‘What’s happening, highness?’ asked Gafarn, between great gulps of water.
‘I do not know,’ I replied, though I suspected it was all part of the centurion’s cruelty. I rubbed my shin, which was bruised and bloody as a result of the constant chafing of the manacle.
‘Are you in pain, highness?’ asked Gafarn, with concern.
I smiled. ‘No more than you, Gafarn.’
‘How much longer do you think we will walking on this accursed road?’
‘I do not know. But I suspect it won’t be for much longer.’ He seemed happy at this prospect. ‘But remember, when our journey ends we will begin another, by sea, which will take us further from Parthia.’
In fact, it was the next day that our long walk ended, for after we had travelled through a mountain pass we joined a highway that was thronged with traffic of every kind. Camels, horse-drawn carts and donkeys laden with goods jostled for position on the road, going in both directions. The centurion halted our two columns before we reached the road and bunched us all up. The guards were deployed at the front, on each flank and behind — clearly he feared some making an escape attempt, though in truth we were so weary that we barely had the strength to walk, let alone run. As we trudged forward the air was filled with a refreshing cool breeze and after an hour we crested a hill and entered a plain that swept down to a deep blue Mediterranean. Though we were in chains, our spirits rose as we temporarily forgot we were captives and looked upon a calm sea and a port whose harbour was filled with ships. Our guards were more interested in keeping other travellers away from us than they were in tormenting us, so the final leg of our journey was not that arduous. The pace was slow — the traffic was heavy as we neared he port — and we had to halt frequently along the road.
When we reached the port we were marched through the streets and straight to the harbour area. The docks were filled with pallets of goods being loaded and offloaded onto ships. On a long stone cob that stretched out of the harbour were moored a dozen or so biremes: wooden-hulled vessels with a single square-rigged sail positioned amidships, with two tiers of oars for rowers along each side of the hull. These vessels were, I supposed, designed for war, as I could see what looked like a ram at the bow of each. Other warships moored in the harbour were triremes, masterful vessels of war that had three rows of oars each side. The ship’s staggered seating permitted three benches for oarsmen per vertical section. The outrigger above the gunwhale, which projected laterally beyond it, kept the third row of oars on the deck, out of the way of the first two rows that were below decks. The triremes also had a mast amidships.
By comparison, the merchant boats that crowded the dock area were squat and ugly, designed to carry goods and not sailors or marines. They were sailing ships and had no rowers, as they required the greatest possible amount of space for their cargo. They were broad-beamed and had large square linen sails, off-white in colour. Their hulls were lined with tarred wood, and over that had been secured lead sheeting. With this protection, the water could not penetrate into the hold and the merchandise was kept safe and dry. Ropes and pulleys attached to crossbeams, operated by burly dockers adorned with black tattoos, swung loads of oil, wine, fruit, grain and cattle onto and off the boats. The activity was frenetic. We were herded into one of the wooden warehouses that lined the docks, where a well-dressed Roman in a toga attended by three clerks waited for us. The warehouse was large, cavernous and empty, and so could accommodate us with ease. It smelt of freshly cut corn. The centurion barked orders to the guards, who shoved us into ranks and files, after which the aforementioned clerks began to count us. As they did so I saw the toga-clad Roman screw up his face as our stench reached his nostrils. The clerks finished their tally and scurried to their master. The Roman listened to what they reported, frowned and gestured to the centurion for him to attend him.
As I was in the front rank I could hear the conversation that followed. The well-dressed Roman’s mood quickly turned sour. As he surmised that none of us could understand Latin, he made little attempt to subdue his voice.
‘Centurion Cookus, I was informed by dispatch that you started out with three hundred captives.’ The centurion shrugged nonchalantly, but made no attempt to answer, so his superior continued. ‘And yet, I find myself confronted with only two hundred and fifty, which means fifty are missing. Do you know where they are?’
‘Dead, sir,’ replied Cookus, flatly.
‘Dead? How did they die?’
Cookus was clearly bored by the proceedings, but indulged his questioner. ‘Some died of exhaustion, others were killed because they rebelled.’ He cast me a hateful glance.
‘Legate Tremelius entrusted you with the safe conduct of these captives to this port, from where they are to be transported to his estates in southern Italy. And yet you present me with these miserable creatures, half of whom I doubt will survive the sea voyage. And, to add insult to injury, you have managed to lose fifty dead.’
‘They’re only slaves,’ replied Cookus.
‘No!’ snapped the other Roman. ‘They are valuable property of the legate, you idiot. I’ve a good mind to report you for dereliction of duty.’
Cookus marched up to him and glared at the somewhat flabby civilian, who involuntarily shrunk back from the grizzled veteran soldier with the big sword hanging from his belt.
‘Captives, die, sir,’ Cookus said slowly and loudly. ‘And my job is to kill Rome’s enemies not play nursemaid to slaves. So, here they are and my duty is done.’
‘Not quite, centurion,’ smiled the Roman, who held out his pink right hand, into which one of the clerks placed a scroll. ‘These are your orders from the legate. You are to personally escort the captives to his estate at Capua, there to hand them over to his chief bailiff.’
Cookus went red with rage. ‘In the name of Jupiter, this cannot be!’
‘Indeed it can, centurion. So I would advise you to take better care of your charges from now on. So rest them, get them fed and then see to it that they are shipped to Italy tomorrow. I have already paid the Cilicians to escort the three ships, so you have no fear of being boarded by pirates.’
‘The Cilicians are pirates,’ said Cookus, indignantly.
The Roman official raised an eyebrow as he pondered the statement. ‘Technically, you are correct, but at the moment it is convenient for Rome to pay the Cilicians dues so that they do not interfere with our ships. The spoils of the war taken from Mithridates are considerable, and Rome presently sees no need to create difficulties for what is a very lucrative agreement, albeit temporary. Rome will deal with them in time, but for the moment they are tolerated. You see, centurion, it’s all about strategy, something I don’t expect you to understand. It is better to fight one war at a time. Once we have destroyed Mithridates, then we will rid the sea lanes of pirates. Quite simple.’
‘The Cilicians are no better than this lot of bandits,’ he jerked a finger at us Parthians.
‘That may be, but just concern yourself with getting your cargo to its destination. Now I must have a bath and a massage, the aroma coming from them,’ he indicated us captives, ‘is really quite distasteful.’
With that he turned and strode from the warehouse, followed by his clerks. Cookus was left alone with us, and his thoughts. He called over two of his men and spoke to them quietly for a couple of minutes, then marched from the warehouse. We were ordered to take our ease on the floor, and we grabbed the opportunity to lie down. I stretched out my aching and bruised limbs and closed my eyes. What a nightmare we were living, with little prospect of matters getting any better. But for the moment at least we were allowed to rest. I drifted into a deep sleep, only to be wakened by what seemed seconds later by a loud whistle being blown. I raised myself up, though my arms felt like lead weights, and saw other slaves carrying buckets of water walking among us, while others handed out bread. A slave stood before me and offered me water from a wooden ladle. I hesitated, then pointed at Gafarn, who eagerly accepted the gesture and drank greedily. After he had finished I also slated my thirst. The liquid was the sweetest I had ever tasted, and the bread was like the eating the finest feast I had ever attended. Ludicrous of course, but when you thirsty and hungry even the simplest fare seems like the food of the gods. Cookus, sitting on a bench and leaning against the far wall, observed us with his cold, black eyes.