Peter Darman - The Parthian

The town’s population was roughly herded into the centre of Nola, to a place called the forum. Castus informed me that all Roman towns and cities had such a place, and they were always located in the centre. It was a large, open square surrounded by temples, government buildings and shops. The town’s residents were divided into three groups: men, women and children, and its slave population. As the day wore on the forum became increasingly crowded as Castus’ men entered houses and dragged out their occupants. A few resisted and were killed, but most trudged sullenly into the forum. I also noticed, strangely, that the slaves also looked unhappy.

Castus had brought two thousand men to Nola, a thousand of whom now stood guard over the population. The garrison had been disarmed and locked in the town’s jail. I had sent my men on foot with a party of Germans to look for horses, and was delighted when they reported back that they had acquired two hundred and a corresponding amount of riding equipment. Around midday Spartacus went over to the group of town slaves and talked to them. He was there a long time, and as I stood beside Castus on the steps of the temple to a god called Saturn, I asked him how many would join us.

He shook his head. ‘A handful, if any.’

‘Surely not?’

‘Town slaves have it good. Nice clothes, light duties, even a chance of freedom and Roman citizenship if they are lucky. You might be unlucky and get a bastard of a master who keeps you cleaning the latrines, but generally slaves who live in the towns are well looked after. They have to be. If you’re a Roman, you don’t want to go to sleep at night knowing there’s a slave in your house that hates you.

‘That being the case, why would you want to throw in your lot with a load of country slaves? Besides, town slaves are soft. Mainly Greeks and pretty young boys from Africa who are dressed in nice clothes and taught to recite poetry. Can’t train them to use a sword.’ He spat on the steps. ‘Next to useless.’

Castus was right. Spartacus returned to us with his head down. He sat down on the steps.

‘A grand total of twenty. Well, the others will be joining their masters on the road.’ He jerked a finger at the few volunteers who were being separated from the rest, while the great mass of people was being moved from the forum down one of the town’s main streets.

‘One of them belongs to your people, Pacorus, said he could ride.’

My ears pricked up at this, and without saying a word I walked briskly over to the group of freed slaves. Around me wailing women and weeping children were being forcibly removed from the forum. Their menfolk had started to protest, but a few cracked skulls courtesy of German spear shafts disabused them of the notion that they had any say in the matter. One middle-aged man in a richly decorated toga refused to move, standing rock-like at the front of the crowd. All eyes were upon him as a burly, hairy German strolled over to him and pointed at the road along which his kinsmen were trudging. He did not move, but glared at the German with ill-disguised disgust then spat on him. I blinked in disbelief as the German grasped his spear with both hands, thrust it clean through the man, and then lifted him off the ground with his muscled arms. The Roman writhed like a stuck pig for a few seconds, and then expired. The corpse was thrown to the ground and the German withdrew his bloody spear, then stood and smiled at any Roman that caught his eye. There were no more protests after that.

I stood in front of the slightly nervous freed slaves.

‘Which one of you is a Parthian?’ I asked in my mother tongue.

A tall, lean man in his late forties stepped forward. He had short-cropped hair, olive skin and brown eyes. He was dressed in a light grey tunic with a brown leather belt at his waist and good-quality leather sandals on his feet. He looked strong and well fed; perhaps Castus was right about city slaves. He stood in front of me, eyeing me as much as I was studying him.

‘I knew you were Parthians the moment I clasped eyes on you. The long hair, the way you sat in the saddle. Though my Parthian is a little rusty after so long a guest of the Romans’ He extended his hand. ‘My name is Godarz and many years ago I was once in the Silvan army under Prince Vistaspa, though doubtless he is dead and his name means nothing to you.’

I felt a surge of emotion course through my body. To hear another talk of someone I knew from my homeland made my heart soar. I grabbed him with both arms and embraced him warmly, which surprised him somewhat.

‘I am Pacorus, son of King Varaz of Hatra and the man you speak of is my father’s friend and the commander of his bodyguard. He not only lives, but thrives and is reckoned one the finest warriors in the Parthian Empire.’

There were tears in his eyes as I explained to him how fate had brought me to Italy to fight by the side of Spartacus, and how I hoped to get back to Hatra. One day. He laughed.

‘We all have that hope, highness, but for most of us it remains only a distant dream.’

I pulled him aside. ‘You don’t have to call me highness, Godarz.’ I nodded towards the figure of Spartacus sat on the temple steps. ‘He doesn’t approve of titles.’

‘So I’ve heard,’ he replied. ‘So that’s Spartacus, is it? Well, he looks fearsome enough.’

‘And he has a brain, too,’ I said. ‘It was his plan that captured this town.’

Godarz contemplated for a moment. ‘Then the Romans have a problem, for they have difficulties conceiving of a slave who can think for himself. I knew he must have some ability when the town wasn’t burnt.’

It took three hours before the citizens and their slaves were ejected from Nola, a long, sad line of humanity making their way out of the east gates towards? I knew not.

‘Who cares?’ remarked Castus as we stood on the wall watching them go.

I must admit I felt pangs of guilt about the plight of the women and children, some of whom might perish if their journey was long and arduous. That night we shut the gates, posted guards on the walls and made ourselves at home in Nola’s finest houses. We Parthians slept at the house that had been the property of Godarz’s master, a beautiful abode in the wealthy northern area of the town. The house was built around an inner courtyard that was open to the sky, with more rooms at the back arranged around a garden that was surrounded by a covered walkway. The garden itself was well tended (no doubt by slaves) where herbs and fruit trees were growing, plus flowers and shrubs. The rooms of the house had pictures painted on the walls that depicted mythical beasts that had the bodies of lions and wings. In some rooms there were scenes of horses, and Godarz informed me that his master had bred horses for a hobby.

‘That’s how I came to be here. In truth he was good to me,’ said Godarz, eating a grape as we relaxed on plush couches in the dining room. ‘And he loved his horses. I’ll show you them tomorrow, the stables back onto the house.’

That was the first time in weeks that I slept in a bed, and when I awoke the next morning I thought at first that I was back in Hatra. But the grunts and shouts of Germans brought me back to reality. I dressed and joined my men in the kitchen, where twenty Parthians were eagerly feasting on porridge, bread, cheese and fruit. Godarz had risen early in preparation for our departure.

‘I’m afraid you’ll be sleeping on the ground from now on,’ I said, breaking off a piece of cheese.

‘At least I will be free,’ he replied, cheerfully.

We had tethered our horses in the courtyard for the night, and they had used the opportunity to eat many of the flowers and plants. Godarz asked me to follow him into the street, which was filled with dirty looking Germans driving heavily laden carts towards the forum. The two- and four-wheeled carts were piled high with anything that might be of use to us: cooking utensils, garden tools, kitchen implements, anything and everything. The carts were pulled by pairs of mules, some of which were proving reluctant to obey their new masters. Ill-tempered Germans beat the beasts and cursed them as Godarz led me to the rear of his master’s walled house and into another walled area, through high iron gates and across a wide courtyard. On the other side was a large white-walled stable block with red roof tiles. I followed him into the stables and was amazed at their luxurious layout. They would not have been out of place in Hatra’s royal stables. Each of the stables had half-doors leading onto the central alley and grills between stalls to allow horses the feeling of space. And inside every stall was a hayrack and water tub. The stables were clean and airy and had a wonderful smell of horseflesh that reminded me of home.