The prince had not known of the letter’s existence until now and though his curiosity was aroused when he saw it he feigned indifference, maintaining an air of brashness bordering on insolence as he folded his arms across his chest.
I held the letter up to him. ‘It does not make for pleasant reading and is hardly the conduct becoming of a prince of Hatra. Your parents must be very disappointed in you. If you had committed these offences in Dura you would have been flogged.’
At that moment Zenobia entered the chamber and Gallia beckoned her over. My wife’s second-in-command wore a tight-fitting white shirt that clung to her ample breasts while her leggings accentuated her shapely behind and womanly hips. She bowed her head to me and then spoke softly to Gallia, who smiled and nodded before Zenobia turned on her heels and left our presence. The eyes of the young prince were glued to her body as she walked past him.
‘He might get flogged today for his disrespectful attitude,’ remarked Gallia casually when she noted his leering.
‘How old are you, Spartacus?’ I asked.
‘Sixteen,’ he replied proudly.
‘Sixteen. And in the last twelve months you have broken the nose of a fellow squire, beat another senseless, had numerous fights with Lord Kogan’s guards, insulted the priests of the Great Temple, had too much to drink at a royal banquet and tried to ravish a nobleman’s daughter. Finally, and perhaps most seriously, you attempted to seduce a novice of the Sisters of Shamash. More mischief than most men achieve in a lifetime.
‘Have you anything to say?’
He held my stare. ‘I was provoked.’
Gallia stifled a laugh.
‘I see. And how does an innocent young female novice of a religious order provoke a young prince?’
He shrugged.
‘Your father believes that a period away from the pampered surroundings of Hatra will do you good, and it just so happens that there is a position here that is suitable for you.’
‘What happened to your master?’ asked Gallia.
‘He was killed fighting the Armenians,’ Spartacus replied.
I could see that he bristled with anger and resentment. ‘Well, you will be my squire until you have finished your training.’
‘What happened to your master’s other squire?’ asked Gallia, for every cataphract had two squires to attend him and care for his weapons and armour.
‘I broke his nose,’ came the reply.
I ordered a guard to go to the stables and fetch Scarab who was already my squire. When he returned Spartacus looked in horror at the black-skinned man with his sweat-soaked shirt and dirt-smeared face. Scarab bowed his head to Gallia and me and smiled at Spartacus.
‘Scarab,’ I said, ‘this is Spartacus who will assist you in your duties of being my squire. Take him to the barracks and find him a place to sleep. Inform the duty officer who he is.’
Spartacus looked at me in surprise. ‘Barracks?’
He was expecting to be lodged in the palace, of course, and normally he would have been out of respect for his princely status. But it was obvious that he had been indulged and spoilt and needed to learn the virtues of humility. His education would begin immediately.
‘That is correct,’ I answered slowly and sternly. ‘You will sleep in the barracks, though you may be comforted to know that your duties will require you to be away from your bed for long periods to spare you the indignity of enduring your meagre accommodation. You may go.’
He nodded curtly to Gallia and then me and then turned on his heels and marched from the hall, Scarab trailing after him.
‘And Spartacus,’ I called after him.
He halted and looked back at me.
‘You will find that Dura is not Hatra.’
Three days after the arrival of my nephew Orodes and Axsen departed Dura.
Spartacus was given no special treatment, shown no favouritism and no allowances were made for him because he was a prince. He slept in a bed next to Scarab in the barracks inside the Citadel; rose before dawn; cleaned out his horse’s stall; and groomed and fed his mount before he ate his own breakfast. After eating he rode out of the Citadel with the other squires and their cataphracts to the training fields outside the city. The cataphracts, equipped in full armour, would practice battle tactics and the squires would also take part. In this way they would become intimately familiar with the drills and procedures of the heavy cavalry for when they made the transition from squire to cataphract.
I always tried to take part in these training sessions as I enjoyed them immensely and believed that a king should always be in the company of his soldiers rather than sitting on his throne in his great hall listening to whingeing petitioners.
Scarab had previously been a slave and although he could ride a horse when he first came to Dura he was ignorant in the ways of mounted warfare, and neither could he shoot a bow. So having Spartacus present meant that not only could he explain to the Nubian the nuances of the tactics of armoured horsemen, he could also teach Scarab to shoot a bow. Spartacus thought it an outrage that he should demean himself by teaching a former slave to shoot, something that he had learnt to do from before he could walk. In reply to his protests I informed him that he would do as he was told.
He hardly spoke to me during the first two weeks he was at Dura. He was angry with me, angry with Scarab, angry with everyone. He thought it an insult that he was partnered with Scarab who was the oldest squire in the army. Squires began their training at the age of fourteen and finished it at eighteen, those that had lasted the course that is. Not every boy who began to train to be a cataphract was found to be suitable. So the angry young prince from Hatra spent his days in sullen silence, except when he was shouting at Scarab during archery practice.
‘Let the bowstring slip out of your fingers, do not close your eyes when you shoot, gently exhale when you release the string. Think about what you are doing you stupid Nubian.’
He quickly became exasperated with Scarab and with his duties in general and a month after he had arrived I saw him storm out of the barracks building one afternoon and stride across the courtyard. I was standing at the top of the palace steps passing the time with the newly arrived Malik and Byrd, Peroz and Domitus and saw him approach, rage etched on his face. Domitus, dressed in a white tunic, black leather belt and sandals, stood facing me as Spartacus bounded up the steps and shoved him aside.
‘Out of the way, old man.’
Malik looked in disbelief at what had just happened while Byrd shot an angry look at Spartacus.
‘Uncle, I demand to be allowed to live in the palace. That black slave is an imbecile who is fit only for shovelling dung.’
I was not listening to him but rather looking at Domitus who tapped the youth on the shoulder with his cane.
‘Your father would be disappointed in you.’
Spartacus could scarcely believe that his royal person could be violated so. He spun round to face Domitus.
‘You will be flogged for daring to touch me.’
Around us men stopped what they were doing to watch the drama unfolding before their eyes. Surely this was a joke, or at the very least a mistake? Did this boy know whom he was talking to? I doubted whether my nephew recognised Domitus, for he had probably never seen him, and even if he had it would have been when he was dressed in full armour and headdress.
‘Flogged will I?’ said Domitus calmly. ‘Well I might as well be flogged for a major offence rather than a minor one.’
He then lashed Spartacus across the face with his cane.
‘How many lashes does that deserve?’
For a few seconds my nephew did nothing but clutch the side of his face. His body started to shake and I thought he was sobbing, but realised that his quivering was rage because he faced Domitus and drew his sword; his jaw tensed and pushed forward, his teeth bared.