Marcus smiled, but before he could respond, the commander of their escort prodded the Briton with the butt end of his spear, barking a command in Greek.
‘Silence, barbarian! Your filthy language defiles this place!’
The Roman opened his hands and smiled broadly at the man.
‘My friend merely wished to express his amazement at the majesty of this palace. I will communicate your wish for him not to speak Latin.’
His only reply was a cold stare, and, catching the Briton’s eye, he shook his head.
‘It seems that our escort do not regard the use of Latin as acceptable. It might be safest for us to remain silent.’
The priest returned, closing the anteroom door.
‘It is as I told you. You are to be granted a brief audience with the King of Kings. This will be limited to the exchange of greetings and pleasantries. The King of Kings will express his pleasure at the safe return of his son, you will reply with whatever meaningless platitudes seem fit to you. You will not mention your battle with King Osroes, nor will you refer to the ongoing siege of Nisibis …’
Marcus raised an eyebrow at the priest, who was clearly better informed than he had previously indicated.
‘And you will not in any way refer to your professed ambassadorial role. This will be a private audience between the King of Kings and three travellers who have been fortunate enough to find themselves in the happy position of being able to perform a service to his family, and for which he wishes to express his thanks. Do you understand?’
Marcus nodded.
‘Perfectly well.’
‘Very good. Explain it to your comrades.’
Lugos simply nodded, his face inscrutable, while Martos smiled wolfishly.
‘I have done much the same in my time on the throne. A meeting of empty smiles, we used to call it.’
The priest gestured to his junior.
‘Watch, and Ataradata will demonstrate how to show the appropriate respect to the King of Kings.’
The younger man sank to his knees, then lowered himself to the stone floor, prostrating himself full length before the priest.
‘This is proskynesis. You will perform it as you see here when the King of Kings greets you, and he will then command you to rise. After this you may speak to him as to any other man, but with respect in every word. You will address him as “Majesty” whenever you speak to him, and-’
Marcus shook his head.
‘As an ambassador of Rome, I cannot perform proskynesis. We reserve prostration for the gods. And my companion here is a king in his own right. Neither can he be expected to perform such an obeisance.’
The priest shook his head in disbelief.
‘You must choose your own path, Roman. If you anger the men who advise the King of Kings it may prove to be a fatal error. What of the giant? He is included in this audience solely because of his entertainment value.’
Marcus turned to Lugos, explaining the act of prostration, and to his relief the big man simply nodded.
‘He is king. I give respect.’
Artapanes nodded solemnly.
‘Very well. At least one of you is likely to survive this audience. Come.’
He led them through the large door and into a vaulted chamber whose roof was supported by a forest of thick pillars, walking with a slow, stately pace towards the middle of the hall. Looking about him Marcus realised that the walls were decorated with weapons and armour whose design was instantly recognisable as Roman.
‘Stop here.’
For a moment there was silence, and then a pair of doors in the far wall, their opening large enough to drive a cart through, swung wide. With a clash of metal on stone, a double line of guards marched briskly into the room, swiftly taking up positions on either side of the party. At a barked command they relaxed into parade rest positions, although Marcus noted that each man kept a hand on the hilt of his sword, ready to draw the blade in an instant if they perceived any threat to their king. A group of older men dressed in fine clothing and sporting the usual pointed beards followed them into the chamber, their attire denoting their place in the court’s hierarchy. A soldier came first, his face scarred and his scale-armoured coat polished to a perfect shine, his gait at once pugnacious and martial. A herald called out his name and rank in Greek as he strode forward.
‘Kophasates, chief gundsalar of the empire of Parthia! Commander of the King of King’s imperial army and his lifelong companion in peace and war!’
A priest in flowing robes walked in the general’s wake, his pace regal and stately, and with him came a hint of incense.
‘Bagadates, most holy servant of Ahura Mazda, chief priest to the empire of Parthia and augur to his Majesty!’
Last came a tall, slim man in trousers and a tunic of red silk, a finely wrought gold crown on his head, his bearing and expression stating his unchallenged authority with no need for words.
‘Vologases, first born son of the King of Kings! Commander of the King of Kings’ immortals and most dedicated servant of his father!
Attendants swiftly set out chairs for them, and a larger and more ornate throne besides, but the three men remained standing. A magnificently armoured soldier marched through the doorway, raising a long cataphract lance to point at the vaulted ceiling as he strode past the seated courtiers, raising his voice to echo from the iron-clad walls.
‘All hail Arsaces, the King of Kings! The Anointed King! The Just King! The Illustrious King! Friend of the Greeks!’
As the echoes died away, the sound of a horse’s hoofs replaced them, a heavily armoured figure clad in silver and gold was riding slowly into the hall atop a war horse whose body was covered by armoured barding of equal grandeur that reached down to its knees. The beast’s head was protected by scale armour studded with jewels and decorated with complex engraving, its eyes invisible behind delicately wrought gold wire discs. The king rode forward, past his unflinching courtiers, halting the magnificent horse a spear’s length from the waiting comrades.
‘Present your obeisance to the King of Kings!’
At the herald’s command, Marcus and Martos bowed deeply, both placing a hand on the floor before them as Marcus had suggested to the Briton, and Lugos struggled to his knees, gritting his teeth at the pain from his wound, then eased his body down to lie full length on the stone floor. Silence reigned in the hall for a moment, before the seated general stormed to his feet, his voice an angry rasp.
‘You dare to show the King of Kings such open disrespect!’
He put a hand to his sword, drawing it halfway from the scabbard, but froze as the king spoke, his voice hard and compelling.
‘There will be no violence today, Kophasates!’
After a moment’s silence, the horse emptied its bowels onto the stone floor, the warm, wet dung splattering as it hit the ground, its rich aroma filling the air. Arsaces laughed.
‘Doubtless my augur will tell me that this was a poor omen, but I am a simple enough man to enjoy the absurdity of this moment! And hear me when I say this, my people, today there will be no violence offered to these men. Today I have put aside my hostility to Rome in order to greet the men who have spared my son’s life and brought him back to me.’
He looked down at Marcus, still frozen in his bow.
‘Rise, Roman. Rise friends of Rome. You …’
He pointed to one of the flanking guardsmen.
‘Assist the giant in rising from his proskynesis, he is clearly disadvantaged by his wound.’
Two guards stepped forward, each taking one of Lugos’s arms and straining to lift him from his prostration.
‘So tell me, Roman, before we speak further of your valour and generosity, why you and this one-eyed barb-’.
Arsaces paused.
‘This one-eyed … man … offer me no more than a bow?’
He pointed to Martos, and Marcus smiled.