‘Fortunately, there is a way to shorten the campaign to our advantage, majesty.’

  I looked at him in anticipation, above us the sounds of guards reporting to the duty centurion as he made his rounds of the battlements.

  ‘Take the siege engines and march directly to Artaxata.’

  ‘The Armenian capital?’

  He nodded. ‘We do not need to take the city, but it is the royal seat of power and sooner rather than later the Armenians will have to mount a relief attempt; either that or try to intercept us before we reach their capital.’

  ‘If we take the siege engines, our rate of march will average fifteen miles a day at best, which would take us a month to reach the Armenian capital. Without the siege engines, that time is reduced to around twenty days, less with a forced march.’

  ‘There is little point in arriving before the walls of Artaxata without the means to batter down those walls, majesty. The best course of action would be to march directly to Vanadzor and then north into Armenia.’

  In the pale light cast by oil lamps illuminating the interior of the armoury I caught sight of the dagger with the solid silver griffin pommel hanging in a sheath from his belt, the same weapon that had been presented to him when he had graduated from the Sons of the Citadel. I laid a hand on his upper arm.

  ‘It’s good to have you back at Dura.’

  As the army mustered I wrote a series of letters: to Phraates, stating my reasons for taking Dura’s army north to battle the Armenians; to King Ali of Atropaiene, Lord High General of Parthia, expressing my thanks to him for his services to the empire and to assure him I would do my utmost to ensure the northern border of his kingdom would not be violated by the Armenians; to Akmon at Irbil, stating we were marching against Armenia to put an end once and for all to Armenian designs on his kingdom; to Gafarn at Hatra, suggesting he should wait for our arrival, in addition to writing to Spartacus to beg his son to show restraint (I feared he would launch an immediate attack against Armenia); and to Lucius Varsas to get himself back to Dura to take command of the army’s siege engines.

  Once put in motion, the gathering of the army was a wonder to behold. The majority of the Durans and Exiles were in the legionary camp, though some were garrisoning the mud-brick forts positioned at five-mile intervals north and south of the city along the Euphrates. Originally there had been fifty forts but the number had been increased by a further five south of the city to reflect the expansion of the kingdom’s population and the number of villages to accommodate the increase. The garrisons of those forts – forty men per stronghold – were replaced by army veterans, who were put back on the army’s payroll for the duration of the campaign. To safeguard the city itself, the replacement cohort would remain in the kingdom and Rsan could call on the lords should he feel imperilled. Additionally, Queen Jamal at Palmyra could always be relied upon to provide warriors to bolster Dura’s defence.

  Her husband’s warriors arrived at Dura a day before we marched north, along with camels loaded with tents and supplies. Just prior to their arrival I was accosted by an angry Eszter and Dalir, both attempting to enter the throne room during an assembly of the army’s senior legionary commanders, Zenobia, Azad and Sporaces and their company commanders, plus Farid and his chief cameleers, the chief veterinary and his staff, and Sophus and his senior doctors. They were prevented from doing so until I had finished addressing the assembled officers, briefing them on why the army was marching, the objectives of the campaign and expressing every faith in their professionalism and talents. Some kings viewed their armies as nothing more than instruments to do their bidding and paid no heed to the welfare of their soldiers. But I did not believe in blind loyalty or ruling through fear. If I expected a man to lay down his life for Dura, the least I could do was explain to him why he was marching to war. He already knew he had had the best training and was armed with the best weapons and armour money could buy. He had a right to know his king was not treating him as a worthless chattel. Morale was high, but the spirit of an army was like a delicate flower that required constant nourishment and care. It was not an understatement to say that I loved the army, but like all commanders I faced the unpalatable prospect of destroying something I loved when I marched it to war.

  Gallia sat beside me as the officers filed out of the throne room, Eszter pacing up and down impatiently and Dalir fidgeting with his hands as he waited for the chamber to empty and guards to shut the doors. Our daughter looked like she was about to erupt when they were quietly closed.

  ‘Why are we not allowed to go on campaign with the army?’

  ‘And good morning to you, Eszter,’ I smiled, ‘and to you, Dalir. I hope you are both well.’

  ‘Well, lord, thank you,’ replied Dalir.

  ‘Never mind that,’ snapped Eszter, ‘I demand an answer.’

  ‘Demand!’ I shouted. ‘You will remember your place in this palace.’

  ‘The king does not have to answer to you,’ said Gallia harshly.

  Eszter, usually enjoying the full backing of her mother, was taken aback and for once in her life was lost for words.

  I stretched out my aching leg.

  ‘It is time you assumed your responsibilities, Eszter. For too long you have behaved like a desert urchin, indulging your whims and bringing your position into disrepute.’

  ‘What position?’ she shot back.

  ‘The heir to Dura’s throne,’ said Gallia.

  ‘Should your mother and me fall in Armenia,’ I continued, ‘then you two will become Dura’s rulers.’

  Dalir swallowed. ‘Us?’

  ‘Yes, Dalir, son of Kalet. You. Of my three daughters, Isabella is Queen of Sakastan and Claudia is adviser to the high king at Ctesiphon. That leaves Eszter and you. You will vacate your half-built desert home and move into the palace until we return.’

  ‘Or you receive news that we are not returning,’ said Gallia.

  When he had visited Dura, Phraates had gifted the couple gold so they could build a home of their own. Eszter had taken charge of the project and had invited Greek architects to the kingdom to indulge her every whim. The home was being built by the side of a small oasis located southwest of the city, away from the main highway from Dura to Palmyra and inland from the villages and agricultural strip adjacent to the Euphrates. It was one of many such oases dotted around the desert that had in the time before Gallia and I came to Dura been the preserve of the Agraci. The gardener Adel had been brought from Hatra to arrange the vegetation around the walled villa, the extant date palms to be joined by other fruit trees: citrus, olives, peach and plum.

  ‘As your desert home is not yet completed,’ I said, ‘living in the palace will be more comfortable than sleeping in a tent.’

  ‘You will both attend council meetings, hear petitioners and ensure the day-to-day affairs of the kingdom run smoothly,’ added Gallia.

  Eszter warmed to the idea of playing queen, her anger evaporating when the prospect of power was dangled before her.

  ‘Though all your decisions will be ratified by Rsan before they are implemented,’ I told them.

  ‘But, father,’ protested Eszter, ‘surely if we are king and queen, we are not answerable to anyone.’

  ‘You are not king and queen,’ I told them firmly, ‘rather, temporary administrators answerable to a man who has more experience of running the kingdom in his little finger than you two put together. A good king follows wise counsel, a useful lesson for you both to learn while we are away.’

  A sense of dread enveloped me as the army prepared to march north. I said nothing to Gallia about it and I had no reason to doubt we would not triumph over the Armenians, in what would be a limited campaign of intimidation waged by three of the most formidable armies in the Parthian Empire, none of which had ever tasted defeat. And yet I felt something was wrong, like the taste of milk that was about to turn sour or biting into an apple that had a rotten core. But Gallia was invigorated by the prospect of visiting misery on the Armenians and exacting revenge for the death of Rasha, which became the Amazon motto for the campaign.

  Before I left I visited Rsan and Almas in the Headquarters Building, both looking glum, though for different reasons. Rsan always viewed the prospect of war with dread, an attitude I had laughed at when I had been younger. But with age had come wisdom and I had come to realise that conflict was a waste – of lives, property, resources and the most precious assets of a kingdom – and was not to be entered into lightly. Almas was dejected because he wished to ride north at the head of his dragon of horse archers.

  ‘While I am away, I am entrusting the care of the kingdom to my daughter Eszter and her husband.’

  Rsan raised an eyebrow but said nothing, thanking one of his clerks for filling the cups before us with water. His office was like him: austere and basic, with not a trace of opulence. Indeed, it was a microcosm of Dura itself.

  I took a sip of water. ‘However, being fully aware of my daughter’s volatile nature, you two are hereby authorised to keep a restraint on her, and Dalir is not to be encouraged to play an active role in the government of the kingdom.’

  Rsan looked contented. ‘It shall be as you request, majesty, though to be fair the princess did prove most able when news of you and the queen trapped in Irbil reached the city.’

  ‘That is because the emergency harnessed her talents perfectly,’ I replied. ‘But the day-to-day affairs of a kingdom are very different. I expect her to become bored, which may prompt her to do something rash.’

  ‘Rash, majesty?’ said Almas.

  ‘Such as mustering the kingdom’s other lords and riding north to join what they believe will be a glorious affair,’ I replied.

  ‘You fear a hard campaign, majesty?’ asked Almas.

  ‘It is an unnecessary campaign,’ I said bitterly, ‘and if I had my way Dura’s army would not be marching anywhere. But Armenia cannot be allowed to treat Media as its plaything and seeing as the high king has no interest in chastising it, it is left to others to do it.’

  ‘I will pray for you and the queen,’ said Rsan earnestly.

  I stared at my cup. ‘Everyone dies, Rsan, and Gallia and I are no different. But our wish is to see the kingdom safe and prosperous. At the end of the day, that is the only thing that matters.’

  ‘You can rely on us, majesty,’ Rsan told me.

  I stood, prompting them to do likewise.

  ‘This building sits on the top of a rock escarpment,’ I said, ‘but you have been the rock upon which the whole kingdom has relied on for many years, my old friend. I pray Shamash will give you many more years of life, so you may continue to be our rock, Rsan, the first minister and true son of Dura.’

  I walked forward and embraced him, seeing tears in his eyes when I released him. He was lost for words, so I clasped forearms with Almas and took my leave, walking down the steps from his office to the building’s ground floor and out into the courtyard. The guards flanking the doors snapped to attention as I paced towards the palace. To my left carts were being loaded with spare weapons and armour from the armoury. I glanced right and stopped when I saw what appeared to be Claudia standing in front of the duty centurion outside the guardroom. I diverted my journey to find out more, the centurion coming to attention when he spotted me.

  The woman was not Claudia, though she was dressed exactly like my daughter in her black robes and shemagh that she had removed to reveal her face. It was a great pity to wear such dour apparel because she was a beautiful young woman, her skin flawless, her eyes an emerald green and her hair thick and golden. If I tried to place her I would say she was nobility of ancient Persian stock, though her hair colour made it difficult to place her ancestry anywhere in the Parthian Empire. My musings were interrupted by the gruff voice of the centurion.

  ‘This woman says she is here to see the queen, majesty.’

  ‘ This woman has a name, centurion,’ she said, ‘if the king desires to know it.’

  She had fixed me with her emerald eyes, which I found alluring but at the same time slightly disturbing. There was something behind the beauty that was unnerving.

  ‘I do not think I have had the pleasure,’ I said.

  ‘I am Saruke, majesty, sent by your daughter Claudia to advise Queen Gallia.’

  My instincts had not let me down.

  ‘You are a Scythian Sister?’

  She was delighted. ‘Yes, majesty, your daughter said you were very perceptive. Long have I desired to meet the famous King Pacorus of Dura.’

  I doubted that, but her smile, beauty and charm were difficult to resist. She reached inside her robe, prompting the centurion to stand between her and me and lay a hand on the hilt of his gladius. She giggled and slowly removed a papyrus scroll from her tunic.

  ‘I would never harm such a legendary defender of the Parthian Empire.’

  ‘It is fine, centurion,’ I said, ‘you may return to your duties. I will escort the Lady Saruke to the palace.’

  He saluted, gave Saruke a cold stare and marched back to the guardroom. I took the scroll, unrolled it and read my daughter’s words.

  Father

  This is Saruke, a Scythian Sister who will be an asset to mother in the months to come. Please do not pester her with questions. She has important work to do and has better things to do than answer your incessant queries.

  Take care in Armenia and remember what I told you. The hunter thinks he is stalking his quarry but can unwittingly become the prey.

  Claudia

  Saruke was absolutely charming, listening to my questions and replying with grace and intelligence, but when we met Gallia and I had introduced the Scythian Sister to my wife and showed her Claudia’s note, I realised she had told me absolutely nothing regarding why she had ridden to Dura and what use my wife might have for a sorceress. My curiosity was aroused further when Gallia despatched her immediately to The Sanctuary with an Amazon escort, brushing away my questions as to Saruke’s presence at Dura.

  ‘We have a war to win,’ she reminded me as I watched the Scythian Sister ride from the Citadel flanked by a pair of Amazons.

  The golden-haired beauty had been a minor distraction from the campaign that would begin the next day. The legionary camp was bursting with soldiers, wagons and mules, the siege engines having been broken down into their constituent parts and loaded on to carts prior to leaving. Farid had mustered his camel corps, the beasts corralled just south of the legionary camp, the odour of hundreds of camels drifting on the evening breeze towards the Citadel, along with the deposits of thousands of horses and mules. Azad’s cataphracts and Sporaces horse archers were camped across the Euphrates, in Hatran territory, which was sparsely populated in the southern part of my brother’s kingdom.

  That night the army’s commanders, Malik’s warlords, Karys’ senior officers, Kewab’s easterners and Kalet’s lords were feasted in the banqueting hall. But the mood was sombre and subdued. Malik sat in silence, staring into space and picking at his food. There was no drunken revelry, no bravado or boasting. Even Kalet and his lords were morose, though their muted conversations were probably complaints concerning how their numbers had been limited. Ideally, they would all have stayed at Dura, but honour dictated some of the kingdom’s lords shared in the glory of their king when he marched off to war.

  The feast ended early – men had to prepare for an early start when the army struck camp just after dawn. Afterwards, Gallia and I sat on the edge of our bed staring at the open chest before us. It contained the scale-armour cuirasses gifted to us by the immortals, and which had saved both our lives during the siege of Irbil.

  ‘I thought I would gift them to the Temple of Shamash in the city,’ I said.

  ‘We have need of them before you do.’

  ‘I vowed never to unsheathe my sword in anger again. And yet here we are, once again on the eve of a campaign.’

  I turned to face her. She was still a handsome woman but now there were a few lines around her eyes and those eyes were weary, not the vibrant blue pools of yesteryear. But her skin was still smooth and free from blemishes, a result of shielding her fair complexion from the merciless Mesopotamian sun. And she still had all her teeth!

  ‘Do you think we will ever be able to enjoy peace?’

  She cupped my face with her hands.

  ‘We are what we are, Pacorus. We have spent our entire lives fighting enemies, either Parthia’s or foes within the empire. It is what we do, we are good at it and it is our destiny.’

  ‘Like Sisyphus,’ I lamented.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Scelias told me the story of the King of Corinth, a part of Greece, who cheated death to return to the land of the living to live to a ripe old age. To punish him, he was sent to Hades, the Greek word for the underworld, where he had to roll a huge rock up a hill, only for it to roll down again once he had reached the summit. So, he had to walk down the hill and start the whole procedure again, and so on and so on. Dura’s army is like Sisyphus – beating one foe only for another to appear, and after that another and another.’

  She frowned. ‘Don’t be so morose. This is not the start of a long war; it is just a short campaign to punish the Armenians. We will be back here in no time at all, and then you can gift the two pieces of armour to the temple.’

  I slept fitfully that night, trying to fathom why the Armenians, having been badly mauled on the Diyana Plain, would even consider a fresh invasion of Media. Perhaps they did not know of that kingdom’s alliance with Hatra, Gordyene and Dura. But even if they did not, they were well aware that Spartacus needed only the slightest pretext to launch a war against them. As the old saying went: if one wanted peace, prepare for war.

  The morning came soon enough and with it the movement of thousands of men, horses, mules and camels, all filing across the pontoon bridges spanning the Euphrates, to begin the march north. I stood on the terrace, burnished scale-armour cuirass shimmering in the early morning sunlight, my hands resting on the stone balustrade watching the legionaries marching to war. Like the Romans they were modelled on they marched six abreast, though unlike Rome’s soldiers they wore white tunics and carried shields faced with hide painted white and embossed with a red griffin motif. Talib and his scouts had already left Dura, riding ahead, dividing into small groups and fanning out to provide advance reconnaissance. There were no hostile forces in my brother’s kingdom, but procedures were never curtailed because we were marching in friendly territory. It was same regarding marching camps: irrespective of where the army was, its soldiers, equipment and animals slept behind a ditch and earth rampart topped with stakes every night when on campaign.