by Peter Darman
‘Is there a problem?’ he growled.
‘High Priest Timo has forbidden the wounded being treated in Ctesiphon,’ I told him.
Spartacus walked up to Timo. Both men were the same height but the former was broader and more powerful. That said, the latter had the gods on his side and did not cower before the King of Gordyene.
‘I will tell you the same as I did King Pacorus, King Spartacus, Ctesiphon is the residence of the high king and not…’
Timo probably never felt the blade that was slashed lightning-fast across his throat. His mouth and eyes remained open as his severed windpipe sheeted blood over his pristine gold-fringed white robe. We stood, stunned, as the deceased high priest made a slight gurgling noise before crumbling at the feet of his killer. Spartacus removed a cloth from inside his tunic and wiped the blade of his knife before returning it to its sheath. The other priests emitted a mournful groan. Spartacus smiled at them.
‘If any harm comes to these wounded men, I will burn Ctesiphon to the ground and every priest with it. Shamshir, secure the gates.’
‘That will not be necessary,’ I told him, ‘I will garrison Ctesiphon with my own soldiers.’
‘As you wish, uncle.’ He looked at the priests staring at Timo’s body. ‘Move!’
They scattered to allow the wounded to file through the gates, Chrestus ordering the century of Exiles into the palace complex to organise the treatment of the wounded.
‘I assume Tiridates is not inside hiding in one of the temples,’ said Spartacus.
‘I do not know,’ I answered, ‘you killed Timo before he could divulge any information.’
He curled a lip at the corpse. ‘Priests, worthless all of them.’
‘The horsemen that arrived with Silaces have been sent to search for Tiridates, and the other eastern kings,’ I told him, ‘as well as hunt down and destroy any surviving enemy horsemen.’
He looked up at the gatehouse. ‘At least Phraates will have his home intact when he returns.’
‘You seem very certain he will be back,’ said Gallia.
‘He’ll be back,’ smiled Spartacus, ‘but before he returns, we have one final problem to resolve.’
I knew what he was talking about – Irbil where my sister and what remained of Media’s army was besieged by General Hovik and his Immortals. I had not given it much thought, having been focused on dealing with Tiridates. But now his army had been destroyed, only one pocket of resistance remained.
‘We must crush the last remaining rebels, uncle,’ said Spartacus.
‘What are your intentions?’
He gave me an evil leer. ‘To starve Irbil into surrender prior to killing all those inside its citadel who give themselves up.’
Rasha looked uncomfortable but Spartacus’ face was a mask of steely determination.
‘There may be a way of avoiding unnecessary bloodshed,’ I said.
‘You mean saving your sister and the wife and children of Darius. Queen Aliyeh should have thought of them before she engineered this war. No! Dura and Hatra will not prevent me from having justice.’
‘Justice or revenge?’ I asked.
He shrugged. ‘It makes no difference to me. I know you are a stickler for rules, uncle. Well, Media declared war on Gordyene and now faces the consequences of losing that war. Your sister is a poisonous bitch who for years has derided my wife and me. Her son’s soldiers have plundered my borderlands, which I do not recall you objecting to at any time.’
‘I did not know,’ I protested.
‘It was common knowledge throughout all Parthia,’ he wailed. ‘I leave for Irbil today.’
‘May we come with you?’ asked Gallia, a question that caught him by surprise.
He had always greatly respected Gallia for her courage and forthright nature, as well as her ability to hold a grudge for years, traits he himself possessed in abundance. He no longer listened to me but with Gallia it was a different matter.
‘I will show Aliyeh no mercy,’ he warned.
‘I do not expect you to,’ she said.
‘You are welcome to accompany us, aunt,’ Rasha told her.
Spartacus and Rasha departed back to camp to organise the troops for the ride north. After we had ridden into Ctesiphon to liaise with Chrestus concerning the treatment of the wounded, I asked Gallia why she had requested to journey to Irbil with Spartacus.
‘I know you want to speak to your sister, Pacorus, to try to resolve the situation. Even at this late hour, you still desire to save her.’
‘Am I wrong to do so?’
‘She has caused so much misery in recent times, and not a few lives. Both her sons were devious schemers who came to bad ends, and I suspect your sister will not live to see the end of the siege.’
‘And Darius’ wife and children, do they deserve to die?’
‘Many people meet death who do not deserve it, Pacorus, it is the nature of the world we live in.’
Spartacus may have wanted to depart that afternoon but organisational affairs, the bane of military life, interrupted his plans. He was forced to delay his departure while we decided what would happen in the aftermath of our victory. We sat in Ctesiphon’s throne room, Spartacus lounging on the high king’s golden throne itself, his muddy boots dirtying the royal footstool. Slaves in white robes and soft slippers served us wine, sweet pastries and savouries, the chief steward of the royal household staring with incredulity at the King of Gordyene’s lack of respect for the surroundings he was in. Spartacus saw his disapproving look and jumped from the throne, pacing over to face him.
‘You think I am a barbarian?’
The steward stared down at the floor. ‘No, highness.’
‘Then what?’
‘Leave him alone, Spartacus,’ ordered Diana.
‘We have more important things to discuss,’ said Gafarn.
Spartacus jabbed the steward hard in the chest with a finger.
‘Look at me in that manner again and I will cut out your eyes.’
He returned to the throne, avoiding the glares of his mother and father.
‘So,’ I said, eager to get down to the meat of the matter, ‘what is our plan?’
‘Burn Irbil to the ground,’ announced Spartacus, emptying his jewel-encrusted gold rhyton.
I sighed. ‘I thought we had decided to try another way.’
‘Your ways are not my ways, uncle,’ replied Spartacus with glee.
‘Why have you occupied Seleucia?’ I asked him.
To assist Silani in preventing any further outbreaks of rebellion, I had sent a thousand of the Exiles to occupy Babylon, with orders to seize the assets of the Egibi family that had provided financial assistance to the rebels. The two brothers, Itti and Nabu, had disappeared but their many properties inside Babylon had been seized. In Seleucia, Spartacus had appointed Shamshir as governor and had garrisoned it with his own troops.
‘Am I answerable to you, uncle?’ he shot back, clicking his fingers to indicate his rhyton should be refilled.
‘We need to get the Romans out of Parthia as soon as possible,’ said Gallia, changing the subject.
‘Agreed,’ added Rasha, ‘the longer they stay the less likely will be their desire to leave.’
‘They have been well paid for their services,’ said Diana, ‘and if they wish to receive their bonus they will have to report back to the Syrian governor.’
Gafarn, Spartacus and I looked at her in astonishment.
‘Or so I have heard,’ she smiled.
‘The Romans will be leaving with the Durans, my lords and their retainers,’ I said, ‘in that way I can get rid of Kalet and his now bored followers, get the Durans back to Dura, and ensure the Romans are escorted safely back to Syria.’
It was becoming increasingly difficult to keep Kalet and his men confined to camp, especially as the horsemen of Elymais had been given free rein to hunt down those rebels still at large. But they were soldiers whereas Kalet and his men and not a few women wer
e raiders and thieves, albeit very skilled and brave ones. I did not want to unleash them against the well-ordered and prosperous towns and villages of Babylon and Susiana.
I turned to Gafarn. ‘As we are travelling to Irbil, I was hoping you and Diana would stay here to oversee the day-to-day running of things.’
‘To play at being high king?’ Gafarn was unimpressed.
‘To be de facto high king,’ I stressed.
‘A Bedouin in charge of the Parthian Empire,’ smiled Gafarn, ‘I like it. But General Herneus will also be taking the bulk of Hatra’s army back home. My quartermasters have been tormenting him with horror stories of how my lords have been requisitioning supplies from the local population. Like your own lords, Pacorus, we have nearly ten thousand of their horsemen looking for someone to kill. Best to get them back to their lords’ estates.’
‘Pacorus will stay with the Royal Bodyguard,’ said Diana, ‘along with a few horse archers.’
The ‘few’ horse archers she alluded to were the nearly five thousand professional horsemen that Hatra maintained on a permanent basis, which meant Ctesiphon would have a garrison of upwards of five and half thousand men, far greater than at any time in its existence. Housing them was not a problem. The senior officers were billeted in the luxurious mansions of the courtiers who had once fawned over Phraates, only to desert him in his hour of need.
Spartacus and Rasha rode to Irbil on the day I invited Quintus Dellius and his brutish tribune to Ctesiphon to visit the Hall of Victory, the building that housed the Roman eagles and standards taken at Carrhae and Lake Urmia. Titus Tullus had received a nasty head wound during the Battle of Ctesiphon and he still wore a bandage as he and his superior followed me into the building that symbolised Parthian military prowess. I expected Tullus to be vulgar and outspoken about it, but he was remarkably polite, reverent even.
The building had been constructed on top of a tiered stone platform, the hall flanked by rows of marble columns. We walked through the vestibule into the sanctuary where the captured Roman eagles resided, each one mounted on a sandstone plinth and watched night and day by guards. The Scythians had departed but Prince Pacorus had replaced them with members of Hatra’s Royal Bodyguard who eyed the two Romans warily as I showed them the captured standards, which also included many signum and vexillum taken at Lake Urmia.
The chamber was scented with frankincense, which was burnt as an offering to Marduk, God of Babylon. A bronze statue of the deity stood in the centre of the hall.
‘Is this a temple?’ asked the legate, his eyes fixed on the silver eagle before him.
The quiet, incense and air of veneration that infused the chamber certainly gave it the feel of being a holy place, but it was more a shrine to Phraates’ vanity.
‘Not a temple,’ I said, ‘more a place of reflection.’
Tullus nodded at the statue of Marduk. ‘But he is a god, isn’t he?’
‘Marduk,’ I told him, ‘the deity of Babylon. The creature at his feet is a snake-dragon. The ziggurat in Babylon is dedicated to Marduk, as is this hall and indeed the whole palace complex. It is said he created the Tigris and Euphrates from the eyes of the Goddess Tiamat, whom he slayed and used her eyes to create the rivers, carving up her body to create heaven and earth.’
‘Is he your god?’ asked the tribune.
‘No, I worship Shamash, the Sun God and the God of Truth and Justice, whose symbol is a golden disc showing the sun’s rays.’
Quintus Dellius looked at me. ‘I thank you for bringing us here, King Pacorus, but I have to tell you Rome will not rest until these eagles are returned to their rightful owners. The disgrace over the loss of these eagles is felt throughout the whole Roman world. It is an open wound that can never heal, and as such guarantees continual animosity between Parthia and Rome.’
‘I know this,’ I told him.
‘You are a wise man, King Pacorus, and perhaps one blessed by the gods themselves. Everyone has heard of the man who rode with the slave general Spartacus, who defeated Crassus and later Mark Antony, and who created his army in the image of Rome’s legions.’
‘In Rome,’ added Tullus, ‘it is said you are the son of a Roman noble who was stolen at birth and raised by a Parthian family.’
I laughed out loud, causing the guards to frown at me.
‘I can assure you I am the son and grandson of Parthians.’
‘If Phraates returns, King Pacorus,’ said the legate, ‘I would strongly advise you to try to convince him to return the eagles to Rome.’
That was as likely as me sprouting a pair of wings.
‘It will guarantee peace between Rome and Parthia,’ said the legate.
‘That is a bold statement,’ I told him. ‘To date, Rome has shown a distinct unwillingness to respect the borders of the Parthian Empire.’
He nodded. ‘Rome has a new leader, majesty, one who realises that endless war is both expensive and corrosive to the well-being of his people.’
‘There is an old saying, legate,’ I said, ‘that goes actions speak louder than words. We will see if Octavian is different from the other Romans I have had to deal with over the years.’
It was a curious thing that though Crassus, Pompey and Mark Antony had all waged or threatened war against Parthia, I found all three to be charming, polite and altogether agreeable company. It also saddened me to reflect that those rulers who had been insulting and malicious – Porus, Narses, Mithridates, Darius and Alexander – had all been Parthian.
Quintus Dellius and his deputy left Ctesiphon the next day, marching at the head of their legion and in the company of Chrestus, Sporaces, the Durans, thousands of horse archers, Azad’s cataphracts and Kalet and the other lords. The Exiles, minus the thousand garrisoning Babylon, remained in the camp south of the palace complex, along with Alcaeus and his medical staff who were treating the seriously wounded. Farid and his camels also returned to Dura with the army, along with Quintus Varsas and his siege engines. I stood with him at the entrance to the camp as a long line of wagons holding the constituent parts of his machines was winding its way north towards the stone bridge across the Tigris at Seleucia.
‘Well, Quintus, we have transported your siege engines all this way for nothing. But at least Phraates, should he return, will be saved having to rebuild Ctesiphon’s walls.’
‘You are certain the high king will return, majesty?’
In truth, I had no idea but I was loath to entertain the idea that I had fought a war that had cost thousands of lives for a man who was already dead.
‘I believe so, yes.’
He was a man unfulfilled, eager to test his mettle in a siege and put into practice the theories of siege warfare taught to him by Marcus Sutonius and Scelias’ scholars. He had a keen, methodical mind and I was certain any siege he conducted would be professional and ruthless in its execution. For that reason alone, I was glad his engines were returning to Dura unused. But Quintus would not be returning home.
Another individual who was far from happy was Eszter. My daughter, now riding a grey mare following the death of her Arabian in battle, was departing in the company of a wounded and equally unhappy Dalir and his father Kalet. Most of Dura’s lords and their retainers had ridden from camp at dawn when the Durans had commenced their march. Kalet looked up at the cloudy sky and picked his nose.
‘You wasted a golden opportunity if you ask me, lord.’
‘Oh?’
He pointed to the east. ‘You should have let us chase those rebels down. I’ve heard Susiana is a prosperous land; rich pickings to be had.’
Which was precisely why I did not want Kalet and his companions being given free rein in Susiana.
‘We are returning to Dura empty handed, lord.’
‘Empty handed,’ repeated Dalir.
‘And I lost my horse,’ chirped in Eszter, ‘which was a present from Dalir.’
‘Stop complaining,’ I told her, ‘you are alive, aren’t you?’
She looked
around. ‘I sincerely hope so, because if this is the afterlife it is extremely disappointing.’
‘Ungrateful children are also disappointing,’ I replied.
She urged her horse forward, giving me a withering look as she trotted from camp, Dalir following. She had said her goodbyes to Gallia earlier, to my surprise my wife insisting on sleeping in the palace rather than in camp, and spending a lot of time with Diana and Rasha behind closed doors.
‘She’s a wild one,’ said Kalet, looking at the departing Eszter surrounded by a host of Dalir’s warriors. ‘They make a nice pair, though.’
Eszter had annoyed me so I decided to take it out on Kalet.
‘Normally, the bride’s parents would pay a dowry to the family of the man she is marrying. But Eszter is a princess and Dalir is not royalty, so you will have to pay me a sum for the privilege of your son marrying into Dura’s royal family.’
‘How much?’
‘Ten talents of gold.’
It was the equivalent of around a ton of gold, a massive amount for a poor desert lord scratching a living in the Kingdom of Dura’s harsh desert. I smiled triumphantly at him.
He flicked something ghastly from a finger that he had mined from his nose.
‘Done.’
Before I had time to interrogate him about how a man who dressed in simple robes and lived in an austere stronghold had acquired such a princely sum, he was gone, galloping after his son and future daughter-in-law. I wandered through camp, to one of the medical tents where a tired and irritable Alcaeus was inspecting cots filled with wounded. Some were dying, blood seeping through bandages around their bellies or heads. Others had broken legs and arms secured in wooden splints. The aroma inside the tent was one of human waste, vomit and sweat that made me retch when I first entered. Alcaeus nodded to me when I walked over to him.
‘Come to help?’
‘Well, I…’
He thrust a wooden bowl at me before I could answer. ‘Take this and mind him.’