Wraiths

by Peter Darman

  They all focused on the larger-than-life King of Galatia stalking around the floor like an angry wolf.

  ‘Last year, all of us bore witness to the depredations of the murdering Parthians. They sacked one of my towns, most of its inhabitants being butchered without mercy and its temples robbed of their holy icons. Such sacrilege cannot go unpunished. I demand justice!’

  Archelaus, lean, dark, handsome, brought his hands together.

  ‘What kind of justice had you in mind, my friend?’

  Amyntas pointed at him. ‘What justice do you demand, lord, having seen your kingdom laid waste by the Parthians and your own capital reduced to a graveyard by them?’

  He was alluding to the actions of King Castus following the unfortunate defeat of their combined armies before the city of Kayseri the year before, when the young King of Gordyene had dumped the corpses of the slain from Pontus, Cappadocia and Galatia around the walls of the city. This had resulted in plague breaking out in Kayseri, forcing the king, his family, the formidable queen mother and those with the means to flee the city until the pestilence passed.

  ‘What did you have in mind?’ Archelaus asked the big Gaul.

  Amyntas did not hesitate. ‘An attack against Gordyene with the aim of seizing Vanadzor, after which we execute Castus, his brother and all those whore women he surrounds himself with.’

  ‘Vipers,’ said Atrax, ‘they are called Vipers, my lord.’

  The former prince of Media stood and walked from his dais, brandishing a papyrus scroll in his hand.

  ‘Once we have taken Vanadzor, my lords, we should use it as a base to attack Media. This document from High King Phraates gives me authority to seize the crown of Media.’

  ‘We are not concerned with Media,’ said Amyntas tersely.

  ‘But Media will be concerned with you, my lord,’ smiled Atrax. ‘Its king is brother to Castus. You cannot remove Castus without also dealing with King Akmon, his sibling.’

  Atrax had once been a handsome young man, but the festering resentment he harboured concerning being ‘robbed’ of the throne of Media by King Pacorus of Dura and his allies had resulted in his long face wearing a permanent scowl, giving the impression of a man eaten away by malice. But his mind was as calculating as ever, and he was determined to harness Amyntas’ thirst for revenge for his own ends.

  ‘Phraates does not care about you, Atrax. That letter you carry around with you is worthless,’ snorted Tiridates with derision.

  The former King of Aria had fallen far from the heady days when his great army had swept west and seized Ctesiphon and the high crown of Parthia. He had deposed Phraates and became, for a time, the ruler of the Parthian Empire, only to have his hopes cruelly dashed when his army had been destroyed before the walls of Ctesiphon itself. He had fled to Syria, taking the infant son of Phraates with him. He had been received kindly by the Romans, who had provided him with a villa, slaves and gold to spend commensurate with his rank. They had even provided him with a small force of horsemen. They and he found themselves in Pontus in the aftermath of the successful withdrawal of the Parthians from Cappadocia the year before. Lodged in the coastal city of Trabzon, his expenses paid for by Rome, he sank into despair and alcoholism. He knew, as did everyone else, that he would never return to Parthia and had become something of an embarrassment to his hosts.

  It was embarrassment that greeted his pronouncement, Archelaus and Polemon wearing false smiles as the former King of Aria, already reeking of wine, rose unsteadily from his chair to speak. He pointed at the figure of Gaius Arrianus standing next to King Polemon.

  ‘Rome does not want a war with Parthia. Am I right?’

  All eyes turned to the Roman, who took a step forward.

  ‘It is true, majesty, that Augustus does not desire a general war with the Parthian Empire.’

  ‘Ha!’ spat Tiridates. ‘Now we see the veil of deception finally slipping.’

  Gaius held up a hand. ‘However, I can inform you that Augustus himself has given me authority to support any punitive action this august assembly decides to take against Gordyene.’

  Tiridates belched, flicked a dismissive hand in the Roman’s direction and walked back to his chair, tripping as did so and falling head-first into the seat. It was fortunately stuffed with cushions, which saved him splitting his nose open. Two aides hurriedly lifted him up and assisted him in regaining a meagre part of his dignity.

  ‘Wine,’ he snapped.

  ‘You will raise more legions to support us, like you did last year?’ asked Amyntas.

  Gaius saw the expectant faces. ‘Alas no. Last year was an exception.’

  ‘Did you not all listen to what I said?’ implored Tiridates, wine chalice in hand.

  Polemon was squirming in his seat and Atrax was looking daggers at his fellow Parthian.

  ‘Raising the legions last year was an exceptional measure taken in emergency conditions,’ stated Gaius, ‘and may I say at considerable expense to Rome. However, if you will grace me a few more days, I will provide you with substantive support for your campaign against Gordyene, which will be of more benefit than Roman legions.’

  Amyntas put into words what the others were thinking.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘You speak in riddles, ambassador,’ said Archelaus.

  ‘What do you expect from a Roman,’ belched Tiridates.

  ‘I am merely asking for a few more days, majesty,’ replied Gaius, ‘in order to clarify matters.’

  ‘Cappadocia cannot, will not, let this matter rest, ambassador,’ said Archelaus. ‘King Castus must be made to pay for his invasion of my kingdom.’

  ‘And mine,’ growled Amyntas, who turned on Polemon.

  ‘What does Pontus have to say for itself?’

  Polemon smiled at the big Gaul.

  ‘My kingdom was also invaded by the Parthians, my lord, and many sons of Pontus also fell at Corum and Kayseri. Too many. Of those in this chamber, only I have taken part in an invasion of Parthia, and I can tell you all it was not a happy experience.’

  ‘Ancient history,’ scoffed Amyntas.

  Polemon rose from his chair. ‘Then allow me to recount the tale, lord, so you may be fully conversant with the facts. I was an unwilling member of an army that numbered nearly one hundred thousand Roman troops. It came to grief, as did its Armenian and Pontic allies. And do you know who it came to grief at the hands of?’

  ‘I’m sure you are going to tell us,’ said Amyntas sarcastically.

  ‘King Pacorus of Dura,’ said Polemon. ‘The same King Pacorus we will face if we invade Gordyene, along with Hatra when the ruler of that kingdom learns his grandson is being attacked.’

  ‘What are you saying, that we should do nothing?’ thundered Amyntas.

  Polemon looked at Atrax. ‘I am saying that we should put all thoughts of conquering Gordyene out of our minds, letter from King of Kings Phraates or not. Neither Hatra nor Dura will tolerate such a situation.’

  ‘What then?’ exclaimed an exasperated Amyntas.

  ‘A punitive raid,’ answered Polemon, ‘nothing more. A short campaign directed at Vanadzor, with the intention of taking the city and ransoming King Castus.’

  He pointed at Archelaus. ‘Castus extorted twenty thousand talents of gold from you last year. If we are clever, we can get your gold back, my lord, and more besides.’

  It was a clever ploy and certainly took the wind out of Amyntas’ sails, as well as placating Archelaus and Atrax. The latter, sly schemer that he was, was already pondering having Castus in his hands. And if the upstart king met with an unfortunate end during ransom negotiations, so much the better. He was nodding to himself as he pondered the possibility of him sitting on Vanadzor’s throne. Gordyene was a backward, windswept kingdom, it was true, and its inhabitants were mongrels descended from a host of worthless races. But Gordyene was next to Media and his dead father’s former kingdom was in a weakened state. An evil grin spread over his face as he pondered the
great opportunity that had suddenly manifested itself.

  Gaius gave his support to Polemon’s idea. ‘Rome would look favourably on such an operation.’

  ‘I want that little bastard Castus dead, like his father,’ roared Amyntas.

  ‘And there is a good chance of that happening, my lord,’ said Polemon.

  ‘Then we are all agreed on our strategy?’ said Archelaus, receiving a succession of nods from the other kings, though Tiridates’ head movement was due to him falling ever deeper into a state of inebriation.

  The King of Cappadocia caught the eye of Gaius Arrianus.

  ‘And we will wait a few more days for your surprise, ambassador.’

  ‘You will not be disappointed, majesty,’ smiled the Roman.

  As they left the chamber, Gaius deep in conversation with Archelaus, Prince Zenon spoke quietly to his father.

  ‘Do you regret saving the life of King Pacorus, father?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Even though he might still inflict harm on us?’

  ‘I owed King Pacorus a personal debt and that debt is now settled. And now King Castus owes us a debt and that too will be settled.’

  *****

  ‘We need to find out what is going on in the palace.’

  Minu was deeply unhappy that Talib appeared more concerned about what was occurring in Melitene’s palace than planning the killing of their targets, three of which had conveniently gathered in one place. And one was Amyntas, the brutish, boorish Gaul who was responsible for her miscarriage in Cappadocia the previous year. Because the town was filled with soldiers and officials from that kingdom as well as Galatia and Pontus, Talib had made the decision to camp outside the town walls, in one of the areas beside the river earmarked by the town council for trade caravans and travellers. For a fee, government officials provided food and fodder, and water was provided in abundance by the river. Like flies attracted to a pile of dung, the gathering of the kings and their retinues had attracted hawkers, confidence tricksters, whores, beggars and merchants, all intent on extracting as much money as possible from the soldiers, officials and priests that had accompanied each king to Melitene. Talib and his party blended in perfectly with the host of people from all walks of life milling in and around the town.

  ‘Something important is happening in the palace,’ said Talib, tearing off a strip of meat from the roast leg of mutton that had been cooked outside the tent. He passed it to Klietas beside him, sitting on the carpeted floor of the tent.

  ‘It will be difficult getting into the palace, let alone finding out what the kings are discussing,’ opined Bullus.

  ‘We are here to kill our targets,’ said Minu, ‘nothing more.’

  ‘That’s true,’ agreed Bullus, drinking wine from a wooden cup, ‘but I agree with Talib.’

  ‘You are not in command,’ snapped Minu.

  Yasmina and Azar sitting opposite to Bullus in the circle of diners, who had prepared the meal, grinned at each other. The centurion pointed his cup at them.

  ‘You two should not be so smug. If I had my way, you would both be on your way to the palace by now as gifts for the governor. He likes little girls.’

  They stopped laughing and viewed him with narrow eyes and venomous expressions. Klietas laughed, earning him a frown from Haya. But Talib was wearing a broad grin.

  ‘Centurion, you are a genius.’

  Bullus was taken aback. ‘I am?’

  The Agraci’s eyes settled on Yasmina, her olive skin still flushed with girlishness, her brown curly hair and the dimples in her cheeks when she smiled. How innocent this former pickpocket appeared, this Daughter of Dura who had already taken life. Then she had been twelve; now she was thirteen but looked barely ten years of age. Minu saw her husband examining the girl like a customer viewing goods in a slave market.

  ‘No!’ she hissed.

  ‘Do you love the queen, Yasmina?’ Talib asked her, ignoring his wife.

  ‘Of course,’ said the youngster.

  ‘And you are prepared to take action to save her life?’

  ‘Yes, lord,’ she replied.

  ‘What my husband is suggesting, Yasmina,’ said Minu, ‘is to send you to the palace so the governor may rape and abuse you, in the hope he will divulge valuable information pertaining as to why several kings have gathered at Melitene.’

  ‘It will be an honour, lady.’

  Klietas was stunned by the reply, but he had not lived a hand-to-mouth existence on the streets of Dura for most of his life. He had not had to beg, steal and sell his body to survive. Yasmina had already been raped and abused and would have had her neck snapped on the gallows had it not been for the intercession of Queen Gallia herself. For that reason alone, she would willingly walk into the underworld if it kept her guardian safe.

  ‘No, you would be sending her to her death,’ insisted Minu.

  ‘We all face that fate,’ said Talib coldly.

  ‘I take no pleasure in what I am asking,’ conceded Talib, ‘but we need to know why three client kings of Rome and their Parthian allies have gathered at Melitene.’

  Talib’s scouting instincts were manifesting themselves but after several verbal exchanges and Yasmina’s continued insistence that she wanted to undertake the mission, Minu gave up and sank into a sullen silence. For his part Klietas was mightily relieved Haya had not been chosen to become the plaything of the governor.

  Some might have thought Queen Gallia had made a mistake appointing Talib the commander of the mission, but it was actually an inspired choice. The chief scout of Dura’s army was not only very good at his job of gathering valuable intelligence when on campaign, he was also the protégé of Lord Byrd, former Cappadocian pot seller, chief scout in the army of the slave general Spartacus and later in the army of Dura, and now one of the richest men in the Parthian Empire. The owner of a transport guild that covered the western half of Parthia, Syria, Egypt, the Agraci lands and Judea, he was now establishing offices in Cappadocia and Pontus. Byrd lived in a tent in Palmyra with his wife Noora and still resembled a small-time merchant in appearance, but he had the friendship of King Malik of the Agraci, King Pacorus of Dura, King Gafarn of Hatra, the Roman authorities in Syria and Judea, and lately King of Kings Phraates himself. This ensured his offices and their staff were not molested or robbed, that his hundreds of camels and mules were not under threat on the dusty roads of Parthia and the Roman provinces, and his ships and boats were not prey to pirates, in as much as any authority could guarantee safety on the seas.

  As he built his business empire, Byrd accumulated great knowledge concerning the laws, customs and trading practices of the kingdoms and provinces his officials traded in. And as the man expected to take over the business empire when Byrd was dead, all this information was passed on to Talib. Now he used that knowledge to find out what the enemy kings were discussing.

  He rode from their encampment in the company of Klietas and Bullus, taking the latter for protection and the former to further his education. It was a beautiful spring day in eastern Cappadocia, the air fresh and filled with the scent of flowers and pine, the road full of carts and people going about their business. Talib and Klietas wore black Agraci robes, and Bullus a leather scale-armour cuirass as befitting his role of bodyguard. The Agraci and farmer rode horses, the centurion driving a small cart they had hired, Yasmina sitting beside him on the seat. The girl was dressed in a skimpy white dress that barely concealed her modesty, with her hair in ringlets and delicate red sandals on her feet. She looked like a sacrificial lamb, which in many ways she was.

  ‘What is the symbol on the banner of Cappadocia?’ Talib asked Klietas.

  Klietas wracked his brains. ‘A fruit, lord.’

  ‘An apricot,’ Talib corrected him.

  ‘One fruit is much like another,’ called Bullus behind them.

  Talib ignored him.

  ‘You are a farmer. Tell me your opinion of the soil and climate in this area.’

  Klietas looked
around at the vineyards, orchards and fields spreading into the distance.

  ‘Good growing conditions, plenty of water and fine soil. I would say you could grow anything in this region.’

  ‘Indeed you can, Klietas, but of all the things grown in the soil around Melitene, none is more valuable than the apricot. I will be posing as a businessman seeking to buy land in the area to export apricots to Syria and Egypt.’

  Klietas laughed. ‘To be able to sell such an exotic fruit in foreign parts would be very profitable, but to transport fruit over such distances would be impossible. It would rot long before it reached its destination.’

  ‘Not if it was dried beforehand,’ said Talib.

  Talib explained how ripe apricots were picked by hand, washed, quartered, placed on trays, covered with cloth to prevent them being eaten by insects and laid out in the sun. The slices were turned once a day for equal drying and taken in at night to prevent dew forming on them. After four days the slices took on a leathery but pliable texture, which meant they were dried, after which they were stored in an airtight container to keep them away from moisture.

  ‘If King Castus had vision, which I seriously question,’ said Talib, ‘he would seize this area rather than wage a useless border war with Armenia. This region has huge potential to swell the treasury of any king who controls it. Dried apricots are the future, Klietas, mark my words. And you know what, this region is the centre of apricot production in the whole world.’

  ‘Watch yourselves,’ warned Bullus.