Wraiths

by Peter Darman

  She stepped back to admire him. ‘You look well, Klietas. Farming obviously suits you.’

  ‘Thank you, majesty.’

  She took his arm and led him back to the office.

  ‘I apologise for dragging you away from your farm. Almas has kept me fully briefed concerning your business and by all accounts you are exceeding his expectations.’

  ‘He is very kind, majesty.’

  ‘And the king himself is pleased with your efforts.’

  ‘The king is well, majesty?’

  Gallia’s head dropped. ‘The king is tired, Klietas, as am I.’

  He glanced at her. She looked full of vim and vigour and certainly did not look tired.

  ‘It is up to younger bodies and minds to safeguard Dura’s interests.’

  Inside the office, which resembled the bare interior of his home, a burly figure stood against one wall next to a smaller, slimmer individual. When his eyes became accustomed to the somewhat dim interior of the room, he recognised them. They had both been in Irbil when King Pacorus had defended the city and the king had saved Klietas from the slow, agonising death of starvation on the streets. The stout individual was the crop-haired Centurion Bullus, the one with the slight frame being Minu, commander of the Amazons. Both observed him with cold eyes. He in turn gave them just a cursory look. When they had first encountered him he had been a penniless wretch, beneath contempt. But he was now older, a veteran of the defence of Irbil and the squire who had saved his king’s life in the previous year’s campaign. He was moreover a landowner, who one day might become one of Dura’s lords.

  Haya walked into the room and closed the door. The eyes of Bullus and Minu bored into Klietas and he began to feel distinctively uncomfortable. But the queen broke the tension.

  ‘I will come straight to the point, Klietas. The enemies of Dura are mustering their forces with the intention of launching a fresh war, if not this year then certainly next. To prevent Dura, and Parthia, from becoming embroiled in fresh bloodshed, I am sending a small, select group north to strike at our enemies before they can strike at us. Can I rely on your support in this matter?’

  He answered without hesitation. ‘Yes, majesty.’

  She dazzled him with a smile and reached out to take hold of the bear’s claw hanging from his necklace.

  ‘Dura is forever in your debt, Klietas. You will be pleased to know that Haya will be accompanying you north on this most important mission.’

  He was pleased and turned to grin boyishly at his love. He knew nothing of politics or grand strategy and cared even less. But he did care about King Pacorus and his kingdom and was flattered to be asked to once again save the kingdom’s ruler. He clutched his necklace and thanked Gula for her blessing.

  ‘We will find you a horse and some fresh clothes,’ Gallia told Klietas. ‘I would like to come with you, but I am too well known, and this mission is above all about stealth and secrecy.’

  She nodded to Haya who ushered Klietas from the room. Bullus caught the queen’s eye and gave a slight shake of the head.

  ‘You disapprove of young Klietas, centurion?’

  ‘How old is he, nineteen, twenty?’

  ‘Eighteen,’ said Gallia.

  ‘He’s too young and inexperienced, majesty. He can’t use a sword, can’t read or write and has had little military training.’

  ‘He won’t need literary skills when it comes to killing Dura’s enemies, centurion,’ said Gallia, ‘but he has a raw courage that I saw for myself the day he saved the king’s life. He would also walk into the underworld itself if Haya asked him to. You cannot buy that sort of devotion and neither can you train it into someone. It is either there or it is not.’

  Bullus said nothing.

  ‘There is another reason why I wanted him on this mission, centurion, along with yourself.’

  ‘Majesty?’

  ‘You remember Irbil?’

  He nodded. ‘It is seared into my memory, majesty.’

  Gallia nodded. ‘Both Haya and Klietas were there and both should have died in that city.’

  She was going to say Haya had died but thought better of it.

  ‘They are both beloved of the gods, centurion. If you don’t believe me, ask Haya about the small scar on her neck when you have a chance.’

  He saluted and left the office, Minu watching him go. Gallia turned to the commander of the Amazons.

  ‘If you have anything to say about Klietas, now’s your chance.’

  ‘I have every faith he will prove a willing participant, majesty.’

  ‘And what of the two Daughters of Dura?’

  Minu smiled, an expression she rarely displayed of late.

  ‘They will be like desert vipers in the bosom of the enemy, majesty.’

  ‘Not too young?’

  Another smile. ‘Before they were conscripted, majesty, they lived like wraiths. Moving unseen among Dura’s population, robbing at will until their luck ran out. I have no doubt they slit a few throats along the way before they were embraced by the Amazons.’

  A horse, a fine brown stallion, was found for Klietas and he rode it in the company of the others to the desert encampment away from prying eyes where those chosen to carry out the queen’s orders were to assemble. There they met Talib, chief scout in Dura’s army and Minu’s husband. The Agraci orphan had always been a remote figure, but Minu’s miscarriage had made him more distant, and prickly. For that reason alone, Gallia believed him to be ideal to lead the expedition, though she herself would dearly have loved to be its commander.

  Klietas sat cross-legged on the carpeted floor of the tent and shared the food with the others after the horses had been watered and fed. It was a typical Agraci meal of rice and roasted goat, the meat passed around the circle of diners and eaten with fingers. It had been cooked over an open fire outside the tent woven from goat’s hair, the two girls who had supervised the cooking serving the fruits of their labours.

  Bullus, mouth full of meat, pointed at the younger of the pair, a willowy girl with brown curly hair and dimples on her cheeks.

  ‘You will make a fine wife one day, girl.’

  She gave him a hateful scowl, her brown eyes narrowing to slits. Gallia smiled at her.

  ‘This is no ordinary serving girl, centurion, but one of your travelling companions.’

  Bullus stopped chewing. ‘Her?’

  ‘Do you not remember her?’

  He wracked his brains trying to think where he had encountered the girl before. For a split-second he feared she might be one of the whores from the brothel he frequented. But then he realised she was far too young and, more importantly, far too skinny for his liking. He liked his women to have meat on their bones. He shook his head.

  ‘Let me enlighten you,’ said Gallia. ‘Yasmina played the role of my granddaughter when we infiltrated the town of Corum to allow Spadines and his Sarmatians to enter and loot the place.’

  Yasmina gave Bullus a wicked grin. The other girl, who was as slim as Yasmina but shorter with straight black hair, examined the centurion with large, dark eyes. Gallia pointed at her.

  ‘Azar was my other granddaughter. Both will be riding north with you, centurion.’

  Bullus was unimpressed. ‘Two girls, a farmer and a couple of Amazons. Plus Talib and me. Hardly a group to strike fear into the hearts of the enemy.’

  Gallia washed her hands in a bowl of water and accepted a towel offered her by Azar.

  ‘That is precisely the intention, centurion.’

  She indicated the two girls should join their group, Minu making room for them to sit beside her.

  Gallia looked at each of the others, her gaze loitering on Bullus and Klietas the longest.

  ‘I will tell you what the others already know. Those responsible for the deaths of Spartacus, Rasha, Zenobia and Kalet must all die. But this is not merely a mission of retribution. When those responsible have paid for their crimes, Parthia, and Dura, will be safer.’

  Bullus
recommenced his munching. ‘May I ask the names of those you want dead, majesty?’

  ‘Prince Atrax of Media; Titus Tullus, who I’m sure you remember from Irbil; Laodice, the leader of the Pontic hill men, who was also at Irbil; King Amyntas of Galatia; King Tiridates, the former ruler of Aria; and Glaphyra, who was in charge of the city of Kayseri where we almost came to grief last year.’

  Bullus puffed out his cheeks.

  ‘An impressive kill list. But if sixty thousand Parthian soldiers could not achieve the task, what makes you think this band of youngsters can, meaning no offence?’

  ‘Precisely because this group is small and seemingly insignificant, centurion. A tiny mouse may infiltrate even the strongest fortress unseen, though I like to think of you as wraiths.’

  ‘What are they?’ asked Bullus.

  ‘Ghosts that people see just before they die,’ said Azar.

  ‘What’s our story, in case we get questioned going to or from wherever we are going?’ asked Bullus.

  ‘Simple,’ answered Talib. ‘I and my wife are travelling north with our two daughters.’

  He nodded his head at Azar and Yasmina. ‘To expand their education. I am a rich Agraci businessman combining business with pleasure to explore commercial opportunities in Pontus and Cappadocia. You are my bodyguard.’

  Bullus looked at Klietas and Haya. ‘And those two?’

  ‘My nephew and his wife along for the journey.’

  The explanation delighted Klietas, who grinned and winked at Haya, the Amazon screwing up her face at his boyish naivety.

  ‘Kings and princes are usually surrounded by bodyguards,’ cautioned Bullus. ‘They are not easy to kill.’

  ‘Even the hardest men are susceptible to feminine charms, centurion,’ said Gallia.

  He looked at Yasmina and Azar, both very young but alluring enough. Haya, though, was in her prime and could turn most heads with her beauty, as long as she ditched the weapons and armour first.

  ‘Killing someone up close is different to shooting them down with a bow,’ he said.

  Azar whipped out a dagger with a thin blade.

  ‘We have killed men up close before.’

  In a blur Yasmina pulled a blade from her boot and threw it, the point thudding into the tent pole a few feet from Bullus’ head.

  ‘We are good at it.’

  Gallia was far from amused.

  ‘That’s enough. Remember what you have been taught. Boasting leads to ostentatious displays such as the one you have just demonstrated, which in turn leads to sloppiness. You must remain vigilant at all times when you are in hostile territory.’

  The queen turned her attention to Bullus, who despite her words and the display of prowess with a knife from Yasmina, was clearly not convinced about the plan.

  ‘You will receive supplementary pay for the duration of the mission, centurion, and in the event of your demise, your son and his mother will be well provided for.’

  That pleased Bullus, who smiled and bowed his head to her.

  ‘You are most generous, majesty.’

  Gallia allowed a faint smile to crease her lips. How easily were men manipulated. She knew Bullus had fathered an illegitimate son in the city and despite his veneer of brutality, she also knew he sent regular payments to the boy and his mother to ensure they did not starve. Everyone had a weak point, a chink in his or her armour that could be exploited.

  ‘Do any of you have any questions?’ she asked.

  ‘How long will we be away for, majesty?’ enquired Klietas, thinking of the harvest.

  ‘Three months should suffice to eliminate the enemies of Dura,’ she told him.

  ‘He won’t be missed,’ sniffed Bullus, ‘but the commander of the Amazons and Dura’s chief scout will be.’

  ‘They have been granted compassionate leave,’ Gallia informed him.

  Bullus chuckled. ‘Compassionate leave? For what, failing to kill enough of the enemy?’

  ‘Remember your place, centurion,’ hissed Talib. ‘We are embarking on a military mission, not a holiday, and I am in command.’

  Bullus raised a scarred eyebrow but said nothing.

  ‘I want no bickering before you start out,’ said Gallia firmly. ‘This is an important mission, perhaps the most important that the soldiers of Dura have embarked upon in recent years. You must put aside any petty differences and doubts. If you fail, then Dura will be condemned to war without end. The king deserves to see out his autumn years in peace after his long years of service to Dura and Parthia, and for that reason alone you should all be grateful you have been chosen for this mission.’

  They were a disparate group: an Agraci, his Duran wife, two girls, a burly centurion, a Median orphan and the woman he was besotted with. But they had all fought for King Pacorus and been touched by the king’s generous nature, his integrity, honesty and courage. And they all knew the Kingdom of Dura was a better place to live than most of the realms in Parthia and beyond, not least because of the efforts of King Pacorus and Queen Gallia. They would all try their utmost to complete the mission they had been selected for, and Queen Gallia knew they would.

  The seven left the next day, seven riders trailing three camels travelling north at a leisurely pace so as not to draw any attention to themselves. Their bodies were wrapped in black robes and their heads and faces hidden by shemaghs as favoured by the Agraci. Klietas turned his head to stare at the Palmyrene Gate as they passed near the city, his eyes squinting as the sunlight reflected off Dura’s stone walls and towers. A press of people, carts and animals was concentrated at the gates, all wanting entry, while an equal weight of men and beasts inside the city wanted to exit. And in the middle of it all was an agitated duty centurion and his hard-pressed, sweating soldiers, trying to keep the peace but mightily tempted to use the blunt ends of their javelins on angry, recalcitrant civilians. Beyond the great wadi in front of the city’s northern wall, camel caravans were exiting the great caravan park, heading for Palmyra and on to Damascus and then Egypt where that kingdom’s fine men and their ladies liked to wrap themselves in silk produced in China.

  Klietas pulled up his horse to gaze in admiration at the scene of activity, pride swelling up in his chest in the knowledge that he was part of the life of the kingdom, plucked out of poverty by the man who ruled Dura from his palace in the Citadel visible in the distance.

  Haya was beside him. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Taking a last look at the city.’

  She sighed in irritation. ‘It will be there when we get back, and long after we are both dead. We should not delay.’

  He urged on his horse by gently tapping his heels on its flanks.

  ‘Yes, wife.’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘You are such an idiot.’

  None of them knew their number was not a random choice but a deliberate decision. When she had arrived in Parthia, Gallia had paid scant attention to the gods and folklore of the land of heat and dust she found herself in. But as the years passed, she had learnt more of the people who had lived in Mesopotamia, ‘the land between the two rivers’ that was steeped in history and legend. Dobbai had taught her much about the ancient Sumerians, Assyrians, Babylonians and Persians, their gods, beliefs and government. She also learnt that numbers had meaning, and the number seven above all had a special significance. Over four thousand years before Parthia’s horsemen rode the earth, the Sumerians worshipped seven gods whom they could see in the sky. So they named the days of their week after those seven heavenly bodies. Three thousand years later, the Babylonians divided weeks into seven day-names to commemorate the gods they worshipped, the same gods now revered in Parthia. They were Shamash, the Sun God; Sin, God of the Moon; Nergal, God of War; Nabu, God of Scribes; Marduk, the Supreme God; Ishtar, Goddess of Love; and Ninurta, God of Farming.

  Again and again, the number seven was mentioned in stories of how the gods had fashioned the world. In the ancient Mesopotamian legend, the Gilgamesh myth, the great flood that swa
mped the earth had lasted seven days, and for seven days the great boat carrying the survivors of that flood had rested on a mountain. She had seen the mountain, Mount Ararat, herself in Armenia, when Lucius Varsas, Dura’s quartermaster general, had spoken of the Jewish belief in the ark of Noah. But the Gilgamesh story was older, and she had seen with her own eyes the proof that the gods of Mesopotamia existed. She hoped Shamash and Ishtar especially would look favourably upon the seven now trekking north to Pontus, bless their venture and guarantee their safe return.

  Chapter 3

  For over six hundred years there had been Greeks living in Sinope. But like many towns and cities in the lands between the Mediterranean, Black Sea and Mesopotamia, other races had made their homes in the city and its hinterland. Now, Pontic society was divided into three distinct but overlapping parts. On the coastal strip Greeks predominated, whereas in the hills and mountains to the south the villages were populated by Anatolians: a hardy, warlike people under the leadership of a fierce warlord named Laodice. But the coastal strip and mountain villages also contained the descendants of Persians, who had once ruled Pontus as part of a mighty empire covering the whole earth. The god-king no longer ruled Pontus but Persian gods still held an iron grip over the majority of its population, and their priests held great sway over the land.

  Nearly three hundred years before, Pontus was established as a kingdom by Mithridates I, the son of a Persian satrap serving one of Alexander of Macedon’s former generals, a man named Antigonus. For the next one hundred and eighty years the Kingdom of Pontus enjoyed peaceful prosperity and friendly relations with the rising power in the west – Rome. That all changed with the accession to the throne of the sixth ruler of Pontus to bear the name Mithridates, a cruel, ambitious man whose lust for war and conquests was insatiable. At first, Mithridates and his army swept all before them, reaching the Aegean and entering Greece itself. In the process, tens of thousands of Roman citizens were butchered, an atrocity Rome was determined to avenge. But it took the Romans three wars waged over twenty-six years to vanquish Mithridates, who at the end of his final defeat committed suicide rather than suffer the humiliation of capture and being taken to Rome to be slowly strangled before rapturous crowds. The king was buried in Sinope, his body resting in a fine mausoleum ironically part-financed by the Roman general Pompey, who apparently admired the Pontic’s martial skills, though a more likely reason was guilt over his taking the children, wives and sisters of Mithridates to Rome where they took part in a triumph before being put to death.