Parthian Dawn

by Peter Darman

  ‘We met in the midst of war, lord, and ever since I was glad that she could protect herself from danger.’

  ‘And you,’ added Gallia.

  ‘It’s true,’ I said. ‘Once she saved me from being run through by a Roman.’

  Khosrou nodded and then looked ahead at the arrow-straight figure of Domitus walking beside Nergal and Praxima.

  ‘He is a Roman, is he not, for I have heard that one of your generals is a man from Rome?’

  ‘Yes, lord, he is the commander of my foot soldiers.’

  ‘And you trust him, this man from the race of your enemies?’

  ‘With my life, lord.’

  ‘Mine too,’ added Gallia.

  It was a while before Khosrou said anything further. ‘And I have also heard that you have made peace with the Agraci, the sworn enemies of your father’s kingdom.’

  ‘They were only enemies because no one had thought to ask them if they wished to be friends, lord.’

  ‘You two are a curious pair, that much is true, but I like you and I like what you are trying to do. I learned the hard way that it’s impossible to subdue barbarians with the sword. You may kill many, but there is an endless supply that will come back like a flood and sweep over the land. They don’t stay, but they cause enough damage when they do visit.’

  ‘They have attacked your lands, lord?’ asked Gallia.

  ‘Yes.’ He said harshly. ‘A few years ago I led a great raid into the northern steppes and found nothing, but while I was gone a mighty host of the nomads attacked my capital and set fire to it.’

  ‘Merv,’ I muttered.

  ‘Merv, yes,’ replied Khosrou. ‘You know it.’

  ‘Only the name, lord.’ But my mind went back to a feast I attended years ago at the court of Sinatruces at Ctesiphon, where the old king’s sorceress, Dobbai, had told the King of Kings that while he sat stuffing his face Merv was burning.

  ‘So now,’ continued Khosrou, ‘instead of waging war I have treaties with the barbarians.’ He smiled at Gallia. ‘We still keep our quivers full and our swords sharp, but in general the peace holds. Indeed, some of the rascals serve in my army.’

  ‘They fight for you, not against you,’ said Gallia, ‘just like the Agraci at Dura.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Khosrou. ‘You appear to have a wise head on your shoulders, Pacorus.’

  ‘I hope so, lord.’

  ‘Well, I must bid you both farewell. Perhaps you might come to Margiana when you have the opportunity. You will be made welcome.’

  He bowed his head, turned smartly and marched off with his men trailing behind him.

  ‘A good judge of character, that one,’ mused Gallia.

  ‘Let us hope that our peace will endure as his has,’ I said.

  Chapter 8

  My father’s mood improved in the days following as we headed back west to our kingdoms. Couriers were sent to every corner of the empire to announce the election of Phraates as King of Kings. He would officially move from his capital of Susa to the royal palace at Ctesiphon, though in realty he already had apartments there from his time as his father’s envoy. Ctesiphon was the capital city of the Parthian Empire, a huge collection of dwellings clustered around a large palace, the whole enclosed by a rather ill-maintained circuit wall. The palace complex had several throne rooms and a grand banqueting hall befitting the residence of the empire’s chief monarch. The thought of Mithridates becoming King of Susiana did not fill me with relish, but I hoped that his father and brother would have a restraining influence on him. In all, though, the Council of Kings had turned out to be a worthwhile occasion for now the empire had a new ruler and peace would be maintained.

  A month later we were back at Dura, which had continued to prosper under the expert rule of Godarz and the eagle-eyed Rsan. Gallia recruited more Amazons and Domitus went back to training his legion, which was now fully armed and equipped. Five thousand men had helmets, mail shirts, leather vests, white tunics and shields. The latter comprised three layers of wooden strips glued together and reinforced with wooden strips on the back. A hole was then cut in the centre of the shield, across which was fastened a horizontal metal bar, by which each legionary held the shield with his left hand. To protect his hand, and on the side of the shield that faced the enemy, there was a bulging steel boss over the grip. Each shield was faced with fabric painted white and decorated with red griffin wings. The armouries then began to work on the production of javelins. Ever since my time in Italy I had been fascinated by this particular item of equipment, and was determined to acquire it for my own army. Every spear I had previously encountered comprised a long, straight shaft topped with a blade. But the Roman javelin was entirely different. It comprised a four-foot length of ash onto which is riveted a shaft of thin, soft iron which ends in a tiny triangular tip. Heavy and somewhat cumbersome, the beauty of the javelin is that when it is thrown at an enemy the iron shaft bends upon impact, and cannot be thrown back. In addition, if it gets stuck in an enemy’s shield it cannot be wrenched free, thus making the shield useless. The javelin was an ingenious weapon and I was determined to have thousands of them.

  ‘How many, majesty?’ asked Rsan, his face illuminated by the oil lamp that sat on his desk, the only light that broke the darkness of night-time.

  I stretched back in the chair opposite his desk.

  ‘Ten thousand. To begin with.’

  He stopped writing and looked up. ‘Ten thousand? But there are only five thousand men in your legion.’

  ‘I know that. But javelins break and you can never have enough, Rsan.’

  He was shaking his head. ‘Yet more cost, majesty. May I ask a question?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said.

  ‘You have raised five thousand foot soldiers, a further two hundred cataphracts, and the lords of your kingdom can furnish you with hundreds more horsemen in times of emergency.’

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘But we have peace, majesty. You have won over your lords, come to an agreement with the Agraci and have opened up a new trade route to Egypt, which brings in revenues for my, er your, treasury.’

  ‘What is your point, Rsan?’

  He sat back and brought his hands together in front of him. ‘Why do you then spend so much on soldiers that have no employment?’

  I stood up and smiled at him. ‘That’s a very good question, Rsan. In reply I will tell you the words that someone once told me, and which I have remembered ever since — if you want peace, prepare for war.’

  Through Li Sung I obtained the services of Chinese apothecaries who knew how to make a white, sticky liquid which, when alight, was impossible to extinguish until it had burnt itself out. When it was doused with water the flames and heat actually increased in intensity. It was also most terrible because when it hit a surface and ignited it stuck fast, like glue, so any poor wretch covered by it would burn to death despite all efforts to save him. The fearsome liquid was stored in a cool basement under the armoury in the Citadel and was placed under a heavy guard, for it could be as dangerous to a user as to an opponent.

  One non-martial indulgence I did allow myself was the hiring of a stonemason to carve a large griffin to be placed on the arch between the towers at the Palmyrene Gate. Squat, barrel-chested and balding, his name was Demetrius and he was a Greek. He had a large round face, piggy eyes and came highly recommended by King Vardan of Babylon. I visited his workshop one day, a large tent beside the barracks in the Citadel that had been erected for his convenience. He had been in Dura for three days, during which time Gallia had visited him and he had informed her about the statue and how he intended to carve it, after she had shown him my griffin banner that hung behind our thrones in the palace. He had even let her begin the carving.

  The large block of sandstone was resting on a wooden pallet in the centre of the room, his chisels and hammers arranged on a long bench beside it. Demetrius was busy marking the stone with chalk when he noticed me picking up a chisel from h
is bench.

  ‘Kindly leave the tools alone, they are not toys,’ he remarked without looking at me.

  ‘How long will it take to finish the statue?’

  He sighed deeply. ‘As long as it takes, longer if I am continually interrupted, that’s for sure.’

  He walked over to me, took the chisel from my hand and put it back on the bench in exactly the same spot where it had previously been.

  ‘I was wondering,’ I continued, ‘if I might try my hand at carving.’

  A look of horror spread over his face. ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘You let my wife have a go.’

  A sly smile creased his face. ‘Your wife is a beautiful woman. Besides, it is good luck to have one so fair and beloved of the gods to initiate the carving.’

  ‘I see, and am I not beloved of the gods?’

  ‘I have no idea, but I do know that while you waste my time with idle chatter my work gets delayed and your fee increases.’

  ‘Do you always talk to kings and princes in this manner?’

  He was indignant. ‘Of course, they hire me for my skill at creating works of art that will last for hundreds of years, not to inflate their feelings of self-importance. If you want flattery, go and talk to your courtiers.’

  ‘I don’t have any.’

  He looked reflective. ‘Then perhaps you are wise like your wife. Such a charming lady.’

  ‘You talked to her?’

  He shook his head irritably. ‘Of course, we had a very long conversation.’

  ‘You didn’t mind wasting time talking to my wife, then?’

  ‘Of course not, why should I? She is beautiful and intelligent. Any man would be a fool to pass up such an opportunity to share the company of one so possessed of grace and charm. Very unusual lady, I have to say. Very different from most of my clients, who for the most part are dim-witted warriors who want statues of themselves waving a sword around. They have some absurd notion that they will live forever if I make a stone carving of them. Laughable.’

  ‘You don’t believe that their memories will be preserved for posterity?’

  He regarded me for a moment. I think he was trying to work out if I was clever or an idiot.

  ‘The world is full of statues of men who are now long dead. Who remembers them? Not me, and I carved statues for many of them. After a few generations even their families have difficulty remembering who they were. A few, a tiny few, are remembered. We all know who Alexander of Macedon was, and Leonidas of Sparta and Hector of Troy. But the rest?’

  ‘Lucky for you that kings have such vanity.’

  He shrugged. ‘A man has to earn a living.’

  I went over to the sandstone and ran my fingers over its course texture. ‘If you think it is a waste of time, why do you carve statues?’

  He sighed irritably. ‘I did not say I do not enjoy it, I merely commented on the mentality of my clients in wanting to preserve themselves in stone. I love working with stone, metal too for that matter. For one thing, metal and stone do not ask ridiculous questions.’

  He turned and stood before my griffin banner that hung on the wall. ‘Interesting standard, designed by a sorceress your wife tells me.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘A gift.’

  ‘Mm, you are man who knows some interesting women, that’s for sure. Now, you really must leave to allow me to get on with my work.’

  The new year dawned and brought with it a happy occasion, for my sister Aliyeh was to marry Atrax of Media. Gallia and I travelled to Irbil for the ceremony with a small retinue of fifty horsemen and another fifty horsewomen, half her contingent of Amazons. We travelled north to Hatra and stayed in the city for a few days to await Balas. The old brawler was as roisterous as ever, and it was a happy party that headed east into Media the following week. My father had made Vata the commander of his bodyguard for the trip, the only reason being that I could once again be in the company of my oldest friend. My mother, dressed in leggings, leather boots and a bow hanging from her saddle, a quiver slung over her shoulder, rode beside my father. She wore a loose-fitting white tunic and a wide-brimmed hat on her head, but she would not have looked out of place among my wife’s female warriors. It was one of the few times that I had seen her in the saddle, and despite her middle age she still cut a dashing figure. Her long, curly black hair was tied with a black ribbon behind her neck.

  My father brought a hundred of his bodyguard and Balas another hundred of his warriors, so our column of horses and camels stretched for five miles along the road behind us. The banners of the kings made an impressive sight, the lion of Gordyene, the white horse of Hatra and the griffin of Dura, the latter carried by Vagharsh, a trusted Companion. Vata rode beside me. He had regained some of his joviality, though he still wore a haggard look that had aged him beyond his years. But now at least he appeared happy and carefree.

  ‘Gallia, I heard that you met Prince Mithridates at Esfahan and that it was a painful encounter for him,’ he said, winking at me.

  ‘Prince?’ she sniffed. ‘He is not worthy of that title.’

  ‘He’s a king now, unfortunately,’ I remarked casually.

  He grinned at me. ‘Is that how you greet princes in the land you come from?’

  ‘He got off lightly. I was in a good mood that day,’ she said, ‘I should have lopped them off with my dagger.’

  ‘Like we did in Italy,’ added the grinning Praxima behind us.

  Vata looked shocked and glanced at me. ‘You don’t want to know,’ was all I said.

  He changed the subject. ‘So, your sister is to be a queen.’

  I looked ahead to where Aliyeh rode beside my mother, who was being entertained by one of Balas’ tall stories.

  ‘Yes, I’m happy for her, and it will be a good alliance for Hatra.’

  ‘She is marrying for love, Pacorus,’ said Gallia, ‘not because of politics. Or would you prefer that your sister marry a fat old beast who will abuse her.’

  I knew that she was talking about her own experiences as a slave in Italy, and her tone dared me to contradict her. I did not. She had grown close to my sisters during our time in Hatra and wanted to see them both happy, as did I.

  ‘It is a good match,’ I said.

  Irbil was a city that was situated across the Tigris. We reached it in ten days, Farhad himself riding out to greet us on the final leg of our journey. He was an affable enough man and was genuinely delighted that his son was marrying well. The truth was that Media needed Hatra more than Hatra needed Media, but my father had not forgotten that Farhad had supported the election of Phraates and was pleased enough to have him as a relation. Indeed Phraates himself had come to the city, officially to bless the wedding, though I suspected the real reason was to thank those who had voted for him at the Council of Kings. I was pleased to see that Orodes was with him, and the prince greeted Gallia and me warmly. As an added bonus, there was no sign of Mithridates.

  Irbil was once a major city in the ancient Assyrian Empire. Indeed, its Assyrian name means ‘Four Gods’ — Assur, Ishtar, Shamash and Sin — and it was a great centre of learning, science, knowledge and art. The city’s citadel was positioned on top of a great circular stone mound a hundred feet high, on top of which had been built high stonewalls, yellow-ochre in colour. The city’s shops and houses were grouped around the mound, though there was no outer wall for their protection. Access to the citadel was via a long ramp that had been cut into the side of the mound, which led to a huge gatehouse on its southern side. We rode up to and through the gates, then along a short paved road that led to the central square, around which were grouped Farhad’s palace, temples, barracks and stables, the whole enclosed by an inner circuit wall. I estimated that the citadel had a diameter of around a quarter of a mile, no more. It was certainly a strong position, though any attacker could destroy those buildings around the mound with ease. All the buildings inside the citadel were brick, with a myriad of narrow alleyways cutting through the entire settlement. Our quar
ters were extremely pleasant and had an open courtyard planted with trees, the kitchens, servants’ quarters, stores and stables on one side and our rooms on the upper storey opposite. The doors were painted cobalt blue, the courtyard walls had marble facings and the arcade had three stone arches that supported a terrace overlooking the courtyard. Our room had a timber ceiling and plaster walls that were decorated with depictions of wild horses.

  The wedding ceremony itself was a grand occasion held in the city’s main temple, a cavernous stone structure surmounted by twenty domes resting on arches and columns. Afterwards I embraced Atrax as my new brother and wiped the tears from the eyes of my sister, for her time as my parents’ spoilt little girl was now over and she was beginning her new life as a woman. Hatra would no longer be her home for she was now a princess of Media. Yet Atrax clearly doted on her and she adored him, and dressed in his scale armour cuirass and steel helmet he looked every inch the warrior. The day after the wedding feast my mother bade Aliyeh a tearful farewell as she and Atrax rode off to spend some time alone together in one of Farhad’s mountain-top retreats in the north of his kingdom. A hundred horse archers dressed in blue tunics and grey leggings escorted the couple.

  As we watched the newlyweds ride from the stronghold and waved them goodbye, little did we know that we were also bidding farewell to peace and happiness. For at that moment a chill wind from the north blew in our faces, heralding the dawn of the hard times though we did not know it. As I held Gallia close I heard shouts behind me. I turned and saw an exhausted horse, dirty and lathered in sweat, hobble through the palace gates. The rider on its back, bent forward and hugging its neck, suddenly fell from his saddle onto the ground. A guard held the horse’s reins as another knelt beside the rider. I saw Phraates and Orodes looking concerned, and then suddenly we were all running towards the fallen rider.

  ‘He wears the colours of the city of Susa,’ said Orodes.

  Reaching him, I looked down and saw that the right side of the soldier’s tunic was soaked in blood. Phraates knelt beside him as the man, his face deathly pale, tried to rise.