Titus Rutilus enjoyed his stay at Dura, especially visiting the legionary camp and the mud-brick forts north and south of the city. He spent much time in the royal stables and armouries, taking delight in riding from the Citadel each morning in the company of horse archers and cataphracts. He marvelled at the Amazons, who adopted him as a sort of mascot. This middle-aged Roman, who had fought at Carrhae, afterwards becoming a Parthian and then a Kushan slave. He could not shoot a bow to save his life but he wielded a spatha from the saddle with some aplomb, though now his targets were straw and wood rather than barbarians. I joined him whenever I could, two men past their prime sweating under a burning sun trying to keep pace with women in their teens and twenties. Gallia was also present too, of course, pushing herself as hard as her charges and refusing to accept she was now middle aged.
Afterwards, our tunics dripping with sweat, gulping down the contents of our water bottles, the Amazons gathered round to hear something quite unique: an account of Carrhae told from a Roman perspective. I too listened with relish, hearing the names of men I had respected; Crassus, his son and Surena, the man who had been my squire before rising high to become the King of Gordyene. How I regretted how his life had ended and for years afterwards I had tortured myself with thoughts of how I should have intervened to save him. Gallia, normally cold and aloof towards Romans, temporarily put aside her amity to hear his gripping story.
I desperately wanted him to stay with us and offered him the position of farrier in the Citadel, with his own salary and lodgings in the city should he accept. He refused.
‘It is a generous offer, majesty, and as a former enemy and slave I thank you from the bottom of my heart. But I wish to return home.’
I understood. It was the burning desire of all who had been in bondage: to return to the place where they had been born and lived before being brutally wrenched away from all they held dear.
‘I hope you still have some family left, Titus.’
He suddenly looked lost. ‘The belief they still live has kept me alive all these years, majesty.’
I wondered how many of those taken at Carrhae were still slaves, or indeed still alive. If they were it was most unlikely they would be following in Titus Rutilus’ footsteps. Before he left I attended the weekly meeting of the council in the Headquarters Building, Rsan entertaining us with matters pertaining to the smooth running of the city and kingdom: repairs to the sewage systems, the state of irrigation canals, the size of the date harvest and the administration of the caravan park. My eyelids felt like lead as I tried to stay awake.
Aaron was the next to speak, arranging the papyrus sheets in front of him with military precision. The two clerks recording the minutes sat poised at their desks, waiting for him to speak.
‘I have received word from Ctesiphon regarding the annual tribute,’ he began.
The annual tribute was paid by every kingdom in the empire to support the expenses of the king of kings, which included the running costs of the palace complex at Ctesiphon.
‘This year all kingdoms are being charged a surcharge to pay for the raising, equipping and maintenance of Satrap Kewab’s mobile army.’
‘So much for Phraates paying for it himself,’ remarked Gallia dryly.
‘I thought it was your idea, majesty,’ said Chrestus, sweat running down his thick neck.
I nodded. ‘It was.’
Aaron immediately seized upon this. ‘Perhaps I might lobby Ctesiphon for Dura to be exempt from the lobby seeing as you were the progenitor of the idea, majesty.’
‘What does that mean?’ asked Chrestus gruffly.
‘It means the king gave birth to the idea,’ Rsan told him.
‘You’ve got fat chance,’ said Chrestus dismissively.
‘Succinct and accurate,’ agreed Gallia.
‘We have been reimbursed for our men,’ I said, ‘frankly I have neither the inclination nor the strength to argue with the high king. We will pay the surcharge.’
‘High King Phraates has given us an object lesson in kingship,’ Gallia stated. ‘He steals my husband’s idea, proclaims to the whole of Parthia that he thought of it and gets everyone else to pay for it.’
‘At least the ukku blades remained at Dura,’ grinned Chrestus.
One hundred Duran cataphracts might have ridden east but their expensive sword blades remained in my armoury. The newly promoted squires who filled their places were issued with the ukku swords instead. There were limits to my generosity, though Aaron might have disagreed. The last item the meeting had to address illustrated why I had appointed him as the kingdom’s treasurer, and why he was frustrating to the point of distraction at times. He picked over his last piece of papyrus like a priest examining the entrails of a sacrifice.
‘This concerns the Roman slave Titus Rutilus, majesty.’
‘Marcus finds his company most agreeable,’ said Rsan, ‘and will miss him when he departs for Rome.’
‘As will we all,’ I added.
Aaron rapped his fingers on the table top. ‘Indeed, and I must bring to your majesty’s attention his travelling expenses.’
I sighed. ‘What about them.’
He read from the papyrus. ‘You have gifted him a horse, saddle, saddlery, a sword, a dagger, a change of clothes, cloak, tent and a pouch of money, a not inconsiderable amount, for his journey.’
‘You waste your time, Aaron,’ said Gallia, ‘Pacorus likes this Roman and would see him journey to Rome like a returning hero.’
‘He is a hero, of sorts,’ I told her testily, ‘and I owe my life to him. Me and thousands of other Parthians. He goes back to his homeland with my blessing, my gratitude and my gifts. My gifts, Aaron.’
The treasurer smiled, folded the papyrus and nodded. ‘It is as you say, majesty.’
Sporaces and a score of his men accompanied Titus Rutilus and me on our journey to Dura’s northern border. It was a leisurely progress, the final leg taking us to a four-sided stone base in which was set two weapons: a Parthian kontus and a Roman gladius . The eastern side of the base was inscribed with the words ‘Kingdom of Dura’ and the side facing west ‘Romana Syria’.
‘This was the spot where armies of Rome and Parthia faced each other,’ I told him. ‘The Roman commander, Pompey, decided that peace was preferable to war. I liked him.’
‘He was murdered in Egypt, majesty.’
‘So I heard.’
I offered him my hand, to his great surprise.
‘I wish you good fortune, Titus Rutilus.’
He took my hand. ‘Thank you for everything, majesty.’
‘I have a request,’ I said, ‘if ever you get to the Silarus Valley in southern Italy, ask whatever gods you follow to look kindly on the souls of those who fell there. I lost a lot of good friends in that valley.’
‘I swear it, majesty.’
The day was overcast with a cool easterly wind blowing. I pulled my cloak around me and watched him ride into Syria. I prayed he would find the peace that all of us look for but few of us ever find.