Peter Darman - Parthian Dawn

‘How magnificent,’ remarked my mother.

‘There’s enough gold in that edging to pay for a palace,’ noted my father.

‘How long do we have to hold it here,’ complained Gafarn, ‘my arms are aching?’

‘What is it?’ asked Gallia.

‘It is called a griffin if I am not mistaken.’ Assur re-entered the chamber with a small, portly man scurrying beside him, who walked over to stand beside me and peered at the banner. He smelt of old scrolls and leather.

‘Mm, yes indeed. A griffin. Head of an eagle and the body of a lion.’

Assur handed him the scroll that came from Dobbai. ‘And this?’

The archivist held it close to his face and started mumbling to himself.

‘You were right, holiness. It is ancient Scythian. I haven’t seen this language written in an age.’

‘Would you care to read it to us,’ requested my father.

‘Read it?’ The archivist looked up and realised where he was. He blushed. ‘Yes, of course, majesty.’ He bowed awkwardly, and then bowed again to my mother. My father waved his hand for him to continue.

‘Can we put it down?’ asked Gafarn.

‘Lay it down on the floor in front of me,’ said my father. As they did so the archivist read the letter. His voice was crisp and a little high pitched.

To Pacorus, King of Dura Europos and son of Hatra, greetings.

Just as you have ended one journey, so you and your bride are about to begin another. Those who are beloved of the gods do not know what path has been set for them, and those of us who are close to the gods are given only glimpses of what they have in store for you. So it is with you, son of Hatra. The gods have given you a great gift in the form of your new bride, and to prove that you were worthy of her you had to throw off your chains and defeat your enemy in the heart of his kingdom. You have fulfilled that part of your quest, but know that it is only one part.

Behold your banner, which is the image of the Griffin, a creature that inhabited the land when the world was young, and when life and death were but a dream. I saw you riding upon this beast in a vision, and knew that it had been chosen for you. The Griffin makes his nest on the high peaks, overlooking his kingdom, safe from his enemies. He has the head and front talons of an eagle and this is appropriate, for your destiny is entwined with the eagles of Rome. You fight them but they are a part of you. The Griffin has the body of a lion, for you will be a lion of the desert when the time of troubles comes. The Griffin has wings to carry him far and wide, just as you will be called upon to go hither and thither to assist those who have need of you. Let the Griffin be your symbol to show the gods that you honour and respect them, so that you are allowed to keep your queen, who has been sent by them to be by your side.

Know you this as well. The white of the background is a symbol of the purity of your cause, and the red of the Griffin will be the blood that will be spilt in your quest. Heed these words, son of Hatra, and obey the gods. For they are watching you.

The archivist handed me back the parchment, then shuffled nervously on his feet. Assur waved him away, leaving us all in silence. All eyes were on me now. My mother looked alarmed, my father bemused, while Assur stared at the banner intently, almost as if he expected it to spring to life.

My father spoke first.

‘It would appear that Sinatruces’ sorceress still takes an interest in you.’

‘So it seems.’

‘You should send it back,’ urged my mother.

‘It’s just a piece of cloth, mother. Besides, I like it. I shall have Domitus inform the legion of its arrival.’

Assur nodded in approval. ‘A wise choice, majesty.’

‘Soldiers are a superstitious lot,’ offered Vata, ‘they’ll see it as a symbol of luck.’

‘Then let us hope that it brings you luck, my son.’ My father stood up and held out his hand to my mother. ‘We are finished here, everyone is dismissed.’

Afterwards I wrote a short letter to Domitus telling him of the banner and instructing him to pass on the information to his centurions, who would inform their men. Then I took it to the armouries to have it fastened to a lance, and afterwards it was rolled around the shaft and covered by a waxed canvas sleeve.

As Gallia fell asleep in my arms I stared at the furled banner propped up in the corner of the bedroom.

In the morning it and we would be marching to Dura.

We rose before dawn and said our goodbyes on the steps of the palace. The legion would already be packing up its tents and workshops and marshalling into its centuries and cohorts, Domitus barking curses and issuing orders as his subordinates organised their men into their ranks. Gallia was dressed in her war gear of mail shirt, leggings and boots, her spatha in its scabbard hanging from her belt, with her dagger tucked into the top of her right boot. Her bow was safe in its case hanging from her saddle, quiver at her hip. Her Amazons, similarly attired, were mounted behind her as she said farewell to my parents, sisters, Gafarn and Diana. The latter was in floods of tears as she hugged her friend. They had been together since the gladiator school in Capua and were now to be apart for the first time in years. Gallia embraced her friend tightly, kissed her on the cheek, put on her helmet and then vaulted onto Epona, her mare that she had brought with her from Italy. If there were tears in her eyes I did not see them, though I noticed that she quickly closed her helmet’s cheekguards, then dug her knees into Epona’s sides and trotted from the square without looking back, followed by her Amazons. My Parthian horsemen, Nergal at their head and my new banner carried behind him, waited on the far side of the square. A guard held Remus’ reins.

My father, dressed in a simple white tunic, sandals and beige trousers, had his arm around my mother’s waist. ‘Try not to get yourself killed down there.’

‘I will try.’

Tears streamed down my mother’s face as I embraced her. ‘May God protect you, Pacorus.’

‘Don’t be sad, mother, I’m only going to Dura not the end of the world.’

My words did not convince her. I kissed Diana and embraced Gafarn.

‘Keep your eye on our parents,’ I told him, ‘see that mother doesn’t get too morose.’

‘I will, and you look after yourself and keep Gallia safe.’

‘Always.’

Vata suddenly appeared, running down the steps as he buckled on his sword belt.

‘Apologies, too much to drink last night.’ He belched loudly, causing my mother to cast a disapproving look at him. He locked me in a bear hug.

‘Farewell, my friend. Keep safe.’

‘You too, Vata, and come to Dura soon.’

He released me and looked round. ‘Where’s Gallia?’

‘You missed her.’

‘That’s a shame. I was going to persuade her to come to Nisibus with me and leave you on your own.’

‘Same old Vata.’

We clasped each other’s forearms. I turned, mounted Remus and rode from the square and the palace of Hatra. We rode out of the city via the northern gates and then wheeled left to meet up with the legion as it marched southwest, towards Dura. It was not hard to find — five thousand men plus dozens of carts and mules moving across baked ground kicked up a big dust cloud. The men marched six abreast along the road that snaked south towards the Euphrates. Unlike Roman roads it was little more than a dirt track, seldom used by the trade caravans that headed west or east to and from Hatra. The day was bright and warm, with a slight easterly breeze that failed to blow away the dust kicked up by the horses.

We joined the long column of foot soldiers a short distance from the city. At the front marched Lucius Domitus, his helmet topped by a large transverse white crest, as usual his vine cane in his hand. He raised it in salute when he saw me and I reined in Remus beside him.