A naked sword swung his axe at a horse’s chest, causing the severely wounded beast to collapse on the ground, pinning its Amazon rider to the ground. The Gaul pounced on the helpless female, brought his axe down on her helmet to crush the side of the headgear and her skull. He continued to chop at the bloody head with frenzy, laughing manically as he did so. It took three arrows to kill him.

  The naked warriors were intoxicated with soma, a hallucinogenic drink derived from the haoma plant, the juice from which was extracted by pressing the stalk and then being strained though sheep’s wool. Called the ‘elixir of immortality’, it gave those who imbibed it great strength, as well as reducing them to a state of frenzy. Perhaps in such a state of delirium they were able to converse with Camulus. More likely their senses were grossly distorted by drinking large quantities of soma.

  A naked Gaul pulled an Amazon from her saddle and caved in her chest with a war hammer, the woman gurgling helplessly as her ribcage was reduced to splinters. The Gaul raised his gore-covered hammer in the air and hollered a war cry, turned and was disembowelled when I slashed my spatha across his belly. He dropped the hammer, peered down at his entrails tumbling from his stomach and laughed, before crumbling to the ground.

  I stayed close to Gallia, my wife shooting arrow after arrow at any naked Gaul she spotted, Klietas, alarmed that it took more than one arrow to even fell these naked warriors, shooting rapidly at targets. A Gaul jumped on the back of Gallia’s horse and for a moment I had visions of my wife’s ears decorating the soil of Cappadocia. But instantly, and in a move born of decades fighting in the saddle, she pulled her dagger from its sheath, turned the blade in her hand so it faced backwards, and rammed it hard into the Gauls right eye socket. It was enough to cause him to fall from her horse, allowing me to hack down with my sword to cut deep into the side of his neck. A huge fountain of blood spurted upwards from the wound and he collapsed on to his knees, before falling face-first on the grass.

  To the frenzied clatter of weapons clashing and the howls of the naked Gauls was added a new sound: the rumble of horse’s hooves. I saw spear points, red tunics and the blessed sight of a red banner sporting a silver lion emblem – Gordyene’s medium horsemen. The wall of mounted spearmen skewered or rode over any naked Gaul in their way, not even men inebriated on soma able to withstand being trampled underfoot by many horses. The din of battle suddenly stopped, the mounted Gauls beating a hasty retreat with the appearance of fresh enemy horsemen, abandoning their frenzied companions to Parthian arrows, swords, spears, axes and maces.

  I looked around at the scene of carnage, my heart pounding in my chest and my tunic soaked with sweat. Klietas, one of his quivers empty, was desperately searching for Haya among the exhausted Amazons, alarm etched on his face when he looked at the dead women on the ground, all having suffered dreadful chest and head wounds. Gallia was mercifully unhurt, along with Zenobia and Minu, and Klietas gave a huge sigh of relief when Haya removed her helmet and beamed at him.

  It was Hovik who had ridden at the head of the Castus’ medium horsemen, the general reporting to Gafarn and me while Hatra’s Royal Bodyguard once again formed a cordon around their king and queen.

  ‘We detected a group of horse and foot sweeping around our flank and heading your way, majesty,’ he told us. ‘The king ordered me to lend what assistance I could.’

  ‘It is very welcome,’ said Gafarn.

  Hovik stared at dead naked men all around.

  ‘This is a strange land.’

  ‘How goes the battle?’ I asked.

  ‘The enemy is falling back in some disarray,’ he reported, ‘their waves breaking on the unbreakable wall of Immortals.’

  ‘What of the traitor Atrax?’ asked Gallia.

  ‘I have no information as to whether he lives or is dead, majesty,’ said Hovik.

  ‘It does not matter.’

  I turned and was relieved to see Kewab safe and unhurt, though his quiver was almost empty.

  ‘Atrax is merely a landless wanderer,’ he continued, ‘I suspect King Polemon will grow tired of him and his followers and eject them from Pontus.’

  ‘He will find no sanctuary wherever he goes,’ said Gallia ominously.

  Karys was dead.

  An enemy slingshot that had struck him in the face to kill him instantly had severed another link to Nergal and Praxima. Strange to say, despite our victory, the loss of Nergal’s former general made the defeat of the enemy insignificant to me. Besides, the triumph was not mine but Kewab’s, whose name would surely now be elevated to sit among the great commanders of history. That night, as the dead were collected, honoured and cremated on vast pyres, for our victory had not been bloodless, I remembered the comrades I had lost over the years: Castus, Cannicus, Domitus, Drenis, Vagharsh, Kronos, Marcus Sutonius, Spandarat, Thumelicus, Silaces, Nergal and Praxima. To those could be added countless more I had marched and fought beside. All now dead. Tears streamed down my cheeks. Gallia comforted me.

  ‘I have lived too long,’ I said to her. ‘I swore I had done with war, but here I am, staring at the burning bodies of more fine men and women who will never see old age. And for what? Nothing.’

  She linked her arm in mine. ‘You are here because you honoured the pledge you made to protect Media, as did Gafarn and Diana. It is no fault of yours, or theirs, that Spartacus deceived you.’

  Her words did nothing to rid me of the nausea I felt, which was not caused by the sweet, sickly smell of burning flesh. All my life I had comforted myself with the conviction that when I drew my sword, it was for the right reasons. But Spartacus had turned me into nothing more than a bandit at worst, and a debt collector at best. So much for honour! The only crumb of comfort was that in the morning we could commence our march back to Parthia.

  Chapter 17

  I may have wished to march back to Parthia but Castus had other ideas. Far from being happy that we had won a great victory and inflicted a large number of casualties on the enemy, he was like a boar with a toothache when we convened in his tent for a council of war just after breakfast the next day. Gafarn and Diana, looking tired and pale, embraced Gallia and then me, the old, kind Diana having mercifully returned to replace the angry, vindictive woman of late. There were ten of us at the table, Kewab having led the horse archers out of camp early to harry the Romans who were expected to withdraw back to Syria or Cilicia, or wherever they had come from. Karys was dead, of course, though his passing was met with curt words from Castus.

  ‘Men die in battle, it is the nature of things.’

  It would be another hot day, though there was a slight breeze to provide a modicum of comfort and blow away the stench of mass cremation that had taken place outside our camp. Muster rolls had been compiled and officers had made their reports, which had been collated so the commanding generals of each army could report on losses.

  ‘A thousand dead and half that wounded,’ said Herneus.

  ‘Seven hundred dead, more or less the same number wounded,’ reported Hovik.

  ‘Twelve hundred dead, three hundred wounded,’ stated Chrestus.

  ‘A hundred of my warriors were slain,’ Malik told us.

  ‘Do we have any estimates concerning enemy casualties?’ I asked, stretching out my tired limbs.

  ‘At least ten times our own,’ gloated Castus, ‘perhaps more.’

  Chrestus nodded. ‘The orchards and vineyards are choked with Cappadocian dead, and they lost more in the initial clash with my boys.’

  ‘I would say five thousand Pontic and Galatian troops were killed by the Immortals and our horsemen,’ opined Hovik.

  ‘Lord Orobaz estimates the horse archers killed ten thousand Romans,’ reported Herneus.

  ‘I find that hard to believe,’ I said. ‘But even half that figure would be a significant achievement. In any case, the Romans will wish to withdraw now they have failed to link up with their allies, leaving us free to escape from Cappadocia.’

  Castus and Haytham stared at me with disbelieving eyes.

  ‘Escape? Victors do not escape,’ Castus informed me, ‘not with unfinished business to settle.’

  ‘What unfinished business?’ I demanded to know.

  ‘The not-so-small matter of nineteen thousand talents of gold,’ replied Haytham.

  Gafarn gave a disapproving frown and Diana shook her head.

  ‘There is not that much gold in the city,’ I sighed, ‘it was just a ruse to delay us here.’

  ‘How unfortunate for Kayseri,’ said Castus.

  ‘We want the head of that bitch Glaphyra,’ spat Haytham.

  ‘We have had a lucky escape, Castus,’ said Gafarn, ‘thanks in no small part to Satrap Kewab. We are in enemy territory and the longer we remain here, the more vulnerable we become, notwithstanding our victory.’

  ‘There are still Roman legions intact and nearby,’ I reminded him.

  But the King of Gordyene merely stood and marched from his own tent, Haytham trailing after him.

  ‘Hovik,’ called Castus.

  The general, embarrassed, bowed to us and hurried from the tent.

  ‘What now?’ asked an exasperated Diana.

  We discovered soon enough. With the Romans having retired back to their camp five miles to the east where they were contained by a ring of horse archers, and the disappearance of the forces of Cappadocia, Pontus and Galatia, our scouts being sent far and wide to ensure they did not return undiscovered, Castus was free to implement his plan. He detailed half the Immortals to chop down every tree in the vineyards and orchards near the city, a wanton act of destruction that showed his immaturity and petulance. However, at least Hovik had the timber collected and used to make scaling ladders for any assault on the city. The other half of the Immortals, plus Spadines’ Aorsi, collected the enemy dead and dumped them at the foot of the wall that surrounded Kayseri. This required groups of Immortals adopting a testudo formation to allow them to get close to the city wall, without being exposed to enemy slingers and archers. Hovik deployed horse archers near the walls to provide covering volleys as the foot soldiers carried out their grisly task. It was both unnecessary and unbecoming conduct of a Parthian king, but Castus and Haytham were in their element, egged on by Spadines, who unfortunately had survived the battle unscathed. While the ghastly business was being undertaken, arrows were shot into the city with messages attached, stating simply:

  King Castus demands his outstanding nineteen thousand talents of gold

  The ploy worked.

  After three days, when the first visible signs of decay began to manifest themselves among the heaps of dead around Kayseri – bloated abdomens, blood bubbles forming around the nostrils, and the first whiff of the odour of putrefaction – a message reached Castus that the gold would be paid.

  I was in one of the hospital tents when he appeared, waving a piece of papyrus in the air. Sophus, his leather jerkin splattered with blood following an amputation of a lower leg that had turned gangrenous, eyed the young king warily. He had taken off the leg but the soldier had died from loss of blood anyway, which had annoyed my physician intensely, though in truth the soldier had suffered a head wound as well as having his ankle splintered by a slingshot. His mood was dark and his temper short when Castus breezed in.

  ‘You see,’ he said, thrusting the note at me, ‘it did not take much to make that bitch see the error of her ways. She has agreed to pay me what I am owed. A few thousand corpses dumped at her feet soon shattered her resistance.’

  ‘It was your idea to heap dead bodies around Kayseri?’

  Castus was taken aback by the sharp tone in Sophus’ voice and turned his blue eyes on the curly haired Greek.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘This is Sophus,’ I interjected, ‘the head of my army’s medical corps.’

  ‘Attend to matters that concern you, physician,’ sneered Castus.

  ‘Oh, but it does concern me,’ replied Sophus, ‘me and the thousands of others who inhabit this camp.’

  ‘In what way?’ demanded Castus.

  Sophus’ eyes bored into him.

  ‘When life leaves a person, it is not the only thing that departs his body. After around five days, the putrid gases that have built up inside the cadaver escape into the air. Fluids begin to drain from every orifice, especially the nose and mouth. By this time, insects will be feasting on the rotting corpse. The putrid gases are also pestilential, which means they can infect the living, not only the citizens inside Kayseri, but also those in the path of the winds that carry them.’

  ‘As soon as I am paid, we will depart,’ said Castus, his face showing alarm.

  ‘Do you know why Greek city states never had kings?’ said Sophus.

  Castus gave him a bewildered look.

  ‘It is because experience and wisdom are considered more important in Greece than accident of birth.’

  ‘Thank you, Sophus,’ I interrupted. ‘Congratulations, Castus, and if I could ask you to expedite the transfer of the gold from the city to your carts, we can be on our way back to Parthia.’

  Castus’ eyes narrowed. ‘You have a sharp tongue, Greek. You should be careful, one day it might talk your head off your shoulders.’

  He spun on his heels and stomped from the tent.

  ‘Alas for Gordyene,’ remarked Sophus.

  ‘Also for you if you talk to him like that again,’ I cautioned.

  ‘I thank the gods, majesty, you are unlike other kings.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Most rulers are boorish brutes, who if they had not been born into nobility would invariably be thieves, murderers, cheats and beggars.’

  He stopped and tilted his head.

  ‘Which is what most kings are, cloaked as they are in this mystical aura called nobility.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

  One of Dura’s soldiers appeared at the entrance to the tent, screwed up his nose at the odour of vomit, faeces, urine and sweat, saw me and marched over. He snapped to attention and bowed his head, handing me a rolled papyrus scroll with a red wax seal.

  ‘This morning is a time for correspondence, it seems,’ said Sophus, noticing the seal of the Governor of Syria.

  ‘Cicero,’ he muttered.

  I broke the seal and read the Greek words. It was indeed from Cicero, who requested a meeting with me that afternoon, declaring he would come unarmed to our camp, ‘if your majesty deems fit to receive me’. I thanked Sophus and left the tent.

  ‘I meant what I said about leaving this area, majesty,’ said the physician, ‘unless you wish to return to Dura with half your army dead.’

  I raised my hand in acknowledgement and hastened back to my tent, accepting the acclaim of legionaries going about their business. How simple and straightforward was the life of a common soldier, and how I envied them. Not for them the machinations of politics and intrigues, or the game of kings and empires. A pain suddenly shot through my leg, causing me to stumble. The soldier who had delivered the letter instinctively grabbed my arm.

  ‘Are your hurt, majesty?’

  ‘No, just old.’

  ‘Do you wish me to send for a cart?’

  The final ignominy.

  ‘No, I will manage.’

  We lessened the pace to save my embarrassment. I should have really ridden to the hospital tents with an escort, but I found such gestures ostentatious, especially when the destination was relatively close. Back at my tent I penned a reply to Cicero and invited him to my quarters, giving the note to Sporaces and ordering him to ride to the Roman camp with an escort of horse archers. The Romans were content to stay inside their encampment, at least for the time being.

  ‘They will be expecting you,’ I told him.

  The Syrian governor was all politeness and deference after he had been shown into my tent, a guard of honour of Exiles forming a corridor outside through which he walked. Gallia was on an extended patrol with the Amazons, which was fortunate, as her prickly temper when it came to Romans would only complicate matters. I also did not alert Gafarn or Castus to the governor’s arrival. Klietas had arranged two couches in the reception area and served us wine, the northerly breeze making the interior of the tent pleasant, though it was still warm. The governor still resembled one of Rsan’s clerks with his receding hair and narrow face, though his mind was as sharp as an ukku blade. His red boots, purple stripe on his tunic and expensive blue cloak fastened to his left shoulder by means of a gold broach indicated his wealth and position. But he was quietly spoken and most reasonable in all his arguments – the consummate diplomat.

  ‘First of all, majesty, may I congratulate you on your inspired tactics during the recent engagement. A most instructive battle.’

  ‘They were not my tactics, governor,’ I informed him, ‘but those of Satrap Kewab, who until recently was keeping the Kushans at bay in the east.’

  ‘And have the Kushans been dealt with, majesty?’ he enquired innocently.

  ‘They have,’ I lied.

  ‘Please convey my compliments to the satrap.’

  ‘How may I help you, governor?’

  His high forehead creased. ‘I am here at the behest of the rulers of Pontus, Galatia and Cappadocia, majesty, who are most unhappy that their kingdoms have been invaded by a foreign foe.’

  I smiled. He said nothing of Octavian, but it was his master in Rome he was representing, not some minor kings who could all be replaced with relative ease. Nevertheless, I had always found Cicero good company, so I joined him in the verbal dance.

  ‘Believe me, governor, I am as eager to be away from here as my enemies are to see the back of me.’

  ‘Such a blatant act of aggression on the part of King Spartacus cannot go unanswered, majesty. However, as the King of Gordyene fell at Corum, I believe we can reach an agreement that avoids a general conflict between Rome and Parthia.’

  I placed my silver chalice on the low-lying table beside me, Klietas topping it up.

  ‘What sort of agreement?’

  He too put down his chalice, placing a hand over it when Klietas made to top it up.