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by Peter Darman

  He snapped to attention and bowed his head. ‘Greetings, King Pacorus and Queen Gallia. My lord King of Kings Tiridates, beloved of Erra and the seven sons of Anu, requests you meet with him at a time and place of your convenience.’

  ‘Your king is close?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, majesty,’ beamed the handsome officer, ‘his camp is but an hour’s ride from Dura. Very close.’

  ‘Is Tiridates King of Hatra?’ I asked.

  The officer shifted uncomfortably on his feet.

  ‘Majesty?’

  ‘I wonder why a king would invade another king’s realm with his army if not determined to wage war. And now that same king expects me to venture into his camp? I think not. Tiridates will meet me at a place halfway between his camp and this city.’

  ‘King of Kings Tiridates would never…’ began the officer.

  ‘Would never what?’ snapped Gallia. ‘Harm a king? He has already killed one, and his queen. We do not trust him.’

  ‘Go back to your king and inform him of my terms,’ I said.

  He bowed, about-faced and marched briskly from the throne room, an escort flanking him. Poor wretch. I always sympathised with couriers as they invariably bore the brunt of the recipient’s ire, even though they had nothing to do with the messages they carried. It was a custom in some kingdoms, though not in Dura, to execute a courier who brought bad news, the theory being the gods would be appeased if a life was sacrificed and therefore lessen the effects of ill tidings. It was all nonsense, of course, for as Dobbai told me a long time ago, the gods cared little for the welfare of mortal men.

  The officer returned to Tiridates, arrangements were made to meet five miles south of Dura at a spot across the river but adjacent to it, near a small, insignificant fishing hamlet. Each party would bring a score of horsemen but Gallia declined to meet Tiridates, telling me her rage against him would probably result in bloodshed. So I went alone, though Sporaces insisted on being part of my escort.

  I rode Horns to the meeting, the young stallion having proved himself a worthy successor to the late, greatly lamented Tegha. Whereas the latter had a laid-back gait, Horns was still straining at the leash to break into a canter.

  ‘He is eager to see Tiridates, majesty,’ smiled Sporaces.

  ‘The only one who is,’ I replied.

  I wore my black Roman leather cuirass and helmet with white goose feathers in the crest. Behind me Zenobia carried my griffin banner and behind her trotted the score of horse archers. The hamlet was deserted. As a consequence of the approach of Tiridates’ army, its inhabitants fled in their boats across the river along with their livestock. They carried on eking out a living in full view of the invaders but out of harm’s way. I had sent a letter to Gafarn alerting him to the invasion of his kingdom and informing him I was meeting with Tiridates, the outcome of which he would be made aware of in due course.

  To my surprise the tent erected for the meeting was not a grand affair and was a long way from the opulence of Phraates’ pavilion. It was a simple square structure with the flaps on opposite sides tied open. The officer who had brought Tiridates’ invitation to Dura stepped from the tent to welcome me, all bows and smiles as he instructed slaves to take our horses to the canvas and wood stabling area erected in the shade of a nearby date palm grove. The horses of the Arian soldiers were already quartered there, flicking tails to swat away flies. Two guards stood sentry at the entrance to the tent and others circled it but the atmosphere was far from hostile, the most activity coming from sweating slaves rushing to and fro between the tent and supply wagons.

  After I had been relieved of my sword, Sporaces insisting he hold it as he waited outside the tent, the Arian officer showed me into the tent where a man was reclining on a couch. It took a few seconds for my eyes to get accustomed to the shade and when they had the figure had risen to stand before me. The officer then spoke.

  ‘You stand before King of Kings Tiridates, ruler of the Parthian Empire and lord of all the lands to the Indus in the east, north to the Caspian Sea, west to the Euphrates and south to the Persian Gulf.’

  I did not move a muscle as I examined the man who claimed to rule all Parthia, much to the consternation of his officer. Taller than me by perhaps four inches, my eyes were drawn to his hair that had a colour between red and brown. He wore a simple white tunic, leather belt and baggy light brown leggings. I guessed him to be in his mid-thirties, perhaps younger, but certainly in his prime, his limbs strong and straight, his eyes alert and his beard tidy. He suddenly laughed.

  ‘What are titles but words to fill books that nobody reads? Please, King Pacorus, be seated. It is a very hot day.’

  Opposite his couch was another that I sat on to be served with tepid wine poured into a gold rhyton. Tiridates raised his own drinking vessel.

  ‘To fate and good fortune. It is an honour to meet you at last, King Pacorus, you who are a legend throughout all Parthia.’

  I sipped at the wine. ‘You remind me of my age, King Tiridates, which I had hoped to enjoy in peace.’

  ‘We all hope for peace, King Pacorus, though few men enjoy lives free from conflict. That is especially true of those unfortunate enough to live adjacent to Kushan lands. We have been fighting for our lives while Phraates lived an indolent lifestyle at Ctesiphon.’

  ‘And that is why you deposed him, because you objected to his lifestyle?’

  ‘He was deposed because he treated the kingdoms of the eastern half of the empire with the utmost disdain. We implored him on numerous occasions to lead an army east to join with our own forces to invade the Kushan Empire to put an end once and for all Kujula’s incursions.’

  He threw up his hands. ‘The only reply forthcoming was from Chief of Court Ashleen saying that Phraates was far too busy to deal with minor issues.’

  ‘Phraates sent you Kewab, who has reportedly killed Kujula,’ I said. ‘It would appear the Kushan threat has greatly diminished, if not vanished altogether.’

  ‘Allow me to bring you up to date, King Pacorus. Kujula was wounded but is not dead, though by all accounts he will not be taking the field for some time. As for Phraates sending us Satrap Kewab, you are being too modest. Kewab himself told me it was your idea to send him to the east, for which we are most grateful.’

  He was playing a familiar role, that of the victim who had no other choice but to act in the face of indifference and abandonment from Phraates. But this was the same man who had tried to take advantage of Sakastan’s weakness in the aftermath of the murder of Peroz and Roxanne. He had been thwarted then with the help, ironically, of Kujula.

  ‘What you have done is wrong morally, legally and politically,’ I said forcefully.

  He sipped at his wine. ‘Let us see. You speak of morals but where were your morals when you killed Chosroes, Porus, Narses and Mithridates, Kingaleyar?’

  The latter word meant ‘King Slayer’ and was my nickname among the peoples of the east.

  ‘Those kings were rebels and died during open rebellion against the grandfather of the present high king. I have no regrets over what I did.’

  He smiled. ‘I can see that. Let us turn to legality, then. Phraates was proclaimed king of kings by a majority of the kings of the empire following Orodes’ death.’

  I nodded.

  ‘By implication, therefore, you must agree that if the overwhelming majority of the kings of the empire proclaim me king of kings, then de facto I am high king.’

  ‘Who has pledged their allegiance?’ I demanded.

  ‘Enough,’ he said evasively.

  ‘Dura will never pledge its allegiance,’ I stated.

  He pursed his lips. ‘That is unfortunate for Dura. The war is over. I have Ctesiphon, Babylon, Persis and Susiana.’

  He saw the surprise in my eyes. ‘The satrap of the latter kingdom surrendered when he was informed that Phraates had fled Ctesiphon. The appearance of fifty thousand soldiers before Susa convinced him to surrender to my mercy. So you see, I have the emp
ire behind me.’

  He had not mentioned Margiana, Hyrcania or Atropaiene and I estimated they would remain uncommitted until Tiridates had cemented his hold on the high throne, either that or sent packing back to the east. Still, with his own and the other three eastern kings who had joined him, to say nothing of Media and the three kingdoms previously ruled over by Phraates, he had command of a powerful bloc.

  ‘Half the empire,’ I corrected him.

  ‘Where is Phraates?’ he said, changing the subject. ‘I know he left Seleucia in the company of your daughter and a band of lepers. An amusing ruse, I have to say, knowing no one would look too closely at a group of travelling lepers. But he must die, both to remove any chance of him mounting a challenge to me and also to end his line. So I ask you, King Pacorus, where is Phraates?’

  ‘I do not know,’ I answered truthfully.

  His eyes narrowed and I detected a change in his demeanour.

  ‘I invited you here out of respect for your services to the empire and because I wish to avoid further bloodshed. But I have to tell you that if you persist in challenging my authority, I will have no alternative but to wage war against Dura.’

  ‘The reasoning of all tyrants,’ I said. ‘You are no different from Mithridates and Narses, or Porus and Chosroes for that matter. Small men with small minds who have an over-inflated view of their own talents and importance.’

  I rose from the couch. ‘We are done here.’

  ‘Then it is to be war between us?’

  ‘Do what you will,’ I said, turning and walking from the tent. He did the same, exiting from the other side and shouting at the slaves to dismantle the camp.

  That was the first and last time I conversed with Tiridates.

  I lay on my back sweating and panting, my energy drained and my body feeling like a dead weight as I tried to recover my senses. My ‘reward’ for refusing to swear an oath of allegiance to Tiridates was sexual athletics with an admiring and pliant Gallia when I returned to Dura. My lust for her had never diminished over the years but sadly, my body and its reserves of stamina were like a garrison depleted of soldiers and supplies – soon used up when placed under a close siege.

  ‘Another bout of that and you will have done Tiridates’ work for him,’ I panted.

  She grinned and threw me a towel.

  ‘So, what now?’

  I wiped my sweat-beaded brow and raised myself up to sit on the side of the bed, filling a cup with water from a jug and drinking greedily.

  ‘Tiridates is only five miles away, albeit with a tiny force. My guess is he will summon his army from Ctesiphon and march on Dura.’

  Gallia stood and put on a robe to cover her nakedness.

  ‘We will be ready.’

  I ordered the city and kingdom to be placed on a war footing. Scorpion bolt throwers were placed on all the towers along Dura’s walls. Warehouses were filled with food and fodder, Talib and his men were deployed far and wide to warn of the approach of any enemy, and I alerted Kalet and the other lords to prepare for an attack. I gave orders for pitch to be stored neared the pontoon bridges so they could be fired in the event of an enemy army approaching from across the Euphrates. There was a stone bridge across the river further north, which Tiridates would undoubtedly use to gain access to the western riverbank. But I left it open to entice the enemy to cross, after which he could be engaged on ground of my choosing.

  At a council of war Chrestus suggested fighting the enemy on the eastern side of the river, but I pointed out that if we were worsted, thousands of men, horses and camels would have to try to retreat across the pontoon bridges. It was too risky.

  ‘We attack him when half his army is across the river and other half is waiting to cross,’ I said. ‘We have the best-trained and equipped army in all Parthia. I have no doubt if deployed properly it will be victorious.’

  ‘Any what if victory eludes you?’ asked Scelias.

  Chrestus looked daggers at the aged Greek with skin like old leather who now studied me with his piercing brown eyes. Despite being in his seventies his thick hair showed not a trace of grey, though the rumour was he dyed it. His long beard, which was also devoid of grey, accentuated his narrow, gaunt face. He always wore sandals and a white toga, making him appear out of place among men wearing leather and armour. But his intellect towered over us all and as head of the Sons of the Citadel I had always said he was welcome at council meetings. He never attended, until now. Perhaps the prospect of violence visiting Dura had made him eager to see the planning of a campaign first hand, or perhaps the possibility of being involved in a war provoked his interest.

  ‘Then I will issue you with a spear, Scelias,’ grinned Chrestus, having another person to goad in addition to Rsan.

  The governor was absent, supervising the hoarding of supplies, his clerks being worked into a frenzy to ensure Dura was well provisioned before the army of Tiridates appeared.

  ‘Can you shoot a bow, Scelias?’ asked Sporaces.

  ‘I cannot.’

  ‘No, a suit of scale armour would suit him better,’ suggested Azad. ‘Put him on a horse and give him a kontus and he will look like Achilles himself.’

  All three creased up with laughter but Scelias took being ribbed all in his stride.

  ‘I see the morale of the army’s high command is good, which will transmit itself to the common soldiery. I approve.’

  ‘If Tiridates manages to bring all his army across the river,’ I said, ‘then Chrestus will withdraw the army west to link up with Malik and his Agraci. The garrison of Dura will defend the walls and the forts north and south of the city will be garrisoned by army veterans, who will be called up as soon as we receive news of the approach of the enemy.’

  Scelias was nodding and stroking his beard, which comforted me. He knew everything there was to know about war and armies.

  ‘Of course you have a great advantage in that Tiridates has no siege engines and has no knowledge of siege warfare,’ said the Greek. ‘Dura is certainly a formidable city, an enemy being able to launch an assault against it from the west only. Let us hope he is no Caesar.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Azad bluntly.

  Scelias’ brow creased into a deep frown. ‘Julius Caesar was a Roman general of exceptional talent, commander, a man who would have proved a worthy opponent of our own King Pacorus had he invaded Parthia.’

  ‘Why didn’t he?’ asked Sporaces.

  ‘He was assassinated by a group of disgruntled politicians,’ answered Scelias. ‘A great pity.’

  ‘Not for Parthia, Scelias,’ I said.

  ‘No, majesty, but the point I wanted to make is that Caesar was once engaged in a siege of a town in Gaul by the name of Alesia.’

  He saw the blank expressions on our faces but continued anyway.

  ‘Inside the town was the Gaul chief Vercingetorix, commanding upwards of fifty thousand warriors, which was soon besieged by Caesar with forty thousand men. Knowing that a large Gaul relief force was on the way, Caesar constructed lines of contravallation, outside his own siege lines, to protect his forces from the relief army.’

  Azad nodded. ‘Impressive. What happened?’

  ‘Caesar repulsed the relief army numbering over one hundred thousand men and continued the siege of Alesia, forcing its surrender. It was and remains a masterclass in how to conduct a siege.

  ‘However, I am convinced that Tiridates is as ignorant if not more so regarding the achievements of Julius Caesar as the occupants of this room, save myself naturally.’

  ‘Naturally,’ commented Chrestus dryly.

  ‘With Tiridates focused on starving Dura into submission,’ said Scelias gleefully, ‘his army will be very vulnerable to an attack by a relief force.’

  ‘Let us hope it does not come to that,’ I said.

  ‘Where is Marcus?’ asked Scelias.

  ‘Ill,’ I informed him. ‘Alcaeus is attending to him.’

  ‘That is unfortunate,’ said Scelias, ‘but at least in Lu
cius Varsas you have a man just as knowledgeable in military logistics and siege warfare.’

  ‘It is just a minor ailment,’ I snapped, ‘Marcus is my quartermaster general and commander of siege engines and will remain so for many years. Thank you, gentlemen, you may return to your commands.’

  I walked with Scelias from the Headquarters Building, the Greek pestering me about the civilian population of the city.

  ‘The thousands of people in the city will quickly consume the food supplies, majesty.’

  ‘I know that.’

  Scelias persisted. ‘I estimate Dura can hold out for a month at the most in the event of a siege.’

  ‘It will all be over long before that, Scelias, trust me.’

  ‘I have always laid my trust in your wisdom and honesty, majesty. It is a pity the Princess Claudia is not here to augment our defence.’

  I stopped in my tracks. ‘I thought you did not believe in the gods, Scelias.’

  ‘Far from it, majesty, it would be churlish to believe immortal hands have not fashioned the earth and everything in it. But I detest the conceit of man that has fashioned the image of the gods in his own likeness.’

  ‘Then what do they look like?’

  ‘That is the precise point, majesty, they are gods and thus beyond the comprehension of mortal man. And yet man conceives them in his own image. The Gauls think of their gods as having pale skin and blue eyes, whereas the Nubians in Africa create images of gods with flat noses and dark skin.