Godarz, his nose covered by a cloth veil, was yelling instructions at guards and prisoners alike. ‘Once you have taken anything useful, get the bodies over to the pit and throw them in.’
He was referring to a large rectangular hole that had been dug by the prisoners and which was now rapidly being filled with the dead. Our own dead we had burned on massive balefires made from the thousands of stakes that had kindly been fashioned by the Gauls. We had lost nearly three hundred horsemen killed, most from Burebista’s dragon. The army as a whole had suffered an additional two thousand killed but the enemy had suffered more grievous losses. No one counted the enemy dead, but Godarz and his team of quartermasters estimated that each pit that was dug was filed with around three thousand corpses.
‘This one’s the sixth we’ve dug and I think we will have to dig at least three more.’
‘Lucky you had these prisoners to help.’
He sniffed. ‘If we hadn’t we would not have bothered. But it gives me a chance to salvage some iron and steel.’ He shot me a glance. ‘The foundries will be busy replacing all the arrows your men fired.’
‘You can never have enough arrows, Godarz.’
‘So it seems.’
He looked at two Romans, their faces dirty and their tunics drenched with sweat, hauling a dead Gaul towards the death pit. ‘Any idea what Spartacus intends to do with them?’
I shrugged. ‘No.’
‘For some reason he wants to stay in this area, otherwise we’d have left the corpses to rot where they fell. But seeing as we are apparently staying a while, we have to get them buried as quickly as possible.’
The reason Spartacus wanted to remain in the area was revealed to me a few days later. Castus and Cannicus had both recovered from their wounds, while Akmon and Afranius had survived the battle unscathed. Spartacus’ expression was one of stone when I entered his tent.
‘We must punish the Gauls for their treachery,’ he said. ‘Pacorus, your scout, Byrd, will lead us to the berg of Gallia’s father.’
‘To what end, lord?’ I asked.
‘To burn it, of course, and all those within it.’
The others banged their fists on the table in agreement. ‘First they kidnap one of our own, then they steal our gold and finally they take up arms against us,’ raged Akmon. ‘I say let them reap the whirlwind they have sowed.’
Spartacus held up a hand to silence the din. ‘Our retaliation will be swift and merciless.’
And so it was. We formed four flying columns of horse, each numbering three hundred men and composed of my best horse archers. We burned everything — homes, villages and farms. The dwellings of the Gauls were made out of wood with thatched roofs, and they burned beautifully. It took only a single torch or firebrand to ignite them, and once alight the dry timbers were soon consumed by fire. The larger settlements, the villages surrounded by palisades made from sharpened logs that mounted fighting platforms, we first surrounded. Then flame arrows were used to set the wooden houses inside them alight. It was so easy. We wrapped straw soaked in pitch in pieces of cloth and tied them to arrows, lit them and shot the arrows into the village. The straw roofs were bone dry, and soon flames and smoke were billowing from inside the palisade. Then the screaming began as those inside realised that they would die in the flames. The Gauls barricaded the gates so we could not batter them down, but when the flames erupted they desperately tried to escape from the settlement. And we were waiting. Spartacus had thought of everything, and afterwards I realised why he was such a capable commander. He weighed up all the options available to him and then chose the one that suited his purpose. So when the villagers, in their desperation to escape the flames, managed to open the gates, they ran straight onto our swords. In return for their freedom, the Roman prisoners were forced to cut down the Gauls as they fled their settlements. Each Roman was given a sword, nothing else, and told that he would be cut down instantly if he tried to use it against any of us. They were told that they were going to being killing Gauls. Only by shedding blood could they buy their freedom. Spartacus told them this when they had been gathered in one place after they had buried all the dead. And when asked what would happen if they refused, he ran the man through who had asked the question with his sword and then hacked off his head. One sword, nothing else. And so at village after village the Roman prisoners were the ones who did the killing, as we exacted revenge on the Senones and their allies.
Most of the tribes’ warriors had been slaughtered at Mutina, or were hiding in the forests, so those who were left were the very young and the old. But many still summoned a courage born of desperation, and in the brief fighting before the raping and the slaughter began, some Romans were killed. And Spartacus watched impassively as Gauls and Romans, former allies against him, killed each other. I also realised then that Spartacus possessed another quality that contributed towards his skill as a generaclass="underline" utter ruthlessness.
The final part of Spartacus’ retribution against the Gauls was an attack against the residence of King Ambiorix himself. Gallia’s father had been conspicuous by his absence during the battle, no doubt preferring to pay others to shed their blood on his behalf. Spartacus led the attack, which he announced would be on foot and would comprise a thousand Thracians personally commanded by Akmon. He asked me to accompany him with a hundred of my best archers. I asked Gafarn to be one of them but forbade Gallia or any of her women to attend. I knew that we were going to kill and burn and it was not appropriate that she should witness the death of her father, even though she despised him. She did not protest and I was glad and so, on a warm summer’s day under a blue sky littered with white, puffy clouds, we entered the forest that shielded the king’s fortress. We walked in a long column along the same track that I had ridden on after Gallia had been kidnapped, and had then driven a cart along when we had bought her freedom with gold and I had killed her brother. And now I came a third time, this time to extract vengeance. Spartacus and his Thracians were dressed in Roman attire — sandals, tunics, mail shirts, helmets and shields painted red with yellow lightning bolts emanating coming from their central steel boss. The Thracians all had short swords at their waist and hoisted javelins, though Spartacus and Akmon carried only swords and shields. I walked next to Spartacus at the head of the column, with Akmon on his other side. Behind us marched Domitus, who had risen to be first spear centurion in one of the Thracian legions, a rank of some importance and prestige I was informed. Out of site, Byrd and his scouts rode ahead and on our flanks to ensure we were not surprised. I had my spatha at my waist with a full quiver slung over my right shoulder. I wore my white tunic, trousers, boots and my silk vest next to my skin. I left my cuirass in camp.
‘Good to see you, sir,’ said Domitus.
‘You too, Domitus. I’m glad that you survived the battle.’
‘Not much to it, sir,’ he replied. ‘Just a case of keeping your shield tight to your body, your head tucked down and stabbing with your sword. Easy enough. Easier than fighting on horseback.’
‘Fighting on foot is a new experience for Pacorus,’ said Spartacus. ‘But he still could not leave his bow behind.’
‘You and your men need not have brought their weapons with them,’ I chided him. ‘We will kill all the enemy before they get near us.’
Akmon was in his usual irritable mood. ‘Horses are all very well, but once you lock shields they’re done for.’