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by Peter Darman

  In my gloom, I did not at first notice the formation of foot soldiers deployed outside the city. But as we neared Uruk, my eyes left the column of horsemen to take a closer look at the units standing on parade. I saw the red rectangular shields, the helmets and individuals standing in front of each block of soldiers, each wearing a red transverse crest on his helmet. I pulled up Horns and my jaw dropped.

  A Roman legion was on parade in front of the city of Uruk.

  Chapter 11

  Uruk was estimated to be five thousand years old, a city of legend whose high, mud-brick walls had reportedly been constructed by the famed warrior king Gilgamesh, a man possessed of super-human strength who built the walls himself. The truth was probably less heroic but it was known that Gilgamesh was a real person who had defended Uruk gallantly. No doubt his story was embellished over the centuries by the rulers of the city positioned some five miles from the Euphrates, being connected to the great river by a series of canals that brought water to Uruk. The crossing point we had used was to the south of the city, which was the direction the main gates into the city faced.

  The column of horsemen approaching slowed to a walk when they got within twenty paces, the man I recognised as Karys raising an arm to signal a halt. Now in his fifties, he had a ruddy complexion and thick hair and beard. Aside from the red plume in his helmet he was dressed like the horse archers behind him, his red kaftan and scale armour being no different to those of a common soldier. The same could not be said for the man next to him who sported a magnificent shining muscled cuirass fringed with white leather shoulder tassels and strips to protect the thighs. His short-sleeved tunic was scarlet, as was his cloak and saddlecloth, but my eyes were drawn to his boots, which were white leather.

  ‘Greetings, King Pacorus and Queen Gallia, Mesene welcomes you,’ said Karys.

  I looked past the horsemen to the Roman legion arrayed before the city.

  ‘I see we are not the only visitors to Mesene, general.’

  Karys extended an arm to the Roman beside him. ‘This is Legate Quintus Dellius, majesty, sent to Mesene by the governor of Syria, Quintus Didius, to support Mesene in its war against the tyrant Tiridates.’

  The Roman removed his helmet and flashed a smile. ‘It is an honour to meet you, King Pacorus, and you, Queen Gallia.’

  He had the face of a poet, and a handsome one at that, with the carriage of a soldier.

  ‘I see you have a full-strength legion at your disposal, legate,’ I observed.

  Another smile. ‘Six thousand, including auxiliaries and non-combatants. Would you care to inspect them?’

  I looked at Gallia, expecting a biting comment directed at the Roman, but she just shrugged.

  ‘Our allies fought well against Tiridates’ satrap, majesty,’ said Karys.

  So we diverted from our journey into Uruk to inspect the Roman legion seemingly magically conjured up from the desert. I have to say its soldiers looked magnificent, not a man without helmet, scutum, gladius, dagger and two javelins. Their ranks were impeccably dressed and their standards stood proudly, none more so than the silver eagle glinting in the autumn sun. I halted Horns before it, admired the craftsmanship and felt the reverence in which every legionary present held it.

  ‘Bet you never thought you would get so close to an eagle without having to spill blood.’

  I turned in the saddle to stare at the rider beside the legate, an officer with broader shoulders, less ornate uniform, hard face and cold eyes, a killer’s eyes.

  ‘My apologies, majesty,’ said Quintus Dellius, ‘this is my deputy, Tribune Titus Tullus, who while being useful on the battlefield, is somewhat lacking when it comes to diplomacy.’

  Tullus grinned and tipped his head to me, his black eyes momentarily studying my wife’s torso and that of Zenobia before turning back to me.

  ‘Meant no disrespect, your lordship.’

  ‘You are right, tribune,’ I told him, ‘I did not expect to see a Roman eagle so close away from the battlefield, but today has been full of surprises.’

  ‘Your soldiers do you credit, tribune,’ said Gallia, an utterance I found truly astounding.

  Tribune Tullus manoeuvred his horse next to my wife’s mare after we had finished the inspection and headed towards the city gates, the Roman probing her with questions. I suspected he wanted to probe her with a part of his anatomy, but his queries were not disrespectful, far from it.

  ‘Is it true, lady, that your Amazons cut off their right breasts so they can shoot their bows accurately.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are they forbidden to marry?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Has Dura always had female warriors?’

  ‘Yes. But the Amazons pre-date our becoming rulers of Dura. They were formed in Italy.’

  ‘When you fought for the slave king Spartacus?’

  ‘When we fought for the former gladiator Spartacus, yes. He had no time for titles.’

  ‘What was he like?’

  I smiled. The same old question. Those who had been alive when Spartacus had terrified all Italy were becoming fewer as the years passed, and fewer still were those who had fought alongside him. Though Rome had despised Spartacus for being the physical embodiment of its worst nightmare – an uprising of slaves – he also held a fascination for many Romans, who could not reconcile how a lowborn foreign slave could defeat and humiliate their armies. They had asked a similar question after Carrhae, where seven legionary eagles had been lost to long-haired, effeminate barbarians.

  Gallia provided more of a riddle than an answer. ‘He was a man like no other.’

  The tribune’s questions were brought to an end when we neared the entrance to Uruk and Karys pulled up his horse. The gates into the city were located at the four points of the compass, the main gates in front of us facing south. Two high, square towers flanked them, both flying Nergal’s standard, the double-headed lion sceptre crossed with a sword.

  Karys pointed at Silani’s Babylonians.

  ‘I would ask that the Babylonians remain outside the city, majesty. During the recent occupation of Uruk, Babylonian soldiers were responsible for enforcing the rule of Tiridates, which led to a number of atrocities. If the people see purple uniforms again, it may provoke trouble.’

  A morose Silani, his shoulders sunken, nodded his ascent. But I stopped him retiring with his men.

  ‘General Silani represents King of Kings Phraates. As such, it is imperative he is present in any discussions about strategy.’

  The Babylonians returned to camp and Silani accompanied us to the palace. Uruk is a pleasant enough city, though the visitor who enters it via the main entrance sees its most unattractive parts first. The city is divided into four main areas: the palace quarter, the temple quarter, the royal gardens, called the Royal Orchard, and the working quarter. The latter – a vast collection of mud-brick homes and businesses packed tightly together – is located in the southern part of the city. As we trotted through the productive part of Uruk, curious onlookers stood and pointed at the banner fluttering behind me, cheering and applauding when they recognised the red griffin of Dura. I raised a hand in acknowledgement as the crowd thickened and slowed our progress. The legate and tribune became nervous when civilians pressed forward to touch my saddlecloth, causing Horns to snort in annoyance. I saw the tribune reach for his sword, which curiously for a Roman horseman was a gladius.

  ‘There is no need for alarm, tribune,’ I said, ‘the people mean you no harm.’

  ‘They are glad to see the King and Queen of Dura,’ smiled Karys accepting his own acclaim, ‘as am I.’

  The atmosphere became more pleasant once we had left the claustrophobic working quarter to enter the Royal Orchard, a place of flowers, trees and watercourses, which was also a large park used for hunting. It covered many acres and contained an abundance of wild animals, such as deer, antelope, onager, boar, bulls and even panthers, which had a tendency to hide in the branches of trees to pounce on the
unwary.

  ‘Keep your eyes peeled,’ instructed Gallia to the Amazons behind her.

  Bows came out of cases and arrows were nocked in bowstrings as we rode along the track that led to the palace. Gallia strung an arrow in her own bow, much to the amusement of the tribune.

  ‘Expecting trouble, lady?’

  ‘This park is full of boar and leopards,’ she answered, ‘who have developed a taste for human blood. Ever been attacked by a leopard, tribune?’

  He gripped the hilt of his gladius. ‘Not yet. Whose stupid idea was it to stuff a park inside a city with wild animals?’

  ‘The kings who have ruled Uruk for centuries,’ she told him, ‘so they did not have to travel outside the city to hunt.’

  ‘Does your city have such a park?’ he asked.

  ‘Dura is a frontier city, tribune, we have no time to hunt animals. We hunt other things.’

  ‘Other things?’

  ‘Romans, mostly.’

  We arrived at the palace without anyone being mauled, passing through the gates where an honour guard stood to attention in the courtyard. The palace itself consisted of a great vaulted main hall leading to a throne room, which was flanked by two smaller rooms opening into three larger, domed halls. These in turn led to the rear of the complex where numerous private apartments were located. The Amazons and cataphracts dismounted in the courtyard and their horses were taken to the stables, their riders being shown to the barracks where they could shed their armour and refresh themselves.

  After we had done so, I ask the question that had been tormenting me since I had clapped eyes on Karys’ allies.

  ‘How is it that a Roman legion is here, in Mesene, having presumably marched through the lands of the Agraci unseen?’

  I raised my chalice of wine to the two Romans. ‘To march six thousand men across four hundred miles of desert under the noses of the Agraci is no mean achievement.’

  Legate Dellius smiled. ‘We had the full cooperation of King Malik, who sent guides to make our journey through the desert as easy as it could be in such inhospitable terrain.’

  Servants who I assumed were paid, as Nergal and Praxima had the same view of slavery as Gallia and myself, served wine, pastries, slices of apple and orange as we reclined on soft couches in a room to the rear of the throne room. For Titus Tullus it was obviously his first time inside the palace because he sat gawping at the walls painted with frescoes depicting scenes from the Epic of Gilgamesh and showing Gilgamesh and his friend Enkidu, who had been created by the gods to keep the famed King of Uruk in check.

  My astonishment grew. ‘Malik knew of this?’

  Quintus Dellius, relaxed and enjoying Parthian hospitality, tried to put me at ease.

  ‘We were sent by the governor of Syria, acting on the orders of Octavian himself, to support the claim of the rightful ruler of the Parthian Empire, King Phraates.’

  I was still confused. ‘Why would the governor of Syria, much less the new ruler of the Roman world, be interested in the internal squabbles of the Parthian Empire?’

  He took a sip of wine. ‘Alas, King Pacorus, I am not privy to the strategy of Octavian. Suffice to say we are here and ready to fight alongside you to restore Phraates to his throne.’

  ‘We waste time talking of politics,’ hissed Gallia, ‘when we should be formulating a plan of campaign.’

  Titus Tullus nodded. ‘If the enemy is of the same calibre as the ones we butchered outside the walls of this city, this campaign will be over soon enough.’

  His Greek was passable but by his manners, or dearth of them, and his bearing I suspected he had been promoted from the ranks. In appearance and demeanour, he was very different from the handsome legate who was at home in a foreign palace and among those who had fought Rome on many occasions. The whole meeting had a surreal feel about it. But Karys was relaxed in the Romans’ company and Gallia appeared oddly indifferent to their presence. Karys explained how he had fled Uruk when Tiridates had ordered Mesene to bend its knee to him, taking the bulk of Nergal’s professional horse archers and palace guards with him. They marched south to the wetlands of the Ma’adan, planning to leave Parthia altogether and seek sanctuary in the lands of the Agraci, or even Charax further south, prior to leaving for Africa or even China. But then Quintus Dellius and his legion arrived in Mesene, guided there by the Agraci, with news that a great alliance had been formed with the aim of toppling the tyrant Tiridates.

  ‘As soon as we heard that,’ said Karys, ‘all talk of leaving Parthia ceased and we turned our attention to ejecting the newly arrived satrap from Uruk. It was easy enough to lure him out of the city with a show of force, the satrap and his foreign army giving chase as we retreated south.’

  ‘We massacred them while they slept,’ crowed Tullus, ‘they posted few guards and there was no rampart and palisade, so we just marched right in.’

  ‘After which we reclaimed the city and awaited your arrival, majesty,’ said Karys.

  There was something wrong with the timing that I could not put my finger on, but we did not have time to dissect the minutiae of recent events. In any case the die was cast and we were at war with Tiridates. Quintus Dellius sipped more wine before clearing his throat.

  ‘May I enquire, King Pacorus, if your nephew is with you?’

  ‘Which one?’ I asked.

  ‘The King of Gordyene,’ said Tullus, ‘he and we did not part on good terms.’

  Gallia was surprised. ‘You know him?’

  Quintus smiled. ‘Not quite, majesty. When I was the governor of Armenia, acting on the orders of Mark Antony, I attended a parley involving your nephew, Phraates’ representative and King Artaxias of Armenia.’

  ‘If you served Mark Antony, how is it you are here?’ I asked. ‘Are you exiles?’

  Tullus choked on his wine, spilling it over his muscled cuirass.

  ‘The legate here abandoned Antony on the eve of Actium, so he’s high in the favour of Octavian.’

  ‘Thank you, Tullus,’ Quintus reprimanded him.

  Tullus winked at Gallia. ‘The legate always had a keen sense of survival.’

  ‘That’s enough!’ shouted Quintus. ‘You must forgive my deputy, majesties, he is an excellent soldier but leaves much to be desired when it comes to manners.’

  I was going to probe the legate further on why he betrayed Mark Antony but Gallia wanted to focus on the here and now.

  ‘We are here to defeat Tiridates, not discuss Roman politics. How many men can you muster, Karys?’

  ‘Five thousand professional horse archers, majesty, plus whatever the lords of the kingdom can raise, perhaps another ten thousand riders. But that will take time, perhaps two weeks.’

  ‘We don’t have the luxury of time,’ I said. ‘We should move at once.’

  ‘To where, majesty?’ asked Quintus.

  ‘Babylon,’ I answered.

  The city lay a hundred miles to the northwest as the raven flew, though we would hug the Euphrates to ensure a constant supply of water during the march, which would add another forty miles or so to our journey.

  ‘We threaten Babylon and Tiridates will have no choice but to engage us before we reach the city.’

  Tullus held out his chalice to be refilled, slapping the backside of the pretty girl serving him.

  ‘Or, the garrison could shut the gates and wait to be relieved. It is a well-known fact Parthia has no siege engines.’

  ‘You are wrong, Roman,’ said Gallia, ‘Dura has siege engines.’

  Quintus was surprised. ‘Oh?’

  ‘They were a gift,’ smiled Gallia.

  ‘Nice gift,’ admitted Tullus.

  ‘They were gifted by Marcus Licinius Crassus when he financed an army to try to capture Dura. It failed.’

  Her words created an awkward silence in the room, Quintus wearing a dumb smile, Karys staring into his wine and Titus Tullus slurping his drink greedily.

  ‘It may fortify your courage,’ I told them, ‘to know that at the
same time we are advancing north, my brother, the King of Hatra, and his son, Spartacus, are marching south, the intention being to crush the forces of Tiridates like a nut caught in a vice.’

  ‘How many soldiers does Tiridates have?’ asked Quintus.

  ‘One hundred thousand at least,’ I answered.

  ‘That’s a big nut,’ grunted Tullus.

  ‘Have you not been taught that one Roman is worth at least ten barbarians?’ teased Gallia. ‘I have always believed when it comes to fighting, numbers are only part of the equation.’

  ‘The enemy army comprises mostly horsemen?’ asked Quintus.

  ‘The vast majority will be horse and camel archers,’ I told him, ‘up to two-thirds of the enemy army. The rest will be cataphracts and mounted spearmen.’

  ‘Of the two a cataphract in my experience is the more lethal,’ said Tullus, ‘because he is fully covered in scale and tubular steel armour, his horse also protected by scale armour. A mounted spearman, on the other hand, will wear some sort of armour to protect his torso but his arms and legs will not be protected. Neither will his horse, so javelins and arrows can hurt both.

  ‘A cataphract’s lance, called a kontus, I believe, is long and heavy and is held by both hands on one side of the body during a charge. I’ve seen one skewer two men.’

  ‘Seen where?’ demanded Gallia.

  ‘I was at Phraaspa, lady, and the retreat that followed,’ he said. ‘Then we were enemies and now we are allies.’

  ‘Strange times,’ I uttered. ‘One more thing. I know the Roman propensity for looting foreign lands and carrying off captives as slaves. I tell you now that neither will be tolerated on this campaign.’

  ‘You have my word,’ pledged Quintus Dellius.

  Tullus grinned mischievously. ‘We’ve been well paid for this campaign already, majesty, so you don’t need to worry yourself.’