Sarmatian

by Peter Darman

  ‘He should live.’

  I turned to see Sophus, the Greek head of the army’s medical corps, standing over me.

  ‘Don’t get up,’ he said irreverently.

  ‘He looks poorly.’

  There was a roll of his blue eyes, unusual for a dark-haired, olive-skinned Greek.

  ‘Having a number of wounds and laying out all night without water will do that, majesty. But his wounds are fortunately superficial and when he wakes he can be given water to refresh his body. By the bruising on his chest, I believe he was trampled on, so I suspect a few cracked ribs.’

  The tent was filled with wounded men with what appeared to be non-serious injuries – sprained and broken arms, wrists and legs – the other medical tents accommodating those with lift-threatening and fatal injuries, such as head and belly wounds. Bullus opened his eyes.

  ‘Ah, the hero returns to us,’ said Sophus sarcastically. ‘The king will attend to your needs.’

  With that he was gone. I stood, walked to a table holding jugs of water, filled a wooden cup and returned to the cot. I lifted Bullus’ head and pressed the cup to his lips.

  ‘Gentle sips,’ I told him.

  He emptied half the cup.

  ‘Thank you, majesty.’

  ‘How do you feel.’ It was a stupid question.

  ‘Like I have been stamped on by a giant. Did we win?’

  ‘A draw. I decided not to renew hostilities today, luckily for you. What do you remember?’

  He thought for a moment. ‘Huddling under our shields while being under an arrow storm, and then being hit by the Immortals. After that, it was a hard slog at close quarters for what seemed like hours. I must have tripped over something or someone, lost my footing and got crushed in the press.’

  He moved his arm and winced.

  ‘The doctor informs me you have some cracked ribs, so it’s rest for you for the next few weeks, though I am afraid you will have to endure riding on a wagon for a few days, until we get to Irbil.’

  ‘Castus lives to fight another day, then?’

  ‘He lives to another day, Bullus.’

  He and his army might have escaped destruction, but the Kingdom of Gordyene was not so lucky. Pacorus directed parties of horsemen to scour the countryside to the west and north of the Pambak Valley, not for food, for we had enough supplies for the march back to Media, but to plunder the land. It was wanton destruction, pure and simple. Villages were torched, crops destroyed and livestock killed. Pacorus was a seasoned veteran when it came to fighting hill tribes, and he used that knowledge to maximum effect. After a couple of days, pillars of smoke could be seen to the north and west, and captives were brought into camp. I went to see him after he had returned from leading a raiding party, he and his senior officers enjoying wine and good food around a great rectangular table set up in his large pavilion. When I was shown into the dining area, all conversation ceased.

  Pacorus raised his jewel-encrusted rhyton to me.

  ‘Uncle, how kind of you to visit. Make room for the King of Dura.’

  A slave brought a chair for me to sit in at the far end of the table, facing my namesake. Other slaves were serving the young nobles at the table cooked venison, freshly killed earlier. They carried on eating but their looks told me I was an unwelcome guest, which saddened me.

  ‘Have you eaten, uncle?’ asked Pacorus.

  A slave poured wine into a rhyton placed before me.

  ‘I have, thank you. I am here on another matter.’

  He placed his rhyton on the table. ‘What matter?’

  ‘There are a number of captives in camp, natives of Gordyene?’

  ‘There are, and there will be more before we reach Media’s border.’

  The officers banged their fists on the table to show their approval.

  ‘We are not here to capture slaves,’ I told him.

  ‘I thought we are here to punish King Castus, the man who authorised his Sarmatian dogs to plunder northern Hatra. Such insolence cannot go unpunished, uncle. Besides, the captives we have taken no longer have homes to go back to, or crops to gather in.’

  The officers sniggered like children. Pacorus took a sip of wine.

  ‘Hatra is not some helpless child to be cowered and abused, uncle. Gordyene will discover that it has made a powerful enemy, one who will no longer be counted as its ally.’

  ‘Here, here,’ said the officers.

  ‘I would ask you to show restraint, Pacorus,’ I pleaded, ‘notwithstanding Gordyene’s ill-advised aggression.’

  ‘Just as individuals have to be responsible for their actions,’ he said, ‘so do kings. By his actions, Castus has put himself outside the family of Parthian kings. He and his kingdom will discover it is cold outside that grouping.’

  ‘What of Media?’

  He reacted with surprise. ‘Media? It is a valued and trusted ally of Hatra, which is committed to protecting not only its own northern border, but that of Media also.’

  He leaned forward. ‘Will Dura support Hatra and Media if those two kingdoms are attacked by Gordyene in the future?’

  Every one of his officers turned to stare at me, unblinking, with hardened expressions and resentment in their eyes. Why did they resent me? Perhaps they thought their king should be lord high general instead of me. Maybe they believed I was too old to command an army. More likely, they resented me for questioning their taking of slaves. They knew Dura, and its queen in particular, was opposed to slavery. But in Hatra and every other Parthian kingdom aside from Dura, slavery was a fact of life, an integral part of the functioning of cities, towns and households. I knew that when Gallia and I were gone, slavery would creep back into Dura itself. Eszter and Dalir had slaves in their desert mansion and as for Claudia, she cared not if every person in the world was enslaved as long as the gods were appeased and revered.

  ‘Dura does not forget its pledges,’ I answered, ‘but neither will it be drawn into a conflict without end.’

  He gave me a magnanimous smile.

  ‘We are going home, uncle, are we not?’

  We left the Pambak Valley two days later, Castus’ army having marched from Vanadzor to usher us on our way. But we still outnumbered him and his lords and Aorsi allies had lost many men and women to the great cataphract charge, which had drawn away our steeled fist. So, while thousands of horse archers formed our rearguard and acted as flank protection, the wounded were loaded on carts, the siege engines were disassembled, their constituents also loaded on carts; and the army retreated. The rate of march was slow, partly to guard against ambushes and attacks from Castus’ troops, but mostly because Pacorus was insistent he and his horsemen should carry on their campaign of reprisal against just about everything he and they came across. They even killed wild animals and birds, not just for food but because they wanted to slay anything living in Gordyene. It was a thoroughly miserable time and I was glad to reach Media, as was Akmon, though he feared for his kingdom’s future.

  ‘With Castus having ejected us from his kingdom,’ he said, ‘he will be emboldened to attack Media once more, especially after the damage that has been inflicted on Gordyene.’

  ‘I would not worry about Castus,’ Gallia said to him, ‘he will have other things to concern himself with.’

  I assumed she was referring to Hatra’s desire to continue the war with cross-border raiding, which would certainly divert Castus’ attention away from Media but would hardly make him less aggressive.

  ‘Hatra intends to launch reprisals against Gordyene for the Aorsi attack against Nisibus, Akmon,’ I told him.

  His head dropped. ‘Castus will not sit back and take such provocation lightly.’

  Gallia reached over to lay a hand on his arm.

  ‘The gods will protect Media.’

  Once more, I thought it an odd thing for her to say but gave it little credence. What troubled me more as we began the last leg of our journey back to Irbil was the empty land we marched through. The terrain was gre
en and fertile, but villages were deserted and overgrown, a consequence of Spadines’ assault on Vazneh, which had prompted Akmon to order the evacuation of the land south of the frontier with Gordyene. Whereas eastern Media was devoid of all life due to the locust plague, northern Media was empty of people. It was a truly depressing sight, as were the camps of refugees surrounding Irbil itself when we reached it. It appeared the city was besieged by a great army, an army of refugees that was stripping the city of its supplies of food.

  After a tearful reunion between Akmon and Lusin and a parade by Media’s returning soldiers through the city, Akmon ordered proclamations be read in all the camps, stating the north was secure and people should return to their homes without delay. Whether they would do so remained to be seen. Lucius, my quartermaster general, came up with a plan that would not only encourage the refugees to return to their homes, but which would also strengthen Media’s northern frontier. I invited him to the palace to explain his scheme to the king and queen, plus General Joro. Pacorus, eager to get back to Hatra, had already departed, but in a touching gesture had promised to send a thousand camels loaded with food to Irbil once he had returned to his capital where his wife and sons were waiting for him.

  We sat in the white-painted gazebo in the garden to the rear of the palace, drinking fine wine and nibbling on slices of fruit and grapes and breathing in the air scented with pine and cedar. Royal gardens were designed to symbolise paradise and the four elements: sky, earth, water and plants. They incorporated cypress trees – associated with the Tree of Life – and evergreens such as cedar and pine to symbolise the continuity of the royal line. Fountains and ornamental ponds gave life not only to the fish swimming in them and the plants they watered, but also to the royal family who lived in the palace. Symbolism was combined with practicality. Thus, shady and wide-leaf trees such as rowan, sycamore and aspen were also present to bring welcome relief from the sun.

  The aged Joro, hair as white as snow, stood behind his king and queen as Lucius explained his notion, being interrupted by the radiant Lusin before he started.

  ‘Will you not sit, general? I feel as though I am a child again about to be chastised by my tutor.’

  Joro cleared his throat and sat himself down, tipping his head to his queen.

  ‘That’s better,’ she smiled. ‘Now, General Varsas, tell us about your idea.’

  Lucius, crop haired and clean shaven, looked directly at the queen, which Joro found irritating. In his eyes women had no idea about military affairs, which is why he viewed units such as the Amazons with a barely concealed contempt.

  ‘A basic principle of defence, majesty,’ began Lucius, ‘is deterrence. But at the moment, Gordyene is not deterred from sending raiding parties into northern Media. That being the case, I propose the construction of a number of forts spaced at twenty-mile intervals, between which will be watchtowers.’

  Joro was unimpressed. ‘Watchtowers will not stop raiding parties, general.’

  Lucius turned away from the queen.

  ‘No indeed, lord, but messages can be passed quickly between watchtowers by means of flags, torches and smoke. In this way, the nearest fort, which would contain a garrison of horsemen and foot soldiers, would be quickly alerted.’

  ‘There is a fatal flaw in your plan, general,’ smiled Joro, the first time I had seen his face wear such an expression. ‘Your watchtowers would be very vulnerable and could be burnt with ease.’

  ‘No, lord,’ replied Lucius. ‘For one thing they would be made of stone, be five times the height of a man, therefore could not be burnt. The entrance will be on the first upper floor by means of a ladder, which would be pulled up when the garrison was not entering or exiting.’

  ‘How many men would staff each watchtower?’ asked Akmon.

  ‘Five men should suffice, majesty,’ said Lucius. ‘The soldiers would sleep on the upper second floor, just below the outside gallery from where they could look out in all directions.’

  ‘I would like you to build these watchtowers,’ said Lusin.

  Lucius looked at me.

  ‘General Varsas will be delighted to oversee the construction of both the towers and the forts,’ I said.

  ‘Will Dura be providing the soldiers to garrison these forts and watchtowers?’ asked Joro.

  It was a good question. Media had few professional soldiers aside from the garrison of Irbil, and they were needed to man the impressive walls that had been built by Lucius.

  ‘I will leave the walking wounded here,’ I replied, ‘which amounts to three hundred legionaries. To these I will add a further two hundred, which equates to a cohort. Enough to staff the watchtowers and forts. In addition, I will also leave five hundred horse archers here to man the forts. A thousand soldiers, General Joro.’

  He smiled graciously. ‘That would be most acceptable, majesty.’

  ‘I intend to make Centurion Bullus commander of these troops,’ I announced, ‘once his ribs have healed.’

  Lusin was delighted. ‘The hero of the siege of Irbil. His family must come to live in the citadel. Does he have a family?’

  ‘He has a son, majesty,’ I said, not wanting to tell her the child was a bastard.

  ‘And a wife?’ she asked.

  ‘Alas, they have yet to be married,’ I answered.

  Joro cleared his throat in disapproval but Lusin would not be deterred.

  ‘His son and woman will come to Irbil and Lord Bullus will marry her in the temple in the citadel.’

  ‘Quite right,’ smiled Akmon.

  Gallia raised an eyebrow. ‘Lord Bullus?’

  ‘A centurion is a rather lowly station for such an important position,’ said Akmon. ‘Bullus should have a rank commensurate with his authority and reputation.’

  ‘Reputation?’ I said.

  ‘Bullus is a Median hero, lord,’ Lusin told me, ‘who is beloved of the gods.’

  I thought of the coarse, thuggish Bullus and his relish for killing.

  ‘He will certainly administer northern Media with an iron hand,’ I conceded, ‘though he may ruffle a few feathers doing so.’

  ‘Alas, lord,’ said Akmon, ‘there are no lords in the north of my kingdom to ruffle. They either died fighting my father or fighting for Prince Atrax.’

  ‘I can think of one,’ said Lusin, reaching over to clutch her husband’s hand. ‘We should make Klietas a lord.’

  Joro’s smile disappeared instantly.

  ‘I would advise against that, majesty.’

  ‘Why is that?’ asked his queen.

  ‘Klietas is a commoner, an orphan who is the son of commoners who has no wealth, no land and no heritage. To make such a man a lord would debase everything that nobility stands for.’

  ‘And what does it stand for?’ demanded Lusin.

  Joro stroked his white beard. ‘Continuity, majesty, and stability. The men who serve in the king’s bodyguard are the sons of those who served King Darius and King Atrax the senior. And their grandfathers fought for King Farhad.’

  ‘You are right, general,’ nodded Akmon, ‘but as a counter-argument, I would contend that exceptional circumstances demand radical measures. I am no religious expert, but I wonder if, Media having lost so many lords, the gods are inviting us to create new ones to fill the vacuum.’

  ‘And Klietas has proved he has noble attributes,’ added Lusin. ‘It is surely no coincidence he and King Pacorus crossed paths, and he went on to save the king’s life. I think the gods wish Klietas to be made a lord.’

  She paced a finger to her fulsome lips.

  ‘In any case, Klietas turned his back on a life of ease and luxury to serve Media. Is that not correct, lord?’ she asked me.

  I thought of the hovel Klietas had been living in when he was a Duran farmer, albeit one with promising prospects.

  ‘Yes, majesty.’

  She clapped her hands together. ‘So, it was the will of the gods he returned to us. He should therefore be rewarded, for we do not want to of
fend the gods, do we, General Joro?’

  Joro was totally perplexed but had neither the inclination nor interest to argue with his queen.

  ‘No, majesty.’

  Queen Lusin had her way, and two days later we stood in the Temple of Shamash with the fine lords and ladies who lived in the rarefied atmosphere of the citadel to bear witness to Klietas being made one of their own. My former squire, dressed in a simple blue tunic, grey leggings and barefoot, was kneeling in front of the altar with his head bowed. Standing him before him was a stern-faced high priest dressed in a white robe, upon which had been stitched slivers of gold to make his attire glitter in the sunlight. And there was a lot of sunlight.

  The main entrance to the temple faced east to welcome Shamash as he began his journey across the heavens each day, its white-stone walls and gold-leaf covered double doors presenting a deliberate brilliance to the world. The doors had gold handles and the interior of the temple was filled with the heady aroma of burning cassia and myrrh, incense being burnt to make the Sun God feel welcome and enable mortals to more easily converse with immortals. Large windows allowed sunlight to flood into the interior, and white marble tiles and columns supporting the arched cedar roof accentuated the light to create a dazzling effect that made everyone squint. The effect was deliberate to emphasise that no matter how rich or powerful the congregation, they were but mere bedazzled mortals in the presence of Shamash. The tall, imposing high priest was framed by the large gold disc behind the altar, engraved to represent the rays of sun.

  Anush, dressed in a beautiful blue dress loaned by the queen who stood next to her, looked overawed to be in such a grand building among her social superiors. But her piety and deference probably made her the most religious among this august throng. I smiled when I saw her close her eyes and begin to pray, mouthing words as she opened her soul to the Sun God.

  Gallia and I jumped when the high priest began to talk in a booming voice.

  ‘You are in the presence of Shamash, Lord of Light, the all-seeing king of the heavens, giver of life, who sees and hears all.