In the cold half-light of the pre-dawn I saddled Remus and checked my quiver was full. My bow was carried in a leather case fastened to my saddle, my quiver holding thirty arrows hung from a belt that ran over my right shoulder. My armour comprised a black two-piece leather cuirass. A good friend, a German named Castus, who had been a general in the army of Spartacus, had given it to me in Italy. The cuirass had been taken from a dead Roman officer following one of our many victories. It was muscled and embossed on the upper chest with a golden sun motif, two golden winged lions immediately beneath it. It also had fringed strips of black leather over the thighs and shoulders, which were also adorned with golden bees. On my head I also wore a gift from Castus — the dead Roman’s helmet, a superb steel piece that was padded inside, had large, hinged cheek plates and a brightly polished brass crest, in which was secured a plume of white goose feathers.
‘You look very much the Roman,’ remarked Gallia as her face disappeared behind her helmet’s cheekguards.
‘Castus gave me this armour.’
‘I remember. Do you think you will need it today?’
I vaulted onto Remus. ‘Let us hope not.’
We moved fast, one hundred and twenty riders striking hard for the Euphrates. The great river began in the high mountains of Armenia, and then ran south for nearly two thousand miles before it emptied its waters into the Persian Gulf. Like the Tigris that bordered Hatra’s eastern frontier, the Euphrates was mightiest in the spring after the winter snows had melted in the mountains. The melt waters flooded south, raising the depth of the river along its whole course and always threatening to break its banks. Spring was now upon us and the river would be deep and fast flowing, the more so at Dura because another river, the Khabur, joins the Euphrates around forty miles north of the city. The Khabur dries up almost completely during the summer months, but in the spring it adds to the Euphrates’ torrent. The bridge that we headed for spanned a shallow section of the Euphrates; indeed, in the summer a man could wade across on foot, though now the waters would be twice the height of a man at least. But the bridge, over five hundred feet in length, had reinforced stone pillars that could withstand the flow.
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?’