Sons Of the Citadel, page 38
part #6 of Parthian Chronicles Series
‘There is no city of Persepolis.’
Marcus frowned at me when I told him Gallia had sanctioned the sacking of the city after we had taken it, and I was in no mood to rescind her command. He leaned back in his chair; around him pigeonholes filled with hide maps and papyrus sheets. The home he lived in had originally been a gaol holding him and other Roman engineers when they had been captured outside the city. The others had either returned to Rome, or served in Dura’s army, or moved to other quarters in the cities with their wives and families, or moved to other kingdoms in Parthia. But Marcus had stayed and made the admittedly comfortable house his home, from where he organised the logistical support of the army, its siege train and engineering personnel. He had never married and now his hair had mostly gone and his eyesight was failing. But his mind was a sharp as a newly forged gladius.
He pushed a map across the large table, pointing at the city of Persepolis.
‘The city was sacked by Alexander of Macedon three hundred years ago. It never recovered.’
‘Impossible,’ I said, ‘every king of Persis resides in Persepolis. I have official documents in the Citadel archives from there which show the seal of the city.’
He ran a hand over his crown. ‘Indeed, but such seals are symbolic only. In fact, the residence of the kings of Persis is the town of Estakhr, a short distance from the ruins of Persepolis.’
‘A town?’ That makes our task easier.’
He leaned forward. ‘Not necessarily, majesty. My research has revealed Estakhr is a large town enclosed by walls with round towers at regular intervals.’
I dismissed his concern. ‘With your siege engines I’m sure we can make short work of its defences.’
‘It will be good to go on campaign again.’
I was surprised. ‘You will be accompanying us? Your officers are competent, surely?’
He was not best-pleased. ‘Naturally. But I am not yet so decrepit I cannot direct a siege. After all, I was the one who created your siege train, your supply train and the entire logistical support for your army. To say nothing of overseeing the administration of the royal armouries, royal stud farms…’
I held up my hands. ‘I surrender, Marcus, I am delighted you are coming. Get yourself a good horse from the stables.’
‘Horse?’
‘To save your legs.’
He bristled at the suggestion. ‘I am quite capable of walking beside the wagons carrying my siege engines. I am not a cripple.’
‘No one said you were, Marcus.’
‘Is there anything else, majesty?’ he snapped, ‘I have rather a lot to do.’
‘No, no, nothing else.’
I left him poring over his maps and papers, making my way back to the Citadel, an armed escort accompanying me through the streets back to the palace. The royal kitchens had been preparing biscuits for weeks, along with placing orders for smoked and salted meat to feed the army on the march. The armouries near the Citadel were working night and day producing new arrows to replace those lost during the campaign against Mark Antony, though fortunately its warehouses already contained upwards of two million steel- and bronze-pointed arrows. It was a large number but five thousand horse archers could easily shoot nearly five hundred thousand arrows during a prolonged battle. The lords and their men would bring their own ammunition but I knew from bitter experience that when their ammunition was low they congregated at the camel train and whined like small children until they were re-supplied with the army’s arrows.
The air crackled with excitement as word spread the army was marching. It had been many years since the legions had marched in anger but all the while Chrestus had never let standards slip. He lived by the credo drills were bloodless battles and battles bloody drills. The legions were eager to prove themselves once more after the return of the horse archers and cataphracts from the north where they had covered themselves in glory. And in the inns in the city the horsemen never tired of reminding legionaries what they had achieved on the snow-covered plains of Atropaiene. So there was an additional motivation for the legions to excel in the coming campaign.
In many ways the Kingdom of Dura existed to serve and maintain its army. South of the city for a hundred miles farmers cultivated the land previously desert when there was war with the Agraci. But now the land, made green and fertile by the waters of the Euphrates, produced fodder for the army’s horses and grazing for the herds of cattle, oxen and goats providing leather and food for its soldiers. Even the palm trees along the riverbank were harvested for their wood and dates for the army’s use. The farmers who worked the land, unmolested by the Agraci and protected by the army’s soldiers garrisoned in small mud-brick forts along the river, prospered and attracted men and women to work on their lands, thus creating villages south of the city. The sons of villagers were now entering the army, for the first time recruits from the city and the kingdom outnumbering those who came from foreign lands.
Cattle, oxen, pigs and goats were slaughtered and their meat salted or smoked to provide the meat ration for the army. Of the meats being taken pork was the cheapest and longest lasting and thus in the majority. Cheese made from cows’ and goats’ milk formed an important part of a campaign diet, as did olive oil, dates and a sour wine mixed with water. But the major part of a soldier’s diet was the hard biscuit, which could last for years under the right conditions, was nutritious and could also be used to patch shields in extremis!
The item occupying the most space in the army’s wagons, however, was fodder, not only oats but also hay, straw, clover, vetch, fava beans and alfalfa. When moving through verdant lands horses could graze but in the arid areas of the empire the army had to haul its fodder. And it was not just horses needing sustenance. Each legion had a thousand mules to carry its tents, spare weapons, scorpions, tools and other supplies. Marcus’ siege engines required heavy wagons pulled by oxen. Even his battering ram, transported on a wheeled platform, required ten oxen to haul it.
On the morning the army marched Rsan and Aaron sat in the room in the Headquarters Building where the council gathered each week, minus Chrestus who was already leading the Durans and Exiles south. In the courtyard Gallia and the Amazons waited on their horses, my wife holding the reins of Tegha. Rsan looked like a ghost, his movements nervous, no doubt in anticipation of the great responsibility I was about to award him.
‘You will rule the kingdom while I am away,’ I told him. ‘If I or Gallia fail to return Princess…’
I was going to say Claudia would rule in my place but my daughter had been taken from the city, perhaps never to return. Even if she did return would she be healed? Isabella would soon be a princess in Sakastan and I doubted Eszter had the skills to rule a kingdom.
‘If the worst happens, Rsan,’ I said, ‘write to King Gafarn at Hatra and ask him to take over the kingdom. Better that than Dura falling into the hands of Phraates.’
Rsan looked down and cleared his throat.
‘If a throne falls vacant and there are no eligible heirs,’ he said quietly, ‘it is customary for any kingdom to revert back to the control of the king of kings. Unless…’
‘Unless what?’ I asked.
‘Unless you were to put your signature to an official document stating your desire to transfer the Kingdom of Dura to your brother in the event of your own and Queen Gallia’s death. Not that I would wish such a thing.’
I raised a hand to him. ‘Draw up the document.’
So I spent the next thirty minutes drumming my fingers on the tabletop while Rsan’s chief clerk penned the document, laying it before me to sign and seal. I did so and walked from the room.
‘God be with you, majesty,’ said Aaron.
I turned to face him. ‘Which one?’
‘There is only one,’ he said sternly.
‘Of course, I had forgotten the faith your follow.’
In the courtyard a restless Gallia tossed Tegha’s reins at me.
‘You took your time.’
‘Rsan was insistent everything should be in order before we left, in case we are killed in Persis.’
I hauled myself into the saddle. Gallia passed me my helmet. I straightened the feathers and put it on.
‘In that event Claudia will become queen.’
‘If she returns.’
She swung in the saddle. ‘Amazons, forward.’
I caught sight of Alaric’s name freshly carved on the granite plaque carrying the names of all dead Companions.
We trotted from the courtyard, guards at the gates snapping to attention as we passed them.
‘She will return,’ my wife told me.
The horses’ hoofs clattered on the paved road leading from the Citadel to the Palmyrene Gate, on either side citizens cheering and waving at us. A few looked pensive and others were weeping. For the second time in less than six months their king and queen were riding to war.
Chapter 12
The march south took us past the mud-brick forts spaced at five-mile intervals both north and south of Dura. Each one was a simple square, walled stronghold ringed by a wide ditch containing a barracks for forty men – half a century – plus stables for four horses. Durans and Exiles usually staffed them but I had stripped their defenders to swell the ranks of the army and so skeleton garrisons of veterans now occupied them.
On the first day we marched thirty miles before erecting a camp in which everyone would sleep and eat, much to the chagrin of my lords who viewed any sort of discipline with disdain. They were particularly annoyed because we were still in their own kingdom and with the wide Euphrates on our left and the desert on our right they saw no reason to build a defensive camp at all. I told them to obey orders for once and sharpen their swords.
‘Our swords are always sharp,’ grinned Kalet.
Gallia and I left him and his incorrigible fellow lords and visited the nearest fort where a detachment of a dozen veterans paraded for our inspection. Their commander was a man in his fifties, olive-skinned with a slight paunch but still looking martial in his metal greaves, mail shirt and helmet with white transverse crest – a former centurion.
I slid off Tegha and Gallia joined me as he saluted and walked with us past his men. All in their forties, they still retained a military air even if their bellies had grown larger and their hair greyer. I nodded approvingly and peered at the silver discs attached to the centurion’s mail armour, awarded for acts of bravery in battle.
‘You have seen some active service, centurion?’
‘I won these at Surkh and Susa, majesty,’ he stated proudly. ‘Then we were fighting Narses and now Dura is fighting another ruler of Persis. Some things never change, it seems.’
‘I will try to ensure you are not here any longer than is possible, centurion. What path did you follow after you left the army?’
‘Farmer, majesty.’
He pointed to the east.
‘My land is near to this fort, majesty. All of these men are from this area. We wish we were coming with you.’
The others banged the butts of their javelins on the hard-packed dirt to signal their approval of his words.
‘I thank you for your loyalty,’ I told them, ‘and hopefully you will be returning to your families and livelihoods soon.’
The treasury would be reimbursing them and all the other veterans who were staffing the forts until the legions returned, much to the annoyance of Aaron who believed the veterans would fill in for the regulars until we returned out of loyalty alone. He was right, they would, but I was unwilling to take advantage of men’s goodwill. There was also the replacement cohort, a training and induction unit garrisoning the city, and which provided Rsan with a degree of comfort. For some reason every time the army marched away to war he imagined enemies would spring from the desert to attack the city.
When we had left Duran territory and reached the barren scrub and desert parallel to the Kingdom of Mesene, I sent Talib and a party of his men across the river to pay my compliments to Nergal and Praxima and request passage for the army through their territory. They returned with my chief scout and a hundred horse archers just as the army was settling down to its evening meal. The day had been sunny but not scorching and the temperature was now very mild. Meals were eaten twice a day – breakfast in the morning and a main meal in the evening – and were always partaken in camp. It was easy enough to surprise soldiers settling down to eat who were more concerned with filling their bellies than maintaining security.
We were being served a meal of cheese, biscuit, wine and dates when our friends arrived, Nergal as gangly and awkward out of the saddle as usual and Praxima all long red locks. The meeting between Gallia and her friend was poignant, my wife weeping as Praxima comforted her. The rape of Claudia had affected us both but Gallia had suffered more and now the walls of her fierceness crumbled to be replaced by a grieving, wounded mother.
‘We are coming with you,’ said Nergal after I had revealed my plans.
‘No, my friend,’ I replied, ‘I will not embroil Mesene in a war against Persis, a conflict undoubtedly widening to involve Media, Susiana and Babylon.’
‘Mesene stands by its allies,’ said Praxima defiantly, stabbing a piece of cheese with her dagger.
‘This is a private matter between me, Gallia, and Prince Alexander,’ I said. ‘I know I can call upon your aid but I have purposely not done so. Ever since I returned from Italy I have always tried to put the interests of the empire first.’
‘That has been your mistake,’ said Praxima harshly.
Nergal frowned at her but I appreciated her honesty.
‘Many of the kings of the empire have proved disappointing to say the least, and yet since the great civil war we all fought in there has been peace in Parthia. Phraates’ reign has got off to a shaky start, I accept, but he has a chance of continuing his father’s work and I will not be responsible for plunging the empire into more internal strife.’
Nergal turned the cup in his hand. ‘If you kill Alexander then Darius will want revenge and will convince Phraates to march against you. In your heart you know this.’
‘He knows this,’ said Gallia.
‘If Phraates marches against Dura then we will go into exile,’ I told them, ‘better that than more bloodshed.’
‘You would give up everything you have built?’ asked Praxima.
I smiled at them. ‘You two, Spartacus and Rasha, even Peroz, are my legacy. If I return to Dura I will give the kingdom to Gafarn rather than see it become the plaything of Phraates.’
‘It is what we want,’ said Gallia. ‘Gafarn and Diana will always have space for a family of vagrants at Hatra, which after all is the place of Pacorus’ birth.’
Nergal and Praxima were most unhappy but I made them both swear they would not return to Uruk to muster their army and follow mine into Persis. They both reluctantly gave their oaths but then Praxima offered to join us as a member of the Amazons and Nergal an ordinary horse archer.
‘It will be like old times,’ joked Nergal.
‘No, my friend,’ I replied, ‘we are monarchs now and cannot act like runaways with no responsibility. Mesene needs its king and queen.’
Praxima picked at the food served to her and Nergal made polite conversation but they retired deeply unhappy and in the morning were both sullen as they rode at the head of the army to the ford across the river. The river was at its lowest ebb, its current slow but it still took many hours to get ten thousand foot, six thousand horsemen, two thousand squires, hundreds of mules and dozens of wagon across the Euphrates, to say nothing of Kalet’s men. Our friends escorted us across the parched landscape of southern Mesene, dust covering our clothes and horses and shemaghs covering our faces as a defence against the sandstorms blasting the army. The Durans and Exiles, marching six abreast, sang their bawdy songs as they headed east. Songs about whores, girlfriends with insatiable sexual appetites and ballads about battle and slaughter. They were in high spirits and eager to get to grips with the enemy, as were we all.
At the River Tigris, which looked exactly the same as the Euphrates in the west, we said our farewells to Nergal and Praxima. Alcaeus and Marcus, the former a Companion, the latter a man who had known them both for over twenty years, both came to bid them goodbye. Gallia shed more tears as she took leave of her friends and Praxima again pleaded to be allowed to accompany us as an Amazon. It cut me to the bone to refuse both her and Nergal but I was insistent there was no place for them in the army. Nergal clasped my forearm and Praxima gave me a tender kiss on the cheek and then they were gone.
It took three days to cross the Tigris, Marcus having to organise tree-felling parties to cut down palms along the riverbank to fashion rafts to ferry the army across the waterway. Talib and his scouts were the first to cross, disappearing into the east to reconnoitre the ground and report back on any potential threats across the river, which was the Kingdom of Susiana. The small sailboats and oared fishing vessels, a feature of both the Tigris and Euphrates, had disappeared as soon as the army had arrived, as had the occupants of the fishing villages dotting the eastern bank of the Tigris in the vicinity. When we began crossing the first patrols of horse archers returned with news the villages had been abandoned, their inhabitants taking all livestock and belongings with them.
‘Even as we stand here,’ said Azad as ten of his cataphracts began leading their horses from a raft nearby, ‘news will soon be reaching Ctesiphon the army of Dura has crossed the Tigris.’
Raft men rammed their poles into the mud of the riverbank to steady the vessel as the last of the horses left the dirt-covered platform.
I was untroubled. ‘Ctesiphon is two hundred miles from this spot and even an able general would be hard pressed to intercept us before we reach Persepolis, or rather Estakhr.’
Azad turned and shouted to Kewab who was briefing a group of cataphract officers to join us. The Egyptian bounded over.
‘The king,’ said Azad, ‘believes we are too far from Ctesiphon for the high king to assemble his army and intercept us before we reach our target. Now, if you were Phraates’ general, what would you do?’
