Carrhae (81 page)

‘You will live in the palace at Dura, of course,’ insisted Gallia. ‘Rasha should spend the first months of her new life in familiar surroundings before you take her away from her people.’

Spartacus beamed with delight. ‘Thank you, aunt, that would be most agreeable.’

Indeed it would, for he found the relaxed atmosphere at Dura far more convivial than the strict social mores that existed at Hatra.

‘Nevertheless,’ I added, ‘as the heir to Hatra’s throne you will be expected to make your home in the city, notwithstanding that by marrying Rasha you will relinquish its throne.’

‘Parthians no like Agraci,’ said Byrd, ‘you will not find peace at Hatra. Will have to find your own kingdom.’

‘I will find my own kingdom,’ boasted Spartacus, his delirium of happiness having warped his senses, ‘and I shall make Rasha its queen.’

‘You know he just might,’ Gallia whispered to me as Spartacus took the gleaming eagle over to Byrd to show it off to him.

Later, as she lay beside me in our tent, I kept thinking about Byrd’s words.

‘He is right.’

Gallia was drifting off to sleep. ‘Mmm?’

‘Byrd. He was right about Spartacus and Rasha not being able to live in Hatra. The people would not look kindly on an Agraci princess in their presence.’

‘You worry too much. Go to sleep.’

Dura was fast becoming a refuge for exiles, what with Gallia’s offer that Spartacus and Rasha could live with us in the palace, plus Roxanne already living there and eagerly awaiting the return of Peroz. If they too got married I feared that the King of Carmania would not accept his son’s union and might even banish him. All would be settled either way soon.

Roxanne was finding life as a prospective princess far more agreeable than that of a whore, albeit a highly paid one. Following her arrival at the palace she had been regularly entertained by Aaron and Rachel, Miriam and even Rsan, who felt it incumbent upon himself to offer her his hospitality as the future bride of Carmania’s prince. Even the city’s wealthiest residents had invited her to gatherings, no doubt hoping that by doing so they would ingratiate themselves with Prince Peroz, whose reputation had soared following his battlefield triumphs.

After my return to the city I had visited Miriam to convey to her my deep sorrow at the death of Domitus, a loss I think I felt more keenly than she did. They had only enjoyed a brief time together and now she was a widow for a second time. I was filled with remorse concerning his death but she was very kind as we sat in the mansion that they had made their home, assuring me that her god was kind and that she and Domitus would be reunited in the afterlife. I thought of my dead friend’s worship of Mars, the Roman god of war, and wondered if that angry deity would release the soul of such a great warrior as Lucius Domitus to be with his wife. Shortly afterwards Miriam left the mansion to live in the residence of Aaron and Rachel, who were now parents to two young sons, preferring the laughter and unruliness of children to a life of lonely solitude. Thus once more did the mansion that had formally belonged to Godarz become empty.

The next day dawned resplendent and sunny with a slight easterly breeze that brought welcome relief from the heat that was already stifling by mid-morning. Long before that Spartacus had risen to prepare himself for the entry into Palmyra, ensuring his appearance matched his position as a Parthian prince. On his feet he wore black leather with silver studs and a silver horse’s head at the top of the front and rear of each boot. His red leggings were striped with gold and he wore a long-sleeved white silk shirt over his silk vest. Over the shirt he donned an armour cuirass made up of overlapping silver scales that shimmered in the sunlight and resembled the skin of a mythical serpent. And his open-faced steel helmet had a large white horsehair plume that extended down his neck.

He had been grooming his horse, a great stallion from Hatra’s fabled herd of whites, since before dawn so that its coat shone in the sun. On its back was a large red saddlecloth edged with silver with a silver horse’s head in each corner, over which was a four-horned saddle made of red leather.

I certainly looked second-best in my repaired Roman leather cuirass, brown boots, tan leggings and white shirt, though at least my helmet sported a fresh crest of white goose feathers. For the entry into Palmyra Gallia and the Amazons all wore white horsehair crests in their helmets and white cloaks, though more to keep the sun from roasting their mail shirts than for ceremonial reasons.

Spartacus had no time for breakfast and paced up and down impatiently as we ate fruit, bread and cheese brought from Palmyra and washed it down with delicious wine.

‘This is most excellent,’ I remarked to Byrd.

‘It is from Syria,’ he said. ‘I have agreement with the local vineyards.’

‘Is there no end to your business interests, Byrd?’ I said, raising my cup to him.

‘I was a salesman before I became a scout,’ he replied.

‘You should have something to eat,’ I said to Spartacus, who had drawn his sword and was inspecting the burnished blade closely for blemishes, ‘and at least drink something. You will sweat buckets in this heat.’

He held his head close to the blade and looked along its length. ‘I have no time, lord.’

‘You look every inch a prince,’ said Gallia, smiling as Spartacus sheathed his sword and then grabbed the shaft of the eagle that he had thrust into the ground. ‘But Pacorus is right, you should eat something.’

So he sat beside me and gulped down some fare as around us the small army of onlookers gathered to follow our column into Palmyra.

The settlement seemed to grow every time I visited it, tents and corrals holding camels, donkeys and horses spreading out from the lush date palm forest that surrounded the great oasis in all directions. It was a veritable city and I knew that soon stone buildings would be dotting the landscape for Malik had told me that he intended to turn Palmyra into a great city like Dura when he became king. But that was in the future. Today we rode through a multitude of tents so that my nephew could claim his bride.

Word had reached Palmyra of our approach and a mile from the settlement we encountered great crowds of Agraci blocking the road and reducing our progress to a crawl. Spartacus was most annoyed and became angry when well wishers wanted to lay their hands on both him and his eagle, proclaiming that the latter was sent from the gods and was capable of granting wishes to those lucky enough to touch it. How bizarre are the thoughts of those whose existences are so miserable that they believe a piece of metal will transform their lives. Gallia sent forward a score of Amazons to rescue him from the throng, who placed themselves between the excitable people and Spartacus.

Half a mile from Palmyra two hundred black-robed warriors arrived to quicken our journey, using their spears to clear the road and striking down a handful of unfortunates who refused to get out of their way. Their commander rode up to me and put aside his black headdress.

‘Lord Yasser, it is good to see you.’

He offered me his hand. ‘And you, lord king.’

He placed his right palm on his chest and bowed his head to Gallia. ‘Welcome Queen Gallia, lioness of the desert.’

Gallia took off her helmet and gave him a dazzlingly smile. ‘I always rejoice when I see Haytham’s greatest warrior.’

Yasser raised his hand to Byrd who was riding on the wagon behind us.

‘I trust your leg is healing, Byrd.’

‘Of a fashion,’ he replied indifferently.

Spartacus interrupted our conversation, clearing his throat loudly and looking at me imploringly. Yasser fell in beside me and nodded at him.

‘Is that the eagle we have heard so much about?’

‘It is,’ I answered.

‘And he took it, the standard of the enemy?’

I nodded. ‘He did. Another six fell into our hands.’

He looked at me in astonishment. ‘Six?’ He looked behind him. ‘Where are they, still at Dura?’

‘He give them away,’ said Byrd.

‘News has spread of your great victory over the Romans,’ Yasser said admiringly, ‘people say that you will now take a great army west to conquer Syria, Judea and even Egypt. They say that Rome quakes at the mere mention of your name.’

Gallia laughed aloud.

‘People are wrong,’ I said, ‘I desire peace not conquest.’

More of Haytham’s warriors lined the route to his tent, the cheers of those standing behind him making Spartacus smile as he and we made our way to the centre of Palmyra. Sweat was coursing down my face and neck as the temperature continued to rise and my nostrils filled with the pungent aroma of camels and animal dung coming from nearby corrals. At least the abundance of date palms offered welcome shade as we trotted into the royal enclosure and halted in front of Haytham’s great tent.

Standing near the entrance was the king himself, his large frame and head swathed in black robes, sword and dagger at his hip, Malik beside him and at least a hundred equally fearsome warriors grouped behind them. Standing to one side, dressed in a blue robe and adorned with the fabulous jewellery her father had purchased for her, stood a radiant Rasha.

Haytham gave me a slight nod but otherwise showed no emotion. Spartacus beamed triumphantly at Rasha, rammed the butt spike of the eagle standard into the earth and then dismounted, handing his reins to a slave who ran forward to take them. Other slaves, bare-footed with shaven heads, came forward to take Remus and Epona as we too dismounted. Gallia embraced Haytham and I clasped his forearm before we stood beside him. He beckoned Spartacus to come forward.

My nephew plucked the eagle from the ground, took a few paces forward and then rammed it into the ground again in front of Haytham.

‘Behold, great king, a Roman eagle, taken from the enemy on the field of battle and now delivered to you. I fulfil my quest.’

Haytham folded his muscular arms.

‘It is smaller than I imagined.’

Spartacus’ face drained of colour. ‘Lord?’

Haytham observed him with his cold black eyes, clapped his hands together and then roared with laughter.

‘Go and claim your prize, boy.’

Spartacus gave a cry of triumph and then ran over to Rasha, the two locking in a passionate embrace. Haytham’s warriors whooped, whistled and cheered and Gallia smiled.

‘Did you think he would do it, lord?’ I asked Haytham.

‘I have to admit that I thought it unlikely, but he has proved that he is worthy to marry my daughter. His name is famous now, and yours more so after your triumph over the Romans. What does Pacorus of Dura ask of the Parthian Empire that he has saved from foreign conquest?’

‘What it cannot give,’ I replied, ‘the return of the friends who have fallen in its service.’

‘I heard about Domitus. He was a great warrior.’

That night there was a great feast in Haytham’s tent. Spartacus ate little, drank much, got very drunk and passed out. Malik and I carried him to his tent that was closely guarded to ensure he did not sneak over to where Rasha slept. Not that he would be going anywhere in his inebriated state. Gallia told Rasha that she and Spartacus could live in Dura after they were married, which Haytham insisted should take place within a month.

I sat with Haytham and Malik, who had been reunited with Jamal, and watched Spartacus take part in drinking competitions with the king’s warriors, who had taken to this strapping, brave young man who was going to marry their princess.

Haytham had been disappointed that Byrd had not stayed for the feast but his wound had flared up and Noora had insisted on taking him back to their tent.

‘How bad is the injury?’ asked the king, stuffing a handful of rice and raisins into his mouth.

‘Claudia has said he will not ride again,’ answered Gallia.

Haytham was perplexed. ‘Claudia?’

‘Our eldest daughter,’ I told him.

‘Yes, of course. She is a physician?’

‘She was tutored by Dobbai, lord,’ I said, ‘and has knowledge beyond her years.’

‘It is said that sorceresses choose a disciple to pass on the secrets of their craft. I often wondered why Dobbai went to Dura. Perhaps she saw in your daughter a suitable candidate to inherit her skills.’

I laughed off his suggestion but the more I thought about it the more likely it appeared to be. Dobbai had helped deliver Claudia into the world and had been by her side for the first twelve years of her life. I had never questioned why Dobbai had made Dura her home until now. She had fled Ctesiphon following Sinatruces’ death and made her way to Dura, but even before then she had taken an interest in my life, selecting the griffin to be my symbol and sending me the banner that followed me on campaign and hung in my palace. Had my victories and the prosperity of my kingdom been purchased at the expense of my eldest daughter’s soul? I prayed it was not so.

Haytham seemed pleased enough that Spartacus was to be his future son-in-law, pleased that he had captured a Roman eagle, which fanned the flames of his fame, and pleased that the heir to one of Parthia’s greatest kingdoms was going to marry his daughter. The day after we had arrived Haytham invited them both to share breakfast with us as we sat cross-legged in the king’s tent. My nephew was bleary eyed and slightly subdued as a consequence of his indulgence the night before but Rasha was bursting with excitement and happiness.

I broke off a piece of warm pancake from the large metal dish placed in front of us and dipped it into a pot of honey as the two love birds sat down beside each other, Rasha grinning at Gallia.

‘You are to be married as soon as possible,’ Haytham suddenly announced. ‘Rasha should be settled to curb her rebellious nature.’

I saw Gallia stiffen beside me but I politely nodded in agreement.

‘And you will be married here, at Palmyra.’

I nearly choked on my pancake, taking a gulp of water to wash it down.

‘You disapprove, Pacorus?’ queried Haytham.

Spartacus was now grinning like a simpleton, unaware that as a Parthian prince Gafarn would want his marriage to take place in the Great Temple at Hatra.

‘Not disapprove, lord,’ I replied, choosing my words carefully, ‘but Palmyra might present difficulties as a venue.’