‘Get them off the boats as quickly as possible. Don’t let any more die.’ He barked his orders to his soldiers, who scurried about, cajoling us and making threats, though I noticed that they did not actually beat us. I was finding it hard to breathe, my body weakened by the flogging I had received. My back hurt like fury, causing me to wince each time the course cloth of the stinking tunic I had been given rubbed against a weeping sore.
‘Are you all right, highness?’ asked Gafarn.
‘I’ll live,’ I replied, unconvincingly.
Gafarn supported me on one side and Nergal on the other.
‘How many did we lose?’
I saw the look of pain in Nergal’s eyes. ‘Thirty have died, highness.’
‘And the civilian captives?’ I asked.
He shrugged. ‘I do not know, highness, but there are hardly any children left.’
I could have wept at that moment, wept for those we had lost and for what lay ahead. It seemed so long ago when we had left Hatra, all of us proud warriors of the Parthian Empire. Now, what was left of us stood chained on a quay in a Roman port. Our clothes were in rags, our faces unshaved and our hair matted and filthy. Our legs and arms were covered in welts and sores, out feet bare and bruised because we had been stripped of our footwear when we had boarded the boats. We were all mostly in our early twenties, but anyone who cast us a glance would have thought we were twice that age.
As we waited I looked around at the harbour at which we had been offloaded. It was massive, being hexagonal shaped and enclosed within two breakwaters. The waterfront comprised a long row of warehouses, which teemed with workers loading and unloading carts of varying size. Sacks, livestock and pallets holding clay jars were being offloaded from huge ships moored along the docks. Clerks were tallying lists and merchants were supervising the shipment of their goods. The level of activity was amazing and dwarfed anything I had previously seen. As we waited, we were given no food or water.
Eventually a chariot arrived, pulled by a pair of black horses and driven by a slight young man dressed in a pure white tunic. Beside him stood a portly middle-aged man, also in white, wearing a wide-brimmed hat who was sweating profusely. The chariot stopped a few feet in front of us and the rotund man stepped off and walked over the Cookus, who saluted stiffly. The elder man spoke to Cookus, who nodded and then pointed at us. The older man then strode over to where we were being guarded. The day was getting hotter and I was getting weaker, having to rely increasingly on Gafarn and Nergal to stop myself from collapsing onto the ground. The man pulled up a couple of yards from us as our stench reached his nostrils. He put a handkerchief to his nose.
‘They smell disgusting, centurion.’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Cookus. ‘You know what these eastern types are like, sir. Never wash, live in filth most of the time.’
‘It never ceases to amaze me how disreputable these barbarians are. They look as disgusting as they smell.’ His gaze fell on me as I stared at him from black-rimmed eyes. ‘What happened to that one?’
‘Trouble-maker, sir,’ Cookus replied. ‘We had to give him a flogging.’
The elder man nodded his approval. ‘Good. Slaves need to be reminded that they exist for one purpose, to serve their masters. If you have any more trouble from him, I would advise nailing him to a cross.’
Cookus smiled. ‘Of course, sir. You want them shipped to Capua.’
‘Mmm, er no. They are to be transported to the legate’s estate outside Nola. The eastern war has been very rewarding with regard to slaves. His estates around Capua have enough slaves. The one at Nola has need of them. The legate owns that warehouse,’ he pointed to a large wooden structure that fronted the docks. ‘Put them in there for the night and start out early in the morning. I’ve arranged food and water to be delivered, it should be here within the hour. Also some wine for you and your men.’
‘That’s very kind, sir.’
‘Well, I must be away. The legate is a very important man and I have to be in Herculaneam this afternoon. Hopefully the rest of my journey will be uneventful.’
With that he turned and went back to his chariot, gesturing with his right hand to the driver, who shouted to the two immaculately groomed horses, who walked forward at his command. Then they were gone and were herded into the warehouse. I was glad to be out of the sun and even more relieved when we were allowed to lie on the floor. I rested on my side as it was too painful to lie on my back. I wanted to sleep, but Nergal and Gafarn wanted to know if I knew anything.
‘We are going to be transported to a place called Nola.’
‘Where’s that?’ asked Nergal.
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘How long will it take?’ asked Gafarn.
‘I don’t know.’
‘What will happen to us there?’ enquired Nergal.
‘Enough,’ I snapped. ‘Enough of your questions. Get some rest. Food and water are on the way. Now let me sleep.’
I knew what lay ahead: more chains and whips, and being worked like animals on the land. I did not want to demoralise them, but they must have known that we were slaves with little hope of escape. Escape. We had talked in hushed tones about how we would escape, but in truth the further away we got from Parthia the likelihood of a successful escape diminished. The Romans were not fools. Each of us had manacles on our wrists and was chained to at least one other person via our ankle. The guards watched us like hawks and checked our iron bonds every day. And we were weak, with all our efforts aimed at staying alive rather than dreaming up complex escape plans. Any spare moment was devoted to rest and, most precious of all, sleep. Merciful sleep, where one could escape from the nightmare we were living.
The next morning we were woken early, Cookus kicking me awake and forcing me to my feet with his cane. His new cane, which he had obviously acquired while we were resting. He gave me a sharp whack across the face that sent me spinning to the floor. Gafarn and Nergal helped me back up.
‘You like my new stick, pretty boy?’ Cookus grinned maliciously at me. He reeked of ale; obviously he had been drinking heavily last night. He spat in my face then turned around and started barking orders to his men.
‘Get these bastards moving. It’s a long march to Nola and I want to be back here within the week.’
We were roughly organised into a long column, three abreast, and then our guards used their shields to shove us out of the warehouse and onto the road. Dawn was just breaking, but already the port was bustling with activity. After half an hour we had left the city and were on the road. Roman roads were a marvel to behold, and even in my debilitated state I could appreciate the engineering that had gone into them. The road itself was made up of flagstones laid side by side, with well-tended verges on either side that were flanked by ditches, for drainage I assumed. The road itself was around thirty feet wide, the verges ten feet wide or thereabouts. Curiously, only people were walking on the road, donkeys and their carts were travelling on the verges. I had no idea why this was, but I was thankful that the road, arrow straight, was at least not taxing to walk on and also that the day was still cool. Myself, Nergal and Gafarn trudged at the front of our ragged column, while ahead of us strode Cookus and half a dozen of his men. Guards were positioned on each flank of the column.
To our right was the sea, while on our left rose a massive hump-backed mountain the like of which I had never seen before. It was like a huge green tent with a flat top, and I could not but help stare at it. We had left the port and were tramping on a road in a lush green landscape. There were large fields on our left that were filled with workers, slaves no doubt. The chains that held our ankles dragged on the flagstones, producing a metallic shuffling sound. The sound was melodic, almost trance-inducing. But then I was awakened from my daydream by the sound of screams. At first they were muffled, but as we continued on our journey they became louder, and then I saw why. Ahead, about a quarter of a mile, a cross had been erected by the side of the road, upon which an individual was writhing in agony. As we got closer I could see that a soldier was frantically nailing the man’s feet to a block of wood that was attached to the vertical part of the cross. The impaled man screamed in agony with each blow of the hammer, as the nail was driven deeper into the block of wood. When the soldier had finished we were only a hundred yards or so from the scene, and I could see that another man was lying on the ground, his arms held in place by two more soldiers against a wooden crosspiece. The Roman in charge, who wore the same type of helmet as Cookus, halted the proceedings as his fellow centurion greeted him.