Thunder of the Gods (52 page)

‘See? You can’t back away for ever.’

Marcus grinned back at his attacker.

‘I don’t need to. Here will do nicely.’

He nodded, and with a jerk his assailant staggered forward, staring down numbly at the point of an armour-piercing arrow protruding from his chest. Dropping to his knees, the stricken man’s sword fell from his numb fingers, and Marcus stepped forward to stare at him through the chain mail mask that disguised his identity.

‘Go and meet your ancestors. Whether they’ll consider death at the hands of a crippled barbarian worthy of that
hunar
you all make so much of will be between you and them.’

He swung the mortally wounded man around to show him the bow in Lugos’s hands, another arrow nocked to the string and menacing the second assassin, then pushed him forward to fall face down on the immaculate turf. Stepping towards the taller man with a slow, catlike tread, the Roman raised his swords menacingly.

‘That’s enough, Lugos. The other one has to live, I’m afraid. See what you can do for Martos.’

The taller of the two would-be killers stepped back.

‘No … I …’

‘Thought it would be quick and easy? That it was for the betterment of the empire? Perhaps. And now you think you can talk your way out of this? Stand
still
!’

Quivering, the faceless would-be assassin froze where he stood, and Marcus stepped forward a slow, sliding pace.

‘Like your father, I suspect, I find myself more disappointed than surprised by this turn of events. You sought to kill the king, and take the throne for yourself, confident that the army and priesthood would unite under your leadership. And what now, now that you’ve failed? Perhaps you think you can make it right by grovelling at your father’s feet? Perhaps you can. Even if only because it’s the pragmatic thing to do, to maintain a united facade for the world to see, you’ll be expecting him to forgive you.’

He slid the other foot forward, his gaze intent on the other man’s eyes.

‘Yes, you know he’ll punish you, but it’ll be a gilded cage, won’t it? You’ll keep your rank, and he’ll send you away from the court to lick your wounds, and remove your malevolent presence from his side. Where any other man would be roasted alive, your punishment will be to keep your crown.’

He took the final step, gently resting the point of the longer blade on his opponent’s sword.

‘But when you put an arrow in my friend, you made an enemy of me. And unlike the king, forgiveness isn’t a word whose taste I find it easy to stomach when it comes to those who are close to me.’

The King of Kings started forward.

‘Roman …’

Marcus struck, the long sword’s thrust raising his opponent’s blade in self-defence, the gladius snaking out for the other man’s belly and drawing a frantic low parry while the spatha hacked down at his opponent’s sword hand, severing the fingers wrapped around the jewelled hilt in a spray of blood.

‘
Arghhhh!!
’

Shrieking, he raised the ruined hand, howling in pain and horror at the stumps of his fingers, severed at the lowest knuckle.

‘My hand!’

Marcus stabbed the long sword down into the grass, allowing the gladius to fall point-down into the turf.

‘And now, King of Kings, do as you wish with me.’

The king shook his head, taking the golden cloth in which the gladius had been wrapped and using it to bind his son’s wounds. With a sudden crash the gate through which Marcus and the Britons had entered moments before crashed open, and a dozen guardsmen burst through the copse, their eyes widening at the bloody slaughter spread out before them. Their leader stalked through the trees behind them, sword drawn.

‘Majesty! Mazda be praised, you live!’

He spotted Marcus standing to one side and his pace quickened, the sword’s point rising.

‘No!’

The officer faltered, finding himself faced by his king, then knelt on one knee.

‘Majesty?’

‘No man is to harm the Roman. He was not the assassin here, but my defender. This was the man who sought my death. My own son.’

He pulled away the wounded man’s chain veil, and the guard commander recoiled, his reaction an astonished whisper.

‘It cannot be …’

A man dressed in white silk splashed with dark red blood pushed through the guards, taking in the scene with a look that combined disappointment and resignation.

‘You live, Father.’

He crossed to where Arsaces stood and kissed the king on the mouth, then went down on one knee. The king looked down at him, his expression unreadable.

‘Yes, Vologases. As you see, I live. The assassin was this man.’

The prince looked into his brother’s face without surprise.

‘As ever, Osroes, everything you attempt eventually turns to ashes in your mouth, but this is your worst failure yet.’

He turned back to his father.

‘He sent killers to murder me in my bath, but by chance I was awake early this morning. They broke into my bathing suite only to find it empty, and were overpowered before they could do any more than kill my attendants. You disappoint me, brother …’

He waved a hand at the scene, realising that Marcus was kneeling over Martos.

‘The Briton?’

Lugos stared back at him, his leg covered in his own blood.

‘He dead.’

Vologases walked slowly across to the spot where the dead Briton lay, placing a hand on Marcus’s shoulder.

‘We are dishonoured by this, Roman. For a guest to have been killed in the palace is unthinkable, but for that guest to have been a king …’

Marcus turned and looked up at him empty-eyed.

‘Your dishonour means little to me.’

Vologases nodded levelly.

‘And yet so much to me. And to my father. Your friend the king died in the defence of the most powerful man in the empire, which means that I will stop at nothing to wipe away that stain.’

He stood, turning to his father.

‘This man died in your defence, Majesty.’

Arsaces nodded.

‘He shall be buried as a captain of my household guard who has died in battle, in my own mausoleum. He shall sleep with the kings of Parthia.’

Marcus stood, inclining his head at the king.

‘A great honour. His family will be proud to know he gave his life protecting one so powerful. I must nonetheless report back to Rome that a client king beloved of the emperor died saving the King of Kings’ life, and without full retribution being exacted. That, combined with the siege of a legally ceded fortress town, and the destruction of an entire cohort of legionaries while going about their lawful business in a client kingdom, which had been invaded by King Osroes and his accomplices, Narsai of Adiabene and Wolgash of Hatra …’

He paused to allow the statement to sink in.

‘We all know that wars have been fought over a good deal less. And Rome needs gold, King of Kings. Perhaps the man who stands behind the throne will decide to convince Commodus that your kingdom is ripe for another harvest, persuading the emperor to earn himself yet another triumph by unleashing his army. You know all too well that if Rome turns her fury east then no amount of astute intelligence work is likely to prevent half a dozen legions from repeating Avidius Cassius’s march on this city. Of course, you could simply kill me too, if you think it will prevent the news of this infamy reaching Rome. And if your pragmatism can overcome yet another stain on your honour …’

Vologases raised his hands.

‘If I might add an insight to our discussion, before we talk of yet more bloodshed between our two mighty empires? It seems to me that whilst my brother here and his bidaxs Gurgen were the arrows pointed at my father’s heart, another hand may have been on the bowstring?’

Osroes stared back at them defiantly, his eyes narrowed with the pain of his maimed hand.

‘You think I’m not capable of making my own decisions?’

The prince shrugged.

‘I know you best of all of us, little brother, and I think that while you’re capable of attempting our father’s murder, I’m far from certain that you would have done so without knowing you’d have the support of your fellow kings. Or at least those influential enough to ensure your coronation, were the king and I both to have succumbed to your plan.’

He reached out, taking a grip of the collar of his brother’s armour.

‘So here’s what we’ll do. Our father here is going to entrust the investigation of this attempt on the throne to me, both as his heir and a potential victim. He knows that I’ll be unrelenting in my efforts, but he also knows that I understand the need to exercise the appropriate subtlety. The exercise of power is best achieved with the consent of the ruled. Isn’t that right, Father?’

Arsaces nodded, a sad smile creeping onto his face, and his son continued with the same quiet fury in his voice.

‘So here’s what I intend. I will summon the twelve kings, in our father’s name, and while we wait for them to assemble, you and I will spend some time together in the lower reaches of the palace. The old kings had a few cunning tricks when it came to finding out what they wanted to know, and I’m sure that you and I will soon enough come to a mutual understanding of what happened this morning, and what subtle discussions and alliances might lie behind it. When we assemble the kings there needs to be no further unpleasantness, simply a frank discussion with certain of them as to the thinness of the ice upon which they find themselves. Everyone will know their place in the world once more, and you, you may even still be able to walk among them with your head up. Or perhaps walking might prove a little too much – depending on how long it takes for you and I to reach that mutual understanding I was talking about.’

He paused, staring intently at his brother’s face.

‘Or would you like to spare us both all that unhappiness, and just tell me what I need to know now?’

‘Reinforcements, do you think?’

The northern wall’s duty centurion had summoned Scaurus and Julius shortly after midday on the fifth day after the final abortive Parthian attack, and the two men were looking out over the parapet, Julius using a hand to shade his eyes from the sun’s powerful glare.

‘Another thousand cavalry? They make an impressive sight, but it’s not cavalry that Narsai needs. And besides …’

The men riding into the Parthian camp were clearly a military unit of some nature, each man uniformly equipped with spear, bow case and sword, and all of them wore helmets and had shields strapped to their backs, but there was one glaring absence from their war gear.

‘What use would they be in battle without armour?’

First Spear and Legatus watched as the long column of white-tunicked riders trotted across the plain, each man mounted on a horse with the stature and power to carry a cataphract into battle. The legatus frowned as he stared out at them. The riders splashed through the Mygdonius at a fording point whose waters were already considerably lower than at their height a week before, an advance party of half a dozen men riding forward while the remainder dismounted and watered their horses. Pulling up in front of Narsai’s headquarters, a cluster of tents close to the siege line with a direct view of the gaping hole in Nisibis’s northern walls, their leader dismounted and strode forward with a pair of men on either side, while the sixth walked slowly towards the fortress, raising his hands to show that they were empty.

‘I don’t like the look of this.’

The newcomer was a distant but clearly visible figure, and as the Romans watched, the men guarding the tent threw themselves full length before him. A murmur of sound reached the walls, as the Parthian army woke up to the presence of the new arrival’s apparently exalted status.

‘Could that be …?’

Scaurus shook his head doubtfully at his first spear.

‘The King of Kings? I wouldn’t have thought so. He’s too old to be riding round his kingdom on a war horse, and I’d have thought that his arrival would have been announced with a good deal more fanfare. But I’ve an idea who it might be …’

The tunic-clad figure walked with deliberate care towards the improvised wall, now fifteen feet high, and stopped within shouting distance, his face partially hidden by the chain mail that hung from his helmet.

‘His Majesty Prince Vologases of Parthia has ridden from the imperial city of Ctesiphon at the head of the King of Kings’ Immortal Guard, at the direction of his father Arsaces, Forty-Fifth of his noble line, King of Kings, the Anointed, the Just, the Illustrious, Friend of the Greeks! His Majesty respectfully requests the presence of Legatus Gaius Rutilius Scaurus at a negotiation to determine the fate of the city of Nisibis! Further, His Majesty has bidden me tell you that time is pressing in this matter, and so further requests your attendance to be as prompt as can be managed given the obstacles to your leaving your fortress!’

Scaurus leaned out over the wall’s rampart.

‘I already have the fate of the city looked after quite nicely, thank you! And I decline the invitation to attend this
negotiation!
Rome still remembers the fate suffered by our general Marcus Licinius Crassus at Carrhae!’

The messenger looked up at him, putting both hands on his hips and allowing an impatient tone to creep into his voice.

‘I suggest that just this once, Legatus, you ignore the lessons you’ve learned from the history books. Prince Vologases has assured me that he isn’t going to be ordering any killing today.’

Scaurus started, and stared down at the man with wide-eyed amazement, while Julius shook his head and barked out a terse laugh, the sound drawing startled glances from soldiers who had grown used to his more usual saturnine view of their situation.

‘You cheeky young bastard! Stay there!’

The legatus hurried down to the temporary rampart and gingerly lowered himself onto the desolate plain of sun-baked mud, picking a careful path over to the waiting Marcus, who saluted crisply and gestured to the Parthian lines, having removed his helmet.

‘You’re out of uniform, Tribune. What sort of effeminate fancy dress do you call that?’