‘King Martos has come to understand the term “barbarian”, Majesty, although he speaks little Greek. He also understands the reason for its use.’
‘Does he speak Latin?’
‘He does, Majesty. His father recognised that a knowledge of our tongue would help him in defending his kingdom.’
Arsaces chuckled.
‘Although clearly it was insufficient to prevent him from becoming your slave?’
Marcus gestured to Martos, who stood impassively.
‘King Martos is no slave, Majesty. His kingdom is allied with Rome, but not occupied by our army. He lost his eye fighting to free his people from the rule of a usurper who killed his wife and children, a battle that he won, with the aid of Rome.’
The king thought for a moment, then dismounted from the horse, handing his magnificent helmet to the herald.
‘Then on this day of gratitude I shall break my vow, once and once only, and speak in a language you all understand.’
He switched seamlessly from Greek to Latin.
‘And since I am greeting a king, I shall offer him the respect that his position demands. You may kiss me, King Martos.’
The Briton froze for a moment, but before the courtiers had chance to take umbrage, Marcus whispered a single word in Brythonic.
‘Cheek.’
Nodding, Martos stepped forward, bowed deeply and then pressed his lips to Arsaces’s cheek. The Parthian nodded, and, stepping away, Martos bowed deeply again before resuming his position beside Marcus.
‘And you, Roman? Am I to receive no more recognition than a bow from you?’
Marcus raised his left hand in an apologetic gesture.
‘Majesty, as a Roman ambassador I can offer you nothing more, for the Roman state cannot countenance any show of submission to a foreign kingdom, no matter how exalted. Nor do I have a gift to offer. Were I armed I would present you with my sword, handed down to me by my father and the possession of a long line of men dedicated to the service of our people, but since you already possess my sword, I have nothing to offer but my undying respect for your long and fruitful reign.’
The king swung to look at the general standing behind him.
‘Such a weapon must surely be honoured. Bagadates, you have it safe?’
The chief priest inclined his head respectfully.
‘I do, Majesty.’
Nodding satisfaction, Arsaces turned back to face Marcus.
‘No gift is required, Roman. You spared my son’s life in battle, and then you risked your life to bring him to me by the fastest possible route in order that he might be treated by my physicians. No man wishes to be so cursed as to bury his own son, even at my age. No gift could have been as precious to me.’
He bowed slightly to the Roman.
‘And your companions. King Martos stood over my son in an arrow storm, I am told by his bidaxs Gurgen, and the giant was wounded ensuring his escape. You too both have my gratitude. And as tokens of my everlasting thanks for his return …’
He waved a hand at the herald, who stepped forward and presented him with a silk bag.
‘Wear these gifts, my friends, and when you look at them be reminded that the King of Kings is for ever in your debt.’
He handed each of them a gold ring. Marcus looked at his, finding it decorated with the image of Arsaces’s head in profile.
‘No man in any kingdom I reign over will be able to deny that you have my favour, for the image on those rings is unmistakably mine. See the mark on my forehead?’
He pointed to his brow, showing them a skin lesion that had been covered by his grey hair.
‘It is the mark of the men who ruled the first Persian empire, the proof that my dynasty can be traced back to Ataxerxes the Long Handed, ruler of an empire so great that it challenged the Greeks themselves.’
Marcus bowed again, and the king smiled.
‘And so you will leave Ctesiphon with my gratitude, Roman. You will be escorted to your ship, and granted free passage back up the river to your own people.’
He paused, his face crinkling into a smile.
‘And have a care, Marcus Tribulus Corvus, should you face my warriors in battle again. Many among my armies will mark you as a man whose death would make their name in an instant.’
He turned and walked from the hall, his courtiers turning to follow him. The last to do so was his son Vologases, whose stare lingered on Marcus for a long moment before he too swivelled on his heel and left the room. The priest Artapanes waited until the hall was empty once more, eyeing the pile of dung with disappointment.
‘As well as could be expected, despite the poor omen and your insistence on refusing to follow the protocol I laid out for you. Come then, let us return to your place of safe keeping. Tomorrow you will return to your ship and leave the city, counting your blessings that you have survived your time in Ctesiphon and vowing never to return.’
‘The walls are breached on both sides of the fortress. Our supplies have been depleted significantly by flood water, and while the mud is still being dug away from the grain stores it’s estimated that we’ve lost over half of the food that was in storage. We have over five hundred dead, and bodies are still being recovered from the filth that chokes the streets and houses with every hour that passes.’
Scaurus paused, looking round at his officers.
‘On the other hand, the fact that we had some brief warning of the flood gave us time to evacuate most of the off-duty soldiers who would probably have drowned. The legion is still effective, and so is Prefect Petronius’s cohort. We can still hold out for two or three months with the grain we have left, most of the bolt throwers are still operative, and Centurion Avidus and his pioneers are supervising temporary defences. Does anyone want to add anything?’
Julius raised a hand.
‘My biggest question is just how long it’s going to take for the mud to dry?’
Scaurus acknowledged the question’s pertinence with a nod.
‘Good question. Centurion Avidus?’
The African raised his vine stick.
‘For those of you who’ve been too busy digging out weapons and food, the river’s back inside its banks now but it left a thick coating of mud behind as it washed away, so thick that when the Parthians tried to attack they weren’t able to get anywhere close to the walls.’
Petronius’s glum face brightened slightly. Predicting that the enemy would attempt to storm the breaches in the walls, he had ordered the bolt throwers to be hurriedly dismantled and rebuilt on either side of the gaps. When the Parthians had attacked, an hour after the waters had receded, their advance had first been slowed and then halted by the mud, horses and soldiers unable to move any faster than they could tear each foot from the clinging sludge. Faced with the onslaught from the Roman artillery, they had retreated back to their siege lines leaving several dozen men spreadeagled in the mud, their blood sprayed across the tan surface where each man had been targeted and brutally killed by the bolt-thrower crews.
‘I walked around on the stuff for a while this afternoon, carefully, mind you. It’s as deep as a man in some places, and I took my armour off first.’
‘And?’
‘It’s hard to say, Legatus. There’s a crust formed on the top, but if I trod down in the wrong place my foot went straight through. It’s not going to get very much drier overnight, so I’d bet that crust won’t be baked strong enough to hold a man’s weight until midday tomorrow, when the sun’s been on it for a few more hours.’
Scaurus looked at his men with a look of calculation.
‘So, not much more than twelve hours from now we might find ourselves under massed infantry attack, because if Narsai can read the signs as clearly as we can, he’ll dismount his entire force and send it in on foot. I’d put the spear men in first with the archers behind them, and then, once they have a foothold, the knights to punch a way into the city and open us for a full-scale assault. And if they get into the city then we’ll struggle to stop them, because there are just too many ways for them to get around any defence we throw up. If we’re going to hold Nisibis, gentlemen, then we have to stop the enemy before they get over what’s left of the walls and into the city. Shall we go and take a look?’