Sarmatian

by Peter Darman

  ‘Name?’ he grunted.

  I regretted not bringing a party of Amazons with me, who were instantly recognisable throughout the empire.

  ‘Pacorus of Dura, father of Princess Claudia.’

  He looked me up and down. ‘Wait here.’

  The other axe man with him gripped his huge two-handed weapon in a menacing fashion while his companion disappeared inside the pavilion, reappearing moments later and holding open one of the entrance flaps.

  ‘You may enter, lord.’

  Inside, I walked on soft, plush carpets, was welcomed by a smiling slave no older than thirty wearing a silk tunic that would not look out of place on the body of a king, and found Claudia sitting behind a mahogany desk in a huge chair with arms carved in the shape of cobras. In her black robes and in the half light of oil lamps on stands either side of her, she looked malevolent and far from the carefree woman we had seen earlier.

  ‘Sit, father.’

  The slave pulled up another high-backed chair and placed it in front of the desk. I took the weight off my feet.

  ‘The Sisters are aware of the great service you have rendered the gods and Parthia, father,’ she said solemnly.

  ‘I have always tried to do my duty.’

  ‘We heard of the treatment meted out to you at Vanadzor and were appalled. That Castus should treat a great servant of the immortals and the empire in such a way was reprehensible.’

  ‘I survived,’ I said, attempting levity.

  ‘Do you want Castus and his whore wife dead, father?’

  I flinched at her words. I knew the Scythian Sisters were sorceresses, so why not assassins? After all, had not Gallia’s assassins been tutored by Saruke, Dura’s resident poisoner?

  ‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘I have always fought for a world where justice and the rule of law are held sacred above all things. Murder is murder, no matter how you dress it up.’

  She gave a gentle shake of the head. ‘You fight for a world that will never exist, father.’

  ‘That may be, Claudia, but the gifts you and your sisters have been given should not be used to settle petty disputes.’

  She laughed. ‘All disputes are petty, father, in the eyes of the gods. But the immortals do not regard insults and humiliations meted out to one they favour as petty, far from it.’

  ‘I cannot speak for the gods, only myself. Castus and Yesim are not to be harmed, not in my name, in any case.’

  She pointed at me. ‘You prefer to kill people yourself, instead of allowing others to do it? I understand. You were, after all, going to remove Castus and put Kewab on Gordyene’s throne. Castus dying in the defence of Vanadzor would have satisfied your sense of justice and honour, I suppose.’

  I stood and refused the offer of wine from a nubile female slave.

  ‘This conversation is at an end.’

  ‘Nothing ever ends, father, as Castus will discover.’

  I rounded on her. ‘You are forbidden to kill him, or his wife.’

  She held up her hands. ‘They will not die at our hands, I swear.’

  ‘It is just a game to you, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not just a game, father, the great game. A game without end.’

  There were times when I could have cheerfully wrung her neck, but Claudia was not entirely callous. She wrote letters on the high king’s behalf to Atropaiene and Hyrcania requesting they send grain to Media ‘for the relief of that kingdom, which was raped by the marauding Sarmatians’, and she also promised that Babylon and Susiana would also send supplies to Akmon. Together with Hatra’s promised aid and the food I would send from Dura, the people of Media might just make it through the winter.

  She and Phraates were obviously anxious for Kewab to be crowned as quickly as possible, so she was insistent that he return with her to Ctesiphon. She had already sent a letter to Rsan charging him to arrange for Kewab’s family to be escorted to the high king’s residence ‘without delay’. In an emotional scene, Kewab got to say goodbye to Dura’s army, which I paraded in its entirety on the morning of his departure. The Durans and Exiles cheered him as he rode beside me and Gallia as we trotted among the cohorts, then took to banging the flats of their swords against the front of their shields and chanting ‘Kewab, Kewab’, as he passed by. He must have stopped at every cohort to shake the hand of its commander, doing the same at the companies of horse archers and cataphracts. It took all morning but no one minded. Kewab was a true son of Dura and every legionary, horse archer and cataphract recognised that Carmania’s gain was Dura’s loss.

  I stayed at Assur with Gallia for a day longer than Claudia, to ensure Dura’s army could still transit through Hatran territory to get home, King Pacorus being in a volatile mood since he had been denied his chance to burn Vanadzor, and to pen a letter to Hatra’s new ruler imploring him not to raid Gordyene. It was probably a futile plea, knowing full well the fine lords of my city of birth would be calling for vengeance against Gordyene even as I wrote the words. In any case, Pacorus had spent years quelling the hill tribes of Elymais and was an accomplished warlord. And now he could raise one hundred thousand of his own troops to punish Castus if he so wished. He was too good a commander to launch a full-scale war but raiding and plunder would keep his lords amused and satisfy their desire for vengeance, and the result would be years of bloodshed and an end to the alliance between Gordyene and Hatra that had served the empire so well.

  Knowing this, it was with a heavy heart that I departed Assur for Ctesiphon in the company of my wife and the Amazons, plus Talib who was happy to be riding alongside his wife. But I had done my best and took a grim pleasure in knowing that at least I would not be responsible for the deaths of Castus and Yesim. The latter I had no feelings for either way, but Castus was the grandson of the man who had been one of my dearest friends, as I was reminded in the Pambak Valley, and I could not be the man responsible for his death, even if he had killed his own brother. Castus would answer for his crimes, either in this life or the next, but my conscience was clear regarding his ultimate fate.

  Phraates had his faults, no one could deny that. He had a very malleable view of the truth, and often lied on occasion when it suited him. He could be cruel, manipulative and pusillanimous. But he knew how to put on a spectacle. When we arrived at Ctesiphon, the jewel in the Parthian crown, whose walls faced with white stone were kept pristine by an army of slaves washing each stone on a daily basis, we found it bedecked with peacock standards. Ctesiphon was in reality a mini-city, a sprawling complex housing thousands, the only difference between it and the nearby city of Seleucia was that at Ctesiphon every resident was hand-picked.

  Phraates was a direct descendent of the kings of Persia, his mother having been Babylonian, as was her father and his father before him. And just as the Persians had displayed their power and prestige by undertaking grand building projects to honour the gods, so had Phraates lavished much wealth on the restoration of Ctesiphon to create a second Babylon. And so, its huge gatehouse had become a replica of Babylon’s famed Ishtar Gate, comprising a huge double gate decorated with over five hundred figures of bulls and dragons. This led to Ctesiphon’s version of the Processional Way, a road eighty feet wide paved with white limestone and red breccia slabs. Babylon’s Processional Way was flanked by high walls, punctuated by buttresses and towers, but at Ctesiphon the walls were lower to allow bystanders to gather behind them and cheer and wave at the high king as he left and entered his great palace. But no expense had been spared when it came to decorating the walls with glazed bricks depicting rows of striding lions, the animals being the symbol of the Goddess Ishtar, who had her own temple in the palace complex.

  Sentries on the gatehouse’s battlements alerted the commander of the guard that a party of riders leading camels was approaching, which led to a unit of Babylonian lancers riding to intercept us. Or rather welcome us when the commander of the party, a devilishly handsome young man in dragon-skin armour with purple plumes in his gleaming helmet, recognised
my griffin banner and the scarred, haggard face of the King of Dura. He sent back one of his men to alert the palace of our approach, falling in beside me after removing his helmet and bowing his head to Gallia. In the distance, I saw tents pitched to the south, perhaps a couple of miles away, near the river.

  ‘Who are they?’ I enquired.

  ‘The horsemen of Satrap Kewab, majesty,’ he replied.

  ‘Why are they not inside the walls?’

  ‘There is not enough room for them, majesty.’

  I smiled and looked at him. He was the epitome of what Ctesiphon represented: nobility, youth, attractiveness and wealth. Their commander may have been feted by the high king, but there was no place for Kewab’s rough-hewn, squat and ugly horsemen among the beauty and opulence of Ctesiphon. What a contrast between their scruffy, dour appearance and the officer riding next to me, whose horse was decorated with a large purple saddlecloth edge with gold, with golden bulls stitched in every corner, and whose bridle was studied with small gold bulls.

  Above the gatehouse flew the banners of the two kingdoms Phraates ruled directly – the horned bull of Babylon and the eagle clutching a snake of Susiana – but when we rode through the entrance on to the road leading to the royal palace we saw the route was lined with a different standard. The iron-shod hooves clattered on white paving stones as we passed the specially built walls on each side of the road decorated with glazed bricks depicting standing lions, the symbol of Ishtar, the Goddess of Love. Either side of the road flew large red banners emblazoned with a golden peacock – the standard of Carmania and a salute to its new king.

  Carmania got its new king a week later, in a grand coronation held in Ctesiphon’s magnificent throne room. The ceremony that was a mixture of religion, theatre and superstition was conducted by the Temple of Marduk’s high priest, a stolid individual with a thick beard, bulging eyes and powerful voice. I thanked Shamash seating had been arranged in the white marbled hall, because it seemed to go on forever and my leg would have given way long before the golden crown was placed on Kewab’s head. As it was, the seating made the ceremony almost bearable.

  Hundreds were packed into the chamber, all seated according to their social standing. As such, Gallia and I were in the front row, along with kings Ali, Scylax, Silani, Prince Khosrou and Satrap Otanes. Menwi, to her obvious delight, was also seated in the front row. The day was the culmination of all she could have hoped for and she wore a permanent smile that must have made her facial muscles ache by the end of it.

  Ali still had his arm in a sling, the result of the wound that had incapacitated him at Lake Urmia.

  ‘Sneaky bastards attacked us at night,’ he complained.

  ‘You should surround your camp with a ditch and rampart when on campaign,’ I told him.

  ‘Horsemen don’t like to dig trenches, Pacorus,’ he complained. ‘Besides, you sent the Sarmatians on their way and put us all to shame.’

  ‘I had some assistance.’

  ‘The locusts? I heard. What are the odds?’

  I looked at Claudia sitting next to Phraates on his throne, on his other side Adapa, commander of his bodyguard and the holder of the prestigious title ‘master of a thousand’.

  ‘I got lucky,’ I said.

  Everyone stood when Kewab entered the chamber, dressed in a white robe upon which diamonds had been stitched, dozens of them. He was escorted by white-robed priests chanting prayers, one holding a white cushion, upon which rested the gold crown that Phraates would place on Kewab’s head. One of the priests began reading from a papyrus scroll, informing the congregation in a loud voice of Kewab’s noble descent, his innate worth, wisdom and sense of justice, thus announcing to the world his qualifications for kingship.

  Everything was pre-planned down to the smallest detail. Kewab’s ludicrous costume was designed to awe the guests and to suggest he was possessed of magical powers. That he was sacred and capable of dispensing justice and prosperity, just as a god can dispense life and death. Tears of pride ran down Menwi’s face when, after a seemingly never-ending recital of prayers, Phraates stood and placed the crown on the head of a kneeling Kewab, afterwards giving him the kiss of brotherly love.

  The hall fell silent when Kewab turned and pledged to all present he would act responsibly and piously as King of Carmania, would defend the high king and Parthian people, as well as his own, and would dispense justice equally to lords and commoners alike. Thus was Kewab, formerly lord high general in the east, satrap and Lord Melitene, made King of Carmania. His wife was now a queen and his two sons, barred from being present on account of their youth, were princes of the empire. Claudia’s prophecy had come true.

  In the three days of feasting, hunting and general revelry that followed the coronation, I barely saw the new king or his queen. Protocol demanded they stay until the end of every evening feast, but I was able to slip away before the hour was too late. I did manage to see him when Phraates, who had insisted Kewab attend him every day, cosseting him in his office and taking him on trips to the Hall of Victory and his private gardens to see his collection of peacocks, tigers, lions and other exotic animals, had to retire to his quarters due to a headache. We walked through the corridors of the palace, courtiers and officials fawning and bowing to us both, which Kewab found embarrassing.

  ‘You will get used to it,’ I told him. ‘When do you leave for Carmania?’

  ‘Tomorrow, lord,’ he said.

  ‘You must call me Pacorus now,’ I told him.

  ‘That would feel strange, lord.’

  ‘I just wanted to thank you, Kewab, for all that you have done for Dura, and Parthia.’

  ‘It has been an honour, lord, and I will try to prove a good and honest king.’

  ‘One more thing. If I had a son, I would want him to be like you, Kewab. Stay true to yourself and always trust the instincts that have served you so well to date.’

  I extended my arm. ‘The gods bless you, Kewab.’

  He grasped my forearm. ‘And you, lord.’

  After Phraates and everyone else had formally said farewell to him and Menwi the next day atop the palace steps, I rode down to the gatehouse and climbed the steps to the battlements to observe the King of Carmania lead his army east. In addition to his own horsemen, Phraates had commanded that Otanes, his old subordinate, should ride east once more to support Kewab in quelling any insurrection in his kingdom. Accompanying him were a thousand cataphracts and five thousand horse archers from Susiana, plus a thousand camels carrying their supplies. Kewab would travel south through Susiana and Persis, where King Silani had pledged another two thousand horsemen to his army, and on to Carmania. I watched the column of horsemen and camels slowly fade into the distance, reflecting that I might never see Kewab again. But I took comfort he would still be in Parthia as opposed to Roman-controlled Egypt.

  ‘King Pacorus.’

  I turned and was surprised to see Phraates himself on the battlements. I bowed.

  ‘Highness.’

  ‘Watching Parthia’s new hero embark on his quest?’

  ‘Yes, highness.’

  He was dressed in a flowing purple silk robe with a gold belt around his waist. A slave held a large parasol over his head to shield him from the sun. I wondered how he had ridden to the gatehouse in such garb, for he surely did not walk.

  ‘I want to show you something.’

  He walked to the edge of the battlements giving views of the interior of the palace complex, pointing down.

  ‘What do you think?’

  I peered down to see a chariot pulled by four black horses, a slave standing in the box holding their reins. I wanted to laugh.

  ‘It is very convenient for getting around the grounds,’ he said. ‘I don’t know why they went out of fashion.’

  ‘In Rome, they are still in fashion.’

  He scowled at the slave holding the parasol, who had not been paying attention. Phraates pointed up at the sun.

  ‘The sun’s over there,
idiot.’

  The slave moved the parasol so he was once again in the shade.

  ‘What of Castus, highness?’

  His brow creased. ‘What of him?’

  ‘You said you wanted him dead, if I recall, and I was wondering if you were still intent on removing him from power.’

  ‘King Castus has been unwise in his decisions of late,’ said Phraates, ‘but now Kewab has a kingdom to rule, I do not desire Gordyene to be thrown into chaos. In any case, you had a chance to remove Castus but faltered, did you not?’

  Phraates could always be relied upon to point out an individual’s failings.

  ‘It was the will of the gods that I did so, highness,’ I smiled, having no wish to be drawn into an argument. ‘But I assume you will be summoning Castus to Ctesiphon to answer for his crimes?’

  He looked past me, totally disinterested.

  ‘I do not think such a drastic course of action would solve anything, King Pacorus, especially as King Castus has pledged reparations to atone for his misdemeanours.’

  I raised an eyebrow. ‘Reparations, highness?’

  ‘A significant sum of gold,’ he informed me guardedly, ‘which I feel brings the subject of King Castus’ transgressions to a satisfactory conclusion.’

  I felt otherwise.

  ‘May I remind you, highness, that King Castus is responsible for the empire facing a crisis of monumental proportions, resulting in significant loss of life, damage to property and the wrecking of Media’s economy.’

  He did not take my mini-lecture well, his nostrils flaring as he raised his voice.