I handed him the coins and carried on down the street.

  ‘King Pacorus of Dura.’

  ‘That was very generous, majesty,’ said Agbar, shoving a man aside who was begging for money.

  ‘I am in a generous mood, Agbar, which is why I am meeting this Vartan. You have met him?’

  He nodded. ‘Seems agreeable enough.’

  ‘Why wasn’t he detained in the fortress?’

  ‘The king thought he should be treated with respect until his identity could be established.’

  ‘I suspect King Peroz likes him,’ I probed.

  ‘I’m a soldier, majesty,’ he said diplomatically, ‘my job is to obey orders.’

  Vartan and his travelling companion had been established in a roomy house near the mansions of the city nobility in the western quarter of Sigal. It was accessed via a sturdy wooden gate and was surrounded by a high mud-brick wall. The gate was flanked by two city guards who came to attention as we approached. Agbar said nothing as one opened the gate and we entered the compound. The two-story house was set amid a neat garden of fruit trees, eucalyptus and miniature pines, with a small fountain positioned in front of the main entrance.

  ‘Very pleasant,’ I murmured as Agbar opened the front door and we entered a hallway, a slave immediately appearing and bowing his head.

  ‘Where are the guests?’ asked Agbar.

  ‘Taking refreshment on the terrace, lord,’ the slave continued to stare at the floor.

  ‘We will join them,’ I said.

  We paced through the airy, bright corridor to a pair of open shuttered doors at the far end to emerge on to a wooden terrace giving excellent views of the rear garden. The walls were covered with vines framing the snow-capped mountains in the distance. A fountain a few paces from the terrace added the calming sound of bubbling water to the overall sense of peace and quiet. We halted between two individuals reclining on couches enjoying apricots, grapes and slices of watermelon. They stopped eating and rose, one a plump, middle-aged man with large jowls and a bald crown, the other a boy around sixteen years in age with pale skin and fair hair. I stared into his green eyes and looked for any similarities between him and Orodes. I could see none. Still….

  ‘This is King Pacorus,’ announced Agbar, ‘close friend of High King Orodes.’

  ‘May he rest in the company of the immortals,’ said the individual I assumed was Cookum.

  ‘Bring wine for our guests,’ he shouted. He had clearly made himself at home at least. ‘Please, be seated,’ he requested.

  ‘I prefer to stand,’ I said sternly.

  Agbar leaned against the wall as I stood facing Vartan, who looked decidedly nervous.

  ‘High King Orodes spoke of you many times, majesty,’ started Cookum, ‘of your friendship, bravery and of how you had made Dura a mighty stronghold.’

  I spun to look at him. ‘And yet, in all the years I knew him he never mentioned that he had fathered two children, one of whom now sits on Ctesiphon’s throne.’

  Cookum looked at his couch. ‘May I?’

  I nodded; he sat on the rich upholstery and exhaled loudly.

  ‘It is a story that I was sworn never to reveal, and would never have revealed it had it not been for an unfortunate sequence of events that revealed Vartan’s true identity.’

  ‘What events?’ I demanded.

  A slave brought cups of wine for myself and Agbar, after first refilling the drinking vessels of Vartan and Cookum.

  ‘A simple burglary, majesty,’ explained the latter. ‘In the years after Vartan’s birth High King Orodes was very careful in concealing his true identity. Only myself and an old slave woman were entrusted with the truth.’

  ‘Which was?’ I demanded.

  Cookum looked at Vartan. ‘That Vartan was the product of a liaison between High King Orodes and a slave girl.’

  ‘Impossible,’ I hissed.

  ‘Hear me out, lord,’ pleaded Cookum, ‘I beg you. I grew up in the palace at Susa, my father being the personal slave of High King Phraates, the father of Orodes. When Queen Axsen died, Orodes was distraught.’

  That much was true. Gallia and I feared he might take his own life when his beloved died giving birth to young Phraates.

  ‘Orodes hated Ctesiphon and in the weeks and months afterwards he frequently visited Susa.’

  I found myself nodding in agreement.

  ‘He found solace and company in the arms of a slave, majesty, a simple kitchen slave who had worked in the palace at Susa for years. She was rather plain and plump but Orodes saw something in her that reminded him of his late wife. Nine months later she gave birth to a boy. But before that happened she and my father, her husband, were moved to one of the high king’s properties on the outskirts of the city. High King Orodes had freed them both and provided for them so they could look after the infant. My father became a wine merchant and in this way the secret of the boy’s true father was concealed.’

  Cookum took a swig of wine. ‘My father and his wife brought up the child as their own and I viewed him as a brother.’

  ‘What about your own mother?’ I asked.

  ‘She died when I was four years old, majesty, and Vartan’s mother passed away when he was seven.’

  ‘I remember,’ said the boy.

  Cookum continued. ‘Only on his deathbed did my father reveal Vartan’s true identity and made me swear to care for Vartan and maintain the fiction that he was his son.’

  It was all credible but unverifiable and I was beginning to think I was being toyed with.

  ‘What proof do you have of what you have told me?’ I asked.

  ‘You remember, majesty, that I mentioned a burglary,’ said Cookum. ‘When Vartan was growing up, unaware of his lineage, the high king rarely visited Susa, throwing himself into the affairs of the empire. But he did write to me on occasion, enquiring as to the wellbeing of his son. He gave strict instructions that his letters were to be destroyed.’

  His head dropped. ‘Alas I disobeyed the high king. Not all the letters were destroyed. I kept some so one day Vartan would know the truth. When the high king died, I was glad that I had done so.’

  ‘Very noble,’ I said, ‘but again I say there is no evidence. It is all a story.’

  Cookum nodded at Vartan. ‘Show him.’

  Vartan nervously reached into his tunic, Agbar’s hand going to the hilt of his sword in case a dagger appeared, but I waved him back. Whatever this boy was he was no assassin, of that I was certain. Instead of a blade he pulled out two pieces of papyrus, which he handed to me. I took them and was surprised to see the handwriting of Orodes. Their contents were nothing to speak of, being general enquiries about his illegitimate son, his health, education and so forth. I experienced a mix of emotions as I read the words and saw the writing. I held the letters after I had finished, remembering my friend, his charitable nature, his loyalty and his honour. I saw the broken wax seals on the letters and could just make out the insignia that had been pressed into the wax all those years ago: an eagle with a snake in its talons. The symbol of Susiana, Orodes’ homeland.

  I clutched the letters and regret coursed through me. Regret that I had not spent more time with my friend in his final years and regret that he had not felt able to tell me of his bastard son. I handed the letters back to Vartan and studied him more closely. He did not look like Orodes, but then neither did Phraates. And yet the two brothers did have similarities. Vartan had a pale complexion like his older brother, though was plumper. I looked at his fair hair and green eyes and surmised that those were inherited from his mother.

  ‘You are in danger here,’ I told him. I glanced at Cookum. ‘What burglary?’

  ‘Not all slaves are loyal, majesty,’ he told me. ‘A Greek who tutored Vartan had the run of the house and discovered the letters…’

  ‘That you were supposed to have destroyed,’ I interrupted.

  Cookum nodded. ‘To my eternal regret. The tutor rushed to the city governor, a close ally of High King Phraates with a few letters signed by the late high king. I had no choice but to flee Susa with little money and even less idea where we would go.’

  ‘Why here?’ I probed. ‘Why Sakastan?’

  ‘My intention was to take Vartan to India, or even China, far from Ctesiphon and beyond the reach of High King Phraates.’

  ‘Sensible,’ I agreed.

  I left the house convinced that Vartan was the son of Orodes and that he should be moved on from Sakastan as soon as possible, not only for his own safety but because Phraates would not forgive Peroz for harbouring a possible challenger to the high throne itself. I advised Agbar that he should double the number of guards protecting Vartan and Cookum but when I returned to the palace that became unnecessary. When I informed Peroz that my doubts had been banished he gave orders for Vartan to be moved into the fortress. Out of curiosity my friends and I gathered in the throne room when Peroz formally welcomed the son of Orodes into his residence.

  ‘King Pacorus informs me that you intend to cross the Indus and seek sanctuary in India or China,’ said Peroz to Vartan as the boy stood before the king and his queen.

  ‘That is true, majesty,’ replied Vartan in a faltering voice.

  ‘Be assured that you are safe within these walls until you are ready to proceed with your journey. Avail yourself of our hospitality and may the gods protect you.’

  In the days following, the excitement concerning the illegitimate son of Orodes subsided, to be replaced by delight over the approaching royal wedding. Neither Peroz nor Roxanne said anything about Phanes but I knew that he had been invited to the wedding and had sent no reply. The marriage of their only child was an important event, not only for themselves but also for Sakastan and the Parthian Empire, for stability in Sakastan would contribute towards keeping the barbarians east of the Indus at bay. For this reason, I decided to pay Phanes a visit, informing Gallia as we walked through the castle gardens, the air sweet with the scent of herbs and flowers.

  ‘Marcus was telling me about the fortress’ well,’ I remarked. ‘Apparently it is fifty yards deep and has a diameter of twenty feet, a spiral staircase carved into the rock shaft providing access to the small lake at the bottom. From this staircase three tiers of four circular chambers face the shaft through a succession of arches. The engineers of Alexander of Macedon built it over two hundred and fifty years ago. Fascinating.’

  She looked bored. ‘The citadel has a well, what is fascinating about that? You think paying a visit to Phanes is a good idea?’

  I shrugged. ‘Why not? I have already met his mother, unfortunately, but if I can meet him then perhaps I can convince him to put aside his animosity to attend his nephew’s wedding.’

  ‘You will be wasting your time. He wants his brother to abdicate, why should he bother to attend Isabella’s wedding. He probably despises you.’

  I was shocked. ‘Why?’

  ‘Even after all these years you can still be naïve, Pacorus. Even when their father was alive there was no love lost between the brothers. Phanes uses the excuse of Peroz’s marriage to a former whore as a reason for his hostility, but that is a lie. Roxanne only increased the hatred that existed long before she came along.’

  ‘What would you advise?’

  ‘Stay away from Phanes and his mother. Any approach you make will be interpreted by them as weakness and may encourage them to strike at Sakastan.’

  We walked past a bed of multi-coloured tulips.

  ‘Phanes blusters and rages, certainly,’ I said, ‘but I suspect he lacks courage. Why else would he send his mother to warn me?’

  ‘Do not underestimate fierce mothers, Pacorus, remember Queen Aruna.’

  I laughed. ‘Mithridates’ mother. How could I forget?’

  The gardens were mostly empty aside from the odd gardener trimming a bush or a slave sweeping leaves from a path. With views of the mountains and trees hiding the city below the layout gave the impression of being far away from Sigal. Lapwings and sandpipers flew around us and white storks looked for food in the ponds. We stopped to watch a pair of golden eagles sitting on the top branches of a tall pine, the birds staring down at us.

  ‘It is said that a pair of golden eagles stays together for life.’

  We turned to see a man peering up at the birds, a tall individual with lustrous black hair. He presented perfect white teeth when he smiled and bowed to us both.

  ‘Forgive my interruption, majesties, I hope I did not disturb you.’

  ‘Not at all,’ I said, the eagles above suddenly spreading their wings to fly away.

  He beamed at Gallia. ‘It is an honour to meet the king and queen of Dura. My name is Vima, a merchant from India and a friend of King Peroz.’

  My first impression of him was that he did not look like a merchant. His build was slim rather than portly and his narrow face, sharp nose and thin eyebrows gave him a martial appearance. But he carried no weapon and his demeanour was reflective.

  ‘What do you trade, Lord Vima?’ asked Gallia.

  ‘Spices, majesty,’ came the answer, ‘mostly pepper, ginger, saffron and betel that my camels transport from India to Drangiana, Aria and Sakastan. Of the three my favourite is Sakastan. I have a house in the city and consider myself honoured to have earned the friendship of its king and queen.’

  I looked around the garden. ‘It is a beautiful city.’

  ‘And its king and queen are kind hearted and generous, Salar is a fine young man and Isabella a beautiful princess.’

  ‘You know much about the affairs of the city,’ said Gallia.

  He flashed a smile at her. ‘A merchant must know the lands he intends to trade in, majesty, otherwise he might lose his goods and become destitute.’

  I looked at his expensive boots, fine red leggings and white silk shirt. He was certainly not destitute.

  ‘Let me give you an example,’ enthused Vima. ‘If I was an ignorant man I would not know that the polite, welcoming couple walking through the royal gardens is in fact the feared king and queen of Dura.’

  I laughed. ‘Feared? I think I am too old to strike fear into anyone. Perhaps twenty years ago.’

  ‘When you destroyed the Romans at Carrhae? Such a famous victory. A man can live his whole life thirsting to be a part of such an event. And you killed Crassus as well.’

  I looked at Gallia, who said nothing and remained straight faced. Her bow had killed Crassus, an action I regretted, though she did not.

  ‘That was his punishment for invading Parthia,’ she said flatly.

  Vima’s eyes lit up. ‘The beautiful Queen Gallia, whose fame has travelled beyond the Indus to my homeland. If provoked young girls threaten their male tormentors with castration at the hands of Queen Gallia and her Amazons, and even noble women alarm their husbands by talking of giving up their wealth and station to ride with the Amazons.’

  Gallia was delighted. ‘All are welcome to join the Amazons, we are a sisterhood of equals.’

  ‘Walk with us, Vima,’ I said.

  He was a charming man, quick witted and eager to learn all about Dura and its army. He said little about himself or his family and in truth we were more than willing to discuss the triumphs of Dura and its army. Diplomatically he never asked anything about Spartacus and our time in Italy, though I suspected he knew we were both slaves in our early twenties. All of Parthia knew, after all.

  ‘One thing confuses me, majesty,’ he said to me.

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘You hate the Romans?’

  ‘I do not particularly like them but I would not say I hate them.’

  ‘I hate them,’ said Gallia.

  ‘I have heard that Dura’s army is half Roman,’ said Vima. ‘How can you have Romans fighting for you if the queen hates them so much?’

  ‘Ah, I see. In fact, my foot soldiers are equipped and organised along Roman lines,’ I told him. ‘When I fought in the Romans’ homeland I found their military organisation to be exemplary. So when I returned to Parthia I was determined to model my own foot soldiers on the Roman legion.’

  He grinned. ‘But there are no Romans in your army.’

  ‘There are a few,’ I replied, ‘indeed, the army’s commander was once a Roman. Lucius Domitus was his name.’

  Vima was astounded. ‘A Roman commanded your army?’

  ‘He was a dear friend,’ said Gallia.

  ‘And you may be interested to know,’ I added, ‘that my chief engineer, who is here to attend the wedding, is also a Roman.’

  Vima looked at us both. ‘The rulers of Dura are truly an enigma, and perhaps that is why they have defeated their enemies for so long. I have enjoyed our meeting immensely and look forward to seeing you at the wedding.’

  He bowed deeply. ‘With your majesties’ permission, I will take my leave.’

  We watched him go, passing a slave with a look of concern on his face. I felt a knot tighten in the pit of my stomach. Over the years I had developed a sixth sense when it came to bad news and this slave had doom written all over his face. He bowed his head and stared at his feet.

  ‘King Peroz requests your immediate presence in the palace, majesty.’

  When we arrived at the palace we were directed to a small meeting room where Peroz conducted his day-to-day affairs. Large folding doors gave stupendous views of the Hindu Kush Mountains in the far north. Peroz sat at his desk, huddled over an opened letter resting on the polished teak. Behind him stood Agbar and his senior commanders, in front of the desk Gafarn, Malik, Spartacus and Nergal. To one side stood Rasha, Diana, Praxima and Jamal, the women smiling at Gallia who walked over to them.

  ‘Has someone died?’ I said in an attempt at levity. It failed dismally.

  Peroz looked up. ‘Phraates has made Phanes Lord High General in the East.’

  ‘Which begs the question,’ said Gafarn, ‘who is the Lord High General in the West?’

  ‘Darius, probably,’ suggested Spartacus, ‘no doubt on the advice of his mother, Queen Aliyeh.’

  There had never been two lord high generals. During my three tenures in the post I once had a deputy, who happened to be King Phriapatius, the father of Peroz and Phanes. But that had been many years ago.