by Peter Darman
‘More?’ said a curious Orodes.
Samahe began pushing the chicken into her mouth ‘All will be revealed in time.’
She chewed the meat and looked at her greasy hands. She turned to a servant, a young girl holding a bowl of water in her hands, a towel draped over her lithesome right arm.
‘Slave,’ she called, ‘come here.’
The girl blanched with alarm and made to hurry to Samahe’s side but I held up a hand to stop her.
‘There are no slaves here,’ I said to our guest.
Samahe’s mouth opened in surprise. ‘No slaves?’
‘All who work in the palace are free and are paid for their services.’
Samahe’s eyes widened as she looked at Dobbai.
‘It’s true, sister. The son of Hatra fights not only to rid the empire of Mithridates but also to make the world a better place.’
‘So you see, Samahe,’ I said, ‘as a friend of slaves I would not be welcome in Apamea, or any part of Syria, I think.’
The servant looked at me, unsure at what to do. I nodded so she could offer the bowl to Samahe. The old woman washed her hands and dried them on the towel, all the time keeping her black eyes on the girl’s, who looked terrified.
‘What is your name?’ Samahe’s voice was soft and kind.
‘Farimah, lady,’ she answered in a tremulous voice.
‘Glorious moon,’ said Samahe. She reached into her robe and held out her hand to the girl. It contained some sort of silver charm.
‘Take it child, by way of an apology. Keep it close at all times and you will see your children grow into adulthood.’
The girl’s eyes lit up. ‘Thank you, lady. But I have no children.’
Samahe smiled, though her fat lips created more of a smirk.
‘You will.’
The girl bowed and retreated to the kitchens. Samahe sat between Gallia and Dobbai, opposite me, and she now leaned across the table. Her breath reeked of wine.
‘Pretty girl, if a little timid.’
‘Did you see her destiny in her face?’ I asked.
She belched, the distasteful aroma blasting my face.
‘All I saw was an attractive young girl who most likely will succumb to the charms of a lustful young man. They will marry, she will fall pregnant and her first child will kill her.’
‘You can predict the destiny of something that is not yet born?’ said Godarz, his forehead creased with disbelief.
‘You are an old man,’ Samahe said to him, ‘and you probably did not see her thin hips. A child could split her in two with ease, poor girl.’
‘So you gave her something to widen her hips? Are you a god?’ asked Domitus derisively.
‘They say that you can take a Roman out of Rome but never Rome out of a Roman,’ remarked Samahe. ‘The charm will save her life when she gives birth, Roman, that is all I am prepared to say on the matter. I did not come here to give charms to young virgins.’
‘And why did you come?’ I asked.
‘Not that we are not glad to have you here,’ added Gallia, who seemed fascinated by everything about Samahe.
Samahe rested a hand on my wife’s arm. ‘My sister said that you were gracious and wise and I can see that it is so.’
She turned to me with a slightly haughty demeanour.
‘I have no idea why I am here, only that the gods gave me a clear sign that I had business in Dura.’
‘What business?’ sneered Domitus, who seemed to have taken a dislike to her.
‘It will be made plain at the appropriate time.’
‘Did you not hear my sister tell you, son of Hatra,’ said Dobbai sternly, ‘that you and Gallia are the talk of Apamea.’
‘What of it?’ I answered.
Dobbai looked at Samahe and shook her head.
‘What of it? You must know that the gods use people to convey their messages. What clearer message can there be when thousands of voices are speaking your name? Where Dura and its king are heard on every corner, in every home and marketplace? Even a dullard would know that the gods were telling my sister to come here.’
It was all very ambiguous and frankly ridiculous, but out of politeness I did not press the point further. So Samahe consumed more meat before progressing on to slices of watermelon and grapes. She then declared that she would like to retire and rest before the evening’s feast. Gallia and Dobbai escorted her to the room that had been set aside for her, leaving the menfolk at the table.
‘She is obviously mad,’ declared Domitus.
‘Eccentric, certainly,’ said Orodes.
Rsan was concerned about more practical matters.
‘I hope the kitchens have enough food for this evening, majesty.’
We refilled our cups and laughed at the thought of this fat old woman from Apamea consuming Dura’s entire food stocks.
We left the banqueting hall as the first preparations for the evening feast began, servants arranging the tables that were usually stacked against the walls in rows at right angles to the top table and benches alongside them. The hall could seat five hundred people and at least half that number was in attendance by the time I took my seat alongside Gallia, Dobbai and Samahe, who declared to being ravenous after her nap.
Domitus sat down at a table with his senior officers and a select number of centurions. The former were technically tribunes as the Durans and Exiles were organised along Roman lines. However, it was common knowledge that Domitus despised the rank of tribune due to his experience of them during his time with the Roman army, and so they were simply referred to as officers. Orodes sat at another table with the senior horse archer and cataphract commanders. And at a further table were the Amazons. Everyone stood as four trumpeters blew their instruments to signal our arrival, taking their seats after we had done so.
The hall was soon filled with a frenetic din as drink flowed, amplified by the chamber’s relatively low ceiling. Samahe recommenced her assault on the palace’s food supplies as she greedily consumed sizzling strips of goat on beds of rice, the white flesh of fish caught earlier in the Euphrates and ribs of pigs smeared in a spicy sauce.
These events always raised my spirits when I saw a sea of young, eager faces before me, the cream of Dura’s army. An army though newly created that had enjoyed a string of victories. And morale was high following the relief of Uruk and the defeat of the soldiers sent by Narses. I knew all talk among the officers and men concerned when they would be marching east against Mithridates. I did nothing to deter such talk, as I knew that it was transmitted to the merchants of the trade caravans that travelled through Dura. They in turn would report it to the towns and cities they visited, and word would reach Ctesiphon that Dura’s army would be paying it a visit. It was untrue but anything that gave Mithridates sleepless nights cheered me.
So I drank, ate and listened to Samahe regale us with tales of the governor of Apamea and her dealings with other high-ranking Roman officials. She was a wily old goat as I noticed that she treated the servants with respect and never let an opportunity slip to flatter Gallia. Dobbai seemed quiet and withdrawn, however, as though something was troubling her. She picked at her food.
‘Chicken not to your liking, Dobbai?’
‘I saw a bat today, the first time I have ever seen one during daylight.’
I put down my cup. ‘A bad omen?’
She picked up a piece of chicken and nibbled it half-heartedly. ‘It predicts a long journey.’
I picked up my cup and drained it. ‘If it is an omen then all it signifies is Samahe’s trip from Syria.’
She looked at me. ‘Perhaps.’
The next day began as every other: rise at dawn, a sparse breakfast and then a ride to the training fields outside the city where horse archers, cataphracts and legionaries drilled and trained with their weapons. Rsan was always complaining at the weekly meeting of the council about the high number of arrows, lances and javelins that were damaged beyond repair during these training sessi
ons. As a civilian he failed to realise that realistic training paid dividends on the battlefield, but all he saw was a long list of expensive items that needed to be replaced.
I always enjoyed morning training, when the temperature was still bearable and the air fresh. Gallia always attended with her Amazons and for a few hours it was like we were back in Italy. Domitus drilled his legionaries and afterwards we all assembled in his command tent to rest our aching limbs and share tales about the old days with Spartacus. Orodes attended as well, though when he had first arrived at Dura he had felt somewhat of an outsider. He had not shared in our experiences in Italy. But he too had fought by our side on our return to Parthia so now everyone considered him an honorary Companion.
The afternoons, when the sun roasted the earth and the wind created great clouds of dust that seeped into clothing and buildings, were given over to administration. It was mundane and tedious but integral to the smooth running of a kingdom. Once a week I sat in the throne room listening to petitioners who came to the Citadel to either air a grievance, convince me to invest in a money making scheme or offer a bribe so their son could join the cataphracts. Army recruitment was dealt with by the officers of Domitus and Orodes in the headquarters building and so before a father had offered his money to ease his son into Dura’s famed heavy horsemen, I told him to walk across the courtyard and speak to the relevant individuals.
I found these gatherings tedious in the extreme but my father had taught me that a people should have access to their king, even if at times he ignored their words.
‘Smile, show an interest in what they are saying and treat them with courtesy,’ he had told me. ‘Simple acts can win you life-long allegiances, something that no amount of gold can buy.’
And so I sat, smiled and took an interest. Gallia rarely attended these meetings, though she made a point of sitting next to me if she learned that a slave trader was going to petition me to allow the sale of people in Dura. They always got short shrift from my queen. Rsan, who always attended, would stand by the dais and look forlorn as the slaver made a rapid exit from the throne room, and with him any taxes that the treasury would have earned from his lucrative business.
The petitioners waited in the reception hall where they were searched for any weapons they might have on them, after which guards escorted them into the throne room. Any that appeared to be deranged or religious fanatics were quietly ejected from the Citadel. It was unfortunate that an opportunity to meet Dura’s king attracted the least savoury elements of the kingdom as well as the more worthy.
The guards flanking the dais stepped forward to prevent a man from jumping on to it to embrace me after I had told him that he had my permission to sell replicas of the griffin statue above the Palmyrene Gate on his market stall. He looked alarmed as four legionaries with drawn swords bore down on him, before Rsan told him that no one was allowed to touch the body of the king.
The man, whose slightly threadbare appearance suggested his stall barely made a profit, clasped his hands together and retreated a few paces.
‘Forgive me, highness,’ he said, ‘but it is the first good news that I have had in an age.’
‘Trade is poor?’ I asked.
He shook his head and smiled. ‘Trade is good, majesty, but a wife and five children are many mouths to feed.’
‘Five children?’
He grinned. ‘Shamash has been kind to me.’
No wonder he looked tired. ‘Well, hopefully your idea will make you lots of money to enable you to feed and clothe your family. Actually, I am surprised that no one has thought of the idea before. Present yourself at the treasury tomorrow and Lord Rsan’s clerks will issue you with the relevant licence.’
I waved the guards back. ‘Shamash be with you.’
The trader bowed his head. ‘And may He smile upon you and your family, highness. And may the griffin always stand as guardian of your city. And may your fame strike terror into the hearts of your enemies.’
I smiled and indicated to the commander of the guards to escort him from the chamber, flattering though his words were. He was still wishing me good fortune when the doors were closed.
‘Another satisfied citizen, Rsan.’
‘I have to confess that his idea was a most unique one.’
‘And profitable, no doubt.’
His eyes lit up. ‘Let us hope so, majesty. Your treasury always requires re-nourishing.’
The doors opened, the officer of the guard entered and marched across the stone tiles. He bowed his head to me.
‘There is a man outside, majesty, requesting an audience. He says that he is an old friend.’
‘What is his name?’
The officer frowned. ‘He said he is an old sea dog, majesty.’
‘Search him for weapons,’ commanded Rsan.
‘We have already done that, sir.’
‘Then show him in,’ I ordered.
The figure momentarily framed in the doorway was broad shouldered, and as he and the two guards walked into the throne room I smiled when I heard his voice, a voice I thought I would never hear again.
‘They took my sword and dagger. Thought I was some sort of assassin. But I told them, Pacorus and I go back a long way. Of course you weren’t a king then, just a poor renegade. Times change, it seems.’
I jumped up as he approached, a burly man with a huge ragged beard and long, untidy hair, a grizzled face and massive tattooed forearms.
‘Athineos, is it really you?’
He gave me a wicked grin. ‘None other.’
He held out his right hand and I clasped his forearm and he locked me in an iron embrace.
‘It has been too long, my friend,’ I said.
He slapped me on the shoulders and stepped back. ‘You know how it is. A week turns into a month that turns into a year and before you know it five years have passed.’
He looked around the throne room.
‘Still, looks like you’ve done all right for yourself.’
His expensive leather boots, gold rings on his fingers and gold earrings suggested that the gods had also smiled upon him.
‘Smuggling is paying handsomely, judging by your appearance,’ I teased him.
He feigned hurt. ‘Smuggling? I’m a legitimate captain of commerce, I’ll have you know. Working for the People and Senate of Rome.’
‘Rome?’
He scratched his nose. ‘No choice, young king, seeing as the Romans control the Mediterranean after the Cilician pirates were destroyed. My ships are moored at Tripolis waiting for a shipment of animals and I kept hearing about a young Parthian king who rides a white horse and defeats all his enemies and has a blonde-haired queen. Very unusual in these parts.
‘So I said to myself, Athineos, it has to be that young fool I shipped from Italy, along with a few dozen more who had elected to follow him. Looks like they made the right decision.’
I ordered the guards to find Domitus and Godarz and bring them to the palace as I invited Athineos to take refreshments with me on the palace terrace. I told Rsan to inform the waiting petitioners that the king had been called away on urgent business and to come back next week as I walked with the Cretan sea dog from the throne room.
On the terrace a servant informed me that Dobbai was showing Samahe the griffin statue at the Palmyrene Gate with Gallia in tow. I sent a rider to urgently request their presence at the Citadel. I would have shown Claudia off to Athineos but a nursemaid informed me that she was taking her afternoon nap.
‘So, I see you have not been spending all your time killing your enemies,’ said Athineos as a servant offered him a goblet of wine.
Fortunately the sun had passed its highest point and was now slowly descending towards the west, resulting in the terrace being covered in welcome shade. I told Athineos of my return to Hatra, of being given the crown of Dura and the subsequent civil strife in the empire, ending with a summary of the current stand-off with Mithridates.
‘No one talks about
him in Syria,’ said Athineos. ‘In Syria the name on everyone’s lips is Pacorus of Dura.’
‘The Romans tried to capture my kingdom,’ I said.
He nodded. ‘I know, an army sent by Crassus. But you managed to charm Pompey and that has worked to your advantage because those two are bitter enemies. Very clever.’
He began turning one of his rings on his fingers. He was going to say something when Domitus and Godarz appeared, both of them delighted to see the man who had made our escape from Italy possible. Athineos embraced them both and began regaling them with stories of his piracy and bedding women, no doubt most if not all of them invented. He drank more wine and soon his cheeks were flushed as the alcohol made him louder and more gregarious.
He shouted and cheered when Gallia, all blonde hair and long legs, glided onto the terrace. Before she had time to say anything he had scooped her off her feet and planted a host of kisses on her cheeks.
‘You’re still as lovely as the first day I clapped eyes on you,’ he told her. ‘Why don’t you come back to Tyrus with me? I’ve got three ships and enough work to retire a wealthy man, albeit not a king.’
‘A tempting offer,’ said Gallia, giggling and flirting with him. ‘But alas I have a daughter.’
His face registered shock, even though he already knew this. ‘I don’t believe it. You haven’t got on ounce of fat on you.’
She waved a hand at him and took a cup of water offered by a servant. As everyone laughed and joked no one saw Dobbai and Samahe shuffle into our presence. Both were attired in black but the colour of Dobbai’s robes looked positively bright compared to the expression on her face.
‘Dobbai,’ I said, ‘this is Athineos on whose ship we travelled back to Parthia after fighting by the side of Spartacus.’
‘Why is he here?’ she snapped.
The chatter died down as everyone looked at her. Dobbai’s curt manners and cutting tongue were well known but we were at a loss regarding her instant hostility to Athineos.
‘Is this your mother?’ grinned the Cretan.
