‘I remember, long ago in Italy, you, Gafarn and Nergal taking great delight in making fun of that young girl.’
I tried to bluff it out. ‘Do you? I don’t really remember…’
She jabbed me even harder. ‘Don’t try to squirm out of it. I saw you avoiding her eyes. I think she is charming, and you should be ashamed of yourself for your childishness.’
‘Yes, my love.’
She caught Gafarn’s eye. ‘And you too, Gafarn.’
My brother looked at her, then me, in confusion. I pointed at Axsen and then shrugged. I think he was going to laugh, but then saw the disapproval on Gallia’s face. He looked down at his plate and began picking at his food.
King Balas was the last monarch to pay his respects. Sixty if he was a day, he had a kind, round face with hazel eyes and a bushy beard and moustache. He was dressed in a simple light blue robe and plain leather sandals on his feet. He could easily have been mistaken for a carpet salesman rather than a king. Balas ruled Gordyene, a kingdom on Parthia’s northeastern frontier, bordering Armenia. I knew he had been a great warrior years ago, and had defeated the Armenians many times, plus anyone else who had been foolish enough to invade his territory. He embraced me.
I bowed my head to him. ‘Thank you for honouring my wedding, majesty.’
‘You don’t have to call me majesty, Pacorus, you’re a king as well.’ He looked at Gallia.
‘Make an old man happy.’ He embraced her and then kissed her on the cheek, which made my mother frown and my father laugh. He next embraced my father and then bent over the table and kissed my mother on the lips.
‘You are still my sweetheart, Mihri.’
For once my mother blushed and was lost for words and then waved Balas away, suppressing a grin as she did so. He came back to me.
‘As I’m staying in Hatra for a few days, you must tell me how you managed to win the heart of such a beauty.’ He winked at Gallia.
‘Varaz, perhaps we can have an archery competition. You can try and win back that money you lost to me the last time we pitted our bows against each other.’
My father raised his cup. ‘I look forward to it.’
‘Is the competition open to all?’ asked Gallia.
Balas eyed her. ‘Can you handle a bow?’
‘Better than Pacorus, majesty,’ said Gafarn.
Balas threw back his head and laughed. ‘Looks like we have some competition, Varaz. I look forward to seeing if what they say about you is true, Gallia. What about you, Pacorus, are you in?’
I shrugged. ‘I will take no pleasure in beating you, majesty.’
He slapped me hard on the shoulder. ‘We’ll see about that.’
It was a happy occasion, as were the days that followed, a time of laughter and joy, of new friendships made and old ones reaffirmed. All thoughts of the outside world receded from my mind as I walked arm in arm with Gallia in the royal gardens, among strutting peacocks and ornamental fountains.
‘We could stay here, you know,’ I said as we stood on a narrow bridge watching the giant goldfish gently swim in one of the ornamental ponds below.
‘Stay here, in Hatra?’
I leaned back on the stone rail and gazed at her. ‘Why not? You like it here, do you not?’
She kissed me tenderly on the lips. ‘I could be happy here, but you have your own kingdom to rule now. What would happen to it if you stayed here?’
‘No doubt Sinatruces would give it to someone else.’
‘But he gave it to you, Pacorus,’ she said softly. ‘What do you want?’
I grabbed her by the waist and pulled her close. ‘I want you.’
‘You have me forever, you know that. But it is time for you to move on. There is an old saying among my people — you can never step in the same piece of water twice.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means, my love, that you have outgrown Hatra and can never go back to your youth. It is time to spread your wings.’
I pressed my body into hers. ‘I never knew you were a philosopher.’
‘If you take me back to your bedroom I will show you how a philosopher makes love.’ Her voice was sultry and my loins stirred at her invitation.
And so the days passed making love and sharing time with friends. Balas did not forget the archery competition, and so my father arranged for a target to be set up in the gardens, a large round bale of straw packed tight and covered with hide. On the front had been painted a number of rings with a small black circle in the centre. Set on a wooden stand, the target was chest high. A score of servants arranged tables upon which were placed jugs of wine, cups, and platters of meats, bread and fruit. Balas was in a mischievous mood and had gathered a group of supporters to cheer him on. These included my mother and sisters, King Farhad of Media, his son Atrax, who was more cheerful than his stern father though just as tall, King Vardan of Babylon, Princess Axsen and Diana. I competed against Gallia, Balas, my father and Gafarn.
Balas took a large gulp of wine and stood before those assembled.
‘Welcome everyone. Now today I am going to give a demonstration of archery to show how it should be done. Obviously I will win, so this competition is to determine who will come second. Has everyone got a bow to shoot?’
A Parthian’s bow was one of his most precious possessions. And all Parthia’s aristocrats and royalty learned how to shoot one from an early age, most before they could walk.
I held up my bow and nodded to Balas. Like all Parthian bows, ours were double-curved, with recurve tips at the end of the upper and lower limbs, and a set-back centre section that was grasped by the left hand. The limbs, thick in proportion to their width, were fashioned from several pieces of maple, birch or mulberry, with sinew from the hamstrings or tendons of cows or deer on the outside of the limbs, and horn from a buffalo, long-horned cow or ibex on their inner side. All the parts were fastened to each other with glue made from bitumen, bark pitch and animal grease. The whole bow was then wrapped in fibres made from the tendons of slaughtered animals to protect it from the elements. The bows of my father and Balas were covered in lacquer to make them totally waterproof. Gallia, Gafarn and I had bows that had no lacquer covering, which came from China, because we had made our bows in Italy when we had fought with Spartacus.
‘Shall we put the target at fifty paces, Varaz?’ Balas asked my father.
‘You sure you can see that far, old man?’
‘Old man?’ Balas turned to my mother and feigned mortification. ‘Do you hear that, Mihri? He uses any opportunity to insult me, I who have been like a father to him all these years.’
Balas may have been old, but he was still a big, thickset man and his arms were still muscular.