Peter Darman - The Parthian

The sounds of battle still raged around us Castus’s men fought the Romans on our left and the Thracians battled the enemy on our right. But eventually those conflicts too died down and a strange quiet descended over the battlefield. An orderly wrapped a bandage around Spartacus’ midriff, and then he put his mail shirt back on. Akmon demanded that Spartacus withdraw to the rear to consult with him, though he had to make do with standing behind our depleted cohort as Spartacus drank water and chewed on a loaf of bread. Castus joined us, limping slightly from a leg wound.

I was concerned. ‘You should get that seen to.’

‘It’s not serious,’ he shrugged.

Akmon was angry. ‘We need to pull back now, Spartacus. We are too close to the Roman camp and they are tearing holes in us with those damned catapults.

‘Then advance and destroy them,’ replied Spartacus.

Akmon threw up his arms in despair. ‘The Romans are also deploying on the other side of the river, and I don’t see any of our troops standing in their way. Where are your horses, Pacorus?’

‘I know not. But they won’t let us down.’

‘Forget about the other side of the river,’ said Spartacus. ‘If we win on this side, we win the day.’

‘We should pull back and let the Romans attack us ,’ spat Akmon.

Spartacus smiled grimly and laid a hand on Akmon’s shoulder. ‘It’s too late now, my friend, it’s all too late.’

The conversation ended there, for a great blast of trumpets signalled that the Romans were now advancing all along the front and the focus of their attack was our position. This time a legion was directed against us, its centuries packed tight in a solid mass to our front. I could see a group of Roman officers mounted on horses immediately behind their first line. One was bare headed and I recognised him. At first he was too far away to identify, but as the enemy slowly drew closer, I saw that the man was Marcus Licinius Crassus.

‘That’s Crassus,’ I shouted, pointed my sword at the man in the silver cuirass with a red cloak around his shoulders.

Spartacus looked at me. ‘What did you say?’

‘That is Crassus, lord. The bare-headed man with the silver armour mounted on the horse.’

Spartacus laughed and then raced forward to stand in front of our line. He turned to face all of us.

‘That man wearing the fancy silver armour sat on a horse is Crassus, general of their army. Kill him and we win this war. Your orders are: kill Crassus.’

Our men cheered and began chanting ‘kill Crassus, kill Crassus’, and then suddenly we were running as fast as our legs could carry us at the Romans. One understrength cohort against a legion. Their volley of javelins cut down many in our front ranks but then we were among them, hacking and thrusting. Crassus had told me that his legions would be made of stern stuff, but on that mad, glory filled morning the troops that we fought were always second best to us. They may have been well trained and equipped, but we were veterans, undefeated, and we were quicker, more ruthless and possessed of a contempt for death. Against these qualities the Romans had no answer.

Spartacus was screaming like a demon as he sliced, stabbed and carved a path of dead Romans as he made a superhuman attempt to reach Crassus. Did he get close to his prey? I do not know, but I do know that I saw the death of my lord, killed when he tried to fight three centurions at once. He killed one, wounded another as I desperately tried to reach him, but the third plunged his sword into his heart. Spartacus died instantly, his body slumping to the ground as I, screaming like a madman, swung my sword with both hands and lopped the centurion’s head off. I grabbed the body of Spartacus and hauled it back as Domitus shouted ‘back, back,’ as what was left of our cohort gave ground.

The Romans inched forward warily. They had been badly shaken by our mad charge and were reluctant to counterattack. Their dead and wounded lay in heaps on the ground. As we pulled back, two fresh cohorts of Thracians closed ranks in front of us to form a new battle line. A stretcher was brought forward and the body of Spartacus placed upon it. I wiped away the tears as I covered it with a filthy cloak that I found on the ground so no one would see who it was. Domitus stood opposite me with a gash on his neck and his mail shirt ripped.

‘Have him taken back to camp,’ I ordered.

It was past midday now and the sun was high in a clear blue sky, for the rain had ceased and the clouds had dissipated. Steam rose from the sodden ground while the river on our left still frothed with dirty brown water, though less so now than earlier. Though wide at this point, some one hundred yards, it was shallow, no more than three feet, though now bloated with fast-flowing water running down from the mountains after the storm. There was a blast of trumpets to our front — the Romans were attacking again. This time we stood on the defensive, the Thracian front ranks locking shields to form a wall facing the Romans, while those in the rear ranks hoisted their shields overhead to protect themselves from the deluge of javelins that would surely come. Domitus reformed the cohort, now down to around two hundred men, into two centuries, each one ten across and ten deep. At that moment a panting and sweating Cannicus ran up.

‘Pacorus, where is Spartacus?’

My expression gave him his answer.

‘No!’ he wailed. ‘We are finished.’

I grabbed him by the shoulders. ‘Not yet. We fight on, Cannicus, that’s what he would have wanted. Why are you here?’

‘We are holding the Romans but more are forming up on the other side of the river, and they are going to wade across to hit us in the flank. If they do, they will sweep in behind us. Castus asks if you can spare any men.’

The sounds of battle had erupted once more to our front as the whole Roman line surged forward against the Thracian legions. Behind us there were no more troops coming from the camp. There were none left. The whole of the army, save my cavalry, was now fighting.

‘Only these men with me.’

Cannicus looked at the paltry and grubby soldiers grouped behind me in close order.

‘They will have to do.’

We followed Cannicus at a fast pace to where the Germans were located beside the river. Two legions arrayed side-by-side were battling the Romans to their front, with a Thracian legion kept in reserve half a mile behind them, ready to reinforce any part of the line under threat of giving way. The third German legion was deployed at the extreme left of the line, but was facing the river at right angles to the others. I found this curious, for if the Romans to our front broke through they would smash into the right flank of this legion and roll it up like a carpet. I laughed out loud as I remembered that legions were not carpets. We found a battered and unhappy Castus berating a group of officers. He sent them away when he saw us. We embraced and I told him about Spartacus. He closed his eyes with a few seconds.

‘We will grieve later.’

‘I do not understand your dispositions,’ I said, pointing to the German legion facing the river.

‘Do you not? Then follow me.’

He led us through the legion’s ranks that were facing the river. We walked through the gaps between the centuries grouped in close order to emerge two hundred paces from the river, which was flowing less speedily now. Across the water were massed three Roman legions; their silver eagles glinting in the sun, while between them were massed groups of slingers and archers. Other Romans were hauling forward Scorpion catapults. Centurions were barking orders and shoving men into position.

‘They are getting ready to cross,’ said Castus, ‘and when they do I have only one legion against their three. They will outflank me and get in behind us, then slaughter us. You see those catapults. They will open fire first, tearing great gaps in our ranks. Then the slingers and archers will open fire and drop more of my men, and all the time their legionaries will be wading across. And when the Scorpion bolts, slingshots and arrows have finished flying, fifteen thousand Roman soldiers will hit us like a thunderbolt from the gods. How many men did you bring with you.’