‘You are too kind,’ I remarked dryly.
‘Let us not talk about the past,’ said Orodes diplomatically, ‘but rather plan the future.’
‘That is simple enough,’ remarked Dobbai. ‘Defeat the Romans and Armenians and recover those parts of Hatra that are occupied by Artavasdes.’
‘Is that all?’ I said.
Dobbai walked forward to stand over me. ‘With the help of the gods and using what wits you have it should be straightforward enough.’
Axsen was intrigued. ‘Help of the gods?’
Dobbai examined her. ‘The Romans unexpectedly turn around and decide to butcher the inhabitants of Egypt instead of Parthia and Tigranes dies suddenly. You think these things just happened by chance?’
Axsen’s eyes were wide with excitement. ‘You mean the gods made them happen?’
Dobbai said nothing but merely looked immensely smug.
‘You asked them to help and they granted your request?’ Axsen sat in awe of the frail old woman in her presence. She may have been the queen of one of the world’s oldest cities, a city that had high priests and priestesses who carried out elaborate rituals and prostrated themselves before their gods, but here was a woman who had called upon the gods and they had answered. Not only that but had performed miracles that had saved the whole empire.
‘You must tell me how you made the gods answer your appeal,’ ordered Axsen excitedly.
Dobbai shook her head. ‘It is forbidden.’
I thought of the evening of the ritual, the dank mist and the snarling hounds and shuddered. Dobbai had sent Gallia and the children out of the city to protect them. Including Dobbai there had been eight of us that night and now two — Kronos and Drenis — were dead. I knew that the gods did not grant their favours freely and, as Dobbai had warned, there was always a price to pay.
Dobbai suddenly turned and shuffled from the terrace, leaving a frustrated Axsen who looked indignantly at Orodes. But he merely smiled at his wife and said nothing. Dobbai stopped and looked back at us.
‘You need to kill her.’
Gallia looked at me as though I knew whom she was speaking of but I shrugged.
Orodes looked slightly alarmed. ‘Kill who?’
‘Your stepmother, of course.’
‘Queen Aruna?’ I said.
‘Of course, and do it quickly.’
Orodes was both shocked and appalled by the idea. ‘My stepmother lives in exile in Antioch. She must be at least sixty years old now. I will not sanction any attempt on the life of an old woman who is no threat to us.’
Dobbai nodded to herself. ‘Too forgiving.’ She continued to walk from the terrace, calling out as she did so.
‘Send the son of Hatra, then, or better still ask Haytham to send his assassins to slit her throat.’
‘I will not be sending anyone to kill my stepmother,’ said Orodes seriously, looking at me. ‘And would ask that you also refrain from attempting to murder her.’
‘I am delighted that Queen Aruna is far away in Antioch,’ I replied, ‘and hopes she dies there.’
‘Your sorceress could weave a spell to kill her,’ mused Axsen, much to the amusement of Gallia and the disapproval of Orodes.
‘There is always a price to pay for such endeavours,’ I found myself saying.
‘What price?’ asked Gallia.
I thought of Drenis and Kronos. ‘A high price, sometimes too high.’
The next morning, following my ride and yet another lesson in swordplay from Domitus, whose reflexes appeared to quicken as he got older, I rode back to the Citadel, unsaddled Remus and afterwards stood by the gates looking at the granite memorial to the Companions. One hundred and twenty men and women had travelled back with me from Italy in the aftermath of Spartacus’ death. That was sixteen years ago and in that time over half had died, some from natural causes but most in battle. Each one of their names was now carved on the stone before me, Drenis being the most recent one. I looked at the empty space that was yet to be filled. How long would it take until the memorial was filled with the names of all those who had fought with Spartacus, including my own and Gallia’s?
‘Pacorus?’
I turned to see Axsen dressed in leggings, purple silk shirt and red boots. Her face appeared flushed and her hair was in a long plait down her back.
‘I have been on morning exercises with the Amazons. Most exhilarating.’
She looked at the memorial. ‘What is this?’
‘A monument to those who sailed back with me from Italy after Spartacus had died.’
She read aloud the word that was twice the size of the letters that spelled the names below it.
‘Companions.’
‘That is what we were, what we are,’ I said, ‘individuals who were thrown together in the enemy’s heartland and who had to fight for their survival every day. A host of different races united by two things: a desire for freedom and devotion to one man.’
‘You mean Spartacus? I have heard Orodes talk of him, though he did not know him.’
I smiled. ‘I fear I bored Orodes to death talking about him. But yes, his name was Spartacus.’
‘What was it like, being a slave, I mean?’ she asked sheepishly.
‘Terrifying, humiliating and unbearable in equal measure, and I was a slave but for a short time. After I was liberated I met others who had been slaves for many years. After fighting beside them I swore that I would never own another slave in my life.’
‘We have slaves in Babylon,’ she said almost apologetically.
‘So does every kingdom in the empire, as do many mansions in this city. It is the way of things in the world.’
‘Did your friend, Spartacus, seek to change the world?’
I thought for a moment. ‘If he had been victorious and destroyed Rome then yes, he would have changed the world, or at least the Roman part of it, but I do not think he set out to do so. He was a very simple man, really, who wanted nothing more than to live in peace and freedom.’
‘Just as we do in Parthia.’
I thought of her great palace in Babylon, the golden throne she sat on, the opulence she lived in and the small army of slaves who pandered to her every wish. Her notion of freedom was perhaps very different from that of Spartacus’.
I smiled at her. ‘Yes, just as we do.’
‘Do you think we can beat the Romans?’ I detected a note of concern in her voice. Babylon, after all, was only a month’s march from Roman Syria.
I smiled at her. There was no point in alarming her. ‘Yes, we can beat the Romans.’
She looked past me to the gates. ‘He looks like an angry young man.’
I turned to see a well-built individual, with black shoulder-length. He was wearing a white shirt edged in blue, an expensive sword at his hip and a bow in a hide case attached to his saddle. His quiver was slung over his shoulder and a helmet was fixed to one of the front horns of his saddle. He rode a well-groomed brown horse. Behind him were half a dozen other riders on white horses wearing scale armour cuirasses of alternating steel and bronze plates, helmets on their heads — members of Hatra’s Royal Bodyguard.
The angry young man walked his horse into the courtyard and then noticed me standing by the memorial and half-smiled.
‘Uncle,’ he called, raising his hand to me.
I acknowledged his excuse for a salute and pointed at him. ‘The angry man is Prince Spartacus, son of the man we were just speaking of and heir to Hatra’s throne.’
And I could tell from his demeanour that something was wrong.
Chapter 7
I held the letter from Gafarn in my hand as the son of the man I had revered stood in front of me in the throne room. Gallia, having changed after her morning on the shooting ranges, had taken her seat beside me after learning that Hatra’s prince had arrived at Dura. Orodes had taken Axsen to see Spandarat in his stronghold where they would spend the night, leaving me to deal with this unexpected problem. Gafarn had entrusted the officer of his escort with the letter, which I read and handed to Gallia. She shook her head after perusing its contents and handed it back to me.