During the time we had spent by the Pagus I had asked a number of women, who had been weavers for their Roman masters, to make me a standard. The review of the army was the first time it was displayed, and I had to fight back tears when I first saw it. It was a square of heavy cotton measuring six foot square, coloured scarlet with a white horse’s head stitched on each side. When we rode onto the parade field it was carried behind me by a large Parthian named Vardanes, who had served with me since Cappadocia. The slight easterly breeze that blew that day caused it to flap in the wind and everyone could see the white horse on a scarlet background. And behind the standard rode just over three thousand horsemen, two thousand horse archers, Burebista’s thousand mounted spearmen and Gallia’s one hundred female horse archers. Every quiver was full of arrows, and at camp more wagons were full of replacements, for Godarz and his quartermasters had worked tirelessly to replenish our stocks. The surrounding countryside, made up of thick forests, had been plundered ruthlessly for wood for shafts and great tracts had been cleared.
We formed up in our dragons on the right flank of the army, each one composed of ten companies of one hundred horsemen. The sun glinted off whetted spear points and burnished helmets, while every man in Burebista’s command wore a mail shirt, carried a shield and a sword at his waist. As we were moving into position, to our left the legions of Spartacus were forming into line. Beside us were the three legions of Germans under Castus, which included the remnants of those Gauls who had fought under Crixus but who had managed to escape north after the Romans had defeated him. Occupying the centre of the line were Akmon’s four legions of Thracians, with another legion filled with Greeks, Jews, Dacians, Illyrians and even a few Egyptians and Berbers attached to the Thracians. On the left flank stood the three Spanish legions of Afranius, who Akmon now reckoned to be the best trained in the army, and also the most unpredictable, like their leader. They were, nevertheless, a credit to the angry young Spaniard who led them. In front of the army, mounted on a line of wagons, were the standards we had taken from the enemy — silver eagles, red pennants, poles with silver discs fastened to them, and cavalry flags — dozens of them, testimony to the generalship of Spartacus, one time gladiator and lowly auxiliary, now master of all Italy.
The orders had been issued the night before. Word had been passed to all commanders of cohorts and centuries that the army would parade on the morrow for one last time. And then those assembled would be dismissed from their service at the sound of one hundred trumpets being blown, after which the men would make their way back to their respective camps where they would be issued with one month’s food ration and then they would be free to go. They were to take their weapons and clothing with them, and those who were determined to make their way in groups would be issued with one tent per eight men. All remaining coin was to be distributed evenly, and Godarz and his assistants had worked out how much gold and silver was to be issued to each century, after which each centurion would divide the amount among his men accordingly. Byrd had sent parties of his men to the foot of the Alps themselves, and they reported that there were no Roman garrisons along the route, or indeed any Roman soldiers anywhere. To all intents and purposes they had fallen off the edge of the world.
Before the trumpets were sounded Spartacus rode to every cohort assembled, speaking to their commanders and thanking the men for their valour and loyalty. It took him over two hours before he had completed this task, and at the end there were many with tears in their eyes. I rode over to where he and Claudia sat on their horses. Claudia looked the beauty she was that day, her long black hair flowing freely around her shoulders. She wore a simple white tunic edged with green, with light brown leggings and red leather boots. Spartacus, as usual, was dressed in his plain tunic and mail shirt, with an ordinary legionary’s helmet on his head. He never pretended to be anything more than a common man and soldier, and that was why thousands were devoted to him. I halted Remus beside him. He looked at my horse and smiled.
‘Remus has certainly put on his best attire today, Pacorus.’
‘Yes, lord. I thought it fitting that today he, and the rest of your horsemen, should look their best. It was the least we could do.’
‘Well, my friend,’ he said, ‘it has been an interesting journey that has led us to this place. But now it is time for all of us to start a new adventure.’
‘You know,’ I said, ‘that you both can come to Parthia with Gallia and I.’
‘We know that, Pacorus,’ answered Claudia, ‘but to do so would only bring war and destruction to your people and we think too much of you to let that happen.’
Domitus walked up dressed in his war finery. He had once been a centurion and he was now dressed as one, with steel greaves, red tunic, mail shirt adorned with silver discs and a transverse red crest on his helmet. He looked a different man from the poor wretch we had rescued at the silver mine at Thurri, and I liked to think that he was happy to be with us. He acknowledged me and then spoke to Spartacus.
‘We wait on your signal, sir.’
Spartacus looked around him and sighed. At that moment there was a deathly silence. It seemed that even the birds had stopped flying. The only thing that stirred was the wind, which made my scarlet standard flutter, revealing glimpses of the white horse’s head that it sported. Remus chomped at his bit and scraped at the ground with his right front foot. I leaned forward and stroked his neck. I felt a trickle of sweat roll down the right side of my face, for the sun was at its height, the sky was cloudless and it was warm.
Domitus turned smartly and signalled to the trumpeters, whose piercing sound blasted across the assembled massed ranks. Remus shifted nervously at the sudden noise, as did a number of other horses among the cavalry’s ranks. So this was the moment when the army that was undefeated would simply melt away. The trumpets ceased blowing and I watched to see the ranks break as the troops made their way back to camp. Nergal and Burebista had relayed my orders to their company commanders, who had in turn had informed their men that they were free to leave when the signal was given. As they had no food or water with them whilst on parade, this would necessitate them also riding back to camp and being issued with food for both horse and man, enough to take them over the Alps at least.
As the seconds passed I realised that nothing had happened. Nothing. No one had moved, not one. Had they not heard the trumpet blast? Of course they had. Then what? Then a new sound began to be heard, this time from the ranks, barely audible at first, but then gaining in strength and volume until the whole plain was filled with the mighty din of thousands of voices shouting as loud as they could. Troops were raising their javelins in the air in salute as they shouted, while those on horses were holding their spears and bows aloft. And into the air they shouted the same word over and over again, tens of thousand in unison acclaiming their general.
‘Spartacus. Spartacus. Spartacus.’
The chanting was getting louder and men on horses were having difficulty controlling their mounts as I glanced over to the man whose name they were hailing. He stood rock-like on his horse, staring straight ahead and seemingly oblivious to what was going on in front of him, but as I looked more closely I saw that there was a thin smile on his face. I looked across at Claudia who had tears running down her cheeks. Spartacus suddenly snapped out of his daze and turned to me.