Parthian Dawn (16 page)

‘Me, majesty?’

We were eating our evening meal on the terrace overlooking the river. I found the banqueting hall too large for when Gallia and I took our meals together, as did she. The palace terrace was much more comfortable and intimate.

‘Yes, Malik, you. And I wish you would call me Pacorus. We are, after all, friends, are we not?’

‘I fear that the Agraci are not welcome in your father’s kingdom.’

I wrapped some roasted lamb in a pancake and dipped it into a yoghurt sauce. ‘My father welcomes all my friends Malik, have no fear of that.’

‘Who will you leave in charge of the city?’ asked Gallia.

‘Domitus, I think. Command sits easy on his broad shoulders.’

Malik raised his eyebrows. ‘How strange that you would leave a Roman in charge of your city.’

I bit off a chunk of the pancake. ‘Of course, why not?’

‘Malik, Domitus was a slave, like Pacorus and me,’ said Gallia. ‘He fought beside us in Italy and we both trust him with our lives.’

‘Some say,’ I continued, ‘that the Parthians and Agraci are mortal enemies. And yet here we are, sitting together and enjoying each other’s company.’

He looked thoughtful. ‘You are not like other Parthians, majesty, er Pacorus. In fact, you two are unlike any others I have met.’

Gallia looked at him. ‘In what way?’

He shrugged. ‘I know not, only that you have brought peace when there was war, and trust where there was distrust before. Perhaps what they say about you is right.’

‘And what do they say?’ I asked him.

‘That you are beloved of the gods.’

The Citadel was almost bursting on the morning when we left for Hatra. Two hundred mounted cataphracts were in the courtyard, their faces hidden behind steel masks so that only their eyes could be seen, but only up close. From a distance only two black holes stared out. Gallia’s Amazons, now numbering fifty, were formed up in a block on their left, dressed in brown boots, baggy tan leggings, mail shirts and helmets with closed cheekguards. Praxima sat at their head. Behind the cataphracts were four hundred squires, each holding the reins of a camel loaded with food, tools, spare quivers, a tent and the weapons of his master.

We rode down into the city and through the Palmyrene Gate, then swung north to take us over the pontoon bridge and into my father’s kingdom. I rode in my Roman helmet, cuirass and
spatha
at my hip. I left my cataphract armour behind as I was not riding to war. Gallia rode on my right side and Godarz on my left, with Nergal and Praxima behind us and a long column of horses and camels behind them. A short while after we had crossed the bridge we were met by a detachment of my father’s army — a dozen horse archers dressed in white tunics and red leggings. Their commander paid his respects and then left us, riding back to his fort.

We halted several miles from Dura to allow the cataphracts to take off their heavy scale armour and that of their horses, as it would have been torture for the riders to travel the whole day under a merciless sun in full armour. We then road north across country avoiding the roads, which were full of traffic — caravans, merchants and people on foot — all kicking up a choking dust that found its way into the eyes and lungs. The heavy traffic was a good sign as it indicated trade was thriving in Hatra.

It took us seven days to reach Hatra, my father and Vistaspa linking up with us five miles from the city with an escort of cataphracts. Vistaspa said little aside from a curt greeting to me and Gallia, though I detected a look of approval as he observed my own men behind us, who were now again dressed in their full war gear. My father, wearing his crown on his helmet, rode at the head of his men, Hatra’s banner of the white horse’s head fluttering in the breeze behind him. He greeted us warmly.

‘It is good to see you both, your mother has missed you.’ He looked at Malik, who laid a hand on his heart and bowed his head. My father shot a glance at me but said nothing, but he must have known that the black-robed warrior was an Agraci.

Hatra was as big, bustling and loud as I remembered it, the streets packed with people going about their business. We moved slowly through the throng, some of Kogan’s guards clearing a passage but not with violence. Many cheered my father and his men, and then myself and Gallia even more as they recognised us. Some reached over to touch my leg or stroke Remus. I also noticed that more than one frowned and shied away when they caught sight of Malik, his cheeks adorned with black tattoos and his black robes indicating his Agraci heritage. To his credit he kept looking ahead, though riding through a sea of potential enemies must have been uncomfortable for him. When we got to the palace my mother and sisters were waiting at the foot of the steps, as were Kogan, Assur, Gafarn and Diana. Our reunion was long and tearful; Gallia hugged Diana for an age and they linked arms when my father insisted that everyone must go inside to their rooms. Nergal led my horsemen and the Amazons to the royal stables as we filed into the vastness that was Hatra’s palace.

As we strolled though the great stone columns Gafarn put an arm around my shoulder. ‘It’s good to see you, brother. I see that you have widened the circle of your friends.’

Malik was trailing behind me. ‘Prince Malik, this is my brother, Gafarn.’

Malik bowed his head to Gafarn. ‘An honour, lord.’

Gafarn burst into laughter, which startled my parents and sisters and caused Assur to frown deeply. ‘I’m not lord, though some call me that. I am a Bedouin, taken captive as an infant and raised a slave in this palace.’

My mother was most upset. ‘Gafarn, you should not say such things.’

Gafarn shrugged. ‘Why not? It is true. I am not ashamed of who I am.’

‘You are a Bedouin?’ Malik was most surprised.

‘Yes, and my wife, Diana, once a Roman kitchen slave, is now a princess of Hatra. So you see, Prince Malik of the Agraci, nothing is ever as it appears to be.’

Assur made his excuses and left, as did Kogan and Addu, clearly made uncomfortable by Malik’s presence, but my father had him shown to a luxurious room in the royal apartments and that evening at the banquet held to celebrate the return of myself and Gallia to Hatra, he was placed on the top table. I sat next to my father with Gallia beside my mother as the hall echoed with the chattering of three hundred of the city’s lords and their wives invited to attend. A small army of servants ferried food and wine from the kitchens to the tables.

‘I like your heavy cavalry, Pacorus.’

‘Thank you, father.’

‘Horsemen armed and armoured thus are expensive.’

‘Very.’

‘Dura’s finances can stand such an indulgence?’

‘Now we have opened up the trade route to Egypt, they can.’

‘I heard about your trip into the desert to meet with the Agraci,’ he said, looking at Malik.

I nodded at Malik sitting next to Nergal and Praxima. ‘That is King Haytham’s son, father, a man whom I esteem a friend.’

‘I know who he is.’

I looked at my father. ‘You do not approve?’

He smiled and laid a hand on my shoulder. ‘You have brought peace and prosperity where there was war and financial ruin. How could I disapprove? There are some,’ he tilted his head towards Assur, ‘who disapprove of you making peace with the Agraci.’

‘And you?’

‘I say that kings have to be above all practical. You have the reputation of being a great warlord, and now you are earning yourself a reputation as a wise king. I am proud of you. How is Gallia?’

I looked at my love, deep in conversation with my mother. ‘Happy. She likes Dura.’

My father suddenly looked serious. ‘I heard that you took her into the desert when you visited the Agraci. That could have been dangerous.’

‘I told her that, but she insisted on accompanying me.’

‘And you let her?’

I grinned. ‘I could have forced her to stay in Dura, but I only have five thousand legionaries and two hundred cavalry. Too few for such a task, I fear.’

My father roared with laughter.

It was good to be back at Hatra, albeit for a short while, and to see my parents again. Those were the happy times, and even Vistaspa seemed to have mellowed somewhat, though perhaps it was because his friend Godarz was back with him. Gallia and Diana spent much time together with the young Spartacus, now grown in size and taking his first steps. Gafarn beat me with depressing ease in the archery competitions we held in the gardens and on the training fields and Addu was most impressed when I told him about Rsan and the treasury at Dura. Those were special days. It was not paradise, for people still died of sickness and disease, thieves still had their hands cut off and murderers were still executed, but peace and contentment reigned over Hatra and Dura.

But peace never lasts, and two days before we were due to head back to Dura, a courier arrived at my father’s palace. It was late afternoon and we were all relaxing in the shade of my mother’s summerhouse when the courier presented my father with a sealed scroll.

‘Where are you from?’ said my father, breaking the seal.

‘Ctesiphon, majesty.’

My father read the words and frowned.

‘What is it, Varaz?’ asked my mother.

My father waved away the courier and breathed a deep sigh. ‘Sinatruces is dead.’

I had to confess that this news came as no great shock to me, for the King of Kings had been over eighty years old and most people died well before that great number. But had I known what this one event would lead to I would have shown more concern, for the passing of one old man was to be the catalyst for tumultuous events that threatened to destroy the empire and would again bring me face to face with my old enemies — the Romans.

Chapter 7

M
y father convened his council the day after we had received the news of Sinatruces’ death, and as I was in the city he asked me to attend as well, along with Godarz. Gallia was not invited, much to her chagrin. As usual, the council met in a small room next to the throne room. Around the table sat my father, Kogan, Vistaspa, Assur, Addu, Godarz and myself. My father opened proceedings.

‘So, the day has finally come when we have to turn our thoughts to a new King of Kings. Lord Assur, I believe that your scribes have been researching the archives concerning the correct protocol in this matter.’

‘Yes, majesty,’ his voice was deep and serious. ‘There are very few who remember the days before Sinatruces since he has ruled for over fifty years. But now the kings of the empire must gather in Esfahan to elect another of their number to rule over them.’

Isfahan was a city located in the heart of the empire, a place of water and greenery in the middle of a searing desert wasteland.

‘Who will have your vote, sire?’ asked Vistaspa, ‘assuming that you do not desire it yourself.’

‘Indeed I do not,’ replied my father. ‘Sinatruces had respect because he was old and everyone had got used to him sitting in Ctesiphon. I think Phraates, his son, would make a logical choice. If nothing else, his taking the office would provide continuity and hopefully a peaceful transition of power.’

Assur said nothing, Vistaspa the same, though my father’s general began to drum his fingers on the table.

‘If you have something to say, Vistaspa, then out with it,’ said my father.

‘The empire will need a strong hand, lord, and there are some who say that Phraates lacks strength.’

‘He is a good man,’ replied my father.

‘Good men do not necessarily make good kings. The empire would be better in your hands.’

My father shook his head. ‘I do not desire such a thing, and that is my final word on the matter.’

But Vistaspa would not give up. ‘You would have the support of Babylon, Gordyene, Atropaiene, Media and Elymais if you put yourself forward.’ He looked at me with his cold black eyes. ‘And Dura, I assume.’

‘Of course,’ I replied.

‘No!’ barked my father. ‘One crown is sufficient. The matter is at an end.’

After the meeting Vistaspa sought me out, which was unusual as he rarely had time for my company. It was hard to earn the respect of Vistaspa, who was totally loyal to my father but seemed to eye everyone else with a cool detachment at best, though mostly with open disdain. Today he was most talkative.

‘Is your legion ready?’

‘Almost.’

‘Good, and how many cavalry do you have?’

‘My cataphracts you have already seen. In times of emergency they will be reinforced by the horsemen raised by the lords of my kingdom.’

‘Farmers on horseback,’ he sniffed.

‘These farmers can fight; they have been battling the Agraci ever since they crossed the Euphrates to work the land.’

We were walking down the corridor that led towards the palace’s royal apartments. I stopped and turned to face him.

‘Is there a point to this, Lord Vistaspa?’

He was momentarily nonplussed, and then regained his icy demeanour. ‘There are clouds gathering beyond the empire’s frontiers, and perhaps within the empire itself. We will need all the bows and spears we can muster, I fear.’

I confess that I was slightly alarmed to hear Vistaspa, a man who had less compassion than a cobra, use the word ‘fear’.

‘The Romans are gathering their forces in the northeast, to threaten Armenia, while their garrison swells in Cappadocia like the belly of a pregnant camel.’

‘I’ve beaten Romans before,’ I remarked casually.

‘Then be prepared to fight them again, for my spies have told me that our friend Darius intends to defect to Rome.’

I clenched my fists. Darius was the King of Zeugma, a kingdom on Hatra’s northwest border. The Romans had, several years ago, sent a legion to the city of Zeugma, which had strayed into Hatran territory. My father had intercepted and destroyed it, and during the battle I had captured the legion’s eagle. That day was the beginning of my long association with the Romans. It was an open secret that the fat, idle Darius wanted to become a client king of Rome; only the fear of Parthian retribution, especially Hatra’s large standing army, prevented him from doing so.

‘Darius might use the uncertainty around Sinatruces’ passing to swap sides.’