Thunder of the Gods (44 page)

He sat alongside the once more recumbent Osroes, pulling the hood of his cloak down over his head and, it seemed, falling asleep almost immediately. With a final spurt from the oarsmen, the
Night Witch
left the last of the ruins behind her, columns and shattered walls almost invisible against the sky as dusk deepened into night, and Marcus stared back over the ship’s stern with a thoughtful expression.

‘You chose not to wake me, I see?’

Marcus shrugged at the big Parthian.

‘You asked to be alerted if we passed anything of interest. Are you especially interested in fishing villages?’

Gurgen grinned at him.

‘And it saved you having to bind me again.’

‘Quite so. Although if you’d asked nicely I would happily have put you ashore to spend the rest of your days eating fish and making little warriors with the local women.’

The nobleman shook his head, raising a hand in mock terror.

‘Spare me! A few days of untroubled wenching perhaps, but a lifetime?’

Marcus grinned back at him.

‘Quite so.’

‘So, master of my destiny, where are we now?’

The Roman stretched his weary body, pointing back up the river.

‘Back there is Sirhi, the last Parthian outpost on the river before we re-enter imperial territory—’

‘This is the Euphrates?’

The smile broadened a little.

‘Yes. After our encounter with the spirits of long-dead Assyrians at dusk last night, the crew kept rowing for much longer than seemed likely. And the Khabur was running faster than any of them has ever seen before, doubtless something to do with the huge amount of rainwater that has fallen across the mountains to the north. So, whatever the reason, we passed through Sirhi before dawn, not that there was much to see, and we’ll reach Dura soon enough.’

The desert fortress stood high on an escarpment above the river’s western bank, and Gurgen stared up at its high walls with thinly disguised irritation.

‘Everywhere on our empire’s borders with Rome we are confronted by naked force. Do you wonder that men like Narsai dream of taking your boot off our throat?’

Marcus nodded equably enough.

‘I understand. Just as I’m sure you know that this was a Parthian fortress, until the present King of Kings started the war that led to its capture.’

‘And having taken it from us, you keep it for no better reason than its position astride a major trade route. Palmyra is a hundred miles that way …’ He pointed to the west. ‘Which means that your empire takes two bites at the caravans before their goods can enter Roman territory.’

‘We probably also keep it because we’re quite attached to Palmyra, I’d imagine, since the crossing here is equally as passable to your cataphracts as it is to baggage animals.’

The two men fell quiet as the
Night Witch
coasted up to the city’s stone wharf, the exhausted sailors slumping at their benches as dock workers tied the boat to the quayside. An official came bustling along the wharf in high dudgeon, raising a hand to point at the disreputable-looking craft.

‘You can’t just turn up and moor up, you scruffy shower of—’

He took a step back as Marcus turned to face him, taking in the young Roman’s bronze breastplate and deliberately aristocratic mien.

‘Ah … my apologies … Tribune?’

Marcus nodded brusquely.

‘Tribulus Corvus, Third Gallic.’

‘The Third? You’re a long way from home sir. I—’

‘Quite. And you are?’

‘A humble slave, Tribune, dockyard overseer. I report to—’

‘Fetch him, please, whoever he is. I need this vessel resupplying with food and water, and I need a doctor immediately. There are wounded men aboard.’

Gurgen grinned at him as the slave turned tail and hurried away.

‘You know how to treat your underlings, I see.’

The Roman pulled a face.

‘It’s not to my taste, I have to say, but there’s no time to be lost. And no …’

He turned to face Tertius, who was hovering expectantly behind him.

‘You cannot give the crew leave to go ashore, nor do you personally need to go up into the fortress for supplies or equipment of any nature. The local whores will doubtless manage well enough without your custom, and not only do your men need a few hours’ sleep, but were we unwise enough to allow them off this vessel, I don’t expect we’d see half of them again.’

When the doctor arrived he took one look at the sailor with the wrecked foot and ordered him to be carried away to the fortress’s infirmary.

‘I’ll have a proper look at that horrible mess later, although there’s probably not much I can do for him other than keep it clean and give it time to heal the best it can. Now, what have we here?’

He squatted down alongside the uncomplaining Lugos, pulling a thoughtful face as he unwrapped the bandage that Martos had put around his thigh the previous afternoon.

‘You’re a big bastard, aren’t you? Thracian?’

‘Briton.’

The deep rumbling reply caused him to raised his eyebrows again as he bent to sniff the wound.

‘Smells sweet enough to me. Let’s have that arrow out, shall we?’

He worked quickly, first pushing in the curved blades that would prevent the arrow’s barbs from snagging the flesh inside the wound, then positioning a pair of hooked blades over them ready for the extraction.

‘Ready, big man?’

‘Ready.’

Marcus nodded his appreciation as the medic smoothly drew the arrowhead from his friend’s thigh, the Briton’s jaw clenching at the pain as the pocket in his flesh was forced wider to allow for its removal.

‘It’s usual to pack the wound with honey once the missile has been removed, but I have a preference for one small variation on that method.’ He reached into his pack and drew out a small bottle. ‘Vinegar. It’ll hurt.’ The Briton stared back at him impassively. ‘But it seems to clean the wound out better than anything else. My father used it, and so do I, if you’re willing?’

Lugos nodded, and the doctor clapped him on the shoulder, pulling a short length of wood from the bag and handing it to him.

‘Good man. Here, bite on this and it’ll be over before you know it.’

The Briton positioned the sawn-off piece of spear shaft between his teeth, biting down experimentally as the medic uncorked the bottle and positioned it over the wound.

‘Ready?’

A nod was his only reply, and with a quick jerk of his wrist he doused the wound with the pungent brown fluid. Lugos’s entire body convulsed with the sudden agony as the sour wine mercilessly stung his raw flesh, his biceps swelling like melons as he rode the pain, snarling as he bit down hard into the wooden shaft. As the pain lessened the Briton’s eyes opened and he took the wood from his mouth, handing it to the doctor who stared at it in bemusement, his eyes widening at the deep gouges torn in the wood by his patient’s massive jaw.

‘I don’t think that’s going to be much use to anyone else …’

Tossing it over the side, he spooned honey into the wound, then wadded and bandaged the big man’s thigh.

‘I’ll have some linen sent down. Make sure you change the dressing once a day until it’s completely scabbed over, and the patient is to avoid physical exertion that might reopen the wound until the scab drops off.’

As he walked off the ship, a man in his late twenties wearing a bronze chest plate like Marcus’s arrived on the quayside, deliberately waiting until the young tribune walked up the gangplank to greet him.

‘Tribune Corvus?’

Marcus nodded, taking the offered hand.

‘I’m Porcius, Legatus commanding the Sixth Ironclad.’

He acknowledged the younger man’s crisp salute with a wave of his hand.

‘Here with a five-cohort detachment of my men, which makes me responsible for the security of this outpost. This is a very sensitive and commercially important fortress, Tribune, which Governor Dexter believes merits the presence of a legion commander and half its strength to safeguard the trade route to Palmyra and ensure that the Parthians don’t try to get clever with this particular frontier. And now here
you
are, with no warning, in a vessel painted black, which I’m told you’ve sailed here from Nisibis. When I found Nisibis on the map I was intrigued to discover that it’s over two hundred miles from here, up a tributary of the Khabur river that isn’t even marked as navigable. You’ve landed wounded, requested supplies and, I’m told, you intend to continue down river until you run into Parthian forces.’

He raised an eyebrow at Marcus.

‘So, would you care to enlighten me as to why I shouldn’t have you detained as a risk to peace and stability in the border area?’

Martos watched as the two men talked, smiling to himself as the detachment’s commander followed Marcus’s pointing hand and looked down at the sleeping figure of King Osroes with a startled expression.

‘Gods below! That’s the King of Media? The King of Kings’ son?’

Porcius shook his head in wide-eyed amazement.

‘And you’ve got him lying on the bare boards of a river barge? Surely …’

He fell silent as Marcus raised an apologetic hand.

‘With all due respect, Legatus, this man has led a deliberate invasion of Osrhoene, and his ally, the king of Adiabene, has laid siege to Nisibis with the clear intention of expelling Rome from a possession ceded to the empire as the consequence of our beating them in a war for which we weren’t responsible. My legatus has ordered me—’

‘Your legatus? Which legion?’

‘Legatus Scaurus, commander of the Third Gallic.’

‘I thought my colleague, Magius Lateranus, commanded the Third. Scaurus … The name seems familiar, but that’s not a family name I recognise as senatorial.’

Marcus nodded crisply.

‘The legatus is a member of the equestrian order, sir.’

‘An equestrian, commanding a legion? Whose fool idea was …’

He fell silent at the sight of the younger man’s grim smile.

‘The appointment was made by the emperor, Legatus. I believe it was suggested by the imperial chamberlain, as a reward for services rendered with regard to matters concerning the praetorian prefect and a charge of treason.’

Gauging that he’d said enough he stopped talking, watching as his words sank in.

‘I see. And your orders are …?’

‘To take this man to Ctesiphon. Legatus Scaurus hopes that this intercession will provoke the King of Kings to call off the army laying siege to Nisibis, and restore peace to the Syrian frontier.’

Porcius shook his head.

‘From the little I know about their imperial court politics, I’d say that’s a slim hope. King Arsaces isn’t really in control of the empire, it seems.’ He shrugged. ‘But, if you’re acting under the command of a fellow legion commander, and a well-connected man to boot, it’s not my place to put obstacles in your way. Your vessel will be resupplied shortly and I’ll provide you with a safe conduct to show the centurion in command at the next fort down river.’

He raised an eyebrow at Marcus.

‘Have a care though. He might not be quite as impressed by your legatus’s connections as I am.’

‘At least they’ve stopped felling trees.’

Scaurus nodded, staring out over the Parthian lines to the north. At the edge of visibility he could just make out a camp of tents clustered around the spot where the Mygdonius emerged from the foothills that fed it.

‘It has to be a dam. Why else would they be felling trees there?’

Petronius shook his head in equal bemusement.

‘Agreed. But why? I can only think that they don’t know we’ve got enough spring capacity within the walls to provide more than enough fresh water for every man, woman and child in the city.’

‘The only way we’ll find out is to put a man in that camp. And that’s …’

The prefect shook his head again grimly.

‘Impossible. They may not be able to break down the walls, but we’re not going anywhere until this siege is raised.’

Both men looked out at the force surrounding Nisibis, and the encircling trenches that had been dug just outside of bolt-thrower range. The river’s path through the Parthian forces to the south had been barred with tree trunks set in the riverbank on either side of the route the
Night Witch
had used to make her escape. Petronius sighed and turned to look over the city behind them.

‘No, either Narsai gets bored and rides away …’

Scaurus gestured to the scene on the plain before them.

‘Which looks unlikely. I’d say he’s settling in for a long siege.’

‘Or someone else comes along and tells him to desist. I think we’re going to be here for a while.’

Tertius looked out over the
Night Witch
’s bow with a grim expression, spitting into the water that was relentlessly driving the vessel ever deeper into Parthian territory. Another day’s voyage had taken them past the last Roman fort on the Euphrates, and the master was clearly troubled at the impending moment of their surrender to the enemy.

‘You’re still sure you want to do this, Tribune?’

Marcus turned a wry smile on Tertius.

‘Starting to wonder how the Parthians will treat you?’

The sailor nodded.

‘The thought had crossed my mind. The crew’s wondering more than a little bit too.’

Gurgen stood up from his place beside Osroes.

‘I’d say you’ve little to lose, and much to gain.’

Both men turned to look at him, the sailor bowing his head slightly.

‘How might that be, if I might ask?’

The Parthian grinned wolfishly.

‘Have you ever bedded a Parthian woman?’

Tertius shook his head. ‘Once had a couple of whores who said they were Parthian. Their pimp promised me the pleasures of the exotic east.’

‘And?’

‘One of them pulled me off while the other tickled my arse with a feather. I told him I didn’t find it all that exotic, once I’d broken his nose and taken my money back.’

‘Ah …’

The sailor stared at him for a moment.

‘Ah?’

Gurgen smiled at him.

‘I’m sorry. I was simply reflecting on the pleasures that lie just around that bend in the river.’