‘That went as well as expected. Reckon you’ve made any enemy for life, Pacorus.’
That much was true, though I gladly accepted the hatred of Mithridates as it was nothing compared to the contempt in which I held him.
Khosrou had followed us, outside and now he called after me.
‘Hold, young king.’
I stopped and faced him. Up close he was even more intimidating, with clear grey eyes that had no mercy in them.
‘I have heard of you,’ his accent was strange, clipped and exotic. He looked at Gallia standing beside me, and a look of admiration suddenly appeared on his face. ‘And you, you whom they call “the blonde angel of death”.’
Gallia gave him a most dazzling smile and bowed her head ever so slightly towards him.
‘You honour me, sire.’
‘I would walk with you,’ said Khosrou.
‘Of course, lord,’ I replied.
Domitus and Nergal looked at me but I waved them ahead.
I thought Khosrou was a like a silent assassin but I was wrong. He was friendly and generous, at least on that afternoon.
‘Even in my kingdom, which is many hundreds of miles from Dura, people talk of Pacorus and Gallia, of how they defeated armies together riding on a white horse that has wings. And how he is the conqueror of eagles, who has gathered a mighty army around him that will make the world tremble. All this I have heard of you, so I decided to see for myself whether it was true.’
‘There is some truth in what you have heard, lord,’ I said. ‘Though my horse does not have wings.’
Khosrou looked at the sword hanging at Gallia’s waist.
‘I have heard that you fight like a man, lady.’
Gallia’s eyes narrowed. ‘You have heard wrong, lord, for I fight like a woman.’
Khosrou smiled. ‘And you have a band of women warriors who fight with you?’
‘Yes, lord,’ she said proudly. ‘They are called Amazons.’
‘And yet you possess a rare beauty that would grace the finest palace. And you, Pacorus, do you like your woman fighting on the battlefield instead of warming your bed?’
‘We met in the midst of war, lord, and ever since I was glad that she could protect herself from danger.’
‘And you,’ added Gallia.
‘It’s true,’ I said. ‘Once she saved me from being run through by a Roman.’
Khosrou nodded and then looked ahead at the arrow-straight figure of Domitus walking beside Nergal and Praxima.
‘He is a Roman, is he not, for I have heard that one of your generals is a man from Rome?’
‘Yes, lord, he is the commander of my foot soldiers.’
‘And you trust him, this man from the race of your enemies?’
‘With my life, lord.’
‘Mine too,’ added Gallia.
It was a while before Khosrou said anything further. ‘And I have also heard that you have made peace with the Agraci, the sworn enemies of your father’s kingdom.’
‘They were only enemies because no one had thought to ask them if they wished to be friends, lord.’
‘You two are a curious pair, that much is true, but I like you and I like what you are trying to do. I learned the hard way that it’s impossible to subdue barbarians with the sword. You may kill many, but there is an endless supply that will come back like a flood and sweep over the land. They don’t stay, but they cause enough damage when they do visit.’
‘They have attacked your lands, lord?’ asked Gallia.
‘Yes.’ He said harshly. ‘A few years ago I led a great raid into the northern steppes and found nothing, but while I was gone a mighty host of the nomads attacked my capital and set fire to it.’
‘Merv,’ I muttered.
‘Merv, yes,’ replied Khosrou. ‘You know it.’
‘Only the name, lord.’ But my mind went back to a feast I attended years ago at the court of Sinatruces at Ctesiphon, where the old king’s sorceress, Dobbai, had told the King of Kings that while he sat stuffing his face Merv was burning.
‘So now,’ continued Khosrou, ‘instead of waging war I have treaties with the barbarians.’ He smiled at Gallia. ‘We still keep our quivers full and our swords sharp, but in general the peace holds. Indeed, some of the rascals serve in my army.’
‘They fight for you, not against you,’ said Gallia, ‘just like the Agraci at Dura.’
‘Exactly,’ said Khosrou. ‘You appear to have a wise head on your shoulders, Pacorus.’
‘I hope so, lord.’
‘Well, I must bid you both farewell. Perhaps you might come to Margiana when you have the opportunity. You will be made welcome.’
He bowed his head, turned smartly and marched off with his men trailing behind him.
‘A good judge of character, that one,’ mused Gallia.
‘Let us hope that our peace will endure as his has,’ I said.
Chapter 8
My father’s mood improved in the days following as we headed back west to our kingdoms. Couriers were sent to every corner of the empire to announce the election of Phraates as King of Kings. He would officially move from his capital of Susa to the royal palace at Ctesiphon, though in realty he already had apartments there from his time as his father’s envoy. Ctesiphon was the capital city of the Parthian Empire, a huge collection of dwellings clustered around a large palace, the whole enclosed by a rather ill-maintained circuit wall. The palace complex had several throne rooms and a grand banqueting hall befitting the residence of the empire’s chief monarch. The thought of Mithridates becoming King of Susiana did not fill me with relish, but I hoped that his father and brother would have a restraining influence on him. In all, though, the Council of Kings had turned out to be a worthwhile occasion for now the empire had a new ruler and peace would be maintained.
A month later we were back at Dura, which had continued to prosper under the expert rule of Godarz and the eagle-eyed Rsan. Gallia recruited more Amazons and Domitus went back to training his legion, which was now fully armed and equipped. Five thousand men had helmets, mail shirts, leather vests, white tunics and shields. The latter comprised three layers of wooden strips glued together and reinforced with wooden strips on the back. A hole was then cut in the centre of the shield, across which was fastened a horizontal metal bar, by which each legionary held the shield with his left hand. To protect his hand, and on the side of the shield that faced the enemy, there was a bulging steel boss over the grip. Each shield was faced with fabric painted white and decorated with red griffin wings. The armouries then began to work on the production of javelins. Ever since my time in Italy I had been fascinated by this particular item of equipment, and was determined to acquire it for my own army. Every spear I had previously encountered comprised a long, straight shaft topped with a blade. But the Roman javelin was entirely different. It comprised a four-foot length of ash onto which is riveted a shaft of thin, soft iron which ends in a tiny triangular tip. Heavy and somewhat cumbersome, the beauty of the javelin is that when it is thrown at an enemy the iron shaft bends upon impact, and cannot be thrown back. In addition, if it gets stuck in an enemy’s shield it cannot be wrenched free, thus making the shield useless. The javelin was an ingenious weapon and I was determined to have thousands of them.
‘How many, majesty?’ asked Rsan, his face illuminated by the oil lamp that sat on his desk, the only light that broke the darkness of night-time.
I stretched back in the chair opposite his desk.
‘Ten thousand. To begin with.’
He stopped writing and looked up. ‘Ten thousand? But there are only five thousand men in your legion.’
‘I know that. But javelins break and you can never have enough, Rsan.’
He was shaking his head. ‘Yet more cost, majesty. May I ask a question?’
‘Of course,’ I said.
‘You have raised five thousand foot soldiers, a further two hundred cataphracts, and the lords of your kingdom can furnish you with hundreds more horsemen in times of emergency.’