I was dumbfounded. ‘You mean sending assassins to kill me?’
‘The king of kings must take all necessary measures to safeguard the empire’s security,’ he replied seriously.
He actually believed his own words. I was rendered speechless.
‘The death of one man,’ he continued, ‘in order to preserve the integrity of the empire is a small price to pay. But I failed and then you marched against me, and the conflict that followed sucked in the kingdoms of Babylon, Mesene, Hatra, Margiana, Hyrcania and all the eastern realms. Ask yourself this, King Pacorus: was it you or I who was responsible for this? I think the Council of Kings should decide.’
The Council of Kings met at Esfahan, a city nearly two hundred miles east of Susa, where all the rulers of the empire’s kingdoms came together to settle disputes by diplomacy rather than by the sword. At least that was the theory. At such a gathering many years ago we had elected Phraates, the father of Orodes and Mithridates, to be king of kings and where King Narses of Persis had put himself forward to wear the high crown. Mithridates looked at me with a smug expression. Legally he was right: a council should be called to determine his fate. And I knew what the result of such a meeting would be — his serpent tongue would most likely extricate him from any blame regarding the empire’s troubles. Even Orodes, who had suffered banishment and disgrace at his stepbrother’s hands, would baulk at sanctioning his execution.
I looked at Domitus and then at Mithridates. ‘This is your last night on earth. There is nothing left to say.’
I nodded to Thumelicus, turned and walked down the steps followed by Domitus. As we did so the voice of Mithridates echoed round the tower.
‘You would not dare kill me. I am high king! I demand to see my brother!’
Then he was bundled back into the storeroom and the door was slammed shut.
Domitus replaced his sword in its scabbard as he walked beside me back to the palace.
‘Is he right about that council?’
‘In theory, yes,’ I answered, ‘but it could take months to organise, perhaps longer while we are preoccupied with the Armenians and Romans, and time tends to blur the collective memory. Mithridates knows this and thinks that he will be sent into exile once more. Sent back to Roman Syria to foment more plots. I cannot allow that.’
He stopped and grabbed my arm. ‘If you kill him there are those who will frown upon your actions.’
I sighed. ‘You mean Orodes.’
He nodded. ‘Among others. It is no small thing to execute a king. All the other rulers that have fallen have done so in battle. When was the last time a Parthian king was executed by one of his own?’
‘Mithridates murdered his father, Phraates,’ I answered.
‘There is no proof of that, Pacorus.’
‘I believe it to be so, Domitus. That is all the proof I need.’ I looked at him. ‘Tell me, if you were in my position what would you do?’
He thought for a moment. ‘Kill him.’
And so we did.
In front of the palace at Seleucia, between the gatehouse and the grand building itself, is a large paved area that was created during the time of the founding of the city by Seleucus I Nicator. I decided that it would be a suitable venue for the executions, being able to accommodate a large number of people who would bear witness to the event. I ordered Domitus to use the Durans to man what was left of the city walls and patrol the streets to enforce the curfew that was put in place until the condemned had been executed. Three cohorts of the Exiles would be drawn up on three side of the square, with more of their comrades lining the walls facing inwards to bear witness. On the north side of the square where the palace stood, I, together with Gallia, my senior officers, Nergal, Praxima, Phriapatius and his sons, would observe proceedings from the top of the palace steps.
So eager had I been to rid the world of Mithridates that I had given no thought to the manner in which he would be put to death. Domitus suggested crucifixion while Vagises favoured impalement. Though the thought of Mithridates wriggling on the end of a sharpened pole hammered into his rectum or nailed to a cross was appealing I decided against both methods. For one thing the victim could take days to expire and I wanted Mithridates dead as quickly as possible. In the end we settled on strangulation, but then had to organise the making of four crosses that would be set upright in the ground, against which the condemned would be secured. That night a dozen of the city’s carpenters laboured to fashion the crosses, which when ready were transported to the palace and planted in the ground, but not before several of the flagstones had to be removed so holes could be dug in the earth underneath.
The dawn came soon enough and with it the procession of the condemned from their tower to the place of execution. Rank upon rank of Exiles stood motionless as three of the prisoners were escorted in a single file into the square, two legionaries carrying the unconscious Nicetas by the arms behind them.
I stood between Gallia on my right side and Nergal on my left as the men made their final journey on earth. I think Mithridates still did not believe he was going to die as he cast disdainful glances left and right before fixing me with a hateful stare. Gallia sneered at him but he ignored her as he scanned those gathered on the steps. He noticed Phriapatius and spat on the ground to show his disgust. Phriapatius grunted contemptuously in reply.
Four burly centurions had been given the task of being executioners, the one earmarked to throttle Mithridates being Thumelicus. As two legionaries manhandled the former king of kings against his cross the realisation that he was going to die finally gripped him. His eyes bulged wide as his arms were pinioned to the crossbeam and then he began shaking violently as his legs were bound tightly to the post.
Beside him Udall threw up and began pleading with the guards to let him go, saying he had been forced into Mithridates’ service. When the leather straps were fastened around his legs he pissed himself in fear. In comparison the Thracian showed no emotion as he was secured against the cross, looking at me with an unwavering iron stare, while next to him the limp body of Nicetas was lashed to his cross.
Mithridates was whimpering by now, looking at us with tear-filled eyes, imploring us to save him, after which he began sobbing like a small child, entreating us to show pity. But there was no mercy within us that day. I took no pleasure in killing helpless individuals but the memory of my father, Godarz, Drenis and Kronos steeled my determination.
With the victims secured those standing behind them placed leather straps around their necks, the straps being twisted with sticks behind the posts to tighten them round the condemned necks. The executioners looked at me and I nodded, then they twisted the sticks further to choke the prisoners. Thumelicus, being the big angry brute he was, twisted the stick so quickly that he actually broke Mithridates’ neck, the sharp crack being heard around the windless square. Within a minute it was all over and the victims’ bodies hung limply on their crosses.
Domitus dismissed the cohorts as we returned to the palace. I thought I would be elated but actually I felt relieved; relieved that the spectre of Mithridates that had haunted the empire for so long was no more. But in many ways his death was an irrelevance to the strategic situation. The Armenians still controlled all of northern Hatra and parts of Gordyene, and soon Crassus would arrive at the head of his army to further add to the empire’s troubles.