Thunder of the Gods (46 page)

‘Legatus!’

With a start Scaurus realised that he was rooted where he stood, unable to move as the oncoming torrent ripped down the empty riverbed and tore through the trench that had been dug to direct its fury at the wall. As the seething flood reached the trench’s end, the debris carried by its huge power was hurled into the air, flying boulders and tree trunks slamming into the brickwork, punching a dozen holes in the seemingly impenetrable outer wall in an instant, the impacts knocking Scaurus from his feet. The moat between the inner and outer walls was swiftly filling with debris from the destructive impacts and the missiles themselves, while the inner wall was already sagging in one place where a massive tree had punched through the outer rampart and struck its counterpart with stunning force. Grabbing the parapet he pulled himself up again, looking down at the unceasing, raging stream of dirty brown water as it slammed into the fortress’s base.

‘Legatus! Run!’

The stones beneath Scaurus’s feet were shivering, a continual hail of debris spitting from the trench’s end to strike the brickwork with hammer blows that either smashed cleanly through the outer wall or left great cracks in its surface. A dozen paces behind him a bolt thrower was torn from its mount by a flying rock, projectile and debris alike toppling a section of the inner wall onto the roofs below. Staggering as another heavy impact rocked the wall, he ran towards the beckoning soldiers, slowing his pace as the danger of being struck by a piece of debris lessened. Opening his mouth to shout his thanks to the centurion over the torrent’s constant grinding roar, he saw the man’s jaw drop at something happening behind him, and turned to see the entire one-hundred-pace section of the outer wall between two towers collapse into ruin. The raging waters, which had fatally undermined the structure, ripped through the gap, smashing into the similarly weakened inner wall and demolishing a section of equal length in a heartbeat, surging into the defenceless city streets with a crashing, grinding roar as the thousands of bricks from the collapsed defence were carried along in the foaming brown tide. The few people who stood helpless in its path, those who had been too slow or reluctant to evacuate their houses and shops, were washed away in an instant, lost in the muddy brown cataract that boiled through the city’s heart. At the end of the long, straight street, funnelled by the buildings to either side, the torrent slammed into the inner wall on the city’s southern side with the same awful power, crashing through both ramparts and raging out onto the plain beyond.

‘Bastards …’

Scaurus turned at the centurions’ whispered curse, looking out over the Parthian troops closest to the northern walls as they cheered the continuing jet of brown foaming water issuing from the river trench. Their raised spears and shields were the only sign of their rejoicing as their voices were lost in the unleashed waters’ unceasing roar of power that sounded to him like the rage of a vengeful god.

‘They’re rejoicing in their victory over us. They think the city’s wide open, and they marvel at the destruction that the water must be wreaking on us. They believe that when the waters have exhausted themselves they have only to march in through these shattered walls to have us at their mercy.’

Scaurus shook his head, looking back down into Nisibis’s devastated streets.

‘And they may well be right.’

Artapanes led the three men into a room thirty paces square, their entrance a man-sized door while a pair of iron reinforced doors wide and tall enough to admit a horse and rider were situated in the far wall. He had come to them an hour after dawn that morning, the fifth day after their arrival in the city, and had bidden them to dress in the garb in which they had travelled from Nisibis. Their garments had been cleaned and returned to them in the night; Marcus’s bronze armour polished to a high shine, his boots similarly gleaming. The Roman’s arm had been secured to his chest in a linen sling, the priest nodding his satisfaction at their appearance before beckoning the friends through their quarter’s door. Following him through a series of dimly lit corridors, and at one point through a walkway so cool Marcus was sure it had to be a tunnel, they emerged into what the priest called the anteroom, blinking in the light of dozens of blazing torches.

‘You are to meet with the King of Kings, as promised. The King of Kings wishes to express his thanks for your selfless act in returning his son to him, and may well compliment you on your sense of honour in sparing King Osroes’ life. There are rules to be obeyed in the presence of the King of Kings, and any deviation from those rules will place you in grave danger from the men who serve him.’

Artapanes raised a finger.

‘One. You will offer the King of Kings your abasement in proskynesis. Two. You will speak only when the King of Kings requests your voice to be heard. Three. You will under no circumstances contradict any statement made by the King of Kings or those members of his royal court who accompany him.’

He looked hard at Marcus, his kohl-accentuated eyes glittering brightly.

‘This is not the meeting of a Roman ambassador with the King of Kings, it is a private audience to allow one man to offer his thanks to another for the safe return of his son. This is the only audience that you will have with the King of Kings, and when it has been concluded to our master’s satisfaction, arrangements will be made for you to be returned to the place from which you sailed with King Osroes. You must translate these instructions to your comrades for they are as bound to this strict code as you yourself.’

Marcus nodded, masking his disappointment.

‘And King Osroes? How is the king’s health?’

The priest shrugged.

‘I know little. The palace is a place of secrets, and the well-being of a royal prince is not a subject fit for the speculation of commoners such as myself. Since you clearly care as to the result of your journey to bring him here for treatment, however, I will tell you the little I have heard. And little of that is good. King Osroes remains unwell, and does not respond to the ministrations of the palace physicians, who have collectively decreed that only time and rest can aid his recovery. And with that question answered to the best of my abilities, I must tell my master that I have delivered you to this place, and that you are ready for your audience. Wait here.’

He left the anteroom, ordering his escort of guards to watch the three men while Marcus explained the rules of their forthcoming audience to his companions. Martos shrugged and sat down on the floor, grimacing up at Marcus.

‘Hundreds of miles by boat being rained on, shot at and insulted by that Parthian animal Gurgen, and now we have to sit on our arses while that devious priest goes to do who knows what. I was hoping that this King of Kings would prove worthy of the effort it’s taken getting to meet him, now I’d settle for not being executed for his amusement.’

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.’