by Peter Darman
‘Roxanne.’
Domitus nodded. ‘Pretty thing, I have to admit. I hear she cost you a tidy sum to release her from her contractual duties. Aaron is forever bending my ear about it. It is amazing how similar to Rsan he is in his parsimony.’
‘He would. Still, it was worth it to keep Peroz and his five thousand horse archers at Dura.’
Domitus raised an eyebrow. ‘Peroz proudly informed me while you were away that he intends to marry his whore soon.’
I held my head in my hands.
‘I assume by your demeanour that his father does not know he has fallen in love with a whore.’
I sighed and looked at him. ‘She is no longer a whore.’
He grinned maliciously. ‘You think his father will see it like that? I think he will think that you have led his boy astray and will be most displeased.’
‘When did you become such an expert on Parthian kings?’ I said.
Domitus was clearly in a mischievous mood. ‘And what with young Spartacus wanting to marry an Agraci you are fast earning yourself a reputation as a man who creates undesirable marriages.’
I wagged a finger at him. ‘Spartacus will be going back to Hatra soon and will hopefully lose interest in Rasha.’
‘You really believe that?’ he said. ‘And why has he not returned to Hatra to his father?’
‘I thought I would take him to Antioch with me to show him what the enemy looks like, Scarab too.’
I saw his dagger in his hand, which he started to fiddle with. ‘You know that bitch Aruna is in Antioch.’
‘So I believe. Do you wish me to relay your compliments to her?’
‘Just watch your back, that is all,’ he said with deadly seriousness. ‘I remember Dobbai telling me that she was as evil as her son. It is a curious thing; I never thought I would miss the old woman but I do.’
‘As do I,’ I agreed.
‘If she was still alive you could have taken one of her talismans as protection.’
‘I will be under a flag of truce, Domitus.’
‘Perhaps,’ he sniffed.
While I waited for an official reply to the message that I had sent Crassus requesting a meeting with him at Antioch I had Scarab clean and burnish my leather cuirass, replace the crest in my helmet with fresh white goose feathers and polish the helmet itself. I knew Crassus would be dressed in rich attire and did not want to appear a pauper by comparison. I dallied with the idea of taking a company of cataphracts with me but decided against it. If they were not going to fight there was little point in having an escort of a hundred men sweating in scale armour and full-face helmets and their horses similarly attired, impressive spectacle though they would have made. In addition, I wanted to keep their new swords a secret so I left them at Dura. Instead I took Vagises and a hundred horse archers, each man being issued with a long-sleeved white silk shirt, red leggings and helmet. I also gave the order that they were to wear mail shirts to make them look more impressive, even though only the Amazons among Dura’s horse archers normally wore amour.
‘You should take them instead,’ remarked Gallia on the evening before I left, a rider having arrived at the palace earlier from Syria with confirmation of my safe passage to Antioch.
‘They are your bodyguard so should stay here with you,’ I replied.
‘As should you: there is no point in talking to Crassus. You should have told Orodes that.’
‘Orodes is high king,’ I reminded her, ‘and so he does the telling.’
She grabbed my arms and looked into my eyes. ‘Do not go; you will face danger in Syria.’
I looked at her rather bemused.
She let go of my arms. ‘You think I am a fool? Well, while you were away I was talking to Claudia about you and she suddenly got a tickling sensation on the sole of her right foot. She told me that it meant that you would soon be going on another journey, but later that same day when she was at the gates of the Citadel a dog stood in front of her and began barking at her. She said it was a bad omen.’
I could scarcely believe my ears. ‘A ticklish foot and a barking dog? Claudia is twelve years old, Gallia. I hardly think she is qualified to interpret omens from the gods, if they are indeed that.’
She regarded me coolly. ‘I believed her and so should you. Have you forgotten who raised her? Have you also forgotten that it was Claudia who warned you about Crassus taking the towns in western Hatra, a warning that you chose to ignore.’
I had no time for this. ‘I do not go to Syria to make war but rather to put a proposal to Crassus. Whatever he is he is not a common criminal. He would gain nothing by killing me.’
‘Except to remove the one general who can defeat him, the one person who stands between him conquering the Parthian Empire,’ she replied caustically.
‘I think you exaggerate. I will be away for no longer than three weeks and I do not go alone.’
She was not convinced but knew that it was useless to argue with me further. The next day I embraced her and my children at the top of the palace steps while Vagises and his overdressed horse archers stood waiting in the courtyard with twenty fully laden camels behind them. Spartacus sat on his horse holding Remus’ reins with Scarab beside him. I shook the hands of Domitus and Vagharsh, who was most aggrieved that he was not accompanying me. Opposite stood Aaron, Rsan and Peroz, who looked resplendent in his silver scale armour cuirass.
I walked down the steps and vaulted into the saddle. I raised my hand to signal the company to move out when Claudia ran down the steps and raced over to me. She held out an outstretched hand in which was a silver amulet.
‘Take this, father, it will protect you from harm.’
I leaned down and took the amulet from her.
I smiled at her. ‘Thank you.’
I looked at the talisman in my hand. It was a beautiful silver Simurgh, an ancient mythological beast that had the head and foreparts of a dog, the wings and tail of a peacock and a body covered with scales.
Claudia did not smile back but looked deadly serious. ‘It is a protective guardian for your journey. Beware the mother of snakes.’
I nodded to her in acknowledgement and then wheeled Remus around and trotted from the courtyard as my daughter ascended the steps. Vagises fell in beside me and Spartacus and Scarab took up position behind as we rode down Dura’s main street towards the Palmyrene Gate. The last time I had ridden to see Crassus was in Italy twenty years ago. Then I had been accompanied by his personal slave and had been the commander of all the horsemen in Spartacus’ slave army. Now I was the lord high general of the Parthian Empire and commanded my own army, but more than anything else I was intrigued by the prospect of seeing Crassus again. The last time I had ridden to Rome itself, the heart of the enemy’s empire, and had emerged unscathed. I had no reason to believe that this time would be any different.
Chapter 14
The commander of my horse archers was most unhappy that we were going to Syria and even more melancholic that we would be meeting Crassus. Vagises was an excellent officer and a valued Companion but one who saw no purpose in talking to the Romans. He had been with me since that fateful expedition into Cappadocia all those years ago when we had been young and foolish and had gotten ourselves captured and shipped to Italy as slaves. I am sure that he thought the whole thing was a Roman ruse to recapture us.
‘How can it be a trap?’ I asked him. ‘It was Orodes who suggested that I meet with Crassus.’
Vagises did not reply but stared ahead as our horses trotted across the border where a detachment of Roman horsemen waited to escort us to Antioch some eighty miles to the west. As we crossed the frontier between the Kingdom of Dura and Roman Syria I caught sight of a gladius set in a stone base next to a kontus. It was at this spot where I had met the Roman general Pompey and where our two armies had faced each other, ready to do battle. Instead we had agreed a truce and he had thrust a sword into the earth to delineate where Roman Syria ended. I had plunged a kontus into the ground
beside it to mark the northern extent of my own border and thus had part of the frontier between the empires of Rome and Parthia been fixed, at least until now. Afterwards the two weapons had been mounted on a four-sided stone base, the side facing east being inscribed ‘Kingdom of Dura’, the one facing west bearing the words ‘Romana Syria’. Vagises saw me looking at the monument.
‘I remember that day, when you faced down Pompey and his legions. That is the only language the Romans understand.’ He spat on the ground as we passed into Syria.
‘Bastard Romans.’
‘I trust I can depend on your discretion when we arrive at Antioch,’ I said.
‘I will conduct myself according to my rank, Pacorus. I will not give the Romans the satisfaction of thinking that Parthians are uncouth, much as I would like to.’
He looked behind him at Spartacus and Scarab.
‘It was a mistake bringing Spartacus,’ he said softly, ‘if Crassus gets wind that the son of the slave leader is with us he will have him thrown into a cell.’
He really was in a foul mood.
‘If Crassus was like that,’ I reasoned, ‘then he would have arrested me when I travelled to his house in Rome twenty years ago. The Romans may be many things but they are sticklers for the rule of law and they will not violate the safe passage that we have been granted.’
He mumbled something that I could not hear and then lapsed into a surly silence as our escort rode up and its commander, a man in his early thirties with olive skin and a thick black beard, bowed his head to me. He was obviously Syrian and commanded a detachment of horsemen who were serving the Romans as auxiliaries. His name was Bayas.
‘I am here to escort you to Antioch, majesty,’ he said in Greek.
Like most of the population of Syria he was probably descended from either the Greek or Macedonian settlers who had arrived in the province in the aftermath of its conquest by Alexander of Macedon. Before then Syria had been ruled by the Persians and before them it had been home to the Egyptians, Sumerians, Assyrians, Babylonians and Hittites. And now it was ruled by Rome.
Bayas led fifty horsemen, all dressed in long-sleeved brown tunics, protected by leather cuirasses painted white, and baggy white leggings. On their heads they wore so-called Phrygian caps. Hanging from the horns of their saddles were small round shields, which were made from laminated strips of wood glued together, with bronze around the circumference to prevent them from splitting in a fight. Covered in white-painted hide, they were designed to stop a sword blow or arrow strike. Each horseman was armed with short javelins that he carried in a case dangling from his saddle and a longer thrusting spear designed for the mêlée. I wondered how many other similar horsemen Crassus had raised thus far?
Bayas was agreeable enough and I did not bother to pester him with questions concerning where he was based or the size of the unit he was attached to. Byrd’s spies in Syria would be able to provide that information when the time came.
We moved west at a steady pace of twenty miles each day, riding on paved roads and watering our horses at wells that had been sunk beside them. Syria had been a Roman province for over ten years now and the evidence of its new masters was all around. The roads were not only efficient transportation systems; they were also statements of power. It was not only traders and their goods that travelled over their smooth slabs but also the hobnailed sandals of Roman legions marching to conquer foreign lands. It always amused me that Roman horsemen had to ride on the verges either side of the road whereas my horsemen could ride on the smooth flagstones because our mounts wore iron shoes. How I would have liked to see such roads criss-crossing my kingdom and indeed the empire but the cost was colossal. Underneath the slabs was a layer of gravel and sand with lime cement, and beneath that a layer of rubble and smaller stones set in lime mortar. The base layer comprised flat stones also set in lime mortar, and beside the roads were drainage channels so that rainwater could run off.
Syria had always been a rich region, with intensive irrigation systems to water the fields, and the Romans had been fortunate in that its population had always been subject to taxation. It had thus been relatively easy for them to exact taxes from their new province as a network of officials was already in place. All they had to do was employ them to collect taxes on behalf of Rome. And as time went on Roman weights, measures and coinage replaced their Greek equivalents and Latin became the legal language of the province.
The journey to Antioch was uneventful, though Vagises’ humour did not improve and he insisted on extra guards around the camp each night. Mostly we pitched our tents near a village and Bayas negotiated with the headman so that Vagises and I could use the village bathhouse for relaxation after a day’s riding. As we travelled nearer to Antioch the villages became larger and were surrounded by drained marshes and dams. We also saw legionaries working in details organising the construction of qanats – underground irrigational canals – that brought water to the surface to irrigate the land. Syria was certainly thriving that much was certain. Bayas told me that the Romans provided the engineering skills of the legions to towns and villages for free, which somewhat surprised me.
‘The Romans’ tax system is based on the harvest of farmlands, majesty,’ he explained, ‘so the more crops that are harvested the more taxes they collect. Very clever.’
The plain that we travelled through before we reached Antioch had red soil and was filled with olive orchards. The slopes of the high hills that surrounded it were also covered in olive trees and oaks. The land was green and fertile and as we continued and came to the Orontes River I saw an abundance of vineyards, fig trees, myrtle, ilex, arbutus, dwarf oak and sycamore. The Orontes had deep and swift waters with which to irrigate the land and it wound its way round the bases of high and precipitous cliffs before entering the Mediterranean Sea that was some thirty miles away.
We rounded a bend in the road and were confronted by dozens of Roman horsemen around three hundred paces away. I instinctively raised my hand to signal a halt and then reached behind me to pull my bow from its case hanging from one of the rear horns of my saddle. Vagises did the same and shouted ‘ready!’ as ahead the Romans made no attempt to move.
From smiling and looking relaxed Bayas’ face registered alarm.
‘No danger, majesty,’ he stuttered, ‘it is a guard of honour to welcome you to Antioch.’
I already had an arrow knocked in my bowstring and when I glanced behind I saw that every one of my horsemen had done likewise.
‘Stand down,’ I shouted, placing the arrow in my quiver before sliding the bow back into its case. Vagises sneered at the stationary Romans and did the same as Bayas galloped forward to greet the new arrivals.
‘I don’t like this,’ growled Vagises, who had finally begun to relax and accept that he was probably not going to be murdered in his sleep. I noticed the new Roman horsemen had no spears, continuing to sit motionless in their saddles, hands holding their reins as they gazed at us. Bayas halted in front of a man I assumed was the officer in charge. Some of the Roman horses were grazing.
‘I do not think they are about to charge us, Vagises,’ I said, nudging Remus forward, ‘so it would be bad manners to shoot at them, do you not think?’
He grumbled a reply and then joined me as behind us our Syrian hosts and my horse archers rode ahead to meet the Romans. We had moved forward around fifty paces when Bayas wheeled his horse around and began trotting back to us accompanied by a Roman officer. I raised my hand to signal a halt and waited for them to arrive.
The Roman commander, whose face was hidden behind his large closed cheekguards, sported a magnificent red crest atop his burnished helmet, and as he closed on us and brought his horse to a halt I saw that like me he was also wearing a muscled leather cuirass, but it made mine look a poor article indeed. It was white and sported silver griffins on the chest with a candelabra between the mythical beasts and surmounted by a gold gorgon. Below the candelabra was a golden she-wolf suckling Romulus and
Remus, the founders of the city of Rome. He wore pteruges at the shoulders and waist whose ends were decorated with gorgon motifs. Whoever this Roman was he was certainly wealthy.
He removed his helmet and handed it to Bayas, then clasped his clenched right fist to his chest. Broad shouldered with a handsome face, square jaw and a full head of brown hair, I estimated his age to be around thirty. He fixed me with his piercing brown eyes.
‘Greetings, King Pacorus, I am Publius Licinius Crassus, Praefectus Alae in Syria.’
So this was Crassus’ son and the men he led were presumably some of the horsemen he had brought with him from Gaul. I too removed my helmet and handed it to Vagises, whose hand was resting on the pommel of his sword. I frowned at him to show my disapproval of his gesture and so he let his hands rest on the front of his saddle.
‘Greetings Publius Licinius Crassus,’ I replied, ‘I am pleased to meet you. You have the same title as another commander of horse named Mark Antony that I had the honour of meeting.’
‘He has returned to Italy, sir.’
That was something at least. I held out a hand towards Vagises.
‘This is Vagises, the commander of my horse archers.’
Publius stared at the white uniformed horsemen behind us.
‘They are a fine body of soldiers.’
‘We have a lot more of them in Parthia,’ said Vagises with barely concealed contempt.
‘Would you care to inspect my men, sir?’ Publius asked me.
I nodded and rode forward with him as trumpets sounded and his soldiers sat erect in their saddles. Each man was dressed in a red short-sleeved tunic, light brown breeches that ended just below the knees and open sandals on his feet. Mail shirt, sword, helmet and oval shield completed his appearance. I had to admit that they were a fine body of men.
Afterwards he rode beside me as a detachment of his men trotted ahead of us and the rest fell in behind my horse archers. Bayas and his men were unceremoniously relegated to the rear of the column. Publius was in a talkative mood and so we discussed his journey from Gaul, my encounter with Mark Antony and the recent civil war in Parthia.