by Peter Darman
I felt immensely proud and smug at that moment. Perhaps future generations would view me as the Parthian who tamed the Agraci, not with bows but with words.
‘Thing is,’ continued Byrd, ‘Yasser talked to the camel drivers and they told him that many of Narses’ agents in Gerrha hiring boats with gold.’
‘Boats?’
Byrd nodded.
‘Perhaps Narses wishes Persis to become a great trading kingdom,’ I suggested. ‘Why else does he need boats?’
Byrd had no answer to my question but I was secretly pleased that Narses was occupying himself with affairs within his own kingdom, and presumably his newly acquired kingdom of Sakastan.
The next few days were a happy time as I hunted with Gafarn, Diana, Nergal and Praxima, taking with me the saker falcon named Najya that had been a present from Haytham. Gafarn, my former slave, now my adopted brother and a prince of Hatra, was in high spirits as he basked in the love of his wife, the former kitchen slave from Capua who had escaped from the gladiatorial school with Spartacus. I had hope that they would bring the young son of Spartacus with them to Dura but he had been left behind at Hatra.
‘Your mother dotes on him,’ Gafarn said to me as we rode back to the city after a day hunting desert quail. The sun was dipping on the western horizon – a golden molten ball of fire resembling Praxima’s wild red mane hanging around her shoulders.
‘I remember the night he was born,’ said Nergal.
‘The night Claudia died,’ lamented Praxima.
‘I have often wondered what would have happened if she had lived,’ said Gafarn. ‘Perhaps Spartacus would not have thrown his life away in battle the next day and we would all still be in Italy.’
‘Being chased around the country by Crassus,’ I said.
‘Or perhaps we would have defeated Crassus and ended up as rulers of Rome,’ offered Nergal.
‘I prefer our new home,’ said Praxima.
‘What is it like, being a god I mean?’ asked a smiling Diana.
‘Tiresome,’ replied her friend. ‘Total obedience gets on my nerves and no one looks you in the eye.’
‘How is Surena getting along?’ I asked.
‘Very well,’ said Nergal. ‘He has raised a good number of Ma’adan recruits who are being trained in the ways of war by Kuban and his officers. They are enthusiastic recruits.’
‘What is the view of those men who used to serve Chosroes?’ I asked.
‘They are soldiers,’ replied Nergal. ‘Those who survived our storm of the city now serve me.’
Praxima giggled. ‘Besides, we have High Priest Rahim on our side and no one dare challenge him.’
‘It was a stroke of luck you two resembling the old gods of Uruk,’ said Gafarn.
‘Dobbai would say that luck played no part in it,’ I said. ‘She would say that it was the will of the gods that led Nergal and Praxima to Uruk. That I was merely an agent of their desires.’
‘She doesn’t like me,’ said Gafarn.
‘She is very wise,’ I agreed.
‘Just as the people of Uruk believe that Nergal and Praxima were sent by the gods,’ said Gallia, ‘so do the inhabitants of Dura believe that Dobbai was sent to protect the city. She was the one who gave Dura’s army its banner, the golden griffin of the Durans and the statue that guards the city.’
‘It is always best to have the gods on your side,’ said Nergal. ‘It makes things much easier.’
‘Let us hope that the gods speedily do away with Mithridates and Narses,’ I said.
‘Mithridates writes honey-coated letters to our father, Pacorus,’ said Gafarn, ‘pledging eternal friendship and peace between Ctesiphon and Hatra.’
‘He ignores Dura,’ I stated.
‘And Uruk,’ added Nergal.
‘He seeks to isolate us from the rest of the empire,’ I said. ‘To let our two kingdoms wither and die like vines deprived of water.’
‘Like Charax,’ said Nergal.
Gallia’s ears pricked up. ‘What do you know of Charax? Its name was raised at a council meeting recently.’
Nergal shrugged. ‘A poor city built where the Tigris and Euphrates flow into the Persian Gulf. Boats from the port frequently visit Uruk to unload their cargoes for sale in the city. It is rumoured that its ruler, Tiraios, is a tyrant but he has no army to speak of, or so the Ma’adan inform me.’
‘They fight this Tiraios?’ asked Gafarn.
Nergal laughed. ‘The Ma’adan will fight anyone who encroaches on their territory.’
‘But not you, my friend,’ I said.
Nergal nodded. ‘No, they are our allies.’
That night the kitchens cooked the quail we had caught and we ate them in the banqueting hall, which seemed eerily quiet after the raucous feast of the Companions. We mostly ate in silence, Gallia, Diana and Praxima exchanging the occasional word. Though we all loved these annual gatherings the eve of journeys home was always a sad affair. Part of me wished that I still lived in Hatra with my parents and Gafarn and Diana, with Nergal and Praxima living in one of the great mansions in the city. But we all had our own destinies to fulfil and it was a futile exercise to wish for what would never be. And so we sat in silence, each mulling over their thoughts.
‘You know that you will always have a home at Dura should you so wish,’ I said suddenly to Nergal and Praxima.
They both looked at me in confusion, as did the others.
‘We have our own home now, Pacorus,’ said Nergal, ‘but I thank you for the offer.’
‘A strange thing to say,’ remarked Gafarn, his lean features illuminated by the torches that flickered on the wall behind us.
‘I don’t trust Mithridates, that is all,’ I answered.
‘Who does?’ said Gafarn.
‘Pacorus is worried that Mithridates will attack Uruk instead of Dura. Is it not so?’ Gallia stated bluntly.
Nergal seemed unconcerned, shovelling some spiced rice into his mouth.
‘If he does then Uruk’s walls are high and strong and he possesses no siege engines. The city is well stocked with provisions to withstand a siege until our allies arrive.’
‘I can be at Uruk in two weeks,’ I reassured him.
Gafarn took a sip of his wine. ‘Pacorus, have you ever considered that Mithridates may not even give your existence a passing thought?’
I looked at him. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘It’s quite simple. He has achieved his lifelong ambition of becoming king of kings and has the allegiance of most of the kings in the empire.’
‘Half,’ I corrected him.
He held up a hand to me. ‘Have it your own way. But the fact remains that he is high king, the other kings of the empire either support him or tolerate him but all wish to avoid any further bloodshed.’
‘Except Pacorus,’ said Gallia.
‘Except Pacorus,’ agreed Gafarn. ‘If you ignore him then I can assure you that he will ignore you.’
Gafarn looked at Nergal. ‘And you, my friend. I do not wish to offend your new kingdom but Mesene has always been regarded as a poor relation among the empire’s family of kings.’
‘Not all that glitters is gold, my love,’ said Diana.
‘Wise words,’ I said.
‘We would not swap Uruk for all the gold in Ctesiphon,’ said Praxima defiantly.
I smiled. Same old Praxima – wild and fierce. No wonder Gallia had chosen her to be second-in-command of the Amazons.
‘My point is,’ continued Gafarn, ‘that Mithridates has no interest in raising an army to try and subdue Dura or Mesene. He would rather sit on his throne and receive slavish homage from his army of courtiers, concubines and eunuchs at Ctesiphon. I am sure he is mindful of the fate of other kings who have challenged you in battle, such as Porus and Chosroes.’
‘He’s right, Pacorus,’ said Nergal.
Gafarn wore a smug smile. ‘I usually am.’
Nergal and Praxima left early the next morning, their escort of a h
undred horse archers drawn up in the courtyard as we said our goodbyes on the palace steps.
I embraced Praxima and Nergal.
‘If you need me just send word,’ I told him.
He smiled and shook his head. ‘You worry too much. But do not leave it too long before you and Gallia visit us.’
The Mesenian camp had been pitched outside the city where the rest of Nergal’s horse archers and the camels loaded with tents and supplies were waiting. They would cross the pontoon bridge and travel back to Uruk along the eastern bank of the Euphrates. At a leisurely pace of around twenty miles a day it would take them fifteen days.
Domitus and Godarz were also present to bid farewell to their friends, a colour party of the Durans arrayed in front of the treasury and headquarters building in the courtyard. Its golden griffin shone in the early morning sunlight as Nergal and Praxima rode from the Citadel.
Gafarn and Diana left an hour later, Gallia sharing a tearful farewell with her friend on the palace steps. Diana kissed Claudia and then embraced me as their escort rode into the courtyard. My father had given them two companies of Hatra’s cataphracts: two hundred men and horses encased in gleaming scale armour, burnished helmets glinting in the sun and every one sporting a red plume. Each rider carried a long lance called a kontus that had a vicious point and a steel butt spike. There was no wind and so the red pennants bearing a white horse’s head hung limply on the thick shafts. Nevertheless Hatra’s professional armoured horsemen looked magnificent in their scale armour comprising overlapping steel scales shimmering in the sun. Hugely expensive to raise and maintain, cataphracts were a visible symbol of a king’s wealth and power and Hatra was blessed that it could field fifteen hundred of them. The Hatran camp had been established across the river, in Hatran territory, where the four hundred squires and servants waited with the camel train loaded with armour, weapons, tents, food and fodder for the journey back to my father’s capital.
Trumpets sounded, the colour party stood to attention and my friends led their escort from the Citadel. We stood on the palace steps until the last of the cataphracts had left, piles of horse dung in the courtyard the only reminder of their presence. Domitus dismissed the Durans, stable hands came into the courtyard to clean up the mess and Gallia took Claudia back to her nursery. Godarz made his excuses and walked over to the treasury where Rsan waited for him to discuss new farming tenancy agreements. The royal estates extended south from the city for a distance of a hundred miles and the peace with the Agraci meant that there was a lot of land adjacent to the Euphrates waiting to be irrigated and farmed.
I walked to the stables, saddled Remus and rode him from the Citadel to the Palmyrene Gate. I left him in the care of a guard and ascended the stone steps in the gatehouse to reach the stone griffin that stood sentry over the city. Already the entrance to the city was filling with travellers, traders bringing their wares to Dura to sell in the markets, and citizens walking from the city to work in the fields or in the sprawling legionary camp half a mile to the west. Across the deep wadi beyond the city’s northern walls was the vast caravan park where hundreds of camels spat and grunted as they were led to water troughs fed by water from the nearby Euphrates. The ill-tempered, stinking beasts were Dura’s lifeblood for they transported the precious silk from China to Egypt and Rome where it was worn by fine ladies and men. As I stood beside the stone statue I subconsciously turned the gold coin Byrd had given me in my right hand.
‘So, the feast of drunkenness and gluttony is over for another year.’
I stopped playing with the coin and turned to see Dobbai approaching.
‘The stable hands told me that you had left the Citadel,’ she said. ‘I thought I would find you here.’
‘Really? Been using your magic again? I could have been visiting Domitus or practising shooting on the ranges.’
She stood next to me, saying nothing as she stared at the legionary camp where hundreds of men were going about their daily duties.
‘You always come here when you are brooding,’ she said at last.
I turned the coin between my fingers. ‘Who said I was brooding?’
‘It’s written all over your face. What’s that?’
She was looking at the coin I was toying with.
‘Nothing. Just a coin.’
She suddenly looked very serious. ‘May I see it?’
I shrugged and passed it to her. She held it up and examined it closely, holding it up to the sun.
‘Byrd gave it to me,’ I said as she grunted and scratched at its surface with her hawk-like nails.
‘One of Haytham’s lords collected it when a trade caravan paid him to cross the desert from Gerrha to Palmyra. It is…’
‘The currency of Persis,’ she said. ‘It is a message from the gods, son of Hatra. The spectre of Narses rises up.’
‘I have scouts on the other side of the Euphrates,’ I told her. ‘Nothing stirs on the borders of Persis.’
‘What else did Haytham’s lord tell your Cappodocian?’
‘That the agents of Narses are hiring boats at Gerrha,’ I said. ‘Perhaps he intends to sail his army up the Euphrates,’ I joked.
She said nothing, fixing me with her black eyes. She held up the coin to me.
‘The gods warn you of great danger, son of Hatra. You must act quickly.’
‘The army is liked a coiled cobra, ready to strike,’ I reassured her. ‘If Narses dares show his face it and I will be ready and waiting.’
She clenched the coin in her fist. ‘He will not come here but he will strike at you, son of Hatra.’
She turned and walked back to the stone steps.
‘I will dispose of this coin. It is evil and should not be allowed to remain inside this city.’
‘Give it to Rsan,’ I told her.
She stopped and turned to face me. ‘No. It must be taken to the river and cast into the water so it will travel south and return to the lair of its master.’
The voyage of Dobbai down the Euphrates on a small fishing vessel was one of the few highlights of that week. There is a small harbour at the base of the rock escarpment upon which the Citadel sits and mostly it is occupied by a handful of fishing boats. Those who worked on the river usually hauled their vessels onto the riverbank at the end of the day. But on the day Dobbai took Narses’ gold coin downriver the harbour was packed with boats, all filled with people who had paid to accompany Dura’s famous sorceress on her mysterious journey. I did not know how they had found out about the coin or Dobbai’s intentions, though palaces are notorious places for gossip, but whatever the reason dozens of boats followed the one that contained her as it cut through the calm, blue waters. Gallia was on the same boat along with the half a dozen legionaries that Domitus insisted should guard the queen. I did not go, preferring to stay in the palace. I thought the whole thing nonsense and merely designed to increase Dobbai’s reputation as a weaver of magic.
When she returned she insisted that she see me. I had been visiting Domitus in the legionary camp when a courier on horseback arrived from the Citadel with a message that war was upon us.
‘Who sent this message?’ I asked the man, one of Dura’s horse archers dressed in a loose white tunic, baggy brown leggings and boots.
‘Your sorceress, majesty.’
Domitus groaned. ‘Best ignore her, Pacorus. She probably wants to tell you about a fish she caught during her trip on the river.’
We were in his large command tent in the centre of the camp, which was modelled on the Roman equivalent. The only difference being that there were no granaries in Dura’s camp. They were located in the city. But there were workshops and a hospital where Alcaeus, the wiry haired Greek physician who headed the army’s medical corps, could usually be found.
I picked up my helmet. ‘The one thing I have learned since coming to Dura, Domitus, is that it is unwise to ignore Dobbai’s prophecies. Surely you have not forgotten the sandstorm that she foretold?’
When th
e army had been preparing to march north to intercept a Roman army commanded by Pompey, Dobbai had ridden to the legionary camp and ordered that everyone should seek refuge in the city. Domitus had been enraged and had threatened to kill her, but changed his mind when a fearsome sandstorm descended on Dura and battered the city for days.
The commander of the army now appeared disinterested.
‘Just humour her. I’m sure that will do the trick.’
I nodded at him and walked to the tent’s entrance. The courier stood where he was, looking sheepishly at me.
‘There is something else, majesty.’
‘Well spit it out, then,’ commanded Domitus.
The courier stared directly ahead. ‘Your sorceress said that General Domitus should also attend her in the palace.’
‘Looks like you are coming with me,’ I grinned.
Domitus sighed and stood, picking up his helmet. He ambled up to the courier.
‘The old witch called me general?’
The courier swallowed. ‘Not exactly, lord.’
‘So what did she say, exactly?’
The man squirmed and swallowed again. ‘That the king should bring the Roman with him.’
Domitus laughed. ‘Well, then, let’s go and see what the old hag is babbling about.’
When we arrived at the palace we found Dobbai, Gallia and Orodes in the throne room, my wife sitting in her high-back seat and Dobbai pacing up and down in front of the dais. A bemused Orodes was standing beside Gallia with arms folded when we walked into the chamber.
‘Please close the doors behind you,’ said Dobbai when she saw us.
I nodded to the guards who shut the doors and retook their positions flanking the entrance. I walked with Domitus to my throne, the general curling his lip at Dobbai as he passed her.
‘You received a summons too?’ I remarked to Orodes as I sat down beside a worried Gallia.
‘Are you all right?’ I said to her.
‘Fine,’ she snapped as Domitus took his place beside me, acknowledging Orodes with a nod.
Dobbai turned to face us all.
‘I understand now. The son of Hatra gave me a coin that came from the south.’ She glared at me. ‘That he should have given me as soon as it came into his possession. But what is done is done. I realised that the coin the Cappadocian pot seller gave to the son of Hatra was a sign from the gods. Today I gave the coin to Enki so that he could return it to its corrupt master.’