A deadly cruelty lurks beneath his skin, still smooth as he’s just under thirty years of age. Unwilling to quell an arrogance fed full on his achievements, he has a contempt for Orodes which he finds difficult to disguise. In turn, the monarch feels diminished in his presence.
Noting the look of displeasure in the King, he says,
“Noble Sire, I offer as many apologies as I have troops for being late. My reason, which I humbly ask Your Majesty to accept as an excuse, is that I had to stay in south Mesopotamia longer than expected. Your Majesty’s brother put up a stubborn resistance. I have come to Ecbatana as soon as I could.”
Never with an attention span longer than a child’s, the King interrupts.
“Yes, yes. But what success did you have?”
“I am pleased to report that Seleucia and Babylon are in Your Majesty’s hands and I have brought Mithridates here in chains. He is outside. As to be expected, he begs for clemency – remorseful for his foolish rebellion. He promises to be loyal from now on if your Majesty spares his life. The civil war is over Sire; the Kingdom is reunited. We are in a much stronger position now to turn back the Romans.”
Controlled satisfaction spreads over Orodes’ face – he has always hated his brother. Relieved murmurs fill the hall. He says in a reedy voice,
“We’re pleased with your work Commander. Our sad judgement is that Mithridates be put to death. It is not our wish but regrettably it must be done to ensure lasting order in our kingdom”.
Dabbing his eye with a handkerchief, a gesture that produces a nod from the Supreme Magus, he says,
“Though he is my brother, we must sacrifice him for the general good. See to it Surena.”
As the Commander bows his head, a thrill rises up in him, so euphoric it almost overcomes his reason. For a delicious instant he thinks of doing it himself, with a bow string pulled tight around the neck deep into the skin, tongue flopping out as the death rattle begins. But that would be unseemly. Too bad, it’ll have to be left to the professional executioner. He says.
“That is a wise decision Sire, in keeping with the prudence Your Majesty is renowned for. I will carry out the execution without delay.”
“Good, Surena. Now what’s your advice on how we are to deal with the invasion?”
“Sire, while I have confidence we can defeat them, to do it we will need more troops. I humbly request Your Majesty to give me at least another five thousand, more if possible. With them and my secret strategy we will win, throw them back into Syria.”
“What secret strategy?”
“I dare not disclose it Sire, even at this conference.”
“Come closer then and whisper it in our ear.”
He hesitates, momentarily contemplating an excuse, for it’s really too sensitive a matter to disclose to such an unreliable man, even if he is the monarch. However he thinks better of it and complies. Orodes smiles – more a crafty grimace than a smile.
“Very ingenious Surena. But that would only apply if we go to war. Have all opportunities for diplomacy been exhausted? Maybe we could negotiate a treaty. That would be better than chancing our arm. It would avoid the risk of defeat and, besides, save lives.”
The Commander’s face hardens, frustration rising like an attack of heartburn, searing his throat and constricting its air passage. Politeness struggles in his voice.
“Noble Sire, how can we deal with Crassus when he dismisses our emissaries without even a reply? The pig will not negotiate. I assure Your Majesty, the Romans are bent on conquest. It’s their nature.”
“There comes a time when war is the necessary next step in a dispute, and now is such a time. When that point arrives, the enemy senses cowardice in diplomatic overtures. They are emboldened by the contempt they feel when they are tried.”
“I humbly advise that the only response is for Your Majesty to show the same resolve that your illustrious predecessor did years ago when he stopped the wild Hsiung-nu after they pushed into our territory.”
Orodes winces and frowns to cover it up. He doesn’t know much history but he knows that. The insult is clear, all the more as it highlights a weakness that he keeps wrapped in denial. But it would be undignified if not downright risky to argue the point with one so admired for valour, so he lets it pass. Anyway, he feels exhausted by these hard decisions. Why can’t those tiresome Romans just leave him in peace? What has he ever done to deserve this? He’s never fought them, never even threatened them.
He dislikes the unpleasantness of war, has no skill in battle, no interest at all in military strategy. He detests the arduous conditions on campaign, and having to deal with men so much stronger, men he knows will never respect him. Valour is not in his character, just not there. All he wants is a quiet life, self indulgent of course, but what’s the use of being a monarch if he can’t do what he wants? Being soft is not a sin, as long as he doesn’t hurt anyone. Besides, plenty of people are that way. Let the warlike have their hardy ways; there’re enough of them to keep the Kingdom safe. The moral capital the Parthians have built up over years of self denial is enough to allow for a little spending.
To skirt the risk of battle would be the most desirable strategy. But it’s obvious that diplomacy has run its course. What makes matters worse though, is the ascendancy of Surena, a threat even more proximate than the Romans. That ambitious man placed the crown once; he’s sure to want to put it on his own head next time. Having just subdued the rebellion, if he wins a great victory against the invaders his popularity could well shake the throne.
“If it has to be war you have got to make do with the force you have. We need those men you requested for the autumn palace we are building. Why can’t you defeat the Romans with your present strength?”
Surena is aghast. Not even his contempt for Orodes has prepared him for this. With fury bending his brow, he looks down at the floor, then around to the nobles and priests who’re riveted in apprehension. After a silence of half a minute, he says in a stifled, quiet voice, both arms outstretched,
“The Roman force is forty thousand, Sire. We have only ten thousand horse archers in the regular army plus a few thousand from the local satrap. The odds are overwhelming, especially given the reputation of the Roman army.”
A hooded look falls over Orodes. It’s useless to argue with the famous Commander. The plan his old friend and mentor, Versaces, suggested last week should be adopted. A nobleman with no independent power base and in need of royal favour after catastrophic losses on his estate, he can be trusted. Besides, he too is jealous of Surena for having superseded him as head of the army before he was ready to retire. If war’s inevitable, then let Surena fight the Romans and lose.
Before the battle starts he’ll go to Armenia with a second army commanded by Versaces to punish King Artavasdes for helping the Romans. It’ll be an easy campaign and will remove any threat from the north. After his defeat, Artavasdes can be bribed to join forces with Versaces’ army. Then, with Crassus’ army weakened by the battle with Surena, the allies will either defeat the Romans or compel them to leave with threats from a position of strength. Surena can be blamed if he loses and executed. If he wins, another excuse will have to be found, but, given the likelihood of a Roman victory, that may not be necessary. It’s best not to provide more troops.
He’s about to announce this but before he can speak, the Supreme Magus, a white-bearded and pious scholar,