Peter Darman - The Parthian

Spartacus killed the last Roman of the party, who, seeing his comrades being slain, lost heart and attempted to run away, but was killed when Spartacus caught up with him, tripped him, ripped off his helmet and then caved in his skull with the pommel of his sword.

Another party of Romans, who had been digging the ditch nearer the river, were approaching us, as was a third group from the opposite direction. At least a score of legionaries were now bearing down on us and we would now certainly die. Spartacus was a man possessed, though, shouting curses at the Romans, calling them women and maggots and spitting on the corpses of their dead comrades. Then he lifted his tunic and pissed on one of them, which served to enrage the others who were running at us. I stood beside him as the first group, four Romans in a line with shields to their front and swords in their right hands, came at us with hatred on their faces. Spartacus laughed like a demented man, picked up a gladius lying on the ground and then threw it with all his strength. I stared in disbelief as the blade whirled through the air and went straight through the throat of one of the Romans, who collapsed in a heap on the ground. The others stopped in disbelief as Spartacus charged them, screaming again like a wildcat. He killed a second legionary who simply stood, like a rabbit hypnotised by a cobra, waiting to die. He offered no resistance as Spartacus thrust his sword through his heart. Spartacus killed the other two in blur of sword strikes that cut down the Romans as a farmer scythes corn. Spartacus threw down his shield and raised his sword at the second group of Romans, numbering at least a dozen soldiers, formed into line and shuffled towards us. They were more hesitant than the others, having seen their compatriots killed by only two men.

‘I am Spartacus, general of slaves, and I piss on the people and senate of Rome, on its senators, its gods and its maggot-ridden army.’

Then the Romans came at us running, shouting their rage and hatred. Spartacus picked up a gladius and waded into them, a blade in each hand, slashing and hacking in wild abandon. I raced after him and thrust my sword into the face of a legionary, whom Spartacus had wounded with a deep cut on his sword arm, which now hung limp by his side. The man died easily on my sword. I leapt at another who was behind Spartacus and about to run my lord through, but he did not see me and so was skewered on my spatha , its point going through his mail shirt and into his spine. I managed to wrench the blade free just in time to deflect the gladius of a legionary who came at me from my right. His blade met mine, but the momentum of his charge carried his shield into my body and bowled me onto the ground. He sprang to his feet and drew back his sword to plunge it into my chest. A split-second later a javelin pierced his chest and he collapsed onto his knees. The next moment Domitus was hauling me to my feet and his men were making short work of the Romans who surrounded Spartacus. Amazingly, he was unhurt.

‘Get your men into line,’ Spartacus barked at Domitus.

‘Thank you, Domitus,’ I said.

‘A pleasure, sir, looks like we arrived just in time.’ He motioned towards the Roman camp where a great column of legionaries was filing out and deploying on the flat ground in front of their defences.

‘Time to retreat,’ I said.

Spartacus swung round and glared at me. ‘No! We advance.’

With that he began striding towards the Romans who were deploying into line half a mile or so in front of us. Akmon raced up, panting heavily.

‘Where’s he going?’

‘To get himself killed, I fear,’ I replied.

Akmon cleared his throat and spat out the phlegm. ‘Him and the rest of us, I reckon. Well, let’s get on with it.’

He signalled to one of his officers who stood in front of the Thracian cohorts who were flooding the valley to the left and right of where we stood, while behind us cohort after cohort was marching from our camp as reinforcements. And in front of us the Romans were doing likewise.

Thus began the last battle of the slave army of Spartacus.

I looked over to our left flank, which was anchored on the flooded river, and across the fast-flowing brown water to where more Roman soldiers were marching from their second camp to form into battle formation. On that side of the river their only obstacle was my cavalry, of which there was no sign. It had stopped raining now, and slivers of sunlight were appearing through the clouds as the slight breeze began to clear the rain clouds away to reveal small patches of blue sky. Around us trumpets blared, signalling the advance, while a similar sound emanated from the Roman ranks. Domitus moved his cohort forward at a trot until it and we caught up with Spartacus. I took my place beside him with Domitus on his other side as we approached the first Roman formation — two cohorts drawn up in line. Domitus had found me a shield and a Roman helmet that was smeared with blood, though I had no javelin. I replaced my dagger in my boot.

Spartacus dashed out of front and raised his sword. ‘Straight through them. Follow me!’

There was no pause, no opportunity to dress our lines, just five hundred soldiers in a mad rush at the Romans. These were among the best troops that Spartacus possessed and they did not let him down, throwing their javelins and then charging into the enemy, stabbing at thighs and bellies with their swords. We carved our way into the Romans, who then broke and ran headlong towards the safety of the cohorts standing behind them. We halted to redress our lines. I looked over to the right, to where Akmon’s Thracians were coming to blows with the Romans. Spartacus was wounded. He clutched his right side and I could see blood appearing on his torn mail shirt.

‘You are wounded, lord,’ I shouted at him.

‘It’s nothing. Form ranks,’ he shouted. ‘Follow me.’

This was madness. We had broken two cohorts of the enemy, but now whole legions were deploying in front of us and still Spartacus wanted to attack. I saw bolts flying from Scorpion catapults tearing holes in the front ranks of Akmon’s Thracians. On our left Castus’ Germans were moving forward to engage two legions that were likewise advancing. The clash, when it came, sounded like a loud grating noise, and then came the shrieks and screams of hundreds of men fighting for their lives.

A fresh line of Roman soldiers appeared to our front, advancing at a steady pace with a long wall of red shields facing us. The battle that was developing was haphazard and disorganised, a collection of separate actions in which cohorts and legions tried to destroy those enemy formations in front of them. But there was no overall control. We charged again, Spartacus wearing a grimace of pain on his face as he did so. Again we cut our way into the Roman ranks, literally scything down their first five ranks and then grinding to a halt as more and more Romans reinforced the cohort we had assaulted, the legionaries forming new lines behind their comrades in front. Then the Romans surged forward, stepping over their dead comrades to get at us. The mud, blood and dead flesh at our feet made keeping our footing very difficult, and several times I slipped and stumbled as I hacked, thrust and parried with my spatha . Myself and Domitus flanked Spartacus as he fought bare headed and with wild abandon. A giant centurion attempted to decapitate him but was too slow and had his sword arm severed at the elbow. He screamed and clutched his shortened arm as blood gushed from the wound, and then died as I swung my sword and buried its blade deep in his chest. The Roman tide was unending, though, and as the time passed my strength began to ebb. I don’t know how long we fought in that melee, but it seemed to last for hours. Eventually sheer fatigue brought a temporary halt to the fighting. Both sides, battered and bloody, retired a hundred paces or so and stood facing each other, men bloody, sweating and panting profusely. A raging thirst gripped me, and I drank greedily from a water bottle that was shoved into my hand. Runners were despatched to the river, heavily laden with empty water bottles, while I rested on my blood-splattered sword. I wore no mail shirt and had, miraculously, sustained no wounds but my limbs felt like lead.