The guards standing by the stone pillars of the porch moved towards the pair but I waved them back. This would be a useful lesson for young Spartacus. At that moment Gallia and the Amazons rode into the courtyard after an inspection some of the royal estates south of the city. The queen and her warriors halted to stare at the boy who stood with a drawn sword facing the general of the army.
‘Arrest him, uncle,’ shouted Spartacus, ‘so he can be punished.’
More and more individuals began to gather around the edges of the courtyard to stare at the scene, and on the walls groups of sentries were talking to each other and pointing at the spectacle below.
As quick as a striking cobra Domitus swung his cane to strike the other side of my nephew’s face, before calmly walking down the steps and heading towards the headquarters building. Spartacus screamed with rage, his face red as he ran after him and drew back his sword ready to cut Domitus in two. But Domitus spun round, saw the blow coming and deftly moved aside so my nephew sliced only air with his blade. His sword skills were finely honed, even at this early age, and he instantly repositioned himself to face Domitus and then thrust his sword forward, aiming at the older man’s stomach. Perhaps he believed that the shorter, crop-haired middle-aged man who stood in front of him, armed only with a vine cane, would just stand still and allow himself to be run through. More likely he was not thinking at all, so possessed by wrath as he was. The strike was lightning fast but Domitus, who had spent his whole life fighting, saw it coming before it was launched and hopped to one side, transferred the cane to his left hand and again struck Spartacus across the face. This time, though, he did not allow his young opponent to wield his sword again: he grabbed his right wrist and kicked the back of the knee of my nephew’s extended right leg, knocking him to the ground. In a flash Domitus kicked the sword out of his hand and placed his right foot on my nephew’s neck, pressing down hard to pin him to the ground.
Domitus gestured to two guards standing outside the headquarters building who ran forward.
‘Lock him in the armoury,’ he ordered them.
They yanked my nephew to his feet and hauled him to the stout building with iron grills over its windows next to the headquarters building.
‘My sword,’ cried Spartacus, looking back at his blade lying on the flagstones.
Domitus walked over and picked it up.
‘A fine weapon. You can have it back when you have learned to use it properly.’
He looked around and saw the crowd of spectators.
‘Show’s over!’ he bellowed and then calmly walked back up the palace steps. He handed me the sword.
‘Let him stew for a few hours and then let him out.’
‘He is proving somewhat of a problem,’ I said.
‘You could always flog him,’ suggested Domitus.
‘That would only make him angrier and having been flogged myself I am reluctant to subject him to such humiliation. I apologise on his behalf, Domitus.’
‘You were flogged, majesty?’ said a shocked Peroz.
‘It was a long time ago, prince,’ I answered.
‘On board a boat,’ added Byrd, ‘I remember it well.’
‘As do I, Byrd. I still carry the scars.’
That night I had my nephew brought to me as I relaxed on the palace terrace in the company of Gallia. My daughters had been put to sleep and Dobbai had retired to her room so we sat sipping wine while small boats with lanterns at their bows cast their fishing nets on the marble-smooth waters of the Euphrates below us. The night was warm and still but not unpleasant. Gallia, her blonde hair loose around her shoulders, stretched out her arms as a dejected Spartacus was escorted into our presence. I dismissed the guards and gestured to an empty chair nearby. He saw his sword leaning against my chair but said nothing as he nodded to Gallia and slowly eased himself into the wicker chair.
A servant, a beautiful young girl with almond-shaped eyes and a lithe figure, walked over to him and offered him a cup from the tray she was holding, dazzling him with a smile, while another daughter of Ishtar filled it from a jug. He once again glanced at his sword.
‘The man you attacked today was the commander of Dura’s army,’ I said. He looked surprised. ‘Just because a man is not dressed in silver and bronze and does not have a plume in his helmet does not mean he is not important. As I told you, this is not Hatra.
‘You must learn to control your temper.’
I sipped at my wine and he did the same. ‘Lucius Domitus, my commander, was perfectly within his rights to slay you today. Lucky for you that he was only carrying his cane.’
‘He could still have you flogged,’ added Gallia, flashing me a mischievous grin.
‘You cannot fight the whole world, Spartacus,’ I said. ‘You must learn to be more tolerant, especially with regard to Scarab.’
‘He torments me with infantile questions,’ he replied.
‘He wishes to learn, that is all,’ Gallia rebuked him.
‘He was a slave until recently and has not had your privileged upbringing,’ I said. ‘He is my squire and so are you, unless you would rather be an orderly for my general?’
A look of alarm spread across his bruised face. I smiled.
‘I thought not.’
I stood up, picked up his sword and walked to the balustrade and peered at the boats on the river.
‘Soon the empire will be at war with the Romans, Spartacus, and the Armenians as well, probably. In that war we will need all the soldiers we can mobilise. So you can appreciate the importance of teaching Scarab the use of the bow and other weapons.’
I held out the sword to him.
‘You can help us win this war or you can wage your own private conflict against us all while Parthia is destroyed. It is up to you.’
He walked forward and took his sword from my hand.
‘I did not mean to disrespect you, uncle.’
‘We will say no more on the matter, Spartacus. But try to think before you assault anyone in future, especially crop-haired men shorter than you.’
He bowed his head to Gallia who smiled at him and then walked quietly from the terrace. I dismissed the servants and told them to leave the wine. I refilled Gallia’s cup and then my own and retook my seat.
‘It is hard to believe that it was sixteen years ago when we rode from the Silarus Valley with Diana cradling him in her arms,’ she reflected.
I rubbed my eyes. ‘They have passed in an instant, and once again we find ourselves about to fight Marcus Licinius Crassus.’
‘This time he will be the one fighting far from home,’ she said defiantly.
‘I wish I shared your optimism. The reality is that he will have many legions plus horsemen and auxiliaries, and to the north we will face the Armenians who will add their great numbers to his own.’
She looked surprised. ‘You think we cannot win?’
I emptied my cup. ‘I think, my love, that when war comes it may last a long time. Parthia has been weakened after many years of civil strife and the last thing it needs is more war.’
‘Perhaps Crassus will suddenly die as Tigranes did,’ she said.
‘Perhaps,’ I replied. I hoped that the magic of Dobbai would indeed cause him to drop down dead, for without a miracle I had grave doubts as to whether we would be able to defeat him when he came.
At least the next few weeks passed without incident as far as young Spartacus was concerned. He was still prickly and prone to angry outbursts, especially towards Scarab. But his mornings were filled with onerous duties and his afternoons were spent teaching my Nubian squire archery and swordsmanship. So his time was filled and his apparently limitless reserves of energy were expended. The situation was helped greatly by Peroz taking them both under his wing and spending most afternoons with them to act as a mediator between the two, patiently teaching the Nubian how to use a bow and proving himself a better shot than Hatra’s prince.