Wraiths

by Peter Darman

  When the majority of the gold had been delivered, Castus invited Haya to accompany him into one of the tents to view the ingots that had been arranged in pyramids. Immortals stood outside and inside the tent, which was denied entry to all but the king and those he deemed fit to gaze upon his prize. Haya, dressed in boots, tight tan leggings and white tunic, her hair plaited behind her back in the Amazon style, gasped when she saw the three pyramids of ingots. He had also been dazzled by the stacks of yellow metal when he had first seen them, but now he was more interested in the striking Amazon standing next to him, her leggings highlighting her pert backside. Tall, lithe and attractive, a sword and dagger hung from her belt. Nineteen years of age, she was already a veteran of two campaigns. His eyes were drawn to a small scar on her neck.

  ‘A childhood wound?’

  She rubbed the scar. ‘A battle wound, majesty. I was hit by an arrow during the siege of Irbil when the traitor Atrax attacked your brother’s city.’

  He was intrigued. The scar was not on the side of her neck, which means the arrow did not glance off her flesh.

  ‘An arrow lodged in your neck?’

  ‘Yes, majesty.’

  He knew enough about missiles to know such a wound was fatal, and yet here she was, alive and very well and alluring.

  ‘Queen Gallia herself plucked out the arrow, or so I was told,’ she said softly. ‘I do not remember, but when I awoke, the wound had healed.’

  ‘Healed? By whom?’

  ‘By the Goddess Ishtar, majesty, or so the queen told me.’

  He smiled. His father had taught all his sons to be sceptical where religion was concerned, especially tales concerning the intervention of gods, mythical beasts and demons. Still, this Amazon was intriguing and he wished to know more about her.

  ‘When all the gold has been delivered, I will travel back to Gordyene. What are your plans?’

  ‘To travel with Talib and the others, majesty.’

  ‘To where?’

  ‘That is for Talib to decide,’ she replied guardedly.

  He had no desire to spoil what was very pleasant company, and in any case had no interest in the machinations of Queen Gallia or King Pacorus, for that matter. But he could not resist the temptation for mischief.

  ‘Why is the slave with your party?’

  ‘Slave, majesty?’

  ‘The waif King Pacorus took pity on who became his squire, not that he was any use as one. Spilt wine on me last year.’

  ‘Klietas is his name, majesty, and he is a free man, a farmer.’

  Castus rolled his eyes. ‘What use do Talib and Minu have for a farmer, a stupid one at that?’

  Haya regarded the young king with her brown eyes.

  ‘He saved the king’s life last year, majesty. He does not lack for bravery.’

  For some reason unknown to him, Castus became angry.

  ‘Brave? He had the audacity to strike me last year, did you know that? Were it not for the intercession of King Pacorus, the farmer would have had his hand chopped off and his head removed for his crime.’

  ‘Why did he hit you?’ she asked innocently.

  He was taken aback by her forthrightness, but then remembered she was an Amazon, and Queen Gallia’s bodyguard were like their ruler in not being backward in coming forward.

  ‘He spilt wine on me so I struck him, which was remarkably restrained on my part, I have to say.’

  ‘So, he returned the blow,’ she said, admiring the gold. ‘As I said, majesty, he is brave.’

  He was annoyed she liked the poor farmer. Why would a stunning Amazon even look at such a wretch?

  ‘I could yet have him killed for his crime. The world would not miss one less farmer,’ he said with an evil glint in his eye.

  ‘You command a powerful army, majesty,’ she said casually, ‘it would be easy for you to kill a man for no reason save for sport. But why would a great king do such a base thing?’

  He smiled and touched her arm lightly.

  ‘I would not, you need not fear. Perhaps you would dine with me tonight, in my tent.’

  She was delighted, giving him a lovely smile.

  ‘It would be an honour, majesty.’

  Castus took great care over preparing for the evening, informing Talib of his invitation to Haya, instructing the cooks personally about the cuisine they should prepare, though Gordyene’s military cooks were not noted for their sophisticated fare, and ensuring his tent was furnished with couches rather than the austere chairs and stools that usually equipped his living quarters and those of his commanders. As the light faded he envied the more flamboyant Parthian kings with their large pavilions and small armies of slaves, musicians and entertainers that accompanied them. He did not even possess a rich silk robe to dress himself in, much less gaudy belts and footwear. He did not have any beautiful slave boys and girls to serve him and Haya food and wine, and the only musicians he could summon were army trumpeters. He hoped his company alone would suffice to keep the young Amazon amused.

  When she appeared, the sun slowly sinking in the west, he could not stop smiling, so enchanting was her appearance. Gone was the fierce, armed Amazon and in her place was a beautiful young woman with makeup around her eyes, intoxicating perfume on her arms and gold jewellery hanging from her ears and around her neck. Her hair was no longer arranged in a plait but fell free to her shoulders, framing her heart-shaped face. She bowed her head to him as he took her hand and led her inside. The white dress she wore was cut low to display her cleavage, while the rest of the garment clung to her lithe body to accentuate every curve.

  He led her to a couch, and sat down on the one opposite, soldiers without armour serving them wine and others offering fruit. Castus picked up a slice of apricot.

  ‘At least this part of Cappadocia is fertile and has an abundance of fresh food.’

  She too took a slice.

  ‘When will you depart for Vanadzor, majesty?’

  He sipped at his wine. ‘Two or three days. As soon as the Romans have delivered my gold we shall be away, hopefully never to return.’

  ‘You are so beautiful,’ he thought. ‘You would make a fine queen.’

  ‘You are not tempted to add Melitene to your kingdom, majesty?

  He informed her why he would not, citing the legend of Gordis as told to him by his mother, may the Horseman treasure her. Over more wine he explained to her how thousands of years before Parthia there existed a dragon named Illuyanka that roamed what was now northern Parthia, spreading death and destruction. But his activities offended Inara, Goddess of Wild Animals and the daughter of the storm god Teshub, who decided to curtail Illuyanka’s activities. Teshub had given her the land to rule because it was blessed with an abundance of wildlife. The people who lived in the region called upon Inara to save them from the dragon. So, she created a beast to battle the dragon, a lion called Gordis with golden fur and claws sharper than any mortal weapons. Inara invited the dragon to a great feast where it was plied with wine to get it drunk. Whereupon Inara, her father and the lion killed Illuyanka.

  But afterwards Gordis escaped and began to wreak havoc such as the dragon had done. In her despair Inara pleaded for help and so the gods created a ring of mountains to cage Gordis, whose domain was named after him, which became the Kingdom of Gordyene. Inara cursed Gordis to remain forever in his ‘cage’. If he ventured over the mountains great misfortune would befall him. But he was proud and arrogant and escaped through the mountains, whereupon he was struck by a lightning bolt sent by Teshub and killed.

  ‘Princess Claudia, daughter of Queen Gallia, told my father Inara’s curse still stands, and that misfortune would befall any king who attempted to extend Gordyene’s borders. She said my father was the lion of Gordyene whose claws could crush any enemy unwise enough to venture into his lair. But the mountains that surrounded his kingdom marked the extent of his domain.’

  He looked into his cup. ‘When my father, who always discounted such stories as nonsense, a
ttempted to annex northern Media, my brother Haytham fell sick and only recovered when my father relinquished any claims on Media. So, you see, though I have never put much store in the gods, I have no desire to tempt fate by extending my kingdom’s borders.’

  He found that despite their very different backgrounds and upbringings, they had much in common. They had both experienced war and battle, had both lost their parents, and were both orphans in a world that cared nothing for individual lives. They also discovered that the thing they had most in common was Media, the kingdom that had been fought over constantly in recent years. He remembered his father taking him and Haytham on their first campaign, which happened to be in Media. For her part, Haya recounted the visit of King Pacorus and Queen Gallia to Vanadzor prior to journeying to Irbil where they were caught up in Atrax’s assault on the city. She told him about the enemy breaching the walls of the city and King Pacorus’ capture, his escape and her subsequent participation in the battle on the Diyana Plain. He told her about how his mother had fallen on that accursed plain and how his father was never the same afterwards.

  ‘It was as if he had lost his right arm, which in a way he had.’

  She sighed. ‘I want to experience such love and devotion before I die.’

  He moved to her couch, her eyes sparkling in excitement. He gently traced a finger down her cheek.

  ‘You are most alluring, Haya.’

  ‘You are too kind, majesty.’

  ‘None of this majesty nonsense, you must call me Castus.’

  He felt his heart thumping in his chest. The night was suddenly very still and the sounds of camp life outside his tent had all disappeared, as though the gods had transported them to another place where they were totally alone. The sweet aroma of her perfume entered his nostrils and he inhaled deeply. He closed his eyes and savoured the moment. When he opened them her lips had parted seductively, invitingly.

  ‘Very well, Castus,’ she said softly.

  They moved closer to each other, his heart pounding as he moved in to kiss her. He closed his eyes and opened them a second later when a figure burst into their presence.

  ‘We’ve found the bastard.’

  Fury gripped Castus and he leapt from the couch. To see Akmon, sweating, covered in dust, standing before him. He glared at his older brother, who clicked his fingers to indicate he needed wine. A servant standing nearby filled a cup and handed it to Akmon, who drained it. The King of Media, panting, looked from his brother to the attractive young woman sitting on the couch.

  ‘Haya?’

  She jumped up and bowed. ‘Majesty.’

  He turned back to the irate Castus, gripping his shoulders.

  ‘We’ve found him, my brother, the Horseman smiles on us.’

  ‘Who?’ Castus demanded to know.

  ‘Laodice, leader of the hill men and the man who crucified innocent citizens in Irbil. You remember, Haya?’

  The Amazon nodded. ‘I must inform Talib of this development. He will want to know straight away.’

  Castus was appalled. ‘What? No, don’t go.’

  But it was too late. She thanked Castus for the meal and wine, bowed to both brothers and hurried into the night.

  Akmon looked at his brother. ‘Are you all right, you seem troubled?’

  ‘I was, until you ruined everything.’

  Chapter 12

  When the jaws had slammed shut on the combined armies of Cappadocia, Pontus and Galatia on the Melitene Plain, those jaws – thousands of Parthian horse archers – began shooting down the tens of thousands of Cappadocian spearmen, Gauls and Pontic hill men. There was no escape through the horse archers and the cataphracts supporting them, only death. The line of Immortals that the spearmen and hill men had been battling, now bent inwards into a concave shape, comprised ten separate formations of unbroken, albeit tired, soldiers, rooted to the spot and ringed by heaps of the men they had slain. At the edges of the Immortal line the divisions were not widely spaced, but in the middle of the bend, where the Immortals had deliberately retreated to lure the enemy into the forming bulge, the spaces between divisions was wider. And it was through one such gap that Laodice led his followers.

  Hundreds had already been cut down by the short swords and javelins of the Immortals, hundreds more were falling to arrows when their leader rallied as many as he could and led them through one of the gaps, tired and frightened men stumbling and tripping over their dead and wounded comrades as they made a rush for freedom. When they escaped through the line of Immortals, they discovered to their relief and delight that the enemy horsemen had gone. Laodice had spotted this from the saddle before his horse was hit by two arrows and collapsed. The enemy kings and their bodyguards had flanked the great maelstrom to take part in the encirclement of his soldiers and those of the other kings in a giant trap. Not that his own king and the other rulers had loitered to realise this. They had all fled and in doing so had abandoned their foot soldiers to their fate.

  Those soldiers began to die under a deluge of Parthian arrows, but not Laodice and the few hundred men he led east, setting a cruel pace in an effort to flee the battlefield that had become for them a killing field. The wild-haired leader of the hill men led them on foot, turning north after half a mile to head for the mountains in the far distance, the Munzur Mountains that marked the dividing line between Cappadocia and Pontus, and more specifically the hills that formed the homeland of his people.

  But the mountains were eighty miles distant ¬– at least four days’ march for soldiers on foot. Laodice commanded upwards of five hundred men, all of them hardy individuals used to eking out a living in the hills and mountains of Pontus. They were farmers, herdsmen, trackers, trappers and hunters, but they had been fighting all day, were without food and water and had had no rest since the previous evening. Laodice pushed them hard, continuing a ruthless pace to put as much distance as possible between them and the horsemen he knew would be in pursuit. Those who had picked up wounds in the battle were the first to falter and fall by the wayside, followed by those who twisted ankles or pulled muscles and were forced to limp or hobble. They were left behind without mercy. Others, their reserves of stamina already spent, lagged behind when their chests tightened, and it felt as though invisible iron bands were crushing their ribcages.

  When the ragged column finally halted, by the side of an unknown river whose waters were clear and cool, it was sunset. Men gasping for breath sank to their knees and fell into the water, the ice-cool liquid refreshing their limbs and reinvigorating their numb minds. But when their breathing had returned to a semblance of normality and they had slated their thirsts, their legs had turned to lead. They were spent and would require many hours of rest before they could continue.

  Laodice forbade the lighting of any fires, not that any had the strength to use their axes to cut branches or search for firewood. And there was no food to cook over a fire in any case. But exhausted bodies crave sleep; hunger would have to wait for the morning. At least they had put distance between themselves and the Parthians, which meant the majority of the three hundred remaining hill men slept well under a starlit night. Their leader, however, stayed awake until the first rays of dawn lanced the eastern horizon to herald another glorious summer’s day in Cappadocia.

  His wild eyes were black ringed and bloodshot, his boots scuffed and dirty and his cuirass of leather scales showing signs of having been in a battle. He called together his half a dozen subordinates: men wearing leather armour like himself, with thick leather caps on their heads. These men also wore swords, though they were the only ones to possess such weapons. The rest carried a mixture of spears, axes and clubs, though all carried long knives and a few also had slings tucked into their belts. Half had round wooden shields with straps so that they could sling them on their backs.

  Laodice let his men sleep off the previous day’s exertions, posting guards around the dozens of dozing men prostrate on the ground. It would be another hot summer’s day and already wha
t few clouds there were above were disappearing. Laodice stood and stretched out his long legs.

  ‘Find four of the best runners. They will be sent ahead to inform the tribes of what has happened.’

  A man who looked twice his age, his face weathered by the sun and a hard life, chuckled.

  ‘You expecting us all to be killed before we reach the mountains, lord?’

  ‘I want our people to know how their menfolk were butchered in Cappadocia,’ said Laodice, ‘sacrificed to satisfy the greed of King Polemon, who fled with the other nobles leaving us to our fate.’

  ‘Perhaps Polemon is dead,’ said another chief, his hair dirty and lank, ‘killed by the Parthians.’

  ‘We can but hope,’ said Laodice. ‘But if he had survived and manages to get back to Pontus, he will be held accountable for what he has done to our people. He at least must pay us our share of the gold he has been paid for his services. Then we can purchase food and livestock to provide for widows and orphans through the winter.’

  ‘We should burn Sinope to the ground,’ growled a barrel-chested chief.

  ‘It might well come to that, my friend,’ said Laodice, ‘but our people cannot plan for the future unless they know the truth.’

  They found four suitable young men in their prime and fed them first. The river was abundant in trout and the trees were full of game, so men were put to work fishing the river and hunting game. Every man carried a small pouch containing flint and steel for starting fires, along with fishing hooks, twine for stitching and other sundry items essentials for outdoor survival. The slingers among them killed a number of goats that were cooked along with the fish to provide sustenance for the runners.

  The aroma of cooking fish and meat refreshed men’s spirits and banished low morale, at least for the moment. After they had eaten and been provided with strips of meat to sustain them on their journey, the runners departed. Laodice would have liked to follow them but his warriors needed at least half a day’s rest before they could continue their march north. During the morning, a few dozen men who had fallen out of the column the day before caught up with their comrades, though a few were injured and would require assisting to continue their march. This would slow the rate of advance, though they would not be abandoned a second time.