Wraiths

by Peter Darman

  After breakfast in the governor’s bedroom she made her way to the entrance to the palace, guards letting her pass when she flashed the ring in their direction. She simply wandered out of the palace and into the town, just another face in the bustling throng that filled Melitene’s streets. But she was also a slave and the other palace slaves knew, as did Cenk himself, that she would always return to the governor’s bed. Where else would a slave go? Perhaps she might run to gain her freedom. But how far would a young girl get with no money, no friends and wearing only a dress? She made her way to the camp where her colleagues waited, and where she imparted the information she had gathered for a heavy personal price.

  Minu, Haya and Azar embraced her, and the commander of the Amazons had a few quiet moments with the girl before she told them what Cenk had revealed to her. But when Talib went to put a reassuring arm around Yasmina’s shoulders, she turned on him.

  ‘Do not touch me. You think I am a slave to be pawed at will?’

  ‘No, I’m sorry, I did not mean to upset you.’

  His words did nothing to soothe her anger.

  ‘You put a hand on me again and I will kill you. Understand?’

  He nodded and stepped away from the snarling creature before him. Minu gave Talib a murderous look and the chief scout hung his head, crestfallen.

  ‘Stay with us tonight,’ said Minu, ‘you do not have to go back to the palace. You have done enough, is that not right, Talib?’

  ‘Yes,’ muttered her husband.

  A steel determination appeared in Yasmina’s eyes.

  ‘No, I must return to complete my mission.’

  ‘We have all the information we need,’ said Talib.

  Azar smiled at her friend.

  ‘I am not talking about information,’ snarled Yasmina.

  Among the items the group had brought with them were a number of wooden boxes, the keys to which were in the possession of Minu. The head Amazon, giving Yasmina a sly smile, went inside the tent where they were stored and appeared moments later with a small jar with a wax-sealed lid. She handed it to Yasmina.

  ‘You remember what Saruke taught you?’

  ‘Yes, lady.’

  ‘Then may Shamash guide your hands. But I do not order you to go back to the palace. No one does.’

  Yasmina took the jar. ‘I choose to go back.’

  *****

  Governor Cenk was exhausted. His personal slave had forced him to eat a hearty breakfast and now all he wanted to do was lie down and go to sleep. It was only mid-morning but his eyelids felt like slabs of lead, his drowsiness not helped by the crowd of people in the throne room. Each king was accompanied by advisers, priests and senior officers, all whispering in their monarch’s ear prior to him taking the floor to speak. It was also hot outside and the room, though cavernous, was now full and airless as a result. He sighed loudly as King Amyntas indulged in his favourite hobby: boring the arse off everyone else.

  The big Gaul was promising to contribute ten thousand warriors to the campaign against Gordyene, and called on all those present to commit an equivalent number of soldiers. Cenk glanced over at the dishevelled and probably drunk Tiridates, a banner showing a deer hanging from the wall behind him, and the shifty Atrax stroking his chin and looking like a serpent. He laughed, Archelaus turning in his chair to stare in a disapproving manner at him.

  ‘Something amuses you, governor?’

  ‘No, majesty, forgive me.’

  ‘Why were you laughing? Out with it, man,’ hissed his king.

  ‘Our Parthian friends cannot raise ten thousand men between them, majesty,’ answered Cenk, ‘which means it will be the blood of Cappadocia, Galatia and Pontus that will be spilt in this new war.’

  ‘Your honesty is refreshing, governor, but this war is more to do with retaliating against Gordyene than restoring deposed Parthian kings to their thrones. Where is Ambassador Arrianus?’

  Cenk looked around the chamber to try to spot the Roman but he had vanished.

  ‘Probably making himself scarce until the pledges of soldiers are over,’ remarked Cenk, prompting Archelaus to titter.

  ‘A most astute observation.’

  Amyntas happened to be looking at the dais where the King of Cappadocia sat and saw the ruler chuckling.

  ‘This is no laughing matter, my lord,’ said Amyntas loudly, ‘the dead sons of Galatia demand to be avenged.’

  Archelaus stood and held the Gaul’s stare.

  ‘And they shall be, my lord. Cappadocia pledges ten thousand warriors to march beside your own into the belly of the Parthian beast.’

  Loud cheers followed his announcement, though his general standing on the other side of Archelaus was far from happy.

  ‘That is a large number of soldiers, majesty.’

  Archelaus rose and raised his arms in acceptance of the acclaim.

  ‘They will be levy troops only. I do not intend to waste any more of Cappadocia’s finest. Perhaps we could hire some Cilician hill men. They are cheap enough.’

  The cheering and applause died instantly when the doors of the throne room opened and Gaius Arrianus stood in the entrance. But it was not the Roman that had killed the acclaim but the man standing next to him. Tall, lean with pale skin, low eyebrows and narrow eyes, King Artaxias of Armenia sensed the mild hostility directed towards him and for a second faltered. A reassuring word from Gaius Arrianus put him at ease and the two men walked into the throne room.

  Artaxias was now in his early thirties and had known nothing but defeat. He had barely escaped with his life when Mark Antony had seized the rest of his family and shipped them off to Alexandria as a gift for the whore Cleopatra. There they had been basely murdered in a public spectacle. After the Parthians had defeated Mark Antony he had ascended to the Armenian throne, backed by King of Kings Phraates. But even though Octavian had rid the world of Mark Antony, his own torment was just beginning: at the hands of King Spartacus of Gordyene and his bandit Sarmatian allies. He had supported Prince Atrax’s bid to become King of Media in an effort to muzzle the aggression of King Spartacus. But that bid had evaporated before the walls of Irbil and on the Diyana Plain. Worse was to follow when a Parthian army invaded Armenia, defeated his army and laid siege to Artaxata itself. He had been forced into a humiliating truce, being forced to pay Gordyene thirteen hundred talents of gold to secure the withdrawal of the Parthians. He had been gladdened to hear of the death of King Spartacus in Galatia, but feared his son Castus would be just as belligerent as his father. The only reason he had come to Melitene was curiosity, that and the fact Gaius Arrianus had paid him thirteen hundred talents of gold for his attendance at the conference of kings.

  ‘My lords,’ announced Gaius, ‘I bring you support for your campaign against Gordyene. King Artaxias has travelled here at my invitation in the hope we can bring about peace in this region.’

  Archelaus turned to Cenk. ‘Fetch another chair for our guest.’

  The King of Cappadocia rose from his throne and spread his arms.

  ‘Welcome to Cappadocia, lord.’

  Artaxias, resplendent in black boots, white leggings, red silk tunic and a shimmering scale-armour cuirass that looked as though it was made of overlapping pieces of silver segments, allowed a thin smile to crease his lips.

  ‘You are most kind, lord,’ he replied.

  Archelaus gestured for him to sit beside him once a high-backed chair had been positioned next to his throne and cushions placed on the wood. Gaius ushered the Armenian king and the tall, dour and rather forbidding officer with him to the stone dais. Artaxias nodded at Polemon, the King of Pontus nodding back. They were not unknown to each other, having connived to allow the army of Prince Atrax to take root in Pontus and then march through Armenia before its abortive campaign in Media. Artaxias ignored Atrax, much to the prince’s annoyance.

  Once Artaxias had been settled in his chair and had introduced Geghard, the commander of his army, to Archelaus, King Amyntas of Galatia came str
aight to the point.

  ‘How many men will you pledge to castrate the power of Gordyene once and for all?’

  Gaius spoke before the Armenian could reply.

  ‘My lord, King Artaxias has just arrived. Surely the fact he sits in this hall among us is enough for the time being. Logistics can be settled later.’

  Artaxias gladly accepted a chalice of wine from a slave, the heavy browed Geghard refusing the offer of refreshment. The Roman then proceeded to take charge of proceedings, using the language of diplomacy to bore everyone rigid. By the time the meeting halted for a midday break and meal, Cenk’s head was pounding. A light meal, a head massage from a slave and a short nap managed to banish his headache. However, his spirits were not raised by the thought of an afternoon filled with the ramblings of the Roman ambassador and the rages of the Gaul king. But he was delighted to receive word from his own king that in view of the arrival of King Artaxias, the afternoon would be free to give everyone time to prepare for the evening’s feast to celebrate the Armenians joining the coalition. Clearly, King Archelaus’ own headache required more time to subside.

  The feast was a marvellous affair, a glutton’s delight of different cooked meats, wine, beer, pastries, fruits, bread, a variety of cheeses and mountains of butter. Most of the kings ate and drank sparingly, Amyntas being the exception. He and his Gaul chiefs got roaring drunk and filled the banqueting hall with their boasts, belches, foul language and boorish behaviour. Cenk was glad to see the back of them when the feast ended, several semi-conscious Gauls needing the assistance of slaves to carry them back to their bedchambers.

  Cenk was glad to be able to finally return to his own bedroom, after first ensuring the marshal – who was responsible for the day-to-day running of the palace – was fully briefed concerning the individual needs of the guests. Though guards were posted outside the bedchambers of each guest, the kings had brought their own bodyguards who slept on the floor near their masters. Nevertheless, the marshal had to provide tasters – slaves – for each guest to sample their food and drink before it passed royal lips, more slaves to bath them, scribes to record any notes or letters they may wish to send, and finally priests to attend to their spiritual needs if required, though all had brought their own clerics. King Amyntas had no spiritual needs but he did have a large appetite for whores, a procession of which filed into his bedchamber during the course of his stay. The marshal had wondered if the Gaul required any female company after his over-indulgence at the feast, but Cenk had told him to send a woman to his room regardless. If he had passed out, she could amuse his bodyguards.

  ‘He is an uncouth brute,’ complained the governor as he reclined in his chair and let Yasmina massage his crown. The touch of her small fingers was divine.

  ‘The gods alone know why they allowed the Gauls to settle in these parts. They are barbarians, just like that foreign queen who sacked Corum last year. She was a Gaul also. I suppose there is a form of poetic justice there, somewhere.’

  ‘You are very tense, master.’

  ‘So would you be if you had to play host to Gauls, Romans and now Armenians.’

  Yasmina’s ears pricked up but she kept on massaging the governor’s head.

  ‘Armenians,’ Cenk tut-tutted. ‘And now there will be thousands of Armenians gathering here when the kings muster their armies before marching into Gordyene. More expense and inconvenience.’

  ‘You do not like the Armenians, master?’

  ‘I prefer them to stay in their own kingdom and leave my town alone. Oh, that feels divine.’

  ‘I have a present for you, master.’

  He opened his eyes and looked at the vision of girlish beauty standing before him, her tiny white dress clinging to her firm, youthful body. She smiled and showed him a small jar in her hand.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Come and find out, master.’

  She walked into the bedroom, turned and let her dress drop to the floor, leaving her standing naked beside the bed. Cenk could not take his eyes of her as she removed the jar’s wax-sealed lid, dipped her finger into the vessel and pulled it out. She then took a few steps towards the governor and pressed her finger into his mouth. He was surprised by the taste.

  ‘Honey?’

  It had a slightly strange bitter taste but was honey nevertheless.

  She walked back to the bed and crawled on to the silk sheets, flopping on to her back and slowly opening her legs to entice the governor.

  ‘Not just any honey, master.’

  She dipped her fingers into the jar and proceeded to smear the honey over her body, concentrating on her breasts and between her legs.

  ‘It is a powerful aphrodisiac, master. It will turn you into a stallion.’

  How easily led are men.

  Cenk did not ask where she, a slave, had acquired the yellow sticky liquid that she had alluringly smeared over her body. Nor did he make her taste a sample before he disrobed and jumped on the bed to lick every drop off her tender young flesh. He lingered long between her legs, his tongue greedily searching for the honey that was on her flesh and inside her body. By the time he had licked the honey off her small breasts, biting her nipples and making her cry out in pain, his manhood was like a pillar of granite.

  Yasmina suffered that night.

  The magical honey gave him a stamina and sexual appetite to rival that of Eros, the Greek God of Lust, himself. He ignored her pained expressions and cries of anguish as he used her like a soldier uses a sack of straw for spear practice, thrusting his manhood into every orifice of her body. She was bruised and bleeding when he had finished with her, roaring like a lion when his ardour was finally spent. She lay curled up in a ball afterwards, unable to even sob. For his part Cenk drank wine and stuffed his face with apricots, unconcerned that he had brutalised a young girl. She had been right: he had become a mighty stallion and he felt like a god. Who was she but a meaningless slave?

  Morning came mercifully quickly and with it the usual routine: the effeminate eunuch made lewd suggestions and tried to catch a glimpse of the governor’s manhood when Cenk pissed into a silver pot and left Yasmina to eat breakfast alone. The only words he spoke to her were ‘get more honey’ before he left to prepare for his day.

  She did not move for what seemed like an eternity. But eventually her steely determination, born from her time surviving as a beggar, snapped her out of the cloud of self-pity that had enveloped her. Once more she was bathed, massaged and dressed by female slaves, none of them saying a word about the purple bruises decorating her buttocks, groin and breasts. But all of them noticing them. She still wore the governor’s ring that she showed to the guards to allow her to move freely about the palace. As agreed with Minu the day before, she made her way to the palace gates and into the town, limping as the pain in her buttocks increased. She kept her head down, afraid everyone would be able to see through her robes to peer at the signs of her abuse.

  The commander of the Amazons was waiting for her by the town gates, her face a mixture of rage and pity when she saw the girl hobbling towards her. Yasmina wiped away her tears for fear of appearing weak before her commander, Minu tossing her the reins of her horse.

  ‘The Armenians are joining the war against Gordyene,’ said Yasmina, grimacing as she hauled herself into the saddle and was forced to lower her bruised buttocks on to the hard leather.

  ‘The others are waiting,’ said Minu, turning her horse. ‘We must be as far away from Melitene as possible. It is done?’

  Yasmina’s horse broke into a canter.

  ‘It is done.’

  *****

  Despite the strenuous activity the night before, Cenk felt like Achilles as he stood at the entrance to the throne room to welcome his king and the monarch’s guests for another day’s business, bowing deeply to Archelaus as he passed.

  ‘This is a great day, majesty.’

  Archelaus stopped. ‘Is it? Why?’

  ‘Because you continue to grace our fair t
own, majesty.’

  The king frowned in confusion but appreciated the words and so smiled and walked to his throne. The palace marshal had arranged for another wooden dais to be hastily constructed to accommodate the King of Armenia, a red banner emblazoned with two reverse-looking eagles hanging behind it. Artaxias jumped and Geghard frowned when Cenk heralded their arrival.

  ‘Hail Artaxias, proud defender of the Artaxiad Dynasty, son of Artavasdes and lion of the north.’

  Artaxias, the day before nervous and questioning the wisdom of visiting Melitene, was delighted to receive such effusive praise and gave the governor a broad smile. Cenk greeted each king in much the same way, even embracing Amyntas when the big Gaul with bloodshot eyes and reeking of wine, locked him in a bear hug.

  This was going to be a great day, Cenk could feel it. He took up position beside his king just before the white-robed priest from the Temple of Zeus began the purifying ritual to ensure the words spoken in the chamber were honest and free from malice.

  And stopped when Cenk began coughing.

  Archelaus, who had been standing with head bowed, glanced at the governor who had a hand to his mouth. Cenk’s heart was racing in his chest and he was having difficulty breathing. The priest stared at him as he began to gasp in a vain effort to catch his breath.

  In the region where it was produced from the nectar of the Pontic rhododendron, the honey was known as zanton and palalon. Every beekeeper in Pontus knew that the nectar contained toxins that could cause nausea, vomiting, confusion and diarrhoea if the honey was ingested in excess. But for poisoners, the honey produced by a select group of beekeepers in the mountains near Trabzon was the most sought after. The rhododendrons in that area produced nectar that was very high in toxins and though a carefully administered dose of honey could indeed be an aphrodisiac, if eaten in quantity the results were invariably fatal. And Cenk had certainly gorged himself the night before.

  He collapsed on the stone dais, Archelaus jumping down in alarm as the governor went into spasm, white froth spewing from his mouth. All stood, transfixed with mouths open as Cenk’s body shook uncontrollably, as though he was being violently shaken by an unseen immortal. He emitted a hideous, high-pitched scream and there was a grotesque crack. And then there was silence.