The Parthian

Chapter 5

I spent five days lying in a cot in a Roman tent, a tent made of oiled calfskin. It smelt pleasant enough, and the cot I lay in was low but had a mattress admirably stuffed with hay. I liked the aroma of the dried grass as it reminded me of a stable, and my thoughts turned to home. The first four days I spent drifting in and out of unconsciousness. On the fifth day a doctor, or at least I assumed he was a doctor, visited me and tended to my wounds. He reassured me that the injury to my nose was only superficial and that it would heal without leaving any scars or being misshapen. I have to confess that my vanity was relieved by his assurance.

‘I can’t say the same about your back, though,’ he said after examining the whip marks. His voice was slightly high-pitched and he appeared agitated. ‘I have given your slave, er, your friend, some ointments which must be applied every four hours. The wounds will heal, but you will have some permanent marks on your back. Nothing too gruesome. Well, if that is all I will take my leave of you. Good day.’

He was obviously keen to be away.

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I am in your debt.’

The doctor cleared his throat. ‘All debts have been settled. Goodbye.’

Then he was gone. Gafarn entered the tent, the front flaps of which were open to provide some ventilation. He was carrying a tray of bottles.

‘Medicine, highness, for your wounds. This lot must have cost a lot of money. What is the currency in these parts?’

‘I have no money.’

‘I know that,’ he said, putting down the tray on the small table beside the cot. ‘So does he, but the big man fetched him and gave him gold.’ He sat down in a small chair the other side of the table and stretched out his legs.

‘I’ve got some porridge cooking outside, should be ready in a few minutes. Got to get your strength back up. Now,’ he picked out a bottle and uncorked it. ‘This is to be rubbed into your back every four hours, apparently. Smells nice.’

He started to apply the ointment, which had a sweet smell but felt cool on my skin.

‘Who’s the big man?’ I asked.

‘You know, their leader. What’s his name? Spartacus.’

‘Why do you call him the big man?’

‘Well, he’s bigger than you for a start, and for another he’s seems to be the head man of this little group. Slaves, or most of them are.’

‘What?’ for some reason I was outraged.

‘Nothing wrong with slaves. After all, you have been tended by one for years, and you yourself were one, for a while at least.’ I went to raise myself up but he forced me back down. ‘Lie still. Actually, they are gladiators.’

‘Gladiators?’

‘Yes,’ he applied more ointment to my shoulders. ‘Apparently they fight to the death in an arena.’

‘I know what a gladiator is.’

‘Of course you do,’ he said. ‘Anyway, turns out that they escaped from their school and ended up here, luckily for you, and me.’

I was finding it hard to stay awake, so after I had eaten a dish of porridge I slept again. Over the next few days I at last began to recover my strength. I shaved the beard off my face and Gafarn brought me a change of clothes — light brown trousers, red linen tunic and leather boots.

‘They’re Roman,’ he said as I fastened the fine leather belt around my waist. ‘Thought you might want to keep this.’ He hand me a dagger in a beautiful silver sheath. It looked familiar but I didn’t know why.

‘It belonged to that bastard centurion who gave you a hard time.’

‘Cookus,’ I said involuntarily. I pulled the blade from its sheath. The brass handle and steel blade were of the highest quality. ‘I’ll keep it,’ I said as I slammed the blade back in place and attached the sheath to my belt.

I walked outside and was greeted by my men, who gave a cheer and closed around me. It was good to see them and in truth I found it difficult to hold back the tears. They looked well, having lost their chains and having been groomed and fed. They did look odd, though — they were all dressed in Roman uniforms and could have been Romans had it not have been for their long hair. After I had embraced each one I suddenly realised that I did not recognise my surroundings. As I looked beyond our group I saw that we were in a vast rock bowl, with sheer sides all the way round, the ground we stood on being carpeted by grass and the rock face covered in foliage, though what kind I could not tell. I saw there was but one gap in the tall rock wall, a V-shaped ingress through which a steady stream of individuals were coming and going.

‘It is called Mount Vesuvius, highness,’ said Nergal, anticipating my question.

‘Vesuvius?’

‘The mountain we saw when we were captives, just before we were rescued.’

‘After you passed out the gladiators stripped the Roman camp bare and brought everything here,’ said Gafarn. ‘They released us from our chains and invited us to accompany them to this place. I’ve picked up a few words of Latin. They said it would be safer. We carried you and others of our party who were too weak to walk.’

At that moment one of the gladiators sauntered up. He was dressed in the uniform of a Roman soldier, but was bare headed and had a spear and shield only, no sword. He looked at me for a few seconds; I assumed he was weighing me up in his mind. His arms were bare and I could see that he carried scars on both. He saw that I had spotted them.

‘Momentos of my time in the arena.’ His accent was strange, guttural and vulgar. ‘Spartacus will see you now. Follow me.’

Without waiting for my reply he turned and strode off. Nergal shrugged. I nodded to him and Gafarn and then followed my guide. I caught up with him and walked beside him as he maintained a steely gaze ahead. He obviously felt no compunction to say anything and I had little interest in engaging him in conversation. All around were tents similar to the one I had been recovering in, and I noticed that they were all arranged in neat lines and rows. To my right I could see groups of men being drilled, with figures shouting and barking orders at the recruits. I would have liked to see more but my guide walked briskly, past pens full of pigs and goats, forges with white-hot fires where burly leather-aproned men were hammering red-hot iron bars on anvils, and past stables where men were grooming horses. We eventually arrived at a tent that was larger than the others, and which was positioned, as far as I could tell, in the middle of the camp. It was taller than the height of a man and the two front flaps were tied back to reveal the interior, which comprised a large-rectangular space, on the right-hand of which was a large table at which sat three figures. The entrance was flanked by two guards dressed as Roman soldiers, each one armed with a spear and shield. My guide gestured for me to enter and then left. I stepped inside the tent, the roof of which was supported by three thick poles arranged in a line down the middle. I recognised the man who sat in the middle, it was the one they called Spartacus. He wore a simple mail shirt over a red tunic. His gaze was as I remembered it — piercing, alert. He was obviously a man of some intelligence, not given to rashness but more calculating. I estimated his age to be around thirty, maybe older. He extended his right arm and invited me to sit in a leather chair that was on the other side of the table. I eased myself into the chair and stretched out my legs. My limbs still ached, and I was glad to be able to take the weight off them. I looked at the two men who flanked Spartacus. On his right side sat a man with a long face, brown eyes and a full head of brown hair, which was cut to just above his neck. His beard was neatly trimmed, his grey eyes staring at me intently. He wore a simple blue tunic, his hands folded across his chest. I put his age at about twenty-five. The one to the left of Spartacus was a bear of a man, a wild-looking individual of the same age or thereabouts with an untidy mass of long, red hair. On each side of his face were long plaits that rested on his huge chest. He had no beard, but rather a long, thick moustache that had plaited ends. His head was massive, as were his arms that were bare and shot out from either side of his green tunic. At his throat he wore a thick silver torque, with smaller silver bands around his wrists. He looked at me with disdain with his blue eyes, no doubt weighing me up as he did an opponent in the arena.

Spartacus spoke first. ‘Welcome, Pacorus. I am glad to see you on your feet again.’

‘Thank you,’ I replied, ‘and thank you for releasing me and my men from our bonds.’

‘Your servant speaks Latin well,’ continued Spartacus, ‘and he has been telling me a little about how you came to be in Italy. But perhaps you could enlighten us further.’

‘If I can, lord.’

‘Ha, he’s no lord, boy,’ the big man had a voice as big as his frame. He slapped Spartacus hard on the shoulder. ‘He’s a killer, trained by the Romans to entertain them on special occasions. He’s a Thracian, which in the order of things is below a Gaul but,’ he leaned forward and smiled at the man with the long face, ‘above a German. Isn’t that right, Castus?’

‘I’ve been remiss,’ said Spartacus, ignoring the interruption. ‘I must introduce you to everyone.’ He turned to the big man. ‘This is Crixus, a brawler from Gaul who was rescued from his life of tending pigs by the Romans, who introduced him to the art of killing men with a sword. One day he might be good at it.’ Crixus sniffed in mockery. Spartacus turned to the other man. ‘This is Castus, who the Romans took when they raided his village and found him sleeping off a hangover.’

‘Bastard Romans, we signed a treaty with them and they agreed not to cross over the river into our territory,’ there was a genuine look of indignation on Castus’ face. ‘We are a people who respect treaties, but the Romans just broke it like a shot.’

‘Imagine that,’ said Crixus, mockingly.

‘What is your story, Pacorus?’ asked Spartacus.

So I told them, of how we were raiding into Cappadocia, of how Bozan had been killed and we had been captured. I told them about Hatra and the Parthian Empire, and how my father had led another raid into Syria. I must confess I was slightly nervous concerning their intentions towards me, and was reluctant to tell them all about me. Spartacus looked down at the table and occasionally nodded as I relayed my tale. He abruptly looked up at me.

‘And who is your father?’

‘His name is Varaz,’ I replied.

Spartacus leaned forward and fixed me with his hawk-like eyes. ‘That would be King Varaz, would it not, Prince Pacorus?’

‘Son of a king, eh. He should fetch a nice ransom,’ quipped Crixus.

‘Much gold to equip our army,’ mused Castus.

I was indignant. It appeared that I had escaped one lot of gaolers only to land in the midst of a set of cutthroats. I leaned forward and tried to look purposeful, staring directly at Spartacus.

‘I will not be treated like an animal. You saw fit to free me from my chains. I have to tell you that you will not be putting any back on me. I am just one man, but I will fight each and any of you. Give me a sword and I will show you how a Parthian fights.’

It was, I thought, a brave speech, though in my weakened state I wouldn’t have lasted long fighting any of them, let alone all three. I prayed for a quick death at least. Spartacus looked at first Crixus and then Castus. Spartacus and Castus burst into laughter. Crixus sat stony faced.

‘We don’t want spoilt, royal bastards who have slaves to wipe their arses,’ he spat.

‘We need all good soldiers we can get our hands on,’ said Spartacus.

‘He can’t be that good if the Romans captured him,’ replied Crixus.

‘They captured you too, didn’t they?’ I said. ‘What does that say of you?’

Crixus jumped up and glared at me. ‘Why don’t we see who is the best, here and now.’

‘Sit down, Crixus.’ Spartacus’ words were stern.

Crixus did as he was told, fixing me with a hateful stare as he did so.

‘We want you and your men to join us, Pacorus.’

‘Not all of us,’ mumbled Crixus.

‘Join you?’ I was somewhat taken aback. They were hardly my idea of a disciplined army.

‘We will not sway you either way,’ said Spartacus. ‘But we might be your best hope of getting home. You are, after all, in Italy, and a long way from Parthia. Fight with us and you might see your family again.’

‘And what do you fight for?’ I asked.

Spartacus smiled. ‘The same thing that you used to take for granted, my young prince. Freedom. The freedom from a life of bondage and cruelty. The same cruelty that you yourself have experienced, if only for a while. Am I not flesh and blood like you? Am I not a man that deserves to life his life free from the whip and branding iron?

‘Do your men follow you because they are loyal or because they fear you? Will you let them decide their own fate or will you be as a tyrant to them? You think we are base because we were slaves, I can see it in your eyes. But do not slaves have thoughts, dreams, fears and the capacity to love? Few of us were born slaves, Pacorus, and yet Rome saw fit to condemn us to a life of servitude. You have killed Romans to defend your home; why shouldn’t we be allowed the same privilege?

‘Our plan is to organise ourselves here, around Vesuvius, and then march north to the Alps. Once there we will cross over the mountains and then head for our homes. I have no doubt that the Romans will try to stop us, but we will fight them every inch of the way if necessary. All we wish is to be out of Italy and never to see any Roman again.’

‘My people lived in peace until the Romans butchered most of my village and forced the survivors into slavery,’ added Castus, the pain clear in his voice.

‘I can still see the corpses of my friends with Roman spears stuck in them,’ spat Crixus.

‘Whatever your decision,’ continued Spartacus. ‘We will respect it. Do not decide now. Think on it, discuss it with your men.’

The conversation was at an end, so I nodded, rose from the chair and made to leave.

‘One more thing,’ said Spartacus. ‘Your slave.’

‘Gafarn?’ I replied.

‘Yes. He too is free. He is your slave no longer. He may follow you of his own volition, but you have no sway over him. There are no slaves in this camp.’

I never thought of Gafarn as being a slave, though of course he was. We had been companions for so long that I thought of him as, as what? A friend? I knew not, because I had never had to think about it. I assumed he would always be with me.

‘Yes, lord,’ I replied.

‘Oh, and Pacorus,’ said Spartacus.

‘Lord?’

‘You don’t have to call me lord.’

When I returned I gathered my men and we sat on the ground. The afternoon sun was beginning its decline in the west and disappear behind Vesevius’ crater as I explained to them the offer made by the slave leader. They, like me, wished to return home, but we were faced by a host of difficulties. We had been brought to Italy by boat and were in the south of the country. It would be almost impossible to return home by the same method of transport, as we had no boats. That meant we would have to go across land, land that was the enemy’s heartland. From what little I could remember from the maps I had seen, and which I doubted were accurate, Italy was a long land that ran north to south, and we were in the south. They listened intently as I explained that the slaves were marching north to some mountains called the Alps, after which they would disperse to their homelands. I told them that each of them was free to make their own decision as to their course of action, for I was no longer their lord and commander but just a man like them, intent on seeing Hatra again. I looked at Byrd, who was not one of us and who had lost his family and his home. What would his decision be? Most of them were of a similar age to me, though whether they had wives and children I knew not. In fact, the more I thought of it the more I realised that I had never known anything of the men I had led into battle. They were just soldiers, men on horses carrying spears or bows who obeyed orders, who sometimes died carrying out those orders. But here, in this volcanic crater in an alien land, they suddenly were not faceless individuals. They were fellow Parthians, comrades in arms. Dare I think a sort of family?

Afterwards we dispersed and went about our duties. We may each have a decision to make, but we still had to maintain discipline to make life in camp bearable. Latrines had to be dug and then filled in, water had to be fetched from nearby streams and food had to be prepared. I was still in a weakened state so after I had instructed Nergal to take the men out on a long route march the next day, I retired to my bed. Gafarn rubbed more ointment into my back, which was heeling nicely, or so he told me.

‘You’re free, Gafarn,’ I said casually as I lay on my front in the cot.

‘Free, highness?’

‘The slave leader, Spartacus, has told me that you are now free.’

‘That’s very kind of him,’ said Gafarn, nonchalantly. ‘What does that mean?’

‘It means that you can do want you want, go where want and follow your conscience.’

Gafarn re-sealed the ointment bottle and carefully placed it back in the wooden tray on the table beside my cot.

‘We are in Italy, are we not?’

‘We are,’ I replied.

‘And we have no gold or horses.’

‘That is correct.’

‘And the Romans will be sending more soldiers to try to either kill or enslave us once more.’

‘That seems likely.’

‘To sum up, then,’ said Gafarn. ‘I am free but am in the land of my enemies, with no gold, no horse and little prospect of seeing Hatra alive.’

I said nothing. He sighed.

‘The next time I see Spartacus, I must thank him personally for this great privilege he has bestowed on me. I hardly know how to contain my excitement. Good night, highness.’

With that he was gone.

Two days later a mounted Spartacus arrived at our tents with a spare horse. He wore a mail shirt over his tunic and a shield slung over his back. We had just finished our breakfast and I was preparing to take the men out on a march. Though we had no armour or weapons we still drilled in the morning and afternoon, both to build up our strength and to keep boredom at bay. I also sent groups off to the stables to help with the care of the horses. Our assistance was gladly received, for Parthians know more about the care and breeding of horses than any other peoples.

‘Are you fit enough to ride, Pacorus?’

I was delighted by his offer. It had been many weeks since I had been in the saddle, and the chance to ride again was an offer I would not pass up.

‘Indeed, lord,’ I replied.

Spartacus pulled on the reins of the spare horse and brought her forward. She was a healthy chestnut brown Arabian mare with an arched neck and high-carried black tail that she used to brush away the flies. I took the reins and stroked the side of her head. Her eyes were bright and her coat shone in the morning sun.

‘My stable hands are indebted to you and your men for their help with our horses.’

‘No thanks are necessary,’ I said, stroking the mare’s neck. ‘We love horses and love being around them.’ I grasped one of the horns of the saddle and heaved myself onto the mare’s back. I felt a surge of elation sweep through me as I felt a horse beneath me once again. Strange to say, I also had to choke back tears — I never thought I would ride again.

‘Shall we ride?’ asked Spartacus as he nudged the flanks of his horse with his knees and trotted forward. I followed, catching up with him and riding by his side. As we rode through the camp towards the giant gash in the rock face that was the entry and exit point, I discerned that it had increased in size. There were dozens of brown tents, and other makeshift shelters made from canvas sheets with wooden supports. But all were arranged in neat rows either side of us. I saw that we were riding down what seemed to be a main thoroughfare through the camp, while leading off it right and left were smaller avenues between the tent blocks. The whole resembled the layout of a town or city.

‘Your camp is neatly arranged, lord.’

‘Laid out exactly as Roman camps are when they are on campaign.’

‘You have studied the Roman army, lord?’

‘I was in the Roman army,’ he replied.

I looked at him in surprise. He saw the expression on my face and laughed.

‘That’s right, Pacorus. I was once an auxiliary in one of their legions. Served for five years hauling a shield and spear around Germany and other parts.’

‘You were conscripted?’

‘In a way. I was young — eighteen — and after the Romans had conquered my homeland their recruiters came looking for men to serve in their army. I could ride, wield a sword and spear and I thought, why not? Thrace, the place where I come from, is poor and I could see myself spending the rest of my life looking after goats and living a miserable existence. The thought of loot and glory had some appeal. My mother had died giving birth to me and my father died of the plague when I was young, so I had no ties. So off I went.

‘It was, I have to confess, a great adventure at first. The food was passable, the pay was regular and I got to be very good with a sword.’

‘So what path led you to this place? I asked. We had passed through the camp and had reached the slope that led to the gap in the rock face, through which a steady stream of people on foot were coming and going. Most looked as though they were poor farm hands. We trotted up it and out of the great rock bowl.

‘Rome is a hard taskmaster. I soon discovered that there was very little loot to be had sitting in a wooden fort by the side of a German river. So I got bored. As an auxiliary you sign up for twenty-five years of service, and at a third of the pay of a legionary, so I decided to leave, me and a few others. We earned a living of sorts as bandits, living in the woods and robbing travellers, sometimes hiring ourselves out as mercenaries to tribal leaders. But the Romans never forget and certainly never forgive, and it was only a matter of time before we were caught. We were stupid, you see. We should have kept moving but we stayed in one place and eventually they trapped us.’

‘Why didn’t they kill you all?’ I queried.

‘Oh, they nailed a few to crosses as an example, but the Romans are a practical people. We could still be of use to them, and as we were good with weapons they sold us to be gladiators. And that’s how I ended up in these parts.’

I had more questions but decided they could wait. Now we were on the grass-covered slopes of the mountain and could see for miles around. In the distance was the sea beyond a massive plain that stretched from the slopes of the mountain to our left and right. The land we rode across was an ocean of lush grass, while in the distance I could make out large, square fields. The sky was cloudless as we rode down the slope. All around us were groups of individuals making their way towards the slave camp. In fact, the more I looked I could see that the entire landscape was dotted with figures making their way towards the crater. Two riders came galloping up and halted before us. One I recognised as Castus, the German with the long face and trimmed beard. He wore a mail shirt and carried a shield and spear, as did his companion. He acknowledged me with a nod.

‘A good day, Spartacus. More recruits are coming in by the hundred. My scouts tell me that most of the estates around Nola have been abandoned.’

‘Good,’ replied Spartacus. He cast me a glance and then looked back at Castus. ‘Are they still there?’

Castus nodded. ‘Excellent. Then we will go and see them.’

‘Just the two of you?’ asked Castus. ‘There might be Romans patrols out.’

‘I doubt it, we haven’t had any reports since we gave them a bloody nose. A few escaped but they would have scurried back to Naples. But if we see any, we’ll get back to Vesuvius.’

‘Even so,’ protested Castus.

‘We can out-run any Romans, Castus. Isn’t that so, Pacorus.’

‘If you say so, lord,’ I answered him.

With that he kicked his horse forward and I followed. We cantered across a wide expanse of grass until we came to a track, along which we rode for about a mile or so. The terrain gradually became more organised, with fields of olive trees right and left, though I saw no one tending them. The sun was high in the sky now and the air was hot. I was glad when we came to a larger expanse of trees on the side of a low hill, through which we rode. The air was still and warm as we directed our horses slowly through the trees. After a few minutes we came to edge of the wood and Spartacus halted his horse. Ahead was a small valley, through which ran a stream. And around the watercourse were groups of horses, some drinking and others munching on the grass. None wore bridles, saddles or harnesses.

‘Whose horses are they?’ I asked.

‘Yours, if you can tame them.’

I felt a tingle of excitement ripple through me. I saw that there was a collection of greys, tans, one or two blacks and others that were chestnut, dun and piebald.

‘Wild horses, Pacorus. If you and your men can tame them then they are yours.’ Spartacus cast me a sideways glance. ‘When do you make your decision whether to stay or go?’

‘Tomorrow, lord. Each man will be free to make up his own mind, as you requested.’

The horse is a sensitive creature, and those on the fringe of the group suddenly became aware of our presence. Their ears flickered, indicating that they were attentive. Others looked up from their grazing and drinking, while some began to move away, their senses telling them danger was present. Though we were hidden from view among the trees, the group was clearly getting agitated. It was time to leave. We rode back to Vesuvius along deserted tracks. When we arrived back at camp we dismounted and walked the horses back to the makeshift stables. People came up to Spartacus and either saluted or embraced him; for his part, he responded to their greetings in kind, always happy to stop and talk. I had to admit that I was warming to him. He may have been a bandit and a slave, but he was clearly a leader who held a motley band together through his personality. That said, the band was getting larger by the day. When we had dismounted another group of young men trooped into the camp, being directed by the guards to a section that had been earmarked for new arrivals. They looked weather-beaten but fit, and Spartacus explained that they were herdsmen.

‘Herdsmen?’ I said.

‘Yes, slaves who are sent by their masters to tends flocks of sheep and goats in the hills.’

‘Are they not guarded?’ I asked.

‘Who can guard those who guard their masters’ animals? No one. Roman vanity does not consider that these men might spend the lonely nights thinking of freedom instead of ensuring their flocks are not attacked by wild animals or stolen by thieves. So they send fit, young men into the hills armed with knives and sticks to look after their investments, certain that they will be good and obedient slaves. All of southern Italy is full of such men.’

‘And now they join you.’

‘And now they join me. Wiping out six Roman cohorts made an impression on everyone, it seems, not just the Romans.’

We reached the stables and handed over our horses to the grooms, some of whom were my men lending a hand.

‘I have to attend to matters of organisation, Pacorus, so I will bid you good day.’

‘Tell, me, I said. ‘Why did you show me that group of wild horses?’

‘I thought you might appreciate the sight, seeing as you Parthians are horse lords.’

‘So it wasn’t an attempt to sway me to stay.’

He laughed. ‘Of course it was. We will have much infantry and no cavalry. Besides, any commander would want a man in his army who has taken a Roman eagle. Your former slave told me, despite his poor Latin, he is very proud of the fact. If you decide to stay with us, you shall be my general of horse.’

I admit I was flattered, and I liked the idea of being a general. But then I remembered that this was not an army but a collection, albeit growing, of runaway slaves. He could see that I was churning over thoughts in my mind.

He offered me his hand to shake. I took it.

‘Until tomorrow, then, Pacorus.’

‘Until tomorrow, lord.’

He walked away and then turned. ‘And Pacorus.’

‘Lord?’

‘You don’t have to call me lord.’

I made my way back to my men slowly, wondering if he knew that I would abide by their decision. That was the least I could do for them. I was their leader when we were captured, and I owed it to them to respect their wishes. All around me men were being drilled and lectured in the use of arms. Some practised stabbing and slashing at thick wooden posts that had been sunk in the ground. They used wooden swords to thrust and slash, while their instructors barked and shouted orders at them. Their shields appeared to be crude wicker affairs, like the ones our foot used in Parthia, and I wondered if there were real shields enough to go round. I walked on, and made way for a column of recruits being drilled. Either side of the column were instructors who used canes to keep individuals in line and in step. I shuddered — it brought back unpleasant memories. I also thought of my own time spent being drilled and practising with weapons. Bozan had believed in the doctrine of train hard, fight easy. So myself and others of my age spent endless hours learning how to fight under a hot Mesopotamian sun with a sword, lance, spear and, above all, a bow. The training was repetitive, so much so that the weapons became extensions of our limbs, and wielding them became second nature to us. My military training started at the age of five. Before that I had been in the company of my mother and other women of the court; afterwards I became a student of Bozan and Hatra’s army instructors. It seemed like yesterday.

I ambled past another group of men, around my age I guessed, throwing javelins. They were dressed in rags most of them, but they had enthusiasm and their sinewy arms and frames indicated years of manual labour. They hurled their shafts hard into the air, cheering as they landed among a host of posts driven into the ground with straw wrapped around them to resemble enemy soldiers. Except that these soldiers didn’t fight back.

The next day I woke early, the sun still making its way into the eastern sky as I pulled back the tent flaps, to find the men waiting for me. They certainly looked better now after a few days of food and rest. There were still red marks around their wrists and ankles where the Romans had manacled them, but they looked like soldiers again. They stood in silence, each of them looking at me. Gafarn, Nergal and Byrd stood in the front row of the semi-circle, waiting for me to say something.

‘Sit, all of you, please,’ I said, as each one found a space on the ground. ‘I told you all that each of you was free to follow his conscience to decide his own course of action. I have told the slave leader Spartacus that we will give him our decision today, but I have to tell you that I will abide by the decision that you make. I am the one responsible for getting you into this mess.’ There were murmurs of disagreement but I held up a hand to still them. ‘Therefore I leave the decision of our course of action to you.’ With that I sat on the grass and waited.

Nergal looked nervously at men either side of him and behind, who urged him to speak. He rose to his feet.

‘Highness, we have talked among ourselves and we thank you for having faith in our sense to make the right decision. But our decision is that you are our commander and we stay with you.’

Gafarn clapped his hands. ‘That is excellent. Prince Pacorus says it is up to you and you say it is up to him. So in effect no one has to make a decision.’ He jabbed a finger at me. ‘You must decide, otherwise we might as well put our chains back on. At least the Romans seem to be able to make decisions.’ His freedom had made him more impertinent than ever. Nevertheless, his words stung me into action. I rose to my feet.

‘Very well. We are in southern Italy and have no means by which to leave this land by the sea. It appears that our best chance is to head north with Spartacus to leave Italy after crossing the Alps. Thereafter we can head east into lands not ruled by the Romans, and then to the Black Sea and Pontus, and thence home. But before we can do that, doubtless we will have to fight the Romans. But that is what we do: fight Romans. They are the enemy and we are soldiers, and it is the duty of every soldier to fight his enemy. This Spartacus wants cavalry, and we are the best cavalry in the world. So we stay and we fight. That is my decision.’

There was a brief moment of silence, then they rose and began cheering and embracing each other. I was happy enough, for now I would have a chance to avenge Bozan and perhaps wipe the shame of my capture. Shamash forgive me, but I also craved glory for myself. That was hopefully in the future, but for now my ambition was to kill Romans and lay their land to waste. Was that evil? I did not think so. They were my enemy and here I was, in their heartland. The Romans wanted to put me in chains and treat me like a dog. Well, this dog was going to bite back.

We ate breakfast in silence, though some of the men smiled at me when I caught their eye. I smiled back. We were a band of brothers in an alien land and I was glad to be in their company. I hoped that they were glad of mine. I still had their trust and respect, I knew that now. I was determined to retain them. I must confess that I was growing fond of the Roman food that was available to us. The former slaves had plentiful supplies of milk from their herds of goats that thronged the slopes of Vesuvius outside of the camp, and Gafarn had spent many an hour while I was lying in my tent recuperating talking to all and sundry about everyday matters. He came back each afternoon with a wealth of information. The country we were in was bountiful in foodstuffs, unlike the barren wastes of much of Hatra, aside from the fertile valleys of the Euphrates and Tigris. Spartacus was generous with his rations. I quickly regained my strength on a diet of broad beans, lentils and chickpeas, lettuces, cabbages and leeks, and fruits such as apples, pears, wild cherries, plums, grapes, walnuts, almonds and chestnuts. Gafarn told me that some of the best wines of Italy came from the region where we were located, which was called Campania, and one evening we were treated to a drink of wine mixed with honey, which the Romans called mulsum. It was wondrous to taste. Aside from porridge, which certainly provided good ballast for the stomach, my favourite dish was named dulca domestica, a delicious concoction of pitted dates stuffed with dried fruit, nuts, cake crumbs and spices, the whole soaked in fruit juice.

I went to see Spartacus after breakfast.

I found him watching what must have been at least a hundred men being instructed in the use of the sword and shield, each of them paired, jabbing and parrying with wooden swords and Roman shields. The instructors who were watching lambasted any that tried an overhead stabbing motion. Each Instructor carried an accursed cane, and wasn’t afraid to use it. They screamed over and over at their charges. ‘Keep your shield close by your side, never over-extend your sword arm, stab your sword forward, never slash, better to stick an enemy with the point than cut him with the side of the blade, you only need to stick two or three inches of steel into him to put him down.’ Spartacus stood like a rock, arms folded, watching the scene. He wore no expression on his iron-hard face, though as I neared him I saw that his eyes were darting to and fro, observing the pairs closely. The instructors shouted encouragement, urging individuals to speed up their movements to find an opening in the opponent’s defence. The spring day was growing hot and I could see great sweat patches on the backs of the men’s tunics. The dull thud of wood striking wood echoed across the flat ground; with the occasional shout as a stick found a fleshy target. I walked up and stood next to him, both of us watching the mock combats spread out before us. His grey eyes were fixed on the practice being carried out.

‘You have reached a decision.’

‘We have decided to stay, lord,’ I said.

I thought I saw a flicker of a smile on his face, but it was quickly replaced by a stony stare. ‘If they catch you again, they will crucify you. There will be no mercy the second time around.’

‘I’ve seen Roman mercy, such as it is,’ I replied. ‘I have no desire to stay in this country, and I believe you are our best chance of my men seeing Hatra again.’

He turned to look at me, and then offered me his hand. ‘There will be much hard fighting before you do. But I am glad that you are with us.’

I clasped his rock-hard forearm in salute, and then he gestured for me to follow him as he walked away from the training.

‘We’re fortunate that most of those coming in are herdsmen and shepherds, men used to hard living in the hills. This lot,’ Spartacus gestured towards the men practicing with swords and shields, ‘will be ready in two or three months. But we need many more if we are to fight our way north.’

As we walked, he told me of how the gladiators had taken refuge in the crater of Vesuvius, and how they had raided local farms for food and weapons. They had gained some recruits, but both slaves and citizens had shied away from what they assumed were just another group of bandits whom the authorities would soon deal with. The arrival of three thousand legionaries from the garrison of Rome seemed to confirm their imminent destruction. But the Romans had underestimated their foe and though they had erected a palisade they had failed to build a wooden wall on top of it. Moreover the gladiators had attacked first, which caught the Romans by surprise. The result was slaughter and the capture of three thousand sets of arms and armour, plus all their camp equipment, food, cattle, horses and wagons. But an even greater boon was the boost the victory gave to recruitment. Suddenly hundreds of former slaves thronged to Vesuvius, and more were coming in each day. Spartacus now had some four thousand men.

‘How many cavalry?’ I asked.

‘How many men have you got?’ he asked.

‘Just over two hundred.’

‘Then we have two hundred horsemen.’

This was the size of two Parthian companies, which was totally inadequate for anything more than a contingent of scouts.

‘We will need more,’ I said. ‘How many horses do you possess?’

‘Fifty, plus four hundred mules. Though I can’t give you all the horses, as I promised Crixus and Castus that they would have horses for them and their officers. Which leaves thirty horses for your cavalry.’ He could see the disappointment in my face. ‘Do not worry. There are plenty of horses in these parts.’

I was unconvinced but hoped he was right. I had seen one wild herd myself and assumed there would be others, but I knew that Roman armies were composed mainly of infantry, and as Spartacus had been trained by the Romans then his lack of cavalry did not concern him unduly.

‘I must leave you now. Tonight we will slaughter a bull and have a feast to celebrate your decision. My wife is keen to meet you.’

I looked at him in surprise. ‘Your wife?’

‘Till tonight, my friend.’ With that he was gone.

When I got back to camp Gafarn was sorting through a package of clothing that had been delivered. He held up a rather smart long-sleeved white tunic fringed with blue.

‘What’s that?’ I asked.

‘A present from Spartacus, it would appear. There are leggings and boots as well.’

‘For the feast tonight.’

Before I left I gathered together my men and told them that in the morning twenty of us would leave to scour the country for horses. Capturing wild horses would not be a problem, but saddles, bridles and harnesses would be. I had no idea how that problem would be solved.

The feast laid on by Spartacus was lavish. There were half a dozen fires, over which roasted pigs, lamb and two huge sides of beef. In front of and around the fires were long tables, at which sat warriors eating and drinking. They were shouting, singing and laughing as women served them from trays heaped high with meats and bread, while others carried jars full of wine. Spartacus sat at the top table flanked by ten men I assumed were his commanders. I recognised the fierce and wild Crixus, his red hair like a fireball around his head; the serious Castus and his long, somewhat sad visage. The others I did not know. Spartacus, talking intently to a lieutenant sat beside him, spotted me, beckoned me over and pointed at a spare place at the end of his table. Crixus and Castus ignored me as I sat beside a man who had hair plaited in a similar style to Crixus. I assumed they were of the same people.

A woman offered me a wooden platter and another meat from a tray. I did not usually eat red meat, but tonight I would be adventurous. I grabbed a chunk of beef oozing blood and took a bite. It tasted delicious. A young girl, a teenager, gave me a cup and poured wine into it, which tasted remarkably good. Clearly local vineyards had been thoroughly plundered. An attractive woman, her hair black as night and olive-skinned, refilled the silver goblet of Spartacus. She laughed as he slipped an arm round her waist and pulled her close. She had a narrow face, with high cheekbones and full lips. For some reason she reminded me of a mountain lion, all feline grace yet deadly to tangle with. Spartacus said something to her and her eyes flashed at me. She fixed me with cobra-like stare and then smiled. Spartacus gestured me over with his free arm. I emptied my cup, rose from my bench and walked over to where the slave general and his woman were.

‘Pacorus, this is my wife Claudia,’ Spartacus exuded pride as he flashed a smile at me and then gazed lovingly at his wife. She was dressed in a simple white stola, with a wide black belt fastened just under her breasts, which accentuated her shapely figure. Her arms were bare, and around each wrist she wore large silver bangles. She was a beautiful woman, that was my first impression, that and a sense that she possessed great inner strength. All conversation died down as everyone watched me. I bowed my head to her.

‘An honour to meet you, lady.’

From behind me Crixus let out a loud guffaw. ‘He thinks he’s back in a Parthian court.’

Laughter erupted from all those present, especially the men sat around Crixus. I must admit that I was finding him rather boorish. He might be a fearsome sight but he was clearly a brute. Claudia flashed her black eyes at the big Gaul, who sneered and went back to drinking greedily from his cup.

‘You are most welcome, Pacorus.’ Her voice was feminine yet strong and assured. Her eyes were not in fact black but dark brown and they seemed to be examining me, determining whether I was worthy to be an associate of her husband. ‘Spartacus tells me that you are a prince in Parthia and that you and your men have put your swords at his service.’

She may have been the wife of a slave but she carried herself with elegance, betraying a certain education, perhaps.

‘We hope to be a valuable part of his army, lady.’

‘I thank you on his behalf. I hope you, and all of us, will see your homeland again.’

Spartacus let go of his wife and reached behind him. He stood and held out a sword in a scabbard. ‘And to help you achieve that aim take this gift, with thanks. It is called a spatha, a Roman cavalry sword. Use it well.’

I took the scabbard and drew the sword. It was a superb weapon, with a long, straight blade pointed at the tip, and was beautifully balanced. The blade length was about two feet while the hilt was an all-wood construction, with a reinforcing guard plate of bronze inlaid into the forward end of the guard. The grip itself had an eight-sided cross-section with finger grooves that gave a surprisingly firm grip. I have to confess that it was as good as any Parthian sword I had seen.

‘A most generous gift, lord,’ I said, bowing my head to him.

‘He’s like a little dog, nodding his head to all and sundry.’ The oafish voice of Crixus rang out once again.

I turned to face him. ‘Have you something to say to me?’

He jumped up and marched around the table to face me in the rectangular space in front of the tables. Aside from the crackling of the fires there was silence as all eyes were upon us. Crixus, bare-chested and angry, held a sword in his right hand. He was about six foot five, I guessed, with a massive, broad chest and arms that seemed stuffed with muscles.

‘I want you to yap like a little dog, boy.’ He grinned at me, clearly hoping to provoke me. I took the bait and threw the scabbard aside.

‘Why don’t you let me cut off some of those filthy locks instead?’

Crixus roared in anger and made to attack me, but in an instant Spartacus leapt over the table and stood between us, sword in hand.

‘Put your swords down, both of you. There will be no violence tonight. Have you forgotten that our enemies are the Romans, Crixus? Would you rather kill your comrades?’

Crixus stood still for a moment, then shrugged, spat on the ground and returned to his seat. I retrieved the scabbard from the earth and sheathed my gift. Spartacus stood like a rock as I too took my seat, as Crixus glared at me. Castus heaved the man sat next to me out of his seat and plonked himself beside me.

‘I hope you can use that sword,’ he said, as he tore a chunk of meat from a breast of chicken, ‘Crixus is a mean-spirited bastard who kills just for the sake of it. And you have just made yourself his enemy.’

I looked at the big Gaul finish yet another cup of wine and demand that it be refilled, bellowing his order at a young girl who jumped at his roar. His eyes were bulging fit to burst and grease and blood from the meat he had been eating matted his moustache. He was just like Cookus, I decided, a loud-mouthed bully. He was surrounded by his fellow Gauls, who looked just as ugly and who were just as loud as he was. They cut a fearsome spectacle sure enough, but the fact that they had been slaves reminded me that they had once been bested by Roman soldiers. Talk was cheap. I would reserve judgment on Crixus and his Gauls.

Castus was in a talkative mood, and in truth I found his conversation interesting and his company agreeable. He didn’t drink as much as Crixus, but then I doubted if anyone did, and though merry from the drink his mind was still clear. Castus told me about Roman gladiators, men who were trained to kill each other in the arena.

‘It didn’t start out like that,’ he said, picking a morsel of food from his teeth and flicking it on the ground, ‘but the Romans are a practical people, that and ruthless.’

At first gladiators, invariably prisoners of war, fought each other at the funerals of important Romans. But the contests grew in popularity and in time gladiatorial schools called ludi were established, each one run by a businessman called a lanista who had agents that purchased suitable slaves on his behalf. At the ludus the prospective gladiators were trained and then hired out. I found it strange when Castus told me that the pupils included not only condemned criminals — ’like myself and Spartacus, bandits who had slit Roman throats’ — but also a small number of volunteers, men attracted by the lure of violence or adventure, or the prospect of bedding wealthy Roman women. Gladiators were great athletes, fed on a good diet (they sounded like our warhorses at Hatra), trained hard and given the best medical treatment. But the instructors and the lanista never forgot that they were highly trained killers. So the ludus was not only a barracks but also a prison, with bolted doors, guards, iron bars and manacles. Each gladiator had his own cell where he was locked in for the night. Training areas were sectioned off by tall iron railings, and even the dining areas were fenced off and guarded. Gladiators could make a lanista rich, but they were also dangerous animals who could slit his throat if he was careless. Gladiators were never allowed to forget that they were social outcasts, beneath the law and therefore not respectable.

The lanista who ruled Castus’ ludus was a man called Cornelius Lentulus. ‘A greedy little bastard,’ as Castus colourfully described him.

‘Thin as a pole he was, with a small, bony face and two tufts just above his ears either side of his head.’ Castus took another swig from his cup and laughed. ‘He could size up a man in an instant. Know what weapons he would be good with in the arena, how many fights he would win and even when he would get killed, more or less. To be fair to him, may his spirit be the plaything of demons in the underworld, he always made sure that we had enough to eat and the instructors didn’t beat us too much — just enough to keep us on our toes.’

Around us the revellers were enjoying the skills of a troupe of jugglers who were performing amazing feats with a collection of Roman swords, throwing them to each other in a blur of movement. I noticed that Crixus and his companions were shouting that the jugglers should aim better and throw their swords into each other. Castus resumed his tale.

‘We fought for Lentulus for three years, and I have to say that his school got a good reputation in Capua and throughout southern Italy for producing fine gladiators. The crowds love a spectacle, you see. Simple butchery isn’t sufficient. That’s why we spent hours each day practising with weapons, so in the arena, as Lentulus put it, we would “fight with finesse”. Spartacus, he was the one. Had over forty kills under his belt by the end. The crowd loved him. Fights with his brain, you see, whereas Crixus is all brute strength and Gallic fury.’ Castus spat out a piece of meat and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his tunic.

‘Lentulus was becoming seriously rich renting out his fighters to those putting on displays. If they wanted Crixus and Spartacus, he could just about name his price. He was happy, we were happy; everyone was happy.’

‘How could you be happy living like an animal, trained to fight?’

He looked at me in puzzlement, I think trying to work out whether I was stupid or genuinely ignorant of how these things worked. He gave me the benefit of the doubt. He smiled as a juggler missed his timing and the point of a blade embedded itself in his arm. Crixus spat out a mouthful of wine and bellowed his approval as the man collapsed onto the ground in pain.

‘It’s not like that, at least not for Spartacus. Look, a lot of gladiators are killed during their first few fights, either because they are unlucky or, more likely, because they are no good. But a good fighter, and Spartacus is one of the best, wins his early fights. He gets more confident in the arena, he wins more fights and soon he has prestige, which increases with every contest. That way many of the contests are as good as over before the fight begins, because the other man knows he can’t beat who he’s up against. And also, a champion has a lot of supporters, and they make sure that they shout the loudest if he has a bad day, and they sway the officials and save his skin. Simple, really.’

I was confused. ‘If life was so good, then why did you break out?’

He smiled to himself. ‘Same reason that men have been fighting since the beginning of time. A woman.’

‘I don’t understand.’

He looked up and sighed loudly, then shook his head. ‘Like I said, Lentulus was becoming rich, and like all rich men he wanted some trophies around him to show how wealthy he was. So he starts dressing in the finest clothes and buys expensive slaves. Young boys from Numidia, learned Greeks to read to him and young girls to play with at night. But one day he comes back from the slave market all excited. Turns out he had bought a Gallic women, twenty years old, he said. Same race as Crixus. He asked Claudia if she would instruct this girl in how to conduct herself as his wife, saying he won’t touch her until she is his wife. Remember, Claudia is Spartacus’ wife and wasn’t a slave.’

I looked at him in more confusion.

‘I’ll explain another time. Anyway, this girl arrives and her and Claudia become friends. But this girl doesn’t want to be the slave of Lentulus, much less his wife and she tells him so. I remember that day. We were all in the mess hall eating our midday meal when he comes in with her beside him to show her off to his gladiators. But she starts to argue with him and so he slaps her hard. So Claudia steps between them and tells him to stop. Lentulus slaps Claudia, which was a bad mistake, for it was the last thing he did before Spartacus split his skull on a stone column. Then he killed a couple of instructors, Crixus killed two more just for the hell of it, and the next thing we are hot-footing it out of Capua as fast as we could. Like I said, all over a woman.’

‘Who was she?’ I asked, not sure if he was making it all up.

‘Who, Gallia? See for yourself, she’s over there.’

I looked to where Castus was peering and saw a vision of beauty that made everyone and everything else disappear. I’ve often thought of the first moment I saw Gallia and have often wondered if all men experience the same emotions when they cast their eyes on ‘the one’. She was wearing a simple blue stola, with a black belt around her waist. She embraced Claudia and then Spartacus, laughing and obviously at ease with her friends. Her long, thick blonde hair cascaded down over her breasts and framed her flawless, oval face with its high cheekbones and narrow nose. She was beautiful, yes, but aside from the perfect features nature had gifted her she also gave the impression of strength and pride. She was tall, around six foot, and her dress highlighted the contours of her lithe body. She held herself erect and strong, undaunted by the coarse gathering of gladiators around her. I noticed that she glanced at the now roaringly drunk Crixus and frowned. Claudia whispered something in her ear and she cast me a quick glance. My heart leapt but she quickly returned to conversing with her two friends. I noticed she wore no jewelry; she didn’t have to. No amount of gold could improve upon her natural beauty. Perhaps I had had too much wine, but this woman called Gallia had burst into my world like a flaming comet crashing to earth from the heavens. I wanted to know more about her, at the very least talk to her, but she never looked at me again that evening. I yearned to be near her, but she sat next to Claudia and Spartacus and ignored me. Later another woman, with brown hair and a kind if unremarkable face, sat next to Gallia. It was apparent that the two were friends, and Castus informed me that her name was Diana and that she had been a kitchen slave at the ludus.

The days after the feast were filled with the task of creating a force of cavalry from nothing. Spartacus gave me the thirty horses he had promised, which had been captured from the Roman force he had destroyed on the slopes of Vesuvius. They were adequate beasts, but did not compare to the specially bred Arabians of Hatra, which were noted for their depth of chest, masculine power and size. They were also intelligent, especially my Sura, on whom I had fought my first battle. The most common colours in Hatra were grey and chestnut, though the royal stables of my father had always specialised in breeding pure whites. His whites were famed throughout the Parthian Empire, and were highly sought after. This being the case, Hatra attracted its fair share of horse thieves; if caught, which they invariably were, they were usually impaled on stakes outside the gates of the city as a warning to others.

The horses we now rode on were certainly not Arabians, yet they were hardy enough and were responsive to our commands, being military horses. The Roman saddles we rode on were similar to Parthian ones, being built around a wooden frame with four horns reinforced with bronze plates at each corner to hold the rider in place, the front horns supporting the inner thigh and the two back horns supporting the hips. The whole saddle was padded and covered in leather. I led the party of horsemen that included Nergal and Gafarn. We rode to the valley where Spartacus had showed me the herd of wild horses. They were still there when we arrived, around fifty of them, maybe more. We tethered our own horses in trees out of sight of the herd and then approached them on foot. Taming wild horses requires time and patience, but first they have to be captured. We Parthians were horse masters and we knew all the tricks. First of all, each of us peeled off the top layer of the chestnuts from our own horses and rubbed them on our hands. The chestnuts were the small, horny calluses on the inner surface of a horse’s leg, and they gave our hands the reassuring smell of a fellow horse. We all had ropes as we gently approached a wild horse, making sure we were all upwind of our targets.

The air was warm as I slowly approached a grey stallion, which turned to look at me when I was five or so paces from him, approaching from his right side. I stopped, being careful not to look directly into his eyes, which was the action of a predator. I spoke to him quietly as I inched my way sideways towards him, thereby presenting no threat. He turned away and resumed his chewing at the grass. I stopped and watched him for a few minutes. There was no rush; it could take us all day, but our patience would be rewarded. I inched closer until I was near enough to touch him. I stopped again and did nothing for several minutes, looking away from him but talking in a quiet voice, reassuring him that I was his friend and would not hurt him. He could not understand, of course, but he would understand the calm tone of my voice. I extended my hand with my fingers closed — spread fingers would give the impression that I was a wild animal — and gently touched his neck. He drew back so I withdrew my hand. It was some minutes more before he resumed his grazing, and once more I extended my hand and gently touched his neck. This time he did not draw back, so I continued to stroke his neck, talking to him soothingly and calmly.

I do not know how long I stood there talking to this stallion, perhaps an hour, but at the end I was able to put the rope halter over his head and lead him away towards where my own horse was tethered in the shade. By late afternoon we had tamed many horses and were leading them back to camp. Being a herd, once the head stallion had been tamed, by Nergal, which flushed him with pride, all the other horses were soon haltered. While we were away the rest of my men were building wooden pens to hold our new charges. The sun was on our backs and sinking into the west as we trotted back into camp with our four-legged captives. They were then led to the pens and safely secured, after which they were fed and watered. A count revealed that we had captured fifty-five horses. We went out again the next day to bring in the rest, which numbered another forty.

The following days were spent taming our new mounts. Spartacus visited us to observe our progress. He seemed pleased by what he saw. Each horse had been allotted to one of my men, who would be its sole master when it was fully tamed.

‘How long will it take?’

‘Two or three weeks, maybe a month,’ I replied.

‘That long?’ he seemed surprised.

‘It takes time, lord.’ He obviously knew very little about horses, so I decided to educate him. ‘The first step with a wild horse is to establish trust. You have to gain his trust before you can do anything with him. You cannot work with any horse if that horse does not trust you. You have to visit him every day. You feed him, water him and talk to him in a mild, reassuring manner. Eventually, the horse will start to trust you, and will know that you are not there to hurt him. Once this happens, you can go inside the pen and give him a massage or body rub. This helps strengthen the bond that you are now starting to build with the horse. When you are confident that the horse no longer sees you as a threat, you can start showing him objects that he will be using in the future. The rope and the halter must be the first items you should introduce to him. Let him smell it, rub it against his back and neck, so he will get used to it. Let him wear the halter for a few hours every day, but take it off when you leave. And when you have acquainted the horse with objects around him like fences, ropes, the halter, the saddle, and everything else, he becomes more trusting. He looks to you as a leader. This makes training be easier. Horses are intelligent creatures, lord, and it takes time to earn their trust.’

‘When will you have your men ready?’

‘One month, lord. But I will need more horses and more recruits. I have only two hundred men. You will need more cavalry than that.’

He stared into the distance, saying nothing for a while. ‘Nola.’

‘Lord?’

He turned to face me. ‘We will attack Nola, a town about thirty miles away. That should provide us with more weapons and supplies, and horses for your cavalry.’

‘Does it have walls, lord?’

‘Yes, strong stone walls with a ditch in front of them.’

‘Have you any siege engines? I asked, somewhat surprised that he was thinking of assaulting a walled town.

‘None.’

‘Then how are you going to take it?’

He looked at me and smiled wolfishly. ‘You are you going to take it, Pacorus, you and your cavalry. Come to a council of war in two hours and I will explain.’

With that he marched away, leaving me more than a little bewildered.

I took Nergal with me to the council. As my newly appointed second-in-command it was only proper that he should be privy to the decisions that would affect us. He was delighted with his new rank and though he was a year older than me, he was like a child with a new toy. He was taller than me and slightly lanky, with long arms and even longer legs. He looked awkward when he was walking, being all limbs, but in the saddle he was a superb horseman, far better than I. Parthians loved their horses, but Nergal, I think, loved them the most and they loved him. When he was riding he and horse seemed to become one, man and beast fused together. He perhaps wasn’t the brightest person in the world, but he was loyal and had an infectious spirit.

The council meeting was held in a large leather tent that was supported by two centre poles that held up the roof and numerous ropes that gave tension to the walls. The flaps at each end were open to allow air inside, for it had been a hot day. We went inside and I saw that stools had been placed around a large oblong table in the middle. Wine and water jugs had been placed on tables either side of the entrance. I filled a cup with water and handed it to Nergal, then filled another for myself. Spartacus was already seated and called for us all to take our places. I recognised Crixus, who ignored me, and Castus who nodded as he sat beside another dark-haired warrior who was dressed in a similar fashion to him. Crixus finished his cup (no doubt wine) and shoved his companion beside him off his stool and ordered him to fetch a jug. Spartacus frowned and stood up.

‘I have decided we are going to attack and capture Nola. We cannot remain idle forever, and the longer we are passive the more the likelihood that the Romans will attack us again. Besides, we are eating up all our supplies and emptying the countryside of food. We need fresh supplies.’

‘Nola has walls,’ said Castus.

‘There are plenty of rich villas further afield,’ growled Crixus. ‘Why waste time battering our heads against walls we can’t take.’

‘We are not going to batter the walls, Crixus,’ replied Spartacus, ‘we are going to walk up to the gates and they will let us in.’

Crixus burst into laughter. ‘You’ve been in the sun too long. Have some water and lie down for a while.’

Spartacus waited a few minutes until Crixus had finished making his noise. He fixed the Gaul with an iron stare until the silence was oppressive. Castus said nothing. Nergal, who had never seen Spartacus up close, looked upon the Thracian with awe. Spartacus certainly had an imposing presence. Crixus snorted in disgust and played with a giant two-bladed axe that he had rested on the ground beside him. His new toy.

‘As I said,’ continued Spartacus, ‘we are going to take Nola. Pacorus and some of his men will ride up to one of the gates dressed in Roman cavalry uniforms,’ he nodded at me. ‘Once he is inside his men will seize the gatehouse and keep the gates open long enough for a following force of foot to get inside. Simple and effective.’

I looked at Nergal, who was shaking his head enthusiastically. Spartacus had obviously won him over. I have to confess that his plan struck a balance between audacity and foolishness. It might just work. Crixus glared at me.

‘We don’t know if he,’ he jabbed a finger in my direction, ‘and his bunch of riders can fight, let alone take a town. What if messes up? The men following him will be caught in the open. I don’t trust him.’

I rose from my stool, but Spartacus waved his hand for me to remain seated. ‘I can understand your reticence, Crixus. I will therefore ride with Pacorus and his men, to make sure nothing goes awry. You will stay here with your men. Castus and his Germans will support us.’

Castus smiled, but Crixus jumped up. ‘Me and my Gauls should be the ones to burn Nola.’ Crixus’ companion nodded his agreement, though I noticed he stayed seated. Nergal looked at them both with narrowed eyes. Clearly he had formed the same impression of Crixus as I had.

Spartacus walked towards Crixus until their faces were inches apart. ‘We’re not going to burn Nola, that’s why your Gauls will stay here. We’re going to empty it of anything useful. Besides,’ he grinned at Crixus, ‘if I’m killed, you will then be the leader of the army.’

I could see that Crixus was weighing up the options in his over-sized head and he clearly liked to idea of being a general, for he sat back down and grunted. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you. If you’re killed I will burn Nola in any case.’

Spartacus smiled. ‘I’ve no doubt. We leave tomorrow. Castus, you and your Germans will be the foot. You will march tonight along the road that leads to Nola’s western entrance and stay hidden tomorrow. We will link up with you a few miles from Nola, and then you and your men will follow us. As soon as you get within sight of the town, you will attack through the open gates.’

‘And if the gates are not open?’ asked Castus.

‘Then head back to Vesuvius and put yourself under the command of Crixus.’

Afterwards Crixus stomped off to his section of the camp, while I talked with Castus and his lieutenant, whose name was Cannicus.

‘How many men do you have?’ I asked.

‘Around two thousand. More are coming in every day, but the majority are Gauls and they are swelling Crixus’ ranks. He was bragging that he has four thousand men. If Spartacus falls I will be leading my people out of here. I won’t serve under Crixus. Think the plan will work?’

‘It might,’ I said, ‘it just might.’

We clasped each other’s forearms. ‘Until tomorrow, then,’ he said.

‘Until tomorrow,’ I was starting to like Castus. He wasn’t a boaster and I believed he had a cool head on his shoulders.

That night Castus led his men out of the camp, hundreds of black-haired Germans marching in column and carrying shields, spears, swords and axes. Mail shirts were few, with most dressed in threadbare tunics and nothing on their feet. Those in the rear ranks carried only wooden shafts whose ends had been sharpened to a point and then held in a fire to harden the end. Spartacus was right — we needed more weapons and equipment. Spartacus had the Roman cavalry weapons and armour delivered to our camp that afternoon: mail shirts, red cloaks, open-faced helmets decorated with bronze, and oval wooden shields, each one covered with hide and having a central steel boss with a wooden grip behind it. The swords were similar to the one Spartacus had given me, though their quality was not as good, a fact commented on sarcastically by Gafarn. Finally, we would each carry an eight-foot-long lance as thick as a man’s wrist tipped with a steel head.

The next day we groomed and fed the horses after dawn had broke and kitted ourselves out in our new arms and armour. Spartacus joined us after breakfast.

‘Make sure you and your men tuck their long hair into their helmets. Roman cavalry don’t have flowing locks.’ His attention to detail was excellent.

I had selected a magnificent steel helmet that had silver cheek guards, a brass visor and a large red crest. It was clearly an officer’s helmet and its thick leather lining meant it was comfortable to wear. I insisted Spartacus wore a similar design, as he and I were going to ride at the head of the column and we had to look the part.

We left early in the morning, riding west by the side of well-maintained, stone-paved roads through lush green countryside interlaced with fields. There wasn’t a soul in sight. The slaves who had worked the fields had either joined Spartacus or fled, to where I did not know. There was an odd silence around us, as though the land itself was waiting to see what would happen. As we rode in silence, twenty red-cloaked warriors disguised as the enemy, we passed burnt-out houses set back some distance from the road, no doubt the slaves of the estate had taken their revenge on their masters before they had left.

Two hours later, on the orders of Spartacus, we halted beside a large wood that sprawled across a hillside and waited. We dismounted and led our horses into the shade of the trees and rested. Spartacus walked away into the wood and reappeared a few minutes later with Castus by his side. The two of them walked over to me and squatted beside me. Castus nodded at me and smiled. Spartacus’ face was hard and expressionless. His briefing was short and to the point.

‘Nola is five or so miles down this road. The town sits in a plain, so anything that approaches it from any direction can be seen by the guards on the walls. Castus, you and your men will follow Pacorus and I down this road. If we have succeeded you will see that the gates are open. If they are, get your men down the road and into the town as soon as possible. If the gates are closed then we’ve failed, in which case get yourself back to Vesuvius. Good luck, Castus.’

Spartacus rose and embraced Castus, then mounted his horse. I too embraced the German and vaulted onto my horse, the same chestnut mare that I had first ridden in this army. Then we rode towards Nola, two abreast, keeping off the road. We did not want to appear out of the ordinary. Roman horses were not shod, though we had fitted the horses we rode with shoes, as was the custom in Parthia. We crested a small rise and entered a wide plain dotted with fields and copses, in the centre of which stood Nola. It was encompassed on all sides by a wall, and from our slight vantage point I caught a glimpse of red roofs and white-faced buildings. We maintained an even pace as the road led us straight towards one of the town’s gatehouses. I was sweating as we rode up to the gatehouse, which comprised two square, two-storey towers with red-tiled roofs, either side of an arch that was barred by two wooden gates. Guards stood on the rampart above the gates, in front of which we halted.

As we approached the gates we slowed to a gentle trot. My mouth was dry as I viewed the gatehouse with trepidation, saw guards on the wall above the gates themselves, and windows in the two towers with closed wooden shutters, which no doubt could be opened to make effective ports from which to fire arrows. Spartacus’ plan suddenly seemed a very bad idea.

‘Stay silent,’ he snapped, ‘leave the talking to me.’

We halted about twenty paces from the gates as a soldier wearing the distinctive helmet of a centurion peered at us from atop the wall.

‘State your business.’

Spartacus, his face enclosed by his helmet and its cheek guards, raised his hand in salute.

‘Decurion Batiatus to see the garrison commander.’

‘On what business?’ replied the centurion.

‘On military business, centurion.’

The centurion placed both hands on the wall and leaned over to look at Spartacus more closely.

‘Who is your commander?’

‘The Praetor Varinius Glaber.’

‘I thought he had been killed by the gladiators.’

‘You thought wrong. He is camped twenty miles from here with two ala of horse and half a legion.’ Spartacus pulled a scroll from a saddlebag. ‘Here is his orders for the garrison commander. I am to deliver them in person.’

The centurion said nothing as he gazed at Spartacus. I could feel rivulets of sweat run down the sides of my face as I purposely stared directly ahead at the gates. The centurion pulled away from the wall and shouted down.

‘Open the gates.’

There was a scraping sound as some sort of barrier that held the gates closed shut was removed, and then they both opened. Spartacus turned to me.

‘You take the right-hand tower, I’ll take the left.’ He jabbed his knees into the horse’s flank and moved forward, as did I and those who were following. Then we were through the gates and inside the town. Spartacus halted his horse and dismounted. I did likewise.

‘Centurion,’ shouted Spartacus, looking up at the Roman on the wall, ‘ I have something here that will be of interest to you.’

I could see three other guards on the wall, but doubted not that others were in the two towers. There were shops and red-tiled houses either side of the road, though there were few people milling around. No doubt the garrison commander had imposed rationing until the emergency of the slave rebellion had passed. The centurion came down the stone steps from the ramparts and ambled over to where Spartacus was standing. There were two other soldiers standing a short distance from my horse, leaning on their shields and idly watching us.

‘What is it? I have to report back…’

Spartacus’ right arm flashed as he plunged a dagger through the centurion’s throat. He left it there, drew his sword and then raced up the steps and onto the ramparts. His agility was astounding as he cut down two other soldiers before they had time to draw their swords. The other Romans stood open-mouthed at what had taken place, while the centurion, a fountain of blood gushing from his throat, collapsed in a heap on the ground, dead. I drew my sword, leapt from my saddle and plunged it into one of the soldiers standing to my right.

‘Clear the towers!’ I bellowed at my men as a Roman came towards me with his spear levelled and shield protecting his body. Seconds later my men were running up the steps and into the stone towers. Mercifully, they contained only a handful of men. The Roman came at me but I parried his clumsy spear thrust with my sword, drew Cookus’ dagger from its sheath on my belt with my left hand and slashed his right calf as he went past. He screamed in pain and turned to face me again.

‘You don’t have to die,’ I said to him. ‘Lay down your weapons and your life will be spared.’

He seemed to relax a little, but then tensed as the spear slammed into his back, thrown by Spartacus, who had reappeared on the ramparts. He pointed at me as the Roman breathed his last. ‘Get up here and stop pissing around.’

Along the street people were fleeing in terror, women sweeping young children into their arms and running fit to burst. I raced up the steps and stood beside Spartacus. The gatehouse was secure, but it would only be a matter of minutes before the garrison was alerted.

We stood on the rampart above the open gates and peered down the arrow-straight road. Roman roads were a marvel, I had to confess, always straight and topped with perfectly trimmed flagstones, and this one was especially dear to me because at that moment I saw a column of men pour over the crest of the hill, heading towards the town. Then I heard horns being blown and knew that the garrison had been alerted to our presence. I looked behind me and saw, at the far end of the street, Roman soldiers forming up, perhaps thirty or more. Spartacus saw them too.

‘Scatter them, don’t let them form otherwise they’ll shut the gates in Castus’ face.’

I cast a glance back up the road to see Castus and his Germans running towards us, still a mile away. I bounded down the steps and vaulted onto my horse, my men following.

‘Mount!’ I shouted to them. They likewise reclaimed their lances and saddles. Ahead a centurion was organising his troops into a block in order to retake the gates. The street was about twenty feet wide, so we couldn’t form into a line. I levelled my lance.

‘Straight at them. They’ll break before we reach them.’

I jabbed my horse in the flanks with my knees and she bolted forward. My men followed. We discarded our shields and used the Parthian way to hold our lances, grasping the shaft with both hands and holding it on the right side of the horse. A horse won’t charge at a solid object, but will either attempt to go around it or rear up at the last moment. If the Romans held firm then we would fail and end up as a tangled heap of men and horseflesh. But they didn’t hold. The sight of twenty horsemen charging towards them, screaming and carrying lances created panic among them. Perhaps they were ill-trained levies, but whatever they were in seconds those in the front had turned and were trying to get out of our way. But they ran into those behind and in the blink of an eye what had been a group of soldiers became a rabble. Some were running back down the street as my lance went through the back of a legionary, through his body and into the chest of the man in front of him. I let go of the shaft and drew my sword as my horse careered through one of the gaps now appearing in the dissolving Roman line. I slashed right and left at fleeing figures as the rest of my men thundered past.

‘Don’t let them reform,’ I shouted. But in truth the engagement was over. The Romans had melted away. I reformed my men into a column and led them forward at a gentle pace. We had suffered no casualties, but I told everyone to be on the lookout for archers on the rooftops. We were still very exposed to enemy missiles should the Romans want to launch some at us. I heard muffled shouts coming from behind me and turned in the saddle. All of us instinctively halted as dozens of men, Castus’ soldiers, came racing through the gates and into the town. I ordered my men to dismount, lead their mounts to the side of the street and take off their helmets and cloaks, lest the Germans thought we were Romans. Castus was leading his men, a Roman short sword in his right hand held aloof. He ran past us and on into the town. Several minute passed before all the Germans were inside the town. After they had swept into Nola I ordered my men to stay alert and went to speak with Spartacus. He was still on the ramparts, but when I reached him he had taken off his helmet and was sat on a bench beside the wall. As I approached he looked up and grinned.

‘Well, that worked out well. Never thought it would, actually, but glad it did.’

‘Lord?’

‘The main thing is we’re in. Should be plenty of supplies for the army.’

‘Not if the Germans burn the town,’ I said.

‘Don’t worry about that. Castus has strict orders to keep his men in check.’

‘And he will obey?’

Spartacus looked at me with an intense stare. ‘We are an army not a bunch of bandits. Only through discipline and organisation can we hope to defeat the Romans.’ Then he flashed a smile. ‘That and a bit of luck.’

Thus did Nola fall into our laps like a ripened fruit.