The Romans, including the wounded men, were made to mount a line of horses, with their escort positioned on each side. Haghrar took his place at the head of the column, alongside Cato and Ramalanes. The saddle on Cato’s horse was not the sturdy kind used by the Roman cavalry, but a smaller, more comfortable affair, and he settled onto it gratefully. Then he saw the chest being carried from the barge.
‘Where are you taking that?’
Ramalanes glanced in the direction Cato pointed. ‘It will be carried behind us by mule, Tribune. Your weapons and belongings will be returned to you when my master orders it.’
‘Make sure that they are. I will hold you responsible for anything that is missing.’
The Parthian captain scowled, then barked an order to his men and spurred his horse into a canter. The column clopped down the length of the quay and up the short ramp at the far end onto the riverbank. To their left, a tall wall ran around the town, while ahead lay a road striking out across a well-irrigated expanse of level ground. It was noticeably different to the mainly arid landscape of the upper Euphrates, and as they rode past numerous farms and villages, Cato began to appreciate where the wealth and power of Parthia derived from. Not only were there rich farming lands, but the revenue from the trade that passed through Vologases’ realms must deliver vast sums of gold and silver. There was considerable truth to the tales of Parthian treasure that were bandied about in Rome.
Ramalanes led them on at a steady canter, mile after mile. The baking sun crossed the sky and shone behind them as the afternoon wore on. Then, as the shadows of their mounts lengthened on the road ahead, they reached a staging post with a large compound surrounded by stabling. Opposite the arched gateway was a long building constructed of mudbricks, above which was a terrace shaded by a roof made of loose palm fronds, such as Cato had seen on the banks of the Nile some years before.
As soon as they dismounted, the Romans were marched into a large room with a pile of sleeping mats in the corner; opposite, a simple bench over an open drain served as the latrine. As the last man entered, the door was closed and locked. Three windows high up on the wall provided illumination. There were no bars in the windows, and though the walls would have been easy enough to break through, Cato dismissed any thought of escape, since they would be unarmed and alone in the heart of the Parthian empire. Instead he ordered the men to get the sleeping mats out and rest. Apollonius took his to the far corner of the room, and sat hugging his knees and staring into space with an anxious expression. In all the time he had known the agent, Cato had never seen him in such a subdued mood.
After they had been brought food and water, Cato went round the men exchanging comments and jokes before he made his way over to Apollonius.
‘You look worried.’
‘I am worried. Much hangs on whether Vologases will negotiate with you.’
‘So we agreed, back on the ship. Is there anything else that concerns you, and that I should be told about?’
‘If there is, you’ll find out soon enough.’
Cato squatted on his haunches. ‘What in Hades is that supposed to mean? Spit it out, man, before I have to wring it out of you.’
The agent regarded him closely, then shrugged. ‘It’s nothing. I just don’t like being held prisoner. Bad memories. But that’s a tale for another day.’
‘A true tale, or a false one?’
Apollonius pushed a half-eaten bowl of stew to one side and lay down on his side. ‘Get some rest, Tribune. You’ll need a fresh mind when we reach Ctesiphon.’
‘I swear, by all the gods, if you weren’t on our side, I’d have stuck a blade between your ribs long ago,’ Cato growled, then stood up and walked back to his bedroll.
After the nights sleeping on the deck of the trading vessel, the cell was stifling, and sleep did not come easily for most of the men. Cato pretended to fall asleep quickly in order to let them think he was not concerned in the least by their situation. Some of the others sat and talked for a while; they were unable to play dice, since even those had been taken from them. At length, when all the Praetorians had finally gone to sleep, Cato raised his head to look over at Apollonius, and saw by the faint glow of moonlight coming through the window that the agent was sitting up again, hugging his knees and slowly rocking.
They were woken at first light and escorted out into the yard, where flatbread and a hunk of cold mutton were pressed into each man’s hands to eat while the horses were saddled. Then Ramalanes ordered the Romans and his own men to mount and led the party out of the gate and back onto the road, riding hard.
Even with a comfortable saddle, Cato’s aches and sore rump from the previous day grew more disagreeable with every mile. After stopping at another station at noon, they were fed again and given water while fresh horses were made ready, and then set off again. It was at dusk that they first sighted Seleucia in the distance. A vast city spread out along the bank of the Tigris opposite, it was over half the size of Rome, Cato estimated. Beyond the city walls he could make out the outlines of the roofs of Hellenistic temples and public buildings, and in the centre of the city, a sprawling acropolis that dwarfed the one in Athens.
By the time they reached the city, night had fallen. The watchmen passed them through the gate the moment they made out the uniforms of the guards of the royal palace. There were still plenty of people and carts on the streets, and even though the main thoroughfare was fully thirty feet across, Ramalanes was forced to slow his party to a walk as they made their way across the city, past the looming mass of the acropolis, and entered the huge open space of the agora, illuminated by torches and braziers. Crowds were gathered about street performers – acrobats, mime-players, bear-baiters and musicians – while philosophers spoke to their followers and would-be prophets spouted blandishments to the more gullible and desperate inhabitants of the city. As ever, Cato noted, the crowds attracted by false prophets were far larger than those attending to the wisdom of philosophers. As the horsemen neared the far side of the agora, one of the prophets, a man with bulging eyes and a weak chin, saw them and thrust his arm out, howling at them in Greek.
‘See there! Romans! Prisoners of our King Vologases’ brave soldiers. It is an omen. I, Mendacem Pharageus, foresee a great victory for our king and a shining future for Parthia!’
The crowd turned and jeered at the Romans, and some stooped to find clods of filth and turds to hurl at them. Several of the palace guards were struck as well, and Ramalanes rounded on the mob and drew his sword.
‘Enough, you dogs!’ he yelled. ‘Stop, or I’ll have the head of the next fool who throws any more filth!’ He turned to the prophet. ‘And you, Pharageus, have spouted enough shit yourself for one day. Begone before I have you thrown into the Tigris!’
Pharageus needed no further warning. He jumped down off his stool, gathered up the coins that had been thrown at his feet and scurried off across the agora. Ramalanes sheathed his sword and steered his horse back alongside Cato’s. ‘My apologies, Tribune. The city is plagued by such rabble-rousers at the moment.’
‘We have them in Rome as well, I am sad to say.’
They left the agora and followed the avenue down to the wharf that ran along the bank of the Tigris for over half a mile. Hundreds of ships and lesser craft were moored alongside, while beyond, the broad expanse of the Tigris flowed gently past the city. A half-moon hung low in the sky, and the ripples on the surface of the great river shimmered like a band of leaping sardines. The outline of the far bank was clearly visible in the pale light, and the flicker of torches glinted here and there along its length.
Ramalanes turned upriver, and after riding another two hundred yards, they passed through a wall stretching across the wharf and dismounted. A flight of stone steps led down to a pier jutting into the river, where a large barge was moored. A torch burned from a bracket fixed above the bow. At the sight of the horsemen, the crew stirred from where they had been s
itting along the pier and took their places in the wide-beamed craft.
‘Down there,’ the Parthian captain instructed. ‘In the boat.’
They boarded the barge, and the crew shoved off from the pier and settled to their oars as the current began to take the vessel downriver. Then, under the orders of the man at the tiller, they lowered the oars and began to row in unison, and the barge lurched away from the west bank and out across the dark water. Cato was seated next to Haghrar on a bench facing aft, so that he could see more and more of the vast expanse of Seleucia as they pulled away.
‘It is a fine city, is it not?’ said Haghrar. ‘Even Rome cannot match such a spectacle, nor its wealth.’
Cato said nothing, but he now understood why he had been led through the city to the wharf, rather than round the wall. The route had been chosen to impress upon him the power and riches of Parthia.
The hubbub of Seleucia faded behind them, and soon there was just the creak of the oars in their rowlocks and the splash as the blades bit into the surface of the Tigris. Cato soon noticed that they were not making for the distant glimmer of Ctesiphon, but were instead steering towards what seemed to be a small town a short distance further downriver. He leaned closer to Haghrar.
‘Where are we going? I thought the king was in Ctesiphon.’
‘He has a palace there, but he spends most of his time at another palace on the river. That is where we are being taken.’
It took over an hour to cross the river, Cato estimated, and as they drew closer to the far bank, he began to make out some of the detail of the palace. There was a dock with several more barges, and beyond that an open pavilion where fires glittered. The sound of music and laughter carried out across the water to those on the boat. Some distance further from the bank rose the outline of a huge residence with many towers and domes, dark against the background of stars.
‘Looks like quite a party going on there.’ Cato pointed towards the pavilion.
Haghrar grunted. ‘Our king is a man of the flesh, Tribune. He enjoys wine and the company of women and other entertainments. But you’d do well not to underestimate him. His mind is as sharp as the edge of the finest sword.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind.’
The barge drew up against the dock with a light bump, and two crewmen leaped ashore to secure the bow and stern as the Romans and their Parthian escort climbed out. They were marched up from the dock onto the bank, and Cato saw that a broad path led directly towards the palace. On either side, immaculately tended gardens stretched out into the night. A hundred paces to his left was the pavilion, and now he could see the dais on one side where a golden divan overlooked the brightly illuminated guests as they feasted and enjoyed the music and entertainers. A figure was seated on the divan, gold cup balanced in hand, surveying the scene.
‘I’ll take my leave of you here, Tribune,’ said Haghrar. ‘I truly hope that we meet again one day soon. As friends.’
He held out his hand and they clasped wrists briefly.
‘Perhaps I will see you in the palace over the next few days.’
‘Perhaps.’ Haghrar smiled quickly and then turned to stride off towards the pavilion.
‘Let’s move,’ Ramalanes ordered, and the party tramped down the path towards the palace. A wall, fifteen feet high, emerged from the gloom, stretching out on either side of an arched gateway. As they waited to enter, Cato looked back towards the pavilion and saw a man climb the dais to bend towards the king’s ear. Vologases nodded and beckoned, and then Haghrar stepped out from the crowd and bowed deeply before his master, before rising to speak and point in the direction of the palace. Vologases turned on his divan and glanced towards the party. Cato felt a thrill of excitement and anxiety about having arrived in the presence of King Vologases, the ruler of the empire that was the only remaining challenger to Rome in the known world.
The gate opened with a grating rumble, and Cato and his men were marched into the palace complex. He could see sentries patrolling the perimeter wall and there was nowhere to hide between this wall and the inner one, fifty feet away. Anyone attempting to escape across the open ground would be seen at once. Another gate stood opposite, and once they had passed through that, Ramalanes halted and pointed to Cato’s men as he issued an order to the guards. They were ushered to one side amid curses and complaints from the Praetorians.
‘What’s going on?’ Cato demanded.
‘Your men are being taken to one of the barrack blocks. They will be kept there for the duration of the embassy.’
‘If anything—’
Ramalanes raised a hand. ‘They will be fed and well looked after, Tribune. My master has commanded it.’
Cato’s anxiety eased. The command of the captain’s master was a far better guarantee of the Praetorians’ well-being than the warning of a tribune.
‘And what of myself and my adviser?’
‘I will take you to the quarters prepared for you in the palace.’
As the others were marched off, Ramalanes led Cato and Apollonius to the entrance to a long wing, where they climbed a wide flight of steps to a corridor stretching out towards the heart of the palace. Aside from guards posted at intervals along the corridor, there was no other sign of life, and the captain walked them a short distance before he stopped and indicated carved doors on either side.
‘Your chambers. Your adviser to the left and you to the right, Tribune.’
He waved Apollonius towards his door and the agent opened it and paused on the threshold. ‘Shall we speak later, sir?’
Cato nodded. ‘After we have washed and eaten.’
‘That is not permitted,’ said Ramalanes. ‘You are not to leave your chambers without asking for permission. That is my master’s order.’
‘And when do you think I may be able to have an audience with your master?’
‘It is already decided, Tribune. You are to be taken before him at the second hour tomorrow morning.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
In the corner of the room stood an ivory-inlaid tub that had been filled with warm water even before he had entered. Beside it was a marble-topped stand where a brush, razor, mirror and jars of scent had been set out for him. On a shelf beneath was a neatly folded garment of finely spun wool. When Cato held it up, he saw that it was a long-sleeved tunic that dropped to his calves. A pair of sandals lay on the floor nearby. He draped the tunic on the end of the bed and looked round at the richly embroidered tapestries that hung on the walls, nodding to himself in appreciation of his surroundings. Vologases was treating him like an honoured guest for now, but there was no guarantee that such hospitality would survive Cato’s attempt to negotiate a peace treaty.
As soon as he had stripped off and eased himself into the bath, a slave nipped into the room from a secret door behind one of the tapestries and picked up Cato’s clothes, scurrying back the way he had come.
‘Hey! You there!’ Cato called after him. ‘Put those down, damn you!’
He had only managed to get one leg out of the tub before the slave had disappeared behind the tapestry. It shimmered a moment, then all was still, the only sound the water slopping around inside the tub. Cato glared at the tapestry furiously for a moment before he eased himself back into the bath.
Later, as the water cooled, he got out and dried himself with a linen towel left out for him on a nearby stool, then dressed in the tunic and went through a curtained doorway to find himself on a balcony overlooking a courtyard garden washed in grey shades by the moonlight. A slight sound made him turn, and he saw a guard standing further along the balcony, watching him closely.
‘So much for hospitality,’ Cato muttered to himself. Vologases might well have prepared a finely gilded cage for him, but it was still a cage.
‘A fine night.’ Cato addressed the man in Greek, but the guard tapped his fingers against his lips and sh
ook his head. Whether he had been ordered not to speak or had had his tongue cut out, Cato could not determine.
‘Fair enough. No conversation then.’
Leaning his hands on the balustrade, he breathed in the scents rising from the garden as he examined the extent of the palace he could see. It was built on a scale that humbled the imperial palace in Rome. Having seen the streets and buildings of Seleucia, he could only guess at the wealth that poured into the coffers of King Vologases. His previous experience of Parthia had been confined to campaigns in the deserts and mountains of the disputed frontier between the two empires, and it was hard for him to equate the elusive bands of horse archers with the magnificence to be found in the heart of the empire.
The fabled wealth of Vologases was no myth, and Cato could imagine the avaricious gleam in the eyes of Rome’s statesmen when he reported back after the embassy was concluded. There were riches to be won in Parthia that would dwarf those brought back by Pompey the Great and Sulla before him. But the same wealth could be used by Vologases to buy the loyalty and alliance of many kings, perhaps even those presently beholden to Rome. One thing was certain, Cato concluded. Any war with Parthia was a far greater challenge than the emperors and those who advised them could possibly imagine.
Ramalanes sent one of his men for them as the sun shone through the slats in the tall shuttered window of Cato’s sleeping chamber. Cato was already awake and lying under a silk sheet on the most comfortable bed he had ever experienced. Even the bolster, also covered in silk, was of just the right softness to permit comfort while keeping his head at a comfortable angle. He stirred as the guard knocked on his door and entered the room without awaiting a reply, setting down some fresh clothes on the bench at the foot of the bed, next to Cato’s own clothes, which had been washed and dried before being placed there while he slept.
‘Excellency, you are to dress and accompany me at once.’
‘Very well.’ Cato sat up. ‘Wait for me outside.’
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