by Peter Darman
Gafarn guffawed. ‘From what, Spartacus? You have destroyed Media’s army and its Roman allies, your Sarmatian friends possess the city of Van from where I have no doubt they rapine and murder at will, and now you wish to take more Armenian territory. One wonders if there will be anything left of Armenia after you have finished.’
‘Armenia is Parthia’s enemy, father, its demise is our gain.’
‘Or Rome’s,’ said Pacorus.
‘Phraates wants Darius and his mother gone,’ stated Spartacus, changing the subject.
‘Phraates will do as he is told,’ answered Gafarn.
Spartacus laughed. ‘Now we see the real power in Parthia. I see it before me. I agree. Why don’t we march on Ctesiphon, remove Phraates and install another in his place? We have the men; only the desire is missing.’
Gafarn clutched his head in despair. ‘Have you heard yourself? Don’t you remember you added your name to the list of the kings who supported Phraates’ elevation?’
‘The lion is loose.’
All three turned to see Claudia bringing her horse to a halt. Pacorus glared at her but she ignored him.
‘Have you already forgotten the tale of Gordis, Spartacus?’ she asked. ‘Rasha’s injury is a warning. You should heed it.’
Pacorus looked alarmed. ‘Rasha is hurt?’
‘A broken arm,’ said Spartacus irritably, ‘nothing serious.’
‘When you take what is not yours,’ warned Claudia, ‘the gods will take from you, lion of Gordyene. Your victories will seem hollow and your conquests irrelevant when you lose what you hold dear. Go back to Gordyene and forget about conquering the world.’
Without answering Spartacus turned his horse.
‘I will send Darius back to you. But what I already have I will keep.’
With that he was gone, galloping back to his army deploying into battle formation. He bellowed to Hovik to order it to about-face and commence the march back to Mepsila, halting his horse beside Darius and Joro.
‘Get off your horses.’
Darius smarted at his tone and Joro went to protest but was cut short by Spartacus.
‘Now!’
They both dismounted, as did Spartacus. He pointed at the army assembled on the plain before Irbil.
‘There is your capital, Darius. You can walk to it from here. Tell your witch of a mother this is not over. Tell your people that northern Media now belongs to Gordyene. Now get out of my sight.’
They saw the hate in his eyes and hastened away, a king and his general tramping across a green plain in a final act of humiliation.
*****
Phraates giggled like a little girl as Ashleen finished his summary of recent events in Media. The high king had been delighted to hear of Spartacus’ victory over the Medians and Romans, and was looking forward to receiving Darius’ family at Ctesiphon, where they would be incarcerated so he could decide their fate. Then word reached his residence that the armies of Hatra, Dura and Elymais had rallied to Aliyeh’s side to force the King of Gordyene to march back to his homeland with his tail between his legs.
‘So Darius is back on his throne.’
Ashleen folded the papyrus sheet. ‘For the moment, highness.’
Phraates skipped over the Kingdom of Media on his floor map.
‘Still, that there is discord between Hatra and Dura and Gordyene is to be welcomed.’
‘We have received another message from King Spartacus, majesty,’ reported Ashleen, ‘stating he will meet your army at the Araxes River, prior to the invasion of Armenia.’
Phraates walked over to stand on Armenia.
‘Good, it will be a relief to see the back of Artaxias and his morose general.’
‘Lord Geghard, highness.’
‘Yes, that’s him.’
‘Still, his daughter has proved useful in cementing bonds between Parthia and Armenia.’
Phraates walked over to the edge of the map where a slave was holding a silver tray, upon which was a gold rhyton and wine jug. Phraates picked up the drinking vessel and took a sip of wine. He looked around at the marble columns and fine stucco cornices.
‘The House of Egibi has done well out of me,’ he complained.
‘The loans for the building work at Ctesiphon were agreed at favourable rates, highness.’
‘And now it is set to spread its business activities throughout Armenia.’
Phraates drank more wine. ‘Make sure you charge our friend Nabu a brokerage fee for his upcoming marriage.’
‘Highness?’
‘A big fat fee for arranging a marriage between a beautiful young woman and a fat, lecherous oaf. See to it.’
Ashleen bowed. ‘Yes, highness.’
The removal of the Romans from Media and the defeat of King Darius by Spartacus meant the march from Ctesiphon along the eastern bank of the River Tigris would be easy enough. Nevertheless, the army that was assembled to escort Phraates and Artaxias was of a sufficient size to deter any possible aggression by King Darius, through which kingdom said army would be marching, with enough fighting power to ensure Artaxias was restored to his throne once it had crossed the Araxes River.
Phraates was fortunate to be able to draw upon the resources of three kingdoms to raise armies, thus avoiding the need to request or plead to other kings to bolster his forces. Babylon, his late mother’s kingdom, Susiana, his late father’s kingdom, and Persis, under a fawning satrap, provided a seemingly inexhaustible supply of soldiers. The fact the majority of those soldiers, especially those who marched on foot, were in reality battlefield chaff, did not concern the king of kings. For him appearances were all, and the just over twenty-six thousand troops gathered around Ctesiphon presented a magnificent, colourful spectacle.
From Persis came seven and a half thousand men, all dressed in yellow tunics and blue leggings, their yellow standards embellished with the black head of the Bird God, the Simurgel. Five thousand were horse archers, the rest being foot soldiers. Of the latter the best were the five hundred palace guard sent by Satrap Osrow, each man equipped with a bronze helmet with large cheek guards, leather cuirass and a round wooden shield faced with bronze after the Greek fashion with the Bird God painted on the metal. All the guards carried spears with leaf-shaped blades, plus swords. The ordinary spearmen from Persis also looked colourful in their yellow tunics and bronze helmets, their wicker shields faced with leather painted yellow. But unlike the guards they wore no body armour and instead of a sword each man carried a dagger.
The five thousand horse archers from Persis made a splendid spectacle in their bright blue baggy leggings and yellow tunics, the saddlecloths of their horses also yellow and trimmed with blue.
Phraates’ Babylonian Guard – five hundred horsemen in glittering silver dragon-scale armour – wore purple tunics and leggings, as did the two thousand spearmen from the same city, though unlike those from Persis they wore leather caps on their heads instead of helmets. Their large wicker shields were faced with leather painted purple. The many banners among them showed the horned bull of the city of Babylon.
From Susiana came five thousand horse archers and the same number of mounted spearmen, all wearing red tunics and tan leggings, the spearmen protected by helmets, leather armour cuirasses and round, red-painted shields sporting an eagle clutching a snake in its talons. The same motif adorned the many banners among their companies and a huge standard with the same insignia always accompanied the high king on his travels, alongside the banner of Babylon.
As well as the thousands of horses carrying men and thousands of camels transporting their tents and supplies, another army marched north along the Tigris behind them: thousands of camels hauling Phraates’ pavilion and the tents of his courtiers. There were also hundreds of carts carrying court officials, furniture for the pavilion, food for the court, and those who could not or would not ride a horse. Dozens of slaves tramped along at the rear of the column, walking in a permanent dust haze thrown up by the horses, camels and
carts in front.
In one of the carts was an unhappy Lusin, every mile of the journey taking her closer to her doom: marriage to a fat, leering Babylonian who was three times her age. Her father and mother were unconcerned about her feelings, being more focused on their return to Armenia and the restoration of their fortune and position. They were also glad to be away from Ctesiphon where they had been made to feel like foreign barbarians. The only consolation for Lusin, her only consolation, was her collection of letters written to her by Akmon. As the cart trundled north along dusty, iron-hard roads, she wondered where he was and hoped he was happy.
Phraates, surrounded by two hundred mounted Scythian axe men and his Babylonian guard, was in high spirits, riding beside Artaxias and even allowing the Armenian banner to fly alongside his own. Spartacus’ crushing of the Medians and Romans meant he would not have to fight a battle to reach the Araxes, and with Mark Antony’s withdrawal from Parthia and if reports were to be believed also Armenia, along with most of his soldiers, the liberation of that kingdom would be a mere formality.
‘There is one thing I want to raise before we reach the Araxes,’ said Phraates, waving at a group of villagers who had gathered by the side of the road to see the king of kings.
Geghard riding behind Artaxias mumbled something under his breath. Phraates turned to look at him.
‘You have something to say, general?’
‘No, highness,’ answered Geghard through gritted teeth.
‘You were saying, lord?’ said Artaxias.
‘King Spartacus, who will be meeting us at the river, has done Parthia a great service in ridding the empire of the Romans. In gratitude for his recent victory, and other services he has done us, we have awarded him control over northern Media.’
Artaxias nodded. He did not see why this had anything to do with him, but Phraates was just using this to deliver his real message.
‘I would like to remind you of the strip of land to the north of the river that will also be controlled by King Spartacus to preserve the territorial integrity of Gordyene.’
Artaxias nodded. ‘In truth, lord, it sticks in the craw to surrender Armenian territory to a man who is no friend of Armenia.’
‘We have talked about this,’ snapped Phraates.
‘And I am willing to accept such a situation, lord, if you can persuade King Spartacus to leave Van.’
‘Van is under the control of the Aorsi,’ said Ashleen behind Phraates, a slave walking beside the chief of court holding a sunshade with a very long handle to protect the courtier from the sun’s rays. Everyone else wore floppy hats or helmets but Ashleen did not like to wear anything on his head.
‘Who are under the control of King Spartacus,’ growled Geghard, speaking out of turn.
Phraates raised his eyes to the sky.
‘When you have been restored to your throne, General Geghard can march his army to Van and take it back. I assume Armenia will have an army?’
‘Armenia will have a strong army,’ promised Geghard.
‘Parthia hopes it will be its ally,’ said Ashleen, ‘rather than a friend of Rome.’
‘One thing you can be sure of, chief of court, Armenia is now an implacable enemy of Rome,’ declared Artaxias.
Phraates’ two armies, one of soldiers, the other of courtiers, palace officials, slaves and a host of camp followers to service the needs of the troops, was like a plague of locusts as it moved slowly north, stripping Media of food and fodder as its thousands of horses fed on the lush grass and fields near the Tigris. Come the winter many villagers would starve after having their crops destroyed.
*****
The Araxes River had always marked the boundary between Parthia to the south and Armenia to the north. It had a length of nearly seven hundred miles, its waters running from west to east through a mixture of terrain ranging from narrow, gorge-like sections where the current raged with foaming white waters, to broader sections up to forty miles in length. The width of the river ranged from less than sixty feet in the gorges to over three hundred feet where it flowed through flat lowland areas. The Araxes raged in the spring as a result of snow melting in the mountains, but abated dramatically in the summer, its depth dropping to under six feet as it meandered through the lowlands. Those lowlands supported many villages that used the river’s water to grow crops and cultivate orchards, circling them with greenery that contrasted sharply with the bleak surrounding mountains.
Spartacus looked across the river to the long valley to the south, through which the army of Phraates would march on its way to Armenia, the same valley he and thousands of others had marched through to battle the army of Mark Antony after the latter had abandoned his siege of Phraaspa.
‘Seems a long time ago,’ he remarked to Hovik.
‘It was bloody cold I seem to remember.’
Spartacus nodded. ‘It was. Campaigning in winter is a grim business. At least we won’t be facing a hard fight this time.’
‘Reports from our Sarmatian allies state there are still Roman soldiers in Armenia, majesty.’
‘Phraates can fight them, along with his Armenian allies. We are here to secure Gordyene’s interests only.’
The lords and their horse archers had been sent home, along with half the Immortals. Shamshir had been left at Mepsila with a small garrison to oversee Gordyene’s new province. Spartacus was left with five thousand foot soldiers, a thousand medium horsemen, the same number of horse archers and four hundred and fifty King’s Guard. Half the Aorsi had also returned to their homes, though Spadines had been sent north on a special mission.
Hovik looked around at the lush greenery either side of the river and the harsh, barren mountains overshadowing the Araxes.
‘So this is Gordyene territory now?’
The king nodded. ‘It is.’
‘It will stretch our resources to garrison it.’
‘We are not going to garrison it, Hovik, at least not all of it. The lands near Gordyene’s eastern border will be guarded but the rest will be left to its own devices.’
Hovik was confused. Spartacus saw his expression.
‘It was only partly related to my kingdom’s security. The rest was to add to the Armenians’ humiliation and remind Phraates that Gordyene is now a power to be reckoned with. Perhaps I will give these lands to the Siraki.’
They had had no word from Akka and his raiders, but Spartacus felt sure they were doing good work wherever they were.
*****
‘These are the latest reports, sir.’
The officer placed the papyrus sheets carefully on Quintus Dellius’ desk, stepped back and saluted. The governor of Armenia glanced at them but did not need to read them. He knew what they contained: dispatches from local commanders telling of raids against people and property carried out by Sarmatians. Even when Mark Antony had been in Media there had been a steady flow of Roman settlers and merchants making their way to Artaxata for sanctuary. With the triumvir having left Parthia and Armenia, taking most of his soldiers with him, the trickle had turned into a flood. He leaned back in his chair and stared up at the painted ceiling, which showed elaborate wheels and trees around a massive golden star flanked by two reverse-looking eagles, also painted in gold. The private office of the former king of Armenia was lavish and ornate. He wondered how Artavasdes was faring in Alexandria and whether he had had the misfortune of meeting Queen Cleopatra and her army of painted eunuchs. A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.
‘Enter.’
A centurion appeared and saluted. ‘Centurion Titus Tullus requests an audience, governor.’
Quintus’ eyes lit up. This was the only bit of good news in days.
‘Show him in, and order some wine.’
The old cutthroat, looking more menacing than ever, entered the office and saluted.
‘Titus Tullus, we thought you were dead.’
‘Nearly was, sir.’
‘Sit down, man.’
The centurion flopped
down in the ornate mahogany chair opposite the governor and heaved a huge sigh of relief. When a slave had brought wine and after Tullus had emptied two silver chalices, Quintus requested to hear his story.
‘We were attacked in the winter by King Spartacus and his army. They used some sort of pitch material to set the ramparts aflame and then forced an entry into the camp.
‘How many men did you bring with you?’
Tullus refilled his chalice. ‘Twelve.’
‘Twelve!’
The centurion shrugged. ‘It was a hard fight and we were greatly outnumbered. Still, at least we hold Armenia.’
Quintus brought his hands together and chuckled.
‘For the moment, centurion. But it is only a matter of time before this city is under siege. The triumvir has stripped Armenia, Cappadocia and Syria of troops to prepare for the showdown with Octavian, leaving me with two thousand men to secure this wretched land. Well, two thousand and twelve now.’
Tullus emptied his chalice and poured himself some more.
‘Wine to your liking?’ asked Quintus sarcastically.
‘Lovely, sir. Who will be laying siege to the city?’
‘Our friend King Spartacus for one, plus the army of King of Kings Phraates, which these reports tell me has so many soldiers and horses it has emptied rivers on its march north to quench the thirsts of men and beasts.’
‘Long odds,’ agreed Tullus.
‘And to add to our perilous position, King Artaxias is with Phraates.’
‘Who?’
Quintus rolled his eyes. ‘The son of Artavasdes, who will no doubt incite the Armenians to rise up in revolt against us. There are already large groups of Sarmatian bandits roaming at will in the countryside.’
Tullus belched. ‘There’s an easy way out of this, sir.’
‘There is?’
‘Request a parley with the enemy before his army reaches the city. Say that in return for safe passage for every Roman soldier and citizen out of Armenia, Artavasdes and his family won’t be crucified.’
