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by Peter Darman

  He rose from his chair. ‘Thank you for your visit, majesty, but this meeting is descending into farce and I have better things to do than hold your hand, figuratively speaking.’

  He opened the door and waited for me to leave.

  ‘You are not being helpful,’ I told him.

  ‘I have told you that Lucius Varsas is qualified for the position but I cannot fulfil your real desire, which is to bring Marcus back from the dead. Good day, King Pacorus.’

  I found myself in the corridor and the door firmly shut behind me. That afternoon I summoned Lucius to the Citadel to inform him he had been promoted to be Dura’s quartermaster general. He thanked me and returned to supervising the loading of the disassembled siege engines on to the wagons.

  Marcus had always stressed to me that organisation was a necessary evil, and I thanked his memory and the gods when that organisation swung into action. Veterans were mustered in the legionary camp and despatched to replace the garrisons of the mud-brick forts to the north of Dura. The garrisons to the south of the city would be allocated as we marched south as there was no point in their soldiers tramping north, only to march back south when the army set off. Company commanders mustered their men, Kalet collected his lords and their retainers, and centurions inspected their commands under the heat of a Mesopotamian sun. The chief veterinary organised the inspection of thousands of horses, camels and mules, Farid supervised the loading of his camels with tens of thousands of arrows, and Lucius turned his mind to providing rations for over twenty thousand men, their horses and beasts of burden.

  In theory, his task boiled down to three things: grain, meat and fodder. Grain and meat for the soldiers, fodder for the horses and mules. Parthia was fortunate in having an abundance of camels that could subsist on thorny vegetation, dates, desert bushes, dried leaves, seeds, fish, wheat, bones, dried grass, prickly pear and cacti. They could also drink brackish, salty water, which meant they were almost self-sufficient beasts of burden. The same could not be said for men and horses. Each legionary carried several days’ rations on his person but the bulk of the rations were with the baggage train. The grain that made thick porridge or crude cakes was supplemented by strips of smoked and salted pork, which were cheap to produce and long lasting, plus olive oil, cheese, dates and the ubiquitous biscuits that were cooked and stored before any campaign started. These could reportedly last for years if stored properly, though had to be approached with caution if one wanted to avoid any broken teeth!

  Fodder comprised both hard and green, the former – normally barley and oats – the latter hay, straw, clover, vetch, grass and alfalfa. All was collected and stored before the army moved. Grazing was an important part of fodder for the animals, but the parched deserts that covered much of Parthia could not be relied upon to provide adequate sustenance on campaign. Other kingdoms rarely gave logistics consideration when they embarked on a war, only ensuring the king’s personal bodyguard and soldiers had enough provisions and assuming their lords would provide food and fodder for their men. But the over-riding assumption was that they and their followers would live off the lands they were invading, which meant their armies invariably hovered on the edge of starvation and calamity the longer a campaign went on. The exception was the army of the high king and its shadow army of courtiers, officials, priests and camp followers, which was lavishly provided for, it being custom for the ruler of whatever kingdom the high king’s army was travelling through to provide it with provisions. For such a hapless monarch, it was akin to a plague of locusts descending on his realm.

  Malik arrived with his son and two thousand warriors the day before the army marched, together with Talib and his scouts. By noon the legionary camp was filled with wagons, carts, thousands of men and hundreds of pack animals. To each legion was attached over a thousand pack animals plus seventy wagons to transport its artillery. Oxen hauled the heavy siege equipment, which included the battering ram.

  ‘You think you will need it?’ asked Malik after we had toured the camp together.

  ‘We might have to batter the gates of Babylon and Seleucia down, but I am hopeful we won’t have to, if we can draw Tiridates into battle. Thank you for coming, by the way.’

  His visage looked grim, accentuated by the black tattoos on his face.

  ‘Nergal and Praxima were my friends, too. It was not right what happened to them.’

  ‘No, indeed.’

  His warriors camped to the north of the caravan park, which was emptying rapidly with the onset of hostilities. In days gone by the appearance of an Agraci war band would have occasioned the closing of the city gates, but now the desert raiders were allies of Dura and it did not take long for a procession of traders, camels and carts to make its way from the city carrying food to sell to the slim, olive-skinned warriors who dressed in black and sported sharp little beards to complement their sharper curved swords.

  Malik stayed in the palace that night, his mood and that of Gallia and everyone else subdued and focused on the task in hand. She picked over her food as we all sat at one table in the banqueting hall.

  ‘You should fill your belly tonight,’ I told her, ‘tomorrow we will be living off field rations.’

  She looked up, her blue eyes filled with sadness. ‘Not so long ago when we ate in this hall, Nergal and Praxima were sitting at this table. Tiridates will pay tenfold for what he has done.’

  Malik gave her an evil smile. ‘I swear to you, lady, that I and my warriors will wash our swords in the blood of your enemies before long.’

  She reached over and squeezed his arm.

  ‘Your support is much appreciated.’

  Malik picked at his chicken kebab laid out on a bed of rice.

  ‘And you, Pacorus, what do you fight for, revenge or to put Phraates back on his golden throne?’

  ‘Both,’ I answered, ‘but Phraates is the legitimate and lawful high king who was removed by an illegal rebellion. Tiridates and his supporters have placed themselves outside the law. It is important to remember that.’

  Gallia drank some wine. ‘Is it? You say Tiridates is not a lawful high king, but he has more kings who say he is the rightful high king than hold the opposite view.

  ‘I remember a time, many years ago, when we sat in Hatra’s throne room and your father, whose aim was to place Orodes on Ctesiphon’s throne, forged an alliance against Mithridates.’

  ‘I remember,’ I said.

  ‘We were in the minority I seem to recall,’ remembered Gallia, ‘but that did not stop your father waging war against Mithridates. It was a war worth fighting because Mithridates was a poisonous snake and Orodes was an honourable man. But Phraates has few qualities and if he died tomorrow no one would miss him. This war is to avenge our friends, nothing more.’

  The next morning the army marched, the legions and horsemen already heading south into the desert by the time Horns was brought from the stables along with Gallia’s mare. In the Citadel’s courtyard stood a hundred Amazons in full war gear, Zenobia holding my griffin banner that barely moved in the light breeze. I stood at the top of the palace steps beside a pale Rsan and Aaron, Gallia adjusting her sword belt as she walked from the building.

  ‘Try not to worry,’ I said to Rsan, ‘Malik and half the lords will be riding across the river today, so no threat will come from that direction. Dura is well-stocked and has strong defences.’

  ‘Have no fear, majesty,’ smiled Aaron, ‘your city will be waiting for you when you return.’

  Aaron the Jew. That was what Dobbai had called him, and not with affection, when he had first come to Dura, always mocking him for his strange belief that there was only one god. But over the years he had proved himself an honest, honourable man, one I was proud to call friend. She may have been wise and all seeing, but my long dead sorceress sometimes let her prejudices blind her. I liked to think I did not suffer from such an affliction, or at least my vanity liked to think so.

  Malik placed an arm around Rsan’s shoulders.
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  ‘Do not worry, my old friend, the Agraci will keep you safe.’

  Rsan allowed himself a small chuckle.

  ‘Lord king, I never thought there would be a time when an Agraci warlord would say those words to a Parthian. But I have come to know that your word is to be trusted above all others.’

  It was a nice thing to say and heartfelt. Then Rsan the diplomat returned.

  ‘No offence intended, majesty.’

  ‘None taken,’ I assured him.

  I clasped forearms with Malik and Gallia embraced him, nodding to my governor and treasurer and walking down the steps, I stopped halfway when I noticed some riders behind the Amazons. They were all wearing floppy hats to protect their heads from the sun. I pointed to them.

  ‘Who are they?’

  Gallia passed me. ‘Girls of the Daughters of Dura. I thought it would be a good experience for them to take part in a campaign.’

  I walked to Horns and took his reins from the stable hand, hauling myself into the saddle. The boy handed me my Roman helmet, which he had been decorating with fresh goose feathers.

  ‘They look very young.’

  She put on her helmet and closed the neck flaps. ‘Or perhaps you are very old.’

  I was about to turn Horns when I spotted Eszter walking from the palace, attired in boots, leggings, tunic and a quiver slung over her shoulder. She had a dagger in a sheath fastened to her belt and an axe tucked in the latter. Like Gallia’s young female squires, she was wearing a large floppy hat with a strap under her chin and carried her bow in her right hand.

  ‘Eszter,’ I called, gesturing with my hand she should come over.

  She came trotting merrily towards me, those at the top of the steps sharing quizzical looks.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I’m coming with you, father. Kalet is with the army, which means Dalir is also with it.’

  ‘I desire you to stay here.’

  She turned and smiled when her horse was brought from the stables, a beautiful pure-breed Arabian with a lithe, compact body, an elegantly arched neck and a silky mane and tail. It was coloured light brown with high white ‘socks’ on its legs and a white face. I could only sit and admire a beast that must have cost a fortune. Eszter vaulted into the saddle.

  ‘A gift from Dalir, do you like him?’

  ‘He is a fine horse,’ said Gallia.

  Eszter nudged her horse forward and trotted from the courtyard.

  ‘Come, we have a war to win.’

  I turned Horns. ‘I’m sure there are kings in the empire whose daughters show more deference and respect to their fathers.’

  ‘Deference and respect are mutually exclusive,’ Gallia told me as the Amazons trotted behind us as we left the courtyard. She pointed to Eszter riding ahead. ‘That was a very generous gift. You should be proud that our youngest daughter can command such expensive gestures.’

  ‘Dalir probably stole it, the horse, I mean.’

  ‘You never used to be so cynical, Pacorus.’

  ‘They say wisdom comes with age, but experience has taught me to see the world as it is, and it does not give me cause for optimism.’

  We waved at people standing each side of the road leading from the Citadel to the Palmyrene Gate, many throwing flowers in our direction and holding up their infants so they could see their king and queen riding to war. Others, older and wiser, stood holding their loved ones, concern and resignation etched on their faces.

  Eszter galloped off to find Dalir as soon as we excited the city, Dura’s lords having been allotted the right flank of the army during the march south along the Euphrates. This was to keep them well away from the date palm groves, farms and fields that now filled the strip of land adjacent to the river. They would not plunder it for many of the lords owned land south of the city, but they might trample crops and scatter livestock. For this reason, it was preferable to keep them in the desert. Indeed, the whole army marched through the barren, rock-strewn landscape, the soldiers of the legions marching six abreast and the majority of the horsemen on foot leading their mounts. In the vanguard, rearguard and on the flanks rode parties of horse archers to ensure the army strung out over ten miles was not surprised. They were relieved on a regular basis but it made no sense for the majority of the horsemen to sit in their saddles while the army moved at the pace of the legions and the baggage train. Other Parthian kingdoms derided Dura for making its horsemen walk like lowborn foot soldiers, but to date Dura had always had the last laugh when it came to battlefield performance.

  Far ahead of the army, a law unto themselves, rode Talib and his scouts. Sometimes we did not see them for days but like Byrd and his men before him, it always comforted me to know they were at large and undertaking valuable reconnaissance.

  It took eleven days to reach the ford across the Euphrates west of Uruk; eleven days trudging through a harsh, gravel-strewn, sand-covered land with only a smattering of green plants. At night it was freezing, during the day it was warm and at the end of every march a camp was constructed to house both man and beast. Kalet and his fellow rascals complained about being constricted behind its earth ramparts and stake palisade, informing me they were desert people who hated being confined. I had heard it a thousand times and reminded them they were under my command and not taking part in a horse-rustling exercise. But I was glad to reach the river if only because the prospect of imminent battle stopped their constant whingeing.

  Talib and four of his men were waiting for us at the crossing point, the waters of the Euphrates low, brown and slow moving now it was late autumn. The waterway was wide at this point – around four hundred paces – but shallow.

  Talib, his dark-brown eyes resembling black dots in his deeply tanned face, bowed his head when Gallia and I brought our horses to a halt before him.

  ‘The level has dropped to around four feet, majesty.’

  ‘Excellent, we’ll get the wagons across first. Have you seen any soldiers?’

  He shook his head. ‘None, majesty. We have spoken to villagers and merchants and they report very little activity. Karys holds Uruk.’

  ‘What do they say about Karys?’ asked Gallia.

  He shrugged. ‘One king is much like another to common folk, majesty.’

  ‘Karys is calling himself king now?’ I was surprised.

  ‘That is what others are calling him,’ said Talib.

  ‘Get some rest and food,’ I told him. ‘Tomorrow I want you to ride to Uruk and inform General Karys we will be at his city in two days.’

  The next day the army crossed the Euphrates, Lucius supervising the movement of the carts and wagons. Kalet and his lords crossed first to get them out of the way, followed by Sporaces and his horse archers who organised a defensive screen around our bridgehead. The river was shallow enough either side of the crossing point to allow the legions to wade across on the flanks of the long lines of wagons, Chrestus establishing a camp on the eastern riverbank, into which the wagons were driven. It took a whole day to cross the river but at the end of it not a single wagon or mule had been lost, which was a credit to Lucius’ organisational talents.

  The next day we broke camp and moved east across the desolate, wind-blasted landscape of dirt and sand. Away from the river the terrain was flat, uniform and inhospitable, there being no traffic on the ancient track that led from the ford to Uruk. In the afternoon a wind blew up to create a mini-sand storm, men and animals casting their heads down. It was not a severe storm but there was enough dust and sand in the air to impair visibility, everyone covering their faces with cloths to prevent them breathing in the debris in the air. It lasted for less than an hour but long enough to slow our advance to a crawl. We were forced to halt for another hour to reorganise the column that had become ragged in the diminished visibility of the storm, commencing our march under a now cloudless sky, the temperature bearable now the height of summer was a distant memory.

  Talib returned to the army on the second day following
the crossing of the river, to report Uruk was firmly under the control of Karys, who was looking forward to welcoming Dura’s king and his army. Ten miles from the city we halted to establish camp, the engineers having selected the spot and the legionaries when they arrived either unloading tents from mules or working on constructing the wall and rampart. Because much of the soil in southern Parthia is friable, the wall was made more solid with the aid of logs transported on wagons. It was a massive undertaking to create a camp from nothing, but constant training of the Durans and Exiles in camp construction meant it was completed in less than three hours.

  Karys sent us wagons and camels loaded with fresh fruit, bread, cheese and wine, which was gratefully received by the soldiery already chewing on hard biscuits and strips of cured meat and eating thick porridge. The next day the bulk of the army remained in camp while I rode with Gallia and a mounted escort to Uruk. The Amazons and two companies of cataphracts in full armour and full-face helmets riding horses fully encased in scale-armour suits to give an impression of might, provided our bodyguard. Also accompanying us was Silani and his five hundred Babylonians. It had been a difficult time for the general, formerly the commander of the high king’s bodyguard but now no more than the commander of five companies of lancers, albeit exquisitely equipped and mounted, attached to the army of Dura. But he conducted himself with professionalism and dignity and everyone treated him with the respect he deserved. But the defection of his home kingdom had hurt him deeply and he had become somewhat withdrawn, especially after the Scythians had left. He had hoped to go with them, I am sure, but no word came from Phraates, who appeared to have vanished from the face of the earth.

  The red griffin fluttered proudly beside the bull of Babylon behind us, as the walls of Uruk came into view, feelings of sadness washing over me as I realised that the party of horsemen galloping towards us would not be led by Nergal and Praxima. The faces of my dead friends filled my mind and my head dropped. I had seen them fallen, had experienced the despair and anger afterwards, and vowed to avenge their deaths. But it was only now, when I approached the city they had ruled so well for many years, that the enormity of their loss bore down on me. Perhaps in my mind I had thought they still lived, laughed and loved in Uruk, refusing to believe that my oldest friends no longer walked the earth. But here, now, the brutal truth hit me – Nergal and Praxima were indeed gone.