Sarmatian

by Peter Darman

  Phraates frowned and glared at Macarius. ‘Well?’

  ‘A misunderstanding, highness,’ he babbled. ‘I meant no offence.’

  ‘Leave our presence,’ ordered Phraates.

  He bowed and hurried away, leaving me alone with the high king. Phraates walked slowly to the end of the table, around it and sauntered to his chair, slowly lowering himself into it. He clicked his fingers to indicate slaves should bring him wine. He pointed at my chair.

  ‘Sit down, King Pacorus.’

  I did so.

  ‘Well, that was one way to bring the evening to a close. I told Macarius Dura’s tribute would not be amended until after your reign had ended.’

  ‘I will not be told by a book keeper what to do,’ I protested.

  He nodded. ‘But is that not what you have fought for, King Pacorus, for Parthia to be governed by laws instead of men wielding swords, to be a place where commerce and peace have replaced war and bloodshed?’

  He was right, and he knew he was right, which did nothing to sweeten my humour.

  ‘I do not take kindly to being lectured to by a petty minded official, highness.’

  ‘Macarius is very much like you, King Pacorus.’

  ‘He is nothing like me,’ I insisted.

  Phraates smiled. He was enjoying himself.

  ‘Oh, but he is, King Pacorus. Just as you believe individuals should be treated fairly and without prejudice, so Macarius believes the kingdoms of the empire should be accorded fair and equal treatment. He believes Dura paying less than it should with regard to its annual tribute is unfair to other kingdoms.’

  ‘As I told him, highness, the wealth of Dura is spent on its army, which keeps Parthia safe. Whereas if it was sent here.’

  I looked up at the gold ceiling.

  ‘It would be spent according to the wishes of the high king,’ he said forcefully, ‘according to custom, which you have also fought for so long to preserve. We are all servants of Parthia, King Pacorus, its gods, laws, customs and history.’

  He rose from his chair and sighed. ‘Men should be free to go about their business in peace, should they not?’

  ‘They should, highness.’

  ‘If a great warlord can choke a man to death in public, just because he has taken offence at the truth spoken to him, what does this say of Parthia? It says it is a lawless place, an abode of barbarians and savagery. The old King Pacorus would have been appalled at such a notion.

  ‘I will see you in the Hall of Victory tomorrow.’

  Suitably chastened, I slunk away to my bedchamber. Phraates was right, I had behaved like a brute. But more than that, as I lay awake staring up at the ceiling that night, a flickering oil lamp beside my bed, I realised my time had passed. All my life I had fought for a Parthia that would be free and just and that notion had become a reality. It was a new age, but I was a relic of a past era: a more troubled, violent time where kings had fallen to my sword. I heard the mocking laughter of Porus, Chosroes, Narses and Mithridates. Had I really become everything I despised?

  I received little sympathy the next morning when I met Claudia in the palace’s private garden, though game park would have been a more accurate description. The well-watered lawns were bisected by well-tended paths, date palms, cypress trees and rose bushes. Large ponds filled with goldfish reflected the palace to symbolise the unity of heaven and earth, to tie the residence of the high king to the realm of the gods above. Fountains filled the garden with the pleasant and calming sound of running water. Magnificent peacocks wandered freely on the lawns; white-clad slaves equipped with silver dustpans waiting to scoop up their dung with small brushes.

  Those privileged to walk in the high king’s garden led cheetahs on silver leads, or at least their slaves did, walking a few paces behind their masters and mistresses to safeguard them should the beasts decide to exercise their jaws and claws. White gazebos provided shade and rest for guests, one of which I was directed to by the slave who had carried a message from my daughter to meet her in the garden. I found Claudia reclining on a couch with golden leonine feet, two strapping Scythian axe men standing guard outside the gazebo. I passed one, who bowed his head.

  ‘Ah, Hercules himself,’ smiled Claudia.

  I sat on the couch opposite her. ‘Hercules?’

  ‘A figure from Greek mythology, father, who reportedly strangled two snakes sent by a goddess to kill him when an infant, though you had your hands around the neck of only one snake.’

  I felt myself blushing. ‘I regret doing so.’

  ‘The court will be talking about it for weeks, how the normally moralistic King of Dura disgraced himself in the presence of the high king. I did not think you cared so much about Satrap Kewab.’

  ‘It was nothing to do with Kewab,’ I replied.

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘I take exception to anyone trying to extort money from me. Ctesiphon has enough gold.’

  ‘I hope the rest of your mission is more successful, father.’

  She gave me an evil smirk.

  ‘Your young officer of horse archers was very forthcoming with information when I cornered him earlier. You shouldn’t blame him. I threatened to turn his seed into poison if he lied to a Scythian Sister.’

  ‘You can’t help yourself, can you.’

  ‘Why waste your time on a poor farmer who has turned his back on the chance of prosperity? He sounds like an imbecile.’

  ‘He saved my life,’ I told her.

  ‘You feel you are in his debt; obligated to him?’

  ‘I owe him a second chance.’

  ‘Mother told me about her wraiths. How marvellous, and how beneficial to Parthia.’

  ‘I do not approve of her assassins.’

  ‘Naturally. You prefer to kill your enemies face-to-face, on the battlefield.’

  ‘It is more honourable.’

  She emitted a low cackle. ‘Spoken like a true noble, who views war as a sport that is to be conducted according to strict rules and regulations. What’s that?’

  She pointed to the dagger given to me by Agrippa, which was fastened to my sword belt.

  ‘A gift from a Roman guest we were entertaining at Dura, a very important Roman, I might add.’

  She pulled out a necklace from under her black robe and pointed it at me.

  ‘Are you going to turn my seed into poison as well?’

  She raised an eyebrow at me. ‘Your days of impregnating women are long gone father. This is a charm in the shape of a centaur, a human-headed horse. It is an ancient Scythian symbol representing power and invincibility. You should not bring the symbols of the enemy to Ctesiphon.’

  ‘It is just a dagger.’

  ‘No, father. It is a talisman and it will seek to draw whoever wears it to Rome and its centres of power.’

  I rolled my eyes. ‘You see conspiracies everywhere.’

  She leaned forward. ‘When you live at Ctesiphon, father, you learn to sleep with one eye open.’

  ‘I thought you had the ear of Phraates himself.’

  ‘He trusts no one, likes no one and takes advice and counsel when it suits him. These are the attributes of an excellent high king.’

  ‘I am meeting him in the Hall of Victory later.’

  ‘He wants your permission to return the Roman eagles to their former owners.’

  I was surprised. ‘He does not need my permission to do anything.’

  ‘He is not devoid of diplomatic or political skills, and he does respect those who have served the empire well. Especially you, father.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘You were the one who argued he should be high king following the death of Orodes, and who put him back on the throne when he lost it to Tiridates. And now that you have retired from military affairs, you are no longer the spectre in whose shadow Phraates had to linger.’

  It was true I had lobbied hard on Phraates’ behalf, partly because I believed he was the natural choice, being the son of Orodes, but mostly out of
loyalty to my dead friend and his wife. Both Gallia and I had been immensely fond of Orodes and Axsen, and we were determined to keep their legacy alive. All in all, Phraates had not turned out to be a bad high king.

  I stayed and chatted with Claudia for a while, about how Eszter and Dalir were faring, would Salar and Isabella have any more children, and when would Dura be seeing here again.

  ‘I’m happy here,’ she told me, ‘in as much as anyone can be happy in this world.’

  ‘Do you ever get lonely?’

  ‘No,’ she answered firmly.

  I could not imagine her making friends with any of the over-painted noblewomen who competed with the royal peacocks for attention, nor their husbands. And being the adviser of Phraates would naturally lead to her being the rival of others who desired that position. But she did seem happy and remarkably untroubled. Perhaps she had the friendship of a high priest of one of the temples located with the palace complex. I hoped so.

  The Hall of Victory was also a temple of sorts, one dedicated to that most elusive and fleeting of deities: military triumph. Later, after I had left Claudia, I made my way there after receiving a summons from Phraates. It was a modest-sized limestone building constructed on a stone plinth to the rear of the palace, surrounded by a beautifully dressed stone wall and accessed via a single wooden gate. The wall was high so no one could see into the hall’s compound. It had been constructed to resemble a Greek temple. Rectangular in shape, it was flanked by rows of white marble columns and accessed by a vestibule. This led to the sanctuary where the eight captured Roman eagles resided, each one mounted on its own sandstone plinth. In the centre of the hall stood a bronze statue of the god Marduk, the deity of Babylon, and around the walls stood Babylonian guards in their purple leggings and tunics.

  The collection had been laid out tastefully and took full advantage of the sun’s rays flooding through the windows immediately below the roof of wooden beams and terracotta tiles. The stone plinths had been positioned so they were bathed in sunlight, the gold and silver eagles glinting and seemingly moving to give the impression of live birds as the sun traversed the sky.

  Phraates was waiting for me at the entrance, two large Scythian axe men standing behind him. He was not much smaller than they, a testament to him growing into the role of high king in every way. He wore a lavish purple silk robe fastened at the waist by a gold belt, his golden arrow in his right hand and a luxurious pair of red leather boots on his feet. Decorated with silver bulls, they had soft leather uppers and were secured by wide straps which passed under the foot and crisscrossed up the lower leg.

  The Babylonian guards at the entrance snapped their spears to their bodies as we passed them, entering the hall that was filled with the soothing aroma of kyphi, an incense containing frankincense, myrrh, saffron, cinnamon and cassia. The incense was burned in the hall every day to both cleanse the captured Roman standards of any evil and to make the interior pleasing to Marduk and hopefully garner his blessings. Few were allowed into the hall, Phraates restricting entry to all save himself and those who had had a hand in capturing the trophies on display.

  We stood in silence for a few moments, staring at the standards. I smiled when I saw that the guards in the chamber were wearing soft shoes so as to make as little sound as possible when they took up station and were relieved. The Hall of Victory was certainly a place of quiet reflection, unlike the occasions on which they were captured.

  ‘Twenty-nine years ago,’ I said softly.

  Phraates gave me a quizzical look.

  ‘The Battle of Carrhae, highness,’ I said, ‘it was twenty-nine years ago. The eagles have not aged one bit. If only I could say the same about myself.’

  ‘In Roman eyes, the eagle is associated with their chief god Jupiter,’ he said, ‘the God of Victory, so-called. And yet if he is so powerful, why is it that his emblems adorn this hall?’

  ‘Crassus was vain and foolhardy, highness. The gods cannot help those who are blind to reason and common sense.’

  He gave me a sideways glance. ‘The negotiations with the Romans are going well, King Pacorus. Next year I should have my son back, and the Romans will have their eagles. I hope you do not mind?’

  I was shocked by the question. Phraates had never been a considerate person, concerning himself only with his own ambitions. He had always been callous and aloof. Perhaps he was mellowing.

  ‘Why should I mind, highness? If returning these totems ensures you get your son back and cements peace between Parthia and Rome, then it is a small price to pay.’

  In truth, I seldom thought about the eagles, though memories of those who had helped me capture them often filled my mind. As I breathed in the incense, I remember Surena, the headstrong marsh boy who rose to win the hand of an Amazon in marriage and a kingdom, only for his wife and child to be taken from him in childbirth, and the subsequent bitterness that engulfed him costing him his life and his kingdom. I remembered Vagharsh, my standard bearer, being killed at Carrhae by Parthian arrows in a cruel accident; and Lucius Domitus, my friend and commander of Dura’s army who fell before the walls of Hatra before we met Crassus at Carrhae. All long gone. All greatly missed. My head dropped.

  ‘Are you ill?’ asked Phraates with concern.

  ‘No, highness,’ I said, ‘just weary.’

  ‘Do you wish to sit?’

  I smiled. ‘The weariness I speak of will not be cured by sitting, highness. When you reach my age, you will understand.’

  I was stunned when he laid a hand on my shoulder.

  ‘I can see the long years of service to Parthia have taken a mental and physical toll on you, King Pacorus. If it is any consolation, you have the thanks and respect of its high king always.’

  It was the first time he had spoken to me in such a manner ever and I was genuinely touched. I honestly believed Phraates had become a more rounded individual who seemed to have developed a conscience.

  We walked from the hall into the sunlight as companions of a sort, two men linked by a common concern for the welfare of the empire and a bond of mutual respect. Phraates beckoned over a Scythian brute who was holding something in his right hand, which was dripping something on to the white stone slabs. The Scythian halted and held up what he was holding for Phraates to see. I screwed up my face in horror as I beheld the severed head of Macarius, eyes bulging from their sockets grotesquely. Phraates smiled at the hideous spectacle.

  ‘The day has not yet arrived, King Pacorus, when, as you succinctly put it, a minion can hector the saviour of Parthia in my own palace. There are a hundred men who can be chief treasurer. There is only one King Pacorus of Dura.’

  Phraates looked up at the sky.

  ‘It is going to be a beautiful day.’

  He frowned at the piece of offal.

  ‘Take it away, it’s disgusting.’

  I left Ctesiphon the next day.

  Chapter 4

  When I was a boy, people spoke admiringly of the Kingdom of Hatra being the shield that guarded the western frontier of the Parthian Empire. But my father did not guard the empire alone. He had formed an alliance with other kingdoms to ensure Parthia’s territorial integrity: Gordyene, Media and Atropaiene. I did not realise it at the time, but I walked among giants in my youth, men of iron and honour who ruled their kingdoms with justice and firmness. The peace they forged I took for granted, we all did, which left us unprepared for the darkness that descended on the empire when they departed the stage. They were all gone now: Varaz of Hatra, Balas of Gordyene, Aschek of Atropaiene and Farhad of Media.

  Media. How that kingdom had suffered in the aftermath of Farad’s death. The gods had blessed Media with an abundance of underground water and natural springs, plus streams that flowed from the Zagros Mountains to the east and the annual rains that soaked the ground. The result was fertile soil in which it was possible to grow a wide variety of crops: barley, wheat, flax, onions figs, grapes, turnips, oats, lentils, dates, pomegranates and olives. Media was
a beautiful shade of green during the winter and spring, turning to bronze as the sun ripened crops in the fields in the summer and autumn. The multitude of villages clustered around springs and beside streams grew mostly barley, a valuable food source that could be ground down into flour to make bread, made into soups or fermented and turned into beer. They also kept sheep and goats, which fed on the stubble of the wheat and barley fields in late summer and autumn. Villages also possessed their own orchards, vineyards and small gardens. Media was so fertile that it was not only able to feed itself, but also exported food, wine and beer to other kingdoms, earning it the title of ‘breadbasket of the empire’.

  It was now the end of spring and as we rode through southern Media the landscape resembled a patchwork of different colours. There were squares of bare earth around some villages, well-tended fields full of wheat and barley around others. Some settlements were teeming with adults and children; others appeared empty. Some were empty, their mud-brick homes abandoned, their fields and orchards overgrown with weeds.

  ‘I am surprised King Akmon allows such disrepair in his kingdom,’ sniffed Navid when we passed by a ghost village.

  He was riding on my right side, Bullus on my left, as we trotted at the head of our small column. Before I left Ctesiphon I had penned a short missive to Akmon informing him I would be paying him and Lusin a flying visit, though there was no guarantee he would be in residence. But I was sure Lusin would be and I was looking forward to seeing their young son, whom they had named Spartacus.

  ‘How much do you know about Media?’ I asked him.

  ‘Its rulers are King Akmon and Queen Lusin, majesty, the king being the son of the late King Spartacus of Gordyene and Queen Rasha, and the grandson of your brother, King Gafarn of Hatra.’

  ‘Very good, Navid. But do you know anything about its recent history?’

  His brow creased in concentration. ‘I know you and the queen took part in the defence of Irbil three years ago, majesty, and your army marched to its relief and afterwards defeated the rebel army of Prince Atrax on the Diyana Plain. That was a glorious day.’