Blood of Kings

by Andrew James

  ‘It always does that, doesn’t it?’

  Darius realized Dadarshi was speaking. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘The wind, sir. It always springs up from nowhere, like it did just now. One moment calm, the next blowing a gale. Then suddenly it stops.’

  Before Darius could answer there was a long, drawn-out moan from the desert, like a wounded animal. Dadarshi grimaced. ‘That awful sound. It’s uncanny. Like it’s alive.’

  The moan grew into a wail. A terrible wind smashed into them, as sudden and violent as a tidal wave hitting a ship at sea. Unprepared, Darius felt himself lifted off the rock, then he was tumbling, out of control, arms flailing as he fell downhill, his armour rattling over stones. Dadarshi shouted in alarm. Darius breathed in a lungful of dust, grabbing wildly. His fingers caught hold of a boulder, he looped his arm around it, his shoulder burning from strain, the swollen, scorpion-stung wrist throbbing madly and threatening to give way. Dadarshi scrambled down and caught his good wrist; with his other hand he clutched the neck of Darius’s gown and took his weight. Darius’s foot found purchase. He crawled back up and sat on the ground as the wailing rose to a shriek that hurt his ears. Violent gusts buffeted them, sand hazed the air and the sun disappeared; the hills faded before their eyes, the desert closed in.

  As suddenly as it started, the wind stopped. The sand fell back to the desert, the sun shone hazily in the sky. All that remained was the ever-present soughing of the wind over distant dunes. Darius remembered Phanes’s warning back at the Place of Two Swords and a chill came over him. He knew this was just the lull before the storm.

  The Fifty Day Winds had arrived.

  22

  They ran, bent low, gowns flapping wildly, the wind like hot silk against Darius’s skin. Each breath was painfully dry as it rasped through his throat. Flashes of yellow light flickered eerily in the sky and there was a distant rumble of thunder. A terrible tension filled the air, a rising, swelling, bursting. Suddenly the full force of the storm broke, sweeping in from the desert with awesome power. Palms bent double as they flailed their fronds, sand thickened the air as the wind thrashed the oasis. The sun was replaced with a shining disc of sand-blasted silver that looked like the moon. Brutal gusts buffeted Darius’s bronze-domed helmet and rattled sand against it, stinging his face and forcing him to peer through slitted eyes. They reached the camp as panicking soldiers piled rocks on tents or rushed to huddle in the safety of tombs, while horses pranced and pulled against their lines. Only the camels seemed relaxed, their long lashes and tight nostrils keeping out the sand, their mobile lips sneering at the storm as they placidly chewed.

  All that afternoon the storm blew, while Darius, Dadarshi and Vinda sheltered in a tomb. At dusk it gave a final dying gust and simply stopped. Darius shook his head and cleared his ears at the sudden, deafening silence. His bedding had been in one of the tents outside, probably lost by now. Too exhausted to worry, he slept on the hard floor. Twice in the night he woke to hear the wind raging again. The second time he roused himself to go and check the sentries, and found the duty officer diligently battling to keep the watchfires fed. Roaring flames danced crazily in the wind. ‘These palm trees burn like kindling,’ the officer said, shouting to be heard over the storm. He was a round-faced, jovial satapatish who was obviously enjoying the challenge. ‘Put one on the fire and it’s gone. Other than that, all quiet, sir. Well, if you can call this quiet,’ he added with a twinkle in his eye.

  Satisfied the watch was in good hands Darius went back to sleep, only to be woken by Vinda, who had volunteered for the dawn watch. Vinda had hardly spoken a word since the day they took the oasis. He wouldn’t have woken Darius just to chat. ‘A problem?’ Darius asked, wiping the sleep from his eyes.

  ‘I am not sure … I thought you should see this.’ Darius followed him outside where the eastern sky was just beginning to catch alight, a few streaks of burning gold smeared across the horizon. The hot, dry wind had left the plateau with a dusty, midsummer dryness. In the distance Darius could hear shouting. Vinda pointed to the southern edge of the oasis, at dark shapes moving across the sand and clouds of dust boiling up in blue dawn light. The Carthaginian horsemen had set up targets and were riding at them a squadron at a time, casting javelins, wheeling in a circle and casting again. Other horsemen were practising mock charges, racing at each other and thrusting spears blunted with wooden blocks. They were skilful riders. It was an impressive display.

  ‘Tomorrow is the fifth day. They’re preparing to attack.’ Darius said. ‘Any sign of Phanes?’

  ‘No.’

  They lifted their eyes further into the desert, Darius searching for any sign of a disturbance in the featureless grey. ‘If he was close we would see the dust cloud by now.’

  Vinda nodded gloomily.

  An outbreak of shouting brought them back to the Carthaginians, who had stopped casting javelins and were sitting motionless on their horses. From somewhere came a low rumbling, at first so faint Darius wasn’t sure it was real. He strained his ears. Vinda seemed to hear it too. He lifted his head expectantly and their eyes met. Neither spoke.

  Darius could hear it clearly now, an unmistakable drum-drum-drum-drum as distant hooves beat the ground.

  ‘Phanes?’ Vinda breathed, hardly daring to hope.

  They stared again at the southern horizon where the dawn light was a pale wash spreading westward across the sky. There was no sign of life. Anxiously Darius swept the desert with his eyes. First north, then east towards the dawn. Nothing was approaching. Sweeping south again, he noticed that the stationary mercenaries were all facing west. Looking west he understood why.

  ‘Ahura Mazda bear us aid,’ Vinda said piously as he saw them. They were small, but growing quickly as they raced towards the oasis. The western sky was still quite dark, which was why neither man had noticed the dust.

  ‘How many?’ Darius asked as the swarm approached. Vinda did not answer. Even without counting, Darius knew there were more than his men could fight. He remembered Phanes saying the garrison would be only a thousand, and gave a bitter laugh. Phanes’s spies deserved to be crucified. In a flash of insight, he realized that perhaps they had been. Perhaps they had been caught and turned, just as Phanes had caught the Great Chief’s false guides.

  Bad news spreads quickly. Soon Dadarshi joined the two men and a knot of junior commanders gathered. ‘That’s it,’ Dadarshi said softly. ‘It’s over.’

  Looking at the surging masses of enemy horsemen, Darius was struck by a solid conviction that he was going to die here. The shock of it felt like running into a stone wall, jarring his head and throwing his heart out of beat. All the fighting, struggling, planning of recent years was going to be wasted. He felt cheated. If he was going to die he would rather have died killing Cambyses, not perishing in a far-flung desert in a futile cause. Then he felt Parmys reaching out to him, her thoughts somehow bridging the massive distance between them. He knew without a shadow of doubt that she was thinking of him at that very moment, willing him to be safe. ‘Take care my love, but never be afraid; you are special. Nothing will ever harm you.’ Foolish as it was, when he remembered her words he felt his courage return.

  ‘No!’ Darius said forcefully to Dadarshi. ‘It’s never over until you are dead. And I don’t know about you, but I have no intention of dying.’

  There were one hundred and twenty prisoners left including the three princes, one of whom – Si-Ammon – was discovered to be the Great Chief of the Desert Lands’ firstborn. A tall, slim, arrogant youth who vastly overestimated his own prowess, he had rashly led the attempt to free the prisoners and ended up being captured himself. Now the sun was rising, Darius called a satapatish and gave orders to release sixty, but keep the princes back until tomorrow. ‘And see if you can find me some breakfast,’ he added. The officer smiled and hurried back with some hot bread, a skin of sheep’s yoghurt and some date wine.

  ‘Do you think we should?’ Vinda asked, watching the sixty prisoners bein
g counted.

  Darius bit a hunk off the bread and chewed. ‘I gave my word of honour.’

  Vinda’s laugh was hollow. ‘And an Aryan noble must place his honour before his life,’ he said bitterly. Darius realized he was referring to his own humiliation at losing command.

  ‘You think I should break my word?’

  ‘No, I don’t. It’s just that we know what will happen as soon as you let those princes free tomorrow morning. He doesn’t care two date pips for the rest of his warriors, but the princes are important. Especially Si-Ammon. Once he has them back he will destroy us.’

  ‘What choice do I have?’

  ‘Fifty thousand lives is a lot to pay for one man’s honour, Darius. Perhaps we can find some pretext for letting the others go, but keeping the princes. Just for a few more days, until Phanes arrives.’

  ‘You are suggesting I break my word!’ Darius said, laughing. ‘I never thought the day would come.’

  Vinda frowned and drew back, hurt.

  ‘No,’ Darius said seriously. ‘I’m not mocking you. You could be right. Let me think about it.’ He chewed reflectively on the rest of his bread, drank some yoghurt, then some wine. If he let the princes go the Ammonians would attack. If they overran the oasis and destroyed the pool, Phanes’s army would be left without water and would die. But if he kept the princes as hostages men would say that Darius, son of Hystaspes of the Royal House of Parsa, was not a man of his word and they would despise him, just as Darius despised the Great Chief for breaking his word. Vinda was urging him to sacrifice his honour now, but he would be the first to revile Darius later. Or would he? Humiliation had changed the man. He had lost that insufferable arrogance and become almost normal. Perhaps he had a point. What right did Darius have to risk the entire army just to save his own foolish honour?

  But honour was not foolish. Despite his poverty, honour had allowed Darius to hold his head up high, to deal with the Vindas of the world. It was all he had. If he lost it he would be worthless. Darius realized he was arguing in circles and put the question aside. Perhaps Phanes would come today. Then there would be a battle, and he would not have to decide.

  Sweeping across the desert at speed, throwing clouds of dust into the air, the brutal men on shaggy ponies were enough to bring the Great Chief’s forces up to thirty thousand. Dadarshi thought they were Sherden, Sea People from an island off the coast. He may have been right. Darius had often heard rumours of unknown tribes around the great sweep of desert to the south of Carthage, and the unexplored landmass called Europe that lay across the sea to its north. Traders told tales of pale-skinned, backward tribes living there, many still fighting with bronze weapons like the Saka and wearing skins. Darius imagined the Great Chief’s ambassadors scouring Libya, the islands of the Sea People, Iberia and the Greek colonies of the Mediterranean, frantically hiring mercenaries to defend him. If he had gold to pay them, they would come.

  The new arrivals galloped in, whooping and waving spears. They disappeared beneath the palms and the sounds of mock battle intensified; screams and shouts and heavy-shod feet thumping the ground. In a clearing near one of the bitter lakes, Darius made out palm-trunk ladders being lashed together ready to assault the cliff. From beneath the trees came the braying of asses as the Great Chief’s men unloaded supplies from Siwa. Phanes’s map put it two days’ ride away, and since the Persians had captured the spring and all the flocks and herds at the Two Lakes, transporting food and water for so many men and horses must have required every animal the Ammonians possessed. Darius angrily slapped his thigh. ‘We should have attacked their supply train!’

  ‘They always come in at night,’ Vinda said. ‘Intercepting them in the dark across such a wide area would be impossible.’

  ‘We ought to do something, sir,’ Dadarshi complained. ‘The men don’t like sitting around watching his cavalry swell, listening to that noise. It’s unnerving them. They want to get out there and fight.’

  ‘They’ll be fighting soon enough. Till then keep them busy. Add more trunks to that stockade, strengthen the barrier around the spring.’ As an afterthought, Darius added, ‘And carry as much water as possible up to the tombs. Just in case.’

  Dadarshi drew back his lips. ‘You think we might be besieged up here, sir?’

  ‘No. But it doesn’t hurt to be prepared.’

  When the orders had been handed on, Darius climbed a hill with Dadarshi and Vinda. The wind was soughing over the dunes, but there was no sign of a storm. It was the second hour of daylight, cold-drugged flies were warming themselves on rocks beneath a sun that was beginning to grow hot. Lazily, Darius stretched muscles aching from the hard floor of the tomb. His earlier thoughts of Parmys had brought him peace. Everyone around him was panicking but Darius refused to join them. The new arrivals didn’t matter. Phanes would soon be here.

  Dadarshi raised an arm to point south and sounded shaky. ‘What’s that?’

  Refusing to be flustered, Darius followed the line of Dadarshi’s hand to a faint smudge hovering on the horizon. Was it large and distant, or small and close? It was hard to tell. Sometimes in the desert you could set off for a rock that looked close and spend half a day getting there. Other times something very near looked far away.

  ‘Another storm?’ Vinda suggested. No one answered.

  Staring at the smudge, Darius felt a stirring of hope. ‘It’s not like any storm I’ve ever seen.’ The cloud was yellow and shapeless, swirling in the void between desert and sky. But the sky above it lacked a storm’s purple hue.

  They watched in silence. No one wanted to be the first to say it was Phanes.

  In case they were wrong.

  Threads of black smoke curled into the air as smiths pumped bellows and furnaces roared, burning precious stocks of hardwood charcoal to repair swords and spears. Armour was burnished and missing scales replaced, bows restrung. Arrows collected from the first battle were stacked in huge piles in the tombs, the broken points melted down and recast in moulds. Three times that morning Darius climbed to the watch rock with either Vinda or Dadarshi, and each time the cloud in the south grew larger. It had to be an army, and the only army likely to come from the south was Phanes’s. But it would not be here today. ‘The vanguard will arrive in the morning,’ Darius predicted to Dadarshi. ‘You might want to have a signal fire ready to guide him in.’

  The sun continued to climb. The air continued to grow hotter. It was too early in the year for the ferocious summer heat, but it was going to be the sort of day when a man draws his headcloth across his face and avoids touching metal armour, or better still removes it to avoid the lines of sweat dribbling down his body. Darius felt the tension rising, a tight, sullen feeling in the air. As that air heated it began to quiver, and the wind blew a few experimental gusts. Above the oasis a falcon swooped on a low flying dove, plummeting down in a steep dive then skidding across the sky as a sudden squall tipped it over on its wing. Soon the sky was empty of birds, and swirls of dust were lifting high into the air. Watching it all, Dadarshi looked strained. After days of tension and little sleep, Darius could tell his nerves were close to snapping. ‘Let it blow,’ Darius said complacently, trying to reassure his friend. ‘Phanes is almost here. It can’t harm him now.’

  Heading to the plateau for lunch they saw a man run out of a tomb, followed by another who was shouting and waving his arms. There was more shouting, a hornblast, the sound of soldiers rushing to the scene. With his escape route cut off, the first man turned, thrust his head down and sprinted directly towards them. Darius grabbed Dadarshi’s shoulder and they stood very still. The fugitive’s long coat was flapping open and he had feathers in his hair. He was an escaped Ammonian.

  An archer near the tomb knelt, strung his bow and fired. The arrow hit the fugitive in the back of his arm. He snapped off the shaft but kept running, increasing speed, then saw the two Persians ahead and slewed round.

  ‘Get him!’ Darius shouted, launching into the chase. Behind him he heard hea
vy breathing as Dadarshi followed. With Persian soldiers blocking one direction and the two officers the second, the Ammonian was driven against the side of the hill where the tribesmen had been butchered after their disastrous raid. He stopped. Head turning frantically, he understood he was trapped and scrabbled for a handhold to start climbing. About shoulder high off the ground the warrior’s injured arm gave way, his fingers slid off the rock, his foot slipped and he came crashing to the ground.

  Dadarshi strung his bow, notched an arrow and pointed it at the crouching warrior. Darius advanced cautiously, sword in hand. The Ammonian looked past him as though considering trying to make a dash for it, then got to his feet and backed up against the rock. He was breathing hard, his face screwed up with pain, covered in dust and dripping sweat. Looking desperate he waved a narrow-bladed Persian dagger at Darius. ‘Stay back!’ he shouted in Greek.

  Darius thought his face was familiar and looked more closely. He wore a necklace of pierced teeth from a lion or some other big cat, had gold beads braided in his hair and tattoos on his arms and legs.

  A knot of Persians arrived, panting. One, with blood pouring from his cheek, pointed at the Ammonian and spoke rapidly. ‘Bastard killed two guards! Cut their throats, sir, and when I jumped him he cut me!’

  ‘Your name?’ Darius asked the Ammonian in Greek.

  The fugitive straightened his back and answered in a haughty voice. ‘Prince Si-Ammon.’ He was a younger, taller version of his father, with leaner cheeks but the same hooded, furtive eyes.