Peter Darman - The Parthian

When I got back to camp Gafarn was sorting through a package of clothing that had been delivered. He held up a rather smart long-sleeved white tunic fringed with blue.

‘What’s that?’ I asked.

‘A present from Spartacus, it would appear. There are leggings and boots as well.’

‘For the feast tonight.’

Before I left I gathered together my men and told them that in the morning twenty of us would leave to scour the country for horses. Capturing wild horses would not be a problem, but saddles, bridles and harnesses would be. I had no idea how that problem would be solved.

The feast laid on by Spartacus was lavish. There were half a dozen fires, over which roasted pigs, lamb and two huge sides of beef. In front of and around the fires were long tables, at which sat warriors eating and drinking. They were shouting, singing and laughing as women served them from trays heaped high with meats and bread, while others carried jars full of wine. Spartacus sat at the top table flanked by ten men I assumed were his commanders. I recognised the fierce and wild Crixus, his red hair like a fireball around his head; the serious Castus and his long, somewhat sad visage. The others I did not know. Spartacus, talking intently to a lieutenant sat beside him, spotted me, beckoned me over and pointed at a spare place at the end of his table. Crixus and Castus ignored me as I sat beside a man who had hair plaited in a similar style to Crixus. I assumed they were of the same people.

A woman offered me a wooden platter and another meat from a tray. I did not usually eat red meat, but tonight I would be adventurous. I grabbed a chunk of beef oozing blood and took a bite. It tasted delicious. A young girl, a teenager, gave me a cup and poured wine into it, which tasted remarkably good. Clearly local vineyards had been thoroughly plundered. An attractive woman, her hair black as night and olive-skinned, refilled the silver goblet of Spartacus. She laughed as he slipped an arm round her waist and pulled her close. She had a narrow face, with high cheekbones and full lips. For some reason she reminded me of a mountain lion, all feline grace yet deadly to tangle with. Spartacus said something to her and her eyes flashed at me. She fixed me with cobra-like stare and then smiled. Spartacus gestured me over with his free arm. I emptied my cup, rose from my bench and walked over to where the slave general and his woman were.

‘Pacorus, this is my wife Claudia,’ Spartacus exuded pride as he flashed a smile at me and then gazed lovingly at his wife. She was dressed in a simple white stola, with a wide black belt fastened just under her breasts, which accentuated her shapely figure. Her arms were bare, and around each wrist she wore large silver bangles. She was a beautiful woman, that was my first impression, that and a sense that she possessed great inner strength. All conversation died down as everyone watched me. I bowed my head to her.

‘An honour to meet you, lady.’

From behind me Crixus let out a loud guffaw. ‘He thinks he’s back in a Parthian court.’

Laughter erupted from all those present, especially the men sat around Crixus. I must admit that I was finding him rather boorish. He might be a fearsome sight but he was clearly a brute. Claudia flashed her black eyes at the big Gaul, who sneered and went back to drinking greedily from his cup.

‘You are most welcome, Pacorus.’ Her voice was feminine yet strong and assured. Her eyes were not in fact black but dark brown and they seemed to be examining me, determining whether I was worthy to be an associate of her husband. ‘Spartacus tells me that you are a prince in Parthia and that you and your men have put your swords at his service.’

She may have been the wife of a slave but she carried herself with elegance, betraying a certain education, perhaps.

‘We hope to be a valuable part of his army, lady.’

‘I thank you on his behalf. I hope you, and all of us, will see your homeland again.’

Spartacus let go of his wife and reached behind him. He stood and held out a sword in a scabbard. ‘And to help you achieve that aim take this gift, with thanks. It is called a spatha, a Roman cavalry sword. Use it well.’

I took the scabbard and drew the sword. It was a superb weapon, with a long, straight blade pointed at the tip, and was beautifully balanced. The blade length was about two feet while the hilt was an all-wood construction, with a reinforcing guard plate of bronze inlaid into the forward end of the guard. The grip itself had an eight-sided cross-section with finger grooves that gave a surprisingly firm grip. I have to confess that it was as good as any Parthian sword I had seen.

‘A most generous gift, lord,’ I said, bowing my head to him.

‘He’s like a little dog, nodding his head to all and sundry.’ The oafish voice of Crixus rang out once again.

I turned to face him. ‘Have you something to say to me?’

He jumped up and marched around the table to face me in the rectangular space in front of the tables. Aside from the crackling of the fires there was silence as all eyes were upon us. Crixus, bare-chested and angry, held a sword in his right hand. He was about six foot five, I guessed, with a massive, broad chest and arms that seemed stuffed with muscles.

‘I want you to yap like a little dog, boy.’ He grinned at me, clearly hoping to provoke me. I took the bait and threw the scabbard aside.

‘Why don’t you let me cut off some of those filthy locks instead?’

Crixus roared in anger and made to attack me, but in an instant Spartacus leapt over the table and stood between us, sword in hand.

‘Put your swords down, both of you. There will be no violence tonight. Have you forgotten that our enemies are the Romans, Crixus? Would you rather kill your comrades?’

Crixus stood still for a moment, then shrugged, spat on the ground and returned to his seat. I retrieved the scabbard from the earth and sheathed my gift. Spartacus stood like a rock as I too took my seat, as Crixus glared at me. Castus heaved the man sat next to me out of his seat and plonked himself beside me.

‘I hope you can use that sword,’ he said, as he tore a chunk of meat from a breast of chicken, ‘Crixus is a mean-spirited bastard who kills just for the sake of it. And you have just made yourself his enemy.’

I looked at the big Gaul finish yet another cup of wine and demand that it be refilled, bellowing his order at a young girl who jumped at his roar. His eyes were bulging fit to burst and grease and blood from the meat he had been eating matted his moustache. He was just like Cookus, I decided, a loud-mouthed bully. He was surrounded by his fellow Gauls, who looked just as ugly and who were just as loud as he was. They cut a fearsome spectacle sure enough, but the fact that they had been slaves reminded me that they had once been bested by Roman soldiers. Talk was cheap. I would reserve judgment on Crixus and his Gauls.

Castus was in a talkative mood, and in truth I found his conversation interesting and his company agreeable. He didn’t drink as much as Crixus, but then I doubted if anyone did, and though merry from the drink his mind was still clear. Castus told me about Roman gladiators, men who were trained to kill each other in the arena.

‘It didn’t start out like that,’ he said, picking a morsel of food from his teeth and flicking it on the ground, ‘but the Romans are a practical people, that and ruthless.’

At first gladiators, invariably prisoners of war, fought each other at the funerals of important Romans. But the contests grew in popularity and in time gladiatorial schools called ludi were established, each one run by a businessman called a lanista who had agents that purchased suitable slaves on his behalf. At the ludus the prospective gladiators were trained and then hired out. I found it strange when Castus told me that the pupils included not only condemned criminals — ’like myself and Spartacus, bandits who had slit Roman throats’ — but also a small number of volunteers, men attracted by the lure of violence or adventure, or the prospect of bedding wealthy Roman women. Gladiators were great athletes, fed on a good diet (they sounded like our warhorses at Hatra), trained hard and given the best medical treatment. But the instructors and the lanista never forgot that they were highly trained killers. So the ludus was not only a barracks but also a prison, with bolted doors, guards, iron bars and manacles. Each gladiator had his own cell where he was locked in for the night. Training areas were sectioned off by tall iron railings, and even the dining areas were fenced off and guarded. Gladiators could make a lanista rich, but they were also dangerous animals who could slit his throat if he was careless. Gladiators were never allowed to forget that they were social outcasts, beneath the law and therefore not respectable.