Sarmatian

by Peter Darman

  Gafarn instantly became a friend, confidant and de facto brother, our bonds made stronger by the triumphs and perils we faced together. By the time we had escaped Italy to return to Parthia he had become my brother, which was recognised by my father when he made Gafarn legally part of Hatra’s royal family. And when I had departed for Dura, Gafarn became the heir to my father’s throne. With Diana by his side, he had been made king following my father’s death fighting Narses, had raised two sons, had maintained Hatra’s wealth and power, and, most impressive of all, had earned the loyalty and respect of the kingdom’s nobles. Not bad for a Bedouin slave.

  I slowed my horse when I spotted the high walls of Hatra shimmering in the distance, a long line of camels on the road from the huge caravan park sited outside the city making their way towards Assur and the east. None would go as far as China, or indeed the eastern kingdoms of the empire. At the various caravanserai along the way, the precious goods carried on the backs of the camels would be sold to other caravans for onward shipment.

  ‘Is something wrong, majesty?’ asked the commander of the horse archers after removing the shemagh from over his mouth. He was looking at the legs of my horse to check for any signs of lameness.

  ‘No, I am fine and so is my horse.’

  I had slowed my mount to delay entry into the north of the city where the royal quarter was located. Fear suddenly gripped me, and I did not want to see Diana, because a part of me believed that if I did not see her then the death of Gafarn would not be real. The cowardly part. I gripped the reins tightly and dug my heels into my horse’s sides.

  What kind of man are you, Pacorus? One of your oldest friends needs you. His wife needs you. Your wife needs you.

  We cantered across the wooden drawbridge spanning the water-filled moat at the city’s northern gates. Guards on the bridge snapped to attention and archers on the battlements atop the gatehouse stood down when they recognised a party of their own horse archers and perhaps the man wearing a cuirass of Roman armour leading them. The leader of the dust-covered horse archers reported to the officer of the watch at the gatehouse, who sent a rider to the palace to announce my arrival. The officer left his office to pay his respects, bowing his head and keeping it bowed as I rode on.

  I had forgotten how big and imposing Hatra’s palace and its adjoining stables and barracks were. They were like a city within a city, fed by endless cool water from beneath the earth. Even the royal stables had running water to nourish the horses and keep the buildings and spaces around them clean. We rode by the stables and passed a company of the Royal Bodyguard – a hundred cataphracts riding white horses, all the animals wearing gleaming scale-armour suits that covered not only their bodies and necks but also their heads. Metal grills covered the horses’ eyes and their tails had been plaited.

  Each rider was wearing a scale-armour cuirass of burnished, overlapping steel plates that dazzled in the sunlight, arms and legs being covered with tubular steel armour. Hatra’s cataphracts wore open-face helmets, each one decorated with a large white plume, the company commander’s headgear decorated with a second, red plume. He and the others held a kontus in their right hands, the shafts painted red and topped with a long, thin blade designed to pierce armour. They also had butt spikes for driving into the ground during pauses in battles, and for inflicting injuries on enemy flesh. Each cataphract was also armed with a sword, mace, axe and dagger. The officer and his men did not give us a second glance. They were nobles and the sons of nobles in the finest army in all Parthia, or so they believed.

  And then we were in the great square itself. Located between the Great Temple dedicated to Shamash and the palace, it was paved with well-dressed white stone slabs. The iron-shod hooves made a clattering sound as the horses trotted to the foot of the palace steps and slaves rushed forward to take our reins. I saw figures come from the palace to stand at the top of the steps. I had a lump in my throat when I saw Gallia, who gave me a wan smile. I slid off my horse and walked up the steps. I saw the grim Herneus beside my wife and Adeleh, my sister, on his other side. I looked for Diana, but she was not present. Presumably she was locked in her bedroom, grieving.

  Gallia looked deathly pale, her eyes red and puffy from crying. When I reached the top of the steps she collapsed into my arms.

  ‘Oh, Pacorus, it is so good to see you.’

  The death of Gafarn had obviously affected her deeply. I had not seen her looking so fragile and vulnerable in years. I planted a gentle kiss on her forehead.

  ‘I’m glad you are here. How is Diana faring?’

  Still holding me tight, she began to sob quietly. Adeleh, dressed in the simple white robe and sandals of the Sisters of Shamash religious order she belonged to, stepped forward and whispered in my ear.

  ‘Diana passed away yesterday, Pacorus. She is in the embrace of Shamash now.’

  I was numb and just stared at my little sister in disbelief. Her hair cut short and devoid of makeup as laid down in the rules of her order, her brown eyes were full of sorrow at being the first to inform me.

  ‘Dead? How?’ I stammered.

  Gallia pulled away from me, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  ‘A broken heart, Pacorus. One day she was fine physically, the next she had passed away. It was that quick.’

  They were both buried in the Crypt of the Kings beneath the palace, a dark, forbidding place that was the realm of the dead rather than the living. My mother and father were both interred there, though my father had been cremated after his death at the Battle of Susa, the ashes being returned to Hatra afterwards to lie beside the white marble sarcophagus of my mother. Each sarcophagus was prepared during the reign of the incumbent king and queen, so that when they died a resting place in the cool, vaulted chamber would be immediately available. The marble effigies lying on top of each sarcophagus also portrayed the ruler and his queen in their prime, not as wizened shadows of their former selves.

  I stood with Gallia and Adeleh before the final resting places of our friends, the effigies looking exact replicas of Gafarn and Diana. I looked at the sculpted marble and expected them to speak: a kind word from Diana, a witty quip from Gafarn. I felt a tear course down my cheek and felt Gallia gripping my arm tightly. We said nothing for what seemed like an eternity. It was deathly quiet in the crypt, which was entirely appropriate. I felt the weight of history on my shoulders.

  ‘Castus has married the daughter of Laodice, the dog who ruled the hill tribes of Pontus,’ I said. ‘She is a poisonous bitch who has corrupted the mind of the young King of Gordyene.’

  ‘Harsh words for a holy place, brother,’ Adeleh berated me.

  ‘Would you say forcing the King of Dura to fight as a gladiator against a Sarmatian for the amusement of said bitch harsh, sister?’

  Gallia’s jaw dropped.

  ‘What was left of your escort returned to Dura and gave me a full report concerning the Sarmatian attack on the village,’ she told me, ‘which was foolhardy of you, Pacorus. But I had no idea you would be mistreated by Castus. Klietas is dead?’

  I turned away from the tombs of our friends to look at her. In her grief, she had not spotted my former squire accompanying me. But then, his shemagh was covering his face.

  ‘He is alive and in this palace,’ I said. ‘He rode with me from the north, along with a Roman ambassador named Gaius Arrianus and…’

  I hesitated to mention Titus Tullus, one of her targets marked out for death. I sighed. She would know he was in the palace also soon enough.

  ‘And?’ she asked.

  ‘Titus Tullus,’ I answered.

  Her eyes widened and then narrowed.

  ‘Who is Titus Tullus?’ enquired Adeleh.

  ‘Someone my wife wants dead,’ I informed her, ‘though I am hopeful she will hear my plea that his life should be spared.’

  ‘How is it you arrived here in the company of a Roman ambassador and a former Roman centurion?’ asked Gallia.

  ‘They were ambushed in the
hills of Pontus following the great victory at Melitene,’ I said, ‘and both captured by the aforementioned queen of darkness herself.’

  Adeleh gave me a quizzical look.

  ‘Queen Yesim, wife of King Castus and also queen of the hill tribes of Pontus,’ I explained. ‘She is a calculating bitch because she marched her captives off to Gordyene and sold them to Castus to buy food for her people.’

  ‘What did Castus get out of it?’ asked Gallia.

  ‘Aside from a venomous wife, two captives he was determined to sell back to the Romans for a tidy amount of gold,’ I said. ‘You can see how they are well matched. However, King Ali, King Scylax and Prince Khosrou spoiled his plans.

  ‘I will explain later.’

  I laid a hand on each marble sarcophagus before we left the crypt. The stone was cool to the touch and made me shiver.

  ‘Farewell, my friends,’ I whispered. ‘Until we meet again.’

  Hatra was in a state of limbo. The city markets still bustled with activity, the army still drilled and sent out patrols, priests and priestesses still performed their holy rituals and accepted offerings from a devout populace, and the trade caravans continued to fill the road going to and from the city. But the only topic of conversation from the seediest brothel and inn to the wealthiest table was: when would Prince Pacorus and Princess Arezu be returning to the city? For Hatra without a king and queen was considered inauspicious, and every day that passed without someone sitting on the city’s throne was considered an ill-omen.

  I walked into the throne room and looked around the cavernous chamber. Guards flanked the dais where two wooden thrones stood empty, behind them a red banner emblazoned with a white horse head motif. Sunlight flooded in from the windows positioned high in the walls on either side of the hall to illuminate the chamber. The guards observed me but did not move as I walked over to the dais, white marble tiles beneath my feet and the walls painted white to make the hall light and airy. I stepped on to the dais and eased myself into Gafarn’s throne, soon to be his son’s. It was the first time I had sat on Hatra’s throne, but it was much like my own at Dura: hard and uncomfortable.

  The doors of the chamber opened and Herneus marched in, striding up to the dais and bowing his head. He held out a folded piece of parchment to me. I saw the imprint of a four-pointed star in the wax. I laughed.

  ‘I am not king, Herneus.’

  ‘No, majesty, but you are a king, and at this present juncture the only one we have got.’

  I took the parchment, broke the seal and then stopped.

  ‘This is from Queen Cia, who might be informing us Prince Pacorus has been killed in the Zagros, his life ended by a spear wielded by some filthy barbarian in some nameless mountain valley.’

  ‘That would mean his eldest son Varaz would become king,’ said Herneus, matter-of-factly.

  I opened the letter and read the words.

  ‘It appears the prince has not been killed but is still in the Zagros Mountains after having concluded a peace treaty with the Uxians. He will then ride directly for the capital to pick up his family and thence to Hatra. He and they should be here in three weeks.’

  ‘Will you stay to receive him, majesty?’

  I thought about the army encamped by the shore of Lake Urmia and the plea to Phraates that Ali would be sending to Ctesiphon to summon Castus to the high king’s residence.

  ‘I may be called away before then Herneus. In the meantime, have the city criers announce Prince Pacorus is returning to Hatra. That should calm any nerves.’

  He bowed his head, turned and marched from the chamber. In truth, I had little desire to stay in Hatra. The palace reminded me of my dead friends and made me feel morose. I hoped a letter would arrive from Ctesiphon so I could leave the city of my birth and escape the gloom that hung over it.

  I would indeed be leaving Hatra, but not in a way I could have foreseen.

  Chapter 10

  When my father had been Hatra’s king, meetings of the royal council had been held in a small room beside the throne room. He and the others of the august assembly sat round a large rectangular table to discuss matters both important and trivial. How history repeats itself. I too now sat in his chair, the one used by his father before him and latterly by King Gafarn. It was old and the arms were chipped and in need of repair. That it had not been restored I put down to superstition, or something similar. I had to laugh, which did nothing to brighten the mood of those gathered at the table with me. There was Gallia, her eyes filled with fury and an expression of granite-like hardness. Opposite her sat Aspad, the city governor, a gaunt and serious individual with sunken eyes and a long beard that accentuated the narrowness of his face. Next to him sat Manu, High Priest of the Great Temple. He was a large, loud man with a large head and hands who wore a flowing white robe decorated with gold sun symbols. A man of immense power, he ruled over the spiritual lives of the city and kingdom. And then there was Herneus, his crown and face completely devoid of hair and his clothes like him: unfussy and entirely functional.

  I had convened an emergency session of the council even though strictly I had no power to do so. But such was the gravity of the situation Hatra now found itself in, there was little choice. The dire news had first reached Herneus via his nephew at Assur, and he had immediately informed me. That news I now shared. I sighed, stood and walked over to the large map of the Parthian Empire painted on wooden boards fixed to the wall. I pointed at Lake Urmia.

  ‘The army that invaded Gordyene intent on retribution has been destroyed. King Ali has been wounded but made it back to his capital, though with few troops. The gods be praised, King Scylax and Prince Khosrou also reached the city of Urmia safely.’

  ‘King Castus has gone too far this time,’ lamented Manu, closing his eyes and shaking his huge head.

  ‘It was not King Castus that ambushed the Parthian army,’ I said, ‘but a large horde of Sarmatians, according to the scribe who was taking down King Ali’s words, an army that has invaded Parthia from across the Araxes.’

  ‘No army can cross the Araxes in the spring, majesty,’ said Herneus. ‘There are no bridges over the river and in the spring, much of its length is a fast-flowing torrent.’

  ‘There is only explanation,’ seethed Gallia, ‘one that sticks in my craw but must be true, nevertheless. This Sarmatian army was already in Gordyene before the spring, on the invitation of King Castus.’

  ‘What do the Sarmatians want with Parthia?’ asked Aspad.

  ‘Slaves, gold and plunder,’ I answered.

  I traced a finger from Lake Urmia south towards Ctesiphon.

  ‘The centre of the empire lays exposed like a lamb to a wolf. I assume the Sarmatians are currently sweeping south like a plague of ants. They will dally in Media to gorge themselves on that kingdom’s rich pastures, which will give us time to organise a response. Which is why I have called this meeting. I need Hatra’s army.’

  Herneus glanced at the imposing Manu, the high priest looking reflective.

  ‘I have sent word to Dura for my horsemen to ride here with all speed,’ I told them, ‘but I need Hatra’s horsemen also.’

  ‘May I ask for what purpose, majesty?’ requested Herneus.

  I pointed at Assur on the map.

  ‘The Sarmatians will overrun Media, that much is certain, and will head for the nearest crossing point over the Tigris. Here, at Assur. If they get across the river, Babylon and Hatra will be at their mercy.’

  ‘The bridge should be destroyed,’ said Manu. ‘It is, after all, only wood.’

  Lucius Varsas, my quartermaster general, had built a pontoon bridge to span the Tigris at Assur, a marvel of engineering that allowed the trade caravans to cross over the river all through the year. Manu was right: it could be torched.

  ‘If we destroy the bridge, we deny ourselves a crossing point over the Tigris,’ I told him. ‘Destroying the bridge must be a last resort.’

  I looked at him and then at Herneus. Both were cr
itical to whether I could muster and lead Hatra’s army to support my own, which I expected to arrive within three days. Herneus, despite his rather austere appearance and manner, was from one of the most prestigious Hatran noble families in the kingdom. Without his support, the Royal Bodyguard for one would not obey me. Manu wielded enormous power in the city. His blessing, and by implication that of Shamash himself, would make my task much easier.

  ‘As soon as Prince Pacorus arrives, he will assume command of Hatra’s army,’ I emphasised. ‘But we cannot afford to do nothing until he arrives.’

  Manu spoke first. ‘It can be no coincidence that a son of King Varaz is in the city at the moment we lose our king and queen and a great threat against the kingdom manifests itself. I believe you were sent to us by Shamash himself, King Pacorus, and therefore I endorse your request.’

  Herneus stared at the map and exhaled loudly.

  ‘Without a general muster of the kingdom’s lords, Hatra can supply only six and half thousand horsemen. How many soldiers will come from Dura, majesty?’

  ‘Twelve thousand,’ I answered.

  ‘Plus a hundred Amazons already in the city,’ added Gallia. Herneus tilted his head at her in acknowledgement.

  ‘If sixty thousand Parthians could not stop these Sarmatians,’ said the general, a frown creasing his brow, ‘what chance will only eighteen and a half thousand have?’

  ‘They will give us time, Herneus,’ I said. ‘Time to allow my foot soldiers to get here and time for the high king to muster the forces of Babylon, Susiana and indeed Elymais. He has a fine general in Satrap Otanes. It will also give Lord Orobaz time to muster the lords and their men.’

  Herneus left the meeting to organise the march of the army to Assur, calling all his senior officers together to inform them they would be under the temporary command of King Pacorus, formerly prince of Hatra, until their king-in-waiting returned from Elymais. When he, Aspad and Manu had left I sat staring at the map on the wall, a slave offering me a rhyton of wine. I accepted, as did Gallia.