Wraiths

by Peter Darman

  ‘It is all my fault,’ Klietas whispered to Haya as they tramped through a wood of walnut trees, ‘I was not concentrating. I was thinking about our child.’

  ‘There was no child,’ hissed Haya, her voice laced with irritation.

  ‘I thought we loved each other,’ he said forlornly.

  ‘You are a fool, Klietas. Do you not know that if an Amazon becomes pregnant and gives birth to a child, she has to leave Queen Gallia’s bodyguard?’

  He did not.

  ‘I have a farm that would have provided for you and the child,’ he told her.

  She sighed deeply. ‘Did you really think I would give up being an Amazon to live on a farm?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She laughed. ‘Then you are a bigger fool than I took you for.’

  She held up her chained wrists. ‘It is all meaningless now, in any case. We are to be Roman toys for a while, and afterwards food for crows.’

  The thought of her beautiful body being tortured and abused was too much for him to bear. He began to yank at the chains around his own wrists in a futile attempt to free himself, which earned him a bang on the head with the blunt end of a spear shaft carried by one of horsemen. Marcellus halted his horse, turned it and directed it towards Klietas.

  ‘Release us,’ demanded Klietas. ‘If you kill us, Queen Gallia will have her revenge on you.’

  The prisoners and horsemen came to a halt, all eyes focused on the enraged and frustrated Klietas.

  ‘Revenge?’ said Marcellus. ‘For what? For apprehending a gang of killers and serving justice on them? I am sure Queen Gallia maintains law and order with an iron hand in Dura, or is it a lawless place where citizens are murdered and their killers allowed to go unpunished?’

  He stared, unblinking, at Klietas, who had no answers to his questions.

  ‘Are you a soldier?’ he asked Klietas.

  ‘A farmer,’ came the sullen reply.

  ‘And do you have a band of men to protect your fields, crops and tools?’

  ‘I am just a farmer,’ Klietas told him, ‘not a wealthy lord.’

  ‘So, who protects your land and its crops and animals, farmer?’

  Klietas was confused. ‘No one, Dura is free of bandits.’

  ‘Exactly,’ nodded Marcellus. ‘There are no bandits because King Pacorus and Queen Gallia stamp down hard on any disorder and lawlessness. And yet you seem surprised when the rulers of other kingdoms do the same.’

  Klietas had no answer to his cleverness, sinking into a sullen silence. But Yasmina had more fire in her belly and called out to the officer.

  ‘Roman rule is not law but tyranny.’

  One of Marcellus’ horsemen went to rap her on the head with the end of his spear shaft but his commander shook his head, intrigued by the girl with a willowy frame and innocent demeanour with the roar of a lion.

  ‘Look around you, girl, at the trees we are passing through. Do you know what they are?’

  As though in a classroom, everyone stared at the trees around them, all tall with short, silver-grey trunks and broad crowns.

  ‘Walnut,’ said Yasmina, ‘any fool knows that.’

  ‘And did you know that Jupiter, the king of Rome’s gods, lived on walnuts when he walked the earth centuries ago? That his tree grows in these parts is a sure sign that he desires his people to rule Cappadocia. And with Roman rule will come order and prosperity.’

  Yasmina spat on the ground to show her disdain for his words, which amused the Roman. He pointed at her.

  ‘If, after you have survived your interrogation with all your limbs intact, I will plead with General Tullus myself to spare your life. After you have been fattened up a bit, you will make a fine female gladiator. You might yet live to see thirty.

  ‘Let’s move.’

  The other horsemen used their spear shafts to usher the captives forward, Klietas with his head down and Yasmina striding in proud defiance. It was soft underfoot and the many trees provided shade from the sun that once again shone from a near-cloudless sky. The only sounds that filled the wood were the clanking of chains, the muffled crumps of horses’ hooves and the jangling of their bits. Klietas was near to tears but fought back the urge to weep for fear he would diminish further in Haya’s estimation. He stared at the ground as he put one foot in front of the other, Haya a few feet in front of him but seemingly a million miles away in thought and deed. The shame of letting down the group was like a huge weight hanging around his neck. But he also felt as though he had let down the king, the man who had rescued him from a life of begging and raised him up to be a squire and farmer. He had been given land, tools, seeds and livestock and how had he repaid King Pacorus? By allowing the enemy to capture him, his chief scout and the commander of the Amazons. He wanted the ground to open up and swallow him.

  He sighed and stared up at the branches, thin shafts of sunlight lancing through the leaves to dapple the ground with yellow and light green. There were no birds chirping or cawing. No birds in the branches or flying above them. He looked around at the others in chains behind him. They too were casting glances left and right.

  Swish, swish, swish.

  Thuds, groans and horses neighing filled his ears and he saw the Roman officer slump in the saddle, an arrow in his back. He heard more hisses and Bullus’ deep voice.

  ‘Down! Get down!’

  He dropped to the ground, as did Haya in front of him, trying to sink into the grass as arrows criss-crossed the air above him. They seemingly came from all directions and in no time at all had cut down every one of Marcellus’ men, including the Roman himself. Then he heard horses’ hooves pounding the ground and looked up. To see riders wearing shining cuirasses, gleaming helmets and carrying shields bearing a symbol he had seen before. He jumped up and beamed with delight when he saw the horsemen of Gordyene trotting towards him and the others.

  Once they had been ordinary mounted spearmen from the poor kingdom of Gordyene. But that realm had prospered in recent years under the iron rule of Spartacus, son of a Thracian slave of the same name who had forged his kingdom in his own image: hard, unyielding. His army had been modelled on the forces of those kingdoms ruled by his father and uncle, Hatra and Dura, respectively. The result had been a string of victories that had won Spartacus laurels and gold, which he had spent on his army, until he and it had become power brokers in northern Parthia, Armenia and most recently Pontus, Galatia and Cappadocia. Spartacus had fallen in Galatia but his son Castus had carried on his good work, winning a victory at Melitene that overshadowed all his father’s triumphs, albeit with the help of Satrap Kewab.

  The former mounted spearmen, now called King’s Guard, were the élite of Gordyene’s army, each rider mounted on a black horse and attired in burnished helmet and glimmering cuirass of alternating steel and bronze scales. And every man was equipped with an ukku sword, the strange black metal containing swirling patterns sourced from east of the Indus that could cut through ordinary iron and steel with ease. There were five hundred King’s Guard and each one carried an ukku sword at his hip, each one costing a talent of gold, the price demanded by the Indians to provide five hundred ukku ‘cakes’, from which Gordyene’s swordsmiths had created the swords to equip the King’s Guard.

  ‘You are a sight for sore eyes, commander,’ smiled Talib to the tall, dark individual staring down at him from the back of a magnificent black stallion.

  Shamshir, the commander of the King’s Guard, gave him a cursory nod and examined each of the captives, his cold eyes resting on Haya.

  ‘Release them,’ he commanded, ‘see if she needs medical attention.’

  There were at least a score of King’s Guard and half a dozen individuals who looked a sorry sight in comparison, all wearing an odd assortment of armour and helmets and riding horses that were smaller than the black stallions of Shamshir’s men – Sarmatians.

  ‘We have been tracking you for a while and were waiting for an opportunity to relieve you of your chains.’
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br />   ‘How is it you are here?’ asked Minu, glancing at Haya being examined for any wounds.

  ‘Give me your dagger.’

  Shamshir was startled by the appearance of Yasmina beside his horse, holding out both her shackled hands to him, fire in her eyes.

  ‘Give me your dagger,’ she pleaded.

  Shamshir looked at Talib, who shrugged, and pulled his dagger from its sheath. He tossed it on the ground.

  ‘Make sure it is clean before you give it back,’ he said to Yasmina.

  The Daughter of Dura picked up the blade and called to her friend.

  ‘Azar, with me.’

  Everyone looked on in bewilderment as the pair hurried over to a body lying on its side on the ground. All the Pontic soldiers were dead, or so it seemed, but the keen and vengeful eyes of Yasmina had noticed that Marcellus, though struck in the back by an arrow and his horse felled by three missiles, was not dead. He groaned as the two teenagers turned him so he was on his back.

  ‘Quickly,’ she urged Azar, aware that the Roman was near to death.

  With some dexterity considering their wrists were manacled, they unbuckled the Romans’ sword belt, tossed it aside and then yanked down his leggings to his knees, exposing his groin. Yasmina straddled him and pointed the dagger at his face.

  ‘I told you I would cut off your balls.’

  She then grabbed his genitals and proceeded to detach them from his body with slow, sawing strokes of the dagger. He began to moan and then scream as blood covered Yasmina’s hands and the dagger she held in them. Azar laughed maniacally as she beheld the ghastly spectacle. Bullus and Talib, both no stranger to the spilling of blood and guts on the battlefield, winced. Shamshir smirked at the scene but Klietas was appalled, averting his eyes. Yasmina shrieked with delight when she had severed Marcellus’ genitals, holding them aloft in triumph before tossing them aside. She stood and spat on the still-living Roman, turning to walk back to Shamshir. The King’s Guard held up a hand to her.

  ‘There is a stream around a hundred paces away. Wash away the blood from my weapon and dry it before handing it back to me. Off you go.’

  Smirking with joy, she shuffled off to the stream with Azar in tow. Shamshir’s deputy rode up and saluted.

  ‘All the enemy have been accounted for, sir.’

  ‘Good. We will be on our way as soon as the captives have been released from their chains.’

  ‘And where are you heading for, Shamshir?’ asked Minu.

  He pointed at Haya. ‘We are to escort your Amazon to Vanadzor.’

  ‘Why?’ asked the Amazon commander.

  ‘She is to be Gordyene’s new queen, lady.’

  Haya was stunned and began to beam with delight, clenching her fists in relief after she was released from her fetters.

  ‘No,’ cried Klietas.

  Shamshir pointed at him. ‘Kill him.’

  Four King’s Guard pointed their loaded bows at him.

  ‘Wait!’ shouted Talib. ‘That is King Pacorus’ squire. He will not take kindly to him being killed so soon after your king impounded Dura’s siege engines. You would wish to start a war over a lowly squire?’

  Shamshir used a hand to indicate his men should lower their bows.

  ‘A squire should know his place and keep his mouth shut and his head down.’

  ‘We are on the business of Queen Gallia,’ said Minu, ‘and Haya will remain with us.’

  Shamshir looked around. ‘This is not Dura, lady, and as far as I know, Queen Gallia holds no power in Cappadocia. You may have your orders but so do I, and I obey King Castus, not Queen Gallia.’

  The chains were removed from the others, the King’s Guards bringing the Durans their horses, the saddles for which had been loaded on the backs of their camels. It took around half an hour before the former captives had saddled their horses and were ready to ride. Flies were already feasting on the bodies of the dead, filling the air with their buzzing when their horses trotted from the site of dead flesh. The Durans were denied their weapons, however, Shamshir being conscious of their prowess with a bow. A decision that infuriated Minu.

  ‘Are we free or not? Have we swapped one set of gaolers for another?’

  The afternoon was most pleasant, the riders having left the scene of death behind to continue travelling east, exiting the wood to follow a road that skirted the north of Melitene. The sun was beginning to dip in the west, though it was still warm on their backs, but not excessively so. The Sarmatians had been sent ahead to scout the way back to Gordyene.

  ‘You are our guests,’ insisted Shamshir, ‘but having seen the Amazon habit of shooting first and asking questions later at first hand, it would be very foolish to put temptation in your hands.’

  ‘Queen Gallia will hear of this,’ she threatened.

  ‘Of that I have no doubt,’ he smiled. ‘But when we have passed safely through Cappadocia and reached Vanadzor, you will be given your weapons back and may go where you will.’

  ‘What about Haya?’ asked Minu.

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘Kidnapping an Amazon is a serious offence,’ Minu cautioned him.

  ‘I would have thought you would have been grateful to King Castus for saving your skins, seeing as you would all have probably ended up being nailed to crosses.’

  He turned to look at Haya riding beside a sullen Klietas.

  ‘What would she prefer, I wonder, crucifixion or being a queen?’

  ‘What if she desires neither?’ asked Talib.

  Shamshir sighed. ‘Then I suppose King Castus will allow her to go with you back to Dura. We are not uncivilised barbarians in Gordyene.’

  ‘Release us now,’ said Minu tersely. ‘We have a mission to accomplish.’

  ‘Your mission is over, lady,’ Shamshir told her. ‘It ended the day you were all captured.’

  Chapter 17

  Gaius Arrianus was in high spirits. The Roman ambassador to the court of King Polemon was readying himself for the journey back to Pontus, having welcomed the new Roman governor of Melitene a few days before. He was a veteran legate who had served under Augustus in Greece and Egypt, a gruff, callous individual very much in the mould of Titus Tullus, though with much more education and intelligence. He arrived with two hundred legionaries and the same number of horsemen, plus a legal document signed by King Archelaus himself granting Rome lordship of Melitene until ‘the border with Parthia returns to normality’. With the arrival of the Roman soldiers and the departure of the majority of Pontic legionaries, there was no longer any need for Gaius to loiter in Cappadocia.

  The ambassador and Titus Tullus left with a detachment of mounted spearmen and a hundred Pontic legionaries on a clear, crisp morning, the summer having ended and the leaves turning yellow and brown to signal autumn had arrived. The legate had an honour guard drawn up in the palace courtyard to bid them farewell, he and Gaius sharing a few words and a handshake with both before they departed. When he had arrived Melitene had been a Cappadocian town; when he left, heading north to travel back to Sinope by the most direct route, it had become a Roman garrison and would remain so in perpetuity.

  Gaius breathed in the bracing air. ‘I have to say, Tullus, things have worked out better than I could have imagined.’

  ‘Really?’

  The former centurion-turned-general was in a morose mood, having received news that his deputy and all his men had been brutally murdered a few miles from Melitene, the officer of the patrol who had come across the scene reporting that Marcellus himself had been castrated. He had immediately reported the incident to the ambassador, with a request that Rome do something about the aggression of the Parthians, and Dura in particular. To be met with total disinterest.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ smiled Gaius. ‘The Parthian rebels who had outstayed their welcome in Pontus and became a hindrance to the continuing blossoming relationship between Rome and Ctesiphon have been eradicated. The boorish King Amyntas is dead and his people now under Roman control; Cappad
ocia and Pontus are even more reliant on Rome than ever; and Armenia stands at the beginning of a process that will, I believe, bring it back into the Roman fold. Very satisfactory.’

  ‘What about Dura, ambassador?’

  Gaius sighed. ‘Not all that again. I grieve for you regarding the death of your deputy, Tullus, but the legate will clamp down hard on any banditry around Melitene.’

  ‘With respect, ambassador, it was not banditry.’

  Gaius rolled his eyes but decided to indulge the man who had proved a useful tool in the preceding months.

  ‘To recount, you believe the deaths of the governor of Melitene, the mother of King Archelaus and your deputy were committed by a group of assassins operating under the orders of the King of Dura.’

  ‘Yes, but not the King of Dura. Rather, his wife, Queen Gallia. It is no coincidence that Dura’s chief scout and the commander of the Amazons were in Melitene just prior to the death of Governor Cenk.’

  Gaius found the idea rather preposterous but wanted Tullus to argue his case, if only to improve his mood, which threatened to make the journey back to Sinope unbearable.

  ‘Let us say you are correct. Why would the Queen of Dura want Governor Cenk dead?’

  ‘I do not know, ambassador. But I do know that the assassins journeyed to Kayseri, and then we received news that Glaphyra, King Archelaus’ mother, had been brutally murdered on the way back from praying at the Temple of Hera. As you know, I sent Commander Marcellus with a party of horsemen to track and apprehend the Parthians. The fact my men were murdered a short distance from Melitene indicates they were indeed apprehended, but then something went horribly wrong.’

  ‘What do you want, Tullus?’ asked Gaius, wishing to get to the knuckle of the issue.

  ‘The Queen of Dura punished,’ said Tullus.

  Gaius began to chuckle.

  ‘You’ve grown ambitious in your desire for justice, general. Well, let’s see. There is a legion garrisoned in Syria. Perhaps I could persuade the governor of that province to march it to Dura and arrest Queen Gallia. How do you think that would turn out?’