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.