Ajax knocked at my door a few minutes after showing me to my room and offered to show us to the bathhouse, a great structure in the northwest corner of the palace complex that was a marvel of engineering. With Scarab and Spartacus we left our clothes at its reception and walked into the warm room, the tepidarium, and then into the hot room, the caldarium. These rooms were heated by means of a system called a hypocaust where the floor was raised off the ground by pillars and spaces were left inside the walls so that hot air from a furnace could circulate beneath our feet and in the wall cavities.
I sat on a bench and sweated and watched my two young companions immerse themselves in the warm water. I had to admit that the Romans were great builders but nevertheless had to remind myself that they were also great destroyers and that their empire was built on the misery of subjugated peoples. And even in this place of calm and relaxation I was reminded of this when our bodies, after we had sweated in steam rooms, were scraped clean by slaves holding a curved metal tool called a strigil that removed oil, sweat and dirt from the skin. It was most relaxing though I noticed that Scarab, being a former slave, was slightly uncomfortable and took every opportunity to thank the man scraping his body. For his part Spartacus, having never felt the lash on his back or known what it is like to be treated like an animal, basked in the attention he was receiving.
Vagises came to the baths to report that his men had settled into their barracks and the horses were receiving excellent attention in the stables. He also took the opportunity to wash the journey from his body and although he too had the dirt scraped from his flesh, he demurred when it came to being massaged with oils.
‘Our hosts are bending over backwards to make us feel welcome,’ I said.
‘That is what bothers me,’ he replied. ‘I feel as though we are being fattened up for a feast. Make sure you keep your bedroom door bolted tonight.’
‘We are perfectly safe.’ I told him. ‘The Romans frown upon murdering their enemies in the dark; they prefer to slaughter them in the open, on the battlefield, where the whole world can bear witness to their victory.’
‘We are wasting our time here,’ he said. ‘I have known the Romans too long not to know that they will interpret Orodes’ offer as a sign of weakness.’
‘I know,’ I agreed.
He looked at me with surprise. ‘If you knew why did you not persuade him to abandon the plan?’
‘Because he is high king and it would have been unseemly for his lord high general to disregard his orders. Besides, I have to confess that I wanted to see Crassus again, to see if he had changed or mellowed.’
‘And has he?’
‘No.’
But that night it was Crassus the impeccable host who was on display as he feasted my men in the palace’s large banqueting hall. The Romans normally liked to recline on couches during their banquets but on this occasion long tables had been arranged at right angles to the top table where I sat between Crassus and his son. Vagises sat on the other side of Publius and my nephew and Scarab sat opposite each other at the end of one of the tables directly in front of me. All the city senators were present, along with Crassus’ senior officers and a collection of differently dressed priests from the many temples in the city. I knew that the temples dedicated to the Greek gods Athena and Ares were over two hundred years old but also that the Romans had brought their own religion and had shrines in the city dedicated to Mars, Apollo and Jupiter. I scoured the faces of the Roman officers dressed in their rich tunics but could not see Marcus Roscius.
‘Tell me, governor,’ I said to Crassus, ‘is Tribune Marcus Roscius still in Syria?’
He seemed rather surprised that I knew that name. ‘He is a legate now and commands his own legion. He is unwell and could not attend the feast. You know him?’
I feigned disinterest. ‘He came to my city one time concerning a legal matter, that is all.’
He must have known that Queen Aruna was resident in Antioch and that Roscius was her lover but he kept his council and said no more about his legate. Perhaps he truly was ill but I doubted it; more likely he was ordered to stay away by his viper of a mistress. Instead he introduced me to a pale, thin man dressed in a purple-bordered tunic who sat next to him named Gaius Cassius Longinus. About thirty years of age, he had a square face, thick curly hair and large brown eyes. He seemed affable enough and was obviously one of Crassus’ senior officers according to where he was seated. I was surprised to learn that he was actually a quaestor, a sort of glorified treasurer, though bearing in mind Crassus’ obsession with money I suppose his elevation had a certain logic to it.
Crassus may not have been interested in discussing his absent officer but he was most eager to find out more about my nephew. As a slave filled his silver cup adorned with images of Dionysus, the Greek god of wine, he pointed at Spartacus.
‘He is the son of the leader of the slave rebellion?’
‘He is,’ I answered.
‘He must have been an infant when he, and you, escaped from Italy in the aftermath of my victory,’ he said. ‘His mother resides in Parthia?’
The first course of our meal had comprised bread rolls sprinkled with poppy seeds and honey, delicious spiced sausages, lettuce and olives. But now the slaves were carrying sliver trays heaped with the second course, which included roasted livers of capon steeped in milk and dressed in pepper, roasted peacock, eels, prawns, pork, boar, mushrooms and truffles.
‘His mother died giving birth to him, the night before we gave battle in the Silarus Valley,’ I replied.
‘He knows of his father, that he was a slave and a renegade?’ probed Crassus.
‘Of course, he knows that his father was a great commander who at one time had the whole of Italy at his mercy.’
Crassus stiffened but then drained his cup and held it out to be refilled. ‘History is interpretation, King Pacorus, and is being constantly rewritten to reflect the opinion of the victor. And in the end that is all that matters: who is the victor.
‘I trust your wife, Queen Gallia, is well.’
I nodded. ‘She is, thank you.’
He again looked at my nephew. ‘And he is the heir to the throne of Hatra?’
‘He is, though I hope that he does not accede to it for many years.’
Crassus put down his cup and leaned back in his chair. Around us the hall was filled with the noise of men becoming louder as the consumption of wine increased.
‘How would the people of the Kingdom of Hatra feel about a slave becoming their king?’
‘He is not a slave,’ I corrected him. ‘And their feelings are irrelevant. They are subjects and they obey their rulers.’
‘I see your time with Spartacus in Italy did not blind you to the realities of life. Let me ask you another question: what would be the opinion of Hatra’s lords to the son of a slave being their king?’
I could not discern the logic of this conversation. ‘They too are subjects and they too would obey their king. Kings rule, subjects obey. That is the natural order of things. And you seem to forget that I too was once a slave and yet I have the unquestioning loyalty of my people.’
He wagged his finger at me. ‘Not quite the same. Your fame as a fearsome warlord is known throughout the world. Who would dare to raise his sword against the man who rode beside Spartacus, killed Narses and Mithridates and placed King Orodes on his throne?’