Armenia Capta

by William Kelso

  “I have come to speak to the high priest,” he explained picking out the NCO in charge of the squad, “Here is my authorisation signed by the Eponymous Archon of Athens,” he added, holding up a small scroll of papyrus with writing across it.

  Silently the NCO took the scroll and studied it for a moment. Then he gave Fergus a hard, searching-look before jerking his head over his shoulder.

  “He is over near the Parthenon,” the NCO replied in heavily accented and broken Latin, as he handed the scroll back to Fergus. As Fergus made his way through the gate and into the temple complex, he turned to look back and as he did, he saw the three-legged dog sitting forlornly watching him from outside the gates.

  “Are these all the priests who will be attending the procession tomorrow?” Fergus asked as he followed the high priest. Opposite him, as if on an army parade, nine priests of Athena were standing in a line, clad in their fine, ceremonial robes and, as he passed by, Fergus studied each man’s face carefully. He would look at them again tomorrow to check whether any imposters had snuck into their ranks. It was a routine check but the priests would be armed with knives for the ritual sacrifices and they would be able to get close to Hadrian, so it needed to be done.

  “Actually,” the high priest replied without bothering to look at Fergus, “there should be a tenth but he is sick. I am afraid I am not sure whether he will be present tomorrow during the procession.”

  “What?” Fergus growled, his face darkening. “What do you mean he is ill? Where is he? I need to see what he looks like.”

  “I am afraid that is impossible,” the high priest snapped, “He is being cared for by one of our doctors in Piraeus. But don’t worry, Hadrian will be perfectly safe amongst us. Your employer loves Athens and Athens loves him. You have my word that my priests will be no trouble. We are mere humble servants of Athena.”

  “Shit,” Fergus swore softly as he turned to stare at the priests. He should really ride to Piraeus and check on the tenth priest, just in case. But that was a journey of over ten miles there and back and he still had things to do tonight, not to mention that he had promised to read Briana a story before she went to sleep.

  “All right, thank you,” Fergus said dipping his head respectfully at the high priest. “We shall see you tomorrow for the procession.”

  “Indeed, we shall,” the high priest replied, “And let’s hope that this storm passes. But if it doesn’t, we shall nevertheless honour our lady and protector.”

  Chapter Nine - Blood Sacrifice at the Panathenaea Festival

  The procession looked most splendid as it came through the Dipylom gate, passed the walls and entered the potter’s district of the city of Athens. Leading the marchers were a squad of drummers and flute players who seemed to be setting the pace with their light-hearted music. Waiting to greet them, standing massed on both sides of the broad Panathenaic Way, were thousands of noisy, excited spectators, craning their heads to get a better view. The weather had cleared and it was dry with a fresh, cool breeze. The musicians were followed by the victors of the various games and contests that had taken place in the preceding days. They were joined by the pompeis, the priests who would perform the sacrifices to Athena. Fergus strode along just behind Hadrian, who was also walking. Hadrian was wearing a toga and accompanied by Adalwolf, who was carrying a leather satchel, and old Attianus walking with the aid of a stick. Hadrian seemed to be enjoying himself for he was waving at the crowds and there was a big smile on his face. Around him, the leading citizens of Athens and their families, were doing the same but Fergus had the distinct impression that his boss was getting most of the attention. And just in front of them, escorted by a troop of armed and mounted temple-guards, and a few priestesses, was the unmissable and striking sight of a team of litter-bearers. They were walking along, holding up a large model ship with a tall mast, from which fluttered the new Peplos, dress, which would be presented to Athena in her temple. The Peplos had been carefully made by a chosen group of Athenian women, and woven into the dress, were mythical scenes of Athena’s battle with the giants.

  Fergus’s restless eyes slid away from his boss and towards his team but they were all in place, keeping to their designated positions. There was no sign of Saadi but Fergus knew she would be up ahead, mingling in the crowds and keeping an eye and ear open for trouble. At his side, Skula, the big bald Scythian tribesman with a flat nose, was gently stroking the top of his axe. Skula came from the vast steppes, the treeless plains to the north of the Caucasus mountains, far beyond the borders of the empire. He’d been captured taking part in raid, sold as a slave and had ended up working as security for an Athenian brothel, before his skill at handling violent and awkward clients had come to Fergus’s attention.

  As the procession entered the old agora, the crowds seemed to increase and so did the noise. Tensely Fergus’s eyes roamed amongst the spectators, flitting from face to face as he searched for signs of trouble, but amongst the excited, noisy crowds nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Ahead, he could see the commanding heights of the Acropolis, less than half a mile away. He would be a lot more relaxed once they reached the relative security of the temple complex on the summit. If the crowds stampeded or surged towards Hadrian, it would be almost impossible to protect his boss. The only organised security formation apart from his own, the mounted temple guards, were far too few to control a gathering of this size and besides, they seemed far more interested in protecting the sacred Peplos.

  Hadrian was laughing when suddenly from the crowd an apple was hurled at him, narrowly missing his head. Instantly Fergus’s hand dropped to the pommel of his sword, as he turned to stare in the direction from which the apple had come but amongst the multitude it was impossible to make out who had thrown it. Alongside Hadrian and closest to the incident, Alexander, one of his bodyguards, caught Fergus’s eye and shrugged. Hadrian however seemed to take the incident in his stride and continued walking with a bemused look. The Greeks loved Hadrian, Fergus thought with a sigh, for if he was going to be the next emperor, his connection to Athens would bestow many favours on the city. But not all Greeks liked Hadrian, for his boss had the knack of being able to make enemies just as easily as he could make friends.

  Ahead of Fergus, the procession had begun the climb up the steep slopes of the Acropolis towards the summit. Spectators, tourists and well-wishers lined the path and some of them started clapping and cheering as they caught sight of the Peplos. Then, as they reached the Propylaia, the monumental gateway into the temple complex, the procession started to slow. The musicians kept up their light-hearted performance as they took up their positions on either side of the gate. As he peered at them, Fergus noticed that all the beggars, who only yesterday had been sitting outside the gate, had been moved on. It was now the turn of the litter-bearers and mounted temple guards directly in front of him, to come to a halt. Standing in the middle of the road, the new Peplos dress, extending from the model ship’s mast like a sail, fluttered gently in the breeze. Leaving their positions alongside the Peplos, the priestesses of Athena, clad in their beautiful dresses now advanced towards the spot where a solitary cow stood tethered to a post. The first sacrifice of the day was about to take place. Fergus noticed that Hadrian was watching the scene in utter fascination. As the leading citizens of Athens and their families jostled and craned their necks to get a better view of the beast, a gaggle of solemn-looking male priests appeared and, after a ritual blessing and a prayer, the cow was slaughtered. Silently Fergus looked on as the beast collapsed onto its side and its blood began to spread out in a large pool. The animal, Fergus knew, would be cut up and its meat handed to the people for the feasts that would take place later.

  Then once more the procession started out and began to file through the monumental gateway and into the temple-complex that sat atop of the Acropolis. There were far fewer people on top of the hill and Fergus breathed a sigh of relief. The worst of the danger was over. No more massed-crowds of volatile spectators. From h
ere the programme just included the visit to the Parthenon, Hadrian’s blood sacrifice and probably a little bit of chit-chat with the priests. Then Fergus and his boss would be making their way back to the safety of Hadrian’s fortified house. And after that Fergus thought, with another relieved sigh, within days they would be leaving Athens for the east and the war that awaited them there. The thought of leaving Athens, his home for five years, did not fill him with the same dread as it did for Galena. For maybe, just maybe, it would give him the opportunity to fulfil a yearning that had awakened in him recently, an old desire that was rearing its head once more.

  Hastily blinking back to reality, Fergus bit his lip. He was day-dreaming and this was no time for day-dreaming. He had a job to do. Up ahead, the magnificent forty-five feet high Doric columns of the Parthenon, the temple of Athena, dominated all. The imposing rectangular building with its marble-tiled roof was a building on a scale that Fergus had never seen elsewhere. It was completely unique. The Parthenon however, was not the official shrine to the cult of Athena to which the new Peplos would be brought and whose statue would be ritually washed in the sea. That honour belonged to another temple, just a stone’s throw away on the Acropolis. The Parthenon, Fergus had learned, was in truth nothing more than a grand setting for a votive statue to Athena. It was a tourist attraction that raked in donations, offerings and votive items and it also acted as a place where the gold reserves and other precious artefacts were kept. But there was no denying its magnificence. The Athenians praised the Parthenon by saying that it was the finest building in the whole of the Hellenic world.

  Restlessly, Fergus’s eyes darted here and there as his gaze flitted over the faces of the few, curious bystanders. But all seemed as it should. Hadrian, Adalwolf and Attianus had split away from the main procession and were already heading towards the Parthenon where the high priest and his colleagues, the ones who Fergus had met the day before, stood waiting to welcome them. Suddenly, anxiously, Fergus turned to look back towards the monumental gate. Where was Saadi? She was supposed to have re-joined them when they entered the complex, but there was no sign of her. That was odd. The girl always did exactly as he asked. But there was no time to find out what had happened. Hadrian had nearly reached the priests and hastily Fergus turned to count them. Including the high priest there were ten of them - one short. It seemed that the man who had been ill yesterday had not made it. That was good. No loose ends there. Peering intently at the priests faces, Fergus quickly went down the line until he was satisfied that they were all the same men who he had inspected yesterday. All seemed in order, and as Hadrian was warmly greeted by the high priest, Fergus caught the Italian brother’s attention and silently indicated that they should take up position behind the priests. One of the priests was clutching a sacrificial knife but Flavius and Fergus were close enough to Hadrian to intervene if he were to make a lunge at Hadrian and the German boxer was fast; fast and deadly.

  As the high priest turned and started to lead Hadrian and his entourage up the stone steps and into the Parthenon, Fergus snatched another quick look behind him. Where the hell was Saadi? What had happened to the girl? She should have been here by now. Her absence annoyed him for it was not part of the plan and she would have known that.

  Inside the huge temple, the internal space, the cella, had been divided into two rooms and, as they entered the larger of the two compartments, Fergus could not stop his eyes from being drawn to the huge and magnificent, 37 feet high, bronze and ivory statue of Athena the virgin, that dominated the middle of the silent windowless hall. Athena’s head was crowned with a helmet containing a likeness of the Sphinx. Her left leg was standing on a shield and her Peplos dress was held at the waist by a pair of serpents. In her outstretched right hand, she was holding up a winged Nike, the god of victory and in her left hand she was clutching a spear and balancing an upright shield on the ground. The decoration on the statue was fantastic, and as he caught sight of Athena, Hadrian groaned out loud, overcome by sudden emotion. When at last he had recovered, Hadrian nodded at Adalwolf. In response Adalwolf undid the satchel across his shoulder and from it, produced a fine plate made of pure silver. He proceeded to give it to Hadrian, who in turn stooped and reverently placed the offering at Athena’s feet.

  “May the goddess look kindly on my humble affairs,” Hadrian said, bowing before the statue. “May she honour me with her wisdom and strength in the times to come. I Publius Aelius Hadrianus promise that when I return from the east, I shall make her city richer than it was when I left it. This I solemnly vow.”

  The offering was over. Hadrian and the priests lingered for a moment in silence as they looked up and admired the grand statue. Then without saying a word, Hadrian turned away and led them back outside to where a couple of priests and a solitary, unhappy looking ox, were waiting for him. Carefully Fergus kept his eyes on the priests, as one of them solemnly and silently handed Hadrian the sacrificial knife with which he was going to kill the ox. Grimly Hadrian took the knife and studied it for a moment, as the priests closed in around the animal.

  “A quick, firm strike here Sir,” Adalwolf muttered as he gestured to the spot on the animal’s body where Hadrian should kill the beast.

  “I know where to strike,” Hadrian retorted in an irritable, nervous voice. Fergus, standing closely behind Hadrian, looked on in stoic silence. Hadrian’s nervousness did not surprise him. It had nothing to do with the sight of blood or the thought of killing a living being, for Hadrian had been a soldier and had seen such things many times before. No, his boss’s nervousness stemmed from the fact that if he botched the blood sacrifice, the gods would not be happy. He had to do it right and it had to be a clean kill.

  Taking a deep breath, Hadrian suddenly plunged the knife deep into the ox and, as the beast collapsed onto the ground and the blood poured from the wound, Hadrian stepped backwards, staring intently at the dying animal.

  “A good, clean kill,” Adalwolf said at last in his guttural Germanic accent, as the adviser inspected the fallen animal. “Well done.”

  Hadrian said nothing as the high priest took the knife from him. Then bending down, the priest placed both his hands in the pool of the animal’s blood, quickly rose and smeared the blood of the animal onto Hadrian’s face. When at last, the priest had finished, Hadrian looked like a fury, straight out of the depths of hell, his fearsome blood-smeared face terrifying and unworldly.

  Slowly and silently Hadrian turned to show his face to his entourage. He seemed pleased and on a high, his eyes bulging with religious fervour.

  * * *

  The ceremonies were over at last and they were heading home, Fergus thought with growing relief. Hadrian had just bad farewell to the priests. Accompanied by Adalwolf, old Attianus and his close protection team he had started to make his way back towards the Propylaia. There was still no sign of Saadi however and her absence was becoming a serious concern. Where the hell was that girl? It was not like her to be absent for so long. As Flavius, Fergus’s point-man, led Hadrian and his entourage out through the monumental gate, Fergus saw that the crowds, who had thronged the path that morning, had already dispersed. The wooded and scrubland area leading down the slopes of the Acropolis looked deserted and eerily quiet. Glancing around, Fergus saw that one or two of the beggars had started to return to their places beside the gate but the blind man who had accosted him was not amongst them.

  A troop of temple guards were milling about at the side of the path. The men were clutching spears and legionary-style shields and it looked like they had just come off their shift, for they seemed to be waiting for something. As he idly glanced at the men, Fergus noticed that one of the guards was sporting a black tattoo of a lady on his calf. And as he caught sight of it, Fergus frowned. Where had he seen that tattoo before? The street-cleaner outside Hadrian’s house had had one. Fergus gasped as he felt a sudden sense of alarm. Something was wrong! Something felt terribly wrong. How could a street cleaner become a temple guard overnight
? The only explanation was that the man had been pretending to be a street cleaner. But that meant…Fergus’s eyes widened in alarm.

  “Assassins!” he roared, acting on some primeval instinct, as without hesitation, he flung himself headlong at Hadrian.

  It was not a second too late, for as Fergus bowled his boss over onto the ground, a spear shot across the very spot where Hadrian would have been. Around him the peaceful, quiet of the afternoon was instantly shattered as chaos descended onto the road. With a loud roar, the troop of temple guards lowered their spears and came charging straight towards Hadrian.

  “Stay down,” Fergus roared at Hadrian, as he frantically scrambled to his feet and drew his gladius. Turning to face the assault, he was just in time to see Alexander and Korbis desperately trying to fend off eight attackers before both men were overwhelmed and impaled by several spears at once. Without proper armour or shields they had stood no chance. There was no time to implement the team’s emergency plans. Two screaming temple-guards, their faces contorted in murderous rage, came charging towards Fergus, their spears aimed at his chest. Reacting on pure instinct, Fergus caught hold of one of the spears, pushed it aside and thrust his sword straight into his attacker’s face. But there were simply too many attackers and a split second later, a spear-point sliced along the side of Fergus’s leg and two men came crashing into him, knocking him to the ground. Fergus yelled in pain and shock as he desperately struggled to free himself from the men on top of him. His attackers were hissing and panting as they tried to stab him. Just as one of them was about to succeed, the man’s head jerked upwards and he dropped his knife as Hadrian rammed a spear straight through his neck, splattering Fergus with blood and gore. With a furious roar and ignoring the searing pain in his leg, Fergus caught hold of the remaining attacker’s head and with his teeth he tore away the man’s ear eliciting a high-pitched scream. A surge of wild adrenaline had begun to guide Fergus and, as he rolled his screaming-attacker onto his back, he yanked his pugio, army knife from his belt and viciously rammed it into the man’s face, silencing him instantly.