Sarmatian

by Peter Darman

  ‘Greeting, highness,’ he said in a deep voice, ‘it is good to see you.’

  Haytham extended a hand to me.

  ‘It is good to see you also, Ulvi. This is King Pacorus of Dura, who has come to speak with King Ali.’

  Ulvi was surprised and the horsemen immediately behind him began to talk to each other in an animated fashion. Ulvi’s ugly face again twisted into a smile-cum-demonic leer.

  ‘The army of Dura is here? Praise the gods.’

  ‘Alas, no,’ I told him. ‘Merely its king. However, King Ali is an old friend and I hope to convince him to withdraw back to his kingdom.’

  ‘You have news of King Ali’s whereabouts, Ulvi?’ asked Haytham.

  The lord nodded. ‘Around a day’s ride east of here, highness. All horsemen, very many of them.’

  ‘How many?’ I enquired.

  Ulvi turned and beckoned a rider forward, an individual who looked like he had been dragged feet-first through a thicket. His horse, a brown mare, by comparison, had a shining coat, immaculate mane and tail and a muscular frame.

  ‘This is one of my best scouts. Tell King Pacorus what you told me, Agar.’

  Agar smiled and bowed his head to me, suddenly slapping the side of his face to kill a fly on his skin. Probably one among the colony living in his beard.

  ‘I tracked them for two days, highborn, before they had reached the great lake. There are at least fifty thousand horsemen, plus hundreds of camels carrying supplies. They are moving slowly, highborn, as a precaution against ambushes.’

  ‘Then we must move more quickly,’ I said, ‘to intercept them before they reach Vanadzor.’

  ‘Have they plundered the land?’ asked Haytham.

  Ulvi shook his head. ‘I moved my people and their animals to higher ground, highness, but thus far King Ali has refrained from destroying villages and crops.’

  That was something, at least, but fifty thousand horsemen were a force to be reckoned with, not least because they were led by the lord high general of the empire, who in theory could call upon all the other kingdoms to supplement the army of Atropaiene should he so desire. Castus, like Surena and Spartacus before him, would wait until the enemy was in the Pambak Valley before offering battle, using the professional army of Gordyene to defeat the enemy, after which what remained of Ali and his men, isolated and far from home, would either be destroyed or harried by men such as Ulvi and his retainers all the way back to Atropaiene. At least that was the theory.

  Ulvi and his men led us along unknown tracks through forests of beech, oaks, elms and maples, above us the air rumbling with thunder to announce a deluge of rainfall that freshened the air and invigorated the senses. Ulvi sent out parties to hunt deer for our evening meal, riders returning with carcasses draped over their horses.

  Before the sun had set, we made camp just off the track near a fast-flowing stream filled with ice-cold water. There was no space among the trees on the hillside to pitch tents so Ulvi and his men collected firewood and fashioned shelters from branches they chopped from trees with their axes. When dusk came a myriad of campfires flickered among the elms, around which were groups of men turning venison on spits, the pleasing aroma of cooking meat filling the forest. Before the rain it had been fresh, but with the coming of night the temperature dropped markedly to cool the air and mist the breath.

  We sat huddled round raging campfires wrapped in thick woollen cloaks and feasting on freshly cooked meat, washed down with wine. Klietas ensured our fire was fed at regular intervals and fussed around us to keep us fed and watered. I sat in the company of Bullus, Gaius and Tullus, the centurion and former centurion swapping war stories and discovering a soldierly bond between two former adversaries. I had warned Bullus not to divulge that Gallia wanted the commander of King Polemon’s palace guard dead, not least because for some strange reason I did not wish Gaius to know Dura sanctioned assassination.

  ‘What will you report to Rome when you return?’ I asked the ambassador.

  ‘That I was captured by the barbarian hill tribes of Pontus, sold to King Castus and rescued by the King of Dura, a man whom I was privileged to meet and who saved my life.’

  ‘That is very generous of you,’ I said.

  ‘It is the truth, majesty. I have no doubt I and General Tullus would have met the same fate as your former squire. Queen Yesim is full of poison and King Castus is besotted with her, a combination that bodes ill for Gordyene.’

  ‘Augustus might desire retribution against the king who imprisoned his ambassador and friend,’ I suggested.

  ‘Augustus will have no need to punish Gordyene, majesty,’ he said.

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Because other Parthians will do that for him. After all, is that not the reason we are camped in a forest eating meat and drinking wine? So, you will try to convince King Ali of Atropaiene not to attack Gordyene?’

  ‘I hope to convince King Ali to turn around, yes.’

  ‘You are probably the most influential man in all Parthia, majesty, the man who humbled Rome and forged the Parthian Empire into the mighty instrument it is today.’

  ‘I fear you overestimate me, ambassador.’

  The flames highlighted his now clean-shaven square jaw and broad forehead, for a moment reminding me of Marcus Licinius Crassus, a man I had fond memories of, despite him being my enemy. He was far from his mansion in Sinope, and among wild horsemen of Parthia, but propped up by his saddle wrapped in a thick blanket and a thick cloak, he looked relaxed and indeed at home. It comforted me to believe he felt safe and secure in my company, or perhaps it was nothing to do with me but was rather Roman arrogance that led him to believe no one, not even the unhinged King Castus, would dare harm him. I had met many Romans but this one did not appear to be imbued with the unshakeable belief, akin to a religious conviction, that Rome’s destiny was to rule the world. But then, this ‘Roman’ was actually a Greek.

  ‘I thought all Rome’s ambassadors were Roman,’ I said. ‘But you are Greek.’

  ‘I was fortunate in being sent to Rome by my parents to further my education and career, majesty, which brought me to the attention of Augustus and set me on the path that led to Pontus and now Parthia.’

  ‘We will soon have you back in Pontus, ambassador,’ I said, ‘as soon as my business with King Ali is concluded.’

  ‘I believe you were also lord high general of Parthia, majesty.’

  ‘Three times.’

  ‘Perhaps there will be a fourth,’ he said.

  I rubbed my aching left leg. Sleeping out in the open was definitely a younger man’s pursuit.

  ‘I have retired from military affairs, ambassador, or at least have attempted to. But war is a jealous lover, it seems, who is reluctant to release me from her embrace.’

  In the morning, all my other limbs joined my leg in aching, as Klietas assisted me in rising to my feet and walking to the stream where dozens of men were washing the previous day’s grime from their bodies. Others were standing naked under a waterfall at the site of another stream further into the forest. After the horses and had been watered, fed and rubbed down, we settled down for a breakfast of cured meat, biscuits and cheese that the King’s Guard had brought from Vanadzor.

  Ulvi sent Agar ahead with a couple of riders to scout the vicinity, knowing Ali and his soldiers were close. They returned after an hour to report the King of Atropaiene was indeed near – in the next valley. Haytham, worry etched on his young face, gave the order to mount up but I queried the command.

  ‘It might be prudent if I and my companions spoke to King Ali first, Haytham. Wait here until we return. After all, your brother did entrust me with the mission of resolving this dispute.’

  I thought it wise not to inform him the only reason I wanted him along was to safeguard against Castus sending horsemen to butcher us. On the orders of Queen Yesim, of course. Haytham hesitated.

  ‘Time is of the essence, prince.’

  ‘Very well,’ he relucta
ntly conceded.

  I hauled myself into Horns’ saddle, Klietas, Bullus and our two Roman companions doing the same.

  ‘Agar will show you the way, majesty,’ said Ulvi.

  Our dishevelled scout led us high into the forest before we descended towards a wide plain flanked by tree-lined slopes on either side. Streams cascaded from the slopes and the grass on the valley floor was thick and lush. Dew clung to those areas of greenery still in the morning shade as the sun rose slowly in a clear blue eastern sky. As we rode downhill, gaps in the trees gave us a panoramic view of King Ali’s encampment occupying a large area in the middle of the valley. I pulled up Horns to take a closer look and smiled. It was a far cry from the marching camps of Dura’s army, and indeed those of Rome’s legionaries.

  In appearance it resembled a huge, sprawling tent city: a collection of brightly coloured tents of varying shapes and sizes, the largest being the royal pavilion in the centre, though for some reason there appeared to be three large pavilions. Behind them was a vast fenced-off area that housed the horses of the royal bodyguard of what I assumed was King Ali’s élite, a patchwork of wood and canvas windbreaks forming stalls and stables for the animals. A host of squires and slaves were darting around like an army of ants, tending to their masters and their horses, digging latrines, cooking food, feeding and mucking out horses. Mobile armouries were repairing armour and sharpening weapons. The army’s other horses were corralled in fenced-off areas beside the tents of their owners, while camels had been herded into other temporary stabling areas.

  Parties of horsemen were patrolling the valley around the camp, and it was one such party that intercepted us when we left the trees to ride towards the tent city. The four horse archers directed their mounts immediately towards us when they spotted us, each rider plucking arrows from their quivers to nock in bowstrings. I held up both arms and told the others to do the same.

  ‘Keep your arms up and make no sudden movements,’ I warned them.

  Moments later they confronted us with bows primed but not aimed at us.

  ‘I am King Pacorus of Dura and wish to speak with King Ali. Take me to him at once,’ I commanded.

  The horse archers looked at each other in confusion. They saw my four companions and looked behind us for signs of other horsemen, for everyone knew that King Pacorus had a bodyguard of women warriors called Amazons.

  ‘Are you deaf?’ I snapped in irritation, lowering my arms. ‘Put down your arms,’ I told my companions.

  ‘Are you going to escort us to King Ali or shoot us?’ I asked the young bare-headed commander of the soldiers.

  ‘I will take you to my commander,’ he sniffed, ‘who will determine your fate.’

  We cantered back to the great camp and then it suddenly struck me. The commander and his men were wearing white leggings and green tunics – the colours of Hyrcania’s army.

  ‘You are soldiers of King Scylax?’ I asked as we entered the camp.

  ‘Yes,’ he answered, pulling up his horse in front of a large round tent decorated with the insignia of a Caspian tiger. The officer jumped down from his horse, strode over to the tent and disappeared inside. A couple of minutes later he reappeared with an older man with grey in his beard and hair, which was still thick and long. He too was wearing a green tunic and white leggings, though his tunic was fringed with gold and he wore a pair of expensive boots. He blinked in the sunlight as he peered up at me, his eyes opening wide in amazement. He struck the younger man across the face with the back of his hand.

  ‘Idiot! This is indeed King Pacorus.’

  He bowed his head. ‘Forgive me, majesty. We had no warning of your arrival.’

  I did not recognise him. ‘Have we met?’

  ‘No, majesty. But I accompanied King Musa on numerous occasions when he visited Ctesiphon when you were lord high general.’

  ‘His son is here?’

  ‘King Scylax is with King Ali and Prince Khosrou, yes, majesty.’

  My heart sank. ‘Khosrou is here as well?’

  ‘Yes, majesty, along with twenty thousand of his father’s horsemen.’

  That explained the three large pavilions I had spotted earlier, though not what a combined army of Atropaiene, Hyrcania and Margiana was doing in Gordyene. For what would Scylax and particularly King Khosrou, the aged ruler of Margiana, a kingdom that lay far to the east, be doing sending troops to invade Gordyene? The air smelled of horses, camels and leather as we rode deeper into the camp, the sounds of hammers striking red-hot horseshoes on anvils filling our ears. Racks holding vertical kontus shafts stood outside tents, in front of them squires seated on stools stopped their cleaning of armour and leather to stare up at us.

  We were taken to the pavilion of King Ali, a huge structure with a roof supported by wooden poles and surrounded by a canvas wall to restrict entry. Guards in the colours of Atropaiene – yellow tunics and red leggings – halted us at the entrance, the commander of our escort explaining who I was. Outside the pavilion was a tall flagpole, from which hung the banner of the kingdom – a golden shahbaz on a red background, though unfortunately as there was no wind the large standard hung limply in the morning air. A runner was sent to the pavilion and we were invited inside the enclosure. Slaves took our horses and guards came from the pavilion to escort us into King Ali’s mobile palace.

  The pavilion probably confirmed everything Gaius had been taught about effete Parthians. We left grass to tread on crimson and yellow carpets and rugs interwoven with gold and silver thread. Expensive draperies covered the insides of the pavilion’s walls, decorated with hunting scenes and mythical beasts, chief among them the shahbaz. It was a huge bird reported to still inhabit the high peaks of the Zagros Mountains, though I had never met anyone who had actually seen one. Shahbaz means ‘king of falcons’, though it was much larger than the ordinary bird of prey.

  My companions were left to sit on couches with golden feet in the shape of eagle talons. I reached the inner sanctum of the pavilion, which was attended by slaves and watched over by guards armed with short spears to more easily wield in the king’s tent. I was shown into Ali’s private compartment, a section at the end of the pavilion where the king slept and received guests.

  ‘Pacorus. By what strange twist of fate do you find yourself in this godless land?’

  He looked every inch the lord high general of Parthia, dressed in rich red leggings edged with gold, a yellow silk tunic and a sleeveless dragon-skin armour cuirass of overlapping silver scales stitched on to a leather vest. He walked up to me and clasped my forearm.

  ‘I have recently been a guest of King Castus,’ I replied, ‘who asked me to negotiate on his behalf. You look well. I trust Queen Elham and your children are also prospering.’

  He extended an arm to indicate I should relax on a large couch positioned in the cosy chamber I had been shown into. He sat on a couch opposite, leaving two others vacant.

  ‘They are all well. Indeed, my eldest son, Bagoas, is with me.’

  I placed my helmet on the carpet. ‘I remember when he was but a small child. How the years fly by.’

  He reminded me of his father Aschek with his thick, black curly hair and hooked nose that dominated his thin face. But when I had first sat down with his father I was young and eager. Now I was old and tired.

  ‘I have asked the others to come,’ said Ali, accepting a gold rhyton of wine. A slave bowed and presented a tray holding another to me. Ali held up his rhyton.

  ‘To Parthia.’

  I raised my rhyton. ‘Parthia.’

  ‘You ride alone, without Gallia, Pacorus? Who are the others with you?’

  ‘A Roman ambassador, a Pontic general, a farmer from Media and a soldier from Dura.’

  He gave me a bewildered look.

  ‘As you said, Ali, a strange twist of fate.’

  As I had great respect for him and had no wish to try to deceive him, I told him the full story of my trip to Ctesiphon and then to Media, followed by the unfortuna
te events in Vanadzor.

  ‘And you still wish to negotiate on his behalf?’ asked Ali.

  ‘For him, no. To avoid war, yes.’

  ‘That might be easier said than done, Pacorus.’

  We were interrupted by the arrival of Scylax and Khosrou, the former embracing me, the latter bowing his head deferentially. The namesake of his father, the prince of Margiana was a tall individual with a brooding face, thin eyebrows and narrow black eyes. His sharp nose gave him a somewhat fearsome appearance, but he was affable enough.

  ‘How is your father?’ I asked him.

  ‘Old and irritable, majesty. He desperately wanted to join our expedition, but alas his great age means he can no longer ride a horse.

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘Eighty-three.’

  ‘He is an example to us all.’

  Scylax, son the late Musa, was also tall, though more muscular. His heavy brow gave him a serious, almost morose, appearance, though like Khosrou he had a full head of hair and thick beard. They both accepted wine and reclined on couches as Ali told them my story. At the end of the sorry tale Scylax shook his head.

  ‘Even if Castus had not committed his other crimes, his treatment of you, Pacorus, would warrant us laying waste to his kingdom.’

  I grew alarmed. ‘Other crimes?’

  ‘Humiliating my daughter,’ began Ali, ‘allowing his Sarmatian allies to plunder the north of my kingdom at will, refusing to curtail their activities when I demanded he do so, as well as encouraging them to raid into Hyrcania and Margiana.’

  I was astounded. ‘The Aorsi have been raiding Hyrcania and Margiana?’

  Ali chuckled. ‘Would that the Aorsi were the only Sarmatian tribe. When Surena invited them into his kingdom all those years ago, they were admittedly a useful bulwark against the Romans and Armenians. But times have changed, Pacorus.’

  He sipped at his rhyton. ‘Now that Castus has forbidden them to raid into Armenia, they amuse themselves with plundering my kingdom. Worse, they have encouraged the other Sarmatian tribes to try their luck against northern Parthia.’