‘It will be good to see your mother again,’ mused my father as I rode beside him on our way south. It was the first time he had mentioned her name since we had left home.
‘Yes, father.’
‘A man without a good woman beside him is an empty shell.’ He looked at me. ‘We will have to find you a wife soon, my son.’
‘Yes, father,’ I replied with little enthusiasm. Royal marriages were used to cement alliances and secure kingdoms; the wishes of those getting married were often of little or no concern.
‘Perhaps the Princess Axsen of Babylon. That would make a good alliance, though if she’s as fat as her father you’ll need a good cook to keep her happy.’
My spirits sank. ‘Yes, father.’
Our conversation was interrupted by Vistaspa galloping up and halting before my father. He saluted. ‘Message from the city, sire.’
He handed my father a scroll. He read it, glanced at me and smiled.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Give the order that we will camp here tonight and enter the city tomorrow.’
‘We are close to the city, father,’ I said. ‘Are we not entering it tonight?’
‘No, Pacorus. We have a surprise for you.’ Vistaspa eyed me and his thin lips creased into a smile. Please Shamash, I prayed, do not let it be the Princess Axsen.
We pitched camp later that afternoon, and two hours afterwards a large camel train appeared from the south, led by an escort commanded by Bozan. He jumped down from his horse, bowed to my father and embraced me.
‘Heard you nearly got yourself killed by some wild bandits. That bastard Darius paid them, no doubt. Probably thought a few thieves could do what a Roman legion couldn’t.’
‘We don’t know that, Bozan,’ said my father.
‘Course we do. You’re just too polite to say so. He’s a greedy little bastard, and he thought that if he killed you, then he could invite the Romans back and present your two heads on a platter to them,’ he nodded at myself and father.
‘Welcome them back?’ I queried.
‘A Roman legion doesn’t wander around in the desert, lost, boy. It was on its way to Zeugma.’
‘Enough,’ spoke my father. ‘These matters are for the council chamber and not for idle gossip.’
Bozan nodded his head and winked at me. ‘In any case, all that matters now is that Pacorus has a great triumph tomorrow.’
I was shocked. ‘Triumph?’
My father smiled. ‘You brought us victory against the Romans, my son. It is only right that the city should acknowledge your achievement.’
Gafarn stumbled out of the dusk carrying a suit of scale armour, the light from our campfires glinting off the scales.
‘Is this made of lead,’ asked Gafarn, ‘because it feels like it?’
‘Iron and silver, you cheeky little bastard,’ replied Bozan.
‘The Suit of Victory,’ said my father. ‘It has been worn only a few times. My father wore it after his defeat of the Palmyrians. Now you will wear it tomorrow.’
I hardly slept that night, but kept looking at the suit of armour that had been hung in my tent on a wooden frame. When the dawn came I kicked Gafarn awake and began to dress. Gafarn brought me a breakfast of bread and warm milk, and then went to make sure Sura had been watered and fed. He returned a few minutes later. As I sat on a stool outside my tent finishing my meal, the camp around was bustling with activity. Officers barked orders to men, while grooms attended to horses. As the sun rose in the eastern sky, signaling another glorious summer day, I began the process of turning myself into a cataphract. First came the silk vest, worn next to the skin. My father equipped all his horsemen with these items of clothing. Horse masters from the east had told him that the riders of the steppes wore these garments as protection against arrows. Apparently, if you were struck by an arrow while wearing a silk vest then the arrow would wrap itself around the material as it drove into flesh. This made extracting the arrow easier, though I was unconvinced. Nevertheless, the vest was pleasant to wear and let sweat pass through its fine fibres. Then came white cotton trousers and tunic, both loose fitting for extra ventilation. Gafarn had to assist me putting on the armour, standing on a stool and lifting it over my head to allow me to slip it on. It was beautiful, with long hems and broad sleeves. Every second armour plate was made of silver, which meant the suit shimmered with any movement. Gafarn put on my leather boots and passed me the gloves, which were covered with thin silver scales. The helmet was steel with a decorative gold band around the skull.
‘You look like a mighty warrior, highness,’ said Gafarn, who was beaming broadly.
‘I feel like I’m carrying a mighty weight. But I thank you for your help.’
I stepped outside my tent, to be cheered by my father’s bodyguard who stood mounted and at attention. White pennants on their lance shafts fluttered in the light breeze, and white horses chomped at bits and kicked at the ground in impatience. In the royal bodyguard all horses were white, and their highly groomed tails swished from side to side. The bodyguard wore white plumes in their helmets and white cloaks around their shoulders. They looked truly magnificent, none more so than my father, who wore his golden crown atop his open-faced helmet. On this occasion, as befitting his position as the commander of my father’s bodyguard, Vistaspa carried his banner — a white horse on a scarlet background. I saluted my father and then mounted Sura, who wore her body armour though none on her head, as it was restrictive and not needed today.
Trumpets sounded the advance and our column left camp and headed south, to Hatra. It was still morning when we sighted the city, a massive citadel of stone in the middle of a desert called Al Jazirah. There were four roads into the city, from the north, south, east and west. We were on the northern road, which today was lined with the troops of my father’s army. Ranks of cataphracts and horse archers lined each side of the dirt road for a mile up to the main gate. There must have been five thousand horsemen, while on the city walls I could see spearmen standing to attention. As we entered the final leg of our journey we were met by Bozan and his son, Vata. They stood mounted on the road, and before them stood a foot soldier holding the Roman eagle that I had taken. Bozan and Vata drew their swords, saluted my father and I, and then took their place in the procession immediately behind my father and Vistaspa. The soldier with the eagle marched at the head of our column directly in front of me. As we passed each group of horsemen on the road, the lances of the cataphracts were dipped in salute, as were the drawn swords of the horse archers.
Hatra was a city of one hundred thousand people, and as such occupied a large area. The whole of the city was encompassed by an outer stonewall fifty feet high, made of large square blocks of brown limestone, with defensive towers at intervals of every hundred feet. Access to the city was via four gates at each of the four points of the compass. In front of the city walls was a deep, wide ditch, with wooden causeways spanning it at every gate. At the gates were drawbridges, wooden platforms with one hinged side fixed to the wall and the other side raised by chains, which were pulled up at night to seal the city. For added security, each gate had two portcullises — heavy grilled gates suspended from the gatehouse ceiling. They could be rapidly dropped down if the city came under attack. They were made of oak bars and had iron spikes at the bottom. Held in place by ropes, they could be released quickly by slashing those ropes.
Inside the city, in its northern sector, stood an area surrounded by a second stonewall. This was the palace quarter, which also housed the imperial barracks bloc, the city’s temples and the houses of the aristocracy. This inner city also had four gates, which were more like small citadels than mere gatehouses.