by Peter Darman
The Chinese called it ‘meets blood and seals throat’, while the Scythian Sisters termed it the ‘Kiss of the Cobra’. In fact, the poison smeared on the daggers of the assassins had nothing to do with snakes but was rather the sap of the upas tree found east of the Indus River, in the Chinese heartlands. The tree itself is large with a crown of short, spreading branches and its fruit is perfectly safe to eat. But the milky sap is deadly and once a wound or cut is infected with it, death is nearly instantaneous.
The guard commander spun on his heels when he heard the anguished gasping of his men, just as Bullus knew he would do. The centurion, attired in filthy rags, pulled the gladius from beneath his shabby clothing and thrust it under the officer’s cuirass, plunging the steel upwards under his ribcage. The man stiffened, tried to turn and then collapsed when Bullus whipped the blade out of his body. The paving stones began to turn red as the officer’s blood gushed out of his body, Bullus stepping over him to attack the slaves still holding the litter.
People were screaming now, aware that killers were among them. To sow further panic and fear, Talib and Klietas turned away from the litter to throw the two vases into the crowd, the terracotta smashing to release vipers among the stampede of feet. This prompted fresh screams and shouts and added to the chaos as the reptiles slithered among people and lashed out at exposed feet and ankles.
Talib was already behind one of the slaves at the rear of the litter, drawing his dagger across the man’s neck to sever his windpipe. Klietas was supposed to kill the other slave opposite but hesitated, drawing scorn from Yasmina.
‘You are weak, Median. No wonder Haya aborted your child.’
He froze, stunned by her words regarding Haya. But Yasmina was a killer and plunged her dagger into the slave’s muscular thigh. The man yelped in pain and then died as the ‘Kiss of the Cobra’ went to work. The litter crashed to the ground, the other two slaves being despatched by Haya, Bullus and Minu, spilling Glaphyra on to the paving slabs. The king’s mother barely had time to look up before two Amazons and two Daughters of Dura were on her, plunging their knives into her repeatedly to shred her clothes and mutilate her body. They kept stabbing for at least half a minute, Minu jabbing the point of her dagger into Glaphyra’s eyes, cheeks and mouth.
‘Not so pretty now, are you. Bitch.’
She spat on the body that resembled a cadaver that a trainee butcher had been practising on.
‘We must go,’ hissed Talib.
The assassins scattered, according to the scheme they had meticulously planned and rehearsed in the days before the killing. Talib had rented a modest-sized property near to Glaphyra’s mansion, informing the owner he was a businessman who had fled Melitene with his family due to the conflict with the Parthians. The women and girls had donned rags to impersonate beggars on the Celestial Way after Talib had learned Glaphyra visited the Temple of Hera daily. It was easy to pick up gossip from market traders and business owners, all eager to offer their own views on the reasons Cappadocia was in its present predicament. Talib smiled, listened and the plan of assassination came together.
Screams and cries of anguish in their ears, the killers made their way back to the mansion via different routes, darting into alleys to shed their rags and acquire new clothes that had been stashed in hiding places. Transformed into ordinary citizens, they then calmly walked back to the rented property. Once there, they saddled their horses and loaded the supplies on to the camels and departed Kayseri, heading east back to Melitene and their last target: Titus Tullus.
The news that his mother had been murdered in such a ghastly fashion was expected to tip King Archelaus over the edge. But strange to say, the opposite happened. None realised how miserable the king’s mother had made Archelaus’ life, with her endless carping and interfering in the kingdom’s affairs. It was common knowledge she was the power behind the throne, always going over his head to discuss policy with court officials and commanders she had appointed behind his back. Glaphyra had had an iron hold over Cappadocia and its king, which Archelaus had found stifling to the point of asphyxiation. This had made him bitter and resentful, so when an ashen-faced official had told him the news his mother was dead, he rewarded the man with a pouch of gold and embraced him. The black cloud that had been hanging over him for years, getting darker and more oppressive by the year, suddenly disappeared. It was as if the gods had answered his prayers.
The funeral for Glaphyra was a spectacular affair. According to the Greek custom she followed, the body was taken to the Temple of Hera where it was prepared for burial. The grisly and upsetting task of laying out the body – called the prosthesis – was undertaken by Medea and her priestesses. The violated body was washed, oiled and dressed in a white silk garment edged with gold. The mutilated face was wrapped in a white veil to save those who came to mourn Glaphyra the sight of her ghastly visage, but not before the mouth had been sealed with ‘Charon’s obol’. This was a coin used to pay the ferryman of the dead – Charon, son of Nyx and Erebos – to transport the soul of the departed across the River Styx to the underworld. The obol itself was a small silver coin valued at a sixth of a drachma. In addition, a gold tablet was placed on the lips of the king’s mother with instructions for navigating the afterlife, and giving due respect to the rulers of the underworld: Hades and Persephone.
The washed and newly attired body was placed on a marble plinth in the cella of the temple, a few paces from the statue of Hera herself, so highly was Glaphyra thought of among the goddess’ priestesses. A select number of mourners was allowed into the temple to pay their respects, chiefly those who had been appointed following Glaphyra’s lobbying of her son. They included all of Kayseri’s most important individuals. Each one was careful to make use of the vessel placed by the doors to the cella containing water so that those who had been paying their respects might purify themselves of the pollution of death by sprinkling water on their persons.
The ekphora – the funeral procession – was a doleful affair, soldiers lining the Celestial Way, which had been cleared of beggars and ordinary citizens, the thoroughfare filled with the mournful tunes of the flutes of the musicians hired to play dirges. The bier was borne by specially selected citizens to honour Glaphyra, with a surprisingly unconcerned Archelaus – chief of the male mourners – walking in front of it; a woman trailing behind it, holding a spear. For those who had suffered a violent death, the weapon was a symbol of the vengeance that would be visited upon the murderer. All the mourners wore garments of either black or blue, those who wished to display more grief having cut their hair or shaved their heads. Archelaus wore a full beard and sported shoulder-length locks.
The internment of the deceased took place in the ‘royal field of the dead’ located near the city’s southern wall, on elevated ground that was originally a spur on the slope of Mount Argaeus. Work had already commenced on a splendid mausoleum to house Glaphyra’s remains, and the king had ordered an elaborate marble statue to be created in his mother’s likeness to be erected in front of it. And her funerary monument would stand on an inscribed base with an epitaph, in verse, to memorialise her life. In this way, together with the offerings brought to the mausoleum by those paid to do so by her son, the deceased would not be forgotten. For immortality lay in the continual remembrance of the dead by the living.
Thus did Glaphyra pass from the world of the living to the realm of the dead, having been granted her wish by Hera herself. For her son would not only recover from his malaise, but both he and Cappadocia would prosper in the coming years.
Chapter 16
Klietas had been plunged into the pit of despair after Yasmina’s revelation concerning Haya’s pregnancy. The rest of the group had been in high spirits after leaving Kayseri, having achieved their mission with ease and believing the gods were indeed with them. Such was their glee that they failed to see his agony as he trotted alongside the woman he had planned to marry and raise a family with. Only to discover she had cruelly done away with
their first child. When he had tried to ask her why she had done such a thing, she brushed aside his queries as though they were trivial, unimportant. Then she became angry and in the days after, when they had retraced their steps back towards Melitene, albeit avoiding the main highway just in case patrols were out looking for them, she decided to share a tent with Yasmina and Azar. So he slept alone and mulled over and over in his mind how the woman he loved could hurt him so deeply.
The days were still warm but summer was beginning to ebb and so the Cappadocian nights began to turn cooler, especially when a wind blew from the north, as on this night. It was the early hours of a new day, the breeze fanning the flames of the campfire, all the tent flaps tied shut to keep out the cold. He was on guard duty with Bullus, who was on the other side of the camp, pacing up and down the small stream they had pitched the tents beside. The camels and horses were tethered downstream of the tents so they could drink from the cool, rippling water and deposit their waste without contaminating the drinking and washing water.
The night was overcast and visibility was poor, requiring sentries to keep their eyes and ears open for anything suspicious. The group had camped near a stand of walnut trees, which had provided firewood and hid the camp from the track they had been journeying on. Klietas did not feel the cold but did hear a voice in his head. It was that of King Pacorus when the pair had been on the palace terrace at Dura after their return from the north. Klietas had declared his intention to marry Haya but the king had poured cold water on the idea.
‘Haya is not for you, Klietas, I’m sad to say. She is an Amazon, a skilled killer who would be horrified by the prospect of doing whatever a farmer’s wife does. Cast your mind back to your expedition to Zeugma. Haya killed Cookes, the fat governor of Mepsila?
‘Yes, majesty.’
‘And you have seen Haya fight on the battlefield?’
‘Yes, majesty.’
‘And have you seen her look?’
‘Look, majesty?’
‘The look of glee in her eyes when she shoots down an enemy with her bow, the expression of satisfaction and pride at the sight of a foe dying by her hand. I’ve seen it many times in many eyes. Many soldiers do not enjoy killing but take pride in their profession and kill because they have to, because it is expected of them. Haya enjoys it. For her and others, war is an addiction they cannot do without.’
He believed that if he worked hard to build a prosperous farm then Haya would come to him. She had come to him. But the bitterness he tasted in his mouth was the realisation it had all been a lie, a trick to get him to join this group of killers that took delight in inflicting death on the guilty and innocent alike.
He never heard the man creeping up on him with a club, and barely felt the blow that knocked him into unconsciousness. If he had been concentrating on his duties then he might have been aware of black shapes moving around in the night, or perhaps heard one trip on a branch and curse under his breath. But the swirling emotions of grief, anger and bewilderment had overwhelmed his senses; until he was rendered senseless.
A bucket of cold water being thrown over him brought him back to the land of the living, the bright sunlight burning his eyes and sending a spasm of pain through his brain. The soles of his feet were kicked.
‘Wake up, you Parthian bastard.’
Klietas looked up at the shaven-headed man who had delivered the blow, squinting at his harsh features. As he did not speak Latin, he had no idea what the man wearing mail armour, boots, leggings and yellow tunic was saying, though he knew it was nothing friendly.
‘Are you hurt, Klietas?’
He looked over to see Talib and the others siting in a circle, soldiers standing over them and all in shackles. He instantly sought out Haya and saw her staring with hate-filled eyes at her gaolers, and then saw with alarm a bloody and beaten Bullus, one of his eyes purple and closed. He had obviously put up more of a fight before being taken.
‘I am fine, lord,’ replied Klietas, whose legs were suddenly grabbed harshly so that manacles could be fixed around his ankles. A sword point held to his throat banished all thoughts of resistance. He was then roughly manhandled over to the other captives, Yasmina and Azar giving him hateful stares.
One of the soldiers, with cropped hair, a clean-shaven face and olive skin, examined the sullen group.
‘My name is Commander Marcellus Gellius and I am curious as to why high-ranking members of Dura’s army are in Cappadocia.’
He spoke in Greek and directed his question at Talib.
Talib feigned surprise.
‘There must be a misunderstanding, sir, I am a businessman…’
He was cut short by the Roman.
‘Please don’t insult my intelligence, Talib, for that is your name, is it not?’
He cast a glance at Minu seated on the ground beside him.
‘And you are Minu, commander of the Amazons, Queen Gallia’s band of female killers. So I ask again, what are you doing in Cappadocia?’
His request was met by a stony silence, though Yasmina curled a lip at him when he caught her eye.
‘I will cut off your balls, Roman,’ she said in faltering Greek.
Marcellus laughed. ‘What a little charmer she is. Are all the children born in Dura taught to spit venom before they can walk?’
While he and three others stood watch over the shackled prisoners, the rest of the soldiers were rifling through the supplies stored in the tents. They brought bows, quivers, knives and small chests containing unmarked jars and padded with straw.
‘Do you want them burnt, sir?’
Marcellus shook his head. ‘No, everything is to be taken to Melitene for examination.’
He leaned over to fix Yasmina with his cold eyes. He spoke slowly and in Parthian so she would be in no doubt what would happen to her.
‘You will all be taken to Melitene where you will be questioned closely, little bitch, which is a euphemism for torture. Dura’s chief scout and the Amazon commander will probably be ransomed for a tidy sum of gold, seeing as King Pacorus is probably fond of them. But you will be broken, raped and crucified.’
To give her credit and despite the fact she was in chains and realised there was little likelihood of salvation, Yasmina did not weep or plead for her life. She did look decidedly pale, however, and did not make any more threats.
‘Let’s get them moving,’ ordered Marcellus, ‘it will take us three days at least to get this lot to Melitene.’
Once they were underway, the captives shuffling along in a line, flanked by mounted guards with spears, Talib tried a different approach with the Roman officer.
‘You are right, commander, we are from Dura and its king and queen would pay a high price for our safe return. Our business concerns only Cappadocia.’
That was a lie but Marcellus did not know that; indeed, did not know the group’s last target was his own commander and friend Titus Tullus. But he did know he was not about to disobey an order from Tullus, and he was also aware of how dangerous the individuals he and his men had been tracking for several days were.
‘Cappadocia is Rome’s ally,’ said Marcellus, ‘you kill one of its governors, you also attack Rome. Besides, it is surely no coincidence that you left Kayseri just after the murder of the king’s mother. Who else have you murdered, I wonder?’
‘No one who has not deserved it,’ hissed Yasmina.
‘Quiet,’ Minu scolded her.
‘I rest my case,’ smiled Marcellus.
They trudged along in silence for a while, the sun steadily climbing in a sky filled with white, puffy clouds, the same breeze that blew through the night providing a pleasant wind. There was no other traffic on the track snaking through a terrain of rocky outcrops, grassy meadows and copses of maple and birch. Of other people they saw none, the curious cave dwellings that littered Cappadocia in these parts being empty of inhabitants. Marcellus halted the column after two hours of march before one such structure, pointing up at the square windows
cut in the rock face.
‘People once lived in that cave, but thanks to your Parthian overlords, it and dozens like it throughout Cappadocia lie empty, those who inhabited them either dead or fled to the nearest town or city.’
The Parthians and single Agraci looked at him with contempt.
‘I could take you to dozens of Parthian villages that have suffered at the hands of Roman invaders,’ said Minu. ‘Unlike you, we do not seek to conquer the whole world and enslave its peoples.’
Marcellus had no desire to engage in a debate with a prisoner, especially a female one, and so ordered water and biscuits to be issued to the captives during their brief rest.
Talib and the others expected the worst but their treatment was not unduly harsh. By the second day, when the terrain became more verdant as they got nearer to Melitene, it was true their ankles and wrists were red from the chafing fetters. But Marcellus had his men under tight control and none of them attempted to rape the women or girls. All the Parthians were fed and watered and the pace of march was not too taxing, and even Bullus’ sore head was treated and bandaged. But the smug attitude of the Roman officer was like a red-hot iron that bored into the spirits of the captives, for they knew, as did Marcellus, that they were unmolested only because Titus Tullus wanted them in good health before their interrogations began.
