The Cursed Kingdom

by Peter Darman

  Adeleh as head of the order had her own office, which Aliyeh was shown into by a sister wearing a simple white robe, sandals and a white cord around her waist. She smiled and rose from her chair when Aliyeh entered, embracing her sibling and kissing her on both cheeks.

  ‘Praise Shamash that he has sent you here.’

  Aliyeh carried on embracing her sister. ‘It has been too long.’

  Adeleh sensed something was wrong but did not probe her sister, instead offering her a chair opposite her own and refreshment. When it arrived Aliyeh had to laugh at the simple fare: water and olives.

  ‘This is not the palace at Irbil or Ctesiphon,’ smiled Adeleh, pouring water into the two wooden cups.

  ‘Abstinence and piety agree with you,’ said Aliyeh.

  ‘Shamash has been good to me,’ agreed her sibling. ‘And you, are you happy?’

  ‘Quite well, thank you.’

  After a few minutes Adeleh rose and bid her sister follow her.

  ‘Where are we going?’ enquired Aliyeh, expecting a visit to the royal gardens or perhaps a tour of the Sisterly Retreat.

  ‘To the hospital,’ replied her sister.

  Aliyeh smiled politely but was secretly appalled. The poor were to be avoided at the best of times but even more so when they were riddled with disease and pestilence. And now she was about to venture into their putrefying presence. Her stomach turned over but Adeleh linked her arm in hers and led her from the office, down a floor being scrubbed by two novices and out into a beautiful sunny morning.

  The hospital was located outside the Royal Quarter, requiring an armed escort to accompany the two women from the gated royal residence to the beggar-infested streets a mere stone’s throw away from opulence and wealth. Aliyeh was feeling distinctly queasy and thanked Shamash that Hatra had two thousand garrison troops to keep the peace in the teeming city. The beggars looked at her with pleading eyes and she returned their stares with frowns and undisguised horror.

  She sighed with relief when she saw more guards at the entrance to the hospital. The Sisters of Shamash were special but their saintly demeanour and piety would not save them from being molested or worse by the dregs of society. Adeleh smiled when she passed them but Aliyeh nearly threw up when she entered the mud-brick and stone building, to be hit by a stench the like of which her royal nostrils had never encountered before. She faltered but Adeleh laughed.

  ‘Come, let us purge our souls of sin.’

  The purging consisted of attending to a collection of malformed, lacerated, diseased wretches lying in cots in a long dormitory with open shutters that failed to dislodge the odour of vomit, blood, excrement and piss that blended to produce fumes that made Aliyeh swoon. A gruff middle-aged woman with thick arms handed Adeleh a bowl filled with water and Aliyeh flannels and towels.

  ‘A new recruit?’ asked the harpy, looking Aliyeh up and down.

  ‘A volunteer,’ said Adeleh. ‘Is she still the same?’

  ‘Still the same.’

  Aliyeh looked around at the scene of horror: young novices carrying away filth-covered straw to be incinerated, sisters washing smashed bodies and orderlies carrying corpses from the dormitory. In that moment she had nothing but admiration for her sister. Time froze as she thought it could all have been very different. Adeleh had been married to Vata, boyhood friend of Pacorus and later governor of Nisibus. But Vata had been killed fighting the Armenians and afterwards Adeleh had vowed never to marry again and declared her intention to join the Sisters of Shamash. She served two years as a novice, afterwards taking a solemn oath to serve the Sun God for the rest of her life. She also took three vows. One of chastity so she could dedicate her whole life to the Sun God. One of poverty, which would make her spirit humble and meek. And one of obedience to enable her life to be led by the Sun God.

  ‘Aliyeh?’

  She snapped out of her daydream and returned to the ghastly sights, sounds and smells of the dormitory, Adeleh waiting for her. They walked to a cot at the far and of the room where a young woman sat upright, her face slightly bruised and her arms showing similar marks but otherwise no hint of anything seriously wrong with her. Adeleh pulled up a stool and placed the flannels and bowl on another stool beside her.

  ‘Help me with her gown,’ she said to her sister.

  ‘Who is she?’ asked Aliyeh.

  ‘She has not spoken a word since she crawled here, though in time we are hopeful she will reveal her identity. But her story is, alas, a well-known one.’

  They carefully removed her gown to reveal a body covered in bruises so her olive skin was discoloured with red and blue blotches. Adeleh began to gently wash her body.

  ‘She was brutally raped, by more than one man, we think, who used other things besides their manhoods to penetrate her. It was a miracle she survived, though we fear she may never recover her wits.’

  ‘A miracle, yes,’ said Aliyeh, remembering why she had come to Hatra.

  Afterwards, the smell of the dormitory on her clothes and in her hair, Aliyeh confided to Adeleh the humiliation she had suffered at the hands of the high king. She had not intended to get hysterical, only upset enough to make an impact on her sister. But as she recalled the events of that dreadful night her stone mask crumbled and she sobbed and let her emotions reveal themselves. And as she did so she did not care about politics, getting revenge on Phraates or securing her son’s throne. All she cared about was sharing the burden she had carried for too long. Adeleh held her and wiped away her tears, telling her everything would be all right and the Sun God would heal her soul. For a brief moment Aliyeh considered following her sister into her religious order, so serene and cleansing was the Sisterly Retreat. But only for a moment.

  Adeleh was under no obligation to keep the dreadful revelation to herself and indeed Aliyeh told her sister she would have confided in Diana were it not for the shame it would bring on her family. Adeleh duly informed Diana who told Gafarn. An outraged King of Hatra wrote a short missive to his brother that stated simply: ‘get your arse here as quickly as you can.’

  King Pacorus arrived within the week, along with Gallia and Claudia, the latter wreathed in black robes that made her look more like an Agraci woman than a Parthian princess. Diana and Gafarn omitted her from the private meeting they had with Pacorus and Gallia, in which with Adeleh present they were told of the terrible ordeal their sister had endured. It was no secret relations between Media and Dura had been strained to say the least, but when Pacorus and Gallia visited Aliyeh in the white gazebo in the royal gardens they extended nothing but politeness and affection towards the wounded queen. They did not speak of what had happened to her at Ctesiphon and neither did Gafarn or Diana, but it weighed heavily on Pacorus as he sat with his sister.

  The day was warm and still. Unusually, no white doves were flying from their dovecotes and the peacocks were silent, their feathers clamped tight to their bodies. It summed up the oppressive atmosphere that hung over the gardens.

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ said Pacorus, his eyes moist with tears. ‘I thought the son of Orodes would make a good high king. I had no idea he was a monster.’

  ‘You were not to know,’ said Diana.

  ‘We all knew he was a spoilt brat,’ fumed Gafarn, ‘but this?’

  ‘Can we not talk about it, please,’ pleaded Aliyeh.

  Gallia rose from her couch and embraced her, two former enemies reconciled.

  ‘I want to take the Amazons to Ctesiphon so they can take turns cutting pieces off his scrawny body.’

  ‘An excellent idea,’ said Gafarn, ‘which brings us neatly to the question of what is to be done. Phraates cannot be allowed to get away with this. He abused Aliyeh and in doing so has abused our family.’

  ‘I do not want war,’ said Aliyeh, ‘there has been enough bloodshed.’

  ‘Then what?’ asked Pacorus. ‘With Media now allied with Rome and Mark Antony and your son having recently defeated Phraates, the latter’s position is now extremely
weak. If what happened to you became common knowledge, the empire could be split asunder.’

  ‘Then what do you suggest?’ said Gafarn.

  ‘I pledge that Dura will not wage war on Media,’ said Pacorus, ‘as long as the Romans do not use that kingdom as a base from which to launch a war against Ctesiphon. Furthermore, Dura will not answer any call made upon it by Phraates, as long as Media’s Roman allies do not threaten the empire.’

  ‘We must make the best of a bad situation,’ agreed Gallia.

  ‘Hatra will make a similar pledge,’ stated Gafarn, ‘though I dislike the idea of Roman troops being based just across the Tigris.’

  ‘My son will not allow any aggression against Hatra, brother,’ promised Aliyeh. ‘Besides, Mark Antony’s army is small.’

  ‘How small?’ probed Pacorus.

  ‘Ten thousand men,’ she answered.

  She looked at them all. ‘You have been very kind, which I do not deserve after the way I have treated you in the past. But I fear that even without the aid of Hatra and Dura, Phraates could still crush Media.’

  ‘How so?’ queried Diana.

  ‘He can call upon the armies of Gordyene, Elymais, Mesene and Atropaiene,’ she answered.

  ‘I think not,’ said Pacorus. ‘Elymais, Atropaiene and Mesene will refuse to join Phraates if I request it.’

  ‘Which leaves Gordyene,’ said Gallia.

  ‘Leave my son to me,’ said Gafarn, ‘he will do as he is told.’

  *****

  Claudia burst into laughter, spilling yogurt on to her robe.

  ‘It will take more than a scolding from his father to curb the lion of Gordyene, father.’

  ‘You do not know all the facts,’ he snapped.

  It was a hot afternoon and like all sensible people who did not need to be out in the sun, he and Gallia had been taking an afternoon nap in their shuttered bedroom. Now they sat on the balcony overlooking the royal gardens. Hatra’s gardens were a pleasure to behold, having been designed to create an image of paradise on earth. Visitors marvelled at the trees and flowers but the water channels and fountains were its most striking elements because the scarcity of water in the desert surrounding the city made water a sacred and precious element of the gardens.

  Claudia nodded at the greenery. ‘Everything has a meaning, father. Thus the large pool below us reflects the image of the palace and the sky to cement the realm of the earthly to the heavenly. Similarly, the walls hidden by foliage are used to enclose the gardens to create the image of an internal paradise in the heart of the desert, which is guarded against the eyes of strangers. It all makes sense, you see.’

  ‘I had no idea you were a keen gardener,’ mocked Pacorus.

  Claudia looked up at the cypress trees. ‘Trees have the second-most important role after water. Trees produce not only fruit but also freshness and shade. Different trees are incorporated for different reasons, of course. The cypress represent immortality, flowering almond the regeneration of the earth in springtime, and the date palm provides all-year-round sustenance. Everything makes sense.’

  She took a cloth from the table and wiped the yoghurt from her robe, her parents looking at her quizzically.

  ‘I was in the law courts today, watching justice being administered.’

  ‘That must have been amusing,’ remarked Pacorus dryly.

  ‘Very droll, father. But just as these gardens adhere to age-old principles and formats, so do the courts. Some things never change.’

  ‘In what sense?’ asked Gallia.

  ‘I saw at least half a dozen thieves dragged into court to be sentenced to death for their crimes, the punishment being carried out immediately. I watched as the life was choked out of them. They must have realised they would eventually be caught and punished and yet they never deviated from a criminal path. Once a thief, always a thief.’

  ‘Most philosophical,’ remarked Pacorus.

  Claudia turned her dark eyes on him. ‘Once a scheming queen, always a scheming queen.’

  Gallia bit into an apricot. ‘I hope you are not talking of your mother.’

  ‘Why is Queen Aliyeh here?’ said Claudia. ‘Some may find it strange that a woman who has not visited this city in years, who openly poured scorn on its rulers, would suddenly visit her estranged relations. They would also find it most odd that Queen Aliyeh had also suddenly been reconciled with her brother, the whole empire knowing of their antipathy towards each other.’

  ‘People who have nothing better to do than engage in idle gossip are not worth considering,’ said Pacorus. ‘Your childish attempts to discover why my sister is here will fail. It does not concern you.’

  ‘I take it, then, the Romans will be staying in Media,’ replied Claudia coolly, ‘otherwise you and Uncle Gafarn would be organising a campaign against Mark Antony, especially after his recent victory over the boy-king. How fortunate for the empire that it has in King Spartacus a man who is prepared to fight the Romans currently occupying Media.’

  ‘Spartacus will be reined in,’ said Gallia.

  Claudia glanced at the pair. ‘Spartacus will be reined in, you are right, but not by men.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Pacorus.

  Claudia smiled. ‘You have your secrets, father, I have mine.’

  Chapter 8

  Despite the cool temperatures outside it was hot in the workshop, the furnaces working at full heat as the apprentices operated the bellows. It was like a vision of hell, the more so with the huge figure of Gurgen hammering the hot metal on his anvil. Around him the other sword smiths were hard at work forging King Spartacus’ ukku swords. It had been many months since the arrival of the precious ingots and still the work continued. The king, flush with triumph when he had returned to Gordyene, had flown into a fit of rage when Gurgen informed him the blades would not be finished for many more weeks. Spartacus was an imposing figure with his muscular frame and thick neck, but he was no match for a mountain troll and so grudgingly accepted his chief sword smith was right.

  Heeding a call to ‘make himself useful’, the king was put to work in the armouries lending a hand in the production of the swords he so craved, though his tasks revolved around feeding the furnaces. There was no way even a king would be allowed near the red-hot metal being hammered into shape. It was hot, dusty work but Spartacus loved seeing the transformation of the ukku ‘cakes’ into lengths and then swords, marvelling at how Gurgen with a hammer and a pair of tongs, working the metal back and forth between the furnace and his anvil, could create a sword.

  The trees that blanketed the slopes around Vanadzor were beginning to turn yellow and orange as the autumn arrived, and the winds from the north were becoming cooler and more biting. The streams and rivers were filled with ice-cold water and soon the mountain passes would begin to fill with snow. But before then it was still possible to use the secret high trails giving access to Gordyene and Armenia. The party that arrived at Vanadzor had used one such route, riding into the city on a bleak, overcast day, the air filled with spits of rain.

  Hovik fetched his king from the armouries when they arrived, Spartacus not bothering to change as he walked the short distance to the palace, his dirty tunic wet with sweat after a morning’s toil in the heat of Gurgen’s workshop.

  In the throne room he found Spadines and a man with a large head framed by thick long brown hair and a well-trimmed beard. The most striking feature about him was his attire: red leather jacket with a sheepskin trim, red trousers, brown boots and a sword in a red scabbard decorated with golden plaques. Even his leather belt was red, its buckle gold plated. He registered surprise when he saw Hovik walking beside a muscular man with a dirty face and dressed in filthy clothes. He assumed he was a slave or a miner. He was astounded when Spadines bowed his head to him.

  ‘Greetings, lord, you have been working in the armouries?’ grinned Spadines.

  A real slave came forward to offer the king a tray holding cups of wine. He picked up one and took a large
gulp.

  ‘There is something noble about manual labour,’ replied Spartacus, looking at the man in red.

  Spadines extended an arm to the other visitor. ‘This is Lord Akka, majesty, warlord of the Siraki.’

  Akka bowed deeply. ‘It is an honour to meet a greater warlord, the man who vanquished the Armenians and Romans.’

  The slave proffered cups of wine to Hovik, Spadines and Akka, the latter raising his drinking vessel.

  ‘To victory.’

  Spartacus grinned and raised his cup in acknowledgement.

  ‘I will get straight to the point. How many men ride with you, Lord Akka?’

  ‘Five hundred, lord, all fine warriors.’

  Spadines had told Spartacus about the Siraki, a comparatively small Sarmatian tribe that inhabited lands north of the Caspian Sea. He knew they could muster a maximum of twenty thousand horsemen and they had close ties to the Aorsi.

  ‘Excellent wine,’ said Akka, holding out his cup to be refilled.

  ‘Prince Spadines has explained the task required of you and your men?’ asked Spartacus.

  ‘To kill any Romans we encounter in Armenia, to burn their supplies and camps, and to kill any Armenians cooperating with them or offering them shelter,’ answered Akka. ‘You have the gold?’

  Hovik cleared his throat to signal his disapproval but Spartacus merely gestured to the guards standing either side of dais, who manhandled a small chest from behind the king’s throne. They placed it on the floor before the king, bowed and returned to their stations. Spartacus opened the lid and Akka’s eyes lit up. It was the price Geghard had paid for the return of Lusin – her weight in gold.