CHAPTER V

THUMELICATZ CAST HIS eye over his four Roman guests as Aius rolled up the scroll and Tiburtius prepared to read from the next instalment. ‘Another dose of irony, I would think you’d agree, gentlemen: the Empress of Rome, through her malice, showing my father the importance of mistrust and the necessity to hold your nerve against anybody with a proven record of lying; and that’s just about anyone who’s manoeuvred their way to power.’

The younger brother stirred himself, snapping out of some reverie. ‘It was a calculated risk on Lucius’ part to deny everything to Augustus; he had nothing to lose. I would have done the same had I been in his position.’

Thumelicatz raised his eyebrows. ‘Nothing to lose? He was Augustus’ joint heir.’

‘Yes, but he must have been aware, even then, of the ambition that Livia had for her sons. She had persuaded Augustus to make Drusus the foremost general in the empire and, with the glory he’d already won, had he survived he, rather than his dour elder brother, Tiberius, would have been the obvious heir to Augustus if Lucius and Gaius somehow disappeared. But with Drusus now dead and Tiberius in self-imposed exile in Rhodos, she had started to plot Gaius and Lucius’ removal so that Augustus would be forced to fall back on Tiberius. Lucius calculated that if she was lying in order to frighten him into admitting his guilt to Augustus, thereby making all his other denials suspect and greatly losing favour with his adoptive father, then Augustus would believe him if he denied the accusation. However, if she wasn’t lying and Augustus knew for certain that he had been responsible for the arson then he might as well still deny it at first and then admit it later under duress as the result would be exactly the same: all his past misdeeds would be exposed and he would be less in Augustus’ eyes.’

‘So you believe that Lucius thought that Livia was trying to undermine him?’

‘Of course she was and most people suspect that it was her who was eventually responsible for both of the brothers’ deaths.’

Thumelicatz offered round his jar of pickled testicles; there were no takers. ‘My father points to that later in his narrative but he never had any evidence other than circumstantial.’

‘But that evidence is interesting,’ the street-fighter observed. ‘Who became emperor after Augustus? Livia’s elder son Tiberius because Gaius and Lucius both died young; and if half the rumours about Livia are true then I’d say that was more than circumstantial, if you take my meaning?’

‘I do,’ Thumelicatz agreed, ‘but the truth will never be known for sure. However, once again we get ahead of ourselves, Erminatz deals with those deaths later. But first we have the mission to Parthia. Tiburtius, skip the journey out there as it is mainly a description of the sites along the route; the only points of interest are the repeated arguments between Lucius and Gaius. They took a passage across to Greece and then down to Athens and from there by ship again to Antioch in Syria where they were met by two legions and their auxiliaries. From there they marched to Thapscum on the Euphrates, the border between Rome and Parthia; close to the city is an island in the middle of the river.’ He took the next scroll from Tiburtius’ hands and quickly scanned it. ‘Take it from this line: “Gaius’ folly had grown in conjunction with his authority.”’

‘Yes, master.’ The old slave took the scroll back and quickly found the place.

Even though he was only Augustus’ representative and not the Emperor himself, Gaius insisted that he would not cross to the island before Phraates; a Roman should never be forced to wait for a barbarian, he reasoned. Obviously Phraates had the completely opposite opinion and with more justification as he was a king – the King of many Kings to be precise.

‘We’ll be stuck here for ever if you don’t give in!’ Lucius shouted at Gaius as he once more refused his brother’s plea to cross to the island where the pavilions were already set up for the meeting. Gaius’ staff, arranged around the praetorium tent, the command post at the centre of the camp, looked embarrassed at witnessing such a public row between the brothers.

But Gaius was adamant. ‘I will not start negotiations from a position of weakness.’

‘The negotiations have already happened, you idiot; you’re just here to finalise them and sign the treaty in Augustus’ name so that Armenia returns to our sphere of influence. Who gives a fuck who arrives on that island first.’

‘I do.’ Gaius turned to the senior military tribune on his staff, the son of the newly appointed prefect of the Praetorian Guard. ‘Sejanus, see my brother and …’ He looked at me and sneered. ‘… his pet, out.’

Lucius Aelius Sejanus ushered Lucius and me from the tent with much courtesy and many apologies; he was ever anxious to ingratiate himself with people of status. Lucius, fuming at his brother’s intransigence, shook off Sejanus’ guiding arm and stormed from the tent.

I think that it was at this point when Lucius realised that he was the more flexible and pragmatic character of the two and, although I could never say he came to hate Gaius, in the short life that he had left he certainly began to dislike him and stopped looking up to him as an elder brother. He became open to me in his criticism of Gaius and I believe that the enemies of Rome have much to regret from the brothers’ deaths: had they both lived I think their mutual antipathy, sparked at this moment, would have grown and if they had remained Augustus’ joint heirs then that would have been a cause of civil war upon his death. But that was not to be.

For two days Gaius and Phraates stared at each other across the river surrounded by their armies. The Parthians with ten thousand horse archers and half as many heavy cataphract cavalry, a riot of colour with the gay caparison of the horses, the flags and banners and then the garish dress of the Parthians themselves, all camped in a haphazard manner, contrasted with the regimented lines and dull colours of a Roman camp and its occupants. Immediately my sympathy lay with the Parthians as I beheld a people of colour, irregularity and pride. I was reminded of my own people and their free, unordered life where a man was able to display his wealth and prowess in his dress rather than all wearing the same colourless toga or the same russet tunic of the legionaries. There, across the river, I saw individuals, the first I’d seen since coming to Rome, and my yearning to go home grew more intense. Not that Romans aren’t individuals, they just manifest it in different ways so that, to an outsider, they all seem very similar. And, as I stood looking at the Parthians, a quarter of a mile away across the river, I got to the core of the Roman character: their soldiers look the same; their elite in the senatorial and equestrian classes dress the same and follow the same career path, and although there is intense rivalry between them for status and position they all want the same for Rome and will put aside personal differences and strive together for that. So, I reasoned, if that were true then surely they could all be predicted to act in the same way given a certain set of circumstances that threatened Rome and therefore, by extension, themselves and their families; their strength in their unity and ability to act as one, the strength that makes the legions invincible if taken head on, could also be their weakness. If I could force them into a predictable course of action then I would not need to take them head-on because I could make them come to me, to a place of my choosing, to a place where they would not expect me to be. And it was with that germ of a thought, the way that had so far eluded my father on how we might be able to rid Germania of intruders, going around my head that I joined Lucius in his next piece of extravagance.

There were many boats in Thapscum, mostly belonging to fishermen, so it was with ease that we managed to cross the river to the Parthian camp. In order that there could be no doubt that we were Roman military tribunes and not spies we both wore our bronze, muscled breastplates, greaves, military cloaks and helmets – mine was a beautiful cavalry helm with a removable lifelike mask that had been Lucius’ gift to me when we had kitted ourselves out in Rome; he had found it amusing to give me the mask, saying that it made me look more Roman because it hid my barbarian features.

‘My name is Lucius Julius Caesar,’ Lucius informed, in Greek, the Parthian guards on the jetty as our fisherman brought us gently alongside, ‘and I wish to see King Phraates.’

Ever since Alexander’s conquest, Greek has been the common language of the better-born men of the East – indeed, it is said that a man can travel all the way to far-off India and still be able to make himself understood with just the use of Greek.

The officer commanding the guards firstly looked astounded at Lucius as he jumped out of the boat and then he burst into laughter. ‘There is only one Roman the Great King wishes to meet and I can assure you, young lad, that you are not he.’

Lucius had little patience with underlings and even less with underlings whom he considered ill-mannered and patronising. With no care for the fact that he was within the enemy camp, he stepped up to the Parthian officer, who was twice his age, and, grabbing him by the beard, pulled him close so that their noses almost touched. ‘You evidently are not aware to whom you’re talking so I shall make this easy for you. I believe that your master, Phraates, is extremely fond of impaling people who displease him; when he finds out that you did not pass on the fact that the younger son of the Emperor of the Romans wanted to speak to him I think that’ll displease him immensely. Have you ever tried having anything bigger than a cock up your arse?’

The startled officer evidently had not and was not of the inclination to start experimenting with larger objects now; uncertainty played on his face as he stared at the sixteen-year-old youth who had bearded him, and calculated whether he was who he claimed to be. His men stepped forward, drawing their swords; the officer signalled for them to move back. He took Lucius’ hand and pulled it from his beard, his mind made up to cooperate with the arrogant Roman youth, despite his shattered dignity. ‘My most humble apologies, noble sir; you will understand that I had no way of knowing that you really were whom you claimed to be.’

‘I will understand no such thing; the only thing that I will understand is: “will you please follow me; I will take you to the Great King’s tent and inform his steward that you have requested an audience”.’

The officer gave a wan smile, completely defeated. ‘Noble sir, please follow me.’

‘What if he detains you and holds you hostage?’ I asked Lucius as we waited to be called into the Great King’s presence, sipping a frothy drink that made our tongues tingle but was remarkably refreshing.

‘And why would Phraates do that?’

‘To put more pressure on Gaius to travel to the island first.’

‘And thoroughly annoy Augustus at the same time? He’d be mad to, just as he’s finally got a settlement with him that should hold for a generation or so and may even have secured the execution of his four half-brothers. No, Phraates will just listen to what I have to say and then he’ll take my advice and soon we can all leave here very happy, with the exception of that pompous arsehole, my brother Gaius. You will tell me, won’t you, if I start acting like one of those fifty-year-old men who have never led an army and never made the consulship and then puff themselves up within their dignity to disguise their lack of achievement in life?’

‘You can’t blame Gaius; it’s not his fault that Augustus gave him the power and position that no eighteen year old has ever had before.’

‘But it is his fault that he’s trading off relative dignities with the Great King of Parthia.’ He indicated to the vastness of the tent in which we were waiting – it was twice as large as any used by the Romans and served only as a waiting area before admission to the main audience tent. ‘What Gaius doesn’t understand is that the Parthians do things very differently to us. Look at this unnecessary extravagance; does Phraates really need such a large tent for us to wait and take refreshments in? Of course not; but he probably doesn’t even know that he’s got it. It’s his courtiers who do such things because the greater they make their king the more important they feel themselves to be. It’s about pride and pride is not going to let them allow their Great King to look inferior to an eighteen-year-old Roman no matter that he is the adopted son of the Emperor. Phraates knows that and so, therefore, won’t countenance going to the island first because to do so would be to show weakness, and weakness in a Parthian king is punishable by death at the hands of a usurper. Gaius, however, doesn’t have those constraints and should just be pragmatic and get on with it. No one here is going to laugh at him for waiting for Phraates. Rome’s power won’t be diminished because little Gaius had to hang around on an island for an hour of two; Augustus isn’t going to admonish him just because he blinked first. No one in Rome gives a fuck.’

A chamberlain entered, softly clearing his throat as he pushed the curtains aside and glided in. ‘The King of Kings, the Light of the Sun, Lord of East and West and Terror of the North has deigned to admit you into his presence.’

‘How gracious of him,’ Lucius said without a hint of irony before adding, under his breath so that only I could hear: ‘And now I shall deign to show the proud bastard a way to save his bearded face.’

There was a general murmur of disapproval as neither Lucius nor myself even so much as bowed our heads let alone made the full prostration on our bellies before Phraates as protocol dictated. The chamberlain who, whilst escorting us into the royal presence, had insisted that we made the proskynesis looked up at us aghast as we stood before the king, next to his prone form, no doubt terrified that he would get the blame for such uncouth manners. Lucius might have complained about Gaius’ standing too much on his dignity but he was not about to grovel before an Easterner, whatever the cost, especially one who was only a couple of years older than him. Phraates, however, seemed unconcerned about the lack of protocol; in fact he seemed unconcerned about anything as he sat on his high throne staring with dull eyes and a vacant expression into the middle distance somewhere above our heads. His beard, its sparseness betraying his youth – he was eighteen at the time – had been dyed purple and his shoulder-length, ringletted hair was held in place by a golden kingly diadem encrusted with rubies and pearls. Nothing about his countenance gave any indication that he had noticed our arrival in a pavilion that more than did justice to the size of the antechamber. Its sides were raised to allow a cooling breeze to waft between the many carved wooden poles that supported the lofty roof; all over the floor carpets were strewn of such intricate weave and variance of colour that each one seemed to be a work of art in itself. And within its expanse, having all performed the full proskyneses, stood the nobility of Parthia.

Standing next to the throne was a man of very advanced years; he was leaning on a staff, his back bent by time that had also thinned his beard and hair and reddened his eyes. ‘What brings you across the river, Lucius Julius Caesar? Why do you disturb the Light of the Sun’s peace?’

Lucius stood erect and looked directly at the king as he responded to the king’s mouthpiece. ‘We hope that we do not inconvenience the Light of the Sun; on the contrary, we have crossed the river to offer a solution to a problem and help ease his mind.’

There was a flicker of interest in the otherwise immobile face of the Great King.

‘Then speak,’ the mouthpiece ordered, ‘so that the Light of the Sun may judge your words.’

Lucius paused for a few moments, looking down at his hands clasped before him, as if considering how best to frame his words to the Great King. ‘There are times when for the sake of appearances, appearances need to be changed. The Light of the Sun will not travel to the island before my brother Gaius who, in turn, will not travel to the island before the Light of the Sun. Now, whatever the rights and wrongs of this situation may be, it leaves us with an impasse that will result in the treaty negotiated between our two great powers not being signed whilst we sit here in the sweltering heat achieving nothing. I therefore have a proposal: Gaius will travel to the island if the Light of the Sun appears to have already arrived on it. All that has to happen is that the Great King’s entourage and banners cross the river; when Gaius sees that he will think he has won the standoff and will sail over, at which point the Light of the Sun can embark and arrive after him.’ Lucius spread his hands and raised his eyebrows to emphasise the simplicity of the plan and all eyes turned to Phraates for his reaction.

It was slow in coming and was surprising when it did finally arrive: Phraates looked at his mouthpiece and asked his opinion.

The mouthpiece stepped forward. ‘I cannot countenance this; it would mean that I and all of your obedient servants would have to be parted from your presence and wait for the arrival of a puppy of a Roman—’

‘Your dignity is not the issue here, old man!’ Lucius pointed a finger at the mouthpiece. ‘The Light of the Sun asked you what you thought of my suggestion, not whether you found it personally convenient.’

The mouthpiece recoiled at the harshness of the rebuke from one so young and looked imploringly at his master; Phraates remained staring blankly ahead, focusing on nothing.

Lucius pressed him. ‘Answer, old man: would you have your master take my advice at the expense of some personal inconvenience to yourself or would you have him keep your dignity intact and walk away from this place to be known as the Great King who was bested by an eighteen-year-old Roman?’ The sudden, communal intake of breath at the implication that the Great King was anything other than infallible almost whistled in my ears and all eyes went to Phraates to gauge his reaction.

Phraates gave an almost imperceptible nod as the corners of his mouth twitched into what could be deemed to be a smile. ‘Go, son of Augustus, and have your men watch the river soon after dawn tomorrow.’

Again, against all protocol, we turned our backs on the Great King to go.

‘But your friend stays here as surety. If I arrive on the island to find Gaius not there I will depart immediately leaving him behind, alone and impaled.’

I felt Lucius tense beside me and cast me a sidelong glance before he turned back to face Phraates. ‘If you wish someone to stay then let it be me, Light of the Sun.’

‘If I was to force you, a son of Augustus, upon a sharpened stake then we would return to war. However, who would mourn a relative nobody from the dark northern forests – except you, perhaps, Lucius Julius Caesar, seeing as you have been companions now for five years or so. Now go!’

Stunned by the accuracy of the Great King’s information, Lucius opened his mouth to speak and then, thinking the better of it, turned and left the pavilion, leaving me astounded by Phraates knowing who I was.

‘You will dine with my mother and me at my table this evening, Erminatz,’ he said as he rose from his throne, compounding my astonishment by using my Germanic name. Everyone within the pavilion abased themselves before the erect Great King; in my confusion I found myself upon my belly.

We had eaten in near silence for the best part of an hour, entertained by discordant – to my ears, at least – music, created by a variety of pipes, odd-shaped harps and softly struck drums that could change in pitch. I remember feeling a little uncomfortable as, having brought no other clothes, I was still in uniform. The one thing that I had found strange was that his mother was not present as he had claimed she would be; indeed, the company – a dozen, including the mouthpiece – was solely male, but then I reasoned that was only natural as the Parthians are even more assiduous at keeping their women hidden from view than the Greeks. However, the food was sumptuous as one would expect at the table of the King of all the Kings of the Parthian empire. Small white grains that I had never seen before, light in texture, mixed with dried apricots and raisins and nuts, green in hue, served with roasted lamb so tender that the first taste caused me to salivate liberally; there were also stews of chickpeas with …

‘I think we can skip all this, Tiburtius,’ Thumelicatz said, interrupting the old slave; none of his four Roman guests seemed to object. ‘I think you’ll agree, gentlemen, that listing the menu and then giving descriptions of Parthian table manners and dinner dress is irrelevant to our purposes.’ He took the scroll and scanned down it. ‘The one thing of interest is that my father describes how Augustus had given a Greek concubine of outstanding beauty to Phraates’ father, another Phraates, the fourth of that name, as part of the negotiations over the return of the Eagles lost by Crassus at Carrhae. This woman, Musa, soon became Phraates’ favoured wife and he made her son his heir. Musa then persuaded Phraates to send his other sons to Rome as hostages required by a further treaty, seventeen years later. Once all the possible rivals to her son were in Roman hands she poisoned the Great King and put her son on the throne to become the fifth king named Phraates. That in itself is not very interesting or remarkable; what is of interest is what had happened after.’ He handed the scroll back to Tiburtius, pointing to a line. ‘Start from here.’

Phraates wiped his fingers and then put his hand to his chest and gave a huge belch, which in Parthia signals contentment and repletion; all the other diners followed his lead, almost drowning out the music as slaves moved solemnly around removing the remnants of the meal.

Once due appreciation of the meal had been shown, Phraates noticed me for the first time that evening. ‘I know, Erminatz, a surprising amount about the various hostages currently in Rome; my half-brothers, you see, are part of that community and I have agents constantly watching them and they report back to me not only on their doings but also on the others. I’m aware that you and Lucius cause mayhem in Rome and Augustus does nothing to stop you; nor indeed does he even believe the reports of your behaviour. I know that you are the son of Siegimeri, the king of the Cherusci, and that if you manage to return to your homeland you will be king after him. I know, also, that you and your younger brother, Chlodochar, are no longer on speaking terms because you consider him to be too Romanised and therefore conclude that you do not consider yourself to be so. I therefore think it safe to assume that you are, despite your friendship with Lucius Julius Caesar, no friend of Rome’s. Am I right?’

Astounded by the perception of this youthful monarch, I hesitated a good few moments before giving my answer, judging that my position would be more secure if I told him the truth; he would be less likely to have me perching atop an impaling stake should Gaius not get to the island first if I was Rome’s enemy. However, I answered cautiously. ‘If I come into my rightful inheritance, Light of the Sun, then my duty will be to my people.’

Phraates smiled and lifted his bejewelled goblet in a toast to me. ‘That is the answer of a man who suspects that Augustus has ears everywhere; even in this tent. But, although I can assure you that nothing said here will go any further, I won’t press you on the matter. Suffice it to say that I feel that we could be friends.’ With a fractional twitch of his right hand he dismissed the other guests who, bowing low, backed away from the royal presence; only the mouthpiece stayed.

Once the guests had left the tent, a curtain behind Phraates was pulled aside; a woman entered and I almost exclaimed aloud at the sight of her beauty. It was quite literally breath-taking. Her long, silken robes disguised any movement in the lower half of her body, making her seem to glide. Her head was lowered and she did not raise her cosmetically outlined eyes but I could see enough of her face to desire her fervently even though she was more than twice my age. Her skin was pale as the dawn on the first day of the coming of the Ice Gods in May. Her mouth, petite but with full lips, contrasted with her cheeks as an early blooming rose with the Ice Gods’ frost; it had a petulant set to it as if defying you to deny her slightest whim. But it was her hair, piled high and bound by a band of silk with the fringes woven intricately back through that band to make a coiffured diadem around her head, that, despite the beauty of her face, drew the eye: golden-red as the rising sun over a frozen lake; gold but mixed with copper and burnished to a brilliance that I felt that to touch it would be to touch the most precious thing in this Middle-Earth.

And I was not the only man in the room to be entranced. As she approached, Phraates, for all his aloofness, staring into space, could not keep his eyes from her. He rose from his couch and held out his hands for her to take as she drew near. He looked down at her and sighed as if amazed by a beauty that he beheld for the first time; her eyes rose to meet his and they were filled with love and desire that made them warm despite their ice blue paleness. He stroked her cheek and bent to kiss her, their lips touched and parted and I had to tear my gaze away for fear of the jealousy rising in me for this king’s possession of such a woman. I looked, instead, at the mouthpiece, old and wrinkled and smiling at me as if he knew what I was feeling and was revelling in it because those urges came no longer to his withered loins.

‘Mother, have you spent the day well?’

My head whipped round to see who had spoken those words; but there were only the four of us present.

‘Yes, my son,’ the woman said. ‘But I have been counting the hours until this moment.’

I hoped the horror could not show on my face as the truth of the matter hit me.

‘Erminatz,’ Phraates said while still gazing into her eyes, ‘this is my mother, Musa. When she heard that you were accompanying Lucius she requested that she meet you if you seemed to be suitable for our purposes.’

‘I am honoured,’ I replied, my voice hoarse.

Musa left her son’s arms and reclined on a couch; she indicated that I should do likewise as Phraates made himself comfortable next to her. The mouthpiece’s smile had disappeared and he was once more a picture of courtly solemnity.

Musa studied me for a few moments, as if weighing my character; I felt uncomfortable under her gaze as I tried not to imagine the acts that she and her son indulged themselves in. ‘You know what it’s like to be taken from your home and forced to live elsewhere, do you not, Erminatz?’

‘I do, er … my lady.’ I was unsure how to address an incestuous queen.

Musa did not seem overly concerned about the exactness of her title. ‘I was taken from my home in Corinth twenty years ago by Augustus. I was freeborn and, despite my youth, the most successful hetaira in my city, charging a small fortune for an evening of my company. My mother had been a celebrated hetaira and had brought me up well in the art of pleasing men. But beauty is Janus-faced and when rumour of mine reached the Emperor’s ears he took possession of me, despite my freeborn status, and gave me away to a foreign king to secure a deal as if I were no more than a vulgarly painted ornament or a performing monkey.’ She paused and stroked her son’s beard, whilst smiling at me. ‘I suppose you’re wondering what complaints I could possibly have: I’m the mother of the Great King and we rule jointly; I have more power and wealth than I could ever have hoped to gain back in Corinth.’

In more ways than one, I thought.

Musa’s eyes hardened. ‘My pride was stolen. Control over my body was taken from me. Rather than live in a world full of men whom I could pick and choose at will, a different one every night, sometimes returning to a few favourites whether for their sexual performance or their conversation – a hetaira is not just a prostitute, you know?’

I did not but nodded anyway.

‘The skills of our profession are in the whole span of the evening’s entertainment: refined conversation, music-making, dancing as well as the sensual acts that make men part with their money in a way that I’ve always found amusing. But what use are these skills if one is suddenly thrust into a world of women, into the realm of the harem? A world that revolves around only one man, where all the women compete jealously for his attention, his favour and just one night to be given the chance to become pregnant and bring a boy-child into the world; a child who will be your tool to rise above the other women. And I took my chance and became pregnant and over the years wormed my way up the hierarchy using my son as my weapon until I disposed of all my rivals, all other possible heirs and then even of the Great King himself. But there is still one thing that I haven’t disposed of and that is the cause of my loss of pride: Rome. Rome that traded me for her own self-interest in order to get back the Eagles lost at Carrhae. And now she has had them returned I want to take them back again.’

I was stunned by her vehemence that had built as she spoke but understood her resentment, her hatred. She was right: I knew what it was like to have your pride ripped away and control taken from your life and be placed against your will in an environment that was not natural for you. I knew that only too well; and there she was, an incestuous, husband-murdering queen, and I sympathised with her. ‘I would love to see you do that, my lady.’

She threw her head back and gave a short laugh. ‘So would I, my strong young Germanic warrior, so would I. But I’m afraid that I never will. Not even the Romans are stupid enough not to have learnt from Carrhae; they will never put themselves out in the open desert at the mercy of our massed cavalry again. We will only fight little wars with them now, skirmishes compared to the Carrhae campaign. But you, on the other hand, have legions roaming around your land; legions with Eagles; legions with Eagles waiting to fall. You could do what I cannot now; you could take back Rome’s Eagles and help me restore my pride.’

I looked at her, this murderess, this lover of her own son, this beauty filled with cold hatred, this Ice Queen and I knew that, regardless of all that she was, I could not, would not, refuse her request. Even if I’d had no desire to humble Rome in the way she wanted, I would have done it for her, no matter the cost, but how I should do it was beyond me. ‘What makes you think that I’d be able to do such a thing, my lady?’

Musa smiled and it pierced my heart. ‘Already you are trusted by Rome; you are Lucius’ companion and Augustus himself sent you out here to accompany him. You are a favoured hostage and because Roman arrogance is unbounded, they assume that if you become like one of them then you will always be that way; they cannot conceive of the possibility of a man having tasted the fruits and comforts of Rome wanting to turn his back on her. Your path will not be the Cursus Honorum, the succession of offices both military and magisterial that high-born Romans follow; yours will be purely military. You will be given command and responsibility, not in the legions but in the auxiliaries.’

And then I remembered the last thing that my father had said to me before I left for Rome with Centurion Sabinus almost eight years previously: Rome is going to train the very troops who’ll form the backbone of the army that will free us from her; I call that a satisfactory conclusion to our business. The germ of a thought that I’d already had now sprouted: it dawned on me just how I could defeat Rome and the path I must take to do so; it was with growing certainty that I said: ‘I’ll serve Rome well in her auxiliaries and then when I have nothing but the Emperor’s trust and respect I shall beg to be allowed to lead my own men.’ I looked down at the masked cavalry helmet that I had placed on the floor next to me. ‘Lucius’ gift to me shall come of use; I shall get the Emperor to make me the prefect of the Cheruscian auxiliary cavalry ala.’

Musa smiled again and I had to supress a desire to grab her and hold her, to possess her. ‘Exactly, my brave Germanic warrior; the Romans still persist in the dangerous folly of allowing their auxiliaries to serve in their own provinces. The Cherusci, Chatti, the Frisii all have treaties with Rome that oblige them to provide men for the auxiliary cohorts and many of these cohorts serve in Germania Magna protecting the legions based there.’

It was my turn to smile. ‘It would be so simple once it was planned.’

‘Wouldn’t it just? At the moment there are three legions stationed in Germania Magna; all you would have to do is find some way to manoeuvre the Governor into bringing one of them into a vulnerable position.’

‘He would have to be a certain sort of man; one who acts in a predictably Roman way,’ I said. I considered my theory as to whether Romans could all be predicted to act in the same way given a certain set of circumstances that immediately threatened Rome. ‘But given time I’m sure that I could manufacture the circumstances to get the Governor somewhere at a place of my choosing where there’s enough of a threat to make it prudent for even the most unmartial of men to have the auxiliary cohorts scouting on the flanks.’

‘And then destroy that legion with the very troops that have been trained by them to protect them.’

‘The grand gesture would be to destroy the other two legions as they come to their comrades’ aid.’

Musa looked quizzical. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘The grand gesture: it’s what Lucius taught me. If you do something, do it in a way that is so monumental that it can’t be undone. That’s what this will be. I’ve always dreamt of leading my people in revolt against Rome but that would be nothing compared to this. This way, if I could make alliances with the auxiliaries from other tribes as well as get the tribesmen themselves behind me, I could destroy Rome’s presence east of the Rhenus and north of the Danuvius with just three blows.’

She reached out her hand to me and I took it with pleasure. ‘I knew you would understand. Now concentrate on that objective and that objective only. Take back their Eagles and restore yours and my pride.’

And so it was that the course of my life was set.

The following day we …

Thumelicatz raised his hand, stopping Tiburtius. ‘I don’t think we need to know the tiresome details of how Phraates fooled Gaius into crossing the river. Gaius was furious and tried to leave but Lucius persuaded him that his dignity would be even more impinged upon if he was seen not only to have been tricked by an Easterner but then compounded the matter by running away from him as well. And the treaty, as I’m sure you Romans know, was signed.’

The patrician stood and stretched his legs. ‘What happened to Phraates?’

‘My father mentions a little later that he married his mother a few years after and tried to make her queen. That was too much even for the Parthian nobility and they killed him. As for Musa, well, she died at the same time and probably, knowing the Parthians, with more between her legs than she had ever had before. But there is no need to feel any pity for her after the murders she had instigated; neither is there any need for the next scroll as it is concerned only with my father’s last couple of years back in Rome. We shall pick up the story nearly three years later with my father having already convinced Augustus of his complete loyalty. Aius, that scroll, please.’