Parthian Dawn (17 page)

‘My father can have troops in possession of Zeugma faster than the Romans can,’ I said.

‘Not if his attention is focused elsewhere.’

I was becoming confused. He took my arm. ‘Hatra is rich. There are kings within the empire who would like nothing more than to see us humiliated and reduced in strength. With your father as King of Kings the empire is safe, but Phraates….’

His voice trailed away and an ominous silence was left.

‘I’m sure the meeting at Esfahan will resolve all uncertainties,’ I said without conviction.

He looked away. ‘Perhaps you are right. By the way, your cataphracts are a credit to you. Well done. Perhaps I may visit Dura some time to see how your legion is shaping up.’

It was a most strange conversation and somewhat unnerved me, but I shrugged it off as a case of Vistaspa being unduly alarmist.

‘I don’t like him,’ remarked Gallia of Vistaspa on the second day of our journey back to Dura.

We had enjoyed our time in Hatra immensely and were now making our way leisurely back to our home. Gallia had invited my parents, my sisters, Gafarn and Diana to Dura, and if they all came at once we would run out of rooms to put them in, but they all accepted her invitation so that was that. Her hospitality did not extend to Vistaspa or Assur.

‘He reminds me of my father, always scheming.’

‘He’s a good soldier, but I agree his character is a little foreboding.’

‘That’s putting it mildly.’

‘He thinks the death of Sinatruces presages war.’

‘And what do you think?’

‘I know not what the future holds.’

But in truth conflict seemed far away as we rode back to Dura, through Hatran territory that was well-protected and thriving with commerce. I comforted myself with the fact that Hatra had, unusually among the empire, a large standing army in addition to the tens of thousands of horse archers my father could summon in times of conflict. Who would be so foolish to make war upon it?

When we arrived back at Dura, a letter similar to the one delivered to my father was awaiting me. All the kings were being informed of the death of Sinatruces. It was signed by his son, Phraates, whom I assumed would be elected to replace his father, notwithstanding Vistaspa’s forebodings. A week later another courier arrived, this time from the elders of Esfahan inviting me to attend the Council of Kings that would elect a new King of Kings in two months’ time.

Esfahan was part of no kingdom but was situated in the dead centre of the empire, and was recognised by all the kings as a neutral city, owing allegiance to no one kingdom or faction. In the time of civil strife before Sinatruces, when war had riven the empire, Esfahan and its elders had been a place where disputes between rival factions could be settled without recourse to war. That was the theory at least. The long reign of Sinatruces had made Esfahan’s purpose largely irrelevant, as Sinatruces had resolved the problem of rivals by defeating and then executing them, though in the last twenty years of his reign he had used his son to resolve disputes. Phraates was of an amicable disposition and had the tongue of a diplomat. His words helped to soothe the tempers of proud kings, and in any case the longevity of Sinatruces’ reign had earned the respect of even the most hot-headed rulers, though some liked to think that because of his great age the King of Kings’ wits had gone. I had met him more than a year before his death, and his mind and cunning were as sharp as any man’s.

‘Each king is allowed to take a retinue of thirty, equivalent to the number of arrows held in a quiver, no more,’ I said.

‘I will be one of them,’ announced Gallia, ‘and Praxima will also want to go.’

‘Do I have a say in the matter?’

‘Of course,’ she wrapped her arms around me. ‘You do want to take me, don’t you?’

So that was that. I also took Nergal, Domitus and twenty-five Companions. It was the first time I had seen Domitus on a horse and he looked like a fish out of water. I would have taken Godarz instead but he expressed no interest in going, especially after travelling to Hatra. In any case, he was happy being governor and had little wish to see the rituals of the empire.

Before we left Dura I had sent a courier to Hatra to arrange a rendezvous with my father along the way. We met up with him ten miles west of the Tigris and about fifty miles from Ctesiphon. Accompanying him, and much to Gallia’s delight, was Balas of Gordyene, a big man on a big horse with an escort of over a score of horse archers dressed in blue tunics with steel helmets on their heads. Like me they were armed with swords, bows and full quivers.

Balas jumped down from his horse and enveloped Gallia in his bear-like arms.

‘I’m glad he,’ jerking his head at me, ‘decided to bring you along. I need a pretty woman to liven up the journey.’

‘I told him I was coming,’ said Gallia, ‘he had no choice.’

Balas roared with laughter. ‘I bet you did.’

That night we camped on the other side of the Tigris in the territory of King Vardan of Babylon. We pitched the tents in a large circle and then set a raging fire in the middle, over which we roasted pig and lamb.

‘Whom will you propose at the meeting, Varaz?’ asked Balas, sitting on the ground using his saddle as a backrest.

‘Phraates,’ replied my father.

Balas raised an eyebrow.

‘And you, lord?’ I asked.

‘Varaz of Hatra, of course,’ replied Balas. His warriors and those of my father applauded this suggestion.

My father held up his hands. ‘I have made it clear that I will not put myself forward.’

‘More fool you, Varaz,’ said Balas. ‘Phraates makes a good errand boy and that’s about it. Vardan, Farhad and Aschek would support you. I know, I’ve asked them.’

‘The matter is closed, Balas,’ said my father irritably, ‘now stop making trouble.’

Balas threw the leg of pork he had been gnawing into the fire. ‘So be it, but there will be trouble anyway, you mark my words.’

‘It is a pity,’ remarked Gallia, ‘that there cannot be a queen of queens to rule over you all.’

‘Ha,’ barked Balas, ‘you hear that, Varaz? If she’s allowed in the council meeting I’ll warrant we’ll be bowing down to Queen Gallia at the end.’

‘Women are not allowed to vote, daughter,’ said my father.

‘What if some of the kings do not abide by the decision of the council?’ she asked.

‘A good question,’ said Balas, looking at my father. ‘Then, my dear, whoever is King of Kings must enforce his will and show to everyone in the empire that his sword is the sharpest, and Phraates is not the man to do that.’

‘Enough, Balas,’ my father was growing irritated. ‘I know what you are trying to do and it will not work.’

Balas tried a different approach. ‘What say you, Pacorus? Who will you vote for?’

‘My father first, but if he declines to be put forward, then Phraates.’

Balas nodded his head in resignation. ‘What about you, Roman, what is your view on this matter?’

Thus far Domitus had been sitting in silence, eating his food and drinking water from a cup. Now he looked directly at Balas. ‘I know nothing of the workings of the Parthian Empire, but I do know that men only respect strength. They may say that they obey the law, but they only do so if the person who enforces it is stronger than they. If this Phraates is strong then you have no fear.’

Balas looked smugly at my father. ‘And if he is weak?’

Domitus stared into the fire. ‘Then he will be like a lamb among lions.’

My father would hear no more on the matter and so we talked of other things over the next ten days as we rode to Esfahan. Domitus gradually got used to riding on horseback, but declared that he would always prefer to fight on his feet. He and Balas got on well; they were both forthright in their opinions, though Balas was rowdier. Gordyene shared a border with Armenia and we all knew that Rome threatened the latter. And if Armenia fell then Gordyene would be in danger.

‘So, Domitus, do you think Rome will attack Parthia?’

Sweat was pouring down Domitus’ face even though he was wearing a wide-brimmed hat, for we were travelling across the desert that led to Esfahan, a barren, sun-bleached wasteland that had one east—west road.

‘Hard to tell, sir. I was just a lowly centurion and know nothing about what is decided in Rome. But there is a garrison in Syria and eventually they will push east, to the Euphrates at least.’

‘You hear that, Pacorus,’ said Balas to me, ‘Dura is on the wrong side of the river.’

‘It will take a large army to batter down Dura’s walls,’ I replied.

Domitus looked at me. ‘Pacorus, that is King Pacorus, is clever. He makes Dura strong so it will not fall easily, and he has the support of his lords who can come to his aid. And across the river is his father’s army. Rome will think twice before starting a war with Dura.’

‘And there is your legion,’ observed Balas.

‘Yes, sir, there is my legion. And…’ His voice trailed off.

‘And?’ asked Balas.

‘I know that your people do not like them, but there are also the Agraci.’

‘The Agraci?’ Balas was shocked. ‘They will stick a knife in your back when you’re not looking.’

‘They are our friends,’ said Gallia sternly.

‘It’s true, lord,’ I said. ‘Prince Malik, the son of the Agraci king, comes often to Dura and has travelled with me to Hatra.’

Balas shook his head. ‘We live in strange times.’

My father had said nothing during this intercourse, adding only. ‘We certainly do.’

Esfahan was a beautiful city, located directly south of the Zagros Mountains and built on both sides of the River Zayandey. Surrounded by a high circuit wall of yellow sandstone, it had squares towers at regular intervals along its whole perimeter. Access was via four gates located at the four points of the compass, all of which led to the city’s massive central square, a space of grass that was normally filled with traders every day but which for the Council of Kings had been cleared. In place of the market stalls and animal pens was a large circular tent at least three times the height of a man.

Esfahan was a sprawling city with very few tall buildings, its streets wide and airy. The northerly breeze that came from the mountains was refreshing and had the added advantage of dispelling the stench of humans and animals that infested even the grandest of cities. An armed escort from the garrison — spearmen dressed in bright yellow tunics, baggy red leggings and open-faced helmets, met us at the western gates. They carried wicker shields, long daggers in sheaths on their belts and wore brown leather shoes that rose to a point at the toes. Their long hair was plaited like Gallia’s when she rode to war, though unlike her they had yellow ribbons in their plaits. Their beards were also plaited and each man wore two gold earrings. They certainly looked pretty — even their oval-shaped spear blades were polished bright, glinting when they caught the sun’s rays. Beside them we must have looked a sorry sight, our clothes and faces covered in dust and our horses weary — in need of a good groom.

The guards’ commander, a tall man in his thirties with gold rings on his fingers, saluted. ‘Majesties, welcome to Esfahan. If you would care to follow me I will show you to your quarters.’

Esfahan was bustling, its streets filled with traders, customers, mystics, holy men, beggars and soldiers of the garrison. There was no king or ruler of Esfahan; rather, a council of elders who were drawn from the most influential members of the aristocracy. The council numbered eighteen to mirror the number of kings in the empire — though technically there were now nineteen upon my accession to Dura’s throne. In the old days each king had sent his own man to sit on the council, but after time this had lapsed and the council was drawn from those who lived in the city itself. It jealousy guarded its reputation as a place that favoured no one faction, and its remote location, thick walls and large garrison acted as deterrents should anyone wish to attack it. Not that anyone did, for its great distance from any other city of significance meant that it was largely forgotten, though it formed an important part of the Silk Road. As we had travelled east to the city I had observed in wonder the mass of traffic on the road — the living lifeblood of the empire.

But now there was much excitement in the city, not least because the Council of Kings was such an unusual event on account of the last one having taken place over fifty years before. My party was met at the gates of a villa by its steward, a dark-skinned man in his fifties who had a long black beard and who was dressed in an immaculate white robe with cuffs edged in silver. He had long fingers and his nails were painted red, which earned him a frown from Domitus.

‘Greetings, King Pacorus.’

Each of the kings was shown to his own villa — large two-story buildings surrounded by walls and guarded by a detachment of the garrison. Inside the compounds were stables, luxurious private apartments overlooking a marbled courtyard complete with central fountains, the whole residence surrounded by well-tended gardens. A small army of gardeners, kitchen hands, grooms and house slaves kept each villa spotless and the gardens immaculate. Our horses were taken from us to the stables where they were unsaddled, groomed, fed and watered. We were shown to our rooms on the second floor of the villa, each one adorned with enamelled tile floors, doors inlaid with gold leaf and ivory, plaster walls painted with mythical beasts and a large bed over which hung a canopy of the finest white linen. Twin cedar doors led on to a spacious balcony framed by two marble columns, with another pair of columns directly below. The corridors and entrance hall of the villa were adorned with yellow and blue tapestries.

After we had washed and changed into new clothes, an invitation arrived from the residence of my father for Gallia and me to dine with him. It was early evening before we arrived at his residence. Like ours it was a well-appointed villa surrounded by a high brick wall. Guards paced up and down outside the gates and around the wall; clearly the city elders were taking no chances when it came to the security of their royal guests. We were not the first to arrive, for in the large dining hall were already seated Farhad, his son Atrax, Aschek, Vardan, his daughter Axsen and Gotarzes. They all rose when we entered, and Gallia immediately went to Axsen and embraced her as we took our places at the table. Moments later Balas arrived, complaining that he was too old to be dragged from his couch after a hard day’s ride.