So a few days later I rode from the city with a small escort that included Orodes and fifty horse archers. We headed west and into the territory of the Agraci. They were a tribe of nomads who inhabited the northern part of the Arabian Peninsula; the tribe named the Bedouin populated the southern part. When I had first come to Dura open warfare had existed between my kingdom and the Agraci, but I had made peace with their king and ever since that time our two realms had prospered. The trade caravans passed through Dura on their way west through Agraci territory and then on to Egypt where they sold their precious wares. Of course Haytham charged them for the privilege of travelling through his domain, but in return he guaranteed their safety. He made a profit, they made a profit and everyone was happy, though many in the empire openly criticised Dura and its king for making peace with the accursed Agraci. Lord High General Narses had even boasted that he would rid the earth of the Agraci, but that had been over three years ago and since then neither them or I had seen hide or hair of him.
We rode at a steady pace, partly to spare the horses in the heat but mostly because the track west was literally heaving with traffic. Camels, mules, donkeys, carts and wagons stretched ahead as far as the eye could see. I smiled to myself. Most of the people on the road were Parthians — when there was money to be made people could always be relied upon to put their differences and prejudices aside.
Eventually we left the highway and rode parallel to it, a column of riders in white long-sleeved shirts and floppy hats, our helmets swinging from our saddles. Our bows were also hanging from our saddles while our quiver straps were slung over our shoulders. As usual I wore my Roman leather cuirass and the helmet on my saddle was Roman with a white goose feather crest. These items were gifts from a friend and were almost as dear to me as the sword that hung from my belt. This was also Roman, a cavalry sword called a spatha. Brown leggings and leather boots completed my appearance.
Orodes rode beside me, his leather cuirass covered in bronze and iron plates shimmering in the sunlight. He too wore a simple wide-brimmed hat on his head, his richly appointed helmet jangling on his saddle. I always felt extremely guilty about the circumstances that Orodes found himself in; made worse by the fact that he never complained or resented the ill hand that the gods had dealt him. I swore that one day I would make it up to him.
‘I’ve never seen so much traffic on the road, Pacorus. So much for my stepbrother’s orders that all trade through Dura should cease.’
‘I heard that the Chinese emperor himself had complained to Mithridates about such a demand,’ I replied.
‘Even the king of kings thinks twice before interfering with the empire’s trade.’
‘He’s not the king of kings,’ I said, ‘he’s just a thief and murderer who occupies the high throne only temporarily.’
Orodes smiled at me and shook his head. ‘Alas, my friend, I fear you are wrong. Mithridates is high king and is accepted as such by the other kings of the empire.’
‘Not this one,’ I retorted.
He laughed. ‘No, not you, nor I for that matter, but we are in a minority, I fear.’
But Orodes was only half right, for I had the support of those kings who ruled the western part of the empire, plus the allegiance of the two kingdoms that guarded Parthia’s northeastern border, Margiana and Hyrcania. On the other side of the Euphrates to Dura lay the Kingdom of Hatra between the Tigris and Euphrates — my father’s kingdom. The waters of these two great rivers irrigated his land and grew the crops that were ripened by the great sun god Shamash, which meant that the people prospered. And He had blessed my father’s kingdom further by ensuring that the great Silk Road ran through the middle of Hatra.
‘We have many supporters across the Euphrates, Orodes. We are not alone.’
‘None of the other kings will march against Ctesiphon,’ he said. ‘No one wants another civil war.’
It took us five days to reach Haytham’s capital, a vast desert settlement of tents around the oasis of Palmyra. There was once a time when a column of Parthian horsemen would have been intercepted long before it reached Palmyra, but now our Agraci allies received us warmly enough. Haytham’s soldiers, black-robed men with black tattoos adorning their faces, policed the Silk Road through his territory. A party had joined us not long after we had left Dura, more for the company than for reasons of security. Their leader was a wiry man with a brown face and light brown eyes, his horse a magnificent grey mare.
‘Do you have any problems on the road?’ I had asked him.
He shook his head. ‘No, lord, perhaps an argument when a collision has happened but nothing more serious than that.’ He looked almost disappointed.
‘A far cry from the years when your people and mine were at war.’
His eyes flashed with enthusiasm. ‘Yes, lord. Then the desert ran red with blood when we raided Dura’s lands.’ He stopped, a mortified look on his face.
‘Forgive me, lord, I did not mean…’
‘It is quite all right,’ I assured him. ‘There was war and now there is peace. Let us hope it lasts.’
He looked away into the vastness of the desert. ‘You have the friendship of my king and his children and the respect of my people. If someone had told me before you came that Agraci and Parthian would sit together round a fire and share a meal I would have thought them mad. But it is so and yet…’
He cast me a sideways glance, as if reluctant to continue. ‘Speak freely.’
He nodded. ‘But when you and my king have left this world, will Parthian and Agraci shed each other’s blood once more?’
‘Let us hope that will not be the case,’ I replied.
He was right about the present, though. The only threats to the peace were the wretched caravan dogs that barked, growled and snapped at all and sundry. They were a menace to friend and foe alike. We said our farewells to our escort a day from Palmyra and made the rest of the journey unaccompanied. The landscape of the Tadmorean Desert is desolate, but the settlement of Palmyra in which it lies is green and lush, fed by the water that springs from the earth. Haytham’s son, Prince Malik, met us at the outskirts. He was tall and lean, his face adorned with black tattoos; dressed in a black robe he presented a fearsome appearance. He halted his black stallion in front of us and beamed with delight.
‘Hail Pacorus, hail Orodes.’
I reached over and shook his hand. ‘It is good to see you again, my friend.’
Orodes greeted Malik similarly. It was a happy reunion of friends who had fought together many times. He rode beside us as we walked our horses through the heaving tented city that was Palmyra where the trade caravans, their personnel and animals were housed in a separate area to the south of the main settlement. After we had brushed the dust from our clothes and rested we were shown to Haytham’s tent, situated in the middle of Palmyra. Our horses were taken from us and guards escorted us inside. Like King Haytham the tent was big and imposing. The central section was cool and light, courtesy of a ventilation hole cut in the top of the roof. The king rose from the cushions on the carpet-covered floor and we bowed our heads to him. He looked in a relaxed mood in his baggy black leggings and white shirt, his black hair hanging loosely around his shoulders.
‘Ah, you are here, good.’
He walked over and embraced me, then Orodes.
‘You look well, lord king.’
‘You do not have to call me lord, Pacorus. You are, after all, a king yourself.’
In truth I had never been able to put aside my sense of awe when in the presence of Haytham. He was the leader of the entire Agraci people, the man Parthian parents invoked when they wanted to frighten their children. Though he had proved a good friend and valuable ally, he still unnerved me somewhat. He turned to Orodes.