by Peter Darman
‘Artavasdes is not his father,’ I said, ‘his brother was defeated and killed before the walls of Hatra and now High King Orodes campaigns in Armenian territory. Your ally has been emasculated, governor.’
Whether he had heard of the crushing Armenian defeat I did not know, but even if he had not and did not believe me he knew that his own army had been destroyed and also that Artavasdes was unable to offer him any immediate aid.
‘Your slave state has been crushed,’ gloated Gallia.
‘And now you seek to make me a slave, is that it?’ said Crassus with irritation. ‘Is that why you insist I stand on my feet while you all sit on horses?’
He was right: it was an insult for us to be in our saddles and speak down to him. He was, notwithstanding his defeat, still the governor of Syria.
‘Vagises,’ I said, ‘please let the governor sit on your horse.’
An unhappy Vagises slowly dismounted and then led his horse towards Crassus. His path was blocked by one of the governor’s subordinates, who pushed him aside roughly and tried to grab his horse’s reins. Vagises, his right hand tangled in the leather straps, pushed the man away with his other arm as his horse began to panic and back away. But the Roman, like the other officers, was still holding his sword and without thinking lunged forward and drove the blade through Vagises’ back. Or perhaps he was thinking and had had enough of being taunted by enemies on horseback, one of whom was a woman.
I cried out in anguish as blood came from Vagises’ mouth, he fell to his knees and then pitched forward to lie face-down on the ground. I heard a hiss by my right ear and saw Gallia’s arrow go through the bronze cuirass of Vagises’ killer and then saw Zenobia kill another Roman. Crassus turned-tail and began running back up the slope as Malik’s horse bolted forward and he sliced open a Roman helmet with his sword. Zenobia dropped another Roman with an arrow in his thigh, the man yelping in pain before he was silenced forever by Surena’s sword. Byrd’s horse reared up on its hind legs and threw him to the ground with a loud crack.
Zenobia put an arrow in another Roman as a second ran at me and tried to ram the point of his gladius under my cuirass and into my belly, but I drew my spatha and whipped it down hard onto his forearm, the blow shattering the bone and reducing the limb to a useless bloody pulp. He uttered a high-pitched scream and then rolled around on the ground in pain before Malik jumped down from his horse and silenced him. The last Roman officer was killed by Surena and Exathres, who manoeuvred their horses either side of him and then rained down blows on his head and shoulders, inflicting terrible wounds on his neck and face, notwithstanding that he was wearing a helmet. They laughed as they toyed with him, alternating sword blows to stab and slash him. His gladius was knocked from his hand when a downward strike by Exathres sliced open his knuckles, then Surena used all his strength to deliver a sideways sword strike against the side of the Roman’s helmet, which knocked him to the ground. Half unconscious, he tried to crawl away but Exathres jumped from his saddle, kicked the man hard in his side and then stamped on his back. The Roman made no movement as Exathres stood over him, grasped his sword with both hands and held the point against the rear of his neck, before thrusting the blade down.
I heard another twang and saw the figure of Crassus stagger a few feet as Gallia’s arrow hit him in the back. He had managed to run around a hundred paces before he was hit but he got no further. On the hillside above the Roman soldiers stood impassively in their ranks and made no attempt to save their general. How low their morale must have been.
‘Go, bring me the head and right hand.’
I turned to see Exathres regain his saddle and then gallop forward to where Crassus was crawling forward on the ground. Surena’s lieutenant jumped from his saddle, pulled out his dagger and slit Crassus’ throat, then proceeded to hack off his head with his sword, and all the while the legionaries above stood as witnesses to the violation of their commander’s body. I had no stomach for this. I turned and waved a group of Dura’s horse archers forward.
‘Retrieve the body of Lord Vagises,’ I ordered their commander.
I rode past a smirking Gallia. ‘Satisfied?’
‘Immeasurably,’ she purred.
Malik was helping Byrd back into his saddle. ‘Ankle broken,’ winced Byrd.
‘Get him back to camp,’ I instructed Malik. ‘Everyone, fall back,’ I ordered.
I left Surena and rode with the others back to our waiting soldiers and then withdrew through the ranks of the horse archers of Gordyene. I turned to see their king actually riding forward up the slope to be nearer the Romans but for what reason I knew not. I found out later when he and his horsemen returned to camp with two thousand Roman prisoners. Now we had around ten thousand captives to take back to Dura, from where they would be sent to Seleucia.
‘Orodes can deal with them,’ I said to Gallia as we stood watching flames consume the body of Vagises. ‘He can have the Roman eagles and all the other standards we have taken. I have fulfilled my duty and now I am going home.’
I felt her hand in mine. ‘We are going home.’
I glanced at Surena on the other side of me. ‘Was there any need for that?’
‘What, lord?’
‘Cutting off Crassus’ head,’ I answered.
‘I will send it to Orodes so he can show it to the Armenians. His right hand too.’
‘His hand?’
He smiled triumphantly. ‘I had his right hand cut off as well, the common punishment for thieves.’
The next day we began the march back to Dura. I sent couriers to Hatra with the news that Crassus was dead and his army defeated and that troops should be sent west to secure those towns in the west of the kingdom that I knew would now be abandoned by their Roman garrisons. Surena despatched Exathres north with a company of horsemen to take his grisly gifts to Orodes so I gave him a note for the high king informing him of our victory and hoping that he had met with similar success. Surena was eager for more battle and declared his intention of joining Orodes prior to returning to Gordyene. So I gave him all the captured eagles, except the one that never left the side of Spartacus, the booty from the Roman camp and all the enemy prisoners and bade him farewell at the Khabur River, before the King of Gordyene journeyed on east. We went south to join the Euphrates to follow the river back to Dura.
We retained one of the captured Roman wagons to transport Byrd back to the city as his leg wound was worse than we first thought and it was impossible for him to ride in the saddle. I continued to let Zenobia carry my banner now that Vagharsh was dead, which led to great excitement among the Amazons. Gallia was in high spirits at the prospect of seeing our daughters again. We rode along the northern bank of the Euphrates past well-tended fields, peaceful and prosperous villages before crossing over the stone bridge north of Dura.
Fishermen manoeuvred boats on the river and cast their nets in the water. Near the bank naked children splashed in its cool waters and waved to the cataphracts in their white tunics and floppy hats as they passed. War and death seemed a million miles away as the aroma of camels wafted into our nostrils when we rode by the park that accommodated the animals of the trade caravans. The road leading to the pontoon bridges over the Euphrates and west to Palmyra was filled with traffic as the commercial life of the city continued undimmed and untroubled by Romans or Armenians.
The imposing sight of Dura’s strong yellow walls and the squat edifice of the Citadel always filled me with reassurance and pride. My spirits began to rise as the cataphracts, their squires, Byrd’s scouts and the horse archers peeled away to pitch their tents in the legionary camp west of the Palmyrene Gate. I rode with Gallia, Spartacus still clutching his eagle, Byrd in the wagon, Malik and the Amazons through the city to the Citadel. I bowed my head to the stone griffin above the gates as a guard of honour from the replacement cohort hastily formed up by the gatehouse. Our progress from the Palmyrene Gate to the Citadel was slow as word spread that the king and queen had returned to the
city and the main street began to fill with cheering crowds. Spartacus held his eagle proudly aloft, the queen touched outstretched hands and young women begged Malik for kisses. And on a barren hillside north of Carrhae, crows picked at the headless body of Marcus Licinius Crassus.
Chapter 19
In the days following our arrival back at Dura couriers brought happy news from Orodes. His march north had turned into a victory procession as the Armenians abandoned Nisibus and Gafarn took possession of the city and all the surrounding villages that had been previously under enemy occupation. Then Orodes had crossed the border into Armenia and advanced to the gates of the Armenian capital, Armavir, deploying his army around the walls and showing Marcus’ great siege engines to the garrison. Rather than seeing his city reduced to rubble and the population butchered, and more importantly to save his own skin, Artavasdes sent a delegation to Orodes offering a peace treaty. The high king agreed, though the conditions to guarantee Parthian friendship were harsh and Armenia became a client state of the empire and was forced to pay huge reparations to Hatra for the previous occupation of its territory.
‘So Armenia becomes the slave of Parthia rather than Rome,’ observed Gallia as she read Orodes’ voluminous correspondence on the palace terrace.
I had little sympathy for the Armenians. ‘I have no pity for Artavasdes. He is lucky to escape with his head. If I had been before the walls of Armavir he would not have been so lucky.’
She gave me back the letter. ‘So the legions suffered no further casualties?’
I looked at the empty chair of Dobbai near the balustrade. ‘It would appear so, though the casualties of this campaign have been grievous indeed. I wonder when my turn will come?’
Gallia looked at me and then at the chair. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I am the last survivor of those who took part in Dobbai’s ritual. She, along with Domitus, Kronos, Vagises, Thumelicus, Vagharsh and Drenis, are all dead. I alone live. For the moment.’
‘Perhaps the gods have spared you,’ she said, more in hope than certainty.
I smiled faintly. ‘Perhaps.’
‘Did you notice in Orodes’ letter that Gafarn had agreed to his youngest son marrying the daughter of Artavasdes?’ she said, changing the subject.
‘Yes. Young Pacorus is to be a future ruler of Armenia, it would seem.’
She screwed up her face. ‘I do not approve of such things and am surprised that Gafarn would be a willing accomplice to condemning his son so.’
I laughed. ‘Condemning? If you mean he has condemned Pacorus to a life of privilege, of being fed on the finest foods and sleeping in silk sheets and being waited on hand and foot by an army of courtiers, slaves and having a whole kingdom fawn at his feet, then I suppose you are right.’
‘Don’t be clever, it does not suit you.’
I saw Claudia come from the palace onto the terrace. ‘Talking of which, we should start thinking of a husband for our eldest daughter.’
Claudia heard my remark. ‘I will not be marrying anyone, father. It is not my destiny.’
‘I will decide your destiny,’ I teased her.
Her brown eyes flashed annoyance. ‘Is that what you really believe?’
She had inherited her mother’s cheekbones and shapely figure and was turning into a great beauty, but her custom of wearing black robes and maintaining an aloof air made her severe and unapproachable. Too many years spent in the company of Dobbai had robbed her of her childhood and now the old woman’s influence was threatening to deprive her of her womanhood.
‘How is Byrd?’ asked Gallia.
He had been placed in one of the palace’s bedrooms so his broken leg could be attended to, which Claudia informed me would not heal properly.
‘I have placed adder’s tongue wrapped in cloth on the area of the break but the bone is too baldy shattered to heal properly.’
‘You put a snake’s tongue on Byrd’s leg?’ I said with disgust, ‘no wonder it will not heal.’
She may have just turned thirteen years of age but Claudia was wise beyond her years. ‘Adder’s tongue is a healing herb, father, as most people know.’
‘I have also placed a charm in his room to ward off evil and have asked for the assistance of Gula, goddess of healing, to look favourably on him,’ she continued.
‘What charm?’ I asked.
She walked over to Dobbai’s chair and sat in it. ‘Elderberries, rosemary and tarragon all mixed together and wrapped in a white cloth tied together with red twine. Tarragon is a favourite herb of the goddess and will prevent the leg becoming rotten.’
‘So it will heal?’ I said.
She looked at me and sighed. ‘The leg has been saved and Byrd will be able to walk on it after a fashion, but it will be painful for him to do so. He will probably need a crutch.’
‘For how long?’ I asked with alarm.
‘For the rest of his life, father.’
The pall of gloom that had hung over me after the Battle of Carrhae suddenly returned as I realised that if my daughter’s words were true then I had lost my chief scout. Gallia saw my head sink.
‘Perhaps his leg will heal properly.’
‘No, mother, it will not.’
The appearance of Spandarat lightened the mood somewhat. He had finished making his final rounds in his capacity of military governor of the city and now pulled up a chair, leaned back in it and belched, much to the consternation of Claudia.
‘So, I suppose you want your city back?’ he said to me.
‘I would be most grateful.’
His eyes sparkled mischievously. ‘Now that you have beaten the Romans you will be leading an expedition into Syria, no doubt.’
I shook my head at him. ‘Not this year, Spandarat, but I promise that if there is an attack against Syria you and the other lords will be accompanying me.’
He rubbed his hands with glee. ‘I have heard that Syria is dripping with riches.’
Claudia rolled her eyes and Gallia smiled. He may have been the foremost lord of the Kingdom of Dura but he was just an old horse thief at heart.
‘Syria also has cities with high walls,’ I said.
He winked at Gallia. ‘But no garrisons now you have killed them all. I heard you killed Crassus and chopped off his head.’
‘I neither killed him nor severed his head,’ I answered.
‘Surena killed him after I had shot him,’ said Gallia coldly.
Spandarat nodded approvingly. ‘He had it coming. I just wish I had been there to see it. There’s no one left to fight now the Armenians and Romans have been defeated.’
‘There is always someone left to fight, Spandarat,’ I said.
But it appeared that my roguish lord was correct in his assessment, at least initially. With an oppressive peace forced upon the Armenians and Crassus dead and his army destroyed it seemed that all Syria lay at Parthia’s mercy. But for one young man such matters paled into significance before the prospect of seeing his beloved again.
Spartacus had wanted to ride straight to Palmyra the day after he had taken his eagle but I reminded him that he was a soldier in Hatra’s army seconded to Dura and was therefore obliged to obey my commands. So he had ridden back to my city and in the days following had continually pestered me regarding when he would be allowed to go to Palmyra. So irksome did his tormenting become that I threatened to have the eagle melted down before his eyes unless he silenced his tongue. So he paced the palace muttering to himself until, a week after we had arrived back at the city, in which time Byrd’s leg had healed sufficiently to allow him to ride in a wagon back to his wife, we set off for Palmyra.
Initially our column was small – the Amazons, Malik, Byrd sitting on a wagon, Spartacus, Gallia and myself – but the day after we had left Dura we were joined by Spandarat and half a dozen other lords, who wanted to see Haytham hand over his daughter to this upstart prince who had made good his vow. Spartacus himself rode at the tip of the column holding the eagle in his
right hand, the sun glinting off its silver wings. He was so happy that he could have left his horse at Dura and ran the route to Palmyra.
As we neared Haytham’s capital more and more of the curious, the religious and those who wanted to see a piece of history attached themselves to our column that now trailed behind us for several miles. On the third day a hundred Agraci warriors met us on the road to ensure that Spartacus did indeed have an eagle, otherwise their commander was under orders to kill him on the spot – Haytham never forgot his threats. Malik smiled as the commander of the Agraci force insisted on touching the eagle to ensure it was really silver and not a piece of painted wood!
Malik slapped my nephew on the back and then left us to ride on with the warriors so he could be at the side of his father when the king honoured his promise. On the last night of our journey before we reached Palmyra there must have been over a thousand hangers-on attached to our party. Their commotion filled the night air as we sat on stools round a fire and Spartacus cradled the eagle in his arms.
‘Where will you live?’ asked Byrd, his splinted legged stretched out in front of him.
‘I have given no thought to that,’ answered my nephew. ‘Hatra I suppose.’
I thought of Gafarn’s hostility to the notion of his marriage and raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
‘You will live in the palace at Dura, of course,’ insisted Gallia. ‘Rasha should spend the first months of her new life in familiar surroundings before you take her away from her people.’
Spartacus beamed with delight. ‘Thank you, aunt, that would be most agreeable.’
Indeed it would, for he found the relaxed atmosphere at Dura far more convivial than the strict social mores that existed at Hatra.
‘Nevertheless,’ I added, ‘as the heir to Hatra’s throne you will be expected to make your home in the city, notwithstanding that by marrying Rasha you will relinquish its throne.’
‘Parthians no like Agraci,’ said Byrd, ‘you will not find peace at Hatra. Will have to find your own kingdom.’