Parthian Vengeance (9 page)

I was alluding to Gordyene, the land to the north that had been conquered by the Romans. I did not intend Dura to suffer the same fate.

‘I have heard of no stirrings in Syria,’ spoke one of the northern lords, a thickset man with a great bushy beard.

‘When they learn that the forts that guard the northern frontier have been stripped of their garrisons they may be tempted to invade Dura. There are two legions in Syria and I do not trust the Romans not to take advantage of our army’s absence. That is why your presence here is so important.’

They grumbled among themselves and looked unhappy but knew that what I had said made sense. Between them they could raise around forty thousand horse archers in addition to their personal bodyguards numbering another thousand men. It was enough to deter a Roman invasion, or so I hoped. Aside from their personal retinues their troops were drawn from the men who worked their lands: farmers and fishermen. They were not as disciplined as those who served in Dura’s army, but they were frontiersmen who were hardy and knew how to shoot a bow from the saddle. As such they would delay any invading army long enough for me to bring mine back across the Euphrates after I had dealt with Mithridates.

After Gallia had flattered and flirted with them the lords went back to their estates. They may have been unhappy that they were missing out on a battle, but they were delighted to be entrusted with the safety of the queen and her children. I had told them that they would guard Gallia and the kingdom while I was away, and that they were to obey her in my absence. After they had gone I went out onto the palace terrace to lean on the stone balustrade and watch the activity below. This was one of my favourite places where I could observe the traffic on the road flowing east and west and gaze at the blue waters of the Euphrates. The minutiae of life was fascinating: Rsan’s officials collecting tolls from those crossing the pontoon bridges; legionaries ensuring that traffic flowed smoothly over the wooden bridges; and people from all corners of the empire on the road going about their business; fishermen in their small boats on the river. It was endless and fascinating.

‘Daydreaming again, son of Hatra?’

Dobbai shuffled past me to sit in one of the chairs opposite.

‘For a man about to embark upon great slaughter you seem remarkably calm.’

‘Just one battle, Dobbai, and then it will all be over.’

She looked east across the river. ‘Just one battle, to begin with.’

‘To begin with?’

She turned to look at me. ‘I will say it again. Do not underestimate Mithridates, or Narses for that matter.’

‘I don’t and won’t.’

She pointed at me with a bony finger. ‘You think that because you beat them before you will do so again with ease.’

She was referring to the Battle of Surkh, when I had been instrumental in defeating the combined armies of Mithridates and Narses. Afterwards I had been made lord high general of the empire by a grateful King of Kings Phraates. How long ago that seemed now.

I smiled at Dobbai. ‘Have the gods revealed to you that they will defeat me?’

‘You may mock me, but your smugness will disappear when you come running back to Dura with your tail between your legs.’

‘Is that your prophecy or the gods?’

She waved a hand at me. ‘I say again, do not underestimate your foes.’

She changed the subject. ‘When are the executions?’

‘Tomorrow.’

That was when Nadira and Polemo would die for the murder of Godarz. Vistaspa had stayed in Dura in the aftermath of Godarz’s death and said he would return to Hatra once justice had been meted out. Haytham had also travelled to the city to witness the executions. There was a time when the visit of the Agraci king would have elicited horror among the city’s residents but now no one batted an eyelid. Indeed, Malik visited us so often that many came to see him more as Duran than Agraci. He and Domitus were good friends, though Malik’s agreeable nature meant that he got on well with most people. He was not like Haytham, who was hard, merciless and unyielding, much like the desert that had spawned him. Above all Malik, though brave, lacked the ruthlessness, the utter indifference to suffering which Haytham possessed in abundance.

‘Gallia has hired a headsman for the executions,’ remarked Dobbai casually.

‘A headsman, why? Dura has its own executioner.’

Dobbai rose and ambled away.

‘Remember what I said, son of Hatra, do not underestimate your foes.’

Gallia refused to discuss the executions, saying that she was too upset to talk about the condemned as it reminded her of Godarz. When I asked her about the headsman she merely remarked that he had been recommended to her and that she wanted the task carried out properly. Further questioning of her was met by a stony silence so I gave up.

The day of the executions was overcast, the mood of the population sombre as the two prisoners were escorted from their confinement at the Palmyrene Gate. Notwithstanding Gallia’s desires I had given orders that they were not to be mistreated in any way. Their quarters were to be functional and their rations adequate, and on no account were they to be abused by their gaolers, especially Nadira. Raping a woman had no place in Dura’s army.

Just after dawn the pair walked from the Palmyrene Gate along the city’s main street to the market place. Domitus had lined the route with guards to ensure that they reached their place of execution – Godarz had been a popular governor and many may have been tempted to exact their own vengeance upon his killers. Soldiers also lined the outside of the square and were posted around the wooden platform that had been erected in the centre of the square where the pair was to be put to death. Directly opposite and on the northern side of the square was a second platform of the same height. That is where we assembled to watch justice being administered.

Sullen, angry people were still filing into the square as Polemo and Nadira were escorted through the throng to their appointment with the headsman. He stood impassively as the murderers were manhandled up the steps and onto the platform. The executioner was tall, fat and completely bald. He held the handle of a large curved sword in his right hand, the point resting on the wooden boards. He watched Polemo and Nadira with piggy eyes, his stare fixed on Nadira’s chest. Gallia had wanted her to be stripped naked before she was killed but I had countermanded this order as well, earning me a fierce rebuke from my wife. But I told her that I was not a barbarian. In these moments her wild Gaul side came to the fore and frankly unnerved me, but I was king in Dura. Even attired in a voluminous white gown Nadira’s voluptuous figure was still apparent. Such a waste of womanhood.

On the platform the two were handed over to the executioner’s assistants – half a dozen burly men dressed in black leggings and brown leather tunics. Two grabbed the arms of Polemo while two more stood either side of a now very pale Nadira. Polemo was stripped of his top and forced down onto his knees to face the executioner. Polemo looked up and spat at him. One of the assistants stepped forward, slapped him hard round the face and shoved his head down. The executioner hoisted his great sword onto his right shoulder and stepped to one side. He looked at me and I nodded. The crowd was silent and still whilst Nadira, wild-eyed, bit her lip and stared ahead. She was not looking at her accomplice kneeling a few feet from her.

With both hands the executioner raised the sword high above his head and then in one seamless movement brought it down on Polemo’s neck. I stared in horror as the blade sliced Polemo’s flesh but did not sever his head. The executioner once more raised the blade and sliced it down onto Polemo’s neck. It cut flesh but again did not decapitate Polemo, who tried to lift himself up, blood gushing from his neck wound. Now terrified, he looked up at the executioner as the latter’s blade once more sliced into his flesh. Polemo pitched forward, still alive, as the crowd groaned. The executioner gestured at his assistants, who stepped forward and yanked Polemo back onto his knees. Then they stepped away. The executioner wiped the blood off his blade with a cloth and then stepped forward and again aimed a blow at Polemo, this time slicing deep into his shoulder. Polemo shrieked in pain, his torso covered in blood. Nadira, now distraught at the awful spectacle unfolding before her, pissed herself. Orodes looked at Malik who shook his head, while Haytham remained impassive. Rsan, shaking, was covering his eyes with his hands.

Domitus turned to me. ‘I’ll finish this,’ and made to leave our viewing platform.

‘Stay where you are, Domitus,’ commanded Gallia, who nodded at the executioner. He nodded back, raised his sword once more then finally severed Polemo’s head. Blood poured from the headless torso as a weeping Nadira was forced down on her knees. No doubt she was being tortured by the thought of enduring the same treatment as Polemo. Domitus returned to his place as the executioner lopped off Nadira’s head with a single blow. Thus was the grisly spectacle brought to an end.

The two lifeless bodies were dumped on a cart as the populace returned to their daily lives. Rsan walked over to the edge of the platform and threw up. Haytham regarded an iron-visaged Gallia and smiled. Orodes was most unhappy and Malik was frowning. Domitus stood and looked bemused as his soldiers ushered the remnants of the crowd from the square.

‘There was no need for that,’ I said to Gallia.

‘If I had had my way,’ she said slowly and loudly enough for everyone around us to hear, ‘their deaths would have lasted for days. They got off lightly.’

With that she turned away from me and marched from the platform. Domitus slapped me on the arm.

‘Perhaps you should stay here and let Gallia march against Mithridates. That way the war will be over in no time at all.’

I shook my head. ‘I think not. There will be no one left alive from here to the Himalayas if I unleash her on the empire.’

The grisly episode was now over and it was time for the army to march east and spill some more blood.

Chapter 3

Standing looking at the large hide map of the Parthian Empire hanging on the wall in the headquarters building I shook my head. Couriers had arrived from Hatra, Media and Atropaiene informing me that parties attacking from Gordyene, Cappadocia and Armenia were raiding them. My father wrote that once again horsemen were attacking his northern towns and cities, including Nisibus whose governor was my childhood friend Vata. I was not unduly concerned about these reports as Hatra’s army was more than capable of dealing with mere raiding parties. The same was true of Media and Atropaiene, ruled by Farhad and Aschek respectively. Still, if these raids presaged a general war with Rome, since Armenia was its client state and the Romans occupied Gordyene, then once again the empire would be under threat. I had comforted myself with the knowledge that to the east of these two realms were the kingdoms of Hyrcania and Margiana, both of which had alliances with Aschek and Farhad and both of which could raise sizeable armies. But then news reached us that the northern borders had erupted into violence and both Hyrcania and Margiana were also under assault. King Khosrou, the fierce ruler of Margiana, had written to me stating that the tribes that inhabited the great steppes to the north of his kingdom had attacked his frontier outposts and were marching against his capital, Merv. The entire northern border of the empire was in flames.

‘What are the chances of the Romans, Armenians and the tribes of the steppes working in cooperation, do you think?’ asked Domitus, leaning back in his chair with his hands behind his head.

I shook my head again. ‘Almost nil.’

He jumped out of his chair. ‘Exactly.’

‘I thought Khosrou had peace with the northern tribes,’ said Orodes.

‘That is what he told me at Esfahan,’ I replied, ‘though that was a while ago. Perhaps relationships between the two have deteriorated since then.’

Domitus drew his dagger and used it to point at the map, moving the point from Hatra to the east towards the Caspian Sea and beyond.

‘It cannot be a coincidence that all the kingdoms under assault are friends of Dura. I detect the hand of Mithridates in all this.’

I was confused. ‘He sent assassins to kill me. If he wanted to harm Dura then he and Narses would lead their army against us. I suspect the Romans are behind this rather than Mithridates.’

‘After all these years and after so much blood, you still act like a dotard, son of Hatra.’

Dobbai walked into the room accompanied by Gallia, who threw a despatch on the table. I picked it up.

‘What is this?’

‘An appeal from Gotarzes. His kingdom is assaulted by Narses.’

King Gotarzes was the ruler of Elymais, a land across the Tigris that lay to the east of Nergal’s realm of Mesene. A valuable ally and trusted friend, Gotarzes had the great misfortune to rule a kingdom that had Narses’ own kingdom of Persis to the south and Susiana, the domain of Mithridates, to the north. He had fought by my side against both of them and now Narses was attacking him.

‘You can forget about the Romans, then,’ said Domitus. ‘This is the handiwork of Mithridates.’

‘The Roman speaks the truth,’ said Dobbai. ‘I did warn you not to underestimate Mithridates.’

‘We have to help Gotarzes,’ said Gallia.

I looked at the map once more. That was easier said than done. It was over five hundred miles from Dura to the city of Elymais, the capital of Gotarzes’ kingdom – it would take nearly four weeks to get there unimpeded, more if we encountered any resistance along the way.

‘Gotarzes is beyond help,’ remarked Dobbai. ‘If he had any sense, which he doesn’t, he would abandon his city and flee.’

‘He would never do that,’ insisted Orodes, ‘he is a man of honour.’

Dobbai sat in one of the chairs around the table. ‘Soon to be a dead man of honour.’

‘The army is assembled, is it not?’ asked Gallia.

‘Yes,’ I replied.

‘Well, then, we can march to assist Gotarzes.’

I looked at her, then at Domitus and Orodes. They were thinking the same as me – we would be marching into a trap.