Sarmatian Read online

  He looked reflective. ‘The city I knew in my youth is no more. The buildings are the same, of course. And, loathe as I am to admit it, are in a better condition now than in previous years. The Romans are very clever. They rule Greece with a light touch, which has allowed the indigenous élite and wealthy to flourish. And Greek is an official language of the Roman world alongside Latin. In this way, Rome steadily and stealthily increases its grip over Greece and the Greeks. For example, that Roman ambassador who was killed in Pontus last year, along with our friend Titus Tullus.’

  ‘I read the reports but cannot remember his name.’

  ‘Well, did you know he was a Greek?’

  ‘I did not.’

  ‘A friend of Augustus himself, by all accounts. So, you see, every office is open to Greeks of good standing and access to wealth. That is how you conquer a people, Pacorus, by seducing them with opportunities and the prospect of a better life.’

  He sighed. ‘Perhaps one day there will be a Greek leader of the Roman world.’

  ‘Then he can set Greece free,’ I said naively, the effects of too much wine clouding my thoughts.

  ‘People do not want to be free, my friend, they want easy lives with no responsibilities. And if Rome can give them that, they will see no reason to change their rulers.’

  I usually stayed with Alcaeus all afternoon, but our musings and reminiscences were interrupted by Almas arriving at my Greek friend’s home. The former commander of a dragon of horse archers had taken on more and more of Rsan’s responsibilities as governor as my old friend’s health failed and he became frailer with every passing year. Almas’ military career ended abruptly when he lost his left hand during the Phraaspa campaign, turning his hand to commerce when he purchased an area of barren land in the western half of the kingdom that turned out to be rich in antimony. Ground down and made into a powder, it was exported to Egypt where rich women used it as face makeup, and throughout Parthia men and women applied it around the eyes as a defence against the glare of the sun.

  The subsequent mining operation made Almas rich and allowed him to purchase a large house in Dura next to Rsan’s. The pair became acquaintances and then friends, which would result in Almas becoming a servant of the crown once more, albeit in a civilian capacity.

  Everything about Almas was business-like, from his neatly trimmed beard and well-groomed brown hair, to the simple leather cover over the stump on his left arm. Despite his wealth he had not allowed himself to run to fat, retaining the tall, lean physique that characterised so many of Dura’s horse archers. He had a keen, eager mind that made him a bundle of energy, making it difficult for him to keep still.

  I found him pacing up and down in the shade of Alcaeus’ modest courtyard, stopping and bowing his head when he spotted me.

  ‘You looked troubled, Almas.’

  He extended his right hand, in which was a papyrus scroll.

  ‘This has just arrived at the Citadel, majesty. I thought you would want to see it straight away.’

  I took the scroll and saw the seal of the Governor of Syria pressed into the bitumen. The dark grey eyes of Almas never left the document as I unrolled it and read the Greek words. Relations between Dura and Syria were most amicable, the border between the province and kingdom being only loosely patrolled. Most commercial traffic went west to Palmyra and on to Damascus and the coast, or through Judea to Egypt. Direct communications between myself and the Roman authorities in Syria was rare, which was why Almas’ face registered concern.

  ‘It is not from the governor,’ I told them. ‘It is from someone called Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa, who requests an audience with me, though he does not say what about.’

  ‘Odd,’ said Alcaeus.

  I handed the letter back to Almas.

  ‘Find out who this Agrippa is. He must have some influence if he is using the seal of the Governor of Syria.’

  The next day, Almas rode to Palmyra to discuss the matter with Byrd, whose business empire covered western Parthia, Syria, Judea, and parts of Egypt, Cilicia and Cappadocia. My old chief scout rarely visited the offices of his extensive transport network, delegating the day-to-day running to trusted subordinates. But he insisted on his head offices producing regular reports that were sent to Palmyra, and also sent his personal aides to carry out spot-checks on said offices. When Almas returned a week later, Byrd had informed him all about the Roman requesting to see me.

  I sat with Gallia and the deputy-governor on the palace terrace, Gallia’s expression changing from one of indifference to a frown and finally a scowl as Almas read from the notes he had written in Byrd’s company.

  ‘Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa is forty years old and a lifelong friend of Augustus Caesar. By all accounts he is somewhat of a protégé, having become a praetor urbanus at the age of twenty-four.’

  ‘What is that?’ asked Gallia, her blue eyes boring into the parchment Almas was reading from. Perhaps she hoped it would burst into flames and save her from hearing any more about this important Roman.

  ‘The official responsible for the administration of justice in Rome, majesty,’ Almas answered.

  ‘Is there any justice in the Roman world?’ she sneered.

  I nodded to Almas he should continue.

  ‘Well, after that position Agrippa became governor of Gaul.’

  Gallia pressed her lips together and her eyebrows lowered.

  ‘Oppressor of Gaul, you mean,’ she hissed.

  I shook my head at her. ‘Not now, Gallia. Did Agrippa remain governor for long?’

  ‘A year, by all accounts, majesty,’ replied Almas, ‘after which he became consul, a position of great power in the Roman world.’

  ‘The post is akin to being a king,’ said Gallia through gritted teeth, ‘though Roman vanity would never admit to such a thing.’

  ‘He and Augustus shared power,’ continued Almas, perusing his notes, ‘before Agrippa was appointed to the position of aedile, a magistrate responsible for public buildings in Rome. In this role, he supervised a substantial urban renewal programme in the city, building three new aqueducts, restoring the sewers and paving the streets.’

  ‘Dura needs more paved streets,’ I said. ‘I have neglected my city for too long.’

  They both looked at me with surprise.

  ‘You have been busy saving the empire from internal and external enemies,’ said Gallia. ‘Besides, we have paved streets in Dura.’

  ‘Not enough,’ I lamented. ‘The main thoroughfares are paved, but many of the side streets are in the same condition now as when we first arrived in Dura.’

  ‘You have wisely concentrated on maintaining a strong army and ensuring the defences of the city are strong, majesty,’ Almas told me, ‘rather than waste funds on aesthetics.’

  ‘Well said,’ agreed Gallia.

  But a morose mood came over me.

  ‘I went there once, to Rome, I mean. It is a magnificent city, full of grand government buildings, ornate temples and luxurious mansions. It deserves to be maintained.’

  Gallia rolled her eyes and Almas nodded politely.

  ‘Perhaps the most interesting thing about Agrippa, majesty,’ said Almas, ‘was that he won the victory at Actium.’

  I was surprised. ‘I thought it was Octavian’s victory?’

  ‘Octavian, now Augustus, was the commander, majesty, yes, but devolved authority to his friend. Agrippa is a veteran general of some twenty years’ experience.’

  I picked up an almond pastry and took a bite.

  ‘It begs the question: why is such a powerful Roman desirous to visit Dura?’

  Gallia also picked up a pastry. ‘Not out of courtesy, I can guarantee that. The Romans do nothing out of the goodness of their hearts. This Agrippa is after something.’

  I finished my pastry. ‘But what?’

  Gallia picked up the small silver dish holding the cakes and offered it to Almas, who smiled and took a pastry.

  ‘The only way we will discover what he want
s is to meet with him,’ I said. ‘Convey my compliments to the governor of Syria, Almas, and inform him Dura’s king, and queen, will be delighted to extend the hand of friendship to Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa.’

  He stood, bowed his head to us both and marched from the terrace. I began to use the fingers on my right hand to count down the seconds.

  ‘You should not welcome high-ranking Romans here, Pacorus.’

  ‘Ten’, I said, halting my count. ‘You are getting mellow in your old age.’

  ‘What? Don’t be childish. Nothing good will come from you allowing this Roman to visit Dura.’

  I leaned back in my chair, wincing when a sharp pain shot down my left leg. Gallia gave me a kindly look.

  ‘Are you in discomfort?’

  ‘Nothing I am not used to. Some days are better than others. I could do with a dip in that magical pool that Claudia used to cure Adapa of his leprosy.’

  She smiled. ‘I remember. I’m sure Claudia could arrange it.’

  ‘The thought is tempting, especially on days like this.’

  I glanced at her.

  ‘I will invite Agrippa to stay in the palace during his sojourn in Dura.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I would appreciate it if your assassins did not murder the second-most important man in the Roman world while he is a guest under my roof.’

  ‘Under our roof,’ she hissed.

  ‘How do you know he is not planning to kill us?’ she asked smugly.

  ‘As far as I am aware, assassins do not send word ahead to the victims of their intentions, though I am not an expert in the field. Unlike you.’

  She raised her eyes to the sky. ‘Not all this again. What is done is done, Pacorus. There is no point raking over old ground.’

  She was right, not that I approved of her actions, far from it. But I had neither the will nor the stamina to engage in what would become a drawn-out argument about the rights and wrongs of assassination.

  ‘Has Haya said anything about Klietas?’ I asked.

  ‘I have not spoken to Haya since she returned from the north,’ she said tersely.

  When I discovered Klietas had left Dura I was disappointed, especially as he did not come to the palace to inform me in person. I spoke to Almas, who enquired of the man he had placed with Klietas concerning where my former squire had departed to. But the vague answer of ‘Media’ made me none the wiser and then my time had been absorbed in the rebuilding of Mari, the former ruins of a great city some forty miles south of Dura, which was being restored to accommodate the soldiers that had accompanied Kewab from the east, plus the exiles from Mesene. It was an undertaking that was absorbing a large amount of time and money, and the subject of Klietas was pushed into the background. Gallia told me it was his decision to leave Dura, that she respected it and so should I.

  ‘I suppose you want me to be on my best behaviour when the Roman arrives?’ she said, changing the subject.

  ‘It would be appreciated, my sweet.’

  ‘But I will be posting extra guards in the Citadel.’

  ‘I would expect nothing less.’

  With Agrippa given clearance to visit the King of Dura, the friend of the ruler of the Roman world was escorted from the border with Syria by Azad, the commander of Dura’s cataphracts, and a company of his men in full war gear. Almas was also at the border to welcome Agrippa, and though I had not made it compulsory, all the members of the royal council, Chrestus, the commander of the army, Sporaces, commander of horse archers, Lucius Varsas, quartermaster general, Sophus, chief medical officer, and all their senior officers, gathered in the Citadel’s courtyard the afternoon the Roman dignitary arrived in the city.

  Gallia looked beautiful that day, her hair shining in the sunlight, her blue eyes sparkling and her armour shimmering with an otherworldly glow. The cuirass that was a gift from the gods, that no mortal hand had fashioned, accentuated her still shapely figure and made her stand out among all the mail armour, scale armour, burnished helmets and whetted javelin points glinting in the sun. She stood beside me and below us a hundred Amazons sat on their horses in the courtyard, their faces enclosed by the large cheek guards of their helmets, their white saddlecloths decorated with red griffins in the corners.

  A century of Durans stood to attention in the courtyard and a fanfare of trumpets reverberated around the square when Azad led his company on to the cobblestones. Beside him rode a tall, imposing man attired in a magnificent bronze muscled cuirass, a large, expensive red cloak draped around his broad shoulders. On his other side was Almas. Immediately behind them was a score of Roman horsemen in mail armour carrying lances, and behind them a company of Dura’s cataphracts, their faces hidden by full-face helmets.

  I stood at the top of the steps leading to the palace flanked by Rsan, Aaron, and Chrestus. Ashk, the palace steward, pointed at waiting stable hands who rushed forward to take the reins of the mounts of the three men sliding from their saddles. Azad saluted the Roman and Almas invited Agrippa to ascend the steps to greet his waiting hosts. Marcus Vipsanius smiled, nodded and took a look around the occupants of the courtyard before doing so, wearing a slightly perplexed expression when his eyes settled on the century of soldiers that must have looked familiar and yet unfamiliar. Their weapons and armour would not look out of place on a Roman parade square, but their white tunics and white-faced shields sporting red griffin wings marked them out as belonging to a foreign power.

  Agrippa walked up the steps briskly to stand in front of me, raising his right arm in salute and bowing his head.

  ‘Hail Pacorus, King of Dura, former Lord High General of Parthia, victor of Surkh, Susa, Carrhae, Phraaspa, conqueror of the Kushans, Armenia, Cappadocia, Galatia and Pontus. Rome salutes you.’

  I had been determined to remain stony faced when I met the friend of Augustus, to give the impression I was hard, unyielding, just like the soldiers of my army. But a smile crept over my face. I already liked this Roman who had obviously done his research. No one had mentioned the Battle of Surkh in an age. It was where I had acquired the scar on my right cheek.

  ‘Welcome Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa,’ I replied, ‘victor of Munda, Philippi and Actium.’

  I too had done my homework. ‘Dura welcomes you and salutes your martial achievements.’

  I extended an arm to Gallia. ‘This is my wife, Queen Gallia.’

  Agrippa turned his head and bowed it to Gallia, my wife responding with a dazzling smile. So far, so good.

  ‘It is a great honour to meet you lady,’ said Agrippa, ‘long have I desired to cast my eyes on the most famous woman in the world, whose prowess on the battlefield is matched only by her grace and beauty off it.’

  Gallia probably wanted to sneer, but this tall, broad-shouldered Roman with thin lips, a square jaw and strong brow was both handsome and a charmer. And when he smiled at Gallia she laughed back, delighted to be complimented by the second-most important man in the Roman world.

  Like everyone who first saw Gallia’s magical cuirass, Agrippa was bedazzled by the armour that clung to my wife’s body like a second skin.

  ‘Magnificent,’ he muttered, his eyes staring directly at Gallia’s chest.

  It could have been an awkward moment, but Gallia stepped forward to link her arm in Agrippa’s.

  ‘It was a gift,’ she said softly, the two of them walking into the palace’s reception porch after I had introduced the members of the royal council to the Roman.

  Gallia chatted to him about nothing in particular: the weather, was his trip comfortable and did he miss his wife? He in turn asked about the Amazons, whether she missed Gaul and how did her fair skin fare in the heat of Mesopotamia. They gave the appearance of old friends as they wandered through the porch into the throne room, the doors of which were open. Rays of sunlight flooded through the windows positioned high in the walls, the light illuminating the griffin banner hanging behind the two empty thrones sitting on the stone dais at the far end of the chamber. Only when he was
within feet of the flag did Agrippa halt to admire my standard.

  ‘This is the same standard gifted to you by the seer Dobbai, majesty?’ he asked me.

  His eyes examined the white silk, on which had been stitched a red griffin on either side, the whole banner edged with gold.

  ‘It is,’ I told him.

  Gallia was impressed by his knowledge. ‘It was presented to my husband when Dobbai was the personal sorceress of King of Kings Sinatruces. We were living in Hatra at the time and about to make our journey to Dura.’

  ‘How long ago was that, majesty?’ he enquired.

  ‘Over forty years ago,’ she replied.

  He moved closer to the banner, one of the guards deployed around the dais moving to bar his way.

  ‘Only a chosen few are allowed to lay their hands on Dura’s banner,’ I said.

  Agrippa backed away. ‘Of course. It appears freshly made. Extraordinary.’

  He looked at me. ‘I am glad to be viewing it in a quiet chamber as opposed to across a battlefield, majesty.’

  ‘Me, too, Marcus,’ I said. ‘You may be interested to know that the armour I am wearing is older than my standard. Me and it have grown old together.’

  It may have angered the gods, but I had given my celestial cuirass to Kewab, reasoning that since I had retired from military campaigning, it would be of more use to him than me. His victories in Cappadocia had elevated him to the position of demi-god in the empire, so he might as well look the part. In truth, I had found it too ostentatious and preferred the armour that had been another gift, albeit one from a gruff German rather than an immortal.

  ‘It must have graced many battlefields, majesty,’ said Agrippa.

  I stroked the black leather cuirass, which was muscled like Agrippa’s and was embossed with a golden sun motif on the upper chest, with two golden winged lions immediately beneath. It had fringed strips of black leather that covered the thighs and shoulders, which were decorated with golden bees. Most of the strips were not original, having been replaced over the years when the armour had been repaired, usually after a campaign.

  We left the throne room to walk on to the palace terrace where couches had been arranged under the awning to make Agrippa feel at home, or at least put him at ease. Chrestus, Aaron, Ira, Rsan and Almas took their leave, leaving myself and Gallia alone with the Roman. Chrestus had placed guards around the terrace’s stone balustrade to ensure Agrippa did not assassinate us both, an entirely unnecessary precaution. I had learned long ago that whatever the Romans were, they placed great store by rules and regulations, which extended to diplomacy between themselves and foreign powers. Rome expected her envoys to be treated with civility and respect and accorded foreign diplomats the same courtesy. That is why Agrippa would never attempt anything clandestine, and I in turn would never harm a hair on his head. It was also why I disliked the idea of assassins so much, for their base actions chipped away at the very edifice of civilisation.