Sarmatian

by Peter Darman

  Seconds before Abdarak delivered his overhead axe blow I stepped forward, crouched low and caught the strike on the shield, the iron edge ripping the hide cover. I thrust the gladius forward low under the shield and whipped it back, slicing the side of his left calf. Raised to fury, I doubt he felt it immediately, but blood showed on his leggings as he stabbed the knife he held in his left hand forward. But I had already withdrawn, which meant he had stabbed air. I roared in triumph.

  First blood to the old man.

  He circled me, his arms in constant motion to confuse me.

  ‘Your mother was a whore and your wife is a whore.’

  Ignore the words, focus on his weapons.

  He suddenly lunged forward, leading with his left hand, the point of his dagger aimed at my face. I brought up the shield to stop the knife, Abdarak swinging his axe sideways to slice open my side. But I spun left to rotate the shield to place it between myself and the axe blade, thrusting the gladius over the top edge to stab the point into his left shoulder. He cried out in pain.

  Second blood to the old man.

  I was beginning to enjoy myself against this oaf of a Sarmatian, who was now bleeding from two wounds. He came at me again with a blizzard of axe blows, chopping down from the left and right in an effort to decapitate me. But I kept moving backwards and sideways, using my shield to defeat the strikes, constantly jabbing my gladius forward to keep his knife away from me.

  Abdarak came at me again, all rage and flailing arms, intent on hacking me to pieces in a deluge of axe and knife blows. But feral anger can only achieve so much and if an opponent can retain his composure when confronted by a wild demon, he had the upper hand. Like Dura’s foot soldiers were trained to do seconds before a clash of arms, I stepped forward rather than wait to be struck, moving to my left. I shoved my shield forward to stop his axe, the iron edge smashing into the hide and wood. At the same time, I spun left to take me beyond the reach of his knife. I crouched low to thrust the point of the gladius below the bottom edge of my shield, the metal piercing his leggings just above the right knee.

  Third blood to the old man.

  I roared with triumph as he staggered back, banging the edge of the gladius on the front face of my shield. He was panting heavily and now bleeding from three wounds, and had I been thirty years younger I could have dashed forward and finished him off with ease. But I was old and suddenly a spasm of pain shot through my left leg. I winced in agony and my leg began to give way. Thinking quickly, I crouched down to place the bottom edge of the shield on the cobbles, so it became a rest. Another spasm of pain, this one more severe, tortured my leg and I groaned in pain.

  Abdarak, seconds before looking like a beaten, bleeding man, saw my agony and drew strength from my disability. He licked his lips and smiled with relish, sensing I was helpless. I was! If I brought up my shield to defend myself, I would surely collapse to the ground. If I fell to the ground I was a dead man. I knew it. He probably knew it. So, I waited to be battered, stabbed and cut into submission. Abdarak was in no rush, wanting to savour the moments leading up to my demise. But he was also cut and bleeding and had to ration his reserves accordingly. He moved slowly towards me, axe and knife in hand. His eyes flitted from mine to the gladius I still gripped in my right hand, wary of the weapon that had cut his flesh.

  Then, beyond the palace walls, bells started ringing.

  Abdarak stopped and looked around as the wall of shields dissolved and Immortals began running in all directions, officers shouting orders at them to man the walls. Alarm bells were ringing in the city and now in the palace grounds. It could only mean one thing: Vanadzor was in peril. I gingerly put pressure on my left leg and found I could stand on it again without the need for the shield. I took three steps forward and plunged the gladius into Abdarak’s chest. His body stiffened when the metal was driven through his ribcage into his heart, becoming limp when I yanked it out of his torso. He collapsed to the ground, dead.

  ‘That is for calling my mother and wife whores.’

  I looked around and realised I was being totally ignored as soldiers were streaming up stone steps to take up position on the walls, or were running to the armouries to be issued with javelins and quivers of arrows. I looked up at the roof of the gatehouse and saw it empty. Castus and his queen were nowhere to be seen. But then I saw Bullus, Klietas, Gaius Arrianus and Titus Tullus being escorted towards me by a burly centurion, or whatever the equivalent was called in Gordyene, and half a dozen Immortals. He pointed at my blood-smeared gladius.

  ‘I will have to relieve you of that, majesty, if I may.’

  His tone was conciliatory, almost apologetic. He glanced at the corpse of Abdarak.

  ‘Fine work, if I may say so.’

  I handed him the sword. ‘You may.’

  Bullus was grinning from ear to ear. ‘You still have it, majesty.’

  I fell in beside him as we ambled back to the palace, around us organised chaos as the palace walls were filled by fully armed soldiers.

  ‘That was a clever ruse, majesty,’ said Gaius, admiringly.

  ‘Ruse?’

  ‘Feigning injury to lure him into a false sense of security.’

  I laughed. ‘Alas, ambassador, the injury is real. An old leg wound courtesy of an enemy arrow shot many years ago, a Parthian arrow, I might add. What you saw was an old man waiting to be struck down, before the gods intervened.’

  Bullus looked around. ‘I can’t see her.’

  ‘Who?’ I asked.

  ‘The beautiful lady with the large breasts.’

  I rolled my eyes and addressed the commander of our escort party.

  ‘I take it the alarm is not a drill.’

  ‘No, majesty, it is not a drill.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘At this point in time, majesty, I know as much as you do.’

  We were taken back to our quarters in the palace, which were eerily quiet while outside pandemonium reigned. Slaves brought us refreshments and the serpent-like chief steward appeared to enquire if I wanted medical attention. I said no and asked him what was going on, but he merely feigned ignorance, bowed in a fawning fashion and departed in haste. As I collapsed on a couch and gratefully accepted a goblet of wine from Klietas, who had assumed the duties of squire once more, my mind raced with theories, eventually coming to the only logical conclusion.

  I looked at Gaius sitting opposite. ‘I assume the governor of Syria is on the way at the head of several legions to rescue you, ambassador.’

  He raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘I very much doubt that, majesty. The governor would make an appeal to Ctesiphon to intercede for my release first, and only after that had been turned down would force be considered, and only then on the specific orders of Augustus himself.’

  ‘The Armenians?’ offered Tullus. ‘They have enough reasons to despise King Castus.’

  Gaius discounted the notion. ‘King Artaxias may indeed despise young Castus but having been mauled by the Parthians on several occasions, and latterly by Gordyene, I doubt he has the appetite to repeat the experience.’

  The chief steward reappeared with slaves holding my clothes, armour, helmet and sword.

  ‘King Castus requests your presence in the throne room, majesty,’ he squeaked, ‘after you have eaten and changed, of course.’

  I pointed at the ambassador and Tullus.

  ‘Fresh clothes will be brought for my companions, too,’ I told him, ‘and anything else they require.’

  ‘It shall be done, majesty,’ he replied, almost bent double as he grovelled before me.

  ‘And bring a physician to attend to my squire’s wounds.’

  Klietas, one eye purple from being struck, protested.

  ‘I am fine, majesty.’

  ‘No, you are not,’ I snapped, ‘you have been abducted and beaten.’

  ‘A physician will be summoned, majesty. Is there anything else?’

  ‘A large-breasted woman?’ grinned Bullus.
/>   ‘Not now, Bullus,’ I said.

  ‘You may inform King Castus I will attend him shortly,’ I told the steward, sipping at my wine. ‘You may go.’

  ‘Castus is sweating,’ gloated Bullus, emptying his goblet and holding it out to Klietas for it to be refilled.

  ‘You are impertinent, Bullus,’ I said, ‘but entirely right. Let’s make him sweat a little longer.’

  After I had finished my wine and sampled a few of the palace’s pastries, which were a little hard, I changed into my fresh clothes and armour, strapped on my sword belt and examined the goose feathers in my helmet’s crest. I then left for the throne room, an honour guard of Immortals commanded by the same centurion who had escorted us from the courtyard accompanying me along the palace’s dour corridors, the pain in my leg having mercifully subsided. When we arrived at the throne room, Castus gave the impression of being a worried man, pacing up and down in front of the dais, his calculating queen seated on her throne eyeing me suspiciously. She I ignored as I walked up to a flustered Castus.

  ‘Do you know anything about this?’ he babbled.

  ‘About what, Castus?’

  He pointed at the wall.

  ‘An army of horsemen is approaching Vanadzor from the east, led by the ingrate King Ali of Atropaiene. You know him?’

  ‘The lord high general of the empire,’ I said, casually, ‘of course. He is a fine man.’

  Castus stopped to glower at me. ‘A fine man? He brings an invading army into my kingdom and you call him a fine man?’

  ‘King Ali is not given to rash actions,’ I remarked, looking at Yesim. ‘He must have been greatly provoked to take such action. I wonder what provoked him?’

  Shamshir and Haytham stood by the side of the dais and they both shifted uneasily on their feet, hinting they knew the reason for Ali’s invasion. Fortunately, Spadines was not present. Perhaps he was sobbing over the body of Abdarak. I sincerely hoped so.

  ‘You will go to King Ali and request he and his army withdraw from Gordyene,’ Castus said suddenly. ‘You know him; I do not. I have no wish to embroil Gordyene in an unnecessary war.’

  I looked behind me left and right.

  ‘Did you not hear me, King Pacorus?’ said Castus, testily.

  ‘My apologies,’ I replied, ‘I thought you were talking to a low-ranking officer or a slave by the tone of your voice.’

  He smarted at my words.

  ‘You send your Sarmatian dogs into Media to murder and destroy, you abduct my former squire, you imprison a Roman ambassador and, finally, you make me fight in a gladiatorial contest to amuse your new wife.

  ‘Why should I help you, boy?’

  His eyes filled with anger and his wife and Shamshir gave me murderous looks, made worse by the smug expression I was wearing. He had revealed he needed me, and I was relishing the power I had over him in that moment. I decided to be magnanimous and not let him squirm.

  ‘I will help you, Castus. Though my aid is dependent on certain conditions being met.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘What conditions?’

  I held out my helmet and examined the goose-feather crest. The tension in the room was rising by the second.

  ‘First, you will release Klietas to me. Second, you will also release Gaius Arrianus and Titus Tullus to me. Third, you will pledge, here, in your own palace, to keep your Sarmatian dogs out of Media. And, finally, you will swear on your honour to never again threaten the life of Klietas, or do harm to his wife, his children or his property.’

  Before he could answer, an officer of the King’s Guard entered the chamber, marched up to the dais, saluted to Shamshir and handed him a note. The army commander read it, frowned and handed it to Castus. The king tossed it to the ground.

  ‘I agree to your damned conditions. You will leave at once to meet with King Ali.’

  ‘Please,’ I smiled.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Say please.’

  He was shaking with anger, made worse by the fact he needed me, and he knew it. Yesim looked as though she about to spring from her throne to rip out my throat, which made me even happier.

  ‘Will you please ride to King Ali and convince him to turn around and go back to Atropaiene?’ he asked.

  ‘It will be a pleasure, majesty.’

  The note Castus had tossed to the floor was a reconnaissance report informing him King Ali’s force was a mere fifty miles from Vanadzor, closing fast on the capital. It had invaded Gordyene north of Lake Urmia to advance on the city from the northeast. It was feared advance parties of horsemen might have been sent ahead to raid the Pambak Valley, hence the alarm bells being sounded in the city.

  I returned to the quarters I shared with the other captives to inform them they would soon be free to leave the palace, and indeed Vanadzor. However, I suggested they stay with me until I had spoken to King Ali personally.

  ‘I trust Castus to keep his word, but I do not trust Spadines, the more so because I killed his champion.’

  ‘He could easily kill all of us riding in one group, majesty,’ said Bullus.

  ‘Good point,’ I agreed. ‘I will have Castus provide us with an escort.’

  We rode from the palace that afternoon in the company of Prince Haytham and a score of King’s Guard, plus packhorses carrying tents and supplies.

  As we rode through the Pambak Valley I was gripped by a sincere desire to avoid bloodshed between Gordyene and Atropaiene. The valley, surrounded by tree-covered hills and filled with thriving villages, had not seen war for nearly four decades, since the time when Surena had rid the land of Roman occupation. No, that was incorrect. It had seen more violence briefly when grief and power had corrupted Surena, leading to Orodes bringing an army into Gordyene, which won a great but costly victory before the walls of Vanadzor. And now another Parthian army was approaching the kingdom’s capital.

  Haytham was nineteen now, his rectangular face framed by thick, long hair as black as night. He was shorter than both his brothers but more muscular and had a stolid disposition. Despite his age, he was already a veteran of numerous campaigns and it was testament to his dependability and talents that Castus had made him commander of the élite King’s Guard.

  For the first hour of the journey no one spoke, the jangling of horse saddlery and the clop of hooves on the hard dirt track being the only sounds. Haytham stared directly ahead, probably embarrassed by his brother’s behaviour towards me and Gaius Arrianus. My observations of him in the palace suggested he was uncomfortable with his sibling’s actions. Eventually, I grew tired of the silence.

  ‘Before we encounter King Ali and his army,’ I said to him, ‘can you think of a reason why the lord high general of the empire would wage war against Gordyene?’

  ‘You will have to ask him, majesty,’ he replied.

  ‘I am asking you,’ I said, forcefully. ‘I have known Ali for a long time, and he is not given to making rash actions. Did Castus ever meet his daughter, Princess Elaheh?’

  ‘No, majesty. Yesim appeared at Vanadzor before the princess’ arrival. My brother was enchanted by the daughter of Laodice.’

  ‘More fool him,’ remarked Tullus behind us, ‘though the bitch’s scheming saved my life and that of the ambassador.’

  ‘Queen Yesim is certainly a force to be reckoned with,’ conceded Gaius, ‘but I fear she will drag Gordyene into a war it cannot win.’

  ‘A war with Rome?’ I asked, concerned a woman from the Pontic hill tribes might plunge Parthia into yet another war with Rome.

  ‘I doubt Augustus will sanction hostilities against Parthia, majesty,’ he said, ‘especially as you have engineered our release. No, I was thinking of the war that will be waged against Gordyene by other Parthian kingdoms if King Castus continues to behave in an unpredictable manner.’

  ‘I did warn him against marrying Yesim,’ added Haytham, ‘as did Treasurer Khalos.’

  ‘Khalos?’ I queried.

  ‘One of my father’s most trusted advisers,’ repl
ied Haytham. ‘He had engineered the marriage between Castus and Elaheh. His reward was to be sent to Melitene to be the ambassador there.’

  ‘And Hovik?’ I asked.

  Haytham sighed. ‘The general was retired when he too voiced concerns over the marriage to Yesim.’

  ‘I can only assume King Ali has taken the insult to his daughter very badly,’ surmised Gaius, ‘hence his desire to punish Gordyene.’

  It was a plausible explanation but still seemed an extreme reaction to a slight against a daughter. Had Castus raped the girl, then Ali’s decision to march to war would have been understandable. But the pair had never met and in such cases where a marriage contract is wilfully broken, a financial penalty is usually agreed upon. Castus certainly had enough gold to pay what amounted to a fine, so as we trotted out of the Pambak Valley I was still at a loss as to why Ali had brought the army of Atropaiene into Gordyene.

  On the second day of our journey, Haytham’s spirits dipped when we encountered a large party of horse archers led by a man with a hideously scarred face by the name of Ulvi, a lord of Gordyene whose lands were in the path of the invading army. Most nobles in this part of the kingdom lived in stone strongholds perched on rugged hillsides overlooking fertile valleys that provided an abundance of crops, game and timber. The windswept mountain meadows were usually devoid of life in the autumn and winter, though in the spring and summer many villagers took themselves and their flocks to the high regions to live in felt tents and graze their animals on the lush foliage.

  Ulvi wore his hair and beard long like a wild man of the mountains that his ancestors had been, and perhaps he still was. He wore a cuirass of thick black leather and carried a sword at his hip, his men wearing no armour and like him no headgear. He smiled and bowed his head when he recognised Haytham, his scars shaping his face into the vision of a hideous demon when he did so. Indeed, for a moment I thought it was the demon Pazuzu riding at the head of a column of horsemen so disfigured was his face.