by Peter Darman
She picked up one of the scrolls and looked up to see the land bathed in sunlight. Across the river the road to the two pontoon bridges that spanned the Euphrates, giving access to the city, was full of camels, mules and carts. An endless stream of commerce that coursed both east and west to satisfy Rome’s and Egypt’s insatiable desire for silk, the luxurious material produced far to the east in China. The latter sent other products west, of course – ironware, medicines, bronze mirrors, and farming and metallurgical techniques – but it was the demand for silk that gave the great trading route its name. The commerce was not just one-way: camel trains transported alfalfa, grape, flax, pomegranate, walnut and cucumber to China. The rulers of the latter also had a taste for more exotic goods from the west: peacocks, elephants and lions. So every day camel trains criss-crossed Parthia loaded with goods, every one paying small dues for safe conduct along the Silk Road. The latter was the lifeblood of the empire just as it was for Dura’s prosperity.
Claudia glanced at another wicker chair a few paces away, the one her father had sat in every day as the sun began its descent in the western sky and the temperature on the terrace became bearable. She smiled at the memory of him laying his aching left leg on a padded foot rest as he told her that his greatest achievement was not on the battlefield but securing peace with the Agraci that meant the trade caravans could travel west from Dura to the oasis city of Palmyra and on to Syria and Egypt. Prior to this historic agreement the Kingdom of Dura and its wild lords had been at war with the Agraci but her father’s peace with Haytham had changed everything. She smiled as she remembered Haytham himself sitting on this terrace, a thing once thought impossible. They were good times, even though her memory of them was as a young girl.
She unfolded the papyrus roll on the table. Because it had been used for a long work the text was written horizontally along the roll and divided into columns. She began to read the neatly written words, keeping a segment of the roll flat in front of her, the ends on the left and right rolled up for convenience. The writing was not her father’s but as she began reading the words she soon heard his voice in her head, recording an episode from the early years of his reign as the King of Dura.
As the gods have decreed that I will have to wait a while longer before I can join my dear, beloved wife in the afterlife, and to put an end to the incessant nagging of Aaron, my aged treasurer, I have decided to record a number of my experiences so that posterity will remember me. Or at least that is what Aaron has told me. I actually think that my miserable attempts at being a scribe will be quickly forgotten, notwithstanding that Aaron has provided me with enthusiastic, attentive scribes to write down my words. They will write in Greek because Aaron has told me that all the great books of history are written in that language and therefore stand more chance of being read by future generations. I am not confident that the next generation of Dura’s citizens will be interested in my ramblings, let alone future generations. But for the sake of putting an end to Aaron’s hounding I have decided to become a scribbler.
When I first suggested the topic of this work Aaron began his pestering again, insisting that it was not a suitable subject for the reminiscences of a king. But I politely informed him that after having finally surrendered to his demands to write about my life, I should at least be free to choose the subjects. I suggested that perhaps it would be better if I acted as his scribe and committed to papyrus the experiences of his long life. Whereupon he became irritable and said that sarcasm did not suit me. But he said no more on the matter and so I began this tale of an episode that took place many years ago and even after this great passage of time still seems remarkable. Because it has been so long and because so much has happened in the intervening years, I hope I have remembered the sequence of events accurately. Those who took part deserve that at the very least.
Chapter 1
Phraates was dead.
My father had arrived at Dura with this sad news just before the army had arrived back from its campaign in Mesene that had seen King Chosroes deposed and Nergal and Praxima installed in his place. Chosroes had joined the faction of Narses and Mithridates and had attempted to capture Dura itself, but not before he had endeavoured to have me executed. His plans had come to nothing, however, and his army had been defeated before the walls of my city. He had scurried back to his capital at Uruk and I had followed him. The army’s machines had breached Uruk’s ancient walls and we had stormed the city. Chosroes had taken his own life rather than be captured and so a new era had begun in Mesene.
I had been in high spirits on the march back to Dura but the news of Phraates’ death had saddened me greatly. In truth he had not been a great high king; indeed, some might say that he had been a weak and vacillating one who had been responsible for the outbreak of civil war in the empire. But he had always been generous to Dura and its king, making me lord high general of the empire after the great victory over Narses at Surkh and giving me a large amount of gold as a reward after the battle. The treasure had allowed me to speed up the strengthening of Dura’s army, which had been fortuitous as I was able to use it to destroy a Roman army that had invaded my kingdom. I was thus indebted to Phraates and even though he had, as a result of the machinations of his poisonous son Mithridates and his scheming wife Aruna, subsequently stripped me of the rank of lord high general, I would always regard Phraates with affection and respect.
‘Really? Even though he made you look like a fool at Ctesiphon, sent you off on a fool’s errand into Mesene that nearly resulted in your death, and sat idly by while Chosroes and the soldiers of Persis tried to reduce your city to rubble?’
Dobbai was rubbing her hands with relish as she recounted the slights that Phraates had dealt me, or so she believed. I was standing at the foot of the palace steps and was about to hand a note I had written the day before to a courier who waited beside his horse.
‘This is not the time nor place to discuss matters of high strategy,’ I told her.
She cackled as she descended the steps and pointed a bony finger at the leather tube that held the note.
‘What’s that?’
‘Nothing.’
‘For the king himself to be busying himself with handing a document to a courier would suggest that it is far from nothing.’
I cast her a sideways glance. ‘It is a letter to the one who masquerades as the king of kings, if you must know.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘An invitation to a feast, perhaps?’
I chuckled. ‘Hardly.’
‘May I see it?’
I was tempted to hand the message to the courier so he could be on his way. However, I had to admit that I was rather pleased with myself concerning what I had written, believing it most erudite. I shrugged and passed it instead to Dobbai. She opened the case and extracted the letter, her hawk-like eyes darting over the text:
To King Mithridates
Word has recently reached me that your father, King Phraates, has died of a broken heart. It indeed breaks my heart to think that such a good man has departed this world, and sickens me greatly that the one who was the cause of his death has stolen his crown and now dares to call himself the King of Kings.
I have also heard that you hold me responsible for your father’s death, and have used this lie to deceive numerous other kings of the empire into electing you to your present high office. And now you seek to make yourself master of all the Parthian Empire, but I have to tell you that while I still live you will never know peace. For you are a poison at the very heart of the empire, and every day that you sit upon the throne Parthia dies a little.
The only cure for the empire is to remove this ulcer, this rottenness, and that includes your lackey Narses, another traitor who fouls the empire by his mere existence. I will not rest until you and he have suffered the same fate as those other traitors Porus and Chosroes. This I swear by all that is sacred.
I remain, your implacable enemy.
Pacorus, King of Dura.
Dobbai said nothing as she rolled up the letter, carefully inserted it into the tubular case and handed it to the courier.
‘It is to get to Ctesiphon as speedily as possible,’ I told him.
He placed the case in a leather pouch slung over his shoulder. ‘Yes, majesty.’
He vaulted into the saddle, turned his horse and trotted from the courtyard, the iron shoes on his horse’s hooves clattering on the flagstones. I watched him exit the gates and smiled to myself. He would ride over the pontoon bridge across the Euphrates and head southeast towards the great sprawling palace complex at Ctesiphon, the political heart of the empire, located on the eastern bank of the River Tigris. The courier would probably reach the court of Mithridates in around five or six days, making use of the post stations that could be found throughout the empire. Simple mud-brick buildings surrounded by a wall with stables attached, they held fresh horses where couriers could pick up a new mount before proceeding to the next station. Established along all the main roads in the empire, usually thirty miles or so apart, they greatly facilitated communications within Parthia.
‘And now we wait,’ I said.
‘Wait for what?’ asked Dobbai.
I walked back up the steps towards the palace, Dobbai trailing after me.
‘For Mithridates and Narses to march against me, of course. They will not be able to ignore such a challenge.’
Dobbai cackled as we walked through the colonnaded porch into the palace’s reception hall, guards snapping to attention as we passed and court officials bowing their heads.
‘You think that they will risk their lives fighting you, son of Hatra?’
We walked into the empty throne room, my griffin banner hanging on the wall behind the two thrones on the dais.
‘I have issued a challenge and they will not be able to ignore me.’
Our footsteps echoed on the stone tiles as we walked to the door at the far end that led to the palace’s private quarters. I opened it and went through into the corridor that led to the bedrooms where we slept. There was a small guardroom at the corridor’s entrance and another door opposite that led to the palace terrace. Servants on their knees were scrubbing the floor and two guards stood sentry outside the guardroom. They brought their spears to their chests in salute as I passed and the servants stood up and bowed their heads as I walked on to the balcony.
‘You are wrong, son of Hatra,’ said Dobbai as she walked over to her wicker chair and sat in it.
It was going to be another blisteringly hot day, the sun already roasting the Citadel from a clear blue sky. More servants arranged a sunshade over Dobbai and offered her cool fruit juice as I too took a seat and stretched out my legs. The terrace faced east so the Citadel could welcome the rising of the sun each morning and the journey of Shamash, Lord of the Sun who blessed the earth with warmth and life each day.
A nursemaid brought Claudia, my young daughter, from the nursery, holding her hand as the infant gingerly placed one foot in front of the other. Her eyes lit up when she saw me and I swept her up in my arms, kissing her on the cheek.
‘You are the one who is wrong,’ I told her as Claudia saw Dobbai and held out her arms imploringly to the old woman. Even at this tender age there was a strong bond between the two. I took Claudia over to the old witch and placed her in her lap. She may have had a haggard, fearsome visage but Dobbai was remarkably tender and affectionate with Claudia, who soon began to close her eyes. I dismissed the nursemaid.
‘Narses and Mithridates will not be able to resist raising an army and marching against me,’ I announced. ‘And just like I did with Chosroes I will defeat them both before the walls of this city and send their heads back to Ctesiphon as a present for Queen Aruna.’
Dobbai took a sip of her juice.
‘You have it all worked out, don’t you? You will kill Narses and Mithridates just like you did Porus and Chosroes, peace will return to the empire and you will be instrumental in choosing a new king of kings, one more to your liking.’
I emptied a cup of juice. ‘Why not? We all want peace in the empire and there can be none while Mithridates and his pet dog rule at Ctesiphon.’
Gallia appeared on the terrace after her early morning training session with the Amazons. Every morning it was the same. She would rise early and ride from the city with her guards to the training grounds south of the city to practise shooting from the saddle at different sized targets. The training also involved riding fast at melons placed on top of posts and slicing them open with sword strikes. Despite having changed into baggy leggings and a new white tunic her cheeks were still flushed and she was wiping her neck with a towel. Her blonde hair was arranged in a single plait down her back to make wearing a helmet more comfortable. She gladly accepted a cup of juice from a servant before kissing Claudia and flopping down in a chair.
‘I swear it gets hotter each day,’ she complained.
She looked at me. ‘I did not see you at the training fields earlier.’
As well as the Amazons the training fields were also used by Dura’s horse archers and cataphracts, and the early morning hours were very busy as officers endeavoured to put their men through their paces before the fierce midday heat arrived.
‘I had no time today. Affairs of state.’
Dobbai chortled. ‘What he means is that he is endeavouring to provoke Mithridates.’
Gallia emptied her cup and looked at me. ‘Provoke Mithridates?’
‘Your husband has written a letter to the high king informing him that he is a malignant poison that should be removed from the empire,’ stated Dobbai before I could reply. ‘By doing so he hopes that Mithridates, filled with wrath, will raise a multitude and march against Dura, thereby granting the King of Dura another opportunity to employ his fearsome army on the battlefield. Have I summed up your intentions succinctly, son of Hatra?’
‘We all know that Mithridates and Narses are thieves and murderers,’ I said. ‘The world would be a better place without them.’
Gallia appeared underwhelmed. ‘Why should they dance to your tune?’
Dobbai chuckled. ‘The crux of the matter.’
I looked at my wife. ‘Why? Because I have insulted the office of high king, that is why. Once Mithridates has received my insult the eyes of the empire will be upon Ctesiphon, watching to see what actions he takes.’
‘Or he could ignore you,’ said Gallia.
‘A more preferable option for our devious high king, I think,’ added Dobbai.
I tapped my nose with a finger. ‘He cannot do that. The office of high king will mean he has to answer my provocation if the holder wishes to maintain credibility in the eyes of the empire.’
Dobbai looked at Gallia and rolled her eyes.
‘What a ridiculously romantic fool you are, son of Hatra. I doubt that Mithridates has even considered what the office of high king entails, aside from the prospect of great wealth and power. You think your insult will provoke a response? It will, though not the one you expect. But if you think that Mithridates will march against you then you will be disappointed.’
‘He is a coward,’ I sneered.
‘And worse,’ agreed Dobbai. ‘But consider this. The other kings of the empire may despise and ridicule Mithridates but he has achieved something that they all crave.’
I looked at Gallia whose face wore a confused expression. Dobbai stroked the forehead of the sleeping Claudia.
‘He has brought peace to the empire, admittedly of a sorts. But from the Indus to the Euphrates there is now a general peace.’
‘Peace?’ I scoffed. ‘What sort of peace is it where the Romans occupy the Kingdom of Gordyene, once the domain of King Balas? Where the traitor Narses helps himself to the Kingdom of Sakastan and the high king tries to barter away my own kingdom to Rome?’
‘The one where there is no war,’ replied Dobbai casually. ‘Your experiences with the kings of the empire must have made you realise that only you among them have a relish for war. Phraate
s, poor fool that he was, recognised it straight away. That is why he made you lord high general.’
‘I do not relish war,’ I insisted.
‘But war relishes you, son of Hatra. Have you ever wondered why it has been relatively easy for you to turn the backwater of Dura into one of the most feared kingdoms of the Parthian Empire?’
I had to admit that I had given the subject no thought. I shrugged indifferently.
‘It is because you are beloved of the gods, son of Hatra. Your path was determined long before took your first steps. The immortals have made things easier for you.’
‘Everything I have achieved I have done so by my own efforts,’ I snapped.
Dobbai continued to stroke my daughter’s head. ‘Let us for the moment leave to one side the fact that you were born into the Hatran royal family, rulers of one of the empire’s richest cities that has one of Parthia’s most formidable armies.’