by Peter Darman
‘No horseshoes. It seems some of our Roman friends have escaped our clutches.’
‘I will send horsemen after them, majesty,’ said Hovik.
Spartacus stood and looked up at the dark grey clouds. The air was now thick with snowflakes.
‘There’s a blizzard coming. We get back to camp and see it out. By the look of these tracks there aren’t many horsemen. Probably deserters. They won’t cause us any problems.’
*****
Titus Tullus and his dozen followers kept on riding when the blizzard hit, finally halting when their limbs were numb and their horses were on the verge of collapsing. There was a complete whiteout when they tumbled from their horses in a wild forest of oak, hornbeam and beech.
‘Get the tents up,’ he ordered, ‘before we freeze to death.’
In the rush to escape the doomed camp, his band of close comrades only had time to pack two tents on a horse, along with food, firewood, cooking utensils and some spare clothes and boots. Had he been a legate or a tribune he would probably have stayed and died with the rest of his command. As it was his keen sense of self-preservation had kicked in and he had decided that discretion was the better part of valour.
Sitting in the hide tent eating lukewarm porridge with the others later, he began to examine his options. If he returned to Mark Antony having lost over a thousand men, most likely he would be nailed to a cross for gross dereliction of duty. The immediate aim was to evade any pursuers and find a safe place to wait out the winter. There was a sliver of hope if they could do so. In the spring the horsemen he had sent to Armenia with the slaves to auction would return with money after the captives had been sold. The commander of the party was one of his old partners in crime. He might yet come out of this disaster alive and with coin in his pouch.
Chapter 10
Akmon stared at the miserable group of prisoners guarded by a detachment of medium horsemen, who had all levelled their lances at the Romans, ready to spear them to death should he give the order. The captives had all been shackled together so they could not escape and all that remained was to nail them to the crosses left by the units of soldiers that had earlier removed the civilians who had been the former unfortunate occupants. He looked down at the five crosses on the snow-covered ground and then at the fifty Romans, who must have known they were about to suffer the terrible fate of crucifixion.
‘Best get on with it, highness,’ said the commander of the detachment, ‘looks like another heavy snowfall is on the way.’
Akmon said nothing. During the attack on the Roman camp he had spent his time shooting the odd arrow at the soldiers on the enemy ramparts while his father had breached the gates, afterwards being informed by the king he was to be given a special task. He had thought he might be leading a column of horsemen to track down those Romans that had fled the camp, but instead he found himself in charge of executing prisoners. He felt deflated and miserable, not least because he viewed the killing of prisoners with distaste.
‘Highness?’
Akmon nudged his horse forward. ‘No, I will not do it. Order your men to release the prisoners.’
The officer stared with incredulity at the crown prince.
‘Your father was most specific concerning the prisoners, highness.’
‘I am in charge here!’ shouted Akmon. ‘Do as you are told.’
The officer smarted at the tone but ordered some of his men to dismount and unshackle the prisoners. Akmon addressed the Romans in Latin as they did so.
‘You were to be crucified but I have decided to release you. You are all free to go back to Armenia.’ He pointed to the north. ‘Which is approximately forty miles that way. I will give you two days’ worth of food so you should make it.
‘I give you your lives. In return, I demand you swear to me now you will not stay in Gordyene but make haste to reach Armenia.’
The Romans stared in disbelief and utter relief at each other, smiling shyly, some closing their eyes and giving thanks to the gods they worshipped. One stepped forward, an individual of medium height and thin frame. He bowed his head to Akmon.
‘Thank you, sir, I give you my word we will not stay in this land.’
Akmon looked down at him and noticed he was shivering in just his tunic.
‘What is your name, Roman?’
‘Lucius Posca, sir.’
‘You are the senior officer here?’
‘Yes, sir, centurion.’
‘Well, centurion, I will furnish you with some tents and cloaks so you will not freeze on your journey. When you return to Rome, if you return to Rome, you can inform its citizens that Parthia is not full of lawless barbarians, nor is it a plaything of foreign powers. You have been given a second chance, I pray you use it wisely.’
‘I thank you on behalf of myself and the men, sir. May I have your name so I can tell people of your generosity.’
‘Prince Akmon of Gordyene, son to King Spartacus.’
The Roman gave a raised arm salute, Akmon nodded, turned his horse and trotted from the destroyed village. He felt like a true prince of Parthia, magnanimous and generous. He believed the man he revered most in the empire, Prince Pacorus of Hatra, would have approved of his actions and that pleased him.
When he returned to the army making its way back to Vanadzor, the blizzard having lifted to leave the land covered in deep snow, the king was less than pleased with his actions. Guards and soldiers outside the command tent could hear his rage as he berated his son.
‘Let them go? Who gave you permission to let them go? Do you realise they will re-join the Roman army, and in the spring will be facing us when we march to conquer Media?’
To his credit Akmon did not crumble in the presence of his father, who paced around him as he stood to attention in the centre of the tent. Hovik was also in attendance, more to give the young prince support than for any other reason. The tent reeked with menace as Spartacus circled his son like a lion cornering prey.
‘If you were one of my officers I would have you executed for your insubordination. But my officers do not disobey orders.’
‘I am a soldier not a butcher,’ said Akmon.
Spartacus struck him hard across the face with the back of his hand, the blow nearly knocking his son off his feet. In an instant Akmon went to pull his sword, rage in his eyes and blood running from the corner of his mouth.
‘Draw that sword and I will cut off your sword arm,’ hissed Spartacus, ‘not that you need it as you have an aversion to killing the enemies of Gordyene.’
‘Only when they are defenceless,’ said Akmon, shaking with fury.
‘It was only fifty men, majesty,’ hazarded Hovik. ‘They will probably perish during the journey.’
Spartacus, nostrils flaring, turned on his general.
‘Let me bring you up to date, general. My son kindly provided them with food, cloaks and tents so they would reach Armenia safely.’
He turned back to his son. ‘You will stay in this area to hunt down those Romans who escaped from the camp. I will give you fifty of my King’s Guard and fifty horse archers. Guard!’
One of the sentries outside the tent entered and saluted.
‘Fetch Commander Shamshir.’
He saluted and left. Akmon’s spirits rose. Wintering in eastern Gordyene was far more palatable than enduring weeks of his father’s moods and outbursts of anger at Vanadzor. Besides, when the snows disappeared he could send couriers to Ctesiphon carrying messages for Lusin. The throbbing in his mouth began to subside as he dreamt of a few weeks commanding a party of his father’s precious guard. It would be his first independent command.
Shamshir meant ‘sword’ but he was more like a blunt instrument, being tall, dark and ugly. He was the leader of the King’s Guard and as such carried an ukku blade. He was a capable officer who displayed absolute loyalty to his king and homeland. He was also largely devoid of humour or compassion. He stood to attention in front of Spartacus and bowed his head.
; ‘I have decided to station troops in this area for the winter, Shamshir,’ said Spartacus. ‘You will command a company of horsemen to ensure no Roman stragglers cause any more harm in this region.’
‘Yes, majesty.’ Shamshir’s eyes turned momentarily to regard Akmon and his bleeding lip.
‘I will leave you tents, food and supplies to make your stay as comfortable as possible,’ continued the king. ‘I will also leave you my son, who will be under your command and for the duration of the winter will be reduced to the ranks as punishment for releasing the Roman prisoners. Any questions?’
‘No, majesty.’
‘Good. He is to receive no special treatment or be accorded any privileges due to his position. You understand?’
Shamshir looked at the prince. ‘When does his assignment begin, majesty?’
‘Now.’
Shamshir smiled, bowed and pointed at Akmon. ‘Move your arse. Parade is in thirty minutes.’
Akmon stood still, confusion etched on his face. Did his father really just say he was to be a common horse soldier?
‘Move now!’ shouted Shamshir, making Akmon jump.
His father’s face was an impassive slab as Shamshir glared at Akmon, the prince hurrying from the tent. Hovik shook his head.
‘Shamshir is not the most understanding of men, majesty.’
‘Akmon got off lightly,’ replied Spartacus, ‘I realise now I have been too soft on him.’
Hovik raised an eyebrow but did not reply.
The army continued on its journey west, leaving an unhappy fifty horse archers and fifty King’s Guard behind to look for an enemy that had probably long gone. Shamshir made the empty village where Akmon had released the prisoners his base, the prince cleaning out the largest hut so his commander could use it as his quarters. He may have been ugly but he knew his business, sending out patrols in all directions to secure the immediate area before extending the range of the searches. Not that Akmon took any part in them, being detailed to undertake menial duties in the village. He broke the ice on the horse troughs in the morning, cleaned the snow from the horses’ hooves and their shoes when a party returned from patrol, and filled the nosebags of the horses when they had been unsaddled and rubbed down. But mostly he cleaned leather.
Leather belts, straps, saddles, boots and scabbards can easily perish during prolonged periods exposed to wet and freezing conditions. They therefore had to be cleaned and maintained on a regular basis. Akmon was well used to caring for his own equipment and saddlery; what he was not used to was being a dog’s body for a company of disgruntled men who barely gave him the time of day.
Others in the company did their share of menial duties, of course, but Shamshir made sure Akmon did more than his fair share. He became an expert at cleaning leather, first wiping off any mud with a damp cloth before moistening a sponge in clean water, squeezing it out until it was nearly dry and then rubbing it vigorously on a bar of soap. When a thick, creamy lather was obtained it was applied to the leather, which was then allowed to partially dry before being rubbed with a soft cloth. Finally, the now clean but still damp leather was applied with oil, a mixture of neat’s-foot oil and tallow. The latter had a rancid smell, which meant he also soon stank. Combined with the heavy, undyed woollen cloak he wore, which contained natural lanolin, making it waterproof but also rather smelly, in no time he was rank.
Shamshir dumped his four-horned saddle on the floor in front of Akmon.
‘Clean that.’
The days were short and overcast and he was doing his work by the light of a candle, the wind rattling the door of the hut entering the glum interior via the gaps above and below it. Other men were also cleaning equipment in the hut, shivering despite the fire burning in the centre of the hovel, filling it with smoke. Akmon groaned when he saw the saddle. Shamshir noticed his ire.
He squatted in front of the prince. ‘Do you know why these men have little time for you?’
‘No, sir.’
‘It is because they could be back at Vanadzor instead of seeing out the winter here away from their families and friends, and all because you refused to do your duty.’
‘I do not regret my actions.’
Had it have been anyone else Shamshir would have struck him across the face but this was Prince Akmon, heir to the throne of Gordyene. He was wise enough to know that one day this young man would be king and any abuse meted out to him now would not be forgotten. King Spartacus may have been angry with his son but it was not up to others to punish him. If the prince returned with tales of how he had been abused, the king would undoubtedly punish the culprits. So everyone treated Akmon with a detached indifference.
‘If a soldier questions his orders,’ said Shamshir, ‘the whole chain of command breaks down, which in battle can have disastrous repercussions. One day you will be king, and kings must always act in the interests of their kingdom. Those Romans you released will return to fight us one day, of that I have no doubt.’
For two months they stayed in the area, conducting sweeps to find the Romans who had supposedly escaped from their camp. But as the days turned into weeks and every patrol yielded zero results, it became apparent they were on a futile mission. When the icicles that festooned the village huts and barn began to melt, a patrol arrived from Vanadzor recalling Shamshir and his men.
It was still cold when the one hundred men quit the village, everyone wrapped in cloaks, scarves and long-sleeved woollen tunics. It took seven days to reach the city, Shamshir reporting immediately to the palace, taking Akmon along with him. The pair stood before Spartacus and Rasha, Hovik standing beside the dais along with Castus and Haytham, the latter screwing up his face at the pungent body odour emanating from the newly arrived duo. They both looked gaunt and tired, black rings around their eyes and their beards long. Rasha smiled kindly at her eldest son but Spartacus eyed him with barely concealed contempt.
‘Report,’ he commanded.
‘We found no Romans in the area, majesty, despite extensive sweeps and long-range patrols,’ answered Shamshir. ‘Perhaps they died, majesty.’
‘More likely they escaped to Armenia,’ pondered Spartacus. ‘Thank you, commander, you may leave us.’
Shamshir bowed, turned and marched from the throne room.
‘General,’ said Spartacus, ‘will you take my two sons to the armoury so they may continue their education regarding armour production.’
Hovik bowed and beckoned Castus and Haytham to follow him from the chamber.
‘You are in trouble,’ said a gleeful Haytham as he left the chamber. The doors were shut and an ominous silence descended. Spartacus tossed some letters on the floor in front of Akmon.
‘While you were away from the capital these arrived, sent from Ctesiphon.’
Akmon’s heart soared and he could barely suppress a smile.
‘I am assuming they are not from King of Kings Phraates or any other high-ranking official at the palace, which leads me to wonder who at Ctesiphon is writing to you? Perhaps you could enlighten us. The seal bearing a Tree of Life motif should give you a clue.’
Rasha smiled kindly at him as Akmon picked up the three letters, all of which had unbroken seals. He was surprised they had not been opened; even more astounded they had not been burnt.
‘You think I am a mindless brute, Akmon?’ asked Spartacus, as if reading his son’s thoughts.
Akmon broke one of the seals and read the words of his love. It was just a general enquiry as to his health and his trip back to Gordyene, but Lusin had written it and he savoured every word.
‘I take it by the look of delirium on your face they are from the Armenian girl, the one I gave specific instructions you were to forget. You seem to be developing a habit for disobeying me.’
Akmon shoved the letters into his grubby tunic. He would read the other two later.
‘The Armenians are our enemies,’ his father told him, ‘always remember that.’
‘I thought they are our allies now,
’ he said.
‘They are, for the moment, until they have outlived their usefulness. Parthians and Armenians will always be enemies, Akmon, remember that.’
He could have been clever and retorted he was a Thracian not a Parthian, but he had learned long ago that his father disliked being contradicted.
‘It is for your own good that we advise you to forget Lusin,’ said Rasha, ‘she has been promised to another.’
His mouth dropped open in horror. How could this be? He knew for a fact only two hundred Armenians had accompanied Artaxias to Ctesiphon, and of those only Lord Geghard, Lusin’s father was a great lord. There were no suitable Armenian suitors for her hand.
‘A very rich Babylonian lord, by all accounts,’ smiled a gloating Spartacus.
*****
For nearly five hundred years the House of Egibi had prospered in Babylon, becoming the wealthiest business enterprise in the whole of Mesopotamia. As it had always done the Kingdom of Babylon produced an abundance of wheat, barley, dates and flax, its fields irrigated by the mighty Euphrates. For hundreds of years those products were taken from Babylon to foreign lands where they were exchanged for timber, wine and precious metals. Grain was bulky and was thus transported in riverboats and barges on the Euphrates, the House of Egibi’s first owners possessing a number of these craft and within a few years had made a considerable fortune renting them out. This allowed them to expand their business interests and soon the House of Egibi was selling and buying properties, fields and slaves.
The decades passed and the House of Egibi established its own bank in Babylon to accept deposits for safe keeping, finance international trade and to establish commercial companies. Its wealth meant princes and kings came to its doors looking for credit to finance wars and other grand projects. Queen Axsen, Phraates’ mother, had been close to the head of the House of Egibi, a fastidious, bookish man named Itti, which was fortunate for Phraates because when he became king of kings he had ready access to credit to enable him to finance the restoration work at Ctesiphon. The annual tribute paid by the kingdoms of the empire to the high king helped with the running costs of the palace complex but they fell short when it came to turning Ctesiphon into one of the wonders of the world. The House of Egibi was happy to finance the high king’s extravagance in return for favours that would lead to an increase in its power and wealth. The recent events in Armenia provided one such opportunity.
