Carrhae (72 page)

I was walking down the stone steps to go to the stables to collect Remus when I saw a group of riders approach. They drew closer and then halted before dismounting and leading their horses towards the palace steps. I saw that the swarthy figure leading them was Apollonius, fresh from his journey to the north. He handed the reins to one of his companions and strode over to stand before Gafarn.

‘Lord Apollonius,’ he said without enthusiasm.

Apollonius bowed deeply before his king. ‘Hail, great king, slayer of the Armenian barbarians. I hurried back as quickly as I could when I heard that Hatra was in danger.’

I looked at his immaculate scale armour cuirass of overlapping steel plates, his spotless white shirt and brown boots that did not have a mark on them. His horse looked as though it had just been groomed and the attire of his fellow lords was similarly spotless and unruffled. Wherever they had been they had not been hurrying anywhere.

‘Where are the horse archers you led from the city?’ asked Gafarn.

‘Safely returned to barracks in the city, majesty’ Apollonius replied.

I looked past him to where his companions were shifting uneasily on their feet, glancing at each other furtively. They stank of treachery.

I walked down the final two steps and held out my right hand to Apollonius.

‘All will be settled soon.’

He bowed his head to me and took my hand, a look of relief on his face. I kept hold of it as his expression changed from one of gratitude to being perplexed and then slightly nervous. His eyes momentarily recorded terror when I rammed the point of my dagger through his neck with my left hand. The blood gushed from the wound in great spurts, covering the blade, my hand and sleeve as I continued to grip Apollonius’ hand and watch the life ebb from his body. The others gasped in disbelief as I let go of his hand and his lifeless body collapsed on the flagstones, blood still pumping from the wound.

‘Arrest them!’ I shouted to the guards on the steps as Apollonius’ stunned companions gaped at the corpse at my feet.

‘What are you doing?’ shouted an enraged Gafarn.

‘Vermin control,’ I replied as Surena and Nergal both drew their swords and assisted the guards in surrounding the captives, who were bundled away, protesting, towards the guardroom.

Gafarn grabbed my blood-soaked arm. ‘Explain yourself!’

I removed his hand. ‘It is quite simple, brother; Lord Apollonius was a traitor who had brokered a deal with the Romans to betray you. Unfortunately for him, though fortunately for you, our recent victory put paid to his plans. If you search his mansion I am sure you will find evidence of his treason, either that or interrogate his accomplices in crime to reveal the truth.’

A subsequent thorough search of Apollonius’ home revealed letters from Crassus promising him the crown of Hatra in return for his assistance. Following a brief trial his companions were found guilty and subsequently hanged from the city walls for their perfidy, their bodies left to rot in the sun as a warning to others who might be considering treason.

We burned the bodies of Lucius Domitus and Thumelicus on two pyres in the centre of the Great Square, the only time that individuals who had not been members of Hatra’s royal family were cremated in that location. Gafarn had every man of his bodyguard on parade as a mark of respect for two Companions, friends and one who had been the commander of his brother’s army. I stood with him, Gallia, Diana, Nergal, Praxima, Spartacus and young Pacorus at the top of the palace steps as Vagises and Vagharsh both carried torches to the oil-soaked pyres and lit them.

As I had done a hundred times before I watched as the flames spread round the bottom of the piles of wood and then engulfed the bodies in a great roar and explosion of fire. The Durans and Exiles filled two sides of the square, my cataphracts and horse archers another and the ranks of Hatra’s heavy horsemen the fourth. The colour parties of the Durans and Exiles stood next to the raging pyres holding the golden griffin and silver lion in salute, as tears ran down Diana’s cheeks and Gallia stood ashen-faced beside her friend.

How many more times would I stand and watch the bodies of my friends and comrades being consumed by flames? Would those who stood by me now be watching my own body being cremated in the coming months? I found myself scanning the ranks of the legionaries, trying to search out that tell-tale white crest atop a helmet worn by a man of iron gently tapping a vine cane against his right thigh, but then brutal reality hit me like a spiked mace as I realised that I would never see Domitus again, never hear his reassuring voice on the eve of battle or shake his hand after the army he had created had added another silver disc to the Staff of Victory that was now held by Chrestus between the griffin and lion emblems. Without Lucius Domitus there would have been no staff, no victories and probably no army of Dura.

The fires roared again and the bodies of our friends disappeared from view as ravenous flames greedily devoured them. I had given the order that when the fires had died down the ashes were to be placed in copper urns and taken back to Dura where I would build a great mausoleum to house them. It was the least they deserved. We had lost another ten Companions during the battle and with their deaths a few more links with my time in Italy had been severed. I wondered how many of us would live to enjoy old age.

Gafarn had little time to grieve for our losses as Kogan brought a most pressing matter to his attention: the burial of the Armenian dead. Our own dead had been speedily cremated with due military honours but there remained tens of thousands of corpses lying half a mile to the northeast of the city. Ordinarily men from the army could be used to carry out the grisly task of stripping the dead and throwing them on pyres. However, the various armies would soon be marching north and east and could spare neither the time nor the men for burial duties. Gafarn therefore ordered a proclamation read in the city calling for volunteers to assist in disposing of the Armenian dead. To encourage willing participants he promised a few drachmas daily to those who came forward. Treasurer Addu protested at this but was overruled. It was now almost summer and very hot and soon the stench of rotting bodies would be carried on the wind to the city. But far worse would be the plague of flies that would envelop Hatra. Lacerated bodies lying in the sun became breeding grounds for maggots and flies by the million. And with the flies would come the threat of disease that might ravage the city.

So a long line of wagons and people trudged to the battlefield under the supervision of city engineers and companies of the garrison to deal with the army of corpses that we had created. The people who took part were the poorer sort who hoped to find valuables on the bodies of the dead, such as a pouch of money or a gold or silver necklace that they could sell. And after the corpses had had been searched they were loaded on wagons so they could be transported further away from the city where they could be thrown into burial pits. The city’s chief engineer was worried that to bury so many bodies near the city might risk polluting the underground springs that gave Hatra life, and so the dead had to be transported five miles further north.

Bodies that had been cut to pieces, together with severed limbs and the corpses of animals, were cremated where the battle had taken place, the shields of the vanquished providing wood for the mass pyres. Soon great columns of black smoke were snaking into the cloudless sky as the cadavers were burned.

I stood with Surena on the city’s northern battlements and watched the columns of smoke rise like giant cobras rearing up, about to strike.

‘Why don’t the city authorities burn all the Armenian dead?’

‘They do not have the wood,’ I answered. ‘There are simply too many.’

‘There are never enough Armenian dead,’ he sneered.

‘Ordinarily, of course,’ I continued, ‘we would use enemy prisoners or burial details but your Sarmatians appear to have killed all the stragglers and those who wished to give themselves up.’

‘Prisoners need feeding,’ he said dismissively. ‘We do not take prisoners in Gordyene.’

‘You cannot kill everyone, Surena.’

He looked at me with eyes that were devoid of emotion. ‘I learned long ago that in this world you have to kill to prevent yourself being killed.’

‘Is that the king or the marsh boy speaking?’

He suddenly looked very sad. ‘My grandparents died.’

‘I had no idea. I am sorry, truly. I liked them.’

He looked into the sky. ‘I used to receive regular reports about them from Nergal at Uruk, who was notified by couriers sent by my people. They died peacefully, my grandfather first, then my grandmother a month later. They say she died of a broken heart. They had many years together and one could not live without the other. It is an emotion I know only too well.’

He attempted a half-smile and then left me as the black cobras of death filled the horizon.

Later, after a meeting with my senior officers in my command tent, I sat with Gallia at the table and discussed with her the imminent expedition into the west. She had declared that she and the Amazons would be accompanying me, seeing little merit in remaining at Hatra.

‘You could always return to Dura,’ I suggested.

She shook her head. ‘I do not intend to remain idle while a Roman army invades my homeland. Besides, I want to test out these new arrows that Arsam has produced.’

‘Remember we go not to give battle to Crassus but to slow his advance,’ I reminded her.

‘If I put an arrow in his guts that will slow him down for good,’ she growled.

Our conversation was interrupted by the appearance of Spartacus, who was in a most agitated state.

‘You ride west tomorrow, uncle?’

‘Yes,’ I answered.

‘You will not forget your promise to take me with you.’

I had forgotten. ‘Your place, as a prince of this city,’ I said, ‘is beside your father. Lord Vistaspa for one will be expecting you to accompany Hatra’s army north to Nisibus.’

He began pacing up and down and fidgeting with the hilt of his sword.

‘I would ask you to speak to my father, uncle.’

‘Of course Pacorus will speak to him,’ said Gallia reassuringly.

‘I will?’

She frowned at me. ‘Yes.’

So half an hour later we sat with Gafarn, Diana and my mother in a small dining room near to the royal bedrooms. Slaves served us pastries and fruit juice as two others cooled my mother with great fans made from ostrich feathers.

‘I was sorry to hear about your Roman,’ she said. ‘I liked him.’

‘He will be sadly missed,’ I said.

‘And now you both go once more to fight our enemies,’ she said. ‘I pray that you both return. We seem to have nothing but war now, not like in the reign of Sinatruces when the empire had peace.’

‘His death heralded many testing times for Parthia, I agree,’ I said, ‘but now we have a chance of forging a new era for the empire.’

‘Pacorus has a favour to ask you,’ Gallia said to Gafarn.

My brother opened his hands. ‘Consider it done. Nothing should be refused the hero of the hour.’

‘I would like Spartacus to accompany me tomorrow.’

Gafarn looked perplexed. ‘If you are deficient in cataphracts I will get Vistaspa to give you some of Hatra’s companies.’

‘This concerns the Agraci girl, does it not?’ smiled Diana.

Gafarn held his head in his hands. ‘Not this again.’

My mother was most curious. ‘What Agraci girl?’

‘Spartacus has fallen in love with the daughter of King Haytham, who has insisted that he can only marry the girl if he captures a Roman eagle.’

My mother’s eyes lit up. ‘Like the one in the Great Temple.’

‘That is correct, mother,’ I said.

‘I think it would be better,’ insisted Gafarn, ‘if I took Spartacus with me to Nisibus so he can forget these nonsensical ideas about marrying an Agraci woman. He is the heir to the throne of this city and should start acting like it.’

‘Princes should not marry beneath them, I agree,’ said Diana, ‘after all, we do not want a member of a low-born race sitting on Hatra’s throne, such as an Agraci woman.’

Gafarn nodded triumphantly. ‘Precisely, my dear, I could not have put it better myself.’

‘Or a Roman kitchen slave,’ continued Diana.

Gafarn stopped nodding. ‘What?’

‘Or a Bedouin slave, even,’ Diana carried on.

Gafarn looked uncomfortable. ‘I think we are straying from the point, my dear.’

Diana looked at him reproachfully. ‘No we are not. Have you forgotten your roots, Gafarn, or mine? If Spartacus wishes to pursue his dream then who are we to stand in his way?’

‘The people of this city will not tolerate an Agraci queen, that much I know,’ insisted Gafarn.

‘Then he must give up the throne,’ replied Diana, ‘for that is the price he must pay if he truly wants this girl.’

‘Most eloquently put,’ said my mother, which did nothing to improve Gafarn’s humour. ‘After all, you have another son who was born in this city. He will make an excellent king, I think.’

Gafarn looked hurt. ‘You do not think Spartacus will make a good king?’

My mother thought for a few seconds. ‘Spartacus has a restless spirit that bridles against convention. He needs to make his own way in the world, that much I know. You may think you can chain him to this city but you would be wrong. He was born to rule but not this kingdom. I believe he is destined to win a crown by his own efforts.’

‘Is he outside?’ Gafarn asked me.

I nodded.

‘Guard!’ he shouted.

The doors opened and one of Kogan’s soldiers walked in.

‘Is Prince Spartacus in the corridor?’ snapped Gafarn.

‘Yes, majesty.’

‘I request his presence.’

Moments later my nephew stood to attention before his father.

‘You wish to ride with Pacorus tomorrow?’

‘Yes, father.’

‘To take a Roman eagle?’

‘If Shamash wills it,’ he replied.

Gafarn looked at Diana. ‘So you can take it to Haytham and claim his daughter.’

‘Yes, father,’ said Spartacus with pride.

‘You cannot be King of Hatra and have an Agraci wife,’ said Gafarn slowly so my nephew would understand the significance of his words. ‘This city is ranked among the finest and most Parthian in all the empire, and its kings have always fought the Agraci. Haytham is more feared and hated than the Romans and Armenians combined. That being the case, his daughter can never sit on Hatra’s throne.’