Sons Of the Citadel, page 4
part #6 of Parthian Chronicles Series
‘And yet you condemn me to spend the next few years sitting in meetings at Ctesiphon, Babylon or Susa listening to ambitious courtiers, scheming priests and tiresome senior officers. I think not.’
‘Then you condemn Phraates to being manipulated by those same individuals if he has no one to warn him of their intrigues.’
‘Orodes,’ I said, ‘would have ensured his son is surrounded by trusted advisers. We both know what type of man he was. He would have planned for the day when Phraates would assume the high crown.’
‘Have it your own way, Pacorus. But I think you are wrong.’
It was another month before the formal invitations arrived to attend the coronation of Phraates at Ctesiphon. It was signed by Demaratus, formerly the commander of the garrison of Babylon and now the general of the new king’s bodyguard. I waved the invitation triumphantly at Gallia.
‘You remember Demaratus? I told you Orodes would ensure Phraates was surrounded by good men.’
Demaratus requested each king bring no more than a hundred soldiers to Ctesiphon to keep the size of the congregation manageable. In any case it was considered bad form to take a large entourage, which might be interpreted as a lack of faith in the security measures in place at Ctesiphon. So I took fifty cataphracts, thirty horse archers and Gallia’s bodyguard of a score of Amazons. There were more than a hundred riders because each cataphract was accompanied by two squires leading a camel each, the beasts loaded with their master’s tent, spare weapons, clothing and armour, food and fodder. Claudia had expressed an interest in the coronation so I had invited her along and Isabella had invited herself because her future husband would be accompanying Peroz and Roxanne to Ctesiphon. Talib and ten of his men acted as our scouts even though I could travel to Ctesiphon blindfolded so many times had I made it.
We left Dura on an overcast morning just after dawn, bleary eyed shopkeepers and market traders watching our column of horses and camels ride down Dura’s main thoroughfare from the Citadel to the Palmyrene Gate. As was the custom every man and woman drew his or her sword and saluted the stone griffin atop the gates as legionaries swung them open to allow us to exit the city. We turned right to ride along the walls and then right again to head for the pontoon bridges spanning the Euphrates. Small children on the riverbank, the sons and daughters of the men who were already fishing the river, waved and whooped as we passed them. We cantered over the river and entered Hatran territory, heading west to Seleucia and on to Ctesiphon.
At the end of the first day we halted on the road and took a detour north for a mile to get away from the caravans making camp by the side of the road. The squires erected our own and their masters’ tents and guards were posted around the perimeter. Talib reported to me in my tent when the last vestiges of a blood-red sun were disappearing on the horizon. His black robes were covered in the fine white dust also covering the top half of his face.
I poured him a cup of lukewarm water from a waterskin.
‘You made contact?’
He nodded. ‘They will be here soon.’
The next morning they did indeed appear: shimmering black shapes in the heat haze. Azad, the strapping commander of my cataphracts, reported their presence and I ordered him to send a detachment of his men to escort them into camp. I wore my black Roman leather cuirass and placed two new goose feathers in my Roman officer’s helmet and waited outside my tent with Gallia, who had instructed the Amazons to form an honour guard either side of us. Squires brought our horses and we sat and waited for our guests to arrive.
I smiled when I saw the white horse head banner of Hatra fluttering in the hot wind that had picked up and then I saw Gafarn and Diana ride towards us. I nudged my horse forward and bowed my head at Hatra’s rulers.
‘Welcome, majesties.’
Gafarn rolled his eyes and Diana giggled.
‘Oh, Pacorus, always so formal.’
The formalities dispensed with Gallia had Zenobia, commander of the Amazons, dismiss her women and I ushered my friends and Companions into my tent. Gafarn’s cataphract royal bodyguard, magnificent in their scale armour, burnished helmets and white horses similarly encased in armour, were also dismissed and told to get the horses unarmoured and into the shade. It was already blisteringly hot.
Gafarn flopped down into a chair inside our Agraci tent.
‘Your scouts made contact with us last night. You’re taking a chance bringing Agraci to the coronation.’
He took the cup of water I offered to him, Gallia passing another to Diana.
‘The Agraci have always provided scouts for my army,’ I answered, ‘where I go they go.’
‘They will be refused entry into the royal palace at Ctesiphon,’ said Gafarn.
‘We’ll see,’ I smiled.
I looked at the tall, serious-looking man standing behind Gafarn.
‘Sit down, Pacorus, you are not on guard duty.’
He bowed his head and sat in one of the chairs, looking directly ahead.
‘What do you think, prince? Should the Agraci be admitted to the royal palace across the Tigris?’
Pacorus looked at his father.
‘Speak your mind,’ his father instructed.
‘It is well known the Agraci are viewed with distaste by many in the empire,’ he said stiffly. ‘They will not be welcome at the coronation of the king of kings.’
I got the impression Pacorus himself viewed the Agraci with distaste. He may have been the son of former slaves but he had been born in Hatra and raised in the palace, mixing with the city’s priests and aristocrats. It was no secret that many among Hatra’s nobility took a dim view of their rulers being former slaves. But Gafarn’s great triumph against the Armenians outside the city and the crushing of the Romans at Carrhae had ushered in a golden age for Hatra, which prospered in the aftermath of victory. Gafarn and Diana were finally accepted if not universally loved, but in Prince Pacorus Hatra had a man to call its own. Handsome, brave and schooled in the ancient ways of the city, it had been planned for him to marry an Armenian princess. But Artavasdes, the Armenian king, had prevaricated about the union and so Pacorus had married the daughter of one of Hatra’s most prestigious families. Thus had he cemented his place in the affections of the aristocracy and commoners alike.
‘That should be interesting for your brother and his wife,’ I replied.
‘Just think,’ said Gafarn, ‘if you had become king of kings you would have been able to invite anyone to Ctesiphon.’
‘Don’t you start,’ I replied.
Two hours later another column of horses and camels reached our camp, these headed by a banner showing a double-headed lion sceptre crossed with a sword. Gallia was delighted to have Praxima, her old second-in-command, with her and Diana was likewise thrilled when the red-haired Queen of Mesene rode into camp. It was also good to be with Nergal, the Parthian who had ridden with me in Italy all those years ago as my deputy, later the commander of my horse archers at Dura and now a king in his own right.
That night we sat around a campfire in the open and reminisced about Spartacus, Italy and the path our lives had taken afterwards.
‘He would have been proud, Spartacus I mean,’ I said, ‘his son is not only free but rules his own kingdom.’
‘I think he would also have approved of his son’s marriage to an Agraci princess,’ added Gallia.
‘Certainly Claudia, Spartacus’ wife, would have approved,’ said Diana, looking at my daughter next to Gallia. ‘You were named after her.’
I tossed a rib I had been gnawing at into the fire. ‘I’m glad she never saw the end, the death of Spartacus, I mean.’
‘He wanted to be with his wife,’ said Diana.
I looked at Pacorus. ‘Your mother was the one who carried your brother to safety through the hills of the Silarus Valley.’
Nergal chuckled. ‘She would not be able to carry him now.’
‘Neither would I,’ said Gafarn, ‘he seems to get bigger every time I see him, though perhaps I am diminishing.’
‘Let us hope the new king of kings does not diminish quickly,’ said Diana.
‘Pacorus has every faith in him,’ Gallia smiled.
‘The only reason he is being elected,’ said Praxima, ‘is because Pacorus lobbied hard for him.’
I sighed. ‘Who else is there?’
‘You,’ Praxima shot back.
I held my head in my hands. ‘I have no desire to be high king. I was lord high general twice. It was enough. Besides I do not have the wit or wisdom to be a politician.’
‘Mm, I’ll grant you young Phraates is an accomplished courtier,’ admitted Gafarn, ‘and I mean he has a malicious, devious nature.’
‘So unlike his mother and father,’ lamented Diana.
‘Let us talk of other things,’ I pleaded.
So we did, mainly reminiscing about the old, carefree days. Young Pacorus and Claudia grew bored of our retelling of old tales and excused themselves but we Companions talked deep into the night, falling asleep round the campfire just as we had when Italy had trembled at the feet of Spartacus.
The next day we returned to being kings and queens, continuing south along the eastern bank of the Euphrates before striking east to Seleucia and across the Tigris to Ctesiphon. The walls of Seleucia, which I had once helped to tear holes in, had almost been restored but the defences of Ctesiphon had only been partially repaired.
Ctesiphon was a place where opulence and grandeur rubbed shoulders with neglect and decay. It had been founded a hundred years before as the western residence of the king of kings. As such it was to be grand and imposing, its construction and upkeep paid for out of the annual tribute every kingdom sent to the king of kings. But disagreements or civil strife interrupted the tribute and even when it was paid the high king could lavish it on his own kingdom instead of Ctesiphon, though no high king had ever held back when it came to furnishing the palace of his official residence.
The palace at Ctesiphon was both large and opulent. The floors and walls were decorated with marble, opus sectile, mosaics and stucco sculptures. The throne room, hallways, entrance and private apartments were ornamented with mosaics covering the upper parts of the walls; the lower parts clad in coloured marble slabs. The white marble pillars were bedecked with gold and more gold adorned the doors within the palace. The throne itself was inlaid with gold and even eating bowls were fashioned from the precious metal.
Near the palace was a large stone terrace upon which temples had been built. The largest one was dedicated to Shamash, the Sun God, but there were also others to Marduk, Babylon’s god and the one worshipped by Phraates’ mother, and Ishtar, the Goddess of Love and War who also occupied an important position among the highborn and commoners of Babylon. The temples were magnificent structures, though not as grand as the ziggurat of Uruk where Nergal and Praxima were worshipped as gods. But they were spacious and airy and filled with marble columns and walls of the same stone.
A small army of priests, priestesses, officials, accountants, musicians and custodians served each temple, living in quarters around them. There were also quarters for sacred prostitutes, temple slaves and eunuchs. The workforce of the palace was just as large and so behind it was a sprawling collection of artisans’ quarters, residential areas, barracks, slave quarters, stables and buildings to house weapons, fodder and food, all in various states of repair. The mud-brick perimeter wall had never been adequately repaired so there were large gaps along its extent used as makeshift entrances. Any army laying siege to Ctesiphon would make short work of its defences. Also there were not enough soldiers to man the perimeter wall anyway. But that was not the point. Ctesiphon was the symbolic capital of the Parthian Empire.
Demaratus himself met us a short distance from the residence, now very old and totally grey. He looked world-weary as he held up a hand to halt the column of purple-clad horse archers behind him. He bowed his head to us.
‘Greetings, majesties, it warms my heart to see you all.’
‘Are you well, Demaratus?’ asked a concerned Diana.
‘I am, thank you,’ he replied unconvincingly. ‘Phraates has requested all royal entourages camp outside Ctesiphon’s walls so as to prevent overcrowding and the ensuing noxious fumes.’
‘Makes sense,’ said Gafarn, ‘hundreds of horses and camels produce a lot of dung.’
‘We would not want to offend the high king’s nostrils,’ grinned Nergal.
‘Has everyone arrived?’ I enquired.
He nodded. ‘That they are here is testament to the high regard the other kings have for you, majesty. King Khosrou lectured me long and hard on the only reason he made the long trip from his homeland was because you had convinced him Phraates would make a half-decent high king.’
‘Half-decent?’ said Gafarn.
‘His words, not mine,’ replied Demaratus.
After we had made camp near the blue waters of the Tigris, the tents and animals of the other kings either side of us, I went with Gallia to search out the King of Margiana. We found him in his tent berating the two sons he had brought with him, the oldest of his seven children. A smiling guard in leather armour showed us inside as the king vented his spleen.
‘Just because you two regard this trip as a holiday does not mean you stop being soldiers. You carry your swords about you at all times and henceforth you are both forbidden from going to Seleucia.’
‘But father,’ protested one.
‘Don’t “but father” me,’ shouted Khosrou, ‘if your mother found out you had been entertaining prostitutes she would lop your balls off. Just because we are a thousand miles from home don’t mean you can forget you are princes.’
The guard cleared his throat.
‘What?’ barked Khosrou.
‘The King and Queen of Dura, highness.’
Khosrou spun, snorted and then broke into a smile. He looked back at his crestfallen sons.
‘Get out. And you are both confined to camp.’
The boys, both fine examples of Margiana manhood, trudged past us disconsolately.
‘Come in, come in,’ enthused Khosrou, walking over to Gallia to kiss her on the cheeks.
‘Fetch some wine,’ he ordered the guard, extending an arm inviting us to sit among the huge cushions laid on the red carpet covering the floor of the tent.
The king’s hair, beard and thin moustache were all white as snow and his flat face resembled an old saddlebag. But his eyes were still clear and his mind lucid.
‘Your sons do you credit, lord,’ smiled Gallia.
He jerked a thumb at the tent’s entrance.
‘Those two? Thick as thieves. The eldest, Khosrou, is supposed to wear my crown when I’m gone but shows as much interest in kingship as Pacorus does in the high crown.’
He jabbed a finger at me. ‘The kings want you to be ruler of the empire.’
‘That’s what I’ve told him,’ added Gallia.
‘As you say, lord,’ I told him, ‘I have no interest.’
A servant brought wine and served it in simple wooden cups. Khosrou toasted us both.
‘Orodes was a good man but good men do not necessarily make good choices when it comes to their offspring. He brought Phraates to Merv once, when the boy was about twelve or thirteen. He was a nasty bit of work then so I can only guess what he is like now, though we have been given an inkling.’
He drained his cup and ordered the servant to refill it.
‘In what way, lord?’ I asked.
‘Making us camp outside his walls like vagrants while he sleeps on silk sheets in his palace. No manners, you see, and where there are no manners there is generally a deficiency in other qualities.’
‘Pacorus believes Phraates will make a good high king,’ said Gallia.
Khosrou scratched his nose. ‘Course he does. He’s the son of Orodes and your husband refuses to countenance the idea anything bad could come from one who was perhaps the most decent, honourable man I have ever met.’
I raised my cup. ‘Orodes was certainly that.’
Khosrou leaned forward. ‘But it does not change the opinion I have of his son and I am not alone, Pacorus.’
He shrugged. ‘What’s done is done. Perhaps you are right and I am wrong. It’s all in the hands of the gods now anyway.’
The gods smiled on the day Phraates was crowned. Just before dawn the kings assembled at the Temple of Shamash to witness the rising sun heralding the Sun God’s journey through the heavens on a new day. White-robed priests chanted prayers and prostrated themselves in front of the temple’s main entrance facing east as an orange ball peeked above the horizon. All the kings were dressed in their finery, though I was the only one wearing Roman protection. My armour comprised a black two-piece leather cuirass given to me by a good friend, a German named Castus, who had been a general in the army of Spartacus. The cuirass had been taken from a dead Roman officer following one of our many victories. It was muscled and embossed on the upper chest with a golden sun motif, two golden winged lions immediately beneath it. It also had fringed strips of black leather over the thighs and shoulders, which were also adorned with golden bees. In the crook of my arm I carried another gift from Castus: the dead Roman’s helmet, a superb steel piece padded inside, with large, hinged cheek plates and a brightly polished brass crest, in which was secured a plume of white goose feathers. At my hip I wore the spatha, a gift from Spartacus himself. I laughed silently. Among the kings of the empire I was the only one wearing stolen weapons and armour.
When the sun began to rise Ctesiphon’s high priest Timo, a fat man with piggy eyes, baggy jowls and a double chin, clapped his hands and ordered everyone inside. Actually everyone was wrong because only the kings and their sons were allowed into the Temple of Shamash on this momentous day. Women, children and commoners were excluded from the temple compound, much to the intense annoyance of Gallia, Praxima and Rasha, the wife of young Spartacus. I nodded to him when we filed into the temple. Other than his long hair and beard he looked very much like his father. Demaratus, looking resplendent in his dragon skin armour and gold-lined purple tunic and leggings, fussed around like a mother hen, ensuring everyone had a view of the altar.
