The Slave King

by Peter Darman

  I stayed with Gallia until the stables were empty, then cantered after the rear of the column away from the gates, glancing back at the scene of carnage one last time. To see Klietas standing in the middle of the street near the gates.

  ‘I will catch you up,’ I said to Gallia, pulling up Horns before turning him and directing him back towards the gates.

  He gave me a boyish grin when I pulled up Horns in front of him, pointing at the open gates.

  ‘The enemy has gone, highborn, we have beaten them.’

  For a couple of seconds I peered through the gates and hazy brown smoke to see that the land beyond the ditch did indeed appear to be devoid of the foe. I extended my arm to him.

  ‘Up you come, we are leaving.’

  But he was looking past me, reaching into the hide bag tied to his belt to retrieve a stone, without looking placing it in the pouch of his sling.

  ‘The enemy, highborn.’

  I saw with disbelief a file of soldiers running along the wall from the north, another file following some distance behind. The reason the enemy had withdrawn from the western gates was to reinforce their breach of the city wall to the north. Now Atrax’s men were taking possession of the other entrances into the city. Klietas began to swing his sling.

  ‘No, there are too many of them, get up here.’

  ‘Stand still!’

  I swung in the saddle and saw another group of enemy soldiers approaching from a side street, which ran parallel to the wall to my right. I jumped down from Horns, grabbed Klietas, shoved him into the saddle and handed him the reins.

  ‘Don’t let go.’

  I slapped Horns hard on the rump, inducing him to bolt away down the street to hopefully catch up with Gallia and her Amazons. Horns was galloping and soon out of reach of the enemy soldiers now circling me menacingly. I drew my spatha but their commander, a yellow transverse crest atop his helmet in the Roman style, slipped his sword back into its scabbard and shook his head.

  ‘Put away your sword, majesty, we have no wish to kill the King of Dura.’

  Chapter 11

  ‘Go out everywhere and spare no one.’

  I was not the only captive forced-marched out of the city to the enemy camp positioned north of Irbil. Dozens of men, women and children, heads hung low, trudged alongside me. They had probably been too slow to vacate their dwellings when the enemy had burst into the city, though I wondered how the foe had entered the city at all if all the bridges had been burnt. I looked behind me at the northern gates and saw no smoke. As if reading my thoughts, the centurion who had demanded my surrender spoke.

  ‘The bridge never caught fire, majesty, which allowed us to seize the gates, though we lost many men doing so.’

  I looked at the soldiers guarding the line of captives, all of them Pontic legionaries with yellow crests atop their helmets, wearing mail armour and carrying shields sporting a double-headed eagle motif.

  ‘You mean you lost many hill men. I doubt General Tullus wasted his best troops attacking the walls.’

  ‘Keep them moving,’ the centurion shouted to his men, choosing to ignore my caustic remark.

  The civilian captives were herded into a compound outside the camp housing Atrax’s army, guards ignoring their pleas for water as they wilted under a fierce Mesopotamian sun. I was escorted inside the camp, which was very familiar as the army of Dura used the same layout for its marching camps. The earth rampart and ditch surrounding it formed a rectangle with rounded corners, within which were neat rows of tents, stables, workshops and kitchens. In the centre of the camp stood the general’s tent, larger and more luxurious than the eight-man tents in which the legionaries slept. It almost felt like home. Almost.

  The centurion who had captured me had relieved me of my armoured cuirass, helmet, sword and dagger, which he carried into the tent ringed by sentries, two of his men flanking me with swords drawn escorting me into the presence of the tent’s resident.

  Atrax was seated in a high-backed wooden chair positioned on a dais covered by a purple carpet. Flanking him were Titus Tullus and a tall man with wild hair and even wilder eyes who glared at me. Atrax smiled when the soldiers with drawn swords forced me down on my knees with their shields.

  ‘King Pacorus, this is a pleasant surprise,’ his tone was mocking.

  ‘I wish I could say the same,’ I replied.

  One of the soldiers kicked me in the back, sending me sprawling on the carpet.

  ‘I have played out this scene in my mind many times,’ he said with relish. ‘How I would exact vengeance on you for all the misfortunes you have visited upon my family.’

  ‘You are too kind,’ I said, coughing when a boot was kicked into my side.

  ‘You always did have something clever to say, slave king,’ remarked Atrax, ‘but now the tables are turned. For too long you have stuck your nose into matters that do not concern you. Finally, you have over-reached yourself.’

  ‘Kill him,’ demanded the man with wild hair, his words a form of bastardised Greek.

  I slowly rose to my feet, looking behind me at the two soldiers and expecting another blow. None came and the centurion who held my armour and sword looked embarrassed by their behaviour.

  ‘This is Lord Laodice, one of King Polemon’s most loyal subjects who holds great sway among the hill tribes of Pontus.’

  ‘Tell me, Atrax,’ I said in Greek, ‘for a man who is a supporter of Parthian purity, how is it that the bulk of your army is made up of foreigners who have invaded Parthia, people you would normally regard as mongrels?’

  Titus Tullus chuckled, earning him a castigating stare from Atrax. But Laodice was confused.

  ‘What is Parthian purity?’

  ‘A belief that only pure-blood Parthians who can trace their lineage back generations should inhabit the Parthian Empire,’ I explained. ‘All other races are considered inferior to Parthians and should be treated accordingly. But you have just seen it in action, have you not?’

  He scratched his feral mane. ‘What do you mean?’

  I jerked a thumb behind me. ‘Go and count all the bodies of your men outside the city walls, then count the number of dead Medians and indeed the casualties among those who wear yellow crests.’

  I nodded at Atrax. ‘He is quite happy to see you and your men butchered to place him on Media’s throne.’

  ‘Silence,’ snapped Atrax. ‘My Pontic soldiers are valued allies and friends and will be richly rewarded when I take my rightful place as Media’s ruler.’

  ‘The citadel is strong, and you have no siege engines,’ I told him.

  Atrax leaned back in his chair and licked his lips. Titus Tullus looked bored by it all and the lord of the hill men appeared confused, probably still trying to work out in his head how many men he had lost in the fight for the walls.

  ‘But I do have you, King Pacorus,’ said Atrax with relish, ‘truly a gift from the gods.’

  ‘If you are going to make an example of me, then at least release the hostages roasting in that pen outside your camp.’

  A slave brought in a silver tray holding silver rhytons and served Atrax, Tullus and Laodice. The latter grabbed his drinking vessel and drank greedily, much to the disgust of Atrax.

  ‘What about King Pacorus?’ asked Tullus.

  ‘What about him?’ sneered Atrax.

  ‘Well,’ said the Roman, ‘I believe you owe him a debt of gratitude.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘When King Spartacus had captured Irbil in the aftermath of you father’s death, he wanted to haul you and your sisters back to his capital, or so I heard.’ He tipped his head at me. ‘King Pacorus was the one who insisted you and your sisters be escorted to Hatra where you made a full recovery, and….’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ snapped Atrax. ‘Bring drink for our guest.’

  ‘And a chair,’ added Tullus.

  The wine was delicious, but then Atrax and his family had always indulged themselves when it came to high living. It was the
ir love of everything grand that had led to Aliyeh’s machinations to make Media the first kingdom of the empire, ultimately resulting in its near ruin.

  Atrax leaned forward. ‘Tell me, why are you so concerned about the welfare of commoners, people who are beneath the consideration of kings and princes? Is it because you were once a slave and fought in a slave army? After all, a lion does not consider the lot of lambs.’

  His tone was mocking and for a moment I thought he was the reincarnation of my sister. He clicked his fingers and the centurion holding my armour and weapons came forward, bowing and handing Atrax my sword when the prince pointed at it. Atrax slowly pulled it from its scabbard and examined the straight blade.

  ‘So, slave king, this is the fabled sword gifted you by another slave king.’

  ‘He was not a king,’ I corrected him.

  ‘No, indeed,’ mocked Atrax, ‘he was a thief and a murderer, just like his son who pollutes the north of the empire. General Tullus has fully acquainted me with the depredations of the slave leader, along with your own part in ravaging Italy.’

  I roared with laughter. ‘You honour me, general. But I fear time has embellished my small part in the war we fought against the might of Rome.’

  ‘You are wrong, majesty,’ he said, ‘for in southern Italy mothers still frighten their children with threats that “the Parthian” will come for them in the night if they do not behave.’

  I was immensely flattered. Even after all these years I was still remembered in Italy, albeit as a demon of the night. Still, it was a testament of sorts to the achievements of the horsemen I had led, and their commanders. The images of Nergal, Praxima and Burebista appeared in my mind. It was a happy memory.

  Atrax stroked the blade. ‘I wonder how many innocent lives have been ended by this weapon.’

  ‘None.’

  He raised an eyebrow at me. ‘None? In all the years of your campaigning you have never cut down an innocent? I find that difficult to believe, King Pacorus.’

  ‘I may have inadvertently killed an innocent,’ I said, ‘but unlike you I have never consciously murdered the guiltless. On the battlefield I have tried to kill the enemy, for that is the duty of every soldier. But I have never ordered the murder of prisoners or the sack of cities.’

  ‘Liar!’

  He spat the accusation at me, causing Laodice and Tullus to flinch. He pointed my sword at me.

  ‘How selective is your memory, slave king. You murdered my uncle, Prince Alexander, at Estakhr having first killed General Spada and his officers under a flag of truce. Do you deny these things?’

  The past came back to haunt me, though in truth I had not been responsible for those deaths. During the campaign to avenge the rape of my daughter Claudia and the murder of her betrothed Valak, both at the hands of the loathsome Alexander, I had marched Dura’s army into Persis. An able Persian named Spada had outmanoeuvred us and so Gallia had lured him and his officers to a parley where Dura’s lords had murdered them. It was a dishonourable act, one that I bitterly regretted. But I did not regret the death of Alexander, who fell from his horse after being rescued by an army led by Phraates himself, breaking his neck. Before I had time to answer, Atrax was jabbing my spatha at me.

  ‘I have a mind to melt this down and pour the molten metal down your throat for the crimes you have committed against my family.’

  ‘An excellent idea, lord,’ grinned Laodice.

  Atrax slipped my sword back in its scabbard and held out an arm so the centurion could hand him my gleaming cuirass. His eyes lit up when he examined the burnished metal plates and stroked them.

  ‘A fine piece of armour,’ said Atrax, ‘the smiths of Dura have excelled themselves.’

  ‘It was not made at Dura,’ I informed him.

  ‘Then where?’

  ‘It was a gift from the gods,’ I answered.

  Atrax’s top lip lifted to create a sneer. ‘You dare mock the gods?’

  ‘I have never mocked the gods or taken their name in vain, prince.’

  The last word made him angry and he jumped from his make-believe throne.

  ‘You might die, today, slave king, but first you will assist me in reclaiming my rightful position as King of Media.’

  ‘I will not,’ I insisted.

  But I was bundled outside Atrax’s large tent where a rope was put around my neck and held by the centurion I had surrendered to until Atrax appeared wearing my armoured cuirass. A slave brought his horse, he vaulted into the saddle and the centurion handed him the rope, which he used to lead me behind him like a dog.

  ‘Is that necessary?’ queried Titus Tullus, embarrassed that I was being treated like a slave.

  ‘Quite necessary, general,’ came the terse reply.

  The horses of Tullus and Laodice were brought so they could ride beside Atrax, who took pleasure in parading me around the camp, soldiers jeering and mocking me as he did so. The rope was actually a noose that tightened around my neck when Atrax gave it a jerk or I failed to keep up with the pace of his horse, which he found endlessly amusing. Eventually he led me out of camp back towards the city. It was mid-afternoon now and the heat was intense. Sweat poured into my eyes and I squinted in the bright light.

  Atrax’s guard was provided by a party of horse archers, all wearing blue tunics and grey leggings and one of their number carrying a black banner bearing a white dragon motif. Tullus’ soldiers manned the northern gates into the city and patrolled the walls, more lining the street I trudged down leading to the citadel. The former Roman tribune had his men under control because I spotted no burning buildings, though the street was littered with smashed pottery, overturned carts and the personal belongings of those who had fled from their homes.

  ‘No cheering crowds, Atrax,’ I shouted, ‘not the homecoming you expected, is it?’

  He gave the rope a yank, causing me to tumble forward flat on my face. The horse archers behind me laughed as I tried to stand, stumbling when Atrax dug his heels into the flanks of his horse to make it break into a trot. My reward for my utterance was a grazed elbow and a mouthful of dirt. I thanked the gods the kings of Media had not paved the roads of their capital.

  Eventually we reached the citadel, Tullus riding forward to inspect his men deployed around the great circular stone mound. I saw the sun glinting off helmets on the battlements above, our arrival prompting an archer to take a shot at us, the missile falling harmlessly short. There was a strip of cleared land around the perimeter of the mound to allow archers and slingers to have an uninterrupted field of view to take shots against enemy soldiers, but only if the enemy ventured too close to the mound. When we reached the stone ramp leading to the citadel’s gates, Atrax called forward one of his horse archers and sent him up it. But before he cantered up the ramp he untied his bowstring and held the disarmed bow aloft to signal his desire to talk.

  The horseman rode up the ramp, the door in one of the thick, iron-reinforced gates opened and a soldier stepped out. A tall individual followed him with a huge blue crest atop his helmet, Joro I assumed. Above the gates archers trained their bows on Atrax’s man, who had now dismounted and stood conversing with the general. I took it for granted they were not debating the terms of my release and so was curious as to what Atrax wanted. The herald stepped back from Joro, saluted, gained his saddle and rode back down the ramp. When he reached Atrax he bowed his head and they exchanged a few words. Atrax nodded and turned to me.

  ‘Come, King Pacorus, let us see if the usurper Akmon is a reasonable man.’

  He tugged on the rope to force me forward, walking his horse around twenty paces or so towards the foot of the ramp. The walls above were suddenly full of individuals peering down at us. To our left the sun was beginning its descent into the west, though it was still very hot and there was no wind. My tunic and leggings were dirty, drenched in sweat and my mouth felt dry and about twice its usual size.

  Atrax looked up at those on the walls over one hundred feet above us and s
pread his arms.

  ‘Behold your king, your true king. I am Atrax, son of Darius, grandson of the king I was named after and great grandson of Farhad. The blood that flows through my veins is pure Median and I can trace my lineage back through history to the time of Arsaces, the first ruler of the Parthian Empire.’

  Silence greeted his words, which was hardly surprising as everyone knew Atrax’s heritage. But he was just warming up.

  ‘One land, one king. One kingdom, one legitimate ruler. King of Kings Phraates has agreed that the affairs of Media are to be resolved by the parties involved in that kingdom, so I say to you now, Akmon, go back to Gordyene where you were born. Go back to your father’s kingdom with your Armenian wife.

  ‘You may feel tempted to defy me, Akmon, especially as you have possession of the citadel. Two things you should know.’

  He yanked on the rope to drag me forward.

  ‘I have King Pacorus and will not hesitate to have him executed before your eyes unless you agree to leave the citadel immediately.’

  He tossed the rope to the Pontic centurion and held out his right hand. Another legionary rushed forward holding a bucket, which he held up to Atrax. The latter reached into it and pulled out a severed head.

  ‘I know you believe the army of Dura is on its way to rescue you,’ shouted Atrax to those on the walls, ‘but in fact no message reached Dura.’

  He held the bloated, purple head by its long hair, which was plaited in the style of the Amazons.

  ‘This woman, this harridan, one of Queen Gallia’s infamous female assassins, was intercepted before she crossed the Tigris. No army is coming, Akmon. You have no friends, no allies and no hope.

  ‘But I am merciful and will allow you and your deluded supporters to leave Irbil, never to return. You have until the morning to decide. Failure to agree to my terms will result in King Pacorus being crucified before your eyes. Until tomorrow, then.’