by Peter Darman
‘How long have you been governor here, Lord Cookes?’
He shoved a piece of bread in his mouth, muffling his reply.
‘Too long, majesty.’
His wife cackled like a hyena, holding out her rhyton so it could be refilled. Cookes belched.
‘It was a punishment dished out by our new king. He doesn’t like me.’
My estimation of Akmon rose.
‘I was a loyal friend of King Darius, you see,’ spat the governor bitterly, small pieces of bread leaving his mouth.
‘You fought for Darius at Mepsila?’ I asked.
Cookes drained his rhyton and slammed it down on the table, making the slave behind him jump.
‘I was organising the defences of Irbil.’
‘I do not recall seeing you in the palace when Irbil fell to my nephew.’
‘I was away at my estate at the time.’
‘Organising its defence?’ said Gallia caustically.
Hanita, who was now quite drunk, gave my wife an unamused look, before hissing at a slave that her rhyton was empty.
‘King Akmon wants to have a care,’ she slurred, ‘there are many who wish to see the true king placed on Irbil’s throne.’
Cookes emitted a nervous laugh. ‘You must forgive my wife, majesties, her tongue has a life of its own when she has had too much to drink.’
‘Akmon is Media’s true king,’ said Gallia slowly and forcefully, ‘placed on the throne on the orders of Phraates himself.’
Cookes belched loudly and raised his rhyton. ‘A toast to King Akmon and his lovely queen, Lutin.’
‘Lusin,’ I corrected him.
He grunted and took another gulp of beer, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve.
‘Your northern border is quiet?’ I enquired.
He nodded. ‘With the son of King Spartacus on Media’s throne, he is hardly going to raid Media. We thank the gods for that, at least.’
‘Peace means prosperity, governor,’ I said, ‘and I firmly believe King Akmon will endeavour to preserve that peace, irrespective of him being the son of King Spartacus. If he succeeds, then you will find he will become a popular king in Media.’
‘He is not Parthian,’ slurred Hanita, whose cheeks were aglow as a result of the prodigious amount of alcohol she had consumed.
‘What does that matter?’ I snapped.
Surprisingly, Cookes appeared to sober up instantly, putting down his rhyton and staring at me with his bloodshot eyes, his beard wet with beer, and his double chin wobbling.
‘King Akmon is half Thracian and half Agraci,’ he uttered the last word with barely concealed contempt. ‘He has no claim on the throne of Media, which is one of the oldest and most revered kingdoms in the Parthian Empire, whose royal family’s great strengths were its continuity and heritage.’
‘That royal family invited Romans into the empire,’ stated Gallia, ‘and invited the rebel Tiridates to use Media as a base from which to depose the rightful high king, which allowed Tiridates to plunge Parthia into a civil war. The end result is that Media is now laid low, many of its villages either torched or half empty due to their menfolk having died in Media’s ill-judged wars.’
While his wife continued to drink heavily, Cookes remained subdued and picked at his food, occasionally glancing at Lucius and Bullus. He clapped his hands to bring a troupe of dancers into the room, accompanied by musicians holding lyres, flutes and drums. The dancers were a mix of young men and women wearing very little clothing, their bodies oiled so they glistened as they began a frenetic routine that I found most tedious. But I put it down to my age and so tried to give the appearance I was enjoying myself. Hanita was an embarrassment, whooping with joy and trying to grope any male dancer that came within arm’s reach. I uttered a silent prayer when the entertainers had finished that we could retire to our beds. Fortunately, as Hanita was on the verge of passing out due to her over-indulgence, Cookes brought the evening to a merciful end.
As we had eaten and drank little we were not tired when we retired to our bedroom. I sat on the bed staring at the cracked plaster on the walls.
‘It is madness Spartacus is estranged from his son. If Cookes is anything to go by, Media has fallen into decay and is administered by gross incompetents.’
Gallia sat in front of a small polished bronze mirror and began brushing her hair.
‘Cookes is certainly gross, though whether he is incompetent I’m not sure.’
‘Oh?’
‘He survived the great bloodbath of Mepsila where Spartacus butchered a high number of Media’s lords. And he managed to wriggle his way out of the siege of Irbil, despite being a close ally of King Darius.’
‘We have only his word for that.’
She stopped brushing to turn to me. ‘You look at him and see a fat, beer-soaked fool. But I would not underestimate him. Beneath the blubber and bluster is a schemer. Akmon should get rid of him.’
‘I’m sure Akmon has…’
I was going to say that the young King of Media was sure to have good advisers around him, but his father had effectively culled Media of its lords, or at least a great many of them, and I worried about the calibre of those that were left. If Cookes was anything to go by, Media was now sadly lacking in sage counsellors.
‘Has what?’ she asked.
‘It all hinges on convincing Spartacus not to retaliate against Armenia and stopping his Sarmatians from raiding Pontus,’ I said. ‘If we succeed, then that will buy Akmon time to put his kingdom in order.’
She turned back to the mirror and recommenced brushing her hair.
‘Phraates himself should be journeying to Vanadzor to prevent Spartacus attacking Armenia.’
I pulled off my boots. ‘Phraates is clever. Of all the kings, Spartacus has proved the most useful to him, so he will not risk alienating the King of Gordyene. To be fair, Phraates is unaware of the danger of Rome being dragged into a war with Gordyene over Pontus.’
‘What about Armenia?’
I flopped down on the bed, staring up at the cracked ceiling.
‘Phraates is happy for Armenia to be a lamb to the lion of Gordyene. If Artaxias is absorbed with containing Spartacus, he will not be sending his armies south across the Araxes River. And, happily for the high king, because the Romans killed most of his family the King of Armenia will not be seeking the friendship of Rome in the foreseeable future.’
We left Mepsila the next day, Cookes and his wife looking remarkably bright and fresh despite their gluttony the previous evening. He asked if I would pass on his compliments to King Spartacus, which surprised me somewhat considering his ramblings the night before against Akmon’s lineage.
‘As you wisely stated, majesty, Media needs peace to prosper.’
I smiled as he tried to fool me into thinking he was pleading on Media’s behalf. But the reality was he knew Mepsila would be the first town Spartacus would assault should he send his army into Media once more. Having avoided one battle at Mepsila, Cookes clearly had no desire to be present should there be a second.
‘I cannot speak for the King of Gordyene,’ I told him as a slave held Horns’ reins to allow me to gain his saddle, ‘but I can state with some certainty that he is not planning any aggression against Media. Not unless he is provoked.’
‘I would advise against leading any raids into Gordyene,’ said Gallia, adjusting her floppy hat. It was threatening to be another hot day.
Cookes brought his hands together and bowed his head, which was beaded with sweat despite the slave holding a parasol over him.
‘I would never lead a raiding party, majesty,’ stated the governor.
‘Not even against a caravan transporting beer?’ she said dryly, turning her horse to ride from the crumbling mansion.
Chapter 4
If a bird flew from the ramparts of Irbil to the black stone fortress in Vanadzor, a distance of one hundred and twenty miles, it would take it less than a day. But we had no wings and our journey w
ould be more convoluted as we left the Tigris and headed northeast towards the border with Gordyene. There were no signs to denote the dividing line between Media and Gordyene, no great fence to delineate where one realm ended and another began, not even forts to mark the territories of King Spartacus and his son. But as we travelled north the terrain slowly changed to become hillier and wooded, heralding our entry into Gordyene. In the near distance were the high mountains that ringed Gordyene. Inside the ring the land was filled with rivers bloated with raging waters in spring, seemingly endless forests of beech and oak and wind-swept mountain steppes. I had travelled this route many times during the past four decades and knew it better than many scouts, though Spartacus obviously believed we might get lost for on the second day after leaving the tatty, rundown Mepsila, we ran into a patrol of the King of Gordyene’s soldiers. Or more likely he did not like the idea of any parties of foreign soldiers roaming his kingdom unaccompanied.
We had been riding along a narrow track that cut through a vast forest of oak, the trees filled with birds – eagles, kites, harriers and goshawks – and their noisy calls. But suddenly the birds became silent and an oppressive atmosphere began to press down on us. Horns became nervous and flicked his ears.
I turned to Zenobia. ‘Order your women to have a care.’
Bows came out of cases and arrows were nocked in bowstrings. Though the legionaries’ shields and javelins were loaded on camels, Lucius ordered his men to draw their swords, though if it came to a fight I wondered how effective a hundred mounted foot soldiers would be. I too nocked an arrow in my bow, as did Gallia beside me, our eyes darting left and right to detect any movement among the trees flanking us. We slowed our horses as we entered a curve in the track, around which was a party of horsemen blocking our path. Gallia gave a muted laugh.
I held up my hand. ‘Stand easy.’
‘King’s Guard,’ hissed Gallia. ‘I hope that oaf Shamshir is not among them, otherwise it will be a very long journey to Vanadzor.’
There were around a score of them, immaculate in appearance, the coats of their horses shining in the summer sun lancing through gaps in the forest canopy. One of their number nudged his horse forward, a man with dark eyes, beard as black as night and hair of the same colour showing beneath his burnished helmet. He halted his horse in front of us and bowed his head.
‘Greetings, King Pacorus, Queen Gallia, welcome to Gordyene. I am Commander Kuris, assigned to escort you to Vanadzor.’
At least he was not Shamshir, the thuggish commander of the King’s Guard, the élite soldiers in Gordyene’s army and Spartacus’ bodyguard. Like the Vipers, the female horse archers who protected Queen Rasha, the King’s Guard numbered five hundred men. But unlike the Vipers every man was armed with an ukku blade. I glanced at Kuris’ hip and smiled when I saw a sword with a silver lion’s head pommel.
‘Thank you, commander,’ I replied, ‘I trust your king and queen are well?’
‘Very well,’ he said, looking past us to peer at the column behind.
‘King Gafarn and Queen Diana are not with you?’
‘Alas, no, the king has a leg wound that needs rest to heal,’ Gallia told him.
‘It is nothing serious,’ I assured him, ‘but for the moment King Gafarn is confined to Hatra’s palace.’
He fell in beside us and his men formed a vanguard as we continued our journey through the forest teeming with red deer. The air was warm but not excessively so, the forest canopy shielding us for the most part from the sun. Kuris was attired like the others in his party: black leggings, red tunic, burnished helmet and stunning scale armour cuirass of alternating steel and bronze scales sewn on to a thick hide sleeveless vest. Additional protection was provided by thick leather pteruges – leather strips – covering the thighs and shoulders. A bow was attached to his saddle on the right side and a full quiver on the left. His men carried round wooden shields faced with red-painted hide and embossed with a white lion’s head, but Kuris’ shield dangled from the rear of his saddle. Beneath the saddle was a beautiful red saddlecloth with silver lion motifs stitched in each corner. No money had been spared to clothe and equip the King’s Guard. I noticed Kuris’ saddlecloth also had three gold arrow motifs stitched into it. I pointed at them.
‘Do they denote your rank?’
‘No, majesty, they denote my winning Gordyene’s annual archery competition three times.’
‘It is a competition among the army’s soldiers?’ asked Gallia.
‘No, majesty, it is open to everyone, regardless of sex, rank or civilian or military status. The only exceptions are the king and queen because if they were beaten it would damage their authority. The winner is awarded a golden arrow.’
‘How many people have won the competition three times?’ I said.
‘Just me, majesty.’
‘Well, then, perhaps we could put your skills to use by hunting some deer to fill our bellies tonight.’
We established a camp early, away from the track a short distance, so parties could be despatched further into the forest to hunt game. A dozen parties were organised, each one comprising two archers and two more individuals to tend to the pair of horses that would haul the game back to camp. In an effort to find out more about Spartacus’ plans, I teamed up with Kuris, two of his King’s Guard leading their horses behind us. The forest was an ancient one, the canopy open in places where birch, maple and hazel trees grew. Shafts of sunlight reached the forest floor to illuminate blueberry and laurel shrubs, the air heavy with the scent of foliage.
After we had walked for perhaps ten minutes, threading our way through and around shrubs and trees, Kuris ordered his two men to halt and wait for him, before carrying on into the forest. Like me he had shed his helmet and armour, being armed only with a bow and long knife. He squatted and picked up an acorn.
‘The forest is rich in food for wildlife, majesty, and there are lots of not only deer here but also bears and squirrels.’
He stood and looked around at the greenery that surrounded us.
‘We will find a place and wait for the prey to come to us.’
He moved deftly, lifting his boots high before stepping forward and being careful where he placed his foot. I stepped on a dry small branch and snapped it in two, the sound inordinately loud. Kuris froze and gave me a disapproving frown.
‘Have a care, majesty,’ he whispered.
We moved very slowly, quivers slung on our backs and arrows nocked in our bowstrings. The forest was full of noise – birds, the rustling of the wind through the forest canopy and the scurrying of squirrels through the undergrowth – but we were silent after crouching beside an ancient oak tree towering above us, its trunk thick and gnarled.
‘What do you know of your king’s intentions regarding Armenia?’ I whispered.
‘Nothing, majesty, I am a soldier and am not privy to the king’s intentions.’
‘All soldiers hear rumours about forthcoming wars and campaigns, Kuris, and I’m sure those of Gordyene are no different.’
He placed a finger to his lips to silence me. Clearly he would not divulge any information to me, not willingly anyway. His eyes narrowed as he scanned the terrain ahead, shards of sunlight making it difficult to spot anything moving. But Kuris had spotted something and so we crouched in silence, sweat running down my neck, a combination of the stifling heat in the forest and the anticipation of downing a deer.
I heard the beast before I saw it, the mere hint of dry leaves under a hoof as the beast approached. Then I spotted it, a magnificent male Caspian deer with huge antlers, its coat a dark brown, blending in perfectly with its surroundings.
The Caspian deer was indigenous to a great swathe of territory from the shores of the Caspian Sea, from where it got its name, to the alpine meadows of the Alborz Mountains, being plentiful in the oak forests it favoured. Subsisting on a diet of plants, shrubs, acorns and berries, Caspian males could grow to become magnificent specimens, and this particular one was a b
ig beast. I estimated it to stand at least four feet at the shoulder and weigh well over five hundred pounds. It would feed many mouths. If Kuris could drop it.
‘There are more behind,’ he said in a barely audible whisper.
I peered ahead and saw he was right. I could see two, no three, other deer. Females, smaller but their flesh would taste just as good. He gave me a sideways smile and then forgot me as he went about his business. The male was leading his harem, which meant he was blocking any shot I might take against a female. Regardless of the animal being hunted, an archer strove to make a clean, fast kill, ideally by putting an arrow through the chest cavity. It was much the same on the battlefield against humans, though complicated by the ‘prey’ wanting to do the same to you.
The tension in the air was palpable as the stag stopped and looked directly at us. Had he spotted us, was he about to bolt? He was around thirty paces distant and Kuris had a clean shot. But he did not take it. Instead, he waited until the stag walked forward a few more paces, reducing the range to around twenty-five paces.
Twang.
The arrow hit the stag in the chest, causing him to lunge sideways. A second arrow was already in Kuris’ bowstring when the male bolted away and the females followed. But not until he had hit another in the flank and I had put an arrow into the rump of a third. Kuris placed two fingers in his mouth and whistled to signal the two men with the horses to come forward, stringing another arrow in his bowstring before dashing forward. I followed, running through the undergrowth to trail the wounded animals. We found the male a mere twenty paces or so from the place where he had been shot, blood oozing from the wound around the arrow, its lifeless corpse on the ground. We left him to pursue the two females, finding the one Kuris had hit collapsed and dying by the trunk of an oak. He slit its throat and followed me as I searched for the one I had shot.
