by Peter Darman
‘Men of the Duran Legion, I salute you. In a short space of time you have gone from being civilians to soldiers. None know what fate has in store for us, but I do know that you will not let yourselves or me down. Some of you fought in Italy with Spartacus. Know you that I hold true to what he believed in, that each man should be judged on his own merits regardless of his position at birth or race. You stand testimony to that belief. I thank you for your faith in me, and as a small token of my gratitude I present you with your standard.’
I dismounted and took the wrapped griffin from Nergal, then walked over to Domitus and handed it to him. He looked surprised, for I had kept this project a secret from him. I took my dagger to the twine wrapped around the linen and cut the threads. The same dagger that had once belonged to a brutal centurion who had been my jailer before Spartacus had liberated me. I yanked the linen cover away to reveal the gold griffin fastened to a small steel plate atop the pole. Domitus smiled with pride as he regarded the work of art, and though his men remained silent I sensed a surge of elation course through their ranks like a lightning bolt. The orange rays of the early evening sun caught the griffin and for a moment it seemed to stir, angry, restless and fierce before the soldiers who would come to love and revere it. Thus did the Duran Legion receive its griffin standard.
Afterwards Domitus selected ten of his best men to be its permanent guard, and it was housed in its own tent in the middle of the legion’s camp. Wherever the legion went the standard would go with it. Each night it would be kept under guard in the same tent in the same location in camp. During the days that followed I heard that every man under Domitus’ command lined up to see the griffin at close quarters, believing it to possess magic, for they had heard that its creation had been under the supervision of Dobbai. I smiled at this, but perhaps they were right and perhaps it did possess supernatural qualities.
Two days later its stone companion was finished, being moved from Demetrius’ canvas workshop on its large wooden pallet by placing logs underneath and hauling it down to the Palmyrene Gate. Tingling with excitement, myself, Gallia, Dobbai, Nergal, Rsan and Godarz followed behind on foot. Demetrius fussed around the load as fifty legionaries sweated and cursed as they pulled the statue through the city, others placing logs under the pallet as it inched its way towards its destination. Domitus bellowed orders and sent for another cohort of men, for word soon spread through the city that the magical statue was finished and people wanted to see it up close. Soon there were hundreds of individuals crowding round the griffin, trying to touch it and generally getting in the way. When the new cohort arrived Domitus used it to line the street and keep people away from the statue. He also had to detail some men to keep others from trying to touch Gallia’s hair, for many believed that it was a gift from the gods and thus sacred and charmed.
By the time the griffin had reached the Palmyrene Gate thousands had gathered to see it hoisted into position. The next hour and a half was very fraught as an agitated Demetrius shouted and pleaded with the operators of the giant winch erected above the gates to take care of his work. Godarz had supervised the construction of the winch and the reinforcing of the arch above the gates, and he was bemused by the Greek’s behaviour.
‘He’ll give himself a heart attack if he’s not careful.’
‘He’s very protective of his creations,’ I said, as Demetrius fell to his knees and placed his head in his hands as the statue swayed slightly in its rope cradle.
Eventually, and thankfully before Demetrius’ heart gave out, the statue was placed on its plinth between the two towers of the Palmyrene Gate. We walked up the steps inside one of the towers and stepped onto the top of the arch. It was wide and strong, allowing the plinth to be safely positioned a few paces behind the battlements. On top staring west with unblinking eyes, was placed the griffin. I had to admit he looked magnificent and would be guarding the city long after I had left this world, Shamash willing. Demetrius fussed around the plinth, using a small trowel to apply a symbolic layer of cement around the statue’s base. He gave the trowel to Gallia to apply the last dash of cement.
‘Surely I should seal the plinth?’ I jested.
Demetrius and Dobbai both rebuked me.
‘Don’t be absurd,’ he said, ‘it requires a woman’s touch, otherwise he will get annoyed.’
‘He?’ I said.
‘Don’t interfere with things you cannot comprehend,’ added Dobbai. ‘Take the trowel, child.’
With all eyes on her, Gallia took the trowel from Demetrius and applied the last piece of cement to seal the griffin to its plinth. Everyone then clapped politely and Gallia smiled radiantly.
Demetrius stroked the griffin. ‘He’s happy enough.’
‘And he can’t fly away, either,’ said Dobbai, nodding approvingly.
I looked at Nergal, who shrugged, then at Godarz who just grinned. Demetrius was paid his fee and left the city a few days afterwards a rich man, and strange to say that on the first morning after the griffin had been put in position, I rose at dawn and made my way to the Citadel’s walls, then looked west to the Palmyrene Gate. And between the towers, sitting on its plinth, was the griffin.
‘You decided to stay, then?’
A guard overhead me. ‘Majesty?’
I shook my head. ‘Nothing.’ I left the wall and went back to the palace. It is just a piece of stone I told myself. And yet…
The next few days witnessed a feverish passage of letters to and from Hatra as my father coordinated the response of those loyal to Phraates. The latter, ensconced at Ctesiphon, gathered what forces he could from his own kingdom of Susiana and fortified his royal residence. The plan was for all the kings to march with their forces to Ctesiphon, and then to strike at the rebels quickly before the infection of their treachery spread. Thus far Khosrou and Musa stood on the defensive as the rebel kingdoms lay directly south of their borders.
Byrd returned to Dura with Malik, and I greeted the Agraci prince warmly for he had become a good friend. That night he dined with us and told us the news from his lands.
‘My father and sister send their greetings,’ he said.
‘How is Rasha?’ asked Gallia, her beauty now fully restored after our journey from Irbil.
‘Well, lady, thank you,’ replied Malik, looking sideways at Dobbai, who had now seemingly become a permanent resident of the palace.
‘And you, Byrd,’ she continued, ‘is life being good to you?’
Byrd shoved another piece of meat into his mouth and nodded his head. ‘Good, lady. I like the desert.’
Malik grinned. ‘He likes one piece of it, that occupied by a young widow whom he visits often.’
Gallia looked at me with a triumphant smirk on her face.
‘That is excellent news, Byrd,’ she said. ‘We are pleased for you, aren’t we Pacorus?’
‘Of course,’ I said.
Malik stared again at the old woman in black rags sitting at the table, apparently invisible to us. She saw his stare.
‘You have something to say, desert lord?’
‘Forgive me, Malik,’ I said. ‘This is Dobbai, who was once the sorceress of King Sinatruces and now…’
‘And now I have returned from whence I came to make sure Pacorus does not deviate from his path.’
Malik was intrigued. ‘And what path is that?’
She wiped her hands on her robe, stood up and walked from the room.
‘It is not for you to know,’ she said. Then she stopped, turned and pointed a bony finger at Byrd.
‘What of the Romans?’
‘Romani troops marching north from Syria,’ was his reply.
‘Marching to where?’ I asked.
Byrd shrugged. ‘North, not know where.’
‘As long as they are not marching towards us I do not care,’ I remarked.
‘Keep one eye on Rome, son of Hatra,’ said Dobbai ambling from the room.
‘I would come with you, Pacorus,’ said Malik suddenly.
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br /> ‘This is not your fight, Malik,’ I replied.
‘Yet I offer you my sword.’
I nodded. ‘Then I accept it.’
Some say war is all glory, battles and slaughter, but I learnt long ago that organisation is the key to victory. Dull attention to detail is what gives an army success. Godarz had once been the quartermaster general in the army of Spartacus and now he made sure that my horsemen were fully prepared for the trials to come. Camels were hired and loaded with spare saddles, horseshoes, bridles, harnesses, saddle clothes, brushes and veterinary implements. Others were loaded with spare arrows, thousands of them, plus replacement bows, quivers and food — hard-baked Parthian bread that Domitus swore was worse than the equivalent in the Roman army. The legion marched with its tools, tents, spare weapons and clothing packed onto carts pulled by mules, ill-tempered beasts that Domitus nicknamed ‘Dobbais’. He thought this hilarious, until an old and grizzled one snatched his vine cane and chewed it through. He would have slit its throat had not Godarz, who was with him at the time, threatened to make sure that Rsan charged Domitus for a replacement. My two hundred cataphracts had their own camel train, but during the march they rode as spearmen armed with lances and round wooden shields. Their bows and quivers were carried in large hide cases stored on the camels, for no Parthian warrior went to war without his bow. But these men were the steel fist of the army, trained to smash through an enemy in combat. Before battle they would don their scale armour and then encase their horses in similar attire, but to march for a whole day under a Mesopotamian sun was more than even the hardiest warrior could endure. I sent the sons of the nobles who served as cataphracts back to their fathers in the days before we marched, for I still needed horse archers to complement my heavy cavalry. I did not order that the lords present themselves, for the memory of the insults dealt to them by Mithridates would still have been fresh in their minds. So I requested that they release a small number of their men to serve with me for the campaign. In this way I left it to them to decide how many they would furnish, if any. I have to confess I was nervous about their reply. They owed me allegiance, but these men were frontier warriors who had carved out their domains from the unyielding desert, and had then defended them in the face of Agraci aggression. The Agraci threat had now gone, but after their ill usage at the hands of Mithridates would they be willing to send men to serve under another upstart king?
I was pacing the palace terrace as these thoughts coursed through my head. Perhaps they would insist that their sons should stay with them, and then I would have even less cavalry.
Gallia shook her head at me. ‘Why do you torture yourself so? What will be, will be.’
‘Indeed it shall, child,’ said Dobbai, shuffling onto the terrace and seating herself next to my wife on a large wicker chair stuffed with cushions. I really wasn’t in the mood for one of her lectures.
‘They will come, have no fear.’
I was looking across the river, at a large camel caravan about to cross the pontoon bridge. ‘Who?’
‘Your lords, of course. That is why you pace like a caged lion, is it not?’
She reached over and grabbed Gallia’s hand. ‘I hope he is less predicable on the battlefield.’
‘How do you know, have you talked to them?’
‘Such a petulant outburst. You should have more faith in your talents. They have sent their sons, their most precious possession, to serve with you. Why then do you not think they would send other mothers’ sons to fight and die beside you? They will come.’
And she was right. Three days later my men returned and their fathers with them. They had obviously discussed the matter between themselves because each lord brought a hundred horse archers. Thus did I gain another two thousand cavalry.
We had a feast in the banqueting hall that night, a happy gathering of the lords of Dura, their sons and my Companions. It was the first time that the lords had met those who had fought in Italy and they were intrigued by their strange accents and appearance, but everyone got on well enough. Two women stole the evening — Gallia, whose beauty lit up even the darkest of rooms, and Dobbai, whose ugliness was in stark contrast but who had a powerful presence nevertheless. The lords had certainly heard of her and thought it very auspicious that she had come to Dura. And behind where I and my queen sat at the top table hung her griffin banner, the same banner that Dobbai had sent me all those months ago. They knew this, too, and one by one they came up to the table and asked permission to touch it, believing it to have magical powers. Men are superstitious beasts no matter how great their fame or grand their titles, and they put great store in relics, charms and artefacts that they believe will protect them and give them supernatural powers. None more so than warriors who want to go into battle with magical protection. Dobbai looked in amusement as these hardened frontier warlords gingerly extended their hands and held the corner of the banner for a few seconds, before turning sharply, bowing to me and then regaining their seats.
None had seen Gallia before but their sons must have told them about her, this blonde-haired, blue-eyed vision who was Dura’s queen. She never wore much jewellery or make-up; she did not have to. That said, tonight she wore a pale-blue gown that reached down to the floor. Her lithe arms were bare and adorned with gold bracelets and she wore slivers of gold in her hair that caught the light and made her blonde locks glint. Her earrings were also gold inlaid with small diamonds and on her fingers she wore gold rings. At the start of the feast the lords had bowed their heads to me, but they had gone down on one knee to Gallia. When the first man did so I gestured for her to extend her hand, which she did, whereupon he took it gently and kissed it. Gallia smiled with amusement, but every one of them, and their sons, insisted on the same ritual. Thus did Gallia once again conquer with her charm and beauty.
Dobbai, sitting on the other side of Gallia, was watching me as a steady line of individuals approached the banner to lay their hands upon it.
‘You are not going to hold the standard, son of Hatra?’
‘It would be unseemly for a king to prostrate himself before a piece of cloth,’ I answered stiffly.
She raised an eyebrow at me. ‘Of course.’
But in a private moment, when there were no eyes to see, I had already knelt before my banner and grasped it with both hands and prayed to Shamash that it would bring me luck and bless my kingdom and all those who lived in it. I knew this and Dobbai knew this, and I knew that she knew. She looked knowingly at me but said no more on the matter.
As the evening wore on and the wine flowed freely, some of the lords wanted Dobbai to touch their sword blades for luck, asking my permission for her to do so, because the penalty for drawing a sword in the presence of your king was death. I consented, and so the keen edges of their blades were held before her to touch. I don’t know what they thought this would achieve, but they each looked at their swords in awe after she had touched them and as they returned them to their scabbards. I was surprised to see Domitus offer his gladius to her, though when I cornered him afterwards he thought nothing of it.
‘Any bit of luck is welcome before you set off on campaign, especially if you’re in a tight spot.’
‘You think we will be in a tight spot, Domitus?’
He looked unconcerned. ‘You know how it is, when the fighting starts there’s always a few nasty surprises, and there’s always some young warrior on the other side who wants to make a name for himself by spilling the guts of a great warlord.’
‘I had no idea you thought of yourself as a great warlord, Domitus.’
He grunted. ‘I don’t, I was talking of you.’
I slapped him on the shoulders and returned to my wife. But his words had been prophetic, for not half an hour later a courier appeared at the doors of the hall, his face smeared with dirt and his clothes covered in dust. He wore a worried expression, and as a guard escorted him to the top table the babble of voices began to ebb as others caught sight of him. By the time he had re
ached my table and bowed there was silence. All eyes were upon him as he reached inside his tunic, pulled out a letter and handed it to me. I cut the wax seal with my dagger and opened it. I recognised my father’s handwriting. I finished reading it and gave it to Gallia, then looked at the host of expectant faces.
‘King Gotarzes of Elymais has been defeated outside his capital by Narses. What is left of his army has taken refuge with him in the city. Some of the rebels have ringed it, the rest, the majority, are marching west.’
There was a murmur of concerned voices. I held up my hands. Silence returned.
‘We march to link up with my father in two days.’
Chapter 9
The following day brought worse news when a rider arrived at Dura with another message from my father that a Roman army had invaded Armenia and Gordyene, and that Balas had been killed in a great battle near Tigranocerta in Armenia. I was stunned by this thunderbolt. It was true the Romans had been fighting the Armenians led by King Tigranes and Mithridates of Pontus, the kingdom to the west of Armenia, for years. But these disputes had nothing to do with Parthia. Now, a Roman army had invaded Parthian territory and had seized one of the empire’s kingdoms.
I read the letter to an ashen-faced Gallia, who had grown very fond of Balas since their first meeting at our wedding. It related that Tigranes had called upon Balas for his help when the Romans had invaded his kingdom, and Balas had agreed to offer aid. But Tigranes and Balas had been soundly beaten and Balas killed. Tigranes had escaped, though what forces he could still muster was unknown. But now my father was forced to send more of his army north to reinforce Vata at Nisibus, for the Romans were now on Hatra’s northern border.
‘That lovely man,’ was all Gallia could say.
