Sons Of the Citadel, page 15
part #6 of Parthian Chronicles Series
A party of cataphracts on punishment detail was returning, horses lathered in sweat their riders wilting in the saddle. It was hot now and they must have been roasting in their scale armour and full-face helmets. I stopped and watched the company commander order them into line, stable hands and civilian workers scattering as they did so. I studied each man’s kontus as he held it in a vertical position, or tried to as heat exhaustion swept over him. A few wavered and then a man toppled from his saddle on to the stones below. Then another and another. I was aware of someone beside me. It was Strabo.
‘How long will he keep them standing there?’
‘Just a while a longer.’
Two more cataphracts clattered to the ground.
‘Some would say you are a heartless bastard to condone such punishment, majesty.’
Two more men passed out and fell from their saddles.
‘Dismissed,’ called the company commander.
I turned and slapped him on the shoulder.
‘Train hard, fight easy, Strabo, is our motto. And do not commit offences.’
‘Get those horses to the stables, unsaddled and rubbed down,’ hollered Strabo to his subordinates.
I saddled Tegha and rode him from the Citadel, the garrison commander assigning me a score of horse archers as an escort. As it was most days, the road from the Citadel to the Palmyrene Gate was choked with traffic and it took us a good while to reach the stone griffin and pass beneath its stone wings. When I reached the legionary camp I immediately rode to Chrestus’ tent in its centre, a huge affair with sidewalls nine feet high, thick wooden poles supporting the roof. Inside senior officers of the Durans and Exiles surrounded him. I loitered while he issued his orders, taking their salutes as they filed out of the tent.
Chrestus bowed his head. ‘Here to make an inspection, majesty?’
‘Here to see Alaric,’ I said.
‘He’s on guard duty in the griffin’s tent,’ he told me.
The Roman legions may have had their silver eagles but we had the golden griffin, standard of the Durans, and the silver lion of the Exiles. Both of them were guarded night and day in their own tents to the rear of the general’s quarters.
‘Send for him if you would.’
Chrestus called a guard and ordered him to speak to the duty centurion to bring Alaric to his tent. He poured some water into a cup and offered it to me.
‘I want you to surrender Alaric to me,’ I said.
He nodded. ‘With pleasure. This day has been a long time coming.’
Alaric appeared a few moments later, sweating in his helmet and mail armour. His shield bore red griffin wings and on his right side hung his gladius in a scabbard. He saluted Chrestus who ordered him to remove his helmet and rest his shield on the ground.
‘The king wishes to speak to you.’
Alaric grinned at me.
‘I will come straight to the point,’ I said, ‘I need you in the palace to undertake a special mission.’
Chrestus raised an eyebrow. He had been expecting me to tell Alaric he was being retired but in all conscience I would rather walk across hot coals. Alaric was a legend in the army and a hero to many of the younger legionaries. He was a hero to me!
He scratched his nose. ‘What special mission?’
‘What special mission, majesty?’ growled Chrestus.
Alaric winked at me. ‘It’s all right, general, me and Pacorus go back a long way so there’s no need to stand on ceremony.’
Chrestus said nothing but the veins in his neck were bulging. The Companions were allowed to address each other by their first names regardless of rank, which officers like Chrestus who were not members of the inner circle found strange and disconcerting. I think he was glad the majority of living Companions were either retired or, like Alcaeus, in senior positions. Alaric was the one remaining bone of contention.
‘I will enlighten you at the palace. After you have finished guard duty report to me there. Dismissed.’
He replaced his helmet, saluted Chrestus, grinned at me and left. Chrestus began tapping the vine cane against his thigh.
‘There are many times I could have had him flogged but out of respect for his service record did not. He treads a fine line between insolence and obedience.’
‘It’s not really his fault, Chrestus.’
‘Really?’
I sat down in one of his chairs.
‘By rights he should have died in the arena thirty years ago, and would have met that fate had not he, Spartacus and the others broke out of their ludus. He is more of a Companion than I am.’
‘The last of a dying breed.’
‘Indeed,’ I remarked.
It was early evening when Alaric reported to me in the throne room, now empty of petitioners and officials and less stuffy than it had been hours before. The German also appeared relaxed and refreshed in his white tunic, belt and sandals, his hair worn shoulder length as favoured by the men of his race. I stepped down from the dais and embraced him.
‘Thank you for coming. I heard the recent exercise was taxing.’
‘An understatement,’ he admitted.
‘I am going to transfer you away from the Durans for a while, Alaric. I need someone I can trust for a very important task.’
Gallia and Claudia appeared from the door at the rear of the hall and strolled over to us.
‘You both know Alaric,’ I said.
Gallia kissed him on the cheek.
‘As you yourself have revealed,’ I said to Claudia, ‘we are approaching uncertain times, and perhaps dangerous ones as I do not know if our friend Queen Cleopatra will send another group of assassins to Dura to carry out her nefarious work. As such I am appointing Alaric as your bodyguard.’
Claudia laughed. ‘My what?’
‘You may regard this as some sort of joke but I am deadly serious,’ I told her. ‘You will no longer leave the palace alone and when you leave the city you will have an armed escort at all times, which Alaric will command.’
‘I do not need an escort, much less a bodyguard,’ she insisted.
‘You will do as you are told,’ I replied angrily. ‘The matter is not up for debate.’
I turned to Alaric. ‘You accept this task?’
‘Gladly,’ he beamed, winking at Claudia. ‘Don’t you worry, princess, I’ll keep you safe.’
She stormed off, Alaric following, enraging her even more. But I knew he would stick to her like dung to a blanket.
‘She won’t like it,’ warned Gallia.
‘For once she will obey her father. In any case the problem of Alaric is solved for the moment.’
Chapter 5
My blood ran cold as the words came out of Byrd’s mouth. The inside of his magnificent tent suddenly felt cramped and stifling. Noora placed an arm around my shoulder in a futile effort to provide solace while Malik merely frowned, the black tattoos on his face giving him the appearance of a demon from the underworld in the subdued lightning of the tent. Talib stood behind the seated Byrd like a sentry. My former chief scout had sent an urgent request for me to travel to Palmyra. I set out with a feeling of trepidation increasing with every mile I got closer to the Agraci capital. But nothing could have prepared me for what Byrd was revealing.
‘Twelve Romani legions are gathering in northern Syria, plus ten thousand horsemen from Spain and Gaul.’
‘The two legions in Syria are marching north to rendezvous with those coming from Italy,’ added Talib.
‘Auxiliaries are also marching to reinforce Romani legions,’ continued Byrd, ‘from Syria, Cilicia, Egypt and Pontus.’
‘That is not all,’ said Talib.
‘There’s more?’ I exclaimed, not wanting to hear more.
‘Tell him,’ said Byrd.
‘The Romans will cross the Euphrates at Zeugma,’ said Talib.
‘As they did prior to Carrhae,’ I noted.
‘But Mark Antony will not make the same mistake as Crassus, lord,’ said Talib, ‘he will march north to link up with King Artavasdes.’
I was dumbstruck. ‘The Armenians?’
‘Romani and Artavasdes have been in discussions for months, Pacorus,’ Byrd informed me. ‘They determined not to make same mistake as Crassus. Will invade Parthia from the north where there are more mountains and hills.’
‘Thus neutralising our horsemen,’ I sighed, ‘our most effective soldiers. When will they invade?’
‘Mark Antony is in Athens,’ Byrd told me. ‘As soon as he arrives in Syria he will lead the army across Euphrates.’
‘From what we can gather, lord,’ said Talib, ‘at least one hundred thousand men will be marching with him. In addition to the Armenians.’
I looked at Byrd. ‘You are certain there will not be another attack towards Palmyra and Dura?’
‘No attack on Palmyra or Dura,’ he reassured me.
‘I have scouts patrolling far to the west, Pacorus,’ said Malik. ‘They report nothing out of the ordinary.’
That was something at least, though I was surprised Mark Antony was not taking the direct route to my kingdom to carry out his wife’s wishes. As if reading my mind Byrd provided the answer.
‘Much time and effort has gone into planning this campaign, Pacorus. It was originally the idea of a Romani general called Caesar.’
I searched my brain. ‘I have heard of the name.’
‘He was murdered by other Romani seven years ago but before he was killed he had been planning a campaign against Parthia. To avenge Carrhae and get back eagles you took. Now Mark Antony uses his plan to attempt the conquest of whole of Parthia.’
‘And Cleopatra has vowed…’
Talib stopped himself and cast his eyes down. We looked at each other in confusion.
‘Has vowed what?’ I asked.
‘Sorry, lord, I spoke out of turn.’
‘Tell him,’ urged Byrd, ‘he will not kill you.’
‘It’s only a rumour,’ said Talib quietly, ‘but I have heard it from numerous sources.’
‘Let’s hear it, then,’ I said, ‘I do pay you to gather information after all.’
‘Cleopatra has requested after her husband has conquered Parthia you be taken back to Alexandria in an iron cage, lord.’
Malik and Noora appeared horrified but I burst out laughing.
‘If Parthia is conquered,’ I told them, ‘there will be no need for an iron cage because I will be dead, I along with thousands of others. I have no wish to be enslaved again.’
One thing arousing my curiosity was Mark Antony’s schedule. It was already spring and his army was not yet assembled. It would take him two weeks at least to reach Armenia after crossing the Euphrates at Zeugma and perhaps another two weeks to launch the invasion of either Gordyene or Media. It would mean marching at the height of summer. Not a problem in the mountain plains of the north but most definitely an issue once the Romans were further south in the desert.
‘Romani target is Ctesiphon,’ said Byrd, ‘which they believe is the capital of Parthia.’
‘And filled with gold,’ added Talib.
‘What will you do, Pacorus?’ Malik asked me.
I stood, thanked Noora for her hospitality and offered my hand to Malik.
‘I must warn Phraates.’
Noora helped Byrd rise from the cushions placed on the carpet and which we had been sitting on. His ankle was still weak after all these years. I embraced him.
‘I am in your debt once again, my friend.’
‘I will let you know of any further developments,’ he told me.
I pointed at Talib. ‘You and your scouts will be needed soon so no more wandering around Syria. Stay in Palmyra until I summon you.’
‘The Agraci are banned from entering Parthia,’ said Malik glumly.
‘With over one hundred thousand enemy soldiers poised to invade the empire,’ I said, ‘Phraates will be more than glad to accept any help forthcoming.’
I could not have been more wrong.
After returning to Dura I sent couriers to Gafarn and Spartacus warning them of the impending Roman invasion, though doubtless they would have heard rumours of unusual activity on their borders. Then I rode post-haste to Ctesiphon, taking a small escort of horse archers. There was no time for formalities or niceties and so we took only two legionary oilskin tents to sleep in and a minimum of rations, hugging the east bank of the Euphrates as we journeyed south. We covered forty miles a day to reach Phraates’ court in five days, to find it teeming with workmen.
The new high king was making good his promise to rebuild and restore the palace complex, dozens of slaves labouring on wooden scaffolding putting mud-bricks in place to repair the walls under the watchful eyes of overseers and their whips.
The slaves lived outside the complex where they made the mud-bricks for the walls. A special canal had been dug to bring water from the Tigris to the palace to allow topsoil to be mixed with water to make a thick mud to which was added chopped straw. This mud mixture was then kneaded with bare feet for four days and left for a further four days. On the day the mixture was to be made into mud-bricks it was kneaded again before being poured into moulds where it solidified. The bricks were then tipped out of the moulds on to a surface of sand and straw and left to dry for a week, after which they could be used to repair the walls.
The level of activity inside the walls where a small army of workmen was creating prodigious amounts of heat and dust amazed me. Dozens of makeshift forges had been created where smiths made the tools essential for stonemasons: hammers, chisels, pry bars and chains. They were also continuously sharpening chisels blunted by striking stone. There were no quarries near Ctesiphon so stone for statues and construction had to be transported down the Tigris on barges to Seleucia and overland to the palace. If the blocks were large they were transported from the waterway on rollers made from tree trunks.
Architects with ground plans were supervising the renovation of not only the palace itself but also the many outbuildings fallen into neglect over the years. The air was filled with flies, the sound of stone being chiselled and the whistles and commands of overseers. A pall of dust hung over Ctesiphon adding to that which covered my men and me as we trotted through the vast work camp. We halted in front of the entrance to the main palace for there was more than one, though the others, far smaller, had been given over to court officials such as Ashleen and other lackeys of the high king. One had in earlier times housed the royal harem though Phraates was yet to take a wife as far as I knew.
Having been alerted that a party of horsemen had ridden through the main gates the duty garrison commander descended the palace steps with half a dozen guards to interrogate us. He wore a magnificent dragon-skin armour cuirass – a leather vest covered with overlapping silver plates – and carried his sword in a red leather sheath. He looked at our dirty, unshaven faces and screwed up his face.
‘State your business.’
‘I am King Pacorus of Dura and need to see the high king on a most urgent matter.’
He looked surprised then suspicious, seeing no banner or other insignia and only a score of men behind me. I jumped down from Tegha.
‘I did not ride hard to be interrogated by you, soldier,’ I said loudly. ‘Announce my arrival. Now!’
He jumped at the last word and for a moment I thought he was going to draw his sword and order his men to arrest us. But perhaps he recognised me from an earlier visit or decided to give me the benefit of the doubt because he ordered his men to watch us before ascending the steps and disappearing into the palace. I paced up and down during the interlude but after only a few minutes he reappeared with another officer in dragon skin armour and bowed his head to me.
‘Apologies, majesty, we did not receive word of your impending arrival.’
‘Because I did not give any.’
He clapped his hands and slaves scampered forward, the other officer ordering them to take our horses to the stables where they would be watered and fed. He offered to escort my weary men to the barracks block and so I dismissed them.
‘You will also want to refresh yourself, majesty?’ said the commander.
‘No, take me to see the high king immediately.’
He looked at my face and dust-covered clothes.
‘Of course, majesty.’
Smartly dressed courtiers and their wives gave me disparaging looks as I strode passed them on the way to the throne room, court officials stopping in their tracks as a scruffy man with a scarred face spoiled the rarefied atmosphere of the high king’s court. I was kept waiting outside the throne room for what seemed like an age before the doors opened and my nostrils were assailed by the scent of juniper incense.
I stepped inside and entered another world, a world of soft music, beautiful young people, fine costumes and gold trappings. Even the slaves who stood around the walls and beside marble pillars were unblemished and good looking, their hands and feet clean, showing no signs of hard usage. I walked slowly towards the white marble dais where Phraates sat. It had been six months since I had seen him. He appeared to have grown into his position. His hair was oiled and had been expertly combed, his beard neat and pointed. He sat on his gilded throne wearing a white silk gown and holding a golden arrow he was toying with. He was still pale and thin but he did not appear daunted by those surrounding him. I ignored the hostile Ashleen and bowed to Phraates. Timo standing beside the high king looked down his nose at me. To one side a striking half-naked female slave was playing a lyre.
‘King Pacorus, this is an unexpected pleasure. Have you come to apologise?’
Ashleen sniggered and a few courtiers giggled.
‘Apologise, majesty?’
He pointed the arrow at me. ‘For not paying the surcharge on the annual payment. Your example has been followed by numerous errant kingdoms and is highly displeasing.’
‘Highly displeasing,’ spat Ashleen.
‘I will give your majesty a thorough and exhaustive explanation if I had the time,’ I replied, ‘but I come here on a most pressing matter.’
The lyre player continued to pluck at her instrument as Phraates threaded the arrow through his fingers. All eyes were on me as he pondered my words.
