Carrhae

Chapter 14

The commander of my horse archers was most unhappy that we were going to Syria and even more melancholic that we would be meeting Crassus. Vagises was an excellent officer and a valued Companion but one who saw no purpose in talking to the Romans. He had been with me since that fateful expedition into Cappadocia all those years ago when we had been young and foolish and had gotten ourselves captured and shipped to Italy as slaves. I am sure that he thought the whole thing was a Roman ruse to recapture us.

‘How can it be a trap?’ I asked him. ‘It was Orodes who suggested that I meet with Crassus.’

Vagises did not reply but stared ahead as our horses trotted across the border where a detachment of Roman horsemen waited to escort us to Antioch some eighty miles to the west. As we crossed the frontier between the Kingdom of Dura and Roman Syria I caught sight of a gladius set in a stone base next to a kontus. It was at this spot where I had met the Roman general Pompey and where our two armies had faced each other, ready to do battle. Instead we had agreed a truce and he had thrust a sword into the earth to delineate where Roman Syria ended. I had plunged a kontus into the ground beside it to mark the northern extent of my own border and thus had part of the frontier between the empires of Rome and Parthia been fixed, at least until now. Afterwards the two weapons had been mounted on a four-sided stone base, the side facing east being inscribed ‘Kingdom of Dura’, the one facing west bearing the words ‘Romana Syria’. Vagises saw me looking at the monument.

‘I remember that day, when you faced down Pompey and his legions. That is the only language the Romans understand.’ He spat on the ground as we passed into Syria.

‘Bastard Romans.’

‘I trust I can depend on your discretion when we arrive at Antioch,’ I said.

‘I will conduct myself according to my rank, Pacorus. I will not give the Romans the satisfaction of thinking that Parthians are uncouth, much as I would like to.’

He looked behind him at Spartacus and Scarab.

‘It was a mistake bringing Spartacus,’ he said softly, ‘if Crassus gets wind that the son of the slave leader is with us he will have him thrown into a cell.’

He really was in a foul mood.

‘If Crassus was like that,’ I reasoned, ‘then he would have arrested me when I travelled to his house in Rome twenty years ago. The Romans may be many things but they are sticklers for the rule of law and they will not violate the safe passage that we have been granted.’

He mumbled something that I could not hear and then lapsed into a surly silence as our escort rode up and its commander, a man in his early thirties with olive skin and a thick black beard, bowed his head to me. He was obviously Syrian and commanded a detachment of horsemen who were serving the Romans as auxiliaries. His name was Bayas.

‘I am here to escort you to Antioch, majesty,’ he said in Greek.

Like most of the population of Syria he was probably descended from either the Greek or Macedonian settlers who had arrived in the province in the aftermath of its conquest by Alexander of Macedon. Before then Syria had been ruled by the Persians and before them it had been home to the Egyptians, Sumerians, Assyrians, Babylonians and Hittites. And now it was ruled by Rome.

Bayas led fifty horsemen, all dressed in long-sleeved brown tunics, protected by leather cuirasses painted white, and baggy white leggings. On their heads they wore so-called Phrygian caps. Hanging from the horns of their saddles were small round shields, which were made from laminated strips of wood glued together, with bronze around the circumference to prevent them from splitting in a fight. Covered in white-painted hide, they were designed to stop a sword blow or arrow strike. Each horseman was armed with short javelins that he carried in a case dangling from his saddle and a longer thrusting spear designed for the mêlée. I wondered how many other similar horsemen Crassus had raised thus far?

Bayas was agreeable enough and I did not bother to pester him with questions concerning where he was based or the size of the unit he was attached to. Byrd’s spies in Syria would be able to provide that information when the time came.

We moved west at a steady pace of twenty miles each day, riding on paved roads and watering our horses at wells that had been sunk beside them. Syria had been a Roman province for over ten years now and the evidence of its new masters was all around. The roads were not only efficient transportation systems; they were also statements of power. It was not only traders and their goods that travelled over their smooth slabs but also the hobnailed sandals of Roman legions marching to conquer foreign lands. It always amused me that Roman horsemen had to ride on the verges either side of the road whereas my horsemen could ride on the smooth flagstones because our mounts wore iron shoes. How I would have liked to see such roads criss-crossing my kingdom and indeed the empire but the cost was colossal. Underneath the slabs was a layer of gravel and sand with lime cement, and beneath that a layer of rubble and smaller stones set in lime mortar. The base layer comprised flat stones also set in lime mortar, and beside the roads were drainage channels so that rainwater could run off.

Syria had always been a rich region, with intensive irrigation systems to water the fields, and the Romans had been fortunate in that its population had always been subject to taxation. It had thus been relatively easy for them to exact taxes from their new province as a network of officials was already in place. All they had to do was employ them to collect taxes on behalf of Rome. And as time went on Roman weights, measures and coinage replaced their Greek equivalents and Latin became the legal language of the province.

The journey to Antioch was uneventful, though Vagises’ humour did not improve and he insisted on extra guards around the camp each night. Mostly we pitched our tents near a village and Bayas negotiated with the headman so that Vagises and I could use the village bathhouse for relaxation after a day’s riding. As we travelled nearer to Antioch the villages became larger and were surrounded by drained marshes and dams. We also saw legionaries working in details organising the construction of qanats — underground irrigational canals — that brought water to the surface to irrigate the land. Syria was certainly thriving that much was certain. Bayas told me that the Romans provided the engineering skills of the legions to towns and villages for free, which somewhat surprised me.

‘The Romans’ tax system is based on the harvest of farmlands, majesty,’ he explained, ‘so the more crops that are harvested the more taxes they collect. Very clever.’

The plain that we travelled through before we reached Antioch had red soil and was filled with olive orchards. The slopes of the high hills that surrounded it were also covered in olive trees and oaks. The land was green and fertile and as we continued and came to the Orontes River I saw an abundance of vineyards, fig trees, myrtle, ilex, arbutus, dwarf oak and sycamore. The Orontes had deep and swift waters with which to irrigate the land and it wound its way round the bases of high and precipitous cliffs before entering the Mediterranean Sea that was some thirty miles away.

We rounded a bend in the road and were confronted by dozens of Roman horsemen around three hundred paces away. I instinctively raised my hand to signal a halt and then reached behind me to pull my bow from its case hanging from one of the rear horns of my saddle. Vagises did the same and shouted ‘ready!’ as ahead the Romans made no attempt to move.

From smiling and looking relaxed Bayas’ face registered alarm.

‘No danger, majesty,’ he stuttered, ‘it is a guard of honour to welcome you to Antioch.’

I already had an arrow knocked in my bowstring and when I glanced behind I saw that every one of my horsemen had done likewise.

‘Stand down,’ I shouted, placing the arrow in my quiver before sliding the bow back into its case. Vagises sneered at the stationary Romans and did the same as Bayas galloped forward to greet the new arrivals.

‘I don’t like this,’ growled Vagises, who had finally begun to relax and accept that he was probably not going to be murdered in his sleep. I noticed the new Roman horsemen had no spears, continuing to sit motionless in their saddles, hands holding their reins as they gazed at us. Bayas halted in front of a man I assumed was the officer in charge. Some of the Roman horses were grazing.

‘I do not think they are about to charge us, Vagises,’ I said, nudging Remus forward, ‘so it would be bad manners to shoot at them, do you not think?’

He grumbled a reply and then joined me as behind us our Syrian hosts and my horse archers rode ahead to meet the Romans. We had moved forward around fifty paces when Bayas wheeled his horse around and began trotting back to us accompanied by a Roman officer. I raised my hand to signal a halt and waited for them to arrive.

The Roman commander, whose face was hidden behind his large closed cheekguards, sported a magnificent red crest atop his burnished helmet, and as he closed on us and brought his horse to a halt I saw that like me he was also wearing a muscled leather cuirass, but it made mine look a poor article indeed. It was white and sported silver griffins on the chest with a candelabra between the mythical beasts and surmounted by a gold gorgon. Below the candelabra was a golden she-wolf suckling Romulus and Remus, the founders of the city of Rome. He wore pteruges at the shoulders and waist whose ends were decorated with gorgon motifs. Whoever this Roman was he was certainly wealthy.

He removed his helmet and handed it to Bayas, then clasped his clenched right fist to his chest. Broad shouldered with a handsome face, square jaw and a full head of brown hair, I estimated his age to be around thirty. He fixed me with his piercing brown eyes.

‘Greetings, King Pacorus, I am Publius Licinius Crassus, Praefectus Alae in Syria.’

So this was Crassus’ son and the men he led were presumably some of the horsemen he had brought with him from Gaul. I too removed my helmet and handed it to Vagises, whose hand was resting on the pommel of his sword. I frowned at him to show my disapproval of his gesture and so he let his hands rest on the front of his saddle.

‘Greetings Publius Licinius Crassus,’ I replied, ‘I am pleased to meet you. You have the same title as another commander of horse named Mark Antony that I had the honour of meeting.’

‘He has returned to Italy, sir.’

That was something at least. I held out a hand towards Vagises.

‘This is Vagises, the commander of my horse archers.’

Publius stared at the white uniformed horsemen behind us.

‘They are a fine body of soldiers.’

‘We have a lot more of them in Parthia,’ said Vagises with barely concealed contempt.

‘Would you care to inspect my men, sir?’ Publius asked me.

I nodded and rode forward with him as trumpets sounded and his soldiers sat erect in their saddles. Each man was dressed in a red short-sleeved tunic, light brown breeches that ended just below the knees and open sandals on his feet. Mail shirt, sword, helmet and oval shield completed his appearance. I had to admit that they were a fine body of men.

Afterwards he rode beside me as a detachment of his men trotted ahead of us and the rest fell in behind my horse archers. Bayas and his men were unceremoniously relegated to the rear of the column. Publius was in a talkative mood and so we discussed his journey from Gaul, my encounter with Mark Antony and the recent civil war in Parthia.

‘I remember seeing you when I was a boy, sir,’ he said.

I was most surprised. ‘Really?’

‘Yes, when you visited my father’s house in Rome during the slave revolt. A man from the east riding a white horse.’

He looked at Remus.

‘Is he the same horse, sir?’

I patted Remus on the neck. ‘Yes. Remus and I are old friends.’

‘It is most strange that a Parthian should ride a horse named after one of the founders of Rome.’

‘That was his name when I found him,’ I replied, ‘and it would have been unfair to give him another one.’

He looked sheepishly at me. ‘In Rome parents invoke your name to put fear into their children when they misbehave. They say that the Parthian on his white horse will come and kidnap them if they are not virtuous.’

I laughed. ‘I did not realise I had made such an impression.’

‘The slave revolt made a lasting impression on all Italy, sir. I have heard rumours that Spartacus escaped with you and now lives in Parthia.’

‘Spartacus died in the Silarus Valley,’ I told him. ‘I watched his body being cremated the day after the battle.’

I did not say that Spartacus’ son was riding a few paces behind us out of earshot and diplomatically avoided bringing up the subject of his father having crucified six thousand slaves along the Appian Way.

I rode beside Publius on the verge while my men trotted over the road’s stone slabs. There was no other traffic on the road, which led me to believe that it had been cleared for our benefit, an opinion that was confirmed when we rounded a bend and the city of Antioch came into view. And in front of it, arranged each side of the road for a distance of at least a half a mile from the walls, were Roman legionaries standing to attention. It was an impressive display of military might. Each man was attired in bronze helmet, mail shirt, red tunic and sandals and armed with a pilum, gladius, dagger and scutum.

Behind the Roman soldiers were the green slopes of Mount Silpius on our left and Mount Staurin on our right that both rose up to an impressive height to dwarf us. We carried on towards the eastern entrance to Antioch, which Publius informed me was called the Iron Gate. As we got nearer I saw the walls either side of the gates were also lined with soldiers, the sun glinting off the whetted points of their javelins. A few minutes later, escorted by the son of Crassus and surrounded by hundreds of Roman soldiers, I rode into the city of Antioch.

I had heard that Antioch was called the Athens of the East and whereas I had never been to Athens and therefore could not comment on the claim, I had been to Rome and seen its size and wealth and although Antioch could not compare with it in terms of size it was certainly a place of great opulence. The gatehouse we passed through was large and impressive, holding two sets of massive twin gates strengthened by iron strips on both sides. The city had been founded two hundred and fifty years ago by one of Alexander of Macedon’s generals named Antigonus Monophthalmus but had been captured by his rival, Seleucis I Nicator, who had gone on to found the Seleucid Empire. And the heart of that empire was the so-called Tetrapolis — ‘land of four cities’ — the ports of Seleucia and Apamea, like Antioch situated on the banks of the River Orontes, and the port of Laodicea.

As I exited the Iron Gate I glanced back at the slopes of Mount Silpius where many houses had been built to accommodate the city’s eastern sprawl and where the walls snaked across the craggy slope higher up. Those walls had been designed by an architect named Xenaeus and were both high and thick and on the eastern side virtually impregnable. I should have asked Surena to accompany me on this journey so he could see for himself the strength of the Syrian cities he wanted to plunder.

As a major trading centre at the western end of the Silk Road Antioch received an unending supply of silk, furs, porcelain, spices and gems from China for shipment across the Mediterranean to Rome, and from the west came cargoes of gold, silver, ivory, carpets, perfumes and cosmetics to be sold in China. It was rumoured that Antioch was so wealthy that every house had its own fountain and though I could not verify this I did see magnificent two-storey buildings fronted by marble columns and public baths. We rode along a wide street that ran from the Iron Gate west bordered by marble colonnades. Other, lesser streets crossed it at right angles. Legionaries stood guard along this route as behind them a sea of curious faces gazed at me. They did not cheer or jeer but watched in silence as I rode with the son of Crassus to meet his father. Like all cities Antioch stank of human sweat and filth and animal dung mixed with exotic spices, but at least the temperature was bearable with a pleasant northerly breeze blowing.

Eventually we reached Antioch’s royal palace located in the northwest of the city on an island in the middle of the Orontes and connected to the metropolis by five stone bridges. Surrounded by a high stonewall, it had a large portico entrance of marble columns topped by huge wooden beams that supported a roof of thick marble tiles.

We rode through the entrance, into the spacious courtyard and towards the palace steps opposite. In front of these was a large crowd of Roman officers, local priests and senators. A senate composed of wealthy property owners administered every Syrian town and city; in Antioch they numbered two hundred balding, middle-aged men. A slave walked forward, bowed at me and held Remus’ reins as I halted in front of the assembled dignitaries and slid from the saddle. Trumpets blasted and a guard of honour at the top of the steps stood rigidly to attention. Remus, alarmed by the sudden, loud noise, shifted nervously so I stroked his neck to calm him.

‘Greetings, King Pacorus, welcome to Antioch.’

I turned and saw a face I thought I would never see again in this lifetime. Now around sixty, the last time I had clapped eyes on him he had a full head of neatly cut brown hair, but now Marcus Licinius Crassus was balding which made his large ears look even bigger. That said he looked remarkably good for his age and his broad forehead was largely free of worry lines. He still had a rather serious face with thin lips but now they parted in a smile as he walked forward and raised his right hand in salute.

Like most Romans Crassus was shorter than me and had a slighter frame but his appearance projected wealth and prestige. He wore a pristine white tunic that had broad purple stripes and had a purple cloak draped over his left shoulder that was fixed in place by a large gold brooch. Mt eyes were also drawn to his rich blue boots.

I reciprocated his salute. ‘Greetings Marcus Licinius Crassus, Governor of Syria. It has been a long time.’

He walked forward and took my elbow as the slave led Remus away to the stables. Crassus nodded to one of his officers. He walked over to Vagises who had also dismounted.

‘Your men will be shown to their quarters,’ said Crassus. ‘You must be tired after your journey.’

Spartacus and Scarab had handed their horses to slaves and strode over to follow me up the steps as Vagises oversaw the movement of his men and their animals to the barracks that had been allocated them.

Two Roman centurions, angry red crests atop their helmets, went to intercept them and stop them entering the palace.

‘They are with me,’ I snapped as Spartacus’ hand went to the hilt of his sword.

Crassus stopped and waved the centurions back and then gestured to my two young companions to follow us. I saw my nephew’s hand on his sword.

‘Behave yourself, Spartacus,’ I ordered.

Crassus heard the name and raised an eyebrow but said nothing as we passed the priests, sweating senators and Roman officers to enter the palace, but he must have known that it could not have been a coincidence that the strapping young man behind him with long black hair had the same name as the man he had defeated in Italy twenty years ago. Did he know that the son of the slave leader was walking behind him or did he think that perhaps one of my followers had named him thus?

Publius walked beside Spartacus and engaged him in polite conversation as his father escorted us into the palace, a large, sprawling structure containing many halls and rooms. If it was not as grand and expansive as Axsen’s royal palace at Babylon then it came a close second. Its long and richly decorated corridors led to private apartments, reception rooms, dining halls, offices and temples, and it seemed an age before Crassus stopped and nodded to a slave standing at the entrance to yet another corridor who stepped forward and bowed his head to me.

‘King Pacorus, if you would please follow me I will show you to your quarters.’

I recognised him. ‘Ajax! It is good to see you.’

He looked older and perhaps a little thinner but like his master was remarkably well preserved. I was taken back twenty years to Spartacus’ tent in Italy where he had been escorted in by a guard with an invitation for me from Crassus to visit his house in Rome.

‘It has been a long time, majesty. Time has been a good friend to you, I think.’

I smiled at him. ‘You are still the accomplished diplomat, Ajax.’ He must have seen the scar on my cheek and the weariness in my eyes and to him I probably looked ten years older than I was but I was grateful for his compliment. I turned to Scarab.

‘This is Scarab, my squire, who will require a room,’ Ajax smiled at the Nubian.

‘And this,’ I continued, looking at Spartacus, ‘is my nephew, Prince Spartacus of Hatra, who will likewise require accommodation.’

Ajax’s eyes widened slightly at the mention of the name of the man who had terrorised Italy but he instantly regained his composure and smiled at them both.

‘There are rooms for all, majesty.’

Publius had allowed his mouth to open in surprise and was staring at my nephew while his father maintained his expression of civility. The silence, though, was deafening. It was Publius who spoke first, smiling at my nephew.

‘Your name is not a Parthian one, prince.’

Spartacus knew the history of his father and his revolt against Rome. He flashed a smile at Publius. ‘It is Thracian because my father was a Thracian and was known to your father, I think.’

The cobra was out of the sack as Ajax shifted uncomfortably on his feet but Crassus was too skilled in politics to allow the unexpected to disconcert him. He looked thoughtfully at Spartacus.

‘You must have travelled back to Parthia with King Pacorus all those years ago. And now you are a prince in that land. My congratulations.’

‘Well,’ I said. ‘It has been a long day and I for one would welcome a bath and a change of clothes.’

Crassus smiled at me and nodded to Ajax who bid us follow him down the corridor to our accommodation as the governor of Syria and his son took their leave of us.

My room was spacious and airy and led to a balcony that gave an excellent view of the River Orontes below. Its twin doors were made from Syrian cedar with handles of red copper. Like the corridor outside the walls were painted with mythical scenes of hunting and war with a ceiling of cypress wood. The bedroom floor was white marble and in addition to the large bed my quarters contained a writing desk, four plush couches and three chairs with wooden arms and backs inlaid with ivory. The rooms of Scarab and Spartacus either side of mine were similarly well appointed.

Ajax knocked at my door a few minutes after showing me to my room and offered to show us to the bathhouse, a great structure in the northwest corner of the palace complex that was a marvel of engineering. With Scarab and Spartacus we left our clothes at its reception and walked into the warm room, the tepidarium, and then into the hot room, the caldarium. These rooms were heated by means of a system called a hypocaust where the floor was raised off the ground by pillars and spaces were left inside the walls so that hot air from a furnace could circulate beneath our feet and in the wall cavities.

I sat on a bench and sweated and watched my two young companions immerse themselves in the warm water. I had to admit that the Romans were great builders but nevertheless had to remind myself that they were also great destroyers and that their empire was built on the misery of subjugated peoples. And even in this place of calm and relaxation I was reminded of this when our bodies, after we had sweated in steam rooms, were scraped clean by slaves holding a curved metal tool called a strigil that removed oil, sweat and dirt from the skin. It was most relaxing though I noticed that Scarab, being a former slave, was slightly uncomfortable and took every opportunity to thank the man scraping his body. For his part Spartacus, having never felt the lash on his back or known what it is like to be treated like an animal, basked in the attention he was receiving.

Vagises came to the baths to report that his men had settled into their barracks and the horses were receiving excellent attention in the stables. He also took the opportunity to wash the journey from his body and although he too had the dirt scraped from his flesh, he demurred when it came to being massaged with oils.

‘Our hosts are bending over backwards to make us feel welcome,’ I said.

‘That is what bothers me,’ he replied. ‘I feel as though we are being fattened up for a feast. Make sure you keep your bedroom door bolted tonight.’

‘We are perfectly safe.’ I told him. ‘The Romans frown upon murdering their enemies in the dark; they prefer to slaughter them in the open, on the battlefield, where the whole world can bear witness to their victory.’

‘We are wasting our time here,’ he said. ‘I have known the Romans too long not to know that they will interpret Orodes’ offer as a sign of weakness.’

‘I know,’ I agreed.

He looked at me with surprise. ‘If you knew why did you not persuade him to abandon the plan?’

‘Because he is high king and it would have been unseemly for his lord high general to disregard his orders. Besides, I have to confess that I wanted to see Crassus again, to see if he had changed or mellowed.’

‘And has he?’

‘No.’

But that night it was Crassus the impeccable host who was on display as he feasted my men in the palace’s large banqueting hall. The Romans normally liked to recline on couches during their banquets but on this occasion long tables had been arranged at right angles to the top table where I sat between Crassus and his son. Vagises sat on the other side of Publius and my nephew and Scarab sat opposite each other at the end of one of the tables directly in front of me. All the city senators were present, along with Crassus’ senior officers and a collection of differently dressed priests from the many temples in the city. I knew that the temples dedicated to the Greek gods Athena and Ares were over two hundred years old but also that the Romans had brought their own religion and had shrines in the city dedicated to Mars, Apollo and Jupiter. I scoured the faces of the Roman officers dressed in their rich tunics but could not see Marcus Roscius.

‘Tell me, governor,’ I said to Crassus, ‘is Tribune Marcus Roscius still in Syria?’

He seemed rather surprised that I knew that name. ‘He is a legate now and commands his own legion. He is unwell and could not attend the feast. You know him?’

I feigned disinterest. ‘He came to my city one time concerning a legal matter, that is all.’

He must have known that Queen Aruna was resident in Antioch and that Roscius was her lover but he kept his council and said no more about his legate. Perhaps he truly was ill but I doubted it; more likely he was ordered to stay away by his viper of a mistress. Instead he introduced me to a pale, thin man dressed in a purple-bordered tunic who sat next to him named Gaius Cassius Longinus. About thirty years of age, he had a square face, thick curly hair and large brown eyes. He seemed affable enough and was obviously one of Crassus’ senior officers according to where he was seated. I was surprised to learn that he was actually a quaestor, a sort of glorified treasurer, though bearing in mind Crassus’ obsession with money I suppose his elevation had a certain logic to it.

Crassus may not have been interested in discussing his absent officer but he was most eager to find out more about my nephew. As a slave filled his silver cup adorned with images of Dionysus, the Greek god of wine, he pointed at Spartacus.

‘He is the son of the leader of the slave rebellion?’

‘He is,’ I answered.

‘He must have been an infant when he, and you, escaped from Italy in the aftermath of my victory,’ he said. ‘His mother resides in Parthia?’

The first course of our meal had comprised bread rolls sprinkled with poppy seeds and honey, delicious spiced sausages, lettuce and olives. But now the slaves were carrying sliver trays heaped with the second course, which included roasted livers of capon steeped in milk and dressed in pepper, roasted peacock, eels, prawns, pork, boar, mushrooms and truffles.

‘His mother died giving birth to him, the night before we gave battle in the Silarus Valley,’ I replied.

‘He knows of his father, that he was a slave and a renegade?’ probed Crassus.

‘Of course, he knows that his father was a great commander who at one time had the whole of Italy at his mercy.’

Crassus stiffened but then drained his cup and held it out to be refilled. ‘History is interpretation, King Pacorus, and is being constantly rewritten to reflect the opinion of the victor. And in the end that is all that matters: who is the victor.

‘I trust your wife, Queen Gallia, is well.’

I nodded. ‘She is, thank you.’

He again looked at my nephew. ‘And he is the heir to the throne of Hatra?’

‘He is, though I hope that he does not accede to it for many years.’

Crassus put down his cup and leaned back in his chair. Around us the hall was filled with the noise of men becoming louder as the consumption of wine increased.

‘How would the people of the Kingdom of Hatra feel about a slave becoming their king?’

‘He is not a slave,’ I corrected him. ‘And their feelings are irrelevant. They are subjects and they obey their rulers.’

‘I see your time with Spartacus in Italy did not blind you to the realities of life. Let me ask you another question: what would be the opinion of Hatra’s lords to the son of a slave being their king?’

I could not discern the logic of this conversation. ‘They too are subjects and they too would obey their king. Kings rule, subjects obey. That is the natural order of things. And you seem to forget that I too was once a slave and yet I have the unquestioning loyalty of my people.’

He wagged his finger at me. ‘Not quite the same. Your fame as a fearsome warlord is known throughout the world. Who would dare to raise his sword against the man who rode beside Spartacus, killed Narses and Mithridates and placed King Orodes on his throne?’

‘You are well informed,’ I said brusquely.

‘Information is power, King Pacorus, perhaps even more than military might.’

The third course, desserts, was a lavish affair of cakes, fruits, pastries stuffed with raisins and nuts, snails, oysters and scallops. While the senators gorged themselves, the priests frowned and shook their heads, and my men and the Roman officers found much in common with each other, Crassus ate little and drank sparsely. He kept his emotions in check and I felt as though I was being subtly probed and tested throughout the whole evening, though not in an aggressive way. Publius was very courteous and though Cassius was dour and boring Crassus was charm itself. He was a most interesting and complex character.

The next day Publius took Spartacus and Scarab hunting while I sat with his father, Vagises and Cassius to relay to the Romans Orodes’ offer. To be truthful I would rather have been chasing animals with my two younger companions. The terrain around Antioch was teeming with bears, wild boars, antelopes and gazelles and I was sure that they would have more success than me.

The gathering was held in a spacious circular meeting room that had marble columns around the sides decorated with floral motifs. Greek armour and shields hung from the walls themselves — relics of a bygone era — while the ceiling was adorned with large gold images of eagles — emblems of Antioch’s current rulers. I sat beside Vagises on one side of a large rectangular oak table with a perfect, polished surface. Crassus sat directly opposite me and Vagises stared at Cassius. Ajax sat on the other side of Crassus and smiled at me as slaves served us wine diluted with cool water and offered us cakes and yoghurt. The atmosphere was both convivial and tense.

Crassus spoke first. ‘Well, King Pacorus, perhaps you would be kind enough to elaborate more on the reason for your visit here, agreeable though your company is, and the nature of King Orodes’ offer.’

Cassius already looked bored and yawned without covering his mouth, earning him a frown of disapproval from his commander.

I smiled at Crassus. ‘First of all I would like to convey my gratitude for the courtesy you have shown myself and my men, especially in this time of difficult relations between Parthia and Rome.

‘It is with those relations in mind that King Orodes is most concerned. He does not desire war between our two great empires but rather wishes to pursue the path of peace. He believes that war between Rome and Parthia would serve neither side but would rather lead to great and unnecessary bloodshed that would be detrimental to both. He realises that you have incurred considerable expenses in transporting your army to Syria and is therefore prepared to offer a sum of ten thousand talents of gold in return for your pledge that you will suspend hostilities for a period of one year.’

Cassius’ eyes lit up at the mention of such a huge sum but Crassus, who had been studying me carefully, sat impassively. I began to think that he had not heard my words but then he folded his hands across his chest.

‘That is a most generous offer and one that would normally deserve careful consideration.’ He drew himself up. ‘However, these are not normal circumstances, King Pacorus, far from it. No less than the honour of Rome itself is at stake and that cannot be bought.’

That was debatable because I knew that to Crassus everything had a price, but I was eager to know more about his reason for dismissing Orodes’ offer so quickly.

‘I was not aware that Parthia had insulted Rome’s honour,’ I said.

He looked at me sternly. ‘Were you not? Then let me elucidate. It is common knowledge that the region known as Gordyene was Roman territory that had been granted to the Armenians, our valued allies. It was subsequently invaded by a Parthian army that committed many outrages and forced the Armenians, who were greatly outnumbered, to withdraw.’

This was not how I remembered events.

‘Aggression against one of Rome’s allies,’ Crassus continued, ‘is an act of violence against Rome itself and cannot go unpunished.’

‘The Kingdom of Gordyene is Parthian,’ I said firmly, ‘not Armenian or Roman and it was not invaded but rather liberated from foreign rule.’

Crassus smiled thinly. ‘And then there is the matter of Judea.’

‘Judea?’ I replied. ‘That does not concern King of Kings Orodes or Parthia.’

Crassus leaned forward and placed his elbows on the table. ‘No indeed, but you have taken a keen interest in its affairs, have you not?’

‘I take an interest in all things that happen near the borders of my kingdom,’ I said casually.

‘Such as arming the Jewish rebel Alexander Maccabeus with weapons that were produced in your armouries at Dura,’ suggested Crassus. ‘An act that is nothing short of a declaration of war against Rome. And imagine my surprise when I myself campaigned recently in Judea, only to discover that this rebel, whom my predecessor had crushed, had received reinforcements from the Parthian hinterland.’

‘Life is full of surprises,’ I replied.

Cassius was staring at me with hateful eyes, which I found not in the least intimidating while Vagises looked bored.

Crassus grew more serious. ‘The fact is, King Pacorus, that I am charged with avenging the many wrongs that have been committed against Rome by yourself and Parthia and have no choice but to wage war until these wrongs have been righted. My hands are tied in the matter.’

‘So your intention is to wage war against Parthia?’ I asked, already knowing the answer.

He nodded gravely. ‘It is.’

‘And what is the purpose of that war?’ I probed.

He seemed thrown by this query and cleared his throat. I surmised that he coveted Parthia because he wanted control of the Silk Road and all the riches that would bring him, though he would never admit that it was simple greed that motivated him. He thus sought to disguise his real motive by portraying his presence in Syria as being the guardian of Rome’s honour. If Rome had any honour!

‘I will state my reasons for waging war on the Parthian Empire when I stand in the royal palace at Ctesiphon,’ he replied grandly.

Vagises laughed and showed the palm of his left hand to Crassus, pointing at it.

‘Hair will grow here before you see Ctesiphon.’

Cassius smirked and Crassus was confused but my fears had been confirmed. Having plundered Jerusalem’s temple Crassus was in no mood to let further riches slip out of his hands, and the fact that I had mentioned that Orodes was willing to pay him ten thousand talents of gold had only increased his avarice. His mind must have been racing with thoughts of the treasury at Ctesiphon, which he no doubt believed to be stuffed with gold though the truth was very different. And Ctesiphon was only a month’s march from Syria. How tempting a target it must have appeared to him.

‘Wars are easy to start,’ I said, ‘but harder to end.’

‘Rome’s wars end when the enemy has been vanquished,’ said Cassius smugly. ‘As the Carthaginians, Armenians, Syrians, Jews and the people of Pontus have learned, to defy Rome is folly.’

Crassus was nodding in agreement and then rested his hands on the table.

‘Let us for a moment be logical. We know that Parthia is weak as a result of years of internal strife and that it is beset by external foes. The Armenians occupy the northern half of the Kingdom of Hatra while my own forces occupy towns that were once part of that kingdom, a kingdom that I believe was esteemed the strongest in the Parthian Empire.’

He spread his hands. ‘Now it lays prostrate and helpless before its enemies. The truth is, King Pacorus, that Parthia’s star is waning. Your high king would be well advised to consider that.’

Vagises beside me stirred with anger but I laid a hand on his arm.

‘It is true that the empire has been plagued by civil war,’ I said. ‘But that war has now ended and its instigator Mithridates is dead. The empire is united under King of Kings Orodes. You speak of the Armenians but you should know that it was not a great army that evicted them from Gordyene but a mere boy in command of a few thousand soldiers that I gave him. And now that same boy has grown into a man who torments Artavasdes as a lion harries a wounded prey.

‘I regret that you have rejected my high king’s offer because the easy victories you experienced last year have lulled you into a false sense of superiority. If you cross the Euphrates this year you will find that easy victories are hard to come by and you may experience the bitter taste of defeat instead.’

Cassius grew angry at my words. ‘You dare to insult us.’

I remained calm. ‘I do not threaten like an angry child, Cassius, I merely point out that Parthia will not lie down and let itself become one of Rome’s slaves.’

‘I am sure that other peoples who now call Rome “master” thought the same,’ he shot back.

‘They were not Parthian,’ I answered.

‘Your loyalty does you credit, King Pacorus,’ said Crassus, maintaining his calm demeanour, ‘but not even you can reverse the tide of history. You came to this city with an offer from your high king but now I make you an offer. If you submit to the authority of Rome then the Kingdom of Dura will be untouched by my army when it crosses the Euphrates. What is more, when the conquest of Parthia is complete you will be appointed king over all the territories from the Euphrates to the Indus to rule in Rome’s name, though I will naturally retain control over all trade routes. But you and your heirs will be the guardians of a new Roman eastern empire that will dwarf that of all previous kingdoms.’

I felt a sudden urge to laugh in his face though I controlled my emotions. Did he really think that I would sacrifice my friends, my family, my kingdom, my empire and my race to become a Roman puppet? In his mind he probably thought it a reasonable offer and perhaps regarded me with a degree of affection, like a man views his favourite dog. I picked up my silver cup filled with wine and took a sip.

‘Many years ago a man once told me that it is better to die on your feet than live on your knees,’ I said. ‘You think you offer riches and prosperity but in reality you offer nothing more than slavery; slavery for me and my heirs, for my kingdom and the people of my empire.’

‘I can take by force what I now offer, it makes no difference to me,’ he said dismissively.

Now I leaned forward and placed my elbows on the table. ‘Then do so, for by all that I hold dear I swear that I will never bow down to Rome or its servants.’

Cassius began to say something but Crassus silenced him. ‘That is your final word on the topic?’

I nodded. ‘It is.’

He pursed his lips. ‘That is regrettable. Twenty years ago you came to my house in Rome and I made you an offer.’

‘I remember,’ I said.

‘You refused it just as you refuse my offer now,’ he continued. ‘Then I promised that I would pursue Spartacus and the slave army until it was destroyed and I was true to my word. I also told you that when I took the field I would show no mercy to the enemies of Rome. I make the same promise to you now — there will be no quarter shown to you, your high king or any others who stand in my way.

‘Twenty years ago you managed to escape Italy and return to Parthia but now there is nowhere left to run to. Rome stands on the frontier of your empire. In your heart you must know that resistance is futile. Look around you, King Pacorus, at the magnificent palace we sit in. Where once the kings of the mighty Seleucid Empire walked now Roman soldiers patrol. Go north to Cappadocia and Pontus and you will see Roman banners flying from the walls of every town and city; travel south and you will see Roman legionaries keeping the peace in Judea and Egypt. Rome is destined to rule the world. No kingdom can stand against it, no empire can stand against it, much less one man.’

There was nothing left to say. The meeting ended with strained smiles and icy politeness but I knew that I had to get back to Dura as quickly as possible. The only comfort I could take from my visit to Antioch was that Crassus was supremely confident and that might make him casual in thinking that his march into Parthia would be nothing more than a victory parade. But perhaps he would act with speed and skill and be over the Euphrates with his legions before my army had left Dura. My heart sank with the thought that Marcus Licinius Crassus might indeed reach Ctesiphon before the month was out.

As I strolled from the meeting room with Vagises accompanying me I looked at the commander of my horse archers.

‘Please let me know the instant hairs begin to sprout on your palm.’

The next day we left Antioch, which appropriately was cold and wet with the peaks of mounts Silpius and Staurin wreathed in mist. Crassus maintained the role of perfect host, allocating his son to be our escort and bidding me farewell at the foot of the palace steps. Spartacus was delighted that Publius would be riding with us to the border and rode next to his new friend, both of them laughing and joking with each other.

‘It is a great shame that soon they will be trying to kill each other,’ I remarked as I observed them.

Crassus held out his hand. ‘It does not have to be so, there is still time for you to consider my offer.’

I took his hand. ‘I prefer freedom to slavery.’

He smiled. ‘Farewell, King Pacorus.’

I vaulted onto Remus’ back and led my men from Antioch’s palace. My soldiers wore their white cloaks around their shoulders and those of Publius scarlet mantles. The city streets were busy but not crowded as we rode along the main street and exited the city via the Iron Gate. This time there were no legionaries lining the road and so we had to thread our way past camels and mules loaded with wares and people on foot carrying great bundles of goods on their backs. After we had travelled past the two mountains it was easier to ride on the grass verge beside the road, and more convenient for the unshod horses of our hosts.

I rode at the head of the column beside Vagises but did not engage him in conversation. My mind was filled with thoughts of the coming clash with Crassus and the Armenians. From yesterday’s meeting it was clear that Rome wished to see Gordyene returned to Armenian control and that Crassus had the conquest of all the land between the Euphrates and Tigris as his initial aim. And after that? No doubt the rest of what was left of the Parthian Empire.

‘What’s this?’ Vagises’ voice brought me back to the present. Ahead a column of riders was approaching, perhaps a hundred or more, horsemen armed with spears and carrying shields on their left sides, though none were wearing helmets. At first I thought it was Bayas and his band of Syrian warriors who had returned to escort us to the frontier but as they got closer I saw that the man leading them was dressed in Roman war gear. I raised my hand to halt the column and Publius walked his horse forward to be beside me.

‘It appears that your father does not trust us to return to Parthia, Publius, and has sent additional soldiers to ensure we leave Syria as quickly as possible.’

‘I was not informed of an additional escort, sir,’ he replied.

It was not Bayas who led these Syrian riders but an individual I had hoped to avoid during my visit to Syria. He halted his horse before me, a haughty expression on the face that was enclosed by a shiny helmet with a ridiculously large red crest, while his torso was protected by a bronze muscled cuirass inlaid with silver and on his feet he wore ornate boots decorated with flaps in the shape of lions’ heads. His white tunic with a narrow purple stripe and large red cloak completed his appearance. Tall and imposing, Marcus Roscius regarded me coolly.

‘Greetings Marcus Roscius,’ I said. ‘I hope you have recovered from your illness.’

‘Legate Marcus Roscius,’ he replied stiffly. ‘I am here to ensure you leave Syria promptly.’

He saluted Publius. ‘Hail Publius Licinius Crassus. I will save you the trouble of having to ride all the way to the frontier.’

Publius was perplexed. ‘I was not informed that you would be joining me.’

Roscius smiled. ‘You have a campaign to prepare for, sir, now that Parthia has declared its hostility to your father. I have learned that King Artavasdes will be arriving at Antioch sooner than expected and I assume your father will require you to escort the retinue of a valued ally into the city.’

Publius glanced nervously at me. ‘I see. Well, it would seem that I must take my leave of you here, sir.’

I smiled at him. ‘You and your father have been excellent hosts, Publius. I thank you for your courtesy.’

He clasped his clenched fist to his chest. ‘Hail and farewell, King Pacorus. It has been an honour.’

He wheeled his horse about, clasped forearms with Spartacus and then signalled for his men to follow him. They rode back to the city leaving me with Roscius and his soldiers, who now took up position on the flanks of my own soldiers.

‘Nice lad, that Publius,’ remarked Vagises loudly. ‘Not like most Roman officers who are arrogant bastards.’

Roscius looked angrily at him but kept his mouth in check.

‘We must be one our way,’ he said curtly, yanking the reins of his horse to turn it around before trotting forward.

I gave the signal to follow and we recommenced our journey east. The weather was finally improving and the sun’s rays began to filter through the grey clouds above us to warm the earth. There was still coolness in the air, though, and so we kept our cloaks wrapped around us. Roscius rode ahead of Vagises and myself which was not only bad manners but also highly irritating. After a mile I had had enough.

‘Legate,’ I called to him, ‘is our company so disagreeable that you deem the only things worth showing to us are your horse’s arse and your back?’

Vagises laughed and Spartacus behind us guffawed. Roscius instantly halted his horse and sat still. I looked at Vagises in bewilderment and then heard a scraping noise. And then the killing began. The scraping sound had been Roscius drawing his sword that he now raised in the air as he wheeled his horse around and screamed at his men to charge. Fortunately the animal reared up on its hind legs, giving me a chance to react as behind me the air was filled with screams and shouts.

Instinctively I threw off my cloak and reached behind me to grab my bow in its case as I turned in the saddle to see my men being speared and killed by Roscius’ men. They thrust their spears into mail shirts, thighs and arms before my men had a chance to react and within no time the ground was littered with dead and dying horse archers. Vagises’ reflexes were quicker than mine and he had already nocked an arrow in his bowstring, which he released to send the missile into the back of a spearman who was thrusting his lance into the chest of a horse archer lying on the ground. The Syrian gave a yelp and then toppled from his saddle. Vagises shot another spearman, then another and another as he strung arrows in his bow and released them in a blur.

I shot Roscius’ horse in the chest as it began its charge, causing it to collapse and spill its rider who sprawled on the ground. I heard a scream behind me and saw Scarab gallop past and then leap from his saddle to fall on top of Roscius. They tussled on the ground in a life-and-death struggle but I had no time to intercede as the Syrian horsemen, having butchered my men, were now regrouping to finish the only Parthians left alive — myself, Spartacus and Vagises. But they had grossly underestimated our skill with a bow and shooting from a stationary position we loosed arrow after arrow at the horsemen who were less then a hundred paces away.

We each carried three full quivers and released arrows at a rate of seven missiles a minute. We killed the first group of riders — a dozen men — with ease and then shot at the group behind, our arrows piercing eyes and noses as we aimed at our opponents’ faces. A hundred of my men were dead but the number of enemy bodies lying beside them was rapidly increasing as I emptied my second quiver and plucked an arrow from my one remaining full one. Spartacus was shooting with deadly accuracy as he urged his horse forward to get closer to the enemy, who had decided that they had had enough and promptly turned tail and ran. They galloped back down the road in the direction of Antioch but he raised his bow and let loose a final arrow that hissed through the air and slammed into the back of the rearmost rider, who threw out his arms before falling to the ground.

‘Nice shot,’ I said to him.

‘Pacorus,’ I heard Vagises say behind me. I turned Remus around to see Marcus Roscius standing around fifty paces away holding a wounded Scarab as a shield in front of him. My squire was bleeding heavily from a wound to the belly and he also had a red stain on his mail shirt at his left shoulder where he had been stabbed by a blade, no doubt the bloodied spatha that Roscius was holding in his right hand. His own horse was lying a short distance away, groaning in pain form the arrow I had put into it, but there was another horse further away that was standing still observing our little scene. Roscius had seen it and was heading for it.

I nocked an arrow in my bowstring and jumped down from the saddle and walked towards the Roman who was dragging the injured Scarab with him.

‘Let him go,’ I ordered, shortening the distance between Roscius and me.

The Roman, his left forearm at Scarab’s neck, stopped and pulled my squire closer, only half his face showing behind him. The Nubian was wilting, his mail shirt now soaked in blood, his breathing very shallow.

‘Those riders will return with reinforcements, Parthian, and when they do you will join the rest of your men,’ he gloated.

‘Let him go,’ I said calmly, ‘and you will live.’

He continued to inch towards the horse. ‘You are finished, Parthian, you and the rest of the horse thieves in your motley empire. Even as we speak the Armenians are marching on Hatra, the city of your birth, and will take it easily. You think you are so clever but you know nothing. We have friends in Hatra, members of your own people who have sword allegiance to Rome. You and Parthia are finished.’

I raised my bow and pulled back the bowstring.

‘Slave,’ he sneered as the string slipped from my fingers.

The arrow went into his right eye socket and the point exited the rear of his helmet. He stood, dead, the arrow sticking out of his eye and blood spurting onto Scarab’s face.

‘He’s dead Scarab,’ I said as I ran over to my squire.

I kicked the body of Roscius away and grabbed Scarab whose knees buckled under him.

‘Get that horse!’ I shouted at Vagises as Spartacus slid his bow back into its case, vaulted from the saddle and ran over to me. I rested Scarab on the ground and supported his head with my hand.

‘Is he dead, majesty?’

I smiled at him. ‘Yes. Do not talk. We will get you out of here.’

Spartacus knelt beside Scarab and looked with alarm at his wounds as Vagises arrived with the spare horse.

‘Spartacus,’ he said, ‘get your bow.’

He nodded back down the road and I turned to see a rider galloping towards us, a man dressed in a turban and black robes who was holding his arms aloft.

‘Do not shoot,’ he was shouting, ‘I am a friend.’

Vagises raised his bow but I told him to lower it as the mystery rider slowed his horse and halted around twenty paces away.

‘State your business,’ Vagises ordered.

Another two riders appeared, also dressed in black robes, and halted a hundred paces away. They appeared to be carrying no weapons.

‘My name is Andromachus,’ the first man said, ‘and I am the brother of Noora, Byrd’s wife.’

Vagises looked at me and lowered his bow.

‘Byrd sent you?’ I asked.

Andromachus shook his head. ‘No, lord. I have offices in Antioch and a network of informers. I heard a tale that your life was in danger and came as quickly as I could.’ He looked at the dozens of dead bodies on the ground. ‘You must come with me, quickly. The Romans will be sending out patrols to hunt for you when they learn of what has happened.’

‘We have done nothing wrong,’ insisted Vagises.

Andromachus pointed at the corpse of Marcus Roscius. ‘Killing a legate is a grave offence in Roman eyes. You must all come with me!’

His two companions were looking down the road towards Antioch, from where any patrols would come from, and so I told Spartacus to assist me in getting Scarab onto the back of the horse Vagises was holding. We used a rope to secure him in place and then I regained my saddle.

‘Follow me,’ said Andromachus.

We doubled back down the road past wild-eyed and frightened travellers who huddled by their animals as we thundered by them. After a few hundred paces Andromachus led us into the trees and onto a track that rose up into the hills. We were heading south, climbing slowly as we threaded our way through walnut, myrtle, fig and mulberry trees. Andromachus led the way and his two companions brought up the rear as we moved at speed through the trees, Spartacus riding by the side of the wounded Scarab to ensure he did not topple from his saddle or was struck by a low branch.

Andromachus called a halt after we had been in the trees for ten minutes or so and cocked his head to discern if we were being followed. His two companions also looked back and strained their ears but shook their heads and so we continued our journey. We rode beneath hanging rocks, across shallow streams of gushing waters and saw waterfalls foaming and roaring from the cliff face above. This was certainly a place of life and beauty though we had no time to enjoy the scenery as our horses traversed the dozens of fast-flowing rivulets that sprang from the rocks above.

After a while we descended into an area of lush grooves of laurel, cypresses and bay trees and gently rippling streams, before coming unexpectedly upon a great walled villa among the trees. Andromachus led us to the entrance — two closed wooden gates — in front of which stood a pair of black-robed guards armed with spears and swords. One of them banged on the gates and after a few seconds they opened to allow us to enter the villa. The main building in front of us consisted of two wings that were connected by a columned frontage accessed by stone steps.

‘This is your home?’ I said to Andromachus, marvelling at its size.

‘Do not be too surprised, lord,’ he said, sliding from his saddle. ‘Byrd and Noora choose to live in a tent; I do not.’

I assisted Spartacus and Vagises in getting Scarab down from his saddle and then we carried him into the villa. The chief steward, an old man with black tattoos on his face, led us to a small sleeping room off the large central courtyard, where Scarab was laid on a bed. Two women wearing black headdresses began stripping him of his mail shirt and clothes so we left him in the care of the steward who Andromachus informed me had some knowledge of medicine. We retired to the large study that looked out onto the courtyard.

I flopped down into a chair as Spartacus, his tunic smeared with Scarab’s blood, perched on a couch and Vagises did the same.

‘I hope your slaves are trustworthy,’ I said to Andromachus who had seated himself behind a large desk with intricately carved wooden legs.

‘They are not slaves they are Agraci,’ he replied, ‘and they are totally trustworthy. They will not betray your presence here.’

‘And where are we?’ asked Vagises as a woman served us cool fruit juice from a silver platter.

‘Six miles south of Antioch,’ said Andromachus. ‘This area is named Daphne and is home to the city’s wealthiest and most influential citizens. There are many villas here among the groves and fountains. The Greeks built a temple here dedicated to their gods Apollo and Diana and many believe that the waters have healing properties.’

‘Let us hope they help my squire,’ I said.

Andromachus raised an eyebrow. ‘It is only a belief, lord.’

‘I have to get back to Dura,’ I said. ‘The Armenians are marching on Hatra.’

‘There will be Roman patrols out looking for you, lord,’ said Andromachus, ‘so your escape from Syria must be carefully planned. But in the interim I have the means by which you may get a message to your city.’

Andromachus took me to the aviary that formed part of the villa’s outbuildings and which contained at least a score of pigeons. He told me that I could send a message to Byrd at Palmyra that could be couriered to Dura, which would be safer and faster than a rider on horseback running the gauntlet of Roman patrols.

Our horses were quartered in the stables and Spartacus and Vagises were given rooms adjacent to where Scarab lay, though I was give a large bedroom away from theirs. Everything about the villa was large, from the shingle-covered roof to the library, dining room and Andromachus’ study. The sprawling building also contained storerooms, kitchen, servants’ quarters, cellar and a bathhouse. The exterior walls were covered with white plaster and the interior with colourful paintings depicting mythical creatures and floral scenes.

After I had ensured that Remus was settled into his stall I sat down in my room and penned a note to Gallia on a small piece of papyrus:

‘The Romans have rejected peace. Armenians are marching south. Get the army to Hatra with all speed. I will join you there. Inform Orodes that Crassus will cross the Euphrates soon. He must rally all available forces at Hatra. Shamash protect you.

Pacorus.’

The message was tied to the leg of Andromachus’ swiftest pigeon and then the bird was sent on its way. He informed me that his pigeons made regular trips to and from Palmyra and was confident that Byrd would be reading the message well before nightfall. That provided some comfort but my spirits sank when the villa’s steward knocked on my door with news that Scarab’s condition was hopeless.

‘The wound is too severe and he has lost too much blood, majesty. There is nothing to be done.’

I went at once to where Scarab lay on a bed surrounded by Vagises and Spartacus. His head was resting on a cushion and he smiled weakly at me when I entered the room. Vagises looked thoughtful — he had seen death too many times to let his emotions get the better of him — but Spartacus was distraught. From initially disliking the big Nubian Spartacus had grown to like his fellow squire and now he was angry that he was slipping away. I rested a hand on my nephew’s shoulder and then sat on the stool beside Scarab’s bed. His wound had been bandaged but blood was still seeping through the material. The room was so quiet that I could hear Scarab’s laboured breathing.

‘Is there anything I can do for you, Scarab?’ I asked softly.

His eyes turned to me. ‘No, majesty, thank you.’

He looked at Spartacus. ‘Farewell, my friend, I will speak with the great god Amun and ask that he grant you your wish to be with Rasha.’

Spartacus smiled and nodded, desperately fighting back tears.

He once again looked at me. ‘Thank you, majesty.’

‘For what?’

He smiled weakly. ‘I have lived a life as a slave, a low-born no better than an animal, but because of you I die a free man.’

‘Not only that,’ I said, ‘but a friend and loyal soldier of Dura.’

He looked at the ceiling and smiled one last time and then Scarab passed from this life and joined his ancestors in the afterlife. I closed his eyes and then stood and bowed my head as Spartacus angrily wiped away a solitary tear that ran down his cheek.

We cremated Scarab that evening in the presence of Andromachus and all his workers and servants. I stood in silence watching the flames devour the Nubian’s cadaver and then heard Spartacus talking angrily with our host a few paces away. I walked over to them as my nephew began jabbing a finger in Andromachus’ face.

‘What is going on?’ I enquired.

Spartacus, his face a mask of frustration, turned to me. ‘Scarab’s killer is but two miles away.’

I looked at Andromachus. ‘The lad mistook my words. What I actually said was that the person who probably organised the attack on your men lives in a nearby villa.’

‘Who?’ I asked.

‘Queen Aruna,’ answered Andromachus, ‘the mother of Mithridates.’

I clenched a fist. ‘Yes, I know who she is.’

‘All I said was that as she and that Roman legate were lovers, and I have heard that she is a mistress of intrigue, it seems highly unlikely that she knows nothing about the attack against you.’

Before I could answer Spartacus stomped away towards the stables. Andromachus shrugged and Vagises rolled his eyes as I followed. The stables, lit by oil lamps dangling from the walls, smelt reassuringly of horses, wax and leather. I caught sight of Spartacus taking his saddle off a wall hook.

‘What are you doing?’ I asked him.

‘Going to avenge Scarab,’ he snarled.

I laid a hand on his arm. ‘It is dark, you have no knowledge of this area and the queen’s villa will undoubtedly be heavily guarded.’

‘One of Andromachus’ men can guide me,’ he replied defiantly.

‘And what will you do if you manage to find your way there and get past the guards?’

‘Kill the bitch,’ he replied.

‘Well, she is a bitch and she does deserve to die, but not tonight and not by your hand. So put the saddle back on the wall and come back to the villa.’

He stood, rock-like, before me.

‘That was an order,’ I told him, ‘not a request.’

‘She deserves to die.’

‘That is probably what she is saying right at this moment to whatever Roman officer she has decided will replace Marcus Roscius. My first duty is to get back to Parthia to meet the Armenian and Roman threat, or do you think that the life of one squire outweighs that of every citizen of the empire?’

He appeared confused. ‘You will not seek to avenge Scarab’s death?’

‘Grow up, Spartacus. This is not some childhood game. We were lucky to escape with our lives today and still have to get out of Syria alive. My first duty is to the empire. So put the saddle back on the wall and get some food and rest.’

He slammed his saddle back on the peg and walked away without saying anything. I followed him as the embers of Scarab’s funeral pyre crackled in the warm night air.

The next morning we gathered in Andromachus’ office once more to ascertain how we would escape Syria. Vagises suggested journeying south towards Emesa and then striking for Palmyra. I rejected the idea.

‘There is no point in going to Palmyra,’ I said, ‘because by the time we get there Dura’s army will hopefully be on its way to Hatra, which is where we must reach as quickly as possible. Therefore I need to get across the border at the same spot where we entered Syria.’

‘That will be heavily guarded, lord, I would advise against it,’ said Andromachus. ‘You will also have to be disguised.’

Unfortunately we spent the rest of that day in enforced idleness while Andromachus sent his servants on a trawl of the area surrounding the villa to collect walnut husks. When they returned the husks were chopped into small pieces and tipped into a large metal cauldron containing water that was heated over a fire until it boiled. It was left to simmer for an hour. The resultant dark brown liquid was allowed to cool and then Andromachus asked me to bring Remus from the stables.

I was confused. ‘Why?’

‘Because, lord, it is known throughout the world that King Pacorus of Dura rides a white horse, and even the most unintelligent Roman soldier will know to be on the lookout for anyone riding a white horse. Since we cannot hide your horse we must disguise him.’

Remus stood mortified as his gleaming white coat was turned a dark brown by the dye.

‘Don’t forget the tail,’ Andromachus shouted at the two women who were applying the liquid.

‘Don’t worry, lord,’ he said to me, ‘it won’t harm him and will brush out.’

‘When?’ I asked.

He rubbed his chin. ‘Not sure, but no longer than a month.’

Afterwards a bay coloured Remus was returned to the stables to let the dye dry and we prepared to make our escape from Syria the next morning.