‘A good day, Spartacus. More recruits are coming in by the hundred. My scouts tell me that most of the estates around Nola have been abandoned.’
‘Good,’ replied Spartacus. He cast me a glance and then looked back at Castus. ‘Are they still there?’
Castus nodded. ‘Excellent. Then we will go and see them.’
‘Just the two of you?’ asked Castus. ‘There might be Romans patrols out.’
‘I doubt it, we haven’t had any reports since we gave them a bloody nose. A few escaped but they would have scurried back to Naples. But if we see any, we’ll get back to Vesuvius.’
‘Even so,’ protested Castus.
‘We can out-run any Romans, Castus. Isn’t that so, Pacorus.’
‘If you say so, lord,’ I answered him.
With that he kicked his horse forward and I followed. We cantered across a wide expanse of grass until we came to a track, along which we rode for about a mile or so. The terrain gradually became more organised, with fields of olive trees right and left, though I saw no one tending them. The sun was high in the sky now and the air was hot. I was glad when we came to a larger expanse of trees on the side of a low hill, through which we rode. The air was still and warm as we directed our horses slowly through the trees. After a few minutes we came to edge of the wood and Spartacus halted his horse. Ahead was a small valley, through which ran a stream. And around the watercourse were groups of horses, some drinking and others munching on the grass. None wore bridles, saddles or harnesses.
‘Whose horses are they?’ I asked.
‘Yours, if you can tame them.’
I felt a tingle of excitement ripple through me. I saw that there was a collection of greys, tans, one or two blacks and others that were chestnut, dun and piebald.
‘Wild horses, Pacorus. If you and your men can tame them then they are yours.’ Spartacus cast me a sideways glance. ‘When do you make your decision whether to stay or go?’
‘Tomorrow, lord. Each man will be free to make up his own mind, as you requested.’
The horse is a sensitive creature, and those on the fringe of the group suddenly became aware of our presence. Their ears flickered, indicating that they were attentive. Others looked up from their grazing and drinking, while some began to move away, their senses telling them danger was present. Though we were hidden from view among the trees, the group was clearly getting agitated. It was time to leave. We rode back to Vesuvius along deserted tracks. When we arrived back at camp we dismounted and walked the horses back to the makeshift stables. People came up to Spartacus and either saluted or embraced him; for his part, he responded to their greetings in kind, always happy to stop and talk. I had to admit that I was warming to him. He may have been a bandit and a slave, but he was clearly a leader who held a motley band together through his personality. That said, the band was getting larger by the day. When we had dismounted another group of young men trooped into the camp, being directed by the guards to a section that had been earmarked for new arrivals. They looked weather-beaten but fit, and Spartacus explained that they were herdsmen.
‘Herdsmen?’ I said.
‘Yes, slaves who are sent by their masters to tends flocks of sheep and goats in the hills.’
‘Are they not guarded?’ I asked.
‘Who can guard those who guard their masters’ animals? No one. Roman vanity does not consider that these men might spend the lonely nights thinking of freedom instead of ensuring their flocks are not attacked by wild animals or stolen by thieves. So they send fit, young men into the hills armed with knives and sticks to look after their investments, certain that they will be good and obedient slaves. All of southern Italy is full of such men.’
‘And now they join you.’
‘And now they join me. Wiping out six Roman cohorts made an impression on everyone, it seems, not just the Romans.’
We reached the stables and handed over our horses to the grooms, some of whom were my men lending a hand.
‘I have to attend to matters of organisation, Pacorus, so I will bid you good day.’
‘Tell, me, I said. ‘Why did you show me that group of wild horses?’
‘I thought you might appreciate the sight, seeing as you Parthians are horse lords.’
‘So it wasn’t an attempt to sway me to stay.’
He laughed. ‘Of course it was. We will have much infantry and no cavalry. Besides, any commander would want a man in his army who has taken a Roman eagle. Your former slave told me, despite his poor Latin, he is very proud of the fact. If you decide to stay with us, you shall be my general of horse.’
I admit I was flattered, and I liked the idea of being a general. But then I remembered that this was not an army but a collection, albeit growing, of runaway slaves. He could see that I was churning over thoughts in my mind.
He offered me his hand to shake. I took it.
‘Until tomorrow, then, Pacorus.’
‘Until tomorrow, lord.’
He walked away and then turned. ‘And Pacorus.’
‘Lord?’
‘You don’t have to call me lord.’
I made my way back to my men slowly, wondering if he knew that I would abide by their decision. That was the least I could do for them. I was their leader when we were captured, and I owed it to them to respect their wishes. All around me men were being drilled and lectured in the use of arms. Some practised stabbing and slashing at thick wooden posts that had been sunk in the ground. They used wooden swords to thrust and slash, while their instructors barked and shouted orders at them. Their shields appeared to be crude wicker affairs, like the ones our foot used in Parthia, and I wondered if there were real shields enough to go round. I walked on, and made way for a column of recruits being drilled. Either side of the column were instructors who used canes to keep individuals in line and in step. I shuddered — it brought back unpleasant memories. I also thought of my own time spent being drilled and practising with weapons. Bozan had believed in the doctrine of train hard, fight easy. So myself and others of my age spent endless hours learning how to fight under a hot Mesopotamian sun with a sword, lance, spear and, above all, a bow. The training was repetitive, so much so that the weapons became extensions of our limbs, and wielding them became second nature to us. My military training started at the age of five. Before that I had been in the company of my mother and other women of the court; afterwards I became a student of Bozan and Hatra’s army instructors. It seemed like yesterday.
I ambled past another group of men, around my age I guessed, throwing javelins. They were dressed in rags most of them, but they had enthusiasm and their sinewy arms and frames indicated years of manual labour. They hurled their shafts hard into the air, cheering as they landed among a host of posts driven into the ground with straw wrapped around them to resemble enemy soldiers. Except that these soldiers didn’t fight back.
The next day I woke early, the sun still making its way into the eastern sky as I pulled back the tent flaps, to find the men waiting for me. They certainly looked better now after a few days of food and rest. There were still red marks around their wrists and ankles where the Romans had manacled them, but they looked like soldiers again. They stood in silence, each of them looking at me. Gafarn, Nergal and Byrd stood in the front row of the semi-circle, waiting for me to say something.