The Parthian
Author
Peter Darman
Author Bio
A former research officer with the Defence Intelligence Staff in Whitehall, London, in 1990 I joined the publishing industry as an editor. My first non-fiction book was published in 1991: A-Z of the SAS. I worked as an editor and part-time author until 2012 when I became a full-time writer. ‘The Parthian’ was my first fiction book and my first self-published work. It was also the first book in the Parthian Chronicles, which to date numbers five books.
Description
‘The Parthian’ is a unique account of the Spartacus slave revolt as seen through the eyes of a young Parthian prince: Pacorus, a member of the royal household of Hatra, an ancient city between the Tigris and Euphrates rivers in the Parthian Empire. Captured by the Romans in Cappadocia, Pacorus is condemned to a life of slavery and transported to Italy. But he is rescued from a cruel fate by a band of escaped gladiators on the slopes of Mount Vesuvius. The leader of the slaves is a Thracian called Spartacus and thereafter he and Pacorus forge a mighty army that shakes the Roman Republic to its core.
Combining historical accuracy with exciting narrative, ‘The Parthian’ follows the exploits of Pacorus and the slave army as they inflict a string of defeats on the Roman army as they march through Italy.
‘The Parthian’ is a tale of love, honour, war, glory and loss set in the Spartacus slave revolt in Italy in the first century BC.
Book excerpt
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 camp 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 jaw line 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 a 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.
My heart was still pounding in my chest. The silence was excruciating. I decided to break it, even though it might cost me my life. I looked at their leader, this fearsome man of stone who stood before me.
‘Who are you? What do you want?’
He took a few steps forward until he was but a few paces from me, his piercing eyes looking momentarily away from mine to glance at my sword that I held at my side. Then he fixed me with his iron stare.
‘I am Spartacus.’
Then I passed out.