Sarmatian

by Peter Darman

  The army was halted, and a speedy gathering of the kings convened. We sat on stools on the bare earth and pondered our next move.

  ‘We cannot now march after the Sarmatians,’ I said, ‘at least not with the whole army. With no foliage to graze on, our supplies will soon be used up, and we have a campaign in Gordyene to wage before returning home.’

  ‘We must pursue the Sarmatians,’ insisted Akmon. ‘Northern Media is still recovering from the depredations my father inflicted on it, and now the eastern half of the kingdom has been literally stripped bare by locusts. What is to stop the Sarmatians withdrawing north into Gordyene to recuperate?’

  ‘He has a point, uncle,’ agreed Pacorus. ‘After butchering so may Sarmatians, it would be a great pity to let the others live to fight another day.’

  I stood and peered at the bare, devastated landscape stretching north as far as the eye could see, and also extending east into the distance.

  ‘How many troops did you bring with you, Akmon?’ I asked.

  ‘Ten thousand horsemen,’ he replied with pride.

  ‘And how much fodder?’ I probed.

  He blushed. ‘None, for I expected…’

  ‘You understandably expected to be able to graze your horses on the lush grass of Media,’ I interrupted. ‘Look around you, my lord. There is nothing to sustain livestock as far as the eye can see.’

  They knew as well as I that the tens of thousands of Sarmatian horses would quickly weaken with no grass to graze on. The gods designed horses to be constant eaters. Their stomachs, being relatively small compared to their size, cannot handle large amounts of food. That being the case, they require constant access to quality pasture or hay. One of the reasons Tasius led his men into Media was due to its verdant pastureland, watered by countless springs and streams. Now that pastureland had vanished. Horses accustomed to grazing on the endless grass of the northern steppes would quickly become jittery at having no food. After a few days they would become jaundiced, with a yellow tinge to their eyes and gums. They would also become stressed, which would result in ulcers. After a few days more, a rider would be able to see his mount’s rib and hip bones, and notice that his flanks had sunk in a little. In this weakened state, the Sarmatian horses would be unable to carry armoured riders, let alone wear their own suits of horn-scale armour.

  ‘We have fodder, uncle,’ said Pacorus, casually. ‘We could send a small force, say two thousand horse archers, to harry the Sarmatians.’

  ‘That will not suffice,’ I told him. ‘Tasius is no fool and even with his army decimated, he will easily be able to deal with such a puny force. Even if his horses are on their last legs. He is not to be underestimated.’

  Pacorus exhaled loudly. ‘Then what, uncle?’

  ‘We must let King Ali and Atropaiene deal with the Roxolani,’ I answered.

  ‘Ali is wounded; he might even be dead for all we know,’ retorted Pacorus, irritably.

  I too was losing my temper. ‘And perhaps not. I will send a courier to Urmia to request Ali, or his son Bagoas, to muster all the men they can to harry the retreating Sarmatians, to pick off stragglers and generally give them no peace.’

  ‘Hardly an honourable way to conduct war, uncle.’

  I threw up my arms in despair.

  ‘Perhaps you wish to issue a personal challenge to Tasius, Pacorus, to settle the future of Parthia in a single duel?’

  ‘As King of Hatra, uncle, I will decide what is best for my kingdom, and the empire.’

  ‘But you are wrong,’ I smiled. ‘As lord high general, my decision is final, nephew, unless you wish to challenge my authority.’

  He looked away from me. ‘As you command, uncle.’

  I assumed a pacifying tone. ‘If we wish to prevent further Sarmatian incursions into the empire, we must deal with Gordyene, which gives them encouragement and sanctuary.’

  I turned to Akmon. ‘Will you join our campaign against Castus?’

  ‘Yes,’ he answered without hesitation. ‘My brother needs to be taught a lesson.’

  I did not tell him or Pacorus that Castus would be removed from power and probably killed, that the army contained the man whom Phraates himself wanted to see on Gordyene’s throne, and who I also wanted to reward with a crown. If Castus and his deranged wife died, what did I care? Gordyene had become a cancer in the body of the empire and had to be cured. And the only way to cure a cancer was to cut it out.

  The Durans and Exiles went to work creating a camp on the edge of the newly created wilderness, and I sat down to write a letter to King Ali, a conciliatory note apologising for stealing his position, assuring him that it would be restored to him as soon as he was able to ride in the saddle again, ‘as I find the rank akin to a poison chalice’, and explained the situation after our pleasing encounter with the Roxolani. I pleaded with him to muster as many men as he could to send against Tasius, being careful not to be drawn into a battle. ‘The land has been denuded of foliage, and this being the case, the Roxolani’s animals will soon be in a weakened state. In such circumstances, the tactics of the hyena are most useful.’ I finished by saying ‘we were going to deal with Gordyene once and for all’.

  Talib selected one of his best men, a stick-thin Agraci who was so gaunt that a gust of wind could have snapped him in two, but whom my chief scout assured me could ride for days without rest, water or food.

  ‘He sounds just the man, Talib, for he will be riding through a wasteland. The post stations will all be empty and devoid of supplies, I have no doubt, so give him two spare horses so he can reach Urmia as quickly as possible.’

  The empire’s posts stations, sited thirty miles apart, ran in more or less straight lines between the capital of each kingdom. But if the Roxolani had not plundered those between Irbil and Urmia, then the plague of locusts certainly would have. I sealed the letter and passed it to Talib.

  ‘It is important this reaches Urmia.’

  ‘You can depend on it, majesty.’

  ‘You might be interested to know that the rest of us are heading for Gordyene, Vanadzor to be exact.’

  His thin lips cracked a smile.

  ‘King Castus will regret abusing his friends and allies, majesty. You sow what you reap.’

  ‘You and your scouts will be the eyes and ears of the army, Talib. Castus might try to ambush us in the mountain valleys before we reach Vanadzor. I don’t want to give him any easy victories.’

  Another smile. ‘Do not worry, majesty, we know the routes into Gordyene like the backs of our hands. We have traversed them many times over the years.’

  ‘Then we were allies; now we are enemies,’ I reminded him.

  ‘You will kill King Castus, majesty?’

  I was taken aback by his unusually blunt query. But I had forgotten that Castus had threatened not only his life but also that of Minu. He thus had a very personal reason for wishing to know the fate of the King of Gordyene.

  ‘Castus seems to be actively bringing about his demise himself,’ I answered cryptically.

  I sent Navid and a party of horse archers back to Assur with instructions for Lucius Varsas to march with those left behind, plus his siege engines, to Irbil and there await our arrival.

  The first part of the campaign had ended. The second part was about to begin.

  Chapter 17

  Irbil was once again filled with refugees, just as it had been when we had defended it five years before. Then, the city had been besieged by Prince Atrax and his Pontic allies and I had nearly lost my life. Now, no army ringed the capital and the Sarmatians were beating a hasty retreat out of Parthia, but the sight of bedraggled men, women and children huddled on streets, in doorways and in market squares made me want to weep. I took a crumb of comfort from the strong walls that now ringed the city, and the verdant terrain surrounding the capital. At least for the moment the refugees were being fed from the abundance of crops, fruits and milk produced by that fertile soil, but many would be unable to return to their hom
es and I wondered how long Akmon would be able to feed them.

  Food was the chief topic of conversation when he convened a meeting in his palace in the calm surroundings of the city’s citadel perched high on the stone mound in the middle of Irbil. Lusin had wanted to allow refugees into the hallowed streets and alleyways of the citadel itself, but was successfully resisted by the lords and priests who lived in the royal quarter and served in its temples. She toyed with her chestnut curls as we discussed matters at hand, looking positively glowing in her pregnant state. Her first child – Spartacus, now a year old – was a healthy baby with a strong pair of lungs, screaming the walls down and causing Joro to frown in disapproval before his nanny was ordered to take him back to his nursery.

  Now summer had arrived, we convened in a small room adjacent to the neat and tidy palace garden, slaves having opened the shuttered doors to allow the sunlight and fragrance of flowers to enter. The citadel had its own water source: underground springs bringing cool, fresh water to fill the ponds filled with goldfish and power the fountains. Brightly coloured parrots sat on bird tables, pecking at the slaves feeding them. It was a scene of soothing calm; war and famine appeared but abstract notions. The more so as we nibbled on delicious pastries and sipped at gold rhytons in the shape of crouching dragons filled with expensive wine. But Joro brought us back to reality when he presented the bleak situation Media now found itself in.

  ‘Our scouts have returned from the east with news that the devastation caused by the plague of locusts extends all the way to Lake Urmia and on to the Araxes. They report seeing dozens of abandoned wagons and ravens feasting on dead oxen and horses in the wake of the Sarmatian withdrawal.’

  ‘What of the Sarmatians?’ I asked.

  ‘They are flooding across the Araxes into eastern Armenia, majesty,’ reported Joro.

  ‘Shamash be praised,’ I said.

  ‘How long will it take for the kingdom to recover from the locusts?’ asked Pacorus.

  Akmon and Lusin looked at Joro expectantly, but the aged general merely shrugged.

  ‘No one knows, majesty, there have been no instances of such a large number of locusts descending on Media. Ever.’

  I felt uncomfortable and, for some strange reason, moved my hand wearing the gold ring under the table. I suddenly felt responsible for Media’s woes. I was responsible, was I not? The guilt weighed heavily on me.

  ‘Gordyene has food.’

  We all looked at Haytham sitting beside his brother.

  ‘Food was the reason we are in this mess,’ he continued. ‘If it had not been for Yesim’s need for food to feed her people, she would have never visited Vanadzor to barter her prisoners for food. Perhaps we may…’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I know what you want. A promise from Castus to supply Media with food in exchange for him keeping his throne. I think not. At this juncture, he will be lucky to keep his head.’

  ‘If you kill my brother, lord,’ said Akmon, ‘then Haytham will become King of Gordyene, as he will be the rightful heir. It will be for him to decide his kingdom’s fate.’

  Gallia looked at me with a smug expression, knowing, as did I, that Kewab would be made King of Gordyene. This would also lead to Haytham being exiled, for no king could tolerate a legitimate claimant to his throne living in his kingdom. I suspected that Phraates might send assassins to murder Haytham once he was in exile, just to tidy up loose ends. What a mess it all was.

  ‘Does Castus have to die?’

  Lusin’s voice was laced with sadness but I felt no remorse for wanting him dead.

  ‘The lord high general has ordered that he has to pay with his life for his crimes,’ said Pacorus, clearly still resentful over my terse words with him.

  I took a bite of honey cake.

  ‘Castus has threatened my subjects, humiliated me, waged war on northern Media, which led to the deaths of your people, lady. He invited Sarmatians into Parthia, which has led to thousands of Parthian deaths near Lake Urmia and will be likely to lead to thousands more fatalities when winter comes, and Media is unable to feed the thousands of refugees packed into this city.

  ‘His actions have led to Parthia facing its greatest crisis since Crassus’ invasion.’

  ‘Who is Crassus?’ asked Lusin.

  Pacorus laughed and I suddenly felt very old. Was Carrhae now mere ancient history, to be mentioned only by scholars and old men?

  ‘A dangerous Roman,’ said Gallia, ‘who desired to conquer all Parthia. We stopped him from doing so.’

  ‘Crassus paid with his life for his ambition,’ I told Lusin. ‘If Castus is allowed to retain his throne, let alone his head, then we will face endless Sarmatian incursions, encouraged by Gordyene’s king. This I cannot allow to happen.’

  I looked at Akmon. ‘I understand if you do not wish to march north with us.’

  The king looked at his general.

  ‘Media will not stand by and watch other kingdom’s fight on its behalf, majesty,’ stated Joro.

  ‘My brother will be expecting us,’ said Haytham. ‘There are many places where we can be ambushed.’

  Fighting our way through the mountain valleys of Gordyene did not fill me with relish, but it would have to be done.

  Pacorus was wearing a smug expression.

  ‘It might interest you to know, Haytham, that I have arranged for a diversion to keep your brother amused while we advance on his capital.’

  I was intrigued. ‘What diversion?’

  ‘I have contacted Lord Orobaz at Nisibus and commanded him to lead an army into southern Gordyene, during which it will make a lot of noise and lay waste to wildlife, villages and forests. This will hopefully hold Castus’ attention while we are mounting the real invasion.’

  ‘That will make our task easier,’ I said.

  Pacorus scratched his noble nose.

  ‘You are not the only one with a comprehensive military knowledge, uncle.’

  I ignored his barb. ‘Dura will send food supplies to Media, and after Castus has been deposed, Gordyene will also be sending food to Irbil. This should alleviate the kingdom’s immediate problems.’

  ‘I will make it so, lord,’ nodded Haytham, prompting Gallia to shake her head.

  I left the meeting thoroughly depressed, knowing that the forthcoming campaign would be bloody, notwithstanding Hatra’s well-thought-out diversion, and would result in the death of at least one of Spartacus’ sons, perhaps two. They were the sons of the infant we had carried out of the Silarus Valley all those years ago. I hoped my lord would forgive me.

  At least the reunion between Klietas and Anush was a happy event, the pregnant wife of my former squire thanking me profusely for saving him, her and the surviving villagers of Vazneh. On the orders of Lusin, she and they had been lodged in the citadel and the queen had taken a personal interest in ensuring Anush received proper nutrition and was attended by midwifes to ensure her pregnancy proceeded smoothly. For an illiterate commoner from northern Media, the experience was overwhelming. But it pleased me to see some good come out of a wretched situation. I took comfort in their simple desires and pure love for each other and reasoned that as long as there was a place for individuals such as Klietas and Anush, Media and Parthia would thrive.

  ‘This is where we say goodbye, Klietas. I have something for you.’

  I handed him a leather pouch filled with coins.

  He began shaking his head but I took his hand, placed the pouch in his palm and closed his fingers around the soft leather.

  ‘Take it, with thanks and gratitude. You and your family will always have a home in Dura, should things not work out here.’

  Anush, tears in her eyes, threw her arms around me and kissed me on the cheek. She froze when she realised she had touched a king, something technically punishable by death. I laughed and kissed her back.

  ‘I will pray for the safe delivery of your child, Anush. Shamash keep you both safe.’

  The army was already on the march, Lucius, his s
iege engines, the squires and the civilians having journeyed from Assur to link up with the legions, horse archers and cataphracts. Now the force was joined by Akmon and five thousand horsemen, half the number he had taken east to link up with us. I had urged him to keep the rest at Irbil under the capable command of Lord Soter, just in case there were roving bands of Sarmatians still at large.

  It was a sombre group of commanders leading the army north from Irbil at the head of over thirty-eight thousand soldiers and a formidable siege train. The banners of the three kings – the red griffin of Dura, the white horse’s head of Hatra and the silver dragon of Media – flew proudly in the pleasant breeze, but Akmon rode in silence, Pacorus had receded into Hatran haughtiness, and I was resentful. Time after time I had declared my intention to retire from the politics of the empire, yet I was continually, unwittingly dragged back into the cauldron of war and the affairs of Parthia, despite my protestations. I felt like Sisyphus, the Greek king of legend who was punished by the gods for his craftiness by having to push a large boulder up a hill, only for it to roll down when it neared the top. Sisyphus then had to start again from the bottom of the hill, a cycle of endless struggle that he would have to repeat for all eternity. Sisyphus had tried to trick Zeus and had been justly rewarded, but what was the crime I had committed to warrant me being punished with endless strife?

  It is just over one hundred miles from Irbil to Vanadzor – five days’ marching – and for every one of those days I agonised over the fate we would be inflicting on Gordyene and its king. Akmon and Pacorus kept their counsel, which darkened the mood further. At least we were untroubled by ambushes as we threaded our way through the ancient forests nestling in the valleys and mountainsides of southern Gordyene.