And then the second load of steaming cauldrons arrived, followed by a third and then a fourth. With each delivery of broiling agony the pressure on Vespasian’s section of the wall eased as ladders were drawn up and not replaced from below, so that the defenders could concentrate on fewer escalade points with more brutal efficiency.
With the sixth and penultimate downpouring of blistering death the will of the Parthians snapped and their terror of immolation exceeded that for their tormentors behind them. They turned and ran, as if by common consent, leaving their dead and dying stacked and smouldering against the base of the wall and littered across the field as they tried to break through the formation of cataphract cavalry, four deep, knee to knee, that hemmed them in.
The auxiliaries, too exhausted to do much more than give a cursory cheer, hunkered back down behind the parapet as the artillery continued shooting stone at the walls and lobbing fire into the city.
But that too was soon to cease as, from the north, a new threat appeared; horns blared in the Parthian ranks and cornu repeated the four-note refrain warning of approaching troops.
Both sides paused as they tried to ascertain to whose aid this new force had come.
‘They’re the Parthians who followed the tributary north,’ Magnus opined, surveying the long column of cavalry tracing the line of the eastern bank of the Kentrites a mile or so north of its meeting with the Tigris. Dust partially obscured them so that their number was impossible to tell, but, through the cloud roused up by hundreds of hoofs, the banners and the dress of the vanguard could be discerned.
‘Babak must have recalled them once he’d witnessed the strength of our defence,’ Mannius reasoned, pride in his men’s performance registering in his voice.
Vespasian shook his head and leant forward through the crenel, at the junction of the southern and eastern walls, as if the extra couple of feet would make a difference in his ability to identify the newcomers. If Queen Tryphaena had kept her promise then he knew who they were; but he needed to be sure. As his eyes penetrated the dust he allowed himself a small smile; these cavalry were slightly different. ‘No, it can’t be them; look at the colour of the clothes their light cavalry are wearing: the Parthian cavalry were all garish tunics and trousers and fancy headdresses, but these light horse are dull by comparison, undyed wool and linen, poor stuff.’
Magnus squinted his one good eye and rubbed his neck. ‘I suppose you’re right; but then whoever that is must have passed the Parthians.’ He turned to Vespasian and Mannius, raising his brows. All three of them were crusted in dried gore as if they had spent the day sacrificing to every conceivable god who demanded blood but none of them affected to notice. ‘There ain’t enough room in that valley for two forces to pass each other without at least saying good morning.’
Mannius pointed to a group of horsemen traversing the bridge to the northern bank of the Tigris. ‘There’s movement over there.’
Vespasian watched the dozen or so Parthian light cavalry; having crossed the second bridge to the eastern bank of the Kentrites, they approached the column under a branch of truce. ‘This should confirm who I think they are.’
‘Confirm?’ Mannius asked.
‘Yes, prefect; I’m hoping that they’re who I’ve been waiting for.’ He looked around at the conscript infantry, dug in, surrounding the city and then focused on the three or four thousand manning the siege lines to the north, opposite the only other gate. The Tigris came to within a hundred paces of their rear with the bridge spanning it before it made its curve to the south.
Vespasian turned his attention back to the approaching cavalry. They had now halted at the confluence of the Tigris and its tributary, with the Parthian emissaries a little distance ahead of them; what was being negotiated and how those talks were going was impossible to tell from this distance. He watched the parley for another hundred or so heartbeats, each one feeling quicker than the last, until finally the Parthians turned their mounts and pelted back the way they came without a messenger from the newcomers accompanying them. ‘Good, it is them.’
Magnus looked confused. ‘Who are they?’
‘They, Magnus, are the rest of our army and all that stands between them linking up with us are three or four thousand conscripts, so we need to get the north gate open and herd some cattle into the river.’ He turned to Mannius’ primus pilus waiting at a respectful distance from his superiors. ‘Get messages to all the other prefects and have them stand by to leave the city through the north gate; Cotta’s cohort will lead and will break through the siege lines; Fregallanus and Mannius’ cohorts will follow up and form up to the west and east respectively to protect the rest of the force and the baggage while they cross the Tigris.’
The centurion gave a crisp salute and turned to relay the orders to a series of runners and Vespasian grinned at Mannius. ‘Time to get your lads off the wall, prefect.’
Vespasian and Magnus strode purposefully around the narrow streets that circled the great hill of the city past many Naphtha fires being tackled by citizens, old and young, too busy to notice the Roman troops pulling back from the battlements and the baggage train assembling in the agora near the north gate.
‘You travel with Hormus,’ Vespasian ordered Magnus as they pushed through the chaos of the wagons and mules gathering at short notice. Hormus was close to the front, seeing to his team’s harness; Vespasian was unsurprised to see the young muleteer he had noticed smile so enticingly at his slave just behind him. He was sure that was no coincidence. ‘And find out the name of that lad and where he comes from; Hormus seems to have taken a fancy to him. We should make sure that his motives are purely financial.’
‘You mean make sure that he’s not pumping your slave for information, if you take my meaning?’
‘I’m sure I do,’ Vespasian said with a smile as he pushed on to Cotta’s cohort forming up in a column at the north gate. Now all he had to do was clear the way for the new arrivals to link up with the Romans, then together they would abandon Tigranocerta and stage a fighting retreat, leading the Parthians further and further into the Roman client kingdom of Armenia and creating a just cause for war between the two empires. This was the war that Tryphaena had planned. A war that would secure her nephew the Armenian crown, a war that could be used to destabilise the drunken, drooling fool ruling in Rome and ensure that Nero, the son of her kinswoman Agrippina, would take the Purple before Claudius’ natural son, Britannicus, came of age. And this is what Vespasian now considered to be the best course of events for him and his family: he had seen Nero and he had seen Britannicus and of the two of them it was obvious, even surely to a drooling fool, that Britannicus was the better choice. But it was not the better choice that would suit Vespasian’s purposes if the destiny that he suspected had been laid out for him really was to come to pass; that better choice would stabilise the Julio-Claudians and perhaps secure their line for decades to come. No, it was the weaker, vainer, more arrogant candidate that Vespasian needed to succeed Claudius: Nero, whose suitability to rule was only superficial. The dazzling Prince of the Youth in the image of a young god; but underneath that appealing exterior lay what Vespasian believed could be the madness that would make Tiberius’ behaviour in his latter years seem like mild eccentricity. He had recognised it in the moment he had seen Nero resting his head on Agrippina’s breast and then had had it confirmed by Narcissus: an incestuous relationship with his mother. Giving absolute power to a man who saw nothing wrong in bedding his own mother was, to Vespasian’s mind, a sure way to release within him the madness of unrestrainable self-indulgence. A madness that would exceed Caligula’s and make his public sexual displays with his sister Drusilla be remembered as a mere foible. A madness that, in conjunction with the dominating presence of his mother and lover, Agrippina, insisting on recognition never before given to a woman, would be capable of bringing down the Julio-Claudian line because neither the Senate, the people nor even the Praetorian Guard would be able to countenance another emperor from that family that had deteriorated so dismally. And if the Julio-Claudians were to fail, who could guess what would follow? Perhaps it would be the time of New Men. Perhaps.