Sarmatian

by Peter Darman

  An unending procession of camel trains passed over the bridge spanning the Tigris, its waters below dark, and quickly moving. When spring had passed and the furnace of summer arrived, those waters would slow and change colour to a muddy brown, the level of the river would drop, and a stench would rise as the Tigris struggled to flush away the city sewage dumped in the river. Ctesiphon had no such problems. Water was brought from the Tigris upstream of the river and effluent disposed of by sewage channels maintained by a small army of slaves. There were no shops, market stalls or drinking establishments within the white-faced walls of Ctesiphon. All occupants were strictly vetted as to their suitability to breathe the same air as King of Kings Phraates. Even the slaves tended to be young and attractive. The exception were the fierce Scythian axe men who surrounded the high king at all times. Under the command of Commander Adapa, the former leper now chief of Phraates’ bodyguard, they were specifically chosen for their size, fierceness and dexterity with a double-bladed battle axe.

  It was Adapa who met us at the entrance to the palace complex, a magnificent replica of Babylon’s Ishtar Gate that made a great impression on Navid and his young horse archers. It was the first time they had visited Ctesiphon and its magnificence was a world apart from the austere practicality of Dura’s Citadel. The entrance was a huge double gate decorated with over five hundred figures of bulls and dragons. Huge banners of the bull of Babylon and the eagle clutching a snake of Susiana flew from its ornate battlements where purple-uniformed archers and spearmen patrolled the walls.

  We trotted through the gatehouse to be momentarily surprised by a fanfare of trumpets sounded by a line of mounted signallers, all wearing shimmering dragon-skin armour of overlapping polished silver scales stitched on to a hide vest. The mounted lancers behind them also wore dragon-skin armour and burnished helmets sporting purple plumes, their round shields faced with leather painted purple and sporting a white bull motif. The purple pennants on their lances carried an identical symbol.

  Adapa brought his sword up and then lowered it slowly to salute me.

  ‘Greetings, King Pacorus, welcome to Ctesiphon.’

  He fell in beside me as I nudged Horns forward and we headed up the Processional Way, a road some eighty feet in breadth paved with white limestone and red braccia slabs. There was not a weed to be seen anywhere along its length and all the slabs appeared pristine, having been washed at the beginning of the day and indeed on every day.

  ‘It is good to see you Adapa, you look well.’

  He did, a strapping man magnificently attired on an equally fine equine specimen, a huge purple saddlecloth covering its back, in the corners of which had been stitched golden bulls. Adapa was bare headed, his thick black hair falling to his shoulders, his handsome face cracking a smile.

  ‘Certainly better than the first time we met, majesty.’

  ‘Indeed. I trust the high king is in good spirits.’

  ‘Excellent spirits, majesty, as is your daughter.’

  Like the rest of Ctesiphon, the palace was a place of beauty, bright light and sweet fragrances. An immense building of white marble, gold, silver and ivory, it was filled with richly attired nobles and their wives, white-clad priests and palace officials striding around in soft slippers so they moved silently around the home of the high king. Phraates had assembled his court to welcome me to his palace, nobles and their wives dressed in a dazzling display of red, blue, orange and purple robes – always purple – with gold, silver, ivory and diamonds decorating their ears, heads and clothes.

  ‘Don’t let me down now,’ I whispered to my left leg as I slowly made my way from the gold-leaf-covered doors of the throne room towards the dais where a beaming Phraates sat.

  Adapa walked beside me, courtiers breaking into applause as we approached the high king. Phraates was in his prime now. He was still pale, but then a light skin was a sign of nobility, for only soldiers, commoners and slaves toiled under the searing Mesopotamian sun. But he did not look sickly as he did when he had been a teenager; rather, he appeared healthy and confident. And he wore the heavy gold crown of his mother lightly on his head. As ever, he held a golden arrow in his right hand, which he pointed at me.

  ‘Bow your heads to Parthia’s saviour.’

  Claudia beside him on the dais smiled and dutifully obeyed, as did everyone else in the chamber save me, Phraates and Adapa. I had to admit I was surprised and rather embarrassed. But I managed to make it to the dais without hobbling, bowing my head to Phraates.

  ‘Hail, great king.’

  ‘It is good to see you, King Pacorus,’ smiled Phraates, ‘come. Join me in my study.’

  He walked down from the dais and waited for me to catch up to him before striding to a door at the rear of the cavernous chamber. Applause was ringing in our ears as two burly Scythian axe men fell in behind Adapa, Claudia by his side, and two more opened the door to allow us to enter a wide corridor. The walls of the corridor had been decorated with a mural that illustrated Tiridates’ rebellion. I slowed my walk to admire the fine detail.

  ‘Ah, of course, this is the first time you have seen it,’ beamed Phraates.

  It was a beautiful artwork and as far removed from reality as was possible without becoming comedic. A handsome, brave Phraates was depicted fighting on the battlements of Seleucia, an episode I had no memory of, before being persuaded by a pleading Claudia to flee the burning city, which in fact had been untouched during the rebellion. His flight to the Alborz Mountains was depicted as a royal grand tour, complete with musicians and scribes, rather than a desperate escape with a group of beggars, which was the reality. The mural also showed Phraates immersing himself in a magical pool – it had been rather Adapa and his fellow lepers – after which he emerged surrounded by an ethereal light, making him look like a demi-god. Finally, Phraates was shown leading his army in the great victory outside the walls of Ctesiphon, crushing the enemy with lightning bolts thrown from his hand. In reality, Phraates had taken no part in the Battle of Ctesiphon where King Silaces had died saving our lives in what had been a closely fought contest.

  ‘A most stirring work, majesty,’ I lied, wanting to scoff at its absurdity. I pointed at the depiction of Claudia, who was shown as a beautiful young woman with a voluptuous figure, lustrous black hair and wearing glittering armour.

  ‘The artist has captured Claudia to a fault.’

  She looked daggers at me as we left the corridor to enter the high king’s study. The room dripped with gold, from the gold statuettes of a bull and eagle with a snake in its talons that sat on his large mahogany desk, to the ornate chairs with gold feet positioned behind and in front of it. Even the female slaves who served us wine in jewel-encrusted rhytons were wearing gold earrings. Clearly, Ctesiphon was enjoying a golden age in every sense of the term. The Scythian axe men took up position behind Phraates, Claudia seating herself beside me and Adapa beside her, which seemed overly familiar.

  ‘You wrote in your letter to me,’ began Phraates, ‘that you wanted to discuss a most urgent matter regarding Satrap Kewab. Is he ill?’

  ‘No, highness,’ I said. ‘The Romans have offered him the governorship of Egypt and I do not wish him to take the post.’

  Phraates’ brow creased. ‘He is in your army, is he not? Cannot you order him to stay?’

  ‘Technically, highness,’ I replied, ‘he left Dura’s army when you appointed him Lord High General in the East and Satrap of Aria. After he was dismissed from those positions, I offered him a home in Dura. But the fact is, he is a satrap without a kingdom to administer and a general without an army to command.’

  Phraates looked at me expectantly.

  ‘I fail to see what this has to do with me?’

  Ingratitude had always been a flaw in Phraates, but to lightly wash his hands of a man who had saved the eastern half of his empire and more besides was breath-taking. I was too old to engage in verbal sparring so got straight to the point.

  ‘Kewab deserves a kingdom t
o rule, highness.’

  Phraates took a sip of wine, stood and walked over to the large map of the Parthian Empire painted on wooden boards on the wall of his office. It had hung there since before the reign of his grandfather, also called Phraates, but on closer inspection I noticed it had been updated. The capital city of each kingdom was written in gold leaf, as were the rivers, mountain ranges, seas and the names of each kingdom. Phraates examined the map and gave me an evil leer.

  ‘I could make Kewab king of Elymais, but that would entail killing Queen Cia and her young son Silaces.’

  I was appalled. ‘That would be unacceptable, highness.’

  He walked back to his chair. ‘I jest, King Pacorus, but the reality is there is no vacant throne for Kewab.’

  ‘There is Mesene, highness.’

  He stopped smiling. ‘Mesene? My close friend Sanabares sits on Uruk’s throne.’

  ‘With respect, highness,’ I began.

  ‘No!’ he said forcefully. ‘I will hear no criticism of Sanabares. The throne was vacant following the tragic deaths of King Nergal and Queen Praxima. I appointed Sanabares and he retains my full support. Any move against him will be interpreted as a move against me.’

  So, there it was. Despite plunging Mesene into chaos, Sanabares would remain king of that kingdom.

  ‘King Pacorus,’ smiled Phraates. ‘It is unfortunate that a man of Kewab’s talents is now superfluous to requirements, but such is the fate of warlords when peace spreads across the land. Kewab is Egyptian, is he not?’

  I nodded. ‘Yes, highness.’

  ‘Then this offer of the Romans could be construed as a sign from the gods, is that not the case, Claudia?’

  ‘The Romans are a godless people, highness,’ said my daughter, ‘but Kewab’s fate lies away from Dura, it is true.’

  We looked at her.

  ‘Would you care to elaborate?’ Phraates asked her.

  ‘No,’ she replied bluntly. She turned on me.

  ‘Your plan is nonsensical, father. Why would Kewab, a man who has spent the last few years fighting the Kushans and then Rome’s allies, be content to rule a poor kingdom plagued by marsh people?’

  ‘He would restore peace between Parthian and the Ma’adan,’ I replied.

  ‘A man with Kewab’s talents would go mad ruling a backwater such as Mesene,’ scoffed Claudia. ‘Sanabares is perfectly suited to rule Mesene.’

  ‘Thank you, Claudia,’ smiled Phraates.

  ‘Sanabares is unimaginative, dull and a sycophant,’ opined Claudia. ‘I doubt he has had a thought of his own in his whole life. I doubt he even realises Mesene is a wretched kingdom full of snakes, scorpions, marshland and desert. He has a crown, and like a small child with a new toy, will sit quietly playing with it.’

  Phraates was not amused. ‘Just because you do not like him, Claudia, does not make him ill-suited to being King of Mesene.’

  ‘On the contrary, highness,’ said Claudia. ‘I think your choice of making Sanabares ruler of Mesene was inspired.’

  Phraates, well used to my daughter’s sharp barbs, did not rise to the bait.

  ‘If Kewab wishes to desert the king who has done so much for him,’ the high king said to me, ‘then so be it. Then again, he is Egyptian, so I suppose a part of him always wished to return to his homeland.’

  Claudia suddenly stood, bowed her head to Phraates, gave me a smile and marched from the study, telling us all as she departed,

  ‘Kewab will not be going to Egypt.’

  I was not amused and called her back, to no avail.

  ‘She is wont to do things like that,’ said Phraates apologetically. ‘The Scythian Sisters are a law unto themselves. And now, King Pacorus, I have things to attend to. Perhaps you could meet me in the Hall of Victory tomorrow.’

  The banquet given in my honour that night was a sumptuous affair, the nobles and their wives packing the feasting hall that had a grand vaulted ceiling covered in gold leaf. I invited Navid and Bullus along, as they had never eaten in such grandeur. Navid hardly ate at all as far I could tell, whenever I looked at him seated on a separate table from the high table where I sat, he was either staring up at the ceiling in wonder or gawping at beautiful noblewomen with sultry faces and expensive jewellery. Bullus beside him, meanwhile, was devouring everything within reach.

  The fare was splendid, including chicken, fish and even ostrich, the animals being raised in Babylon’s royal park. For those who liked their meat with a ‘bite’, there were sausages made from spiced meat stuffed into animal intestines. And for those who avoided meat altogether, platters were piled high with bread, butter, yoghurt, boiled eggs and cheese, with side dishes of dates, olives, grapes, seeds and nuts. The usual oceans of beer, wine and pomegranate juice – a favourite among noblewomen – accompanied the food.

  Phraates was in a very convivial mood, seated beside me until duty called and he rose to visit other tables. He had turned into the consummate high king, all smiles and cheer to those who remained loyal to him, an untiring enemy to those who opposed him. He had to be ruthless: retaining the allegiance of eighteen separate, self-governing kingdoms was no small task. Kings could easily be offended, as I was about to find out.

  Claudia was not in attendance at the banquet, Adapa informing me she had a headache but would see me the next day. He too departed the meal early, blaming a delicate stomach for his premature departure. I was thus left alone on the top table, until a short man in a white robe cleared his throat behind me.

  ‘My name is Macarius, majesty, and I am King of Kings Phraates’ chief treasurer. I wonder if I may speak with you?’

  I drank some more wine. ‘Be my guest.’

  He sat himself in the chair Adapa had vacated and smiled obsequiously at me. He was a scrawny specimen with sharp features and a small pointed beard that he began stroking as a slave placed a gold rhyton before him and filled it with wine. His brown eyes never left mine as he picked up the vessel and took a sip.

  ‘I wanted to offer my congratulations to you, majesty.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘I have taken a keen interest in the economic affairs of Dura for some time, majesty, and have been eager to convey my admiration for turning a barren wasteland into a thriving kingdom.’

  I drank some wine. ‘In truth, Treasurer Macarius, it was the vision, talents and labours of others who are not here this evening that have transformed my kingdom.’

  ‘My minions inform me that once the lands around the city of Dura were but desert,’ said Macarius. ‘But now date palms and fields adorn the land, the kingdom turned fertile by an irrigation system that is the envy of the empire, if not the world.’

  ‘Your minions have been busy,’ I sighed.

  ‘And they also inform me Dura is now an exporter of wheat, rather than an importer.’

  How I wished I was sitting next to Bullus getting drunk.

  ‘I believe so,’ I said politely.

  ‘Last but not least, majesty, our records show that more people live outside the city of Dura than within its walls, many more. Massively more, in fact.’

  Why don’t you go back to your records and minions, you tedious little man?

  ‘The population of the kingdom has increased substantially, yes.’

  He began tapping the table top with a finger, which I found immensely irritating. Tap, tap, tap. Then he stopped. His eyes narrowed.

  ‘And yet, majesty, my records show that the annual tribute paid by the Kingdom of Dura has remained the same ever since you became King of Dura, some four decades ago.’

  ‘So?’

  He sipped at his rhyton. ‘I think you will agree that the integrity of the empire depends on kingdoms paying their fair share of the annual tribute. Though I do not have the precise figures, I believe Dura owes Ctesiphon’s treasury a substantial amount of gold as arrears. If I may be so bold…’

  I did not mean to grab him by the scruff of the neck, nor did I wish to make a scene at a banquet that had b
een given in my honour. But his pompous, condescending words were the final straw. Gallia’s manipulation of Klietas had rankled me, Kewab seemed destined to leave Dura, and Parthia, and no one seemed to care, and now some nonentity of a clerk was attempting to extort money from me. I dragged him to his feet.

  ‘Listen to me, you jackal. If you think I am going to be lectured to by a man who has never held a sword in his hand you are sadly mistaken. Unlike at Ctesiphon, Dura’s wealth is spent on its army, an army that has paid a high price in blood in defence of the empire.’

  His eyes were bulging in terror and he was having difficulty breathing, making pained gasping sounds as my fingers tightened around his neck.

  ‘I would rather throw gold into the Euphrates than send it here, to be wasted on statues, paintings and clothing worthless court officials.’

  ‘King Pacorus, put down my treasurer at once.’

  In my anger I had clean forgotten about the dozens of other guests in the hall, who now sat in silence, staring in horror at the unbecoming spectacle unfolding at the top table. The babble of convivial conversation had died and an angry Phraates stormed over to where I held Macarius. I released the treasurer, who gasped for air and collapsed into his chair.

  Phraates turned to face the guests.

  ‘Everyone out.’

  They did not delay in leaving, the hall filling with the scraping of chairs as the high king’s courtiers scurried back to their grandiose homes. Scythian axe men ushered them on their way, closing the doors to the chamber after the last had departed.

  Phraates glowered at me. ‘I am waiting.’

  I pointed at Macarius. ‘This wretch attempted to extort gold from me, highness. I took exception to his tone.’