by Peter Darman
Your friend
Silaces.
I slid open the stall door and stepped inside, the stallion turning his head to observe me. I spoke softly and placed my hands behind my back to show no ill intent. He turned and pushed his head towards me, nostrils flaring as he snorted. He was certainly full of spirit. I lowered my head until our nostrils were but inches apart, letting him sniff me for a few moments before I slowly raised my hand to stroke his head. As I did so I again spoke softly to him, telling him we would talk again when I returned. I left the stall and closed the door.
‘He does not bite or kick,’ the master told me, ‘but he has a keen mind, and as you saw his physical appearance is exemplary.’
‘He’s around eighteen months old?’ I asked.
‘Yes, majesty. King Silaces is very thoughtful.’
‘Oh?’
‘Tegha is old, majesty, and should be retired. His days of being a warhorse should be over.’
He was being forthright but what he was saying was correct. But I had ridden Tegha for over twenty years and I was loath to give him up.
‘I will think about it when I return,’ was my evasive answer.
The dawn arrived soon enough, the eastern horizon turning purple and then red as the sun rose in a cloudless sky. I got around three hours of sleep before being rudely awakened by Gallia shaking me.
‘Time to get up.’
She rose from the bed and threw open the doors leading to the balcony, the fresh light of dawn flooding our bedroom. We washed and dressed in silence before she plaited her hair down her back and I shaved. I had always shaved since my time in Italy and had continued the practice after the defeat of Spartacus. In this I was unlike most Parthian males who let their hair and beards grow long, though I did not keep my hair short. I plucked a strand and held it up to the light.
‘Pure grey, it’s so depressing.’
Gallia tied off her hair. ‘You could always dye it.’
‘How vain would that make me?’
She drew her sword from its scabbard and examined the edges she had been sharpening the day before.
‘Then grow old gracefully and stop complaining.’
She was in a snappy mood, the happy prospect of being a grandmother giving way to the realisation her grandchild would be at the other end of the empire where those seeking to remove Phraates were also resident. Her maternal instincts desired Isabella to be close to Dura but that was impossible. But when we had dressed and were walking to the terrace to have breakfast, she revealed that was not her primary concern.
‘Why would Tiridates lead an army hundreds of miles from his kingdom?’
‘To seize Ctesiphon,’ I replied.
‘Ctesiphon is nothing more than Phraates’ vanity project, Pacorus. No intelligent general would give it a fig. If Tiridates takes it he will still be far from home and surrounded by enemies. It makes no sense.’
On the terrace Gafarn and Diana were already being served fruit juice, bread, cheese, melon slices and yoghurt. I saw no Adeleh or Prince Pacorus. Diana saw my quizzical look at the empty chairs beside her.
‘Gone to the temple to pray’ she informed me.
‘They will find Dura’s temple dedicated to Shamash is a poor relation to the one in Hatra,’ I said, a servant filling a cup with fruit juice.
‘I wonder what gods Tiridates prays to?’ asked Gafarn.
‘Erra, God of War.’
Claudia walked on to the terrace accompanied by Nergal and Praxima, the latter’s hair plaited in the style of the Amazons. All three sat down to join us for breakfast.
‘Word is Tiridates has pledged to present the head of Phraates to Erra if the god grants him victory,’ said Claudia.
I took a bite of melon. ‘Word from who, one of your sisters?’
She did not answer but merely smiled knowingly.
‘And what is the view of your sisterhood regarding Tiridates’ attempt to usurp the high crown?’ I probed.
‘We have no view,’ she replied, ‘which is to say we will not be taking sides.’
I suddenly lost my appetite. Claudia’s assistance had been invaluable at Sigal and it would fortify the troops to know that the Scythian Sisters, the secretive band of sorceresses, were on their side. Claudia saw my disappointment.
‘You think Phraates should be saved, father?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why? Because he is Orodes’ son? The predicament Phraates finds himself in is entirely of his own making, any fool can see that. Who’s to say Tiridates will not make a good high king?’
‘He took an oath to Phraates,’ Nergal reminded Claudia.
‘And Tiridates was part of the coalition that planned to attack Sakastan,’ added Gafarn.
Claudia picked up a date and bit on it. ‘When Phanes was created Lord high General in the East by Phraates? It was Ctesiphon that encouraged the strike against Sakastan by elevating Phanes. As I have told you all countless times, Phraates has a malicious nature.’
‘And Tiridates doesn’t?’ asked Gallia.
‘All men are cruel, spiteful and over-ambitious, it is in their nature,’ answered Claudia. She suddenly looked very serious. ‘My advice is not to get involved in this situation. Let Phraates and Tiridates resolve it between them.’
‘Which would mean the defeat and possible death of Phraates,’ I said. ‘No, I will not ignore the oath I took to uphold Phraates’ reign.’
Claudia finished her date. ‘Well, then, the die is cast.’
The morning passed frustratingly, both Sporaces and Azad reporting their men were ready to ride. But the camel corps was far from ready. The two thousand camels assigned to the cataphracts were the responsibility of Azad and were corralled near the city. Each cataphract had two squires and two camels, the latter carrying the armoured horseman’s armour, spare weapons, half a dozen long lances – the kontus – plus fodder for his horse and the squire’s horse, a tent, food, spare quivers of arrows, clothing, cloaks, cooking utensils, and cleaning equipment to maintain saddlery, armour, bows and other weapons.
The camel corps, which transported the tents, food and fodder for the horse archers, and provided an ammunition train carrying replacement arrows, was an entirely separate entity. The thousand camels that provided the logistical backup for the horse archers and the five hundred of the ammunition train were under the command of a civilian named Farid, a native of Dura who had been a teenage camel driver at the Battle of Carrhae.
He stood before me in the courtyard, his tunic soaked with sweat, his straggly hair and beard also wet with perspiration.
‘The ammunition train will not be ready until this afternoon, majesty.’
I looked at the sun in a cloudless blue sky. It was already hot and by the afternoon would be roasting.
‘Mustering the camels and loading them takes time, majesty,’ he said apologetically.
‘I understand that, Farid, we will just have to leave later. It’s no one’s fault.’
His fifteen hundred camels were kept in the royal estates several miles south of the city, their drivers living in the city. When the army was mobilised they had to leave Dura to collect their bad-tempered, spitting charges and bring them to the city where they were issued with supplies. There was only one access point into the city – the Palmyrene Gate – and so to save time and confusion the square towers either side of the gates were equipped with winches and pulleys to lower pallets loaded with supplies from their battlements. The stores were housed inside each tower, along with quivers filled with arrows. In this way, the camels could be loaded from fourteen towers and at the same time be kept outside the city.
‘How long will it take?’
‘Four more hours at least, majesty.’
‘Do your best.’
He bowed and walked back towards the gates, passing Chrestus who strode towards me. He jerked a thumb at the departing Farid.
‘If he was a soldier he would be on a charge for looking like a beggar.’
&nbs
p; It was a recurring grievance with Chrestus that the cameleers were not soldiers and therefore technically not under his command. They were civilians employed by the army, as were those in charge of the mules and wagons that supported the legions. But unlike the mule drivers and wagoners, the cameleers did not march with the legions but rode with the horse archers, thus being beyond the control of Chrestus, or so he believed. It was all nonsense and Farid was a diligent professional, as were those he recruited.
‘How can I help you?’ I asked.
‘The men are unhappy, majesty. They don’t like the idea of splitting the army.’
My head was being roasted. ‘Let’s get out of this sun.’
The courtyard was remarkably quiet considering the organised chaos across the river, in the city and beyond its walls. But only the Amazons were now quartered in the Citadel, along with the garrison century. We walked to the entrance porch to the palace where legionaries in full equipment sweated next to the columns.
‘The men are unhappy, or you?’ I teased.
‘It is a bad idea marching with just the horsemen, majesty. You will be defenceless at night for you will be unable to construct a camp.’
He was repeating Marcus’ concerns, ‘That is a chance I will just have to take.’
‘And once you get to Ctesiphon,’ continued Chrestus, ‘you will only be reinforced with troops from Babylon and Susiana, which are less than useless.’
I laughed. ‘You are being unkind, Chrestus.’
‘Really, majesty? I thought I was being generous.’
He was tapping his vine cane against his leg, a sure sign he was irritated. The fortuitous arrival of Gafarn walking from the palace saved further argument and brought welcome news. He nodded at the severe Chrestus, the general bowing his head at my brother.
‘I have sent a letter to General Herneus, Pacorus,’ said Gafarn, ‘instructing him to bring his cataphracts and horse archers south to link up with your legions when they reach the Tigris.’
‘May I ask how many horsemen will ride with General Herneus, majesty?’ asked Chrestus.
‘A thousand cataphracts and five thousand horse archers,’ came the reply.
Chrestus stopped tapping his cane against his leg. Six thousand of the empire’s finest horsemen, excepting Dura’s of course, were not to be dismissed lightly. The general did a quick tally in his head.
‘If we mustered all our forces at the Tigris, we would total twenty-three thousand men.’
I held up a hand. ‘The original orders stand, Chrestus. Now, if you will excuse me.’
He saluted, turned on his heels and marched back across the courtyard, bellowing at the legionaries wilting in the sun on the ramparts to stand straight.
‘He reminds me of Domitus,’ said Gafarn, ‘what with his muscular frame, cropped hair and cane. Do you remember the name of that centurion in Cappadocia who was very free with his cane, you know, after we had been captured?’
I thought for a moment and a name came hurtling out of distant memory.
‘Centurion Cookus, how could I forget him? I still carry the scars on my back from when he flogged me.’
‘Doesn’t having all these centurions around remind you of him?’
‘Strangely not,’ I replied, ‘though as soon as they get a vine cane in their hands they seem to revert to type, notwithstanding this is Parthia, not Rome.’
‘And here we are, about to go to war again. Just like old times.’
‘Just like old times,’ I agreed.
We finally left Dura two hours after midday, in the searing heat and not a trace of breeze in the air. Ten and a half thousand horses and four and a half thousand camels kicked up a huge dust cloud that enveloped the column as we crossed over the Euphrates to ride along the eastern riverbank south. On its journey to the Persian Gulf it twisted east and west and we would follow its course as it swung east some twenty miles south of Dura. We maintained a hard pace for the first two hours, covering the twenty miles before halting to water the horses and camels in the river. We were sweating profusely and covered in dust when we slid off our horses to seek shelter in the huge date palm grove that extended to the east. We had no scouts but Sporaces sent a party of horse archers ahead and north to give prior warning of any enemy formations. Aside from Phraates’ desperate summons we had heard nothing concerning the whereabouts of Tiridates or his army.
The patrols returned with nothing to report and so after two hours of rest we continued on our way, following the river until the sun dropped rapidly in the west and the temperature fell just as quickly. Where before there had been a blistering heat and choking dust, there were now cold and chattering teeth. The horses were rubbed down, draped in blankets, fed and fires were lit to cook food. There were no lights on the black horizon but guards were posted every ten paces. After what seemed like a few minutes of sleep I awoke and the daily ritual began anew.
On the third day we reached the River Tigris.
We were still in Hatran territory and when we reached the river Gafarn ordered his banner to be unfurled to display it to the villages we passed along the river to reassure the inhabitants we intended them no harm. But we did not tarry and pushed on south, reaching the city of Seleucia two days after first sighting the Tigris.
Seleucia was the gateway to the east of the empire. It had been founded over two hundred and fifty years before by Selucus I, called Nicator – ‘The Victor’ – one of the successors of Alexander of Macedon who had conquered the world. Selucus had gone on to establish the Seleucid Empire and the city named after him had walls that resembled the shape of an eagle with outstretched wings. Towers stood at regular intervals along their length but I knew that those walls had not been properly maintained. In many places they were crumbling and some of the towers were also in a state of disrepair. Phraates had made no attempt to rebuild them, preferring instead to lavish funds on Ctesiphon. The main road through the city ran from the main gatehouse in the western wall directly east to the stone bridge spanning the Tigris, which was about four hundred yards wide at this point.
The size of the city’s population was around eighty thousand and from what I could remember from my days as lord high general the garrison was around a thousand men, though this number could be increased in an emergency to five thousand or more by recalling veterans to the colours, and reinforcements could also be sent from the east bank of the river if needed. In theory Seleucia was very strong and its ability to receive an unending stream of supplies and men across the bridge made it a formidable stronghold. But we were not here to attack it but support its high king and so when we trotted to the gates, the governor rode out to greet us. He trotted at the head of a score of Babylonian lancers, all attired in purple leggings and tunics, and the utter relief on his face when he halted his horse before me, Nergal and Gafarn told me something was very wrong.
Chapter 5
His name was Dagan and he was another of Phraates’ sycophants, a man who was clearly unsuited to the task of ruling a city but I had no doubt an expert when it came to pouring honeyed words into the ears of the high king. We refused his offer to dine and refresh ourselves in his city, preferring to cross the bridge over the Tigris to reach Ctesiphon as quickly as possible. A level of ignorance that made me despair met our questions regarding the overall strategic situation. Where were Tiridates and his army? He did not know. How many troops were at Ctesiphon? He did not know. How many men did the garrison of Seleucia number? He did not have the figures to hand.
Nergal was less than impressed. ‘You do not know the strength of the garrison you command?’
Dagan flicked his well-manicured hand. ‘I spend most of my time at Ctesiphon, majesty. The day-to-day affairs are handled by my deputy.’
‘And where is he?’ asked Gafarn.
The governor’s young handsome face was spoiled by a frown. ‘He deserted me two days ago, majesty.’
I felt a great weight press down on me as we trotted over the stone bridge spannin
g the brown, slow-moving waters of the Tigris below.
‘He is in Babylon,’ Dagan told us, ‘along with the other traitors.’
I pulled up Tegha, causing the others to halt and the banner men behind us to pull up their steeds sharply to avoid a collision. Dagan had his head down to avoid any eye contact.
‘Explain. Now,’ I commanded.
‘The garrison of Babylon rose up in revolt three days ago, majesty, and since then the gates of the city have been closed. The high king sent a herald to demand they be opened but he was killed by an arrow shot from the city walls.’
I dug my knees into Tegha to urge him forward. With Babylon in revolt Phraates had been denied that city’s soldiers for his army. The fact most of the nobles of Babylonia had great houses in the city probably meant the kingdom’s lords had also revolted, which if true would be a terrible blow to Phraates’ credibility, as Babylon was his mother’s city. At least he could still draw on the resources of Susiana and Persis, the latter held by the fawning Satrap Osrow.
Reaching Ctesiphon lifted all of our spirits because it looked truly magnificent. The perimeter walls had been completed and had been faced with white stone to make them looked pristine and gleaming. Guards on the ramparts of the huge gatehouse had alerted the garrison commander of our approach and we were greeted by a colour party of Phraates’ Babylonian Bodyguard, each lancer wearing a cuirass of dragon-skin armour that shimmered in the sunlight and gave the appearance of fish scales. The commander of the party was that rare thing at Ctesiphon: a man who had been promoted not only because of connections but also due to ability. His name was Silani and he was a veteran of many wars, not least the recent campaign against Mark Antony and King Darius but also the relief of Phraaspa. I had always viewed him as a capable general but our relationship had become strained when we had faced each other in Persis after I had marched Dura’s army into that kingdom to serve justice on Prince Alexander of Media. His black eyes looked past kings and queens and their banners to scan the soldiers behind. He squinted as he tried to assess our numbers in the dust cloud thrown up by the horses and camels. He bowed his head to the monarchs before him.
