by Peter Darman
‘We are at war with Gordyene,’ Geghard corrected him. ‘King of Kings Phraates may look kindly on our plea to seek sanctuary within his empire.’
Artaxias was unconvinced. ‘Or he may have us clapped in chains.’
Geghard shrugged. ‘He may, but I believe he will be more concerned about Roman-occupied Armenia and the threat that poses, rather than imprisoning a potential ally.’
‘Ally?’
‘Time for Armenia to pledge its allegiance to Parthia rather than Rome I think, majesty.’
Artaxias did not answer. He glanced behind to see the covered wagon, inside which Geghard’s weeping wife was being comforted by Lusin, the general’s son Vahan leading the walking cataphracts around it and behind them a ragged column of slaves. This was his kingdom – barefoot slaves, two hundred soldiers and sobbing women. It was enough to make him slit his wrists.
Chapter 6
The officer in dragon-skin armour stood spear-straight before the dais, helmet in the crook of his arm. On the throne in front of him Spartacus read the letter that had been penned by Phraates himself, after he had finished handing it to Rasha sitting beside him. Next to his wife stood Akmon and next to him Hovik, his weathered faced looking particularly troubled. But then all Parthia was troubled. When news reached Vanadzor of Artavasdes’ seizure by the Romans, Spartacus reacted with a fit of laughter. His mood was one of derision when he learned of the Battle of Kura. It confirmed everything he had believed about Artavasdes and the Armenians. His only regret was not taking Van for himself and encouraging Spadines to raid deeper into Armenia. But what was done was done.
However, like everyone else he was surprised and concerned when Mark Antony marched his army across the Araxes River into Media where King Darius welcomed him with open arms. There followed the signing of a formal pact between Rome and Media pledging mutual support and assistance in any future conflict. This meant a Roman army was within striking distance of Ctesiphon, Hatra, Babylon and Susa. In theory Mark Antony, with the support of Media, could split Parthia in two.
The letter from the high king stated he was building a great army to punish Media for ‘its treachery’ and to eject the Romans from Parthian soil. As such he requested the King of Gordyene, ‘whose bravery is renowned throughout the empire’, to march at the head of his army to the ‘great rendezvous’ at Ctesiphon, where ‘you will find your friend and ally King of Kings Phraates’.
‘You can inform the high king that the King of Gordyene and his army will indeed be marching to Ctesiphon with all speed,’ Spartacus told the officer. ‘You ride back to Ctesiphon today?’
‘Yes, majesty.’
The Babylonian gave a crisp bow of the head, turned on his heels and marched from the throne room. The guards closed the doors after he had exited and Spartacus gave a low chuckle.
‘Phraates must be soiling his silk undergarments to send a party of his Babylonian bodyguards to plead for our help.’
‘Why would Media sign a treaty of friendship with the Romans?’ asked Rasha.
‘Nothing King Darius and his poisonous mother do surprises me,’ said Spartacus.
‘Do you wish me to begin mustering the army, majesty?’ enquired Hovik.
‘Not yet, I need to find out if Hatra and Dura have also been summoned to Ctesiphon.’
‘Surely our first duty is to the empire, majesty,’ said Hovik.
‘Your first duty is to Gordyene,’ Spartacus reminded him. ‘To which end, send word to the governor in the east that I wish to know the strength of Mark Antony’s army and its movements. If I march to Ctesiphon and the Romans and their Median allies strike west while I am there, then Gordyene itself could fall.’
One of the doors to the hall opened and a guard entered, marching briskly to the dais and bowing his head.
‘Gurgen is outside, majesty,’ he declared, ‘he wishes to speak with you.’
‘Send him in,’ said the king. He turned to Hovik. ‘Get a message to our eastern outposts that I wish to know what is happening in Media.’
He saluted and marched from the chamber, passing the chief sword smith on the way. Gurgen tipped his head in the direction of the general and bowed to the king.
‘How are the ukku blades coming along?’ asked Spartacus. ‘When will they be finished?’
‘Autumn.’
The king was disappointed. ‘That long? I had hoped they would be finished by now.’
Gurgen’s ugly face cracked into a smile. ‘Each ingot requires around two weeks’ work to turn it into a finished sword and I have five hundred of them.’
‘Can’t you hire more sword smiths?’
Gurgen was horrified. ‘I only employ people I trust and I’m not about to hire any old travelling smith to forge swords. It’s an art. Besides, what’s the hurry?’
Rasha grinned and even Akmon, trying his best to look martial beside his father, smiled.
‘Unused as I am to explaining grand strategy to my chief sword smith, who has neither the wit nor the wisdom to appreciate the finer points of politics, I will indulge you this once. The Romans have conquered Armenia and have marched their army south into Media. Normally this would mean war between Media and Rome but instead the King of Media has invited the Romans into his kingdom and furthermore has signed a treaty of friendship with them. As a result, the high king has summoned the army of Gordyene to fight by his side.’
Gurgen nodded thoughtfully. ‘And you are going?’
Spartacus spread his hands. ‘Naturally. Why wouldn’t I?’
‘The same high king you have described as a streak on piss of many occasions? Or is that grand strategy talk?’
‘Haven’t you got a sword to forge?’ said Spartacus.
Gurgen scratched his over-sized head. ‘Isn’t the queen of Media your relative?’
‘The queen mother is a distant relative, yes,’ answered Spartacus, ‘what of it?’
‘Well instead of fighting a war, why don’t you ride to Media and ask her why she’s sided with the Romans?’
‘We are not welcome in Media,’ said Rasha. ‘I am Agraci and the king is Thracian whose adoptive parents were once slaves, one a Bedouin, the other a Roman.’
‘The queen mother is from an illustrious and proud family, one that can trace its roots back to the founder of the Parthian Empire itself,’ said Spartacus, ‘she dislikes the idea that her family’s purity has been diluted by inferior blood.’
‘Arsaces was the first leader of the Parthians,’ said Akmon with pride, ‘and it is said the man who founded the city of Hatra was in his bodyguard.’
‘Maybe one of your family should travel to Media,’ suggested Gurgen, ‘it might save a lot of bloodshed.’
‘It’s too late for that,’ Spartacus told him, ‘Media sowed the seeds of its destruction and now it is about to reap the whirlwind.’
*****
Despite being dark it was still very warm, the purple-uniformed guards holding the torches sweating in their armour and helmets. But at last the incessant noise, the chiselling, the digging and the shouts of the overseers, was mercifully absent. Phraates seemed to have a permanent headache while the restoration work on Ctesiphon continued apace. The master builder had promised it was nearing completion but he had said the same thing six months before. There was always a façade that required fresh ornamentation, a new statue to be positioned and never-ending work on expanding and restoring stone terraces. At least the walls were finished, which was just as well as the threat of a Roman army in Media, a mere two hundred miles to the north, was the cause of another headache.
A grim-faced Timo walked beside him through the corridor formed by the guards, from the palace to the Temple of Marduk nearby. On the advice of the high priest Phraates was visiting the temple to request a favour of the deity. Marduk was the God of Babylon, king of the gods, the son of Ea, God of Wisdom, the ‘bull calf of the sun’ and the God of the Rising Sun. Timo said nothing as they entered the temple, which stank of frankincense, causing
Phraates to cough. Incense burners operated throughout the day and night to placate Marduk and make his home welcoming to him. For the temple was nothing more than his house, in which all his needs were provided for by a small army of servants: priests, singers, diviners, dream interpreters, astrologers, female devotees and slaves. Always slaves.
Two Scythian axe men held the evening’s sacrifice: a white bull brought from Babylon. It must have sensed its imminent demise for as soon as it caught sight of Timo and Phraates it began snorting and bellowing. It had been dragged to the altar, behind which was a curtain giving access to the cella, the holy of holies. Singers began reciting a dreadful dirge as Timo raised his arms to the heavens to implore the god to hear him.
‘O, Marduk, thou art our avenger!
‘We give thee sovereignty over the whole world.
‘Sit thou down in might; be exalted in thy command.
‘The weapon shall never lose its power; it shall crush thy foe.
‘O Lord, spare the life of he that putteth his trust in thee.
‘But as for the god who began the rebellion, pour out his life.
‘Then set they in their midst a garment. And unto Marduk, their first-born, they spoke.
‘May thy fate, O Lord, be supreme among the gods,
‘To destroy and to create; speak thou the word, and thy command shall be fulfilled.’
Timo lowered his eyes until they met those of one of the axe men who raised his weapon and scythed it down on the bull’s neck, cutting deep into the flesh and nearly severing the animal’s head. Blood gushed on the floor, the beast collapsed and the singers’ dirge reached a crescendo. Timo walked past the bloody carcass and disappeared with Phraates behind the curtain where a statue of Marduk in the guise of a man stood, at his feet a snake-dragon. Only the high priest and high king were allowed in the cella, for only Timo’s eyes were allowed to see the king of kings of the Parthian Empire bow down. Phraates did so now, kneeling on a silk cushion before his god.
‘Mighty Marduk, know that I am innocent of neglecting my duties. Great defender and first son of Babylon, send a sign to show me the right path to take to defeat the barbarians who have invaded your domain. Give me the means to crush their armies, to punish the traitors who support them and restore peace and prosperity to the empire that is dedicated to your glory.’
Phraates remained kneeling for a long time, his eyes closed tightly, his mouth moving as he said silent prayers, all the while the figure of Timo looming over him. The temple was silent now, the singers had ceased their activity and the dead bull had been removed, slaves mopping up the blood to leave the marble floor tiles spotless. It was the stench of incense that eventually snapped Phraates out of his trance, the high king standing and striding from the cella. At the doors of the temple Timo bade his farewell.
‘I shall remain here, highness, to request that Marduk soothe your troubled soul.’
Phraates smiled in acknowledgement and walked alone through the corridor of burning torches back to the palace. His prayers must have been particularly potent because when he reached the palace steps Marduk sent a sign, albeit one in the form of the chief of court.
Ashleen was wearing a smug smile when Phraates caught sight of him, his thick curly hair gleaming in the light cast by the guards’ torches. A vain man, he dyed his thick locks to banish any hint of grey. He gave a ridiculously deep bow, a look of worry momentarily appearing on his face as his back nearly locked.
‘The hour is late, Lord Ashleen, I require my bed and the company of a young female slave.’
‘Indeed, highness, but I have news that will ensure a good night’s sleep for you.’
They walked through the palace entrance, guards forming a phalanx around them.
‘My spies inform me that an important party is approaching Ctesiphon.’
Phraates stopped, alarm in his eyes. ‘Not the Romans?’
Ashleen remained smug. ‘No, highness, the King of Armenia.’
Now Phraates was close to panic. ‘The Armenians have allied themselves with the Romans?’
‘No, no, you misunderstand me, highness. King Artavasdes is a prisoner of the Romans. It is his son who approaches, with a view to throwing himself at your mercy.’
Phraates continued walking. ‘He will get none from me. I will have him executed when he arrives. Ctesiphon is a not a refuge for waifs and strays, especially ones who formally sought to wage war against me.’
Ashleen sighed. ‘This is an opportunity, highness.’
‘An opportunity for the headsman to practice his skills, yes.’
‘No, highness,’ Ashleen’s voice was forceful. ‘It is an opportunity for you to extend your influence beyond Parthia’s borders.’
Phraates halted again. ‘Explain yourself.’
‘If you restore the Armenian king to his throne he will be forever in your debt. Instead of the Romans being the power behind the Armenian throne, it will be Ctesiphon, highness.’
‘What is the name of this beggar king?’
‘Artaxias, highness,’ answered Ashleen.
‘Very well, we will stand the headsman down, for now. Have you sent the letters to Dura and Hatra?’
Phraates had dictated a number of letters to the rulers of those kingdoms nearest Media, requesting they march with their armies as part of his grand campaign to subdue Media and evict the Romans from Parthia. Ashleen had despatched the letters to Atropaiene and Gordyene but had delayed their journey to Hatra and Dura.
‘I have not sent them to Hatra or Dura, highness.’
‘What!’
‘Hear me out, highness. With the armies of Gordyene and Atropaiene added to the considerable forces you can gather from Babylon and Susiana, is there any need to involve King Pacorus?’
‘May I remind you King Pacorus has held the position of lord high general three times. His experience is immense.’
Ashleen nodded. ‘As is his influence, highness. The whole empire knows it was King Pacorus who defeated Mark Antony at Phraaspa and who turned back the Kushans in Sakastan. You call on him again and once more you will live in his shadow. It is time to bask in your own glory.’
Phraates regarded his trusted adviser, a native of Susiana who had served King of Kings Mithridates before that ruler’s reign was cut short. By King Pacorus of Dura. Ashleen made no secret he disliked the ruler of Dura and the coalition of the king’s friends. Ashleen regarded it as a snake that was coiled around Ctesiphon, strangling the life out of Phraates’ reign and his legitimacy. He actively lobbied for the punishment of King Silaces of Elymais, who openly derided the high king and used every opportunity to abuse Phraates.
Ashleen continued to cast doubt on enlisting the aid of Dura and Hatra.
‘We must remember familial ties, highness. King Pacorus is the sister of Queen Aliyeh.’
Phraates dismissed the notion. ‘Believe me, Aliyeh, may the gods rot her innards, has no affection for her brother.’
‘No, indeed,’ agreed Ashleen, ‘but would King Pacorus march against his sister? We know how tedious his notion of honour can be. Moreover, can we be certain King Gafarn would take up arms against his sister-in-law? As far as I know there is no bad blood between them.’
‘Aside from Aliyeh despising him for his low birth,’ said Phraates.
But Ashleen could see his idea was taking root in the high king’s mind. He continued to fertilise it.
‘With the army of Gordyene, whose king despises Media and all it stands for, plus the army of Atropaiene, in addition to your own substantial forces, the Romans in Media can be destroyed, King Darius can be deposed and punished along with his treasonous mother, and you will be lord of Media. You can then, should you wish, restore Artaxias to his throne. All these things will be your achievements, highness, not the victories of King Pacorus.’
They had reached Phraates’ private apartments in the palace, guards opening the doors to the corridor giving access to his bedroom, office, private dining room and enterta
inment suite. A beautiful female slave with olive skin and shining black hair was waiting to indulge the high king’s fantasies, her tunic barely covering her thighs and large breasts. Phraates’ eyes lit up when he saw her.
‘Very well, chief of court. Send word to the governors of Babylon and Susa they are to march to Ctesiphon with all the troops they can muster.’
‘And Dura and Hatra, highness?’
‘As you say, it is time to step out of their shadows.’
*****
The city of Hatra was like a gleaming jewel in the middle of a parched wilderness, the springs that poured forth cool, clear water all year round giving life to a city of one hundred thousand souls amid a sea of sandy desolation. For this reason, it was a valuable staging post on the great Silk Road traversing the Parthian Empire. A wide, deep moat surrounded the city walls, which, as well as providing protection, provided water for the caravan parks outside Hatra. The caravans carried silk to Syria for onward transportation to Rome to dress the rich and adorn their villas, and they paid dues to Hatra for the privilege of safe travel through King Gafarn’s kingdom. Of course, the caravans also carried spices, medicines and precious gemstones for Rome, which translated into dozens of caravans per month pouring money into Hatra’s treasury. The gold in that treasury allowed the city to field a standing army of fifteen hundred cataphracts, five thousand horse archers and a city garrison of two thousand. The lords of the kingdom could also muster an additional fifty thousand men if required, in addition to the city garrisons of Assur and Nisibus.
‘How many men did you bring south with you, majesty?’ asked Herneus.
The former governor of Assur was now the commander of Hatra’s army. Bald, gruff and plain speaking, Herneus was a worthy successor to Vistaspa.
‘Just over twenty-two thousand men,’ Spartacus told him.
‘Does that figure include your Sarmatian allies?’ enquired Herneus.
Spartacus nibbled on a date. ‘No, Prince Spadines guards my northern frontier with his forces.’
‘Your uncle, my brother, regards the Aorsi as little more than dangerous bandits,’ said Gafarn, ‘who will drag you, and the empire, into an unnecessary war.’
