by Peter Darman
‘Your task was to create division between Phraates and King Pacorus,’ she told them, ‘but instead your nerve failed and you fled Sigal. Why should I reward failure?’
Cookum placed his hands together, his heavy jowls quivering. ‘We did not fail, highness. We had convinced King Pacorus and all his friends Vartan was the son of Orodes, and he was determined to resist the high king’s attempts to have Vartan taken to Ctesiphon.’
‘But the Kushans invaded Sakastan and everything changed,’ chirped in Vartan.
‘We are wanted men, highness,’ said Cookum, ‘and need to get out of Parthia.’
Aliyeh’s tone softened and she smiled. ‘Of course. Eat with me tonight and we can discuss your leaving the empire.’
The centrepiece of the villa’s dining room was a large oblong table where once Aliyeh and Atrax had sat at each end and entertained guests. Not the large, formal occasions held in the palace but intimate gatherings of friends. They were served wine sourced from the vineyards surrounding the villa and consumed food grown or raised on nearby farms. Aliyeh had been happy then but that was many years ago.
She watched Cookum and Vartan devour the food laid before them, not so much eating the lamb and chicken kebabs as shovelling them down their throats. They gulped down the wine greedily, both holding out their cups to be refilled when empty, which was often. No amount of rich apparel could hide their lowborn origins and the queen only toyed with her food, disgusted as she was by their manners. She picked at the lettuce dipped in honey and vinegar dressing and sipped at her wine.
Cookum slurped his wine. ‘A small amount of gold will suffice to see us on our way, highness.’
‘I promise you will soon be on your way,’ Aliyeh reassured him.
‘At least I seduced King Pacorus’ daughter,’ boasted Vartan, bread hanging from the corner of his mouth. ‘She was a willing victim.’
‘I trust you maintained the fiction during your intimacy with her,’ probed Aliyeh.
Vartan gave a salacious leer. ‘She thought she was being bedded by the son of a king of kings.’
He finished his wine and held out his cup, Cookum doing likewise. Seated opposite each other, they were grinning in triumph at the prospect of more gold to live their indolent lifestyle. Two male servants came forward, moving behind the pair and wrapping cords around their necks. Their surprise turned to fear as the cords were pulled tight and the assassins began throttling the pair.
Aliyeh took a sip of wine to the accompaniment of choking sounds as Vartan and Cookum both clutched at the cords in a desperate, futile attempt to save themselves.
‘Did you really think you could extort gold from me? What possessed you to return to Media after your dismal failure?’
The faces of both Vartan and Cookum turned red as the life was throttled out of them, their eyes bulging from their sockets and their purple tongues protruding from their mouths. The slaves, both burly farm hands who worked on the estate, were used to heavy labour but had been instructed not to break the guests’ necks. They were strangled slowly, Aliyeh smiling as the life was choked out of them until they were silent and resembled grotesque statues with bloated, fear-filled faces.
‘Take the bodies away and burn them,’ she commanded, the slaves manhandling the still-warm corpses from the dining room.
Aliyeh caught the eye of a slave holding a jug of wine and nodded to him. He came forward and filled her silver cup. She picked up a chicken kebab and took a bite. Her appetite had suddenly returned.
*****
General Geghard was banished from court as punishment for losing Armenia’s second city, and would have lost his head had it not have been for the arrival of Mark Antony. The reverse at Van was all but forgotten when an emissary arrived from the triumvir carrying a message from Cleopatra’s lover stating he wished to repair Roman-Armenian relations and would he consider a marriage between his son Alexander Helios and the daughter of Artavasdes? Both parties were young children but that was irrelevant. Such a union would certainly cement relations between Mark Antony and Armenia, and Artavasdes at first alarmed, was delighted to think his abandonment of the triumvir appeared to have been forgotten, or at least forgiven.
As a gesture of goodwill, Mark Antony had left his army several miles to the west of Artaxata and had arrived in the city with a small escort of horsemen. In celebration of their arrival Artavasdes had laid on a lavish feast in the palace and had thrown open the gates of the city to welcome all and sundry to the royal capital, the basileion of the country. As well as its theatre Artaxata boasted bathhouses, a treasury, markets and temples dedicated to Anahit, Artemis and Tir. It was a beautiful, cultured city and now Mark Antony had arrived it would be safe from the barbarian Parthians.
The triumvir himself sat next to the king and his wife, both dressed in ridiculous tall conical hats. Artavasdes was wearing a combination of red and purple silk robes, the colours of bravery and wisdom respectively. He looked around at the courtiers, treasurers, accountants, collectors of taxes and priests sitting at tables at right angles to the top table where he was seated. The dignitaries and their wives were attired in a dazzling display of coloured silks – Armenia was truly a rich land.
‘When will you march against the Parthians?’ probed the king.
‘As soon as other business has been settled,’ smiled Antony. ‘How many men did you lose at their hands?
The king threw up his hands. ‘Too many. My imbecile general marched his army straight into a trap. His wits had obviously deserted him. How else could the barbarian King Spartacus defeat Armenia’s army?’
Antony raised an eyebrow. ‘King Spartacus of Gordyene?’
‘You have encountered him?’
‘At Phraaspa,’ replied Antony.
‘I need to piss.’
All eyes turned on the king’s oldest son, Artaxias, who was clearly bored by proceedings. The queen frowned at him but he rose from his seat and walked from the dais to exit the hall via a rear door giving access to the royal quarters behind the feasting chamber. He would not walk to the latrines; rather, he belched, leaned against the wall and began emptying his bladder. He would inform the marshal of the court that the corridor stank of piss. Slaves could clear up the mess. That was their task, after all.
Mark Antony was all charm and flattery, reassuring Artavasdes he and Cleopatra wanted him and his family to be close to theirs and promising a new era for Armenia. Artavasdes, relieved and delighted in equal measure, rose from his gold chair and called for silence. The marshal of the court rapped his silver-tipped pole on the stone floor.
‘My lords, we are honoured to have at Artaxata Mark Antony and Quintus Dellius, our dearest Roman allies.’
Polite applause greeted the king’s words, Artavasdes waiting for it to stop before continuing.
‘The gods have answered my prayers following the recent tragedy at Van and have sent to us the triumvir and his army, who has pledged to eject the barbarians from Van and restore the borders of Armenia.’
This pronouncement was followed by more fulsome applause, allowing the king to bask in the adulation of his court. He was beaming from ear to ear when a Roman centurion strode into the hall, his helmet with its red transverse crest making him appear taller than he was.
Titus Tullus was nasty, brutish and cunning, a man born to wage war. Had he not joined the legions he would have been crucified years before for robbery, murder, rape or a combination of all three. But service in the army of Rome had tempered the crude ore to create an effective weapon. A veteran of Pharsalus, Philippi and the abortive campaign against the Parthians, he was a ‘first spear’ centurion, the highest-ranking centurion in his legion, and was trusted implicitly by Mark Antony. The guests, thinking he was some sort of entertainer, merely looked at him expectantly as he marched up to the triumvir and saluted.
‘Everything is secured, centurion?’
‘All gates, walls and barracks have been secured, sir, along with the palace.’
/> He turned, put the whistle to his lips and blew it. The diners turned to look at the doors and saw two lines of legionaries run into the hall, rushing the Armenian guards and disarming them. The guards were roughly bundled from the hall and the remaining legionaries stood with their backs to the walls, facing the guests with swords drawn.
‘I do not understand,’ said Artavasdes in a faltering voice.
Mark Antony stood beside the hapless king whose palace was full of Roman legionaries. The guests were talking and murmuring among themselves.
‘Silence!’ spat Titus Tullus in Greek. He had picked up a working knowledge of the language during his long service under Mark Antony.
The marshal of the court marched over to him and raised his stick, to be killed instantly when the centurion’s gladius was rammed through his throat. The women and more sensitive nobles quaked and screamed as blood sheeted from the marshal’s throat and continued to pump out of his body as it crumpled to the floor. Some threw up the meal they had been enjoying and others fainted at the sight of the horror.
‘The next one to move will be crucified,’ threatened Tullus.
‘Your Greek is improving, centurion,’ smiled Antony.
Artaxias, having finally drained his bladder, walked to the door and was about to open it but stopped. He had many failings but his sense of self-preservation was finely tuned and he sensed something was wrong. His fears were confirmed when he opened the door an inch and peered through the gap to see Roman soldiers in the hall and rows of frightened courtiers and officials. He could see the standing figures of his father and Mark Antony and the backs of the rest of his family. It was time to make good his escape.
‘Sit down,’ Antony hissed to Artavasdes, who did as he was told.
The triumvir began addressing the stunned guests.
‘First of all, I wish to thank King Artavasdes for opening the gates of his city to allow my soldiers to take control of Artaxata. It has saved much time and many lives, not least your own for be under no illusion that I would have ordered every male citizen be put to the sword after I had stormed the city, and the women and children sold into slavery.’
Some of the women began to sob, comforted by their ashen-faced husbands.
‘However,’ continued Antony, ‘as I have possession of the city there is no need to disturb the general populace. You are all Roman citizens now and as such are subject to Roman laws and customs. Tullus.’
The burly centurion ordered half a dozen of his men to accompany him as he marched to the top table, to stand behind Artavasdes. He knocked the king’s hat off his head, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and manhandled him to the door behind the table, shoving him through it. The rest of the royal family were unceremoniously bundled out of the chamber.
‘It stinks of piss in here,’ shouted Tullus as he marched the King of Armenia down the corridor.
That was last time the great and the good of Artaxata saw their king and his family.
Artaxias had long gone, first to his quarters to shed his silk top and don a simpler attire of plain tunic and leggings and a cloak with a hood so he could disguise himself. He took the large pouch of gold he always kept in his bedroom and hastened from the palace. He had an intimate knowledge of its halls, corridors and chambers, all of which were rapidly filling with Roman soldiers as Quintus Dellius organised a sweep of the royal residence to capture the absent prince. But Artaxias was one step ahead and made for the one place the Romans would not look: the secret tunnel beneath the palace leading down to the river and a waiting boat. The tunnel was reached via a trap door in the king’s private wine cellar and as such was known only to the royal family. It had been constructed on the advice of a Carthaginian general named Hannibal who had taken refuge in Armenia following his defeat at the hands of the Romans. He had provided advice on the layout of the city and the prince thanked the long-dead general for providing the means to allow him to escape.
Artaxias reached the cellar unseen, locked the door after he had entered and lifted the trap door positioned behind a rack of amphora. He heard the muffled sounds of men shouting in the corridor outside and descended the ladder beneath the trap door, locking the bolts on its underside as he did so. He cursed for not bringing a torch or oil lamp with him but felt his way along the damp tunnel, which sloped downwards to a small jetty where two rowboats were moored. It was a moonlit night and pale grey light flooded the chamber to illuminate the boats, the jetty and the River Araxes outside.
He untied the first boat and stepped aboard, positioning the oars in their brackets and pushing off from the jetty. His heart pounded as the boat drifted into the river, the thought of Roman archers lining the walls above filling his mind. He froze and let the current take the boat. He was a sitting duck for any archer but the Romans were concentrating on rounding up people inside the palace and gave no thought to the river outside. Artaxias looked up and saw no sign of activity on the walls. He heaved a huge sigh of relief and began rowing to increase the speed of the boat to expedite his escape from his father’s capital.
*****
Vanadzor was never foetid in summer, unlike many of the towns and cities in Parthia that baked under a relentless Mesopotamian sun in the hottest months. Because it was nestled in the Pambak Valley and surrounded by tree-covered hills, Vanadzor was blessed by pleasant breezes that blew away the stench of humans and animals. Instead of the aroma of animal and human waste the city was blessed with fresh mountain air spiced with the scent of trees. Because of this, incidences of disease and pestilence were rare, though the poor still lived a life of being one meal away from starvation.
Spartacus knew they were coming, having been alerted of their impending visit by couriers. And he knew why they were coming, which had a strange effect on him, a mixture of annoyance and trepidation. Now they were here. He had climbed the steps in the gatehouse to the top of the battlements above the three storeys to view their arrival, taking Kuris with him.
‘What do you see?’ asked Spartacus.
The far end of the valley was filled by a column of horses and camels, at its head two banners fluttering in the breeze.
‘Two standards, one showing a white horse’s head on a red background, the other a red griffin on a white background.’
The standards were still indistinct at over half a mile away but it was common knowledge in the city that the king’s uncle and father were on their way.
‘Your eyesight is keen indeed, Kuris.’
Spartacus pointed at the head of the column. ‘The man on the right, with the white feathers in his helmet and a black cuirass?’
‘Your uncle, majesty, King Pacorus of Dura.’
‘And the men next to him?’
‘Your father, King Gafarn of Hatra.’
‘You are wrong, Kuris, for those two men are the two pillars that support the Parthian Empire. Many think King of Kings Phraates is the glue that bonds the empire together but they are wrong.
‘The ties forged between my uncle and his friends in Italy over thirty years ago are the real threads that tie the empire together. You have heard of the Companions?’
Kuris nodded. ‘They are a legend throughout all Parthia, majesty.’
‘The head of that select group sits on Dura’s throne, his brother is ruler of Hatra and his close friend is King Nergal of Mesene.’
‘And King Gafarn’s son sits on Gordyene’s throne,’ said Kuris.
Spartacus continued, his voice filled with admiration.
‘My uncle was lord high general of the empire three times, he is the victor of the great civil war, the man who ensured his friend Orodes ascended the high throne, who defeated the Romans at Dura, Carrhae and Phraaspa, and lately almost single-handedly saved the eastern kingdoms of the empire from Kushan subjugation. Without King Pacorus of Dura the empire would have fragmented long ago.’
Part of the column had diverted away from the road to begin pitching tents in the valley. Hatra’s Royal Bodyguard always acco
mpanied its king and queen when they left their city, but there was not room enough to accommodate five hundred cataphracts, a thousand squires and dozens of camels in Vanadzor. Not with thousands of Immortals, the Vipers and the king’s bodyguard quartered in the city. Gordyene’s horse archers, made up of the kingdom’s lords and their retainers, had gone back to their homes throughout the kingdom. Only Kuris and a hundred of his fellow archers remained in Vanadzor.
‘They have come to congratulate you on your recent victory, majesty?’ asked the archer.
‘Perhaps.’
But as he hurried from the gatehouse he knew the reverse was probably true. His uncle was a stickler when it came to the affairs of the empire and viewed individual kingdoms waging wars of aggression beyond its frontiers with horror. His father also believed the empire should speak with one voice, which meant Phraates should lead any campaigns launched beyond Parthia’s frontiers.
Rasha and her boys were waiting on the palace steps to greet their relatives, the king hurrying to her side. Akmon looked splendid in his armour and helmet, Castus and Haytham in red tunics and black leggings like the king’s bodyguard on parade in the courtyard.
Not all the ukku swords had been forged but enough had been produced by Gurgen and his sword smiths to equip a hundred of the king’s bodyguard, now officially titled the King’s Guard, which stood rigidly to attention as the rulers of Dura and Hatra trotted into the courtyard. Stable hands walked forward to take the mounts of Pacorus, Gallia, Gafarn, Diana and Prince Pacorus, the latter as ever immaculate in a gleaming scale-armour cuirass and burnished helmet adorned with white plumes.
