by Peter Darman
‘And how crowded will it be?’ asked Spartacus.
The man looked up at the leaden sky. ‘It is very crowded during the summer festival. But now, with the approach of winter, numbers fall away.’
Spartacus looked at the Sarmatian. ‘And this track leads directly to it?’
The scout nodded. The king turned to Hovik.
‘Fetch him.’
Hovik turned but hesitated, swivelling to face his king.
‘Are you certain about this, lord? It is not too late to turn back.’
‘What? With a great prize within our grasp. Fortune favours the bold, Hovik. Just make sure you arrive on time. We will not have an inexhaustible supply of arrows.’
A troubled Hovik departed to return moments later with a slim individual in his twenties, his hair and beard as black as night.
‘This is Kuris, majesty,’ said Hovik.
Spartacus looked at the soldier. ‘Your general tells me you are the best shot in the whole army.’
‘General Hovik does me great honour, majesty,’ Kuris replied.
‘You are not worried about angering the gods?’
Kuris stared ahead. ‘The gods of Armenia are not my gods, majesty.’
‘And who is your god?’
‘Teshub, majesty, god of the sky, weather and storms.’
Spartacus looked at his sodden cloak. ‘He is certainly with us today, it would seem.’
The king swapped his helmet for a soft, pointed hat worn by all Gordyene’s horse archers. The blanket draped over his saddle hid the case fastened to it containing his recurve bow. His quiver holding thirty arrows was slung on his back under his cloak. The two gained their saddles and nudged their horses forward.
‘Obey General Hovik,’ Spartacus instructed his son, ‘and ignore Lord Spadines.’
‘The gods be with you, lord,’ grinned Spadines, nudging Akmon and winking.
The king and his companion rode into a wind gaining in strength as they continued to climb the track, eventually reaching the plateau that gave breath-taking views of the surrounding mountains, all now topped with snow. They saw no other travellers, leading Spartacus to believe that Spadines’ scout knew what he was talking about. Hopefully he would also be right about the number of guards at the gates.
‘You were at Lake Urmia?’ asked Spartacus.
‘Yes, majesty,’ answered Kuris, ‘I used many arrows.’
‘Let’s hope you won’t have to use many today. How many gold arrows do you possess?’
‘Three, majesty.’
Spartacus smiled to himself. Every year the kingdom held an archery competition open to everyone, regardless of sex, rank or civilian or military status. The only exceptions were the king and queen because if they were beaten it would damage their regal aura, or so their advisers told them. The winner was awarded a gold arrow and for Kuris to possess three was an indication of his expertise with a bow. The riches he and his king were about to steal would provide enough gold to create a thousand gold arrows.
Both had been riding with their heads bowed and hoods over their hats as a defence against the now biting wind, but when the king looked up he saw it. The temple of the Goddess Anahit. Sitting on the edge of a precipice with sheer rock walls dropping hundreds of feet to the river below, the edge of the plateau protected the temple on two sides. A high, thick stone wall shielded the other sides with small round towers along its length, giving sentries views of any approaching hostile force. But the only travellers nearing the temple of the Goddess of Fertility and Birth were two forlorn figures on horseback and a group on foot.
‘When we reach the gate, I’ll drop any at ground level,’ said Spartacus, ‘you get yourself on the wall.’
Kuris nodded as they passed a group of women on foot, all wrapped in thick cloaks with hoods and all chanting prayers to the goddess they had come to pray and give offerings to. Spartacus shook his head in despair at the desperate wretches.
‘Don’t waste your arrows killing worshippers,’ were his final words to Kuris as they jumped down from their horses to enter the temple grounds. The gate was only wide enough for two people abreast to enter and was only just over the height of a man to bar a rider on a horse. The gate looked very small set in the wall that must have been at least twenty feet high, the two guards standing above it eyeing Spartacus and Kuris as they led their horses towards them. Another sentry armed with a spear and shield bearing the ancient Armenian symbol of the Tree of Life held up a hand to them.
‘Greetings, friend,’ smiled Spartacus.
The guard eyed them, examining their cloaked frames and seeing the tips of their scabbards beneath the heavy wool shawls. He levelled his spear and called forward one of his comrades.
‘Why the hostility, friend?’ queried Spartacus. ‘We come in peace.’
‘Why are you armed?’ asked the guard.
Spartacus held out his left palm, in which were several gold coins.
‘We have come to make an offering to the goddess. We are armed because there are many dangers on the road.’
The guard peered at the gold coins, his eyes bulging in surprise when the dagger was plunged through his throat. Spartacus released the dagger, tossed his cloak aside and drew his sword to charge the second guard, brushing aside the spear blade to thrust the point of his blade into the man’s eye socket. The weight behind the blow meant the point exited the man’s skull and got stuck in the back of the iron helmet. Spartacus yanked back the sword but it would not budge.
‘Shit.’ He turned to Kuris. ‘Move!’
The archer pulled his bow from its case and raced past his king, nocking an arrow in the bowstring. He spun, took aim and shot the arrow hitting one of the men on the rampart, who crumpled on to the walkway. The other sentry raised his spear to throw at Kuris but the treble golden arrow winner had already strung a fresh arrow and released the bowstring before the temple guard had drawn back his arm. The spear clattered on the walkway as he doubled up in excruciating pain, the three-winged arrow having skewered his genitals.
Kuris ran up the stone steps a few paces from the gate and prepared to fight off the other temple guards he knew would come. Sure enough, the wails and screams of the pilgrims they had passed filling the air, a bell sounded and within half a minute at least a dozen temple guards were bounding towards the compound’s entrance. Spartacus had managed to wrench his sword free from its gory vice and now ran with bow in hand to stand beside his subject.
For Kuris it was all so easy, honed by years of hunting with his father in the mountains around Vanadzor, during which he had learned all the properties and deficiencies of bows and the missiles they shot. He learned how windage affected a shot, how far an arrow travelled in a straight line before dropping, how to measure trajectory to ensure an arrow struck its target, and how to ignore the distractions of charging wolves, boar and the unnerving chaos of battle to focus on a solitary target and kill it. So it was now as he released the bowstring to strike a temple guard at over fifty paces away, the man collapsing in a heap as the arrow pierced his chest.
The temple guards stopped, an officer bellowing orders at them to close ranks. They crouched, presented a wall of shields and began to shuffle forward, heads tight to the top rim of the shields to protect their faces. Kuris took another arrow from his quiver, nocked it, drew back the bowstring and let the sinew slip from his fingers. There was a scream as the temple guard on the far right of the line was struck in the face and collapsed. He shot another arrow that felled the guard on the far left of the line, the rest of the enemy soldiers halting.
‘Good shot,’ said Spartacus.
An arrow clattered into the wall just below his feet.
‘Archers,’ hissed Kuris. ‘Keep the heads of the guards down, majesty, I will take care of them.’
The temple archers were standing in a line behind the spearmen, around sixty paces away from the wall. Around them worshippers, temple priests and servants were running as fast as they could into
the temple itself, reaching it via stone steps cut into the high basalt podium on which it stood.
Kuris worked feverishly because he knew he and his king were sitting targets on the wall. He loosed ten arrows in less than a minute, half finding their targets but all keeping the heads of the enemy archers down. Spartacus was emptying his quiver shooting arrows at the temple guards huddling on the ground behind their shields. He glanced behind, over the wall. Where was Hovik?
‘I have five arrows left,’ shouted Kuris.
The king shot an arrow that thudded into a shield of a temple guard, causing him to curse in frustration. But his dissatisfaction disappeared when he heard horses’ hooves behind him and then the sound of Hovik’s voice shouting instructions to his men. The first to enter the temple compound were the horse archers, sprinting through the gate to shoot volley after volley at the line of temple guards. The Armenian line dissolved under the deluge of arrows, the survivors fleeing for their lives. Hovik was organising the score of dismounted spearmen, ordering them into a line that inched forward towards the enemy archers still shooting at the king and Kuris on the wall. They desisted when they came under the rain of arrows from the general’s dismounted horse archers.
‘Secure the compound,’ Spartacus shouted to his commander.
He bounded down the steps with Kuris following to embrace his son who was with Spadines and his men.
‘You are with me,’ he said to Akmon and the Sarmatian.
Hovik organised a sweep of the temple compound, the securing of the gate, the horses brought in, and then the entrance shut to bar any unwelcome guests. From inside the temple there came the sound of voices singing, a mournful tune imploring the Goddess Anahit to save her followers.
‘That won’t help them,’ growled Spartacus.
The temple was an impressive structure decorated with slender Ionian columns on all four sides and crowned by a roof with a triangular pediment. The pediment was decorated with carvings showing grapevines and pomegranates – traditional Armenian symbols. The tall, slender wooden doors had been shut but though impressive to look at, with red leather facings and polished brass studs, were not designed to withstand a siege.
‘Force an entrance,’ commanded Spartacus.
While Hovik organised the capture of those temple guards still living and their incarceration in a storeroom, Spadines ordered his men to fetch something to batter down the doors. And still those inside the temple continued to sing, irritating the King of Gordyene immensely.
‘I always hated attending the Grand Temple at Hatra,’ he complained, astounded when the Sarmatians began piling firewood against the doors.
‘What are you doing?’
‘We’ll burn them out, lord,’ grinned Spadines.
‘We can’t find a battering ram,’ said another.
So they made a great pile of firewood, doused it with oil and set it alight. Soon a fire was raging, the flames licking the doors that began to peel to reveal the wood underneath. Spadines was in his element, ordering his men to throw fresh fuel on the fire rapidly licking the pediment.
‘If the roof catches alight it will collapse and kill everyone inside,’ warned Hovik, shaking his head.
‘So?’ queried Spadines.
‘So if all the priests are killed we will not know the whereabouts of the gold we came for.’
Spartacus clutched his head in despair. ‘Extinguish the fire!’
The Sarmatians and his soldiers spent the next few minutes either pulling firebrands from the inferno or throwing water on the flames. Eventually they put the fire out, leaving the doors badly scorched and the beautiful façade of the temple black.
‘Batter them in,’ commanded Spartacus.
‘At least they are no longer singing, lord,’ said Spadines.
Hovik organised a dozen of his men to manhandle an empty water trough to the temple doors, the heavy stone vessel being rammed against the barriers to open them. Screams and wails emanated from inside as a second blow effected an entry and Spartacus bounded inside. His men and the Sarmatians followed, the interior of the temple filled with the aroma of wood smoke. Four temple guards barred the king’s way but behind him archers flanking left and right, pointed their nocked arrows at them.
‘Surrender or die,’ roared the king.
They threw down their weapons, whereupon a white-robed man in his fifties marched from the altar.
‘Who are you to defile this holy place?’
Spartacus, sword in hand, squared up to him. The priest was shorter than the king with a flushed face, bushy beard and huge belly threatening to split his thick white robe.
‘Who are you?’ he demanded.
‘King Spartacus of Gordyene. And you?’
The priest stepped back, astounded, for a few seconds lost for words. Was this really the man whose Sarmatian allies terrorised the southern lands of Armenia, the man who was the son of a slave who had wreaked havoc in the heart of the Roman world before being killed? But surely even he would not defile a temple of the goddess?
‘Avag, high priest to the Great Lady. You risk eternal damnation for the horror you have committed here.’
Spartacus sheathed his sword and turned to his men. ‘Find it.’
They began ransacking the temple, oblivious to the weeping women and terrified male priests huddling together near the statue behind the altar. Spartacus saw it and stared at the golden image of the goddess. He smiled maliciously as he recognised the precious metal.
‘Take the statue,’ he commanded.
‘No!’ bellowed Avag, turning on his heels to race back to the statue of the Goddess Anahit. The younger priests linked arms in defiance to form a human chain before the altar, behind them the glaring figure of Avag. To one side around a dozen striking young women in white robes, were standing in front of the perhaps score of worshippers to protect them. Spartacus smiled when he noticed that the hierodoulai, the sacred slaves of the temple, were huddled against one wall out of the way. Sighing, Spartacus beckoned his son forward. Akmon was staring in wonderment at the young beauties shielding the worshippers.
‘You see how religious fervour can poison a man’s mind, Akmon?’
‘I do not understand, father.’
Spartacus unshouldered his bow and snapped his fingers for one of his men to provide him with an arrow. He knocked the missile.
‘These priests are alone and defenceless and yet they believe their god will save them.’
He pulled back the bowstring, though not to its full extent, and released it. The arrow struck one of the male priests in the shoulder, the man squealing like a cornered pig as he spun to the floor.
‘You will all stand aside or my men will cut you down,’ threatened Spartacus.
Akmon, wide-eyed, stared at the injured priest whose white robe was turning red.
‘He’ll live,’ said his father.
‘You cannot take the statue,’ shouted Avag.
Hovik reported to his king. ‘No gold in the temple, lord, aside from the statue.’
Spartacus slapped him on the arm and stepped forward, handing his son his bow. He spread his arms.
‘Before I make my demands, I would like to clarify the situation you all find yourself in. Your guards are either dead or in chains, there are no Armenian soldiers nearby and your fate lies in my hands.’
He took two steps towards the priests standing before the altar, two of whom were tending to their injured colleague.
‘I know many ladies of quality come to this temple to make offerings to the goddess of fertility and birth. They make donations to the temple in the hope that by doing so Anahit will grant their desire to become mothers. This is common knowledge. So, surrender your horde of gold or face the consequences.’
Avag sneered at the demand. ‘We are servants of the Lady of the Land, the Nourishing Mother, the daughter of Aramazd, the father of all the gods and goddesses and the creator of heaven and earth. You risk his wrath, slave king, for who are you but t
he bastard son of a slave?’
Spartacus nodded and waved over Spadines. ‘Take him outside and throw him off the precipice.’
The priests, priestesses and worshippers cried out in anguish, clasping their hands to their breasts in their misery. Spadines and two of his men manhandled the high priest and dragged him towards the charred doors.
One of the priests rushed forward. Hovik, thinking he was an assassin, drew his sword and stepped in front of his king. The priest fell to his knees, his hands clasped together.
‘Spare High Priest Avag, I beg you.’
Spartacus stepped in front of Hovik. ‘Then tell me where the gold is.’
‘Under the floor,’ came the answer.
‘Bring the priest back,’ Spartacus called to Spadines.
The fat high priest, cursing at his subordinate, was shoved back towards the altar as Spartacus queried the young man further.
‘Where under the floor?’
‘Behind the altar, under the slabs behind the statute, may the goddess forgive me.’
Spartacus lifted him back to his feet. ‘I’m sure she will. Take comfort in the knowledge that you have saved the lives of everyone in the temple. Remove the slabs.’
It was a rich haul, the accumulation of years of donations by Armenia’s high and low. There were jewels and silver but mostly it was gold. Gold bars, gold coins, gold earrings, gold rings, gold necklaces, gold diadems and gold bracelets. It was all removed and loaded on the packhorses, much to the chagrin of the priests and priestesses who were manhandled outside to be confined in one of the stable blocks. As one of the priestesses passed Spartacus she pulled a knife from her robe and attempted to stab him in the chest, not realising his armour – rows of overlapping iron scales riveted onto a thick hide cuirass – would easily stop the blow. He stared bemused as the dagger glanced off his scale armour, knocking the blade out of the girl’s hand. He gripped her by the throat. The soldiers around him began laughing as he began to choke the life out of her, her arms flailing around wildly as she struggled in vain to free herself from the king’s iron grip.
