Parthian Dawn

Chapter 1

‘He may be old but his mind is as sharp as ever. I don’t suppose you refused his generous offer, did you?’ My father, King Varaz of Hatra, was far from happy. He paced up and down the council chamber while everyone else sat at the large rectangular table looked decidedly uncomfortable.

‘No, father, I accepted his most kind gift.’

My father, now in his late forties, had a smattering of grey in his short-cropped hair. But he still looked every inch the warrior he was — tall, muscular and imposing — his hands clasped behind his back as he continued pacing up and down in front of the large hide map of the Parthian Empire on the wall. The veins in his neck were bulging and his face was red; he was indeed far from happy. He eventually sat in his chair and began rapping his fingers on the table, which only added to everyone’s feeling of unease. He looked at me across the table.

‘You are the heir to Hatra’s throne, not the commander of some ramshackle desert outpost across the Euphrates.’

‘Hardly that, majesty,’ interrupted Addu, Hatra’s royal treasurer, a rather gaunt man in his fifties. ‘Dura Europus is a prosperous commerce centre at the junction of both the east-to-west and north-to-south trade routes.’

Dura Europus was a city built on a high rock escarpment on the west bank of the Euphrates. It overlooked the great waterway, which formed the western frontier of the Parthian Empire, and controlled a strip of land on the western side of the river for a distance of one hundred miles north and south of the city, as well as all ferries and bridges across the waterway for an equivalent length. The revenues raised from the endless trade caravans that passed through Dura’s lands were considerable, as were the dues raised from the charges levelled on the aristocratic landowners who farmed the rich Euphrates plain. And now the city belonged to me.

If Addu had sought to soothe my father’s temper he was sadly mistaken.

The king banged his fist on the table. ‘Dura Europus is on the west bank of the Euphrates, Lord Addu, which means that if an enemy attacks from the direction of Syria, then Dura Europus will be the first the fall.’

‘We have heard of no threat arising from that quarter, lord.’ It was the first time that Vistaspa, the commander of my father’s bodyguard and the head of Hatra’s army, had spoken. Five years older than my father and treated like a brother by the king, he had a lean, bony face and dark, cold eyes. He had always treated me with a detached aloofness bordering on disdain and had made little effort to garner my affection. He was utterly loyal to my father and absolutely contemptuous of everyone else, but his qualities as a commander ensured that Hatra’s army was one of the finest in the Parthian Empire.

My father leaned back in his chair. ‘Perhaps not yet, but they will come, of that I am certain.’ He shot me a glance. ‘The more so when they learn that the new King of Dura Europus is none other than the man who fought beside the leader of a slave rebellion in their own homeland.’

He spoke of my time in Italy with Spartacus, gladiator, slave and for three years the master of all Italy, and a man I was proud to call friend. Before that I had been raiding in the Roman province of Cappadocia under the command of Lord Bozan, at the time leader of Hatra’s army, but Bozan had been killed in battle and I and many other Parthians had been captured by the Romans, then put in chains and sent in boats to be slaves in Italy. It was there that we had been rescued by Spartacus and his men on the slopes of a sleeping volcano called Mount Vesuvius. Thus began a three-year campaign in Italy where I had led Spartacus’ horsemen, and where we had defeated the Romans on many occasions.

‘I do not fear the Romans,’ I said.

My father laughed. ‘You should, because when they hear that King Pacorus, formerly the friend of a slave general who terrorised Italy, is now the ruler of a small city within touching distance of their eastern provinces, they might be tempted to send an army to the walls of Dura Europus.’

‘I’ve beaten Roman armies before, father.’

‘Ah, yes, I forgot, you laid waste to their homeland. But correct me if I am wrong, they defeated you in the end, did they not?’

‘I am made king by Sinatruces, father. That is now law. What is done cannot be undone.’

My father stared at the table before him. ‘No, indeed. Vistaspa, you will take five hundred of Hatra’s garrison and camp them across the river from my son’s new kingdom, just in case he needs to call upon additional troops.’

Lord Kogan, garrison commander at Hatra, raised his eyebrows at this. In his mid-fifties, his shoulder-length hair and thick moustache streaked with white, his broad frame was still impressive. Tall and serious, he guarded his garrison with the tenacity of a hawk keeping watch over its nest.

‘That is many soldiers, majesty.’

‘I agree, Kogan,’ replied my father, ‘but I fear that many covet Dura Europus and I want Pacorus to enjoy his new position, at least for a while.’

‘I have troops enough to garrison the city, father.’

My father smiled. ‘Really? And who would they be?’

‘Those who came with me from Italy.’

‘A hundred and twenty, including the women?’

My father was referring to the twenty women horse archers who had fought beside me and were led by a Gallic princess named Gallia, the woman who was soon to be my wife. She had called her women warriors Amazons, named after a race of martial women who had lived on an Aegean island called Lemnos. Many people, including most in this meeting, thought they were ridiculous. But I had seen them fight in Italy and knew that they had earned their right to bear arms. I would trust them with my life; indeed, Gallia herself had saved my life once in southern Italy with her proficiency with a bow. It seemed like another life to me now.

‘Yes, father, including the women. And Gafarn, if he will accompany me.’

My adopted brother smiled at me. Two years younger than me, he had, since the age of five, been a slave in my father’s palace at Hatra. Taken as a captive in war, he had become my personal servant. He too had been captured in Cappadocia, subsequently freed by Spartacus when we had joined his cause, and then fought alongside me in Italy. During that time he had become like a brother to me, and I was glad that he been formally made so by my parents upon our return to Parthia.

‘Of course, who else is going to watch your back?’

‘Not so hasty, Gafarn,’ said my father. ‘You are the brother of Pacorus, no longer his slave. You must discuss the matter with your wife first. And I may not allow you to leave. You are, after all, second in line to Hatra’s throne and I do not want both my sons embarking on a fool’s errand.’

Gafarn smiled at me. ‘As you command, majesty.’

My father shook his head. ‘No, Gafarn, you must call me “father” now.’

‘Of course, my apologies, majesty.’

My father waved his hand at him. ‘It doesn’t matter. But talk with Diana. She may not want to leave Hatra now that you that have quarters in the palace. How is the child?’

My father was speaking of the infant son of Spartacus and a promise that I had made to his wife, Claudia, to take her son with me to Parthia in the event the slave rebellion was defeated. Gafarn and Diana, formerly a Roman kitchen slave in the gladiator school where Spartacus had trained, now a princess of Parthia and a close friend of myself and Gallia, were now bringing him up. How strange fate was.

‘He thrives, majesty, er, father.’

‘When you take up residence in Dura, Pacorus,’ continued my father, ‘you will only have a handful of Parthians to protect you and your new wife, plus the soldiers led by that Roman.’

‘You mean Domitus, father.’

‘You trust this man?’ enquired Kogan.

‘With my life,’ I replied.

Lucius Domitus was formerly a Roman centurion who had struck a senior officer. As a result he was condemned to live out the rest of his life working in a silver mine. When Spartacus had captured that mine he had been freed, and had subsequently served in the slave army. He had risen to a high rank for he was a formidable warrior. He was also a forthright, loyal and brave individual, and I was delighted that he had elected to come to Parthia in the aftermath of Spartacus’ death. Now, he was busy raising a legion that would be in my service.

‘His encampment outside the city resembles a host of refugees,’ grumbled my father. ‘They need to be moved on.’

‘That may be difficult, majesty.’ It was the first time that Assur, high priest of Hatra, had spoken. Lean and possessing a somewhat severe countenance, he was now in his sixties but still commanded great respect. The guardian of the souls of the city’s population, he was the representative on earth of the god we all worshipped in Hatra, Shamash, Lord of the Sun.

‘Why is that, Assur?’ asked my father.

‘It is well known that the individuals you speak of are here for one reason only, to enlist in the service of your son, Pacorus. They believe, rightly or wrongly, that he is beloved of God, since a sage in the service of King Sinatruces foretold his return. Moreover, that he returned to us with the Lady Gallia by his side, whose coming was also foretold, has only added to the lustre that surrounds your son’s name. I would advise against making any move against our new guests.’

‘How many have graced us with their presence thus far?’ asked my father sourly, looking at Kogan.

‘My men have counted over five thousand thus far, majesty. And may I add that they are proving a heavy burden on the city’s resources. Most brought little or no food with them and Prince, er, King Pacorus has insisted that they should all be fed.’

‘Of course,’ I added, ‘otherwise they will starve and will be of no use to me.’

‘This matter needs attending to, Pacorus,’ said my father, ‘especially since visiting dignitaries will soon be arriving as your wedding guests. It is inappropriate that the first thing they will see of Hatra will be your band of beggars and thieves that have decided to make you a god.’

The meeting over, I made my way to my quarters in the palace to collect my weapons. I took Gafarn with me, walking through corridors teeming with clerks, servants and guards, Kogan’s soldiers, who stood like statues in front of white stone pillars.

‘I will be glad to get to Dura Europos.’

Gafarn was surprised. ‘You wish to leave Hatra?’

‘In truth, though I love my parents, I find the atmosphere in the palace suffocating. My parents are watching over me like hawks. I want to get married and then be away.’

‘Then it was fortunate indeed that you have been given your own city to rule.’

I bristled at this. ‘Fortunate! It was the least that Sinatruces could do.’

Gafarn laughed. ‘He could have had you killed and taken Gallia for himself. No one would have thought any less of him had he done so.’

I did not answer because he was right. Gafarn had a gift, which I found very irritating, of being able to sum up most situations succinctly. The Parthian Empire was made up of eighteen separate kingdoms, each one ruled by a king, but each of these kings elected one of their number to be the ‘King of Kings’, to rule over them all. In this way the empire had one voice and the likelihood of civil war breaking out between ambitious kings or factions was reduced. Sinatruces, now over eighty years old, had been King of Kings for fifty years. The great length of his rule had meant that all the kings of the empire naturally deferred to his decisions and accepted his authority without question.

‘Your father seems annoyed at your appointment. But then, hardly surprising as you are only twenty-five and he had to wait until his father, your grandfather, King Sames, died before he could wear Hatra’s crown. He was in his thirties then.’

‘Thank you, Gafarn, I know my family history.’

‘If you know it, then you must realise why he is so peeved. Add in that you have become a messiah, and you can understand his annoyance.’

‘I am not a messiah.’

He nodded. ‘Indeed you are not, but you are to those who have made the trip to Hatra.’

We picked up our swords, bows and quivers from our quarters and then walked to the stables adjacent to the sprawling royal barracks next to the palace, where my father’s bodyguard and the army’s other cavalry were quartered. The royal bodyguard consisted of five hundred of the finest sons of Hatra, all personally selected by either my father or Vistaspa, men who had been trained for war since an infant age. Like me, their whole lives were devoted to becoming expert in the military arts — riding, shooting a bow from the saddle, using a sword on foot and horseback, and a lance from the saddle. The royal bodyguard looked down on the members of the city’s professional army — a thousand heavy cavalry and five thousand horse archers — who in turn looked down on the city’s garrison: Lord Kogan’s two thousand foot soldiers, who in reality were a force for maintaining law and order in the city. God knows what they all thought of the ragged wretches who had come to Hatra with the sole intention of enlisting in my service.

The palace, a large limestone building in the north of the city, stood next to the city’s royal square, which was normally empty save for special occasions. Opposite the palace was the Great Temple, a massive colonnaded structure erected to pay homage to Shamash. The royal stables were thronged with soldiers, grooms, farriers, veterinaries and blacksmiths. Horseshoes were being hammered on anvils and horses were being saddled, exercised or groomed. The mounts of the royal family were housed in a separate block, a whitewashed stable with a tiled roof and running water. But in truth all of Hatra’s royal stables were luxurious, for to a Parthian his horse was the most precious thing that he possessed. Then I thought of my darling Gallia; perhaps not the most precious.

My horse was a pure white stallion called Remus, named after one of the founders of the city of Rome. He had been named thus by his master, and I had ‘liberated’ him when Spartacus had captured the city of Nola. I had ridden him from that day on, and he had been my trusty steed in many battles. When I escaped from Italy he came with me. During my time with Spartacus Remus had been quartered either in the open or under canvas, and he had got used to it. As I walked into the stables he kicked the door of his stall. A stable hand, a man in his late forties, frowned.

‘He still dislikes his stall, I see.’

‘Yes, highness. Most of the time he displays a grudging calm and remains aloof from us, but in the mornings, just before you take him out for his daily exercise, he becomes highly irritable.’

‘Like his master,’ quipped Gafarn.

Once I had entered his stall Remus calmed down, so I led him out, threw a red saddlecloth on his back and then strapped on the saddle itself. This comprised a wooden frame with four horns reinforced with bronze plates at each corner. The horns and the saddle were padded and covered in leather, and once in the saddle the horns held the rider firmly in place. Items of equipment could also be hung from these horns. While I was checking Remus’ straps and bridle, Gafarn saddled his horse, a white mare named Sura who had formerly been my horse before I had been captured in Cappadocia. Whereas Remus was headstrong and feisty, Sura was calm and determined. She was a fine horse and I was glad that she now belonged to my adopted brother. We slung bows in hide cases fixed to our saddles, while our quivers hung at our left hips, secured to a leather strap that ran over our right shoulders. For our ride we wore wide-brimmed hats, long-sleeved shirts and baggy leggings.

It was mid-morning now and the sun was beginning its ascent in a clear blue sky. There was but a slight breeze, and already the day was very warm. We left the city via the northern gate, one of four that gave access to Hatra, and then rode across the causeway over the wide, deep moat that surrounded the whole city. Hatra was in the middle of a desert, but the city itself was fed by many springs that produced cool, sweet water. These springs kept Hatra green and the moat full, but my father kept the surrounding area deliberately parched. When I asked him why he did not build watercourses that would make the desert bloom he had smiled and replied. ‘If an army lays siege to Hatra, its troops will die of thirst before they breach the city walls.’

It took us half an hour to reach the encampment of my followers, a vast collection of tents, temporary canvas shelters, dogs, horses and camels. It was not difficult to find, as there was a steady stream of traffic going to and from the city carrying food, shelters and water to the site. My father was right: it was an unsatisfactory situation and had to be resolved quickly. It was also costing his city a small fortune to maintain this desert army.

At first glance the mass of dwellings resembled total chaos, but closer inspection revealed that, slowly, a sense of order was being established among the disorder. The architects of this transformation were Lucius Domitus and Nergal. Domitus, ex-Roman centurion, was busy forming the disparate throng into new recruits. To this end he had called upon his training and had begun to organise the camp along Roman lines. Thus instead of haphazard groupings of tents, the shelters were now being arranged in neat lines and rows, with tents grouped into symmetrical blocks. And I noticed that many men were employed in digging what appeared to be a dirt rampart around the whole assembly. Gafarn and I dismounted and walked our horses through the camp. Men stopped what they were doing to stare at us, or rather me, and I felt slightly uncomfortable when they began to clap and cheer. The shrill sound of a whistle being blown, followed by a stream of curses, soon diverted their attention back to their duties.

‘It’s beginning to resemble the camps we had back in Italy,’ remarked Gafarn.

‘Old habits die hard for Domitus,’ I added.

‘I doubt that they die at all,’ he replied.

Domitus stomped towards us, the sun glinting off the round steel discs on his mail tunic and his metal greaves. Thickset with a lean face, his Roman helmet sported a white transverse crest and his tunic was also white.

‘I wish you would send word when you intend to visit the camp,’ he said, ‘your presence can have a detrimental effect on some of the more impressionable ones we have here.’

‘Impressionable ones?’ asked Gafarn.

‘The dreamers and mystics,’ replied Domitus, his muscular arms now turned brown by the Mesopotamian sun, ‘those who believe that your brother is a god.’

‘And you don’t believe that I am a god, Domitus?’ I teased him.

‘The day you can fly around the battlefield instead of riding upon it, then I’ll believe that you’re a god.’

‘Quite right, Domitus,’ added Gafarn,’ we don’t want his head getting any bigger than it is.’

At that moment a column of recruits marched past, about two hundred in twenty ranks. They had no weapons, shields or armour, but they did seem to be marching in step. At the head of the column marched one of the Germans or Dacians who had served with Spartacus in Germany, his long black hair spilling out from under his helmet. He wore a mail shirt and carried a shield and sword at his hip. Two of his comrades brought up the rear. Domitus eyed the recruits as they passed, and suddenly hit one of them across the back of the shoulders with his vine cane.

‘No talking in the ranks,’ he bellowed in Latin.

The recruits, being from various Parthian provinces or runaway slaves from Egypt, Syria and a host of other places, would not have understood his words, but they would have discerned the sentiment behind the blow. When I had been in Italy I had learned that the favoured instrument of a centurion, the men who were the backbone of the Roman fighting unit called a legion, was a vine cane around three feet in length, with which they used to beat recruits for even minor infractions, plus anyone else unlucky enough to earn their wrath. I used to think that it was part of a centurion’s training to learn how to use these accursed things, but I now knew that each vine cane was created in the underworld and possessed of an evil spirit, and once on earth it searched out its owner, who always happened to be a Roman centurion.

‘You don’t have to strike the recruits, Domitus. You are not in Italy now.’

He looked at me and shook his head. ‘No, Pacorus, I need it more than ever, especially as I don’t speak the lingo.’

He was right about that. I and other members of the royal household had been taught Latin and Greek at an early age to enable us to converse with foreign monarchs and envoys when we were older, but Domitus had as yet only a smattering of our language.

‘You are surrounding the camp with a rampart?’ I enquired.

‘Yes,’ replied Domitus.

‘Who do you think is going to attack you?’ asked Gafarn.

‘No one, but I need to keep this lot,’ he waved his cane around the camp, ‘busy so their minds don’t wander. So when they’re not marching they are digging, and at the end of the day they are too tired to cause any trouble.’

‘Have any deserted?’ I asked.

‘One or two, but most are determined to stay despite my best efforts to dissuade them. That being the case, I decided that they might as well start their training.’

We continued to walk towards the centre of the camp where Domitus had set up his headquarters, a large Bedouin goatskin tent that had two guards at its entrance.

Domitus took off his helmet and wiped his sweaty brow with a cloth. In true Roman fashion he had a short-cropped scalp.

‘It’s hotter here than in Italy, that’s for sure. Will you stay for something to eat?’

‘No, thank you, Domitus. I just came out to see how things are progressing. My father is eager for us to be away. After the wedding we will move everyone here to Dura Europos.’

Domitus nodded. ‘Makes sense. Your father has been very generous so far, feeding and watering us out of his pocket. How far is it to your new kingdom?’

‘Around two hundred miles due southwest.’

‘Think they can march that far, Domitus?’ queried Gafarn.

Domitus smiled. ‘Soon they will be able to march twenty miles in five hours, and after that forty miles in twelve hours. They’ll be able to get there, have no fear.’

Gafarn looked around. ‘If you and the men that came with us from Italy don’t speak our language, how do you transmit your commands to the recruits, apart from using your cane?’

‘Oh, Nergal lent me some of his boys, the same ones that fought with you and Pacorus in Italy.’

Nergal was a Parthian who had been captured with me in Cappadocia and transported to Italy as a slave. Tall, gangly and a year older than me, he was originally from my father’s kingdom, had been my second-in-command in Italy and now commanded the fifty Parthian horsemen that had survived the defeat of Spartacus. Like him, they were now all fluent in Latin as well as Parthian.

‘Well, Domitus,’ I said, ‘it looks as though you are well on your way to raising your legion, but you can’t be a centurion any more.’

A look of hurt spread across his face. ‘I can’t?’

‘Of course not, you must become a legate. They command Roman legions, do they not?’

He flashed a smile. ‘They certainly do.’

‘Good, I will have your commission drawn up, with commensurate pay. I don’t suppose I could persuade you to retire your cane?’

‘It would be like losing an arm.’

‘Mm, well, we must be away. If you need anything send word to the palace.’

We left the camp in the capable hands of Domitus and rode back to the city. Leaving our horses at the stables we made our way to the palace, to find my father and mother entertaining Gafarn’s wife, Diana, the young son of Spartacus and the woman who had become the centre of my world. We found them in the small ‘secret garden’ that my mother Queen Mihri, liked to tend as a hobby. The garden was part of the much larger walled royal gardens that abutted the palace and which covered several acres. It was termed ‘secret’ because only my mother was allowed to arrange the growing of flowers, plants and fig, pomegranate, nut and jujube trees that provided shade. In reality a small army of assistants — slaves — kept her garden and the larger ones tidy and lush, but my mother fancied herself to have a gift for making things grow, and so most days she could be found in a simple white dress and apron, tending to her shrubberies. In the ‘secret garden’ was a white marble fountain, with four water channels leading off it, signifying water, fire, earth and air. Larger, more ornate fountains were spread throughout the royal gardens, all fed by the springs that watered the rest of Hatra.

Peacocks walked free in the gardens, and there were also a number of dovecotes that had their own keepers. The doves had pure white plumage matching that of the white horses of my father’s bodyguard, and so the belief grew that as long as white doves flew above the city and white horses carried its warriors, Hatra would be invincible in the face of its enemies.

Goldfish and koi swam in large ponds beside small copses of date palms and sycamores. The gardens were filled with an explosion of colours from blooming daisies, cornflowers, mandrakes, roses, irises, myrtle, jasmine, mignonettes, convolvulus, celosia, narcissus, ivy, lychnis, sweet marjoram, henna, bay laurel, small yellow chrysanthemums and poppies. They were certainly places of serenity and sweet fragrances.

My mother and her guests were in the shade of the white-painted wooden pagoda that had been built near the marble fountain. Slaves fussed around with trays holding pastries and fruit, while others poured wine. I walked over to my sensual future wife and kissed her on the cheek. Gallia looked happy and relaxed, her long, thick blonde hair framing her oval face, with its high cheekbones and narrow nose, and then cascading over her shoulders and breasts. Today, like every day, she had spent the morning riding on the training fields, practising firing her bow from the saddle. Despite wearing boots and leggings she looked as femininely beautiful as ever, her blue tunic highlighting her lithe figure. By contrast, her friend, Diana, wore a simple white dress that covered her whole body save her pale arms, in which she held the infant son of Spartacus.

‘Ah, the general of the desert army returns,’ the gently mocking tones of my father came from a sofa opposite to where I had entered the pagoda.

I kissed my mother, Gallia and then Diana. ‘Father, I did not realise you were here.’

‘Are you going to kiss me, too?’

‘Alas, I have used up all my kisses for today.’

‘Leave him alone, Varaz,’ said my mother, ‘sit down next to Gallia, Pacorus, and Gafarn, you sit beside Diana. This is very pleasant.’

I sat beside my darling on a double seat and held her hand. ‘Gafarn and I have been visiting my army. Domitus and Nergal have everything in hand.’

‘Good,’ my father waved away a slave who had been serving him wine, ‘can I take it that your followers will be leaving shortly?’

‘After the wedding, father. I promise you that after the ceremony we will be a burden no longer.’

‘You are not a burden,’ stated my mother, her brown eyes glaring at my father.

‘Really? I’ve had Addu boring me to death about how much your followers are eating.’

Out of the corner of my eye I saw a slave fill Diana’s cup, and I heard her say ‘thank you’. My mother heard her too.

‘You don’t have to thank the slaves, Diana.’

‘No, sorry, majesty.’

My mother shook her head and smiled. ‘You must call me “mother”, Diana, for now that we have adopted Gafarn, you have become our daughter. And of that we are most pleased, are we not Varaz?’

My father was obviously bored by all this women’s talk. ‘What? Yes, of course.’

My sisters, Aliyeh and Adeleh, appeared, adorned with gold in their hair, on their arms and around their ankles, looking every bit the Hatran princesses they were. Aliyeh, in her mid-twenties, was tall and thin and possessed of an aloof, serious nature. Adeleh, on the other hand, was two years younger and had a happy disposition. They embraced Diana and fussed over the infant. Their appearance contrasted sharply to that of Diana, who wore no jewellery and was dressed in simple attire. In truth Diana was unremarkable when it came to looks, but such was the kindness in her heart and the goodness in her soul that everyone loved her, from the slave who broke a jug and received an arm round the shoulder instead of a beating, to the fiercest warrior in my father’s bodyguard, who was disarmed by her smile and charm. Gallia was far more beautiful, though her reputation as the woman who could shoot a bow as well as any man (I would say better than most), and who was also handy with a sword and a dagger, made some wary of her. She was called ‘fierce beauty’ by many, though none dared say it to her face, and people’s awe of her was further increased by the rumour that she had been sent by the gods to save me from the Romans. No such reputation was attached to Diana, but the magic she possessed to make people love her was just as powerful. It was a strange destiny that had made a kitchen slave a Parthian princess, but no stranger than my own, which had taken me to the side of a former gladiator who had conquered all Italy, if only for a while.

‘Your father says that you want to take Gafarn and Diana away from us,’ said my mother.

Aliyeh and Adeleh squealed their protests, causing the baby to cry. Aliyeh scooped him up in her arms to calm his distress.

‘I merely sought to ask them to come with me, mother.’

‘Well,’ she replied, ‘I would like them to stay, and it’s nice having an infant in the palace again. If you want to go and play kings then that’s your business, but don’t drag Gafarn and Diana along with you. Besides, I’ve heard that Dura Europos is a dismal place. I don’t know why you want to be king of such a city.’

‘Because he doesn’t want to wait to be king of Hatra,’ replied my father, ‘besides Dura Europos is closer to the Romans in Cappadocia.’

‘Why should I wish to be close to the Romans?’ I asked.

‘Because your hatred for them burns bright still,’ he said, ‘and you strain at the leash like a ravenous hound to strike at them.’

‘Nonsense.’

‘Is it? Gafarn, you know your brother well, what say you on this matter?’

‘I think Pacorus has not forgotten the insults he endured at the hands of the Romans.’ He was talking of my being chained, beaten and whipped when a slave. ‘But his love for Gallia is greater than any thirst for revenge.’

My father clapped and Gafarn bowed in mockery at him. ‘A most politic answer. Obviously all your years in the palace did not go to waste. But I stand by my words.’

‘In any case,’ I added, ‘it would have been unwise to refuse Sinatruces, who is the King of Kings after all.’

‘Most convenient for you.’ My father, like a dog with an old bone, was refusing to give up the argument. ‘He was certainly out-manoeuvred by you and that sorceress of his. He sought to entice Gallia to his palace to make her his wife, and then give you the crown of Dura Europos in compensation. But instead he ended up making you a king anyway and he failed to entrap Gallia.’

‘No man imprisons me,’ snapped Gallia.

‘Well said, daughter,’ said my mother. ‘And now we shall have an end of all talk of politics and Romans. Nothing will happen before the wedding anyway.’