As I exited the Iron Gate I glanced back at the slopes of Mount Silpius where many houses had been built to accommodate the city’s eastern sprawl and where the walls snaked across the craggy slope higher up. Those walls had been designed by an architect named Xenaeus and were both high and thick and on the eastern side virtually impregnable. I should have asked Surena to accompany me on this journey so he could see for himself the strength of the Syrian cities he wanted to plunder.
As a major trading centre at the western end of the Silk Road Antioch received an unending supply of silk, furs, porcelain, spices and gems from China for shipment across the Mediterranean to Rome, and from the west came cargoes of gold, silver, ivory, carpets, perfumes and cosmetics to be sold in China. It was rumoured that Antioch was so wealthy that every house had its own fountain and though I could not verify this I did see magnificent two-storey buildings fronted by marble columns and public baths. We rode along a wide street that ran from the Iron Gate west bordered by marble colonnades. Other, lesser streets crossed it at right angles. Legionaries stood guard along this route as behind them a sea of curious faces gazed at me. They did not cheer or jeer but watched in silence as I rode with the son of Crassus to meet his father. Like all cities Antioch stank of human sweat and filth and animal dung mixed with exotic spices, but at least the temperature was bearable with a pleasant northerly breeze blowing.
Eventually we reached Antioch’s royal palace located in the northwest of the city on an island in the middle of the Orontes and connected to the metropolis by five stone bridges. Surrounded by a high stonewall, it had a large portico entrance of marble columns topped by huge wooden beams that supported a roof of thick marble tiles.
We rode through the entrance, into the spacious courtyard and towards the palace steps opposite. In front of these was a large crowd of Roman officers, local priests and senators. A senate composed of wealthy property owners administered every Syrian town and city; in Antioch they numbered two hundred balding, middle-aged men. A slave walked forward, bowed at me and held Remus’ reins as I halted in front of the assembled dignitaries and slid from the saddle. Trumpets blasted and a guard of honour at the top of the steps stood rigidly to attention. Remus, alarmed by the sudden, loud noise, shifted nervously so I stroked his neck to calm him.
‘Greetings, King Pacorus, welcome to Antioch.’
I turned and saw a face I thought I would never see again in this lifetime. Now around sixty, the last time I had clapped eyes on him he had a full head of neatly cut brown hair, but now Marcus Licinius Crassus was balding which made his large ears look even bigger. That said he looked remarkably good for his age and his broad forehead was largely free of worry lines. He still had a rather serious face with thin lips but now they parted in a smile as he walked forward and raised his right hand in salute.
Like most Romans Crassus was shorter than me and had a slighter frame but his appearance projected wealth and prestige. He wore a pristine white tunic that had broad purple stripes and had a purple cloak draped over his left shoulder that was fixed in place by a large gold brooch. Mt eyes were also drawn to his rich blue boots.
I reciprocated his salute. ‘Greetings Marcus Licinius Crassus, Governor of Syria. It has been a long time.’
He walked forward and took my elbow as the slave led Remus away to the stables. Crassus nodded to one of his officers. He walked over to Vagises who had also dismounted.
‘Your men will be shown to their quarters,’ said Crassus. ‘You must be tired after your journey.’
Spartacus and Scarab had handed their horses to slaves and strode over to follow me up the steps as Vagises oversaw the movement of his men and their animals to the barracks that had been allocated them.
Two Roman centurions, angry red crests atop their helmets, went to intercept them and stop them entering the palace.
‘They are with me,’ I snapped as Spartacus’ hand went to the hilt of his sword.
Crassus stopped and waved the centurions back and then gestured to my two young companions to follow us. I saw my nephew’s hand on his sword.
‘Behave yourself, Spartacus,’ I ordered.
Crassus heard the name and raised an eyebrow but said nothing as we passed the priests, sweating senators and Roman officers to enter the palace, but he must have known that it could not have been a coincidence that the strapping young man behind him with long black hair had the same name as the man he had defeated in Italy twenty years ago. Did he know that the son of the slave leader was walking behind him or did he think that perhaps one of my followers had named him thus?
Publius walked beside Spartacus and engaged him in polite conversation as his father escorted us into the palace, a large, sprawling structure containing many halls and rooms. If it was not as grand and expansive as Axsen’s royal palace at Babylon then it came a close second. Its long and richly decorated corridors led to private apartments, reception rooms, dining halls, offices and temples, and it seemed an age before Crassus stopped and nodded to a slave standing at the entrance to yet another corridor who stepped forward and bowed his head to me.
‘King Pacorus, if you would please follow me I will show you to your quarters.’
I recognised him. ‘Ajax! It is good to see you.’
He looked older and perhaps a little thinner but like his master was remarkably well preserved. I was taken back twenty years to Spartacus’ tent in Italy where he had been escorted in by a guard with an invitation for me from Crassus to visit his house in Rome.
‘It has been a long time, majesty. Time has been a good friend to you, I think.’
I smiled at him. ‘You are still the accomplished diplomat, Ajax.’ He must have seen the scar on my cheek and the weariness in my eyes and to him I probably looked ten years older than I was but I was grateful for his compliment. I turned to Scarab.
‘This is Scarab, my squire, who will require a room,’ Ajax smiled at the Nubian.
‘And this,’ I continued, looking at Spartacus, ‘is my nephew, Prince Spartacus of Hatra, who will likewise require accommodation.’
Ajax’s eyes widened slightly at the mention of the name of the man who had terrorised Italy but he instantly regained his composure and smiled at them both.
‘There are rooms for all, majesty.’
Publius had allowed his mouth to open in surprise and was staring at my nephew while his father maintained his expression of civility. The silence, though, was deafening. It was Publius who spoke first, smiling at my nephew.
‘Your name is not a Parthian one, prince.’
Spartacus knew the history of his father and his revolt against Rome. He flashed a smile at Publius. ‘It is Thracian because my father was a Thracian and was known to your father, I think.’
The cobra was out of the sack as Ajax shifted uncomfortably on his feet but Crassus was too skilled in politics to allow the unexpected to disconcert him. He looked thoughtfully at Spartacus.
‘You must have travelled back to Parthia with King Pacorus all those years ago. And now you are a prince in that land. My congratulations.’
‘Well,’ I said. ‘It has been a long day and I for one would welcome a bath and a change of clothes.’
Crassus smiled at me and nodded to Ajax who bid us follow him down the corridor to our accommodation as the governor of Syria and his son took their leave of us.
My room was spacious and airy and led to a balcony that gave an excellent view of the River Orontes below. Its twin doors were made from Syrian cedar with handles of red copper. Like the corridor outside the walls were painted with mythical scenes of hunting and war with a ceiling of cypress wood. The bedroom floor was white marble and in addition to the large bed my quarters contained a writing desk, four plush couches and three chairs with wooden arms and backs inlaid with ivory. The rooms of Scarab and Spartacus either side of mine were similarly well appointed.