‘I have heard of no stirrings in Syria,’ spoke one of the northern lords, a thickset man with a great bushy beard.
‘When they learn that the forts that guard the northern frontier have been stripped of their garrisons they may be tempted to invade Dura. There are two legions in Syria and I do not trust the Romans not to take advantage of our army’s absence. That is why your presence here is so important.’
They grumbled among themselves and looked unhappy but knew that what I had said made sense. Between them they could raise around forty thousand horse archers in addition to their personal bodyguards numbering another thousand men. It was enough to deter a Roman invasion, or so I hoped. Aside from their personal retinues their troops were drawn from the men who worked their lands: farmers and fishermen. They were not as disciplined as those who served in Dura’s army, but they were frontiersmen who were hardy and knew how to shoot a bow from the saddle. As such they would delay any invading army long enough for me to bring mine back across the Euphrates after I had dealt with Mithridates.
After Gallia had flattered and flirted with them the lords went back to their estates. They may have been unhappy that they were missing out on a battle, but they were delighted to be entrusted with the safety of the queen and her children. I had told them that they would guard Gallia and the kingdom while I was away, and that they were to obey her in my absence. After they had gone I went out onto the palace terrace to lean on the stone balustrade and watch the activity below. This was one of my favourite places where I could observe the traffic on the road flowing east and west and gaze at the blue waters of the Euphrates. The minutiae of life was fascinating: Rsan’s officials collecting tolls from those crossing the pontoon bridges; legionaries ensuring that traffic flowed smoothly over the wooden bridges; and people from all corners of the empire on the road going about their business; fishermen in their small boats on the river. It was endless and fascinating.
‘Daydreaming again, son of Hatra?’
Dobbai shuffled past me to sit in one of the chairs opposite.
‘For a man about to embark upon great slaughter you seem remarkably calm.’
‘Just one battle, Dobbai, and then it will all be over.’
She looked east across the river. ‘Just one battle, to begin with.’
‘To begin with?’
She turned to look at me. ‘I will say it again. Do not underestimate Mithridates, or Narses for that matter.’
‘I don’t and won’t.’
She pointed at me with a bony finger. ‘You think that because you beat them before you will do so again with ease.’
She was referring to the Battle of Surkh, when I had been instrumental in defeating the combined armies of Mithridates and Narses. Afterwards I had been made lord high general of the empire by a grateful King of Kings Phraates. How long ago that seemed now.
I smiled at Dobbai. ‘Have the gods revealed to you that they will defeat me?’
‘You may mock me, but your smugness will disappear when you come running back to Dura with your tail between your legs.’
‘Is that your prophecy or the gods?’
She waved a hand at me. ‘I say again, do not underestimate your foes.’
She changed the subject. ‘When are the executions?’
‘Tomorrow.’
That was when Nadira and Polemo would die for the murder of Godarz. Vistaspa had stayed in Dura in the aftermath of Godarz’s death and said he would return to Hatra once justice had been meted out. Haytham had also travelled to the city to witness the executions. There was a time when the visit of the Agraci king would have elicited horror among the city’s residents but now no one batted an eyelid. Indeed, Malik visited us so often that many came to see him more as Duran than Agraci. He and Domitus were good friends, though Malik’s agreeable nature meant that he got on well with most people. He was not like Haytham, who was hard, merciless and unyielding, much like the desert that had spawned him. Above all Malik, though brave, lacked the ruthlessness, the utter indifference to suffering which Haytham possessed in abundance.
‘Gallia has hired a headsman for the executions,’ remarked Dobbai casually.
‘A headsman, why? Dura has its own executioner.’
Dobbai rose and ambled away.
‘Remember what I said, son of Hatra, do not underestimate your foes.’
Gallia refused to discuss the executions, saying that she was too upset to talk about the condemned as it reminded her of Godarz. When I asked her about the headsman she merely remarked that he had been recommended to her and that she wanted the task carried out properly. Further questioning of her was met by a stony silence so I gave up.
The day of the executions was overcast, the mood of the population sombre as the two prisoners were escorted from their confinement at the Palmyrene Gate. Notwithstanding Gallia’s desires I had given orders that they were not to be mistreated in any way. Their quarters were to be functional and their rations adequate, and on no account were they to be abused by their gaolers, especially Nadira. Raping a woman had no place in Dura’s army.
Just after dawn the pair walked from the Palmyrene Gate along the city’s main street to the market place. Domitus had lined the route with guards to ensure that they reached their place of execution — Godarz had been a popular governor and many may have been tempted to exact their own vengeance upon his killers. Soldiers also lined the outside of the square and were posted around the wooden platform that had been erected in the centre of the square where the pair was to be put to death. Directly opposite and on the northern side of the square was a second platform of the same height. That is where we assembled to watch justice being administered.
Sullen, angry people were still filing into the square as Polemo and Nadira were escorted through the throng to their appointment with the headsman. He stood impassively as the murderers were manhandled up the steps and onto the platform. The executioner was tall, fat and completely bald. He held the handle of a large curved sword in his right hand, the point resting on the wooden boards. He watched Polemo and Nadira with piggy eyes, his stare fixed on Nadira’s chest. Gallia had wanted her to be stripped naked before she was killed but I had countermanded this order as well, earning me a fierce rebuke from my wife. But I told her that I was not a barbarian. In these moments her wild Gaul side came to the fore and frankly unnerved me, but I was king in Dura. Even attired in a voluminous white gown Nadira’s voluptuous figure was still apparent. Such a waste of womanhood.
On the platform the two were handed over to the executioner’s assistants — half a dozen burly men dressed in black leggings and brown leather tunics. Two grabbed the arms of Polemo while two more stood either side of a now very pale Nadira. Polemo was stripped of his top and forced down onto his knees to face the executioner. Polemo looked up and spat at him. One of the assistants stepped forward, slapped him hard round the face and shoved his head down. The executioner hoisted his great sword onto his right shoulder and stepped to one side. He looked at me and I nodded. The crowd was silent and still whilst Nadira, wild-eyed, bit her lip and stared ahead. She was not looking at her accomplice kneeling a few feet from her.
With both hands the executioner raised the sword high above his head and then in one seamless movement brought it down on Polemo’s neck. I stared in horror as the blade sliced Polemo’s flesh but did not sever his head. The executioner once more raised the blade and sliced it down onto Polemo’s neck. It cut flesh but again did not decapitate Polemo, who tried to lift himself up, blood gushing from his neck wound. Now terrified, he looked up at the executioner as the latter’s blade once more sliced into his flesh. Polemo pitched forward, still alive, as the crowd groaned. The executioner gestured at his assistants, who stepped forward and yanked Polemo back onto his knees. Then they stepped away. The executioner wiped the blood off his blade with a cloth and then stepped forward and again aimed a blow at Polemo, this time slicing deep into his shoulder. Polemo shrieked in pain, his torso covered in blood. Nadira, now distraught at the awful spectacle unfolding before her, pissed herself. Orodes looked at Malik who shook his head, while Haytham remained impassive. Rsan, shaking, was covering his eyes with his hands.