by Peter Darman
Tullus slid off his horse, Gaius giving him a bemused look.
‘Reverting to your days as a centurion?’ he smirked.
There was a loud clap of thunder overhead, throwing the ambassador’s horse into a panic. He calmed his mount with difficulty, tugging harshly on the reins and staying in the saddle with some effort.
‘Best to lead the horses in this weather,’ shouted Tullus, turning so the rain would strike his back and covered head.
A bolt of lightning struck a rock face some way away, the flash of light causing the horses to whinny in alarm. Gaius jumped down from his horse and tried to calm it, with little success. The rain was now battering the column, which was stationary, the legionaries having difficulty controlling the mules, which were whinnying and whimpering loudly.
‘Keep hold of them,’ shouted the centurion in charge.
Two thunderclaps in quick succession shook the hillside, horses rearing up on their hind legs in alarm, the wind and rain increasing in intensity. Fresh bolts of lightning illuminated the ragged column and showed the ambassador in a losing battle to keep his horse still. The beast was backing away from him, yanking the reins, which made Gaius lose his footing and fall head-first on the ground. Tullus roared with laughter, which was drowned out by the thunder and lightning. Gaius Arrianus, ambassador, aedile and friend of Augustus, was being dragged along the drenched ground.
And then the storm stopped.
The wind continued to blow but the rain ceased abruptly, the clouds parted, and sunlight flooded the hillside. The animals were still nervous and skittish but there were no longer claps of thunder or bolts of lightning to feed their terror. Tullus walked over to the bedraggled figure of Gaius Arrianus, his face smeared with mud, his clothes soaked to the skin. He tried hard not to laugh.
‘We will rest here a while so you can change your clothes, ambassador.’
‘And get a fire going, I’m drenched,’ snapped Gaius.
‘The weather can be very changeable in the mountains this time of year,’ stated Tullus, whose hood and cloak had protected him from the ravages of the storm.
Gaius removed a towel from his saddlebag and wiped his face with it.
‘There are no towns nearby?’
Tullus shook his head. ‘Not in the mountains, no. A few villages, but they are mostly on the lower slopes and we have already passed them. Nomads live on the upper slopes in the summer, but they and their families and livestock will be heading back to their homes to avoid the snows that will arrive at the end of autumn.’
Gaius stared at the snow-covered peaks in the distance, now radiant in the brilliant sunshine.
‘I trust we will not have to battle through snow, general.’
Tullus pointed ahead. ‘This track leads to a narrow gorge through the mountains, or so the guide told me. We won’t be encountering any snow. Unless you want to take a detour.’
Gaius shuddered. ‘No thank you.’
Tullus called the centurion to him and ordered him to start a fire so the ambassador could warm himself while changing his clothes. With any luck he would catch a chill, which would prevent him from boasting incessantly about his achievements and social standing. He closed his eyes and gave thanks to Tempestas, the Goddess of Storms, for delivering him from pompous patricians.
*****
Once the tribes of Pontus had ruled the coastal strip and the mountains. They had defeated the Hittites but then came the Assyrians and after them the Persians, and gradually the fierce but disorganised tribes were ejected from the coastal strip and forced into the foothills. The movement was gradual and often temporarily reversed. But the incomers had better weapons, better tactics and possessed heavily armed and armoured horsemen. Greeks arrived and began to establish towns and cities along the Pontic coast, developing and expanding commerce that saw the great forests of the plain cut down for timber to build ships. The trees were steadily replaced by vineyards, orchards, fields and grazing lands for cattle and horses.
Thus, were the tribes of Pontus – the Leucosyri, Tibareni, Chalybes, Mosynoecil, Heptacometae, Drilae, Bechires, Byzeres, Colchi, Macrones, Mares, Taochi and Phasiani – permanently banished to the hills and mountains south of the coastal plain.
But the indigenous people, now called hill men in reference to where they lived and in a derogatory term to indicate they were inferior to the Persian and Greek newcomers, still prospered in the fertile foothills of the Pontic Mountains. And those highlands were also rich in iron, copper, silver, salt and alum, which was extracted and sold for a healthy profit to the lowlanders. And there was also an abundance of timber that was felled and sold to the shipyards and furniture makers in Sinope and Trabzon. But the hill men also possessed a great wealth of another resource that the rulers of Pontus in their coastal palace craved: manpower.
The kings of Pontus surrounded themselves with professional foot soldiers, raised, trained and equipped by the royal treasury, together with professional horsemen wearing helmets and armour and armed with spears and swords. But when those kings went to war they swelled their armies with thousands of hill men. Lacking training and equipped only with wicker shields, slings, spears, knives, axes and clubs, they wore no head protection and only the chiefs and some village headmen possessed armour. But they were hardy, courageous and could march for days on an empty stomach. They were promised plunder and slaves when Pontus triumphed. But in recent years the kingdom had suffered a series of heavy defeats, not least on the Melitene Plain where thousands of hill men had been recently butchered. The valleys of the hill men had become vales of tears where widows and children wept for the husbands and parents who would never return.
The Colchi were no different from the other tribes that had suffered heavy losses among their menfolk, though being the largest, most powerful and most populous, they had perhaps suffered the most. Their villages of log cabins in the foothills of eastern Cappadocia seemed empty and desolate. Children still played among the houses, barns and animal pens, and old folk sat in front of their homes and helped with the skinning and butchering of livestock, but there were few men in their prime. Two who were and who had been with Laodice when the lord of the hill men had led an escape from the butcher’s table that was the Melitene Plain, returned to tell the woeful tale of what had happened there and subsequently. Laodice was dead, the warriors he had led were dead, and the slain called out for revenge. And the gods seemed to have presented an opportunity to strike back at King Polemon, as the two warriors now reported.
‘A herdsman reported seeing them a few days ago, heading north.’
‘They will be passing through our lands in around two days,’ said the other.
‘How many?’ asked the tall, willowy young woman sitting in the great wooden chair.
‘Two hundred, maybe more,’ said the first.
‘Half are iron soldiers, the rest horsemen.’
‘Iron soldiers’ was the term used by the hill men to refer to the Pontic legionaries in their mail armour and helmets, that and the iron discipline that made them so formidable in battle.
The woman looked around the hut with her large, lustrous eyes. Her father’s hut would normally be crammed with his chiefs and their warriors. But Laodice was dead and so were his warlords. Those who stared back at her were men past their prime, the wives of her father’s bodyguard and boys on the cusp of manhood who wanted to wash their spear blades in the blood of their enemies. Yesim, only daughter of Laodice, sighed.
She was the only female of four children borne to her parents, all her brothers having been killed fighting the Parthians. Out of respect for her father, and the fact there was no one to challenge her, there had been no objections when Yesim had assumed the position of head woman of her village. No one could accuse Laodice and his wife of being attractive, but their daughter was far from plain or ugly. With full lips, olive skin and high cheekbones, she could be described as a beauty, though she always wore male attire and arranged her flowing black hair in a long
braid. She turned the dagger she was holding over in her hand, before looking at the two warriors.
‘You are certain it is him?’
‘General Tullus, the Roman lapdog of King Polemon, I am certain,’ came the reply.
Berker, a bear of a man who had been a great warrior in his time but who now walked with a limp, old age having addled his limbs, raised himself up with difficulty from the bench near where Yesim sat.
‘I would advise against any rash action, sahin.’
Sahin, meaning ‘hawk’, was Yesim’s nickname on account of her aggressiveness and vicious tongue.
Berker looked around the hut, its interior dark and smoky due to the fire burning in the stone hearth in its centre.
‘In two days we can gather perhaps fifty warriors, if that. After our great defeat, we are mostly old men and young boys. No match for “iron soldiers” and horsemen.’
Yesim looked at the expectant expressions on the faces of the boys, who were already dreaming of slaughtering the Roman who commanded King Polemon’s army. Perhaps even killing Titus Tullus himself with their spears and clubs. But Yesim dashed their hopes.
‘You are right, Berker,’ she nodded, ‘we have too few men to fight the invaders. But we will meet them, nevertheless, to remind them this is the land of the Colchi, and that they march through it only with our permission.’
‘Titus Tullus is not a man to be provoked, sahin,’ cautioned Berker.
Yesim gave him a kindly smile. ‘We will meet them bearing gifts, Berker, have no fear. This meeting is over. The women of the village will remain behind.’
Afterwards, when the precise nature of the tribute to be paid to the lowlanders was carefully explained, Yesim left the village to seek solace. Walking among the maple, oak and walnut trees, she was able to temporarily forget the anguish of the past few weeks, when she cried a river of tears over the deaths of her last family members, and then shed some more as she tried to comfort those whose sons and husbands had shared a similar fate. The thought of ravens or vultures tearing at the flesh of her father and brothers was too much to bear. The worst time was at night when she was left alone with her thoughts, her mind filling with ghastly images of an endless expanse of rotting corpses being feasted on by flocks of ravenous birds. She carried on walking until she reached her favourite spot: a pool fed by a stream cascading over an outcrop above, the flow now greatly diminished after the summer. But the water was still clear and cool and when she had discarded her clothes and immersed her naked body in the pool, she could speak to the one who gave her comfort and strength in her times of trial.
‘Great Ma, bringer of victory, give me the courage to lead your people from the great darkness they have been plunged into. Make me the vessel of your desires, for I live only to serve you.’
The lowlanders no longer followed the old gods, preferring to worship in ornate temples where effigies of Persian and Greek gods were housed. But to the hill men such deities were false idols. Long before invaders had polluted Pontus with their presence, only the true gods had been worshipped, chief among them Ma, the mother of the people and the Warrior Goddess, and Men, the Moon God.
Yesim closed her eyes, the cool water invigorating her body and mind and clarifying her thoughts. In her solitude and nakedness, she was aware of the goddess speaking to her. And she knew she had made the right decision.
*****
Gaius Arrianus and Titus Tullus made it through the mountain passes without further incident, and began their descent through the foothills of southern Pontus on the last leg of their journey to the coastal city of Trabzon. The weather remained mild, with fresh breezes but no sleet and very little rain. They left the barren slopes behind to enter a forest of pine, the air heavy with the scent of cinnamon and citrus. On the second day of their journey through the forest, the commander of the horsemen reported to Tullus riding beside the ambassador, both men enjoying the journey through the lush terrain.
‘Scouts report a large party of locals ahead, sir, in a meadow about ten minutes’ ride away.’
Tullus swung in the saddle. ‘Centurion.’
The commander smiled. ‘The scouts report the group is composed of women and girls only, sir. Carrying wreaths and garlands.’
The burly centurion in charge of the foot soldiers trotted up to the general on horseback.
‘As you were, centurion, it appears we are going to be awarded a triumph on our way back home.’
The centurion gave him a quizzical look. ‘Triumph, sir?’
‘We are about to be intercepted by a throng of women and girls, all bearing garlands to drape around our necks.’
The centurion, a veteran of several campaigns, thought it odd. And looked around at the trees.
‘Where are their menfolk, sir?’
Tullus shrugged. ‘Dead, most likely.’
The centurion nodded. ‘Just what I was thinking, sir. Why then would their widows and orphans be giving us garlands?’
Tullus was about to give an answer when Gaius interjected.
‘I will tell you why, centurion. The people who live in these hills and mountains are simple-minded folk who do not think the way you and I do. Well, me, anyway. They are primitives, centurion, whose lives are invariably nasty, brutish and short. Their sole purpose is to breed to perpetuate their miserable race.’
The centurion, a wily old fox, did not argue but merely saluted stiffly and awaited his orders.
‘Tell your men not to get too friendly with the women,’ Tullus told him, ‘we will not be loitering in the area.’
The centurion saluted again, turned on his heels and rejoined his men, his gruff voice filling the forest as he passed on his general’s instructions.
Gaius looked behind him at the foot soldiers marching six abreast in the Roman style.
‘When we get back to Sinope, I might broach the subject of requesting Roman troops being stationed in the kingdom with King Polemon.’
‘Polemon is a good friend to Rome, ambassador,’ said Tullus, ‘you do not need to station a legion here to guarantee his loyalty.’
Gaius tut-tutted and smiled. ‘No, no, you misunderstand me. You alluded to the savages in these hills having a dearth of menfolk.’
‘Due to them being slaughtered on the Melitene Plain, yes, sir.’
Gaius raised a finger to him. ‘Quite so. So why do we not seize the opportunity that Jupiter has presented us.’
Tullus had no idea what he was wittering on about, giving him a quizzical look.
‘Fertile Roman men placed among women without menfolk,’ exclaimed Gaius. ‘I would have thought a seasoned veteran like you would recognise an opportunity to plant Roman seed among the indigenous population.’
‘Ah, rape, you mean.’
Gaius gave him a black look. ‘I hardly think a Roman man taking a savage to his bed can be classified as rape, general. More a great honour, I would have thought.’
Within minutes they arrived at the meadow, the track winding through grass sprinkled with yellow and orange wildflowers. On the other side, wearing a variety of green, white and yellow dresses, stood a great number of women and girls, all holding what appeared to be wreaths and garlands. When they saw the column of horsemen, foot soldiers and mules, they parted into two groups to line the track the soldiers were marching on.
As the column neared the females lining the track, Tullus saw that many of the girls were wearing flower crowns. And they and the women were all holding garlands of myrtle and ivy leaves and adorned with different flowers. The horsemen grinned at the women who smiled back, holding up the garlands to invite the riders to halt so they could receive the tributes. Women and girls were soon alongside the legionaries, the centurion calling a halt so he and his men could be garlanded like the horsemen. Overhead the sun shone down from a clear sky to add to the pleasantries, and even Titus Tullus allowed himself a smile as he watched his men being honoured.
‘As I said, general,’ remarked Gaius, ‘simple-minded sav
ages. What were the gods thinking when they made such creatures?’
*****
Yesim, dressed in a flowing white robe that clung to her breasts, smiled enticingly at the young horseman wearing a helmet, mail armour and carrying a long lance. He carried a round shield on his left side sporting an eagle riding on the back of a dolphin. His eyes on her fulsome breasts, he pulled up his horse and smiled back, bending down to allow her to place her garland of ivy and flowers over his helmet and around his neck. She licked her lips seductively to hold his gaze and then thrust the small knife she was holding into his exposed neck. The garland had been shielding her right hand and concealing the weapon, the point of which was driven through the skin into his windpipe.
‘Vengeance!’ she screamed, a cry that was echoed by dozens of shrill voices.
The horseman instinctively recoiled from her, but it was too late. The wound was fatal and though he tried to raise his lance to skewer the woman, she hoisted up her robe, turned and sprinted out of the weapon’s range. Blood spurted from the wound. He dropped his lance and clenched his hand over the cut in a vain effort to stem the river of blood that was gushing from it. All in vain. His horse, aware its master had been hurt, panicked and began circling, which caused the horseman, now slipping into unconsciousness, to fall from his saddle. He was not alone.
Yesim had told the women of her village her plan to kill all the foot soldiers and horsemen as revenge for the deaths of their husbands and sons. She did not order them to follow her, but rather asked them to think of the rotting carcasses of their loved ones, who had been sacrificed by King Polemon and his Roman allies. As one they pledged their allegiance and willingness to exact vengeance on the soldiers of the king. She sent runners to the nearest villages with the same message, and more women, girls and boys flocked to her. Old men such as Berker were shamed into silence as hundreds gathered to make wreaths and garlands to deceive the soldiers, while young boys gripped spears and slings and pledged their undying loyalty to her. She was Yesim, daughter of Laodice and beloved of Ma.
