The Parthian (66 page)

Arretium burned fiercely that morning. Firebrands soaked in pitch were tossed into homes and shops as we rode through the city’s streets. Like all Roman towns it was arranged in the form of a grid system, with streets laid out at right angles to each other. The two main streets ran north-to-south and east-to-west, and where they met was where the Romans placed the forum, around which were clustered shops and other businesses. They may have been made of stone, but the buildings had wooden balconies and the shops wooden shutters, and all these things burned brightly once we had fired them. And then the panic and screaming began. Once fires are raging fear grips people, and soon they were blindly running around seeking sanctuary. They instinctively flocked to the temples that fronted one side of the forum. I never reached into my quiver once when we were inside the city, for all I saw were unarmed civilians. And they were already dying, from smoke, from flames, from being trampled to death in the panic. Dogs limped into view limping and whimpering with broken legs, mules ran around in a frenzied state with their sides seared by flames, and all the time the fires spread.  

Gallia halted beside me on a main street just off the forum, and pulled off her helmet as terror-stricken individuals raced past us to reach the temples. Two of my men were on the other side of the street, firing arrows at anyone unlucky enough to be within range. Gallia looked on in horror as one of their arrows struck a woman in the back who was carrying a baby in her arms. She pitched forward onto the ground as the arrow struck her, the baby disappearing under the feet of the desperate mob. 

‘Enough!’ I screamed at them, but in the din they did not even hear me. 

Others among my men, scenting an easy kill akin to a wolf slaughtering a lamb, were gripped by blood lust and began riding into groups in the forum and hacking at them with their swords. 

‘Stay close, and put your helmet back on,’ I shouted to Gallia and rode into the forum. 

I had seen enough. I ordered the trumpeter to sound withdrawal, and as he did so I rode to each group of horsemen and gestured with my sword that we were departing. 

We formed into a line at the end of the forum opposite a great temple that had now become the citizens’ sanctuary. Rising high into the sky, it had stone steps on all sides and was fronted by fluted columns, with a large frieze on its architrave and the pediment topped with sculptures. The forum was now littered with corpses, men and women who had either been trampled to death in the rush to avoid us, or, I am ashamed to say, killed by my own men. But now, in front of the temple steps, was gathering the town garrison. They had been conspicuous by their absence up to now, but I saw them flooding into the square and begin to assemble in their ranks. I glanced right and left and raised my bow; my men answered by raising theirs. We were ready. I had been fighting in Italy for two years now, or at least two campaigning seasons, and I had come to recognise the tell-tell signs as to whether a unit was battle hardened or full of inexperienced recruits. Those who faced us were nervous. It took their centurions an age to get them into formation, the men being struck by vine canes as they were thrown into place and hit across the back. Their officers were also screaming orders at them, though no one seemed to be taking any notice. But I did notice that said officers, three of them mounted on horses, kept glancing at us nervously. The whole scene was illuminated by an eerie red glow as the fires that raged around the forum provided light. Then, from within the temple, there came a dirge as the citizens prayed and sang to their gods that their lives would be spared.

I had thought of withdrawing and leaving from whence we had come, but the sight of the enemy forming in front of me persuaded me otherwise. It would be dishonourable to retreat in the face of the enemy, and my men would think ill of me, if they thought of me at all at that moment. The Romans were in position now, two hundred paces from us, about four hundred of them in five centuries. They outnumbered us two to one, but numbers are only one part of the equation in war. Behind them the awful sound coming from the temple must have unnerved them, for it seemed to have turned into a drawn-out lament.

I gave the signal for the whole line to advance and we moved forward a few paces, then halted. My men had their bows at the ready.

The Romans could have advanced against us, but I suspected that because they were only garrison troops it would take a mighty effort to move them from behind their shields. I also noticed that they were armed with spears not javelins, and they had no archers or slingers.

I looked at their uneven, ragged line and could almost smell their fear from where I sat on Remus. They presented their wall of shields to us, but I knew that it would be as effective as paper when the killing began. Their officers were still screaming at them, no doubt in an effort to fill their own hearts with courage. Hours before they had been officials in some forgotten backwater in Italy, and now they were fighting for their lives. What thoughts were filling their minds I did not know, but I knew that I could magnify their terror.

I placed my bow in its case and nudged Remus forward a few steps. I spread my arms wide as I faced the Roman line, being careful to keep out of spear range.

‘Soldiers of Rome, I give you this opportunity to lay down your weapons and save your lives.’

The Roman officers and their centurions stopped yelling and looked at me. 

‘Do you not know who I am, Roman filth? I am Prince Pacorus whom you call “The Parthian”. I demand once more that you lay down your weapons and prostrate yourselves before me. Only then will your lives be saved.’

At that moment a centurion stepped from the ranks to throw his javelin. He was dead before the shaft left his right hand, an arrow in the middle of his chest. 

I laughed at the enemy. ‘Did you not hear me, Romans, for I speak in your own language, the language of the gutter. Behold my might.’

I lowered my arms and my men instantly killed the Roman officers on horseback.

‘If Roman armies cannot defeat me, how much less are the chances of a tiny, ill-trained garrison? I give you this one last chance. Throw yourselves on my mercy and you will live. Resist and you will die. Archers!’

As one my men pointed arrows at the enemy, ready to fire. Then a Roman soldier at the end of the line threw down his shield and darted from the square, followed by another next to him. A centurion cut down a third man attempting to flee with his sword, but was himself killed by one of my men. And then the whole Roman line dissolved into a disorganised mass of frightened individuals attempting to save themselves. A few, a tiny minority, tried to throw their spears at us, but a hail of arrows cu them down along with those trying to run away. It was all over in less than a minute. I had not shot one arrow. Before me, enemy shields, helmets and spears lay scattered on the tiles of the forum.

Gallia rode up beside me.

‘It seems that you can defeat the Romans with mere words now.’

‘I knew they wouldn’t stand. Terror can often be deadlier than the sharpest sword.’

‘Are you starting to believe your own legend?’

I shot her a glance. ‘What do you mean?’

‘All this nonsense about “the Parthian” and the like. Pride often comes before a fall.’

I smiled at her. ‘You of all people should no, beautiful one, that Parthians never fall off their horses.’

We had suffered no casualties. But now the smoke was beginning to swirl around the forum, grey clouds that stung the back of the throat and made us cough. The sound continued from the temple, seemingly reaching a dreadful crescendo of wailing. One of my men rode up and saluted.

‘Do you want us to fire the temple, lord?’

‘No, we do not want to anger their gods. Besides, the flames might do it for us.’

The shops around the forum were beginning to catch alight now and I could feel the heat increasing all around us. It was time to leave. We rode back down the main road and left the way we had come. Behind us, the flames consumed Arretium.

I do not know if the people in the temple survived, though I liked to think so.

‘You are a fool, Pacorus,’ said Spartacus, reclining on cushions with Claudia beside him on the floor of his tent, which was covered with a large red carpet.

It was now over a month since I had raided the city, and the army had moved south through Latium and was now in Campania. My cavalry had raided far and wide with impunity, there being no opposition to stop us.

‘Leave him alone, Spartacus.’ Claudia smiled at me.

‘There is no honour in killing civilians, lord,’ I said, picking another rib from one of the platters on the table.

‘You hear that Spartacus?’ added Akmon. ‘He’s talking about honour again.’

Spartacus drank wine from his cup. ‘You are a fine soldier, Pacorus, and a great leader of horse.’ I winked at Gallia beside me, who rolled her eyes. ‘But all this talk of honour will get you killed if you’re not careful. The Romans have no honour, remember that.’

‘A man without honour is a man without a soul,’ mused Gafarn.

‘Are you a poet, or just drunk? asked Spartacus.

Gafarn looked at him, then me. ‘No, lord, but that is what King Varaz has always told his son. Is that not right, highness?’

‘That is right, Gafarn,’ I said proudly.

Spartacus proffered a jug of wine and filled my cup. ‘You are a lost cause, my friend.’

The tent flap opened, a guard walked in and saluted Spartacus. ‘There is a man outside, sir, a Roman.’

Spartacus stood up, as did we all. ‘A Roman? Is he mad, or perhaps has a wish to end his life?’

‘He says he has a letter, sir.’

‘For me?’ Spartacus spread his arms wide. ‘Perhaps the Romans want to surrender.’ We all laughed.

‘No, sir,’ replied the guard. ‘The letter is for Prince Pacorus.’

All eyes were on me. I was stunned.

‘It must be a mistake,’ I said. ‘Who knows me aside from those in this army.’

‘Who indeed?’ said Spartacus. He pointed at the guard. ‘Bring the letter.’

‘And the Roman?’

‘Kill him,’ said Akmon, his teeth battling a rib. The rib was winning.

‘No. Let him go,’ said Spartacus, ‘but see he doesn’t loiter. No doubt he is also a spy.’

‘All the more reason to kill him,’ grunted Akmon.

‘He says he has to obtain a reply before he leaves.’

‘You can’t kill everyone,’ I said.

‘Why not?’ he mumbled.

The guard brought in the letter and handed it to me. It was a scroll with a wax seal. Claudia and Gallia sat back down on the cushions as I handed it to Spartacus.

‘You read it, lord.’

‘Me? But it is addressed to you.’

‘I have a feeling that it also concerns you.’

I sat beside Gallia as Spartacus cut the seal, flopped down beside his wife and read the letter out loud.

To Prince Pacorus, son of King Varaz of Hatra.

Greetings.

My name is Marcus Licinius Crassus. Having been appointed by the People and Senate of Rome to safeguard their freedom and lives, I have vowed in the temple of my ancestors to bring to an end the murderous uprising of the slaves under the criminal Spartacus. But I know that you are not a slave and that you are the son of a noble line whose blood flows from the ancient Arsacid dynasty. By what curious fate you find yourself among slaves and criminals I know not, but I do know that the kings of the Parthian Empire are men of honour, and therefore knowing that there is nobility in Parthia, I have no hesitation in assuming that you too are a person of quality and importance.

This being the case, I invite you to meet with me at my house in Rome so that we can discuss more fully the sad present state of affairs you find yourself in, and perhaps reach an understanding that is beneficial to us both. Know that this invitation is given freely without any preconditions or expectations, and be assured that your person will be esteemed inviolable should you grant me the honour of meeting with you in person. This letter shall grant you safe conduct to and from my house in the city of Rome.

I eagerly await your reply. I remain your friend.

Marcus Licinius Crassus, General and Senator of Rome.

‘Who is this Crassus?’ asked Claudia.

I shrugged. ‘Never heard of him.’

Spartacus rolled up the scroll and handed it back to me. ‘Well, he has obviously heard of you. What are you going to do?’

‘Ignore it, I suppose. What is this Crassus to me?’

Spartacus gestured at the guard. ‘Bring in the messenger.’

The man, in his forties and dressed in a tunic of quality with a thick cloak around his shoulders, was shorter than Spartacus and had a full head of hair. His countenance was one of wisdom and maturity.

‘What is your name?’

‘Ajax, sir.’ I noticed that the man did not look directly at Spartacus but stared at the floor in front of him.

‘You are a slave.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Who is your master?’

‘Marcus Licinius Crassus.’

‘How long have you been a slave?’

‘Many years, sir, in the house of my master.’

Spartacus poured a cup of wine and handed it to Ajax. ‘Would you like a drink?’

Ajax took the cup and drank, aware that everyone was watching him.

‘Would you like to join us, Ajax? To be a free man?’

Ajax drained the cup and handed it back to Spartacus, still looking at the floor.

‘That is a most generous offer, sir. But my master has been very kind to me and treats me very well. I must, therefore, decline your magnanimous offer.’

‘You see, Pacorus,’ Spartacus looked at me, ‘how making the leap from slave to free man is a chasm too wide for many.

‘I must beg an answer from Prince Pacorus,’ Ajax said.

‘You are walking into a trap,’ snorted Akmon, finishing his wine and then pouring himself some more.