Parthian Dawn (4 page)

‘Your troops look splendid, Lord Kogan,’ I remarked as behind us my mother, father and the wedding guests filed out of the temple.

‘Thank you, majesty.’ His voice was crisp and emotionless.

It was past noon now and the day was hot, the sun beating down from a blue sky. There was no wind and even though I was wearing only white flowing robes, I could feel sweat running down the back of my neck. I looked at the soldiers sanding like stone either side of us. They must have been roasting under their helmets and in their leather cuirasses.

The banqueting hall of the palace was a spacious, airy room with a high ceiling supported by stone pillars. White marble tiles covered the floor and the walls were also white, against which stood more of Kogan’s soldiers. At the far end of the hall was the high table for the bride, groom and their immediate families. In front of the high table, which sat on a stone dais, were arranged the feasting tables for the hundreds of guests that were now being shown to their seats as servants served us sweet wine. My father, a gold crown atop his close-cropped head, bent down and kissed Gallia on her cheek, as did my mother, who also wore a crown. As the level of chatter increased, people took their seats and were also served wine. My Companions sat either side of a long table that had been arranged directly in front of me, at right angles to the high table. My father and Assur had disapproved strongly to their being placed in such a prominent position in the seating order, but I had insisted. These were the individuals I had fought beside, shared dangers with and counted as my dearest friends. I smiled as I looked at them: long-haired Thracians and Germans, wild-looking Dacians, leather-skinned Greeks, Parthians from Hatra and the feared Amazons, all of whom had earlier walked onto the dais, ignored my father and embraced Gallia warmly, each one warning me that I had better protect her otherwise I would have them to answer to. My mother sat open-mouthed at their contempt for protocol, the more so when they also embraced Diana, for she too was one of this strange sisterhood. And then they sat with the rest of the Companions, former slaves who now took precedence over Parthian kings and aristocrats.

The banquet lasted hours as a horde of sweating servants brought the guests silver platters heaped with cooked lamb, chicken, camel, goat, stews flavoured with cinnamon, mint and pomegranates; elaborately stuffed fruits and vegetables; skewers of barbecued peacock; apricots, artichokes, eggplants, lemons, oranges, pistachios and spinach. Others filled silver cups with wine or water, and as the former flowed freely the volume of chatter increased markedly. My father and mother fussed over Gallia, while a steady procession of guests made their way to the top table to pay their respects to her and myself. Courteous to me, they focused all their attention on my bride who looked radiant and was clearly enjoying herself. I had seen Gallia wear a stern and cold visage on the battlefield, but today she was carefree and inviting, quick to laugh and eager to return the affection of those who were introduced to her. I could only watch and admire her, and swell with pride as I saw her conquer those kings, my father’s closest allies, who had made the journey to be at our wedding.

Parthia was a great empire made up of a number of separate kingdoms, but each of the kings who ruled those kingdoms realised that there was strength in unity, and so they elected a King of Kings to rule over them and the whole empire. In this way the empire remained strong in the face of its external enemies, such as the Armenians to the north, the Romans in the west and the Indians in the east. The aged King of Kings Sinatruces rarely left his capital at Ctesiphon. His son, King Phraates, had made the journey to Hatra in his father’s place. He now stood before us and bowed his head. We stood and bowed to him.

‘Thank you for honouring our wedding, majesty,’ I said.

He smiled, white teeth showing in the middle of his neatly trimmed short beard and moustache flecked with grey, like his shoulder-length black hair.

‘The honour is mine, Pacorus. Much has happened since we first met, and now you have brought a beautiful bride from a foreign land to grace the empire.’ He suddenly looked sheepish. ‘My father sends his regards and hopes you both have long and prosperous lives.’

His eyes averted mine. He was obviously embarrassed that Sinatruces, after Gallia and I had arrived at Hatra from Italy, had lured us both to Ctesiphon with the sole intention of stealing Gallia from me and making her one of his concubines. He had sought to assuage my wrath by making me king of Dura Europos, but his plan had unravelled, not least due to the threats of eternal damnation heaped upon him by his foul old sorceress, Dobbai. The upshot had been that I still had my beloved but had also come away from Ctesiphon with a kingdom.

‘Majesty,’ I replied, ‘your father is both gracious and wise, and the empire is indeed fortunate that he rules over us all.’

The answer obviously dispelled any discomfort Phraates may have felt, for a wide grin showed itself beneath his bulbous nose.

Behind Phraates came King Aschek of Atropaiene, a land many miles northeast of Hatra that bordered the Caspian Sea. He had thick, black wavy hair and a hooked nose. King Farhad, lean, severe and dark-eyed, came next. He ruled Media, a land to the southwest of Atropaiene that also lay on Hatra’s eastern border, on the eastern bank of the River Tigris. King Gotarzes of Elymais was similarly stern looking, though his gaunt features resembled a worn-out scholar rather than those of a warlord. However, his eyes were alert and his grip formidable. Elymais was a kingdom that lay to the east of Hatra’s lands, the western border of which lay on the coastline of the Persian Gulf. It was also directly south of Phraates’ own kingdom of Susiana.

King Vardan, by comparison, was barrel-chested and round faced, with a hearty laugh and hands like a bear’s paws. He almost crushed me as he wrapped his arms around me in an iron embrace, grabbed Gallia’s hands and kissed them, then embraced my father. Vardan ruled Babylon, once a mighty city but now fallen into decay, though the kingdom’s lands were still rich in agriculture and supported a large population. Vardan had brought with him his daughter, Axsen, a woman about my age who unfortunately resembled her father in appearance, being rather sturdy. Years ago, before my destiny took me to Italy and Gallia’s side, there had been talk of a marriage between Princess Axsen and myself. Those plans had come to nothing, but much mirth had been had at the princess’s expense. We had called her Princess Water Buffalo, and I was now ashamed that I had been so cruel. She embraced Gallia and then me, and was plainly happy to be sharing our day. She told Gallia that she looked beautiful and that she would like to be her friend. My wife took her hand and promised that she would be, while all the time I could feel my cheeks colour. She told Gallia that she was still looking for her own prince, and my discomfort increased. When Axsen and her father had regained their seats I sighed with relief, thinking my embarrassment had gone unnoticed. I was wrong. Gallia jabbed me in the ribs.

‘I remember, long ago in Italy, you, Gafarn and Nergal taking great delight in making fun of that young girl.’

I tried to bluff it out. ‘Do you? I don’t really remember…’

She jabbed me even harder. ‘Don’t try to squirm out of it. I saw you avoiding her eyes. I think she is charming, and you should be ashamed of yourself for your childishness.’

‘Yes, my love.’

She caught Gafarn’s eye. ‘And you too, Gafarn.’

My brother looked at her, then me, in confusion. I pointed at Axsen and then shrugged. I think he was going to laugh, but then saw the disapproval on Gallia’s face. He looked down at his plate and began picking at his food.

King Balas was the last monarch to pay his respects. Sixty if he was a day, he had a kind, round face with hazel eyes and a bushy beard and moustache. He was dressed in a simple light blue robe and plain leather sandals on his feet. He could easily have been mistaken for a carpet salesman rather than a king. Balas ruled Gordyene, a kingdom on Parthia’s northeastern frontier, bordering Armenia. I knew he had been a great warrior years ago, and had defeated the Armenians many times, plus anyone else who had been foolish enough to invade his territory. He embraced me.

I bowed my head to him. ‘Thank you for honouring my wedding, majesty.’

‘You don’t have to call me majesty, Pacorus, you’re a king as well.’ He looked at Gallia.

‘Make an old man happy.’ He embraced her and then kissed her on the cheek, which made my mother frown and my father laugh. He next embraced my father and then bent over the table and kissed my mother on the lips.

‘You are still my sweetheart, Mihri.’

For once my mother blushed and was lost for words and then waved Balas away, suppressing a grin as she did so. He came back to me.

‘As I’m staying in Hatra for a few days, you must tell me how you managed to win the heart of such a beauty.’ He winked at Gallia.

‘Varaz, perhaps we can have an archery competition. You can try and win back that money you lost to me the last time we pitted our bows against each other.’

My father raised his cup. ‘I look forward to it.’

‘Is the competition open to all?’ asked Gallia.

Balas eyed her. ‘Can you handle a bow?’

‘Better than Pacorus, majesty,’ said Gafarn.

Balas threw back his head and laughed. ‘Looks like we have some competition, Varaz. I look forward to seeing if what they say about you is true, Gallia. What about you, Pacorus, are you in?’

I shrugged. ‘I will take no pleasure in beating you, majesty.’

He slapped me hard on the shoulder. ‘We’ll see about that.’

It was a happy occasion, as were the days that followed, a time of laughter and joy, of new friendships made and old ones reaffirmed. All thoughts of the outside world receded from my mind as I walked arm in arm with Gallia in the royal gardens, among strutting peacocks and ornamental fountains.

‘We could stay here, you know,’ I said as we stood on a narrow bridge watching the giant goldfish gently swim in one of the ornamental ponds below.

‘Stay here, in Hatra?’

I leaned back on the stone rail and gazed at her. ‘Why not? You like it here, do you not?’

She kissed me tenderly on the lips. ‘I could be happy here, but you have your own kingdom to rule now. What would happen to it if you stayed here?’

‘No doubt Sinatruces would give it to someone else.’

‘But he gave it to you, Pacorus,’ she said softly. ‘What do you want?’

I grabbed her by the waist and pulled her close. ‘I want you.’

‘You have me forever, you know that. But it is time for you to move on. There is an old saying among my people — you can never step in the same piece of water twice.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means, my love, that you have outgrown Hatra and can never go back to your youth. It is time to spread your wings.’

I pressed my body into hers. ‘I never knew you were a philosopher.’

‘If you take me back to your bedroom I will show you how a philosopher makes love.’ Her voice was sultry and my loins stirred at her invitation.

And so the days passed making love and sharing time with friends. Balas did not forget the archery competition, and so my father arranged for a target to be set up in the gardens, a large round bale of straw packed tight and covered with hide. On the front had been painted a number of rings with a small black circle in the centre. Set on a wooden stand, the target was chest high. A score of servants arranged tables upon which were placed jugs of wine, cups, and platters of meats, bread and fruit. Balas was in a mischievous mood and had gathered a group of supporters to cheer him on. These included my mother and sisters, King Farhad of Media, his son Atrax, who was more cheerful than his stern father though just as tall, King Vardan of Babylon, Princess Axsen and Diana. I competed against Gallia, Balas, my father and Gafarn.

Balas took a large gulp of wine and stood before those assembled.

‘Welcome everyone. Now today I am going to give a demonstration of archery to show how it should be done. Obviously I will win, so this competition is to determine who will come second. Has everyone got a bow to shoot?’

A Parthian’s bow was one of his most precious possessions. And all Parthia’s aristocrats and royalty learned how to shoot one from an early age, most before they could walk.

I held up my bow and nodded to Balas. Like all Parthian bows, ours were double-curved, with recurve tips at the end of the upper and lower limbs, and a set-back centre section that was grasped by the left hand. The limbs, thick in proportion to their width, were fashioned from several pieces of maple, birch or mulberry, with sinew from the hamstrings or tendons of cows or deer on the outside of the limbs, and horn from a buffalo, long-horned cow or ibex on their inner side. All the parts were fastened to each other with glue made from bitumen, bark pitch and animal grease. The whole bow was then wrapped in fibres made from the tendons of slaughtered animals to protect it from the elements. The bows of my father and Balas were covered in lacquer to make them totally waterproof. Gallia, Gafarn and I had bows that had no lacquer covering, which came from China, because we had made our bows in Italy when we had fought with Spartacus.

‘Shall we put the target at fifty paces, Varaz?’ Balas asked my father.

‘You sure you can see that far, old man?’

‘Old man?’ Balas turned to my mother and feigned mortification. ‘Do you hear that, Mihri? He uses any opportunity to insult me, I who have been like a father to him all these years.’

Balas may have been old, but he was still a big, thickset man and his arms were still muscular.

A group of servants hauled the target into position and then scampered away.

‘Well,
father
,’ said my father, ‘you can shoot first.’

We all hit the target with ease, a servant holding up a small red flag to indicate a centre hit; a white flag denoted a strike outside the bull’s eye, and a green flag a hit on the target’s outer edge. All the flags were red, so the target was moved back another twenty-five paces.