Parthian Vengeance (25 page)

‘It’s not your fault, Pacorus,’ said Orodes.

‘Isn’t it?’ I replied. ‘If it had not been for me Gotarzes would never have hazarded a battle.’

I could have wept at that moment, wept for a dead king and the thousands of his soldiers who had perished on the battlefield and the thousands of his people who would now be ruled by the tyranny of Mithridates. Gotarzes had been my ally and friend and now he was dead. Godarz was dead, also killed by Mithridates. I looked at Gallia, Orodes and then Byrd and feared for their lives also.

Gallia smiled at me. ‘You did your best.’

‘Only it was not good enough.’

‘What will you do now?’ asked Orodes.

In truth I did not know. With Gotarzes gone and Elymais fallen there was no purpose in striking across the Tigris. An attack on Ctesiphon was still tempting, but the enemy would merely retreat further east beyond our clutches. I was not interested in the palace of the king of kings; it was Mithridates that I wanted.

I sighed. ‘We go home, Orodes.’

I suddenly felt very tired and bereft of hope. Mithridates had won and my reputation, such as it was, had suffered a grave blow. The army of Dura had previously never suffered a defeat but now it had been stopped in its tracks and forced to limp back home. Mithridates would be emboldened by recent events and he and Narses were probably planning an assault on my kingdom now. It was all too depressing to think about.

I wrote letters to Vardan and my father and sent couriers to deliver them. I would have ridden over to my father’s camp myself, but he would undoubtedly blame me for his friend’s death and I was in no mood to endure another of his lectures. I also had to inform Nergal when he arrived that his journey had been in vain – a ride of two hundred miles for nothing. It was all too much to bear.

Nergal and his men duly arrived the next morning, five thousand horse archers with a large camel train in tow. I rode out of camp with Gallia, Byrd and Orodes to greet my friend and fellow king. This was the man who had been my second-in-command in Italy and when I had first gone to Dura. A year older than me, Nergal was a fellow Hatran who had fought by my side for over ten years before gaining the crown of the Kingdom of Mesene. Brave, loyal and possessed of an optimistic nature, out of the saddle his long arms and legs gave him an awkward, gangly appearance. It was that appearance that had convinced Rahim, the high priest of Uruk, that Nergal was the reincarnation of the god of the same name. His coming had been foretold thousands of years before on sacred tablets held in the great ziggurat in Uruk, a massive structure that was the residence of the sky god Anu. The banner that now flew behind my friend was the symbol of the god Nergal – a great yellow banner embossed with a double-headed lion sceptre crossed with a sword. It was a happy reunion of old friends who had shared many hardships and also great victories. After we had all dismounted and embraced each other, Gallia and Praxima with an emotional greeting, Nergal’s horsemen were ordered to pitch camp next to the army of Dura.

Mesene is not a rich kingdom. Located south of Babylon, it lies between the Tigris and Euphrates whose southern border was formerly where these two mighty rivers empty their waters into the Persian Gulf. But Nergal had granted his southern marshlands to the area’s inhabitants, the Ma’adan – Surena’s people. In the process he had given away a sizeable proportion of his kingdom. No longer did Mesene’s warriors wage war against the Ma’adan, though, and in place of strife there was now trade. This allowed the kingdom to prosper and provided Nergal with the revenues to raise and maintain his army. Dura and Hatra were unusual in having permanent armies staffed by full-time soldiers, equipped and paid for by the crown. Such armies were prohibitively expensive to maintain, their existence made possible only because of the profits raised from the Silk Road. But the Silk Road did not run through Mesene so Nergal had to cut his cloth accordingly.

There were no armoured horsemen among the riders who trotted past us on their way to their campsite, no squires pulling camels loaded with scale armour, lances, tubular arm and leg armour, tents and spare arrows and weapons for their masters. The horse archers of Mesene wore a simple woollen kaftan dyed red known as a
kurta
that opened at the front and was wrapped across the chest from right to left. It was loose fitting like their leggings called
saravanas
. Each man wore leather ankle boots called
xshumaka
, tied in place by leather bands that passed around the ankle and under the sole. Over the kaftans the archers wore scale-armour cuirasses, short-sleeved garments that reached to the mid-thigh, slit at each side up to the waist to facilitate riding. On the leather cuirasses were attached horizontal rows of rectangular iron scales, each row of scales partly covering the layer below. On his head each man wore a helmet made from curved iron plates attached to an iron skeleton of vertical bands, complete with large cheekguards and a long, leather neck flap. They were an impressive sight.

‘I like your horsemen, Nergal,’ I said approvingly.

‘It is their first campaign,’ he replied. ‘They are looking forward to being tested in battle.’

‘Alas, my friend, I think they may have to wait a little longer.’

Later, as we all sat relaxing in my tent, I told Nergal the news that Gotarzes was dead and Elymais in the possession of the enemy.

‘That is grave news indeed,’ he said. ‘We have lost a valued ally.’

‘Will Mithridates make war upon Mesene, Pacorus?’ asked Praxima with concern.

‘I hope not,’ I replied.

In truth I did not know but suspected that my nemesis would strike against Mesene. Susiana, Mithridates’ own kingdom, lay next to Mesene, the Tigris demarking their eastern and western borders respectively. With Elymais laid low Mithridates and Narses could now turn their attention against Mesene.

‘Dura stands with you, Nergal,’ said Gallia. ‘Mithridates will think twice before he tangles with our combined forces.’

‘It is as Gallia says,’ I said, causing Praxima to grin with delight.

Orodes said nothing but he knew, as did I, that Dura lay two hundred miles from Mesene whereas the forces of the enemy were within striking distance of Nergal’s kingdom. I would have to take my horsemen south to reinforce Mesene.

‘How is your high priest, Nergal?’ asked Orodes, diplomatically changing the subject.

‘Agreeable I am glad to say,’ he replied.

‘You two are still gods, then?’ I teased them.

‘Gods given human bodies,’ said Praxima sternly before breaking out in giggles.

The sacred tablets that were held at Uruk spoke of Nergal, the god of war, with his wife the goddess Allatu, the queen of the underworld. Allatu was represented on the tablets as having the head of a lion, the red mane of Praxima confirming to the priests of Uruk that she was indeed the goddess. But there was more that confirmed that the wife of Nergal was an immortal. She had arrived at the city at the head of an army – Dura’s army – and was dressed as a warrior. That she fought as an Amazon and took life corresponded to the ancient tablets describing Allatu as ferocious and warlike, whose anger knew no bounds. One of the tablets held in the ziggurat at Uruk showed Nergal with his symbol of a lion, with Allatu seated on a horse beside him. Praxima had arrived at Uruk mounted on a horse and dressed as a warrior. All these things convinced Rahim and his priests that Nergal and Praxima were gods made flesh. When I had taken Uruk I was determined that they would become the new rulers of the city to replace the treacherous Chosroes, who had obligingly committed suicide after my soldiers had breached the city walls. I had anticipated difficulties in imposing a new regime on the populace, but the happy coincidence that Nergal and his wife resembled gods removed all obstacles to their accession to power.

‘Rahim obligingly opened the temple vaults to me,’ said Nergal casually. ‘They were full of gold, which was more than could be said for the palace treasury. That was bare.’

‘Chosroes had no gold?’ asked Orodes.

Nergal shook his head. ‘Chosroes was a cruel lord who bought the allegiance of his lords, and his expensive tastes were too much for his kingdom to bear.’

I thought of the rabble that was Chosroes’ army, the ragged foot soldiers and the inadequately armed horsemen on their threadbare mounts. He certainly did not lavish money on his troops.

‘Why didn’t Chosroes empty the temple vaults?’ I asked.

‘Because Rahim wields much power within the city and kingdom,’ said Praxima.

‘One does not make an enemy of such a man,’ added Nergal. ‘He can make much trouble.’

‘But not for you,’ said Gallia.

Nergal smiled. ‘No, not for me, for I am careful not to abuse the exalted position my people accord me.’

‘We gave back to the Ma’adan their homeland and justice to the people of Mesene,’ added Praxima with pride.

‘And in return,’ continued Nergal, ‘they give us their sons to serve in my army.’

‘And the Mesenians, the people who have waged a war of annihilation against the Ma’adan,’ I asked, ‘they do not object to welcoming the marsh people among them?’

‘They have no choice,’ said Nergal sternly. ‘Besides, it is amazing how the allure of profit lessens the hatred that the Mesenians have for the Ma’adan.’

Orodes looked perplexed. ‘I do not understand.’

‘It is quite simple,’ said Nergal. ‘The villages, previously deserted and derelict, situated near the marshlands have been rebuilt and repopulated. The Ma’adan barter their goods with the villagers, mostly fish, rice and water buffaloes, and the villagers sell the hides of the slaughtered animals to the royal armouries in Uruk to make scale armour. It is a lucrative trade.’

 ‘You have done well, Nergal,’ I said, smiling at Praxima, ‘both of you.’

‘Do you pay the annual tribute to Mithridates?’ asked Gallia.

Nergal drained his cup of wine. ‘No ambassadors from Ctesiphon come to Uruk and I send no word to Mithridates. The Silk Road does not run through Mesene so I suppose that the high king hopes that my kingdom will wither and die if he ignores it.’

‘Except it will not,’ said Praxima with fire in her eyes. ‘It grows stronger and waits for the day when Dura and its allies summon us to march against the false king in Ctesiphon.’

Gallia lent across and placed her hand on her friend’s arm, grinning as she did so.

‘Always an Amazon,’ she said.

I had always liked Praxima, this fierce, wild Spanish woman who had been enslaved by the Romans and forced to work as a whore before she had escaped her bondage. In northern Italy I had seen her shoot down her enemies without mercy and kill Romans with her dagger. Now, ten years later, she was sitting in my tent looking exactly the same as she did all those years ago. She appeared ageless, dressed in her scale-armour cuirass, her long red hair cascading over her shoulders, with her brown eyes full of vigour. I had often lamented that she and Nergal had not yet been blessed with children. Gallia had always assured her friend that she would know the joy of offspring, but Dobbai had told me that Praxima probably would not be able to conceive on account of the hard usage her body had been subjected to at the hands of the Romans.

I rose from my chair and kissed Praxima on the cheek.

‘That day will come but not yet. For the moment, my friends, we return home and plan our next move.’

‘We are all outcasts,’ said Orodes thoughtfully, a note of sadness in his voice.

Always a deep thinker, Orodes was prone to bouts of melancholy when reminded of his exile from his homeland. By rights he should be the prince and de facto ruler of the Kingdom of Susiana, his stepbrother’s realm. Though technically the king of kings ruled both the empire and his own kingdom, in reality the day-to-day affairs of the empire soaked up the high king’s time and it was customary for the next-in-line to the throne to rule the high king’s homeland in his absence. But being friends with me had cost Orodes his position and his homeland, a burden that he shouldered without complaint. But he was right, my kingdom and I were outcasts from the empire and it would appear that Nergal and Mesene had been similarly cut adrift. It was a truly sad state of affairs.

‘Nothing lasts forever, my friend,’ was all I could muster as a reply.

We then sat in silence staring at the cups we held in our hands. The silence was becoming oppressive but then the flaps of the entrance opened and one of the sentries entered escorting a soldier dressed in the purple uniform of Babylon – baggy leggings, long-sleeved tunic and purple cap on his head. He bowed deeply and then handed me a letter with a wax seal. The seal bore the symbol of the
gauw
, the horned bull of Babylon. It was a message from Vardan himself. I broke the seal and read the contents. I stood up and pointed at the messenger.

‘Tell King Vardan I will attend him at once.’

He bowed and then turned on his heels and walked briskly from my presence. The others looked at me in anticipation.

‘Well, it would appear that Mithridates and Narses intend to deal with their enemies sooner than we thought. They have laid siege to Babylon.’

Orodes and Nergal jumped up.

‘Babylon?’ Orodes was shocked. ‘They would not dare.’

Babylon was a city of great age and glory. Though it no longer had a major say in world affairs, the city and its rulers were still accorded great esteem by the other kings of the empire. And the King of Babylon had always enjoyed close and amiable relations with the court at Ctesiphon, the two palaces being only around seventy miles from each other. But now the army of Mithridates and Narses were laying siege to the ancient city.

I rode to the Babylonian camp in the company of Gallia, Orodes, Nergal and Praxima. It was late afternoon now and the weather was still overcast and gloomy, made worse by Vardan’s news. Our horses were taken from us at the entrance to the royal pavilion and we were escorted inside the cavernous structure by purple-clad guards carrying wicker shields and spears with leaf-shaped blades that were the height of a man. Such weapons were useless in battle but were ideal for wielding in the confined and often cluttered spaces inside royal tents. We found an agitated Vardan in the throne area of the pavilion pacing up and down in front of his senior officers. His commanders were dressed in the same dragon-skin armour worn by Vardan’s royal bodyguard – a leather vest covered with overlapping silver plates that protected the chest and back. They all held richly embossed silver helmets in the crooks of their arms and wore swords in purple scabbards decorated with silver adornments at their hips. They looked nervous as their liege paced up and down.