Thunder of the Gods

11

‘Greetings. You are honoured guests of the King of Kings. I am Artapanes, and on the behalf of my chief priest Bagadates I am bidden to greet you to Ctesiphon, and to extend the hospitality of our city to you.’

The priest had appeared on the dockside moments after a century-sized unit of Parthian guardsmen, and after a brief and vigorous discussion had led Marcus and the two Britons away while the soldiers had lifted the semi-conscious Osroes from the Night Witch and closed ranks around the king. The friends were provided with transport, horses for Marcus and Martos and a cart for Lugos, then escorted from the port to the gates of the empire’s capital, Ctesiphon, where they were met by a party of the priest’s acolytes armed with staffs and knives. Leading the three men through the city, Artapanes delivered them to an unprepossessing building in the shadow of a magnificent walled fortress. Only in the apparent safety of what he had termed a guest house, was the priest willing to speak. Martos looked about him, taking in the opulent furnishings and wall hangings.

‘Your city is vast, a place of wonders for a northerner such as myself. May I walk the streets and enjoy the sights that are to be found?’

The priest who had met the party at the dockside shook his head with a small smile.

‘Regrettably not. My senior has ruled that your presence on the streets might present you with more risk than he deems acceptable to such important guests. Were anything to happen to you it is doubtful that Rome would consider the matter an accident. And as you know, our relationship with Rome is still more than a little … strained. The high priest has ruled that you are ambassadors of your respective nations.’

He looked up at Lugos, shaking his head.

‘Wherever they might be.’

Marcus stepped forward.

‘I am Marcus Tribulus Corvus, a representative of Rome, an ambassador if you prefer the term. I have come to Ctesiphon in order to return the King of Kings’ son to him, and to ask the king-’

‘In good time. That you are Roman is evident to all who see you, and your self-professed role is of no interest to the priesthood. And these two men?’

‘I am Martos, King of the Votadini people in the Roman province of Britannia, far to the north of here. And this is Lugos of the Selgovae, my friend and travelling companion.’

The priest looked at Martos for a moment.

‘King? Of how large a kingdom?’

The one-eyed Briton laughed.

‘Small enough, compared to your King of Kings’ empire. But enough to have given the Romans a bloody nose in battle, before my brother in arms here captured me.’

Artapanes shook his head again.

‘A tale the King of Kings will wish to hear, I expect. You will meet him soon enough, and when that time comes I will instruct you as to your behaviour in his presence. For now, you are under strict instructions to stay within the confines of this building, for your own safety. Not all of my people will be as understanding as my master, and many still remember the atrocities inflicted on the city by your legions only twenty years ago. You will be fed and refreshed, and any other needs you have will be looked after by the staff assigned to watch over you. I must leave now, and take information to my senior priest.’

He left the room, and when Martos looked out of the door he found a pair of burly and implacable guards blocking any attempt to follow him.

‘It looks as if we’re here for a while. Perhaps you could use that Greek language of yours and get them to bring us some food?’

Marcus nodded.

‘You realise we’re effectively within the Parthian royal court now? If they’ve decided to have us quietly disappear then poison would be a good way to do so.’

The Briton shrugged.

‘That may be true, but it’s also indisputable that we can’t go without sustenance. Get them to bring some wine as well. If we’re going to die we might as well go to meet our ancestors with some style.’

‘You called for me? I presume it’s important, given the messenger gabbled out the request like a man with his arse on f-’

Still breathing hard from the exertions of climbing up to the northern wall’s parapet, Scaurus followed his first spear’s pointing arm.

‘The enemy are breaking camp.’

The legatus took a long look across the expanse of plain before them. The Parthian infantry were parading in neat formations, while the camp slaves were rapidly striking their tents and packing them onto carts.

‘So they are.’

Petronius grinned at him triumphantly.

‘They’ve had enough! I knew they wouldn’t be able to outlast us! More than one enemy has camped out there to no purpose, and this one’s no different.’

His eyes narrowed at the expression on Scaurus’s face as the legatus looked over the enemy army.

‘Legatus?’

Scaurus looked down at the enemy army again, shaking his head as he realised what it was that was troubling him.

‘They’re not leaving. Look at them. Does that look like an army that’s getting ready to slink away with its tail between its legs? Their flags are unfurled, the infantry are armed and ready to fight.’

‘Why?’

Both men looked round at Julius, who was staring down at the enemy soldiers with a thoughtful expression.

‘Why now? They’ve no more chance of getting over these walls now than they did yesterday, or last week. I’d presume they were just rehearsing for an attack, if they weren’t striking their tents.’

Scaurus leaned over the parapet, looking around the wall’s sweep to the west.

‘But they’re only striking their tents across a quarter-mile front on this side of the city.’

As he spoke, the huge command tent that had been the source of so much amusement collapsed as its central poles were removed, the movement catching Scaurus’s eye as he turned and stared down at the Parthian army in puzzlement. The three men stood and watched as the structure’s white canvas roof sank slowly to the ground, hundreds of slaves converging on the expanses of canvas and dragging it away from the river with no apparent concern for any damage they might do.

‘And that doesn’t make any sense either. Why treat such a valuable piece of equipment with so little care?’

As the previously concealed riverbed was gradually revealed, Scaurus suddenly made the connection that had been nagging at his subconscious since the river had ceased flowing days before, confirming his suspicion that the Parthians had dammed it in the mountains to the north.

‘Gods below! Look at the riverbed!’

With the tent no longer obstructing their view, the reason for the construction of what they had taken for a palatial headquarters became suddenly, sickeningly clear. A ten-foot-deep trench the same width as the river’s bed had been dug from the point where the Mygdonius swung to the east in its bend around the city, the excavation running arrow-straight from the dry watercourse towards the city walls for a hundred paces, the last quarter of its length gradually becoming shallower until the ramp this formed merged with the sandy soil. The soil from its excavation had been dumped into the empty river bed to form a fresh dam at the point where trench and watercourse met, its purpose immediately clear to Scaurus.

‘They didn’t build a dam in the hills to run us out of water, they were building a weapon!’

Petronius stared at him in consternation.

‘They’re going to break the dam?’

‘Yes! And when they do, all the water they’ve got backed up in the hills is going to come down the river with more power than a hundred battering rams! That trench they’ve dug will point the flood straight at this section of the wall, and they’ve dammed the river to make sure the water has nowhere else to go. It will bring tonnes of soil and rock with it, which will shoot down that trench and hit this wall like a monstrous hammer.’

‘But if that much water breaks through the walls …’

Scaurus nodded grimly.

‘There’ll be chaos in the city.’

Julius tilted his head.

‘Listen!’

The distant sound of axes on wood turned Petronius’s face white. Scaurus turned to Julius, pointing at the perfectly straight streets beneath them.

‘If the water breaks this wall down it’ll be channelled through the streets and do the same on the other side. Get the southern wall evacuated!’

The first spear saluted and ran, and the legatus turned to the prefect.

‘I’ll deal with the wall here, you get as many of the streets between here and the southern wall as you can evacuated to the east and west! Go!’

Petronius dithered for an instant, then turned and ran for the nearest tower.

‘Centurion!’

The officer of the guard stepped forward and saluted smartly.

‘Have this section of the wall cleared immediately. We take anything that we can carry and we leave everything that’s too heavy to move. I want every man four towers away from this point and I want it doing now! Move!’

Clearly fighting the urge to question the command, the centurion turned away and started barking orders, sending men running to spread the order in both directions. Scaurus turned back to the scene below, nodding in reluctant admiration as the enemy troops on either side of the river started marching away.

‘Perfect timing …’

In the hills behind the Parthians the sound of axes had died away, and an unnatural silence descended on the field as the enemy soldiers halted their march, leaving a quarter-mile gap in their line with the river at its heart.

‘Legatus!’

Looking round, Scaurus realised that he was the subject of consternation from the men who had been cleared from the wall’s platform a hundred paces to his right. The centurion who had called his name beckoned with frantic gestures, and he started walking slowly towards them, his attention riveted to the plain below. A sudden, tearing crack echoed across the plain, and for a moment the silence descended again. Then the roar of the released waters reached them, initially distant, then rapidly swelling as the Mygdonius’s pent-up flow was unleashed down the valley, still invisible from the fortress’s walls. As he watched in fascination, the torrent burst into view from the end of the river’s gorge, a wall of furious white water speckled with tiny dots that the horrified legatus realised were boulders and uprooted trees, tossed effortlessly by the flood’s elemental power.

‘Legatus!’

With a start Scaurus realised that he was rooted where he stood, unable to move as the oncoming torrent ripped down the empty riverbed and tore through the trench that had been dug to direct its fury at the wall. As the seething flood reached the trench’s end, the debris carried by its huge power was hurled into the air, flying boulders and tree trunks slamming into the brickwork, punching a dozen holes in the seemingly impenetrable outer wall in an instant, the impacts knocking Scaurus from his feet. The moat between the inner and outer walls was swiftly filling with debris from the destructive impacts and the missiles themselves, while the inner wall was already sagging in one place where a massive tree had punched through the outer rampart and struck its counterpart with stunning force. Grabbing the parapet he pulled himself up again, looking down at the unceasing, raging stream of dirty brown water as it slammed into the fortress’s base.

‘Legatus! Run!’

The stones beneath Scaurus’s feet were shivering, a continual hail of debris spitting from the trench’s end to strike the brickwork with hammer blows that either smashed cleanly through the outer wall or left great cracks in its surface. A dozen paces behind him a bolt thrower was torn from its mount by a flying rock, projectile and debris alike toppling a section of the inner wall onto the roofs below. Staggering as another heavy impact rocked the wall, he ran towards the beckoning soldiers, slowing his pace as the danger of being struck by a piece of debris lessened. Opening his mouth to shout his thanks to the centurion over the torrent’s constant grinding roar, he saw the man’s jaw drop at something happening behind him, and turned to see the entire one-hundred-pace section of the outer wall between two towers collapse into ruin. The raging waters, which had fatally undermined the structure, ripped through the gap, smashing into the similarly weakened inner wall and demolishing a section of equal length in a heartbeat, surging into the defenceless city streets with a crashing, grinding roar as the thousands of bricks from the collapsed defence were carried along in the foaming brown tide. The few people who stood helpless in its path, those who had been too slow or reluctant to evacuate their houses and shops, were washed away in an instant, lost in the muddy brown cataract that boiled through the city’s heart. At the end of the long, straight street, funnelled by the buildings to either side, the torrent slammed into the inner wall on the city’s southern side with the same awful power, crashing through both ramparts and raging out onto the plain beyond.

‘Bastards …’

Scaurus turned at the centurions’ whispered curse, looking out over the Parthian troops closest to the northern walls as they cheered the continuing jet of brown foaming water issuing from the river trench. Their raised spears and shields were the only sign of their rejoicing as their voices were lost in the unleashed waters’ unceasing roar of power that sounded to him like the rage of a vengeful god.

‘They’re rejoicing in their victory over us. They think the city’s wide open, and they marvel at the destruction that the water must be wreaking on us. They believe that when the waters have exhausted themselves they have only to march in through these shattered walls to have us at their mercy.’

Scaurus shook his head, looking back down into Nisibis’s devastated streets.

‘And they may well be right.’

Artapanes led the three men into a room thirty paces square, their entrance a man-sized door while a pair of iron reinforced doors wide and tall enough to admit a horse and rider were situated in the far wall. He had come to them an hour after dawn that morning, the fifth day after their arrival in the city, and had bidden them to dress in the garb in which they had travelled from Nisibis. Their garments had been cleaned and returned to them in the night; Marcus’s bronze armour polished to a high shine, his boots similarly gleaming. The Roman’s arm had been secured to his chest in a linen sling, the priest nodding his satisfaction at their appearance before beckoning the friends through their quarter’s door. Following him through a series of dimly lit corridors, and at one point through a walkway so cool Marcus was sure it had to be a tunnel, they emerged into what the priest called the anteroom, blinking in the light of dozens of blazing torches.

‘You are to meet with the King of Kings, as promised. The King of Kings wishes to express his thanks for your selfless act in returning his son to him, and may well compliment you on your sense of honour in sparing King Osroes’ life. There are rules to be obeyed in the presence of the King of Kings, and any deviation from those rules will place you in grave danger from the men who serve him.’

Artapanes raised a finger.

‘One. You will offer the King of Kings your abasement in proskynesis. Two. You will speak only when the King of Kings requests your voice to be heard. Three. You will under no circumstances contradict any statement made by the King of Kings or those members of his royal court who accompany him.’

He looked hard at Marcus, his kohl-accentuated eyes glittering brightly.

‘This is not the meeting of a Roman ambassador with the King of Kings, it is a private audience to allow one man to offer his thanks to another for the safe return of his son. This is the only audience that you will have with the King of Kings, and when it has been concluded to our master’s satisfaction, arrangements will be made for you to be returned to the place from which you sailed with King Osroes. You must translate these instructions to your comrades for they are as bound to this strict code as you yourself.’

Marcus nodded, masking his disappointment.

‘And King Osroes? How is the king’s health?’

The priest shrugged.

‘I know little. The palace is a place of secrets, and the well-being of a royal prince is not a subject fit for the speculation of commoners such as myself. Since you clearly care as to the result of your journey to bring him here for treatment, however, I will tell you the little I have heard. And little of that is good. King Osroes remains unwell, and does not respond to the ministrations of the palace physicians, who have collectively decreed that only time and rest can aid his recovery. And with that question answered to the best of my abilities, I must tell my master that I have delivered you to this place, and that you are ready for your audience. Wait here.’

He left the anteroom, ordering his escort of guards to watch the three men while Marcus explained the rules of their forthcoming audience to his companions. Martos shrugged and sat down on the floor, grimacing up at Marcus.

‘Hundreds of miles by boat being rained on, shot at and insulted by that Parthian animal Gurgen, and now we have to sit on our arses while that devious priest goes to do who knows what. I was hoping that this King of Kings would prove worthy of the effort it’s taken getting to meet him, now I’d settle for not being executed for his amusement.’

Marcus smiled, but before he could respond, the commander of their escort prodded the Briton with the butt end of his spear, barking a command in Greek.

‘Silence, barbarian! Your filthy language defiles this place!’

The Roman opened his hands and smiled broadly at the man.

‘My friend merely wished to express his amazement at the majesty of this palace. I will communicate your wish for him not to speak Latin.’

His only reply was a cold stare, and, catching the Briton’s eye, he shook his head.

‘It seems that our escort do not regard the use of Latin as acceptable. It might be safest for us to remain silent.’

The priest returned, closing the anteroom door.

‘It is as I told you. You are to be granted a brief audience with the King of Kings. This will be limited to the exchange of greetings and pleasantries. The King of Kings will express his pleasure at the safe return of his son, you will reply with whatever meaningless platitudes seem fit to you. You will not mention your battle with King Osroes, nor will you refer to the ongoing siege of Nisibis …’

Marcus raised an eyebrow at the priest, who was clearly better informed than he had previously indicated.

‘And you will not in any way refer to your professed ambassadorial role. This will be a private audience between the King of Kings and three travellers who have been fortunate enough to find themselves in the happy position of being able to perform a service to his family, and for which he wishes to express his thanks. Do you understand?’

Marcus nodded.

‘Perfectly well.’

‘Very good. Explain it to your comrades.’

Lugos simply nodded, his face inscrutable, while Martos smiled wolfishly.

‘I have done much the same in my time on the throne. A meeting of empty smiles, we used to call it.’

The priest gestured to his junior.

‘Watch, and Ataradata will demonstrate how to show the appropriate respect to the King of Kings.’

The younger man sank to his knees, then lowered himself to the stone floor, prostrating himself full length before the priest.

‘This is proskynesis. You will perform it as you see here when the King of Kings greets you, and he will then command you to rise. After this you may speak to him as to any other man, but with respect in every word. You will address him as “Majesty” whenever you speak to him, and-’

Marcus shook his head.

‘As an ambassador of Rome, I cannot perform proskynesis. We reserve prostration for the gods. And my companion here is a king in his own right. Neither can he be expected to perform such an obeisance.’

The priest shook his head in disbelief.

‘You must choose your own path, Roman. If you anger the men who advise the King of Kings it may prove to be a fatal error. What of the giant? He is included in this audience solely because of his entertainment value.’

Marcus turned to Lugos, explaining the act of prostration, and to his relief the big man simply nodded.

‘He is king. I give respect.’

Artapanes nodded solemnly.

‘Very well. At least one of you is likely to survive this audience. Come.’

He led them through the large door and into a vaulted chamber whose roof was supported by a forest of thick pillars, walking with a slow, stately pace towards the middle of the hall. Looking about him Marcus realised that the walls were decorated with weapons and armour whose design was instantly recognisable as Roman.

‘Stop here.’

For a moment there was silence, and then a pair of doors in the far wall, their opening large enough to drive a cart through, swung wide. With a clash of metal on stone, a double line of guards marched briskly into the room, swiftly taking up positions on either side of the party. At a barked command they relaxed into parade rest positions, although Marcus noted that each man kept a hand on the hilt of his sword, ready to draw the blade in an instant if they perceived any threat to their king. A group of older men dressed in fine clothing and sporting the usual pointed beards followed them into the chamber, their attire denoting their place in the court’s hierarchy. A soldier came first, his face scarred and his scale-armoured coat polished to a perfect shine, his gait at once pugnacious and martial. A herald called out his name and rank in Greek as he strode forward.

‘Kophasates, chief gundsalar of the empire of Parthia! Commander of the King of King’s imperial army and his lifelong companion in peace and war!’

A priest in flowing robes walked in the general’s wake, his pace regal and stately, and with him came a hint of incense.

‘Bagadates, most holy servant of Ahura Mazda, chief priest to the empire of Parthia and augur to his Majesty!’

Last came a tall, slim man in trousers and a tunic of red silk, a finely wrought gold crown on his head, his bearing and expression stating his unchallenged authority with no need for words.

‘Vologases, first born son of the King of Kings! Commander of the King of Kings’ immortals and most dedicated servant of his father!

Attendants swiftly set out chairs for them, and a larger and more ornate throne besides, but the three men remained standing. A magnificently armoured soldier marched through the doorway, raising a long cataphract lance to point at the vaulted ceiling as he strode past the seated courtiers, raising his voice to echo from the iron-clad walls.

‘All hail Arsaces, the King of Kings! The Anointed King! The Just King! The Illustrious King! Friend of the Greeks!’

As the echoes died away, the sound of a horse’s hoofs replaced them, a heavily armoured figure clad in silver and gold was riding slowly into the hall atop a war horse whose body was covered by armoured barding of equal grandeur that reached down to its knees. The beast’s head was protected by scale armour studded with jewels and decorated with complex engraving, its eyes invisible behind delicately wrought gold wire discs. The king rode forward, past his unflinching courtiers, halting the magnificent horse a spear’s length from the waiting comrades.

‘Present your obeisance to the King of Kings!’

At the herald’s command, Marcus and Martos bowed deeply, both placing a hand on the floor before them as Marcus had suggested to the Briton, and Lugos struggled to his knees, gritting his teeth at the pain from his wound, then eased his body down to lie full length on the stone floor. Silence reigned in the hall for a moment, before the seated general stormed to his feet, his voice an angry rasp.

‘You dare to show the King of Kings such open disrespect!’

He put a hand to his sword, drawing it halfway from the scabbard, but froze as the king spoke, his voice hard and compelling.

‘There will be no violence today, Kophasates!’

After a moment’s silence, the horse emptied its bowels onto the stone floor, the warm, wet dung splattering as it hit the ground, its rich aroma filling the air. Arsaces laughed.

‘Doubtless my augur will tell me that this was a poor omen, but I am a simple enough man to enjoy the absurdity of this moment! And hear me when I say this, my people, today there will be no violence offered to these men. Today I have put aside my hostility to Rome in order to greet the men who have spared my son’s life and brought him back to me.’

He looked down at Marcus, still frozen in his bow.

‘Rise, Roman. Rise friends of Rome. You …’

He pointed to one of the flanking guardsmen.

‘Assist the giant in rising from his proskynesis, he is clearly disadvantaged by his wound.’

Two guards stepped forward, each taking one of Lugos’s arms and straining to lift him from his prostration.

‘So tell me, Roman, before we speak further of your valour and generosity, why you and this one-eyed barb-’.

Arsaces paused.

‘This one-eyed … man … offer me no more than a bow?’

He pointed to Martos, and Marcus smiled.

‘King Martos has come to understand the term “barbarian”, Majesty, although he speaks little Greek. He also understands the reason for its use.’

‘Does he speak Latin?’

‘He does, Majesty. His father recognised that a knowledge of our tongue would help him in defending his kingdom.’

Arsaces chuckled.

‘Although clearly it was insufficient to prevent him from becoming your slave?’

Marcus gestured to Martos, who stood impassively.

‘King Martos is no slave, Majesty. His kingdom is allied with Rome, but not occupied by our army. He lost his eye fighting to free his people from the rule of a usurper who killed his wife and children, a battle that he won, with the aid of Rome.’

The king thought for a moment, then dismounted from the horse, handing his magnificent helmet to the herald.

‘Then on this day of gratitude I shall break my vow, once and once only, and speak in a language you all understand.’

He switched seamlessly from Greek to Latin.

‘And since I am greeting a king, I shall offer him the respect that his position demands. You may kiss me, King Martos.’

The Briton froze for a moment, but before the courtiers had chance to take umbrage, Marcus whispered a single word in Brythonic.

‘Cheek.’

Nodding, Martos stepped forward, bowed deeply and then pressed his lips to Arsaces’s cheek. The Parthian nodded, and, stepping away, Martos bowed deeply again before resuming his position beside Marcus.

‘And you, Roman? Am I to receive no more recognition than a bow from you?’

Marcus raised his left hand in an apologetic gesture.

‘Majesty, as a Roman ambassador I can offer you nothing more, for the Roman state cannot countenance any show of submission to a foreign kingdom, no matter how exalted. Nor do I have a gift to offer. Were I armed I would present you with my sword, handed down to me by my father and the possession of a long line of men dedicated to the service of our people, but since you already possess my sword, I have nothing to offer but my undying respect for your long and fruitful reign.’

The king swung to look at the general standing behind him.

‘Such a weapon must surely be honoured. Bagadates, you have it safe?’

The chief priest inclined his head respectfully.

‘I do, Majesty.’

Nodding satisfaction, Arsaces turned back to face Marcus.

‘No gift is required, Roman. You spared my son’s life in battle, and then you risked your life to bring him to me by the fastest possible route in order that he might be treated by my physicians. No man wishes to be so cursed as to bury his own son, even at my age. No gift could have been as precious to me.’

He bowed slightly to the Roman.

‘And your companions. King Martos stood over my son in an arrow storm, I am told by his bidaxs Gurgen, and the giant was wounded ensuring his escape. You too both have my gratitude. And as tokens of my everlasting thanks for his return …’

He waved a hand at the herald, who stepped forward and presented him with a silk bag.

‘Wear these gifts, my friends, and when you look at them be reminded that the King of Kings is for ever in your debt.’

He handed each of them a gold ring. Marcus looked at his, finding it decorated with the image of Arsaces’s head in profile.

‘No man in any kingdom I reign over will be able to deny that you have my favour, for the image on those rings is unmistakably mine. See the mark on my forehead?’

He pointed to his brow, showing them a skin lesion that had been covered by his grey hair.

‘It is the mark of the men who ruled the first Persian empire, the proof that my dynasty can be traced back to Ataxerxes the Long Handed, ruler of an empire so great that it challenged the Greeks themselves.’

Marcus bowed again, and the king smiled.

‘And so you will leave Ctesiphon with my gratitude, Roman. You will be escorted to your ship, and granted free passage back up the river to your own people.’

He paused, his face crinkling into a smile.

‘And have a care, Marcus Tribulus Corvus, should you face my warriors in battle again. Many among my armies will mark you as a man whose death would make their name in an instant.’

He turned and walked from the hall, his courtiers turning to follow him. The last to do so was his son Vologases, whose stare lingered on Marcus for a long moment before he too swivelled on his heel and left the room. The priest Artapanes waited until the hall was empty once more, eyeing the pile of dung with disappointment.

‘As well as could be expected, despite the poor omen and your insistence on refusing to follow the protocol I laid out for you. Come then, let us return to your place of safe keeping. Tomorrow you will return to your ship and leave the city, counting your blessings that you have survived your time in Ctesiphon and vowing never to return.’

‘The walls are breached on both sides of the fortress. Our supplies have been depleted significantly by flood water, and while the mud is still being dug away from the grain stores it’s estimated that we’ve lost over half of the food that was in storage. We have over five hundred dead, and bodies are still being recovered from the filth that chokes the streets and houses with every hour that passes.’

Scaurus paused, looking round at his officers.

‘On the other hand, the fact that we had some brief warning of the flood gave us time to evacuate most of the off-duty soldiers who would probably have drowned. The legion is still effective, and so is Prefect Petronius’s cohort. We can still hold out for two or three months with the grain we have left, most of the bolt throwers are still operative, and Centurion Avidus and his pioneers are supervising temporary defences. Does anyone want to add anything?’

Julius raised a hand.

‘My biggest question is just how long it’s going to take for the mud to dry?’

Scaurus acknowledged the question’s pertinence with a nod.

‘Good question. Centurion Avidus?’

The African raised his vine stick.

‘For those of you who’ve been too busy digging out weapons and food, the river’s back inside its banks now but it left a thick coating of mud behind as it washed away, so thick that when the Parthians tried to attack they weren’t able to get anywhere close to the walls.’

Petronius’s glum face brightened slightly. Predicting that the enemy would attempt to storm the breaches in the walls, he had ordered the bolt throwers to be hurriedly dismantled and rebuilt on either side of the gaps. When the Parthians had attacked, an hour after the waters had receded, their advance had first been slowed and then halted by the mud, horses and soldiers unable to move any faster than they could tear each foot from the clinging sludge. Faced with the onslaught from the Roman artillery, they had retreated back to their siege lines leaving several dozen men spreadeagled in the mud, their blood sprayed across the tan surface where each man had been targeted and brutally killed by the bolt-thrower crews.

‘I walked around on the stuff for a while this afternoon, carefully, mind you. It’s as deep as a man in some places, and I took my armour off first.’

‘And?’

‘It’s hard to say, Legatus. There’s a crust formed on the top, but if I trod down in the wrong place my foot went straight through. It’s not going to get very much drier overnight, so I’d bet that crust won’t be baked strong enough to hold a man’s weight until midday tomorrow, when the sun’s been on it for a few more hours.’

Scaurus looked at his men with a look of calculation.

‘So, not much more than twelve hours from now we might find ourselves under massed infantry attack, because if Narsai can read the signs as clearly as we can, he’ll dismount his entire force and send it in on foot. I’d put the spear men in first with the archers behind them, and then, once they have a foothold, the knights to punch a way into the city and open us for a full-scale assault. And if they get into the city then we’ll struggle to stop them, because there are just too many ways for them to get around any defence we throw up. If we’re going to hold Nisibis, gentlemen, then we have to stop the enemy before they get over what’s left of the walls and into the city. Shall we go and take a look?’

On Avidus’s advice he led them to the northern breach, where the walls had fallen inwards and presented the defenders with a hundred paces of brick-strewn ruin.

‘They’ll put their main attack in here, because once the mud out there is dry their advance to the defences will be nice and easy, unlike the other side where the walls collapsed outwards.’

The African waved a hand at the rubble-strewn street, illuminated by torches held up by citizens of the city who had volunteered to play a part in their own defence, working as fast as they could to tear up the rubble and carry it to the breach in the northern wall. Bricks from the walls’ collapse were strewn five and six deep, mortared in place by the mud to form a vicious obstacle course where a man could advance only with the greatest of care.

‘If you have the brick field on the other side of the southern breach sown with the caltrops we pulled out of the battlefield on the hillside, I can’t see how they’re going to get across it to attack us. Just try for yourself Legatus, and see how long it takes you to pick your way over this lot. One wrong move and you’ll break your ankle, so take it easy sir. We’re having to pull the bricks out with iron bars.’

He led them to the breach, and Scaurus stood and marvelled once more at the devastation visited upon the twin walls by the river’s destructive power. Hundreds of legionaries were labouring at the point where the inner wall had stood, their arms and legs filthy with mud as they pulled bricks from the wreckage and passed them to the wall’s foundation in human chains, one in every two being packed into a roughly constructed rampart while the other was hurled over the slowly growing wall into the muddy plain’s slowly drying mire.

‘We can’t rebuild the wall the way it was, not without a lot of skilled labour and a month or two to spend on the job, but we can put together something to slow the bastards down. It’s slow work though, and the men are exhausted after a couple of hours, so we’re rotating the cohorts in two at a time.’

‘How tall can you get that defence by dawn?’

Avidus looked at the roughly constructed rampart for a moment.

‘No more than eight feet tall. I could go faster with some light, but if we use anything more than the moon’s giving us then the enemy will realise what’s going on and start sprinkling us with arrows, and that’ll make us go a lot slower. It won’t stop a determined attack, but it’ll give them something to think about. And I’ve got one or two more tricks up my sleeve.’

‘So have I. I think it’s time you saw something I’ve been hoping not to have to use, Legatus.’

Slightly baffled, Scaurus left Julius to organise the preparation of the debris to the fortress’s south for the sort of defence that Avidus felt would be sufficient, following Petronius back into the city. The prefect led him up a staircase to the top floor of an otherwise nondescript building, and Scaurus looked about him curiously in the light of the torch the prefect was carrying at each landing, noting to his bemusement that the rooms to either side were stacked with earthenware jars. On reaching the top floor, Petronius waved an arm at the hundreds of wicker cages stacked on all sides.

‘We were fortunate that this little farm was built at the top of the building, to keep it as dry as possible, so the mud had no effect. As you can see.’

He handed Scaurus the torch with a broad grin.

‘Take a look, Legatus, and tell me what you think.’

Late the same evening, as the three friends were readying themselves for sleep with the expectation of beginning their journey north the next day, Artapanes opened the door to their suite and beckoned Marcus to join him. Outside the door the same two guards were standing duty over the foreigners, but they ignored Marcus as he followed the cleric down the corridor that he knew from experience led into the palace.

‘What-’

The priest raised a hand to silence him, and whispered a rebuke over his shoulder.

‘Say nothing. I cannot answer your questions, for I do not know the answers. And, since I am already asleep in my bed as far as anyone other than those two guards is concerned, I was clearly never here.’

Bemused, the Roman followed him along the same route as before, but where they had previously forked left into the anteroom, the priest led him to the right, and up a corridor that climbed as it turned. Reaching a torch-lit landing, Marcus recognised the robed figure of the high priest, Bagadates. The senior cleric waved a hand to his subordinate, and Artapanes bowed, staying where he was as the older man led Marcus deeper into the palace, speaking quietly as he walked.

‘You made a favourable impression on my master earlier. He has ordered me to effect a further meeting between you, a meeting that will never have taken place as far as the scribes and the bureaucrats are concerned. And which the generals must never even suspect. Here …’

He indicated a door.

‘I will wait for you here. Enter.’

Marcus found himself in a room no larger than a good-sized office, a small fire burning in one corner. The walls were decorated with richly embroidered tapestries, the floor carpeted with ornately knotted rugs. A guardsman stood impassively by the door in the opposite wall, his unblinking gaze locked on the Roman. The door beside him opened and Arsaces entered the room, closing the door firmly behind him.

‘Greetings once more, Marcus Valerius Aquila.’

Stunned, Marcus remembered to bow after a moment of indecision, and the king waited gravely until he was upright once more.

‘You seem discomfited by our meeting, Roman. Or is it perhaps the fact that I have greeted you by your real name, rather than the alias under which you presented yourself, that troubles you?’

‘I … how?’

Arsaces ignored the question, taking two cups from a table in the corner of the room.

‘Rome sees me as a tired old man, does it not? Scarred by my defeat twenty years ago, haunted by the sacking of this very city, and kept on my throne mainly by the power struggle between my priests and generals. A weak ruler, I am tolerated by a dozen lesser monarchs who fear the civil war that would follow my death more than they dislike the current uneasy peace that I keep between them. Rome, Valerius Aquila, takes me for a man of straw.’

He poured two cups of wine, handing one to Marcus.

‘Sit.’

The Roman obeyed his command, still clearly mystified by the king’s knowledge of his true identity.

‘At least you have the good grace not to hide your perplexity. I like honesty in a man …’

Arsaces took a sip of his wine.

‘After all, I see so little of it.’

He sipped again, then put the cup aside.

‘In truth, Rome’s view of my abilities is not entirely unfair. I do pit my vassals against one another, reminding them that we face enough enemies to make my rule essential to wielding our collective strength against the threats to the integrity of our borders. To the north-east are a multitude of barbarian tribes, true barbarians, godless animals from the boundless grasslands who forever press up against the empire’s northern kingdoms. They are horse archers without peer, taught from childhood to ride, and shoot, and kill, and their single intention is to steal, to burn and to rape at every opportunity. Against them we range our own horsemen, equally brutal, equally skilled, an imperial army larger than any force our individual kingdoms might put into the field. The day will come when these nomads swell to such numbers that they will burn a swathe of destruction across both my empire and yours, Roman, but not in my time!

‘To the east is nothing but desert, through which the caravans from the distant silk lands struggle only because of the rich rewards to be had. No threat will come from there. To the south there is ocean, and peaceful trade with the dark-skinned men who sell us spices and the finest iron in the world. But to the west …’

He left the sentence unfinished, and Marcus realised he was expected to speak.

‘Rome.’

‘Indeed. Your empire, forever pushing at our western border. We have defeated you more than once, and brutally so back in the time of my ancestor, Orodes the Second. But each time we have beaten you, another general and another army have sought revenge for those defeats, and now your legions camp on our borders like hungry wolves, forever eyeing the next prize to be torn from my empire. You saw the fortress at Europos, or Dura, the Stronghold as you call it?’

‘It guards the route to Palmyra.’

‘It was Parthian, until Avidius Cassius took it from us, in the war with Rome that I was rash enough to start. Now it acts as yet another source of gold for your empire, taxes on the traders passing through it that should by rights flow into my imperial treasury, and fund my defence of the northern borders. And Nisibis, the city from which you sailed with my son, currently under siege by Narsai of Adiabene? Also once Parthian, again taken from us by Avidius Cassius. How I smiled when the news reached me that he had paid the ultimate price for attempting to wrest your empire from its rightful ruler. So now a puppet rules in Osrhoene, and your soldiers march freely through it and into Adiabene to garrison a city that was once the most glorious fortress in all the empire. And all the trade that passes through Nisibis funnels yet more gold to Rome.’

‘But-’

The king waved a hand, silencing Marcus’s interjection.

‘But we started the war in which those fortresses were lost? Indeed I did. And I learned a valuable lesson from that defeat, Roman. I was minded to counterattack, as Avidius Cassius’s army marched to sack my capital, but the priests would not allow it. The auguries were poor, and Mazda would be angry with my people were they to allow their king to die to no good end. Ctesiphon’s destruction would be avenged, they told me, in good time. They were right, of course. Mazda sent a plague to punish your army, and the legions took the disease back to your empire when they retreated in disarray. I hear it has spread across your lands and killed a hundred times more than died in the city’s sack, and I thank the god of fire for this fitting retribution. So, as the augurs predicted, all was as well as could be expected, given our defeat. By afflicting your legions with disease, Mazda showed his support for the empire, and for me as its King of Kings. The army, the priesthood and the vassal kings united in support of their ruler, and my empire recovered from the humiliation soon enough, as your empire suffered a just revenge in its turn. But as I rode away from this city with my Immortal Guard, turning tail rather than throwing the remnants of my army at your legions and dying gloriously, I knew the real reason for which I was forbidden to make that noble gesture, prevented from earning the glorious death that my younger self knew was required. There was no succession. No son of an age to take my throne. My death would have started the civil war we fear more than anything, weakening the empire and laying it open to invasion from the north. I accepted my humiliation. But I swore to avenge it, by one means or another.’

Marcus nodded.

‘So you decided to wage war by other means?’

‘The priests told me you were a quick one. Yes, by any other means. My spies watch your border provinces like hawks, and some of them rise in your service, working subtly to assist those among you who are either venal or stupid. The governor of Syria is an excellent case in point. I doubt he would have been quite as successful as he was at defrauding the state without a few well-placed ideas being dropped into his lap.’

‘By a man who promptly disappeared when my legatus arrived on the scene?’

‘Indeed. Legatus Scaurus had a prior reputation in the province, so the spy in question decided that he preferred the idea of a swift exit to that of crucifixion. Not, however, before he heard enough rumours about you to make for an interesting story on his return. Is it true that your father was murdered by the emperor’s men, and yet you serve the same emperor?’

‘I believe the exact phrase used was “confiscatory justice”, Highness. The Praetorian prefect accused my father of plotting against the throne, had him murdered and then dismembered to deny him honourable burial. What was left of him was dumped into the main sewer and flushed into the river Tiber, I believe. My mother and sisters were presented as the centrepiece of a party for a group of perverts who count – or rather who counted – some of the richest and most eminent men in Rome among their number. They were raped and murdered, and their bodies were dumped outside the gates among the city’s detritus. Only one of them was ever found, and her eyes had already been pecked out by the crows.’

Arsaces nodded, his gaze softening.

‘So when you presented yourself as “Corvus” … It is the Latin for “crow”, I believe?’

‘It was a simple expedient at first, a means of changing my name to hide from my father’s killers, but now I wear it as a badge of my hatred, and to remind me that my revenge is not yet complete. You decided not to die without purpose when Legatus Cassius turned his legions loose to sack your capital, Highness. I made much the same decision with regard to the emperor.’

The king smiled knowingly.

‘Then bear my own example in mind. There is more than one way to have revenge upon an enemy.’

He raised his cup.

‘To your eventual success. May you weaken my enemy in taking the revenge that you know must be yours.’

They drank.

‘And now, to business. I didn’t have you brought here simply to discuss our respective life experiences. I have a message for your legatus, a response to his attempts to make peace, and I wanted you to understand the context of that message as clearly as the words themselves.’

He fixed Marcus with a hard stare.

‘My grip on this throne grows less certain with every year. On the face of it, of course, nothing is changed. The army and the priests bicker, always seeking an advantage, but neither will ever supplant the other. The army has the glory of defending the empire, and the honour which that brings. The priesthood has Ahura Mazda on their side, and the terror of his potential disfavour. They are like wrestlers locked in a perpetual struggle, neither capable of putting the other on his back. But the kings …’

He drank again.

‘There are a dozen kings whose realms form the empire, and the position of King of Kings is wholly dependent on their willingness to be ruled. Which means that their fear of civil war must outweigh their dissatisfaction with their ruler. And kings, I can tell you, are never happy being ruled. I dream of such a luxury, having a man set above me on whom all problems can be blamed, fairly or not, but they only see how much better their own reign over the empire would be. And I have sons, men who look at me with impatience, given my age, and at each other with the calculating eyes of men who see only rivals. My second oldest son Arsakes rules Armenia. And Osroes, the youngest, I have given the kingdom of Media, for he is headstrong and needs to be kept busy. His march on Nisibis is a perfect illustration of that truth. If he recovers from his injury, he will make a formidable rival for his brothers. And the oldest, Vologases, is perhaps the most dangerous of them all, for which reason I keep him close. He is the oldest, the cleverest, and the man most likely to move against me. My gundsalar Kophasates watches his every move, and his command of my Immortals is in name only. I do not expect to die peacefully, but neither do I plan to make it easy for any of my sons to usurp my throne while I still live.’

Marcus shot a glance at the guard, but the king shook his head.

‘He is deaf and dumb, profoundly so. He guards me when there is a need for discretion, giving me the absolute surety that my words will never be repeated. So, Marcus Valerius Aquila, my message to your legatus is this: you ask me to rein in Narsai, lift the siege of Nisibis and cease the harassment of legitimate Roman interests in Adiabene? I will not. I cannot. To do so would be to attract the ire of the kings I reign, while to condone Narsai’s act of undeclared war is to provide them with evidence that my desire for revenge on Rome is undimmed by the years. Indeed, my son’s defeat and capture, and his humiliating return to Ctesiphon, make it doubly important for Narsai to triumph. I will be compelled to provide assistance to his army, and to confirm his command of the army of Media while Osroes remains unfit to resume command. Nisibis will fall, eventually, when the grain stores are emptied. It may take a year. It will happen nonetheless. And I will accept the tributes that will be bestowed upon me, and smile as I ride my horse through the city’s gates in triumph. And now that you understand my response, and the reasons I must make it, tell your legatus that if he chooses to march his men away I will see that their safety is assured.’

‘If we will pass under a yoke, leave without our weapons and swear never to step on Parthian soil again?’

Arsaces smiled gently.

‘Of course. And I imagine that the soil of Osrhoene would be included in that oath as well.’

Marcus nodded.

‘I understand you, Majesty. When shall I leave?’

The king waved a dismissive hand.

‘Soon. I have suggested to my son Vologases that he escort you back to Nisibis with a detachment of my Immortals. Not only will it be a good deal faster than working your way back up the river, but that way I can ensure that you are delivered to the gates of Nisibis unharmed, and that my message reaches your legatus without any interference from the more exuberant of my subjects. I shall make a formal farewell to you before you leave, and renew my gratitude to you and your companions. And return that sword you mentioned earlier today. After all, I am a man who honours his word.’