The Parthian (14 page)

‘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.