Blood of Kings

by Andrew James

  King Bardiya says: Temples are an abomination. All places of worship are to be closed. No man but a magus may offer sacrifice; on pain of death. No God other than Ahura Mazda may be worshipped; on pain of death. Ahura Mazda is the Lord. You shall have no God but Him. By order of the King of Kings, given at Sikayauvatish this fifteenth day of Garmapada, Year One.

  Beside it a second proclamation had been nailed, one Darius was to see repeated all across the city.

  King Bardiya says: No man may pollute a river or stream; on pain of death. No man may pollute Fire; on pain of death. No man may harm a dog; on pain of death. Ahura Mazda is the Lord. You shall have no God but Him. By order of the King of Kings, given at Sikayauvatish this twelfth day of Garmapada, Year One.

  Next to it was a third proclamation saying that no taxes would be levied for three years. The Empire would run instead on the vast quantities of gold taken by Cambyses from Egypt’s temples. The Bardiya Darius knew would never have resorted to such brazen bribery in an attempt at popularity. Nor would he have needed to. All he had ever had to do was show himself in public and be automatically loved.

  Darius stepped gingerly over the bloody corpses on his way out, sickened by the slaughter. So this was the ‘God’s work’ that the magi had been gathering for. To violently suppress the worship of all gods except Ahura Mazda, to raise the magi to the role of supreme arbiters between men and God, and to kill all those who stood in their way. Was it really all done on Bardiya’s command? Like Cyrus, Bardiya had never before cared which god or gods a man worshipped. Nor, Darius recalled him saying, had he ever cared for magi. So why would he suddenly start now?

  Sure that Parmys would not have lingered in a Babylon overtaken by turmoil, Darius continued east to Susa, where Vakauka, Ardu’s father, kept a small palace. Perhaps Vakauka had heard from his son?

  Once the capital of an Elamite empire powerful enough to challenge Babylon, Susa had suffered badly under the Assyrians and never fully recovered. But as he entered the ancient city Darius still saw remnants of its glorious past. Giant winged bulls guarded the massive gates. Passing beneath them, he rode through streets of genteel if slightly crumbling buildings. Even the Royal Palace had bricks crumbling on the gatehouse and cracks in the tall, stretched panels of its walls. The ancient pile needed pulling down and rebuilding. In fact, if ever an entire city cried out for repair, Susa was it. Cyrus had increasingly neglected the place, and Cambyses had been little better. Darius guessed it was their Anshanite blood. Susa and Anshan had been ancient rivals and the rise of Pathragada had triggered Susa’s decline.

  Vakauka’s palace was modest, an impressive facade of flat, baked bricks but inside only a small courtyard with porticoes around it. Darius had no idea if he was going to find him in residence. As well as a second, much larger palace in Pathragada, Vakauka maintained extensive pistachio plantations in the East. He could be at either of those places. But something told Darius that Pathragada and the East were both dangerous places at present, whereas neglected Susa would be comparatively safe, which made him hopeful as he approached the palace gates. He was shown through the gatehouse and outer courtyard into a beautifully furnished chamber. Gold, pearl, ivory, teak. Magnificent rugs on the walls and floor. Ardu’s family was among the richest in the land.

  Vakauka was reclining alone, looking subdued. Raising his left arm in silence to acknowledge Darius’s respectful bow, he vaguely waved the stump of his right hand towards a couch. If Darius hadn’t known him better he would have said the old soldier had been drinking heavily. The bushy eyebrows he had given Ardu were drawn down, his long, thin face looked haggard, and when he spoke his first words were almost incoherent. ‘I’m sorry, Darius. He’s gone.’

  ‘Ardu was here?’

  Vakauka nodded.

  ‘Was anyone with him?’

  ‘Another soldier. Vi … something. I’m sorry, since Artfern died I have difficulty remembering.’

  Darius thought he had misheard. ‘Artfern is dead?’

  A spasm of grief flickered across Vakauka’s face. Artfern was his eldest son. ‘Bardiya killed him …’ His voice cracked. He composed himself with difficulty and went on. ‘I don’t understand, Darius. For years they were such good friends. When Artfern got back from Egypt and heard Bardiya was rising he was delighted. He sent a message by the pirradazish pledging our support, and when Bardiya’s cortege arrived naturally Artfern went to meet it. The next I knew his body was found outside the palace, and his head was on a stake. No explanation, nothing.’ He looked at Darius with imploring eyes. ‘It makes no sense.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’ Artfern and Darius had been friends. He could think of no reason for the new King of Kings to kill him. His death was shocking, yet another strange event involving Bardiya. ‘When did Ardu come?’

  ‘Just after Artfern died. They stayed three days while I had their wounds dressed and tended. I would have insisted they stay longer, but it wasn’t safe for them.’

  ‘Wounds? What wounds?’

  ‘Just minor sword cuts on the arms. They said they had been attacked by a group of magi.’

  ‘God! But this is impossible, uncle. Did they say why?’

  The old man shook his head. His eyes were closed, as though lost to grief. He opened them again. ‘It’s not just Artfern, you know. He’s killed twenty or thirty nobles in Susa already, all men he was once close to. He must have some sickness of the mind. There’s bad blood in that family, Darius. It came out in Cambyses, now it’s showing in his brother.’

  ‘I am afraid you are right.’ Darius gritted his teeth. He had to ask again. ‘Was anyone else with them? A third person?’

  Vakauka stared at him blankly. ‘No. Just Ardu and the soldier. I sent them away for their own good. It’s not safe here.’

  ‘How long ago did they leave?’

  He waved his hand vaguely. ‘Four days, I think. Possibly five.’

  ‘Uncle, this is important. Did they say where they were going?’

  Vakauka shook his head. ‘No. I gave them some gold and told them to hide somewhere safe. I said it was better if I didn’t know. In case Bardiya’s men took me.’

  Darius was desperate to get going but he spent a while sharing Vakauka’s grief. When he rose to leave, the old man looked him in the eye. ‘Artfern was a good man. He didn’t deserve to die. Whatever has happened to Bardiya, he’s not the prince we knew. He has to be stopped before he kills Ardu too. He’s all I’ve got left.’ He hesitated, then gripped Darius’s arm. ‘If ever I have helped you in the past, Darius, promise me you’ll do it.’

  The world had been turned upside down. Persia’s golden prince had turned into a daeva, killing men at random. Or was it at random? Vakauka’s story fitted with Parmys’s letter. Everyone closest to Bardiya was dying. A pattern was emerging, and a suspicion forming in Darius’s mind. If he was right, Parmys was in terrible danger. And so was he.

  Vakauka was crying now, and Darius hugged him. ‘Uncle, I promise.’

  Borrowing some of Vakauka’s men Darius sent out messages, then left.

  He broke his eastward journey to ride north for Medea. Waves of nostalgia hit him as he crossed the clover-rich plains of Nisaia. The oval-shaped leaves were intensely green, the masses of flowers purple-red, the heavy scent intoxicating. In the distance were lightly wooded mountains that would be misty in winter. Now they looked deliciously cool in the clear summer light. This was where Darius had grown up.

  He passed a small hilltop castle that had been gutted by fire, with mutilated bodies hanging from a tree. He tried to think of the name of the noble family who had lived there, but couldn’t remember. There were no longer brigands in Medea to plague the noble houses, not since Cyrus, which meant Bardiya and his magi must have ridden through. The thought set Darius’s mind working hard. He decided to take a detour before reaching his destination. Riding up a wooded hillside, he reached the crown and sat on his horse, looking out across Nisaia. In the distance he could see a large, dark, squ
at castle perched on a bare mountain. Sikayauvatish. Darius was seized by wild terror at the thought that Parmys might be a prisoner within its walls. Why else had Ardu and Vivana been alone? They would never willingly have abandoned her. Had she been taken by force by Bardiya’s men when they were attacked? It seemed likely.

  Outside the castle, horses were tethered and crowds of men were camping, black leather tents rippling lightly in the summer breeze. Some were dressed as magi. Others looked like soldiers. Before riding away, Darius stared hard at Sikayauvatish, wondering what secrets it held.

  Something told him he would be back.

  Frada’s estate was huge. Fields of barley, grass, clover and oats for the horses he bred. Sheep, goats, a few cows and oxen for ploughing. But most of all horses, the huge Nisaean war chargers that had carried Persia’s asabari to victory on fields from India to Ionia. At the centre of the estate was a castle, a throwback to the days before Cyrus when all the noble families lived in fear of war. Closing his eyes, Darius remembered how it looked. Four towers, mud-plastered crenulated walls, large courtyards with big airy chambers on two floors. The extensive storehouses could hold dates and grain to sustain a six-month siege. Water from a deep stone well was cool even in the summer. Fed by the meltwater from the winter snows on the mountains, it would never run dry. Darius was sure Frada was in residence, he always came here when he could. Like Darius, he loved the wide open spaces. But would he agree to see his former friend?

  Darius crossed the boundary stone. Low stone walls hemmed in the fields. The grass was lush and green, the clover intensely sweet in the summer sun. The trees were birch, ash, oak. In the distance, mountains loomed over the plain. On their peaks, sunlight flashed off ice. He rode along the familiar track surrounded by ghosts, calculating with a shock that it was five years since he had last been here. So much had happened in that time: the campaign against the Saka; Edom; Egypt; Siwa, then Egypt again. So much danger, so much fighting, it was astonishing he was still alive. The first time he had ridden off to war in his shining scale armour Darius had been young, hopeful, and much more scared than he would ever have admitted to the large, dark-haired youth riding beside him. After that first year he and Frada had ridden out each campaigning season feeling confident. They had survived. They had killed. They were men. They knew the howling charge of the savages on the Empire’s fringe was just bluster, that if they stood up to them the savages would turn and run rather than face Cyrus’s invincible army. Buoyed with that certainty, the future had been full of hope.

  The plot against Cyrus, Darius’s arrest and Cyrus’s subsequent death had changed all that. The young, idealistic Darius was gone for ever, replaced by an older, wiser, more cynical man. If the callow youth who first left here all those years ago had known everything that was going to happen to him, would he have had the courage to face it? Or would he have turned around and ridden back in terror? There had been times in battle when men said Darius had been brave. But mostly they were when he was too angry or too desperate to be scared. He tried to remember what he had really thought when he was young, but it was all too long ago. For the first time in his life he felt the relentless march of time. Nothing stays the same. Even his friends had changed. Back then, he would never have believed it possible that one day Frada would be an enemy, yet here Darius was, riding across Frada’s land with his heart in his throat, right hand hovering near his sword.

  The castle was as he remembered it, except for the archers lounging on the roof. And, unusually, the main gate was shut. Darius dismounted and pushed. It didn’t open. It must be barred. He called out: ‘It’s Darius, son of Hystaspes.’

  He heard voices. Putting his eye to a crack in the wood he saw someone being fetched. The steward who ambled towards the gate was older and greyer than Darius remembered, but beneath the stiff, formal air he thought the man was pleased to see him. ‘Goodness, sir,’ the steward said when the gate was open. ‘It’s been a long time.’

  ‘It has. Too long.’

  He looked Darius up and down. ‘You’re looking thin, sir.’

  Darius remembered the foul food in Siwa. For some reason he laughed. ‘I expect I am.’

  The castle was luxurious inside, the private retreat of a hugely wealthy Aryan house. Babylonian silver rubbed shoulders with Egyptian faience, Lydian gold, Greek marble, Persian rugs. Darius waited in an ante-chamber while a chamberlain went to enquire if the master was ‘in’. Darius had never felt nervous here before. For seven years it had been his home. Now he paced up and down the fine, intricately patterned rug, admiring the paintings. At last the chamberlain returned, opened the door and ushered him through. Standing with his arms folded across his chest, Frada was dressed in a blue Medean gown with a broad-hilted Elamite dagger thrust into his belt. He wasn’t quite as wasted as when Darius had last seen him but he was still very thin. Frada looked as uneasy as Darius felt. His eyes were intense, almost manic, with a dark, brooding quality that hadn’t been there before. Darius wondered if his wounds still pained him. Plush couches with legs of silver were arranged around a room full of citrus-wood inlay, walnut and teak, but he didn’t invite Darius to sit, or offer him wine. Ignoring the slight, Darius tried to sound normal. ‘Bardiya has gone mad.’

  ‘I know. Why do you think I’m holed up in here, surrounded by guards?’

  ‘He’s striking down nobles at random.’

  ‘I’ve seen.’

  There was an empty pause. ‘It’s all right about the ransom, Frada. I understand. It was a lot of gold.’

  Frada shifted uncomfortably. ‘We had a bad year. Wolves took some foals. Sorry I couldn’t raise it.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You survived.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You always do.’

  The silence between them was strained.

  ‘Frada … about Bardiya. I don’t think it’s really him.’

  Frada frowned.

  ‘I don’t think it’s really Bardiya. I don’t know who it is, but I think Bardiya is dead.’

  ‘Of course it’s Bardiya.’

  ‘Have you spoken to anyone who has actually seen him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s Bardiya,’ Darius said once more. ‘I’m riding to meet Otaneh and some others. Whoever it is, he will have to be killed.’

  ‘Like you killed Cambyses?’ Frada said, accusingly.

  Darius was embarrassed. He didn’t want to lie but the conspirators had all sworn oaths of silence. ‘They say Cambyses died from a corruption. He tumbled from his horse and cut himself.’

  ‘You always were hopeless at lying, Darius. You killed him to take his throne, only Bardiya has beaten you to it. Good luck to him. As long as he leaves me alone.’

  ‘And if he doesn’t leave you alone? He’s not far from here. What if he brings men and attacks you?’

  ‘I’ll fight him off.’

  ‘And if there are too many to fight?’

  Frada shrugged. ‘Then he’ll kill me.’

  ‘Come and join us, Frada.’

  ‘And help put you on the throne? I’d rather die.’ Suddenly he was annoyed, his arms waving, his face a scowl. ‘You think I haven’t heard the whispers? “Darius is the only man who can bring peace to the Empire?” They’re all saying it now, even the ones who should know better. How you did it I don’t know, you’ve got them eating out of your hands. It’s always the same, you just take whatever you want! The throne … Parmys …’

  Darius looked up sharply. ‘Is that what it’s all about? All our years of friendship dashed to pieces over Parmys?’

  Frada looked away.

  ‘We shouldn’t fall out. The things that have happened will pass. I still want your friendship.’

  Frada’s eyes flashed with bitter anger. ‘I know what you want. You want all your friends around you while you revel in their admiration, basking in the glory of the throne. We will all have to pay homage to your magnificence, to Darius, King of Kings, Darius the Gr
eat, the brave soldier, the wise statesmen, the merciful ruler. You want my friendship … but on your terms.’

  ‘Isn’t that what every man wants? To be honoured by the men around him?’

  ‘Yes. But we can’t all have it. Only one man can. And if that man is going to be you I want no part of it. You have taken the woman I wanted. I expect now you will kill Bardiya and take the throne too. Afterwards you’ll find some way to justify it. You’ll pretend it wasn’t really Bardiya after all, just like you pretend you didn’t kill Cambyses. And once you are king, everyone will be too scared to argue. They will accept it, and you will have won … Fine. But I don’t want any part of it. I’ll just live here quietly and raise horses.’

  Darius stepped back, astonished at the hatred from his boyhood friend.

  Frada was trembling as he held out his hand. In it was the gold Saka brooch shaped like a horse’s head which Darius had given him after saving his life. Frada thrust it forward. ‘Take it and go! Before I have my men throw you out!’

  30

  Still reeling from Frada’s bitterness, Darius headed east again in the shadow of the Zagros Mountains, a great rugged chain that ran like a spine through the Persian heartland. Ever since leaving Siwa, he had nursed the hope at the back of his mind that Frada’s failure to pay the ransom was a misunderstanding, that when confronted with his friend in the flesh, Frada’s old warmth would return. Instead, he had displayed an animosity that left Darius shocked.