by Peter Darman
A Parthian’s bow was one of his most precious possessions. And all Parthia’s aristocrats and royalty learned how to shoot one from an early age, most before they could walk.
I held up my bow and nodded to Balas. Like all Parthian bows, ours were double-curved, with recurve tips at the end of the upper and lower limbs, and a set-back centre section that was grasped by the left hand. The limbs, thick in proportion to their width, were fashioned from several pieces of maple, birch or mulberry, with sinew from the hamstrings or tendons of cows or deer on the outside of the limbs, and horn from a buffalo, long-horned cow or ibex on their inner side. All the parts were fastened to each other with glue made from bitumen, bark pitch and animal grease. The whole bow was then wrapped in fibres made from the tendons of slaughtered animals to protect it from the elements. The bows of my father and Balas were covered in lacquer to make them totally waterproof. Gallia, Gafarn and I had bows that had no lacquer covering, which came from China, because we had made our bows in Italy when we had fought with Spartacus.
‘Shall we put the target at fifty paces, Varaz?’ Balas asked my father.
‘You sure you can see that far, old man?’
‘Old man?’ Balas turned to my mother and feigned mortification. ‘Do you hear that, Mihri? He uses any opportunity to insult me, I who have been like a father to him all these years.’
Balas may have been old, but he was still a big, thickset man and his arms were still muscular.
A group of servants hauled the target into position and then scampered away.
‘Well, father,’ said my father, ‘you can shoot first.’
We all hit the target with ease, a servant holding up a small red flag to indicate a centre hit; a white flag denoted a strike outside the bull’s eye, and a green flag a hit on the target’s outer edge. All the flags were red, so the target was moved back another twenty-five paces.
‘So, Pacorus,’ said Balas, hitting the bull’s eye again, ‘when do you leave for your new kingdom?’
I released my bowstring. Red flag. ‘One or two weeks, majesty.’
Gallia shot. Red flag.
‘Good shot, my lady,’ said Balas. He watched her pluck another arrow from her quiver and placed the nock in the string. At our wedding she had been a picture of feminine beauty, flowing blonde locks, white dress and gold jewellery, but today she was dressed in leggings, leather boots, blue tunic and her hair ran down her back in a long plait. I had seen her dressed thus most of the time when she had fought in Italy. Balas was clearly intrigued by her.
‘I have heard,’ he continued, ‘that you have fought in battle, and that you led a fierce band of women warriors.’
She fired her arrow. Red flag. ‘It is true, lord, that I have fought my enemies, and others joined me in that fight. Some of them are with me still.’
He smiled at her. ‘Well, hopefully you will not have to fight any more now that you are in Parthia.’
My father waved at the servants, who moved the target back another twenty-five paces. Gallia fired another arrow. Red flag.
‘While there are Romans in this world, lord, there can be no peace.’
‘And yet,’ Balas continued, ‘is not one of Pacorus’ commanders a Roman?’
‘You are well informed, lord,’ said Gallia. ‘And, yes, you are right. His name is Lucius Domitus and he is a Roman.’
‘And you trust this man?’
‘Of course,’ she replied.
Balas pressed the matter. ‘Why?’
She looked him in the eye. ‘Because we have fought together in battle, and because I know that he would lay down his life for me, and that makes him my brother, and I will fight anyone who says otherwise.’
There was an awkward silence for a few seconds and then Balas roared with laughter. He put down his bow and wrapped his thick arms around her.
‘You have got yourself a lion as a bride, Pacorus. Would that I had a hundred like her for my palace guard.’
My mother and sisters smiled, and even Farhad looked momentarily less severe.
‘Indeed, majesty,’ interrupted Gafarn, ‘I heard that Spartacus once said that if he had a thousand like Gallia he could take Rome itself.’
‘Spartacus?’ Farhad looked at me, clearly intrigued.
‘The general I served with in Italy, majesty,’ I said. All eyes were on me now, the happy Axsen and her father Vardan, the old rogue Balas and my sisters and parents. I could see that my mother was looking into the distance, perhaps wishing that the subject had not been raised.
‘It’s no secret,’ I said. ‘I was taken captive by the Romans in Cappadocia, that much you know at the very least. I and others.’ I put down my bow, walked over to Gafarn and laid a hand on his shoulder, then on Diana’s, who smiled at me.
‘We were to be slaves forever,’ I continued. ‘To be worked like dogs until we died. But one man saved me, saved all of us, and led an army of us, an army of slaves. And he led us to victory after victory over the Romans, and I was proud to serve under him and even prouder to call him friend.’ I moved to be beside Gallia and took her hands in mine. ‘And in Italy, hundreds of miles from my home and my family, I found the most beautiful and bravest woman that God put on the earth. She then fought by my side and we defeated the Romans, beat them until we became masters of their land, former slaves turned into invincible warriors by a gladiator named Spartacus.’
Farhad drew himself up to his full height and folded his arms in front of him. ‘If this slave general, this Spartacus, was so excellent a warlord, why was he defeated and killed, for I know that he is no more and that Rome still stands?’
‘Rome still stands, yes,’ I agreed. ‘But only because he lost the one thing that was precious to him above all things, and which made him long for death.’
‘What was that, Pacorus?’ asked Vardan.
‘His wife, lord, his beautiful, wise wife, the Lady Claudia. For they were soul mates and where she went he was determined to follow.’ I saw that Gallia’s eyes were cast down to the ground as she remembered her dead friend. Diana clasped Gafarn’s hand tight. I continued, for it was a story that deserved to be told and I wanted to talk of my friend and lord, Spartacus. ‘And so, the morning after she had given life to her son at the expense of her own, he marched out of camp to do battle with the Romans, one man against an army. And I walked beside him, not because he commanded me to but because I loved him as a brother, and behind us thousands of others did likewise for the same reason. For we cared not about glory or riches, but only wanted to die with honour beside the man who had given each of us our freedom, perhaps the most precious thing that a person can hold. And so we fought at his side all that day. He was cut down by his enemies, as were hundreds of others, but we beat them again, beat them until they retreated. Then we carried the body of our lord from the field of battle and laid it upon a great pyre, and then laid the body of his wife beside his. We stood and watched the flames consume their bodies and their spirits ascend to heaven. And that, my lord king, is why Rome still stands, because of the death of one woman.’
Farhad nodded his head at me. ‘Well said.’
Axsen had tears in her eyes. ‘That is the most romantic thing I have heard. Pacorus, you and Gallia must come to Babylon and tell me more of your time in Italy. Father, tell them they must come.’
Vardan smiled. ‘Of course, they will be honoured guests.’
My mother had a look of relief on her face. ‘You are all very kind, I thank you.’
Balas embraced her. ‘Nonsense, we’re all here because we like and respect you and Varaz, and this young stallion,’ he tilted his head at me, ‘is a worthy son. Now, put that target back some more so I can show you all who’s the master archer here.’
Gafarn won the archery competition.
Several days later Vardan, his daughter, Farhad, Gotarzes and Balas requested that I take them to see my legion that was being trained in the desert. I gladly acquiesced, and was soon joined by Gallia, my father, Gafar
n and my sister, Aliyeh. I found this odd as she had never taken an interest in my followers before, but then I noticed that Farhad’s son, Atrax, had also come along and that Aliyeh made sure she rode beside him. My sister was always serious, but today, in the late afternoon’s pleasant light, she smiled much and seemed carefree. Gallia noticed them too.
‘It would seem that your sister has found an admirer.’
‘An alliance between Media and Hatra would please my father. Atrax seems agreeable enough.’
‘Hopefully, if she does marry, it will be for love.’
‘Princesses usually marry for political reasons.’
She was indignant. ‘I didn’t.’
‘No, because you are an exception, in every conceivable way.’
When we reached the camp it had the ordered appearance of a Roman legionary outpost more than ever. Occupying a large rectangular space on the baked ground of the desert, it was now surrounded by an earth rampart. We rode on the track up to the main entrance, a wide gap in the middle of the rampart, which was guarded by two of my legionaries, men in helmets and mail shirts and equipped with shields and javelins. They could have been Roman soldiers, were it not for their white tunics and shields rather than the red favoured by the legions of Rome. They snapped to attention as I rode at the head of the column into the camp. As Remus walked slowly towards the centre of the camp I looked around at the neat rows of tents and was reminded of my time with Spartacus. His camps had been laid out in a similar fashion and his army had mirrored the organisation of Rome’s legions.
‘They have conquered half the world,’ he once told me, ‘so I see no reason not to employ their methods.’
Gallia reached over and grabbed my hand. ‘For a moment I thought I was back in Italy.’
I nodded. ‘I know. I still miss him.’
On we rode, to the centre of the camp where Domitus had pitched his new commander’s tent, a large beige structure built around a rectangle of poles with two flaps for an entrance, each tied back with leather straps. Two guards stood at the entrance, and one shouted inside as we approached. Seconds later the muscular form of Lucius Domitus strode out into the sunlight. He squinted at us as his eyes adjusted to the light, then raised his vine cane to me in salute. He was dressed in a simple white tunic, leather belt, sandals on his feet and his Roman short sword at his hip. He caught sight of Gallia and bowed his head to her, who nodded back. He ignored the Parthian kings, prince and princesses behind me.
I dismounted from Remus and clasped his forearm, he responded with an iron grip.
‘All is well, Domitus?’
‘All is well, Pacorus.’
‘I have brought some guests who have expressed an interest in seeing your legion.’
‘It’s your legion.’
‘How are you, Domitus?’ asked Gallia.
‘Well, lady, thank you.’
I turned to my guests. ‘This is Legate Domitus, who will be our guide today.’
The horses were taken to the stable area and then Domitus escorted us through the camp and then outside to the training fields, where hundreds of men were practising throwing javelins, marching in units of eighty men called centuries and honing their skills with wooden swords and wicker shields.
Balas, dressed in a simple flowing robe and leggings, a battered turban on his head, was intrigued by the latter activity. He pointed at the men crouching in front of large wooden posts driven into the ground, wicker shields tucked close to their bodies while instructors bellowed orders at them to jab at the posts with their wooden swords.
Balas looked at the sharp-featured Domitus. ‘So, you are a Roman?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And what is a legate?’ enquired Farhad, who unlike Balas was dressed like a king, with an expensive gold tunic, silver belt and a beautiful sword hanging from it in a silver-edged scabbard.
‘The commander of a legion, sir. Don’t slash with those swords, stab with them. Slashing is for cavalry and other useless bastards.’
Domitus’ outburst at those at the posts made Gallia and Axsen jump, while the others stared at him in disbelief.
‘Begging your pardon, but if they don’t get it right at the beginning then they won’t be much use when it comes to the real thing.’
‘My palace guards carry wicker shields,’ mused Gotarzes. ‘I did not realise that Roman soldiers are also armed with them.’
Domitus suppressed a smile. ‘They aren’t, sir. They only use them for training.’
‘Why?’ Farhad was clearly intrigued, while I noticed his son was totally disinterested, paying close attention to Aliyeh, who was clearly delighted with the adoration of a handsome young prince.
Domitus pointed at the recruits sweating under the sun that was now making its descent into the western sky. ‘Those shields are weighted with iron strips on the inside, making them heavier than their proper shields, and the swords are similarly weighted. Toughens up the men, you see, strengthens their arms and shoulders. Battles can be long affairs. Isn’t that right, Pacorus?’
I saw my father frown at Domitus’ familiarity, but those of us who had fought together in Italy shared a bond that was stronger than iron; indeed, any of those who had come with me from Italy was free to address me thus.
‘That’s right, Domitus.’
‘I remember when we fought all day in north Italy, near Mutina,’ added Gallia. ‘It was hot that day.’
‘That it was, lady,’ said Domitus. ‘But we didn’t falter. Hard training, you see.’
‘Train hard, fight easy, you remember Bozan’s words, father?’ I said.
Bozan had not only been the commander of my father’s army, but also his friend. ‘I do,’ he said.
Domitus approved. ‘He was obviously a sensible man.’
Axsen linked arms with Gallia. ‘You are truly an intriguing woman, Gallia. I have never met a woman who has fought in battle before.’
‘I would like to know what one of those shields and swords feels like,’ Balas said.
‘I would advise against it, majesty,’ I said. Domitus was shorter than the Parthians present, as were most Romans, but Domitus did not have an ounce of fat on him and his frame was packed with muscles. I had seen him fight in battle, and knew him to be a master with a Roman short sword.
‘Nonsense,’ said Balas. He pointed at Domitus. ‘What do you say, Roman, fancy your chances against an old campaigner?’ Domitus shrugged.
‘If you wish, sir.’
Moments later Domitus stood with a wicker shield held tight to his left side with a short wooden sword in his right hand. Balas, who unbuckled his sword belt and handed it to my father, was similarly equipped and waved the sword around in front of his body. Domitus crouched low and held his sword close to his body. All his life Balas had fought from the saddle, and though he might know how to battle on horseback he was hopelessly outmatched against an ex-Roman centurion. Balas tried to fight as he would from the saddle, with great scything attacks with his sword, but Domitus easily anticipated these moves and countered them with very effective feints and thrusts. It was over soon enough, as Balas shouted and tried to slash at Domitus’ head, but the latter ducked and smashed his shield into the king’s body, knocking him to the ground. Then Domitus pounced and was standing over Balas, the point of his sword at his throat. Domitus then stood back, threw down his sword and offered his hand to Balas, who accepted and was hauled to his feet. Balas roared with laughter and clasped Domitus’ muscled forearm. My father gave Balas his sword back.
‘A most expert display, Roman,’ said Farhad, nodding towards the men training at the posts. ‘Are all your men as proficient?’
Domitus shook his head. ‘They’ve got a way to go yet, but they’re shaping up nicely. Mind you, we need a few thousand swords, javelins, helmets and mail shirts before they can fight.’
‘That will be settled when we get to Dura, Domitus,’ I said.
‘Dura is a small city,’ said my father, ‘and to equip tho
usands of men thus will be expensive. It is not Hatra.’
‘Perhaps it can be a second Hatra,’ I offered.
He smiled. ‘Perhaps.’
Farhad continued with his quizzing of Domitus. ‘So, Roman, what qualities do you look for in recruits?’
We began walking back to the centre of the camp as the sun began turning to a red ball in the sky. ‘Quite straightforward, sir, I’m only interested in those who are single, have good eyesight and decent characters, and we don’t take any who’ve had their balls lopped off, begging your pardon, ladies.’
On the way back to Hatra, I rode between Balas and Gallia as the sky turned a deep red with the approach of the evening.
‘I like your Roman,’ said Balas.
‘He’s a good man,’ I agreed.
‘Does he miss his home?’
‘No, majesty,’ I said, ‘when we found him he was condemned to be a slave in their silver mines.’
‘He has no love of Rome,’ added Gallia.
‘Does he love Parthia, then?’
‘No, lord,’ replied Gallia, ‘he has a love for Spartacus.’
‘But Spartacus is dead, is he not?’
Gallia looked directly ahead. ‘Not his memory, or his son, and I think that we are the only true family Domitus has ever known.’
Balas nodded. ‘When I heard that you had returned, Pacorus, and listened to the tales that were spreading about you and your wild woman from a far-off land, I thought that they were stories to impress children and old women, but now I begin to think otherwise. I have seen many things in my life, some great, most terrible. But I have never heard of a slave general such as this Spartacus. I have seen the loyalty that he engenders still, and I marvel that an army has appeared in the desert, an army that follows you because its soldiers believe you to be beloved of the gods, an army that is led by a Roman, your most hated foes. And you, Gallia, you who are so beautiful yet fight as fiercely as any man and who leads a band of women warriors, who has fought and killed without mercy. We live in strange times, I think.’
‘Let us hope we also live in peaceful times,’ I said.
