by Peter Darman
Spartacus watched with a mixture of anticipation and awe as the giant, a huge leather apron protecting his torso and groin, used tongs to turn the ingot in the fire. He wanted to ask questions but Gurgen at a forge was like a priest undertaking a sacred ritual and was not to be disturbed. Spartacus’ ears were already ringing with the incessant noise inside the workshop, the roar of bellows, men shouting and hot metal being hammered on anvils. He made a terrible error when he picked up a large hammer lying on a bench near the furnace.
‘Put it down and piss off,’ shouted Gurgen, turning the head of his apprentice filling a bucket from the pile of charcoal nearby.
Spartacus was going to object but knew it would be a losing battle. He was king, outside these black walls anyway, but inside them he was an irritant. He sloped off back to the palace, turning to take a last look at Gurgen and his sword smiths turning ukku cakes into swords.
He returned the next day and the day after, being careful not to touch any of Gurgen’s tools. Gradually the troll’s frostiness melted and in between leaving the metal in the furnace would reveal glimpses of his art as the pair sat outside in the cool air drinking even colder water to quench their thirsts.
‘My master, the gods love him, always taught me that a blade must be heated until it glows like the sun rising in the desert,’ he told Spartacus.
‘Sounds straightforward enough,’ said the king, trying to remember his youth at Hatra and what the sun looked like as it rose after dawn.
Gurgen emitted a deep chuckle. ‘If it was straightforward then every farmer and city dweller would have a furnace in his home. It takes time to learn the craft.’
‘How long have you been a sword smith?’
‘Fifteen years, and before that ten years an apprentice.’
Inside the workshop his piece of ukku had been left in the furnace where it would stay for several hours, after which the work with hammer and tongs would begin afresh.
Gurgen closed his eyes and took a deep breath. ‘It takes years of knowledge to produce a sword that is exactly right.’
Spartacus was enthralled. ‘Exactly right?’
‘A blade that is hard, tough, keeps a good edge and is able to withstand the rigors of use.’
He looked at Spartacus. ‘One that rings like a bell when striking a blow and shows only a few nicks in the blade, even after a generation of use.’
‘Ukku will produce such a sword, my friend.’
He growled. ‘We will see.’
The process went on, the ukku being hammered into shape over several days. It was quenched in a vat of heated hemp oil, the blade hissing like an angry snake when it was slowly immersed in the liquid. Gurgen was holding the metal resembling a sword blade with a pair of tongs.
‘Of course, there is a better liquid for quenching sword blades.’
Spartacus’ eyes lit up. ‘Name it and it shall be yours.’
‘Dragon’s blood,’ Gurgen gave an evil grin. ‘You got any of that?’
‘No. Dragons no longer roam the earth.’
When it was finished the blade was covered with burnt oil, removed by heating it enough to set alight a piece of wood. Then it was rubbed with a rag. The majority of the work was finished but the hilt – pommel, grip and guard – had to be added, another two days at least. The king was disappointed at the rate of production for his new swords but Gurgen and his ten smiths worked as fast as they could, refusing to sacrifice quality for time.
Only the mountain tops were covered with snow when Gurgen made his way to the palace after sending a message to the king that his sword was ready. The officers of the army were assembled in the palace hall, a sea of red tunics, black leggings, scale armour and burnished helmets, Hovik standing next to the black stone dais where the king and Rasha sat. On the other side stood Narin, the commander of the Vipers and close friend and confidante of the queen. Her name meant ‘delicate’ but her elegant features disguised an expert archer and merciless foe of Gordyene’s enemies. The three princes were also present, standing near their mother, Akmon wearing armour, his arm now fully recovered. Lusin had been banned from attending what was a strictly Gordyene affair.
The doors of the chamber swung open and Gurgen strode in, his massive arms bare and his leggings dirty and torn. He was still wearing his leather apron, which was scarred from being showered with tiny hot splinters, his forearms similarly decorated. No one cared about the sword smith’s appearance, all eyes being focused on what he was carrying in his right hand. The sword in its scabbard looked small in his paw-like hand but a ripple of excitement coursed through the hall in anticipation of something exceptional about to be revealed.
Gurgen halted in front of the dais, tipped his head in a weak impersonation of a bow and held out his right hand. Spartacus, barely able to conceal his glee, rose from the simple though sturdy wooden throne to grab the scabbard. He pulled the blade from it and slashed the air with his new sword, before admiring the swirling patterns on the black blade. Ukku meant ‘steel’ in the Telugu language of southern India, but what steel it was: light and springy.
Spartacus unbuckled his sword belt and called over Akmon.
He handed his son his sword. ‘For you.’
The king then nodded to Hovik who drew his sword and held it vertically in front of the king, gripping the handle with both hands. It was not his own sword but a weapon fashioned in Vanadzor’s armouries nonetheless. Gurgen growled in disapproval as Spartacus stepped from the dais, drew back the ukku blade and made a diagonal attack against Hovik’s weapon. There was a blur of black, a dull thud and then a sharp clatter as the top half of Hovik’s sword dropped on to the stone floor. The hall erupted in cheers, Spartacus raised the ukku blade aloft and Gurgen marched from the chamber in disgust over the waste of a perfectly good sword.
*****
How things had changed for Mark Antony, triumvir, lover of Queen Cleopatra and joint ruler of the eastern Roman world with his Egyptian beauty. Nearly two years before he had invaded Parthia at the head of one hundred thousand soldiers, a mixture of legionaries and non-Romans, accompanied by Armenian allies and a siege train carried on three hundred wagons. He had lost his siege engines, his Armenian allies and around a third of his army. Now he was returning to Armenia at the head of four legions – each one understrength – a total of sixteen thousand legionaries. His Gallic horsemen numbered two thousand and his auxiliaries totalled a further four thousand, a rabble of Cappadocian slingers, Syrian archers and skirmisher horsemen, and Pontic foot javelinists. There was also a small siege train to accompany his ragtag army of twenty-two thousand men.
‘The Armenians refer to spring as the season of love and beauty,’ remarked Quintus Dellius absently.
Antony, sullen and silent, did not answer. He was thinking about the inevitable coming clash with Octavian and his need to settle affairs speedily in Armenia. The march north was an unwelcome diversion but Artavasdes needed to be punished for his treachery to show the world, and more importantly his Pontic, Syrian, Cilician, Greek and Cappadocian allies, that he was not to be crossed.
‘At least we won’t have snow this time,’ continued Quintus.
It was fine marching weather, the ground firm, no rain, but a northerly breeze to keep the temperature cool – ideal for legionaries hauling around eighty pounds on their backs. Not precisely on their backs but carrying a furca – a pole around four feet in length with a crossbar – serving as a support for bags and personal effects. The furca sat naturally on the shield in its leather cover carried on the men’s backs, thus distributing the weight evenly.
‘This campaign needs to be short and sharp,’ said Antony, finally coming back to the real world. ‘We march to Artaxata, storm it if necessary and capture Artavasdes. Either that or take his dead body back to Alexandria.’
‘Why do all these important Armenians name themselves Arta something?’ asked Quintus. ‘Their king is Artavasdes, his capital is called Artaxata and his eldest son is named Artaxias. Ext
raordinary.’
‘They are all named after Artaxias the First,’ Antony told him, ‘the founder of Armenia’s Artaxiad Dynasty.’
‘Must be extremely confusing for the royal family,’ said Quintus.
‘Matters will be simplified when we have captured Artavasdes and his family.’
Quintus was surprised. ‘You wish to end the dynasty?’
Antony nodded. ‘Armenia will become a Roman province.’
Quintus cast a glance behind at the legions marching six abreast through the sweeping Cilician countryside. Ahead was the baggage train and beyond that the covering force of mixed foot and horse, and ahead of that the scouts. He was glad to be away from the heat and flies of Alexandria and even more delighted to be away from Cleopatra and her entourage of eunuchs and homosexuals. For some reason the queen had taken a dislike to him. Why he did not know. Of course, Quintus Dellius fancied himself a wit but his sarcastic tongue had a habit of riling those on the receiving end of it, which included Cleopatra. His close friendship with Mark Antony gave him a high degree of protection, which made his enemies dislike him even more. For his part, Antony liked Quintus because he provided him with a constant supply of willing young women to entertain him, another reason for Cleopatra’s enmity. Quintus began whistling as he considered the possibility his friend might make him governor of Armenia.
*****
‘Will he come?’
Spartacus, perching on the edge of a stone water trough, stopped admiring his ukku sword.
‘Of course, he is a man of honour from an ancient family. The idea of reneging on a previously agreed meeting would fill him with horror.’
The trough was cracked and filled with stagnant water, the buildings surrounding it in various states of disrepair. But all were empty and without roofs, several were charred ruins, indicating the settlement had been pillaged. Spartacus looked up at Spadines and smiled. It was probably one of his raiding parties that did the damage, or perhaps the leader of the Aorsi himself. They were in the village of Catak set in a steep, north–south valley confined by high mountains in the east and west. The ravine was densely wooded with beech and oak, the higher slopes being bare grass and above that snow. The small river running by the side of the settlement was a raging torrent, bursting with spring melt water, filling the ravine with a roaring sound. Spartacus smiled. Soon Armenia would hear the roar of the lion of Gordyene.
Once Catak had been a thriving settlement, part of Greater Armenia that cowered its enemies. But it and many other settlements in the borderlands had long been abandoned as new powers rose to challenge the rule of Artavasdes.
‘They are here, lord.’
Spartacus stood as the party of horsemen appeared at the far end of the village, brightly coloured cataphracts in gleaming armour of alternating scales of brass and iron that made them shimmer in the spring sunshine. Their burnished helmets were decorated with purple plumes and scale-armour suits protected the bodies of their horses. They had left their long lances at home but still cut a formidable appearance, each horseman carrying a long sword, mace and dagger. At their head rode Geghard, general of the king’s armies, lord of the city of Van only forty miles to the north, and the head of the Sunik clan, one of Armenia’s oldest and largest tribes.
Spartacus sheathed his sword, stood and waved forward two of his men who were guarding Geghard’s daughter. Lusin, morose after saying goodbye to Akmon and enduring a tedious journey in the company of his father, was suddenly transformed when she caught sight of her own father. Geghard slid from his saddle and walked purposely forward towards her, prompting Spartacus to place himself between the pair.
‘Not so fast, my lord, we have a transaction to conclude before any tearful reunion.’
Geghard removed his helmet ignoring the upstart King of Gordyene.
‘Are you well, daughter?’
Spartacus answered instead. ‘Of course she is well. We are not barbarians.’
Geghard turned up his nose at the grubby Spadines beside Spartacus.
‘Just thieves.’
‘Bring the scales,’ commanded Spartacus.
Four of his soldiers manhandled a wooden frame forward, from which was attached a crossbeam. Hanging on one end of the latter was a seat, on the other a large metal tray.
Spartacus turned to Lusin. ‘If you would sit in the seat, lady.’
The watching cataphracts murmured angrily but Geghard ordered them to be quiet, calling forward the two-wheeled cart pulled by a single horse. The driver jumped down from his seat and assisted another man to unload small gold bars from the rear of the vehicle. Lusin, looking daggers at a smug Spartacus, barged through her two escorts and plonked herself in the seat. The Armenians began loading the tray with the gold until the scales were evenly balanced.
Spartacus rubbed his hands. ‘All’s well that ends well. Our business is concluded.’
Lusin jumped from the seat and ran into her father’s arms, the two locked in a touching embrace. Spartacus’ men began loading the gold bars into the saddlebags of the packhorses they had brought, Spadines and his band of men mounting their horses in preparation for their departure. Geghard escorted Lusin to the cart and assisted her into the vehicle before returning to face Spartacus. He was older than the king but just as tall and more heavily built. In his armour he looked a formidable opponent.
‘This is not over,’ he threatened Spartacus.
‘I never thought it was. In fact, I was counting on it.’
Geghard rested a hand on the hilt of his sword.
‘We could always settle things the old way, one on one, and let the gods decide who is better.’
Spartacus was tempted and was itching to try out his new sword. But if he killed Geghard what would that achieve? Just the death of a single Armenian. No, he would stick to the plan, galling though it was. He tipped his head to the general.
‘Today is not for spilling blood.’
Geghard snorted in disgust, turned and marched back to his horse. Spartacus and his men watched the Armenians leave, Lusin turning her head away from him as the cart was reversed to follow the line of cataphracts, two of their number waiting to form a rearguard. A soldier brought the king’s horse and he vaulted into the saddle. He and Spadines were the last to leave the village, delaying their departure to ensure the Armenians did not break their word regarding the parley.
‘Remind me what your scouts informed you,’ said Spartacus.
‘There is a great Armenian army in Van, lord. Many horse and foot made their way there as soon as the snows melted, along with carts and supplies. An invasion of Gordyene is on everyone’s lips.’
Van was an ancient settlement, people having lived on the eastern shore of the lake of the same name for thousands of years. But the great citadel that sat like an eagle perched on a rock was over a thousand years old, though there was none of the original stronghold extant, the fortress having been destroyed and rebuilt several times during its turbulent history. The plain to the east of the city was flat and fertile, with an abundance of fields, vineyards and orchards. Van was a prospering city, the gateway to southern Armenia and a springboard for any invasion of Gordyene. That was why Geghard had assembled an army in the city, or to be precise outside its walls, the round tents of varying sizes and colours circling its high, thick walls. Those who had been recruited from the highlands – the skirmishers and axe men – slept in the open under a blanket, the cataphracts and lesser noble horsemen in clean barracks inside the city. But all were rushing round like men possessed when word reached Lord Geghard that an army was approaching from the south.
Spartacus had used several of the steep mountain passes to infiltrate southern Armenia, his troops moving north at the same time he and Spadines were parleying with the father of Lusin. The tents and baggage had been left in the hills, the king marching with his foot soldiers as they tramped across the lush grassland to the south of Van. It was another glorious spring day, puffy white clouds filling the sky an
d a pleasant breeze blowing in the faces of ten thousand foot soldiers marching in column.
During his youth Spartacus had lived in Hatra, with frequent sojourns in Dura, especially when his adolescent temper got the better of him. But in between bouts of rage and rebellion he tried to learn as much as possible about the military arts. Because his contemporaries in Hatra never let him forget he was the son of slaves and indeed the adopted son of former slaves, he was determined to be better than those who taunted him. Better when it came to riding a horse, wielding a sword and shooting a bow, and when he became a king better at ruling a kingdom and commanding its army. He hated the Romans but he realised their foot soldiers were the best in the world; indeed, they had conquered half the world. So like his uncle he copied their methods, but unlike at Dura it was forbidden to call the ten thousand foot soldiers that marched, dressed and fought in a similar fashion to the Romans legionaries. Instead they were called Immortals after the formation of the same name that had guarded the kings of Persia. Above their barracks in Vanadzor was the motto: ‘At no time greater or less than 10,000’.
The raising, training and equipping of such a force put strains on the finances of the kingdom, made easier by the presence of the Aorsi who in return for lands in northern Gordyene sent a portion of their plunder to Vanadzor. Now their leader and three thousand of his men accompanied the Immortals as they tramped in a leisurely fashion towards Van, forming the vanguard of the army. The Sarmatians were a scruffy lot, dressed as they were in a myriad of different colours and wearing a mixture of mail and leather armour or no armour at all. They carried a mix of weapons, ranging from bows, spears, swords, maces and axes, though every horse was well fed, groomed and looked in peak condition.
