Carrhae

Chapter 19

In the days following our arrival back at Dura couriers brought happy news from Orodes. His march north had turned into a victory procession as the Armenians abandoned Nisibus and Gafarn took possession of the city and all the surrounding villages that had been previously under enemy occupation. Then Orodes had crossed the border into Armenia and advanced to the gates of the Armenian capital, Armavir, deploying his army around the walls and showing Marcus’ great siege engines to the garrison. Rather than seeing his city reduced to rubble and the population butchered, and more importantly to save his own skin, Artavasdes sent a delegation to Orodes offering a peace treaty. The high king agreed, though the conditions to guarantee Parthian friendship were harsh and Armenia became a client state of the empire and was forced to pay huge reparations to Hatra for the previous occupation of its territory.

‘So Armenia becomes the slave of Parthia rather than Rome,’ observed Gallia as she read Orodes’ voluminous correspondence on the palace terrace.

I had little sympathy for the Armenians. ‘I have no pity for Artavasdes. He is lucky to escape with his head. If I had been before the walls of Armavir he would not have been so lucky.’

She gave me back the letter. ‘So the legions suffered no further casualties?’

I looked at the empty chair of Dobbai near the balustrade. ‘It would appear so, though the casualties of this campaign have been grievous indeed. I wonder when my turn will come?’

Gallia looked at me and then at the chair. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I am the last survivor of those who took part in Dobbai’s ritual. She, along with Domitus, Kronos, Vagises, Thumelicus, Vagharsh and Drenis, are all dead. I alone live. For the moment.’

‘Perhaps the gods have spared you,’ she said, more in hope than certainty.

I smiled faintly. ‘Perhaps.’

‘Did you notice in Orodes’ letter that Gafarn had agreed to his youngest son marrying the daughter of Artavasdes?’ she said, changing the subject.

‘Yes. Young Pacorus is to be a future ruler of Armenia, it would seem.’

She screwed up her face. ‘I do not approve of such things and am surprised that Gafarn would be a willing accomplice to condemning his son so.’

I laughed. ‘Condemning? If you mean he has condemned Pacorus to a life of privilege, of being fed on the finest foods and sleeping in silk sheets and being waited on hand and foot by an army of courtiers, slaves and having a whole kingdom fawn at his feet, then I suppose you are right.’

‘Don’t be clever, it does not suit you.’

I saw Claudia come from the palace onto the terrace. ‘Talking of which, we should start thinking of a husband for our eldest daughter.’

Claudia heard my remark. ‘I will not be marrying anyone, father. It is not my destiny.’

‘I will decide your destiny,’ I teased her.

Her brown eyes flashed annoyance. ‘Is that what you really believe?’

She had inherited her mother’s cheekbones and shapely figure and was turning into a great beauty, but her custom of wearing black robes and maintaining an aloof air made her severe and unapproachable. Too many years spent in the company of Dobbai had robbed her of her childhood and now the old woman’s influence was threatening to deprive her of her womanhood.

‘How is Byrd?’ asked Gallia.

He had been placed in one of the palace’s bedrooms so his broken leg could be attended to, which Claudia informed me would not heal properly.

‘I have placed adder’s tongue wrapped in cloth on the area of the break but the bone is too baldy shattered to heal properly.’

‘You put a snake’s tongue on Byrd’s leg?’ I said with disgust, ‘no wonder it will not heal.’

She may have just turned thirteen years of age but Claudia was wise beyond her years. ‘Adder’s tongue is a healing herb, father, as most people know.’

‘I have also placed a charm in his room to ward off evil and have asked for the assistance of Gula, goddess of healing, to look favourably on him,’ she continued.

‘What charm?’ I asked.

She walked over to Dobbai’s chair and sat in it. ‘Elderberries, rosemary and tarragon all mixed together and wrapped in a white cloth tied together with red twine. Tarragon is a favourite herb of the goddess and will prevent the leg becoming rotten.’

‘So it will heal?’ I said.

She looked at me and sighed. ‘The leg has been saved and Byrd will be able to walk on it after a fashion, but it will be painful for him to do so. He will probably need a crutch.’

‘For how long?’ I asked with alarm.

‘For the rest of his life, father.’

The pall of gloom that had hung over me after the Battle of Carrhae suddenly returned as I realised that if my daughter’s words were true then I had lost my chief scout. Gallia saw my head sink.

‘Perhaps his leg will heal properly.’

‘No, mother, it will not.’

The appearance of Spandarat lightened the mood somewhat. He had finished making his final rounds in his capacity of military governor of the city and now pulled up a chair, leaned back in it and belched, much to the consternation of Claudia.

‘So, I suppose you want your city back?’ he said to me.

‘I would be most grateful.’

His eyes sparkled mischievously. ‘Now that you have beaten the Romans you will be leading an expedition into Syria, no doubt.’

I shook my head at him. ‘Not this year, Spandarat, but I promise that if there is an attack against Syria you and the other lords will be accompanying me.’

He rubbed his hands with glee. ‘I have heard that Syria is dripping with riches.’

Claudia rolled her eyes and Gallia smiled. He may have been the foremost lord of the Kingdom of Dura but he was just an old horse thief at heart.

‘Syria also has cities with high walls,’ I said.

He winked at Gallia. ‘But no garrisons now you have killed them all. I heard you killed Crassus and chopped off his head.’

‘I neither killed him nor severed his head,’ I answered.

‘Surena killed him after I had shot him,’ said Gallia coldly.

Spandarat nodded approvingly. ‘He had it coming. I just wish I had been there to see it. There’s no one left to fight now the Armenians and Romans have been defeated.’

‘There is always someone left to fight, Spandarat,’ I said.

But it appeared that my roguish lord was correct in his assessment, at least initially. With an oppressive peace forced upon the Armenians and Crassus dead and his army destroyed it seemed that all Syria lay at Parthia’s mercy. But for one young man such matters paled into significance before the prospect of seeing his beloved again.

Spartacus had wanted to ride straight to Palmyra the day after he had taken his eagle but I reminded him that he was a soldier in Hatra’s army seconded to Dura and was therefore obliged to obey my commands. So he had ridden back to my city and in the days following had continually pestered me regarding when he would be allowed to go to Palmyra. So irksome did his tormenting become that I threatened to have the eagle melted down before his eyes unless he silenced his tongue. So he paced the palace muttering to himself until, a week after we had arrived back at the city, in which time Byrd’s leg had healed sufficiently to allow him to ride in a wagon back to his wife, we set off for Palmyra.

Initially our column was small — the Amazons, Malik, Byrd sitting on a wagon, Spartacus, Gallia and myself — but the day after we had left Dura we were joined by Spandarat and half a dozen other lords, who wanted to see Haytham hand over his daughter to this upstart prince who had made good his vow. Spartacus himself rode at the tip of the column holding the eagle in his right hand, the sun glinting off its silver wings. He was so happy that he could have left his horse at Dura and ran the route to Palmyra.

As we neared Haytham’s capital more and more of the curious, the religious and those who wanted to see a piece of history attached themselves to our column that now trailed behind us for several miles. On the third day a hundred Agraci warriors met us on the road to ensure that Spartacus did indeed have an eagle, otherwise their commander was under orders to kill him on the spot — Haytham never forgot his threats. Malik smiled as the commander of the Agraci force insisted on touching the eagle to ensure it was really silver and not a piece of painted wood!

Malik slapped my nephew on the back and then left us to ride on with the warriors so he could be at the side of his father when the king honoured his promise. On the last night of our journey before we reached Palmyra there must have been over a thousand hangers-on attached to our party. Their commotion filled the night air as we sat on stools round a fire and Spartacus cradled the eagle in his arms.

‘Where will you live?’ asked Byrd, his splinted legged stretched out in front of him.

‘I have given no thought to that,’ answered my nephew. ‘Hatra I suppose.’

I thought of Gafarn’s hostility to the notion of his marriage and raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

‘You will live in the palace at Dura, of course,’ insisted Gallia. ‘Rasha should spend the first months of her new life in familiar surroundings before you take her away from her people.’

Spartacus beamed with delight. ‘Thank you, aunt, that would be most agreeable.’

Indeed it would, for he found the relaxed atmosphere at Dura far more convivial than the strict social mores that existed at Hatra.

‘Nevertheless,’ I added, ‘as the heir to Hatra’s throne you will be expected to make your home in the city, notwithstanding that by marrying Rasha you will relinquish its throne.’

‘Parthians no like Agraci,’ said Byrd, ‘you will not find peace at Hatra. Will have to find your own kingdom.’

‘I will find my own kingdom,’ boasted Spartacus, his delirium of happiness having warped his senses, ‘and I shall make Rasha its queen.’

‘You know he just might,’ Gallia whispered to me as Spartacus took the gleaming eagle over to Byrd to show it off to him.

Later, as she lay beside me in our tent, I kept thinking about Byrd’s words.

‘He is right.’

Gallia was drifting off to sleep. ‘Mmm?’

‘Byrd. He was right about Spartacus and Rasha not being able to live in Hatra. The people would not look kindly on an Agraci princess in their presence.’

‘You worry too much. Go to sleep.’

Dura was fast becoming a refuge for exiles, what with Gallia’s offer that Spartacus and Rasha could live with us in the palace, plus Roxanne already living there and eagerly awaiting the return of Peroz. If they too got married I feared that the King of Carmania would not accept his son’s union and might even banish him. All would be settled either way soon.

Roxanne was finding life as a prospective princess far more agreeable than that of a whore, albeit a highly paid one. Following her arrival at the palace she had been regularly entertained by Aaron and Rachel, Miriam and even Rsan, who felt it incumbent upon himself to offer her his hospitality as the future bride of Carmania’s prince. Even the city’s wealthiest residents had invited her to gatherings, no doubt hoping that by doing so they would ingratiate themselves with Prince Peroz, whose reputation had soared following his battlefield triumphs.

After my return to the city I had visited Miriam to convey to her my deep sorrow at the death of Domitus, a loss I think I felt more keenly than she did. They had only enjoyed a brief time together and now she was a widow for a second time. I was filled with remorse concerning his death but she was very kind as we sat in the mansion that they had made their home, assuring me that her god was kind and that she and Domitus would be reunited in the afterlife. I thought of my dead friend’s worship of Mars, the Roman god of war, and wondered if that angry deity would release the soul of such a great warrior as Lucius Domitus to be with his wife. Shortly afterwards Miriam left the mansion to live in the residence of Aaron and Rachel, who were now parents to two young sons, preferring the laughter and unruliness of children to a life of lonely solitude. Thus once more did the mansion that had formally belonged to Godarz become empty.

The next day dawned resplendent and sunny with a slight easterly breeze that brought welcome relief from the heat that was already stifling by mid-morning. Long before that Spartacus had risen to prepare himself for the entry into Palmyra, ensuring his appearance matched his position as a Parthian prince. On his feet he wore black leather with silver studs and a silver horse’s head at the top of the front and rear of each boot. His red leggings were striped with gold and he wore a long-sleeved white silk shirt over his silk vest. Over the shirt he donned an armour cuirass made up of overlapping silver scales that shimmered in the sunlight and resembled the skin of a mythical serpent. And his open-faced steel helmet had a large white horsehair plume that extended down his neck.

He had been grooming his horse, a great stallion from Hatra’s fabled herd of whites, since before dawn so that its coat shone in the sun. On its back was a large red saddlecloth edged with silver with a silver horse’s head in each corner, over which was a four-horned saddle made of red leather.

I certainly looked second-best in my repaired Roman leather cuirass, brown boots, tan leggings and white shirt, though at least my helmet sported a fresh crest of white goose feathers. For the entry into Palmyra Gallia and the Amazons all wore white horsehair crests in their helmets and white cloaks, though more to keep the sun from roasting their mail shirts than for ceremonial reasons.

Spartacus had no time for breakfast and paced up and down impatiently as we ate fruit, bread and cheese brought from Palmyra and washed it down with delicious wine.

‘This is most excellent,’ I remarked to Byrd.

‘It is from Syria,’ he said. ‘I have agreement with the local vineyards.’

‘Is there no end to your business interests, Byrd?’ I said, raising my cup to him.

‘I was a salesman before I became a scout,’ he replied.

‘You should have something to eat,’ I said to Spartacus, who had drawn his sword and was inspecting the burnished blade closely for blemishes, ‘and at least drink something. You will sweat buckets in this heat.’

He held his head close to the blade and looked along its length. ‘I have no time, lord.’

‘You look every inch a prince,’ said Gallia, smiling as Spartacus sheathed his sword and then grabbed the shaft of the eagle that he had thrust into the ground. ‘But Pacorus is right, you should eat something.’

So he sat beside me and gulped down some fare as around us the small army of onlookers gathered to follow our column into Palmyra.

The settlement seemed to grow every time I visited it, tents and corrals holding camels, donkeys and horses spreading out from the lush date palm forest that surrounded the great oasis in all directions. It was a veritable city and I knew that soon stone buildings would be dotting the landscape for Malik had told me that he intended to turn Palmyra into a great city like Dura when he became king. But that was in the future. Today we rode through a multitude of tents so that my nephew could claim his bride.

Word had reached Palmyra of our approach and a mile from the settlement we encountered great crowds of Agraci blocking the road and reducing our progress to a crawl. Spartacus was most annoyed and became angry when well wishers wanted to lay their hands on both him and his eagle, proclaiming that the latter was sent from the gods and was capable of granting wishes to those lucky enough to touch it. How bizarre are the thoughts of those whose existences are so miserable that they believe a piece of metal will transform their lives. Gallia sent forward a score of Amazons to rescue him from the throng, who placed themselves between the excitable people and Spartacus.

Half a mile from Palmyra two hundred black-robed warriors arrived to quicken our journey, using their spears to clear the road and striking down a handful of unfortunates who refused to get out of their way. Their commander rode up to me and put aside his black headdress.

‘Lord Yasser, it is good to see you.’

He offered me his hand. ‘And you, lord king.’

He placed his right palm on his chest and bowed his head to Gallia. ‘Welcome Queen Gallia, lioness of the desert.’

Gallia took off her helmet and gave him a dazzlingly smile. ‘I always rejoice when I see Haytham’s greatest warrior.’

Yasser raised his hand to Byrd who was riding on the wagon behind us.

‘I trust your leg is healing, Byrd.’

‘Of a fashion,’ he replied indifferently.

Spartacus interrupted our conversation, clearing his throat loudly and looking at me imploringly. Yasser fell in beside me and nodded at him.

‘Is that the eagle we have heard so much about?’

‘It is,’ I answered.

‘And he took it, the standard of the enemy?’

I nodded. ‘He did. Another six fell into our hands.’

He looked at me in astonishment. ‘Six?’ He looked behind him. ‘Where are they, still at Dura?’

‘He give them away,’ said Byrd.

‘News has spread of your great victory over the Romans,’ Yasser said admiringly, ‘people say that you will now take a great army west to conquer Syria, Judea and even Egypt. They say that Rome quakes at the mere mention of your name.’

Gallia laughed aloud.

‘People are wrong,’ I said, ‘I desire peace not conquest.’

More of Haytham’s warriors lined the route to his tent, the cheers of those standing behind him making Spartacus smile as he and we made our way to the centre of Palmyra. Sweat was coursing down my face and neck as the temperature continued to rise and my nostrils filled with the pungent aroma of camels and animal dung coming from nearby corrals. At least the abundance of date palms offered welcome shade as we trotted into the royal enclosure and halted in front of Haytham’s great tent.

Standing near the entrance was the king himself, his large frame and head swathed in black robes, sword and dagger at his hip, Malik beside him and at least a hundred equally fearsome warriors grouped behind them. Standing to one side, dressed in a blue robe and adorned with the fabulous jewellery her father had purchased for her, stood a radiant Rasha.

Haytham gave me a slight nod but otherwise showed no emotion. Spartacus beamed triumphantly at Rasha, rammed the butt spike of the eagle standard into the earth and then dismounted, handing his reins to a slave who ran forward to take them. Other slaves, bare-footed with shaven heads, came forward to take Remus and Epona as we too dismounted. Gallia embraced Haytham and I clasped his forearm before we stood beside him. He beckoned Spartacus to come forward.

My nephew plucked the eagle from the ground, took a few paces forward and then rammed it into the ground again in front of Haytham.

‘Behold, great king, a Roman eagle, taken from the enemy on the field of battle and now delivered to you. I fulfil my quest.’

Haytham folded his muscular arms.

‘It is smaller than I imagined.’

Spartacus’ face drained of colour. ‘Lord?’

Haytham observed him with his cold black eyes, clapped his hands together and then roared with laughter.

‘Go and claim your prize, boy.’

Spartacus gave a cry of triumph and then ran over to Rasha, the two locking in a passionate embrace. Haytham’s warriors whooped, whistled and cheered and Gallia smiled.

‘Did you think he would do it, lord?’ I asked Haytham.

‘I have to admit that I thought it unlikely, but he has proved that he is worthy to marry my daughter. His name is famous now, and yours more so after your triumph over the Romans. What does Pacorus of Dura ask of the Parthian Empire that he has saved from foreign conquest?’

‘What it cannot give,’ I replied, ‘the return of the friends who have fallen in its service.’

‘I heard about Domitus. He was a great warrior.’

That night there was a great feast in Haytham’s tent. Spartacus ate little, drank much, got very drunk and passed out. Malik and I carried him to his tent that was closely guarded to ensure he did not sneak over to where Rasha slept. Not that he would be going anywhere in his inebriated state. Gallia told Rasha that she and Spartacus could live in Dura after they were married, which Haytham insisted should take place within a month.

I sat with Haytham and Malik, who had been reunited with Jamal, and watched Spartacus take part in drinking competitions with the king’s warriors, who had taken to this strapping, brave young man who was going to marry their princess.

Haytham had been disappointed that Byrd had not stayed for the feast but his wound had flared up and Noora had insisted on taking him back to their tent.

‘How bad is the injury?’ asked the king, stuffing a handful of rice and raisins into his mouth.

‘Claudia has said he will not ride again,’ answered Gallia.

Haytham was perplexed. ‘Claudia?’

‘Our eldest daughter,’ I told him.

‘Yes, of course. She is a physician?’

‘She was tutored by Dobbai, lord,’ I said, ‘and has knowledge beyond her years.’

‘It is said that sorceresses choose a disciple to pass on the secrets of their craft. I often wondered why Dobbai went to Dura. Perhaps she saw in your daughter a suitable candidate to inherit her skills.’

I laughed off his suggestion but the more I thought about it the more likely it appeared to be. Dobbai had helped deliver Claudia into the world and had been by her side for the first twelve years of her life. I had never questioned why Dobbai had made Dura her home until now. She had fled Ctesiphon following Sinatruces’ death and made her way to Dura, but even before then she had taken an interest in my life, selecting the griffin to be my symbol and sending me the banner that followed me on campaign and hung in my palace. Had my victories and the prosperity of my kingdom been purchased at the expense of my eldest daughter’s soul? I prayed it was not so.

Haytham seemed pleased enough that Spartacus was to be his future son-in-law, pleased that he had captured a Roman eagle, which fanned the flames of his fame, and pleased that the heir to one of Parthia’s greatest kingdoms was going to marry his daughter. The day after we had arrived Haytham invited them both to share breakfast with us as we sat cross-legged in the king’s tent. My nephew was bleary eyed and slightly subdued as a consequence of his indulgence the night before but Rasha was bursting with excitement and happiness.

I broke off a piece of warm pancake from the large metal dish placed in front of us and dipped it into a pot of honey as the two love birds sat down beside each other, Rasha grinning at Gallia.

‘You are to be married as soon as possible,’ Haytham suddenly announced. ‘Rasha should be settled to curb her rebellious nature.’

I saw Gallia stiffen beside me but I politely nodded in agreement.

‘And you will be married here, at Palmyra.’

I nearly choked on my pancake, taking a gulp of water to wash it down.

‘You disapprove, Pacorus?’ queried Haytham.

Spartacus was now grinning like a simpleton, unaware that as a Parthian prince Gafarn would want his marriage to take place in the Great Temple at Hatra.

‘Not disapprove, lord,’ I replied, choosing my words carefully, ‘but Palmyra might present difficulties as a venue.’

‘I don’t see why,’ remarked Spartacus, his love for Rasha having blinded him to the obvious.

‘Well, for one thing,’ I said, ‘your parents will be expecting your marriage to take place at Hatra in front of the city’s nobility as befitting your status as the king’s son.’

‘The king of the Agraci would not be welcome at Hatra,’ stated Haytham, ‘and I will not be an exile to my own daughter’s wedding.’

‘Perhaps Gafarn and Diana could come to Palmyra,’ offered Malik.

‘The rulers of Hatra would not foul their feet by stepping on Agraci territory,’ said Haytham. ‘Is this not so, Pacorus?’

‘My brother and his wife treat people as they find them,’ I stated, ‘and your own daughter, Rasha, has been a guest in their palace at Hatra. But as Parthian rulers you are correct to say that they would not travel to Palmyra, though out of political necessity and not personal choice.’

‘They could marry at Dura,’ suggested Gallia.

It was an excellent idea. Haytham had visited the city many times and though his first visit had elicited widespread fear and alarm among the population, his subsequent trips to Dura had seen the city’s hostility steadily abate and now no one batted an eyelid at his stays. Rasha had her own bedroom in the palace and Malik was treated as one of the city’s own.

‘Not a bad idea, father,’ he remarked.

‘It is a place where Agraci and Parthian mix without animosity, father,’ added Rasha.

Haytham drew himself up and looked at the couple. ‘Very well, you shall be married at Dura. Once again the wisdom of its queen has triumphed.’

He nodded at Gallia and slapped me on the back.

Spartacus left with us the next day, Haytham standing beside his daughter holding the eagle as he bade us farewell. Before our departure we visited Byrd and Noora to ensure he was settled back in his home. Outside the spacious goat hair tent a great group of agents and officials waited to speak to the man whose business interests had spread as far as Egypt and Cilicia.

‘I am sorry about Byrd’s leg, Noora,’ I said.

‘I am not, lord, for it means that he will always be by my side now. Your wife told me that he will not ride again. I am sorry for you but rejoice that it is so.’

I embraced her and kissed her on the cheek. ‘No wonder Byrd is so successful with such a wise woman by his side.’

‘And what of you, lord, what will you do now you are famous throughout the world for slaying Parthia’s enemies?’

I sighed. ‘Now, Noora, I would like to enjoy the thing that has so far eluded me in life.’

‘What is that?’

‘Peace.’

But the prospect of peace and quiet was a distant dream in the weeks following as Dura was filled with foreign guests. But before they arrived the legions returned to the city. I watched from outside the Palmyrene Gate as the cataphracts and horse archers stood on parade and Chrestus led the white-uniformed legionaries back to their camp. The horsemen had returned to their barracks and forts, having relieved the lords’ men, leaving the camp a great empty space. But now it was filled as the serried ranks of the Durans and Exiles, preceded by their golden griffin and silver lion standards, marched past their king and queen.

The ‘staff of victory’, now festooned with silver discs recording the army’s many triumphs, was carried immediately behind Chrestus, who now commanded both legions. I had a lump in my throat as I watched the men march past and searched in vain for a stocky, muscular man wearing a helmet with a white crest and clutching a cane in his hand.

Accompanying Chrestus and his legions were Peroz and his horse archers, now created an honorary prince of Hatra by Gafarn following his success at the Battle of Hatra and his participation in the subsequent campaign against Armenia. He had also been given a large amount of gold by Orodes, part of the reparations paid to the high king by Artavasdes, so that he returned to Dura not only garlanded by honours but also a rich young man. He galloped up to where I was sitting on Remus beside Gallia and could not stop smiling, largely because I had asked Roxanne to be present when her love returned. Peroz manoeuvred his horse beside hers as his standard bearer rode forward with the flag bearing the golden peacock and took up position immediately behind him, next to Zenobia carrying my griffin banner.

The return of the legions presaged good news for couriers arrived at Dura that day with reports that Khosrou, Musa and Phriapatius had won a great victory over the northern nomads, a battle in which Attai had been killed and his army scattered to the four winds. Khosrou sent the enemy leader’s head to Orodes as a gift and then pursued what remained of the nomads back to the shores of the Aral Sea. It was a resounding triumph and brought much-needed peace to the eastern half of the empire. Orodes himself returned to Seleucia and paraded the prisoners we had taken at Carrhae through the streets of the battered city before sending them to Margiana as a gift for Khosrou. There they would live out the rest of their lives as slaves in a land a thousand miles from Roman Syria.

‘And what of Syria?’ asked Gafarn as he relaxed on the palace terrace following his arrival with Diana and young Pacorus in the days prior to the wedding of Spartacus and Rasha.

The gazebo that had been erected for Dobbai brought welcome relief from the sun because this particularly summer was proving unrelentingly hot and any shade was a precious commodity.

‘What about it?’ I replied.

Gafarn smiled at me mischievously. ‘Before he left for Seleucia Orodes was talking about you leading a great expedition into Syria in retaliation for Rome’s aggression against the empire. Surena thought it an excellent idea.’

A serving girl in a white gown and white sandals on her feet offered me a cup of fruit juice. ‘He would, but I will tell you what I told him. Attacking Syria is a waste of time and effort. Antioch’s walls are too thick and without being able to capture the city any campaign will end in failure.’

‘You will tell Orodes that?’ asked Diana, who smiled at a servant when she was offered a pastry and thanked the girl. Even after all these years of wearing Hatra’s crown she still thought of herself as a simple serving girl.

‘I will,’ I said firmly.

‘Even though you have siege engines with which to batter down the walls of Antioch?’ said Gafarn.

‘What is the point of capturing a city only to abandon it?’ I replied. ‘Unless Orodes has indicated that he wishes to conquer Syria and make it Parthian.’

Gafarn shook his head. ‘He has given no intimation that he wishes to conquer Syria.’

‘Just as well,’ I said, ‘for he would also have to conquer Judea, Egypt and the other Roman territories to the north and south of Syria.’

‘Would that be so bad?’ mused Gallia.

‘What Gallia really wants is for me to march on Rome itself and burn it to the ground,’ I said.

‘A noble enterprise,’ she replied.

‘Alas, my friends,’ I said, ‘we have more mundane matters to attend to, though perhaps not less noble. How do the people of Hatra feel about their prince marrying an Agraci princess, Gafarn?’

‘Having been liberated from the Armenians and Romans,’ he replied, ‘they are in a deliriously happy mood and are indifferent to whomever Spartacus chooses to make his wife.’

‘The people are fickle,’ reported Diana, ‘and so are Hatra’s great lords and their wives. When we became their rulers they complained behind our backs and made plots against us, saying that we were low-born and had brought bad luck on the city. Now they commission bards to write poems of interminable length that tell of how Gafarn is the greatest king that Hatra has ever had, they order musicians to create songs that extol his manly virtues and how the gods sent me to rule over them.’

‘Diana does not like to play politics,’ said Gafarn, ‘but I have to say that our position is infinitely more agreeable than it was before we crushed the Armenians and you defeated the Romans and killed Crassus.’

‘I did not kill Crassus,’ I protested, ‘Gallia did.’

‘He deserved to die,’ said my wife, ‘my only regret is that he did not perish in the Silarus Valley twenty years ago.’

‘Time has not diminished your wrath,’ Gafarn said to her.

‘Nor that of my sister, it seems,’ I added.

Adeleh had not accompanied Gafarn and Diana to Dura, notwithstanding the recapture of Nisibus and the humbling of Armenia.

‘Alas for Adeleh,’ said Diana, ‘the loss of Vata has filled her with bitterness against the world.’

‘Against the world or just against me?’ I asked.

‘She is much influenced by her sister, Pacorus,’ said Gafarn. ‘While we sit here Aliyeh and Atrax are at Nisibus.’

‘You must not be too harsh on Adeleh,’ said Diana, as ever playing the role of peacemaker, ‘the death of Vata was a terrible shock.’

‘She is young and can remarry,’ I remarked harshly.

But any dark thoughts were quickly dispelled by thoughts of the upcoming wedding. Haytham and Malik arrived with Rasha and their warriors pitched their tents in a huge circle immediately south of the city, followed two days later by Orodes and Axsen with Babylon’s Royal Guard. It was fortunate that Haytham, his son and their men decided to camp in their tents because the palace quickly filled with royalty when Silaces and Surena also arrived to attend the wedding. Fortunately Surena did not bring his Sarmatians but I had to order the evacuation of the legionary camp to accommodate the various contingents that all the kings brought with them. The last to arrive were Nergal and Praxima with five hundred of Mesene’s horse archers, who added an additional burden to the logistics of the wedding.

Spartacus and Rasha spent most of the days before their wedding hunting with Haytham, Malik and Peroz, allowing myself and the other Parthian kings to discuss matters of strategy. We met in the Citadel’s headquarters building where I informed Orodes that I was standing down as lord high general.

‘I have held the position twice and have fulfilled my duty to the empire,’ I stated bluntly. ‘It is time for another, younger man to assume the mantle.’

Orodes seemed unsurprised. ‘Very well, my friend, if that is your wish. Rather than a younger man I had thought of promoting Phriapatius to the position. He has been your deputy, after all, and the appointment would help to heal any lingering divisions between the east and west of the empire.’

‘Excellent idea,’ I replied.

‘I also intend to send forces into Syria next year,’ he announced.

I saw Surena nodding in agreement but decided to pour cold water on the proposal. ‘Not a good idea.’

‘You surprise me, Pacorus, given your long-standing rivalry with the Romans,’ remarked Orodes casually.

‘It is because I have known them for so long that I would counsel against an invasion of Syria. Those Roman troops still in the province will shut themselves up in the towns and cities and wait for reinforcements, which will undoubtedly be despatched.’

Orodes rested his chin on his hands. ‘You are correct in what you say, from a military point of view, but I must retaliate against Rome otherwise I will appear weak. Your victories have restored Parthian strength and now it is time to wield that strength.’

The rest of the meeting was given over to happier matters, Orodes informing me that Axsen was pregnant and he was sending me a thousand talents of gold in gratitude for my service to the empire. It was an unnecessary gesture but he was in a gracious mood and was rewarding those who had been loyal to him. We all congratulated him on his forthcoming fatherhood, and though Nergal was pleased for his friend I thought I detected a glint of sadness in his eyes. Dobbai had once told me that Praxima would never bear children and her words had, sadly, turned out to be prophetic.

‘What is your opinion of Peroz?’ Orodes suddenly asked me.

‘A fine young man,’ I replied.

‘I have spoken to him a great deal during our recent campaign against the Armenians and have come to the same conclusion. He will make an excellent king.’

‘Brave and loyal,’ concurred Nergal.

‘Humble as well,’ said Gafarn.

‘While I am basking in the glow of victory,’ said Orodes, ‘I have to think about the welfare of the empire, and that means ensuring loyal kingdoms. That is why I intend to make Peroz King of Sakastan.’

The throne of Sakastan had been vacant for many years since its ruler, Porus, had been killed in battle when he had sided with Narses and Mithridates, in what seemed another lifetime. Narses had subsequently assumed control of Sakastan but since his death at the Battle of Susa it had been ruled by Orodes, along with the other kingdoms that also had vacant thrones: Elymais and Persis, Narses’ old kingdom. Silaces had now returned to Elymais as its king and obviously Orodes intended to fill the other two thrones as quickly as possible.

I made no immediate reply, prompting Orodes’ brow to furrow. ‘You do not approve?’

‘It is a bold move,’ I replied.

‘Bold, how?’

‘He is to marry Roxanne soon.’

‘Ah, yes,’ said Orodes, ‘I have heard much about her.’

‘Though not perhaps that she was formally a prostitute in this city.’

Nergal’s eyes locked on Orodes to see what his reaction would be as Praxima had been a whore while a Roman slave. Surena looked unconcerned — he had been raised among the reed huts and marshes of the Ma’adan after all — while Gafarn had grown up a slave in Hatra’s palace. Among us only Orodes and myself had been born into royalty, privilege and tradition.

Orodes smiled. ‘If I have learned anything these past few years it is that nobility is not the preserve of kings and lords but can be found in the most unlikely places.’

‘His father does not know he has chosen a whore to be his wife,’ I reminded everyone.

‘Former whore,’ Gafarn corrected me.

‘What?’

Gafarn smiled at me. ‘Well, I assume that she no longer practises her former trade.’

‘Very clever, Gafarn.’

He pointed at me. ‘If I can tolerate my son marrying an Agraci girl then I am sure Phriapatius can bear his youngest son taking this Roxanne as his wife.’

‘Especially as he will be ruling the kingdom adjacent to his own,’ added Orodes.

So that was that, Spartacus would marry Rasha and Peroz would marry Roxanne.

‘And that only leaves the matter of Persis to be decided,’ said Orodes. ‘As one of the largest kingdoms in the empire its throne cannot remain empty.’ He looked at me. ‘I had thought of making it a gift for my retiring lord high general.’

The prospect filled me with horror. ‘I have a kingdom, my friend.’

‘You could rule them both,’ suggested Orodes.

‘Pacorus, King of Persis and Dura. It has a nice ring about it,’ smiled Gafarn.

‘You would be the first among equals,’ said Surena admiringly, ‘a fitting reward, lord, for Parthia’s greatest warlord.’

They all voiced their approval of his words but I held up my hands, my cheeks colouring with embarrassment.

‘Orodes, my friend, though I esteem your wisdom greatly I cannot accept your most generous offer. Dura is my home and I have spent too long away from it already. I have had but fleeting glimpses of my daughters growing up and now wish only to stay in the kingdom I have come to love.’

‘I understand,’ said Orodes, ‘though I have one last call on your service before you hang up your sword.’

‘I cannot imagine a time when Pacorus of Dura will ever hang up his sword,’ remarked Surena.

‘Nor I,’ added Nergal.

But in the days following, when Gallia, Diana and Praxima painted Rasha’s hands and feet with henna to bring her luck and good health during her married life and Agraci and Parthian laughed together, had drunken fights and afterwards, bloody and bruised, embraced and pledged oaths of friendship, ran camel races and revelled in each other’s company, I stood above the Palmyrene Gate, to gaze west into the desert. I looked beyond the black goat hair tents, and was gripped by a strong desire to remain at Dura. What was all the fighting and death for if not to be able to live in peace afterwards?

Rasha and Spartacus were married on a beautiful summer’s day, Shamash having cleared the sky of every cloud and provided a gentle breeze to ease our discomfort. I stood with my friends and watched the girl who had been like a daughter to me become the wife of Spartacus. Diana cried tears of joy for she had been the one who had carried him as an infant when we had fled the Silarus Valley following the death of his parents.

Alcaeus, his wiry hair now thinning and showing grey, smiled and shook my hand as the couple walked back to the city to attend the feast that had been prepared in their honour. He had been the one who had delivered the son of Spartacus all those years ago.

‘Do you remember that night?’ I asked him as we watched the newlyweds walk towards the city gates surrounded by a great throng of well-wishers.

‘Like it was yesterday. They would have been proud, Claudia and Spartacus. I wished they could have been here to see it.’

I sighed. ‘There are lots I would have liked to have been here to see today. We have lost too many.’

He slapped me on the back. ‘Come, we need to get some food in your stomach to stop you getting morose.’

If eating was a cure for depression then I must have been deliriously happy that night as the palace kitchens produced a seemingly endless supply of cooked eggs, chicken, goat, mutton and fish. Beer and wine flowed like floodwaters through a wadi and loosened everyone’s tongues to such an extent that by the time the servants lit the oil lamps hanging from the ceiling and walls of the banqueting hall I had to shout to make myself heard.

Despite his fearsome appearance and reputation Haytham made great efforts to be civil to both Gafarn and Diana. He knew their history, of course, and knew that Gafarn was a Bedouin who had been captured as a small child and raised as a slave in Hatra’s palace. The Agraci waged constant war on the Bedouin who inhabited the southern part of the Arabian Peninsular, and their mutual animosity was age old. A part of Haytham probably wished that his daughter was marrying the son of one of his lords, but as he informed me long ago she had seen a world beyond the black tents of the Agraci and longed for adventure.

At the wedding I had told the newlyweds that they could reside in Miriam’s mansion. She had given it back to the crown after she had gone to live with Aaron and Rachel. This solved the immediate problem of where they would live but offered no long-term solution.

‘Would the people accept an Agraci princess among them, or even an Agraci queen?’ Haytham was relaxed and happy as he sat on the palace terrace the day after the wedding, but his question was in the minds of all of us.

Gafarn rubbed his neatly cropped beard and glanced at Diana. ‘We all like Rasha, King Haytham, and she has been a guest at Hatra as you know.’

Haytham held up a hand to Gafarn. ‘We all like Rasha, King Gafarn, your son most of all. But you know as well as I do that the people of your kingdom will not accept her as the wife of your heir, much less as their queen.’

‘I fear it is so,’ said Diana sadly.

‘They can stay at Dura then,’ I offered.

Haytham shook his head as a steward brought me Najya, the saker falcon that he had given me years ago, and she walked onto my arm.

‘I blame Pacorus for all this,’ he said.

Najya craned her neck as I stroked her under her beak. ‘Me. Why?’

Haytham winked at Gallia. ‘Before you came to this city the Agraci and Parthians were quite happy butchering each other, raiding each other’s lands and swearing oaths of vengeance so that our sons and their sons would carry on the blood-letting. But then you came and offered the hand of friendship, and against my better judgement I took it.’

He pointed at Malik sitting beside Jamal flanked by Byrd and Noora. ‘My son became your friend and served in your army. Your scout became my friend and now owns half of Syria and Egypt.’

‘An exaggeration,’ protested Byrd, grinning.

He held out a hand to Nergal and Praxima. ‘The friends of Pacorus rule their own kingdoms from the great marshlands in the south,’ he pointed at Surena, ‘to the high mountains in the north.’ He smiled at Orodes. ‘And some have become rulers of half the world.’

‘Pacorus turned me,’ continued Haytham, ‘from a warlord into a merchant and now my daughter has married a Parthian. I sometimes wonder if it is not Pacorus who in fact wields the greatest power. He has defeated Parthia’s internal enemies, laid low the Armenians and Romans and made peace with the Agraci.’

‘I have been most fortunate in the choice of my friends, lord,’ I replied.

‘And your sorceress,’ he insisted, ‘for though she has returned to the realm of the gods we must remember that she spent years in this very palace, weaving her magic.’

‘Pity she is no longer with us, she could have created a kingdom out of the desert for Spartacus and Rasha to rule,’ remarked Gafarn irreverently.

Haytham looked at Orodes. ‘If you conquer Syria then my daughter and her husband can rule it from the palace in Antioch.’

I looked at Gallia and shook my head. Everyone was becoming obsessed with Syria, forgetting that the Romans would not relinquish it without a fight.

That afternoon I went hunting with Haytham and Orodes, Rajya bringing down a brace of buzzards and Haytham’s own falcon bringing down three more. Orodes broached the subject of Agraci warriors joining his expedition into Syria and the king said that he himself would not go but Malik was free to partake if he so wished. The two of them clasped forearms on it but I said nothing.

Three days later, on a sunny morning, we said goodbye to our friends in the courtyard inside the Citadel. A company of cataphracts stood on parade and the route from the Citadel to the Palmyrene Gate was lined with legionaries to honour our guests’ departure. Grooms held the reins of horses as we all gathered at the top of the palace steps and said our goodbyes.

I can see their faces now — Haytham, Malik, Jamal, Byrd, Noora, Surena, Nergal, Praxima, Gafarn, Diana, Orodes, Axsen and Gallia — all full of life and happy that the great time of trial was over. Haytham and Malik left first, their black-clad bodyguard trotting after them as they rode through the gates of the Citadel and down the city’s main street to the sound of cheers and applause from the crowds that stood either side of the road.

Orodes and Axsen followed them, the dragon-skin armour of their bodyguard shimmering in the sun as they followed the high king and his pregnant wife back to Ctesiphon and its treasury full of Armenian gold. Surena embraced me and then Gallia, whose animosity towards him had finally died, and then rode form the Citadel with a score of his spearmen. At the gates he turned his horse, drew his sword and saluted me, or perhaps he was paying homage to the place where his dead wife had been one of the Amazons, before cantering into the city.

The six of us who remained, who had known each other since our time in Italy, stood in silence and looked at each other. There were few of us left now, the Companions who had escaped from the clutches of Crassus and made our home in Parthia, fewer than forty out of the one hundred and twenty that had taken ship from Italy.

I looked over to the granite memorial in the wall next to the gates that held the names of those Companions who had fallen and shivered. There was space enough for forty more names and I wondered whose would be the last to be carved in the stone.

We embraced our friends and watched them depart the Citadel and then Gallia walked to the stables to fetch Epona for her morning training session with the Amazons. I walked up the steps and turned to observe a scene that was played out every morning of every day. Legionaries patrolled the walls, sentries at the gates directed visitors to report to the guardroom and squires and stable hands carried out their mundane duties. The commander of the parade of cataphracts drew his sword and saluted me as he gave the order for his men to be dismissed. A breeze blew across the courtyard and ruffled the pennants on the end of each kontus. I caught a brief glimpse of a red griffin against a white background and then turned and walked back into the palace.

After he had returned to Ctesiphon Orodes sent a steady stream of couriers to Dura requesting that I send forces into Syria to throw the Romans off balance and prevent them from rebuilding their legions and launching a fresh invasion of Parthia. I wrote back informing him that I had excellent intelligence via Byrd’s network of informers that not only were the Romans not preparing a fresh invasion of Parthia, but that there were hardly any Roman troops left in Syria. Around ten thousand legionaries, many wounded and without weapons, had escaped in the aftermath of Carrhae and now waited behind their walls for a Parthian invasion of Syria.

After a few weeks of Orodes’ continual pestering I gave up and summoned Spandarat to the palace to inform him that I was authorising him and his lords to raid Syria. He was delighted and within a week had amassed nearly ten thousand horse archers, who promptly rode across Dura’s northern frontier and spent three weeks plundering anything in their path and destroying property. I had warned Byrd of the impending invasion and he had alerted all his agents and allies in Syria, who took themselves off to Antioch and Damascus along with all their possessions.

Once the Romans realised that the great Parthian assault was nothing more than a band, albeit large, of plunderers, they despatched parties of horsemen to chase away Spandarat and his fellow robbers. They achieved this without much difficulty but Spandarat returned to Dura delighted with himself, boasting of bringing back wagons loaded with statues, marble and jewels that he had plundered. It was all very unedifying but I comforted myself with the thought that at least I had satisfied Orodes’ wishes.

Life at Dura went on as before. The caravans transported goods from the east and the west and paid their tolls, the farmers worked the land and paid their lords their rents who in turn paid tribute to the crown, the treasury filled and the army drilled and prepared for the day that the Romans returned. Phriapatius was made lord high general of the empire at a grand ceremony at Ctesiphon where he met Roxanne for the first time. If he had any misgivings about his future daughter-in-law he did not make them known and treated her with great respect and affection. He could afford to be magnanimous as his family’s star was in the ascendant. He himself held the highest military position within the empire and his youngest son was the king of neighbouring Sakastan. And so he and Peroz returned to Puta, his father’s capital, where the former prostitute Roxanne became a Parthian queen.

The gathering at Ctesiphon was a happy occasion where I renewed my friendship with Khosrou and Musa. They were both old and grey now though Khosrou had lost none of his ruthlessness and delighted in telling me that he had sent the head of Attai to Orodes as a gift.

‘I did not see it above the gates when I arrived,’ he complained.

‘It probably rotted in the sun,’ I said.

‘Just like the bodies of all the other nomads,’ grinned Musa.

He linked arms with Gallia and began to lead her away. ‘It is very remiss of Pacorus to keep you all to himself, my dear. Come with me and let me show you my bodyguard. They collect the scalps of the enemy and tie them to their lances. They will be diminished next to your beauty, of course.’

Gallia smiled girlishly at him. ‘You flatter me, lord.’

Khosrou shook his head. ‘He never changes. Queen Sholeh keeps him in check, rules him and his kingdom like a rod or iron.’

‘I trust your wife, Queen Tara, is well, lord?’

Tara hardly ever left Merv, his capital. I had met her once, at Hatra when my father had assembled the other kings who were fighting Mithridates. Like Khosrou she had a hard countenance but was actually a thoughtful and charming woman.

‘She’s well but has little time for the conversations of kings. But what about you, Pacorus, will you lead this great expedition west that Orodes is planning?’

My heart sank. ‘I hope not.’

My reply surprised him. ‘You are Parthia’s greatest warlord, the slayer of Narses, Mithridates, the Armenians and the Romans. It will be expected that you will lead the army that extends the empire to the shores of the Mediterranean.’

‘Is that what Orodes has told you?’ I asked with alarm.

He shrugged. ‘Not in so many words, but Syria lies open like a whore’s legs and Orodes wants to be the bull who has her.’

‘What of the northern nomads?’ I asked, changing the subject, ‘are they now subdued?’

He gave me a world-weary look. ‘For the moment. But they breed like cockroaches and will return to torment me. Of that I have no doubt.’

He cast me a sideways glance. ‘You might be fighting in Gordyene first, though.’

The last time I had seen Surena was at the wedding of Spartacus and Rasha and afterwards relations between him and Orodes deteriorated markedly. Having been left out of the treaty negotiations between Parthia and Armenia, Surena had continued to unleash his Sarmatian mercenaries against Artavasdes’ kingdom, burning villages and taking Armenians as slaves, those he did not impale that is. Artavasdes complained to Gafarn who sent remonstrations to Vanadzor, which resulted in Surena’s horsemen launching raids into the Kingdom of Hatra itself. Atrax rode to Vanadzor to plead personally with Surena but the King of Gordyene would not be reasoned with and afterwards sent a great raiding party south to burn Irbil. Fortunately it was intercepted and turned back at the Shahar Chay River but it confirmed to Orodes that Surena had to be dealt with.

Soon after the gathering at Ctesiphon Orodes mustered an army and invaded Gordyene to topple Surena. The latter rode out of his capital and gave battle in the valley before Vanadzor, leading a frantic charge in an effort to kill Orodes. But the cataphracts of Susiana, Hatra and Media cut down Surena and his army dissolved. The man who had been my squire joined in the afterlife the wife whose death had broken his heart. I did not blame Orodes for dealing with Surena in the way he did. His actions earned him the respect of the empire’s other kings and showed that he was prepared to act ruthlessly to protect his own and the empire’s interests. But I was saddened by the death of Surena and believed that Parthia would miss such a capable commander.

Spartacus and Rasha lived happily at Dura and paid frequent visits to both Palmyra and Hatra. The people of my home city gave them a polite, if not rapturous reception every time they stayed with Gafarn and Diana and after a while came to accept Rasha. But Gafarn and his blood son Pacorus were the future of the kingdom. My part in the Battle of Hatra was glossed over and after a while forgotten altogether as Gafarn’s reputation soared and he was credited with single-handedly defeating the Armenians and reducing their kingdom to a vassal state of Hatra.

And in the aftermath of Carrhae it had been Surena who had been proclaimed the battle’s victor after having returned with the captured Roman eagles and thousands of prisoners. I did not object. Surena had been a great warlord and deserved to be remembered. And I was delighted that Hatra was restored to its position as one of the strongest kingdoms in the empire, a land made rich by the proceeds from the Silk Road and kept strong by its mighty army, which was substantially increased. The defences of Nisibus were greatly strengthened so never again would an enemy capture it, as was Assur and the towns in the west of the kingdom.

Vistaspa grew old and frail and so Lord Herneus became the general of Hatra’s army and Pacorus became Prince of Nisibus and Armenia. His parents may have been outsiders but he had been born in the city and to the people and nobles of the kingdom he was pure Hatran and worthy to wear the crown, even if he would have an Armenian queen.

Artavasdes, eager to please his new overlords, made frequent visits to both Hatra and Ctesiphon and although Gafarn and Orodes always invited me to the banquets they gave in his honour, I always found an excuse not to attend. I did not like Artavasdes and could never forget that he and his father had made war on Parthia when the empire had been at its most vulnerable. And now Artavasdes was seemingly a friend of Parthia, though I did not trust him. The fact that he had offered his own daughter to ease his difficulties made me despise him even more but in this I was in the minority. The world was changing but I refused to change with it.