The Slave King

by Peter Darman

  ‘He is,’ said the elderly man with the horned headdress.

  I guffawed loudly and Gallia giggled like a little girl. We had obviously been the victims of a tawdry deception, but such was my intoxicated, or exhilarated, state that I did not take offence.

  Gallia pointed at the elderly man who had a tolerant, generous bearing. Her cheeks were flushed and she could not stop smiling.

  ‘And you must be Shamash, the Sun God.’

  ‘And I am very pleased to meet you, Queen Gallia,’ he said without a trace of sarcasm.

  Gallia looked at me and we began laughing, followed by the others. It was a monstrous joke and high sacrilege but such was our state of mild delirium that we only saw the humour in their deception. Beautiful young women, scantily dressed with taut bodies, green or blue eyes and wearing a scent that could only be described as divine, served the food. Silver trays loaded with fruit, pastries and sweet meats were proffered, the pastries melting in the mouth, the fruit sweet and nourishing and the meats mouth-watering.

  ‘I told you this would be a waste of time. What do you expect of mortals?’ sneered Erra.

  ‘These are not just any mortals,’ said Ishtar. ‘They have rendered great service to us and should be treated with respect. King Pacorus saved my temple from being plundered in Babylon.’

  She gave me a dazzling smile. ‘For which I am eternally grateful.’

  A servant refilled my cup with the elixir. I drank greedily and felt my very soul being refreshed.

  ‘You ride back to Dura?’ asked the man masquerading as Shamash.

  ‘Stopping off at Hatra on the way,’ I told him.

  Erra flashed an evil grin. ‘Let me tell him.’

  ‘No,’ said the elderly man, his voice powerful and stern.

  ‘How many soldiers are with you, King Pacorus?’ Shamash asked.

  ‘A hundred Amazons and the same number of mounted legionaries,’ I told him.

  ‘Plus fifty female squires,’ said Gallia.

  ‘They don’t count,’ sneered Erra.

  ‘Why?’ snapped Ishtar. ‘Because they are women?’

  ‘Because they are girls,’ he replied.

  ‘Girls who can all use a bow,’ said Gallia.

  ‘And an arrow shot by a girl can kill just as effectively as one shot by a powerful man,’ said Girra.

  ‘Marduk’ looked glum. ‘It is not much of an army.’

  The elderly man stared directly at me, his brown eyes boring into me. I suddenly felt naked and uncomfortable.

  ‘An army approaches Irbil, King Pacorus, do you know this?’

  ‘No, lord.’

  I do not know why I called him ‘lord’, but it seemed right that I should do so.

  ‘What army?’ asked Gallia. ‘We have peace with the Romans and the Armenians are fully occupied with Spartacus, or will be.’

  Girra clapped his hands. ‘You are among the best generals in Parthia.’

  ‘In the world,’ smiled Ishtar.

  ‘You are correct in what you say, Queen Gallia,’ said the elderly man, ‘but this army is neither Roman nor Armenian. It is a mixed force of mercenaries and rebels and seeks to depose and kill King Akmon and Queen Lusin.’

  ‘Who leads this army?’ I demanded to know.

  ‘The man you should have killed months ago,’ said Erra.

  ‘Prince Atrax,’ Marduk informed me.

  ‘The one Claudia warned you about,’ added Girra.

  ‘Prince Atrax is a landless prince,’ I told him dismissively, ‘who is living a dissolute life in Zeugma.’

  The elderly man wagged a finger at me. ‘He left Zeugma weeks ago to journey north to the court of King Artaxias, there to lobby the ruler of Armenia for troops to support his legitimate claim to the throne of Media.’

  I stood, spilling my drink on the carpet.

  ‘Atrax has no claim on Media’s crown. King of Kings Phraates personally made Akmon the ruler of Media, and as such has the full backing of Ctesiphon and the rest of the empire.’

  ‘Sit down, Pacorus,’ hissed Gallia.

  ‘You have a choice, both of you,’ said ‘Shamash’ as I sat back down on the couch. ‘You can ride back to Dura via Hatra and abandon Akmon and Lusin to their fate, or you can ride directly to Irbil and warn them of the approach of their executioners.’

  ‘Or ride to the nearest post station and despatch letters to Hatra, Atropaiene, Babylon and Susiana to send horsemen to Media,’ proposed Gallia.

  ‘The letters will not reach their destinations,’ said Girra, ‘for Atrax’s allies have agents in all the post stations along Media’s border and watch all crossing points over the Tigris.’

  ‘Then we will ride directly to Hatra and marshal the strength of that kingdom to save Akmon and Lusin,’ I said smugly.

  Shamash nodded sagely. ‘That would be the most logical course of action, but if you implement it the cost will be the death of King Gafarn.’

  ‘He will not be swayed in his determination to ride with you,’ said Marduk.

  ‘His leg wound will worsen,’ Ishtar told me, ‘and the infection will spread throughout his body and death will surely follow.’

  I caught the eye of our host. ‘The decision lies with you two.’

  ‘Only Hatra’s strength can save Irbil,’ announced Erra. ‘What is the death of another king weighed against the stability of the empire?’

  I looked around at the plush surroundings and immaculately dressed servants.

  ‘Easy to say when it is not your life in danger.’

  He bristled at my words. ‘Have a care, mortal, you might not live to see the end of this night.’

  ‘I’ve never fought a god before,’ I replied caustically.

  He leapt from his couch in a lightning-fast fashion, to stand over me with his sword drawn, the cool blade at my throat. I had never seen a man move so quickly. But Gallia was also not tardy, tossing aside her cup to stand, rush over, pull the dagger hanging from Erra’s belt and hold the blade to his throat.

  ‘You fight my husband, you fight me.’

  ‘Halt!’

  He may have been the oldest among us but our host’s voice hurt my ears as his command shot through the air. The dagger seemed to leap from Gallia’s clutch and Erra winced in pain as he dropped his sword. Ishtar came forward to escort Gallia back to her couch.

  ‘He is such a bully, the result of being the lord of war and death, I suppose.’

  ‘Are you unhurt, King Pacorus?’ asked the pale man.

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  Erra picked up his sword and returned to his couch, rage etched on his face. Marduk gave me a reassuring smile.

  ‘May I ask your intentions?’ asked our host, his voice calm once again.

  ‘To think on what you have told me,’ I replied, ‘for there is no proof that what I have heard is the truth, no disrespect intended.’

  ‘Feisty mortal, isn’t he,’ growled Erra.

  ‘You are right to be sceptical,’ smiled Marduk, ‘but why would we invent such a story, King Pacorus?’

  ‘Let me ask you a question, then,’ said our host. ‘Do you think the loss of Van hurt Armenian pride?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That being the case, its recapture has greatly increased the popularity of King Artaxias among his own people. They are united behind him, which Spartacus will soon discover. But the resentment felt by the Armenian people towards the King of Gordyene meant Prince Atrax’s plan met with a receptive ear.’

  ‘Will Spartacus be hurt?’ asked Gallia with concern.

  ‘It will take more than King Artaxias to kill the lion of Gordyene,’ Ishtar reassured her.

  ‘But he can be wounded,’ said our host, ‘and what better way than to kill his oldest son? Quite clever, really.’

  They all looked at me. The leader with the horned headdress, the voluptuous woman, the angry bull, the man we had seen with a spade, and the white-haired man with shining armour.

  ‘Only you can save him,�
� said our host.

  ‘If you have the courage,’ Erra taunted me.

  ‘Or the inclination,’ remarked Marduk. ‘For if any man deserves to see out his autumn years in peace it is you, King Pacorus.’

  ‘He will go,’ smiled Girra. ‘He is a man of honour.’

  A servant refilled my cup and I sipped at the liquid, glancing at Gallia who looked ten years younger. Clearly the drink had a high alcoholic content because my eyes were playing tricks on me.

  ‘It is no trick,’ said our host.

  This was getting mildly alarming. How did he read my mind? Did I imagine what he had just said?

  ‘We will go,’ announced Gallia.

  Ishtar gave a triumphant laugh and our host nodded approvingly.

  ‘Your wife speaks for you?’ snapped Erra.

  ‘Apparently,’ I replied dryly. ‘It is getting late and we now have a hard ride tomorrow. I do not suppose you have any information on the strength and disposition of the force approaching Irbil?’

  ‘You will know soon enough,’ smirked Erra.

  I stood and held out my hand to Gallia, who rose and took it.

  ‘Then I thank you for your hospitality and bid you all good evening.’

  Our host clapped his hand to bring forth the boy who had escorted us to the camp.

  ‘The king and queen are leaving.’

  Ishtar rose from her couch to embrace Gallia and plant a kiss on my cheek, my nostrils filling with her alluring, intoxicating perfume.

  ‘Because you saved my temple in Babylon from being plundered, I had Girra make you both a gift,’ she told us.

  ‘You will both benefit from the beverage you have been drinking,’ remarked our host as we left the pavilion, ‘for a while, at least.’

  My head swirling, we left their company to walk into the warm night air. The forest was alive with noise, crickets sounding very loud and the nocturnal animals crushing dried leaves as they moved. I heard and saw everything and smelled all. Gallia grabbed my arm and looked around the camp.

  ‘There are no horses,’ she said.

  She was right. There was no sign of a horse or a camel. The fire was still burning but there was no one to tend it. Indeed, there were no signs of human life at all: no guards, no squires and no servants.

  ‘Follow me, please,’ said the boy.

  We retraced our steps back to our own camp, the boy stopping and pointing to the flicker of flames among the trees.

  ‘Your camp, majesties.’

  I turned to thank him but he had disappeared into the blackness of the forest. Gallia shrugged and we carried on the short distance, to be halted by a curt voice.

  ‘Step forward and identify yourselves.’

  The soldier had his shield in front of his body and his javelin held at the ready. We raised our hands and walked slowly out of the darkness.

  ‘Pacorus, King of Dura,’ I said.

  ‘Gallia, Queen of Dura.’

  The soldier went down on one knee.

  ‘Apologies, majesties, I did not recognise you.’

  ‘Get up,’ I ordered, ‘there is no need to apologise for diligence.’

  The legionary turned and bellowed at the top of his voice.

  ‘The king and queen have returned.’

  In moments Lucius and Bullus were before us, the latter with gladius in hand scouring the forest behind us.

  ‘Do you want me to send out a patrol to hunt down the little bastard, majesty? He is obviously mad.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ demanded Gallia.

  The centurion stared at her in disbelief. ‘For leading you on a wild goose chase, majesty.’

  ‘Did he run off the moment you left camp, majesty?’ asked Lucius.

  Had they been drinking?

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘Because you have only been gone about ten minutes.’

  I was going to tell him he was a fool because we had been gone for at least two hours, perhaps longer. But Gallia caught my eye and shook her head.

  ‘It is late and I am tired,’ she said, giving a false yawn.

  Lucius escorted us back to our tent and bid us goodnight, leaving Bullus to stalk the perimeter looking for an inattentive guard to strike with his cane. But we were not tired, far from it, and so I ordered wine to be brought to our tent as we mulled over the evening’s experience. We both skirted around the meat of the subject, until Gallia grabbed my arms and stared into my eyes. Despite the lateness of the hour her eyes were a sparkling blue, bluer than I had ever seen them.

  ‘They were gods, Pacorus, or was I dreaming?’

  I grinned like a naughty child. ‘There can be no other explanation. But they looked…’

  ‘Just like us?’

  I nodded. The guards at the entrance called that the wine had arrived, a legionary entering the tent to place a jug and two wooden cups on the table. I filled them and handed one to Gallia.

  ‘To our good fortune in the war to come.’

  I took a sip and spat it out. It tasted like vinegar. Gallia grimaced but refrained from such an unladylike gesture.

  ‘It tastes disgusting,’ I moaned.

  ‘Compared to what we were served with earlier, yes.’ She giggled. ‘I feel strange.’

  ‘Sleepy?’

  ‘Not a bit.’

  I felt my loins stir. ‘Then we must think of something to pass the time.’

  She pulled me to her and kissed me hard on the lips, pressing her thighs into mine.

  ‘Excellent idea.’

  We pulled and ripped at each other’s clothing as we stumbled to the sleeping area, which was separated from the main compartment by a curtain. We laughed as we tried to keep our lips locked together while removing our boots, failing miserably. We tumbled onto our cot and both leapt from it in alarm.

  ‘What in the name of the gods is that?’

  Something large, wrapped in a soft leather cover, lay on the cot. I went to touch it.

  ‘No,’ cried Gallia, ‘it might be a snake.’

  Half-naked, I rushed back to retrieve my sword, pulling it from the sheath and jabbing the leather with the point. There was no movement.

  ‘If it was a snake, it would have moved by now.’

  ‘Then what is it?’ she said.

  I used the point to lift up the leather, to reveal something metal beneath. Forgetting all about a snake, Gallia ripped open the leather cover and picked up an armoured cuirass, which was identical to the one Girra had been wearing earlier.

  ‘Dragon-skin armour,’ she cooed.

  There were two suits, each as light as a feather and covered with metal scales. Normal dragon-skin armour comprised a thick leather vest covered with overlapping silver plates that had been stitched on to protect the chest and back. Like all scale armour it was bulky and heavy, but these cuirasses were light to hold, the leather soft as a baby’s skin and thin, the metal polished but unlike silver. We admired our gifts and tried them on. They were a perfect fit, Gallia’s shaped perfectly to accommodate her breasts.

  ‘A gift from the gods indeed,’ she beamed.

  We made love in the armour, our bodies contorting into shapes not seen since the heady days of Italy when we had been young and free but always within a hair’s breadth of being captured and crucified. The threat of imminent death made us live life to the full and sharpened our survival instincts. Afterwards we had faced dangers and travails aplenty, it was true, but in Italy we were young and had no ties. Over the years our lust for each other had given way to a deep love and mutual respect. But after our strange meeting our minds and bodies were once again flushed with youthful lust and energy. We did not sleep at all, wiping each other down with towels after our exertions. Just before dawn we donned our clothes and new armour and walked around the camp, which was coming to life as a new day was being born. Guards were being relieved and breakfast prepared. Men stretched their limbs, women brushed their hair before platting it in preparation for the day’s ride, and Bullus still st
alked the camp.

  ‘Do you think he was given some of the gods’ elixir,’ grinned Gallia.

  I felt my chin, which needed a shave. ‘No, his power comes from the vine cane he carries. Power and authority are powerful stimulants.’

  After breakfast I called him and Lucius to our tent, which was being dismantled as we spoke outside the pile of collapsed woven goat’s hair.

  ‘We are riding to Irbil,’ I told them.

  ‘It is in danger,’ added Gallia.

  ‘We are only two hundred, majesty,’ said a concerned Lucius. ‘Would it not be better to ride to Hatra and gather King Gafarn’s forces?’

  ‘That is not possible,’ I said.

  Bullus raised an eyebrow but kept his counsel.

  ‘You have something to say, centurion?’ I asked.

  ‘We could send a rider to Dura to fetch General Chrestus and the rest of the army, majesty.’

  ‘I will be frank, centurion. That fat drunkard Cookes controls all the post stations and the river crossings over the Tigris. Any courier I despatch I will sending to his or her death.’

  Lucius was perplexed. ‘How did you obtain this information, majesty?’

  ‘From friends,’ Gallia told him.

  ‘Do they have any troops we can borrow?’ queried Bullus.

  Chapter 6

  We rode directly to Irbil, passing deserted villages and fields overgrown and choked with weeds. Many of the mud-brick buildings were scorched and without roofs, the result of Spartacus’ invasion and the subsequent plundering of the country. He had defeated Darius at the Battle of Mepsila and then laid siege to Irbil when Darius had declared war on Gordyene and Hatra. But he had been manipulated into that disastrous decision by my wife, Diana and Rasha, much to Media’s cost.

  We trotted through a deserted, plundered village, its inhabitants either fled, butchered or taken and sold into slavery. The dozen or so huts and two warehouses were burnt-out husks, the animal pens empty and the well in the centre of the settlement destroyed. Like hundreds of other villages in Media, it was sited to take advantage of the underground water sources that blessed the kingdom. I glanced at Gallia as we trotted through the forlorn village.

  ‘Do you regret bringing about the war between Media, Gordyene and Hatra?’