Carrhae (The Parthian Chronicles)

by Peter Darman

  Vagises laughed and Spartacus behind us guffawed. Roscius instantly halted his horse and sat still. I looked at Vagises in bewilderment and then heard a scraping noise. And then the killing began. The scraping sound had been Roscius drawing his sword that he now raised in the air as he wheeled his horse around and screamed at his men to charge. Fortunately the animal reared up on its hind legs, giving me a chance to react as behind me the air was filled with screams and shouts.

  Instinctively I threw off my cloak and reached behind me to grab my bow in its case as I turned in the saddle to see my men being speared and killed by Roscius’ men. They thrust their spears into mail shirts, thighs and arms before my men had a chance to react and within no time the ground was littered with dead and dying horse archers. Vagises’ reflexes were quicker than mine and he had already nocked an arrow in his bowstring, which he released to send the missile into the back of a spearman who was thrusting his lance into the chest of a horse archer lying on the ground. The Syrian gave a yelp and then toppled from his saddle. Vagises shot another spearman, then another and another as he strung arrows in his bow and released them in a blur.

  I shot Roscius’ horse in the chest as it began its charge, causing it to collapse and spill its rider who sprawled on the ground. I heard a scream behind me and saw Scarab gallop past and then leap from his saddle to fall on top of Roscius. They tussled on the ground in a life-and-death struggle but I had no time to intercede as the Syrian horsemen, having butchered my men, were now regrouping to finish the only Parthians left alive – myself, Spartacus and Vagises. But they had grossly underestimated our skill with a bow and shooting from a stationary position we loosed arrow after arrow at the horsemen who were less then a hundred paces away.

  We each carried three full quivers and released arrows at a rate of seven missiles a minute. We killed the first group of riders – a dozen men – with ease and then shot at the group behind, our arrows piercing eyes and noses as we aimed at our opponents’ faces. A hundred of my men were dead but the number of enemy bodies lying beside them was rapidly increasing as I emptied my second quiver and plucked an arrow from my one remaining full one. Spartacus was shooting with deadly accuracy as he urged his horse forward to get closer to the enemy, who had decided that they had had enough and promptly turned tail and ran. They galloped back down the road in the direction of Antioch but he raised his bow and let loose a final arrow that hissed through the air and slammed into the back of the rearmost rider, who threw out his arms before falling to the ground.

  ‘Nice shot,’ I said to him.

  ‘Pacorus,’ I heard Vagises say behind me. I turned Remus around to see Marcus Roscius standing around fifty paces away holding a wounded Scarab as a shield in front of him. My squire was bleeding heavily from a wound to the belly and he also had a red stain on his mail shirt at his left shoulder where he had been stabbed by a blade, no doubt the bloodied spatha that Roscius was holding in his right hand. His own horse was lying a short distance away, groaning in pain form the arrow I had put into it, but there was another horse further away that was standing still observing our little scene. Roscius had seen it and was heading for it.

  I nocked an arrow in my bowstring and jumped down from the saddle and walked towards the Roman who was dragging the injured Scarab with him.

  ‘Let him go,’ I ordered, shortening the distance between Roscius and me.

  The Roman, his left forearm at Scarab’s neck, stopped and pulled my squire closer, only half his face showing behind him. The Nubian was wilting, his mail shirt now soaked in blood, his breathing very shallow.

  ‘Those riders will return with reinforcements, Parthian, and when they do you will join the rest of your men,’ he gloated.

  ‘Let him go,’ I said calmly, ‘and you will live.’

  He continued to inch towards the horse. ‘You are finished, Parthian, you and the rest of the horse thieves in your motley empire. Even as we speak the Armenians are marching on Hatra, the city of your birth, and will take it easily. You think you are so clever but you know nothing. We have friends in Hatra, members of your own people who have sword allegiance to Rome. You and Parthia are finished.’

  I raised my bow and pulled back the bowstring.

  ‘Slave,’ he sneered as the string slipped from my fingers.

  The arrow went into his right eye socket and the point exited the rear of his helmet. He stood, dead, the arrow sticking out of his eye and blood spurting onto Scarab’s face.

  ‘He’s dead Scarab,’ I said as I ran over to my squire.

  I kicked the body of Roscius away and grabbed Scarab whose knees buckled under him.

  ‘Get that horse!’ I shouted at Vagises as Spartacus slid his bow back into its case, vaulted from the saddle and ran over to me. I rested Scarab on the ground and supported his head with my hand.

  ‘Is he dead, majesty?’

  I smiled at him. ‘Yes. Do not talk. We will get you out of here.’

  Spartacus knelt beside Scarab and looked with alarm at his wounds as Vagises arrived with the spare horse.

  ‘Spartacus,’ he said, ‘get your bow.’

  He nodded back down the road and I turned to see a rider galloping towards us, a man dressed in a turban and black robes who was holding his arms aloft.

  ‘Do not shoot,’ he was shouting, ‘I am a friend.’

  Vagises raised his bow but I told him to lower it as the mystery rider slowed his horse and halted around twenty paces away.

  ‘State your business,’ Vagises ordered.

  Another two riders appeared, also dressed in black robes, and halted a hundred paces away. They appeared to be carrying no weapons.

  ‘My name is Andromachus,’ the first man said, ‘and I am the brother of Noora, Byrd’s wife.’

  Vagises looked at me and lowered his bow.

  ‘Byrd sent you?’ I asked.

  Andromachus shook his head. ‘No, lord. I have offices in Antioch and a network of informers. I heard a tale that your life was in danger and came as quickly as I could.’ He looked at the dozens of dead bodies on the ground. ‘You must come with me, quickly. The Romans will be sending out patrols to hunt for you when they learn of what has happened.’

  ‘We have done nothing wrong,’ insisted Vagises.

  Andromachus pointed at the corpse of Marcus Roscius. ‘Killing a legate is a grave offence in Roman eyes. You must all come with me!’

  His two companions were looking down the road towards Antioch, from where any patrols would come from, and so I told Spartacus to assist me in getting Scarab onto the back of the horse Vagises was holding. We used a rope to secure him in place and then I regained my saddle.

  ‘Follow me,’ said Andromachus.

  We doubled back down the road past wild-eyed and frightened travellers who huddled by their animals as we thundered by them. After a few hundred paces Andromachus led us into the trees and onto a track that rose up into the hills. We were heading south, climbing slowly as we threaded our way through walnut, myrtle, fig and mulberry trees. Andromachus led the way and his two companions brought up the rear as we moved at speed through the trees, Spartacus riding by the side of the wounded Scarab to ensure he did not topple from his saddle or was struck by a low branch.

  Andromachus called a halt after we had been in the trees for ten minutes or so and cocked his head to discern if we were being followed. His two companions also looked back and strained their ears but shook their heads and so we continued our journey. We rode beneath hanging rocks, across shallow streams of gushing waters and saw waterfalls foaming and roaring from the cliff face above. This was certainly a place of life and beauty though we had no time to enjoy the scenery as our horses traversed the dozens of fast-flowing rivulets that sprang from the rocks above.

  After a while we descended into an area of lush grooves of laurel, cypresses and bay trees and gently rippling streams, before coming unexpectedly upon a great walled villa among the trees. Andromachus led us to the entrance – two clo
sed wooden gates – in front of which stood a pair of black-robed guards armed with spears and swords. One of them banged on the gates and after a few seconds they opened to allow us to enter the villa. The main building in front of us consisted of two wings that were connected by a columned frontage accessed by stone steps.

  ‘This is your home?’ I said to Andromachus, marvelling at its size.

  ‘Do not be too surprised, lord,’ he said, sliding from his saddle. ‘Byrd and Noora choose to live in a tent; I do not.’

  I assisted Spartacus and Vagises in getting Scarab down from his saddle and then we carried him into the villa. The chief steward, an old man with black tattoos on his face, led us to a small sleeping room off the large central courtyard, where Scarab was laid on a bed. Two women wearing black headdresses began stripping him of his mail shirt and clothes so we left him in the care of the steward who Andromachus informed me had some knowledge of medicine. We retired to the large study that looked out onto the courtyard.

  I flopped down into a chair as Spartacus, his tunic smeared with Scarab’s blood, perched on a couch and Vagises did the same.

  ‘I hope your slaves are trustworthy,’ I said to Andromachus who had seated himself behind a large desk with intricately carved wooden legs.

  ‘They are not slaves they are Agraci,’ he replied, ‘and they are totally trustworthy. They will not betray your presence here.’

  ‘And where are we?’ asked Vagises as a woman served us cool fruit juice from a silver platter.

  ‘Six miles south of Antioch,’ said Andromachus. ‘This area is named Daphne and is home to the city’s wealthiest and most influential citizens. There are many villas here among the groves and fountains. The Greeks built a temple here dedicated to their gods Apollo and Diana and many believe that the waters have healing properties.’

  ‘Let us hope they help my squire,’ I said.

  Andromachus raised an eyebrow. ‘It is only a belief, lord.’

  ‘I have to get back to Dura,’ I said. ‘The Armenians are marching on Hatra.’

  ‘There will be Roman patrols out looking for you, lord,’ said Andromachus, ‘so your escape from Syria must be carefully planned. But in the interim I have the means by which you may get a message to your city.’

  Andromachus took me to the aviary that formed part of the villa’s outbuildings and which contained at least a score of pigeons. He told me that I could send a message to Byrd at Palmyra that could be couriered to Dura, which would be safer and faster than a rider on horseback running the gauntlet of Roman patrols.

  Our horses were quartered in the stables and Spartacus and Vagises were given rooms adjacent to where Scarab lay, though I was give a large bedroom away from theirs. Everything about the villa was large, from the shingle-covered roof to the library, dining room and Andromachus’ study. The sprawling building also contained storerooms, kitchen, servants’ quarters, cellar and a bathhouse. The exterior walls were covered with white plaster and the interior with colourful paintings depicting mythical creatures and floral scenes.

  After I had ensured that Remus was settled into his stall I sat down in my room and penned a note to Gallia on a small piece of papyrus:

  ‘The Romans have rejected peace. Armenians are marching south. Get the army to Hatra with all speed. I will join you there. Inform Orodes that Crassus will cross the Euphrates soon. He must rally all available forces at Hatra. Shamash protect you.

  Pacorus.’

  The message was tied to the leg of Andromachus’ swiftest pigeon and then the bird was sent on its way. He informed me that his pigeons made regular trips to and from Palmyra and was confident that Byrd would be reading the message well before nightfall. That provided some comfort but my spirits sank when the villa’s steward knocked on my door with news that Scarab’s condition was hopeless.

  ‘The wound is too severe and he has lost too much blood, majesty. There is nothing to be done.’

  I went at once to where Scarab lay on a bed surrounded by Vagises and Spartacus. His head was resting on a cushion and he smiled weakly at me when I entered the room. Vagises looked thoughtful – he had seen death too many times to let his emotions get the better of him – but Spartacus was distraught. From initially disliking the big Nubian Spartacus had grown to like his fellow squire and now he was angry that he was slipping away. I rested a hand on my nephew’s shoulder and then sat on the stool beside Scarab’s bed. His wound had been bandaged but blood was still seeping through the material. The room was so quiet that I could hear Scarab’s laboured breathing.

  ‘Is there anything I can do for you, Scarab?’ I asked softly.

  His eyes turned to me. ‘No, majesty, thank you.’

  He looked at Spartacus. ‘Farewell, my friend, I will speak with the great god Amun and ask that he grant you your wish to be with Rasha.’

  Spartacus smiled and nodded, desperately fighting back tears.

  He once again looked at me. ‘Thank you, majesty.’

  ‘For what?’

  He smiled weakly. ‘I have lived a life as a slave, a low-born no better than an animal, but because of you I die a free man.’

  ‘Not only that,’ I said, ‘but a friend and loyal soldier of Dura.’

  He looked at the ceiling and smiled one last time and then Scarab passed from this life and joined his ancestors in the afterlife. I closed his eyes and then stood and bowed my head as Spartacus angrily wiped away a solitary tear that ran down his cheek.

  We cremated Scarab that evening in the presence of Andromachus and all his workers and servants. I stood in silence watching the flames devour the Nubian’s cadaver and then heard Spartacus talking angrily with our host a few paces away. I walked over to them as my nephew began jabbing a finger in Andromachus’ face.

  ‘What is going on?’ I enquired.

  Spartacus, his face a mask of frustration, turned to me. ‘Scarab’s killer is but two miles away.’

  I looked at Andromachus. ‘The lad mistook my words. What I actually said was that the person who probably organised the attack on your men lives in a nearby villa.’

  ‘Who?’ I asked.

  ‘Queen Aruna,’ answered Andromachus, ‘the mother of Mithridates.’

  I clenched a fist. ‘Yes, I know who she is.’

  ‘All I said was that as she and that Roman legate were lovers, and I have heard that she is a mistress of intrigue, it seems highly unlikely that she knows nothing about the attack against you.’

  Before I could answer Spartacus stomped away towards the stables. Andromachus shrugged and Vagises rolled his eyes as I followed. The stables, lit by oil lamps dangling from the walls, smelt reassuringly of horses, wax and leather. I caught sight of Spartacus taking his saddle off a wall hook.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I asked him.

  ‘Going to avenge Scarab,’ he snarled.

  I laid a hand on his arm. ‘It is dark, you have no knowledge of this area and the queen’s villa will undoubtedly be heavily guarded.’

  ‘One of Andromachus’ men can guide me,’ he replied defiantly.

  ‘And what will you do if you manage to find your way there and get past the guards?’

  ‘Kill the bitch,’ he replied.

  ‘Well, she is a bitch and she does deserve to die, but not tonight and not by your hand. So put the saddle back on the wall and come back to the villa.’

  He stood, rock-like, before me.

  ‘That was an order,’ I told him, ‘not a request.’

  ‘She deserves to die.’

  ‘That is probably what she is saying right at this moment to whatever Roman officer she has decided will replace Marcus Roscius. My first duty is to get back to Parthia to meet the Armenian and Roman threat, or do you think that the life of one squire outweighs that of every citizen of the empire?’

  He appeared confused. ‘You will not seek to avenge Scarab’s death?’

  ‘Grow up, Spartacus. This is not some childhood game. We were lucky to escape with our lives toda
y and still have to get out of Syria alive. My first duty is to the empire. So put the saddle back on the wall and get some food and rest.’

  He slammed his saddle back on the peg and walked away without saying anything. I followed him as the embers of Scarab’s funeral pyre crackled in the warm night air.

  The next morning we gathered in Andromachus’ office once more to ascertain how we would escape Syria. Vagises suggested journeying south towards Emesa and then striking for Palmyra. I rejected the idea.

  ‘There is no point in going to Palmyra,’ I said, ‘because by the time we get there Dura’s army will hopefully be on its way to Hatra, which is where we must reach as quickly as possible. Therefore I need to get across the border at the same spot where we entered Syria.’

  ‘That will be heavily guarded, lord, I would advise against it,’ said Andromachus. ‘You will also have to be disguised.’

  Unfortunately we spent the rest of that day in enforced idleness while Andromachus sent his servants on a trawl of the area surrounding the villa to collect walnut husks. When they returned the husks were chopped into small pieces and tipped into a large metal cauldron containing water that was heated over a fire until it boiled. It was left to simmer for an hour. The resultant dark brown liquid was allowed to cool and then Andromachus asked me to bring Remus from the stables.

  I was confused. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because, lord, it is known throughout the world that King Pacorus of Dura rides a white horse, and even the most unintelligent Roman soldier will know to be on the lookout for anyone riding a white horse. Since we cannot hide your horse we must disguise him.’

  Remus stood mortified as his gleaming white coat was turned a dark brown by the dye.

  ‘Don’t forget the tail,’ Andromachus shouted at the two women who were applying the liquid.

  ‘Don’t worry, lord,’ he said to me, ‘it won’t harm him and will brush out.’

  ‘When?’ I asked.

  He rubbed his chin. ‘Not sure, but no longer than a month.’