Peter Darman - The Parthian

‘It’s a bad position,’ growled Akmon, his usual dour expression made worse by the sword wound to his left shoulder, which he suffered during the breakout from Rhegium. ‘There’s no way out of this valley and we’ll be trapped again.’

‘I have riders out in all directions,’ I said. ‘If the Romans approach to within fifty miles of us we will have plenty of notice.’

‘We need time to rest and reorganise,’ said Castus, who though unwounded looked gaunt and ill, no doubt as a result of half rations during the time at Rhegium.

‘That’s true enough,’ offered Godarz. ‘Our supplies are in a woeful state.’

‘We should be attacking the Romans, not running from them.’ Afranius was his usual arrogant self, and totally oblivious to the position that we were in.

Spartacus had been strangely withdrawn since the breakout. Worried about Claudia, no doubt, but also seemingly weighed down by a great burden. I wondered if it was the realisation that our options were fast disappearing. He looked at Afranius.

‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you. A final, heroic battle in which you can throw the rest of your men’s lives away in a fruitless display of idiocy.’

Afranius stood up. He may have been headstrong, but he did not lack for courage. ‘My men and I have shed blood for this army. It was not I who led it into a trap at Rhegium. Perhaps it is time for a new leader.’

There were gasps around the table at his words. Spartacus merely sighed and slowly rose to his feet. Afranius stood his ground, the two men facing each other across the table. One small and stocky, the other tall and muscular and immovable like a rock. Spartacus drew his sword and threw it on the table.

‘If you want to lead this army you will have to kill me, Afranius. There is my sword. Use it or your own, but do it quickly. Otherwise, take your seat.’

Our general stared intently at Afranius, not blinking once, his face expressionless like stone, as the younger man crumbled before Spartacus’ presence, first licking his lips, then looking round at each of us nervously, before regaining his seat. Spartacus retrieved his sword and did the same, then nodded at Godarz.

‘Pay attention, Afranius, you might learn something,’ he said, sliding his sword back into its scabbard.

Godarz then gave us a summary of the army’s current state. ‘We lost five thousand men at Rhegium and during the breakout, many succumbing to the cold and disease as well as to Roman weapons, with another two thousand seriously wounded. And not forgetting those lost when the Spaniards attacked Crassus by way of a diversion.’ I glanced at Afranius, who was actually blushing, his eyes downcast. ‘Of the wounded, less than half will be able to carry a weapon in the next two months. Prince Pacorus,’ he nodded at me, ‘lost a further eight hundred horsemen and a similar number of horses during the breakout. He has an additional three hundred men recovering from wounds of varying severity.

‘We consumed all our cattle, pigs and goats at Rhegium, and are therefore relying on our supplies of grain, which will last three weeks, plus any food we can take from the surrounding country. Prince Pacorus has his own supplies for the horses, which are enough to last for a month.’

‘We are raiding into Campania,’ I added, ‘gathering any food we can.’

Spartacus stretched back in his chair. ‘So you see, Afranius, if we don’t find enough food the Romans won’t have to kill us, as starvation will do that for them.’

After the meeting I walked with Akmon, as Afranius strode past us, heading for where his Spaniards were located.

‘That little bastard’s on thin ice,’ said Akmon.

‘I fear we all are.’

‘You do not trust Spartacus?’

‘With my life,’ I replied, ‘but there are still three Roman armies converging on us, and I don’t think we are in any position to fight even one at the moment.’

Our position over the next two weeks improved somewhat, however, as I sent parties of horse into Campania, towards Picentoni, Salernum, Paestum and Pompeii. They reaped a rich haul of foodstuffs, and effectively emptied the area of cattle and goats, which they were herded back to our camp in the hills. There was still no news of the army of Crassus.

A month had passed when Byrd rode into camp on a beautiful spring afternoon. We had established the cavalry camp in the hills on the opposite side of the River Silarus from the main camp, in a pleasant area between the trees of the slopes and the river itself. The plain through which the river ran was wide and bisected by a number of small streams, which provided fresh water for both horses and riders. We had set up a shooting range plus workshops for repairing bows and making fresh arrows, and I was practising with Gafarn and Gallia when my chief scout appeared, dressed in a shabby tunic and with a threadbare cloak around his shoulders. His horse as usual looked dreadful, with a matted mane and hooves that needed filing. He dismounted and bowed his head as Gafarn put an arrow through the middle of mine in the centre of the target.

‘We are trying to preserve arrows,’ I said to him.

‘I have news, lord. Many Romani cavalry riding south down Popilian Way.’

‘When?’

‘Two days ago.’

‘How many, Byrd.’

He shrugged. ‘Maybe fifteen hundred, riding hard. Led by a man with angry face and red hair.’

‘Thank you, Byrd. Go and get some food and take your horse to the veterinaries. Get him groomed and seen to.’

As Byrd rode towards the makeshift stables we had constructed from felled trees, I unstrung my bow. Gafarn noticed my concern.

‘His news troubles you?’

‘Roman cavalry riding south means that they are going to link up with Crassus, which means that once that happens he will be at our throats like a wolf with a newborn lamb. And to rub salt into the wound, I can guess the commander of those horsemen.’

‘Who?’

‘My old adversary, Lucius Furious.’

Gafarn put another arrow into the centre of the target.

‘You should have killed him when you had the chance.’

‘You know, Gafarn, for once you are absolutely right.’

Worse news came three days later. Two of Byrd’s scouts who had been sent into the west to keep watch on the Roman forces at Brundisium had ridden through the mountains, pulling their horses through snow-blocked paths to reach us. They sat in my tent, looking wet, bedraggled and filthy, as they recounted what they had seen on the Appian Way just west of Tarentum.

‘The Romans are on the march, lord.’

‘How many?’ I asked, my heart sinking.

‘We counted five eagles, lord, plus auxiliaries,’ said the other man, who had told me that he had been a shepherd in the hills of Lucania for ten years, and who knew all the high passes in the area.

I relayed this information immediately to Spartacus, who convened a council of war. As yet there was no news of the army of Crassus.

‘But that force poses the greatest threat,’ said Spartacus, ‘pointing at the map that lay on the table, around which myself, Castus, Cannicus, Godarz, Akmon and Afranius were assembled.

‘They’ll march along the Appian Way to Capua, then swing south and either reinforce Crassus or, if he hasn’t got here by then, perhaps assault us themselves.’ Spartacus looked up at us.

‘That’s thirty thousand men,’ said Akmon, his shoulder no longer bandaged, ‘plus whatever Crassus has.’

‘Another thirty thousand,’ said Castus, whose colour had mostly returned to his cheeks.

‘And we have?’ Spartacus looked at Godarz.

‘No more than fifty thousand, probably less, and five thousand of those are only half-fit for duty.’

‘They can still stand and carry a sword,’ remarked Spartacus. He looked at me. ‘Those scouts of yours.’