Peter Darman - Carrhae

Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa was a most excellent host, greeting me at the gates of Antioch and escorting me to the great palace in the city. If anything it had grown in size and was filled with more noise, though perhaps the truth was that I had diminished. He gave a great feast in my honour, to which all the nobles and their families were invited, and gave a most courteous speech stating that he was proud that I, the most famous man in the east, had accepted his invitation.

He may have been one of the most powerful men in the Roman Empire but his questions to me in the days afterwards were the same as those posed by all of his countrymen. What was Crassus like, was I the one who killed him at Carrhae and cut off his head, did I really ride a white stallion called Remus? I told him what I told them: Crassus was a most agreeable individual and in another time we may have been friends; no, I did not kill him, though I never told them that he had been killed by a woman, as that would have further sullied his reputation and that would have been unfair; and yes, my horse was called Remus. But most of all they wanted to know about Spartacus, the slave who had risen up and nearly toppled Rome itself. Most of them were not even born when he had been destroying Roman armies, or if they had would have been infants, and they were most curious to know everything about him. Talking with Agrippa and his officers I soon realised that the myth of Spartacus was very different from the reality. They had been told that he had been a giant who did not sleep and crept up on his foes in the dead of the night, that he stormed Nola with ten thousand men.

I shook my head. ‘We bluffed our way in with a handful of horsemen.’

‘It is well known that his wife was a witch who controlled the weather,’ announced a young tribune. ‘That is how he and his army escaped Crassus at Rhegium. She created a snow storm that blinded our soldiers.’

‘There was snow,’ I agreed, ‘but it was courage and discipline that got his army out of Crassus’ trap, not sorcery.’

‘Some say that Spartacus escaped from the Silarus Valley and lived out the rest of his life as a bandit in Bruttium,’ said another.

‘He died fighting in the Silarus Valley,’ I corrected him, ‘and the day after I and thousands of others attended his cremation.’

I told them of how I had been rescued by Spartacus on the slopes of Mount Vesuvius and showed them the spatha that he had given me all those years ago. Agrippa held the weapon as though it was a religious icon possessed of supernatural powers, while the others stared at it in awe. I had to laugh.

‘What was he like?’ asked Agrippa.

It was a good question. One that I had been asked a thousand times. ‘I believe that the gods earmark certain individuals for greatness, irrespective of their race or circumstances of their birth. Spartacus was one such individual.’

I saw their confused faces. ‘I can see you are sceptical but consider this. How was it that an ordinary man, a slave no less, could revolt against Rome in its own land, raise an army of slaves — slaves, not soldiers — and lead them to victory after victory, if not with the help of the gods?’

Agrippa looked most thoughtful. ‘Are you saying that he was a god?’

‘No, but I believe that he was beloved of the gods and that helped him. He was also brave, intelligent and resourceful and had the ability to appraise both individuals and circumstances to his benefit.’

I enjoyed their company but also envied them their youth and the lives that lay ahead of them. For me such events were interludes in a long period of loneliness. I had seen my friends and wife die but often wondered if the gods had reserved the cruellest fate for me by keeping me alive and enduring the slow death of old age. My body became frail and a playground for aches and pains and my senses dulled. At night I lay on my bed and thought of Gallia and the times we had shared together, always falling asleep clutching the lock of her hair that hung around my neck. I prayed for death but it never came, and the next morning woke to endure another day without her.

My return to Dura was barely noticed, though I am sure that the six squires who had been tasked with looking after me were glad we were back from Syria. I returned the mare to the stables and went back to using the small cart pulled by a cantankerous mule for my regular morning trips from the Citadel, through the city and then south to a quiet spot a couple of miles south by the river, to sit beneath an old date palm. The palace carpenter built a seat under the tree that I could rest on and I spent most mornings watching the river flow south, invariably dozing off to the sounds of lapwings, herons and warblers.

Today was no different: a morning with the sun already warming the earth from a clear blue sky. There was much activity in the Citadel as Claudia was in the throne room authorising trade licences that had been agreed by the royal council, which sat each week in the headquarters building, now given over entirely to civil rather than military matters. Petitioners were standing at the top of the palace steps, waiting to be admitted. As a groom brought my cart to the foot of the palace steps I ambled through the group. One of them, a man in his mid-fifties with a full head of brown hair and a neatly cropped beard, dressed in a white silk tunic smiled and bowed his head to me. Out of courtesy I smiled back but he continued to smile and look at me so I went over to him.

‘Do I know you?’

‘No, sir, forgive me staring. We met once, a long time ago, but there is no reason you should remember me.’

Now my curiosity was aroused. ‘I am old and unfortunately have no recollection of our meeting.’

Whoever he was he was obviously a man of some means for he wore soft leather boots on his feet and his white cloak was fixed to his left shoulder by a large silver brooch.

‘It was a long time ago, sir, so there is no reason you should remember. I was one of a score of Roman soldiers, the sole survivors of a legion, who stood on a rise of ground near the town of Carrhae expecting to die when you saved us.’

That was over thirty-five years ago. I extended my bony hand to him. ‘I am glad that you all survived.’

He took my hand. ‘Only because of your intercession, sir, for which I am eternally in your debt.’

‘What brings you to Dura?’

‘I have a wine-selling business in Syria, sir,’ he replied, ‘and hope to establish a shop here in Dura.’

‘Business is good?’

He nodded. ‘It is, sir. Peace means trade and trade brings profits.’

It was not always so. ‘What is your name?’

‘Lucius Cato, sir.’

I stayed and chatted to him about the Battle of Carrhae until Claudia ordered the doors of the throne room to be opened to the petitioners. I escorted him inside to ensure he received his licence. As thanks he invited me to dine with him and his family that evening, a request I gladly accepted. Claudia was bemused by my support for this Roman merchant but she did not realise that to talk with someone who remembered me as a great warlord was heartening. Only someone who has outlived his or her usefulness would understand.

A stable hand helped me onto my cart and my faithful mule walked from the courtyard to transport me to my usual morning residence by the river. I glanced at the memorial to the Companions that had space for one more name as I left the Citadel. The city’s main street was thronged with shoppers, travellers, sightseers, camels and mules loaded with goods and so it took me longer than usual to reach the Palmyrene Gate. Bored guards rested on their shields and others walked up and down on the gatehouse’s battlements. They stood to attention when they recognised me and I raised a hand in acknowledgement, then looked up at the stone griffin that had stood guardian over my city for so many years.