by Peter Darman
‘I remember seeing you when I was a boy, sir,’ he said.
I was most surprised. ‘Really?’
‘Yes, when you visited my father’s house in Rome during the slave revolt. A man from the east riding a white horse.’
He looked at Remus.
‘Is he the same horse, sir?’
I patted Remus on the neck. ‘Yes. Remus and I are old friends.’
‘It is most strange that a Parthian should ride a horse named after one of the founders of Rome.’
‘That was his name when I found him,’ I replied, ‘and it would have been unfair to give him another one.’
He looked sheepishly at me. ‘In Rome parents invoke your name to put fear into their children when they misbehave. They say that the Parthian on his white horse will come and kidnap them if they are not virtuous.’
I laughed. ‘I did not realise I had made such an impression.’
‘The slave revolt made a lasting impression on all Italy, sir. I have heard rumours that Spartacus escaped with you and now lives in Parthia.’
‘Spartacus died in the Silarus Valley,’ I told him. ‘I watched his body being cremated the day after the battle.’
I did not say that Spartacus’ son was riding a few paces behind us out of earshot and diplomatically avoided bringing up the subject of his father having crucified six thousand slaves along the Appian Way.
I rode beside Publius on the verge while my men trotted over the road’s stone slabs. There was no other traffic on the road, which led me to believe that it had been cleared for our benefit, an opinion that was confirmed when we rounded a bend and the city of Antioch came into view. And in front of it, arranged each side of the road for a distance of at least a half a mile from the walls, were Roman legionaries standing to attention. It was an impressive display of military might. Each man was attired in bronze helmet, mail shirt, red tunic and sandals and armed with a pilum, gladius, dagger and scutum.
Behind the Roman soldiers were the green slopes of Mount Silpius on our left and Mount Staurin on our right that both rose up to an impressive height to dwarf us. We carried on towards the eastern entrance to Antioch, which Publius informed me was called the Iron Gate. As we got nearer I saw the walls either side of the gates were also lined with soldiers, the sun glinting off the whetted points of their javelins. A few minutes later, escorted by the son of Crassus and surrounded by hundreds of Roman soldiers, I rode into the city of Antioch.
I had heard that Antioch was called the Athens of the East and whereas I had never been to Athens and therefore could not comment on the claim, I had been to Rome and seen its size and wealth and although Antioch could not compare with it in terms of size it was certainly a place of great opulence. The gatehouse we passed through was large and impressive, holding two sets of massive twin gates strengthened by iron strips on both sides. The city had been founded two hundred and fifty years ago by one of Alexander of Macedon’s generals named Antigonus Monophthalmus but had been captured by his rival, Seleucis I Nicator, who had gone on to found the Seleucid Empire. And the heart of that empire was the so-called Tetrapolis – ‘land of four cities’ – the ports of Seleucia and Apamea, like Antioch situated on the banks of the River Orontes, and the port of Laodicea.
As I exited the Iron Gate I glanced back at the slopes of Mount Silpius where many houses had been built to accommodate the city’s eastern sprawl and where the walls snaked across the craggy slope higher up. Those walls had been designed by an architect named Xenaeus and were both high and thick and on the eastern side virtually impregnable. I should have asked Surena to accompany me on this journey so he could see for himself the strength of the Syrian cities he wanted to plunder.
As a major trading centre at the western end of the Silk Road Antioch received an unending supply of silk, furs, porcelain, spices and gems from China for shipment across the Mediterranean to Rome, and from the west came cargoes of gold, silver, ivory, carpets, perfumes and cosmetics to be sold in China. It was rumoured that Antioch was so wealthy that every house had its own fountain and though I could not verify this I did see magnificent two-storey buildings fronted by marble columns and public baths. We rode along a wide street that ran from the Iron Gate west bordered by marble colonnades. Other, lesser streets crossed it at right angles. Legionaries stood guard along this route as behind them a sea of curious faces gazed at me. They did not cheer or jeer but watched in silence as I rode with the son of Crassus to meet his father. Like all cities Antioch stank of human sweat and filth and animal dung mixed with exotic spices, but at least the temperature was bearable with a pleasant northerly breeze blowing.
Eventually we reached Antioch’s royal palace located in the northwest of the city on an island in the middle of the Orontes and connected to the metropolis by five stone bridges. Surrounded by a high stonewall, it had a large portico entrance of marble columns topped by huge wooden beams that supported a roof of thick marble tiles.
We rode through the entrance, into the spacious courtyard and towards the palace steps opposite. In front of these was a large crowd of Roman officers, local priests and senators. A senate composed of wealthy property owners administered every Syrian town and city; in Antioch they numbered two hundred balding, middle-aged men. A slave walked forward, bowed at me and held Remus’ reins as I halted in front of the assembled dignitaries and slid from the saddle. Trumpets blasted and a guard of honour at the top of the steps stood rigidly to attention. Remus, alarmed by the sudden, loud noise, shifted nervously so I stroked his neck to calm him.
‘Greetings, King Pacorus, welcome to Antioch.’
I turned and saw a face I thought I would never see again in this lifetime. Now around sixty, the last time I had clapped eyes on him he had a full head of neatly cut brown hair, but now Marcus Licinius Crassus was balding which made his large ears look even bigger. That said he looked remarkably good for his age and his broad forehead was largely free of worry lines. He still had a rather serious face with thin lips but now they parted in a smile as he walked forward and raised his right hand in salute.
Like most Romans Crassus was shorter than me and had a slighter frame but his appearance projected wealth and prestige. He wore a pristine white tunic that had broad purple stripes and had a purple cloak draped over his left shoulder that was fixed in place by a large gold brooch. Mt eyes were also drawn to his rich blue boots.
I reciprocated his salute. ‘Greetings Marcus Licinius Crassus, Governor of Syria. It has been a long time.’
He walked forward and took my elbow as the slave led Remus away to the stables. Crassus nodded to one of his officers. He walked over to Vagises who had also dismounted.
‘Your men will be shown to their quarters,’ said Crassus. ‘You must be tired after your journey.’
Spartacus and Scarab had handed their horses to slaves and strode over to follow me up the steps as Vagises oversaw the movement of his men and their animals to the barracks that had been allocated them.
Two Roman centurions, angry red crests atop their helmets, went to intercept them and stop them entering the palace.
‘They are with me,’ I snapped as Spartacus’ hand went to the hilt of his sword.
Crassus stopped and waved the centurions back and then gestured to my two young companions to follow us. I saw my nephew’s hand on his sword.
‘Behave yourself, Spartacus,’ I ordered.
Crassus heard the name and raised an eyebrow but said nothing as we passed the priests, sweating senators and Roman officers to enter the palace, but he must have known that it could not have been a coincidence that the strapping young man behind him with long black hair had the same name as the man he had defeated in Italy twenty years ago. Did he know that the son of the slave leader was walking behind him or did he think that perhaps one of my followers had named him thus?
Publius walked beside Spartacus and engaged him in polite conversation as his father escorted us into the palace, a large, sprawling structure contai
ning many halls and rooms. If it was not as grand and expansive as Axsen’s royal palace at Babylon then it came a close second. Its long and richly decorated corridors led to private apartments, reception rooms, dining halls, offices and temples, and it seemed an age before Crassus stopped and nodded to a slave standing at the entrance to yet another corridor who stepped forward and bowed his head to me.
‘King Pacorus, if you would please follow me I will show you to your quarters.’
I recognised him. ‘Ajax! It is good to see you.’
He looked older and perhaps a little thinner but like his master was remarkably well preserved. I was taken back twenty years to Spartacus’ tent in Italy where he had been escorted in by a guard with an invitation for me from Crassus to visit his house in Rome.
‘It has been a long time, majesty. Time has been a good friend to you, I think.’
I smiled at him. ‘You are still the accomplished diplomat, Ajax.’ He must have seen the scar on my cheek and the weariness in my eyes and to him I probably looked ten years older than I was but I was grateful for his compliment. I turned to Scarab.
‘This is Scarab, my squire, who will require a room,’ Ajax smiled at the Nubian.
‘And this,’ I continued, looking at Spartacus, ‘is my nephew, Prince Spartacus of Hatra, who will likewise require accommodation.’
Ajax’s eyes widened slightly at the mention of the name of the man who had terrorised Italy but he instantly regained his composure and smiled at them both.
‘There are rooms for all, majesty.’
Publius had allowed his mouth to open in surprise and was staring at my nephew while his father maintained his expression of civility. The silence, though, was deafening. It was Publius who spoke first, smiling at my nephew.
‘Your name is not a Parthian one, prince.’
Spartacus knew the history of his father and his revolt against Rome. He flashed a smile at Publius. ‘It is Thracian because my father was a Thracian and was known to your father, I think.’
The cobra was out of the sack as Ajax shifted uncomfortably on his feet but Crassus was too skilled in politics to allow the unexpected to disconcert him. He looked thoughtfully at Spartacus.
‘You must have travelled back to Parthia with King Pacorus all those years ago. And now you are a prince in that land. My congratulations.’
‘Well,’ I said. ‘It has been a long day and I for one would welcome a bath and a change of clothes.’
Crassus smiled at me and nodded to Ajax who bid us follow him down the corridor to our accommodation as the governor of Syria and his son took their leave of us.
My room was spacious and airy and led to a balcony that gave an excellent view of the River Orontes below. Its twin doors were made from Syrian cedar with handles of red copper. Like the corridor outside the walls were painted with mythical scenes of hunting and war with a ceiling of cypress wood. The bedroom floor was white marble and in addition to the large bed my quarters contained a writing desk, four plush couches and three chairs with wooden arms and backs inlaid with ivory. The rooms of Scarab and Spartacus either side of mine were similarly well appointed.
Ajax knocked at my door a few minutes after showing me to my room and offered to show us to the bathhouse, a great structure in the northwest corner of the palace complex that was a marvel of engineering. With Scarab and Spartacus we left our clothes at its reception and walked into the warm room, the tepidarium, and then into the hot room, the caldarium. These rooms were heated by means of a system called a hypocaust where the floor was raised off the ground by pillars and spaces were left inside the walls so that hot air from a furnace could circulate beneath our feet and in the wall cavities.
I sat on a bench and sweated and watched my two young companions immerse themselves in the warm water. I had to admit that the Romans were great builders but nevertheless had to remind myself that they were also great destroyers and that their empire was built on the misery of subjugated peoples. And even in this place of calm and relaxation I was reminded of this when our bodies, after we had sweated in steam rooms, were scraped clean by slaves holding a curved metal tool called a strigil that removed oil, sweat and dirt from the skin. It was most relaxing though I noticed that Scarab, being a former slave, was slightly uncomfortable and took every opportunity to thank the man scraping his body. For his part Spartacus, having never felt the lash on his back or known what it is like to be treated like an animal, basked in the attention he was receiving.
Vagises came to the baths to report that his men had settled into their barracks and the horses were receiving excellent attention in the stables. He also took the opportunity to wash the journey from his body and although he too had the dirt scraped from his flesh, he demurred when it came to being massaged with oils.
‘Our hosts are bending over backwards to make us feel welcome,’ I said.
‘That is what bothers me,’ he replied. ‘I feel as though we are being fattened up for a feast. Make sure you keep your bedroom door bolted tonight.’
‘We are perfectly safe.’ I told him. ‘The Romans frown upon murdering their enemies in the dark; they prefer to slaughter them in the open, on the battlefield, where the whole world can bear witness to their victory.’
‘We are wasting our time here,’ he said. ‘I have known the Romans too long not to know that they will interpret Orodes’ offer as a sign of weakness.’
‘I know,’ I agreed.
He looked at me with surprise. ‘If you knew why did you not persuade him to abandon the plan?’
‘Because he is high king and it would have been unseemly for his lord high general to disregard his orders. Besides, I have to confess that I wanted to see Crassus again, to see if he had changed or mellowed.’
‘And has he?’
‘No.’
But that night it was Crassus the impeccable host who was on display as he feasted my men in the palace’s large banqueting hall. The Romans normally liked to recline on couches during their banquets but on this occasion long tables had been arranged at right angles to the top table where I sat between Crassus and his son. Vagises sat on the other side of Publius and my nephew and Scarab sat opposite each other at the end of one of the tables directly in front of me. All the city senators were present, along with Crassus’ senior officers and a collection of differently dressed priests from the many temples in the city. I knew that the temples dedicated to the Greek gods Athena and Ares were over two hundred years old but also that the Romans had brought their own religion and had shrines in the city dedicated to Mars, Apollo and Jupiter. I scoured the faces of the Roman officers dressed in their rich tunics but could not see Marcus Roscius.
‘Tell me, governor,’ I said to Crassus, ‘is Tribune Marcus Roscius still in Syria?’
He seemed rather surprised that I knew that name. ‘He is a legate now and commands his own legion. He is unwell and could not attend the feast. You know him?’
I feigned disinterest. ‘He came to my city one time concerning a legal matter, that is all.’
He must have known that Queen Aruna was resident in Antioch and that Roscius was her lover but he kept his council and said no more about his legate. Perhaps he truly was ill but I doubted it; more likely he was ordered to stay away by his viper of a mistress. Instead he introduced me to a pale, thin man dressed in a purple-bordered tunic who sat next to him named Gaius Cassius Longinus. About thirty years of age, he had a square face, thick curly hair and large brown eyes. He seemed affable enough and was obviously one of Crassus’ senior officers according to where he was seated. I was surprised to learn that he was actually a quaestor, a sort of glorified treasurer, though bearing in mind Crassus’ obsession with money I suppose his elevation had a certain logic to it.
Crassus may not have been interested in discussing his absent officer but he was most eager to find out more about my nephew. As a slave filled his silver cup adorned with images of Dionysus, the Greek god of wine, he pointed at Spartacus.
/> ‘He is the son of the leader of the slave rebellion?’
‘He is,’ I answered.
‘He must have been an infant when he, and you, escaped from Italy in the aftermath of my victory,’ he said. ‘His mother resides in Parthia?’
The first course of our meal had comprised bread rolls sprinkled with poppy seeds and honey, delicious spiced sausages, lettuce and olives. But now the slaves were carrying sliver trays heaped with the second course, which included roasted livers of capon steeped in milk and dressed in pepper, roasted peacock, eels, prawns, pork, boar, mushrooms and truffles.
‘His mother died giving birth to him, the night before we gave battle in the Silarus Valley,’ I replied.
‘He knows of his father, that he was a slave and a renegade?’ probed Crassus.
‘Of course, he knows that his father was a great commander who at one time had the whole of Italy at his mercy.’
Crassus stiffened but then drained his cup and held it out to be refilled. ‘History is interpretation, King Pacorus, and is being constantly rewritten to reflect the opinion of the victor. And in the end that is all that matters: who is the victor.
‘I trust your wife, Queen Gallia, is well.’
I nodded. ‘She is, thank you.’
He again looked at my nephew. ‘And he is the heir to the throne of Hatra?’
‘He is, though I hope that he does not accede to it for many years.’
Crassus put down his cup and leaned back in his chair. Around us the hall was filled with the noise of men becoming louder as the consumption of wine increased.
‘How would the people of the Kingdom of Hatra feel about a slave becoming their king?’
‘He is not a slave,’ I corrected him. ‘And their feelings are irrelevant. They are subjects and they obey their rulers.’
‘I see your time with Spartacus in Italy did not blind you to the realities of life. Let me ask you another question: what would be the opinion of Hatra’s lords to the son of a slave being their king?’