Rome's Lost Son (20 page)

This time the men responded to the order and strode forward.

Paelignus yelped and darted away from the desk. Vespasian watched in fascinated disbelief, as the little man ducked and dived, dodged and weaved around the tent while the two guards attempted to apprehend him as if it were a chase in a theatrical comedy; despite his abnormality he was as quick as a lithe rodent and soon outsmarted his pursuers and nipped out of the tent.

‘Let him go!’ Vespasian ordered the two embarrassed guards; he turned to the prefects. ‘He’ll no doubt run to Radamistus.’

‘That arrogant piece of eastern shit is welcome to him,’ Cotta said, speaking for all present judging by the murmurs of agreement. ‘So what do we do now?’

The question was directed at his fellow prefects but it was to Vespasian that they all looked for an answer.

‘It seems that you have a choice between withdrawing to Cappadocia or withdrawing north into Armenia with Radamistus; unless, of course, you would rather fight a battle here that you can’t win.’

Mannius asked the question that they were all wondering about: ‘So why did we come in the first place? You can’t possibly hold a country like Armenia with five auxiliary cohorts.’

Vespasian shrugged. ‘You’ll have to ask Paelignus that; it was his idea. I just came along to offer suggestions if they were needed.’ It was not a nice lie but a convincing one in the light of the procurator’s behaviour. However, now that the auxiliary cohorts had served their purpose he was anxious that they should return to their bases without further loss of life. ‘Personally, I think that you’re well out of it now that your former commander has revealed himself to be an unstable imbecile. If you’re going to have to withdraw in the face of a superior force, then, rather than go north into unknown territory, I would return home and send a message to the Governor of Syria and hope that he comes with one or two of his legions to help remove the Parthians.’

As the prefects began to talk amongst themselves, discussing their options, the bucinae began a fresh bout of blaring; again it was the alarm. Vespasian headed out of the tent with the prefects following. ‘What is it, Magnus?’

‘I’ve no idea, sir; but if it really is trouble it’s just as well that the lads are all up and dressed and standing in those lovely ranks and files that the centurions are so keen on.’

Vespasian looked up and down the Via Praetoria, lined with soldiery, no doubt all wondering, as he was, what was going on. A horseman appeared galloping fast completely against the standing orders in any camp; in fact, riding horses in a camp was frowned upon as unlucky.

‘Where’s the procurator?’ the man shouted as he pulled his mount up to a skidding halt.

‘Disappeared,’ Vespasian said. ‘What’s the alarm for?’

‘The Parthians have surprised the garrison on the bridge. They’re now in control of it and are crossing in force.’

‘That’s impossible, there was half a cohort guarding it.’

‘Not our bridge, sir; the other one guarded by the Armenians. They made the broken bridge passable again and crossed the river to come behind Radamistus’ army.’

Vespasian struggled to contain the shock on his face and looked at the assembled prefects. ‘Well, gentlemen, I suggest that you deploy a holding force to the east, in case the Parthians break through Radamistus, to protect us whilst we strike camp as quickly
as possible. It looks like the decision has been made for you; the route north is now blocked.’

Vespasian pushed his horse as fast as he dared in the growing dawn half-light; ahead, Radamistus’ unfortified encampment was in uproar, drowning out the sound of the auxiliaries striking their camp and the horns of the cohort deploying as a screen. But although there were hundreds or thousands of raised voices, as yet he had not heard the clash of arms or the screams of the maimed and the dying.

He was unchallenged as he passed through the perimeter of the Armenian camp, which was a mess of cavalrymen mounting and forming up without any clear sense of order. He negotiated his way through the chaos as fast as possible without causing injury to one of the many who seemed to be running about in circles for no good reason other than just to be seen to be doing something. He eventually came to Radamistus’ tent to find the King, resplendent in the tall crown of Armenia and a tunic of scale armour, stepping into a ceremonial four-horse chariot.

‘What are you doing, Radamistus?’ Vespasian shouted, pulling up next to the usurper.

Radamistus ignored the question as his mounted guards closed around him pushing Vespasian away. Then Radamistus paused for a moment and looked at Vespasian, frowning as if in thought; he called out in his own language into the shadows and received a reply that sounded affirmative to Vespasian. The chariot’s driver cracked his whip over the team’s withers and the vehicle moved off, surrounded by bodyguards, towards the bridge that Radamistus’ army had been supposed to hold.

‘The King is going to negotiate,’ Paelignus said, stepping from the shadows leading a horse and accompanied by half a dozen royal bodyguards. ‘Now that my men have deserted me we only have half the numbers that we thought we had and we’re surrounded.’

Vespasian looked down at the procurator. ‘What’s he going to do? Surrender?’

Paelignus scoffed. ‘The King of Armenia surrenders to no man; he’ll fight if necessary.’

‘He’s not the King.’

‘He is; you may have noticed that crown he was wearing on his head. I placed it there in Rome’s name just now to confirm him in his position. That’ll give him authority in his negotiations with the barbarians.’

‘You little idiot. He needs to earn that from us, not be given it without conditions attached.’

One of Paelignus’ guards knitted his hands; the procurator stepped on them and struggled up into the saddle in an ungainly manner. He looked at Vespasian as his guards mounted. ‘Come and join me to see the result of the negotiations; in fact, Radamistus has asked that you should come. I think you’ll be impressed by the wording of his oath of loyalty to Parthia. Of course, the King of Armenia is under no compunction to keep his oath to a man as lowly as the satrap of Nineveh. Parthia will retire, Radamistus will renounce the oath and stay on the throne with a crown presented by Rome, and I will have scored the greatest diplomatic and military victory since Augustus negotiated the return of the Eagles lost by Crassus at Carrhae. I look forward to being amply rewarded by a grateful emperor.’

‘Parthia will never tolerate the breaking of that oath; they’ll be back within a month of Radamistus repudiating it,’ Vespasian replied and turned his horse, happy in the knowledge that if Radamistus were to swear loyalty to Parthia and break the oath then war would be unavoidable and his mission complete. ‘But no thank you; I won’t join you despite Radamistus’ kind invitation. I’m going back to Cappadocia; I’ve seen enough of how things are done in the East.’

‘Oh, but you haven’t, Vespasian; there’s one more thing that you should see.’ Paelignus pulled his gaunt face into what was meant to be a pleasant smile but looked to Vespasian as if he was in an advanced stage of rigor mortis. ‘It wasn’t an invitation from the King to come with me.’ He signalled to his guards. ‘It was an order.’

Six spear heads immediately pointed at him; he was surrounded.

‘Take his sword,’ Paelignus ordered, riding off after Radamistus, ‘and tie his hands.’

*

Vespasian sat on his mount, his wrists bound tight and then secured to the horns of his saddle so that he had no possibility of riding off. Paelignus took regular gloating, sidelong glances at him as if he were anticipating a sweet moment. Ten paces ahead of them, Radamistus stood in his chariot, facing Babak, having a long conversation which had been punctuated with many polite gestures, in what Vespasian assumed was very flowery language as each sentence in the unintelligible tongue seemed to go on for an age. Although Paelignus too had no idea of what was being discussed, Vespasian saw him nodding in agreement occasionally and then noticed that the bodyguard to his other side was whispering a translation into his ear. Behind him the Armenian army had formed up for battle, while behind Babak a small force of dismounted Parthian cavalry held the bridge. They were not enough to attack and defeat the Armenian host but were certainly enough to impede their passage.

Vespasian felt confident that Babak would cede to Radamistus’ terms and let him pass so that he could head north. Babak would remain in Tigranocerta until news of Radamistus’ treachery travelled down to him; then he would lead his army into the heart of Armenia and Tryphaena would have her war.

The negotiations seemed to be coming to some conclusion; Vespasian pulled on his bindings. ‘Untie me, Paelignus.’

‘You’ll be released soon enough.’

As the procurator finished speaking, Radamistus turned around and signalled to the guard holding Vespasian’s horse’s reins; he led the beast forward. However, he did not stop when he was level with his master, but, rather, carried on to Babak who signalled to one of his entourage to take the reins.

‘What’s the meaning of this?’ Vespasian demanded.

Babak signalled to his men on the bridge who began pulling back to let the Armenian army cross.

As he crossed the bridge with Babak at his side, Vespasian repeated the question.

‘It’s custom to conclude business with a surety in my country,’ Babak informed him. ‘And you are just such a thing. If Radamistus
breaks his word and Rome sends her armies in to support him, then, until they are removed, you will spend the rest of your life in the darkest dungeon in Adiabene.’

‘But you know that he’ll break his word.’

‘Do I? He swore on Ahura Mazda; for him there is no more powerful a god.’

‘But he swore to you and he considers you to be too far below him in status to be able to hold him to his oath.’

Babak bridled at the implied insult. ‘Then it would seem that things are not going to go well for you as a hostage of Parthia.’

PART III

T
HE
P
ARTHIAN
E
MPIRE
,
AD
52

CHAPTER XII

‘W
HAT WOULD YOU
recommend that I do with him, Ananias?’

Vespasian knelt on the floor with his hands tied behind his back. The iron tang of blood filled his battered mouth; blood dripped onto the marble from a cut above his swollen, closed right eye. His tormentor, a massively muscled, bearded mute, wearing only a loincloth, stood before him, massaging his knuckles, raw from the beating he had just administered.

‘He seems to turn the other cheek.’

If it would not have hurt so much, Vespasian would have smiled at this description of the way he had dealt with the punishment that had been meted out to him. He looked up at the speaker; he was seated on a wooden throne with gold and silver inlays of strangely foreign animalistic design. In his early fifties, with a long grey beard, his hair wrapped in a white cloth headdress wound around his head, and with a black and white patterned mantle over his shoulders, he did not look as if he was the King of Adiabene. Yet he was; and more than that, as Vespasian now knew only too well, he was a Jewish convert. But it was not to the mainstream religion that the King adhered, but rather to the new cult promoted by Paulus’ rivals in Jerusalem.

‘King Izates, our master Yeshua,’ the man named Ananias replied, ‘did indeed preach that to be righteous we should turn the other cheek; but this man is not a Jew and Yeshua’s teachings apply only to Jews, not Gentile dogs like this faithless scum.’ Ananias consulted a scroll, his rheumy eyes squinting and his age-spotted hands shaking as they unfurled the parchment. ‘I have a record of much of what he said here, left by his disciple, Thomas, on his way to preach to the Jews and god-fearers
of the East; and it is clear that the Righteous are only those who fear God, whether as full Jews or as god-fearers who adhere to much of the religion. This man, Vespasian, cannot be one of the Righteous.’

‘Very well, if you say so.’ King Izates studied Vespasian for a few moments before turning to a woman sitting on a lesser throne next to his own. ‘Tell me, with the heart of a woman, Symacho, my love: what would you do with this hostage to the honour of Radamistus, King of Armenia? Now that that Iberian liar has foresworn his oath of loyalty to my master, the Great King Vologases, the first of that name, and also now that Ummidius Quadratus, the Governor of Roman Syria, has sent a legion into Armenia, this man’s life should be forfeit.’ He pointed at Vespasian. ‘And yet Babak told him that he would only be cast into the deepest dungeon for the rest of his life should the treaty be broken.’

‘Then do that, my King.’ She looked at Vespasian and smiled. In the two months that he had been held hostage in Arbela, the royal capital of Adiabene, Vespasian had shared many meals with the royal couple and had found the ageing Queen’s company far more entertaining than that of her religion-obsessed husband or any of his twenty-four children from sundry wives. Izates showed all the tunnel-visioned fanaticism of a convert, always pontificating about his new religion and trying to apply it in all aspects of his rule, much to the obvious displeasure, Vespasian had noticed, of a fair number of his courtiers who clung, like Babak, to the old gods of Assyria. Symacho, on the other hand, did not flaunt her new beliefs and consequently was far more relaxed and convivial because of it. Vespasian almost forgave her for encouraging her husband to incarcerate him for the rest of his life; he would have preferred a quick death.

Another blow to the head stunned him momentarily; Izates had evidently ordered the beating to continue while he contemplated the issue from a religious angle.

This was a situation far removed from what he had encountered upon his arrival in Arbela; then he had been not exactly welcomed, but treated with a reasonable amount of courtesy.

‘I’m pleased that the Lord has sent you to me,’ Izates had said to him on the day of Vespasian’s arrival.

They were standing on the immense battlements that crowned the oval hill of four hundred and fifty by three hundred and fifty paces upon which Arbela stood and had been standing for over six thousand years. The hill rose steeply, one hundred feet on all sides, to an almost flat top so that it stood like a huge base waiting for a mighty column to be raised upon it by the gods; a column that would reach the heavens and prop up the sky.

For longer than memory Arbela had dominated the Assyrian plain that stretched out in all directions, irrigated and fertile, a farmland that had given power to the ancient Assyrian Kings before they had been subjugated by first the Medes and then the Persians and then by Alexander. His victory over Darius III at Guagamela, just eighty miles away, had heralded almost three hundred years of Hellenic rule during which time Adiabene had managed to become an autonomous kingdom. Now this city, one of the oldest on earth, was subject to Parthia and it was over Parthia that Vespasian had been gazing, only half-listening to his royal host who seemed to have very little conversation other than theological.

‘He has presented me with a way to solve a problem,’ Izates had carried on.

‘If I can be of service then I’d be only too pleased,’ Vespasian had replied absently. He had been led to think that his status was somewhat more than a hostage by the way that he had been greeted after his month-long journey south with the main force of Babak’s army. He had not been confined nor had he been guarded and the King had invited him on a tour of the battlements. Very soon he had bored Vespasian rigid with his talk of the Jewish god and rambling on about the prophet he had sent to save the Jews and those who feared their god by freeing them from the priests and all vestiges of human control on the most pure of religions – or something like that. Vespasian had not quite got to grips with the detail.

‘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.

The arrival of the gaolers would bring not only light but also sound. Low moans or cries for forgiveness, groans of pain or just plain mad gibbering always accompanied the gaolers’ progress down the corridor, attesting to what sort of condition the inmate, behind each of the many locked doors punctuating it, was in. Vespasian, however, never made a sound, not even when the grille in his door was unbolted and swung open. He knew the routine after the first couple of visits and thereafter did not need to communicate. He passed his refuse bowl out and its contents were slopped into the open sewer that ran the length of the corridor to drain away who knew where. The bowl was returned,
unsluiced and stinking. He then had to pass two of his other three possessions through the grille in turn: the first, a wooden jug, was returned filled with water that, by its taste, Vespasian knew would have been far from clear had he troubled to examine it. Second was his wooden food bowl, which came back containing a gruel of grains with the occasional morsel of gristle or bone floating in it. A stale loaf was then chucked through the grille as it was closed. With his sustenance safely grasped in each hand he would retire to his only other possession: a blanket that contained more life than the matted hair that clung to his groin, chest, face and head. Every so often some damp straw would be shoved through the hole to supplement the rotting heap upon which his fourth possession rested, but that was the only difference in the routine; he had no way of telling but he assumed that the straw arrived once a month as the second delivery was long enough after the first one for him to be surprised, having forgotten about it. He was unclear but he thought that he could remember at least a few more such deliveries; but what did it matter? What was sure was that even in this subterranean pit shielded from the sun by so much ancient stone it had got colder and Vespasian guessed that winter was approaching outside – if outside still existed.