The Parthian Read online



  The Parthian

  Peter Darman

  Copyright © 2014 Pete Darman

  All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.

  Formatted by Jo Harrison

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  The sun was high in the sky now and the air was hot and filled with dust. From our vantage point on the hill, the drama being played out on the plain below could be seen clearly. Clouds of choking dust were being kicked up all around the square of Roman legionaries, which stood as a rock, against which waves of horse archers unleashed swarms of arrows against the leather-clad Roman shields. The Roman legion, now immobile and alone, was slowly being ground down, ground down on the rock-hard earth of Mesopotamia. We had caught them early, just before dawn, my father’s bodyguard smashing into their auxiliary cavalry at the head of a thousand cataphracts. The lightly armed enemy cavalry had been swept aside with ease, as the heavy spears of our fully armoured horsemen impaled their targets, cutting through wooden shields and mail shirts to skewer enemy riders. Within minutes dozens were dead and the rest were fleeing across the plain.

  The Roman legionaries, their officers screaming orders, had formed an all-round defensive formation after their cavalry had disappeared, the front ranks kneeling and locking their shields before them while those behind also knelt and hoisted their shields above their heads. The legion thus formed a giant hollow square, edged with red as five thousand shields were locked outwards to face us.

  As our heavy cavalry finished off the remnants of the Roman horsemen with their swords in a series of violent but brief mêlées, our horse archers took up position on all four sides of the legion, constantly lapping round the enemy and pouring volley after volley into their densely packed ranks. Our arrows, shot from powerful Scythian bows, made of layers of wood, sinew and bone, pierced their shields and armour to slice into flesh and bone. Gradually, as the time passed, dead legionaries could be seen along all four sides of the square. The dead were left where they fell, their place immediately taken by a new legionary. The wounded were dragged back into the relative safety of the square, to be placed under wagons or makeshift shelters roofed with canvas. But all the time the hail of arrows was taking a steady toll of the defenders. The Romans had only one defence against our horse archers: to maintain their discipline and cohesion long enough in the hope that they would run out of arrows.

  Like the rest of our army, the horse archers were organised into thousand-man units called dragons, each one commanded by a general. Each dragon was further divided into hundred-man companies for ease of command in battle. The dragons had their own six-foot square banners, upon which were emblazoned boars, eagles, lions, tigers, gazelles, and elephants. Mythical beasts such as the Simurgh, a kindly creature with the head of a dog and the body of a peacock, and fire-breathing dragons could also be seen.

  The horse archers would approach the enemy at a slow trot, always being careful to remain out of range of the Romans’ own arrows and javelins. This was not hard, as our bows had a range of at least five hundred feet, whereas Roman bows were effective at under half that distance. Then the horsemen would move into a canter, stringing their bows with arrows as they approached the enemy, before breaking into a gallop as they got within shooting range. Then they would suddenly wheel left or right, loosing their arrows as their mounts guided them away from the enemy line. The most proficient archer would be able to string and loose a second arrow as his horse retraced its steps back to our own lines, the man twisting round in the saddle and almost firing over the horse’s hind quarters.

  ‘This lot are professionals; it’s going to be a long day.’ Bozan pulled another chunk of bread from the loaf he was holding and stuffed it into his mouth as he stared intently at the scene being played out below. Squat, barrel chested and crop-haired, he had been my father’s second-in-command for over twenty years, and my tutor for the last ten. I stood next to him under the large sunshade that had been erected by our servants on the hill, but he was not speaking to me. His words were directed at my father, King Varaz of Hatra, who was watching the battle with as keen an interest.

  My father waved forward one of his officers. ‘Pass a message on to the dragon commanders that they are to conserve their men’s arrows.’

  The man saluted. ‘Yes, majesty.’

  My father turned to Bozan. ‘The camels should be here soon, and then we can turn up the pressure. I want this over before nightfall, otherwise they’ll get away.’

  ‘That’s why they’re standing still,’ replied Bozan. ‘Trading casualties for time. Clever bastards, these Romans. What do you think, Pacorus?’

  Pride swelled up inside me. Bozan, who had taken part in countless battles, was asking my advice. I decided that now was not the time for timidity. ‘We should attack with the cataphracts immediately. Smash straight through them. Show them no mercy.’

  Bozan threw back his head and roared with laughter, while my father eyed me, frowned and shook his head slightly. As I felt my cheeks burn as I blushed, I shot glances left and right towards the officers of my father’s bodyguard standing nearby – all attired in scale armour made from overlapping plates of bronze sewn onto an undergarment of leather. Several were smiling, though not in mockery, at least I hoped not, but at my youthful enthusiasm.

  ‘That should get us all killed, sure enough.’ Bozan strode past me and patted me on the shoulder. ‘Come on. Let’s get something to eat.’

  My father took my arm as we walked towards the long table that was being prepared with meats, bread, fruits and flagons of wine.

  ‘We must be sure that the enemy has been sufficiently weakened before we send in our heavy cavalry, otherwise the result will be a lot of Parthian dead for nothing.’

  ‘But father,’ I said, ‘surely they have been weakened enough? We have been pelting them with arrows for nearly two hours now; and under this sun they must be tired and ready to run.’

  We sat down at the table, my father in the middle flanked by Bozan and myself. He held up his silver goblet, which was filled with wine by a servant. He took a sip and ran his fingers over the gleaming vessel.

  ‘The Romans are among the finest soldiers in the world. It takes them about five years to train a legion, and the end result is five thousand men who can march all day, fight a battle at the end of it and then build a wood and earth stockade before they lay down their heads to sleep. Every man knows his place, what his duty is, and how to die if necessary.’ He paused as the rumble of battle filled the air. ‘Their drills are bloodless battles and their battles are bloody drills. We had one piece of luck when we surprised and routed their light cavalry, but that’s the only luck we’ll have. From now on we’ll have to use better tactics against the best tacticians on earth. So we wait.’

  I was chafing at the bit though, eager to prove myself in the cauldron of combat. All my l
ife had been in preparation for this day, when I could prove myself in battle. Here I was, with my father facing the Parthian Empire’s greatest enemy, the Romans. My father had brought three thousand horse archers and a thousand cataphracts to this place; a barren, arid stretch of land thirty miles from the city of Zeugma. It was a professional standing army paid for by the wealth of the Kingdom of Hatra, my home, the land between the Tigris and Euphrates rivers. In times of emergency the army’s ranks could be swelled by thousands more horsemen raised from the kingdom’s lords and landowners and their servants who paid homage to my father, their king, but this meant nothing to me. All knew that he had, for the first time, brought me on campaign with him, for only one purpose: to fight beside him. But today all I had done was stand around like a servant boy. I had been elated when he had brought me with him on this campaign, which came about when we received intelligence that a Roman legion was marching from Syria to the city of Zeugma. We always paid spies to give us information about what was happening beyond our kingdom’s borders, which often turned out to be money wasted. But this time the intelligence was correct, and we were waiting for the Romans when they marched though Hatran territory on their way to Zeugma.

  How I envied my mentor, Bozan, the man who had taught me to fight with a sword, to wield a lance from horseback, and to command heavy cavalry. The large scar he had down his right cheek was, to me, a mark of honour, the badge of a warrior, and I wanted one. I had no appetite for the sumptuous meal that was laid before me.

  As my mind mulled over the possibilities of what might happen, I hardly noticed an officer race up to where my father sat, kneel and convey a message. At once my father stood and addressed his officers seated at the table. ‘Gentlemen, the camels have arrived. It is time to put these Romans to the test.’

  As one the officers stood, saluted and scattered to join their commands. Bozan turned to me. ‘You’d better get your armour on; you will have need of it.’

  Where before there had been calm and polite conversation, suddenly there was bustle and excitement as companies of cataphracts began to form up. I was nervous, but tried not to let it show. Bozan, ever vigilant, recognised the change in me.

  He slapped me on the shoulder. ‘Go and get your horse ready. The two hundred camels have finally got here, each carrying dozens of fresh arrows. I reckon it’ll take about an hour to get them distributed, another to soften up the Romans, and then your father will launch his heavies, so you’ve got plenty of time. Report to me when you’re mounted up.’

  In the next valley to where the battle was taking place, hundreds of horsemen were preparing their mounts and equipment. Each man was carefully checking his horse’s armour and saddle straps, before moving on to his personal weapons and armour. Servants fussed round, helping when instructed, but it was a Parthian tradition that each soldier checked his own equipment. No one placed his life in the hands of another. As I checked my horse over, Bozan’s words, drilled into me countless times, filled my head. ‘Never trust anyone else with your own life. In some armies slaves or servants prepare a man’s arms and armour, but not in Parthia and certainly not in Hatra’s army. Would you trust someone who might despise you, might wish you dead, with sharpening your sword or saddling your horse? When preparing to fight do even the most menial things yourself, so in battle you can think about killing the enemy and not worrying if your saddle straps are tight enough, or have been cut through by a resentful servant.’

  My horse, a white mare of six summers, was called Sura, meaning ‘strong’. She nuzzled her head in my chest as I strapped on the reins and bridle. Then came the saddle, built around a wooden frame with four horns, two at the front and two at the back, each wrapped with bronze plates and padded, they and the rest of the saddle covered in leather. The horns held the rider firmly in place once mounted. I checked Sura’s horseshoes, before covering her head and body with armour. The latter comprised rawhide covered with small, overlapping steel scales, and was able to withstand powerful blows. Even her eyes were protected by small steel grills, although these did limit her vision somewhat.

  Each cataphract had two squires to pack his equipment and tend to his horse, but the royal bodyguard was more lavishly provided for. My weapons and armour had been laid on a wooden table beside the temporary canvas and wood stable that had been erected for Sura. To one side stood a rack holding twelve-foot lances, each one tipped with a long, iron blade.

  I picked up my suit of scale armour and put it on. The hide was covered with square-shaped segments of steel, which covered my chest, back, shoulders, arms and the front of my thighs. It was heavy and I began to sweat, though whether from the heat and armour or from fear I did not know. I picked up my helmet and examined it. It was steel with cheek and neck guards and a single strand of steel that covered the nose. A long white plume, worn by all of my father’s heavy cavalry, tipped it.

  ‘Prince Pacorus.’

  Startled, I turned to see Vistaspa standing before me. Tall, slim, with cold, dark eyes, the commander of my father’s bodyguard expressed no emotion as he examined my appearance. He had yet to don his armour, being dressed in a simple white silk tunic with loose-fitting leggings.

  ‘Lord Vistaspa,’ I answered.

  ‘So, your first battle. Let us hope that all the time and effort invested in your military education has not been wasted.’

  I sensed a slight note of disdain in his voice. I confess I had very little affection for Vistaspa, finding him cool and aloof at the best of times. This coolness served him well in battle, and twenty years ago he had saved my father’s life in a battle with the Armenians. Vistaspa had been a prince in his own land then, in a city called Silvan on the Armenian border, but the Armenians had destroyed the city and killed his family when his father, the king, had entered into an alliance with Parthia. My father had been part of the army sent to strengthen Silvan’s forces, but had ended up being worsted in battle, along with the Silvan host. So Vistaspa had come to Hatra, a man without a home or a family. His dedication to my father had been rewarded by him being made commander of my father’s bodyguard – five hundred of the best warriors in the army. My father adored the man, at fifty being five years his senior, and would not have a word said against him. In response, Vistaspa gave unqualified loyalty to my father. But it was like the adoration of a vicious dog towards his master. Everyone else was viewed with suspicion. Whereas Bozan was feared by his enemies but loved by his friends, Vistaspa was feared, or at the very least disliked, by all. I doubted he had any friends, which also seemed to suit him. This made him all the more cold and remote in my eyes.

  He walked past me and grabbed my sword in its scabbard. He drew the blade and cut the air with it. It was a beautiful, double-edged weapon, with an elaborate cross-guard and a silver pommel fashioned into a horse’s head.

  ‘I hope to do my father honour.’

  Vistaspa cut the air again with the blade. ‘Mmm,’ he placed the sword back into its scabbard and passed it to me. ‘A fine sword. Hopefully, it will taste some Roman blood today.’

  With that he nodded his head curtly and strode away.

  An hour later I was in full armour sitting on Sura, beside my father, along with a thousand other heavy cavalry. We were hidden behind one of the rolling hills that skirted the battlefield, but the noise of men and horses getting wounded and being killed was carried to us by a gentle wind. My father, his helmet resting on his saddle, turned to me.

  ‘Pacorus, you will lead this charge.’

  Bozan, on my right, turned in surprise. ‘Sire?’

  ‘It is time, Bozan. Time for the boy to become a man. One day, he will rule in my place. Men will not follow a king who has not led them in battle.’

  My stomach tightened. I had expected to ride into battle beside my father, but now I would lead his cavalry alone, with all eyes upon me to see if I would pass the test of manhood.

  I swallowed. ‘It will be an honour, father.’

  ‘I would request to ride b
eside your son, sire,’ said Bozan.

  My father smiled. ‘Of course, Bozan, I would not entrust the safe keeping of my son to anyone else.’

  With that my father rammed his helmet on his head and wheeled his horse away, followed by Vistaspa and his bodyguard; they would form a reserve. The large scarlet banner, emblazoned with my father’s symbol of the white horse’s head, fluttered as the royal party made its way to the brow of the hill, from where they would watch the charge. Bozan reached over and grasped my shoulder. ‘Remember everything that you have been taught. Focus on the task at hand, and remember that you are not alone.’

  He fastened his helmet’s cheek guards together to make his face disappear behind two large steel plates, then turned and gave a signal to his captains. Horns sounded and the entire formation moved as one. Each man had a white plume on his helmet and rode a white horse, though only the beasts’ legs were visible as each one was protected, like Sura, by scale armour.

  We were formed up in two lines, each of two hundred and fifty men, with a hundred yards separating each line. We started out at a walking pace to ascend the hill’s gentle slope, my heart pounding so hard that I thought it would burst out of my chest. The sounds of battle grew louder as we topped the brow of the hill, and I gasped as I saw the scene below. The legion, still in its hollow-square formation, was being assaulted on all four sides by swarms of horse archers, but the main effort was being made against the two corners at each end of the side we would be assaulting. Although it was high in the sky, we would be riding with the sun in our faces, which alarmed me greatly.

  ‘Why do we ride against the sun and not with it at our backs?’ I shouted to Bozan.

  ‘Have faith in your father,’ was all the reply I received.

  I could see Parthian foot soldiers running to get into line at the foot of our hill, to our right and left, each one carrying a shield with what appeared to be a silver facing. For what purpose I knew not.

  The two hundred camels that had brought fresh arrows were now proving their worth. Each horse archer could fire around ten arrows a minute, which meant his thirty-arrow quiver would be exhausted after three minutes, but now dozens of servants were ferrying bundles of arrows from the camels to where companies of horse archers were reforming after expending their arrows.

  We moved forward down the hill at a trot, about half a mile from the Romans. I had done this so many times before that I nudged Sura forward without thinking, my eyes fixed on the wall of enemy shields before me. They suddenly looked very large. My lance was still over my right shoulder as we moved into a gentle gallop. On our flanks light horsemen thundered towards the Romans, each one carrying an earthen pot holding naphtha on the end of a length of rope, a lighted rag secured in each pot. Each one approached the Romans, swinging his earthen pot over his head and then releasing it to smash into the wall of shields. As soon as it hit, each pot shattered, spilling its black liquid content, which immediately ignited. Naphtha not only burns fiercely, it sticks to what it’s spilled on. Individual Romans, their shields, arms or helmets aflame, tried frantically to put out the fire, breaking their unbroken shield wall. Some clutched burning flesh and writhed in pain, others tried to flee to the rear.

  At around four hundred paces we broke into a gallop and levelled our lances, holding the long shafts with both hands on our right sides. At the same time our foot soldiers slanted their shields towards the Roman line, the burnished surfaces reflecting sunlight into the enemy’s faces, blinding them as we closed the gap. In front of us stood a ragged line of legionaries. I screamed my war cry as Sura raced forward, the air filled with the shrieks of frightened horses and men gripped with bloodlust. When we hit the Romans, the sound was like a loud crack of thunder as our first line drove into the disorientated enemy. Time seemed to slow as I aimed my lance at the centre of a Roman shield. The momentum of horse and rider was enough to drive the iron-tipped lanced through the shield, into the legionary and then out through his back to spear another man standing behind him. The shaft broke and I let it go, reaching across with my right hand to draw my sword from its scabbard.

  Then I was in the midst of a herd of Romans, and I slashed left and right with my sword. A spear jabbed at Sura’s chest, but failed to penetrate her armour. I slashed at the man’s helmet as I rode forward. To my left, Bozan was screaming his war cry as he brought his sword down with all his might, splitting a Roman helmet and the skull beneath. For the first time I experienced battle, that and the sensation that my armour and sword were as light as feathers. I seemed to be able to see everything that was happening around with matchless clarity, somehow detached from events, yet at the same time an intimate part of them. So this was combat; this was the supreme test of manhood. I felt like a god: invincible, immortal, the bringer of death to my enemies. These thoughts filled my mind for what seemed like hours, but were probably no more than a few seconds. A spear flew through the air and glanced harmlessly off my armoured left forearm.

  ‘Reform, reform,’ Bozan’s shouts and the blasts of horns brought me back to reality. I glanced behind me and saw our second rank pouring through the gaps that had been made in the Roman line. The legion’s square had lost one of its sides.

  ‘They’re finished,’ I shouted.

  ‘Not yet, boy.’ He gestured to our front with his sword. ‘See that eagle. Capture that, and then they’re finished.’

  Our second line of cataphracts came up and we formed into one body. These men still had lances, and they moved through us and towards the Romans who were trying to form a defence around the legion’s eagle and senior officers in front of their wagons and wounded. Then we launched our second attack, not as disciplined as the first as some were wounded and many horses were blown. But it was enough. The Romans closed around their officers and their standard – a silver eagle mounted on a long pole – but within seconds we had them encircled and were jabbing at the legionaries with our lances. There was no charge, just violent thrusting with the lances. Horse archers came up to join the cataphracts, pouring withering volleys of arrows into the thinning ranks of the enemy. The latter, surrounded and hemmed into an ever-decreasing circle, could do little except wait to die. Occasionally a rider would be felled by a Roman javelin, but most of the legionaries now only had their swords, which were useless, as they could not get close enough to the horses to stab them or their riders. As our cavalry formed an iron ring around the enemy, I could see the eagle in their midst, held by a soldier whose armour and helmet were covered in a lion skin and who carried a small circular shield. I felt as though I could reach out and touch it. I don’t know what madness gripped me, but I decided that I wanted that eagle.

  My father’s white horse banner was being held by a rider behind me now, signalling to all that a royal son of Hatra was in battle. Cataphracts pulled back and gathered about me, around fifty or so, forming into a single line. I held up my sword and ripped off my helmet. I shouted as loud as I could: ‘Aim for the eagle, take the eagle.’

  I put my helmet back on and nudged Sura forward with my thighs. The other riders closed up tight either side of me, their lances levelled one more time. Thirty seconds later we hit the Roman shield wall, and as before legionaries were speared on our lances, their pierced bodies trampled under iron-shod hooves. A Roman ran up and tried to stab me in the leg, but I brought down my sword to knock his weapon out of the way. The blow shattered the hand gripping his sword, knocking the weapon to the ground and severing several fingers. He screamed in pain and collapsed onto his knees. I moved past him, Sura barging a legionary to the ground as a rider behind me speared him with his lance. Then, suddenly, the legion’s eagle was before me. I lifted my sword to bring it down on its holder, but this man was experienced and he moved expertly aside so I cut only air. My left hand was gripping Sura’s reins as I swung wildly at the standard bearer with my sword. But then he rammed the eagle into the ground, drew his sword and sprang at me, smacking his round shield into my side. It was enough to send m
e sprawling from the saddle and crashing to the ground. Sura bolted away. Bozan’s words came flooding into my mind. ‘If you’re on the ground you are already half-dead. Get to your feet as quickly as possible, otherwise you’re finished.’

  I sprang to my feet and faced the standard bearer. I was at a disadvantage as he had a sword and shield whereas I had only my sword. He lunged at me and I parried his blow. I could see that he was sweating. So was I. He charged forward, his shield in front of him, and crashed into me. The blow caught me on my left arm and a pain shot through my shoulder. He tried to thrust his sword into my neck but I caught the blade with my sword’s cross-guard and pushed it aside. I suddenly felt tired and was breathing heavily. He came at me again and once more I parried his blows.

  Then I attacked, gripping my sword with both hands and raising it above my head. I brought the blade down to split my opponent’s shield and shatter the bone in his arm. He screamed in pain but still managed to swing his sword, which hit one of my helmet’s cheek guards. He stumbled in pain. I swung my sword above my head and brought it down again, screaming as I did so. The blade was a blur as it found my enemy’s exposed neck. The blade cut down at an angle, slicing through the flesh and spine to send the head spinning onto the earth.

  I stepped over the headless corpse and wrenched the eagle standard out of the ground, holding it aloft for all to see. The battle that had been raging all around seemed to cease instantly as I waved the silver eagle in the air. It was as if it was a magic charm, which to the Romans, I suppose, it was. With their senior officers dead, individual legionaries began to ram their swords into the ground, discarding their shields and kneeling as a sign of submission. Our men, most of them having fought all day under a merciless sun, gladly accepted their surrender. Soon, whole groups of Romans were giving up, the loss of their legionary eagle having shattered their morale.

  Bozan, his armour missing many steel plates from the blows he had received in the fight, walked over and embraced me.

  ‘I knew you wouldn’t fail me, Pacorus. Well done.’

  He winced as he let go of me, blood showing around his armpit.

  ‘You’re wounded.’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ he replied.

  Around me cataphracts were dismounting and walking over to me, offering their congratulations. Among them was Vata, the son of Bozan and my best friend. Like his father he was squat and stocky, a barrel of muscles, and like his father he had a carefree attitude to life. But, like me, he wore his hair long, his black locks falling to his shoulders. He embraced his father then grinned as he gripped me in a bear hug.

  ‘You’re not saying much.’

  ‘That’s because you’re crushing me,’ I managed to say. He burst into laughter as he released me.

  He slapped me on my left arm as he stared at the eagle.

  ‘So, this is what we’ve been bleeding for. Haven’t seen many of them in my travels. I reckon the Romans will be mightily aggrieved when they discover we’ve got it.’

  ‘Let them come and get it,’ I said, trying to sound impressive.

  ‘Yes,’ spat Vata. ‘We’ll beat them a second time.

  Then I felt a curious sensation in my arms and legs, as they began to shake. I suddenly felt afraid. Was I dying; had I been wounded? I sank onto all fours and looked at Bozan in despair. He knelt beside me.

  ‘Easy, boy. It’s just the shakes.’

  ‘The shakes?’

  He grinned and handed me his water skin. ‘Drink. A lot of men get the shakes after a battle. When you fight the muscles get tense, like tightly wrapped rope, and when it’s over they unwind, so to speak. You’ll be fine in a few minutes.’

  He was right. After a while the shaking stopped and my limbs became my own once more. As groups of disarmed Romans were escorted to a main holding area, the squires and servants were brought forward to tend to their masters. Water wagons began arriving, too, their drivers filling buckets for our exhausted cataphracts and their mounts, while the squires pulled off the horses’ armour.

  My squire, Gafarn, rode up on his horse. Dressed in his simple white linen tunic and baggy trousers, he helped me off with my armour then attended to Sura, who had been retrieved and returned to me. Gentle mare as she was, she waited patiently as the head guard and armour coat were removed. He then threw a silk coat over her as she was sweating profusely and the sun was beginning to set, its colour changing from gold to a light red. The heat of the day was abating.

  ‘Your cloak is in the saddlebag, highness.’ He pointed to the eagle that I was holding. ‘What’s that, highness?’

  ‘It’s a Roman eagle, Gafarn.’

  ‘Looks expensive. It should fetch a nice tidy sum at market.’

  I was aghast. ‘It’s not for selling; this is a great treasure.’

  ‘If it’s a great treasure, then you’re a fool for not selling it.’

  ‘And you’re a servant who talks too much. How is she?’

  Gafarn stroked Sura’s head gently. ‘She’s beautiful, highness, that’s what she is, and she’s fine. Next time you should try to stay on her.’ He held a bucket of water to her mouth so she could drink.

  I walked over to my horse and patted her neck. ‘She is that. No warrior could find a better horse.’

  The army’s horse surgeons had now arrived on the field, attending to those mounts that had been wounded. Some, too badly injured to be treated, were mercifully dispatched to join the immortal wild herd of horses that belonged to Shamash, the Sun God whom we worshipped and whose victory this was. Ahead of me I saw a large group of Roman soldiers seated on the ground in front of their wagon park. Many were staring at the eagle I was holding. I walked over to Vata.

  ‘Take this,’ I handed him the eagle.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  I pointed at the Romans. ‘To talk to them.’

  ‘Be careful,’ he said. ‘One of them might have a weapon concealed.’

  But my curiosity was too great. I had been taught Latin and Greek as a child and I wanted to speak with these men of the Tiber that I had heard so much about but, until today, I had never met. As I got near, one got to his feet and squared up to me. Two guards levelled their lances at him but I waved them away. He was shorter than me by about six inches, but stockier with broad shoulders. His short-cropped hair was encrusted with dirt and blood from a wound to his forehead. The blood had already congealed to form a black patch above his right eye. Though he wore no armour or weapons he was still an imposing figure. He looked straight at me.

  ‘You’re the one who took our eagle,’ his words were laced with venom.

  ‘Took?’ I rose to the challenge. ‘I found it lying in the dirt.’

  ‘You speak passable Latin, foreigner.’

  ‘I was taught it as a child,’ I replied. ‘I find it a vulgar language.’

  ‘It is good that you have learned it.’

  ‘Why is that?’ I enquired.

  ‘Because when we have conquered your land you will be able to understand what your masters are saying.’

  I could feel my temper rise within me. ‘This is Parthian land, Roman, not some weak province.’

  He laughed. ‘The whole world is a Roman province, Parthian. You have beaten one legion, but it will be different when many cross your border. And that day is coming, and sooner than you think.’

  I decided that it was futile to indulge him further. ‘We will be waiting, Roman.’

  With that I turned away from him and walked back to where Vata and his father were standing. The prisoners were being sorted into groups, each one being tethered with rope. The Romans fought with helmets on their heads and mail shirts over their tunics, which ended just above their knees, and curved oblong shields that protected their entire torsos and thighs. Their weapons and armour were now being loaded onto carts.

  Bozan was chewing on a piece of bread. ‘That lot will fetch a tidy price in the slave markets. They’ll end up in the eastern part of the empire somewhere, well away
from here so it won’t be worth them making any trouble.’

  ‘Will they ever see Rome again?’ I asked.

  Bozan shrugged. ‘I doubt it. It’s the fate of beaten soldiers never to see their homes again. Still, better them than us.’

  At that moment the air was filled with the blaring of horns, and I turned to see my father riding towards us escorted by Vistaspa and his bodyguard. The cavalrymen looked resplendent in their brightly polished armour, white-plumed helmets and lances flying white pennants. Behind my father fluttered his scarlet banner sporting a white horse’s head, the cloth edged with silver braid. My father wore a silver, open-faced helmet topped with a gold crown. His horse was draped in a richly adorned white coat edged with silver, with the mounts of the other riders protected by scale armour. On his right rode Vistaspa, glancing right and left like a hawk searching for prey. The group halted a few feet from where I stood and my father immediately jumped down and marched over to me. The others and I knelt before him with heads bowed, but he clasped my shoulders, picked me up and embraced me. There were tears in his eyes as he stepped back to look at me.

  ‘My son, you have proved yourself a worthy son of Hatra. This day will be remembered by future generations of our people.’

  I felt ten feet tall. I stretched out my arm and clicked my fingers. Vata gave the eagle to Gafarn, who rushed up and passed it to me. ‘My gift to you, father.’

  He took the standard and admired it, then addressed all those kneeling around him. ‘Rise, rise all of you, and bear witness to this great victory and the man, my son, who made it possible.’

  The assembly rose and broke into applause. Bozan and Vata walked over to my father, and after they had both bowed, Bozan grinned broadly at my father and the two embraced. My father congratulated Vata, for he too had covered himself in glory this day.

  ‘This will send a message to Rome, father.’

  ‘The loss of a legion will be a great dishonour to them, the more so because we, or rather you, have taken its precious eagle.’ He paused for a moment and a momentary look of concern spread over his face. Then he turned to me. ‘They will be back, Pacorus, rest assured.’

  Flushed with victory, I actually welcomed the opportunity to smash more Roman legions. ‘Let them come,’ I boasted. ‘We will beat them once more.’

  My father smiled. ‘Perhaps we will. Though let us hope it is not for many years.’

  But I didn’t want to hear of peace. I had become a man and had taken a Roman eagle. My thoughts were filled with more military glory, which would spread my name far and wide. I was so preoccupied that I did not hear the commotion behind me. I barely noticed the guards screaming as I turned slowly to see one of the prisoners running towards me with a spear in his hand. Then I saw that it was the man I had been talking to. Transfixed and rooted to the spot, I saw him bring the spear up to his shoulder, ready to throw it. Like a hare caught in the cold stare of a cobra, I could do nothing except watch and wait for the spear to slam into me. The Roman, wild-eyed, had a triumphant look on his face in the second before he threw his weapon, which suddenly turned to an expression of surprise, then disappointment and finally acute pain. The arrow had hit him squarely in the chest, stopping him in his tracks. He slowed and then fell to his knees, then keeled over to collapse onto the ground. I snapped out of my daze and marched over to where the Roman lay. I knelt over him, the arrow sticking out of his back and blood oozing from his mouth. As life ebbed from him, he tried to look up at me but his strength was draining away fast. I leaned closer to hear his words, which were faint, barely audible. He coughed, causing more blood to pump from his mouth. The only words I heard were: ‘We will return, Parthian.’ Then he died.

  I stood and saw Vistaspa astride his horse with a bow in his left hand. He was the one who had saved me. I nodded at him in acknowledgement; his only response was a thin smile, which I swore turned into a sneer.

  ‘Keep those prisoners under control,’ screamed Bozan to the guards.

  Vistaspa rode up. ‘Never turn your back on your enemies, even if you think they are unarmed. Next time I might not be around to save you.’

  He kicked his horse and rode away to attend my father, who was shaking his head at me.

  The next day we burned the dead, as is our custom. It took most of the morning for the prisoners to dig two pits, one for our men the other for the Romans. The one for the latter was far bigger for they had lost over a thousand dead. Normally we would have left the enemy dead to rot, but my father did not want their carcasses to pollute the soil of Hatra. We piled the wooden shields in first, all five thousand of them, coated the top layer with naphtha and then tipped the dead legionaries on top. Our own dead numbered less than four hundred, though an equal number had been wounded, along with three hundred horses killed. Most of the horse archers and foot, plus the Roman prisoners, servants and supply camels, headed south back to Hatra. Most of the cataphracts also headed for Hatra, accompanied by Bozan and Vata, who also took a rich haul with them: the twelve chests of legionary gold. The prisoners would be sold at Hatra, probably to another Parthian king, though we would only sell them to a king who ruled in the eastern part of the empire. This would make it very difficult for any to escape back to Roman territory, having to cross hundreds of miles of barren desert. This being the case, they would more readily accept their new position in life. Better a slave than dead.

  I escorted my father on the journey to the city of Zeugma, along with his bodyguard and two hundred horse archers. Though I was loathe to let it out of my sight, the eagle was also sent to Hatra. We had won a great victory, and already riders were being dispatched to the four corners of the empire to announce the good tidings. And yet my father was troubled. The morning we set off for Zeugma he hardly spoke at all. Behind us two long columns of black smoke spiralled into the blue sky – the funeral pyres of our own soldiers and those of our enemies. Zeugma lay thirty miles to the north, and we made our way leisurely along the road, which was nothing more than a dirt track. We had scouts riding ahead and covering our flanks, but for hours we saw no other signs of life.

  ‘Strange, Vistaspa, don’t you think?’ asked my father.

  Like most of us, Vistaspa had been lulled into a relaxed state by the heat and the gentle ride. ‘My liege?’

  ‘Only a day’s hard ride from Zeugma and not a scout in site. Where is the garrison? I would have though that a Roman legion marching towards the city would have prompted some response.’

  ‘I have no answers, my lord,’ replied Vistaspa, unconcerned. ‘Not all kingdoms in the empire have our eyes and ears.’

  He was right. The Parthian Empire was made up of eighteen separate but aligned kingdoms. These were Gordyene, Hatra, Atropaiene, Babylon, Susiana, Hyrcania, Carmania, Sakastan, Drangiana, Aria, Anauon, Yueh-Chih, Margiana, Elymais, Mesene, Persis, Zeugma and Media. The empire stretched from the Indus in the east, north to the Caspian Sea and the border with the Uzbeks, and west to the frontiers of Pontus and Syria and south to the clear blue waters of the Persian Gulf and Arabian Sea. All of these lands were ruled by the ‘king of kings’, Sinatruces, who sat in the ancient palace at Ctesiphon. Hatra was, I liked to think, the strongest of the kingdoms. Sandwiched between the Euphrates and Tigris rivers, its western side extended all the way to the border with the Roman province of Syria, though Sinatruces controlled a thin strip of land on the western bank of the Euphrates that was administered by the frontier city of Dura Europus. Hatra was rich and getting richer, and as such was looked on jealously by outside enemies and even other Parthian kings. So my father had created and maintained a large army and garrisons throughout his kingdom, especially the towns to the north of Hatra – Singara and Nisibus – and Batnae in the northwest. But he had also raised a large contingent of scouts who covered every inch of our kingdom, ever vigilant for threats. It was the scouts who had ridden hard to alert my father that the Roman legion had crossed the border. The city of Zeugma had its own garrison, but we had not heard n
or seen anything of it since we had ridden north.

  ‘Perhaps not all kingdoms still want to be a part of the empire.’

  ‘Father?’ I admit that I had no idea what he was suggesting.

  ‘Nothing,’ he mused. ‘We will know more presently.’

  The next day we reached Zeugma. Two hours after dawn we were approached by a patrol of cavalry, their commander’s lack of surprise about our presence explained by the courier my father had sent to the city immediately after our battle. The twenty riders were all light horseman wearing no armour and carrying swords and shields. They had a passable appearance, though I noted that their shields were battered and their uniforms scruffy. We wore no armour, which was packed and carried on the camel train that accompanied us. My father, his bodyguard and I wore white silk tunics, baggy leggings and loosely fitting cotton caps. Swords hung in scabbards from our leather belts and our shields, which we didn’t carry when wearing scale armour, were slung on our backs. Fastened to our saddles were our bows in their leather cases, with a quiver full of arrows attached to a leather strap that ran over our right shoulders and across our chests, with the quiver itself sitting at our left hips. Our horse archers formed a mounted phalanx behind the king’s bodyguard, followed by the supply camels and a rearguard of more horse archers. Our lances were similarly strapped to the camels, which spent each day spitting, belching and breaking wind. They were truly disgusting creatures, but absolutely essential to the Parthian war machine.

  The commander of the Zeugma cavalry saluted my father. ‘Greetings, highness. King Darius is eagerly awaiting your presence at his palace. Already news of your victory is spreading throughout the empire.’

  My father said nothing but merely nodded at the young officer, while Vistaspa also fixed him with a cool stare. The silence was most oppressive and if I was feeling uncomfortable then the officer must have been feeling worse, as sweat began to trickle down his face.

  My father nudged his horse forward, past the young officer. ‘Give my greetings to my friend, King Darius. Tell him we will pay our respects at his palace this afternoon.’

  With that my father’s horse idled past the static riders, as did Vistaspa and I. Their commander, unsure what to do, eventually gave the signal to his men, who turned around and galloped back to the city, their horses kicking up a cloud of dust as they did so.

  ‘You are angry, father?’

  ‘You saw the state of them,’ he replied. ‘Darius sends a bunch of beggars to escort us into his city. We’re lucky they didn’t try to rob us.’ This prompted a rare smile from Vistaspa. ‘I’m not having my soldiers sullied by having to ride with them. I’d rather ride a camel.’

  ‘We are now in Darius’ territory, my liege,’ said Vistaspa. ‘He may not take kindly to being treated as an unequal.’

  Normally the commander of a king’s bodyguard would not dare to address his lord thus, but Vistaspa himself had once been a prince and he and my father had a close relationship, almost like brothers, which was another thing that annoyed me about him.

  My father bristled at the suggestion. ‘We’ve saved his lazy fat arse from being roasted over a Roman fire, and he can’t even be bothered to ride out himself to thank me. He doesn’t deserve to be a king. Little toad.’

  ‘A rich toad,’ remarked Vistaspa.

  We reached the city of Zeugma two hours later. Lying on the west bank of the River Euphrates, the city hugged the river for four miles either side of the bridge of boats that spanned the waterway. Surrounded by rocky outcrops, Zeugma was like a golden egg in a stone nest. As we approached the bridge we encountered heavy traffic on the road, mostly camel caravans going east or heading for Roman Syria. Soon we were covered with a fine dust kicked up by the dozens of camels, donkeys and human feet on the highway. In the distance, on a gently rising hill that swept up from the river, was perched a host of large villas, where I assumed the city’s aristocrats lived. And on the top of that summit, standing alone but proud, sat a building more magnificent than the rest, with brightly coloured flags flying from every tower.

  ‘Vistaspa, find a place to pitch our camp for tonight. My son and I will visit our host and convey our greetings. Find a place upstream, where the water is fresh. Come Pacorus,’ my father urged his horse forward. Vistaspa motioned for a troop of horse to escort us, and then went in search of the garrison commander.

  As we moved across the wooden bridge and into the city, we passed through one of the gates in the city’s walls. Guards stood on the ramparts both inside and outside of the wooden gates. Each gate hanging on large iron hinges. The guards watched us as we passed but made no effort to stop us. Clearly we were expected. Once inside the city we were met by a richly adorned officer on a shiny black stallion flanked by two of his men, who also rode immaculate black horses. He wore a red headband, a yellow tunic with silver edging at the neck and yellow trousers. His only weapon was a sword at his left hip, which was encased in a red scabbard adorned with jewels. He placed his right hand on his chest and bowed his head.

  ‘King Varaz, my liege King Darius welcomes you to his city and asks that you partake of his hospitality.’

  ‘I and my son would be honoured,’ my father replied. ‘Please lead the way.’

  Our escorts rode before us as we headed away from the city’s wide main thoroughfare onto a side road that was obviously reserved for nobles and the king, as it was empty of all traffic. Guards in yellow tunics and trousers, armed with spears and wicker shields, stood on each side of the road every ten paces or so.

  After about twenty minutes of climbing gently we came to the royal palace. The palace’s main gate was a single arch flanked by two towers, the whole structure covered with yellow enamelled tiles. The palace itself was set in the middle of verdant gardens filled with palm trees, fountains and carefully manicured lawns. Servants rushed forward and placed wooden stools beside our horses to aid our dismounting. Our escort also dismounted and bowed again to my father.

  ‘Your horses will be fed, watered and groomed. My master awaits your pleasure, King Varaz.’

  My father acknowledged him and bade him lead the way. I followed, while our cavalry troop led their horses towards the stables. The palace was of pure white stone fronted with white marble columns with gold-covered volutes. We ascended the marble steps and entered the portico, which had a marble floor. We were led through the portico and into the throne room, the centrepiece of which was a golden throne, upon which was sitting a middle-aged plump man with a bulbous nose, piggy eyes and a somewhat leering expression. As soon as he saw us he jumped out of his throne and ambled towards my father, arms outstretched.

  ‘Hail King Varaz, conqueror of our foes. Slayer of our enemies,’ his voice was slightly effeminate.

  ‘Hail, King Darius,’ replied my father, as they embraced each other as brother kings and equals.

  My father turned to me. ‘May I present my son, Prince Pacorus, whose courage brought victory against the invaders.’

  Darius observed me slyly for an instant with his piggy eyes, then forced a smile as I bowed to him. ‘Of course, of course. How grateful we are that you have saved us from a dreadful fate, Prince Pacorus. Splendid. Now we must eat. You must be hungry. I certainly am.’

  He gestured towards a small antechamber, into which he scurried, followed by a host of slaves, most teenage boys and girls, all of whom were young, attractive and immaculately groomed, and all of whom were naked from the waist up. In the antechamber Darius flopped down on a luxurious red couch. He invited me and my father to sit on other couches that were arranged in a circle around his. The walls were covered with paintings of wild animals and naked nymphs. Guards in yellow tunics and trousers stood at each corner, each armed with a spear with a highly polished blade. Darius clapped, and within seconds more semi-naked slaves brought in silver platters piled high with food – bread, fruit, roasted lamb, fowl and fish – while others carried flagons of wine. A small table was laid in front of us, upon which was soon pile
d dishes of food. A young girl, no older than sixteen, poured wine into a silver goblet held by another young slave, a pale-skinned boy who bowed and passed it to me once it was full. The wine was exquisite.

  ‘They will come again,’ said my father, ‘you must look to your defences. How many troops do you have?’

  Darius was being fed honey-coated lamb by a young boy, who pushed the meat into the king’s mouth with his fingers. I looked aghast as Darius then licked the meat’s juices off the boy’s fingers. My father looked disgusted at the spectacle. ‘Alas, King Varaz, my army is small,’ Darius pointed to a bunch of grapes on the table. A slave plucked one and daintily pushed it into his mouth. ‘Solders cost money, and my treasury is bare.’

  This was not the answer my father wanted. ‘Yes, I can see that times are hard. You must strengthen your city’s defences.’

  ‘But brother,’ protested Darius. ‘The Romans have been defeated. With warriors such as you and your son, I’m sure we have nothing to fear.’

  ‘We have everything to fear, King Darius. This time they sent only one legion, next time they will send an army.’

  Darius pointed at me. ‘Then they will be as stubble to your son’s sword. Is that not so, Prince Pacorus?’

  I pushed another piece of freshly baked almond cake into my mouth. It melted on my tongue. ‘Yes, sire.’

  In truth I was loving the feast and taking almost no notice of the conversation, but I could see that my father was annoyed. When we had finished eating Darius clapped his hands and the food was taken away. More slaves appeared carrying bowls of warm water and towels for us to wash our hands. Afterwards two female slaves each took one of my hands and began massaging the fingers with oils. They were both in their late teens, gorgeous, bare-breasted with gold bracelets on their arms. They had dark complexions and teeth of pure white, with thick eyeliner to accentuate their large brown eyes. They smelt and looked divine. Another, a beautiful Persian woman with a gold headband and oiled black hair, motioned to me to lie back on the couch. I did so and she began to massage my temples with her fingers. Her touch was sublime, and soon I was drifting into a trance-like state as she massaged my head. The conversation between my father and Darius was becoming fainter as I surrendered to the angelic caresses of three female slaves. This was heaven, and I wanted to experience it forever.

  I was rudely awakened from my bliss by my father, who shook me out of my dream.

  ‘We are leaving, Pacorus.’

  ‘Father?’

  ‘We have imposed on King Darius’ hospitality enough,’ he bowed to Darius. ‘We thank you, lord king, but we must be on our way.’

  Darius had been lying back with his eyes closed, listening to a young harpist who was playing at his feet. He now looked at us in surprise.

  ‘Leaving? But surely you will stay for the night. Your son, does he like boys or girls? Such a hero should be rewarded with at least one night of abandon.’

  ‘Alas, no,’ replied my father. ‘We must get back to Hatra.’

  ‘Such a shame. Very well, very well.’ Darius beckoned to one of the guards and instructed him to see that our horses were brought to the palace steps. We thanked Darius and left him to his harpist and young boys and girls.

  Our horses had been groomed, fed and watered and the troop of my father’s bodyguard had been similarly revitalised. The men were happy, as was I, but as we trotted from the palace and through the bustling city, my father’s mood darkened. At the bridge across the Euphrates we met with Gafarn, who had been sent by Vistaspa to inform us where he had made camp.

  ‘Five miles upstream. Did you have a nice time, master?’

  ‘Very,’ I replied. ‘King Darius is a generous host.’

  ‘King Darius is a snake,’ snapped my father.

  ‘How so, father?’ I asked, surprised.

  ‘He wants to leave the empire and become a client king of Rome.’

  I was astounded at the idea that anyone would want to leave Parthia. ‘Surely not. Why?’

  My father halted his horse to face me. ‘Because, my son, it is easier to be a servant of Rome than a Parthian king. As long as Darius is prepared to lick the boots of some Roman governor then he can live in his gilded palace forever without having to worry about keeping his kingdom.’

  ‘Why would he do so?’

  My father smiled, the first time he had done so that day. ‘Because it is easier, especially for a fat king whose only ambition is to surround himself with pretty catamites and teenage girls. And I’ll warrant that the Romans have used honeyed words and the promise of much wealth if he should do so. Zeugma stands on the western edge of the empire, and if it becomes Roman it will point like a dagger at Hatra. A Roman army at Zeugma could strike south into my kingdom with ease.’

  We finished the journey to camp in silence. I could not understand why a Parthian would want to be under Roman rule, but I was young then and naïve about the avarice of men. We moved through rocky terrain until we came upon our camp, a collection of canvas tents arranged in lines beside a fast-flowing stream. Soldiers and servants groomed horses and fed camels, while other soldiers sharpened sword blades. Vistaspa had posted guards around the camp and had scouts out patrolling as well. My father dismounted and immediately marched off with his commander, deep in conversation. The light was fading now, the sun disappearing behind a snow-capped mountain in the western sky.

  Gafarn took Sura away to the makeshift stable area of stalls constructed from wooden poles and canvas sheets as I sat on the ground beside a small fire. I checked my sword in its scabbard, the straps on my shield and ensured my bowstring was taught and my quiver full. Looking round, I was beginning to wish that we had stayed in the palace of King Darius. A night sleeping on the ground, with a breakfast of salted pork and hard biscuit washed down with water, did not fill me with relish. The darkness was encroaching quickly now, and as I glanced at a guard standing not twenty paces away I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. The next instant there was a dull hiss followed by a groan, and then a clatter as the guard fell to the ground. I saw an arrow protruding from his back, and then suddenly other arrows were cutting through the air. I grabbed my shield and drew my sword as other arrows found their targets. Horses squealed in panic and camels bellowed as animals were pierced by arrows.

  ‘Rally, rally.’ I felt as though I was alone as I sprinted away from the fire to throw myself behind the relative safety of a tree. Then the air was filled with shouts and cries as our unseen assailants attacked – black-clad figures armed with swords and spears. Had they been assailing a civilian caravan they would have achieved an easy victory, but they were fighting the cream of Parthia’s warriors, and though we had been surprised it did not take us long to find our discipline. Vistaspa was a hard taskmaster, and now his hard work paid dividends.

  Horns blared as he and my father formed a solid block of the royal bodyguard, fifty across who locked shields to defeat the volley of arrows launched before our enemies attacked. Our assailants then hurled themselves into a charge, screaming wildly as they did so. There was a loud crack as the two groups came together and started the killing at close quarters. Man for man we were fitter, stronger and more skilled, our blades reaping a deadly harvest of the enemy. I saw my father and ran to get beside him. The enemy was between him and me and so I slashed and hacked at black-clad figures in front of me. I felt the same calm determination as I did when I fought the Romans, only this time I was in a hurry to kill. An enemy ran at me with a spear levelled at my belly. I caught the blow with my shield, feinted right and plunged my sword into the man’s shoulder. Withdrawing the blade, I saw another figure about to swing his sword at my unguarded right side. I dropped onto my left knee and ducked so his blow cut only air. I swung my sword and the blade cut deep into his right leg just below the knee. He uttered a high-pitched scream and collapsed to the ground.

  I reached my father’s side, the king briefly acknowledging me as Vistaspa bellowed an order. ‘Archers, ready. Fi
rst line, kneel.’ As one our ragged shield wall knelt to allow the archers who had formed up behind them to shoot. As they loosed their first volley the archers immediately strung and shot a second. Then my father screamed the charge and we raced forward, over a line of arrow-pierced bodies to get to grips with what remained of the enemy. They were losing heart now. They had expected an easy victory, these assassins of the night, but had instead met with determined resistance. I ran at one of them, who was armed with a sword and a wicker shield. He tried to aim a blow at my chest, but the impetus of my charge meant my shield barged his sword out of the way and, screaming, I thrust my sword through his shield and into his throat. He made a gurgling sound and died still skewered on my blade. I yanked the sword from him and saw a figure try to run to safety. I raced after him, tripped him and sent him sprawling to the ground. Before he could get up I brought the edge of my shield down hard on the back of his neck, the loud snap signalling the spinal cord had been broken.

  I look around. Vistaspa was supervising the reduction of the last pockets of resistance. My father, bareheaded, was leaning on his sword, Gafarn dressing a wound to his neck. I sheathed my sword and went over to him. We met and embraced.

  ‘Are you hurt, father?’

  ‘It’s nothing, I was lucky,’ he replied.

  ‘That’s why we have helmets,’ said Gafarn. ‘If you don’t wear one, what do expect?’ He was expertly stitching the two sides of the cut together, oblivious to my father’s wincing as he did so.

  ‘Be quiet and do your job,’ my father barked.

  ‘Of course, majesty,’ replied Gafarn. ‘And then I’ll get your helmet so you can put it on.’

  ‘I sometimes wonder if you know that you are a slave.’

  Gafarn had been a slave in the royal household since he was five. He was found wandering among the dead and dying when my father’s father, King Sames, had attacked and routed a Bedouin tribe who had been raiding Hatra’s borders. My father had taken the young boy back to the city and had given him to me as a playmate. The same age, we grew up together and Gafarn, a low-born slave, became like a brother to me, the more so when my mother and father had no more boys of their own. He was brave and quick-witted, and became well liked in the palace. My father had him tutored in reading and writing, and although he was forbidden to train as a cataphract, he and I learned archery together, a skill at which he excelled.

  Vistaspa marched up and one of his men threw an injured, black-clad figure to the ground. ‘We’ve killed most of them. A few got away. They slit the throats of our guards on the perimeter. That’s how they got so close. The only prisoner we’ve got so far is this one.’

  ‘Our losses?’ asked my father.

  ‘Twenty dead, about the same wounded. A few camels slain.’

  My father brushed Gafarn away as my servant finished his medical duties. My father stood before the prisoner.

  ‘Who sent you?’

  The prisoner, a scruffy looking individual with dirty, unkempt hair, chuckled at my father, to reveal a row of black teeth and rotting gums. Vistaspa picked up a broken spear shaft and hit the man hard on the side of his face, sending him sprawling to the ground. He was yanked back onto his knees, his mouth bloody from the blow.

  ‘I ask you again. Who sent you?’ The prisoner spat at my father, prompting another blow to the side of the face from Vistaspa, who then drew his dagger, grabbed the man’s right arm and cut off his thumb. The prisoner screamed, and Vistaspa again clubbed him to the ground. The loss of another thumb and all of his teeth failed to yield any information from the hapless man. Perhaps he didn’t know anything, perhaps he was just one of a ragged band of raiders who attacked us, but my father was convinced that he and his comrades had been sent to attack and kill us. When dawn broke the next morning the man was still alive, so we nailed him to a tree, then broke camp to head south. We were tired, cold and hungry, having been standing to arms all through the night in case we were attacked again. But no assault came, so we tended to our wounded, consigned our dead to a funeral pyre and rode south back to Hatra. We left the enemy dead where they fell, fifty of them, though my father ordered all the bodies to be decapitated. The heads were impaled on the enemy’s spears that had been stuck in the ground, to form a grisly forest. I pulled my cloak around me as we rode away from the scene of slaughter. Our pace was slow as my father ordered all of us to wear our full armour in case we were attacked again. No attack came, and as the day wore on the sun rose in the sky to warm our bodies and raise our spirits. We were going home.