Authors: Peter Darman
We reached the bridge two hours after leaving camp and then rested the horses. I had the guards at the bridge fetch water for the beasts while their commander told me what he knew about what was happening on the other side of the river.
‘Very little, majesty.’ He was a lean man in his late thirties with thinning shoulder-length hair and a gaunt face. He wore scale armour over his tunic and an open-faced helmet with a white plume on his head. He commanded fifty men, half a company, whose task was to guard the bridge and also patrol up and down the riverbank to prevent unwelcome guests — thieves, enemy scouts, Agraci — from entering Hatran territory. This mission was extremely easy at this time of the year when the river was swollen. I looked at the fast-flowing brown water heading south. I saw him looking at Gallia and her women, who had taken off their helmets and were wiping the sweat from their necks and brows. Gallia had her hair tied into a long plait, though Praxima always liked to have her red hair hanging loose at all times.
‘There used to be guards on the far bank, but two months ago they disappeared and since then we have heard little of events at Dura.’
‘Has there been much traffic across the river?’
He shook his head. ‘None, majesty.’
I did not doubt it. The farmers ate what they grew and no trade caravans came to this part of the kingdom any more. For to head west was to enter Agraci country, and certain death.
We continued our journey, across the bridge and then into the Kingdom of Dura, my kingdom. Riding south from the bridge, we travelled through country made lush by irrigation ditches and dams. I ordered my banner to be unfurled and carried behind me, for it was right that I should proclaim my presence as the new ruler of this land. We trotted past farmers working in the fields. They watched us for a few moments then continued with their work. In the distance I saw the fortified mansion of one of the kingdom’s landowners, a great walled residence with a high mud-brick tower. The tower provided an eagle’s eye view of the mostly flat terrain, and would give warning of the approach of hostile forces. The mansion also provided a safe haven for those who worked the land. Each lord would have his own retinue of soldiers, mostly horse archers, and in times of war these men would be reinforced by the farmers who worked the land. Dozens of soldiers riding behind a large white banner would not have gone unnoticed, but no riders emerged from the mansion. We rode on.
We at last came to Dura. My first impression of the city was its strength. Perched on a rocky outcrop above the banks of the Euphrates, any attacker would need a mighty army to take it. The only approach that could be made to the city was from the west where a large, flat plain of rock and earth led to the city’s western wall. At least half a mile in length, this wall was made stronger by high, square towers positioned at regular intervals. At a mid-point in the western wall were the main gates — black-stained wood studded with iron plates. On the north and south sides of the city’s walls were deep wadis, so the only way in was via the gates that were shut in our faces.
Our column halted on the road about three hundred yards from the gates. There was no sign of life anywhere on the plain or on the walls. In the distance and looming over the city stood the Citadel, which was built on the highest part of the outcrop.
‘Everyone stay here, out of arrow range,’ I commanded, nudging Remus forward. ‘Nergal, you are with me.’
We walked our horses towards the gates, and were soon followed by Gallia on Epona.
‘You should keep back, lady,’ said Nergal, clearly worried that we might be felled by a volley of arrows at any moment.
‘Nonsense,’ she snapped. ‘What sort of queen stays behind while her husband rides into danger?’
‘A sensible one,’ I suggested. She ignored me.
We reached the gates unharmed, to find them still shut. The gatehouse itself, which I later learned was called the Palmyrene Gate, was impressive. The two towers that flanked the gates were square and at least fifty feet tall, with arrow slits cut high in their walls. There was a great stone arch over the gates themselves. From a distance the walls and gates had looked impressive; up close they appeared even more formidable.
‘Is the city deserted?’ queried Gallia.
Nergal pointed to our right, to a part of the wall from which hung three rotting corpses. Our approach had temporarily scared off a host of ravens that had been picking at the cadavers, the bloated birds now sitting on top of one of the towers, watching us.
‘Someone put them there. I wonder what their crimes were to deserve such a punishment?’
Before I had chance to answer the gates began to creak and then slowly open inwards. Nergal instinctively drew his bow from its case and strung an arrow from his quiver.
I ordered him to put down the bow as the gates opened fully to reveal a man in his fifties, of average height and build, standing in the middle of the road. He had shoulder-length brown hair, a round face and wore a flowing white gown. At first I thought he was a priest. Two soldiers, each armed with wicker shields and spears, stood by the gates. Aside from their spears they wore no armour and carried no swords, and their only head protection were cloth caps. The middle-aged man knelt before us and bowed his head.
‘Greetings, King Pacorus. My name if Rsan and I welcome you to your city.’
‘Get up. Are you the governor?’
‘No, majesty, I am the city’s treasurer.’
My anger towards Prince Mithridates was beginning to rise. To have failed to greet us was bad enough, but to send a mere treasurer was an insult. I leaned forward in the saddle.
‘Does the governor have something better to do than meet his new king?’
Rsan shifted nervously on his feet. ‘The governor was executed several weeks ago, majesty. His body, along with that of the garrison commander and the high priest, is currently hanging from the walls.’
‘On whose orders?’
‘Those of Prince Mithridates, majesty.’
I turned to Nergal. ‘Ride back and get the others. Well, Rsan, let’s go and meet your Prince Mithridates.’
He looked even more uncomfortable and averted my eyes. ‘I’m afraid that the prince and his retinue left the city yesterday.’
‘What!’
‘Apologies, majesty.’ He once again knelt on the ground and bowed his head. ‘He just left without any warning, boarded a boat and headed downstream. That is why the gates were shut.’
‘Get up. So who is in charge?’
He looked round and then at me. ‘I think I am, majesty.’
I was seething inside, but there was no point in taking out my anger on the poor fool standing before me.
‘Well, show me to my new palace so I can wash the dirt from my body.’
He bowed his head again. ‘Of course, majesty. But where is your bride, Queen Gallia? We were told that she would be accompanying you.’
He had not cast the rider sitting beside me a second thought; after all, ‘he’ was just another soldier dressed in a mail shirt with a helmet on his head. Gallia pulled off her helmet.
‘She is here. Take us to our home.’
Rsan, momentarily stunned, bowed once more and led the way from the gates to the Citadel. On the way I noticed that the city appeared to be divided into rectangular blocks of houses and shops separated by straight roads perpendicular to each other, much like the layout of Roman towns. I also noticed that the shops were closed and there were no people on the streets.
‘Where are the people?’ asked Gallia.
‘Prince Mithridates ordered a curfew.’
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘He, er, well. He told everyone that you were going to take the city by storm and burn it to the ground.’
‘He is obviously insane,’ remarked Gallia. Rsan said nothing.
The Citadel lived up to its name, a walled stronghold with a gated entrance in the southwest corner. The walls were high and thick with a firing step all along their length and square towers at each corner, also with firing platforms on top. Archers and spearmen lining the step and towers had the protection of a high stonewall with slits in it at regular intervals. Inside the Citadel, barracks were sited along the southern wall. These were fronted by verandas. At the northern end of the Citadel were workshops, bakeries and a granary. The latter was set up off the ground on a grid of short stone pillars to deter pests and allow air to circulate, preventing the food inside from spoiling. Fronting the granary was a raised timber platform where goods could be offloaded from carts.
On the eastern side of the courtyard was the palace, flanked by the large armoury on one side and stables on the other. There were more stables and barracks along the west wall. Finally, standing directly opposite the palace steps, stood the treasury and a squat building that I assumed to be a headquarters building, the place where the administration of the garrison took place. Except that there was no garrison.
‘Where is the garrison?’ Sitting on Remus in the stone-paved courtyard I looked around at what appeared to be an almost deserted stronghold. Two guards carrying spears and wicker shields were standing at the top of the palace steps, two more were either side of the gates.
Gallia halted Epona beside me. ‘Where is everybody?’
‘I do not know. Rsan, where is the garrison commander?’
‘Dead, majesty.’
‘Call assembly,’ I ordered.
Rsan ran over the front of the headquarters building and rang a large brass bell that hung from a wooden stand outside the main entrance. A few moments later fifteen soldiers were standing to attention in the courtyard. They included the guards on the steps and at the gates. I dismounted as Nergal and the rest of my horsemen trotted into the courtyard. I waved him over.
‘Get the horses in the stables, then find the kitchens so we can all eat.’
Nergal saluted and looked at the short line of soldiers. ‘Is that the whole garrison?’
‘It would appear so.’
As I dismissed the soldiers I ordered Rsan to follow us into the palace. Like the rest of the Citadel it was a functional building, with a colonnaded porch that led into an entrance hall with white walls and a low ceiling. We walked through the hall into the throne room, at the far end of which was a high-backed chair on a stone dais. White stone columns around the sides of the room supported a low ceiling. There was a corridor to the left of the dais and a large red door on the opposite side.
I pointed at the corridor. ‘Where does that go?’
‘To the banqueting hall, kitchens, guardroom and slaves’ quarters, majesty,’ answered Rsan.
‘And where does that door lead?’
He walked over and opened it. ‘To your private apartments, majesty.’
The day was fading by the time my horsemen and their horses were settled into the barracks and we finally sat down to eat. Like the other rooms in the palace, the banqueting hall was functional and not over-large. Compared to its equivalent in Hatra it was positively tiny. Light came in through the high windows cut in the wall, though the afternoon was dying by the time servants brought us wine, bread, fruit and cooked lamb. At least the kitchens were still staffed. I asked Rsan to dine with Gallia and me. We were three figures huddled around the end of a long table later joined by Nergal and Praxima. They both took off their sword belts and laid them on empty chairs, sitting down beside us eager to begin eating. As servants scurried around lighting oil lamps hanging from walls I saw Rsan eye Praxima warily. Nergal’s Spanish woman was certainly a wild one, her long hair tumbling unkempt down her back. She used her dagger to cut slices of meat from the side of lamb that lay before her. I had seen her slit men’s throats with that dagger.
‘There is room for two hundred horses and five hundred men, Pacorus.’ Nergal filled a cup with wine and took a large gulp.
‘So where
is
the garrison?’ I asked Rsan, who picked at the food without enthusiasm.
‘Dead, majesty.’
‘From what?’ queried Gallia.
‘Alas, majesty, they were killed in battle.’
I finished my wine and stretched back in my chair. ‘Please enlighten us, Rsan.’
We had finished the food by the time he had finished his sorry tale. When he had been placed in charge of the city, Prince Mithridates had fancied himself as a great warrior, the equal of Alexander the Great and Hector of Troy. He had decided to put an end to the Agraci once and for all, and had ridden out of the city at the head of most of the garrison plus his own retinue of cavalry given to him by his father, King Phraates. The force totalled three hundred foot and five hundred horse, and most of it was slaughtered when it was ambushed by the Agraci two days’ march from the city.
‘Apparently,’ continued Rsan, ‘they were overwhelmed by huge numbers of Agraci, who descended on Prince Mithridates and his men like a plague of locusts. The prince did not lack for courage, but there were simply too many of them.’
‘And who told you this?’ I asked.
‘Prince Mithridates himself, who managed to escape the slaughter and make his way back to the city unscathed.’
‘A true hero, obviously,’ remarked Gallia dryly.
Rsan continued. ‘The prince, with what few forces he had left, attacked the Agraci again a while later, and captured Haytham’s young daughter.’
Rsan shook his head, his brow furrowed. ‘The Agraci king, majesty, is a most cunning individual, and when his daughter was taken from him he started raiding the prince’s, er, your kingdom. Prince Mithridates called upon the local lords to give him men to punish Haytham, but they refused.’
I was surprised. ‘Why?’
‘The prince had raised the taxes considerably to pay for his household here, and they resented it. So he invited each lord to send his eldest son to a great feast here, in the Citadel, as a sign of his contrition towards them. And when they came he had them all put in chains.’
This was outrageous. I stood up. ‘And have these men have been returned to their fathers?’
Rsan looked down at the floor. ‘No, majesty, they are locked away in one of the store rooms next to the armoury.’
‘Go and get them, now!’
Gallia pointed at him. ‘Wait, where is the daughter of this Agraci king?’