‘The Jews will soon be crushed,’ said Dobbai, ‘and then the Romans will turn their attention towards Parthia. You have little time to prepare, son of Hatra.’
I looked at Domitus. ‘Has there been any activity on our northern border.’
He shook his head. ‘None’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘even if the Jews fail there are still only two legions in Syria that we can match with our own two, and we far outnumber them in horsemen.’
Domitus looked at Byrd. ‘Tell him.’
An icy feeling went down my spine. ‘Tell me what?’
‘I have heard other rumours, Pacorus, reports that have come from captains of merchant ships. They say that Marcus Licinius Crassus will soon leave Rome to make war against Parthia. They say he will march at the head of seven legions.’
Now I was alarmed. Seven legions plus supporting horsemen added to the other two legions in Syria would pose a serious threat to the empire, not least to Dura.
‘How confident are you, Byrd, that these rumours are accurate?’
He frowned. ‘My sources are reliable.’
‘We must inform Orodes at Ctesiphon,’ I said. ‘Perhaps he can persuade the Romans not to commence hostilities against Parthia.’
‘Mithridates wants his crown back,’ remarked Dobbai, a hint of relish in her voice.
‘If the Romans put him back on his throne then he will be nothing more than a puppet ruler,’ said Gallia.
‘Better a puppet ruler than no ruler at all,’ replied Dobbai.
‘How long before Crassus gets here?’ I asked Byrd.
‘He has not left Rome yet. We have many weeks to prepare.’
I was unconcerned regarding Mithridates. He had no army behind him and little money with which to raise a new one. But his presence at Antioch provided the Romans with a pretext for starting a war with Parthia. Once Crassus arrived in Syria they would have nine legions on Dura’s northern border, in addition to cavalry.
‘We could always strike first,’ suggested Domitus casually.
Everyone looked at him. ‘If the Romans are going to invade then why not strike the first blow? We can be across the border with fifty thousand men and capture Antioch before Crassus and his legions set foot in Syria.’
I had to admit that I was tempted. I trusted Byrd and knew he would not reveal any information to me that he did not think was accurate. Still, to launch an unprovoked war against the Romans was no small thing, and would mean that I would not have the support of the other kingdoms in the empire. I also knew that Orodes would take a very dim view of such a measure. If, however, the empire was attacked then Dura would have the support of the other kingdoms. That said, if Mithridates was accompanying the Romans he would insist on marching via Dura to storm the city. But Dura’s walls were thick and its defences strong. A Roman army would have to conduct a lengthy siege to take it, during which time Orodes would be able to rally the empire against the invaders. And I knew that I could also rely on Haytham for support.
‘No,’ I said, ‘we will not launch an attack against Syria. I have no interest in conquering that province, which I would have to do if we invaded it.’
‘You don’t need to conquer it, just capture Antioch and kill Mithridates,’ argued Domitus.
‘And after we have done that,’ I replied, ‘what then?’
Domitus shrugged. ‘Then we withdraw to Dura.’
‘And when Crassus arrives with his army he will still march against us.’
‘But at least he won’t have the two Syrian legions if they have been destroyed,’ retorted Domitus.
I was unmoved. ‘No, we await developments. Having just finished fighting one war I have no desire to immediately embark upon another. The army needs time to rest and rebuild its strength.’
Rsan looked visibly relieved by my decision while Aaron looked disappointment. Alexander’s rebellion had always been a gamble. It was one thing supplying rebels with weapons, quite another for them to defeat the Roman occupiers. Well-armed bandits with excellent local knowledge would always be able to achieve success against isolated outposts and small garrisons, but Alexander aspired to be a general and to defeat the Romans on the battlefield, something that was very different and much harder to achieve.
That night I wrote to Orodes and Gafarn informing them of Byrd’s information and the whereabouts of Mithridates. Gallia had increased the number of guards on the city walls and in the Citadel, fearing that the former high king would again send assassins to kill me, and after the council meeting Dobbai had advised me to send my own assassins to Antioch to rid the world of Mithridates. I told her I would do no such thing. When I had finished writing it was late and the oil in my table lamp was burning low. The night was warm and there was no wind to stir the linen nets at the entrance from our bedroom to the balcony.
I looked at my sword in its scabbard propped up against the desk. It was eighteen years since Spartacus had given it to me when I had been a fresh-faced young man. Now I was forty years old and had known nothing but constant war during the intervening years. But I cheered myself with the thought that at least now the empire was united against its external enemies. If it came to war then I would not be fighting the Romans with one hand and Mithridates with the other.
I heard a rustle coming from the balcony. I drew my spatha from its scabbard and used it to ease aside one of the linen nets to see a huge black raven perched on the balustrade. He noticed the movement and turned his shaggy feathered neck to stare at me with his soulless eyes. I held his gaze and then he ducked his head forward and made a low, throaty rattling sound before spreading his wings and flying away.
The next day I sent the letters to Hatra and Ctesiphon and told Gallia about the visit of the raven while we sat on the palace terrace taking breakfast with our girls and Dobbai.
‘It is an omen foretelling the coming of war,’ remarked Dobbai.
I was unconcerned. ‘We know all about the Romans.’
‘The omen does not allude to the Romans,’ she said. ‘Another threat arises.’
‘You mean Mithridates?’ asked Gallia.
Dobbai shook her head. ‘No, child, something more dangerous.’
I dismissed her ramblings. There was no greater threat than the Romans and we would be fully prepared to meet them when they attacked. Dobbai saw omens everywhere.
After breakfast I went with Gallia to the stables to collect our horses prior to riding to the training fields to hone our archery skills. I was just about to hoist myself into the saddle when a rider trotted into the courtyard. A guard held his reins as he slid from the saddle and reached into his saddlebag. I watched as he said something to the guard who pointed at me, then strode across the flagstones before halting in front of me and bowing his head.
‘A letter from King Gafarn, majesty.’
He held out a rolled parchment with a seal bearing the horse head crest of Hatra. Gallia stared at it as I broke the seal and unrolled it. I read the words, sighed deeply and closed my eyes.
‘What is it?’ she asked.
I opened my eyes and handed her Gafarn’s letter. From the top of the palace steps I saw Dobbai looking at me and my blood ran cold. She had been right: the raven had been an omen.
‘The Armenians have declared war on Parthia.’
Epilogue
Aulus Gabinius was far from happy. Until fairly recently things had been going very well for him. Having helped to propel Pompey to power in Rome he had been made proconsul of Syria as a reward, a position from which he had profited enormously. In addition to destroying Pontus and reducing Armenia to a client kingdom of Rome, Pompey had crushed what was left of the Seleucid Empire to create the Roman province of Syria and as a bonus had also conquered Judea. When Gabinius had arrived in Syria to take up his new position he had been pleasantly surprised to discover that most of the towns and cities in his province had been accustomed to paying some sort of taxation for hundreds of years, and that in addition there was already in
situ a network of local administrators to maintain the rule of law and collect said taxes. As a result money soon began to flow into the treasury at Antioch, the capital of Syria, from which Gabinius extracted a very large amount each month. It was a most satisfactory state of affairs.
Like most senior politicians and high-ranking soldiers of the Republic, Gabinius dressed and lived modestly, though they all endeavoured to accumulate large amounts of wealth to buy favours and influence in Rome. In this Gabinius was no different and had, since his arrival in Syria, amassed a fortune from the taxes levied on Syria and Judea. But now his extremely lucrative position was under threat.
First there had been a letter from his sponsor Pompey in Rome informing him that Marcus Licinius Crassus had been given the province of Syria for five years and an army of seven legions with which to fight a war against the Parthians. This meant that when Crassus arrived Gabinius would be replaced as governor of the province and recalled to Rome, which meant he had only a few months to profit from the province’s generous tax returns.
Then there had been the Jewish uprising in Judea, which had been totally unexpected and had at first threatened not only the entire Jewish kingdom but also the towns in southern Syria. Fortunately his very able cavalry commander had acted quickly to bring the rebels to battle and defeat them.
It was this young general who now awaited Gabinius in the atrium of his villa nestled in the hills at Daphne some five miles from Antioch, a delightful location that was home to the city’s wealthiest and most powerful citizens. It was also reputedly the spot where the god Apollo caught up with Daphne, a nymph he had fallen in love with, whereupon Daphne’s father, the river god Peneus, had turned his daughter into a laurel tree to prevent her losing her virginity. As a result of this myth there was an ancient law forbidding the cutting down or harming of any of the laurel trees that grew in the area.
Gabinius was sceptical about the place being the playground of gods but he had to admit that it seemed a most blessed place, filled with natural springs, waterfalls, citrus orchards, orchid gardens, laurel trees and myrtle. A man could be at peace with the world in such a paradise. But not today.
‘The Praefectus Alae Mark Antony awaits you, governor,’ the villa’s head steward announced as Gabinius strode into the dining room and reclined on one of the couches.
‘Show him in,’ he ordered, nodding to slaves who brought him dishes of fruits, meats and bread to eat, though he really had little appetite for food.
Moments later his ebullient cavalry commander marched into the room and saluted.
Everything about Mark Antony was big: his thick neck, his round face and his solid frame. And the same could be said of his personality, which made him enormously popular among both the soldiery and Antioch’s nobility, especially their wives.
Gabinius pointed at an empty couch. ‘Can I offer you something to eat, Mark Antony?’
Mark Antony reclined on the couch and gestured at the slaves to bring him food.
‘You are very kind, governor. Our new guests are eager to meet you.’
Gabinius groaned. As proconsul of Syria he had better things to do than waste his time playing host to a group of Parthian exiles who had suddenly descended on him. Mark Antony noted his lack of enthusiasm.
‘You do not wish to see them, governor?’ he asked, nibbling on a grape.
Gabinius handed his plate to a slave. He had suddenly lost any appetite he may have had.
‘Not particularly. No doubt they wish to borrow money from me to maintain their lavish lifestyle, either that or drag me into their internecine Parthian squabbles. I have little interest in either. What is the situation in Judea?’
‘The rebels have been confined to an area in the southeast of the kingdom, around Alexandreum and Jericho. Soon we will have destroyed all of them.’
Gabinius nodded approvingly. He had spent a considerable amount of money on Mark Antony, who had at first refused an offer to serve under him in Syria. The young man had been in Athens at the time studying rhetoric and philosophy, as well as seeking refuge from his many creditors in Rome, but the incentive of a commission as the commander of all the Roman cavalry in Syria had changed his mind. The fact that none existed in Syria at the time had required Gabinius to pay for the raising of a full ala of cavalry – a thousand horsemen – to satisfy Mark Antony’s vanity, but the governor considered the expenditure an investment. For one thing his young commander was a member of the Antonia clan, one of Rome’s most influential families, whose support would be useful when Gabinius returned to the city, which unfortunately would now be sooner rather than later.
Some of Mark Antony’s horsemen rode behind the governor and his cavalry commander as they later made their way from the villa to the city of Antioch, the ‘Athens of the East’.
‘It is perhaps fortuitous, governor, that these Parthians have appeared at this time.’
‘Fortuitous is not a word I would use,’ muttered Gabinius.
‘You may be interested to know that I captured a number of Jewish rebels some days ago and had them all tortured before they were crucified.’
‘My congratulations,’ remarked Gabinius sarcastically.
‘But what they revealed before they died,’ continued Mark Antony, ‘was most interesting.’
‘And what was that?’
‘The weapons that armed the Jewish insurgents came from Parthia.’
Gabinius halted his horse. ‘Are you certain of this?’
‘Quite certain, governor. It came from the mouths of more than one of the condemned. I think they were so forthcoming with information in the hope that it would save their lives.’
‘And did it?’ asked Gabinius.
Mark Antony shook his head. ‘No. There can be no mercy for the enemies of Rome.’
Gabinius urged his horse forward. ‘Quite right. Well, perhaps our Parthian guests can shed more light on this matter.’
The pace of their journey was slowed as they rode through Antioch’s wide streets crowded with caravans, travellers, worshippers and citizens. Founded nearly two hundred and fifty years ago by Seleucus Nicator, one of Alexander of Macedon’s generals, it was still populated mainly by Greeks, though it also contained a host of other races, a teeming mass of tens of thousands of people. Built beside the River Orontes, Antioch grew rich from the trade between the Mediterranean and Mesopotamia and the produce of the surrounding fertile valleys. Its many theatres, temples, libraries and public baths were testimony to the city’s great wealth. And the promise of riches attracted people from far and wide, its great squares always thronged with poets, philosophers and out-of-work actors entertaining the public with varying degrees of success. Gabinius had done little to stamp Roman influence on the city apart from ordering the building of an aqueduct to being fresh water from nearby Mount Silpius and paving the city’s gravel roads.
The Parthians had appeared a week ago. The first Gabinius knew of their impending arrival was the appearance of a fat courtier at his headquarters; a man with pale skin, a wispy beard and small piggy eyes whose grovelling servility he had found distasteful. The Parthian nobles had subsequently sent the governor a sizeable amount of gold as thanks for his offer of sanctuary in their time of strife (though in reality they had invited themselves), which had been far more satisfying. Gabinius had given them rooms in Antioch’s palace, a vast edifice built on the island formed by two branches of the Orontes. This complex was also Gabinius’ headquarters but was so expansive that it allowed him to avoid them and ignore their requests for an audience with him, but today he had agreed to meet them, if only to end the constant fawning messages they sent him and his senior officers.
The same fat courtier that Gabinius had met a week ago greeted him and Mark Antony at the doors to the chambers in the west wing of the palace where the Parthians had been housed. The courtier bowed to them and then opened the doors to allow them to enter. Gabinius had his helmet in the crook of his arm and he looked disapprovingly at Mark
Antony and then down at his own helmet, indicating that his subordinate should also remove his headgear.
The room was spacious and airy, with red marble columns supporting the ceiling and green marble tiles covering the floor. The tiles came from the local quarry that produced the same coloured marble that furnished local villas and was also exported to Greece and Italy. The courtier took short steps as he led them to the far end of the room towards two high-backed chairs occupied by a man and woman.
The courtier halted around five paces in front of the seated individuals and bowed deeply to them.
‘The Proconsul Aulus Gabinius and Praefectus Alae Mark Antony, highnesses,’ he announced in a high-pitched voice. He turned to the pair of Romans and bowed again.
‘My I present King of Kings Mithridates, high king of the Parthian Empire, and his mother, Queen Aruna.’
Gabinius nodded his head at them both and Mark Antony flashed a smile at the full-bosomed woman wearing a sour expression. The Romans’ seeming lack of deference earned looks of disapproval from the gaudily dressed courtiers assembled either side of the royal pair. One individual caught the governor’s attention: a young man in his early twenties, tall, broad shouldered, clean-shaven and with a fair complexion and shorter hair than the other men. He had a handsome face, or would have had it not been for the hateful expression it wore. He seemed to be positively bristling with animosity.
Regarding the king, the proconsul thought that the wide cheekbones and long, pointed jaw line of this Mithridates made him look like a snake, an image reinforced by his dark brown, almost black eyes and slim frame.
‘I trust your quarters are agreeable.’
‘We do not intend to stay here long,’ the king shot back.
Gabinius was pleased by this good news. The last thing he needed was a landless, ungrateful king and his hangers-on in his province.
‘Though we are grateful for your hospitality,’ smiled the queen, who Gabinius noted was dripping with gold and diamond jewellery. Indeed, he observed that all the courtiers appeared to be wearing gold rings and necklaces, while rich stones dangled from the women’s ears.
Parthian Vengeance (The Parthian Chronicles) Page 67
