The scout attached to Marcus’s cohort comes to the river’s edge and says in a loud voice;
“We’re going to cross near Zeugma. It’s a small trading town a couple of kilometres away – almost three hundred years old. One of Alexander the Great’s generals founded it. It’s a stopping off point on the Caravan Road.”
Marcus’s heart quickens. Finally they’re about to enter enemy territory. The interminable boredom will yield to the exitement of danger and action. Nothing’s better. He’ll have a chance once again to use his fighting skills, work with his comrades to smash the enemy. Owl’s Head is ready to do its job.
“This is it Gaius. Don’t worry about a little slackness. We’re going to win just the same. This time we’ll change history. Those barbarians’ll sink below the tide of another Roman victory. They’re too disorganised to be respected. No point in showing any mercy to them.”
Showing no mercy is just a figure of speech. He doesn’t think of himself as a cruel man. In fact he treats prisoners well and has never killed a man who’s surrendered.
“I don’t doubt we’ll win. What’ll we do afterwards?”
“Once we roll up Parthia I’m sure we’ll push into Bactria and India. Crassus is ambitious and he’ll have the troops to do it. Everyone knows he wants to be civis princeps. Probably the Parthian victory’ll be enough for that but he’ll go further. It’s in his nature – he’s greedy. We’ll get past where Alexander went, past the Indus.”
“What’s the Indus?”
“It’s a big river, a long way east. On the other side is where huge booty lies, even more than what the Parthians have. We’ll really be wealthy, really rich. The Macedonians conquered the land where the Parthians are. Now it’s our turn, but we’ll go further. It’ll be interesting to see what it’s like that far east. But not as much as seeing the booty – ha ha ha.”
He doesn’t say he hopes to become a landowner of substance and be inducted into the Ordo Equester. What a climb that would be for the son of a farmer who lost his land.
CHAPTER 2
Orodes II, divine ruler of Parthia, king of Kings, Brother of the Sun and Moon, hasn’t arrived yet. In the congress hall of his grand summer palace in the Zagros foothills, long-robed nobles and priests stand in little groups nervously chatting, awaiting the royal presence. Scouts are reporting the Roman army is at the Euphrates – a full scale invasion by the mightiest force in the world is under way and there’s no strategy. Normality has changed overnight.
Torches in sooty brackets on the walls extract blackness from the dark, leaving a dim visibility. Usually the gloomy light enhances the majesty of the marble hall but today it doesn’t; foreboding lurks in the corners like jackals in the night and impending catastrophe infects the air.
Four densely bearded soldiers with pikes and round shields stand rigid at the tall bronze – studded doors, massive enough to withstand a siege. Soft bonnets cover their long black hair which is tied in knots on top of their foreheads. The style looks like a battering ram. Outside, a huge stone lion reminds all who come of the glorious time when Cyrus the Great forged the Medes and Persians into the largest empire the world had known. These days the Parthians, of raw and lusty origin on the eastern steppes, are in power, having absorbed the cultivated ways of Persian civilization, or mostly so.
A priest separates himself from the little group of fellow clerics to shuffle over to where some nobles have gathered, and corners one he knows.
“My Lord Santruk, have you heard what’s going on? What’s the latest news? I’ve never seen people so worried. Everybody’s talking about it at the Temple. We’ve got to mount a national resistance and do it fast.”
“The situation’s really bad Your Holiness. The Romans have a daunting army – tens of thousand of troops I hear. They’ve never lost a battle in our part of the world. Remember Pompey? Meanwhile we’re bogged down in Seleucia. That rebellious brother of the King is dividing us just at the wrong time. I don’t know what we can do.”
“No defeatist talk my Lord.”
“No sense putting our heads under a pillow.”
The priest frowns and clasps his hands.
“This is a national emergency for goodness sake. Not the right time to be negative. At times like this that sort of talk doesn’t do any good, just drains courage. Besides, if we appeal to Ahura Mazda, he’ll save us.”
“We need strong leadership in this world Your Holiness. Will the King give it?”
By now the hall is in uproar, everybody talking without listening and milling around, too agitated to stand still. Priests are loudly advocating warlike action, nobles trying to draw courage from their faith. Ahura Mazda is on everybody’s lips. Nobody agrees on anything except the need for divine intervention. In the midst of it all, a sudden hush quells the chaos.
The Great King appears at the entrance. He’s silhouetted against a brooding sky, sunlight struggling uncertainly with lumps of stygian clouds. He looks supernatural in the gloom, a threatening figure who can harness the power of nature at will. The fear of the moment is heightened by his dark presence which seems not only backed by the sky but invested with its might.
Wearing a half moon crown encrusted with rubies and emeralds, a star of diamonds on each side, Orodes stands in gravitas. After a moment, he proceeds slowly over the tribal carpets that lead to a dais of polished wood which supports his throne. It’s made of lapis lazuli mined in the mountains of Bactria on the eastern border, worth more than gold. The blue mineral, with flecks like tiny stars, speaks of a sacred link to the life force of the sky.
The arms and legs are clad in gold leaf and lush, silk cushions soften the opulent stone. A window, cut high in the white marble wall, lets through a shaft of light when the sun breaks through the clouds, touching the royal seat like a celestial wand.
As the monarch passes by, the courtiers drop down progressively, like grass in a meadow bent by the wind, prostrating on the floor in his direction. He approaches the throne, and gravely turning, takes his seat, slave boys arranging his robes around his feet.
The Supreme Magus in turn sits on his high-backed wooden chair, intricately carved with symbols only the initiated would understand. He’s lower down, off the dais. His tall conical hat points heavenward and the star – patterned shawl over his black and silver gown bespeaks astrological wisdom for which Zoroastrians are famous. A large gold clasp that gathers it indicates he’s not entirely devoted to the ethereal.
Rising slowly, the rest of the assembly stands mute on either side of the carpet pathway.
The majestic solemnity of the occasion is somewhat blighted by the unimpressive figure of the King, now seen without his background, although no one would dare say it. Instead of a grand personage which many of his predecessors were, he’s a pouty-lipped, podgy little man with a peevish voice, saved from insignificance only by his sumptuous robes. Everyone knows, however, he can be very cunning where his personal interests are involved, and vindictive, suddenly lashing out at an offender without warning and always with an exaggerated sense of slight. Prison, or worse, can be the consequence. The reaction he engenders is not respect, certainly not love, but caution.
“My Lords, you are gathered here with ourselves to consider the threat to our sacred homeland. We are informed that the Romans are at our frontier.
“Why isn’t the Commander in Chief present? We’ve had to delay this conference for several days waiting for him. His emissary gave assurances he would be here by now and he hasn’t come. We can’t be kept waiting like this. It’s so annoying.”
As he slaps an over-fed hand on his thigh, thrusting his head up so violently his crown slips to one side, Surena appears at the doors.
The