‘Legatus!’
Looking round, Scaurus realised that he was the subject of consternation from the men who had been cleared from the wall’s platform a hundred paces to his right. The centurion who had called his name beckoned with frantic gestures, and he started walking slowly towards them, his attention riveted to the plain below. A sudden, tearing crack echoed across the plain, and for a moment the silence descended again. Then the roar of the released waters reached them, initially distant, then rapidly swelling as the Mygdonius’s pent-up flow was unleashed down the valley, still invisible from the fortress’s walls. As he watched in fascination, the torrent burst into view from the end of the river’s gorge, a wall of furious white water speckled with tiny dots that the horrified legatus realised were boulders and uprooted trees, tossed effortlessly by the flood’s elemental power.
‘Legatus!’
With a start Scaurus realised that he was rooted where he stood, unable to move as the oncoming torrent ripped down the empty riverbed and tore through the trench that had been dug to direct its fury at the wall. As the seething flood reached the trench’s end, the debris carried by its huge power was hurled into the air, flying boulders and tree trunks slamming into the brickwork, punching a dozen holes in the seemingly impenetrable outer wall in an instant, the impacts knocking Scaurus from his feet. The moat between the inner and outer walls was swiftly filling with debris from the destructive impacts and the missiles themselves, while the inner wall was already sagging in one place where a massive tree had punched through the outer rampart and struck its counterpart with stunning force. Grabbing the parapet he pulled himself up again, looking down at the unceasing, raging stream of dirty brown water as it slammed into the fortress’s base.
‘Legatus! Run!’
The stones beneath Scaurus’s feet were shivering, a continual hail of debris spitting from the trench’s end to strike the brickwork with hammer blows that either smashed cleanly through the outer wall or left great cracks in its surface. A dozen paces behind him a bolt thrower was torn from its mount by a flying rock, projectile and debris alike toppling a section of the inner wall onto the roofs below. Staggering as another heavy impact rocked the wall, he ran towards the beckoning soldiers, slowing his pace as the danger of being struck by a piece of debris lessened. Opening his mouth to shout his thanks to the centurion over the torrent’s constant grinding roar, he saw the man’s jaw drop at something happening behind him, and turned to see the entire one-hundred-pace section of the outer wall between two towers collapse into ruin. The raging waters, which had fatally undermined the structure, ripped through the gap, smashing into the similarly weakened inner wall and demolishing a section of equal length in a heartbeat, surging into the defenceless city streets with a crashing, grinding roar as the thousands of bricks from the collapsed defence were carried along in the foaming brown tide. The few people who stood helpless in its path, those who had been too slow or reluctant to evacuate their houses and shops, were washed away in an instant, lost in the muddy brown cataract that boiled through the city’s heart. At the end of the long, straight street, funnelled by the buildings to either side, the torrent slammed into the inner wall on the city’s southern side with the same awful power, crashing through both ramparts and raging out onto the plain beyond.
‘Bastards …’
Scaurus turned at the centurions’ whispered curse, looking out over the Parthian troops closest to the northern walls as they cheered the continuing jet of brown foaming water issuing from the river trench. Their raised spears and shields were the only sign of their rejoicing as their voices were lost in the unleashed waters’ unceasing roar of power that sounded to him like the rage of a vengeful god.
‘They’re rejoicing in their victory over us. They think the city’s wide open, and they marvel at the destruction that the water must be wreaking on us. They believe that when the waters have exhausted themselves they have only to march in through these shattered walls to have us at their mercy.’
Scaurus shook his head, looking back down into Nisibis’s devastated streets.
‘And they may well be right.’
Artapanes led the three men into a room thirty paces square, their entrance a man-sized door while a pair of iron reinforced doors wide and tall enough to admit a horse and rider were situated in the far wall. He had come to them an hour after dawn that morning, the fifth day after their arrival in the city, and had bidden them to dress in the garb in which they had travelled from Nisibis. Their garments had been cleaned and returned to them in the night; Marcus’s bronze armour polished to a high shine, his boots similarly gleaming. The Roman’s arm had been secured to his chest in a linen sling, the priest nodding his satisfaction at their appearance before beckoning the friends through their quarter’s door. Following him through a series of dimly lit corridors, and at one point through a walkway so cool Marcus was sure it had to be a tunnel, they emerged into what the priest called the anteroom, blinking in the light of dozens of blazing torches.
‘You are to meet with the King of Kings, as promised. The King of Kings wishes to express his thanks for your selfless act in returning his son to him, and may well compliment you on your sense of honour in sparing King Osroes’ life. There are rules to be obeyed in the presence of the King of Kings, and any deviation from those rules will place you in grave danger from the men who serve him.’
Artapanes raised a finger.
‘One. You will offer the King of Kings your abasement in proskynesis. Two. You will speak only when the King of Kings requests your voice to be heard. Three. You will under no circumstances contradict any statement made by the King of Kings or those members of his royal court who accompany him.’
He looked hard at Marcus, his kohl-accentuated eyes glittering brightly.
‘This is not the meeting of a Roman ambassador with the King of Kings, it is a private audience to allow one man to offer his thanks to another for the safe return of his son. This is the only audience that you will have with the King of Kings, and when it has been concluded to our master’s satisfaction, arrangements will be made for you to be returned to the place from which you sailed with King Osroes. You must translate these instructions to your comrades for they are as bound to this strict code as you yourself.’
Marcus nodded, masking his disappointment.
‘And King Osroes? How is the king’s health?’
The priest shrugged.
‘I know little. The palace is a place of secrets, and the well-being of a royal prince is not a subject fit for the speculation of commoners such as myself. Since you clearly care as to the result of your journey to bring him here for treatment, however, I will tell you the little I have heard. And little of that is good. King Osroes remains unwell, and does not respond to the ministrations of the palace physicians, who have collectively decreed that only time and rest can aid his recovery. And with that question answered to the best of my abilities, I must tell my master that I have delivered you to this place, and that you are ready for your audience. Wait here.’
He left the anteroom, ordering his escort of guards to watch the three men while Marcus explained the rules of their forthcoming audience to his companions. Martos shrugged and sat down on the floor, grimacing up at Marcus.
‘Hundreds of miles by boat being rained on, shot at and insulted by that Parthian animal Gurgen, and now we have to sit on our arses while that devious priest goes to do who knows what. I was hoping that this King of Kings would prove worthy of the effort it’s taken getting to meet him, now I’d settle for not being executed for his amusement.’