Authors: Peter Darman
‘Behold, Pacorus, I bring you King Porus.’
I looked down at the mangled body, covered in filth and dried black blood. Glazed, lifeless eyes stared into the sky, and though I thought I recognised the traces of the neatly trimmed moustache I could not be sure as the face had been cut and bludgeoned. But I did recognise the yellow shirt and red leather gloves that still encased his hands.
I looked up at the tattooed face of Malik. ‘Did you kill him?’
He nodded. ‘We caught up with him and his entourage and then charged them. They put up a fight at first, but my men made short work of them. We killed them all, none escaped.’
‘We also found these,’ said Byrd, who reached into his tunic and threw a parcel of parchments on the ground. I picked them up and examined them. They included messages from Narses to Porus and vice-versa.
I nodded at Byrd. ‘Excellent, well done. Get some food inside you and your horses seen to. Good to have you both back.’
‘What do you want to do with that?’ asked Domitus, pointing at the corpse with his cane.
‘Cut off the head, stick it on a pole and place it outside the camp’s main entrance. Give the rest to the pigs.’
The army of Hatra arrived the next day, fifteen hundred cataphracts and nine thousand horse archers led by my father and Vistaspa. The horsemen established their camp two miles upstream from us while my father and Vistaspa paid me a visit. I had the legion parade in battle array in front of the camp, flanked by my own cataphracts and the horse archers of my lords. Afterwards I gave a feast in their honour in my tent. Domitus sat next to Vistaspa and told him about the defeat of Porus and his elephants, while my father congratulated me on my victory.
‘It was not my victory, father, but the knowledge of Domitus that decided the day.’
My father raised his cup of wine to my general. ‘My congratulations. This will allow us to march to Ctesiphon and relieve Phraates.’
‘We have heard of another force of rebels marching south towards Babylon and Mesene,’ I said.
‘Then we must deal with them first,’ replied my father.
He and his army had passed Gallia and her retinue on her way back to Dura. ‘By the way, Pacorus, congratulations on your approaching fatherhood. Your mother will be pleased to be a grandmother at last.’
Everyone banged the hilt of their daggers on the tables in recognition.
‘Hopefully Porus has not gone south and added his numbers to those who are threatening Babylon’s territory.’
I filled my cup with wine from a jug. ‘Porus is dead, father. His head sits on a pole outside this camp.’
The lords banged the tables again and cheered, while my father looked horrified. I saw his look.
‘He insulted Gallia, so it is a fitting end for him.’
He said nothing more on the matter, for which I was pleased — I had no regrets that the head of Porus adorned a pole outside my camp.
The next two days were taken up with reorganisation. Domitus had details of men scouring the battlefield and the path of flight of Porus’ army to retrieve anything of use. The hide shields and broken spear shafts were ignored, but swords, spear points, helmets and daggers were piled onto carts and sent back to Dura. There they would be either melted down and turned into javelins and arrowheads or, if they were of decent quality, stored in the armoury. Birds were already picking at the carcasses of dead elephants and men, which prompted a sense of urgency as we did not want to be infected with the pestilence that dead flesh spreads.
I sent Nergal south with a thousand riders to discover the whereabouts of the rebel force that was rumoured to be ravaging Babylonian territory, but he returned with news that it had been dispersed by Vardan and that Babylon’s army was now marching north to join us.
‘I wouldn’t put too much faith in Babylon’s ragged band,’ said Vistaspa standing in my tent looking at a map of the empire laid out on a large rectangular table. ‘A few cavalry and the rest armed with pitchforks and wicker shields.’
‘Slightly unfair,’ remarked my father.
‘But true, lord,’ said Vistaspa.
Domitus looked at me and shook his head. Unfortunately, what Vistaspa had said was correct. Babylon had once been a great power, the strongest kingdom in the world, but that was hundreds of years ago. The great Persian king Darius had captured it four hundred and fifty years before my time, and then Alexander of Macedon had seized it two hundred and fifty years ago. Since then it had faded in wealth and importance, and though the kings of Babylon were accorded great respect due to the longevity of their line, in truth their power was much reduced.
‘We should move south to link up with Vardan’s army,’ I said, drawing a finger on the map from our present position and following the course of the Euphrates south towards Ctesiphon.
‘Agreed,’ said my father. ‘We can follow the river until we are level with Ctesiphon, which is only sixty miles north of Babylon, then advance east towards the Tigris and relieve Phraates.’
‘If he still lives.’ Vistaspa appeared to be in his usual dour mood.
‘He’s alive,’ said my father, ‘the reports I’ve had from Ctesiphon state that Narses is content to sit outside the city and wait for Phraates to offer terms.’
‘What terms?’ I asked.
My father shrugged. ‘To abdicate in his favour, I assume. Narses wants to be King of Kings and he believes that he has the present holder of that office boxed in at Ctesiphon.’
‘He will have heard of the fate of Porus by now, lord,’ remarked Domitus.
Vistaspa nodded. ‘Yes he will, and if he’s got any sense he will run back to Persepolis.’
‘Or,’ mused my father, ‘he might want us to attack him. After all, he has to defeat us if he wants to wear the high crown.’
‘Do we know the size of his army?’ I asked.
Vistaspa laughed. ‘I wouldn’t worry about that, Pacorus. You have already showed that numbers matter little when it comes to the fight.’
Domitus smiled but my father was not amused by such bravado. ‘That may be, but hopefully Vardan will also bring Mesene’s army with him.’
Vistaspa raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
The next day we marched south, Nergal riding ahead with the lords in the vanguard in honour of their victory over Porus. I rode beside my father and Vistaspa, the banners of Hatra and Dura behind us, followed by my cataphracts, my father’s bodyguard and the legion, with the horse archers and cataphracts of Hatra bringing up the rear. The day was warm and still as we rode at a leisurely pace. Here the land between the Tigris and Euphrates is an alluvial plain, bisected by many dirt roads, fields, irrigation ditches and dams near the rivers to prevent flooding. Usually bustling with trade caravans and farmers working in the fields, today it was a desolate wasteland devoid of activity.
‘You appreciate, Pacorus,’ remarked my father, ‘how war is poison to Parthia. The farmers have all fled north and the trade caravans have taken refuge in the cities. Without farmers there is no food, and without food we cannot fill our bellies. And without trade there are no taxes, and without taxes there is no money to pay for our armies.’
‘Then we must crush this rebellion as soon as possible,’ I replied.
‘You see, Vistaspa,’ continued my father, ‘how youth always wants to decide matters by the sword.’
‘Is there any other way?’ I replied.
‘Our objective is to relieve Ctesiphon and free Phraates, no more,’ said my father. ‘There will be no pre-emptive assault against Narses and his army, at least not until we have permission to do so.’
‘Narses is a traitor,’ I said, ‘who deserves a traitor’s death.’
‘Narses is a king, Pacorus, and you would do well to remember that. He also has the support of other kings. Phraates will want to win them over, not force them into a corner.’
I was unconvinced. ‘Destroy Narses and the rebellion will crumble.’
‘Perhaps you would like his head on a pole outside your camp as well?’
‘Why not? He wants the crown of Phraates, there can be no accommodation with such a man.’
‘It is for Phraates to decide such things,’ said Vistaspa.
‘Exactly,’ said my father icily. ‘You still have much to learn about diplomacy, Pacorus.’
What was there to learn? Narses had led an insurrection and had to be punished. I could not understand my father’s hesitancy, but then I did not have to worry about events in the north of my kingdom like he did, for with the fall of Gordyene to the Romans their legions were now massing on his northern borders. He said nothing of Balas and I did not ask him, but the death of his friend must have weighed heavily on his mind and he obviously had reluctantly marched south to come to the relief of Phraates. I had been disappointed that Vata had not accompanied Hatra’s army, but Vistaspa had informed me that my old friend had been given the responsibility of ensuring that the Romans did not encroach upon Hatran territory.
Five days later we met Vardan and his Babylonian hordes. Babylon might not have been the power it once was but Vardan had mustered an impressive number of troops, all dressed in various shades of purple and carrying banners of the same colour, while behind Vardan himself fluttered his banner depicting a great white horned bull called a
gauw
upon a purple background, the beast being the symbol of Babylon. He rode at the head of his royal bodyguard, five hundred magnificent horsemen wearing so-called dragon skin armour — a leather vest covered with overlapping silver plates protecting their chests and backs. They were wearing open-faced steel helmets, carried large, round wooden shields covered with purple-painted hide, and were armed with swords and lances. Their tunics and leggings were also purple and purple pennants flew from their lances. Next came his horse archers, who wore no armour and who carried swords in addition to their quivers and bows. They numbered around three thousand. The bulk of Vardan’s army comprised foot soldiers — slingers and archers who wore no armour and spearmen who carried oblong wicker shields and who wore long purple tunics that covered their arms and extended down to their knees, with purple trousers and turbans. The number of foot soldiers must have totalled an additional six thousand. I rode ahead with my father to greet our ally.
‘Hail, Vardan,’ said my father, shaking the hand of the king.
‘Hail Varaz and Pacorus.’ Vardan wore a simple open-faced steel helmet and dragon-skin armour on his body. He also wore thick steel shoulder plates adorned with sitting bulls and at his hip he wore a sword that had a pommel in the shape of a bull’s head.
‘It is good to see you, my friend,’ said my father.
‘You too, Varaz.’
‘How is Axsen, sire?’ I asked.
He smiled at me. ‘She sends her love to you and Gallia. Is she with you?’
‘No, sire. She has had to return to Dura.’
‘She’s pregnant,’ said my father, ‘though she only discovered this after she had fought in battle. It seems I am going to be a grandfather.’
Vardan beamed with delight. ‘Excellent news, we will all celebrate in my tent tonight.’
That night the campfires of Vardan’s army carpeted the horizon as his men pitched their gaudily coloured tents along the banks of the Euphrates. No neatly arranged lines of tents enclosed in a palisaded camp for the army of Babylon; rather, a disorganised assembly of tents, horses and camels. The only order that existed among the multitude was the king’s tent and the tents of his bodyguard circled around it, the horses of the royal bodyguard being quartered in a stable block immediately behind the royal enclosure, the stalls formed by poles and canvas wind breaks. The air was filled with wood smoke and the aroma of roasting meat as I rode with Nergal to the king’s tent, our horses being taken from us by purple-clad grooms. The tent itself was a massive structure, actually a pavilion hung with brightly coloured tapestries. Inside, fifty thick wooden columns held the roof in place, oil lamps hanging from each one. Carpets were spread over the floor and couches were arranged in a circle in the centre, while soldiers of the king’s bodyguard stood around the circular wall. Incense burned on tables and a host of purple-attired servants ferried silver platters heaped with meats, bread, fruit and pastries to guests. Others poured wine into silver and gold cups. It was a far cry from the austere regime of Domitus and his legion or my palace at Dura.
My father and Vistaspa were already relaxing on couches near Vardan and his senior commanders when we entered. Vardan beckoned us both over with his hand. He was reclining on a large couch stuffed with cushions. Nergal and I sat opposite him.
‘King Vardan tells me that Chosroes is also on the march and will be joining us shortly,’ said my father.
I accepted a cup of wine from a beautiful servant girl with flawless olive skin, one breast exposed and a gold chain running from her pierced ear to her nose. She smiled to reveal a set of perfect white teeth.
‘Excellent,’ I said, sipping the wine, which was exquisite. Vardan certainly knew how to travel in style on campaign, I gave him that.
‘Pacorus wishes to fight Narses and his army,’ remarked my father.
Vardan shook his head. ‘I doubt it will come to that. Some sort of negotiated peace seems more likely.’
‘That’s what I told him.’
I drained my cup and held it out to be refilled. ‘There will be no peace until Narses is dead.’
Vardan frowned. ‘Killing kings only creates bad blood, Pacorus. Did you know, for example, that Porus had two sons who will seek vengeance for his death?’
I smiled, but Vardan did not know that the sons of Porus had died fighting beside their father.
‘And the matter of the killing of King Balas also has to be addressed,’ added my father.
‘Ah, yes. A tragedy. The Romans have too much arrogance,’ mused Vardan. He looked at me. ‘Where is your Roman?’
‘Attending to his duties, sire.’
‘Well, let’s hope that he is not the vanguard of a Roman invasion into the empire.’
Chosroes arrived two days later at the head of his army, a ragged band of horse archers dressed in dirty tunics sitting on skinny mounts and foot archers and spearmen attired in a variety of filthy tunics with leather caps on their heads. Though the king’s bodyguard of a thousand mounted spearmen had wooden shields and leather armour, the rest of the army was sadly deficient in armoured horsemen. He did bring five hundred archers mounted on camels as well, men whose faces were wrapped in turbans and who wore long flowing robes. In addition to the fighting men, Chosroes brought a horde of camp followers — harlots, beggars, traders and thieves who trailed in his army’s wake. I estimated the numbers of his fighting men to be ten thousand, no more, and their quality left much to be desired.