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by Peter Darman

  Quintus Varsas pointed at the map with his finger.

  ‘The plan I have formulated is based on the teachings of Sun Tzu,’ began Quintus.

  Legate Dellius raised a finger. ‘If I am not mistaken, wasn’t he a Chinese philosopher?’

  ‘Philosopher and military strategist, sir,’ smiled Quintus, ‘his theories are taught at Dura.’

  He pointed at the map. ‘Tiridates outnumbers us by at least two-to-one, perhaps more, and holds the eastern bank of the Tigris, as well as the only nearby bridge across the river, here at Seleucia.

  ‘So, we will use his position of strength to deceive him into thinking we are forcing a crossing of the river at the bridge. To this end, General Silani will strike for Seleucia with his army…’

  ‘What army?’ asked Silani.

  I smiled. ‘Stable hands and anyone else in the palace who can ride a horse. Added to your Babylonian Guard that should present the semblance of an army.’

  Silani shook his head. ‘Such a motely force will present no threat to the enemy, majesty.’

  ‘They would not need to,’ Quintus told him. ‘All that is required is a show of force at the bridge, plus a lot of noise, to hold the enemy’s attention.’

  He pointed at the map again. ‘Meanwhile, the real army will cross the Tigris twenty miles south of Ctesiphon using a pontoon bridge.’

  ‘How wide is the Tigris there?’ asked the legate.

  ‘Two hundred and sixty feet, sir,’ Quintus told him. ‘We will commandeer boats here in Babylon and transport them on carts to the Tigris, some forty miles to the east.’

  ‘If he has any sense,’ remarked the legate, ‘Tiridates will have scouts up and down the river to alert him to us crossing at a place other than the bridge.’

  ‘Naturally, sir,’ confirmed Quintus, ‘there is always an element of risk in war. But the chances of his army being at the exact spot where we intend to cross the river are very slim.’

  ‘And if he is there,’ I said, ‘we will simply choose another spot, or march to Assur and ford the river there. Either way, we will cross the Tigris and engage Tiridates.’

  ‘What is to stop him withdrawing back to the east where he came from if we defeat him?’ asked Tullus, devouring another slice of cake. Did not Rome feed its soldiers?

  Quintus Varsas looked at me. ‘May I answer, majesty?’

  ‘Please do.’

  ‘He may flee back to the east,’ said my quartermaster, ‘but his credibility will be gone. The King of Gordyene’s excellent foot soldiers currently besiege the city of Irbil, which will inevitably fall, thus depriving Tiridates of the Kingdom of Media, whose king has sadly died.’

  ‘There is no sadness when it comes to the passing of a traitor,’ spat Spartacus, Shamshir leering in agreement.

  ‘Tiridates fleeing,’ continued Quintus, ‘would mean him losing the kingdoms of Babylon, Susiana and Persis and all their resources, and let us not forget Satrap Kewab and King Salar, firm allies, are also based in the east of the empire.’

  ‘Who?’ belched Tullus.

  ‘Would you like more cake to eat, tribune?’ I enquired.

  He nodded.

  ‘More cake,’ I told the chief slave hovering near the table.

  ‘And wine,’ added Tullus, ‘I’ve never tasted such an agreeable beverage. Who’s Satrap Kewab?’

  ‘He was the commander who engineered the campaign against your former commander, Mark Antony, at Phraaspa, tribune. He now commands an army in the east.’

  ‘So you see,’ smiled Quintus Varsas, ‘for Tiridates, everything depends on him holding Ctesiphon and defeating our forces. Anything less and he loses the high crown.’

  ‘And his head,’ smiled Spartacus.

  Tullus raised his chalice. ‘I’ll drink to that.’

  Chapter 15

  Fifty-six thousand soldiers and thousands more non-combatants – medical staff, camel and wagon drivers and the men who staffed the ammunition train – left Babylon to strike east for the Tigris. At the same time Silani and his five hundred Babylonian Guards, plus their ragtag hangers-on, rode for Seleucia to mount the grand deception. These were difficult times for the commander of Phraates’ bodyguard, who had been forced to stay at Dura while a Scythian Sister had spirited his high king away, perhaps never to be seen again. Now he commanded five hundred élite horsemen plus another five hundred stable hands, palace slaves and other scrapings able to ride. Dressed in uniforms and given lances, shields and swords, some carrying banners and horns to make a din, from a distance they could pass for soldiers. Silani would have preferred to march with the real army, but for the ruse to work it was crucial he should lead the deception force. His face was well known throughout Babylonia and hopefully Tiridates’ attention would be focused on the bridge across the Tigris at Seleucia, rather than on a spot twenty miles downstream.

  Quintus Varsas supervised the construction of the pontoon bridge with some aplomb, his namesake the legate sitting on a horse beside me watching the procedure carried out by Dura’s engineers. Each pontoon, equipped with wooden decking to increase buoyancy and support for the roadbed above, was anchored to the riverbed by a stone-filled wicker basket dropped from the bow. The pontoons were spaced at fifteen-feet intervals and soon a row of them had been secured in place to span the Tigris. The depth of the river was low – around seven feet – and the current slow, making Quintus’ task relatively straightforward. Then the legionaries went to work, lashing together beams and cross planks to span the gaps, afterwards nailing wooden planks to the framework to form a roadway.

  Parties of Exiles had been sent across the river in boats at first light to secure the eastern riverbank and establish a bridgehead, and once the pontoon bridge was finished I sent Sporaces across with Dura’s horse archers to create a screen beyond the bridgehead to prevent any nasty surprises. Talib and his scouts went with them, along with Spartacus’ scouts, my nephew trusting the intelligence collected by his own men rather than mine.

  The legate nodded in approval when the bridge had been completed and the legions, including his own, were marching across it. As soon as all three were across the river a camp would be established.

  ‘Your quartermaster general knows what he is doing,’ said the legate.

  ‘He has received the best military education money can buy.’

  ‘Perhaps this campaign marks a new era in Roman-Parthian relations, majesty.’

  ‘Instead of trying to butcher each other, you mean? I sincerely hope so.’

  ‘I have spoken to Octavian, majesty, and he is desirous of an end to the constant warfare between our two great empires, which has resulted only in tens of thousands of needless deaths.’

  I was far from convinced. ‘Words are cheap, legate. Who is to say your new ruler will not take advantage of Parthia’s current internal strife?’

  The legate sighed. ‘Rome has also had its internal strife, majesty. Contrary to popular opinion, Rome does not have an inexhaustible supply of soldiers and gold to fight endless foreign wars.’

  ‘What are Octavian’s terms for peace?’

  I already knew the answer before he replied but I went through the formalities anyway.

  ‘The return of the eagles taken at Carrhae, majesty, and the two lost at Lake Urmia.’

  The same old demand: to return the lost eagles to their rightful owners to restore Rome’s honour. Of course, if Rome had not sent its legions into Parthia in the first place no eagles would have been lost. Phraates would never willingly surrender the prized possessions in his Hall of Fame. Then again, if he did not return, that problem would be solved. But that would create another, for who then would sit on the high throne?

  ‘That is a decision out of my hands, legate,’ I said, thus washing my hands of the whole matter.

  ‘But High King Phraates would be open to discussing the return of the eagles, bearing in mind Rome is assisting in restoring him to his throne?’

  I stopped myself guffawing. I doubted Ph
raates would even countenance the notion being voiced in his presence. That said, if he returned recent events might have knocked some of the arrogance out of him. One could only hope.

  ‘All things are possible, legate.’

  The enemy was conspicuous by his absence and by the end of the day the whole army was safely confined within the ramparts of our marching camp. Talib returned to report a large number of tents pitched around Ctesiphon and a high number of mounted patrols near the palace complex itself. He and his men had no need to venture near the walls of the structure because the terrain was flat, the more so since Phraates had ordered the levelling of all villages and removal of any trees within a ten-mile radius of Ctesiphon. This was so travellers could see the white-faced walls from afar and admire his palace’s size and beauty. More likely in the summer they averted their eyes when the sun’s rays reflected off the white surface to produce a blinding light, but I thanked Phraates for providing ideal ground on which to fight a battle.

  That night I invited the commanders of the separate contingents to our tent to dine. Having crossed the river unimpeded, morale was high among the troops. Even Spartacus was in a good humour, despite the presence of five thousand Roman troops in camp. He had still said nothing about the incident at the Temple of Ishtar and I hoped he had forgotten about it. But I knew the King of Gordyene was not a forgiving type. But he sat at the table next to Rasha and engaged in convivial conversation with Karys on his other side.

  Orderlies served beef, chicken and fish, the animals having been brought from Babylon and freshly slaughtered; the fish caught in the Tigris earlier. The wine had also been brought from the city, though I noticed Titus Tullus did not eat or drink to excess as he had done in the palace. He was crude and blunt to the point of discourtesy, but he also had the bearing of a ruthless professional. He reminded me of Domitus and Chrestus and that comforted me in a strange way.

  ‘So, Pacorus,’ said Gafarn, picking pieces of chicken from his teeth, ‘I assume you have a plan to tackle Tiridates?’

  ‘Yes,’ I answered.

  His mouth contorted into strange shapes as his tongue endeavoured to free the meat from between his teeth.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘To defeat him.’

  Diana and Rasha laughed and Quintus Dellius smiled. Even Spartacus allowed himself a wry smirk.

  ‘Very droll,’ said Gafarn, finally freeing the chicken, ‘perhaps you might like to elaborate for those of us less familiar with the workings of the enigma that is your mind.

  I took a gulp of wine. The cellars of Babylon’s palace really did have the finest beverages in all Parthia.

  ‘Tiridates has made a major mistake in allowing us to cross the river,’ I told him. ‘All that remains is to march to the walls of Ctesiphon and give battle to the enemy.’

  ‘What if the enemy chooses to hide behind its walls, uncle?’ asked Prince Pacorus. ‘Or divide his forces and send one part away, to later attack us after we have established siege lines around Ctesiphon?’

  I tipped my cup towards Quintus Dellius.

  ‘In such a scenario, we will adopt the same tactics employed by the Roman general Julius Caesar at Alesia.’

  The legate was stunned. ‘You have heard of him?’

  ‘Of course,’ interrupted Spartacus, ‘his campaigns are studied at Dura and their lessons taught to those lucky enough to be selected for the Sons of the Citadel. Is that not correct, uncle?’

  ‘It is,’ I said. ‘We will establish an inner ring of defences to besiege Ctesiphon and an outer ring of defences to keep any relief army out. But I suspect it will not come to that.’

  ‘Why is that, majesty?’ asked Karys.

  ‘Because Tiridates will want to destroy us before the walls of Ctesiphon to proclaim to Parthia and the whole world that he is the undisputed king of kings and ruler of all the lands from the Euphrates to the Indus.’

  ‘Which if he destroys us, he will be,’ remarked Gafarn.

  Gallia stared at her cup. ‘Tiridates will be crushed and his rebels destroyed, and afterwards there will be a reckoning.’

  We all looked at her, her eyes filled with determination, her jaw set rigid.

  Spartacus raised his cup. ‘To the reckoning.’

  As one we raised our own drinking vessels and repeated the toast. ‘The reckoning.’

  The next day we marched a meagre ten miles, keeping parallel to the Euphrates to secure our water supply and throwing parties of horse archers in all directions to ensure the enemy did not surprise us. But the enemy, as Talib and his men reported, stuck close to Ctesiphon, the tent city around the complex disappearing in anticipation of the great battle to come. There was a crackle of excitement in the air, an anticipation of a great clash of arms that would decide the fate of the Parthian Empire for perhaps decades to come. Men became alert, slightly withdrawn and more focused on the task in hand. Animals, having a second-sense about such things, became nervous and testy, their owners soothing them with kind words and affection while praying to the gods to preserve the lives of those who would carry them in battle, as well as their own.

  Conditions were perfect. The days were warm, though not excessively so, the ground hard and the wind nothing more than a gentle breeze. The sky was filled with white, puffy clouds and as we made camp a mere five miles from Ctesiphon, I looked up to the heavens, my ears filled with the sound of legionaries digging at the earth and centurions barking orders. The campsite was huge to accommodate well over seventy thousand people, but would ensure we were secure from enemy raids.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ asked Gallia beside me, the Amazons behind us waiting for us to enter the campsite.

  ‘I was just thinking of Dobbai. She always said the gods loved seeing men shed each other’s blood. I wonder if tomorrow they will be sitting on those clouds staring down on us during the battle?’

  ‘She has not spoken to you of late?’

  I averted my gaze from the sky to my wife.

  ‘No. Perhaps I am out of her favour.’

  ‘Why?’

  I nudged Horns forward. ‘She would think I waste my time fighting for Phraates.’

  ‘She would respect you for adhering to your beliefs,’ she told me, ‘and for fighting for your friends. Don’t forget this war is also to avenge our dead friends as well as restoring Phraates.’

  ‘I had not forgotten. Whatever happens tomorrow, I will try my utmost to ensure Tiridates is killed. You stay with the Amazons tonight?’

  It was Gallia’s pre-battle ritual to sleep among her female warriors, a long-held habit that had turned into a custom heavily laced with superstition. For her it was unthinkable to break it, to do so she and the other Amazons believed would bring bad luck on the morrow.

  ‘I will.’

  ‘What about Eszter?’ I asked. ‘She should stay in camp tomorrow.’

  Gallia shrugged. ‘She will want to be beside Dalir and he will be fighting beside his father. She knows the risks.’

  I barely slept before a battle. By the time a council of war had met and agreed on everyone’s role in the approaching battle, it was late. Evening meals had been cooked, eaten and men were settling down to prepare themselves for the coming fight. I had been worried that Spartacus might have proved fractious at the council of war, but he said little and made no objection to my battle plan and Gordyene’s part in it. Indeed, he barely spoke at all and neither did Karys or Quintus Dellius. Gafarn and Diana merely nodded as they stared at the table upon which were small blocks of wood representing the army’s different contingents, arranged to reflect how the real units would be deployed on the morrow. When the meeting was over and everyone was leaving, I had a quiet word with Rasha.

  ‘Is Spartacus well?’

  She smiled. ‘Very well. Why do you ask?’

  ‘He seems remarkably restrained considering the same Romans he fought in Armenia are in close proximity. Has he told you about the incident at the Temple of Ishtar?’

  ‘Of
course.’

  ‘He is not angry with me?’

  She embraced me and kissed me on the cheek.

  ‘Why should he be angry? He respects you for your honour and sticking to your principles, we all do.’

  ‘I know the presence of Romans among us must gall him.’

  ‘He dislikes the Romans, he makes no secret of it,’ she said, ‘but he will not cut off his nose to spite his face.’

  I had the feeling she was withholding something from me, but the hour was late, her husband seemed to be keeping his temper under control and I had no desire to interrogate the Queen of Gordyene. So instead I hugged her.

  ‘Shamash keep you safe tomorrow.’

  Afterwards, I walked with Chrestus among the neat rows of tents, talking with Dura’s foot soldiers and horsemen. Many were gambling, others around braziers were singing songs about loved ones far away, and some were sharpening swords. But whatever they were doing all were united by high morale and a belief they would triumph in the battle they would fight in a few hours. I had no doubt every soldier in the army of Tiridates but a few miles away thought the same.

  ‘Have there been any reports of trouble between the Romans and the soldiers of King Spartacus?’ I asked.

  ‘None, majesty. Your nephew has his men under a tight leash. But I have established policing patrols around the camp, just in case. We live in strange times.’

  ‘In what way?’

  He stopped to look at me, his wide shoulders silhouetted by the light of a nearby burning brazier.

  ‘When I fled from Pontus all those years ago, I swore the next time I met the Romans I would have a sword in my hand. I have done a fair amount of fighting between then and now. But here I am fighting beside them.’

  ‘This bothers you, Chrestus? Speak freely.’

  He inhaled the cool night air. ‘I’m a soldier, majesty, and obey orders. In a way, it makes things easier because I don’t have to think about politics. But if I was the new Roman leader.’

  ‘Octavian?’

  ‘That’s him. Well, I would be waiting for the Parthians to fight themselves to a standstill before invading.’