‘You hear that, Pacorus,’ said Balas to me, ‘Dura is on the wrong side of the river.’
‘It will take a large army to batter down Dura’s walls,’ I replied.
Domitus looked at me. ‘Pacorus, that is King Pacorus, is clever. He makes Dura strong so it will not fall easily, and he has the support of his lords who can come to his aid. And across the river is his father’s army. Rome will think twice before starting a war with Dura.’
‘And there is your legion,’ observed Balas.
‘Yes, sir, there is my legion. And…’ His voice trailed off.
‘And?’ asked Balas.
‘I know that your people do not like them, but there are also the Agraci.’
‘The Agraci?’ Balas was shocked. ‘They will stick a knife in your back when you’re not looking.’
‘They are our friends,’ said Gallia sternly.
‘It’s true, lord,’ I said. ‘Prince Malik, the son of the Agraci king, comes often to Dura and has travelled with me to Hatra.’
Balas shook his head. ‘We live in strange times.’
My father had said nothing during this intercourse, adding only. ‘We certainly do.’
Esfahan was a beautiful city, located directly south of the Zagros Mountains and built on both sides of the River Zayandey. Surrounded by a high circuit wall of yellow sandstone, it had squares towers at regular intervals along its whole perimeter. Access was via four gates located at the four points of the compass, all of which led to the city’s massive central square, a space of grass that was normally filled with traders every day but which for the Council of Kings had been cleared. In place of the market stalls and animal pens was a large circular tent at least three times the height of a man.
Esfahan was a sprawling city with very few tall buildings, its streets wide and airy. The northerly breeze that came from the mountains was refreshing and had the added advantage of dispelling the stench of humans and animals that infested even the grandest of cities. An armed escort from the garrison — spearmen dressed in bright yellow tunics, baggy red leggings and open-faced helmets, met us at the western gates. They carried wicker shields, long daggers in sheaths on their belts and wore brown leather shoes that rose to a point at the toes. Their long hair was plaited like Gallia’s when she rode to war, though unlike her they had yellow ribbons in their plaits. Their beards were also plaited and each man wore two gold earrings. They certainly looked pretty — even their oval-shaped spear blades were polished bright, glinting when they caught the sun’s rays. Beside them we must have looked a sorry sight, our clothes and faces covered in dust and our horses weary — in need of a good groom.
The guards’ commander, a tall man in his thirties with gold rings on his fingers, saluted. ‘Majesties, welcome to Esfahan. If you would care to follow me I will show you to your quarters.’
Esfahan was bustling, its streets filled with traders, customers, mystics, holy men, beggars and soldiers of the garrison. There was no king or ruler of Esfahan; rather, a council of elders who were drawn from the most influential members of the aristocracy. The council numbered eighteen to mirror the number of kings in the empire — though technically there were now nineteen upon my accession to Dura’s throne. In the old days each king had sent his own man to sit on the council, but after time this had lapsed and the council was drawn from those who lived in the city itself. It jealousy guarded its reputation as a place that favoured no one faction, and its remote location, thick walls and large garrison acted as deterrents should anyone wish to attack it. Not that anyone did, for its great distance from any other city of significance meant that it was largely forgotten, though it formed an important part of the Silk Road. As we had travelled east to the city I had observed in wonder the mass of traffic on the road — the living lifeblood of the empire.
But now there was much excitement in the city, not least because the Council of Kings was such an unusual event on account of the last one having taken place over fifty years before. My party was met at the gates of a villa by its steward, a dark-skinned man in his fifties who had a long black beard and who was dressed in an immaculate white robe with cuffs edged in silver. He had long fingers and his nails were painted red, which earned him a frown from Domitus.
‘Greetings, King Pacorus.’
Each of the kings was shown to his own villa — large two-story buildings surrounded by walls and guarded by a detachment of the garrison. Inside the compounds were stables, luxurious private apartments overlooking a marbled courtyard complete with central fountains, the whole residence surrounded by well-tended gardens. A small army of gardeners, kitchen hands, grooms and house slaves kept each villa spotless and the gardens immaculate. Our horses were taken from us to the stables where they were unsaddled, groomed, fed and watered. We were shown to our rooms on the second floor of the villa, each one adorned with enamelled tile floors, doors inlaid with gold leaf and ivory, plaster walls painted with mythical beasts and a large bed over which hung a canopy of the finest white linen. Twin cedar doors led on to a spacious balcony framed by two marble columns, with another pair of columns directly below. The corridors and entrance hall of the villa were adorned with yellow and blue tapestries.
After we had washed and changed into new clothes, an invitation arrived from the residence of my father for Gallia and me to dine with him. It was early evening before we arrived at his residence. Like ours it was a well-appointed villa surrounded by a high brick wall. Guards paced up and down outside the gates and around the wall; clearly the city elders were taking no chances when it came to the security of their royal guests. We were not the first to arrive, for in the large dining hall were already seated Farhad, his son Atrax, Aschek, Vardan, his daughter Axsen and Gotarzes. They all rose when we entered, and Gallia immediately went to Axsen and embraced her as we took our places at the table. Moments later Balas arrived, complaining that he was too old to be dragged from his couch after a hard day’s ride.
My father ate little, and only a short while after we had started the meal he began to speak to us.
‘I have asked you all here tonight because the issue of the election needs to be settled.’
Balas put down his silver cup. ‘You mean you want to make sure that we all vote for Phraates?’
‘Yes,’ snapped my father.
‘He is a good man,’ said Vardan, ‘but does he have the steel to enforce his will?’
‘With our bows and swords behind him he will have enough strength to secure his rule,’ retorted my father.
Aschek screwed up his lips. ‘It would be better to have an overlord who has the respect of all, and if not all then at least the majority.’
My father was already showing signs of exasperation. ‘My friend, who among the kings has that?’
‘Varaz of Hatra,’ offered Balas casually.
My father held his head in his hands, and then looked up. He suddenly looked old. I had never thought of my father as old before. ‘I support Phraates because he offers continuity and stability. He is known to all the kings, and has been his late father’s voice in the empire for many years. Parthia must have unity for the troubles that are to come.’
‘What troubles?’ asked Gotarzes
‘The Romans,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ reiterated my father. ‘Darius has, as expected, defected to Rome. Word reached me of this but two hours ago. The Romans menace our frontiers, and for that reason alone we must have stability within the empire.’
‘We all knew the old admirer of young boys would do so, it is of no consequence,’ said Balas.
‘The Romans will have heard of the death of Sinatruces,’ I said. ‘They will try to exploit any opportunity to increase their domains at our expense.’
Balas shrugged. ‘If you want Phraates so badly then I will vote with you, Varaz. But only because there is not a more suitable candidate.’