Peter Darman - Parthian Vengeance

It had been three years now — many months spent preparing for an attack I was sure would come. While the trade caravans travelled east and west along the Silk Road transporting the precious material, ivory and spices from China through the Parthian Empire to fulfil the insatiable demand of Egypt and Rome, my army prepared. Every day the mud-brick forts that had been built north and south of Dura kept watch for an army that might attempt to approach the city by surprise; every day I received the same reports — there was no sign of any hostile forces. It had been over three years since the death of Phraates, the king of kings who had supposedly died of a broken heart, brought on by my having stormed the city of Uruk. This city was the capital of the Kingdom of Mesene and the residence of King Chosroes, the man who had marched an army to Dura and had attempted to storm it. But his army had been destroyed in front of my city and then I had captured Uruk and Phraates had supposedly taken his own life. The empire was now ruled by his son Mithridates, the man I had long suspected of being responsible for the death of his father. And ever since I had waited and prepared for the day when Mithridates would send an army against me. The days, weeks and months passed and nothing happened.

‘Not this again,’ barked my opponent.

Lucius Domitus came at me again with a thrust of his sword over the top of his shield aiming the blow at my own shield. Normally he would attempt to thrust his short sword — a straight, double-bladed weapon — into my neck or face. But as we were only practising and I was his friend he put aside the pleasure of killing me. Domitus, like many Romans, was shorter than me, by around six inches. Muscular, crop haired and uncompromising, he had been by my side since we had fought together under Spartacus in Italy all those years ago. He stabbed my oval shield — modelled on the Roman scutum — again with the point of his sword, forcing me back once more.

‘It’s a good job we’re doing this for sport otherwise I would have killed you twice by now.’

I rested my shield on the ground. ‘You’re right, my mind’s elsewhere today. My apologies.’

‘Daydreaming about Mithridates again?’

I smiled. ‘How did you guess?’

He sheathed his sword. ‘It’s written all over your face. Come on, you’re no use to man or beast today.’

He began walking back to the camp, a sprawling collection of tents enclosed within a mud-brick wall half a mile from Dura.

My city was located on the west bank of the mighty River Euphrates and the dues raised from the caravans crossing the river were not Dura’s only source of revenue, but they were crucial to the kingdom’s prosperity. When the animosity between myself and ‘King of Kings’ (so called) Mithridates had escalated into open warfare, he had decreed that no trade caravans were to travel through the Kingdom of Dura Europos. I had at first been greatly alarmed at this, but the royal order had been ignored by the merchants and had earned Mithridates the wrath of China’s emperor and Egypt’s pharaoh. No wonder — the route through my kingdom saved merchants around a month’s journey time. Time was money and money was too important to be compromised by the arguments of kings.

After the humiliation of Chosroes’ defeat and his father’s death I had expected Mithridates to march against me but nothing had happened. Now, with the beginning of a new year, I again began to wonder if the king of kings would send an army against Dura.

‘You waste your time dwelling on what will never happen,’ said Domitus, handing me a cup of water as I sat in his command tent in the middle of the camp.

‘He must come sometime. This kingdom’s existence stands as a physical affront to his authority.’

Domitus shrugged and sat in one of the chairs opposite me.

‘A man, and I use the term loosely when referring to Mithridates, thinks twice before going up against someone who has won as many victories as you have. In any case he prefers to let others do his fighting for him.’

I emptied the cup and then toyed with it, turning it round as I held it in my hand. What Domitus said was true enough. Mithridates had achieved the high crown probably through murder but every day that I ruled at Dura was a personal insult to him. And I knew that he would like nothing more than to see me dead and my kingdom destroyed. I placed the cup back on the small table beside me and stood up.

‘Perhaps you are right. But when he does come I will be ready. Same time next week, Domitus?’

‘Same time, same place. But don’t bother turning up unless you are in the right frame of mind. It’s no fun if you don’t put up a fight.’ I raised my arm in acknowledgement and left his tent.

I am Parthian and that will never change, but my time in Italy, first as a slave and then fighting in an army of slaves under Spartacus had given me the opportunity to see at first hand the military methods of the Romans. They had left a lasting impression upon me. Parthians were famed for their great armies of horsemen but these armies lacked discipline. Most kings in the empire had small retinues of professional soldiers, mainly mounted personal followers and palace guards. In times of war they would call upon the lords of their kingdoms to furnish them with thousands more troops, tens of thousands in some cases. But these soldiers followed their vassal lords, fighting around them in battle and doing their bidding. And when the fighting stopped they went with their lord back to the farms they worked on his lands. In Italy Spartacus had trained and organised his army along Roman lines, with the exception of his mounted arm, which I had commanded. We had beaten the Romans on many occasions but I had seen how effective Roman discipline and organisation had been and was determined to combine them with Parthian tactics. When King of Kings Sinatruces had given me my own kingdom, may Shamash bless his memory, I had the opportunity to put my ideas into practice. The result was the camp I was now strolling through, a giant rectangle that housed tents arranged in neat rows and blocks, workshops, stables, hospital, granaries and a parade ground. The oiled leather home of Domitus, the large and well appointed headquarters tent, stood in the centre of the camp. Either side of it were two smaller tents containing the legionary standards. Guards ringed these three tents.

As I made my way to the camp’s stables I encountered one of the Companions. Gruff, burly and the veteran of many battles, Thumelicus was a German who had fought beside my friend Castus, a fellow German, now long dead, in Italy.

‘How are your skills with the short sword progressing, Pacorus?’ I may have been a king, but all the Companions were allowed such familiarity. Discipline in Dura’s army was strict for all, but there were no ranks between those who had served under Spartacus.

‘I think I might be getting the edge over Domitus,’ I lied.

He raised an eyebrow at me. ‘Really?’

I shook my head. ‘No, not really.’

He looked round at a century of legionaries marching past us in its ranks, a centurion at its head barking orders at his charges. He raised his vine cane at Thumelicus in salute, for my German friend was the first spear centurion in the Duran Legion. This status was usually accorded to the bravest, meanest and most ruthless man in the legion. Thumelicus met all these criteria.

‘Perhaps I should ask you to take my place and then we can determine who is the best swordsman in the army,’ I said.

He looked at me with his pale blue eyes. ‘We all know that Lucius Domitus is the best soldier in the army.’