During the journey I went to see for myself the calibre of Burebista’s new recruits. For the most part they were barefoot and dressed in threadbare tunics, their exposed arms and legs weathered and tanned by a harsh Mediterranean sun. I was told that farm slaves owned only one tunic and cloak, which was replaced every two years, by which time many were all but naked. I saw ankles with deep scars where leg irons had been worn for years, and some who had the marks of the lash on their limbs. Others had the letters ‘FUG’, ‘KAL’ and ‘FUR’ branded on their foreheads, abbreviations of Latin words denoting ‘runaway’, ‘liar’ or ‘thief’ respectively. Some of these individuals had misshapen limbs where their bones had been broken as a punishment for their crimes. Slaves who killed their masters were crucified, but the Romans had a curiously ambivalent attitude towards their chattels. Slaves were an expense and as such were an investment. A dead slave was a financial loss, so the Romans were reluctant to kill them outright. Far better to whip them, brand them and then set them back to work under the watchful eye of an overseer. I thought about our own slaves in Hatra and wondered if they too were mistreated. I dismissed the idea, and yet the thought of hundreds of individuals living their lives in servitude for the sole purpose of maintaining the high living standards of my father and his family and court made me uneasy. Gafarn himself had been a slave, of course, and in all the years I had known him I had never asked him if he was satisfied with his lot. Why should I? I was a prince and he was a slave. But now, in a foreign land and fighting for a slave general, my head was filled with strange ideas. I wanted to be free and so did the hundreds of others who now marched with me. Where they so different from me?
I dismounted Remus and walked alongside a group of Burebista’s new recruits. It was around noon now, and the day was warm though not hot, with a light breeze coming from the sea. As I walked along the dirt track I caught the eye of a man walking parallel to me, a thin, lean individual in his fifties whose arms were covered in scratches and small scars and who carried a walking stick in his right hand. He was striding along purposely, his feet bare and his head bald.
‘He’s a fine horse, sir.’
‘Yes, he is,’ I said. ‘His name is Remus.’
‘Are you the one they call “the Parthian”, sir?’
‘Prince Pacorus, yes.’
‘An honour to meet you, sir. My name is Amenius.’
‘You are from these parts?’
‘Not originally. I was captured in Macedonia over thirty years ago. Have been a slave ever since. Always promised myself that I would end my days in my homeland. Have you been to Macedonia, sir?’
‘No, never.’
‘Beautiful it is. Mountains and valleys, and the air the purest you’ve ever breathed. There’s not a day goes by when I don’ think about it.’
I was humbled by his fortitude. Thirty years a slave and still the dream of freedom burned within him. With such men perhaps Spartacus could indeed defeat Rome.
‘I hope you see your homeland again, Amenius,’ I said.
It took us all day to reach Metapontum, and as the evening crept upon us our column reached the outer ring of sentries that had been posted to warn of any relief force. I was riding with the advance party when we came across a motley band of Gauls who were preparing a fire for their evening meal. A pony was tethered nearby to speed a rider to warn the army if we had been Romans. Their leader, a young man with bristly fair hair and a large moustache typical of his race, stood up and walked over to me. They must have recognised us, or me at least, for the others ignored us and carried on with their culinary preparations.
‘The city fell this morning,’ he said.
‘Where’s Spartacus?’ I asked.
He pointed down the track. ‘The Thracians are camped behind their wooden palisade to the north of the city. We Gauls took it, on our own.’
‘My congratulations,’ I said without any enthusiasm, for I knew that the streets would be running with blood by now.
With that I nudged Remus forward and carried on past them. Behind us the rest of the column was appearing, riders walking their mounts and the former slaves shuffling along silently. They made almost no sound, as their feet were bare, unlike Roman soldiers with their hobnailed sandals who could be heard for miles, especially when they marched down a stone-paved road. I rode back and instructed Nergal to pitch camp a mile down the track and wait for me there. I took Gafarn, Gallia, Diana, Praxima and Rubi as well, as I didn’t want then out of my sight with thousands of blood-crazed Gauls in the vicinity. Ten minutes later we were at the gates of the camp that Akmon built wherever the army was located, looking exactly as it did on previous occasions with its neat rows of tents and perfectly aligned avenues. Spartacus and Claudia were glad to see us and I they, and there were many embraces before he insisted that we sit with them and share a meal. As usual Claudia was the cook, but Spartacus insisted that we all help. Later, as we sat, ate, joked and drank wine, Spartacus told us how Metapontum fell to Crixus and his Gauls. Like most Roman cities it was enclosed by a wall, in its case four miles in length. Curiously, though it was inland from the coast, it was linked to the sea by a canal around five miles long. On the day the army arrived some of the citizens had tried to escape using the waterway, but the canal was only forty feet wide and Spartacus had ordered his men to line the banks. When the boats loaded down with human cargo came within range they were showered with rocks, stones, flaming torches and pila. Half a dozen boats tried to make a run for the sea but all were stopped and set alight. Most of their passengers were burned alive, some drowned and a few made it to the canal banks, where they were hacked to pieces. No more boats left the city.
I noticed that Spartacus continually drained and refilled his cup with wine as he recounted how he had ordered the city to be surrounded. After a week, during which the garrison and citizens had had enough time to see the strength of the army that lay before their walls, under a flag of truce Spartacus had offered the inhabitants safe passage if they took with them only the clothes they were dressed in.
‘But we are only slaves, and after they had opened the gates to allow the envoy to deliver his message they killed him, cut off his head and threw it from the city walls.’ Spartacus took another mouthful of wine.
‘What followed was a slaughter. I was foolish, you see, because it was a Gaul that was sent as an envoy. And when Crixus saw what had happened he unleashed his men against the walls. At first they took heavy losses, many being cut down by arrows and javelins, but the citizens had forgotten that if boats could leave their city via the canal, then men could easily get in the same way. Crixus had selected those who could swim to jump into the canal and swim into the harbour. I have to admit it was a cunning plan, and while the garrison manned the walls his men swept into the city like a plague of rats. Then the screaming started, and went on for hours. Only when it was over did they throw open the gates and let us in.’
‘Who, the Romans?’ I asked.
‘No,’ said Claudia, ‘the Gauls.’
‘It was Forum Annii all over again, only much worse,’ said Spartacus. ‘Metapontum has ceased to exist.’
Claudia rested her hand on his arm. ‘They brought it open themselves, my love. There was nothing you could have done.’
Her husband agreed, but he seemed particularly morose. But perhaps that was due to the wine. We slept in his tent that night and in the morning I washed and groomed Remus. Claudia came to me as I was brushing his shoulders.