‘It would appear that my troops are disobeying me.’
‘It seems so, lord.’
Across from us strode Castus, Akmon and Afranius, who all stopped in front of Spartacus’ horse. Akmon spat on the ground.
‘What are you going to do now?’
‘Well,’ replied Spartacus, ‘it would seem that no one wants to go over the Alps.’
‘The south, then. Sicily, perhaps?’ said Akmon.
Spartacus nodded. ‘Sicily would offer us hope, though how we get across the sea I do not know.’
And so it was that the army of the slave general Spartacus stayed in Italy. I often looked back on that moment, how absurd it appeared at the time but how it actually made perfect sense. The ranks of the army were made up of individuals who had nothing, had been condemned to a life of back-breaking servitude, many born to slave mothers and fathers. To Rome they were mere beasts of burden to be used and abused. But Spartacus had given them hope, and what’s more he had given them victory over the hated Romans. Not just one, but a string of triumphs. Those men who had fought in those victories, and who had formed bonds of friendship with those they stood beside in battle, had no wish to meekly lay down their arms and crawl away like whipped dogs. I should have thought of it myself. Gallia herself had told me the same when she had announced that her family was here, with me, with Spartacus, with the army. In each legion, in each cohort and in each century men felt the same bonds to their friends and comrades. They wished to remain with the family that was the army of Spartacus.
Spartacus had never told them that they could topple Rome itself, but many must have dreamed so. They had, after all, smashed every Roman army that had been sent against them. Did Rome have any more armies left? Victory was intoxicating, addictive, especially to those who had only experienced the bitter taste of slavery. Even if many of them suspected that their adventure would eventually end in defeat, every one of them knew that it was indeed better to die on one’s feet than live on their knees.
Chapter 15
I often thought of that summer’s day, the day when we had seemed invincible. We would march south, attack Rome itself perhaps, cower our enemies into submission and treat Italy as if she were our plaything. Everything seemed possible. Even my fellow Parthians had become intoxicated by victory and believed themselves to be immortal. Nergal, loyal Nergal, forgot about Hatra and could think only of sweeping Romans before him with the wild-haired Praxima riding beside him. He and his company commanders drank and boasted of how they had destroyed the armies of Rome. Burebista dreamed of leading his Dacians into Rome and torching the city, and thereafter laying a host of captured legionary eagles in the great forum itself. How the Romans diminished in size at the end of that summer; whereas our legions stood as titans astride the Roman world, and the mightiest titan of all was Spartacus, our general. Our undefeated leader who had become like a god to many of our troops. And in the intoxication of victory all thoughts of crossing the Alps disappeared. The truth was that in our desire to reach northern Italy no one had thought of how we would actually cross the mountains, and once over them what route we would travel. It mattered not now, for the undefeated army was not dissolving but was going to inflict further torments on the enemy.
We marched south in high spirits, wanting the Romans to fight us again so we could defeat them once more. The battles that we had fought, brutal bouts that had been long, bloody affairs, in the minds of many became easy routs that were over in a matter of minutes. How the memory quickly erases reality and blocks out unpleasantness. We marched west and then south, sweeping down the east coast of Italy, making use once more of well-engineered Roman roads. I got restless marching with the army, which for the cavalry involved guarding the flanks, covering the rear and scouting ahead for any signs of the enemy. All very important tasks, but ones that could be done by a handful of horsemen and not hundreds. Trudging along on foot, amidst a constant cloud of fine dust thrown up by thousands of people and animals, with our horses beside us, was both boring and irritating. The army, strung out over many miles, barely covered ten miles a day, and my mood darkened considerably when Godarz informed me that Sicily was around four hundred miles away. He was in his element, of course, organising columns of march, being kept informed daily of food supplies, the quantity of spare horse shoes, the number of sick animals, allocating teams to drive and repair carts and wagons, and all the other myriad of duties that were essential to keeping the army functioning. His staff of clerks and quartermasters grew.
‘Organisation is a necessary evil, Pacorus,’ he reminded me.
It was early, just after dawn, and he had barely finished briefing his subordinates on the coming day’s march, which would begin in three hours following the dismantling of the massive camp in which everyone slept during the night, even my cavalry. I was visiting him because Nergal had complained to me that he had commandeered two of his companies of horse archers to hunt down wild boar for food, and another company to plunder the countryside of any cattle they came upon.
‘That may be, but my men are not farmers, Godarz, to be set gathering the harvest.’
He handed me a piece of bread and cheese. The cheese was strong and firm, the bread appeared freshly baked.
‘No, they are not, but at the moment they and their horses do nothing but eat rations. Might as well have them doing something useful to earn their keep.’
‘You should have asked me first.’
‘And what would you have said?’
‘I would have agreed with you.’
He grinned. ‘Excellent! Please inform Nergal of your decision.’
‘I would prefer that you speak to me first before you send my cavalry out on food-gathering expeditions.’
‘This may come as a surprise to you,’ he remarked, stiffly, ‘but men and horses eat a lot of food, as do princes and their betrothed. It is quite amazing how much Gallia and her women consume. Looking at their frames you would never think so.’
‘That may also be, but get my permission first.’
But he was right, of course, and during the next few days I agreed that more horsemen should be sent out to undertake foraging duties. Byrd and his men were riding far and wide, and I only saw him occasionally. I decided that I too would partake of a little scouting, and selected a hundred men from my dragon. I told Spartacus that I was going to spread a little terror among the Romans. He was walking as usual, like a common soldier, with Claudia beside him. It always struck me as strange that they did not ride, but then he said that he preferred to fight on his two feet as he had done in the Roman Army, in the arena and now as a free man.
‘You should try it some time.’
‘I did try it, when we killed Gallia’s father. I found it limiting. In any case, Parthians prefer to fight on horseback, lord.’
‘That’s because if things turn bad they can flee faster than everyone else,’ quipped Akmon, mischievously.
‘Only the enemies of Parthia flee,’ I reminded him.
‘Ha. You hear that Spartacus. There speaks a man whose homeland has never been touched by the enemy’s sword.’ Akmon looked at me. ‘I used to think that, but the Romans taught me otherwise.’
‘That’s very glum, Akmon,’ said Claudia, ‘and its’ such a nice day.’
Akmon spat, looked at the sky and shrugged. It was a pleasant day, true enough, though Claudia appeared exceptionally happy today. Gallia and Diana had joined me and they were walking either side of her, the mad Rubi, in a world of her own, trailing in their wake. I noticed that she kept glancing at Spartacus, who smiled back at her like a naughty boy. Most strange.
‘Why don’t you tell them?’ he said. ‘They are our friends, after all.’