The Parthian by Peter Darman Read Free Book Online Page A

a greedy little bastard, and he thought that if he killed you, then he could invite the Romans back and present your two heads on a platter to them,’ he nodded at myself and father.
    ‘Welcome them back?’ I queried.
    ‘A Roman legion doesn’t wander around in the desert, lost, boy. It was on its way to Zeugma.’
    ‘Enough,’ spoke my father. ‘These matters are for the council chamber and not for idle gossip.’
    Bozan nodded his head and winked at me. ‘In any case, all that matters now is that Pacorus has a great triumph tomorrow.’
    I was shocked. ‘Triumph?’
    My father smiled. ‘You brought us victory against the Romans, my son. It is only right that the city should acknowledge your achievement.’
    Gafarn stumbled out of the dusk carrying a suit of scale armour, the light from our campfires glinting off the scales.
    ‘Is this made of lead,’ asked Gafarn, ‘because it feels like it?’
    ‘Iron and silver, you cheeky little bastard,’ replied Bozan.
    ‘The Suit of Victory,’ said my father. ‘It has been worn only a few times. My father wore it after his defeat of the Palmyrians. Now you will wear it tomorrow.’
    I hardly slept that night, but kept looking at the suit of armour that had been hung in my tent on a wooden frame. When the dawn came I kicked Gafarn awake and began to dress. Gafarn brought me a breakfast of bread and warm milk, and then went to make sure Sura had been watered and fed. He returned a few minutes later. As I sat on a stool outside my tent finishing my meal, the camp around was bustling with activity. Officers barked orders to men, while grooms attended to horses. As the sun rose in the eastern sky, signaling another glorious summer day, I began the process of turning myself into a cataphract. First came the silk vest, worn next to the skin. My father equipped all his horsemen with these items of clothing. Horse masters from the east had told him that the riders of the steppes wore these garments as protection against arrows. Apparently, if you were struck by an arrow while wearing a silk vest then the arrow would wrap itself around the material as it drove into flesh. This made extracting the arrow easier, though I was unconvinced. Nevertheless, the vest was pleasant to wear and let sweat pass through its fine fibres. Then came white cotton trousers and tunic, both loose fitting for extra ventilation. Gafarn had to assist me putting on the armour, standing on a stool and lifting it over my head to allow me to slip it on. It was beautiful, with long hems and broad sleeves. Every second armour plate was made of silver, which meant the suit shimmered with any movement. Gafarn put on my leather boots and passed me the gloves, which were covered with thin silver scales. The helmet was steel with a decorative gold band around the skull.
    ‘You look like a mighty warrior, highness,’ said Gafarn, who was beaming broadly.
    ‘I feel like I’m carrying a mighty weight. But I thank you for your help.’
    I stepped outside my tent, to be cheered by my father’s bodyguard who stood mounted and at attention. White pennants on their lance shafts fluttered in the light breeze, and white horses chomped at bits and kicked at the ground in impatience. In the royal bodyguard all horses were white, and their highly groomed tails swished from side to side. The bodyguard wore white plumes in their helmets and white cloaks around their shoulders. They looked truly magnificent, none more so than my father, who wore his golden crown atop his open-faced helmet. On this occasion, as befitting his position as the commander of my father’s bodyguard, Vistaspa carried his banner — a white horse on a scarlet background. I saluted my father and then mounted Sura, who wore her body armour though none on her head, as it was restrictive and not needed today.
    Trumpets sounded the advance and our column left camp and headed south, to Hatra. It was still morning when we sighted the city, a massive