by Peter Darman
‘Dura is high in the favour of Phraates and the gods.’
‘It is?’
‘You are too modest, father. You have lived an honourable and pious life. Few men can make such a boast.’
‘I do not make such a boast.’
‘My point exactly.’
The feast was a testament to the organisational skills of Ashk and Rsan; five hundred guests being fed a variety of different meat and fish dishes, washed down with an unending supply of wine and beer. For most the dishes were just food, but those of a more discerning disposition would have recognised they had been carefully chosen to bless the union of Eszter and Dalir. The number seven is sacred and so the feast included the seven elements that were regarded as particularly auspicious. First was sabzeh – sprouted wheat, which symbolised rebirth. Next was samanu, a creamy sweet dish that was associated with affluence. The simple apple signified health and beauty, and garlic was incorporated for general good health. Senjed – fruit of the wild olive – symbolised love. Sumac spice encouraged fertility and, finally, vinegar symbolised health and beauty in old age.
Such symbolism was lost on Kalet and his lords, who got roaringly drunk, as did Dalir, Claudia catching my eye and frowning disapprovingly at her new brother-in-law. Dalir was brave and loved Eszter, but Claudia was right in believing he would make a poor king.
Phraates left Dura two days later in the company of Gafarn and Diana, the high king intent on visiting Hatra as part of his grand tour of the empire, or at least the western half of it. After Hatra he would be calling on King Silani in Persis, the former commander of his bodyguard now the ruler of one of the largest kingdoms in the empire. Life at Dura quickly returned to normal, though a letter from my brother was a cause for concern.
Chapter 3
After the wedding and Phraates’ departure, the poets, musicians and entertainers also left Dura. I gave a feast for Byrd and Noora to thank my old friend for his mischievous generosity. To indulge him I dressed in a red silk robe emblazoned with white griffins, a gold sash and my red boots complementing the ensemble. I must admit I found the luxurious clothes comfortable to wear and had relished the approving stares and glances from Phraates and his courtiers. But like the entertainers hired by Byrd, who had made us laugh with their clever wordplays, my interpretation of an ancient Persian satrap was only temporary.
When the magic had gone I returned to being the plain, no-nonsense King of Dura, and dressed accordingly. I even sent Adel and his small army of gardeners back to Hatra. I gave away the plants and trees in the Citadel, and allowed those lining the city’s main thoroughfare to be taken by whoever wanted them. It was time to concentrate on less frivolous matters.
The Roman world had its excellent roads – marvels of engineering that criss-crossed Rome’s territory like a giant spider’s web. But Parthia had its post stations: mud-brick stables, stores and living quarters surrounded by a mud-brick wall spaced at thirty-mile intervals throughout the empire. It was over a thousand miles from the Euphrates to the Himalayas, and five hundred miles from the Caspian Sea to the Persian Gulf. It was a curious thing that despite the years of civil strife that had often plagued Parthia, not one post station had been plundered or destroyed. This was because whoever made a grab for power recognised that a functioning, empire-wide communications system was essential to the smooth running of Parthia. Information is power and the quicker it is transported and disseminated the better; reaction times can be shortened accordingly.
It was around eighty miles from Dura to Hatra as the raven flew and so a letter penned by Gafarn in the early morning could reach Dura by the evening. And a missive bearing a horse head seal was presented to me by Ashk as I relaxed with Gallia on the palace terrace in the early evening, the sun a huge red ball in the west as it began its rapid descent. We were expecting the arrival of Cicero the Younger, who had remained in the city after Phraates’ departure following my request for him to do so. I had had no chance to talk to him, playing host to Phraates, the wedding and feasting having absorbed all my time. He and the high king had spent a morning in discussions, which had gone well judging by the relaxed body language of all parties afterwards.
I broke the seal on the letter and read my brother’s words, passing it to Gallia after I had finished. I looked at her as she perused the words, her hair loose around her shoulders, her attire, and mine, having returned to normal following the departure of the high king. She tossed the letter on the low table between us.
‘So Spadines has been ejected from Van,’ she shrugged. ‘It was only a matter of time.’
Gafarn, fearing Spartacus would use it as a pretext for launching a war against Armenia, had asked us to accompany him and Diana on a journey to Vanadzor to plead with the King of Gordyene to refrain from any aggression against his northern neighbour.
‘I don’t know why Gafarn wants me to accompany him,’ I said, ‘Spartacus will not listen to anything I have to say. You, perhaps.’
‘Phraates must have departed Hatra just before the news of the fall of Van reached Gafarn,’ she surmised. ‘He will be on his way to Persis by now.’
‘Phraates will be unconcerned by events in Armenia,’ I said, ‘unless they threaten the security of the empire.’
‘And will they?’
I shook my head. ‘Armenia is a minnow compared to the military might of Gordyene. But if Spartacus launches an invasion of Armenia, then it could de-stabilise the empire’s northern border. And with King Ali away in the east, any conflict could spread into Atropaiene.’
‘We go, then?’
I nodded. ‘At least it will be good to see Rasha again.’
Ashk reappeared and bowed. ‘Governor Cicero is waiting in the throne room, majesty.’
‘Escort him to the terrace.’
To make the governor feel at home the kitchens had prepared a Roman meal, the first course consisting of eggs, salad with asparagus, and salted fish. The portions were small and Cicero was a picky eater, but his manner and conversation were convivial enough. Dressed in a white toga, Byrd had informed me he was aged around forty, though his slightly gaunt face and thinning hair made him appear older.
Reclining on a couch, he sipped at his wine and dabbed his thin mouth with a napkin.
‘I wanted to thank you personally for expediting the talks between Octavian and High King Phraates, majesty.’
‘In what way?’
‘The high king is desirous to secure the return of his son to Parthia,’ said the governor, ‘and to hasten this he has agreed to return the eagles currently held at Ctesiphon to Rome.’
‘He has?’ Gallia was surprised.
Cicero took a sip of wine. ‘Such a gesture will be greatly appreciated by Octavian and the Roman people. In return, I informed High King Phraates that Octavian has agreed to make the Euphrates a permanent border between Rome and Parthia.’
‘What of Tiridates?’ I probed.
Cicero put down his silver cup. ‘I can assure you, majesty, that Rome will give him no financial or military aid in the future, though Octavian has granted him sanctuary in Syria.’
As the light began to fade and servants lit torches around the terrace to illuminate the scene, the second course was served, a mixture of cooked meats ranging from chicken, mutton and beef, to goat and pork. Most of the dishes were returned to the kitchens largely untouched, Cicero picking at his dish and eating very little. We too ate sparingly, partly because we had over-indulged during Phraates’ visit, which had occasioned lavish feasts every evening.
‘Your father was killed by Mark Antony.’
Gallia’s words shocked Cicero and for a brief moment I thought I detected genuine sorrow in his eyes. But the diplomat in him returned and he nodded his head sagely.
‘Murdered would be a more accurate description, majesty. That was some sixteen years ago, and afterwards I joined my father’s allies Cassius and Brutus in Greece, who were fighting Julius Caesar, Octavian’s uncle.’
Gallia wa
s confused. ‘If you were fighting Octavian’s uncle, how is it you now serve his nephew?’
Cicero smiled, a gesture that was alien to him judging by the lopsided shape his mouth assumed.
‘Cassius and Brutus were defeated by Octavian and Mark Antony at the Battle of Philippi in Macedonia, which resulted in their deaths. I was pardoned afterwards and soon there appeared a division between Octavian and Mark Antony and I was more than eager to join the former’s supporters.’
‘You might be interested to learn that Mark Antony was once our prisoner,’ said Gallia.
Cicero was surprised. ‘I did not know that, majesty.’
‘It was a long time ago and his imprisonment lasted for one night only,’ I told him. ‘He was exchanged for a young Agraci princess we were very fond of.’
‘My husband admired the triumvir, governor,’ said Gallia, ‘seeing him as a worthy adversary.’
‘He had many skills,’ conceded Cicero, ‘but his inflated view of his own importance and insatiable ambition resulted in the needless spilling of an ocean of blood. Not only Roman but also Parthian.’
‘I’m glad he is dead,’ said Gallia.
Cicero raised his cup to her. ‘As am I, majesty.’
The third course, consisting of nuts, pastries and fruit, was served but again was mostly returned to the kitchens intact, a great shame for the cooks had spent hours preparing our meal.
‘There is one matter I wished to discuss with you, majesties, a delicate matter.’
‘I’m sure it cannot be more delicate than the return of the eagles,’ I replied.
He tried to smile but his face adopted a somewhat severe countenance.
‘The issue of the return of the eagles is now well underway, majesty,’ he said, tipping his head to Gallia, ‘thanks in large part to the intercession of Queen Gallia. I have no doubt that in the atmosphere of goodwill and mutual respect that currently exists between Rome and Parthia, it will be resolved to the satisfaction of all parties. But the matter I speak of concerns your nephew, King Spartacus.’
My heart sank and I looked at Gallia, who rolled her eyes.
‘Please elaborate, governor.’
Cicero took another sip of wine. ‘Pontus is a client kingdom of Rome, and as such is under the protection of Rome.’
Gallia inhaled deeply but said nothing. There was a time when she would have launched a vicious tirade against him, stating Pontus was but a slave kingdom under the heel of Rome. But the fierce Gallic warrior had been tempered by pragmatism so she kept her emotions under control.
‘King Polemon is its ruler, I believe,’ I said.
Cicero nodded. ‘Correct, majesty, and it was King Polemon who complained to Octavian concerning the activities of Gordyene and its king.’
Gallia raised an eyebrow. ‘Activities?’
‘Raids launched from northwest Gordyene into Pontus, majesty. The Pontic villages along the border have been plundered and their inhabitants either killed or carried off into captivity. Now the raids are penetrating ever deeper into King Polemon’s realm and it is only a matter of time before he retaliates.’
‘Has he sent an official complaint to my nephew?’ I asked.
‘Alas, majesty, the raids are carried out by Sarmatian horsemen, but it is well known that King Spartacus is an ally of the Aorsi tribe. Gordyene may deny it has anything to do with these raids, but we are not so naive to believe that the Aorsi are acting without the blessing and indeed encouragement of Gordyene.’
Cicero leaned in closer. ‘If King Spartacus does not muzzle his Sarmatians, Pontus, with the support of Rome, will be forced to retaliate. This would lead to war between Pontus and Gordyene, which would draw in the allies of each kingdom. Octavian does not want that, Phraates does not want that and I am sure you above all, majesty, wish to avoid such a scenario.’
‘You are right, governor,’ I told him.
‘Then can I urge you to impress upon your nephew that his actions imperil the delicate peace that has been established between Rome and Parthia. I think we are at a crossroads, majesty, whereby said peace may either flourish and grow or wither and die.’
‘Your visit is fortuitous, governor,’ I said, ‘for I and the queen are about to depart Dura to travel north to Hatra and on to Vanadzor.’
He seemed genuinely pleased. ‘I shall notify Octavian immediately, majesty.’
Afterwards, following the governor’s departure, we sat drinking wine and pondering what Cicero had told us. We had said nothing about the possibility of Spartacus waging war against Armenia, which was under Parthian influence in any case.
Gallia voiced my fears. ‘Spartacus is playing with fire by threatening war against Armenia and goading Pontus. If he carries on, Rome will seize the chance to wage war against Gordyene and occupy Armenia.’
‘It was always a mistake inviting the Sarmatians to live in northern Gordyene,’ I fumed. ‘They are like a weed that has taken root. It would be best if they were evicted and sent back to their homeland.’
‘Spartacus would never agree to that,’ she said.
‘He might, if he realises no one will support him if Rome and Pontus attack him.’
‘We would never abandon Gordyene, surely?’
‘I will merely remind him that Rome conquered Gordyene once and if he continues to act as he does, it may happen again,’ I replied vaguely, though she was right: I would never abandon Spartacus.
Cicero left Dura the next day, with a promise that he would return to the city in the near future. I liked him and even Gallia found his company agreeable. With Phraates having confirmed he was returning the eagles and Octavian eager for peace with Parthia, I found the prospect of Spartacus wrecking a bright future intensely irritating. The King of Gordyene was becoming like a toothache and often the best remedy for such an ailment was to yank out the bad tooth with a pair of pliers.
With Azad and Sporaces away with King Ali, I wanted to ride north with more than a hundred Amazons, so I called Chrestus to the palace and made an unusual request.
‘I want a hundred men drawn from the Durans and Exiles who can ride. I assume there are some among the legions that can ride?’
He was taken aback. ‘Horse archers and cataphracts ride, majesty, and foot soldiers march on foot.’
We were in the Headquarters Building, which was airless and hot despite the shutters of the room where council meetings were held being fully open. I poured him a cup of water and filled another cup for myself, then told him about the trip to Gordyene.
‘King Gafarn and Queen Diana will be accompanied by Hatra’s Royal Bodyguard and I want more riders than a hundred Amazons.’
He was far from convinced. ‘A legionary on horseback rather defeats his purpose.’
‘It will be purely for show,’ I assured him. ‘If I had the time I would march north with the legions.’
He emptied his cup. ‘It’s that serious?’
I explained how Spartacus was threatening Armenia with war as well as using his Sarmatian allies to raid Pontus, which threatened to ignite a conflict between Rome and Parthia if his activities remained unchecked.
‘It would seem the rulers of Gordyene are cursed. Didn’t Orodes defeat and kill Surena before the walls of Vanadzor?’
‘Sadly, yes, and before Surena liberated Gordyene it was under the control of the Romans. It really does seem to be a cursed kingdom, but I do not believe it is inevitable that Spartacus will suffer the same fate as Surena.’
‘I will call for volunteers, majesty,’ he said, ‘we should be able to find a hundred. Who had you in mind to command them?’
I had given the matter no thought. He saw my vacant expression.
‘Lucius Varsas would be more than adequate,’ he suggested. ‘And he will be delighted to study Vanadzor’s fortifications. Oh, and he can ride a horse.’
Dura’s quartermaster general was now thirty years old, married and living in the former home of his relation and mentor, Marcus Sutonius. In appearanc
e he resembled a Roman with his clean-shaven face and close-cropped hair, but he had married a Parthian woman and their two young children were very much natives of Dura with their olive skin and long black hair. As a high-ranking Duran officer he had a life of prosperity and privilege, his children having private tutors and his wife servants to keep their house in order. But his lifestyle did not corrupt his character and he jumped at the opportunity to travel with us to Gordyene.
It took two days to reach Hatra, our column of one hundred Amazons, the same number of Varsas’ mounted legionaries, and fifty Daughters of Dura leading an equal number of camels. Because it was still summer we left the city before dawn, riding for two hours before dismounting and leading our horses on foot for another hour before resting. By mid-morning it was already hot, the desert horizon turning to liquid in the heat haze and all of us squinting as we journeyed east towards my brother’s city. We avoided the road because it was choked with camel caravans travelling east and west on their way to and from Dura, the highway enveloped in an unbroken dust cloud as a result of the hundreds of camels and horses using it. For the owners of the caravans such activity meant wealth, for the drivers and guards days filled with dust, grime and heat.
Away from the road the terrain is barren and flat with only traces of plant and animal life. Often blasted by fierce desert winds, it is a hard, merciless landscape where the unwary can perish with ease. Normally we would have brought civilian servants with us to erect our tents and attend to the mounts of the legionaries, Dura’s foot soldiers receiving no training in the care and maintenance of horses. Gallia had insisted that the Daughters of Dura would fulfil those duties, though I felt uneasy about fifty teenage girls accompanying a hundred battle-hardened legionaries.
First formed during the recent war against Tiridates, whose army I feared might attack Dura, they were all orphans who had been recruited by Gallia and trained by the Amazons in the use of a bow. In the event Tiridates did not attack the city and the emergency passed, but Gallia decided not to disband the Daughters of Dura but rather use them as a recruitment pool for the Amazons, akin to the male squires of the cataphracts.