‘Welcome, welcome,’ I gushed, ‘and you, too, Sporaces.’

  They were both tall, but Azad had a powerful frame whereas Sporaces was spindly and far slimmer in comparison, accentuated by the scale, leg and arm armour worn by Azad. Horse archers rode agile horses and tended to replicate their mounts, whereas cataphracts were big, strong men riding sturdy horses.

  ‘It’s good to be back,’ grinned Azad, his square face beaded with sweat.

  ‘The air in Dura is sweeter than in the east,’ said Sporaces.

  ‘Can’t argue with that,’ agreed Azad, who had made the journey to the eastern edges of the empire twice, ‘though the Kushan lands offer rich pickings.’

  ‘When you have both changed and rested,’ I said, ‘I want to hear all about your great adventure. How are you, Farid?’

  His robes covered in dust, his hair and beard wild affairs, how Sporaces and indeed Chrestus would have liked to submit him to military law. But Farid was a civilian, as were the men who rode and maintained the fifteen hundred camels that made up Dura’s ammunition train. Farid himself had been a camel driver at the Battle of Carrhae and knew all there was to know about camels and how to manage them on the battlefield. He also had a keen eye when it came to recruiting camel drivers who would not panic on the battlefield. He loved his camels and attended to their needs most diligently, but he was like the beasts he spent his life around: gruff, obstinate and bad-tempered.

  He gave a nod of the head. ‘Eighteen months spent surrounded by horse and camel shit and eating dust produced by over one hundred thousand horses and camels, how do you think I am?’

  Rsan and Aaron standing behind us gasped in astonishment and Alcaeus allowed himself a wry smile.

  Farid sniffed. ‘Meant no offence, majesty.’

  ‘If you were in the army I would sentence you to a hundred lashes,’ seethed Sporaces.

  Farid winked at me. ‘Good job I ain’t, isn’t it? You never ran out of arrows, though, did you? Not like those useless eastern goatherds who went on campaign without any ammunition. I was saying to my men…’

  ‘Thank you, Farid,’ Chrestus interrupted him, ‘I’m sure the king does not want to be bored by your idle gossip.’

  ‘I will hear all your stories,’ I assured them, ‘for you have all covered yourselves in glory and increased the prestige of Dura immeasurably.’

  Alcaeus laughed, and Gallia rolled her eyes, but both Rsan and Aaron nodded in agreement. The latter had been delighted to see Dura’s professional horsemen depart for the east, not because he disliked Azad or Sporaces, but rather because the upkeep of the men they led had been borne by the eastern kingdoms for the duration of the campaign rather than Dura.

  Our returning heroes were feasted in the banqueting hall that night, the chamber reverberating to the babble of raised voices as men who had been on campaign for months finally relaxed and enjoyed the lavish occasion laid on for them. Many drank too much and got drunk, though both Sporaces and Azad, invited to sit at the top table with their king, queen and General Chrestus, imbibed only in moderation.

  ‘We heard about what happened at Irbil, majesty,’ Azad told me, tearing at the rack of ribs on the platter before him.

  ‘Heard from whom?’ asked Gallia, sipping at her wine.

  ‘General Hovik, majesty, just before he and the horsemen from Gordyene departed for their homeland, on the express orders of King Spartacus.’

  ‘Did that affect the campaign?’ I queried.

  Sporaces, finishing off a chicken kebab, shook his head.

  ‘No, majesty, by the time the message reached the army we were on our way back to Parthian territory.’

  ‘General Herneus was also instructed to make his way back to Hatra,’ added Azad.

  ‘Due to the scheming of Phraates, we and the army’s legions nearly met with disaster at a place called the Gird-I Dasht,’ said Gallia bitterly, finishing her wine and holding out her cup for it to be refilled. ‘It is just as well you are back because Dura has unfinished business to attend to.’

  Chrestus, Azad and Sporaces exchanged glances but none spoke.

  ‘How is Kewab faring?’ I asked, eager to change the topic.

  ‘He has been the bulwark preventing the Kushans from breaking into the empire,’ reported Azad, ‘and hopefully now Kujula has agreed a fresh truce, he can enjoy a period of rest.’

  ‘Without him, King Ali would not have achieved what he did,’ added Sporaces.

  I beamed with delight. I was immensely proud of Kewab’s progress, and his achievements both at Dura and in the east had earmarked him out for greatness.

  ‘I am hopeful he will make the transition from satrap to king very soon,’ I said. ‘Aria needs a ruler.’

  Azad nodded. ‘He could not do any worse than Tiridates. Is he still in Syria, majesty?’

  ‘He is indeed,’ said Gallia, ‘where he continues to plot against Parthia. While he still lives, there will be no peace with Rome.’

  ‘There will be no war with Rome,’ I said, ‘Octavian and Phraates are in advanced negotiations regarding agreeing a lasting peace between Parthia and Rome.’

  Gallia took another sip of wine. ‘And we all know how trustworthy those two are. The king forgets that we, having been abandoned by Phraates, were recently fighting for our lives in Irbil, against an army financed by Octavian.’

  All three commanders stared into their drinking vessels, squirming with embarrassment as their king and queen argued.

  ‘There will be no war between Rome and Parthia,’ I said again, ‘regardless of what Tiridates may or may not want.’

  ‘That remains to be seen,’ she sneered.

  Both of us sunk into sullen silences and the atmosphere on the top table became noticeably cooler as the evening progressed. All three commanders made their excuses and left the event early, the hall still filled with raucous chatter and laughter as they sloped off. Alcaeus, who followed soon after, stopped off at our table to berate us both. His beard and wiry hair were now heavily streaked with grey, but his mind was as keen as ever.

  ‘I see you have both managed to make this evening about yourselves rather than our returning soldiers.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I replied innocently.

  He looked down his nose at me.

  ‘Heard of Socrates, Pacorus?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you, Gallia?’

  She shrugged. ‘Is he a Greek?’

  He raised his eyes to the roof.

  ‘He was one of history’s great thinkers, not that I expect such individuals to be recognised in Dura. But you two remind me of one of his sayings. That children have bad manners, contempt for authority, show disrespect for their elders and love chatter in place of exercise.

  ‘Whatever the cause of the discord between you, try to remember you are king and queen as opposed to an old, bickering couple living in a less salubrious part of the city. As such, you have a responsibility to act in a dignified manner and be an example to others.’

  He departed before either of us had a chance to reply, though Gallia was bristling at his brusque manner, mumbling something under her breath that I could not discern. But his words were wasted on her because that night I was banished to a guest bedroom in the palace until I agreed not to interfere with the activities of the Amazons.

  She was all smiles and affection, none directed at me, when Alcaeus took his leave to embark on his trip to Athens a few days later. Byrd had arranged for him to join a caravan journeying to Palmyra and on to Syria for the first part of his tour, after which a ship would take him first to Cyprus and then on to Greece.

  Our friend, Companion and former head of the army’s medical corps stood at the foot of the palace steps, around him his friends and colleagues to bid him farewell. Rsan, his closest friend, was most unhappy he was leaving Dura while Scelias, a fellow Greek and head of the Sons of the Citadel, was giving him advice on what to do when he arrived in Athens.

  ‘Avoid at all costs the Sceptics, my friend; they are an abomination. Any school of thought that believes true knowledge is unobtainable deserves to be closed down and its tutors banished.’

  Alcaeus laughed. ‘I will do my best to avoid them.’

  There were tears in Gallia’s eyes when she embraced her old friend.

  ‘You should have an escort, let me organise a party of Amazons, or a company of horse archers.’

  ‘A company?’ he exclaimed. ‘A hundred armed men, now that would arouse suspicion.’

  She gripped his arms. ‘Greece is occupied by the Romans and you are still a wanted man. If they learn the physician of Spartacus is in Athens, they will seize you and take you back to Rome.’

  Scelias frowned. ‘Majesty, the Servile War ended forty-five years ago. It is highly unlikely Alcaeus would be in any danger. Besides, knowing the Roman appetite for rewriting history and nostalgia, if they learned he was in Athens they would probably lay on a banquet for him. They might even invite him to Rome itself, so he could entertain Octavian with stories about Spartacus, his flight to Parthia and subsequent service in the army of King Pacorus.’

  ‘I could organise an escort if Alcaeus desires it,’ confirmed Chrestus.

  ‘Excellent idea,’ agreed Rsan.

  Alcaeus held up his hands. ‘All I desire is to be left in peace, so I can begin my journey. As for the Romans, if they wish to punish an old man then so be it, but either way I am determined to see Athens again before I die. And now, if you will all excuse me, a caravan is waiting for me.’

  Klietas placed a footstool beside the horse I had gifted Alcaeus, enabling him to gain the saddle more easily. Before he did so I embraced him.

  ‘Just make sure you return,’ I told him.

  ‘And you heal your rift with Gallia. At our age life is too short to waste on petty bickering.’

  ‘I will do as you say, my old friend.’

  None of us wanted him to go, not because we suspected Roman subterfuge but rather we desired him to remain at Dura to live out the rest of his life in peace. It was entirely selfish and in truth he was still sprightly for his age as opposed to being an invalid. But the thought of him wandering around the eastern Mediterranean alone filled me with trepidation, though for Alcaeus the prospect of the trip had given him a new lease of life.

  The departure of Alcaeus signalled the beginning of many changes in the running of the kingdom, which became apparent when Aaron and Rsan first brought their deputies to a weekly council meeting.

  They were not strangers because I had seen them around the Citadel many times, though the meeting was the first time they were formally inducted into the small group that directed the affairs of the kingdom. Both Rsan and Aaron still had many years left in them, or at least I hoped they did, but like all of us they were not getting any younger and to ensure the kingdom continued to run as efficiently as possible, both recognised the need for their deputies to step up to assume more responsibilities, and Alcaeus’ replacement also attended.

  The styluses of the two clerks worked feverishly as I rose and addressed those present.

  ‘I would like to officially welcome three new members of the council who will be attending meetings from now on.’

  I smiled at the short, dark-haired individual seated next to Aaron.

  ‘Welcome Ira.’

  For years he had worked in the Treasury before becoming Aaron’s deputy. He rose and bowed his head.

  ‘Thank you, majesty.’

  His grey-green eyes briefly scanned all those present before retaking his seat. He had sharp features and unlike many Jewish males had a small, pointed beard. His skin was also quite pale; a result of his aversion to the sun, or so Aaron had informed me. Of the newcomers, he was the stranger as the other two were well known to the others present. I turned to the elder of the three, a man with a stump where his left hand should have been.

  ‘Welcome, Almas, former dragon commander of horse archers and veteran of many years’ service in Dura’s army.’

  Chrestus, Azad and Sporaces, the latter two invited following their return from the east, rapped their knuckles on the table in acknowledgement of a fellow soldier.

  Almas, whose name meant ‘diamond’ in Persian, rose and bowed his head to me, blushing slightly at the applause.

  ‘Thank you, majesty, I hope to serve Dura as diligently sitting behind a desk as I did when in the saddle.’

  ‘Try not to lose the other hand in the process,’ said Chrestus.

  Almas had lost his hand during the Battle of the Araxes when we had tried to prevent Mark Antony from leaving Parthia after his failure at Phraaspa. Alcaeus and his medics had saved his life, but the wound had ended his army career. Some men would have buckled under such a calamity, turning to drink or even contemplating suicide. But Almas instead turned his mind to commerce; using the knowledge he had gleaned during his years with the army, chiefly talking to Dura’s desert lords and Malik’s Agraci warlords about the vast desert that surrounded Dura and Palmyra. Many had thought his wits had deserted him when he used his severance pension from the army to purchase an area of land in the desert some fifty miles south of the city of Dura and thirty miles west of the Euphrates, a stretch of land significant only for its barrenness and population of snakes and scorpions. But the area was also rich in a mineral that when ground down and mixed with olive oil, became antimony eye makeup. In a short space of time, Almas became extremely rich and purchased a mansion in the city. By chance it happened to be next to the home of Rsan and the two struck up an unlikely friendship, leading to Almas taking a keen interest in civil affairs, eventually leading to a seat on the city council.

  The last new member was also well known to the soldiers at the table, having been a member of the army’s medical corps for many years. Like Alcaeus, Sophus was one of Dura’s Greek citizens, though unlike most of them he had blue eyes like my wife’s. They studied him closely as I spoke.

  ‘Last but not least, welcome Sophus, who has replaced Alcaeus as commander of the army’s medical corps.’

  ‘No one can replace Alcaeus,’ said Gallia sternly, staring unblinking at the Greek.

  Sophus, whose name meant ‘clever’ in his native language, rose and bowed his head to the queen.

  ‘And I would never attempt to fill the boots of the man who is a legend in Dura and beyond. I consider my role to be more of a mission to keep his legacy alive and continue his work.’

  That pleased Gallia for she flashed him a beautiful smile.

  ‘Then you are most welcome among us, young Sophus.’

  He was not really young, being in his mid-thirties, or thereabouts, but Gallia and I were now in our early sixties and so most people appeared young to us. It was all very demoralising.

  ‘Perhaps we may commence the meeting, majesty,’ said Rsan, studying a papyrus sheet before him.

  Almas pointed to it and Rsan nodded.

  ‘Please proceed,’ I instructed.

  The shutters to the room were open but the spring morning was overcast and mild and so the temperature in the room was pleasant enough. Though it dropped markedly when Rsan began speaking.

  ‘Yesterday, I received word from the chief of court at Ctesiphon enquiring if the King and Queen of Dura had received the several messages sent to them by King of Kings Phraates over the past few weeks.’

  ‘Write back and inform Phraates’ sycophant the King and Queen of Dura have no time for men who abandon those who saved his neck,’ sneered Gallia.

  Chrestus laughed and banged the table, Azad and Sporaces slapping him on the back, but Rsan was appalled.

  ‘I would never use such intemperate language when addressing the high king of the empire, majesty.’

  ‘And we would not expect you to, Rsan,’ I said, ‘but at this present juncture we have nothing to say to the high king, not until he apologises for inciting an invasion of the empire he is supposed to protect, anyway.’

  ‘I must send some sort of reply, majesty,’ pleaded Rsan.

  I looked at Gallia expectantly, waiting for a witty retort, but she merely stared out of the window.

  ‘Inform the chief of court, Dura’s king and queen are still recovering from their trial at Irbil,’ I told him, ‘and subsequent near-death experience at the Battle of Diyana, where they faced a combined army of Parthian rebels and Armenians.’

  The clerks were recording every word but worry lines appeared on Rsan’s forehead.

  ‘I had no idea you were wounded, majesty. Have you seen a physician?’

  ‘Alcaeus did not mention you were injured, majesty,’ said Sophus. ‘I have to say you do not look ill.’

  ‘That is because I am not,’ I assured him, ‘but Ctesiphon’s chief of court does not know that. You understand, Rsan?’

  ‘I am not in favour of deceiving the high king’s officials, majesty…’

  ‘Just send the letter,’ snapped Gallia, ‘and let’s have no more talk of Phraates and his wretched courtiers.’

  There was an uncomfortable silence before my wife turned her ire on Klietas who was filling cups with water, my squire-cum-part-time assassin staring wide-eyed at the queen.

  ‘Refill my cup,’ she ordered.

  Klietas snapped out of his daze. ‘Yes, highborn.’

  Gallia gave him an evil leer.

  ‘And remember, Klietas, it is death to speak of what goes on in council meetings. You remember the street of crosses at Irbil?’

  He gulped. ‘Yes, highborn.’

  ‘Then you know what your fate will be if you betray the king’s confidence. Now put the jug on the table and leave us.’

  He did so hurriedly, bowing deeply to her and then me before shutting the door behind him.

  ‘What is next on the agenda?’ I asked, shaking my head at Gallia.

  ‘Centurion Bullus has refused his promotion,’ announced Chrestus.

  I was determined to promote the hero of Irbil after our return to Dura, but it appeared he did not want any extra responsibility.

  ‘He says he cannot rise any higher than a centurion,’ grinned Chrestus, ‘because he can’t count higher than a hundred.’