As Fregallanus’ men cleared the bridge and Mannius’ battle-weary cohort began tramping across, carrying their wounded, the wagon was loaded. Vespasian rested, watching the men whom he would have condemned to certain death make their way across to the relative safety of the northern bank of the Tigris, relieved that he did not have to bear the responsibility of their violent demise on his conscience. He offered up a prayer to the fire god of these lands in thanks for the inspiration that he had blessed him with and also for the gift of Naphtha.
There was no sign of the Parthians returning in force as the last century of Mannius’ cohort crossed the bridge with the wagon loaded with pots following close behind.
Mannius was waiting for Vespasian on the other side; he gave a tired salute. Vespasian returned it. ‘Well done, prefect. I thought you would all die.’
‘I know; we’ve all had to give those orders in our time and I sympathised with you; what else could you have done? Fortuna, however, had other ideas.’
Vespasian smiled faintly. ‘There’ve been a few gods at work here today and we shall thank them with the appropriate sacrifices once we unite with Radamistus’ army. But first I want as many of the abandoned wagons, dead animals and as much other detritus as possible piled onto the bridge; we’ll cover it with the rest of the Naphtha and make a fire that will burn for a day to slow Babak down while we head north. Let’s make the bastard angry enough to really want to catch us.’
CHAPTER XI
‘The King of Armenia runs from no man no matter what my aunt Tryphaena expects me to do.’ Radamistus did not look at Vespasian as he made this pronouncement but, rather, stared straight ahead at a bust of himself posing as Hercules that was placed next to the tent’s entrance. Sitting bolt upright on a weighty throne, the one concession he made to Vespasian’s presence was a dismissive, languid wave of the royal right hand in his direction. He had, with ostentatious magnanimity, deigned to grant Vespasian an audience in his camp guarding the east-west bridge over the Kentrites while the Romans built their camp to protect the north-south bridge across the Tigris.
‘You are not the King of Armenia, Radamistus,’ Vespasian reminded him, keeping his voice in check despite his growing anger. ‘Not until Rome says you are. And if you want Rome to confirm you on the throne then you will do what Rome tells you to do, and Rome says that you will retreat inland.’
‘Does she? I’ve heard Rome say otherwise.’ Radamistus turned his eyes, dark as a wolf’s on a moonless night, on Vespasian and stroked his beard, twisting the pointed end as if in deep thought. ‘Why should I retreat from an army that has already been beaten once? I was prepared to make the strategic withdrawal that Tryphaena had advised in order to draw a stronger army inland where we could starve them to defeat; but now things have changed: I’ve already defeated the force they sent to hold the northern road; the rest of the Parthians can be stopped here. Rome has requested it; I heard her voice just as I’ve heard her say that I am king.’ The sickly sweet perfume with which his tightly plaited hair, like so many black rats’ tails, was liberally doused turned Vespasian’s stomach and he took a step back. Radamistus misread the move. ‘That’s right; you should fear the King.’
‘You are not king, Radamistus,’ Vespasian repeated.
‘I am! And I will not have some second son of a low-ranking family insult me by suggesting otherwise. Your insolence in refusing to bow your head to me was insupportable and if you carry on with your impudence I shall have that head removed.’
Vespasian wondered how Radamistus was so familiar with his background. ‘Don’t try to threaten me, Radamistus, especially with something that you know only too well is not within your power.’
‘His Majesty is well within his rights to issue such a threat, Vespasian,’ a nastily familiar voice said from behind him.
Vespasian spun round to see a hunched little man entering the tent. ‘Paelignus! What are you still doing here? The Parthian army is just a mile away and there’s only one river between it and you.’
The procurator smiled malevolently and then made a great show of bowing to Radamistus, further upsetting Vespasian’s stomach with the sight of a Roman paying homage to an eastern upstart. ‘Your Majesty.’
Radamistus acknowledged the abasement with barely a nod. ‘Explain the situation to this deluded man, procurator.’
‘My pleasure, Your Majesty.’ Paelignus bowed again quite unnecessarily, his curved back forcing his head almost vertical, before turning to Vespasian. ‘As procurator of Cappadocia, the Roman province nearest to Armenia, I have confirmed His Majesty in his position of king. I will write to the Emperor informing him of the move, which I know he will support because it’s in Rome’s interest to have a strong king in this kingdom that’s so vital to our security in the East.’
‘And what has this king given Rome in return, Paelignus?’
‘He has pledged to drive the Parthians out of the country, which, since my victories over their infantry and then their cataphracts, will be easily achievable.’
‘Your victories? I can’t remember seeing you since the Parthians first appeared.’
‘I command the army therefore I take the credit, remember?’ Paelignus leered, baring buckled teeth. ‘Tomorrow our combined armies will cross back over the Tigris and defeat Babak’s severely mauled rabble in front of the gates of Tigranocerta.’
‘You won’t defeat Babak; most of his cataphracts survived — as you would know if you’d actually been there.’
‘King Radamistus has brought two thousand Armenian and Iberian heavy horse with him as well as four thousand horse archers and half as many again on foot; with that force combined with my auxiliaries we’ll be undefeatable. I will tell the Emperor of this famous victory, the third in two days, in my letter informing him of my actions concerning the Armenian throne. I fully expect him to award me an Ovation as he did Aulus Plautius for his similar service in Britannia.’
Vespasian stared at the little man in mute amazement having never been in the presence of such a delusional fantasist before — with the possible exception of Caligula on a bad day. With a knotted-browed shake of his head he turned on his heel and, without even a glance at Radamistus, strode from the tent.
‘The trouble is that technically he’s doing the right thing: confirming Radamistus in return for his quick action in repelling the Parthians,’ Vespasian informed Magnus not long later, over a glass of wine in their own tent. ‘So I can’t criticise him for it without it looking suspicious.’
‘So what’s wrong with what he’s doing?’
Vespasian sighed, feeling that he was no longer fully in control of the situation. ‘Well, I suppose nothing really, apart from risking and then probably losing the lives of a good many of his auxiliaries. If he does attack Babak tomorrow he’ll be badly mauled as he crosses the bridge; the Parthian horse archers will disrupt his manoeuvring and he won’t have time to form up into battle order before the cataphracts hit him; as he would know if he had the slightest bit of military experience.’
‘What about Radamistus?’
‘What about him? He’s evidently a glory-seeking idiot with as much sense as his little friend.’
Magnus contemplated the contents of his cup as he digested this. ‘Sounds like it’ll be a shambles.’
‘It’ll be a deadly shambles, but it’ll produce the same result. Radamistus will fall back north with whatever remains of his army and, having garrisoned Tigranocerta and securing his supply lines, Babak will follow, making war unavoidable. I was just trying to achieve the same thing with minimum loss of life.’
Magnus drained his cup as Hormus came in with a steaming pot containing their supper. ‘I hope you’ve got the amount of lovage in that correct this time, Hormus.’