Wraiths

by Peter Darman

  Glaphyra was of Greek descent, a woman of very mediocre birth who by a mixture of ambition and seduction had climbed to a great height to become the mother of a king and the most powerful woman in all Cappadocia. A former courtesan, she had married a nobleman who became the ruler of Cappadocia, only to be deposed by Julius Caesar following his victory over Pompey. Glaphyra’s husband died and she was faced with an uncertain future. But a woman of great beauty, charm and ambition can use her personal assets to reverse misfortune, and so it was with Glaphyra.

  It was not fate, more inevitability, that the blue-eyed seductress with long auburn hair should ensnare Mark Antony, the triumvir who was given the east of the Roman world to rule after the deaths of those who had murdered his friend and former commander, Julius Caesar. The attraction had been instantaneous and they became lovers, which ensured Glaphyra’s son was placed on the throne of Cappadocia. Antony’s defeat at Actium momentarily imperilled his position and threatened to undo all Glaphyra’s hard work, but the former courtesan cajoled her son into pledging his allegiance to Octavian, the new ruler of the Roman world. And although Octavian despised Glaphyra for her being what he saw as nothing more than a whore, he was both pleased and relieved to have the allegiance of Cappadocia. And the client kingdom had proved very loyal in the years since.

  Cappadocia was a frontier kingdom bordering Parthia, the empire that Rome and the Romans had once despised and ridiculed for being eastern, effeminate and decadent. Decades before, the legionaries of Lucullus and Pompey had encountered the Parthians and had dismissed their martial qualities. And after them came a Roman leader intent on conquering the whole of Parthia. His name was Marcus Licinius Crassus and he and his army had to come to grief at a place named Carrhae. And ever since that fateful battle, Rome and its allies had tasted nothing but defeat at the hands of the Parthians. Octavian himself, wary to fight another conflict against the Parthians after the civil war that had rocked the Roman world, had financed a campaign by a Parthian exile to retake his throne, in the hope it would lead to him having influence in Parthia. But Prince Atrax’s campaign had ended in defeat and failure, and in the aftermath a vengeful King Spartacus had led an army into Pontus that swept through Galatia and Cappadocia like a hurricane. The only cheering news had been the death of King Spartacus, but his son Castus had returned to Cappadocia to wreak even more destruction on Rome’s allies. The combined power of Cappadocia, Galatia and Pontus had been shattered, and had King of Kings Phraates known it, he could have conquered them all with ease. It was nothing short of a miracle that Parthia had no ambitions when it came to extending its western frontier.

  Glaphyra was also looking for a miracle. Every day her routine was the same. She would leave her mansion adjacent to the palace where her son lived in his self-imposed exile from the world, and travel by litter to the temple of the Goddess Hera. Notwithstanding the plague that had killed many commoners, Kayseri was still a splendid city exquisitely sited on the lower slopes of a dormant volcano called Mount Argaeus. It looked out over a large green oasis that contained vast meadows and expansive vineyards and fruit orchards, albeit currently in a sad condition. The green and fertile land around the city produced an abundance of apricots, grapes, apples, figs, barley, wheat and flax. The meadows provided excellent grazing lands for sheep and cattle. This resulted in Kayseri being a major centre of commerce, which meant wealth flowed into its coffers. The physical manifestation of that affluence was the abundance of beautiful homes that surrounded the city’s royal quarter, and the impressive temples scattered throughout Kayseri.

  Many gods were worshipped in Kayseri, a legacy of its Persian and Greek heritage. But Glaphyra paid daily homage to the Greek deity Hera, Queen of the Gods, wife of Zeus, protector of women and the Goddess of Marriage. Glaphyra identified herself closely with the Queen of Heaven, who was always depicted as a beautiful young woman. It was true that Archelaus’ mother was no longer young, having turned fifty the year before. But she was still attractive and she and Hera shared many traits, not least vindictiveness and ruthlessness.

  Ideally, the temple should have been in the royal quarter, or at least in the most prosperous and exclusive part on the city. But Hera was the goddess of all women, not just those who possessed wealth, beauty and influence. And so, every day Glaphyra made the journey from her walled mansion, down a paved street fronted by shops, through a small market square that stank of animals and their dung, to the Celestial Way, another paved street that led directly to the Temple of Hera. It was wider than the road near her residence to allow stall holders to sell votive gifts, usually small cakes and small terracotta statues of Hera herself. The cakes were burnt on the huge altar made of blocks of limestone positioned in front of the temple, extending the entire breadth of the building. White-robed female priests, all slim and attractive, accepted the offerings on behalf of the goddess. The cakes were burnt, and the statues were buried in specially consecrated pits near the temple.

  ‘Make way, make way.’

  The Celestial Way was always busy, for there was invariably an inexhaustible supply of people who came to beg for the goddess’ indulgence.

  There was also a great number of beggars: girls and women in rags sitting by the side of the road with pitiful expressions and pleading eyes. It was enough to affect even the hardest hearts, though Glaphyra took comfort that the female priests of the temple distributed the cooked meat of animals slaughtered on the altar to the poor who came to beg for the goddess’ protection.

  ‘Make way, make way.’

  It was a hot and airless day and the guard commander, sweating in his scale armour and helmet, was getting irritable. The beggars knew the king’s mother visited the temple every day and sought to get near her litter, for they also knew she liked to distribute coins to those who managed to get close to her. But the four guards who always accompanied Glaphyra, plus their commander, used their shields to usher the beggars away from the litter, and the backs of their hands when the crowd got too keen.

  Glaphyra’s litter, essentially a wooden couch, was a grand affair. At each corner was a wooden post to support an overhead canopy to provide shade. Curtains hung from rods around the canopy to provide both shade and privacy. Two stout horizontal poles fixed to the sides of the litter were the means by which the four tall, strong slaves carried the king’s mother above the crowd that always gathered around the litter. One of the curtains parted.

  ‘Commander, restrain yourself and your men. You are not on the battlefield.’

  The officer looked around at the cloying, outstretched hands of the beggars and heard their imploring pleas.

  ‘Mother, mother, have pity on us.’

  ‘More’s the pity,’ he muttered under his breath.

  ‘Did you hear me, commander?’

  ‘Yes, lady,’ he smiled, ‘but I am responsible for your safety.’

  ‘These are the orphan children and desperate mothers of Kayseri, commander,’ said Glaphyra. ‘Here, distribute these.’

  He rolled his eyes, turned and smiled when Glaphyra handed him a silk purse stuffed with coins.

  He emptied some of the drachmas into his hand and flung them into the air, the coins landing among the beggars, who instantly began pushing and shoving each other to get at them. He walked around the litter and tossed the remainder of the coins at the beggars on the other side of the carriage, prompting the same response.

  ‘Move it,’ he ordered the slaves, who increased their pace to take advantage of the parting of the crowd of vagabonds. He smiled when one of his men used the back of his hand to strike a young girl who was staring at him and the other guards. Then they were at the temple.

  The Temple of Hera was a building of grace and beauty to reflect the physical attributes of the goddess it paid homage to. It stood on a well-dressed stone platform called a crepidoma, the front of which had been chiselled to create an access ramp. In front of the ramp was the altar where offerings were being made to the goddess. It was located
outside the building because the general populace was forbidden to enter the temple itself.

  Everything about the temple proclaimed wealth and power, from the gabled roof covered by marble tiles to the marble columns along each side. There were sixteen of them in total, all in the Corinthian style and tapered so they were thinner at the top than at the base. The temple had a width of six columns, like those along the sides decorated with capitals – the uppermost element of the column – adorned with necklaces of leaves, all covered with gold leaf. The temple’s front pediment – the triangular section above the columns – contained marble statues of Hera’s nurses: Euboia, Prosymna and Akraia, all depicted as beautiful young women.

  The slaves set down the litter in front of the pronaos, the front porch of the temple, the guard commander moving aside one of the side curtains and extending his hand to assist his mistress from the carriage. She took his hand and stepped from the litter, the sweating slaves glad to be able to unburden themselves of their load and accept the offer of water from young female novices.

  As on each day, High Priestess Medea was waiting for Glaphyra, walking forward and bowing her head at the blue-eyed mother of the king. Like her priestesses and novices, Medea wore her hair high on her head in honour of the high, cylindrical crown worn by the Queen of Heaven. And she and they all wore white flowing robes and white sandals, the colour most beloved of Hera.

  Medea was a beautiful woman, with a curvaceous figure, large brown eyes and lustrous brown hair. Like Glaphyra she was in her fifties and a mother, celibate priestesses such as Rome’s Vestal Virgins being alien to the culture of Greece and the east, being viewed as frankly ridiculous. Hera was the guardian of women, especially in childbirth, therefore it made sense to honour her by bearing children.

  ‘Welcome, lady,’ smiled Medea, ‘I trust you are well.’

  Glaphyra glanced back at the crowd with gifts before the altar and the city’s lost and abandoned on the Celestial Way.

  ‘There seem to be more widows and orphans every day.’

  ‘We must ask Hera for her help to steer the city, and kingdom, through its present difficulties, lady,’ said Medea.

  Like all priests and priestesses, she was paid a salary and given property by the city authorities out of respect for their contributions to Kayseri and the kingdom, and as homage to the gods they served. But like many religious officials, Medea had seen her orchards outside the city destroyed by the Parthians when they had laid siege to Kayseri.

  Two temple guards opened the doors inlaid with gold to give access to the cella, the room at the centre of the temple where the statue of the goddess resided. Only Medea and Glaphyra entered the chamber, the guards closing the doors behind them. The cella was serene, oil lamps illuminating the statue of the goddess depicted sitting on a throne, on a white marble pedestal. The throne was wood covered in gold leaf, while the goddess herself had been fashioned from gold and ivory. Those blessed with beholding the statue were drawn to the beautiful face and the large eyes, which saw everything on earth and in the heavens. Beyond the cella was the adyton, a room where the wealth of the temple was stored, comprising gold that the wealthy and powerful donated to the temple in return for Medea asking Hera to grant the wishes of those presenting her with gifts.

  There were few as generous as the king’s mother, who lavished the temple with money and animals for the sacrificial altar. That is why she was allowed into the holy sanctuary of the cella when most were barred entry. The chamber was filled with the intoxicating smell of frankincense, which crackled in silver burners placed around the walls. Glaphyra stared at the perfect face of Hera and felt very close to her. Human and animal smells offended the gods, but the sweet smell of incense was pleasing to them and formed a bridge between the mortal world and the realm the supernatural deities inhabited.

  ‘Shall we pray to Hera, lady?’ said Medea, offering Glaphyra her hand as she did when she was alone in the cella with the king’s mother. Glaphyra took it.

  ‘I praise you bright and noble Hera,’ began Medea, ‘great lady of Olympus, gracious queen of the deathless gods, dark-eyed goddess, fairest of the children of Rhea, graceful and comely, cloaked in the starry skies, garlanded in poppies fragrant and blood-red, crowned in brightest gold, the lotus wand in your hand, your form ever draped in the finest of silks, majestic one whose blessing is sought by all, whose gifts are treasured, whose favour is a surety of good fortune. Hera, champion of great cities, guardian of ancient Kayseri and the pretty kingdom, warden of the bonds of marriage, protector of women in the old world and the new, unparalleled goddess, white-armed one, sovereign of the high-reaching heavens, we honour your might.’

  ‘We honour your might,’ repeated Glaphyra.

  ‘Mighty Hera, look favourably upon this mother, who asks that you lift the gloom infesting the king’s mind and restore both him and his kingdom to full health. Hear us, mighty Hera, we beg you.’

  ‘We beg you,’ pleaded Glaphyra.

  The king’s mother felt the presence of the goddess, for she knew, as did the poorest commoner, that when people accept the great goodness and beauty of the gods and submit wholly to them, this forms an invitation to the immortals to enter their lives. But her son was still gripped by a black mood. Perhaps Hera was angry with her. She voiced this concern to Medea. The high priestess looked at her with kindness.

  ‘Lady, those who come to this temple with offerings do so to beg Hera’s favour. What do they hope to gain by making a sacrifice? Usually, health, security and prosperity. But you are asking for a king and his kingdom to be restored to their former health and prosperity. This is no small thing.’

  ‘Tell me what I must do, Medea, and I will do it.’

  The high priestess smiled and squeezed Glaphyra’s hand.

  ‘You are doing what any mother would do to help her child, and I am sure Hera hears your prayers. But you must be patient.’

  ‘It is hard to be patient when the kingdom is at risk of falling apart,’ said Glaphyra, bitterness in her voice. She looked around at the marble-adorned chamber filled with the sweet aroma of incense and an ethereal calm.

  ‘In here, all is tranquil, but beyond these holy walls chaos and conflict rage. Rome is in the process of devouring Galatia and I fear the longer my son remains withdrawn from the world, the greater the likelihood of Cappadocia suffering the same fate.’

  Medea was surprised to hear her talk of politics, something Glaphyra had never done before.

  ‘Are not the Romans our allies?’

  Glaphyra gave her a wry smile. ‘Allies can quickly become masters if one is not careful, Medea. Without its king, Cappadocia is weak, and Rome is like a ravenous wolf where weakness is concerned.’

  ‘Hera will answer your prayers, lady, but you must have faith. The gods can change the world in the blink of an eye. Remember that. As long as they are pleased and appeased, you will get the one thing you most desire.’

  Glaphyra smiled and nodded at the high priestess. She always found the temple’s cella a pleasing place and Medea was a reassuring presence. She looked at the statue of Hera and bowed to it.

  ‘You are right, of course. I have arranged for fifty bulls to be sent to you to sacrifice tomorrow, which will help feed the destitute who seem to grow in numbers by the day.’

  ‘You are most generous, lady,’ said Medea.

  They walked arm-in-arm from the cella into the daylight, the sun momentarily dazzling them as they stepped from the sanctuary. The temple’s priestesses were doing a brisk trade in votive offerings, chickens and sheep being slaughtered on the altar and cooks butchering the carcasses prior to cooking them. Blood, wine, meat and incense were being offered to Hera in an uninterrupted stream, carrying with them the vows and pleas of those donating the gifts to the goddess. But none was as generous to the Mother of Heaven as Glaphyra, mother of King Archelaus.

  She embraced the high priestess and walked swiftly to her waiting litter and sweating slaves, alighting into the carr
iage and ensuring all the curtains were drawn before it was hoisted on to the muscular shoulders of the bearers. The guard commander, rivulets of sweat coursing down his face and neck, ordered his men to flank the litter and then proceeded to escort his mistress back to her mansion.

  *****

  The Celestial Way was packed with people, many in rags holding out hands and bowls to beg for money or food, or both. The beggars were a thoroughly miserable lot, their faces disfigured, dirty, covered in sores and their teeth rotten. The older ones were living corpses with broken, malformed bodies; the younger ones with limbs that as yet were not diseased, disfigured and pockmarked. But like their older counterparts, their faces were unwashed, their nails were black and their hands calloused. Had the guard commander walking in front of Glaphyra’s litter bothered to examine the press of human detritus around him and the lady’s carriage, he might have spotted a pair of teenage girls and two older women wearing rags but all with bright eyes, perfect faces beneath the grime smeared on them, and all possessing the correct number of limbs. And had he looked particularly closer at their hands as the four approached the litter, he would have seen them all clutching daggers.

  Yasmina and Azar were on one side of the litter, Haya and Minu on the other, all concealing their daggers until the last moment. They moved closer to the carriage by mingling among the other beggars who knew Glaphyra to be generous to those less fortunate than her. Behind the litter, several paces back from the slaves and guards, walked Talib and Klietas, both holding large terracotta vases with sealed lids. To disguise his race, only Talib’s eyes were visible beneath the shemagh he was wearing.

  Yasmina gave Azar a wicked grin and pushed her way through the beggars, reaching one of the guards protecting the king’s mother. Wearing scale armour, a helmet and armed with a sword, the girls posed no threat to the soldier and so he told her to ‘piss off’. She turned around, ducked low and whipped the dagger’s blade across his leggings, cutting the material and inflicting a narrow wound on the skin below. The strike was so quick he probably never felt it as first. But the beggars around him began to scream when he dropped his shield and clutched at his throat, making hideous gasping noises as his windpipe closed and his heart stopped beating. He dropped to his knees and pitched forward on the stone slabs, dead. The guard behind him was similarly felled by Azar’s dagger, also falling to the ground seconds after his leg was also slashed. And on the other side of the litter the other two guards suffered a similar fate at the hands of Haya and Minu.