by Ross Laidlaw
Which was why Julian was now waiting in this freezing gully a thousand miles from home. His mission: to make contact with Vardan Mamikanian, assure him of (clandestine) Roman support, discover all he could about supply routes, safe contacts, relative strengths and dispositions of Persian and Armenian forces, et cetera, then report back to Aspar as soon as possible. He had already arranged with a local headman, on the Persian side of the border, for a guide to take him to meet Mamikanian.
A shimmering greyness heralded dawn; then the jagged snow-clad crests of the surrounding peaks glowed pink. A rattle of loose stones sounded from below him in the gully; that would be the guide, Julian thought. A short time later, dimly visible in the growing light, a horseman appeared, a stocky, swarthy fellow with prominent features. ‘You must be the Roman,’ he grunted in passable Greek. ‘I am to take you to Lord Vardan. Come.’
Unhobbling his mount, Julian followed the guide uphill on a stony path wide enough for only one horseman. They climbed steeply, through fields of primulas to the snowline, after which they had to dismount and lead their horses through drifts at times three or four feet deep. After several hours of exhausting struggle, they reached the summit plateau, where gravelly outcrops thrust here and there through the snow, stippled with bright dots of colour where tulips had taken root in crevices. All around them rolled a sea of snow-slashed mountains, with the twin peaks of Ararat pricking the far horizon. Descending slopes covered in tamarisk scrub and tulips, they reached the broad valley of the Araxes, with flocks of sheep and goats grazing on the short green sward. Turning east, they followed the Araxes downstream — easy riding after the mountain crossing.
At noon, they halted at a village, where they were given a meal by the headman in his house, an underground affair like all the dwellings in the place, roomy enough to house goats, sheep, cows, and poultry, as well as the humans. After dining well on lamb, veal, and barley bread, washed down with strong wine drunk through straws from a common bowl, they continued cautiously on their way, having been warned that Persian patrols had been sighted in the area. After some miles, they headed north up a stony side-valley leading towards Lake Sevan, a remote inland sea ringed about by inhospitable mountains among which, the guide told Julian, Vardan Mamikanian had his stronghold, which they could expect to reach in two days.
They had halted preparatory to making camp for the night, when the guide suddenly stiffened and pointed to the eastern wall of the valley, which glowed in the sun’s last rays, in contrast to the shadowed western side. Julian looked; after a few seconds he saw, high up on the hillside, a tiny flash that came and went in a blink.
‘Mica?’ Julian suggested.
‘Persians,’ grunted the guide. ‘Mount, Roman.’
Julian scrambled back into the saddle and spurred up the valley after the guide. Glancing back, he saw, moving down the hillside behind them, a cluster of dots from which issued winks and sparks of light. He looked over his shoulder from time to time, and was relieved to see that he and his companion were beginning to pull clear from their pursuers, who were encumbered with arms and armour. He had begun to relax when suddenly he heard a loud crack like a snapping branch, and his horse crashed to the ground, hurling him from the saddle. Winded and shaken, he got to his feet. He saw with horror his mount’s dangling foreleg — clearly broken by catching between two of the boulders that littered the valley floor. The guide had pulled up and turned back, but Julian shouted to him to make good his escape. The guide bowed his head in acknowledgement of the inevitable, wheeled his horse and disappeared round a shoulder of hillside, leaving Julian alone, to face certain capture and interrogation.
In a reception hall in the palace of Dastagerd, the great fortified city and former capital of Persia, the Surena, the plenipotentiary of the Great King, waited for the day’s first audience to begin. He was reading his favourite book, The Book of the Laws of Countries, a treatise written more than two centuries before by one Bardaisan, a Christian philosopher from the Roman client state of Osrhoene between the Euphrates and Mesopotamia. What a vision the man had, thought the Surena. It illumined, in a single brilliant image, the most important concept not only of Bardaisan’s day but of the present too.
The vision, though grand, was so simple as to be blindingly obvious; yet it was strange how so few of the world’s thinkers and leaders had ever realized or valued it. It was this: a narrow band of civilization encircling the world (or at least stretching as far as Ocean to the east and west) from Caledonia to Choson,3 and comprising the empires of Rome and Persia, the Gupta Empire of northern India, the khanates of the steppes, and China. In central Asia the band, though perilously thin, remained vital and unbroken; witness the vibrant cities of the Silk Road such as Urumchi and Samarkand, and the mighty stone Buddhas of Bamian.4 Within this ribbon had first appeared and then flourished all that was best in man’s aspirations and achievements: agriculture and cities, writing — without which there could be no communication and storage of ideas — art and architecture, engineering, mathematics, music, astronomy, noble systems of philosophy and law, theories of democracy and natural justice, the great religions, et cetera, et cetera.
Yet, despite its supreme importance, the band was fragile, its existence threatened by savage peoples to the north and south: the Germans in the swamps and forests of the west; nomadic hordes of Turcomens and Huns in the steppes; fierce Moors, Berbers, and Arabs in the southern deserts. Already, Bardaisan’s golden chain was near to breaking in West Rome, where barbarians were threatening to destroy the very fabric of government and society. But instead of striving to understand, borrow from, and reinforce each other’s cultures, so that civilization could be preserved and continue to develop, the great empires seemed determined to remain locked in senseless cycles of mutual destruction, or policies of barren isolation. Which was why the Surena remained resolutely opposed to anything which might threaten the precarious peace between East Rome and Persia — especially the mad Armenian adventure the king seemed determined to pursue.
All through the morning and well into the afternoon, the Surena interviewed a succession of informants bringing news from far-flung places: skippers who had voyaged to Taprobana and Paralia,5 masters of caravans bringing silks from China or incense from Saba,6 traders in ivory and gum from Axum and Nubia.7 It was work he loved, and it helped him to spin a vast web of information of what was happening to the world outside Persia. Such knowledge was invaluable, providing him with the necessary insight to treat effectively with diplomats and envoys from other lands, and to proffer sound advice to the Great King regarding foreign relations. However, news was in short supply from one region, the Imperium Romanum. This was because the two empires of Rome together formed one vast single trading-area, with its own internal market and common currency, thus minimizing the need for external trade and contacts.
A servant had already lit the lamps in the audience chamber, and the Surena was preparing to leave, when a chamberlain appeared and, bowing low, said, ‘Surena, a prisoner has just arrived under escort. Shall I have him brought to you?’
‘No, no,’ said the Surena testily. ‘Tomorrow will be soon enough.’
‘I venture to presume you may wish to see him now, Surena,’ persisted the official. ‘This one’s a Roman.’
‘Well, why didn’t you say so? Of course I’ll see him. Have him brought here immediately.’
Julian (who had divulged only his name and military rank) gasped as he was shown by the Surena into the palace’s Great Hall. Roman trophies — arms and armour, more than three hundred standards and eagles — lined the walls in a glittering display.
‘These we took from the battlefield of Carrhae, after the defeat of Crassus five hundred years ago,’ said the Surena in excellent Greek, indicating the nearest array. ‘And three hundred years later, these were from the army of Valerian when he surrendered to us at Edessa; and those we seized from your namesake’s Julian’s retreating legions a mere eighty-seven years ago, when some me
n still alive were in their infancy.’ He paused, then asked, not unkindly, ‘You wonder why I show you these things?’
Julian didn’t think the reason was to humiliate him by reminding him of Rome’s less than glorious record in her encounters with the Peacock Throne. His bonds had been removed and he had been treated with consideration by this courteous minister, clearly from the Persian caste of nobles whose code of courage, truth, and honour so resembled that of Rome — well, Rome of an earlier age, perhaps. ‘Truly, sir, I cannot say,’ he replied.
‘It is intended as an object lesson in the futility of war between our two great nations,’ went on the Surena. ‘What have Rome and Persia, two civilized powers, to show for centuries of conflict? The deaths of untold thousands of their finest young men, the destruction of glorious cities, fertile provinces reduced to deserts, economies ruined by expensive wars — that is the true legacy. Neither side has profited one iota from the struggle, only suffered constant draining loss. Rome and Persia should be allies, not enemies; if that were to happen, each could enrich the other immeasurably.’
‘I cannot disagree with anything you’ve said, sir,’ said Julian carefully, impressed by the minister’s obvious sincerity, but wondering when the hard questioning would begin. He did not have long to wait.
‘Then what were you doing so far inside the borders of Persian Armenia?’ demanded the Surena, in tones grown suddenly incisive.
Sensing that this man would see through any fabrication, Julian said nothing.
‘Your silence speaks for itself,’ said the other crisply. ‘As I thought, you are a spy.’ He shot Julian an appraising look. ‘You will disclose to me all the deatails of your mission,’ he went on in a quiet voice. ‘Also everything you know about the state of Rome’s two empires, the efficiency and readiness of her armies, her strengths and weaknesses, her leaders’ ambitions and plans.’
‘My knowledge of Rome’s policies is extremely limited, and could be of little use to you,’ said Julian dry-mouthed. ‘Nevertheless, I would be betraying my trust if I were to divulge what little I know, or pass on any information regarding my presence in Armenia. For all I know, such information might be used against my country.’
‘Noble words,’ said the Surena, shaking his head. ‘In the tradition of your Regulus, perhaps. But believe me, you will tell me; in the end you will tell me everything. Either voluntarily, or. .’ He paused, frowning. ‘It would sadden me to have to hand over a brave young man like yourself to the torturers. They are very. . efficient. The choice is yours. But to help you make up your mind, I think a second object lesson may be called for.’
Deep within the bowels of Dastagerd’s grim state prison, a small procession — the Surena, Julian, three guards bearing torches, a gaoler, and, at the head, the castellan of the prison — clambered down dank staircases and tramped along corridors, eventually halting at the grille of one of the cells that lined the walls. The gaoler unlocked and opened the door, disclosing not the squalid hole Julian had expected but a fair-sized room illumined with oil lamps and furnished with rich rugs and couches, on one of which reclined a man clad in splendid if grimy silken robes. The prisoner stirred and sat up.
‘He is a noble, so must be lodged according to his rank,’ the Surena said. ‘Even his fetters are of silver.’
‘What was his crime?’ asked Julian in astonishment.
‘He converted from Zoroastrianism to Christianity — as have many Persians,’ replied the minister. ‘Regarding the lower castes of society — warriors, bureaucrats, the common people — the Great King is prepared to turn a blind eye should they become Christians. But for nobles and princes, who should set an example to the rest of society, there can be no such latitude. To spurn the state religion, the Beh Den — the Good Faith — is for them a capital offence. So you see, in considering the Armenians worthy to embrace the faith of Zoroaster, the King is really paying them a compliment. This man’s family, also Christian converts it has to be assumed, have fled into hiding. Naturally, as any man of honour in his position would, he has refused to tell us where.’ The Surena’s features creased momentarily in an expression of compassion. ‘However, the Great King’s wish is law and must be obeyed,’ he said heavily, adding in an undertone, ‘however distasteful those of us who have to implement its sentences may find it.’
The Surena held a brief conversation with the castellan, then turned again to Julian. ‘It seems that after lengthy interrogation this prisoner remains obdurate. It is time, therefore, to try other methods.’
On a raised stone slab in the centre of the torture chamber, the naked body of the prisoner, face down and limbs extended, was held securely by straps around the wrists and ankles. Two menials in grubby loincloths hovered in the background. At a table was seated a scribe, ready to record any utterances by the victim. The Surena approached the prisoner and addressed him. The man remaining silent, the Surena nodded to the torturers to begin their work.
With a knife, one of the pair made a long incision in the back of the prisoner, who jerked against his bonds but made no sound. The bleeding wound was then forced apart and kept open by means of clamps. Removing a glowing crucible with tongs from a furnace in the corner, the second torturer poured a stream of white-hot metal into the wound. Agonized screams cut though the loud hissing of molten metal coming into contact with raw flesh; the prisoner convulsed on the slab, then fainted.
‘They use copper which, having a higher melting-point than lead, inflicts a keener agony,’ the Surena remarked to Julian, who was watching in horror. ‘They will repeat the process, gradually extending it to more sensitive parts. Eventually the man will break — they always do. As will you,’ he added grimly, ‘if you choose to remain silent. Come, we have seen enough.’
They retraced their steps, Julian flanked by guards, to the prison’s outer walls. ‘Save yourself young man,’ the Surena told Julian. ‘You have witnessed what will happen if you refuse to talk. There can be no dishonour in co-operation. Afterwards, you will stay with me at my estate in the Karun valley, not as a prisoner but as an honoured guest, while this Armenian affair runs its course. We will hunt and hawk, and in the cool of evening listen to the music of the lyre and flute, and drink wine chilled by snow from the Sanganaki Mountains.’ He stared intently into Julian’s eyes. ‘Say you agree.’
Mingled with terror, Julian felt an overwhelming urge to accept the Surena’s offer. He opened his mouth intending to comply, but heard himself whisper, ‘I cannot.’
The Surena raised his arms in a gesture of frustrated resignation. He nodded to the guards, who seized Julian by the arms. ‘Then I can do nothing for you,’ he said. ‘You are a fool, Roman, but a brave one.’ Turning on his heel, he walked swiftly towards the prison gates.
In the great menagerie of Beklal, near Ctesiphon, his capital city, Yazdkart II walked his horse, surrounded by vast herds of deer, zebra, and ostriches. Persia would be great once more, he mused as he rode among the grazing game. He, the Great King, would bring back the glorious days of Darius and Cyrus, Cambyses and the two Shapurs. Armenia would serve as a useful testing-ground. His forces would overrun the Persian protectorate and, should that renegade Vardan resist, he would be ruthlessly crushed. Christianity would be stamped out, and the people made to accept the one true faith. His victorious army would then press on into Western Armenia. Rome (East Rome, that is) would of course object. Well, let it. Yazdkart would welcome a challenge by the Romans. Perhaps the time had come for a final trial of strength between the two great rivals. His chief minister’s report on how things stood in Rome’s two empires, which was due for his attention this very day, should prove invaluable in helping him to shape his policy. It was in a sanguine and confident frame of mind that he cantered back to Ctesiphon.
Entering the Iwan-i Kisra, the royal palace in Ctesiphon, through the great central arch in the facade,8 the Surena made his way to the audience chamber, whither he had been summoned by the Great King.
He found Y
azdkart enthroned, arrayed in the full panoply of a warrior-aristocrat, a drawn sword held upright between his knees. Before the royal throne and at a lower level stood three empty seats: for the Emperor of China, for the great Khaghan, the ruler of the nomads of central Asia, and for the Roman Emperor, against the time when these rulers came as vassals to the court of the King of Kings. In the face of this aggressive posturing, the Surena reluctantly decided that now was not perhaps the moment to press the King (as he had intended) to abandon his plans to invade Armenia. Bowing low before him, he said, ‘Great King, as you requested, I have ready my report on Rome.’
Yazdkart frowned. ‘We see no papers. Where are your notes, your memoranda?’
‘Here, Sire,’ replied the Surena, tapping his forehead. ‘I need no parchment or papyrus. From earliest youth I have trained myself to dispense with such aids, by memorizing what I need to know from written or oral sources.’
‘We are impressed; you may proceed.’
‘Of the two Christian empires of the Romans,’ the Surena began, ‘the West need not detain us. It is weak, its coffers empty, half its territory ceded to fair-haired barbarians from beyond the Rhenus and Danubius. Only the genius of its great general, Aetius, has thus far safeguarded it from dissolution. Our only concern is with our neighbour, the Eastern Empire.’
‘Whom we have cause to fear?’ Yazdkart suggested hopefully.
