes unused to the light. Centurion Cookus, standing on the raised aft deck, was chewing on a piece of bread, and watching us intently. Beside him stood a burly, bearded man with a large scarlet cloth wrapped around his head, the captain I assumed. Unfortunately, Cookus did not choke on his food and after he had finished his meal he descended the steps to the main deck and walked up to me, his usual evil grin on his face.

‘So, pretty boy, how do you like your quarters aboard this fine ship?’

I looked at him quizzically, making out that I did not understand him. He had his cane in his right hand, and he brought it up as if to strike me across the face. But the blow was lazy, probably made to impress the captain, and despite my manacles I was able to block the strike and grab the cane from his hand, which I hurled overboard into the sea. Why did I do it? Perhaps it was the hopelessness of my situation that made even a small victory all the more appealing, or maybe a part of me wanted to die and end the unbearable humiliation of enslavement. Not the physical pain of chains on my wrists and ankles, but the mental anguish of being treated like an animal. So I grabbed that damned stick and threw it into the sea.

For a moment Cookus looked stunned, amazed that I, a slave, would have the audacity to do such a thing. I could swear he also looked hurt that his beloved cane, the instrument with which he inflicted so much pain on all and sundry, had been taken from him. And in those few seconds I realised that I had made a terrible mistake. I remembered my father’s words — better to die on your feet than live on your knees — but the fear I felt in the pit of my stomach made me think that I was certainly about to die on my feet. But Cookus was not only a bully and a thug, he was also an accomplished sadist. I expected to be beaten to a pulp and then thrown into the sea, but instead, with all eyes on him, Cookus merely smiled and walked calmly back to the aft deck, where he had a few brief words with the captain. The captain then signalled to two of his men, who grabbed me and hurled me against the rigging. My arms were then forced above my head and lashed to the rigging and my tattered tunic was ripped from my back. My fellow Parthians, who were murmuring in anger, were then speedily herded back into the hold, some being thrown down the steps, which pulled down others they were chained to. The iron grilles were then shut and locked, leaving myself alone with my captors. I looked at where Cookus stood, his arms crossed in front of him. The captain lent forward and whispered something in his ear, Cookus threw back his head and roared with laughter. How I hated that man.

Suddenly there was a searing pain across my back as the first blow of the whip struck my flesh. The pain resembled a severe sting, which was followed by another strike, this time slightly lower on my back, just below the shoulder blades. I flinched involuntarily as the leather thongs bit deep into my back, this time near the base of my spine. He pain was unbearable and I screamed as the cords lashed my flesh. Each strike wracked my body and sapped my strength, and my body sagged as I hung on the rigging limply. My back felt as though it was on fire as waves of nausea swept through me. I lost count of how many times I was lashed. Then, mercifully, the flogging ceased. I could feel liquid running down my back — my own blood. I was aware only of the gentle rolling of the boat, everything else was silence. Then I was aware of the voice of Cookus in my right ear, his words calm and methodical.

‘Well, pretty boy. That was for stealing my cane. But we don’t want you too damaged otherwise you won’t be much use when I deliver you to your new master, who no doubt will want to assault your arsehole every night until you are all used up.’ He patted my face. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll make sure you won’t die on this boat.’

He snapped his fingers and a sailor passed him a bucket. He stepped back and threw its contents on my wounds, which caused me to arch my back and scream. The other sailors repeated Cookus’ actions and sprayed me with salt water. My groans of agony made them laugh out loud until Cookus told them to stop. I was almost unconscious now, noises seemed distant and muffled and I could feel nothing. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Cookus, who was standing on a wooden box. He then lifted his tunic and pissed over me. I barely heard the bouts of laughter as I drifted into unconsciousness.

They left me there for what seemed like hours, my back throbbing with pain, my mouth dry and my arms numb from being lashed tightly to the rigging. Eventually, as the sun was dropping on the western horizon, they released me from my bonds and hurled me back into the hold. Nergal and Gafarn tried to make me comfortable, but I was so weakened that I was barely aware of them or anything else, and drifted in and out of unconsciousness. I probably would have died on that stinking hulk had it not have been for the fact that two days later we docked in Italy. I did not know it at the time, but in the previous forty-eight hours dead bodies had been thrown off each boat into the sea as captives succumbed to their wounds or died from heat, exhaustion and lack of food. The women and children were the main victims, and as we were unloaded onto the quay in a fierce heat and under a vivid blue sky, our Roman guards suddenly seemed concerned. Not out of consideration for us, but rather from the realisation that our numbers had dropped substantially. Cookus was berating his men.

‘Get them off the boats as quickly as possible. Don’t let any more die.’ He barked his orders to his soldiers, who scurried about, cajoling us and making threats, though I noticed that they did not actually beat us. I was finding it hard to breathe, my body weakened by the flogging I had received. My back hurt like fury, causing me to wince each time the course cloth of the stinking tunic I had been given rubbed against a weeping sore.

‘Are you all right, highness?’ asked Gafarn.

‘I’ll live,’ I replied, unconvincingly.

Gafarn supported me on one side and Nergal on the other.

‘How many did we lose?’

I saw the look of pain in Nergal’s eyes. ‘Thirty have died, highness.’

‘And the civilian captives?’ I asked.

He shrugged. ‘I do not know, highness, but there are hardly any children left.’

I could have wept at that moment, wept for those we had lost and for what lay ahead. It seemed so long ago when we had left Hatra, all of us proud warriors of the Parthian Empire. Now, what was left of us stood chained on a quay in a Roman port. Our clothes were in rags, our faces unshaved and our hair matted and filthy. Our legs and arms were covered in welts and sores, out feet bare and bruised because we had been stripped of our footwear when we had boarded the boats. We were all mostly in our early twenties, but anyone who cast us a glance would have thought we were twice that age.

As we waited I looked around at the harbour at which we had been offloaded. It was massive, being hexagonal shaped and enclosed within two breakwaters. The waterfront comprised a long row of warehouses, which teemed with workers loading and unloading carts of varying size. Sacks, livestock and pallets holding clay jars were being offloaded from huge ships moored along the docks. Clerks were tallying lists and merchants were supervising the shipment of their goods. The level of activity was amazing and dwarfed anything I had previously seen. As we waited, we were given no food or water.

Eventually a chariot arrived, pulled by a pair of black horses and driven by a slight young man dressed in a pure white tunic. Beside him stood a portly middle-aged man, also in white, wearing a wide-brimmed hat who was sweating profusely. The chariot stopped a few feet in front of us and the rotund man stepped off and walked over the Cookus, who saluted stiffly. The elder man spoke to Cookus, who nodded and then pointed at us. The older man then strode over to where we were being guarded. The day was getting hotter and I was getting weaker, having to rely increasingly on Gafarn and Nergal to stop myself from collapsing onto the ground. The man pulled up a couple of yards from us as our stench reached his nostrils. He put a handkerchief to his nose.

‘They smell disgusting, centurion.’

‘Yes, sir,’ replied Cookus. ‘You know what these eastern types are like, sir. Never wash, live in filth most of the time.’

‘It never ceases to amaze me how disreputable these barbarians are. They look as disgusting as they smell.’ His gaze fell on me as I stared at him from black-rimmed eyes. ‘What happened to that one?’

‘Trouble-maker, sir,’ Cookus replied. ‘We had to give him a flogging.’

The elder man nodded his approval. ‘Good. Slaves need to be reminded that they exist for one purpose, to serve their masters. If you have any more trouble from him, I would advise nailing him to a cross.’

Cookus smiled. ‘Of course, sir. You want them shipped to Capua.’

‘Mmm, er no. They are to be transported to the legate’s estate outside Nola. The eastern war has been very rewarding with regard to slaves. His estates around Capua have enough slaves. The one at Nola has need of them. The legate owns that warehouse,’ he pointed to a large wooden structure that fronted the docks. ‘Put them in there for the night and start out early in the morning. I’ve arranged food and water to be delivered, it should be here within the hour. Also some wine for you and your men.’

‘That’s very kind, sir.’

‘Well, I must be away. The legate is a very important man and I have to be in Herculaneam this afternoon. Hopefully the rest of my journey will be uneventful.’

With that he turned and went back to his chariot, gesturing with his right hand to the driver, who shouted to the two immaculately groomed horses, who walked forward at his command. Then they were gone and were herded into the warehouse. I was glad to be out of the sun and even more relieved when we were allowed to lie on the floor. I rested on my side as it was too painful to lie on my back. I wanted to sleep, but Nergal and Gafarn wanted to know if I knew anything.

‘We are going to be transported to a place called Nola.’

‘Where’s that?’ asked Nergal.

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘How long will it take?’ asked Gafarn.

‘I don’t know.’

‘What will happen to us there?’ enquired Nergal.

‘Enough,’ I snapped. ‘Enough of your questions. Get some rest. Food and water are on the way. Now let me sleep.’

I knew what lay ahead: more chains and whips, and being worked like animals on the land. I did not want to demoralise them, but they must have known that we were slaves with little hope of escape. Escape. We had talked in hushed tones about how we would escape, but in truth the further away we got from Parthia the likelihood of a successful escape diminished. The Romans were not fools. Each of us had manacles on our wrists and was chained to at least one other person via our ankle. The guards watched us like hawks and checked our iron bonds every day. And we were weak, with all our efforts aimed at staying alive rather than dreaming up complex escape plans. Any spare moment was devoted to rest and, most precious of all, sleep. Merciful sleep, where one could escape from the nightmare we were living.

The next morning we were woken early, Cookus kicking me awake and forcing me to my feet with his cane. His new cane, which he had obviously acquired while we were resting. He gave me a sharp whack across the face that sent me spinning to the floor. Gafarn and Nergal helped me back up.

‘You like my new stick, pretty boy?’ Cookus grinned maliciously at me. He reeked of ale; obviously he had been drinking heavily last night. He spat in my face then turned around and started barking orders to his men.

‘Get these bastards moving. It’s a long march to Nola and I want to be back here within the week.’

We were roughly organised into a long column, three abreast, and then our guards used their shields to shove us out of the warehouse and onto the road. Dawn was just breaking, but already the port was bustling with activity. After half an hour we had left the city and were on the road. Roman roads were a marvel to behold, and even in my debilitated state I could appreciate the engineering that had gone into them. The road itself was made up of flagstones laid side by side, with well-tended verges on either side that were flanked by ditches, for drainage I assumed. The road itself was around thirty feet wide, the verges ten feet wide or thereabouts. Curiously, only people were walking on the road, donkeys and their carts were travelling on the verges. I had no idea why this was, but I was thankful that the road, arrow straight, was at least not taxing to walk on and also that the day was still cool. Myself, Nergal and Gafarn trudged at the front of our ragged column, while ahead of us strode Cookus and half a dozen of his men. Guards were positioned on each flank of the column.

To our right was the sea, while on our left rose a massive hump-backed mountain the like of which I had never seen before. It was like a huge green tent with a flat top, and I could not but help stare at it. We had left the port and were tramping on a road in a lush green landscape. There were large fields on our left that were filled with workers, slaves no doubt. The chains that held our ankles dragged on the flagstones, producing a metallic shuffling sound. The sound was melodic, almost trance-inducing. But then I was awakened from my daydream by the sound of screams. At first they were muffled, but as we continued on our journey they became louder, and then I saw why. Ahead, about a quarter of a mile, a cross had been erected by the side of the road, upon which an individual was writhing in agony. As we got closer I could see that a soldier was frantically nailing the man’s feet to a block of wood that was attached to the vertical part of the cross. The impaled man screamed in agony with each blow of the hammer, as the nail was driven deeper into the block of wood. When the soldier had finished we were only a hundred yards or so from the scene, and I could see that another man was lying on the ground, his arms held in place by two more soldiers against a wooden crosspiece. The Roman in charge, who wore the same type of helmet as Cookus, halted the proceedings as his fellow centurion greeted him.

‘Salve, friend, Centurion Cookus delivering this bunch of rogues to the estate of Legate Tremelius at Nola. What’s this, a bit of sport?’

The other centurion ambled over and the two men clasped arms in greeting.

‘Centurion Sextus. Runaways from Capua. We found them yesterday and were ordered to plant them here’

‘Capua?’ said Cookus ‘That’s a long way from here.’

‘There’s a whole band of them camped on Vesuvius up there,’ Sextus pointed to the flat-topped mountain. ‘I’m here with Praetor Caius Glaber to wipe them out.’

The crucified man was moaning in pain, which seemed to annoy Sextus. He pointed at the soldier holding the hammer.

‘Put another one in his feet if he wants to annoy us with his voice.’

Clearly sadism was inherent in all centurions. The soldier reached into a bag that hung from his belt and fished out a long nail that had a mushroom-type head, then held it against the bloody foot of the victim and hit it hard with the hammer. The air was filled with an ear-piercing shriek as the iron was driven through the man’s foot into the wood. The man screamed again and again as the grinning soldier hit the nail on the head, the iron being driven expertly into the foot until the head was compressed against the bloody pulp. Convulsions gripped the victim and he shook violently, which only increased the pain in his pierced feet and arms. Blood streamed down the cross from his feet. I was revolted but transfixed by the horror that was unfolding before me. Sextus looked at the other man who was being held on the ground.

‘Gag him first, I’ve got a headache and I don’t want his screams making it any worse. Where are you camping tonight, Cookus?’

‘By the road, looks like.’

‘Why don’t you camp with us?’ asked Sextus. ‘There are six cohorts below the summit, so there’s enough food and wine for you and your men. The garrison of Rome eats well, I can assure you.’

‘Six cohorts of the garrison of Rome?’ Cookus was clearly surprised. ‘For a bunch of runaways?’

‘Not ordinary runaways,’ they had begun to nail the other man to his crosspiece, his screams of pain being clearly audible despite his gag. ‘This lot are gladiators and they know how to fight. They’ve already killed the Capua police sent to fetch them back, and a few citizens unlucky enough to cross them.’

The new victim was hoisted into place beside his unfortunate comrade by means of ropes, the cross slamming down into a hole dug into the roadside verge. Thus it was that as we were marched away, two forlorn figures played out a grisly dance of death beneath a merciless Roman sun. Most of us Parthians had seen crucifixion before; indeed, it had been invented in the east, and were not unduly troubled by its proximity. No doubt the thought had flashed through everyone’s mind that they would suffer the same fate — it had certainly gone through mine. After another hour’s walking we came to a dirt track that led off the road to the left, up towards the large mountain that dominated the landscape. We followed this track for another two miles or so, the sun now beating down on us and causing us to sweat. Our pace slackened, though the guards did not use their fists or spear shafts to quicken the pace. They and Cookus seemed in good spirits, and as we crested a small hillock I understood why.

In front of us was a Roman camp, containing line upon line of neatly arranged tents. It had been laid out with precision beside the track and there must have been hundreds of tents, most small, some large and ornate, covering dozens of acres. The whole camp was surrounded by a freshly dug earth rampart about a man’s height, with a ditch on the outer slope of the rampart from where the earth had been dug. Guards stood on the rampart every ten paces or so, their red shields resting on the earth and the men facing outwards. A gap in the rampart indicated the camp’s entrance, which was flanked by more guards. I had to admit it was an impressive site, and had I been in better physical shape I might have appreciated it more. As it was, I just wanted to collapse on the ground and rest.

We were herded off the track and made to sit in a field just outside the camp — obviously no one wanted us inside. After talking and laughing with Sextus, Cookus came over to where we were sitting. We had no shade, water or food. My mouth felt parched. As usual, the centurion singled me out, shoving his cane under my chin and painfully dragging me to my feet.

‘This, pretty boy,’ he said, pointing with his cane at the camp, ‘is the might of Rome. While your mother was whelping you in a stinking mud hut, Rome’s legions were conquering bastard heathens such as you. And now, son of a whore, you will live out your miserable life serving her. You and all the rest of you. Tonight I intend to get very drunk with my comrades of the garrison of Rome, and tomorrow I will deliver your stinking hide to your new master.’

He whipped the cane across the side of my face, splitting my nose and sending blood shooting over my face. The pain made me feel as though I was going to throw up. My knees buckled, but before I collapsed he grabbed my hair and yanked my bloody face to face him. ‘Or perhaps I will crucify you tomorrow. Over there, on the rampart, where everyone can see.’ He grinned and let me go. I collapsed in a heap at his feet. He delivered a sharp kick to my back before he turned and marched off. I lay on my side and felt blood trickle down my face. I was so very weak.

‘Try to rest, highness.’ Gafarn looked at me with some concern.

‘It’s all right, Gafarn,’ I said. ‘I’ll live.’ But I no longer believed that.

My men and the rest of the captives were lying or sitting on the ground, a sad, miserable collection of humanity wrapped in chains. I heard crying and turned my head to see two guards prodding a lifeless body with the butts of their spears shafts. A woman was weeping over the obviously dead individual. A friend, a relative, a husband? The Romans unchained the corpse and hauled it away — just another dead slave. In stark contrast, the sounds of merriment and laughter coming from the camp filled the air. The Romans were obviously enjoying their slave hunting. I was totally drained of energy, made worse by the fact that I had had nothing to eat or drink since early morning. The blood had stopped running down my face now. That was my last thought as I drifted into sleep.

I was woken by Nergal and Gafarn shaking me roughly.

‘Wake up, highness.’ As I regained consciousness I was aware of the alarm in his voice. It was dark — I must have been asleep for a long while — and my arms and legs felt heavy. My back ached, but then my heart started to pound as I heard the familiar sounds of combat. The sharp smack of metal against metal, the shrieks and yelps of men being cut down, and the whinnying of frightened horses and the smell of leather, sweat and blood in the air.

‘Get me up,’ I said, and Nergal and Gafarn hauled me to my feet.

My men were also on their feet, along with the rest of the captives, though they were scared and some were wailing in alarm. I tried to understand what was going on. In the darkness it was difficult, but it was obvious that the camp was not being assaulted; rather, the battle seemed to be taking place within its confines. Some of the tents were on fire, producing a red glow that shone on our faces and cast a supernatural pall over everything. Then the first runaways appeared, legionaries fleeing from inside the camp through the gap in the earth rampart. Frightened men, without weapons or mail shirts, stumbling and falling as they fled the source of their terror. One soldier, obviously wounded, staggered towards us, a sword held in his right hand.

‘‘Over here, soldier,’ I shouted.

‘Highness?’ said Nergal.

‘When he gets close, use your manacles to beat him to the ground.’

‘I hope your trick works,’ remarked Gafarn.

‘So do I,’ I replied.

The legionary wove a haphazard path towards me. He was obviously disorientated and scared.

‘It’s fine, I said, ‘just come to us. Everything will be fine.’

The sword was still by his side as he reached me, his eyes bulging with terror.

‘They just came out of the dark, we didn’t stand a chance, I…’

He said no more as Gafarn, Nergal and Byrd swung their chains in his face, smashing him off his feet. I lunged at him and snatched the sword from his grasp. He was probably unconscious as I plunged the tip of the blade down hard into his throat, causing blood to shoot upwards. We took the dead soldier’s knife attached to his belt and tried to free ourselves from our bonds using it and the sword. The ends of the iron bars through our wrist and ankle shackles had been hammered flat on an anvil, though, which meant they would have to be cut with a chisel on an anvil to break them. We were trapped still. By now the sounds of slaughter filled the air as men were being cut down. Individuals began to appear on the ramparts, not soldiers but men dressed in rags and cloaks and wielding axes, spears and swords. One jumped down and caught a legionary with a vicious swing of his axe that took the man’s head clean off. Then a legionary, his clothes aflame, careered past us waving his arms wildly as the heat peeled off his flesh. This night was filled with horror, which transfixed us all. A figure ran up to me, his face blackened with soot and his eyes wild. He carried a huge sword, which he swung around expertly with his right arm. He stopped and saw our chains.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Highness, highness,’ he was saying.

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

‘What?’ I snapped.

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

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

‘Who are you? What do you want?’

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

‘I am Spartacus.’

Then I passed out.