Parthian Dawn

Chapter 8

My father’s mood improved in the days following as we headed back west to our kingdoms. Couriers were sent to every corner of the empire to announce the election of Phraates as King of Kings. He would officially move from his capital of Susa to the royal palace at Ctesiphon, though in realty he already had apartments there from his time as his father’s envoy. Ctesiphon was the capital city of the Parthian Empire, a huge collection of dwellings clustered around a large palace, the whole enclosed by a rather ill-maintained circuit wall. The palace complex had several throne rooms and a grand banqueting hall befitting the residence of the empire’s chief monarch. The thought of Mithridates becoming King of Susiana did not fill me with relish, but I hoped that his father and brother would have a restraining influence on him. In all, though, the Council of Kings had turned out to be a worthwhile occasion for now the empire had a new ruler and peace would be maintained.

A month later we were back at Dura, which had continued to prosper under the expert rule of Godarz and the eagle-eyed Rsan. Gallia recruited more Amazons and Domitus went back to training his legion, which was now fully armed and equipped. Five thousand men had helmets, mail shirts, leather vests, white tunics and shields. The latter comprised three layers of wooden strips glued together and reinforced with wooden strips on the back. A hole was then cut in the centre of the shield, across which was fastened a horizontal metal bar, by which each legionary held the shield with his left hand. To protect his hand, and on the side of the shield that faced the enemy, there was a bulging steel boss over the grip. Each shield was faced with fabric painted white and decorated with red griffin wings. The armouries then began to work on the production of javelins. Ever since my time in Italy I had been fascinated by this particular item of equipment, and was determined to acquire it for my own army. Every spear I had previously encountered comprised a long, straight shaft topped with a blade. But the Roman javelin was entirely different. It comprised a four-foot length of ash onto which is riveted a shaft of thin, soft iron which ends in a tiny triangular tip. Heavy and somewhat cumbersome, the beauty of the javelin is that when it is thrown at an enemy the iron shaft bends upon impact, and cannot be thrown back. In addition, if it gets stuck in an enemy’s shield it cannot be wrenched free, thus making the shield useless. The javelin was an ingenious weapon and I was determined to have thousands of them.

‘How many, majesty?’ asked Rsan, his face illuminated by the oil lamp that sat on his desk, the only light that broke the darkness of night-time.

I stretched back in the chair opposite his desk.

‘Ten thousand. To begin with.’

He stopped writing and looked up. ‘Ten thousand? But there are only five thousand men in your legion.’

‘I know that. But javelins break and you can never have enough, Rsan.’

He was shaking his head. ‘Yet more cost, majesty. May I ask a question?’

‘Of course,’ I said.

‘You have raised five thousand foot soldiers, a further two hundred cataphracts, and the lords of your kingdom can furnish you with hundreds more horsemen in times of emergency.’

‘That is correct.’

‘But we have peace, majesty. You have won over your lords, come to an agreement with the Agraci and have opened up a new trade route to Egypt, which brings in revenues for my, er your, treasury.’

‘What is your point, Rsan?’

He sat back and brought his hands together in front of him. ‘Why do you then spend so much on soldiers that have no employment?’

I stood up and smiled at him. ‘That’s a very good question, Rsan. In reply I will tell you the words that someone once told me, and which I have remembered ever since — if you want peace, prepare for war.’

Through Li Sung I obtained the services of Chinese apothecaries who knew how to make a white, sticky liquid which, when alight, was impossible to extinguish until it had burnt itself out. When it was doused with water the flames and heat actually increased in intensity. It was also most terrible because when it hit a surface and ignited it stuck fast, like glue, so any poor wretch covered by it would burn to death despite all efforts to save him. The fearsome liquid was stored in a cool basement under the armoury in the Citadel and was placed under a heavy guard, for it could be as dangerous to a user as to an opponent.

One non-martial indulgence I did allow myself was the hiring of a stonemason to carve a large griffin to be placed on the arch between the towers at the Palmyrene Gate. Squat, barrel-chested and balding, his name was Demetrius and he was a Greek. He had a large round face, piggy eyes and came highly recommended by King Vardan of Babylon. I visited his workshop one day, a large tent beside the barracks in the Citadel that had been erected for his convenience. He had been in Dura for three days, during which time Gallia had visited him and he had informed her about the statue and how he intended to carve it, after she had shown him my griffin banner that hung behind our thrones in the palace. He had even let her begin the carving.

The large block of sandstone was resting on a wooden pallet in the centre of the room, his chisels and hammers arranged on a long bench beside it. Demetrius was busy marking the stone with chalk when he noticed me picking up a chisel from his bench.

‘Kindly leave the tools alone, they are not toys,’ he remarked without looking at me.

‘How long will it take to finish the statue?’

He sighed deeply. ‘As long as it takes, longer if I am continually interrupted, that’s for sure.’

He walked over to me, took the chisel from my hand and put it back on the bench in exactly the same spot where it had previously been.

‘I was wondering,’ I continued, ‘if I might try my hand at carving.’

A look of horror spread over his face. ‘Certainly not.’

‘You let my wife have a go.’

A sly smile creased his face. ‘Your wife is a beautiful woman. Besides, it is good luck to have one so fair and beloved of the gods to initiate the carving.’

‘I see, and am I not beloved of the gods?’

‘I have no idea, but I do know that while you waste my time with idle chatter my work gets delayed and your fee increases.’

‘Do you always talk to kings and princes in this manner?’

He was indignant. ‘Of course, they hire me for my skill at creating works of art that will last for hundreds of years, not to inflate their feelings of self-importance. If you want flattery, go and talk to your courtiers.’

‘I don’t have any.’

He looked reflective. ‘Then perhaps you are wise like your wife. Such a charming lady.’

‘You talked to her?’

He shook his head irritably. ‘Of course, we had a very long conversation.’

‘You didn’t mind wasting time talking to my wife, then?’

‘Of course not, why should I? She is beautiful and intelligent. Any man would be a fool to pass up such an opportunity to share the company of one so possessed of grace and charm. Very unusual lady, I have to say. Very different from most of my clients, who for the most part are dim-witted warriors who want statues of themselves waving a sword around. They have some absurd notion that they will live forever if I make a stone carving of them. Laughable.’

‘You don’t believe that their memories will be preserved for posterity?’

He regarded me for a moment. I think he was trying to work out if I was clever or an idiot.

‘The world is full of statues of men who are now long dead. Who remembers them? Not me, and I carved statues for many of them. After a few generations even their families have difficulty remembering who they were. A few, a tiny few, are remembered. We all know who Alexander of Macedon was, and Leonidas of Sparta and Hector of Troy. But the rest?’

‘Lucky for you that kings have such vanity.’

He shrugged. ‘A man has to earn a living.’

I went over to the sandstone and ran my fingers over its course texture. ‘If you think it is a waste of time, why do you carve statues?’

He sighed irritably. ‘I did not say I do not enjoy it, I merely commented on the mentality of my clients in wanting to preserve themselves in stone. I love working with stone, metal too for that matter. For one thing, metal and stone do not ask ridiculous questions.’

He turned and stood before my griffin banner that hung on the wall. ‘Interesting standard, designed by a sorceress your wife tells me.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘A gift.’

‘Mm, you are man who knows some interesting women, that’s for sure. Now, you really must leave to allow me to get on with my work.’

The new year dawned and brought with it a happy occasion, for my sister Aliyeh was to marry Atrax of Media. Gallia and I travelled to Irbil for the ceremony with a small retinue of fifty horsemen and another fifty horsewomen, half her contingent of Amazons. We travelled north to Hatra and stayed in the city for a few days to await Balas. The old brawler was as roisterous as ever, and it was a happy party that headed east into Media the following week. My father had made Vata the commander of his bodyguard for the trip, the only reason being that I could once again be in the company of my oldest friend. My mother, dressed in leggings, leather boots and a bow hanging from her saddle, a quiver slung over her shoulder, rode beside my father. She wore a loose-fitting white tunic and a wide-brimmed hat on her head, but she would not have looked out of place among my wife’s female warriors. It was one of the few times that I had seen her in the saddle, and despite her middle age she still cut a dashing figure. Her long, curly black hair was tied with a black ribbon behind her neck.

My father brought a hundred of his bodyguard and Balas another hundred of his warriors, so our column of horses and camels stretched for five miles along the road behind us. The banners of the kings made an impressive sight, the lion of Gordyene, the white horse of Hatra and the griffin of Dura, the latter carried by Vagharsh, a trusted Companion. Vata rode beside me. He had regained some of his joviality, though he still wore a haggard look that had aged him beyond his years. But now at least he appeared happy and carefree.

‘Gallia, I heard that you met Prince Mithridates at Esfahan and that it was a painful encounter for him,’ he said, winking at me.

‘Prince?’ she sniffed. ‘He is not worthy of that title.’

‘He’s a king now, unfortunately,’ I remarked casually.

He grinned at me. ‘Is that how you greet princes in the land you come from?’

‘He got off lightly. I was in a good mood that day,’ she said, ‘I should have lopped them off with my dagger.’

‘Like we did in Italy,’ added the grinning Praxima behind us.

Vata looked shocked and glanced at me. ‘You don’t want to know,’ was all I said.

He changed the subject. ‘So, your sister is to be a queen.’

I looked ahead to where Aliyeh rode beside my mother, who was being entertained by one of Balas’ tall stories.

‘Yes, I’m happy for her, and it will be a good alliance for Hatra.’

‘She is marrying for love, Pacorus,’ said Gallia, ‘not because of politics. Or would you prefer that your sister marry a fat old beast who will abuse her.’

I knew that she was talking about her own experiences as a slave in Italy, and her tone dared me to contradict her. I did not. She had grown close to my sisters during our time in Hatra and wanted to see them both happy, as did I.

‘It is a good match,’ I said.

Irbil was a city that was situated across the Tigris. We reached it in ten days, Farhad himself riding out to greet us on the final leg of our journey. He was an affable enough man and was genuinely delighted that his son was marrying well. The truth was that Media needed Hatra more than Hatra needed Media, but my father had not forgotten that Farhad had supported the election of Phraates and was pleased enough to have him as a relation. Indeed Phraates himself had come to the city, officially to bless the wedding, though I suspected the real reason was to thank those who had voted for him at the Council of Kings. I was pleased to see that Orodes was with him, and the prince greeted Gallia and me warmly. As an added bonus, there was no sign of Mithridates.

Irbil was once a major city in the ancient Assyrian Empire. Indeed, its Assyrian name means ‘Four Gods’ — Assur, Ishtar, Shamash and Sin — and it was a great centre of learning, science, knowledge and art. The city’s citadel was positioned on top of a great circular stone mound a hundred feet high, on top of which had been built high stonewalls, yellow-ochre in colour. The city’s shops and houses were grouped around the mound, though there was no outer wall for their protection. Access to the citadel was via a long ramp that had been cut into the side of the mound, which led to a huge gatehouse on its southern side. We rode up to and through the gates, then along a short paved road that led to the central square, around which were grouped Farhad’s palace, temples, barracks and stables, the whole enclosed by an inner circuit wall. I estimated that the citadel had a diameter of around a quarter of a mile, no more. It was certainly a strong position, though any attacker could destroy those buildings around the mound with ease. All the buildings inside the citadel were brick, with a myriad of narrow alleyways cutting through the entire settlement. Our quarters were extremely pleasant and had an open courtyard planted with trees, the kitchens, servants’ quarters, stores and stables on one side and our rooms on the upper storey opposite. The doors were painted cobalt blue, the courtyard walls had marble facings and the arcade had three stone arches that supported a terrace overlooking the courtyard. Our room had a timber ceiling and plaster walls that were decorated with depictions of wild horses.

The wedding ceremony itself was a grand occasion held in the city’s main temple, a cavernous stone structure surmounted by twenty domes resting on arches and columns. Afterwards I embraced Atrax as my new brother and wiped the tears from the eyes of my sister, for her time as my parents’ spoilt little girl was now over and she was beginning her new life as a woman. Hatra would no longer be her home for she was now a princess of Media. Yet Atrax clearly doted on her and she adored him, and dressed in his scale armour cuirass and steel helmet he looked every inch the warrior. The day after the wedding feast my mother bade Aliyeh a tearful farewell as she and Atrax rode off to spend some time alone together in one of Farhad’s mountain-top retreats in the north of his kingdom. A hundred horse archers dressed in blue tunics and grey leggings escorted the couple.

As we watched the newlyweds ride from the stronghold and waved them goodbye, little did we know that we were also bidding farewell to peace and happiness. For at that moment a chill wind from the north blew in our faces, heralding the dawn of the hard times though we did not know it. As I held Gallia close I heard shouts behind me. I turned and saw an exhausted horse, dirty and lathered in sweat, hobble through the palace gates. The rider on its back, bent forward and hugging its neck, suddenly fell from his saddle onto the ground. A guard held the horse’s reins as another knelt beside the rider. I saw Phraates and Orodes looking concerned, and then suddenly we were all running towards the fallen rider.

‘He wears the colours of the city of Susa,’ said Orodes.

Reaching him, I looked down and saw that the right side of the soldier’s tunic was soaked in blood. Phraates knelt beside him as the man, his face deathly pale, tried to rise.

‘Highness,’ he uttered weakly.

‘Do not try to get up,’ commanded Phraates. ‘Someone get this man some water. What has happened?’

I could see the shaft of an arrow lodged in his side.

‘King Mithridates, majesty. He has rid Susa of your allies, killed all those who were loyal to you.’

A look of alarm crossed Phraates’ face, but then he smiled. ‘Talk no more. We will get you well first.’

The man grabbed his king’s arm feebly. ‘Others loyal to you have fled west to Ctesiphon. They await you there, highness. Narses…..’

His arm fell to the ground as he passed out.

He was carried to the garrison infirmary as we all stood around in a state of shock.

‘I must get back to Ctesiphon,’ said Phraates, ‘and find out more about what has happened.’

But as he walked off to his quarters with Orodes by his side we all knew the sad truth of what had happened. Mithridates had used the opportunity presented to him by his father’s absence to tighten his grip on Susa. But his reasons remained obscure. He was King of Susiana because his father was King of Kings and now lived at Ctesiphon, though technically Phraates still ruled his own kingdom Susiana as well as the whole of the Parthian Empire. As we all stood in a circle staring at each other, it was Balas who spoke first.

‘It would appear that King Mithridates has decided that he should rule Susiana.’

‘His head will be adorning Susa’s walls soon enough,’ said my father.

‘You think so, Varaz?’ replied Balas. ‘I think our young upstart king has allies.’

‘What allies?’ snapped my father.

‘Narses,’ I said.

‘He’s right there,’ said Balas. ‘You heard him at Esfahan. He wanted to be King of Kings and now he’s decided to take the throne by force.’

My father shook his head. ‘Just because a dying man utters a name does not mean anything.’

‘Yes it does,’ insisted Balas, ‘and you know it.’

‘Perhaps we should withdraw to the palace for further discussions,’ offered Farhad.

And so we did, and after more fruitless discourse, which involved my father and Balas arguing some more, I made plans to return to Dura. I wrote a letter to Godarz and sent it by courier. The postal system throughout the empire was extremely efficient, with horsemen riding between way stations located every thirty miles on all major roads. At the stations fresh horses and riders stood ready at all times, so that a letter could cover up to ninety miles in one day. I watched the rider gallop down the road south from the walls of Irbil. Gallia stood beside me.

‘We leave at dawn,’ I said.

‘Mithridates has joined with Narses, hasn’t he?’

I turned to face her. ‘It would appear so. The question is, how many more kings have joined Narses, if any?’

‘He is powerful?’

‘Persis is a large kingdom, that much is true, but how many men he can raise I know not.’

She laid a hand on mine. ‘You know, Spartacus once told me that it’s not the size of the gladiator in the fight that makes the difference, but the size of the fight in the gladiator.’

I smiled and pulled her close. ‘That is just the sort of thing he would say. I thought we had done with fighting.’

‘While there are men in the world armed with swords there will always be fighting, Pacorus.’

The next morning, before the first rays of the sun lanced the eastern sky, we said goodbye to my parents, Vata, Phraates, Orodes and Farhad and rode from his city, leaving the camels and ten of our riders to follow us. We rode hard for the Tigris, crossed the river and then travelled south along its western bank, before swinging west to cross the desert, heading for the Euphrates and home. We slept during the hottest part of the day — two hours either side of midday — and journeyed until it was dark, then rose again after two hours of sleep until the sun was roasting our backs once more. We ate hard biscuit, drank tepid water and rested under what shelter we could find. After five days we galloped across the Egyptian’s pontoon bridge and rode into Dura. Godarz was on the steps of the palace to greet us, flanked by Rsan, Domitus and Nergal. Their faces registered surprise at our appearance, for we were covered in dust, our dirty faces ran with sweat, the men with stubble on their faces and our hair matted with grime. Our horses were sweating and tired, their heads drooping as we halted them and slid off their backs. My limbs ached from the journey and my eyes stung with sweat.

‘We received your letter,’ said Godarz as grooms took away our horses to be unsaddled and cooled down.

‘Trouble?’ asked Domitus.

‘Yes,’ I replied. ‘Council of war in ten minutes.’

‘There is something you need to attend to first, lord,’ said Godarz.

‘What?’

Godarz shifted nervously on his feet. ‘In the throne room. She insisted and no one dared contradict her.’

‘Her? What are you talking about?’ I was tired and in no mood for games.

I marched into the palace with Gallia following and then walked into the throne room. At the far end, in my seat on the dais, was seated an old woman. As I drew closer I recognised her. The ragged robes, lank hair, bony fingers and haggard face made me stop in my tracks as I stared in disbelief at Dobbai, the wizened old crone who had been the sorceress of Sinatruces and who now sat on my throne.

‘They say that I am old and ugly, but you two make me look positively radiant. You look like you have been to the underworld and back,’ she cackled, revealing a mouth of discoloured teeth. ‘Is the burden of kingship proving too burdensome, son of Hatra?’

‘No,’ I said irritably.

Dobbai ignored me and beckoned to Gallia. ‘Sit beside me, child.’

‘May I sit on my own throne?’ I asked.

‘Would you deprive an old woman of the chance for her to rest her weary body?’

Gallia embraced Dobbai and sat on her throne, leaving me standing like some sort of servant in front of her. Behind me, Rsan, Nergal, Godarz and Domitus filed into the room.

‘She arrived two days ago,’ said Godarz, ‘and was insistent that she see you.’

‘Ha,’ bellowed Dobbai. ‘They quaked with fear when they saw me, for they knew who I was.’

I ordered some water to be brought to us and after Gallia and I had slated our thirsts I had chairs brought in and placed around the dais. I was tired, and by the look of the black circles around Gallia’s eyes so was she, yet some strange force compelled me to hear what Dobbai had to say, though not before she had ordered a servant to fetch her some wine.

‘A hard ride, lord?’ asked Nergal.

‘Yes, we had to get back here as quickly as possible, for trouble stirs in the east.’

‘You only know the half of it,’ said Dobbai, gulping wine from a cup and then holding it out to be refilled. ‘The eastern half of the empire stirs, son of Hatra, and only you and your father stand between order and destruction.’

‘You speak in riddles,’ I said, for all I wanted to do was close my eyes and rest.

But Dobbai was not to be silenced. She rose from my chair and walked up and down on the dais.

‘You have prepared your defences well, and that is good for they will be sorely tested err long. There are those who would tear the empire asunder, while his people,’ she pointed at Domitus, ‘wait like hungry vultures to pick over the bones.’

This was too much for Domitus, whose bemusement at Dobbai’s words had turned to anger. ‘Are we to listen to an old hag whose brains have been addled by the desert sun?’

Dobbai scoffed at his words. ‘Addled am I? Well, Roman, if that be so, why is it that I know of a mighty army marching towards you and you are ignorant of such a fact?’

‘What army?’ I asked.

‘It gathers at Persepolis under the bird-god banner of Narses. Thousands of horsemen and foot soldiers, the warriors of Tiridates of Aria, Phriapatus of Carmania, Porus of Sakastan, Vologases of Drangiana, Cinnamus of Anauon and Monaeses of Yueh-Chih. I have seen them in dreams, and soon they will be marching west to destroy the kingdoms that side with that fool Phraates.’

‘Dreams?’ I said with disbelief. ‘Those kings were at the council meeting that elected Phraates.’

Dobbai sat down and looked at me, all the while tapping the fingers of her left hand on the chair. ‘You still have much to learn, son of Hatra. Narses has been plotting for months, perhaps years, to become King of Kings. He has gained the allegiance of other kings and now intends to take the crown by force. He has already captured Susiana without a fight, for Mithridates has Susa and Narses will already be on the march there. And in between stands poor, defenceless Elymais. Gotarzes will be crushed like an ant beneath a giant’s foot, and after him Narses will take Mesene, Babylon and Hatra.’

She leaned forward to fix me with her black eyes. ‘You have little time left, son of Hatra, so little time.’

I did not want to believe what she had revealed to me, but my instincts told me that her words were true.

‘I can believe that Mithridates would be party to such treachery,’ said Gallia. ‘He is a snake.’

‘And a dangerous one,’ added Dobbai. ‘If Phraates had any sense, which he doesn’t, he should have had his eldest son strangled at birth. I had the misfortune to see him grow up, for he visited his grandfather at Ctesiphon often. I have seen his malice and ambition grow with him. The loss of Dura served only to fuel his resentment and hatred further. It would have been easy for Mithridates to betray his father and brother; how much easier will it be for him to take revenge on you, then, son of Hatra.’

That night, despite my tiredness, I slept little as Dobbai’s words went through my mind. I rose before dawn, saddled Remus and then rode to the legion’s camp. The cohorts were already assembled on the parade ground in front of the camp and the roll call was being taken in front of Domitus and his officers. Most of the latter were men who had fought with Spartacus in Italy, former slaves who were now leaders of their own cohorts and centuries. Afterwards, sitting in Domitus’ command tent, I shared a breakfast of porridge with him.

‘Old habits die hard, I see,’ I said, pointing at the porridge.

‘Rome has conquered half the world feeding its soldiers this,’ he said, ‘reckon it’ll do for my boys.’

‘And how are your boys?’

‘You mean are they ready for battle.’

‘Yes,’ I replied.

‘Oh, they’re ready. Itching to prove themselves. If that old hag is right, then they won’t have long to wait.’

‘You may disapprove of her, Domitus, but I’m afraid to say that she is usually right. We will be marching soon. I will leave a cohort behind as a garrison, the other five thousand of your men will be marching.’

‘To where?’

I shrugged. ‘Across the Euphrates, then east to link up with my father’s army and whoever else will support us, there to await the command of Phraates.’

Domitus finished his porridge and then shoved his wooden plate aside. He placed his elbows on the table, rested his chin in his hands and looked at me. His face could have been carved by Demetrius from a block of granite, so hard were its features. I was glad Domitus was a friend and not an enemy.

‘You have something to say, Domitus?’

‘I am an outsider in these lands and that makes me look at things differently from those, such as yourself, who have grown up in these parts. When we were at the council meeting at Esfahan, I had a chance to see all the kings who rule the Parthian Empire.’

‘It was the first time I too had seen them all gathered in one place.’

‘The one they called Narses, he was bold and confident. I’ve seen many legates like him. They are bold because they have powerful supporters, usually rich and influential parents or sponsors. Same with that Narses. He obviously has great strength behind him and the ruthlessness to implement his ambitions.

‘Now your father, he reminds me of Spartacus — courageous and strong, and a man who knows bullshit when he smells it. Now that friend of his, the big brawler.’

‘King Balas?’

‘Yes, that’s him, now he’s smarter than he lets on. And he was correct in what he said about your father becoming head king. Because the one that was elected.’

‘King Phraates.’

‘He’s weak, Pacorus. You may all like him but he lacks resolve. And he’s fatally wounded already.’

‘How so?’

‘Any man who lets his son steal his kingdom will receive no respect, and without respect he will not be able to command other kings.’

‘Technically,’ I said, ‘when Phraates became head king, as you say, Mithridates became King of Susiana.’

Domitus shook his head. ‘No one will see it like that. Unless Phraates marches to his capital, takes it back and executes his son, he will be seen as weak. And who follows weak leaders?’

Domitus had done wonders to turn a bunch of former slaves, misfits, thugs, itinerants, drifters and idealists into a body of fighting men, and I knew that what he said was true. He was a simple man, really, an individual who was brave, loyal and forthright. You knew where you stood with Domitus, this ex-centurion whom I had come to like and respect immensely. He said little and never complained, but he was harder than the steel of the gladius he wore at his hip. Every man of his legion respected him, even though he had had many of them flogged and allotted extra fatigue duties to those who were sloppily dressed on parade or inattentive during training, but they knew he was fair in his punishments and he never asked any man to undertake something that he himself would not do. He never spoke of his parents or if he had any brothers or sisters, and I assumed that his mother and father were long since dead. I often thought that he might be lonely, but he never let the mask of professionalism slip. That said I tried to make sure that he was at the palace as often as possible, despite the fact that he disliked sitting behind his desk in the headquarters building. He preferred to be pacing around the legion’s camp with his officers, cane in his hand, or leading a cohort on a twenty-mile route march during the heat of the day. I rose from the table.

‘The die is cast my friend.’

He leaned back in his chair and placed his hands behind his neck. ‘Then let’s hope that we can kill Narses quickly.’

But the army would have to wait for the moment, for a more pressing matter had to be attended to.

Despite Demetrius’ brusque manners he was not averse to earning extra money on the side. Not that he needed to as he was being paid a king’s ransom to carve my griffin statue.

‘Nonsense,’ he snapped, ‘I have given you a very reasonable rate for my services, which, incidentally, are most sought after. I could be in Egypt working for Pharaoh, who would pay me much more and provide me with a harem for my entertainment.’

He really was a most taxing individual. ‘Then why don’t you?’

He stopped his chiselling and looked at me. ‘Well, for one thing, your wife is a most charming lady. And your mother is also intriguing.’

‘My mother?’

‘Yes, the one who gave you the banner in the first place. I must say that I have never met such interesting females. Most queens and princesses are as dull as ditch water, but they are certainly not. And for that reason I stay.’

‘She’s not my mother.’

‘Really? Pity.’

‘Anyway,’ I continued, ‘will you take on a new commission?’

‘Of course, I have already promised your mother. She was most insistent, said it would bring you luck. Working with metals is slightly different to stone, of course, but my skills are extensive and I dare say I will manage.’

‘Dobbai commissioned you?’

He frowned at me. ‘That is what I said. Is your hearing impaired?’

But how did she know? Every Roman legion had a silver eagle as its principal standard, which became like a religious icon to the men. It was revered, loved and the legionaries would lay down their lives protecting it. I was determined that my own legion would have a similar standard, though it would not be the eagle design of my enemies. I was going to explain to Demetrius exactly what I wanted but had apparently been beaten to it.

‘But how do you know what to cast?’ I asked.

‘Your mother was quite specific. Now if you don’t mind I have a lot of work to do.’

I gave up trying to reason with him and left him to his stonework. A week later he sent a message saying that the new piece was finished. I took Gallia and Dobbai with me to his workshop to inspect it, and was truly awe-struck by what I saw. A golden griffin, about foot and a half long, lay on Demetrius’ bench. The expert casting had produced a piece that showed every one of the beast’s features, its talons, wings, head, body and tail wrapped around its hind quarters. It was made of metal but it seemed alive, ready to fly from the bench, for Demetrius had gone to work with his tools to expertly refine its features.

I stood in wonder, and even Dobbai for once appeared to be lost for words.

‘He’s beautiful,’ was all Gallia said.

‘A beautiful beast for a beautiful lady,’ retorted Demetrius.

‘It is to be the standard of my legion,’ I said.

Demetrius sighed. ‘A great pity, a beautiful woman should surround herself with precious objects.’

I looked at Dobbai. ‘How did you know?’

She shook her head. ‘You are easy to read, son of Hatra. Perhaps too easy.’

I knew that the griffin would become a sacred object to Domitus and his legionaries. It was late afternoon when I had the legion assembled outside the Palmyrene Gate. What a sight — five and a half thousand men fully armed and equipped standing in their centuries and cohorts! The day was still warm as the shadows grew longer, the men silent in their ranks. Domitus was in front of them with his officers, shiny metal discs on the front of his mail shirt and a white transverse crest atop his helmet. I rode out of the city with Gallia beside me. Behind us were my cataphracts in full armour and steel masks, together with Gallia’s Amazons in mail shirts and helmets, carrying their bows. Immediately behind me rode Vagharsh carrying my griffin banner and Nergal holding a thick ash shaft, on top of which, wrapped in linen, was the gold griffin. The cavalry deployed into a long line facing the legion and halted, while I nudged Remus forward until he was level with Domitus. His men stood to attention as I raised my right arm.

‘Men of the Duran Legion, I salute you. In a short space of time you have gone from being civilians to soldiers. None know what fate has in store for us, but I do know that you will not let yourselves or me down. Some of you fought in Italy with Spartacus. Know you that I hold true to what he believed in, that each man should be judged on his own merits regardless of his position at birth or race. You stand testimony to that belief. I thank you for your faith in me, and as a small token of my gratitude I present you with your standard.’

I dismounted and took the wrapped griffin from Nergal, then walked over to Domitus and handed it to him. He looked surprised, for I had kept this project a secret from him. I took my dagger to the twine wrapped around the linen and cut the threads. The same dagger that had once belonged to a brutal centurion who had been my jailer before Spartacus had liberated me. I yanked the linen cover away to reveal the gold griffin fastened to a small steel plate atop the pole. Domitus smiled with pride as he regarded the work of art, and though his men remained silent I sensed a surge of elation course through their ranks like a lightning bolt. The orange rays of the early evening sun caught the griffin and for a moment it seemed to stir, angry, restless and fierce before the soldiers who would come to love and revere it. Thus did the Duran Legion receive its griffin standard.

Afterwards Domitus selected ten of his best men to be its permanent guard, and it was housed in its own tent in the middle of the legion’s camp. Wherever the legion went the standard would go with it. Each night it would be kept under guard in the same tent in the same location in camp. During the days that followed I heard that every man under Domitus’ command lined up to see the griffin at close quarters, believing it to possess magic, for they had heard that its creation had been under the supervision of Dobbai. I smiled at this, but perhaps they were right and perhaps it did possess supernatural qualities.

Two days later its stone companion was finished, being moved from Demetrius’ canvas workshop on its large wooden pallet by placing logs underneath and hauling it down to the Palmyrene Gate. Tingling with excitement, myself, Gallia, Dobbai, Nergal, Rsan and Godarz followed behind on foot. Demetrius fussed around the load as fifty legionaries sweated and cursed as they pulled the statue through the city, others placing logs under the pallet as it inched its way towards its destination. Domitus bellowed orders and sent for another cohort of men, for word soon spread through the city that the magical statue was finished and people wanted to see it up close. Soon there were hundreds of individuals crowding round the griffin, trying to touch it and generally getting in the way. When the new cohort arrived Domitus used it to line the street and keep people away from the statue. He also had to detail some men to keep others from trying to touch Gallia’s hair, for many believed that it was a gift from the gods and thus sacred and charmed.

By the time the griffin had reached the Palmyrene Gate thousands had gathered to see it hoisted into position. The next hour and a half was very fraught as an agitated Demetrius shouted and pleaded with the operators of the giant winch erected above the gates to take care of his work. Godarz had supervised the construction of the winch and the reinforcing of the arch above the gates, and he was bemused by the Greek’s behaviour.

‘He’ll give himself a heart attack if he’s not careful.’

‘He’s very protective of his creations,’ I said, as Demetrius fell to his knees and placed his head in his hands as the statue swayed slightly in its rope cradle.

Eventually, and thankfully before Demetrius’ heart gave out, the statue was placed on its plinth between the two towers of the Palmyrene Gate. We walked up the steps inside one of the towers and stepped onto the top of the arch. It was wide and strong, allowing the plinth to be safely positioned a few paces behind the battlements. On top staring west with unblinking eyes, was placed the griffin. I had to admit he looked magnificent and would be guarding the city long after I had left this world, Shamash willing. Demetrius fussed around the plinth, using a small trowel to apply a symbolic layer of cement around the statue’s base. He gave the trowel to Gallia to apply the last dash of cement.

‘Surely I should seal the plinth?’ I jested.

Demetrius and Dobbai both rebuked me.

‘Don’t be absurd,’ he said, ‘it requires a woman’s touch, otherwise he will get annoyed.’

‘He?’ I said.

‘Don’t interfere with things you cannot comprehend,’ added Dobbai. ‘Take the trowel, child.’

With all eyes on her, Gallia took the trowel from Demetrius and applied the last piece of cement to seal the griffin to its plinth. Everyone then clapped politely and Gallia smiled radiantly.

Demetrius stroked the griffin. ‘He’s happy enough.’

‘And he can’t fly away, either,’ said Dobbai, nodding approvingly.

I looked at Nergal, who shrugged, then at Godarz who just grinned. Demetrius was paid his fee and left the city a few days afterwards a rich man, and strange to say that on the first morning after the griffin had been put in position, I rose at dawn and made my way to the Citadel’s walls, then looked west to the Palmyrene Gate. And between the towers, sitting on its plinth, was the griffin.

‘You decided to stay, then?’

A guard overhead me. ‘Majesty?’

I shook my head. ‘Nothing.’ I left the wall and went back to the palace. It is just a piece of stone I told myself. And yet…

The next few days witnessed a feverish passage of letters to and from Hatra as my father coordinated the response of those loyal to Phraates. The latter, ensconced at Ctesiphon, gathered what forces he could from his own kingdom of Susiana and fortified his royal residence. The plan was for all the kings to march with their forces to Ctesiphon, and then to strike at the rebels quickly before the infection of their treachery spread. Thus far Khosrou and Musa stood on the defensive as the rebel kingdoms lay directly south of their borders.

Byrd returned to Dura with Malik, and I greeted the Agraci prince warmly for he had become a good friend. That night he dined with us and told us the news from his lands.

‘My father and sister send their greetings,’ he said.

‘How is Rasha?’ asked Gallia, her beauty now fully restored after our journey from Irbil.

‘Well, lady, thank you,’ replied Malik, looking sideways at Dobbai, who had now seemingly become a permanent resident of the palace.

‘And you, Byrd,’ she continued, ‘is life being good to you?’

Byrd shoved another piece of meat into his mouth and nodded his head. ‘Good, lady. I like the desert.’

Malik grinned. ‘He likes one piece of it, that occupied by a young widow whom he visits often.’

Gallia looked at me with a triumphant smirk on her face.

‘That is excellent news, Byrd,’ she said. ‘We are pleased for you, aren’t we Pacorus?’

‘Of course,’ I said.

Malik stared again at the old woman in black rags sitting at the table, apparently invisible to us. She saw his stare.

‘You have something to say, desert lord?’

‘Forgive me, Malik,’ I said. ‘This is Dobbai, who was once the sorceress of King Sinatruces and now…’

‘And now I have returned from whence I came to make sure Pacorus does not deviate from his path.’

Malik was intrigued. ‘And what path is that?’

She wiped her hands on her robe, stood up and walked from the room.

‘It is not for you to know,’ she said. Then she stopped, turned and pointed a bony finger at Byrd.

‘What of the Romans?’

‘Romani troops marching north from Syria,’ was his reply.

‘Marching to where?’ I asked.

Byrd shrugged. ‘North, not know where.’

‘As long as they are not marching towards us I do not care,’ I remarked.

‘Keep one eye on Rome, son of Hatra,’ said Dobbai ambling from the room.

‘I would come with you, Pacorus,’ said Malik suddenly.

‘This is not your fight, Malik,’ I replied.

‘Yet I offer you my sword.’

I nodded. ‘Then I accept it.’

Some say war is all glory, battles and slaughter, but I learnt long ago that organisation is the key to victory. Dull attention to detail is what gives an army success. Godarz had once been the quartermaster general in the army of Spartacus and now he made sure that my horsemen were fully prepared for the trials to come. Camels were hired and loaded with spare saddles, horseshoes, bridles, harnesses, saddle clothes, brushes and veterinary implements. Others were loaded with spare arrows, thousands of them, plus replacement bows, quivers and food — hard-baked Parthian bread that Domitus swore was worse than the equivalent in the Roman army. The legion marched with its tools, tents, spare weapons and clothing packed onto carts pulled by mules, ill-tempered beasts that Domitus nicknamed ‘Dobbais’. He thought this hilarious, until an old and grizzled one snatched his vine cane and chewed it through. He would have slit its throat had not Godarz, who was with him at the time, threatened to make sure that Rsan charged Domitus for a replacement. My two hundred cataphracts had their own camel train, but during the march they rode as spearmen armed with lances and round wooden shields. Their bows and quivers were carried in large hide cases stored on the camels, for no Parthian warrior went to war without his bow. But these men were the steel fist of the army, trained to smash through an enemy in combat. Before battle they would don their scale armour and then encase their horses in similar attire, but to march for a whole day under a Mesopotamian sun was more than even the hardiest warrior could endure. I sent the sons of the nobles who served as cataphracts back to their fathers in the days before we marched, for I still needed horse archers to complement my heavy cavalry. I did not order that the lords present themselves, for the memory of the insults dealt to them by Mithridates would still have been fresh in their minds. So I requested that they release a small number of their men to serve with me for the campaign. In this way I left it to them to decide how many they would furnish, if any. I have to confess I was nervous about their reply. They owed me allegiance, but these men were frontier warriors who had carved out their domains from the unyielding desert, and had then defended them in the face of Agraci aggression. The Agraci threat had now gone, but after their ill usage at the hands of Mithridates would they be willing to send men to serve under another upstart king?

I was pacing the palace terrace as these thoughts coursed through my head. Perhaps they would insist that their sons should stay with them, and then I would have even less cavalry.

Gallia shook her head at me. ‘Why do you torture yourself so? What will be, will be.’

‘Indeed it shall, child,’ said Dobbai, shuffling onto the terrace and seating herself next to my wife on a large wicker chair stuffed with cushions. I really wasn’t in the mood for one of her lectures.

‘They will come, have no fear.’

I was looking across the river, at a large camel caravan about to cross the pontoon bridge. ‘Who?’

‘Your lords, of course. That is why you pace like a caged lion, is it not?’

She reached over and grabbed Gallia’s hand. ‘I hope he is less predicable on the battlefield.’

‘How do you know, have you talked to them?’

‘Such a petulant outburst. You should have more faith in your talents. They have sent their sons, their most precious possession, to serve with you. Why then do you not think they would send other mothers’ sons to fight and die beside you? They will come.’

And she was right. Three days later my men returned and their fathers with them. They had obviously discussed the matter between themselves because each lord brought a hundred horse archers. Thus did I gain another two thousand cavalry.

We had a feast in the banqueting hall that night, a happy gathering of the lords of Dura, their sons and my Companions. It was the first time that the lords had met those who had fought in Italy and they were intrigued by their strange accents and appearance, but everyone got on well enough. Two women stole the evening — Gallia, whose beauty lit up even the darkest of rooms, and Dobbai, whose ugliness was in stark contrast but who had a powerful presence nevertheless. The lords had certainly heard of her and thought it very auspicious that she had come to Dura. And behind where I and my queen sat at the top table hung her griffin banner, the same banner that Dobbai had sent me all those months ago. They knew this, too, and one by one they came up to the table and asked permission to touch it, believing it to have magical powers. Men are superstitious beasts no matter how great their fame or grand their titles, and they put great store in relics, charms and artefacts that they believe will protect them and give them supernatural powers. None more so than warriors who want to go into battle with magical protection. Dobbai looked in amusement as these hardened frontier warlords gingerly extended their hands and held the corner of the banner for a few seconds, before turning sharply, bowing to me and then regaining their seats.

None had seen Gallia before but their sons must have told them about her, this blonde-haired, blue-eyed vision who was Dura’s queen. She never wore much jewellery or make-up; she did not have to. That said, tonight she wore a pale-blue gown that reached down to the floor. Her lithe arms were bare and adorned with gold bracelets and she wore slivers of gold in her hair that caught the light and made her blonde locks glint. Her earrings were also gold inlaid with small diamonds and on her fingers she wore gold rings. At the start of the feast the lords had bowed their heads to me, but they had gone down on one knee to Gallia. When the first man did so I gestured for her to extend her hand, which she did, whereupon he took it gently and kissed it. Gallia smiled with amusement, but every one of them, and their sons, insisted on the same ritual. Thus did Gallia once again conquer with her charm and beauty.

Dobbai, sitting on the other side of Gallia, was watching me as a steady line of individuals approached the banner to lay their hands upon it.

‘You are not going to hold the standard, son of Hatra?’

‘It would be unseemly for a king to prostrate himself before a piece of cloth,’ I answered stiffly.

She raised an eyebrow at me. ‘Of course.’

But in a private moment, when there were no eyes to see, I had already knelt before my banner and grasped it with both hands and prayed to Shamash that it would bring me luck and bless my kingdom and all those who lived in it. I knew this and Dobbai knew this, and I knew that she knew. She looked knowingly at me but said no more on the matter.

As the evening wore on and the wine flowed freely, some of the lords wanted Dobbai to touch their sword blades for luck, asking my permission for her to do so, because the penalty for drawing a sword in the presence of your king was death. I consented, and so the keen edges of their blades were held before her to touch. I don’t know what they thought this would achieve, but they each looked at their swords in awe after she had touched them and as they returned them to their scabbards. I was surprised to see Domitus offer his gladius to her, though when I cornered him afterwards he thought nothing of it.

‘Any bit of luck is welcome before you set off on campaign, especially if you’re in a tight spot.’

‘You think we will be in a tight spot, Domitus?’

He looked unconcerned. ‘You know how it is, when the fighting starts there’s always a few nasty surprises, and there’s always some young warrior on the other side who wants to make a name for himself by spilling the guts of a great warlord.’

‘I had no idea you thought of yourself as a great warlord, Domitus.’

He grunted. ‘I don’t, I was talking of you.’

I slapped him on the shoulders and returned to my wife. But his words had been prophetic, for not half an hour later a courier appeared at the doors of the hall, his face smeared with dirt and his clothes covered in dust. He wore a worried expression, and as a guard escorted him to the top table the babble of voices began to ebb as others caught sight of him. By the time he had reached my table and bowed there was silence. All eyes were upon him as he reached inside his tunic, pulled out a letter and handed it to me. I cut the wax seal with my dagger and opened it. I recognised my father’s handwriting. I finished reading it and gave it to Gallia, then looked at the host of expectant faces.

‘King Gotarzes of Elymais has been defeated outside his capital by Narses. What is left of his army has taken refuge with him in the city. Some of the rebels have ringed it, the rest, the majority, are marching west.’

There was a murmur of concerned voices. I held up my hands. Silence returned.

‘We march to link up with my father in two days.’