Wraiths

by Peter Darman

  ‘We light this fire in the presence of the shining ones above, in the presence of the shining ones below, and in the presence of the nature spirits all around us.

  ‘We have come to this sacred place to honour you all. May our words and actions be guided by your divine hands.’

  Two druids walked forward, each one carrying a white cockerel, gripping the struggling birds over the fire with one hand and holding a knife with the other. In a blur they slit the animals’ throats to douse the bonfire with blood. They then tossed the lifeless animals on the fire and returned to their place around the edge of the grove. Kastor opened his eyes and frowned at Amyntas, who was clearly bored.

  ‘Two chickens? Have the druids run out of white bulls?’

  It was customary during rituals to offer the gods two white bulls as a sacrifice, but clearly Kastor had given orders that no bulls would be killed. Perhaps he was making some sort of point.

  ‘Galatia is running out of warriors,’ said an angry Cavarus.

  ‘Because of your foreign wars,’ added Ortiagon.

  ‘I did not invite the Parthians to invade Galatia,’ Amyntas shot back.

  ‘The Parthians are a plague sent by the gods to punish you, King Amyntas,’ said Kastor, ‘for was it not you who suggested an alliance with Pontus and Cappadocia, lured by the prospect of glory?’

  ‘The druids should restrict themselves to religion and leave politics to their ruler,’ sneered Amyntas.

  Kastor was not cowed. ‘Having ignored the gods once, you then proceeded to take part in another calamitous war against the Parthians, which resulted in yet more sons of Galatia losing their lives.’

  ‘The gods demand justice,’ shouted Cavarus.

  ‘Then slaughter a few more bulls,’ shrugged Amyntas.

  ‘Not bulls,’ grinned Ortiagon.

  Amyntas was a brute, a bully who had bludgeoned his way to power, killing anyone who got in his way. In his palace he was coarse, rude and intimidating, but on the battlefield he was fearless and had the instincts of a warrior, his senses finely tuned to alert him to threats. They served him well now, his hands gripping the doubled-headed war hammer as he spun and swung it through the air. To connect with Kastor’s jaw.

  The chief druid was accustomed to both animal and human sacrifice, the knife with a wicked edge in his hand ready to slice open Amyntas’ throat from behind and bless the oak grove with the blood of a king, as he had done countless times with dumb animals and humans bound and on their knees. For only such an offering would appease the angry gods and return Galatia to the peace and prosperity it had enjoyed for decades. But instead the blunt heavy iron head hit the side of his face with such force that his jaw was shattered and teeth flew from his mouth. He was knocked to the ground, gasping for air as his mouth filled with blood and his head was filled with a loud ringing noise.

  The other druids, seeing their leader cut down, charged from the edge of the grove and the bodyguards of the other two tetrarchs hurled their spears at Amyntas and his followers. But the king’s protectors were the best and the bravest in Galatia and they were seconds ahead of their attackers, ducking low and raising their shields to deflect the spears or catch them in the wood, immediately discarding them to launch themselves at their throwers.

  The reflexes of the Trocmi surprised those who had planned to lure Amyntas to the grove and kill him, resulting in Ortiagon being cut down under a plethora of sword blows that all but severed his head. Two of the warriors of his bodyguard also died before the others fought back, joined by the tall Cavarus and his men. The fight suddenly became a series of single combats as the grove echoed to the sound of sword blades striking shields and the edges of other swords.

  Amyntas roared with laughter when two druids ran at him, one holding a knife, the other a sickle with a golden blade – the traditional weapon of the druids. Their flowing white robes inhibited their mobility, giving the king ample time to plan his move. He ran at one, feinting left at the last moment to avoid the clumsy knife strike, and then swung his hammer up and down on the druid’s head. There was a sickening crunch when the priest’s skull was cracked open, a fountain of blood and a high-pitched squeal following before the druid fell to the ground. The other druid raised his sickle to strike at Amyntas but the king speedily brought up his war hammer to block the strike, and then head-butted the young priest in the nose. Stunned, in pain and disorientated, the druid staggered back, blood pumping from his nostrils. In his daze he dropped the sickle and tried to turn and run, only to be tripped by Amyntas who kicked out at one of his ankles. He stumbled and fell on to the grass, shaking his head and trying desperately to rise. But Amyntas was standing over him in an instant, bringing the war hammer down on his spine to break his back. The druid screamed, and screamed again when Amyntas pummelled his rib cage with two more blows, the priest’s white robe turning red as the blunt head of the hammer smashed bones, lacerated flesh and crushed the victim’s lungs.

  One by one Amyntas’ warriors went down, killing as they did so but being outnumbered and surrounded, they could only delay the inevitable, not stop it. Druids leapt on the backs of burly warriors fighting opponents, tipping the balance of combat in favour of the enemies of the Trocmi. They stabbed repeatedly at necks and faces with their knives, sometimes losing their own lives when the Trocmi warriors shook them off their backs, spun and thrust their swords into druid bellies. But in the process, they signed their own death warrants by turning their backs on the enemy they had been fighting. They did so for only a few seconds, but that was all it took for a sword point to be plunged into an exposed back.

  Cavarus, his courage nourished by seeing the warriors of Amyntas succumbing to weight of numbers, began to dream of becoming king of Galatia himself. His height gave him a commanding view of the blood-soaked scene in the grove, which was now littered with dead and dying men, shields, swords and spears. And it was one of the latter that Amyntas picked up and threw at the tall tetrarch of the Tectosages, standing around ten paces away. The shaft flew through the air and struck Cavarus in the chest, penetrating his bronze breastplate to pierce his heart. It was an excellent strike made by a man born to wage war. But it was also his last.

  A wounded druid, his left arm useless after being broken by Amyntas’ war hammer, and wavering on his feet due to blood loss, fell to his knees within reach of the king, plunging a knife into the Gaul’s right thigh before falling face-first on the grass. Amyntas growled in pain and anger, gripping his war hammer with both hands once more, swinging it at an enemy warrior approaching him. Both men were tired and wounded, Amyntas in the leg, the warrior in the side, blood showing between the scales of his leather armour. With laboured breathing and leaden arms, he thrust his sword at the king. But the strike was half-hearted and Amyntas swept it away with the metal head of his weapon, propelling the other end of the war hammer’s handle into the warrior’s face, smashing his front teeth and knocking him backwards. Amyntas spun with all his strength and swung his hammer with force, the head smashing into the warrior’s mail armour. Such was the force that the man’s ribcage was splintered, the shock of the blow rupturing his internal organs. He dropped to his knees, gasping for air and spitting blood and teeth from his mouth.

  Amyntas was about to finish him off when his right leg buckled. He limped back a few steps and felt a sharp pain in his back. He turned to see a druid with a knife in his hand, his face twisted in hate. The king’s mail armour had saved him from a mortal wound but the point of the weapon had penetrated the links to draw blood. But the druid wore no armour and the gods did not protect him when Amyntas drew his own knife from its sheath and drove it into his belly, using his hammer to block another knife attack. He grinned with relish as fear spread over the druid’s face.

  But his triumph was short-lived. Other warriors, panting and bleeding, now surrounded the king. He parried a sword strike but could offer no defence against a spear that was thrust into his back, the force of the strike penetrating the metal
links of his armour to pierce his body. He tried to turn to attack the spearman with his hammer but the man, gripping the shaft with both hands, stood firm to prevent him from doing so. Amyntas winced with pain as another warrior in a conical helmet decorated with eagle wings rammed the point of his sword into his side, the point penetrating his mail armour. A third delivered a diagonal cut against Amyntas’ neck, which made the king drop his war hammer as he drifted into unconsciousness. He probably did not feel the deluge of stabbings and hackings aimed at his head, neck and torso that killed him.

  Afterwards, those few warriors and druids still living stared in amazement at the scene of carnage around them, the sacred grove littered with dead priests and warriors. Kastor was dead along with his most senior druids. Amyntas was dead. Cavarus was dead. Ortiagon was dead. And the flame of Galatian independence was extinguished forever.

  Chapter 14

  Talib and his fellow assassins dallied for a week in eastern Cappadocia, mostly to allow Azar’s injured back to heal. The diluted vinegar worked a treat and her horrible bruises disappeared to be replaced by unblemished skin. King Akmon had done her a favour, of sorts, but the teenager was moody and prickly, her resentment and anger growing in direct proportion to the pace her bruises vanished. She and Yasmina spent much time together, whispering so their conversations would not be heard. When Minu informed Talib that Azar was fit enough to ride without discomfort, the Agraci scout decided they must be on the move again.

  ‘Where, lord?’ asked Klietas, who was worried about Haya, his beloved having been sick a number of mornings, which she put down to a stomach upset.

  The group had struck camp and were heading west. Klietas smiled at a pale Haya beside him, the Amazon nodding half-heartedly.

  ‘To Kayseri to kill King Archelaus’ mother,’ replied Talib.

  Klietas shook his head. ‘It does not seem right to kill a woman.’

  Yasmina and Azar behind him, both pulling camels, cackled derisively.

  ‘It does not matter whether the enemies of Dura are men or women, Median,’ spat Yasmina, ‘they all deserve death.’

  ‘And we are the ones that will serve it on them.’

  ‘That’s enough,’ Talib told them. ‘It is a fair question and I will give you a proper answer, Klietas.’

  ‘Glaphyra deliberately lied to King Pacorus so her son and his allies could trap our army at Kayseri.’

  ‘Which they did,’ Minu reminded him.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Talib. ‘It was only because of the excellence of the armies of Dura. Hatra and Gordyene that we escaped that trap, Klietas. Had it not have been so, ravens would be picking over your bleached bones on that great plain north of Kayseri.’

  ‘Remember that,’ hissed Azar, ‘when you are next begging for mercy for that bitch Glaphyra.’

  ‘She is a whore,’ said Yasmina.

  Klietas turned and peered at the pair. So young, so beautiful, so full of hate.

  ‘So yes, Klietas, she must die for her treachery,’ said Minu. She gave him a warm smile. ‘Besides, are we not protected by the gods? The deaths of Atrax, Tiridates and Laodice are surely proof our mission is blessed by Shamash himself.’

  ‘The Sun God directed the traitor Atrax to our very camp,’ agreed Azar.

  ‘And young Haya here to the tent of King Castus himself,’ quipped Bullus, to the chagrin of Klietas.

  The centurion winked at him. ‘Don’t worry, boy, I’m sure she prefers living in a mud hut to a life of luxury in a palace.’

  ‘Thank you, centurion,’ said Talib in a disapproving tone, ‘we don’t need to hear your opinion.’

  ‘Akmon is our enemy,’ hissed Azar, ‘and the enemy of Dura.’

  Bullus smiled. ‘Your list of enemies is most impressive, girl, but in case you hadn’t heard, King Pacorus is related to the son of his dead nephew.’

  ‘He had a Daughter of Dura flogged,’ said Yasmina, ‘which will not be forgotten.’

  ‘Nothing is ever forgotten,’ added Azar.

  ‘Silence, you two,’ commanded Minu.

  Haya wavered in the saddle and then threw up her breakfast, managing to avoid her horse.

  ‘Halt!’ cried Klietas, jumping down from his own horse and helping down Haya from her saddle.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she insisted, ‘give me some water.’

  He uncorked his water bottle and lifted it to her lips. She grabbed it and drank some of the tepid liquid.

  ‘We will stop here for a short time,’ said Talib.

  It was not unduly hot and Klietas wondered why Haya was suffering from a bad stomach when everyone else, who had dined on the same fare that morning and the night before, was unaffected. Though it was still summer, the high plateau that Cappadocia occupied meant daytime temperatures were warm but not unpleasant. And there was always a pleasant breeze to prevent the heat from becoming unbearable, unlike the summer heat of Dura and Hatra, which roasted men and beast alike.

  ‘We’ve got company,’ said Bullus, nodding at a camel caravan approaching.

  ‘Make sure your weapons are hidden,’ commanded Talib.

  It was a typical camel caravan: a dozen camels roped together head to tail, moving at the speed of a walking man. The merchant and his guards rode on horses flanking the camels, which could be carrying anything from silk, animal hides, spices and precious stones. Such caravans usually stopped at caravanserai – roadside walled resting places – which offered lodging, stables and food. People were allowed to stay for free in these overnight stops; the owners making their money from charging fees for animals and selling meals and supplies. Talib had avoided the caravanserai, which were usually spaced at intervals of a day’s travelling, because he did not want to draw attention to his group, which included two teenage girls and two women. Lusty, crude men looking for female company invariably staffed camel caravans.

  ‘Let me do the talking,’ said Talib, raising a hand to the gaudily dressed merchant who pulled up his horse in front of him.

  He was portly and red-faced, his bright-red robe barely containing his huge belly. He licked his lips when he spied attractive teenage girls behind Talib.

  ‘Greetings,’ said Talib in Greek.

  The camels continued their journey, the guards armed with spears and small round shields, swords in scabbards at their hips, glancing at Talib’s group as they passed, and at their camels loaded with tents and supplies.

  ‘You are Agraci,’ said the merchant in a slightly high-pitched voice, ‘and your Greek is perfect. A sign of the times. You are from Palmyra?’

  Talib nodded. ‘You have been there?’

  ‘A couple of times, when I was younger and slimmer. I trade in these parts now, if you can call eking out a living trade.’

  He did not look poor judging by his appearance. The fact he could afford guards and his camels appeared in perfect health also indicated a degree of wealth. The merchant jerked a thumb at the passing camels.

  ‘I had a nice fat contract to sell spices in Galatia, which were purchased at considerable expense, I might add. I had to sell them in Kayseri. Galatia is out of bounds.’

  Talib’s ears pricked up. ‘Oh?’

  ‘The Romans have seized the whole kingdom after the death of its king.’

  ‘Amyntas is dead?’

  The merchant nodded his head.

  ‘Dead, along with the other tribal leaders. What a bloody mess. The kingdom on the verge of civil war, trade ruined, honest merchants reduced to beggars and Roman soldiers taking possession of every Galatian town and city.’

  Talib tried hard not to laugh but Minu’s face was a mask of stone. Klietas smiled at Haya, who seemed to have some colour back in her cheeks.

  ‘You are certain about King Amyntas being dead?’ asked Talib.

  ‘Quite sure,’ said the merchant. ‘I had a contract with his palace steward at Tavium, which the Roman officer who stopped me at the border told me was now null and void, due to the king being dead. He suggested I return in a few weeks a
nd negotiate with the Roman governor who will be taking up residence in the palace.’

  ‘I heard there was plague in Kayseri,’ said Talib, changing the subject.

  ‘Last year,’ nodded the merchant, ‘but mercifully it has passed. It will take years for the orchards and vineyards to recover, though.’

  Talib feigned ignorance. ‘Oh, why is that?’

  ‘The Parthians, who were responsible for the plague breaking out in the city, destroyed all the vineyards and orchards around the city. And they forced the city to pay them a huge amount of gold before their departure. Criminal. Well. I must be on my way. May fortune smile on you.’

  ‘And on you,’ smiled Talib.

  The merchant, who had ignored Minu throughout their conversation, tilted his head at the Agraci and urged his horse on. When he and his camels were well out of earshot, Talib hugged his wife.

  ‘The gods smile on us, indeed. At this rate, we will be back at Dura before the summer is out.’

  Haya having recovered from her swooning, the group mounted their horses and recommenced their journey west, towards Kayseri. For all of them the terrain was very familiar, as they had been in the area the year before with King Pacorus and his army. Everyone was in high spirits, everyone save Minu. She sat rigid in the saddle, staring ahead, lost in her thoughts as the others chatted and Yasmina and Azar dreamt up scenarios in which Amyntas met gruesome ends.

  ‘Are you ill?’ said Talib to his wife.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then why the long face.’

  ‘I feel cheated,’ said Minu.

  ‘Cheated?’

  ‘I wanted to kill the man who murdered our unborn child, to see the fear and anguish in his eyes as I ended his life. I have been robbed of vengeance.’

  ‘At least Amyntas is dead, Minu, and for that we must be grateful. It also saved us having to infiltrate Galatia and Amyntas’ palace. In a way, we got lucky.’

  ‘Divine justice is on our side, Talib,’ insisted Minu, ‘luck has nothing to do with it.’