Companions (The Parthian Chronicles)

by Peter Darman

  ‘The Exiles is an apt name, King Pacorus, for all true lovers of Pontus are now exiles from their own lands.’

  ‘Is this place you travel to, this Histria, not in Pontus?’

  He gave me a wry smile. ‘No, in Thrace, though for how much longer I cannot say. The Romans circle it like wolves.’

  The two vessels sailed into a small bay on a rocky, seemingly barren peninsula that Arcathius informed me was the gateway to the Hellespont, the narrow strait of water that gave access to the Black Sea. The ships were moored in the water close to a shingle beach that was surrounded by high, grass-covered hills. The rowers, sailors and soldiers left the triremes and went ashore to set fires, the firewood being stored in hidden caves above the beach. These small caves also contained grain that had been stored there a few days before by Arcathius’ men. The fires were lit and the grain ground down and baked into unleavened cakes, which were eaten just before sunset. Everyone had an appetite aside from Athineos who sat staring at the flickering flames of the fire we sat around. I went over and sat beside him.

  ‘I am sorry about your ship, Athineos.’

  He shrugged. ‘Like I said, I am paying for my greed. Strange how a life’s work can disappear so quickly.’

  ‘I want you to come back to Dura with us,’ I said. ‘It is the least I can do.’

  He continued to stare at the fire. ‘Dura is many miles from the sea, King Pacorus. What would an old sea dog do in your kingdom aside from spending his days getting drunk and whoring?’

  ‘I did not say you should remain at Dura, I said that you should come back with us. I have an idea that you may be interested in.’

  His interest perked up at this. ‘What idea?’

  ‘Let us concentrate on getting back to Dura first and then I will tell you. But I do not intend for you to end your days as a beggar in some nameless town in Asia.’

  He stroked his beard. ‘Well, as I haven’t got a better offer, and since I am now wanted throughout the Roman world, I accept your offer.’

  He turned to look at me. ‘I can’t abandon my men.’

  He was talking about his grizzled second-in-command, two other sailors and the duo that were at death’s door despite Alcaeus heroic efforts.

  ‘I would not expect it of you,’ I said, doubtful that the two injured men would survive the journey to Histria, wherever that was.

  But they did survive, much to the surprise of everyone on board. But Alcaeus attended them closely and Hippo said prayers over them, the latter boosting their morale more than a crusty wiry-haired Greek whose temper seemed to shorten with every passing day.

  Out of respect for Cleon and Hippo the next day Arcathius docked at the city of Elaeus, a settlement sited at the entrance to the Hellespont, on the left bank of the waterway. It was a beautiful place of white-walled buildings and endless olive groves positioned in a narrow plain between a range of rocky hills and the sea. Gallia and I walked with Arcathius through its clean streets and well-maintained buildings as we followed our Greek companions to the Tomb of Protesilaus.

  ‘Was he a king?’ asked Gallia.

  Arcathius shook his head. ‘No, lady, he was the first Greek killed in the Trojan War.’

  ‘I have heard of that conflict,’ I said. ‘It was over a woman, I believe.’

  Arcathius looked at Gallia. ‘You are right. A Greek princess named Helen, supposedly the most beautiful woman in the world, and the wife of King Menelaus of Sparta, a Greek kingdom, was abducted by Prince Paris of Troy.’

  ‘Where is Troy?’ asked Gallia.

  Arcathius stopped, turned and pointed towards the harbour. ‘On the other side of the Hellespont, lady. It is now a small Roman settlement built on the remains of a once mighty city.’

  He sighed and turned away from the harbour. ‘Returning to the Trojan War, an enraged Menelaus mobilised all the other Greek kings to send an expedition to get his wife back. Legend has it that a thousand Greek ships sailed to retrieve his wife.’

  ‘And did they succeed?’ asked Gallia.

  ‘Yes, majesty, they did,’ answered Arcathius, ‘but the war lasted ten years and thousands of Greeks and Trojans died.’

  The shrine itself was an open precinct containing an altar and small temple, the whole surrounded by olive groves. Arcathius informed me that soil of the area was well suited to the cultivation of olives, so much so that Elaeus was called the ‘The Olive City’. The nearby tomb was an impressive rectangular stone structure with carvings of the Trojan War on all its sides. Arcathius gave Cleon and Hippo money so they could purchase small cakes as offerings, the admiral telling me that the Greeks believed that continued remembrance of the dead by the living ensured immortality for the former. ‘In Parthia we believe that the spirit lives on after death,’ I said. ‘But whether it goes to heaven or the underworld depends on the actions of the person in this life.’

  While we talked Alcaeus also made an offering at the tomb. He and the two Greek lovers came away from the shrine in good humour and I was grateful to Arcathius for stopping off at the Elaeus, a Greek city a mere stone’s throw away from Roman Asia.

  The Hellespont was a most wondrous thing, a corridor of ocean flanked by cliffs that was filled with small fishing villages. The mood among the sailors and soldiers on board was relaxed, though the rowers strained at their oars to propel us through the Hellespont’s forty-mile length.

  ‘The current is against us,’ Arcathius told me on the day after my conversation with Athineos. ‘It flows southwest from the Sea of Marmara, which we will enter in about three hours.’

  I saw numerous single-sail fishing vessels plying the waters and large cargo ships similar to The Cretan. As the soldiers relaxed on deck, their shields and javelins secured in racks, I enquired about the Romans.

  ‘There are no Roman ships in the Hellespont,’ the admiral informed me. ‘I raid into the Aegean to show Rome that Pontus is still its enemy, notwithstanding the treachery of Pharnaces, but no enemy warships venture up this waterway.’

  ‘Not yet,’ I said glumly.

  My spirits also rose the next day as we continued on our journey, Arcathius telling me that the shore on our port side was Thrace, the homeland of Spartacus and Claudia. The crew must have thought we were mad when I hugged Gallia and then Drenis, who sank to his knees and thanked the gods that he had been allowed to see his homeland again. A bemused Arcathius told him that we would be docking at the town of Heraclea Perinthus on the Thracian coast to take on water and food. Drenis thanked him and gazed at the shoreline of the land he thought he would never see again. It was the first and only time that I saw Drenis with tears in his eyes.

  The port’s harbour was filled with fishing and merchant vessels but did not compare to the great docks of Ephesus or Paphos, not that it bothered Drenis. We walked with him among his people in the crowded market behind the docks, the stalls and avenues between them filled with Greek and Thracian men, women and children.

  The Thracian race was a collection of fair- and olive-skinned individuals, some having grey and blue eyes. Hair colours ranged from dark brown to blonde and even red. Many of the men had their long hair dressed in a topknot and most of the women and young girls had tattoos. Thracian dress included fawn-skin boots with tops turned down, woollen mantles and animal skin caps with their tails hanging down their owners’ necks. The town was noisy and crowded and the Romans seemed a distant memory. But among the joy we felt to be among free peoples I wondered how we were going to get back to Dura. We might find sanctuary at Histria but would we ever get home?

  Chapter 14

  It took us three days to reach Histria, the last night before we docked a full moon filling the night sky and resembling a giant pale ball that the gods had thrown to earth. Histria was a city originally founded by Greek settlers over six hundred years ago and Arcathius, whom I found a most charming and interesting host, told us that many such settlements existed on the shores of the Black Sea. But recently all had suffered as a result of the R
oman conquest of Greece and Asia Minor. The arrival of the legions had interrupted commerce and a lack of trade meant a creeping impoverishment that threatened the existence of the Greek colonies. He informed us that, unlike the Romans, the original Greek settlers had sought not to conquer the native tribes but to trade with them, to create mutually beneficial relationships in which all would prosper. In any case after a few generations settlers and natives intermarried, which meant that the blood of their offspring was a mixture of Greek and native.

  ‘In Histria’s case,’ said Arcathius as his two triremes sailed into the harbour of the city, ‘Greek blood was mixed with the Getea tribe who inhabit the hinterland. But these days it’s difficult to tell the difference between the two so mixed up are they.’

  ‘This city is like Dura,’ said Gallia, ‘where many different races mix freely and are all equal, men and women too.’

  Arcathius looked at the sword hanging from her waist and the bow slung over her shoulder.

  ‘From what you and your husband have told me about Dura, Queen Gallia, nowhere on this earth is like Dura.’

  ‘You’re right there, skipper,’ said Athineos loudly as we all stood on the deck of the trireme as it inched towards the stone quay, ‘the queen has a bodyguard of women who all wear swords and shoot bows and the king here lives in a palace that has no slaves.’

  ‘It sounds a most interesting place,’ said Arcathius.

  Histria was also an interesting place: a port sited in a great open bay on a wide coastal plain with a citadel built on a hill to the immediate north of the city. The docks contained a variety of different-sized merchant vessels as well as a larger number of small fishing boats. But as the trireme was moored to the quay and Arcathius led us ashore I noticed that, aside from the catches being unloaded from fishing vessels, the port was hardly a hive of activity.

  Arcathius told us that he would take us straight to the citadel to meet the city’s ruler, a king named Akrosas, who would arrange for a ship to take us to the eastern shore of the Black Sea where we could then travel south back to Parthia.

  ‘I would do it myself,’ he said to me, ‘but my ships and soldiers are needed here to defend against Roman incursions into the Black Sea.’

  ‘You expect a Roman invasion?’ I asked.

  He nodded. ‘It is only a matter of time. Now that Pontus is a client kingdom of theirs the Romans will try to subdue all the Greek colonies in this part of the world.’

  We walked from the docks into the city, which had the appearance and resonance of a place that had seen better days. The streets were paved with stone but were badly preserved, with weeds growing between the flagstones. Like Dura they were arranged in a grid pattern, though unlike Dura they were strewn with rubbish. Unwashed children in filthy clothes, with bare feet, ran around and stray dogs growled and bared their teeth at us as we passed. The citizens themselves were mostly fair-haired, many having locks as blonde as Gallia’s and blue eyes to match. They wore light tunics and leggings and wore their hair long, some of the men sporting plaits.

  The markets appeared busy enough, with ceramics, metals, honey, wax, fruit and linen being traded, presumably having been brought from the hinterland. The buildings showed their Greek lineage, being white-walled with red tiled roofs and all appeared to have been constructed from stone. But like the roads many were in a poor state of repair, with tiles missing from roofs and dilapidated, cracked walls. The people appeared hardy enough but many wore worried expressions and as we made our way towards the citadel a growing sense of foreboding enveloped us.

  ‘Something is wrong,’ Gallia said to me quietly as we reached the wall that surrounded the citadel. It was stout enough, being built of large stone blocks and interspersed with squat, square towers at regular intervals along its length. Guards standing at the entrance to the gatehouse giving access to the citadel on the hill waved us through when they saw the figure of Arcathius. They paid scant interest to the rest of us as they leaned on their hexagonal shields and stared vacantly ahead.

  The buildings inside the citadel, which was originally called the acropolis in accordance with its Greek heritage, was tidier and more imposing than the rest of the city, its buildings well maintained. As well as the stone palace it housed armouries, stables, granaries, workshops and two magnificent temples, one dedicated to Apollo, the protector of the city, the other to Bendis, the Thracian Goddess of the Moon and Hunting. Hippo told us that Artemis and Bendis were considered by some to be one and the same deity, the Thracians having adopted the Moon Goddess and given her their own name.

  White-robed priests and priestesses stood on the steps of the temples and watched us pass as we walked to the palace located on the north side of the paved square that the sanctuaries fronted. Hippo glanced at them with a whimsical look on her face. She could never go back to her life as a high priestess and I wondered if she was regretting the choice she had made at Ephesus.

  At the entrance to the palace stood sentries with round hoplite-style shields adorned with a bow and arrow motif – the symbol of Apollo. These soldiers had bronze helmets, leather armour cuirasses and were armed with short spears and swords. We were delayed there while a steward was summoned to listen to our request to enter. A balding, flustered middle-aged man in a white tunic and soft sandals arrived after a few minutes. His consternation disappeared briefly when he saw the figure of Arcathius.

  ‘Admiral, you are indeed a sight for sore eyes. I trust your sortie was successful? The king has been most eager for your return.’

  ‘Two less Roman warships in the Mediterranean to worry about,’ said Arcathius modestly.

  The steward brought his small hands together. ‘Most excellent news, admiral, and Apollo knows we need good tidings at the moment.’

  Arcathius’ eyes narrowed. ‘What has happened?’

  The steward shook his head. ‘To Histria, nothing. But yesterday news arrived that the Romans had defeated a great army of Thracians to the west.’

  ‘How far away are they?’

  A veil of gloom descended over the steward’s face. ‘Three or four days, admiral. The king has sent riders to his allies requesting aid but…’

  He showed the palms of his hands and let his head drop.

  ‘Is the king here?’ said Arcathius.

  ‘Yes, admiral, and he will be delighted to see you and…’

  The steward looked past the admiral to study the rest of us. His brow creased to create many worry lines.

  ‘Allies against the Romans,’ said Arcathius.

  The steward’s expression lightened. ‘We need every ally in this time of trial. Please follow me.’

  We walked into the palace and entered a place of white stone columns, floors with elaborate mosaics and walls adorned with beautiful murals depicting gods and hunting scenes. Images of Apollo and Bendis decorated the walls of the throne room, the ruler himself sitting in a chair carved from oak and decorated with copper embellishments. We were kept at the entrance while guards took our weapons and Arcathius, helmet in the crook of his arm, marched forward and bowed to Akrosas. The king was dressed in a simple loose-fitting white tunic, white leggings and a red cloak draped around his shoulders. He had neatly cropped fair hair encompassing a round, intelligent face. Seated next to him was a beautiful blonde-haired woman with a slender neck and high cheekbones. Indeed, she had more than a passing resemblance to Gallia. She too was attired in white, a flowing gown that covered her body and legs but left her arms bare. They both looked like celestial beings, insulated from the harsh world outside.

  Arcathius engaged in polite conversation with them both and turned to look at us when the king pointed at our group. There followed more conversation between them before Arcathius returned and asked Gallia and me to accompany him. We walked to where the king and queen sat, who both stood to receive us.

  ‘Welcome to Histria, King Pacorus and Queen Gallia,’ said Akrosas, ‘we are pleased to make your acquaintance.’

  He held out a
hand to his queen. ‘This is my wife Rodica.’

  ‘We are grateful for your hospitality King Akrosas and Queen Rodica,’ I replied. ‘May the gods smile on you and your kingdom, lord king.’

  The exchanges were a mere formality but Akrosas seemed amiable enough, though his wife said nothing as he ordered wine to be brought and sent the flustered steward away to prepare rooms for us in the palace. When the wine had been served, which was excellent, the king sat back on his throne and continued to engage me in conversation, smiling politely at Gallia as he did so and examining my companions behind us.

  ‘Admiral Arcathius informs me that you were being pursued by Roman warships when he came across you.’

  ‘It is true, lord king, without the arrival of the admiral we would have surely died at the hands of the Romans.’

  Akrosas ran a finger around the rim of his silver cup.

  ‘You had been at Ephesus, I believe.’

  I nodded. ‘We had been attending the games there.’

  ‘I see, and how may we assist you?’

  ‘We seek passage back to Parthia, lord king,’ I answered. ‘I have accomplished what I set out to achieve but regrettably find myself still far from home.’

  He smiled kindly. ‘We will of course provide you with aid so that you may get back to Parthia, King Pacorus, though presently I have to deal with an urgent matter that requires all my attention. In the meantime I hope you, your queen and your party will avail yourselves of our hospitality.’

  He engaged us in conversation until another steward appeared, the king ordering him to show us to our accommodation, after which he and Queen Rodica took their leave.

  Our rooms were located in a wing of the palace and were both spacious and luxurious. Akrosas sent slave girls with fresh clothes and others with oils to massage the stress of the last few days away. I had to admit that I had not realised how tired and knotted my body was until a young woman with iron-hard fingers kneaded and massaged it. Gallia was also treated to a full-body massage, her naked body oiled and gleaming as she lay face-down, another slave girl massaging her lithe frame.