Parthian Dawn

by Peter Darman

  ‘It is a pity,’ remarked Gallia, ‘that there cannot be a queen of queens to rule over you all.’

  ‘Ha,’ barked Balas, ‘you hear that, Varaz? If she’s allowed in the council meeting I’ll warrant we’ll be bowing down to Queen Gallia at the end.’

  ‘Women are not allowed to vote, daughter,’ said my father.

  ‘What if some of the kings do not abide by the decision of the council?’ she asked.

  ‘A good question,’ said Balas, looking at my father. ‘Then, my dear, whoever is King of Kings must enforce his will and show to everyone in the empire that his sword is the sharpest, and Phraates is not the man to do that.’

  ‘Enough, Balas,’ my father was growing irritated. ‘I know what you are trying to do and it will not work.’

  Balas tried a different approach. ‘What say you, Pacorus? Who will you vote for?’

  ‘My father first, but if he declines to be put forward, then Phraates.’

  Balas nodded his head in resignation. ‘What about you, Roman, what is your view on this matter?’

  Thus far Domitus had been sitting in silence, eating his food and drinking water from a cup. Now he looked directly at Balas. ‘I know nothing of the workings of the Parthian Empire, but I do know that men only respect strength. They may say that they obey the law, but they only do so if the person who enforces it is stronger than they. If this Phraates is strong then you have no fear.’

  Balas looked smugly at my father. ‘And if he is weak?’

  Domitus stared into the fire. ‘Then he will be like a lamb among lions.’

  My father would hear no more on the matter and so we talked of other things over the next ten days as we rode to Esfahan. Domitus gradually got used to riding on horseback, but declared that he would always prefer to fight on his feet. He and Balas got on well; they were both forthright in their opinions, though Balas was rowdier. Gordyene shared a border with Armenia and we all knew that Rome threatened the latter. And if Armenia fell then Gordyene would be in danger.

  ‘So, Domitus, do you think Rome will attack Parthia?’

  Sweat was pouring down Domitus’ face even though he was wearing a wide-brimmed hat, for we were travelling across the desert that led to Esfahan, a barren, sun-bleached wasteland that had one east—west road.

  ‘Hard to tell, sir. I was just a lowly centurion and know nothing about what is decided in Rome. But there is a garrison in Syria and eventually they will push east, to the Euphrates at least.’

  ‘You hear that, Pacorus,’ said Balas to me, ‘Dura is on the wrong side of the river.’

  ‘It will take a large army to batter down Dura’s walls,’ I replied.

  Domitus looked at me. ‘Pacorus, that is King Pacorus, is clever. He makes Dura strong so it will not fall easily, and he has the support of his lords who can come to his aid. And across the river is his father’s army. Rome will think twice before starting a war with Dura.’

  ‘And there is your legion,’ observed Balas.

  ‘Yes, sir, there is my legion. And…’ His voice trailed off.

  ‘And?’ asked Balas.

  ‘I know that your people do not like them, but there are also the Agraci.’

  ‘The Agraci?’ Balas was shocked. ‘They will stick a knife in your back when you’re not looking.’

  ‘They are our friends,’ said Gallia sternly.

  ‘It’s true, lord,’ I said. ‘Prince Malik, the son of the Agraci king, comes often to Dura and has travelled with me to Hatra.’

  Balas shook his head. ‘We live in strange times.’

  My father had said nothing during this intercourse, adding only. ‘We certainly do.’

  Esfahan was a beautiful city, located directly south of the Zagros Mountains and built on both sides of the River Zayandey. Surrounded by a high circuit wall of yellow sandstone, it had squares towers at regular intervals along its whole perimeter. Access was via four gates located at the four points of the compass, all of which led to the city’s massive central square, a space of grass that was normally filled with traders every day but which for the Council of Kings had been cleared. In place of the market stalls and animal pens was a large circular tent at least three times the height of a man.

  Esfahan was a sprawling city with very few tall buildings, its streets wide and airy. The northerly breeze that came from the mountains was refreshing and had the added advantage of dispelling the stench of humans and animals that infested even the grandest of cities. An armed escort from the garrison — spearmen dressed in bright yellow tunics, baggy red leggings and open-faced helmets, met us at the western gates. They carried wicker shields, long daggers in sheaths on their belts and wore brown leather shoes that rose to a point at the toes. Their long hair was plaited like Gallia’s when she rode to war, though unlike her they had yellow ribbons in their plaits. Their beards were also plaited and each man wore two gold earrings. They certainly looked pretty — even their oval-shaped spear blades were polished bright, glinting when they caught the sun’s rays. Beside them we must have looked a sorry sight, our clothes and faces covered in dust and our horses weary — in need of a good groom.

  The guards’ commander, a tall man in his thirties with gold rings on his fingers, saluted. ‘Majesties, welcome to Esfahan. If you would care to follow me I will show you to your quarters.’

  Esfahan was bustling, its streets filled with traders, customers, mystics, holy men, beggars and soldiers of the garrison. There was no king or ruler of Esfahan; rather, a council of elders who were drawn from the most influential members of the aristocracy. The council numbered eighteen to mirror the number of kings in the empire — though technically there were now nineteen upon my accession to Dura’s throne. In the old days each king had sent his own man to sit on the council, but after time this had lapsed and the council was drawn from those who lived in the city itself. It jealousy guarded its reputation as a place that favoured no one faction, and its remote location, thick walls and large garrison acted as deterrents should anyone wish to attack it. Not that anyone did, for its great distance from any other city of significance meant that it was largely forgotten, though it formed an important part of the Silk Road. As we had travelled east to the city I had observed in wonder the mass of traffic on the road — the living lifeblood of the empire.

  But now there was much excitement in the city, not least because the Council of Kings was such an unusual event on account of the last one having taken place over fifty years before. My party was met at the gates of a villa by its steward, a dark-skinned man in his fifties who had a long black beard and who was dressed in an immaculate white robe with cuffs edged in silver. He had long fingers and his nails were painted red, which earned him a frown from Domitus.

  ‘Greetings, King Pacorus.’

  Each of the kings was shown to his own villa — large two-story buildings surrounded by walls and guarded by a detachment of the garrison. Inside the compounds were stables, luxurious private apartments overlooking a marbled courtyard complete with central fountains, the whole residence surrounded by well-tended gardens. A small army of gardeners, kitchen hands, grooms and house slaves kept each villa spotless and the gardens immaculate. Our horses were taken from us to the stables where they were unsaddled, groomed, fed and watered. We were shown to our rooms on the second floor of the villa, each one adorned with enamelled tile floors, doors inlaid with gold leaf and ivory, plaster walls painted with mythical beasts and a large bed over which hung a canopy of the finest white linen. Twin cedar doors led on to a spacious balcony framed by two marble columns, with another pair of columns directly below. The corridors and entrance hall of the villa were adorned with yellow and blue tapestries.

  After we had washed and changed into new clothes, an invitation arrived from the residence of my father for Gallia and me to dine with him. It was early evening before we arrived at his residence. Like ours it was a well-appointed villa surrounded by a high brick wall. Guards paced up and down outside the gates and ar
ound the wall; clearly the city elders were taking no chances when it came to the security of their royal guests. We were not the first to arrive, for in the large dining hall were already seated Farhad, his son Atrax, Aschek, Vardan, his daughter Axsen and Gotarzes. They all rose when we entered, and Gallia immediately went to Axsen and embraced her as we took our places at the table. Moments later Balas arrived, complaining that he was too old to be dragged from his couch after a hard day’s ride.

  My father ate little, and only a short while after we had started the meal he began to speak to us.

  ‘I have asked you all here tonight because the issue of the election needs to be settled.’

  Balas put down his silver cup. ‘You mean you want to make sure that we all vote for Phraates?’

  ‘Yes,’ snapped my father.

  ‘He is a good man,’ said Vardan, ‘but does he have the steel to enforce his will?’

  ‘With our bows and swords behind him he will have enough strength to secure his rule,’ retorted my father.

  Aschek screwed up his lips. ‘It would be better to have an overlord who has the respect of all, and if not all then at least the majority.’

  My father was already showing signs of exasperation. ‘My friend, who among the kings has that?’

  ‘Varaz of Hatra,’ offered Balas casually.

  My father held his head in his hands, and then looked up. He suddenly looked old. I had never thought of my father as old before. ‘I support Phraates because he offers continuity and stability. He is known to all the kings, and has been his late father’s voice in the empire for many years. Parthia must have unity for the troubles that are to come.’

  ‘What troubles?’ asked Gotarzes

  ‘The Romans,’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ reiterated my father. ‘Darius has, as expected, defected to Rome. Word reached me of this but two hours ago. The Romans menace our frontiers, and for that reason alone we must have stability within the empire.’

  ‘We all knew the old admirer of young boys would do so, it is of no consequence,’ said Balas.

  ‘The Romans will have heard of the death of Sinatruces,’ I said. ‘They will try to exploit any opportunity to increase their domains at our expense.’

  Balas shrugged. ‘If you want Phraates so badly then I will vote with you, Varaz. But only because there is not a more suitable candidate.’

  My father smiled, then looked at the other kings. ‘And you, my friends?’

  They all fell into line, as did I of course. In the few times I had seen Phraates he had always struck me as a conscientious, earnest individual who took his responsibilities very seriously. I was sure that the other kings would feel the same way.

  Before we attended the council there was time to visit one of the holiest places in the Parthian Empire, the resting place of Arsaces, the first Parthian king and the founder of the Arsacid dynasty. The tomb itself was a granite sarcophagus set in the middle of a high-domed mausoleum near the centre of the city, a mile to the north of the great square. The mausoleum was surrounded by a high wall and had a small square in front of its main entrance, which was flanked by two white stone lions. The flagstones of the square were also brilliant white, and we had to shield our eyes from the glare as we walked across them to enter the tomb. There were five of us that day — myself, Gallia, Nergal, Praxima and Domitus, who had taken a keen interest in the history of his adopted homeland. We wore baggy leggings and loose-fitting tunics, though Domitus wore his customary white tunic and mail armour and had his helmet on his head. With its white plume he looked like a king and we his retinue. We all wore swords and daggers at our hips. The entrance was flanked by spearmen, with more guards posted around the grey sarcophagus. The interior of the building was quiet and cool, with a white marble floor and white marble columns around the sides. Domitus took off his helmet and we all walked over to the tomb, the sides of which were adorned with carvings of archers on horseback fighting and hunting. It was a most peaceful place.

  ‘Arsaces was the first Parthian king,’ I said in hushed tones. ‘His blood flows through my veins, so I like to think.’

  ‘Do all Parthians come here to pay homage, lord?’ asked Praxima.

  I shook my head. ‘Unfortunately, most Parthians are too busy facing life’s hardships to make the trip here. But all have heard of him and I am glad that you, my friends, are here with me.’ I reached over to hold Gallia’s hand.

  ‘A most touching scene.’

  There are very few men who I dislike when I first see them, for I like to think of myself as a fair-minded individual. But with Mithridates it was different. I disliked him on sight. No, that is incorrect; he invoked my animosity when I heard his voice, before I had even clapped eyes on him.

  I turned to see a man about my age with long, shoulder-length black hair that was as straight as an arrow. He was tall and slim, though certainly not gaunt, his face long with wide cheekbones. His neatly trimmed beard came to a point just beneath his chin accentuating the narrowness of his visage, so that he resembled a snake. As I was to discover, it was a most appropriate analogy. He was dressed in a rich black tunic with silver edging around the neck and cuffs, black leggings and black boots studded with silver. He wore a black leather belt, from which hung a sword in an expensive scabbard, also adorned with silver leaf.

  His soulless black eyes glinted with mocking arrogance as he bowed his head to me. ‘The whole empire has heard of King Pacorus. I salute you. How are you finding my kingdom?’

  ‘Your kingdom?’

  ‘Of course, did I not introduce myself? How rude of me. I am Prince Mithridates, former ruler of Dura.’

  He had five companions with him, all men about his age and all wearing expensive clothes and haughty expressions, save one at the end who seemed embarrassed by it all.

  ‘Long have I wanted to meet the hero of children’s stories and the friend of slaves.’ His voice was condescending and I felt an anger rise in me.

  ‘So, you are Prince Mithridates,’ I said.

  He smiled, revealing a row of perfect white teeth, the serpent’s fangs. ‘Indeed, majesty.’

  ‘It would have been good manners to have handed over your kingdom to me when I arrived at Dura, do you not think?’

  His smiled disappeared, to be replaced by a mask of contempt. ‘My grandfather was old and robbed of his senses when he saw fit to give you my throne.’

  His effrontery was breathtaking. ‘And you earned the throne through merit, did you?’

  ‘I certainly did not win it by consorting with slaves and other low-borns.’

  ‘Have a care, prince,’ I snarled, ‘your words may lead you into trouble.’

  He ignored my veiled threat and leered at Gallia.

  ‘So this is your queen. For once the street talk and brothel gossip do not lie. A rare beauty indeed. Such a waste to live in the scorpion-infested frontier outpost of Dura, though. A queen deserves a proper palace and kingdom befitting her great beauty.’

  Gallia smiled and glided towards him, stopping inches from him. His eyes were alight with lust.

  ‘And would you give me such a palace, lord prince?’ she purred.

  His eyes darted from hers to her long blonde hair, to her breasts and then back again to her blue eyes.

  ‘I would make you a queen among queens.’

  She moved her face slowly towards his, her full lips parting ever so slightly as if to kiss him. Time seemed to slow as we all stared, transfixed, by the scene. Then her right hand shot forward into his groin as she grabbed his genitals and held them in an iron grip. Pain contorted his face. Praxima squealed and burst into laughter while Nergal and the companions of Mithridates looked stunned.

  Gallia’s face was a mask of cold contempt as she held the prince’s most precious possessions firmly in place. ‘I have heard lots about you, little boy, and none of it is good. You are not fit to be called a prince, let alone a king, you who makes war upon small children. Did you think that I would be intereste
d in such a poor specimen of a man?’

  Now his friends had recovered from their shock and moved menacingly towards Gallia, hands on their sword hilts, except for the embarrassed one, but like lightning Domitus whipped out his gladius and had the point at the throat of the foremost man, a youth with a large nose and gold bracelets around his wrist. He looked alarmed as this cropped-haired barbarian pressed the point of his Roman sword into his neck.

  Gallia released Mithridates and he slumped to the floor in great pain. I stepped in front of my wife and folded my arms in front of me.

  ‘You defile this holy place with your presence, Mithridates. Leave us and go play with your toys.’

  Wincing, he staggered to his feet. I thought he was going to skulk away, but at that time I did not know his capacity for hate. He glowered at me, drew himself up to his full height and then drew his sword. I likewise drew mine, but before either of us had a chance to cross blades the embarrassed companion of Mithridates with the kindly face was between us. He grabbed Mithridates by the shoulders and pushed him away.

  ‘You cannot fight here, in this revered place.’

  ‘Get out of my way, brother,’ hissed Mithridates.

  So he was Mithridates’ brother. They were utterly different in looks and manner.

  As Mithridates sulked but made no attempt to attack me, his brother turned to face me.

  ‘Lord king, please forgive my brother’s intemperance. I would beg that you do not fight him for I have heard of your prowess in battle, and if you kill him then my honour will demand that I must avenge his death, and I would much rather get to know you as a friend rather than as an enemy.’

  He then went down on one knee before me and bowed his head.

  ‘Get up,’ I said, ‘and take your brother and his pets away.’

  Mithridates and his companions stood in a group behind the one with a sword at his throat. Their eyes still burned with hatred towards me, though none of them made any threatening moves.

  ‘Release him Domitus,’ I ordered. The commander of my legion sheathed his gladius and stared at the man with the gold bracelets, daring him to draw his sword. He did not.