The Parthian (20 page)

‘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.’