Parthian Dawn

Chapter 7

My father convened his council the day after we had received the news of Sinatruces’ death, and as I was in the city he asked me to attend as well, along with Godarz. Gallia was not invited, much to her chagrin. As usual, the council met in a small room next to the throne room. Around the table sat my father, Kogan, Vistaspa, Assur, Addu, Godarz and myself. My father opened proceedings.

‘So, the day has finally come when we have to turn our thoughts to a new King of Kings. Lord Assur, I believe that your scribes have been researching the archives concerning the correct protocol in this matter.’

‘Yes, majesty,’ his voice was deep and serious. ‘There are very few who remember the days before Sinatruces since he has ruled for over fifty years. But now the kings of the empire must gather in Esfahan to elect another of their number to rule over them.’

Isfahan was a city located in the heart of the empire, a place of water and greenery in the middle of a searing desert wasteland.

‘Who will have your vote, sire?’ asked Vistaspa, ‘assuming that you do not desire it yourself.’

‘Indeed I do not,’ replied my father. ‘Sinatruces had respect because he was old and everyone had got used to him sitting in Ctesiphon. I think Phraates, his son, would make a logical choice. If nothing else, his taking the office would provide continuity and hopefully a peaceful transition of power.’

Assur said nothing, Vistaspa the same, though my father’s general began to drum his fingers on the table.

‘If you have something to say, Vistaspa, then out with it,’ said my father.

‘The empire will need a strong hand, lord, and there are some who say that Phraates lacks strength.’

‘He is a good man,’ replied my father.

‘Good men do not necessarily make good kings. The empire would be better in your hands.’

My father shook his head. ‘I do not desire such a thing, and that is my final word on the matter.’

But Vistaspa would not give up. ‘You would have the support of Babylon, Gordyene, Atropaiene, Media and Elymais if you put yourself forward.’ He looked at me with his cold black eyes. ‘And Dura, I assume.’

‘Of course,’ I replied.

‘No!’ barked my father. ‘One crown is sufficient. The matter is at an end.’

After the meeting Vistaspa sought me out, which was unusual as he rarely had time for my company. It was hard to earn the respect of Vistaspa, who was totally loyal to my father but seemed to eye everyone else with a cool detachment at best, though mostly with open disdain. Today he was most talkative.

‘Is your legion ready?’

‘Almost.’

‘Good, and how many cavalry do you have?’

‘My cataphracts you have already seen. In times of emergency they will be reinforced by the horsemen raised by the lords of my kingdom.’

‘Farmers on horseback,’ he sniffed.

‘These farmers can fight; they have been battling the Agraci ever since they crossed the Euphrates to work the land.’

We were walking down the corridor that led towards the palace’s royal apartments. I stopped and turned to face him.

‘Is there a point to this, Lord Vistaspa?’

He was momentarily nonplussed, and then regained his icy demeanour. ‘There are clouds gathering beyond the empire’s frontiers, and perhaps within the empire itself. We will need all the bows and spears we can muster, I fear.’

I confess that I was slightly alarmed to hear Vistaspa, a man who had less compassion than a cobra, use the word ‘fear’.

‘The Romans are gathering their forces in the northeast, to threaten Armenia, while their garrison swells in Cappadocia like the belly of a pregnant camel.’

‘I’ve beaten Romans before,’ I remarked casually.

‘Then be prepared to fight them again, for my spies have told me that our friend Darius intends to defect to Rome.’

I clenched my fists. Darius was the King of Zeugma, a kingdom on Hatra’s northwest border. The Romans had, several years ago, sent a legion to the city of Zeugma, which had strayed into Hatran territory. My father had intercepted and destroyed it, and during the battle I had captured the legion’s eagle. That day was the beginning of my long association with the Romans. It was an open secret that the fat, idle Darius wanted to become a client king of Rome; only the fear of Parthian retribution, especially Hatra’s large standing army, prevented him from doing so.

‘Darius might use the uncertainty around Sinatruces’ passing to swap sides.’

‘My father can have troops in possession of Zeugma faster than the Romans can,’ I said.

‘Not if his attention is focused elsewhere.’

I was becoming confused. He took my arm. ‘Hatra is rich. There are kings within the empire who would like nothing more than to see us humiliated and reduced in strength. With your father as King of Kings the empire is safe, but Phraates….’

His voice trailed away and an ominous silence was left.

‘I’m sure the meeting at Esfahan will resolve all uncertainties,’ I said without conviction.

He looked away. ‘Perhaps you are right. By the way, your cataphracts are a credit to you. Well done. Perhaps I may visit Dura some time to see how your legion is shaping up.’

It was a most strange conversation and somewhat unnerved me, but I shrugged it off as a case of Vistaspa being unduly alarmist.

‘I don’t like him,’ remarked Gallia of Vistaspa on the second day of our journey back to Dura.

We had enjoyed our time in Hatra immensely and were now making our way leisurely back to our home. Gallia had invited my parents, my sisters, Gafarn and Diana to Dura, and if they all came at once we would run out of rooms to put them in, but they all accepted her invitation so that was that. Her hospitality did not extend to Vistaspa or Assur.

‘He reminds me of my father, always scheming.’

‘He’s a good soldier, but I agree his character is a little foreboding.’

‘That’s putting it mildly.’

‘He thinks the death of Sinatruces presages war.’

‘And what do you think?’

‘I know not what the future holds.’

But in truth conflict seemed far away as we rode back to Dura, through Hatran territory that was well-protected and thriving with commerce. I comforted myself with the fact that Hatra had, unusually among the empire, a large standing army in addition to the tens of thousands of horse archers my father could summon in times of conflict. Who would be so foolish to make war upon it?

When we arrived back at Dura, a letter similar to the one delivered to my father was awaiting me. All the kings were being informed of the death of Sinatruces. It was signed by his son, Phraates, whom I assumed would be elected to replace his father, notwithstanding Vistaspa’s forebodings. A week later another courier arrived, this time from the elders of Esfahan inviting me to attend the Council of Kings that would elect a new King of Kings in two months’ time.

Esfahan was part of no kingdom but was situated in the dead centre of the empire, and was recognised by all the kings as a neutral city, owing allegiance to no one kingdom or faction. In the time of civil strife before Sinatruces, when war had riven the empire, Esfahan and its elders had been a place where disputes between rival factions could be settled without recourse to war. That was the theory at least. The long reign of Sinatruces had made Esfahan’s purpose largely irrelevant, as Sinatruces had resolved the problem of rivals by defeating and then executing them, though in the last twenty years of his reign he had used his son to resolve disputes. Phraates was of an amicable disposition and had the tongue of a diplomat. His words helped to soothe the tempers of proud kings, and in any case the longevity of Sinatruces’ reign had earned the respect of even the most hot-headed rulers, though some liked to think that because of his great age the King of Kings’ wits had gone. I had met him more than a year before his death, and his mind and cunning were as sharp as any man’s.

‘Each king is allowed to take a retinue of thirty, equivalent to the number of arrows held in a quiver, no more,’ I said.

‘I will be one of them,’ announced Gallia, ‘and Praxima will also want to go.’

‘Do I have a say in the matter?’

‘Of course,’ she wrapped her arms around me. ‘You do want to take me, don’t you?’

So that was that. I also took Nergal, Domitus and twenty-five Companions. It was the first time I had seen Domitus on a horse and he looked like a fish out of water. I would have taken Godarz instead but he expressed no interest in going, especially after travelling to Hatra. In any case, he was happy being governor and had little wish to see the rituals of the empire.

Before we left Dura I had sent a courier to Hatra to arrange a rendezvous with my father along the way. We met up with him ten miles west of the Tigris and about fifty miles from Ctesiphon. Accompanying him, and much to Gallia’s delight, was Balas of Gordyene, a big man on a big horse with an escort of over a score of horse archers dressed in blue tunics with steel helmets on their heads. Like me they were armed with swords, bows and full quivers.

Balas jumped down from his horse and enveloped Gallia in his bear-like arms.

‘I’m glad he,’ jerking his head at me, ‘decided to bring you along. I need a pretty woman to liven up the journey.’

‘I told him I was coming,’ said Gallia, ‘he had no choice.’

Balas roared with laughter. ‘I bet you did.’

That night we camped on the other side of the Tigris in the territory of King Vardan of Babylon. We pitched the tents in a large circle and then set a raging fire in the middle, over which we roasted pig and lamb.

‘Whom will you propose at the meeting, Varaz?’ asked Balas, sitting on the ground using his saddle as a backrest.

‘Phraates,’ replied my father.

Balas raised an eyebrow.

‘And you, lord?’ I asked.

‘Varaz of Hatra, of course,’ replied Balas. His warriors and those of my father applauded this suggestion.

My father held up his hands. ‘I have made it clear that I will not put myself forward.’

‘More fool you, Varaz,’ said Balas. ‘Phraates makes a good errand boy and that’s about it. Vardan, Farhad and Aschek would support you. I know, I’ve asked them.’

‘The matter is closed, Balas,’ said my father irritably, ‘now stop making trouble.’

Balas threw the leg of pork he had been gnawing into the fire. ‘So be it, but there will be trouble anyway, you mark my words.’

‘It is a pity,’ remarked Gallia, ‘that there cannot be a queen of queens to rule over you all.’

‘Ha,’ barked Balas, ‘you hear that, Varaz? If she’s allowed in the council meeting I’ll warrant we’ll be bowing down to Queen Gallia at the end.’

‘Women are not allowed to vote, daughter,’ said my father.

‘What if some of the kings do not abide by the decision of the council?’ she asked.

‘A good question,’ said Balas, looking at my father. ‘Then, my dear, whoever is King of Kings must enforce his will and show to everyone in the empire that his sword is the sharpest, and Phraates is not the man to do that.’

‘Enough, Balas,’ my father was growing irritated. ‘I know what you are trying to do and it will not work.’

Balas tried a different approach. ‘What say you, Pacorus? Who will you vote for?’

‘My father first, but if he declines to be put forward, then Phraates.’

Balas nodded his head in resignation. ‘What about you, Roman, what is your view on this matter?’

Thus far Domitus had been sitting in silence, eating his food and drinking water from a cup. Now he looked directly at Balas. ‘I know nothing of the workings of the Parthian Empire, but I do know that men only respect strength. They may say that they obey the law, but they only do so if the person who enforces it is stronger than they. If this Phraates is strong then you have no fear.’

Balas looked smugly at my father. ‘And if he is weak?’

Domitus stared into the fire. ‘Then he will be like a lamb among lions.’

My father would hear no more on the matter and so we talked of other things over the next ten days as we rode to Esfahan. Domitus gradually got used to riding on horseback, but declared that he would always prefer to fight on his feet. He and Balas got on well; they were both forthright in their opinions, though Balas was rowdier. Gordyene shared a border with Armenia and we all knew that Rome threatened the latter. And if Armenia fell then Gordyene would be in danger.

‘So, Domitus, do you think Rome will attack Parthia?’

Sweat was pouring down Domitus’ face even though he was wearing a wide-brimmed hat, for we were travelling across the desert that led to Esfahan, a barren, sun-bleached wasteland that had one east-west road.

‘Hard to tell, sir. I was just a lowly centurion and know nothing about what is decided in Rome. But there is a garrison in Syria and eventually they will push east, to the Euphrates at least.’

‘You hear that, Pacorus,’ said Balas to me, ‘Dura is on the wrong side of the river.’

‘It will take a large army to batter down Dura’s walls,’ I replied.

Domitus looked at me. ‘Pacorus, that is King Pacorus, is clever. He makes Dura strong so it will not fall easily, and he has the support of his lords who can come to his aid. And across the river is his father’s army. Rome will think twice before starting a war with Dura.’

‘And there is your legion,’ observed Balas.

‘Yes, sir, there is my legion. And…’ His voice trailed off.

‘And?’ asked Balas.

‘I know that your people do not like them, but there are also the Agraci.’

‘The Agraci?’ Balas was shocked. ‘They will stick a knife in your back when you’re not looking.’

‘They are our friends,’ said Gallia sternly.

‘It’s true, lord,’ I said. ‘Prince Malik, the son of the Agraci king, comes often to Dura and has travelled with me to Hatra.’

Balas shook his head. ‘We live in strange times.’

My father had said nothing during this intercourse, adding only. ‘We certainly do.’

Esfahan was a beautiful city, located directly south of the Zagros Mountains and built on both sides of the River Zayandey. Surrounded by a high circuit wall of yellow sandstone, it had squares towers at regular intervals along its whole perimeter. Access was via four gates located at the four points of the compass, all of which led to the city’s massive central square, a space of grass that was normally filled with traders every day but which for the Council of Kings had been cleared. In place of the market stalls and animal pens was a large circular tent at least three times the height of a man.

Esfahan was a sprawling city with very few tall buildings, its streets wide and airy. The northerly breeze that came from the mountains was refreshing and had the added advantage of dispelling the stench of humans and animals that infested even the grandest of cities. An armed escort from the garrison — spearmen dressed in bright yellow tunics, baggy red leggings and open-faced helmets, met us at the western gates. They carried wicker shields, long daggers in sheaths on their belts and wore brown leather shoes that rose to a point at the toes. Their long hair was plaited like Gallia’s when she rode to war, though unlike her they had yellow ribbons in their plaits. Their beards were also plaited and each man wore two gold earrings. They certainly looked pretty — even their oval-shaped spear blades were polished bright, glinting when they caught the sun’s rays. Beside them we must have looked a sorry sight, our clothes and faces covered in dust and our horses weary — in need of a good groom.

The guards’ commander, a tall man in his thirties with gold rings on his fingers, saluted. ‘Majesties, welcome to Esfahan. If you would care to follow me I will show you to your quarters.’

Esfahan was bustling, its streets filled with traders, customers, mystics, holy men, beggars and soldiers of the garrison. There was no king or ruler of Esfahan; rather, a council of elders who were drawn from the most influential members of the aristocracy. The council numbered eighteen to mirror the number of kings in the empire — though technically there were now nineteen upon my accession to Dura’s throne. In the old days each king had sent his own man to sit on the council, but after time this had lapsed and the council was drawn from those who lived in the city itself. It jealousy guarded its reputation as a place that favoured no one faction, and its remote location, thick walls and large garrison acted as deterrents should anyone wish to attack it. Not that anyone did, for its great distance from any other city of significance meant that it was largely forgotten, though it formed an important part of the Silk Road. As we had travelled east to the city I had observed in wonder the mass of traffic on the road — the living lifeblood of the empire.

But now there was much excitement in the city, not least because the Council of Kings was such an unusual event on account of the last one having taken place over fifty years before. My party was met at the gates of a villa by its steward, a dark-skinned man in his fifties who had a long black beard and who was dressed in an immaculate white robe with cuffs edged in silver. He had long fingers and his nails were painted red, which earned him a frown from Domitus.

‘Greetings, King Pacorus.’

Each of the kings was shown to his own villa — large two-story buildings surrounded by walls and guarded by a detachment of the garrison. Inside the compounds were stables, luxurious private apartments overlooking a marbled courtyard complete with central fountains, the whole residence surrounded by well-tended gardens. A small army of gardeners, kitchen hands, grooms and house slaves kept each villa spotless and the gardens immaculate. Our horses were taken from us to the stables where they were unsaddled, groomed, fed and watered. We were shown to our rooms on the second floor of the villa, each one adorned with enamelled tile floors, doors inlaid with gold leaf and ivory, plaster walls painted with mythical beasts and a large bed over which hung a canopy of the finest white linen. Twin cedar doors led on to a spacious balcony framed by two marble columns, with another pair of columns directly below. The corridors and entrance hall of the villa were adorned with yellow and blue tapestries.

After we had washed and changed into new clothes, an invitation arrived from the residence of my father for Gallia and me to dine with him. It was early evening before we arrived at his residence. Like ours it was a well-appointed villa surrounded by a high brick wall. Guards paced up and down outside the gates and around the wall; clearly the city elders were taking no chances when it came to the security of their royal guests. We were not the first to arrive, for in the large dining hall were already seated Farhad, his son Atrax, Aschek, Vardan, his daughter Axsen and Gotarzes. They all rose when we entered, and Gallia immediately went to Axsen and embraced her as we took our places at the table. Moments later Balas arrived, complaining that he was too old to be dragged from his couch after a hard day’s ride.

My father ate little, and only a short while after we had started the meal he began to speak to us.

‘I have asked you all here tonight because the issue of the election needs to be settled.’

Balas put down his silver cup. ‘You mean you want to make sure that we all vote for Phraates?’

‘Yes,’ snapped my father.

‘He is a good man,’ said Vardan, ‘but does he have the steel to enforce his will?’

‘With our bows and swords behind him he will have enough strength to secure his rule,’ retorted my father.

Aschek screwed up his lips. ‘It would be better to have an overlord who has the respect of all, and if not all then at least the majority.’

My father was already showing signs of exasperation. ‘My friend, who among the kings has that?’

‘Varaz of Hatra,’ offered Balas casually.

My father held his head in his hands, and then looked up. He suddenly looked old. I had never thought of my father as old before. ‘I support Phraates because he offers continuity and stability. He is known to all the kings, and has been his late father’s voice in the empire for many years. Parthia must have unity for the troubles that are to come.’

‘What troubles?’ asked Gotarzes

‘The Romans,’ I said.

‘Yes,’ reiterated my father. ‘Darius has, as expected, defected to Rome. Word reached me of this but two hours ago. The Romans menace our frontiers, and for that reason alone we must have stability within the empire.’

‘We all knew the old admirer of young boys would do so, it is of no consequence,’ said Balas.

‘The Romans will have heard of the death of Sinatruces,’ I said. ‘They will try to exploit any opportunity to increase their domains at our expense.’

Balas shrugged. ‘If you want Phraates so badly then I will vote with you, Varaz. But only because there is not a more suitable candidate.’

My father smiled, then looked at the other kings. ‘And you, my friends?’

They all fell into line, as did I of course. In the few times I had seen Phraates he had always struck me as a conscientious, earnest individual who took his responsibilities very seriously. I was sure that the other kings would feel the same way.

Before we attended the council there was time to visit one of the holiest places in the Parthian Empire, the resting place of Arsaces, the first Parthian king and the founder of the Arsacid dynasty. The tomb itself was a granite sarcophagus set in the middle of a high-domed mausoleum near the centre of the city, a mile to the north of the great square. The mausoleum was surrounded by a high wall and had a small square in front of its main entrance, which was flanked by two white stone lions. The flagstones of the square were also brilliant white, and we had to shield our eyes from the glare as we walked across them to enter the tomb. There were five of us that day — myself, Gallia, Nergal, Praxima and Domitus, who had taken a keen interest in the history of his adopted homeland. We wore baggy leggings and loose-fitting tunics, though Domitus wore his customary white tunic and mail armour and had his helmet on his head. With its white plume he looked like a king and we his retinue. We all wore swords and daggers at our hips. The entrance was flanked by spearmen, with more guards posted around the grey sarcophagus. The interior of the building was quiet and cool, with a white marble floor and white marble columns around the sides. Domitus took off his helmet and we all walked over to the tomb, the sides of which were adorned with carvings of archers on horseback fighting and hunting. It was a most peaceful place.

‘Arsaces was the first Parthian king,’ I said in hushed tones. ‘His blood flows through my veins, so I like to think.’

‘Do all Parthians come here to pay homage, lord?’ asked Praxima.

I shook my head. ‘Unfortunately, most Parthians are too busy facing life’s hardships to make the trip here. But all have heard of him and I am glad that you, my friends, are here with me.’ I reached over to hold Gallia’s hand.

‘A most touching scene.’

There are very few men who I dislike when I first see them, for I like to think of myself as a fair-minded individual. But with Mithridates it was different. I disliked him on sight. No, that is incorrect; he invoked my animosity when I heard his voice, before I had even clapped eyes on him.

I turned to see a man about my age with long, shoulder-length black hair that was as straight as an arrow. He was tall and slim, though certainly not gaunt, his face long with wide cheekbones. His neatly trimmed beard came to a point just beneath his chin accentuating the narrowness of his visage, so that he resembled a snake. As I was to discover, it was a most appropriate analogy. He was dressed in a rich black tunic with silver edging around the neck and cuffs, black leggings and black boots studded with silver. He wore a black leather belt, from which hung a sword in an expensive scabbard, also adorned with silver leaf.

His soulless black eyes glinted with mocking arrogance as he bowed his head to me. ‘The whole empire has heard of King Pacorus. I salute you. How are you finding my kingdom?’

‘Your kingdom?’

‘Of course, did I not introduce myself? How rude of me. I am Prince Mithridates, former ruler of Dura.’

He had five companions with him, all men about his age and all wearing expensive clothes and haughty expressions, save one at the end who seemed embarrassed by it all.

‘Long have I wanted to meet the hero of children’s stories and the friend of slaves.’ His voice was condescending and I felt an anger rise in me.

‘So, you are Prince Mithridates,’ I said.

He smiled, revealing a row of perfect white teeth, the serpent’s fangs. ‘Indeed, majesty.’

‘It would have been good manners to have handed over your kingdom to me when I arrived at Dura, do you not think?’

His smiled disappeared, to be replaced by a mask of contempt. ‘My grandfather was old and robbed of his senses when he saw fit to give you my throne.’

His effrontery was breathtaking. ‘And you earned the throne through merit, did you?’

‘I certainly did not win it by consorting with slaves and other low-borns.’

‘Have a care, prince,’ I snarled, ‘your words may lead you into trouble.’

He ignored my veiled threat and leered at Gallia.

‘So this is your queen. For once the street talk and brothel gossip do not lie. A rare beauty indeed. Such a waste to live in the scorpion-infested frontier outpost of Dura, though. A queen deserves a proper palace and kingdom befitting her great beauty.’

Gallia smiled and glided towards him, stopping inches from him. His eyes were alight with lust.

‘And would you give me such a palace, lord prince?’ she purred.

His eyes darted from hers to her long blonde hair, to her breasts and then back again to her blue eyes.

‘I would make you a queen among queens.’

She moved her face slowly towards his, her full lips parting ever so slightly as if to kiss him. Time seemed to slow as we all stared, transfixed, by the scene. Then her right hand shot forward into his groin as she grabbed his genitals and held them in an iron grip. Pain contorted his face. Praxima squealed and burst into laughter while Nergal and the companions of Mithridates looked stunned.

Gallia’s face was a mask of cold contempt as she held the prince’s most precious possessions firmly in place. ‘I have heard lots about you, little boy, and none of it is good. You are not fit to be called a prince, let alone a king, you who makes war upon small children. Did you think that I would be interested in such a poor specimen of a man?’

Now his friends had recovered from their shock and moved menacingly towards Gallia, hands on their sword hilts, except for the embarrassed one, but like lightning Domitus whipped out his gladius and had the point at the throat of the foremost man, a youth with a large nose and gold bracelets around his wrist. He looked alarmed as this cropped-haired barbarian pressed the point of his Roman sword into his neck.

Gallia released Mithridates and he slumped to the floor in great pain. I stepped in front of my wife and folded my arms in front of me.

‘You defile this holy place with your presence, Mithridates. Leave us and go play with your toys.’

Wincing, he staggered to his feet. I thought he was going to skulk away, but at that time I did not know his capacity for hate. He glowered at me, drew himself up to his full height and then drew his sword. I likewise drew mine, but before either of us had a chance to cross blades the embarrassed companion of Mithridates with the kindly face was between us. He grabbed Mithridates by the shoulders and pushed him away.

‘You cannot fight here, in this revered place.’

‘Get out of my way, brother,’ hissed Mithridates.

So he was Mithridates’ brother. They were utterly different in looks and manner.

As Mithridates sulked but made no attempt to attack me, his brother turned to face me.

‘Lord king, please forgive my brother’s intemperance. I would beg that you do not fight him for I have heard of your prowess in battle, and if you kill him then my honour will demand that I must avenge his death, and I would much rather get to know you as a friend rather than as an enemy.’

He then went down on one knee before me and bowed his head.

‘Get up,’ I said, ‘and take your brother and his pets away.’

Mithridates and his companions stood in a group behind the one with a sword at his throat. Their eyes still burned with hatred towards me, though none of them made any threatening moves.

‘Release him Domitus,’ I ordered. The commander of my legion sheathed his gladius and stared at the man with the gold bracelets, daring him to draw his sword. He did not.

Mithridates’ brother bowed his head at Gallia. ‘Your beauty is truly stunning, majesty. Please accept my apologies for any offence my family has given you.’

‘I accept your apology,’ replied Gallia, ‘yet I do not know your name.’

He bowed his head again. ‘Princes Orodes, majesty.’

‘Well, prince,’ I said, ‘we are pleased to make your acquaintance.’

Behind him Mithridates and his other companions were striding from the mausoleum, leaving his brother alone with us. Around us, nervous-looking guards had gathered into a group and approached, led by a young officer with a wispy moustache.

‘Majesty, forgive me, but it is not permitted to draw weapons inside this place.’

‘Of course, officer, please accept my apologies. We shall be leaving now.’

His face wore the expression of a man who had been reprieved on the gallows.

‘Thank you, majesty.’ He waved his men away, who returned to their stations around the room. I linked arms with Gallia.

‘Walk with us, Orodes.’

As we ambled from the dimly lit mausoleum into the bright sunshine I probed Orodes about his brother.

‘Were you with your brother at Dura?’

‘No, lord. Being the younger brother I stayed at Susa with my father.’

Susa was the capital city of the kingdom of Susiana, which was the domain of King Phraates. The palace at Ctesiphon is the capital of the empire, reserved as the grand residence of the King of Kings, but Phraates was the King of Susiana, though these past years he had spent most of his time at Ctesiphon running errands for his father, Sinatruces.

‘I was sorry to hear about the death of your grandfather,’ remarked Gallia.

‘Thank you, majesty,’ said Orodes, ‘he lived long and in peace, what more can one ask for?’

A wise answer, I thought. ‘Indeed,’ I remarked. ‘Let us hope that the reign of the next King of Kings is likewise blessed.’

‘I hope so, lord.’

‘The council sits tomorrow, so we shall soon know.’

Orodes had an agreeable nature, which made it hard to believe that he was the brother of Mithridates. As he said farewell to us and made his way back to the villa of his father, an uncomfortable thought crossed my mind.

It was Domitus who articulated my thoughts.

‘So that Mithridates was the little toad who ruled Dura before you.’

‘Indeed.’

Domitus pulled out a cloth from his tunic and wiped his neck, for the day was hot and there was no wind. ‘When I served Rome I saw a lot of his type during my days as a centurion. They were mostly tribunes, the sons and grandsons of important people, and all spoilt, arrogant little bastards, begging your pardon ladies. We usually sorted them out, though.’

‘How did you do that, Domitus?’ asked Gallia.

‘Well, if we were on the frontier then they would be ordered to lead punitive raids against bandits. They always relished the chance of slaughtering a few locals and earning some glory, but they invariably went too deep into hostile territory and came back with their tails between their legs, that or a few arrows in their backs.’

‘And what if you were not on the frontier?’

Domitus shrugged. ‘They they would spend time drinking, gambling or whoring, anything to keep them out of camp.’

‘That Mithridates, he’s the eldest son of Phraates?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

Domitus shook his head. ‘So if Phraates is elected head king, the toad becomes king in his place?’

‘I’m afraid so,’ I answered.

Domitus turned to Gallia. ‘You should have cut his balls off, lady, for that one’s going to cause a lot of trouble.’

The day of the council was hot and still. Again there was no wind, and though the tent was large and all the side flaps were open, inside the heat was oppressive. Slaves brought great jugs of cool water for us to drink but it was still uncomfortable, and it was only early morning. There were many fine buildings in Esfahan, but tradition dictated that the Council of Kings be held in a tent, just as the first one had many years ago.

‘Tradition? My aching back says tradition can go hang.’ Balas was already in a bad mood, and though everyone was seated in high-backed wicker chairs with cushions, he took a dim view of the assembly. All the kings were arranged in a wide circle, each monarch in front with his followers behind. I was seated between Balas and my father, with Aschek, Vardan, Farhad, Gotarzes and Chosroes to his left. It was the first time that I had clapped my eyes on Chosroes, the King of Mesene, a land to the south of Babylon. He was a strange-looking individual with a bald head and a long, thin face that was dominated by a huge long nose. His eyes, cold, calculating and narrow, were almost obscured by thick black eyebrows. Dressed in a red flowing gown adorned with strips of gold, my instincts told me that he was untrustworthy, but he was cordial enough if a little curt. Phraates, his hair greyer now and his expression serious, sat on Balas’ right side. He was clearly nervous as he continually looked to his right and left and smiled at anyone who caught his eye. Immediately behind him sat Mithridates, looking daggers at me, and Orodes, who nodded his head in greeting. I smiled and nodded back, which earned him a look of fury from his brother.

Balas leaned towards me and then looked at the kings opposite. ‘First time I’ve seen most of them. Ugly looking lot, aren’t they?’

He was referring to the kings of the eastern half of the empire, who were mostly descended from oriental races, with their narrow eyes and flat faces.

‘I know him, though.’ Balas was pointing at a large man opposite with Asiatic features — narrow eyes, a long nose like a hawk’s beak, skin like an old leather pouch and a long white moustache and a white pointed beard. He wore leather armour and a leather pointed cap on his head. His followers behind him were similarly attired. They looked like fierce nomads.

‘Khosrou, King of Margiana. You don’t want to mess with him. He’s as tough as he looks.’

Margiana was located in the northeast corner of the empire and had the unenviable task of holding at bay the vast horses of nomads that occupied the endless great northern steppes.

A blast of trumpets got everyone’s attention as a procession of the city’s elders entered the tent and stood in the circle in front of us. There were eighteen elders to match the eighteen kings present, each one bareheaded and dressed in a long yellow robe edged with gold. One of the elders, who I surmised was the head of the council, raised his arms and began a long and tedious thanksgiving to the gods, thanking them for delivering us all safely to Esfahan and asking them to give us all wisdom to make the right choice this day. He must have waffled on for at least half an hour.

Afterwards the elders sat in chairs reserved for them on the north side of the tent, thereby completing the circle of attendees.

The chief elder rose again and addressed us all, his voice deep. I thought I saw a look of disdain in his eyes as he caught sight of Axsen, Gallia and Praxima, but no one had said that women were forbidden to attend, only prohibited to vote, and in any case Gallia had come as my queen.

‘Majesties, today you choose a new King of Kings to rule the empire. May your choice be a wise one. Which one of you will begin by naming a candidate for this most august position?’

He had barely taken his seat before my father was out of his chair and standing in the middle of the circle. Clearly he was intent on taking the bull by the horns.

‘I am Varaz of Hatra, and I propose Phraates, son of the late Sinatruces, as a suitable candidate to be King of Kings.’

My father looked at each of his allies in turn.

Balas rose from his chair. ‘I, Balas of Gordyene, support my friend Varaz in his choice.’ He was followed in turn by Aschek, Vardan, Farhad, Gotarzes and a somewhat unenthusiastic Chosroes. Finally, I too rose from my chair and offered my support.

‘I, Pacorus of Dura, also support the election of Phraates.’

It was an impressive endorsement of Phraates’ claim, as eight kings of the empire had voiced their support for him. Though as a candidate he could not vote himself, Phraates still had half the kings of the empire behind him. I assumed that the others would fall into line. I was wrong.

As we took our seats, one of the kings opposite rose slowly to his feet. Tall, powerfully built, he had a large round face with a broad forehead. His skin was almost white and his light brown hair was cut short, as was his neatly trimmed beard. He wore a rich purple tunic edged with gold, yellow leggings and red leather boots. His belt and scabbard holding his sword were both black leather inlaid with gold leaf decorations. He indeed looked like a great king.

‘I am Narses of Persis, and I would like to propose another candidate for the throne at Ctesiphon.’ His voice was deep and powerful, his manner very assured.

The chief elder rose. ‘Of course, majesty. Whom do you propose?’

‘Myself,’ replied Narses.

Balas laughed out loud and even my father smiled, though I noticed that the eastern kings did not seem surprised by Narses’ announcement. Narses himself stood impassively.

‘There may be some among us who thinks this is amusing. Well, more fool them.’ Silence descended on the assembly. Narses strode into the centre of the circle.

‘Fellow kings, we all know that Hatra,’ he held out a hand towards my father, ‘has grown rich during the long reign of Sinatruces, and King Varaz lists King Phraates among his allies. We also know that other western kings,’ he gestured with his hand towards Farhad, Vardan and Balas, ‘perhaps intimidated by Hatra’s mighty army, are loathe to disagree with King Varaz.’

My father sprang from his chair. ‘Have a care, Narses.’

The chief elder was appalled. ‘Majesty, please. Threats and violence are forbidden in this assembly.’

My father held up his hands by way of an apology and regained his seat, though I could see that he was struggling to control his temper.

Narses smirked and continued. ‘Well, I now understand why kingdoms close to Hatra’s borders may be reluctant to antagonise their more powerful neighbour.’

This time my father did not take the bait but regarded Narses with a detached amusement.

Balas rose from his seat and pointed at Narses. ‘What makes you think that you have the talents to be King of Kings?’

Narses smiled at him. ‘Lord king, if you were a candidate I would not propose myself, so great is your fame. Yet I have to ask King Phraates himself why he thinks he is a suitable candidate, for we have heard nothing from him. Indeed, I find myself asking if he really wishes to be King of Kings at all.’

‘Of course he does,’ barked my father.

‘It is quite obvious, King Varaz,’ continued Narses, ‘that you wish him to be, but what does he say on the matter?’

Narses took his seat and stared at Phraates, who rose from his chair and cleared his throat.

‘Majesties, most of you have known me for many years. I have always had the best interests of the empire at heart and have striven to maintain security and prosperity within the empire and peace with our neighbours. If elected, I promise to follow the same policy as my late father.’

Narses rose from his chair once more. ‘A most admirable aim, lord king. For a diplomat.’ Several of those around him laughed at this. ‘But we are not diplomats, we are kings. Many years ago your father united the empire by force of arms, foreigners respected him because he was strong. I would be a strong king, for I think that ambassadors make poor rulers.’

The words of Narses were impolite but they were also true. Phraates was a good and able man but he lacked ruthlessness, and his inaction at this moment spoke volumes.

‘Enough, Narses,’ snapped my father. ‘We are not here to bandy words but to elect a king. If you are confident of being elected then let’s have the vote now and have an end to it. This is a not a debating chamber.’

‘No, indeed,’ quipped Narses.

The chief elder rose from his chair.

‘Majesties, let the vote then be counted. Who wishes Phraates, son of Sinatruces, to be King of Kings?’

Ten of us raised our hands. Phraates, being the candidate, was not allowed to vote, but it did not matter. Two kings who had not spoken sided with Phraates. They were Khosrou of Margiana and Musa, his neighbour to the west, the ruler of Hyrcania, a land that rested on the southern shores of the mighty Caspian Sea. Thus it was decided that Phraates would follow in his father’s footsteps. Narses sat with his arms folded, staring at the ground. Gallia leaned forward and whispered in my ear.

‘That one has not taken defeat lightly. I fear your father has made an enemy this day.’

‘I think you are right, my love, but he has the decision he wanted.’

The chief elder brought the council meeting to an end with another long and tedious sermon, and afterwards I offered my congratulations to Phraates, bowing my head to him.

‘Thank you, Pacorus. Your allegiance means a great deal to me.’

Gallia also bowed her head to him and he took her hand and kissed it.

‘Queen Gallia, truly you become more beautiful each time we meet. Parthia is indeed fortunate to have you as one of its queens.’

Ever the diplomat. My father embraced Phraates and slapped him hard on the back. As they parted Narses and King Porus of Sakastan stormed from the tent. It was the height of ill manners to do so without paying homage to the new King of Kings, though Phraates did his best to lessen the offence.

‘He is hot-headed, I fear. He will calm down.’

The reptile Mithridates was suddenly before his father, bowing deeply.

‘Hail, great king.’

‘You are now King of Susiana, Mithridates,’ said Phraates. ‘I hope that you have learned from your mistakes at Dura and will be a good king to your people.’

I doubted that, but Mithridates was clearly stung by his father’s rebuke.

‘My only regret is not dealing with the Agraci harshly enough.’

‘To say nothing of alienating your own people,’ I added.

Mithridates turned sharply to face me. ‘You dare to speak to me so.’

‘I do,’ I replied.

He was now incandescent. ‘This is an outrage,’ he bellowed, drawing the attention of others nearby.

‘Go and play with the other children, boy.’

His eyes flashed hatred. ‘And you attend to your whore.’

That was it. The time for talking was done. I drew my sword; he did likewise.

‘No!’ shouted Phraates, and within seconds my father and Balas were pulling me away, while Orodes and Phraates were berating Mithridates.

‘Are you mad?’ hissed my father. ‘The penalty for drawing your sword in the presence of the King of Kings is death.’

I felt anger coursing through my body and restrained myself with difficulty. Gallia stood in front of me.

‘You are a king, Pacorus, so act like one. If you want to brawl then go into the street and spare us the sight of such indignity.’

I looked at her, and then at my father. I breathed deeply and put my sword back in its scabbard. I held up my hands in submission and then made my way to Phraates, going down on one knee before him and bowing my head.

‘Great king, I have offended you. I await your punishment.’

‘Nonsense, nonsense. Get up, Pacorus. The day has been hot and long and we are all tired and our nerves frayed, and when the senses are dulled one says and does things that are out of character. I want you to embrace Mithridates and that shall be the end of the matter.’

He gestured with his arms that we should embrace. And so we embraced, and as we did so he whispered ‘slave’ into my ear, and I responded by calling him ‘boy’ ever so quietly so only he would hear. Then we parted, all false smiles and pretended affection.

My father was livid with me and refused to talk as we made our way back to our quarters, though Balas was as jovial as ever.

‘That went as well as expected. Reckon you’ve made any enemy for life, Pacorus.’

That much was true, though I gladly accepted the hatred of Mithridates as it was nothing compared to the contempt in which I held him.

Khosrou had followed us, outside and now he called after me.

‘Hold, young king.’

I stopped and faced him. Up close he was even more intimidating, with clear grey eyes that had no mercy in them.

‘I have heard of you,’ his accent was strange, clipped and exotic. He looked at Gallia standing beside me, and a look of admiration suddenly appeared on his face. ‘And you, you whom they call “the blonde angel of death”.’

Gallia gave him a most dazzling smile and bowed her head ever so slightly towards him.

‘You honour me, sire.’

‘I would walk with you,’ said Khosrou.

‘Of course, lord,’ I replied.

Domitus and Nergal looked at me but I waved them ahead.

I thought Khosrou was a like a silent assassin but I was wrong. He was friendly and generous, at least on that afternoon.

‘Even in my kingdom, which is many hundreds of miles from Dura, people talk of Pacorus and Gallia, of how they defeated armies together riding on a white horse that has wings. And how he is the conqueror of eagles, who has gathered a mighty army around him that will make the world tremble. All this I have heard of you, so I decided to see for myself whether it was true.’

‘There is some truth in what you have heard, lord,’ I said. ‘Though my horse does not have wings.’

Khosrou looked at the sword hanging at Gallia’s waist.

‘I have heard that you fight like a man, lady.’

Gallia’s eyes narrowed. ‘You have heard wrong, lord, for I fight like a woman.’

Khosrou smiled. ‘And you have a band of women warriors who fight with you?’

‘Yes, lord,’ she said proudly. ‘They are called Amazons.’

‘And yet you possess a rare beauty that would grace the finest palace. And you, Pacorus, do you like your woman fighting on the battlefield instead of warming your bed?’

‘We met in the midst of war, lord, and ever since I was glad that she could protect herself from danger.’

‘And you,’ added Gallia.

‘It’s true,’ I said. ‘Once she saved me from being run through by a Roman.’

Khosrou nodded and then looked ahead at the arrow-straight figure of Domitus walking beside Nergal and Praxima.

‘He is a Roman, is he not, for I have heard that one of your generals is a man from Rome?’

‘Yes, lord, he is the commander of my foot soldiers.’

‘And you trust him, this man from the race of your enemies?’

‘With my life, lord.’

‘Mine too,’ added Gallia.

It was a while before Khosrou said anything further. ‘And I have also heard that you have made peace with the Agraci, the sworn enemies of your father’s kingdom.’

‘They were only enemies because no one had thought to ask them if they wished to be friends, lord.’

‘You two are a curious pair, that much is true, but I like you and I like what you are trying to do. I learned the hard way that it’s impossible to subdue barbarians with the sword. You may kill many, but there is an endless supply that will come back like a flood and sweep over the land. They don’t stay, but they cause enough damage when they do visit.’

‘They have attacked your lands, lord?’ asked Gallia.

‘Yes.’ He said harshly. ‘A few years ago I led a great raid into the northern steppes and found nothing, but while I was gone a mighty host of the nomads attacked my capital and set fire to it.’

‘Merv,’ I muttered.

‘Merv, yes,’ replied Khosrou. ‘You know it.’

‘Only the name, lord.’ But my mind went back to a feast I attended years ago at the court of Sinatruces at Ctesiphon, where the old king’s sorceress, Dobbai, had told the King of Kings that while he sat stuffing his face Merv was burning.

‘So now,’ continued Khosrou, ‘instead of waging war I have treaties with the barbarians.’ He smiled at Gallia. ‘We still keep our quivers full and our swords sharp, but in general the peace holds. Indeed, some of the rascals serve in my army.’

‘They fight for you, not against you,’ said Gallia, ‘just like the Agraci at Dura.’

‘Exactly,’ said Khosrou. ‘You appear to have a wise head on your shoulders, Pacorus.’

‘I hope so, lord.’

‘Well, I must bid you both farewell. Perhaps you might come to Margiana when you have the opportunity. You will be made welcome.’

He bowed his head, turned smartly and marched off with his men trailing behind him.

‘A good judge of character, that one,’ mused Gallia.

‘Let us hope that our peace will endure as his has,’ I said.