‘Surena, it probably does not matter now, but I want you to know that you are no longer a squire. You are a cataphract.’
He smiled with delight. ‘Thank you, lord.’
He looked round and grinned at the men behind. Those within earshot raised their weapons in salute.
‘I’m sorry that it has ended this way.’
He suddenly looked serious. ‘It does not mater. I was, am, a poor boy from the marshes. But because of you I have seen great cities and rubbed shoulders with mighty warriors, kings and queens. Why should I regret that I have experienced such things? Besides, everyone has to die sometime, lord.’
In that moment he was ridiculously proud and sat ten-foot tall in his saddle. At least he would die happy. I rode forward to place myself in front of the men; Orodes and Atrax did the same. I drew my sword and held it aloft. The men raised their bows and began cheering, and then, coming from behind our ranks, I heard a low rumbling noise that began to shake the earth. The cheering died away as men turned in their saddles to peer behind them. I rode back and through our thin line to get a better look. Had more Romans swept around us? I halted and saw a great mass of horsemen filling the canyon and riding towards us. There were hundreds of them; no, thousands. Some riders were hitting the skins of great kettledrums with thick drumsticks, others were blowing horns, and above the approaching mass flew the sun banners of Margiana and the Caspian Tiger standards of Hyrcania. The armies of Khosrou and Musa had come.
Momentarily stunned by this gift from the gods, I rode up and down our line shouting like a mad man.
‘Let them pass, let them pass. Move aside.’
My men did so as a great block of cataphracts swept past us and then halted a hundred paces or so in front of where we had previously been positioned, men and horses in scale armour, rank upon rank of them as far as the eye could see. Khosrou and Musa galloped up, while in front of us the Roman cavalry had halted upon seeing the horde that they now faced.
I bowed my head to the two kings. ‘Majesties, I thank you for your timely arrival.’
Musa, his big round face encased in a helmet that had a black horsehair crest, smiled. ‘The King of Dura is a welcome guest in my lands.’ He jerked a finger down the canyon. ‘Romans are not.’
Khosrou’s narrow eyes regarded me and then my horse. ‘Well, young Pacorus, it would appear that you have had a long campaign. I think you and your men deserve a rest.’
Musa waved his hand at one of his officers, who galloped to the head of the great mass of horsemen and gave the signal to advance. I sat in awe as the thunder of thousands of hooves reverberated around the canyon and hundreds of cataphracts moved forward as one. Seeing this tidal wave of men and horseflesh approaching, the Romans beat a hasty retreat, pursued by a torrent of Parthian cavalry.
The camp of the two kings was located five miles due east of the canyon, on a large grassy plain that was crisscrossed by small streams. The camp was a sprawling collection of brightly coloured tents of varying shapes and sizes, the largest being the two royal pavilions that stood side by side in the centre. Behind them was a vast fenced-off area that housed the horses of the royal bodyguards, a myriad of wood and canvas windbreaks forming stalls and stables for the animals. A host of squires and servants scurried around like an army of ants, tending to their masters and the horses, digging latrines, cooking food, feeding and mucking out horses, and repairing armour and sharpening weapons. The armies’ other horses were corralled in fence-off areas beside the tents of their owners, men and horseflesh as far as the eye could see. And beyond the tents parties of horse archers established a screen of scouts ten or more miles away in all directions from the centre of the camp. It was as if a great tent city had suddenly sprung from the earth.
We spent several days as the guests of the two kings, during which time both we and our horses rested and consumed great quantities of food. We burned our threadbare clothes and were given new robes, in my case a fine pair of leather boots, baggy red leggings and a purple shirt with gold trimmings. I was offered a new helmet but asked if my own could be repaired instead. I gave it to one of Musa’s chief armourers, a squat, stocky man with forearms as thick as tree trunks and a neck to match. He examined my helmet with its dents, broken cheekguards and battered crest.
‘You’d be better getting yourself a new one.’
‘It was a gift from a friend,’ I said, ‘and I would prefer to keep it.’
He ran his fingers on the inside of the helmet and then held it at arm’s length.
‘It’s a nice piece, I’ll grant you that. I suppose I can fix it. Won’t be cheap, mind.’
‘I will give you gold to repair it.’
This obviously discarded any doubts he may have had about the task. He placed the helmet down on his anvil and rubbed his hands.
‘Well, then, I’ll get started. A gift, you say? Mmm, doesn’t look Parthian. Persian, perhaps?’
‘No,’ I replied, ‘it is Roman.’
‘Weren’t those the lot that we chased off a few days back?’
‘Indeed they were,’ I replied.
He nodded. ‘Come back in two days.’
On the sixth day I was invited to a meal by the two kings. They had already been generous hosts, giving us new saddles, horse furniture and replacing our arrows as well as our clothes. The men’s spirits soared when they learned that our Roman pursuers had been tracked down, engaged in battle and defeated. A great many had been killed and the rest had been captured. No doubt the meal that was being prepared was in celebration of this victory.
The heavy cavalry of Musa wore scale armour like my own cataphracts, but the armoured horsemen of Khosrou wore bands of hardened leather laced together for protection or suits of black horn scales. They also wore leather armour on their arms and thighs. They carried long spears that were lighter than the kontus and on their heads they wore helmets fashioned from thick hide. Each man also carried a bow and quiver, plus a sword and dagger. Their horses were smaller than our own mounts but they were swift and hardy beasts, born and bred on the endless northern steppes. Only the men of Khosrou’s royal bodyguard wore metal scale armour and helmets. What struck me was the sheer number of Khosrou’s men — there were swarms of them.
I made my way to partake of the kings’ hospitality but was taken aback when I arrived outside Musa’s pavilion. Khosrou and Musa were seated cross-legged on top of a large square, wooden platform made up of two layers of thick planks lashed together. Carpets and cushions had been piled on top of the platform, and a procession of servants stood around its edge with platters heaped with food and jugs holding drink. But my eyes were drawn to what was underneath the platform, for I could see feet protruding from beneath the planks, and then I spotted the top of a head between the feet, and then another and another. With horror I realised that the platform was resting upon a host of bodies.
‘Pacorus, welcome,’ Musa, dressed in a flowing white robe edge with red and gold, rose and beckoned me over. Khosrou was dressed in a simple white shirt and black leggings. He bowed his head and said nothing, but noticed my startled reaction.
‘Welcome. Sit, sit, enjoy my hospitality,’ said Musa, as though feasting on top of dead men was the most natural thing in the world. As I stepped onto the platform I thought I heard a groan from underneath.
I sat next to Musa and opposite Khosrou. A servant offered me a small silver eating bowl, others brought cooked lamb and hare. My appetite had greatly diminished.