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tucked tight to his left side, seemingly unconcerned that he was surrounded by many enemy soldiers intent on killing him.
    ‘Are you hurt, Pacorus?’ asked Malik with concern.
    I shook my head, rivulets of sweat running down my face for it was still very warm.
    ‘No, my pride is a little dented, that is all.’
    The Roman sheathed his sword and slowly removed his helmet to reveal a round face topped by thick curly hair, a square, clean-shaven jaw and a large forehead. He also had a thickset neck. I estimated him to be in his mid-twenties.
    ‘So you are King Pacorus of Dura. I have heard much about you,’ he said to me in Greek.
    His stare was determined, his voice firm.
    ‘Kill him,’ commanded Malik.
    ‘Stop,’ I shouted as a dozen Agraci prepared to skewer the Roman with their spears. Malik turned to me with a quizzical expression on his face.
    ‘My apologies, Malik, but he appears to know me and I would know his identity before you kill him.’
    ‘You are a famous warlord, Pacorus, it should not surprise you that many have heard of your name.’
    ‘Indeed you are,’ said the Roman in Agraci. Whoever he was he clearly had knowledge of languages as well as the arts of war. I must confess that I was becoming more intrigued by this individual by the minute.
    I turned to Vagises. ‘What is the situation?’
    ‘We have pushed back the Roman horsemen. I sent five companies to shadow them to ensure they do not return.’
    ‘Your men are well trained,’ said the Roman, now speaking in Parthian.
    ‘We’ve had a lot of practice killing Romans,’ sneered Vagises.
    Malik smiled. ‘Are you afraid, Roman?’
    ‘Everyone dies, Prince Malik, therefore it would be foolish and a waste of time to fear that which is inevitable.’
    ‘As you appear to know all of our identities,’ I said, ‘it would be courteous if you could at least furnish us with your name.’
    He smiled. ‘I am Praefectus Alae Mark Antony, deputy commander of the army of Syria.’
    The deputy commander of the Roman Army in the east was worth more alive than dead and would command a large ransom, in addition to being a useful bargaining tool in any discussions with the enemy.
    ‘I think this Roman should be kept alive,’ I whispered to Malik, ‘at least for the time being.’
    He looked most unhappy but allowed logic to suppress his bloodlust, slamming his sword back in its scabbard. He pointed at Mark Antony.
    ‘You are to be taken to my father, the king, who may not be as merciful as his son.’
    So our prisoner rode between Malik and myself as we trotted back to the centre of the Agraci battle line, past thousands of Agraci warriors as once more Vagises’ horse archers formed up on the left wing to face what was left of the Roman horsemen. When we arrived at the spot where Haytham’s great black banner hung limply from its flag staff with his lords gathered behind it, we also found Gallia and a grinning Spandarat. Both of them were covered in dust but as far as I could tell there was not a scratch on either of them. As we halted Haytham’s stare settled on the bold figure of Mark Antony.
    ‘A gift for you, father,’ announced Malik, holding out his arm towards the Roman captive. ‘This is the deputy commander of the Roman army.’
    ‘Has Agraci custom changed, lord king?’ asked one of Haytham lords. ‘Do we now take prisoners?’
    ‘Silence!’ barked Haytham, before looking at his son. ‘We do not treat with invaders, Malik, you have made a mistake.’
    ‘The mistake was mine, lord king,’ I said. ‘I thought you might have a use for such a high-ranking prisoner.’
    Haytham nudged his horse forward to take a closer look at this Mark Antony. The latter still maintained an air of calm but averted Haytham’s eyes. He had obviously heard of the king’s ruthlessness and his indifference to suffering. Haytham rode slowly round the captive.
    ‘Queen Gallia has destroyed the enemy horsemen on their left wing, Pacorus.’ He was