‘They have conquered half the world,’ he once told me, ‘so I see no reason not to employ their methods.’
Gallia reached over and grabbed my hand. ‘For a moment I thought I was back in Italy.’
I nodded. ‘I know. I still miss him.’
On we rode, to the centre of the camp where Domitus had pitched his new commander’s tent, a large beige structure built around a rectangle of poles with two flaps for an entrance, each tied back with leather straps. Two guards stood at the entrance, and one shouted inside as we approached. Seconds later the muscular form of Lucius Domitus strode out into the sunlight. He squinted at us as his eyes adjusted to the light, then raised his vine cane to me in salute. He was dressed in a simple white tunic, leather belt, sandals on his feet and his Roman short sword at his hip. He caught sight of Gallia and bowed his head to her, who nodded back. He ignored the Parthian kings, prince and princesses behind me.
I dismounted from Remus and clasped his forearm, he responded with an iron grip.
‘All is well, Domitus?’
‘All is well, Pacorus.’
‘I have brought some guests who have expressed an interest in seeing your legion.’
‘It’s your legion.’
‘How are you, Domitus?’ asked Gallia.
‘Well, lady, thank you.’
I turned to my guests. ‘This is Legate Domitus, who will be our guide today.’
The horses were taken to the stable area and then Domitus escorted us through the camp and then outside to the training fields, where hundreds of men were practising throwing javelins, marching in units of eighty men called centuries and honing their skills with wooden swords and wicker shields.
Balas, dressed in a simple flowing robe and leggings, a battered turban on his head, was intrigued by the latter activity. He pointed at the men crouching in front of large wooden posts driven into the ground, wicker shields tucked close to their bodies while instructors bellowed orders at them to jab at the posts with their wooden swords.
Balas looked at the sharp-featured Domitus. ‘So, you are a Roman?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And what is a legate?’ enquired Farhad, who unlike Balas was dressed like a king, with an expensive gold tunic, silver belt and a beautiful sword hanging from it in a silver-edged scabbard.
‘The commander of a legion, sir. Don’t slash with those swords, stab with them. Slashing is for cavalry and other useless bastards.’
Domitus’ outburst at those at the posts made Gallia and Axsen jump, while the others stared at him in disbelief.
‘Begging your pardon, but if they don’t get it right at the beginning then they won’t be much use when it comes to the real thing.’
‘My palace guards carry wicker shields,’ mused Gotarzes. ‘I did not realise that Roman soldiers are also armed with them.’
Domitus suppressed a smile. ‘They aren’t, sir. They only use them for training.’
‘Why?’ Farhad was clearly intrigued, while I noticed his son was totally disinterested, paying close attention to Aliyeh, who was clearly delighted with the adoration of a handsome young prince.
Domitus pointed at the recruits sweating under the sun that was now making its descent into the western sky. ‘Those shields are weighted with iron strips on the inside, making them heavier than their proper shields, and the swords are similarly weighted. Toughens up the men, you see, strengthens their arms and shoulders. Battles can be long affairs. Isn’t that right, Pacorus?’
I saw my father frown at Domitus’ familiarity, but those of us who had fought together in Italy shared a bond that was stronger than iron; indeed, any of those who had come with me from Italy was free to address me thus.
‘That’s right, Domitus.’
‘I remember when we fought all day in north Italy, near Mutina,’ added Gallia. ‘It was hot that day.’
‘That it was, lady,’ said Domitus. ‘But we didn’t falter. Hard training, you see.’
‘Train hard, fight easy, you remember Bozan’s words, father?’ I said.
Bozan had not only been the commander of my father’s army, but also his friend. ‘I do,’ he said.
Domitus approved. ‘He was obviously a sensible man.’
Axsen linked arms with Gallia. ‘You are truly an intriguing woman, Gallia. I have never met a woman who has fought in battle before.’
‘I would like to know what one of those shields and swords feels like,’ Balas said.
‘I would advise against it, majesty,’ I said. Domitus was shorter than the Parthians present, as were most Romans, but Domitus did not have an ounce of fat on him and his frame was packed with muscles. I had seen him fight in battle, and knew him to be a master with a Roman short sword.
‘Nonsense,’ said Balas. He pointed at Domitus. ‘What do you say, Roman, fancy your chances against an old campaigner?’ Domitus shrugged.
‘If you wish, sir.’
Moments later Domitus stood with a wicker shield held tight to his left side with a short wooden sword in his right hand. Balas, who unbuckled his sword belt and handed it to my father, was similarly equipped and waved the sword around in front of his body. Domitus crouched low and held his sword close to his body. All his life Balas had fought from the saddle, and though he might know how to battle on horseback he was hopelessly outmatched against an ex-Roman centurion. Balas tried to fight as he would from the saddle, with great scything attacks with his sword, but Domitus easily anticipated these moves and countered them with very effective feints and thrusts. It was over soon enough, as Balas shouted and tried to slash at Domitus’ head, but the latter ducked and smashed his shield into the king’s body, knocking him to the ground. Then Domitus pounced and was standing over Balas, the point of his sword at his throat. Domitus then stood back, threw down his sword and offered his hand to Balas, who accepted and was hauled to his feet. Balas roared with laughter and clasped Domitus’ muscled forearm. My father gave Balas his sword back.
‘A most expert display, Roman,’ said Farhad, nodding towards the men training at the posts. ‘Are all your men as proficient?’
Domitus shook his head. ‘They’ve got a way to go yet, but they’re shaping up nicely. Mind you, we need a few thousand swords, javelins, helmets and mail shirts before they can fight.’
‘That will be settled when we get to Dura, Domitus,’ I said.
‘Dura is a small city,’ said my father, ‘and to equip thousands of men thus will be expensive. It is not Hatra.’
‘Perhaps it can be a second Hatra,’ I offered.
He smiled. ‘Perhaps.’
Farhad continued with his quizzing of Domitus. ‘So, Roman, what qualities do you look for in recruits?’
We began walking back to the centre of the camp as the sun began turning to a red ball in the sky. ‘Quite straightforward, sir, I’m only interested in those who are single, have good eyesight and decent characters, and we don’t take any who’ve had their balls lopped off, begging your pardon, ladies.’
On the way back to Hatra, I rode between Balas and Gallia as the sky turned a deep red with the approach of the evening.
‘I like your Roman,’ said Balas.
‘He’s a good man,’ I agreed.
‘Does he miss his home?’
‘No, majesty,’ I said, ‘when we found him he was condemned to be a slave in their silver mines.’
‘He has no love of Rome,’ added Gallia.
‘Does he love Parthia, then?’
‘No, lord,’ replied Gallia, ‘he has a love for Spartacus.’
‘But Spartacus is dead, is he not?’
Gallia looked directly ahead. ‘Not his memory, or his son, and I think that we are the only true family Domitus has ever known.’
Balas nodded. ‘When I heard that you had returned, Pacorus, and listened to the tales that were spreading about you and your wild woman from a far-off land, I thought that they were stories to impress children and old women, but now I begin to think otherwise. I have seen many things in my life, some great, most terrible. But I have never heard of a slave general such as this Spartacus. I have seen the loyalty that he engenders still, and I marvel that an army has appeared in the desert, an army that follows you because its soldiers believe you to be beloved of the gods, an army that is led by a Roman, your most hated foes. And you, Gallia, you who are so beautiful yet fight as fiercely as any man and who leads a band of women warriors, who has fought and killed without mercy. We live in strange times, I think.’