Carrhae by Peter Darman Page B

and commanded a high price. The man responsible for equipping Dura’s army with the implements of war was a stocky Parthian who had learnt his craft in the armouries at Antioch and Hatra before taking up residence at Dura. That had been nearly fifteen years ago and in that time he had established a large group of talented sword smiths and armourers. Because Dura was a frontier city he knew that its rulers would always place a high premium on having first-class weapons to equip its army.
    I had purposely increased the capacity of the city’s armouries, which meant hundreds of workers and apprentices, who produced a steady stream of weapons and armour. Such a large pool of labour and high production was expensive and a drain on the treasury, but it was money well spent because it resulted in Dura’s army being one of the most well equipped in the empire.
    Arsam stood with his thick arms folded across his barrel chest in front of one of his workshops, a high and long single-storey building with a tiled roof. From within I could hear hammers beating metal and chisels being struck, and then the smell of burning charcoal reached my nostrils. Thumelicus put his arm round my shoulder.
    ‘Here you are. We will be waiting for you when you have finished.’
    ‘There is no need,’ I told him.
    He shook his head. ‘I beg to differ. Even since Godarz’s murder Domitus has been adamant that you have a guard at all times. Besides, I heard that bastard Mithridates is at Antioch and that is not that far away.’
    He tilted his head at Scarab.
    ‘You sure he isn’t an assassin? He’s as big as that boyfriend of the killer with the big breasts sent to murder you.’
    I held up my hand. ‘Thank you, Thumelicus, but much as I would like to stand here and gossip I have business with Arsam.’
    I left Thumelicus and his men and joined Arsam at the entrance to the armoury.
    ‘Is that man your brother, divinity?’ asked Scarab, glancing back at Thumelicus.
    ‘No, not at all.’
    He looked confused. ‘Then why is he allowed such familiarity, for it is death in Egypt and Emesa to touch the body of the king.’
    ‘It is a long story,’ I replied. ‘I will tell you one day.’
    Arsam bowed his head, frowned at Scarab and went inside the workshop. My ears were assaulted by a cacophony of noise as dozens of men wearing leather aprons stood working at anvils, benches and forges shaping, beating and cutting metal. The building was light and airy with many open windows, a high arched roof and a dirt floor to minimise the effects of molten metal spills. Good light is essential when working with metals and leather protection and ventilation even more so when beating and shaping hot iron. Nevertheless, the air was full of dust and fumes and the smiths and apprentices were covered in sweat and grime. The heat produced by the forges was intense and I too began to sweat as we made our way through the rows of benches and tool racks. There was an endless number of pliers, end nippers, hammers, metal cutters, hack saws, hand saws, hole punches, knives, razors, bevellers, awls, chisels and vices. And at the far end of the building were half a dozen forges that resembled the red-hot fires of the underworld.
    We passed through the small army of workers to exit the rear of the workshop and enter an open space leading to a second workshop.
    ‘Take a look at this,’ said Arsam, walking over to a table positioned along the wall of the workshop we had just left.
    He picked up an arrow and handed it to me.
    ‘We have been experimenting with different types of arrowheads. The one you are holding is made of steel and will go straight through mail armour.’
    I looked at the arrowhead, which was long and thin and tapered to a point, like a needle. I turned the cedar shaft in my hand. There was also a recurve bow, similar to my own and the ones used throughout the empire, lying on the table.
    ‘Take a shot at that target,’ said Arsam, pointing to a straw