Companions (The Parthian Chronicles) (59 page)

This commander stepped onto the leaning deck of
The
Cretan
and stared at us. His appearance marked him out as a man of high rank, his burnished bronze helmet sporting two white feathers either side of its crown. His bronze scale armour cuirass shimmered in the sunlight, as did his bronze greaves. He was about my height, though when he removed his helmet I discovered that he was around twice my age, his neatly cropped beard and hair flecked with grey. Curiously for a native of Pontus, he had penetrating blue eyes. He had a dignified, authoritative air, which was reinforced when he spoke in a firm, commanding manner.

‘I am Admiral Arcathius of the navy of Pontus. Who is your captain?’

Athineos walked forward.

‘I am Athineos, a trader from Crete and the captain of what’s left of this vessel.’

Arcathius placed the helmet in the crook of his arm and examined our party.

‘And what goods were you transporting that warranted the attention of two Roman warships, Captain Athineos?’ asked Arcathius.

‘Some people who wanted to leave Ephesus,’ replied Athineos evasively, ‘and who the Romans wanted to prevent from leaving.’

Arcathius remained impassive as he studied each of us in turn, his eyes eventually settling on Gallia beside me. My wife was holding her bow and had her sword strapped around her waist. I saw him noting the hilt of her dagger tucked in her boot.

I saw no advantage in disguising our identities.

‘I am King Pacorus of the Kingdom of Dura and this,’ I turned to Gallia, ‘is my wife, Queen Gallia. I am the son of King Varaz of Hatra, friend of the lately deceased King Balas of Gordyene whom we also considered a friend.’

Arcathius’ ears pricked up at this. ‘King Balas? You are Parthian?’

‘I am, admiral.’

There was a loud creaking sound and one of his men walked forward and whispered something in his ear.

‘Agreed. Well, I am sorry to report, captain, that your vessel is about to slip beneath the waves. I offer you all sanctuary on my ship, which I suggest you take advantage of speedily.’

As we clambered aboard the Pontic trireme, several of the soldiers leered at the shapely figure of Hippo, but their eyes widened in surprise when they saw Gallia’s blonde hair, blue eyes and martial accoutrements. The sailors cut the ropes, retrieved the grappling hooks and jumped back on the trireme. Athineos wore a sad expression as
The
Cretan
drifted from the ship for a few seconds and then silently slipped beneath the waves. I slipped an arm round Gallia’s waist and kissed her on the cheek.

‘That tribune sinks with her. The mast fell on him and killed him.’

‘He deserved a longer death,’ she said.

The other Pontic trireme was now slowly going among the rowers and sailors from the Roman vessels, throwing ropes into the water to pick them up. I estimated that we were around half a mile from Lemnos’ shoreline and many rowers were swimming towards land.

‘Surely they will drown?’ said Gallia with alarm.

‘Greeks are all good swimmers, lady,’ said Arcathius behind us, ‘they will make landfall as the wind and tide are with them.’

‘What will you do with the ones your other vessel is picking up?’ I asked.

‘Those who do not wish to remain with us we will take closer to the island so they can swim ashore. They will be re-employed soon enough. Good rowers are highly sought after.’

‘And what do you intend to do with us?’ asked Gallia.

Arcathius smiled. ‘Sharp and to the point, no doubt like your sword, Queen Gallia. Well, first I intend to sail us away from Lemnos so we can avoid any curious Roman vessels that the governor of the island may despatch. Then we will sail northwest to spend the night at one of our sheltered bays where we have hidden food and supplies. After a night’s rest you will have the opportunity of either leaving us or accompanying us to our base.’

‘Which is where?’ I asked.

‘The city Histria on the western coast of the Black Sea,’ answered Arcathius.

I did not know where Histria was and had only the vaguest knowledge of the Black Sea, but I liked this straight-talking admiral and we badly needed rest.

‘We would be appreciative of your hospitality, admiral,’ I said.

The triremes picked up those in the water nearby and sailed close to the shore so they could swim to land. Arcathius informed me that they would probably be transported back to Ephesus where they would be re-employed by the Roman squadron there. A handful decided to stay. As the sun dipped on the western horizon, the wind dropping and the sea turned into a shimmering carpet once more, I told the admiral our story. Of how I had grown up a Parthian prince and how fate had taken me to Italy. He had not heard of Spartacus but listened intently as I told him of his revolt against the Romans and my part in it, of my escape from Italy with the Companions and how I had travelled to Ephesus to rescue one of the latter.

‘And did you succeed?’ he asked as his crew furled the ship’s two sails and the rowers pulled on their oars to power us through the almost flat sea.

I pointed to Burebista sitting on the deck with his arm around Anca.

‘I found him lord, and now your ship carries him to freedom.’

He enquired about what happened after my return to Parthia and I told him about my marriage, which was attended by King Balas, my gaining the crown of Dura and the subsequent civil war in Parthia.

‘I never met King Balas,’ he said, ‘but his memory is held in great esteem by many in Pontus. I am glad he did not live to see my country become a Roman whore.’

‘Pontus is now ruled by the Romans?’ I tried desperately to hide my disappointment.

‘Worse than that,’ he said bitterly, ‘my lord, King Mithridates, the man who fought the Romans for thirty years, was killed by his own son Pharnaces, who has since become a Roman puppet. But there are many of us who carry on the late, great king’s fight.’

‘And not just in this part of the world, admiral.’

I told him about Dura’s army, about the Exiles and how they had helped to destroy a Roman army before the walls of my city.

‘The Exiles is an apt name, King Pacorus, for all true lovers of Pontus are now exiles from their own lands.’

‘Is this place you travel to, this Histria, not in Pontus?’

He gave me a wry smile. ‘No, in Thrace, though for how much longer I cannot say. The Romans circle it like wolves.’

The two vessels sailed into a small bay on a rocky, seemingly barren peninsula that Arcathius informed me was the gateway to the Hellespont, the narrow strait of water that gave access to the Black Sea. The ships were moored in the water close to a shingle beach that was surrounded by high, grass-covered hills. The rowers, sailors and soldiers left the triremes and went ashore to set fires, the firewood being stored in hidden caves above the beach. These small caves also contained grain that had been stored there a few days before by Arcathius’ men. The fires were lit and the grain ground down and baked into unleavened cakes, which were eaten just before sunset. Everyone had an appetite aside from Athineos who sat staring at the flickering flames of the fire we sat around. I went over and sat beside him.

‘I am sorry about your ship, Athineos.’

He shrugged. ‘Like I said, I am paying for my greed. Strange how a life’s work can disappear so quickly.’

‘I want you to come back to Dura with us,’ I said. ‘It is the least I can do.’

He continued to stare at the fire. ‘Dura is many miles from the sea, King Pacorus. What would an old sea dog do in your kingdom aside from spending his days getting drunk and whoring?’

‘I did not say you should remain at Dura, I said that you should come back with us. I have an idea that you may be interested in.’

His interest perked up at this. ‘What idea?’

‘Let us concentrate on getting back to Dura first and then I will tell you. But I do not intend for you to end your days as a beggar in some nameless town in Asia.’

He stroked his beard. ‘Well, as I haven’t got a better offer, and since I am now wanted throughout the Roman world, I accept your offer.’

He turned to look at me. ‘I can’t abandon my men.’

He was talking about his grizzled second-in-command, two other sailors and the duo that were at death’s door despite Alcaeus heroic efforts.

‘I would not expect it of you,’ I said, doubtful that the two injured men would survive the journey to Histria, wherever that was.

But they did survive, much to the surprise of everyone on board. But Alcaeus attended them closely and Hippo said prayers over them, the latter boosting their morale more than a crusty wiry-haired Greek whose temper seemed to shorten with every passing day.

Out of respect for Cleon and Hippo the next day Arcathius docked at the city of Elaeus, a settlement sited at the entrance to the Hellespont, on the left bank of the waterway. It was a beautiful place of white-walled buildings and endless olive groves positioned in a narrow plain between a range of rocky hills and the sea. Gallia and I walked with Arcathius through its clean streets and well-maintained buildings as we followed our Greek companions to the Tomb of Protesilaus.

‘Was he a king?’ asked Gallia.

Arcathius shook his head. ‘No, lady, he was the first Greek killed in the Trojan War.’

‘I have heard of that conflict,’ I said. ‘It was over a woman, I believe.’

Arcathius looked at Gallia. ‘You are right. A Greek princess named Helen, supposedly the most beautiful woman in the world, and the wife of King Menelaus of Sparta, a Greek kingdom, was abducted by Prince Paris of Troy.’

‘Where is Troy?’ asked Gallia.

Arcathius stopped, turned and pointed towards the harbour. ‘On the other side of the Hellespont, lady. It is now a small Roman settlement built on the remains of a once mighty city.’

He sighed and turned away from the harbour. ‘Returning to the Trojan War, an enraged Menelaus mobilised all the other Greek kings to send an expedition to get his wife back. Legend has it that a thousand Greek ships sailed to retrieve his wife.’

‘And did they succeed?’ asked Gallia.

‘Yes, majesty, they did,’ answered Arcathius, ‘but the war lasted ten years and thousands of Greeks and Trojans died.’

The shrine itself was an open precinct containing an altar and small temple, the whole surrounded by olive groves. Arcathius informed me that soil of the area was well suited to the cultivation of olives, so much so that Elaeus was called the ‘The Olive City’. The nearby tomb was an impressive rectangular stone structure with carvings of the Trojan War on all its sides. Arcathius gave Cleon and Hippo money so they could purchase small cakes as offerings, the admiral telling me that the Greeks believed that continued remembrance of the dead by the living ensured immortality for the former. ‘In Parthia we believe that the spirit lives on after death,’ I said. ‘But whether it goes to heaven or the underworld depends on the actions of the person in this life.’

While we talked Alcaeus also made an offering at the tomb. He and the two Greek lovers came away from the shrine in good humour and I was grateful to Arcathius for stopping off at the Elaeus, a Greek city a mere stone’s throw away from Roman Asia.

The Hellespont was a most wondrous thing, a corridor of ocean flanked by cliffs that was filled with small fishing villages. The mood among the sailors and soldiers on board was relaxed, though the rowers strained at their oars to propel us through the Hellespont’s forty-mile length.

‘The current is against us,’ Arcathius told me on the day after my conversation with Athineos. ‘It flows southwest from the Sea of Marmara, which we will enter in about three hours.’

I saw numerous single-sail fishing vessels plying the waters and large cargo ships similar to
The
Cretan
. As the soldiers relaxed on deck, their shields and javelins secured in racks, I enquired about the Romans.

‘There are no Roman ships in the Hellespont,’ the admiral informed me. ‘I raid into the Aegean to show Rome that Pontus is still its enemy, notwithstanding the treachery of Pharnaces, but no enemy warships venture up this waterway.’

‘Not yet,’ I said glumly.

My spirits also rose the next day as we continued on our journey, Arcathius telling me that the shore on our port side was Thrace, the homeland of Spartacus and Claudia. The crew must have thought we were mad when I hugged Gallia and then Drenis, who sank to his knees and thanked the gods that he had been allowed to see his homeland again. A bemused Arcathius told him that we would be docking at the town of Heraclea Perinthus on the Thracian coast to take on water and food. Drenis thanked him and gazed at the shoreline of the land he thought he would never see again. It was the first and only time that I saw Drenis with tears in his eyes.

The port’s harbour was filled with fishing and merchant vessels but did not compare to the great docks of Ephesus or Paphos, not that it bothered Drenis. We walked with him among his people in the crowded market behind the docks, the stalls and avenues between them filled with Greek and Thracian men, women and children.

The Thracian race was a collection of fair- and olive-skinned individuals, some having grey and blue eyes. Hair colours ranged from dark brown to blonde and even red. Many of the men had their long hair dressed in a topknot and most of the women and young girls had tattoos. Thracian dress included fawn-skin boots with tops turned down, woollen mantles and animal skin caps with their tails hanging down their owners’ necks. The town was noisy and crowded and the Romans seemed a distant memory. But among the joy we felt to be among free peoples I wondered how we were going to get back to Dura. We might find sanctuary at Histria but would we ever get home?