My men were also on their feet, along with the rest of the captives, though they were scared and some were wailing in alarm. I tried to understand what was going on. In the darkness it was difficult, but it was obvious that the camp was not being assaulted; rather, the battle seemed to be taking place within its confines. Some of the tents were on fire, producing a red glow that shone on our faces and cast a supernatural pall over everything. Then the first runaways appeared, legionaries fleeing from inside the camp through the gap in the earth rampart. Frightened men, without weapons or mail shirts, stumbling and falling as they fled the source of their terror. One soldier, obviously wounded, staggered towards us, a sword held in his right hand.
‘‘Over here, soldier,’ I shouted.
‘Highness?’ said Nergal.
‘When he gets close, use your manacles to beat him to the ground.’
‘I hope your trick works,’ remarked Gafarn.
‘So do I,’ I replied.
The legionary wove a haphazard path towards me. He was obviously disorientated and scared.
‘It’s fine, I said, ‘just come to us. Everything will be fine.’
The sword was still by his side as he reached me, his eyes bulging with terror.
‘They just came out of the dark, we didn’t stand a chance, I…’
He said no more as Gafarn, Nergal and Byrd swung their chains in his face, smashing him off his feet. I lunged at him and snatched the sword from his grasp. He was probably unconscious as I plunged the tip of the blade down hard into his throat, causing blood to shoot upwards. We took the dead soldier’s knife attached to his belt and tried to free ourselves from our bonds using it and the sword. The ends of the iron bars through our wrist and ankle shackles had been hammered flat on an anvil, though, which meant they would have to be cut with a chisel on an anvil to break them. We were trapped still. By now the sounds of slaughter filled the air as men were being cut down. Individuals began to appear on the ramparts, not soldiers but men dressed in rags and cloaks and wielding axes, spears and swords. One jumped down and caught a legionary with a vicious swing of his axe that took the man’s head clean off. Then a legionary, his clothes aflame, careered past us waving his arms wildly as the heat peeled off his flesh. This night was filled with horror, which transfixed us all. A figure ran up to me, his face blackened with soot and his eyes wild. He carried a huge sword, which he swung around expertly with his right arm. He stopped and saw our chains.
‘Have no fear, brothers, we will be back for you.’
Then he went back to killing Romans. The sounds of battle, which had begun at the far end of the camp as muffled noises, now increased in volume and swept around us as the attackers made it to the camp entrance near where we were standing. Individuals were cutting down Romans, wielding their weapons with dexterity and ease, each of them seemingly an expert at close-quarter combat. We were cheering wildly by now, cheering every time a Roman skull was cleaved in two or a legionary’s stomach was ripped open. It was as if the gods had descended from heaven and were wreaking vengeance. Then I saw him. Cookus, my tormentor during the past few weeks. Cookus, bare headed and wearing only a tunic and sandals, staggering around in confusion. Was he drunk or suffering from the effects of a wound? I could not tell.
‘Centurion Cookus,’ I shouted. He turned and looked in my direction, unsure as to who was hailing him.
‘Centurion Cookus, you miserable piece of filth.’ He was in no doubt who was shouting at him now. His eyes narrowed to slits as his gaze locked on me.
‘What’s the matter, Roman dog, frightened of a slave now you haven’t got your guards to back you up.’
He spat and strode towards me and I saw that he had a sword in his right hand. ‘So, you speak our language, pretty boy. I was going to kill you anyway, but it might as well be tonight rather than tomorrow.’
‘It is the language of the sewer, the place where you and all your kind were born.’ I was relishing insulting him. I felt ten feet tall because of it. Was I mad? Probably.
He was totally oblivious to the slaughter that was going on around him, as was I to a certain extent. This was between him and me. Like all bullies he had an unshakeable belief in his own superiority, and like all bullies he was to prove a paper tiger when someone faced up to him on an equal basis. Equal? In his eyes I was a beaten, broken and chained slave, so he could not lose. It was unthinkable that a Roman, the masters of the world, could be humbled by a slave.
As he neared me he raised his sword above his head. He was going to swing it and slice my skull in two. One swing and that would be the end of me. But in his rage and arrogance he had failed to spot that I too had a sword, a short Roman sword like his, which I had in my right hand but which I had kept tight to my right leg. Before he cut me down I lunged with as much effort as I could muster and thrust the sword forward. I used both hands because my wrists were chained to each other.
It was not the expression of pain that was etched across Cookus’ face when the blade went effortlessly into his stomach to the hilt, more surprise, with perhaps a hint of disappointment. For an instant I thought that he was still going to bring his blade down onto my head, but he just seemed to sigh, then cough. He tried to speak, but though his mouth opened a little nothing came out. My men behind me were silent. Cookus looked down to where my hands clasped the grip of the sword, which were now being covered by his blood that was pumping out of his stomach. I yanked the blade from his body and he still stood there, though his hand released the sword and his arm fell limp by his side. I could feel my heart pounding in my chest as I took deep gulps of air. I screamed and swung the sword low at his legs, cutting into his left thigh. He collapsed on the ground. Then I was on him, thrashing wildly at his head and torso with my sword, hacking chunks of flesh out of his face, neck and shoulders. He was dead but it didn’t matter. I wanted to cut him into little pieces to erase all memory of him from the earth. As I slashed at his corpse I also shouted at it.
‘I am Prince Pacorus, son of King Varaz of Hatra, a lord of the Parthian Empire and a son of the Arsacid dynasty. We are masters of the east, conquerors of the steppes and horse lords. And you are Roman filth not fit to lace our boots. You miserable vermin, I will kill a thousand of you before I have washed your filth from my body and can go back to my land. We are Parthians, Roman, and no Roman army will ever conquer us. Hatra will stand for a thousand years and more, and she will see Rome ground into the dust.’
I swung with fury, aware only of the bloody pulp that lay before me. But I was also aware of Nergal’s voice, which seemed faint as though far away.
‘Highness, highness,’ he was saying.
I stopped my thrashing and saw that I was covered in blood, though it wasn’t my own. I turned to look at Nergal.
‘What?’ I snapped.
But he and Gafarn were staring ahead, as were all of my men. I turned to see what they were looking at. In front of us, arranged in a loose semi-circle, was a large group of warriors, all looking at me. I raised myself up and stood before them, the sword still in my hand. Others were joining the group, some armed with swords, others with spears and axes. A few carried torches to illuminate the scene. I suddenly noticed that there was almost no sound now. The battle, if it was ever a battle, was over. The odd scream and moan pierced the night air, but quickly disappeared as a soldier was killed or a wounded man was put out of his misery. Parts of the camps were still on fire, which produced a red backdrop to the figures that stood before us. My eyes were drawn to one man in particular, who stood in the centre of the group, a few paces in front of the others. Tall, bare headed, his expression was one of unyielding determination. His eyes were fixed on me. His chiselled face had a strong jawline and he had broad shoulders under his mail shirt. His arms were thick and muscular, which made the Roman short sword he was holding seem small, like a toy. His tunic reached to just above his knees, and his shins were protected by silver greaves. I felt that he was studying me, weighing me up to determine his next course of action. His hair was cropped short, like all Romans. But was he a Roman? His dark eyes were boring into me, like a cobra does with a rabbit before it strikes. I glanced left and right and saw that others were also looking at him, waiting for his orders. They were fearsome lot, with blood on their weapons and bloodlust in their faces. But their leader held them in check by. By what? For he had not spoken. By his will, I guessed, the same will that was now looking into my soul.