I had come to change my mind about Byrd over the past few weeks. At first all I saw was a mercenary, a man who would sell his soul for gold, but as he guided and accompanied us during our expedition in Cappadocia I saw that he was a man whose life had been destroyed, and who lived only for an opportunity to get revenge on the Romans. One evening, in the black, humid prison that was the ship’s hold, I spoke to him as we both lent against the hull while other men slept fitfully at our feet.
‘I am sorry, Byrd,’ I said.
‘For what, lord?’
‘For being responsible for getting you enslaved.’
He didn’t speak for a few moments, then sighed. ‘It does not matter, lord. My life was empty when Lord Bozan hired me to act as your guide. I was glad to be given a chance to strike back at the Romani.’
‘Even though you are now their slave?’
I could barely see his face in the half-light, the hold dimly illuminated by moonlight streaming through the iron grating above us, which was located in the centre of the deck. Without that, we would surely die of suffocation.
‘Romani killed my family when they attacked Ceasarea. I was a trader in pots, and so travelled far and wide in my land. I was away when they killed them, and since then I have wished that I too had died that day.’
‘And yet you live,’ I said, flatly.
‘Yes, lord. Perhaps I too will get to kill Romans. Like you.’
I feared that my Roman-killing days were over but remained silent. The Romans were the least of my worries, for as the days passed several of my men became weaker and weaker. On the seventh day what I feared happened: two died. They had never recovered from the wounds they had received in the battle with the Romans, and the ill usage they had received since killed them. In the dawn their bodies were unchained and taken up to the deck, and then unceremoniously thrown overboard. We were then ordered onto the deck, the guards using their spear shafts to beat us as we climbed the wooden steps, which proved difficult to manoeuvre with the manacles on our wrists and the chains on our ankles. But it was pleasant to stand in the sun again and feel a light sea breeze on our faces. The day was cloudless, and we squinted in the bright sun, our eyes unused to the light. Centurion Cookus, standing on the raised aft deck, was chewing on a piece of bread, and watching us intently. Beside him stood a burly, bearded man with a large scarlet cloth wrapped around his head, the captain I assumed. Unfortunately, Cookus did not choke on his food and after he had finished his meal he descended the steps to the main deck and walked up to me, his usual evil grin on his face.
‘So, pretty boy, how do you like your quarters aboard this fine ship?’
I looked at him quizzically, making out that I did not understand him. He had his cane in his right hand, and he brought it up as if to strike me across the face. But the blow was lazy, probably made to impress the captain, and despite my manacles I was able to block the strike and grab the cane from his hand, which I hurled overboard into the sea. Why did I do it? Perhaps it was the hopelessness of my situation that made even a small victory all the more appealing, or maybe a part of me wanted to die and end the unbearable humiliation of enslavement. Not the physical pain of chains on my wrists and ankles, but the mental anguish of being treated like an animal. So I grabbed that damned stick and threw it into the sea.
For a moment Cookus looked stunned, amazed that I, a slave, would have the audacity to do such a thing. I could swear he also looked hurt that his beloved cane, the instrument with which he inflicted so much pain on all and sundry, had been taken from him. And in those few seconds I realised that I had made a terrible mistake. I remembered my father’s words — better to die on your feet than live on your knees — but the fear I felt in the pit of my stomach made me think that I was certainly about to die on my feet. But Cookus was not only a bully and a thug, he was also an accomplished sadist. I expected to be beaten to a pulp and then thrown into the sea, but instead, with all eyes on him, Cookus merely smiled and walked calmly back to the aft deck, where he had a few brief words with the captain. The captain then signalled to two of his men, who grabbed me and hurled me against the rigging. My arms were then forced above my head and lashed to the rigging and my tattered tunic was ripped from my back. My fellow Parthians, who were murmuring in anger, were then speedily herded back into the hold, some being thrown down the steps, which pulled down others they were chained to. The iron grilles were then shut and locked, leaving myself alone with my captors. I looked at where Cookus stood, his arms crossed in front of him. The captain lent forward and whispered something in his ear, Cookus threw back his head and roared with laughter. How I hated that man.
Suddenly there was a searing pain across my back as the first blow of the whip struck my flesh. The pain resembled a severe sting, which was followed by another strike, this time slightly lower on my back, just below the shoulder blades. I flinched involuntarily as the leather thongs bit deep into my back, this time near the base of my spine. He pain was unbearable and I screamed as the cords lashed my flesh. Each strike wracked my body and sapped my strength, and my body sagged as I hung on the rigging limply. My back felt as though it was on fire as waves of nausea swept through me. I lost count of how many times I was lashed. Then, mercifully, the flogging ceased. I could feel liquid running down my back — my own blood. I was aware only of the gentle rolling of the boat, everything else was silence. Then I was aware of the voice of Cookus in my right ear, his words calm and methodical.
‘Well, pretty boy. That was for stealing my cane. But we don’t want you too damaged otherwise you won’t be much use when I deliver you to your new master, who no doubt will want to assault your arsehole every night until you are all used up.’ He patted my face. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll make sure you won’t die on this boat.’
He snapped his fingers and a sailor passed him a bucket. He stepped back and threw its contents on my wounds, which caused me to arch my back and scream. The other sailors repeated Cookus’ actions and sprayed me with salt water. My groans of agony made them laugh out loud until Cookus told them to stop. I was almost unconscious now, noises seemed distant and muffled and I could feel nothing. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Cookus, who was standing on a wooden box. He then lifted his tunic and pissed over me. I barely heard the bouts of laughter as I drifted into unconsciousness.
They left me there for what seemed like hours, my back throbbing with pain, my mouth dry and my arms numb from being lashed tightly to the rigging. Eventually, as the sun was dropping on the western horizon, they released me from my bonds and hurled me back into the hold. Nergal and Gafarn tried to make me comfortable, but I was so weakened that I was barely aware of them or anything else, and drifted in and out of unconsciousness. I probably would have died on that stinking hulk had it not have been for the fact that two days later we docked in Italy. I did not know it at the time, but in the previous forty-eight hours dead bodies had been thrown off each boat into the sea as captives succumbed to their wounds or died from heat, exhaustion and lack of food. The women and children were the main victims, and as we were unloaded onto the quay in a fierce heat and under a vivid blue sky, our Roman guards suddenly seemed concerned. Not out of consideration for us, but rather from the realisation that our numbers had dropped substantially. Cookus was berating his men.