by Peter Darman
I thought of the body of Rasha laid out afterwards and the grief that engulfed me and Gallia at her loss.
‘It was part of the tragedy that is modern Media, Navid,’ I told him.
I made a sweeping movement with my arm.
‘When I was your age, or thereabouts, this land was ruled by a great king named Farhad, who was a loyal servant of the empire. He was followed by another great king, a man I was proud to call friend by the name of Atrax.’
I heard Navid take a sharp intake of breath. ‘Atrax, majesty?’
‘Not the one we fought on the Diyana Plain,’ said Bullus.
‘King Atrax was his grandfather,’ I said, ‘who was sadly killed fighting the Armenians and Romans during the Phraaspa campaign over ten years ago.’
‘Twelve years ago, majesty,’ Bullus corrected me. ‘I remember it well. Coldest campaign I ever fought in.’
‘That campaign was a disaster for Media,’ I said morosely, ‘for after the death of Atrax his wife, my sister, eaten up with bitterness and resentment, manoeuvred Media into an alliance with the Roman general Mark Antony, which ultimately led to the near ruin of this kingdom.’
‘Your sister ruled Media, majesty?’ enquired Navid.
‘Yes,’ I answered, ‘though through her son, King Darius, a weak individual who fathered Prince Atrax and two daughters, whose names escape me. But it all came down to my sister, Aliyeh, hating me and doing everything in her power to bring me down.’
‘Why did she hate you, majesty?’ asked Navid.
‘That’s none of your business, boy,’ snapped Bullus.
‘The truth is the business of everyone, Bullus,’ I said. ‘I will tell you why, Navid. Media is one of the oldest kingdoms in the empire, a place of tradition, ancient customs and strict protocol. That is why the marriage of a princess of Hatra and a prince of Media was such a good match.’
Navid was confused. ‘But you were a prince of Hatra, majesty.’
‘Ah, but I sullied my home and family name by allowing myself to become a Roman slave, you see. Worse, I had the temerity to return from slavery with a former slave who became my wife. In Aliyeh’s eyes it went from bad to worse when I became king of the outlaw Kingdom of Dura. But what really aroused her loathing of me was allowing my friends Gafarn and Diana to become King and Queen of Hatra, the most traditional kingdom in all Parthia.’
‘The gods smile on those two kingdoms,’ said Bullus. ‘If you and the queen were not meant to rule Dura, majesty, then the kingdom would not have prospered as it has over the years. The same goes for Hatra, as well.’
‘Which galled my sister even more,’ I chuckled. ‘But the alliance she forged with Mark Antony brought ruin on Media. The high king and the triumvir fought a battle outside Irbil, which would have been a Roman victory had it not have been for the arrival of King Spartacus and the army of Gordyene.’
‘King Spartacus saved Media,’ said Navid.
‘King Spartacus raped Media,’ I said bitterly. ‘He killed thousands of Medians at the Battle of Mepsila eight years ago, afterwards seizing northern Media, and during Tiridates’ rebellion he again invaded Media to besiege Irbil, killing more Medians in the process. He was a plague on this kingdom.’
Navid was shocked by my declaration but I was unrepentant. For all his talents, Spartacus had indeed raped Media. I halted Horns and pointed at the land.
‘Villages and farms are deserted because their occupants are either dead or were captured and sold as slaves. That is the reality of war, Navid. It is a curse that infects mankind and I pray to Shamash that one day a cure will be found.’
He did not understand. How could he? He was young and enthused with the aura of invincibility, steeped in the military tradition of Dura, whose army had never lost a battle, whose battle honours stretched back over four decades. Every new legionary, horse archer and cataphract was shown the Staff of Victory and the silver discs decorating it, each one commemorating a victory won by the army they were joining. An army beloved of the gods, who had gifted its king a sacred banner that never aged and could not be damaged by mortal weapons. Or so Duran mythology would have it.
‘It will take many years before Media recovers,’ I added. ‘If it ever does.’
Some ten miles from Irbil we were met by a detachment of cataphracts led by General Joro, the commander of Media’s army. In his sixties, he had first served under Farhad and then Atrax, managing to keep his head as he served under Darius and then, for a brief while, Atrax. Joro was a traditionalist and a stickler for rules and regulations. He never asked me why I was travelling to Irbil, raised the subject of my sister or the dire events that had been inflicted on his kingdom. A huge black banner emblazoned with a silver dragon motif billowed behind him as he halted his horse and bowed his head to me. I saw his blue eyes searching for my own banner.
‘I left it and the Amazons behind in Dura.’
‘Majesty?’
‘My banner. Ride with me, Joro.’
He enquired about Gallia and Dura as we trotted north, the fields either side of the dirt road full of ripening crops and tended by dozens of men and women as we neared the capital. Clearly the area around Irbil was prospering, even if the outlying districts were not. Joro stared directly ahead, speaking only when requested to do so, though his tone was both friendly and forthcoming.
‘The king and queen are well?’
‘Very well, majesty. The queen is pregnant.’
I was pleased. ‘That is good news. Perhaps she will have a girl this time. How fares the kingdom?’
‘Irbil prospers, majesty, but the kingdom still carries the scars of the conflicts that have plagued it these past few years. Some say it will take ten years for it to fully recover. Others say longer than that.’
The kingdom may have been suffering but Irbil was bustling. It had always been a major city stretching back to Assyrian times some two thousand years ago. Once the whole city had been surrounded by a wall, but until recently the hundreds of buildings circling the stone mound on which the citadel stood had been undefended. That had now changed, and all the city’s buildings were now protected by a massive mud-brick wall that was as yet to be completed.
I felt my chest swell with pride when I saw the brown brick wall that rose above the deep, wide ditch in front of it – all the vision of Dura’s quartermaster general, Lucius Varsas, who had been seconded to King Akmon in a desperate effort to strengthen his rule. That rule had been sorely tested when Irbil had been besieged by Prince Atrax, but he and the city had held and now it had arisen to become a great stronghold.
It took us a while to move from the city’s southern gatehouse, a massive four-storey structure with arrow slits in each storey and topped with a fighting platform to hold more archers and also slingers and javelineers. The thick wooden gates were reinforced with metal braces and panels as a defence against battering rams. The walls either side of the gatehouse were high and thick, with square towers at regular intervals along their length. Most of the towers were still under construction, being encased in wooden scaffolding and worked on by a small army of labourers.
Inside the city, the streets were thronged with people, shops were doing a brisk trade and all the streets and buildings I saw as we moved slowly towards the citadel were clean and well maintained. The hubbub of the city contrasted sharply with the quiet and calm of the citadel, positioned atop a stone mound and reached via a long ramp cut into it on its southern side. A large dragon banner hung from the citadel’s gatehouse, which gave access to a sanctuary of order, royalty and nobility. A quarter of a mile in diameter, only the king and queen, their most trusted nobles and their families, royal bodyguards, and the priests who served in its temples lived in the citadel. And slaves, of course, the human livestock that ensured the lives of the rich and privileged and the daily routines of the temples were able to function smoothly.
Akmon and an obviously pregnant Lusin greeted me in the palace courtyard, the queen looking radiant, her c
hestnut curls shining in the sunlight. She smiled at me after I had eased myself from the saddle, a slave rushing forward to take Horns’ reins and lead him to the stables. Trumpeters standing in front of the palace guard – soldiers looking remarkably like Roman legionaries, though with grey leggings and blue tunics – sounded a fanfare as Akmon and his queen walked forward and tipped their heads to me. Lusin threaded an arm in mine.
‘How is the leg, majesty?’ she smiled.
‘Like me, old and failing. Congratulations by the way, on being pregnant, I mean.’
She kissed me on the cheek. ‘Nonsense, you have many years left in you. And thank you. Akmon wants another boy but I am hoping for a girl.’
‘That is what I pray for.’
‘Irbil welcomes you, lord,’ said Akmon sternly.
‘It is good to see you,’ I told him.
The oldest son of Spartacus looked very kingly in his shining scale-armour cuirass, blue tunic and gold crown. He wore his dead father’s sword at his hip, a beautiful weapon that had been forged in Hatra, its pommel in the shape of a horse’s head providing a clue as to its provenance. Akmon looked past me when he spotted an old acquaintance.
‘Centurion Bullus. Fate seems to keep bringing you back to Media. I am glad to see you after the drama of our last encounter.’
Bullus saluted the king. ‘Good to see you, majesty.’
There was a potentially awkward moment when Vahan, brother to Lusin, made an appearance after we had entered the palace, the darkly handsome Armenian avoiding my eyes as he presented himself to me. He had been captured at the Araxes when Spartacus had deceived me and Gafarn into invading Armenia. I had sent him south to Irbil where I knew he would be out of the clutches of a vengeful Spartacus, which had probably saved his life. Tall like Akmon, he had broader shoulders and darker eyes. I slapped him on the arm.
‘I am glad we are meeting again under happier circumstances.’ I told him. ‘How do you like being an uncle?’
Now he looked into my eyes. ‘It is very agreeable, majesty. I try to visit Irbil when I can.’
‘Then let’s take a look at your cousin, then.’
Lusin plucked her son from his cot and handed him to me to hold, the infant giving me a curious look before bursting into tears. The great-grandson of the man I had followed in Italy looked much the same as all babies, but he had a powerful set of lungs, no malformed limbs and sparkling blue eyes. He also had no control over his bowel movements.
‘I think he needs changing,’ I said.
Lusin took him and handed him to a nurse, who hurried away to wash and change the young prince.
‘So, lord,’ said Akmon, ‘what brings you to Irbil?’
Irbil’s palace of necessity was more compact than the sprawling excess of Ctesiphon, perched as it was atop the mound that made it virtually impregnable. Fresh, cool water came from deep in the earth to supply it and the whole citadel, and its height meant the occupants were spared the noxious fumes produced by thousands of people and animals packed into the buildings and streets surrounding it below.
I recounted the tale of Klietas as I ate with Akmon, Lusin and Vahan in one of the king’s private rooms to the rear of the banqueting hall, a pleasant, intimate affair where we sat in huge wicker chairs filled with cushions and rested our feet on padded footstools. Oil lamps hung from chandeliers and slaves attended to our every whim.
‘I have to tell you, lord,’ said Akmon glumly, ‘I hold out little hope for your former squire. I am ashamed to say the north of my kingdom has become a wasteland, bereft of law and order, and indeed people.’
I sipped at my silver rhyton, the vessel shaped to resemble a crouching dragon.
‘Roman, Parthian and Armenian armies have done much damage to your kingdom, Akmon. It will take time to heal the damage.’
‘It is not only damage to the land, King Pacorus,’ said Lusin. ‘Media has lost too many sons in the recent wars. The land is empty because there is a shortage of people to work it, especially in the north.’
She looked at her husband. ‘If your brother had paid you the gold he promised, then we could have used it to re-populate the north.’
‘Gold?’ I enquired.
Akmon rolled his grey eyes. ‘As part of the negotiations that followed my brother’s victory at Melitene, Cappadocia, Pontus and Galatia agreed to pay a combined total of twenty thousand talents of gold to Gordyene.’
‘Yes, I heard,’ I said.
‘Not only that,’ continued Akmon, holding out his rhyton to be refilled. ‘Armenia also agreed to pay reparations to Gordyene for taking part in the campaign.’
‘King Artaxias paid the amount in full, I saw the wagons leave Artaxata,’ said Vahan.
‘Five thousand talents of gold,’ Lusin told me, ‘which was supposed to be paid to Media, which aided Gordyene in its war.’
‘So where is it?’ I asked naively.
Lusin’s lush lips tightened. ‘In Gordyene’s vaults, I have no doubt. King Castus is greedy. That gold could have been used to rebuild Media, to attract farmers to the kingdom to work the land.’
‘Have you asked your brother for the gold?’ I probed Akmon.
Another roll of the royal eyes. ‘My enquiries have met with a deafening silence, lord.’
One hundred and fifty tons of gold – five thousand talents – was a kingly sum and would act as a great incentive to lure farmers to Media. Akmon was staring into his rhyton and I could see Lusin was fuming, while Vahan appeared embarrassed.
‘Have the Aorsi refrained from raiding your homeland?’ I asked Lusin’s brother.
‘Yes, majesty, the border is, for the moment, quiet.’
‘That is something,’ I said.
‘King Artaxias does not trust Gordyene,’ he told me.
‘With good reason,’ I agreed.
‘He is seeking an alliance with the Romans, lord,’ said Vahan.
My ears pricked up. Armenia had once been a close ally of Rome, but Mark Antony seizing the family of Artaxias before sending them off to their deaths in Alexandria, plus his subsequent annexation of Armenia, had put paid to that. Artaxias had fled to Ctesiphon to seek sanctuary, after which he and Phraates had become allies.
Vahan had obviously had his rhyton refreshed a number of times, for the wine lubricated his tongue.
‘King Artaxias feels King of Kings Phraates has done nothing to rein in the excesses of Gordyene, but rather has encouraged them. The Roman ambassador to Pontus convinced my king to join the coalition against Gordyene, unwisely it turned out.’
‘Indeed,’ I agreed.
Vahan emptied his rhyton. ‘But Rome has extended the hand of friendship to Armenia, majesty, and my king is inclined to take it. Armenia has lost many sons of late.’
‘If the Aorsi refrain from their cross-border raids, will Armenia respect Parthia’s northern borders?’ I enquired.
‘Yes, majesty,’ Vahan replied instantly. ‘Armenia craves peace and stability.’
‘As do we all, brother,’ added Lusin.
Vahan clicked his fingers to attract the attention of a nearby slave holding a wine jug, watching the red liquid being poured into his rhyton.
‘Pontus, Cappadocia and Galatia have been laid low by Parthia, and where there was once law and justice, anarchy and chaos rule.’
‘Perhaps you should not drink any more, brother,’ advised Lusin.
Vahan was not listening. ‘The Roman ambassador himself, along with the commander of Polemon’s palace guard, General Tullus, were butchered in the hills of Pontus last year. There is now rebellion in Pontus where there was once peace. And trouble has spread to Armenia like a pestilence. The Sarmatians have overrun large parts of the kingdom along the western shore of the Caspian Sea.’
He continued to drink until he fell into a semi-conscious state, after which slaves carried him to his bedchamber.
‘I must apologise for my brother, lord,’ said Lusin.
‘We are all sick of war, Lusin,’ I t
old her.
Akmon was shocked. ‘A strange thing for Parthia’s greatest general to say, lord. I have heard men say your presence on the battlefield is worth twenty thousand soldiers.’
I laughed fit to burst. ‘Whoever told you that has never been on a battlefield. You yourself have seen the horror, the confusion, inhaled the stench of…’
I saw the delightful Lusin sitting in her chair and had no wish to upset her.
‘My biggest regret is taking Dura’s army into Armenia and then Pontus, where it had no business being. It was forged as an instrument of defence, not aggression, and I will have to account for the actions I took in a foreign war.’
‘You are too hard on yourself, lord,’ smiled Lusin.
‘If, in some court of the immortals, you are ever judged, lord,’ said Akmon, ‘those called to your defence will be many, including the King and Queen of Media. Without you and Queen Gallia, Prince Atrax would have taken this city and executed us both.’
Lusin rose, walked over and embraced me. ‘We love you and Queen Gallia.’
I felt my eyes moisten. ‘That is very generous of you, Lusin.’
‘I regret having one of the queen’s women flogged, lord,’ said Akmon, ‘but I was placed in an impossible position…’
I held up a hand to him, Bullus having explained the incident of Azar being flogged.
‘She got off lightly, and I would have done the same. The whole affair left a bad taste in my mouth.’
‘I’m glad Atrax is dead,’ said Lusin. ‘I am envious of the Amazons, lord, and they and their queen will always be welcome in Media. Is that not so, Akmon?’
Her shining brown eyes bored into him.
‘Yes, yes,’ he mumbled unenthusiastically. ‘But I think you go on a futile journey, lord. No news comes from the north of my kingdom. Even the post stations lie broken and abandoned. It is the abode of ghosts, and I fear Klietas might now be one.’
To convince me to abandon my search, the next day Akmon introduced me to his royal archivist, a diminutive individual with a wispy beard and long fingers, who smelt of musty old parchments. His aroma was appropriate for he inhabited a world of papyrus scrolls stacked in row upon row of pigeon holes in the palace library. His name was Dilshad, which meant ‘happy heart’, but he was curt to the point of rudeness. He was all smiles and deference when Akmon was explaining to him I was about to travel to the north of the kingdom and did I have any information on the village of Vazneh, but when the king left his demeanour changed like the weather on a windy day.
