economies ruined by expensive wars — that is the true legacy. Neither side has profited one iota from the struggle, only suffered constant draining loss. Rome and Persia should be allies, not enemies; if that were to happen, each could enrich the other immeasurably.’
‘I cannot disagree with anything you’ve said, sir,’ said Julian carefully, impressed by the minister’s obvious sincerity, but wondering when the hard questioning would begin. He did not have long to wait.
‘Then what were you doing so far inside the borders of Persian Armenia?’ demanded the Surena, in tones grown suddenly incisive.
Sensing that this man would see through any fabrication, Julian said nothing.
‘Your silence speaks for itself,’ said the other crisply. ‘As I thought, you are a spy.’ He shot Julian an appraising look. ‘You will disclose to me all the deatails of your mission,’ he went on in a quiet voice. ‘Also everything you know about the state of Rome’s two empires, the efficiency and readiness of her armies, her strengths and weaknesses, her leaders’ ambitions and plans.’
‘My knowledge of Rome’s policies is extremely limited, and could be of little use to you,’ said Julian dry- mouthed. ‘Nevertheless, I would be betraying my trust if I were to divulge what little I know, or pass on any information regarding my presence in Armenia. For all I know, such information might be used against my country.’
‘Noble words,’ said the Surena, shaking his head. ‘In the tradition of your Regulus, perhaps. But believe me, you will tell me; in the end you will tell me everything. Either voluntarily, or. .’ He paused, frowning. ‘It would sadden me to have to hand over a brave young man like yourself to the torturers. They are very. . efficient. The choice is yours. But to help you make up your mind, I think a second object lesson may be called for.’
Deep within the bowels of Dastagerd’s grim state prison, a small procession — the Surena, Julian, three guards bearing torches, a gaoler, and, at the head, the castellan of the prison — clambered down dank staircases and tramped along corridors, eventually halting at the grille of one of the cells that lined the walls. The gaoler unlocked and opened the door, disclosing not the squalid hole Julian had expected but a fair-sized room illumined with oil lamps and furnished with rich rugs and couches, on one of which reclined a man clad in splendid if grimy silken robes. The prisoner stirred and sat up.
‘He is a noble, so must be lodged according to his rank,’ the Surena said. ‘Even his fetters are of silver.’
‘What was his crime?’ asked Julian in astonishment.
‘He converted from Zoroastrianism to Christianity — as have many Persians,’ replied the minister. ‘Regarding the lower castes of society — warriors, bureaucrats, the common people — the Great King is prepared to turn a blind eye should they become Christians. But for nobles and princes, who should set an example to the rest of society, there can be no such latitude. To spurn the state religion, the Beh Den — the Good Faith — is for them a capital offence. So you see, in considering the Armenians worthy to embrace the faith of Zoroaster, the King is really paying them a compliment. This man’s family, also Christian converts it has to be assumed, have fled into hiding. Naturally, as any man of honour in his position would, he has refused to tell us where.’ The Surena’s features creased momentarily in an expression of compassion. ‘However, the Great King’s wish is law and must be obeyed,’ he said heavily, adding in an undertone, ‘however distasteful those of us who have to implement its sentences may find it.’
The Surena held a brief conversation with the castellan, then turned again to Julian. ‘It seems that after lengthy interrogation this prisoner remains obdurate. It is time, therefore, to try other methods.’
On a raised stone slab in the centre of the torture chamber, the naked body of the prisoner, face down and limbs extended, was held securely by straps around the wrists and ankles. Two menials in grubby loincloths hovered in the background. At a table was seated a scribe, ready to record any utterances by the victim. The Surena approached the prisoner and addressed him. The man remaining silent, the Surena nodded to the torturers to begin their work.
With a knife, one of the pair made a long incision in the back of the prisoner, who jerked against his bonds but made no sound. The bleeding wound was then forced apart and kept open by means of clamps. Removing a glowing crucible with tongs from a furnace in the corner, the second torturer poured a stream of white-hot metal into the wound. Agonized screams cut though the loud hissing of molten metal coming into contact with raw flesh; the prisoner convulsed on the slab, then fainted.
‘They use copper which, having a higher melting-point than lead, inflicts a keener agony,’ the Surena remarked to Julian, who was watching in horror. ‘They will repeat the process, gradually extending it to more sensitive parts. Eventually the man will break — they always do. As will you,’ he added grimly, ‘if you choose to remain silent. Come, we have seen enough.’
They retraced their steps, Julian flanked by guards, to the prison’s outer walls. ‘Save yourself young man,’ the Surena told Julian. ‘You have witnessed what will happen if you refuse to talk. There can be no dishonour in co- operation. Afterwards, you will stay with me at my estate in the Karun valley, not as a prisoner but as an honoured guest, while this Armenian affair runs its course. We will hunt and hawk, and in the cool of evening listen to the music of the lyre and flute, and drink wine chilled by snow from the Sanganaki Mountains.’ He stared intently into Julian’s eyes. ‘Say you agree.’
Mingled with terror, Julian felt an overwhelming urge to accept the Surena’s offer. He opened his mouth intending to comply, but heard himself whisper, ‘I cannot.’
The Surena raised his arms in a gesture of frustrated resignation. He nodded to the guards, who seized Julian by the arms. ‘Then I can do nothing for you,’ he said. ‘You are a fool, Roman, but a brave one.’ Turning on his heel, he walked swiftly towards the prison gates.
In the great menagerie of Beklal, near Ctesiphon, his capital city, Yazdkart II walked his horse, surrounded by vast herds of deer, zebra, and ostriches. Persia would be great once more, he mused as he rode among the grazing game. He, the Great King, would bring back the glorious days of Darius and Cyrus, Cambyses and the two Shapurs. Armenia would serve as a useful testing-ground. His forces would overrun the Persian protectorate and, should that renegade Vardan resist, he would be ruthlessly crushed. Christianity would be stamped out, and the people made to accept the one true faith. His victorious army would then press on into Western Armenia. Rome (East Rome, that is) would of course object. Well, let it. Yazdkart would welcome a challenge by the Romans. Perhaps the time had come for a final trial of strength between the two great rivals. His chief minister’s report on how things stood in Rome’s two empires, which was due for his attention this very day, should prove invaluable in helping him to shape his policy. It was in a sanguine and confident frame of mind that he cantered back to Ctesiphon.
Entering the Iwan-i Kisra, the royal palace in Ctesiphon, through the great central arch in the facade,8 the Surena made his way to the audience chamber, whither he had been summoned by the Great King.
He found Yazdkart enthroned, arrayed in the full panoply of a warrior-aristocrat, a drawn sword held upright between his knees. Before the royal throne and at a lower level stood three empty seats: for the Emperor of China, for the great Khaghan, the ruler of the nomads of central Asia, and for the Roman Emperor, against the time when these rulers came as vassals to the court of the King of Kings. In the face of this aggressive posturing, the Surena reluctantly decided that now was not perhaps the moment to press the King (as he had intended) to abandon his plans to invade Armenia. Bowing low before him, he said, ‘Great King, as you requested, I have ready my report on Rome.’
Yazdkart frowned. ‘We see no papers. Where are your notes, your memoranda?’
‘Here, Sire,’ replied the Surena, tapping his forehead. ‘I need no parchment or papyrus. From earliest youth I have trained myself to dispense with such aids, by memorizing what I need to know from written or oral sources.’
‘We are impressed; you may proceed.’
‘Of the two Christian empires of the Romans,’ the Surena began, ‘the West need not detain us. It is weak, its coffers empty, half its territory ceded to fair-haired barbarians from beyond the Rhenus and Danubius. Only the genius of its great general, Aetius, has thus far safeguarded it from dissolution. Our only concern is with our neighbour, the Eastern Empire.’
‘Whom we have cause to fear?’ Yazdkart suggested hopefully.
