by Peter Darman
‘Yours to take away with you,’ said Spartacus. ‘Feel free to examine it.’
Akka needed no second prompting, squatting down, placing his cup on the floor and picking up the small gold bars.
‘Beautiful, beautiful.’
He looked at Spartacus. ‘You wish us to begin before the snows fall.’
‘As early as possible,’ replied the king. ‘Killing Romans should never be delayed.’
‘Then if you arrange to have the gold loaded on to a packhorse we will be away today, lord,’ smiled Akka.
Spartacus liked this man. ‘At least stay for the feast tonight. My wife killed two wild boars this morning.’
Spadines looked around. ‘Where is the queen, lord?’
‘On a patrol. How is ruling a city?’ enquired Spartacus.
Spadines shook his head. ‘Exhausting. The citizens of Van do nothing but complain. Raiding their land was much easier.’
The two Sarmatians and their escort stayed the night, getting roaring drunk during the evening feast and having to be carried to their beds. Spartacus abstained from heavy drinking; he had work in the armouries the next morning. After Akka and Spadines had been carried to bed and Rasha had excused herself, Hovik requested an audience with his king. Slaves were washing the floor and cleaning up wooden platters and cups when Spartacus told him to sit opposite him.
‘The hour is late, general.’
‘Are you sure about hiring these mercenaries, majesty? There is nothing to stop them taking the gold and returning to their homeland.’
‘That is a possibility,’ admitted Spartacus, ‘but Spadines assures me his Siraki allies are reliable.’
‘You mean they can be relied upon to murder and pillage with impunity.’
Spartacus was surprised by his general’s attitude. ‘Naturally, the Armenians are our enemies and the more so now they have become the slaves of Rome. Besides, I intend to profit from Armenia’s loss when I assist the high king to expel the Romans from Media and then Armenia. For too long Gordyene has been viewed as an irrelevant backwater.’
‘I fear we set a dangerous precedent, majesty.’
‘Explain yourself.’
Hovik looked most serious. ‘If Gordyene can hire mercenaries to raid the lands it lies adjacent to, so can others to kill and burn our people, majesty.’
Spartacus dismissed the notion. ‘Spadines and his Aorsi have been friends of Gordyene long before I wore its crown. They were invited here by Surena, who was basely betrayed by King of Kings Orodes.’
Hovik looked straight into his king’s eyes. ‘I was a young soldier when Surena was king, lord, and fought outside the walls of this city when High King Orodes led a great army against Gordyene. The rumour at the time was that Surena had become too ambitious.’
Spartacus’ nostrils flared. ‘The rumour was wrong.’
The next day a courier arrived from Ctesiphon with a letter urgently requesting the presence of ‘our great friend’ the King of Gordyene at Phraates’ palace. Spartacus showed it to Rasha.
‘You are high in Phraates’ favour, though I notice he did not request my presence at court.’
‘Perhaps he wants to show me his so-called Hall of Victory. Apparently it is where all the captured Roman eagles are kept.’
‘Including the two I presented to him after the Battle of Lake Urmia?’
He smiled. ‘Yes. Only kings and the “deserving”, whatever that means, are allowed to enter.’
Rasha sniffed derisively. ‘If we had not turned up at Irbil the Romans would be in possession of Ctesiphon by now. Phraates is an ungrateful little boy.’
He slapped her backside. ‘Do not worry, I intend to remind him of the debt he owes Gordyene.’
‘Take Akmon with you. It will broaden his education to visit Ctesiphon.’
‘He’s not still moping after that Armenian girl, is he?’
‘She was his first love and you never forget your first love.’
He rolled his eyes. ‘He should forget her. She’s probably dead or a slave in Rome by now, which amounts to the same thing.’
The king, his son and a small escort left Vanadzor the next morning, the same day Akka and Spadines left the city to travel back to Van where the Siraki would launch their campaign to wreak havoc on the Romans in Armenia.
This time the King of Gordyene did not visit his parents in Hatra, instead setting a cruel pace to reach Ctesiphon in five days. So glad was Phraates to see him that the high king sent five hundred Babylonian horsemen to escort him and his dust-covered soldiers the final leg of the journey. As a mark of respect, the flag of Gordyene flew between the banners of Babylon and Susiana atop the gatehouse giving entry to the sprawling palace complex. Akmon was gaping at the splendour and opulence as he and his father rode to the white-paved square in front of the palace, the route lined with soldiers. In the square itself nobles and their wives in colourful silk robes applauded and trumpeters sounded a welcoming fanfare when Spartacus and his son, covered in dust, their tunics drenched with sweat, slid off their horses and walked towards a waiting Phraates standing beneath a large sunshade held by a huge slave. Either side of him stood the sweating Ashleen and the tall Timo, the latter under a sunshade held by a temple slave, the former walking down the white marble steps to welcome the new arrivals. Ctesiphon roasted under an unforgiving Mesopotamian sun but once the trumpets had stopped and the applause died away there was no sound, Phraates having ordered production work to halt for the day as a sign of respect for the King of Gordyene.
‘Watch what you say here,’ Spartacus cautioned his son, ‘this is not Vanadzor.’
‘No, indeed, father,’ replied the awe-struck prince.
Ashleen’s round face cracked a smile. ‘Welcome, majesty, and welcome to you, young prince. King of Kings Phraates is eager to meet you.’
All eyes were on the trio as they slowly walked up the steps, halting before they reached the top to bow before Phraates, who extended his arms.
‘Welcome to my dear friend and trusted ally, King Spartacus of Gordyene and his valiant son, Prince Akmon, crown prince of Gordyene. Walk with me, King Spartacus.’
The high king waited until Spartacus was beside him before turning and heading back into the entrance porch of the palace. On his head he wore the golden crown of Babylon decorated with red diamonds and rubies, on his feet soft shoes of purple leather. Spartacus resembled a sorry picture beside him. But the high king was not concerned with court dress.
‘As soon as you have refreshed yourself, come to my private office. Urgent matters need addressing.’
‘Yes, highness.’
The trepidation in Phraates’ voice was music to Spartacus’ ears and he scoffed when Ashleen suggested he be bathed and massaged before his meeting with Phraates. He did immerse himself in cold water and change his clothes but he had more important things to do than be rubbed down like a thoroughbred horse. Akmon did avail himself of the services of nubile female slaves who washed his tired limbs and rubbed oil into his skin. They stopped and cast down their heads when his father entered his room.
‘You are free to roam the palace but don’t cause any trouble,’ he told his son. ‘Remember you represent Gordyene, which is viewed with distaste here by many of the painted noblewomen and their effeminate husbands.’
‘Yes, father.’
Two Scythian axe men were waiting for Spartacus in the marble-tiled corridor, saying nothing as they escorted him through the palace to the high king’s private apartments. Purple-clad Babylonian guards stood sentry next to marble columns, the entrance to the throne room and beside the gold-inlaid doors leading to Phraates’ apartments. The mosaics, friezes on the walls and the stucco and bronze statues in enclaves gave the impression of great wealth. No wonder the Romans wanted Ctesiphon. There was a spring in Spartacus’ step when a guard knocked at the door to Phraates’ office and he was instructed to enter.
‘Your sword, majesty,’ said one of the axe men.
He
unbuckled his belt and handed the brute his blade before entering the large, airy office where Phraates sat behind a huge mahogany desk. Also present, seated in one of the two ornate chairs arranged opposite him, was a pale-faced man in his mid-twenties with low eyebrows and narrow brown eyes. He was a most uninspiring individual. Spartacus assumed he was some form of clerk or librarian. Phraates extended an arm towards him.
‘King Spartacus, this is King Artaxias of Armenia, son of King Artavasdes, who has sought sanctuary at Ctesiphon after the Roman invasion of his realm. King Artaxias, this is King Spartacus of Gordyene who is my most trusted ally.’
The atmosphere in the room became distinctly frosty as the two kings eyed each other with barely concealed distaste; Phraates becoming increasingly annoyed as they did so.
‘Sit down, King Spartacus, so we can talk of our mutual interests.’
Spartacus moved the chair away from Artaxias before sitting in it. Slaves reduced the hostile atmosphere when they brought wine, pastries, bread, fruit and cheese, offering the dignitaries food and drink. Spartacus emptied a gold rhyton filled with wine and held it out to be refilled.
‘Do Parthia and Armenia have mutual interests?’ he asked, curling a lip at Artaxias.
‘Of course they do,’ snapped Phraates. ‘I have given my word Parthia will restore King Artaxias to his throne after first expelling the Romans from Media and Armenia.’
Spartacus emptied the rhyton for a second time. ‘I am more than willing to assist in the expulsion of the Romans from Media, and Armenia as well for that matter. I am less willing to restore an Armenian to the throne of that country bearing in mind he and his father have waged war against Gordyene.’
‘Against Gordyene?’ squealed Artaxias. ‘More like the other way around. It was you and your Sarmatian allies that stole the city of Van, after which you handed it to the thief Spadines.’
‘To the victor, the spoils,’ grinned Spartacus.
‘My lords,’ pleaded Phraates, ‘if we argue among ourselves the laughter of Rome will be our only reward. I know Armenia and Gordyene have had their disagreements.’
‘To put it mildly,’ said Artaxias.
‘Nevertheless,’ continued Phraates forcefully, ‘we are here to form a pact to rid Parthia, and Armenia, of the Romans. On that at least we can surely all agree.’
Spartacus nodded, as did Artaxias, albeit reluctantly.
‘How many men can you muster?’ Spartacus asked the young Armenian king.
‘Two hundred,’ came the embarrassed reply.
‘King Artaxias’ presence here is worth a hundred thousand men,’ said Phraates.
‘Still,’ said Spartacus, ‘at least we will be able to call on other kingdoms in our campaign against the Romans.’
‘And the Medians,’ added Artaxias.
‘They are nothing without their Roman allies,’ replied Spartacus. ‘We beat the Romans, we win everything.’
‘When we defeat the Romans,’ said Artaxias, ‘I will demand the return of Van to its rightful owners.’
Spartacus finished his wine, tossed the rhyton to a slave, stood and gripped the neck of the Armenian.
‘Did you not hear me, boy? To the victor the spoils. When I shed Gordyene blood to free your worthless homeland, I will be taking a substantial slice for myself.’
‘King Spartacus!’ shouted Phraates, prompting the Scythian axe men to burst in and press the curved edges of their weapons to the thick neck of the king of Gordyene.
Spartacus released the choking Armenian who clutched at his neck and began coughing. Phraates pointed to a horrified steward.
‘Take King Artaxias back to his quarters and see to it his every desire is attended to.’ He looked at the two axe men. ‘You may both go.’
The visibly shaken Artaxias was escorted from the room, leaving an unconcerned Spartacus and an irate Phraates behind.
‘You must curb your temper, King Spartacus. I cannot have my guests assaulted.’
‘Apologies, highness, but what use are two hundred Armenians?’
‘No use,’ agreed Phraates, ‘but allow me to provide an accurate assessment of the state of the Parthian Empire. In the east, Emperor Kujula, true to the two-year cessation of hostilities he agreed with your uncle, did not send his soldiers into my empire until the twenty-four months were up. And talking of your uncle, he and King Gafarn have both sent letters stating they will not participate in any war of aggression against Media, which means neither will Elymais or Mesene. With the eastern kingdoms preoccupied with the Kushans once more, that leaves whatever forces I can raise from Babylon and Susiana, plus your army.’
‘We do not need any others,’ said Spartacus without hesitation, ‘as long as the campaign is ably directed.’
Phraates, delighted, wanted to hear more. ‘And how do you propose to defeat the Romans?’
‘It has already begun, highness. Even as we speak here my allies are abroad in Armenia attacking Roman bases and supply routes. This will impel Mark Antony to send soldiers to defend those supply routes, weakening his army in Media. My own army plus your horsemen will be sufficient to defeat that army and whatever King Darius can raise. The rest will be merely mopping up.’
Phraates was amazed by his self-belief bordering on arrogance. But he had seen with his own eyes the army of Gordyene in action and knew the words to be no idle boast.
‘And you have no qualms about invading Media?’
‘None, highness. But after it has been conquered, there needs to be a realignment of its borders to ensure it can never again be a threat to your throne.’
‘Oh?’
Spartacus seized his chance. ‘Gordyene should control all the territory around Lake Urmia east to the border with Atropaiene to cut the corridor linking Media with Armenia.’
‘Agreed,’ said Phraates.
‘Furthermore, highness, Gordyene should control the lands north of the Araxes River for a distance of fifty miles to guard against enemy incursions.’
Phraates raised a well-manicured eyebrow. ‘That is not my land to grant.’
Spartacus beckoned over the slave holding his rhyton, glowering at him when he saw it was empty. It was quickly refilled.
‘It will be, highness, when you conquer it.’
‘But King Artaxias?’
‘Is a king without a kingdom, without an army, without hope. He will be a Parthian puppet.’
Phraates’ eyes lit up. ‘Parthian puppet. I like it.’
Spartacus drank from his rhyton. ‘There will be considerable costs involved in the forthcoming campaign, highness.’
‘Ctesiphon’s treasury will be glad to contribute towards your expenses. I assume at this stage you do not have an accurate figure…’
‘A thousand talents of gold.’
Phraates baulked at such a sum, which was the equivalent of over thirty tons of gold.
‘A thousand talents?’
‘Wars are expensive, highness.’
‘Clearly.’
Spartacus held his stare. He had nothing to lose whereas Phraates’ position was precarious, the more so now the Kushans had renewed hostilities. Fate was smiling on Gordyene: Hatra and Dura were refusing to march against Media, Phraates had proved a most inept general and the army of Gordyene was the only thing standing between him and disaster, especially after Atropaiene had seemingly absented itself from assisting the high king.
‘Very well, a thousand talents,’ agreed Phraates.
Spartacus raised his rhyton to the king of kings. His plan was working to perfection.
*****
After the awe and excitement had died away, Akmon had felt distinctively uncomfortable walking the corridors of Ctesiphon. The marble, gold, silver and exquisite sculptures and paintings were unlike anything he had seen, as were the court officials and nobles who occupied the corridors on their way to something important he had no doubt. If they noticed him at all it was to utter a disparaging ‘tsk’ as they passed by, or a look of horror if
he smiled at a beautiful woman in delicate silk robes. As the morning wore on he felt more and more ill at ease. Even the slaves were better dressed than he and appeared to look down their noses at the poor prince from the wild Kingdom of Gordyene. At Vanadzor his days were filled with shooting practice, riding, weapons’ drill and chores, the bane of every soldier’s life. He could shoe a horse, mend a saddle, sharpen a sword and axe blade, repair scale armour and treat leather so it would not perish and crack after a hard winter. All talents useless when it came to life at Ctesiphon.
The steward assigned to be his escort, a haughty individual with a hook nose that he used to great effect to look down upon Akmon, replied tersely to the prince’s questions concerning the paintings of mythical beasts on the walls and the charming marble statues occupying alcoves near the throne room. In the end Akmon gave up asking questions so the steward followed in silence two paces behind him, which was both annoying and unsettling.
Akmon turned a corner and ran straight into Lusin.
They stared at each other, eyes wide and open mouthed, for what seemed like an eternity, before both rushed into each other’s arms.
‘I never thought I would see you again,’ he told her, kissing her lips and holding her tight.
‘The gods sent you to me,’ she smiled, her brown eyes moist with tears.
They kissed again, tears running down both their faces, the two guards assigned to look after Lusin and the steward mortified at the breach of protocol. The two young lovers ignored them as they stared into each other’s eyes. Lusin was now eighteen and whereas before she had been pretty, she was now a very attractive woman, her figure slender, her breasts fulsome and her disposition sultry. He too was older, his lean frame having acquired some muscle and his character more worldly-wise. But at the same time, they both still burned with teenage love for each other.
The steward cleared his throat loudly.
‘Be quiet,’ hissed Akmon. ‘You may leave us.’
‘We should also leave, princess,’ said one of her guards, ‘your father would disapprove of you mixing with the son of the man who abducted you.’
The steward had no idea what the Armenian was saying but took the opportunity to add his opinion to the scene.
