by Peter Darman
‘It’s beginning to resemble the camps we had back in Italy,’ remarked Gafarn.
‘Old habits die hard for Domitus,’ I added.
‘I doubt that they die at all,’ he replied.
Domitus stomped towards us, the sun glinting off the round steel discs on his mail tunic and his metal greaves. Thickset with a lean face, his Roman helmet sported a white transverse crest and his tunic was also white.
‘I wish you would send word when you intend to visit the camp,’ he said, ‘your presence can have a detrimental effect on some of the more impressionable ones we have here.’
‘Impressionable ones?’ asked Gafarn.
‘The dreamers and mystics,’ replied Domitus, his muscular arms now turned brown by the Mesopotamian sun, ‘those who believe that your brother is a god.’
‘And you don’t believe that I am a god, Domitus?’ I teased him.
‘The day you can fly around the battlefield instead of riding upon it, then I’ll believe that you’re a god.’
‘Quite right, Domitus,’ added Gafarn,’ we don’t want his head getting any bigger than it is.’
At that moment a column of recruits marched past, about two hundred in twenty ranks. They had no weapons, shields or armour, but they did seem to be marching in step. At the head of the column marched one of the Germans or Dacians who had served with Spartacus in Germany, his long black hair spilling out from under his helmet. He wore a mail shirt and carried a shield and sword at his hip. Two of his comrades brought up the rear. Domitus eyed the recruits as they passed, and suddenly hit one of them across the back of the shoulders with his vine cane.
‘No talking in the ranks,’ he bellowed in Latin.
The recruits, being from various Parthian provinces or runaway slaves from Egypt, Syria and a host of other places, would not have understood his words, but they would have discerned the sentiment behind the blow. When I had been in Italy I had learned that the favoured instrument of a centurion, the men who were the backbone of the Roman fighting unit called a legion, was a vine cane around three feet in length, with which they used to beat recruits for even minor infractions, plus anyone else unlucky enough to earn their wrath. I used to think that it was part of a centurion’s training to learn how to use these accursed things, but I now knew that each vine cane was created in the underworld and possessed of an evil spirit, and once on earth it searched out its owner, who always happened to be a Roman centurion.
‘You don’t have to strike the recruits, Domitus. You are not in Italy now.’
He looked at me and shook his head. ‘No, Pacorus, I need it more than ever, especially as I don’t speak the lingo.’
He was right about that. I and other members of the royal household had been taught Latin and Greek at an early age to enable us to converse with foreign monarchs and envoys when we were older, but Domitus had as yet only a smattering of our language.
‘You are surrounding the camp with a rampart?’ I enquired.
‘Yes,’ replied Domitus.
‘Who do you think is going to attack you?’ asked Gafarn.
‘No one, but I need to keep this lot,’ he waved his cane around the camp, ‘busy so their minds don’t wander. So when they’re not marching they are digging, and at the end of the day they are too tired to cause any trouble.’
‘Have any deserted?’ I asked.
‘One or two, but most are determined to stay despite my best efforts to dissuade them. That being the case, I decided that they might as well start their training.’
We continued to walk towards the centre of the camp where Domitus had set up his headquarters, a large Bedouin goatskin tent that had two guards at its entrance.
Domitus took off his helmet and wiped his sweaty brow with a cloth. In true Roman fashion he had a short-cropped scalp.
‘It’s hotter here than in Italy, that’s for sure. Will you stay for something to eat?’
‘No, thank you, Domitus. I just came out to see how things are progressing. My father is eager for us to be away. After the wedding we will move everyone here to Dura Europos.’
Domitus nodded. ‘Makes sense. Your father has been very generous so far, feeding and watering us out of his pocket. How far is it to your new kingdom?’
‘Around two hundred miles due southwest.’
‘Think they can march that far, Domitus?’ queried Gafarn.
Domitus smiled. ‘Soon they will be able to march twenty miles in five hours, and after that forty miles in twelve hours. They’ll be able to get there, have no fear.’
Gafarn looked around. ‘If you and the men that came with us from Italy don’t speak our language, how do you transmit your commands to the recruits, apart from using your cane?’
‘Oh, Nergal lent me some of his boys, the same ones that fought with you and Pacorus in Italy.’
Nergal was a Parthian who had been captured with me in Cappadocia and transported to Italy as a slave. Tall, gangly and a year older than me, he was originally from my father’s kingdom, had been my second-in-command in Italy and now commanded the fifty Parthian horsemen that had survived the defeat of Spartacus. Like him, they were now all fluent in Latin as well as Parthian.
‘Well, Domitus,’ I said, ‘it looks as though you are well on your way to raising your legion, but you can’t be a centurion any more.’
A look of hurt spread across his face. ‘I can’t?’
‘Of course not, you must become a legate. They command Roman legions, do they not?’
He flashed a smile. ‘They certainly do.’
‘Good, I will have your commission drawn up, with commensurate pay. I don’t suppose I could persuade you to retire your cane?’
‘It would be like losing an arm.’
‘Mm, well, we must be away. If you need anything send word to the palace.’
We left the camp in the capable hands of Domitus and rode back to the city. Leaving our horses at the stables we made our way to the palace, to find my father and mother entertaining Gafarn’s wife, Diana, the young son of Spartacus and the woman who had become the centre of my world. We found them in the small ‘secret garden’ that my mother Queen Mihri, liked to tend as a hobby. The garden was part of the much larger walled royal gardens that abutted the palace and which covered several acres. It was termed ‘secret’ because only my mother was allowed to arrange the growing of flowers, plants and fig, pomegranate, nut and jujube trees that provided shade. In reality a small army of assistants — slaves — kept her garden and the larger ones tidy and lush, but my mother fancied herself to have a gift for making things grow, and so most days she could be found in a simple white dress and apron, tending to her shrubberies. In the ‘secret garden’ was a white marble fountain, with four water channels leading off it, signifying water, fire, earth and air. Larger, more ornate fountains were spread throughout the royal gardens, all fed by the springs that watered the rest of Hatra.
Peacocks walked free in the gardens, and there were also a number of dovecotes that had their own keepers. The doves had pure white plumage matching that of the white horses of my father’s bodyguard, and so the belief grew that as long as white doves flew above the city and white horses carried its warriors, Hatra would be invincible in the face of its enemies.
Goldfish and koi swam in large ponds beside small copses of date palms and sycamores. The gardens were filled with an explosion of colours from blooming daisies, cornflowers, mandrakes, roses, irises, myrtle, jasmine, mignonettes, convolvulus, celosia, narcissus, ivy, lychnis, sweet marjoram, henna, bay laurel, small yellow chrysanthemums and poppies. They were certainly places of serenity and sweet fragrances.
My mother and her guests were in the shade of the white-painted wooden pagoda that had been built near the marble fountain. Slaves fussed around with trays holding pastries and fruit, while others poured wine. I walked over to my sensual future wife and kissed her on the cheek. Gallia looked happy and relaxed, her long, thick blonde hair framing her oval face, with its hi
gh cheekbones and narrow nose, and then cascading over her shoulders and breasts. Today, like every day, she had spent the morning riding on the training fields, practising firing her bow from the saddle. Despite wearing boots and leggings she looked as femininely beautiful as ever, her blue tunic highlighting her lithe figure. By contrast, her friend, Diana, wore a simple white dress that covered her whole body save her pale arms, in which she held the infant son of Spartacus.
‘Ah, the general of the desert army returns,’ the gently mocking tones of my father came from a sofa opposite to where I had entered the pagoda.
I kissed my mother, Gallia and then Diana. ‘Father, I did not realise you were here.’
‘Are you going to kiss me, too?’
‘Alas, I have used up all my kisses for today.’
‘Leave him alone, Varaz,’ said my mother, ‘sit down next to Gallia, Pacorus, and Gafarn, you sit beside Diana. This is very pleasant.’
I sat beside my darling on a double seat and held her hand. ‘Gafarn and I have been visiting my army. Domitus and Nergal have everything in hand.’
‘Good,’ my father waved away a slave who had been serving him wine, ‘can I take it that your followers will be leaving shortly?’
‘After the wedding, father. I promise you that after the ceremony we will be a burden no longer.’
‘You are not a burden,’ stated my mother, her brown eyes glaring at my father.
‘Really? I’ve had Addu boring me to death about how much your followers are eating.’
Out of the corner of my eye I saw a slave fill Diana’s cup, and I heard her say ‘thank you’. My mother heard her too.
‘You don’t have to thank the slaves, Diana.’
‘No, sorry, majesty.’
My mother shook her head and smiled. ‘You must call me “mother”, Diana, for now that we have adopted Gafarn, you have become our daughter. And of that we are most pleased, are we not Varaz?’
My father was obviously bored by all this women’s talk. ‘What? Yes, of course.’
My sisters, Aliyeh and Adeleh, appeared, adorned with gold in their hair, on their arms and around their ankles, looking every bit the Hatran princesses they were. Aliyeh, in her mid-twenties, was tall and thin and possessed of an aloof, serious nature. Adeleh, on the other hand, was two years younger and had a happy disposition. They embraced Diana and fussed over the infant. Their appearance contrasted sharply to that of Diana, who wore no jewellery and was dressed in simple attire. In truth Diana was unremarkable when it came to looks, but such was the kindness in her heart and the goodness in her soul that everyone loved her, from the slave who broke a jug and received an arm round the shoulder instead of a beating, to the fiercest warrior in my father’s bodyguard, who was disarmed by her smile and charm. Gallia was far more beautiful, though her reputation as the woman who could shoot a bow as well as any man (I would say better than most), and who was also handy with a sword and a dagger, made some wary of her. She was called ‘fierce beauty’ by many, though none dared say it to her face, and people’s awe of her was further increased by the rumour that she had been sent by the gods to save me from the Romans. No such reputation was attached to Diana, but the magic she possessed to make people love her was just as powerful. It was a strange destiny that had made a kitchen slave a Parthian princess, but no stranger than my own, which had taken me to the side of a former gladiator who had conquered all Italy, if only for a while.
‘Your father says that you want to take Gafarn and Diana away from us,’ said my mother.
Aliyeh and Adeleh squealed their protests, causing the baby to cry. Aliyeh scooped him up in her arms to calm his distress.
‘I merely sought to ask them to come with me, mother.’
‘Well,’ she replied, ‘I would like them to stay, and it’s nice having an infant in the palace again. If you want to go and play kings then that’s your business, but don’t drag Gafarn and Diana along with you. Besides, I’ve heard that Dura Europos is a dismal place. I don’t know why you want to be king of such a city.’
‘Because he doesn’t want to wait to be king of Hatra,’ replied my father, ‘besides Dura Europos is closer to the Romans in Cappadocia.’
‘Why should I wish to be close to the Romans?’ I asked.
‘Because your hatred for them burns bright still,’ he said, ‘and you strain at the leash like a ravenous hound to strike at them.’
‘Nonsense.’
‘Is it? Gafarn, you know your brother well, what say you on this matter?’
‘I think Pacorus has not forgotten the insults he endured at the hands of the Romans.’ He was talking of my being chained, beaten and whipped when a slave. ‘But his love for Gallia is greater than any thirst for revenge.’
My father clapped and Gafarn bowed in mockery at him. ‘A most politic answer. Obviously all your years in the palace did not go to waste. But I stand by my words.’
‘In any case,’ I added, ‘it would have been unwise to refuse Sinatruces, who is the King of Kings after all.’
‘Most convenient for you.’ My father, like a dog with an old bone, was refusing to give up the argument. ‘He was certainly out-manoeuvred by you and that sorceress of his. He sought to entice Gallia to his palace to make her his wife, and then give you the crown of Dura Europos in compensation. But instead he ended up making you a king anyway and he failed to entrap Gallia.’
‘No man imprisons me,’ snapped Gallia.
‘Well said, daughter,’ said my mother. ‘And now we shall have an end of all talk of politics and Romans. Nothing will happen before the wedding anyway.’
Chapter 2
Hatra, city of one hundred thousand people, was a glittering jewel in the desert the day I married Gallia. Perhaps it was because I was madly in love with my tall, blonde-haired princess from Gaul, or perhaps it was because the city was filled with kings and princes and their gaudily dressed entourages, but whatever the reason the limestone walls and towers of the city seemed to sparkle that day. From every one of its one hundred and fifty towers flew scarlet banners bearing white horses’ heads — the royal symbol of Hatra, after the famed whites ridden by every member of the king’s bodyguard. Today, though, the men of the bodyguard had been given leave to attend my wedding. Only those who were of Hatra’s nobility were allowed to serve in the royal bodyguard, and now they were in the Great Temple with their families and friends, along with hundreds of others who had been invited. The massive temple, its exterior walls surrounded by high stone columns, was filled to the brim. Assur stood impassive at the high altar while his priests fussed and panicked as they tried to get everyone seated in the correct order. Father, my mother and myself were in the front row on the right side of the great aisle that ran down the centre of the temple. Also in the front row were Gafarn, Diana, the infant child of Spartacus and my sisters. Immediately behind, and much to Assur’s disapproval, were those who had come with me from Italy. I called them the ‘Companions’, for that is what they were. And so there was Nergal, my brave and loyal second-in-command who had taken a wild-haired Spanish girl as his wife. I turned and looked at them both, the grinning Nergal who always seemed so optimistic, his brown, shoulder-length hair almost as long as that of his wife. Praxima smiled at me and fixed me with her big round eyes. I smiled back. She leaned forward and laid a hand on my shoulder.
‘I am happy for you, lord.’
‘Thank you, Praxima. And I am happy that you are both here to share this day with me.’
She had been a Roman slave in a brothel. Now, in her white flowing dress, it was hard to believe that she had fought like a man in Italy; indeed, she had been and was Gallia’s subordinate when my love had formed her own band of women warriors. I looked beyond Praxima to where a score of the Amazons sat at my wedding, the survivors of Gallia’s command. They were all young and some were beautiful, and as I turned to face the altar I remembered that they were also deadly. I had seen Praxima slit men’s throats with a dagger and shoot them
down without pity with her bow.
The other Companions were a mixed bunch — Parthians, Dacians, Germans, Thracians and Greeks — former Roman slaves who had laughed and shed blood together, who were united by an unbreakable bond of comradeship forged in the cauldron of battle. They shared jokes with the cropped-haired Lucius Domitus, the Roman whom they loved like a brother. But the man whom we all regarded as a father figure was on the other side of the aisle, to the left of the woman I was about to marry. His name was Godarz and he too had been a Roman slave. In his late forties, tall, lean with cropped hair, he was actually a Parthian who had been a slave in Italy for many years. So many, in fact, that he dressed like a Roman. Curiously, he had served in the Silvan army under Vistaspa long ago, the same man who now commanded my father’s army. I can only surmise that it was the hand of God himself who had led me to a town in Italy called Nola, which Spartacus had captured and where Godarz had been a slave. We had released him from his bondage and he had subsequently become the quartermaster general of the slave army, and a man I respected hugely. Now he was going to give Gallia away, for her own father was dead, killed by Gafarn, now my brother.
A large hand slapped my shoulder. ‘Not a bad crowd, Pacorus, should be a good day. Mind you, there’s still time for Gallia to change her mind and marry me instead.’
Vata planted his stocky body beside me, his big round face wearing a grin. My friend since childhood, his father had been Bozan. During my time away he had become sullen and withdrawn, but today some of the old Vata — happy and carefree — had returned. My father had made him governor of Nisibus, a city in the north of his kingdom, but today he was in Hatra as an honoured guest.
I laughed. ‘My friend, you delude yourself, she only has eyes for me.’
He leaned forward and caught Gallia’s eye, then waved at her. She smiled and waved back. He put his arm round my shoulder.
