‘We must have slaughtered their whole army,’ proclaimed Burebista, his left arm in a sling where a javelin had sliced into his forearm. ‘I killed so many that after a while my sword arm became a dead weight that I could no longer lift.’
‘We fired so many arrows,’ added Nergal, ‘that they blocked out the sun.
‘Godarz will be most annoyed by our profligacy,’ I reminded them.
But nothing could shake their delight at giving the Romans a bloody nose, the more so because we had surprised them utterly. We caught up with the wagons after two days, which allowed us to replenish our arrows with the supplies. After three more days of marching we made camp thirty miles south of Siris, along a long curved shingle beach in the Gulf of Tarentum. There we tended those horses that had received wounds and patched up soldiers who had been hurt. The surgeons, formerly slaves who had been trained by their masters to treat wounds, went to work with their tourniquets, ligatures and arterial clamps. Unfortunately, those who had abdominal wounds where the intestines had been pierced were beyond help, and they died despite being treated. Nothing could be done for them. I came across one doctor, a wiry individual with dark skin and a shock of thick black hair who was treating a nasty gash to the right leg of one my horseman. He had cleaned the wound and was about to apply the dressing.
‘What is that on the bandage?’ I asked him out of curiosity.
‘A few spiders’ webs, sir.’
I was horrified. ‘You are going to put spiders’ webs onto his wounds?’
The doctor regarded me with amusement. ‘Of course, it will stop the bleeding and bind the flesh together more quickly.’
He applied the dressing, tied off the bandage then smiled at his patient, who limped back to his company.
‘The cure has been known in Greece for hundred of years, before the Romans stole it, like they do with most things.’
‘Will you ever go back to Greece?’
He motioned to another soldier in line to sit on the stool set before him. The man was holding his left arm, which appeared to be out of its socket, and he told the surgeon that it had happened during a fall from his horse. The surgeon examined the man’s shoulder. He then bent the patient’s elbow at a ninety-degree angle and rotated the arm inwards to make a letter ‘L’. He then slowly and steadily rotated the entire arm and shoulder outwards, keeping the upper portion of the arm as stationary as possible. He made a fist with his hand on his patient’s injured arm, and then held on to his wrist and began to push slowly. Just when the bottom of his arm was past ninety degrees from his chest, the shoulder fell back into its joint. The patient’s face was contorted with pain as the doctor was manipulating his arm, but after a few seconds a look of relief and gratitude came over his visage. He thanked the doctor profusely before leaving.
The doctor turned to me. ‘I am from Corinth and that city is now under Roman rule. I have no wish to go back there.’
‘What is your name?’
‘Alcaeus.’
‘Parthia can always find a use for skilled surgeons.’
‘Thank you, sir. If I am still alive I will consider it, though I have to confess that the chances of that are lengthening the longer we stay in Italy.’
‘You think we are doomed?’
He gestured to another man to sit on the stool. This individual had a bloody bandage wrapped around his leg, no doubt the result of a javelin wound.
‘I think that if we get out of Italy we have a chance, otherwise not.’ He began to gently unwrap the bandage.
‘Then why do you stay with the army?’
‘Simple, sir. The air tastes sweeter when you are free. Better to be a free man for a while than a slave forever. And now, sir, if you don’t mind, I have work to do.’
We remained in camp for three days before continuing our march south. But on the second day Byrd returned to us, accompanied by a column of horsemen led by Godarz and Gafarn. To say I was surprised was an understatement, and in the pit of my stomach I felt a knot tighten, for I feared that something was wrong. My fears were confirmed when I was informed what had happened. Though Gallia was delighted to see Diana and the deranged Rubi, as were the rest of her Amazons, the faces of Gafarn and Godarz told their own stories. After a brief pause the column continued its journey south, albeit at a leisurely pace as I absorbed what they told me.
‘Afranius’ attack was a disaster,’ said Godarz. ‘He thought that he could wipe out the entire Roman camp, but all he achieved was getting two thousand of his men killed.’
I was stunned. ‘Two thousand?’
‘And many more wounded,’ added Gafarn. ‘Spartacus was furious.’
‘There’s worse,’ said Godarz grimly.
‘The Romans haven’t attacked our army?’ I was becoming alarmed.
Godarz continued to stare fixedly ahead as he spoke. ‘Not yet. But Crassus has built a line of wooden fortifications across the whole peninsula, effectively trapping the army in a giant prison camp.’
‘Impossible,’ snapped Nergal.
Godarz smiled wryly. ‘I assure you that it is very possible and has been done.’
‘It’s true, said Gafarn, ‘and to make things worse that pirate representative…’
‘Patelli?’ I asked.
‘That’s him. Well, he’s gone, absconded in the middle of the night along with his staff and all his ships in the harbour. And to rub salt in the wounds, he took the gold that Spartacus had given him as well.’
‘I knew that slippery bastard was not to be trusted,’ I said, recalling the pirate’s insincere smile, his shifty eyes and easy way with words.
‘Well,’ continued Godarz, ‘he’s gone and with him our only chance of getting to Sicily. The only alternative now is to break through Crassus’ fortifications. If we don’t the army will starve, simple as that.’
‘How long before the food runs out?’ I asked.
‘Three weeks, maybe less. And this weather isn’t helping. Men starve more quickly when it’s cold.’
I had noticed that over the last few days the temperature had dropped markedly, with a cool northerly wind blowing most of the time during the day, and the mountains in the distance on our right flank were no longer grey mounds, but were now covered in snow.
Godarz continued. ‘Spartacus ordered us out before it was too late. You are his best hope now, Pacorus.’
That night we camped a few miles north of Sybaris, a city once mighty when occupied by the ancient Greeks, but now a poor relation of Thurii located further south. We built no palisaded camp, but I had patrols riding out to ten miles in all directions to ensure that we were not attacked. We had brought only eight-man Roman tents for our journey, and I now sat huddled in one of these, wrapped in my cloak, as a single oil lamp sat upon the ground and lit the faces of my companions: Godarz, Nergal, Burebista and Gafarn. It was Godarz who did most of the talking, thoroughly briefed as he had been by Spartacus.
He unrolled a parchment map and laid it out before us, securing each corner with small stones he had collected from outside. The map was old and cracked, but I could make out that it showed southern Italy and Sicily, the island we would now never visit. ‘You will have to march south, then swing west across country towards Caprasia where we can march down the Popilian Way. Crassus has built his line of defences about ten miles north of Rhegium, from one shore, then across country to the Ionian coast, on the opposite shore.’
‘What sort of defences?’ I asked.
‘Spartacus mounted a raid when it became apparent what the Romans were doing. It was a failure, but he did capture a centurion who gave a detailed description of what they were building. First, the Romans dug a ditch about twenty feet wide with vertical sides. Then, four hundred or so paces back from the ditch, they dug two more ditches, each about fifteen feet wide. Behind these ditches the legionaries built an earth rampart some twelve feet tall, on the top of which they put a parapet and battlements. And to top it all, every hundred feet or so they have constructed a watch tower.’