Rome 3: The Eagle of the Twelfth Read Free Page B

the forest.
    A shout went up; the men who rode in the company of Vardanes II, King of Kings of Parthia, supreme ruler of all land from the Euphrates to the Indus, were nothing if not swift to recognize danger.
    But the beast moved faster than any man could do and, from the beginning, it had only one target: it charged as if directed by the gods, straight for the new young King of Kings himself, mounted in his gold and glory on a swift bay mare.
    In an empire where men lived, died, ate, drank, bargained, loved and killed on horseback, the horse that bore the King of Kings was the best to be found in all his eighteen client kingdoms; fleet of foot, sharp of eye, with the small ears, wide nostrils and compact jawbone that were said by Xenophon to denote the finest of horses, her hide was the rich, deep bay of a bronze dish, and her mane and tail were black as ebony. She was trained to war and the hunt; to stillness in the midst of battle, the speed of a wolf in the forest.
    Nevertheless, she was not fast enough to outrun a boar, and even if she had been, there was no obvious route to safety, for the King of Kings, beloved of the gods, was hemmed in on one side by the bleak forest whence came the boar, and on the other three sides by such a collection of courtiers and guards and body slaves as to make three more walls.
    West, which is to say behind him, forty matched Nubian slaves walked naked in the chill sea air, carrying whole on a trestle a pavilion of kingfisher-coloured silk, made large enough to enable the King of Kings to ride his horse in through the entrance and partake of his midday meal without the inconvenience of dismounting.
    He had just done exactly that; the kingfisher pavilion was even now being readied to carry back to the palace.
    North, to the king’s left, between him and the just-thawed sea, thirty cooks and their under-cooks and pot-boys similarly tidied away the remains of the roast buck that had fallen to the King of Kings’ own bow some days previously and had been the central part of the royal feast.
    East, where the mountains curved down to kiss the sea, were grouped those merchants, councillors and vassal kings who had been granted rare permission to join Vardanes II in his winter residence, and further honoured by the invitation to join him in his hunt.
    Only seventeen of Parthia’s eighteen vassal kings were present; Tiridates of Armenia alone had not been invited. As uncle to the King of Kings, brother to the late king, Vologases of blessed memory, he was not perhaps yet sufficiently recovered from his mourning to enjoy the company of his nephew.
    And besides, the Roman general Corbulo was camped with six legions on Armenia’s western borders. He might have been fully occupied in putting all thirty thousand men through winter fatigues that made war look like a day of rest, but a king could be excused for choosing to stay and defend himself and his integrity, at least until the new King of Kings had concluded this war council and launched his own attack on the mewling, pale-skinned braggarts who so offended the integrity of his empire.
    The war council had been conducted over the roast buck. A horde of mounted men to whom fighting was as necessary and integral as breathing did not take long to decide on a new war. When the King of Kings had suggested they make a late autumn attack on the Roman camps, long after the end of the fighting season had notionally ended, he had been roundly cheered by his vassals.
    The seventeen client kings had fallen over themselves in the following discourse to promise horse-archers, heavy cavalry, light cavalry, infantry and, from the one who ruled the far eastern border with Mathura, elephants with which to grind Rome into the ground.
    Weaving through their midst at his most effacing, and most efficient, Pantera had taken a dozen different commissions to source fresh mounts of sound stock at a good price for the coming battles. I, as his clerk, had written each one