Carrhae (30 page)

‘What was it like, being a slave, I mean?’ she asked sheepishly.

‘Terrifying, humiliating and unbearable in equal measure, and I was a slave but for a short time. After I was liberated I met others who had been slaves for many years. After fighting beside them I swore that I would never own another slave in my life.’

‘We have slaves in Babylon,’ she said almost apologetically.

‘So does every kingdom in the empire, as do many mansions in this city. It is the way of things in the world.’

‘Did your friend, Spartacus, seek to change the world?’

I thought for a moment. ‘If he had been victorious and destroyed Rome then yes, he would have changed the world, or at least the Roman part of it, but I do not think he set out to do so. He was a very simple man, really, who wanted nothing more than to live in peace and freedom.’

‘Just as we do in Parthia.’

I thought of her great palace in Babylon, the golden throne she sat on, the opulence she lived in and the small army of slaves who pandered to her every wish. Her notion of freedom was perhaps very different from that of Spartacus’.

I smiled at her. ‘Yes, just as we do.’

‘Do you think we can beat the Romans?’ I detected a note of concern in her voice. Babylon, after all, was only a month’s march from Roman Syria.

I smiled at her. There was no point in alarming her. ‘Yes, we can beat the Romans.’

She looked past me to the gates. ‘He looks like an angry young man.’

I turned to see a well-built individual, with black shoulder-length. He was wearing a white shirt edged in blue, an expensive sword at his hip and a bow in a hide case attached to his saddle. His quiver was slung over his shoulder and a helmet was fixed to one of the front horns of his saddle. He rode a well-groomed brown horse. Behind him were half a dozen other riders on white horses wearing scale armour cuirasses of alternating steel and bronze plates, helmets on their heads – members of Hatra’s Royal Bodyguard.

The angry young man walked his horse into the courtyard and then noticed me standing by the memorial and half-smiled.

‘Uncle,’ he called, raising his hand to me.

I acknowledged his excuse for a salute and pointed at him. ‘The angry man is Prince Spartacus, son of the man we were just speaking of and heir to Hatra’s throne.’

And I could tell from his demeanour that something was wrong.

Chapter 7

I held the letter from Gafarn in my hand as the son of the man I had revered stood in front of me in the throne room. Gallia, having changed after her morning on the shooting ranges, had taken her seat beside me after learning that Hatra’s prince had arrived at Dura. Orodes had taken Axsen to see Spandarat in his stronghold where they would spend the night, leaving me to deal with this unexpected problem. Gafarn had entrusted the officer of his escort with the letter, which I read and handed to Gallia. She shook her head after perusing its contents and handed it back to me.

The prince had not known of the letter’s existence until now and though his curiosity was aroused when he saw it he feigned indifference, maintaining an air of brashness bordering on insolence as he folded his arms across his chest.

I held the letter up to him. ‘It does not make for pleasant reading and is hardly the conduct becoming of a prince of Hatra. Your parents must be very disappointed in you. If you had committed these offences in Dura you would have been flogged.’

At that moment Zenobia entered the chamber and Gallia beckoned her over. My wife’s second-in-command wore a tight-fitting white shirt that clung to her ample breasts while her leggings accentuated her shapely behind and womanly hips. She bowed her head to me and then spoke softly to Gallia, who smiled and nodded before Zenobia turned on her heels and left our presence. The eyes of the young prince were glued to her body as she walked past him.

‘He might get flogged today for his disrespectful attitude,’ remarked Gallia casually when she noted his leering.

‘How old are you, Spartacus?’ I asked.

‘Sixteen,’ he replied proudly.

‘Sixteen. And in the last twelve months you have broken the nose of a fellow squire, beat another senseless, had numerous fights with Lord Kogan’s guards, insulted the priests of the Great Temple, had too much to drink at a royal banquet and tried to ravish a nobleman’s daughter. Finally, and perhaps most seriously, you attempted to seduce a novice of the Sisters of Shamash. More mischief than most men achieve in a lifetime.

‘Have you anything to say?’

He held my stare. ‘I was provoked.’

Gallia stifled a laugh.

‘I see. And how does an innocent young female novice of a religious order provoke a young prince?’

He shrugged.

‘Your father believes that a period away from the pampered surroundings of Hatra will do you good, and it just so happens that there is a position here that is suitable for you.’

‘What happened to your master?’ asked Gallia.

‘He was killed fighting the Armenians,’ Spartacus replied.

I could see that he bristled with anger and resentment. ‘Well, you will be my squire until you have finished your training.’

‘What happened to your master’s other squire?’ asked Gallia, for every cataphract had two squires to attend him and care for his weapons and armour.

‘I broke his nose,’ came the reply.

I ordered a guard to go to the stables and fetch Scarab who was already my squire. When he returned Spartacus looked in horror at the black-skinned man with his sweat-soaked shirt and dirt-smeared face. Scarab bowed his head to Gallia and me and smiled at Spartacus.

‘Scarab,’ I said, ‘this is Spartacus who will assist you in your duties of being my squire. Take him to the barracks and find him a place to sleep. Inform the duty officer who he is.’

Spartacus looked at me in surprise. ‘Barracks?’

He was expecting to be lodged in the palace, of course, and normally he would have been out of respect for his princely status. But it was obvious that he had been indulged and spoilt and needed to learn the virtues of humility. His education would begin immediately.

‘That is correct,’ I answered slowly and sternly. ‘You will sleep in the barracks, though you may be comforted to know that your duties will require you to be away from your bed for long periods to spare you the indignity of enduring your meagre accommodation. You may go.’

He nodded curtly to Gallia and then me and then turned on his heels and marched from the hall, Scarab trailing after him.

‘And Spartacus,’ I called after him.

He halted and looked back at me.

‘You will find that Dura is not Hatra.’

Three days after the arrival of my nephew Orodes and Axsen departed Dura.

Spartacus was given no special treatment, shown no favouritism and no allowances were made for him because he was a prince. He slept in a bed next to Scarab in the barracks inside the Citadel; rose before dawn; cleaned out his horse’s stall; and groomed and fed his mount before he ate his own breakfast. After eating he rode out of the Citadel with the other squires and their cataphracts to the training fields outside the city. The cataphracts, equipped in full armour, would practice battle tactics and the squires would also take part. In this way they would become intimately familiar with the drills and procedures of the heavy cavalry for when they made the transition from squire to cataphract.

I always tried to take part in these training sessions as I enjoyed them immensely and believed that a king should always be in the company of his soldiers rather than sitting on his throne in his great hall listening to whingeing petitioners.

Scarab had previously been a slave and although he could ride a horse when he first came to Dura he was ignorant in the ways of mounted warfare, and neither could he shoot a bow. So having Spartacus present meant that not only could he explain to the Nubian the nuances of the tactics of armoured horsemen, he could also teach Scarab to shoot a bow. Spartacus thought it an outrage that he should demean himself by teaching a former slave to shoot, something that he had learnt to do from before he could walk. In reply to his protests I informed him that he would do as he was told.

He hardly spoke to me during the first two weeks he was at Dura. He was angry with me, angry with Scarab, angry with everyone. He thought it an insult that he was partnered with Scarab who was the oldest squire in the army. Squires began their training at the age of fourteen and finished it at eighteen, those that had lasted the course that is. Not every boy who began to train to be a cataphract was found to be suitable. So the angry young prince from Hatra spent his days in sullen silence, except when he was shouting at Scarab during archery practice.

‘Let the bowstring slip out of your fingers, do not close your eyes when you shoot, gently exhale when you release the string. Think about what you are doing you stupid Nubian.’

He quickly became exasperated with Scarab and with his duties in general and a month after he had arrived I saw him storm out of the barracks building one afternoon and stride across the courtyard. I was standing at the top of the palace steps passing the time with the newly arrived Malik and Byrd, Peroz and Domitus and saw him approach, rage etched on his face. Domitus, dressed in a white tunic, black leather belt and sandals, stood facing me as Spartacus bounded up the steps and shoved him aside.

‘Out of the way, old man.’

Malik looked in disbelief at what had just happened while Byrd shot an angry look at Spartacus.

‘Uncle, I demand to be allowed to live in the palace. That black slave is an imbecile who is fit only for shovelling dung.’

I was not listening to him but rather looking at Domitus who tapped the youth on the shoulder with his cane.

‘Your father would be disappointed in you.’

Spartacus could scarcely believe that his royal person could be violated so. He spun round to face Domitus.

‘You will be flogged for daring to touch me.’

Around us men stopped what they were doing to watch the drama unfolding before their eyes. Surely this was a joke, or at the very least a mistake? Did this boy know whom he was talking to? I doubted whether my nephew recognised Domitus, for he had probably never seen him, and even if he had it would have been when he was dressed in full armour and headdress.

‘Flogged will I?’ said Domitus calmly. ‘Well I might as well be flogged for a major offence rather than a minor one.’

He then lashed Spartacus across the face with his cane.

‘How many lashes does that deserve?’

For a few seconds my nephew did nothing but clutch the side of his face. His body started to shake and I thought he was sobbing, but realised that his quivering was rage because he faced Domitus and drew his sword; his jaw tensed and pushed forward, his teeth bared.

The guards standing by the stone pillars of the porch moved towards the pair but I waved them back. This would be a useful lesson for young Spartacus. At that moment Gallia and the Amazons rode into the courtyard after an inspection some of the royal estates south of the city. The queen and her warriors halted to stare at the boy who stood with a drawn sword facing the general of the army.

‘Arrest him, uncle,’ shouted Spartacus, ‘so he can be punished.’

More and more individuals began to gather around the edges of the courtyard to stare at the scene, and on the walls groups of sentries were talking to each other and pointing at the spectacle below.

As quick as a striking cobra Domitus swung his cane to strike the other side of my nephew’s face, before calmly walking down the steps and heading towards the headquarters building. Spartacus screamed with rage, his face red as he ran after him and drew back his sword ready to cut Domitus in two. But Domitus spun round, saw the blow coming and deftly moved aside so my nephew sliced only air with his blade. His sword skills were finely honed, even at this early age, and he instantly repositioned himself to face Domitus and then thrust his sword forward, aiming at the older man’s stomach. Perhaps he believed that the shorter, crop-haired middle-aged man who stood in front of him, armed only with a vine cane, would just stand still and allow himself to be run through. More likely he was not thinking at all, so possessed by wrath as he was. The strike was lightning fast but Domitus, who had spent his whole life fighting, saw it coming before it was launched and hopped to one side, transferred the cane to his left hand and again struck Spartacus across the face. This time, though, he did not allow his young opponent to wield his sword again: he grabbed his right wrist and kicked the back of the knee of my nephew’s extended right leg, knocking him to the ground. In a flash Domitus kicked the sword out of his hand and placed his right foot on my nephew’s neck, pressing down hard to pin him to the ground.

Domitus gestured to two guards standing outside the headquarters building who ran forward.

‘Lock him in the armoury,’ he ordered them.

They yanked my nephew to his feet and hauled him to the stout building with iron grills over its windows next to the headquarters building.

‘My sword,’ cried Spartacus, looking back at his blade lying on the flagstones.

Domitus walked over and picked it up.

‘A fine weapon. You can have it back when you have learned to use it properly.’

He looked around and saw the crowd of spectators.

‘Show’s over!’ he bellowed and then calmly walked back up the palace steps. He handed me the sword.

‘Let him stew for a few hours and then let him out.’

‘He is proving somewhat of a problem,’ I said.

‘You could always flog him,’ suggested Domitus.

‘That would only make him angrier and having been flogged myself I am reluctant to subject him to such humiliation. I apologise on his behalf, Domitus.’

‘You were flogged, majesty?’ said a shocked Peroz.

‘It was a long time ago, prince,’ I answered.

‘On board a boat,’ added Byrd, ‘I remember it well.’

‘As do I, Byrd. I still carry the scars.’

That night I had my nephew brought to me as I relaxed on the palace terrace in the company of Gallia. My daughters had been put to sleep and Dobbai had retired to her room so we sat sipping wine while small boats with lanterns at their bows cast their fishing nets on the marble-smooth waters of the Euphrates below us. The night was warm and still but not unpleasant. Gallia, her blonde hair loose around her shoulders, stretched out her arms as a dejected Spartacus was escorted into our presence. I dismissed the guards and gestured to an empty chair nearby. He saw his sword leaning against my chair but said nothing as he nodded to Gallia and slowly eased himself into the wicker chair.