The Parthian (5 page)

I look around. Vistaspa was supervising the reduction of the last pockets of resistance. My father, bareheaded, was leaning on his sword, Gafarn dressing a wound to his neck. I sheathed my sword and went over to him. We met and embraced.

‘Are you hurt, father?’

‘It’s nothing, I was lucky,’ he replied.

‘That’s why we have helmets,’ said Gafarn. ‘If you don’t wear one, what do expect?’ He was expertly stitching the two sides of the cut together, oblivious to my fathers’ wincing as he did so.

‘Be quiet and do your job,’ my father barked.

‘Of course, majesty,’ replied Gafarn. ‘And then I’ll get your helmet so you can put it on.’

‘I sometimes wonder if you know that you are a slave.’

Gafarn had been a slave in the royal household since he was five. He was found wandering among the dead and dying when my father’s father, King Sames, had attacked and routed a Bedouin tribe who had been raiding Hatra’s borders. My father had taken the young boy back to the city and gave him to me as a playmate. The same age, we grew up together and Gafarn, a low-born slave, became like a brother to me, the more so when my mother and father had no more boys of their own. He was brave and quick-witted, and became well liked in the palace. My father had him tutored in reading and writing, and although he was forbidden to train as a cataphract, he and I learned archery together, a skill at which he excelled.

Vistaspa marched up and one of his men threw an injured, black-clad figure to the ground. ‘We’ve killed most of them. A few got away. They slit the throats of our guards on the perimeter. That’s how they got so close. The only prisoner we’ve got so far is this one.’

‘Our losses?’ asked my father.

‘Twenty dead, about the same wounded. A few camels slain.’

My father brushed Gafarn away as my servant finished his medical duties. My father stood before the prisoner.

‘Who sent you?’

The prisoner, a scruffy looking individual with dirty, unkempt hair, chuckled at my father, to reveal a row of black teeth and rotting gums. Vistaspa picked up a broken spear shaft and hit the man hard on the side of his face, sending him sprawling to ground. He was yanked back onto his knees, his mouth bloody from the blow.

‘I ask you again. Who sent you?’ The prisoner spat at my father, prompting another blow to the side of the face from Vistaspa, who then drew his dagger, grabbed the man’s right arm and cut off his thumb. The prisoner screamed, and Vistaspa again clubbed him the ground. The loss of another thumb and all of his teeth failed to yield any information from the hapless man. Perhaps he didn’t know anything, perhaps he was just one of a ragged band of raiders who attacked us, but my father was convinced that he and his comrades had been sent to attack and kill us. When dawn broke the next morning the man was still alive, so we nailed him to a tree, then broke camp to head south. We were tired, cold and hungry, having stood to arms all through the night in case we were attacked again. But no assault came, so we tended to our wounded, consigned our dead to a funeral pyre and rode south back to Hatra. We left the enemy dead where they fell, fifty of them, though my father ordered all the bodies to be decapitated. The heads were impaled on the enemy’s spears that had been stuck in the ground, to form a grisly forest. I pulled my cloak around me as we rode away from the scene of slaughter. Our pace was slow as my father ordered all of us to wear our full armour in case we were attacked again. No attack came, and as the day wore on the sun rose in the sky to warm our bodies and raise our spirits. We were going home.

Chapter 2

I
t took us seven days to reach Hatra. After the first two days we relaxed our guard when it became apparent that no one was trailing us. My father’s mood began to lighten as we neared home, the more so when scouts rode in to inform us that the army had reached Hatra safely and the city was excited about our victory. Hatra, how that name filled me with pride. Sandwiched between the Tigris and Euphrates, the Kingdom of Hatra was the eastern shield of the Parthian Empire. As well as being a mighty fortress, it was also a flourishing trading centre through which caravans travelling both east and west passed. From the Orient the caravans brought furs, ceramics, jade, bronze objects, lacquer and iron. Caravans heading towards the east carried gold and other precious metals, ivory, precious stones, and glass. Many of these goods were bartered for others along the way, and objects often changed hands several times. Yet the most precious commodity of all was silk, the valuable material that was said to have come to earth as a gift from the Goddess of Silk to Lady Hsi-Ling-Shih, wife of the Yellow Emperor, who was said to have ruled the Orient three thousand years before our time.

There were many routes from Africa, Syria and the Roman Empire to the East, but the most important ones passed through the Kingdom of Hatra, and the rulers of Hatra had grown rich on the caravans that travelled through their territory, each one paying a toll to secure safe passage. At first this toll paid for a troop of horsemen to escort the caravan from one end of the kingdom to the other, to provide protection against the many gangs of bandits that infested the desert regions. But this was deemed a waste of money, as there was always a multitude of caravans, which required a huge army to guard. So the kings, my ancestors, organised massive sweeps of the kingdom to destroy the bandits. A combination of bribery, fire and sword eradicated their threat, and since those times the severest penalties had been in place for banditry and theft. The bandits and their families were hunted down and slaughtered without mercy, the bodies being staked out in the desert or impaled on stakes beside the road as a warning to others. It worked. Now, few bandits dared to show their face in the Kingdom of Hatra, its example being followed by the other rulers in the empire, for without trade the Parthian Empire would quickly wither and die.

Now the caravans, glad to have safe passage, paid their tolls and we grew rich. Some kings spent their wealth on an indolent way of life, such as King Darius, but others, like my father, built strong defences and large armies to protect what they had. For the Romans in the west and the Asiatics in the east were like hungry wolves when they turned their gaze to Parthia. My father had once told me, as his father had told him, ‘if you want peace, my son, prepare for war’. And so it was. Throughout the kingdom stone forts protected the trade routes and deterred aggressors. These forts were simple stone structures, with a garrison of twenty-five horse archers, a quarter of a company. They had one entrance, four watch towers at each corner and were austere in the least. But they served their purpose and made it all but impossible for bandits or enemy troops to operate within the kingdom with impunity.

‘It will be good to see your mother again,’ mused my father as I rode beside him on our way south. It was the first time he had mentioned her name since we had left home.

‘Yes, father.’

‘A man without a good woman beside him is an empty shell.’ He looked at me. ‘We will have to find you a wife soon, my son.’

‘Yes, father,’ I replied with little enthusiasm. Royal marriages were used to cement alliances and secure kingdoms; the wishes of those getting married were often of little or no concern.

‘Perhaps the Princess Axsen of Babylon. That would make a good alliance, though if she’s as fat as her father you’ll need a good cook to keep her happy.’

My spirits sank. ‘Yes, father.’

Our conversation was interrupted by Vistaspa galloping up and halting before my father. He saluted. ‘Message from the city, sire.’

He handed my father a scroll. He read it, glanced at me and smiled.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Give the order that we will camp here tonight and enter the city tomorrow.’

‘We are close to the city, father,’ I said. ‘Are we not entering it tonight?’

‘No, Pacorus. We have a surprise for you.’ Vistaspa eyed me and his thin lips creased into a smile. Please Shamash, I prayed, do not let it be the Princess Axsen.

We pitched camp later that afternoon, and two hours afterwards a large camel train appeared from the south, led by an escort commanded by Bozan. He jumped down from his horse, bowed to my father and embraced me.

‘Heard you nearly got yourself killed by some wild bandits. That bastard Darius paid them, no doubt. Probably thought a few thieves could do what a Roman legion couldn’t.’

‘We don’t know that, Bozan,’ said my father.

‘Course we do. You’re just too polite to say so. He’s a greedy little bastard, and he thought that if he killed you, then he could invite the Romans back and present your two heads on a platter to them,’ he nodded at myself and father.

‘Welcome them back?’ I queried.

‘A Roman legion doesn’t wander around in the desert, lost, boy. It was on its way to Zeugma.’

‘Enough,’ spoke my father. ‘These matters are for the council chamber and not for idle gossip.’

Bozan nodded his head and winked at me. ‘In any case, all that matters now is that Pacorus has a great triumph tomorrow.’

I was shocked. ‘Triumph?’

My father smiled. ‘You brought us victory against the Romans, my son. It is only right that the city should acknowledge your achievement.’

Gafarn stumbled out of the dusk carrying a suit of scale armour, the light from our campfires glinting off the scales.

‘Is this made of lead,’ asked Gafarn, ‘because it feels like it?’

‘Iron and silver, you cheeky little bastard,’ replied Bozan.

‘The Suit of Victory,’ said my father. ‘It has been worn only a few times. My father wore it after his defeat of the Palmyrians. Now you will wear it tomorrow.’

I hardly slept that night, but kept looking at the suit of armour that had been hung in my tent on a wooden frame. When the dawn came I kicked Gafarn awake and began to dress. Gafarn brought me a breakfast of bread and warm milk, and then went to make sure Sura had been watered and fed. He returned a few minutes later. As I sat on a stool outside my tent finishing my meal, the camp around was bustling with activity. Officers barked orders to men, while grooms attended to horses. As the sun rose in the eastern sky, signaling another glorious summer day, I began the process of turning myself into a cataphract. First came the silk vest, worn next to the skin. My father equipped all his horsemen with these items of clothing. Horse masters from the east had told him that the riders of the steppes wore these garments as protection against arrows. Apparently, if you were struck by an arrow while wearing a silk vest then the arrow would wrap itself around the material as it drove into flesh. This made extracting the arrow easier, though I was unconvinced. Nevertheless, the vest was pleasant to wear and let sweat pass through its fine fibres. Then came white cotton trousers and tunic, both loose fitting for extra ventilation. Gafarn had to assist me putting on the armour, standing on a stool and lifting it over my head to allow me to slip it on. It was beautiful, with long hems and broad sleeves. Every second armour plate was made of silver, which meant the suit shimmered with any movement. Gafarn put on my leather boots and passed me the gloves, which were covered with thin silver scales. The helmet was steel with a decorative gold band around the skull.

‘You look like a mighty warrior, highness,’ said Gafarn, who was beaming broadly.

‘I feel like I’m carrying a mighty weight. But I thank you for your help.’

I stepped outside my tent, to be cheered by my father’s bodyguard who stood mounted and at attention. White pennants on their lance shafts fluttered in the light breeze, and white horses chomped at bits and kicked at the ground in impatience. In the royal bodyguard all horses were white, and their highly groomed tails swished from side to side. The bodyguard wore white plumes in their helmets and white cloaks around their shoulders. They looked truly magnificent, none more so than my father, who wore his golden crown atop his open-faced helmet. On this occasion, as befitting his position as the commander of my father’s bodyguard, Vistaspa carried his banner — a white horse on a scarlet background. I saluted my father and then mounted Sura, who wore her body armour though none on her head, as it was restrictive and not needed today.

Trumpets sounded the advance and our column left camp and headed south, to Hatra. It was still morning when we sighted the city, a massive citadel of stone in the middle of a desert called Al Jazirah. There were four roads into the city, from the north, south, east and west. We were on the northern road, which today was lined with the troops of my father’s army. Ranks of cataphracts and horse archers lined each side of the dirt road for a mile up to the main gate. There must have been five thousand horsemen, while on the city walls I could see spearmen standing to attention. As we entered the final leg of our journey we were met by Bozan and his son, Vata. They stood mounted on the road, and before them stood a foot soldier holding the Roman eagle that I had taken. Bozan and Vata drew their swords, saluted my father and I, and then took their place in the procession immediately behind my father and Vistaspa. The soldier with the eagle marched at the head of our column directly in front of me. As we passed each group of horsemen on the road, the lances of the cataphracts were dipped in salute, as were the drawn swords of the horse archers.

Hatra was a city of one hundred thousand people, and as such occupied a large area. The whole of the city was encompassed by an outer stonewall fifty feet high, made of large square blocks of brown limestone, with defensive towers at intervals of every hundred feet. Access to the city was via four gates at each of the four points of the compass. In front of the city walls was a deep, wide ditch, with wooden causeways spanning it at every gate. At the gates were drawbridges, wooden platforms with one hinged side fixed to the wall and the other side raised by chains, which were pulled up at night to seal the city. For added security, each gate had two portcullises — heavy grilled gates suspended from the gatehouse ceiling. They could be rapidly dropped down if the city came under attack. They were made of oak bars and had iron spikes at the bottom. Held in place by ropes, they could be released quickly by slashing those ropes.