Now my curiosity was aroused. ‘I am old and unfortunately have no recollection of our meeting.’
Whoever he was he was obviously a man of some means for he wore soft leather boots on his feet and his white cloak was fixed to his left shoulder by a large silver brooch.
‘It was a long time ago, sir, so there is no reason you should remember. I was one of a score of Roman soldiers, the sole survivors of a legion, who stood on a rise of ground near the town of Carrhae expecting to die when you saved us.’
That was over thirty-five years ago. I extended my bony hand to him. ‘I am glad that you all survived.’
He took my hand. ‘Only because of your intercession, sir, for which I am eternally in your debt.’
‘What brings you to Dura?’
‘I have a wine-selling business in Syria, sir,’ he replied, ‘and hope to establish a shop here in Dura.’
‘Business is good?’
He nodded. ‘It is, sir. Peace means trade and trade brings profits.’
It was not always so. ‘What is your name?’
‘Lucius Cato, sir.’
I stayed and chatted to him about the Battle of Carrhae until Claudia ordered the doors of the throne room to be opened to the petitioners. I escorted him inside to ensure he received his licence. As thanks he invited me to dine with him and his family that evening, a request I gladly accepted. Claudia was bemused by my support for this Roman merchant but she did not realise that to talk with someone who remembered me as a great warlord was heartening. Only someone who has outlived his or her usefulness would understand.
A stable hand helped me onto my cart and my faithful mule walked from the courtyard to transport me to my usual morning residence by the river. I glanced at the memorial to the Companions that had space for one more name as I left the Citadel. The city’s main street was thronged with shoppers, travellers, sightseers, camels and mules loaded with goods and so it took me longer than usual to reach the Palmyrene Gate. Bored guards rested on their shields and others walked up and down on the gatehouse’s battlements. They stood to attention when they recognised me and I raised a hand in acknowledgement, then looked up at the stone griffin that had stood guardian over my city for so many years.
Its head moved, I swear it did, in a gesture akin to a nod of recognition, as I passed under the arch and exited the city. I pulled on the reins to halt my mule and then looked back up at the statue. It was immobile. Of course it was. Foolish old man.
My old mule knew the route he had to take every day and once we had descended the gentle slope that led from the gates he headed off the road heaving with carts, wagons, camels, mules and travellers on foot and ambled south, towards the fields and date palms of the royal estates. Fed by irrigational canals that had been vastly improved by the engineering skills of Marcus Sutonius, they grew the crops and fed the cattle, pigs, sheep and goats that sustained the palace and the garrison, as well as producing a surplus that was sold in the city. Dozens of villages had sprung up inland of the Euphrates where farmers and their families prospered.
I sat on the cart as the mule trudged down the dusty track leading to my bench. When he stopped I alighted the cart, unstrapped him from his harness and then led him to the shade of the date palm. I never bothered to tether him because he was too lazy to attempt to escape, being content to remain by my side apart from the occasional amble down to the river’s edge to drink.
I eased my creaking body down and rested my hand on my sword hilt. I don’t know why I bothered to strap it on each day because I was far too old and frail to wield it. But then I had worn a sword since my teenage years and it was a link to my past, to a time when I had been a warlord and commander of armies. It was also a link to the man who had given me it and whose memory I still revered. I watched the waters flow past and heard the comforting sound of birds overhead. The tiring bustle of the city seemed far away as I watched a dragonfly hover above the blue waters of the Euphrates. The air was sweet and pure and the silence was having a most sleep-inducing effect and soon my eyelids were closing as I drifted into blessed slumber.
I awoke with a start. Something was wrong. The hairs on the back of my neck were standing up and my senses were heightened. I felt the same surge of tension and energy that I had experienced countless times on the eve of battle. I jumped up and drew my sword as the air was suddenly filled with the dull, melodious thud of marching feet. I swung round and saw a long column of soldiers approaching like a great black snake slithering across the terrain. But that ground was lush and rolling, a blanket of green as far as the eye could see. The river and date palms were gone. What madness was this?
I tightened the grip on my sword and saw that my hands were no longer covered with wrinkled skin and bulging veins but were smooth and strong. I stared at my left hand in disbelief.
‘Sleeping on guard duty, Pacorus?’
I turned around and saw a man on a powerful brown horse, an individual with muscular shoulders beneath the mail shirt he was wearing, his face chiselled, his jaw line strong, his dark eyes unyielding. His hair was cropped short but he was no Roman. His lips broke into a broad grin.
‘Has the cat got your tongue, King Pacorus of Dura?’
My sword fell to my side as I beheld the figure of Spartacus before me, who now slid off his horse and strode up to lock me in an iron embrace.
He pulled back and slapped me on the arm. ‘Lord,’ I whispered.
‘It is good to see you, my friend.’
‘Lord!’ I shouted, before dropping my sword and embracing him in delirium.
‘I hope you are going to give him back to me, little one,’ another person said and I froze as I recognised the voice.
I turned to see a woman with hair as black as night dismount and walk towards me with a feline grace. Her full lips parted as she smiled and opened her arms to embrace me.
‘Claudia.’
I felt tears welling up in my eyes to run down my face as I blubbered like a child. She held me close and kissed my wet cheeks.
‘Why the tears, little one?’
‘It has been so long, lady. I thought I would never see you again.’
My lord placed an arm around my shoulder. ‘We never abandon our friends, Pacorus, you should know that.’
He vaulted into the saddle and helped his wife into hers as the vanguard of his army arrived, a great mass of men armed with javelins, wearing helmets and carrying Roman swords. They marched six abreast, rank upon rank filing past me and banging their javelins on the insides of their Roman shields as they did so. I saw long hair protruding from beneath the helmets and heard the chant, ‘Parthian, Parthian,’ and raised my hand to the Germans who acclaimed me.
A man with a long face, long hair and a beard sauntered up and offered his arm.
‘We were beginning to think you would live forever,’ he grinned as I clasped his forearm.
‘We can’t have you grabbing all the glory, Castus,’ I replied.
‘We will talk of that in camp tonight.’
I picked up my sword as I heard another familiar voice. ‘I hope you’ve kept it sharp.’
I looked up to see Cannicus standing over me, with the hulking figure of Thumelicus beside him. I laughed out loud and threw my arms around them both.
‘Never have I been so happy to see so many Germans.’
‘Until tonight,’ said Thumelicus before rejoining the ranks.
Next came thousands of Thracians led by a squat, dark-haired man with a scar down the right side of his face. He pointed at it as he passed me.
‘I see you have a souvenir like mine.’
‘Yours is deeper, I think, Akmon.’
The serried ranks continued to pass me as I placed my sword back in its scabbard and Spartacus and Claudia walked their horses forward to my side.
‘Are you coming with us, Pacorus?’ he asked.