‘No,’ I replied. ‘If we strip Dura of men the Romans will march straight in. The frontier with Syria is quiet for the moment, but to denude this kingdom of troops is to invite the Romans to invade.’
‘What of the lords and their men?’ asked Domitus.
‘They will stay here with you, my friend,’ I answered, ‘to deter the Romans. Remember, sometime next year Crassus and his army will be arriving in Syria. Dura has to remain strong.’
‘What of Media and Atropaiene?’ asked Vagises.
‘Aschek has his own Armenian invasion to deal with and Atrax will hopefully be assisting Surena in Gordyene. He will not be able to spare any troops to reinforce Orodes.’
The room fell silent. Domitus adopted his usual habit of toying with his dagger while Kronos and Vagises stared at the tabletop. Rsan looked very concerned and Aaron thoughtful. Dobbai for once appeared lost for words. Afterwards, somewhat deflated, I wandered back to the palace where one of the young apprentices from the armouries was waiting for me with an invitation from Arsam, the chief armourer, to attend him in his workplace. The latter was a collection of buildings in the northwest corner of the city, beyond the Citadel’s walls, home to hundreds of armourers and their apprentices where the weapons, armour, shields and horse furniture for the army were produced.
I took Scarab with me. He had spent the morning at the stables mucking out stalls and grooming horses. I had taken Remus out for his daily exercise, and when I returned Scarab assisted me in unsaddling and ungirthing my horse and then rubbing him down, all the time asking me questions about Dura and its army. He certainly had an inquisitive mind. He still called me ‘divinity’, much to the amusement of the stable hands, and for the moment still believed that he was a slave. But then, all he had ever known was bondage and cruelty. As the time passed he would hopefully get used to his new position.
Ever since the murder of Godarz, the city governor, Domitus had insisted that I should have an escort wherever I went, even on the shortest journeys, and so it was today as I walked from the Citadel to the armouries. A score of legionaries flanked Scarab and me as we strolled out of the gates and turned right. Thumelicus, a big German who was a Companion and one of the army’s most formidable soldiers, happened to be on guard duty in the Citadel that week so commanded the detail.
‘When do we march north to fight the Armenians?’
‘You don’t,’ I told him. ‘The legions are staying here just in case the Romans invade.’
A look of disappointment spread across his big face. ‘More marching and guard duty, then. Can’t wait. We should have fought them all those months ago when we had the chance.’
‘Well we didn’t so there is no point agonising over what might have been.’
Thumelicus looked at Scarab. ‘Who’s this?’
‘My new squire. He was a slave in the city of Emesa.’
Thumelicus grinned at Scarab. ‘So this is the one that prompted Gallia to put an arrow in one of the enemy’s soldiers.’
I nodded.
‘He doesn’t say much. Did they cut out his tongue?’
‘No,’ I answered. ‘He does not yet speak Parthian.’
We arrived at the gates that led to the armouries, the sentries on duty snapping to attention as we passed them. The wall was a fairly recent addition but was deemed necessary to deter thieves. Dura’s weapons were among the finest in the empire and commanded a high price. The man responsible for equipping Dura’s army with the implements of war was a stocky Parthian who had learnt his craft in the armouries at Antioch and Hatra before taking up residence at Dura. That had been nearly fifteen years ago and in that time he had established a large group of talented sword smiths and armourers. Because Dura was a frontier city he knew that its rulers would always place a high premium on having first-class weapons to equip its army.
I had purposely increased the capacity of the city’s armouries, which meant hundreds of workers and apprentices, who produced a steady stream of weapons and armour. Such a large pool of labour and high production was expensive and a drain on the treasury, but it was money well spent because it resulted in Dura’s army being one of the most well equipped in the empire.
Arsam stood with his thick arms folded across his barrel chest in front of one of his workshops, a high and long single-storey building with a tiled roof. From within I could hear hammers beating metal and chisels being struck, and then the smell of burning charcoal reached my nostrils. Thumelicus put his arm round my shoulder.
‘Here you are. We will be waiting for you when you have finished.’
‘There is no need,’ I told him.
He shook his head. ‘I beg to differ. Even since Godarz’s murder Domitus has been adamant that you have a guard at all times. Besides, I heard that bastard Mithridates is at Antioch and that is not that far away.’
He tilted his head at Scarab.
‘You sure he isn’t an assassin? He’s as big as that boyfriend of the killer with the big breasts sent to murder you.’
I held up my hand. ‘Thank you, Thumelicus, but much as I would like to stand here and gossip I have business with Arsam.’
I left Thumelicus and his men and joined Arsam at the entrance to the armoury.
‘Is that man your brother, divinity?’ asked Scarab, glancing back at Thumelicus.
‘No, not at all.’
He looked confused. ‘Then why is he allowed such familiarity, for it is death in Egypt and Emesa to touch the body of the king.’
‘It is a long story,’ I replied. ‘I will tell you one day.’
Arsam bowed his head, frowned at Scarab and went inside the workshop. My ears were assaulted by a cacophony of noise as dozens of men wearing leather aprons stood working at anvils, benches and forges shaping, beating and cutting metal. The building was light and airy with many open windows, a high arched roof and a dirt floor to minimise the effects of molten metal spills. Good light is essential when working with metals and leather protection and ventilation even more so when beating and shaping hot iron. Nevertheless, the air was full of dust and fumes and the smiths and apprentices were covered in sweat and grime. The heat produced by the forges was intense and I too began to sweat as we made our way through the rows of benches and tool racks. There was an endless number of pliers, end nippers, hammers, metal cutters, hack saws, hand saws, hole punches, knives, razors, bevellers, awls, chisels and vices. And at the far end of the building were half a dozen forges that resembled the red-hot fires of the underworld.
We passed through the small army of workers to exit the rear of the workshop and enter an open space leading to a second workshop.
‘Take a look at this,’ said Arsam, walking over to a table positioned along the wall of the workshop we had just left.
He picked up an arrow and handed it to me.
‘We have been experimenting with different types of arrowheads. The one you are holding is made of steel and will go straight through mail armour.’
I looked at the arrowhead, which was long and thin and tapered to a point, like a needle. I turned the cedar shaft in my hand. There was also a recurve bow, similar to my own and the ones used throughout the empire, lying on the table.
‘Take a shot at that target,’ said Arsam, pointing to a straw dummy forty yards away, over which had been placed a mail shirt that was the same as that worn by the army’s legionaries.
I took the bow, nocked the arrow and shot it at the dummy. The arrow hissed through the air and struck the target. I walked over to the dummy with Arsam and saw that the missile had gone straight through the mail shirt.
‘Just as our legionaries wear mail shirts, so do the Romans,’ he said, yanking the arrow from the target.
‘And like Dura’s soldiers,’ I said, ‘the Romans also have shields.’
Arsam smiled knowingly at me. ‘Wait here.’
He dashed back inside the workshop and re-emerged moments later carrying a shield sporting the Duran markings of griffin wings. He carried it to a wooden stand positioned next to the dummy and walked over to the table, picking up another arrow.