There sat Vologases, the first of that name, King of all the Kings of the Parthian Empire, and attending him were hundreds of courtiers, the élite of many lands, all of whom professed allegiance to the man who held the power of life and death over millions of subjects; the man who was now to judge Vespasian.
In contrast to the abundance of light and colour was the absence of sound, and once Vespasian and his companions had been thrown to the floor and hissed at to remain still, flat on their stomachs, there was a complete hush in the great hall. No one moved or whispered a word and through the stillness Vespasian could feel the enmity radiating from hundreds of pairs of eyes as they stared at the three prone forms, so small in the midst of such vastness.
For what seemed like an age he lay there, oppressed by the weight of the silence; it was not calm, it menaced.
The shouted order in Greek to crawl forward cracked through the quiet, shocking Vespasian with its abruptness.
Keeping his eyes to the floor he slithered towards the Great King, humiliated but still alive. With each foot of progress his rage at such treatment for an ex-consul of Rome grew and by the time he was ordered to stop he was seething with fury.
‘What are you doing in my domain, Titus Flavius Vespasianus? Answer only with the truth: to tell a falsehood to the King of Kings is not only an insult to him but an affront to Ahura Mazda.’
Vespasian realised that this was the voice of Vologases himself speaking in the tongue of the Greek concubine who bore him. Struggling to control his anger, keeping his words to the minimum, he answered with the truth, understanding how much weight the Parthians place on honesty. He told the King of Kings briefly everything that had happened to him from the point when Radamistus gave him to Babak as surety for his false oath to his reason for looking for Ataphanes’ family here in Ctesiphon.
‘So your intention was not to assassinate me?’
‘What gave you that idea, Great King?’
There was a yelp from the far end of the hall and Vespasian heard the sound of someone being dragged forward.
‘This boy swore when he reported you that he had overheard you and your companions planning my assassination as I entered the city yesterday.’
Vespasian kept his eyes to the floor but guessed that Bagoas had been dragged in. ‘How could he? He speaks no Greek and only one of my companions speaks Aramaic. I can only imagine that he made up that falsehood in order to make himself seem more important so as to get a greater reward.’
There was a pause as the Great King considered Vespasian’s words.
‘Can anyone here vouch for this Roman?’ Vologases’ voice echoed around the hall and faded into silence.
That silence held, still and clear.
And then, from the far end of the chamber, it was shattered.
‘I can, Light of the Sun.’
Vespasian did not recognise the voice nor could he see the speaker as he was still lying with his face down. He heard footsteps walk the length of the hall and was aware of the whimpering of Bagoas somewhere behind him; a sharp slap silenced the boy.
The footsteps stopped next to him; in the corner of his vision, he saw a man, dressed in the Persian manner. He began to bow and then carried on until he was on his knees with his forehead touching the floor; but he did not stop there and, with remarkable elegance, the movement continued until he was flat on his belly, his lips kissing the floor before his Great King and his hands palms down either side of his face.
‘Your name?’ Vologases’ voice betrayed a hint of surprise.
‘Gobryas, Light of the Sun.’
‘You may get to your knees and speak, Gobryas.’
Gobryas raised himself gracefully. ‘I’m honoured, Light of the Sun.’ He paused to compose himself, taking a couple of breaths as if calming galloping nervousness. ‘Just over fourteen years ago a caravan came in from Alexandria; it carried the normal goods that you would expect coming from the Roman province of Egypt. However, there was one item that had been entrusted to the caravan’s owner by his cousin, the Alabarch of the Alexandrian Jews. It was for my father, whose name I bear; it was a box and inside this box there was gold, a lot of gold. There was also a letter telling my father of the life of his youngest son, my brother, Ataphanes. Fifteen years a slave with a Roman family and then subsequently a freedman in their service for nearly the same duration. During that time he amassed a small fortune. When he died, in the service of the family who had owned him and freed him, he asked his patrons to send his fortune back to his family here in Ctesiphon. The Roman family must be truth-speakers because, despite the very obvious temptation to keep a dead man’s gold to themselves, they did return it.’
There were murmurs of agreement from all sides of the hall.
Vespasian lay, hardly daring to breathe as he listened to the voice of the stranger who was saving his life.
‘Yesterday morning a rumour came to my ears that there had been some people, foreigners, looking around the great market for a family of spice traders whose youngest son, Ataphanes, had been killed in the service of one of your predecessors. At first I thought that these people couldn’t be looking for me because my brother was enslaved, not killed. However, I then realised that until the letter arrived we had no idea that Ataphanes had been in captivity, we had thought him dead; we had not told our acquaintances the shameful truth once we found out — who would admit to having a slave in the family? I admit it now only to defend a man in whose debt I find myself. These foreigners were being considerate; they didn’t bandy about the word “slave”, they understood our sensitivity. When I heard that some foreigners had been apprehended in an attempt to do harm to your person and that one of them was a Roman by the name of Titus Flavius Vespasianus I knew that they were the same people; and so I decided to exercise my right as head of the Ctesiphon Guild of Spice Merchants to attend your court and fight the Lie with Truth.’
Vespasian’s mind was filled with prayers of thanks to his guardian god Mars and the chief god of the Zoroastrian religion, Ahura Mazda, who abjures the Lie.
‘You speak forcefully for this man, Gobryas,’ Vologases said after a few moments in thought. ‘How can we be sure that there is no mistake or confusion after all this time?’
‘Because, Light of the Sun, I still have the letter that came with my brother’s gold. I have it here and it is signed by Titus Flavius Vespasianus.’
Vespasian saw from the corner of his eye a man walking forward from the dais, take the folded letter that Gobryas proffered and with great reverence hand it to Vologases.
There was absolute silence apart from the rustle of Vologases perusing the letter.
‘Titus Flavius Vespasianus,’ the Great King said after a short while, ‘you may rise but your companions will stay where they are.’
Vespasian slowly got to his feet and raised his eyes to the Great King seated on his elevated throne. Vologases was a young man, early thirties, with solemn, dark eyes and a thin beak of a nose. On his head he wore a bejewelled gold diadem that held the shoulder-length, tight black ringlets of his hair in place. His beard was of a matching style and each ringlet was oiled and sheened like a raven’s feathers setting into sharp contrast his pale skin that had had very little contact with the direct rays of the sun.
Vologases surveyed Vespasian, sitting bolt upright and perfectly still. ‘Was it indeed you that sent the gold to Gobryas’ family?’
Now that he was able to stand, the rage at being humiliated on his belly faded. ‘It was, Light of the Sun.’
A flicker of amusement passed across the Great King’s face at the Roman’s use of his title. ‘Then you are a follower of the Truth.’ He looked beyond Vespasian. ‘Bring them here!’
Vespasian turned and saw not only Bagoas but also his cousin, the innkeeper, their eyes watering in terror, being brought forward by two guards each. They were thrown to the ground and grovelled in their fear.