‘You can, Vespasian, by God’s grace you can.’
‘How?’
‘Do you think that Radamistus will keep his word? After all, he swore his oath by Ahura Mazda who obviously does not exist.’
Vespasian had carried on gazing at the vastness of the Parthian Empire. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘There is only one god, so it follows that the rest do not exist.’
‘I’ve seen gods manifest. I’ve seen the goddess Sulis and the god Heylel take over the bodies of the dead and live.’
‘Heylel? He who was cast from God’s grace for his arrogance? He was not a god but an angel.’
Vespasian had been bored by this continual theological discussion to which the King was subjecting him. ‘It’s the same thing: a supernatural being that has more power than a human obviously demands worship. Call Heylel what you like but I call him a god and I should know because I met him.’
Izates had tutted and smiled benevolently as would a patient grammaticus at a talented but sadly misguided pupil.
Vespasian had ignored the patronising gesture, aware that he had probably been a little sharper in his remarks than was good for a hostage; he tempered his voice. ‘The point is that Radamistus has no intention whatsoever of keeping his oath. It’s not about whether he believes in Ahura Mazda or not; it’s because he feels that the King of Armenia isn’t beholden to any agreement reached with a mere satrap of Nineveh.’
‘Ah! So we agree on what Radamistus will do?’
‘Yes, but not why he’ll do it.’ He had bitten his lip, striving to keep control of his growing annoyance.
‘So my lord has given me a way to show the world how righteous I am, a way to show the nobles like Babak who cling to the old gods of Assyria that I can be merciful but strong in my religion. By him giving you to me I can show my nobles that they should stop plotting against me and join me in the worship of the one true god and his prophet Yeshua.’
Vespasian was now all attention; he did not like the direction that the conversation had just taken. ‘How can you do that with me?’ His voice was low and the words slow as he had looked into the King’s eyes, which shone with the happiness of an innocent child.
‘When Radamistus breaks his word your life is forfeit. I can make a public show of my displeasure and devise some very nasty and long way to have you executed and then halfway through I can offer you mercy if you receive baptism into the faith. Which of course you’ll accept because, after all, who wouldn’t? When my nobles hear about that, they will be flocking to the river for submersion in Yeshua’s name. You see? Simple.’
Vespasian gawped at the King, realising that the royal grip on reality was not as firm as it could be. ‘I am a proconsul of Rome; you can’t threaten me with execution and then try and force me to repudiate the religion of my ancestors without causing a serious incident.’
Izates slapped Vespasian on the shoulder genially. ‘Nonsense, Vespasian; when Radamistus reneges on his oath I can do what I like with you.’
‘Babak told me that when that happens I’ll be thrown into a dungeon and kept there until Rome withdraws.’
Izates looked startled. ‘He said that?’
‘Yes.’
‘He didn’t say that you would be executed?’
‘No.’
‘But that’s terrible.’
‘Is it?’
‘Of course it is. If he told you that you would live then live you must; God would never approve of me making a point to my nobles based on dishonour. And the nobles in turn would point to me not keeping a promise like a follower of Assur, the old god of Assyria, who claims to continue to fight for kettu, the Truth. They would say that the one true god represents hitu, the False. That’s most aggrieving, terrible; he really did say that you would live?’
By now Vespasian’s mouth gaped open in astonishment. ‘Yes, I’m afraid he did.’
Izates rested his hand on Vespasian’s shoulder and gave him an understanding look. ‘Don’t apologise, it’s not your fault. Nothing you can do about it. How aggravating, most vexing, provoking in the extreme.’ He went off muttering to himself, leaving Vespasian looking after him, dumbstruck by his behaviour. A searing pain struck Vespasian and white light flashed across his inner vision; he felt himself slump down to the floor and hoped he would be allowed to stay there while the clearly bewildered King wrestled internally with what he could do to make Vespasian’s predicament spurious proof of some sort of bond with his god and tempt his courtiers away from Assur. He was disappointed; keeping his eyes shut, he felt himself being hauled up for a rapid series of blows to his stomach and ribs, knocking the wind from him. His knees collapsed again and as he fell he was vaguely aware of the King’s voice shouting. The beating stopped and Vespasian was left to contemplate his growing pain from cracked ribs and a bruised and swollen face.
‘I will gain nothing in the sight of God by giving him the choice between a prison cell and baptism,’ Izates announced. ‘How can I give him his life if I’m not going to take it? What will the nobles who refuse to join me in the one true faith think? They will not see magnanimity on my part nor will they see the power of God’s love but, rather, my own weakness as well as the desperation of a man who would do anything to regain his freedom. Take him away and send a message to the Emperor Claudius that Titus Flavius Vespasianus will stay excluded from the world until the lying usurper Radamistus is removed from the Armenian throne and Ummidius Quadratus, the Governor of Roman Syria, recalls his legions from that land. Until that happens he shall stay locked away and an Adiabene army will defend the Great King of Parthia’s honour against Roman aggression; there will be war in Armenia.’
So Tryphaena finally has her wish, Vespasian thought, as he was dragged away across the smooth marble floor, and she will not press for peace to save him even if she did have the power to do so. He could well imagine that nobody in Rome would care much about his situation: Agrippina would revel in it as a by-product of securing her son on the imperial throne; Pallas would do nothing to jeopardise that succession; and Narcissus would most probably not spot the subtle danger of a Parthian war to his position until it was too late and Nero was emperor and he was executed.
No, Vespasian found himself thinking, calmly, I am going to be here for some time; I can’t expect to be rescued so therefore don’t hope for it and I won’t be disappointed. Hope for nothing because from hopes dashed comes despair.
And, as his gaolers dragged him down into the foundations of the ancient capital of Adiabene, deep into dark places excavated millennia before, deep into a realm where time has a different meaning, Vespasian fell back into his mind so that his thoughts and memories would cocoon him. Deep in the bowels of Arbela, Vespasian was locked into a cell that had seen countless years of suffering; a place where rats and nameless things held sway and time did nothing but gnaw. A realm of despair; and despair was the emotion that Vespasian knew he must protect himself from.
There was little point in keeping his eyes open as there was rarely any light to see by. Every so often Vespasian heard a grating of a key in a lock and then the creak and crash of a heavy door opening and closing that would presage the arrival of the golden glow of a black-smoking torch held aloft by a gaoler to guide him and his mate down slime-slick steps. Vespasian knew this because he had a grille in his door and could see at an oblique angle along the narrow corridor. How often the gaolers visited, he did not know; it might have been twice a day, once a day or once every few days. It made no difference because he had lost the concept of days, nights, hours or months. In the depths of Arbela there was only a moment and that moment was now.