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by Peter Darman

  ‘I see no reason to waste time in Uruk,’ I said, ‘we march in the morning.’

  Karys and the Romans made no objections and they placed their soldiers under my command, which surprised me somewhat. After the meeting, I sent word to Chrestus to come to the palace to be briefed on the plan of campaign and then retired to the bedroom that had been allocated to us in the palace. It was the first time in days I had rested on a soft bed, and though I wanted to talk with Gallia about Karys and his Roman allies, now our Roman allies, as soon as my head sank into the soft pillow I drifted off into blissful sleep. There was a time when I could do without sleep for days on campaign, but those days had long passed. The mind was still active but the body craved frequent rest and recuperation.

  When we woke the sun was casting long shadows in the palace grounds. After a wash and change of clothes, Gallia declared her intention to return to camp.

  ‘I do not like being in Uruk now our friends are no longer here. It does not feel right.’

  ‘I agree, and talking of not feeling right, what do you make of the presence of our Roman friends?’

  She was pulling on one of her boots but stopped to look at me.

  ‘They are not my friends, but if the governor of Syria wishes to gift us some soldiers, so be it. Perhaps it is the will of the gods.’

  ‘It is very odd.’

  She finished pulling on her boots, stood and kissed me on the lips.

  ‘Just think, you will be the first Parthian king, and probably the last, to command Roman troops in battle. That must at least inspire you, or at least intrigue you.’

  I chuckled. ‘I had to laugh when the Romans were concerned that Spartacus might be with us. He must have put the fear of the gods into them.’

  She put on her mail shirt, strapped on her sword belt and picked up her helmet.

  ‘When our two armies link up, there might be trouble between Spartacus and the Romans.’

  ‘I will worry about that when Tiridates has been defeated. You ride back to camp now?’

  She nodded. ‘I see Nergal and Praxima in every room and corridor. It breaks my heart.’

  She left Uruk escorted by the Amazons, passing Chrestus, Azad, Sporaces and Kalet who came to the palace to be briefed on the unique position we found ourselves in regarding our new Roman allies. Chrestus was delighted as it meant there would now be three legions in the field instead of two, and as Dura’s legions were trained and equipped in exactly the same manner as the one commanded by Quintus Dellius, battlefield effectiveness could only be increased. Azad and Sporaces were bemused by the presence of the legion, but both they and Chrestus advised keeping the Romans apart from the Exiles in particular during the campaign.

  ‘All those who are recruited from foreign lands are assigned to the Exiles,’ he said.

  ‘As you once were,’ I smiled.

  ‘That was a long time ago and my hatred of the Romans has lessened, though not entirely disappeared. But those who have fled from Rome’s grip recently will take a dim view of sharing a camp with their former oppressors.’

  We were gathered in one of the small rooms a short distance from the throne room, which lay empty now Mesene had no king or queen. That was another problem that needed solving, though Karys seemed to have an iron grip on the city. Whether a Jew would be tolerated to rule over the city of Anu, the Sky God, remained to be seen. Oil lamps flickered on a chandelier above to cast us in a pale yellow light.

  ‘How many legionaries in the Exiles are from foreign lands?’ I asked Chrestus.

  He rubbed a hand over his shaved crown. ‘About a third, majesty.’

  I was surprised. ‘That few? I remember a time when both the Durans and Exiles were made up entirely of exiles, though admittedly a fair number were from other Parthian kingdoms, all runaway slaves and rogues, of course.

  ‘The Durans first took shape in the desert outside Hatra, a motley collection of raw recruits with no weapons or uniforms, sweating under a hot sun and under the watchful eye of Lucius Domitus.’

  I rubbed my hands with relish but they looked at me with bemused faces. That time was over thirty years ago and Domitus had been dead for over twenty. I suddenly felt very old and from a different time.

  ‘I will suggest to our Roman allies that our camps remain separate,’ I said. ‘We march at dawn.’

  I rode with them from the palace, a detachment of horse archers providing an escort. The cataphracts had ridden back to camp with Gallia and the Amazons, Silani also electing to ride in her company. The defection of Babylon and Seleucia, or at least the lords and governors of those cities, to Tiridates had wounded him greatly and made him look as though he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

  We trotted along the track leading from the palace and snaking through the Royal Orchard. Braziers placed either side of the dirt road had been lit to illuminate our journey and keep away the wild animals roaming the park. When we had left the royal hunting grounds I informed the others I was going to visit an old friend.

  ‘I wouldn’t go wandering around the city at night, majesty,’ advised Azad.

  ‘Not without a guard, at least,’ added Sporaces, ordering half a dozen of his men to remain with me.

  ‘I am going to the temple,’ I told them.

  ‘Make sure you call out to the guards when you get back,’ said Chrestus, ‘the men are in a heightened state of alertness and it would be unfortunate if one of the sentries put an arrow in you.’

  I left them and rode with the horse archers to the temple quarter, to the White Temple. One of the wonders of the world, the temple itself was a ziggurat, a pyramid built in five receding tiers sitting on a massive square stone platform. Constructed of sun-baked bricks, it was faced with white stone to give it a dazzling brightness in strong sunlight. The sides of the ziggurat were very broad and sloping, broken up by recessed strips to create stunning patterns in the morning and afternoon sunlight. And yet the ziggurat was not a place of worship, it was a dwelling place for the gods, in the White Temple’s case Anu. The Sumerians, an ancient people who had once inhabited an area of southern Mesopotamia called Sumer, which meant ‘land of the civilized kings’, had built it. The Sumerians believed that the gods lived in the mountains, but Uruk was positioned in flat terrain and so they built ziggurats to imitate mountains so the gods could dwell in them. Thus Anu had His own house to be close to His worshippers who gathered around the temple’s base. Only priests were allowed inside the whitewashed rectangular temple on the ziggurat’s summit.

  A white stone wall twice the height of a man surrounded the extensive temple grounds. I expected an argument with the temple guards at the complex’s gates to be allowed entry, but the gates opened before I reached them and an officer in a white tunic and leggings presented himself at the entrance, bowing his head to me.

  ‘Welcome, King Pacorus, the high priest is expecting you.’

  ‘He is?’

  ‘Please follow me. Your men can remain inside the compound with their horses.’

  We dismounted and led our horses into the temple quarter, the great ziggurat rearing up before us, its huge shape framed by a brilliant moon behind it and casting it and the grounds around it in silver light. I pulled my cloak around me for the temperature had dropped markedly and my breath misted in the night air.

  I left my escort to follow the officer who led me to a two-storey mud-brick house surrounded by rows of cherry trees. The officer knocked at the door, which was opened by a young priest in a flowing white robe. His head was completely shaved, as were his eyebrows and he was clean-shaven.

  ‘The king to see the high priest,’ the officer told him, snapping to attention and saluting as the young priest beckoned me enter the house.

  The interior was functional to say the least, the walls devoid of decoration and the floor simple stone slabs. I was shown into a small room illuminated by a single candle flickering on a table positioned between two high-backed chairs. There was no other furniture
in the room.

  ‘Bring wine for our guest,’ commanded a deep voice. ‘Please sit, King Pacorus.’

  The young priest bowed and retreated from the room, closing the door behind me. I walked to the empty chair and looked at the individual occupying the other. I was shocked by how gaunt he was. Once the shoulders had been broad and the long face and nose imposing, but now the frame was shrunken and the face slightly emaciated. But then, he was in his eighties, an age few reached. He held out a hand and I realised he was blind as he continued to stare at the wall with eyes that could no longer see. I held his hand and he gripped it.

  ‘I knew you would come. Take a seat. It has been many years since Uruk saw the famed King Pacorus of Dura.’

  I sat in the chair and looked fondly at the man who had been the high priest of the White Temple when I had captured the city when the tyrant Chosroes had ruled it. Our first meeting had been an icy affair but our relationship had improved over the years. The young priest returned with wine and silver cups engraved with a horned crown, the symbol of Anu. He poured the wine and handed Rahim a cup, guiding the old man’s hand to the vessel before serving me wine.

  ‘It was foretold you would come,’ he said, ‘the prophecy spoke of Anu sending the Bull of Heaven to avenge the gods. You march to depose Tiridates?’

  ‘I do.’

  He nodded sagely. ‘It was also written on the ancient tablets that Nergal and Allatu would die together and their deaths would be avenged by the Bull of Heaven.’

  He was talking of the ancient tablets kept in the White Temple, which were kept secret from all but a select number of people. There were also ancient stone carvings in the temple, one of which showed Nergal, the brother of Shamash, sitting on his throne next to his wife, the Goddess Allatu, a deity of the underworld who had the head of a lion. When I stormed Uruk all those years ago, Nergal and Praxima were with me, and his name and her fiery temper and red hair had convinced Rahim and the other priests they were those gods made flesh. Thus did their reign begin in very auspicious circumstances.

  ‘They knew they would die together,’ he continued, ‘but unlike mortals they took comfort from the revelation. Neither wanted to be without the other.’

  That much was true. Nergal and Praxima were devoted to each other and had journeyed to the afterlife together. Not many couples were granted that wish.

  He tilted his head towards me. ‘You are troubled, King Pacorus, and you seek answers. So speak.’

  ‘You have heard of the presence of the Roman soldiers outside Uruk, I presume?’

  ‘Karys’ new allies. What of them?’

  ‘For as long as I can remember the Romans have been the enemies of Parthia, and yet I am told that the new ruler of the Roman world has authorised military aid to be sent to Mesene to support a general he had previously never heard of. It makes no sense.’

  He sipped at his wine. ‘There are forces at play that you do not see, King Pacorus, which if you did would clear the fog of confusion in your mind.’

  I was intrigued. ‘What forces?’

  ‘A few days ago, a tortoise was seen in the temple compound, a very large tortoise with markings on its shell that resembled the number forty.’

  I sighed. I knew sages and priests looked for signs from the gods and Claudia was forever berating me about portents and omens she saw, but I refused to see every flock of birds or weather anomaly as a sign from the gods. Even such mundane occurrences as tripping over a doormat or slipping on a wet paving stone were interpreted as having divine meaning. I preferred to believe they were just cases of not taking care where one stepped.

  ‘The tortoise is one of the symbols of Enki, the God of Wisdom and Magic, whose sacred number is forty. The two cannot be put down to mere coincidence.’

  ‘Why not?’ I heard a voice in my head say.

  ‘I suppose not,’ I muttered.

  ‘Enki is the patron saint of artists and craft persons, such as potters, stone cutters and jewellers. He also has great empathy and seldom refuses to help whoever comes to him for aid. Enki’s twin sister is Ereshkigal, Queen of the Underworld, whom he has rescued on several occasions.’

  I was still none the wiser but said nothing.

  ‘Finally,’ said Rahim, ‘remember that Ereshkigal, who is both fierce and uncompromising, is also consort to the Bull of Heaven.’

  He took another sip of wine. ‘You are but a part of a grand scheme, King Pacorus, the aim of which has yet to be revealed.’

  ‘I have to confess that I am still confused.’

  He nodded and made to put down his cup. I took it from him and placed it on the table.

  ‘We are all looking for answers, King Pacorus, to give meaning to the lives we live. You have lived a good life, I think, a life full of glory and triumphs. I have always tried my utmost to serve Anu, to become His eyes and ears in Uruk. And yet He deprived me of my eyes, which was a cruel blow.

  ‘But to live in perpetual darkness allows one to see things more clearly, if that is not a contradiction in terms. It has allowed me to look into men’s souls more deeply, to see them for what they are and not what they present to the world. It has been a most illuminating experience.’

  We sat in silence for a while and I assumed my audience was at an end. I made to rise but he suddenly spoke.

  ‘Do you regret your decision to support Phraates after the death of Orodes?’

  ‘I do not.’

  ‘Even though he has proved himself a poor high king?’

  ‘He has made mistakes,’ I agreed, ‘and I will accept he is not cast in the same mould as his father. But Tiridates and the other eastern kings who now support him took oaths pledging their allegiance to Phraates. If oaths mean nothing then chaos and anarchy will ensue, which will mean the end of the Parthian Empire.’

  ‘Perhaps the Parthian Empire would be better served by King of Kings Pacorus,’ he suggested.

  ‘You mean kill Tiridates and then Phraates? To do that would turn me into the very thing I despise. A tyrant who bends the law to suit his own ends. Besides, I have no male heir and am too old to produce one now. At least Phraates is young and can produce heirs.’

  ‘Yes, I heard about his son. Most unfortunate that Chief of Court Ashleen left him in Ctesiphon.’

  ‘To be basely murdered,’ I said.

  ‘You are wrong, King Pacorus, the child still lives.’

  ‘He does?’

  He leaned back in his chair. ‘You must leave me now, I am tired. Farewell, King Pacorus, it has been good to meet you once more. Alas, we will not do so again.’

  He spoke no more, just stared into space, a blind old man alone with his thoughts. I stood, looked at him one last time and took my leave. Back in camp, having passed through the main entrance without being shot by an archer, I told Gallia about Phraates’ son.

  ‘How would a blind old priest who has never left Uruk know whether the infant is alive or dead?’ she asked.

  I sat on the edge of the cot we shared on campaign, aside from on the eve of battle when she always spent the night in the company of the Amazons, a custom that dated back to her time in Italy.

  ‘What else did he say?’

  I took off my boots and slid under the thick woollen blanket. The nights were cool and the tent was draughty.

  ‘Nothing that made any sense.’

  I stared up at the canvas ceiling, the flame of the oil lamp hanging from the tent pole flickering in the draught.

  ‘I remember when I first met Rahim. He had been a physically imposing individual then, but now he is a shadow of what he used to be. Old age is a terrible and unrelenting foe. Do you think we shall see our eighties? Gallia?’

  She was fast asleep, wrapped in a heavy woollen tunic and leggings, her hands and feet also covered. I huddled close to her and drifted off to sleep, my mind filled with images of tortoises with numbers on their shells and bulls charging around the heavens.

  Chapter 12

  Over thirty thousand soldie
rs struck camp and headed north the following day, accompanied by thousands of horses, mules, camels and non-combatants. The weather was cool and overcast, the threat of rain in the air. I sent a message to Legate Dellius before the first cohorts had left camp, requesting he and his legion march on the right flank of the army, ‘the place of honour’, I emphasised. The right flank was traditionally the place of honour but I wanted to keep the Romans away from the Euphrates on our left, and more importantly the villages, date palm groves, fields and irrigation canals that dotted the riverbank and extended inland for a mile or so. Lucius Varsas and his quartermasters would do their best to ensure villages, their crops and irrigation channels were not damaged during our march. I doubted the Romans would have any scruples when it came to plundering Parthian settlements. I also despatched Kalet and his lords to ride on the Romans’ right flank for the same reason.

  Thus the army moved in two great columns with five thousand of Dura’s lords and their retainers providing flank protection. Talib and his scouts had left camp before dawn and Sporaces sent three companies of horse archers ahead to act as a vanguard. I emphasised to both him and Kalet that Tiridates’ army was made up exclusively of mounted soldiers, which meant it was highly mobile. Reconnaissance was thus crucial to prevent us being surprised and surrounded. Dura’s army was strung out for ten miles and was vulnerable against hordes of horsemen.

  The fact we were hugging the Euphrates solved the problem of water, though we still had to carry the three other items that were key to ensuring the army was able to function: food, fodder and wood. First-class training and equipment could give an army victory in battle, but they counted for nothing if logistics were not properly attended to. I heard the voice of Marcus in my head.

  ‘A foot soldier requires three pounds of grain and four pints of water a day, increasing to two gallons depending on weather and activity. A horse and mule each need ten pounds of fodder and ten pounds of grain a day, plus eight gallons of water.’

  Not all the food and fodder was carried on carts and mules. Each legionary carried on his furca enough grain to last around twenty days, but it meant that with the food added to his weapons and equipment, each man was carrying up to one hundred pounds in weight. Which in turn meant he sweated profusely and required more water to keep him hydrated. At least the inexhaustible supply of the Euphrates ensured the army’s soldiers and animals would not go thirsty before we arrived at Babylon.