Amazon

by Peter Darman

  The funeral procession was preceded by an image of the deceased, or at least his head and upper torso, fashioned from wax. It was eerily an almost exact likeness that I found disturbing, but Lucius Varsas had assured me it was a common custom in the Roman world. We carried the bier to the mournful sound of musicians playing large wind instruments and the wailing of hired female mourners, their male counterparts singing the praises of Marcus Sutonius as we walked to the Citadel.

  Most cremations took place outside the city, at the bottom of the great wadi at the foot of the southern wall. There was a small gate in that section of the wall giving access to the wadi, with steps cut into the stone escarpment to allow individuals to descend to the cremation site. But I wanted Marcus to be cremated in the courtyard of the Citadel not in some ghastly, wind-swept rock trench that stank of death. So a great funeral pyre had been erected in the centre of the courtyard, the walls lined with legionaries carrying torches and more forming a square around the pyre itself. On the palace steps stood Eszter with the son of Kalet, the latter standing behind her with a large group of his fellow lords, including his father. The officers of the siege engines were also in attendance, as were those in charge of the camel train.

  We placed the body covered with a white silk cloth on the funeral pyre and Lucius Varsas lit the oil-soaked timbers. We stood back as the pyre erupted in flames that leapt high into the sky, roaring as they consumed the body of our friend. The mourners fell silent and only the hiss and crackle of the flames filled the courtyard.

  Dozens looked on as a legend passed from one life to another.

  ‘Farewell, my friend, you will be missed,’ I said under my breath.

  I stayed until the fire was nothing but a large glowing red pile, Chrestus ordering the embers to be quenched with wine.

  ‘Wine?’ I queried.

  He nodded towards the figure of Lucius Varsas.

  ‘It’s a Roman custom, apparently. Waste of good wine some might say. But Marcus was worth it.’

  ‘He was.’

  He stood beside me as the mourners began to leave the courtyard. He nodded towards the waiting Lucius Varsas.

  ‘He will collect the ashes and place them in an urn, which will be kept in the mausoleum of the family home. Marcus left him his house.’

  ‘Good, that will preserve his memory.’

  ‘The army will need a new quartermaster general, majesty, do you think young Varsas is up to it? Scelias is always singing his praises.’

  ‘He needs the experience of a campaign to see if he can handle senior command. Until then the post will remain vacant.’

  But the chances of Varsas testing his mettle appeared slim because the empire was mostly at peace as the weeks passed. Nomads were still causing problems for Margiana and Hyrcania but their raids had lessened in scale and intensity, becoming no more than nuisances. The eastern frontier of the empire was quiet as Kujula teetered on the edge of death and Phraates had seemingly vanished from the face of the earth. Aaron was delighted that the prospect of war was fast receding and commerce flourishing. Even Gallia appeared to have accepted the status quo we found ourselves in.

  ‘I am taking the Amazons and Daughters of Dura into the desert,’ she announced one morning after returning from the training fields.

  We sat on the terrace after she had unsaddled and rubbed down her horse, changed out of her sweat-drenched clothes and washed the desert grime from her body. She flopped down in her wicker chair and gulped down a cup of water.

  ‘I thought you said your teenage waifs and strays could not ride.’

  She gave me a derogatory look. ‘Those that are too young or inexperienced in the saddle will remain in the city; the rest will be joining the Amazons on exercise. It will be a liberating experience.’

  I stretched out my limbs. I too had been to the training fields to practice shooting a bow at targets while Horns was at the gallop. He loved it; I found it dusty, hot and tiring.

  ‘You had better see Sporaces about providing you with a company of horse archers, then.’

  ‘The Amazons are horse archers,’ she reminded me. ‘We don’t need babysitting.’

  She left the next day – a hundred Amazons, a score of eager, loud teenagers and the same number of camels – heading northwest to take them into the vastness of the desert. I stayed at Dura to undertake the everyday matters demanded of a king, and far removed from the supposed ‘glory’ of battles and campaigns. I toured the forts north and south of the city, listened to petitioners in the palace, opened new irrigation systems designed to bring water more efficiently from the Euphrates to water the fields of farmers, and listened as Rsan and Aaron bent my ear about a plethora of subjects ranging from street cleaners to whether we should send a birthday present to the Chinese emperor on the occasion of his fiftieth birthday. Aaron was like a dog with a bone concerning Silani and his troops, though, wearing me out with his complaints about how much they were costing. He had a point, but I was unwilling to send them back to certain death, or at the least imprisonment or banishment, at the hands of Tiridates. But then Silani himself appeared at the stables one morning, while I was making a pig’s ear of trying to re-shoe Horns, to inform me the Scythians were leaving.

  I had seen farriers replacing shoes a thousand times and believed I could turn my hand to it with relative ease. I ignored the concerned glances shared between the farriers and rubbed my hands with glee at the prospect of learning a new trade. Horns stood quite still as the chief farrier explained what needed to be done. He looked scrawny, even puny, but I had seen his sinewy arms in action and he was a highly skilled practitioner when it came to re-shoeing a horse.

  ‘First of all, you need to remove the shoes your horse is currently wearing, majesty. So place your feet behind one of his hind legs and lift up the lower half of his leg so the sole of his hoof is between your knees.’

  I did as he explained, looking down at the old shoe that needed to be removed.

  ‘And after I will be fitting new shoes?’ I asked eagerly.

  ‘You’ve got no chance,’ muttered another farrier.

  I looked at him. ‘What?’

  ‘Let’s see how we get on with removing the old ones first, majesty,’ said the chief farrier hurriedly. He handed me a pair of pincers. ‘Use these to lever the shoe off from the heel to the toe, majesty.’

  As soon as I gripped the shoe with the pincers Horns started to struggle. The other farriers tried to calm him down but my horse took exception to an amateur playing around with his hoof. He kicked out, sending the pincers flying and wrestling his leg free of my embrace. Undeterred, I paced over to the pincers on the ground and picked them up. But then Silani was before me.

  ‘If I could speak to you, majesty.’

  The chief farrier took the pincers from my hand.

  ‘Best you see to important business, majesty, we will take care of your horse, have no fear.’

  ‘Perhaps tomorrow, then?’ I suggested.

  ‘He will be re-shoed by then, majesty,’ he said.

  ‘I will return and we can work out some proper sessions,’ I suggested.

  He gave me a forced smile. ‘I look forward to it, majesty.’

  ‘How can I help you, Silani?’

  ‘The Scythians are leaving, majesty.’

  They were drawn up in the courtyard, just over four hundred burly brutes shouldering their wicked two-handed axes, with their shields strapped to their backs. Two score of mules loaded with tents, food and other supplies waited patiently for their masters to lead them from the Citadel.

  ‘What is the meaning of this?’ I demanded of their commander.

  He bowed his head and handed me a note, which was written in Claudia’s hand.

  Dear Father,

  It is time for the Scythians to leave Dura. Please do not impede their journey or send your scouts after them. They are going to where they need to be. All will be revealed.

  Claudia.

  I waved the note in his fa
ce. ‘When did you receive this?’

  ‘Yesterday, majesty.’

  ‘And you did not think it appropriate to bring it to my immediate attention?’

  ‘I was instructed not to, majesty.’

  I could feel my temper rising. ‘By who?’

  ‘The high priestess of the Scythian Sisters, majesty.’

  My blood ran cold. He was talking about a dead woman but she had visited me herself, at Lake Urmia and in the land of the Kushans, as well as at Ctesiphon. I wanted to place him under arrest but a voice inside my head was shouting at me to give him back the letter, wish him a safe journey and send him and his men on their way. I thrust the note at him.

  ‘I wish you good fortune in the time of trial to come.’

  Silani was astounded. ‘You are letting them go, majesty?’

  ‘They are on an important mission, general.’

  ‘May I enquire what that mission may be, majesty?’

  ‘When I know, you will be the first to be told, Silani.’

  We stood and watched them troop out of the Citadel and wondered when I would see them and my daughter again; indeed, if I would see them again.

  Gallia returned from her desert adventure and I made plans to mount a legal challenge to the rule of Tiridates. I intended to do so through the Council of Kings, which would be summoned to ratify the authority of the new high king. It was usually a formality but not this time. Like Tiridates I too became a scribe, penning letters to those I knew would support me. Gafarn thought it an excellent idea, as did Silaces, who wrote a long and heartfelt apology for not being at Ctesiphon where Nergal and Praxima were killed. The son of Musa said he would support my motion to declare the rule of Tiridates illegal and to have Phraates restored to the throne. The aged Khosrou also pledged his support, ‘but only because you are proposing it, Pacorus. I care little for what happens to that little shit Phraates.’ Salar also pledged his support, as did Spartacus, though the latter only did so because it meant Gordyene opposing Media. But I quickly realised that Tiridates, by dint of toppling or enlisting the satraps of Phraates’ kingdoms, had more rulers on his side than I could muster. The Council of Kings would indeed legitimise his rule, except he did not convene a meeting.

  Tiridates did nothing except let the de facto situation continue. He knew I would never raise the banner of rebellion against him and so plunge the empire into a fresh civil war. I had spent my whole life fighting for the cohesion of the empire and was not about to change now. I suddenly felt very old and very tired.

  But my spirits revived when a courier arrived at Dura bringing news of the safe delivery of Salar and Isabella’s first child, a boy named Peroz in honour of Salar’s dead father. Gallia and I were like small children as we embraced each other and danced around the palace terrace in celebration. Amid the gloom and seemingly endless sequence of deaths among our friends, the news of the birth was like a tonic.

  We held a great feast in the banqueting hall and invited all and sundry to celebrate us becoming grandparents. From Palmyra came Byrd, Noora, Malik and Jamal; from Hatra, Gafarn, Diana, Pacorus and his wife Arezu, who had given birth to a second son they had named Orodes in honour of our great friend. Both children were left at Hatra to save them a hot and dusty journey in the back of a wagon. Spartacus, still sulking as a result of our ‘conspiracy’ against him regarding Akmon and Lusin, refused our invitation, which meant Rasha was also absent. A sheepish Silaces returned to Dura in the company of his young and beautiful pregnant wife.

  ‘How old are you, Pacorus?’

  Silaces was drunk when he plonked himself beside me during the feast. Kalet and his fellow lords were as loud and inebriated as usual, Kalet’s son, with wild hair and beard like his father, had Eszter draped all over him in a pose that would not be tolerated in the more traditional courts of the empire. His name was Dalir, which meant ‘brave’, and he was every inch the son of a rough Duran lord, born and raised in the desert with a character that reflected the harsh environment he was brought up in.

  ‘Sixty, plus the few months between now and the last time you were here.’

  ‘I’m sixty-four and feeling my age, my friend. I worry that I will never see my son grow up.’

  How did he know Cia was going to have a son? It was probably just a turn of phrase.

  ‘We all suffer from that concern,’ I told him.

  He emptied his cup of wine, waited for a servant to refill it and then emptied it again.

  ‘I’m sorry I let you down, with Nergal and Praxima, I mean. It haunts me.’

  Gallia had been furious with him for not riding with us to Ctesiphon and her welcome for Silaces had not been as warm as on previous occasions when he had come to Dura. But I tried to reassure him.

  ‘Tiridates had one hundred thousand soldiers to face us. How much difference would your few hundred have made? No, he planned his move well, as did my sister.’

  His cup was refilled and he set about draining it once more.

  ‘The peace won’t last, Pacorus, I can feel it in my bones. I want you to promise that if anything happens to me, Cia and the child will have a home in Dura.’

  It was just the drink talking and I laughed it off.

  ‘There is no war, Silaces, and unlikely to be one. Phraates has vanished, Tiridates is high king and Dura is isolated.’

  He gripped my arm tightly. ‘You are wrong, Pacorus. The peace is illusory. Already trouble is stirring.’

  There was a mighty cheer as Kalet toppled from the table he had been standing on. The other lords at the table banged their cups on the wood, spilling the contents over themselves and the floor. I grimaced at the scene and saw the look of horror on the faces of Prince Pacorus and Arezu.

  ‘This is not Hatra,’ I shouted to them by way of apology.

  Not to be outdone, Malik used his chair to climb on to his table and called for silence. He too was drunk and wavered unsteadily as he raised his cup to me.

  ‘To Parthia’s newest grandfather and grandmother.’

  The hall erupted in cheers and laughter as he emptied his cup and began to dance on the tabletop, Jamal covering her eyes with embarrassment. The Agraci whooped with joy and Dura’s lords clapped their hands in unison to provide a beat to which the Agraci king could dance. In the festivities I forgot about Silaces’ grim prophecy. But in the days following we learned of storm clouds gathering in an unexpected quarter.

  Chapter 9

  I slept in the next morning, the ill effects of drinking too much wine being slow to leave me. Servants were clearing the debris from a banqueting hall reeking of beer, wine and meat juices when I rose, dressed and joined our bleary eyed friends on the palace terrace. Incense burners had been lit to defuse the stench and the air vents in the roof were open to aid the circulation of air. But the hall was no place for people with delicate constitutions to eat their breakfast. Not all were subdued, however, Prince Pacorus and the enchanting Arezu were fresh and full of vim as they partook of fruit, dates, cheese, freshly cooked bread and fruit juice. Byrd, Malik and their wives had returned to Byrd’s mansion in the early hours, and Kalet and his lords were the gods alone knew where.

  ‘Is Eszter in her room?’ I asked Gallia.

  She gave me a knowing smile. ‘Yes.’

  ‘I will not ask if she is alone.’

  Diana was standing at the balcony, nibbling a date, peering down at the river. I saw the concerned look on her face.

  ‘Are you feeling all right?’ I asked, fearing perhaps she too was suffering from drinking too much.

  ‘There are no fishing vessels on the river,’ she said.

  We rose and walked over to her to stare down at the blue waters of the Euphrates. She was right, there were no vessels of any description on the river. But there was a large group of people clustered around a spot on the Duran side of the waterway.

  ‘Strange,’ uttered Gafarn.

  I summoned Ashk and instructed him to find out what was going on.

  ‘Som
ething’s not right,’ opined Silaces, winking at the radiant Cia.

  Hatra’s Royal Bodyguard was camped on the opposite side of the river, a plethora of white horse head banners fluttering in the breeze that had begun to pick up. And it was Pacorus’ deputy who arrived at the Citadel to inform his superior of the reason for the lack of activity on the river.

  ‘A fisherman lost his leg earlier,’ he told us, ‘following a shark attack. He died a short while ago.’

  Cia was surprised. ‘A shark? In the river?’

  ‘A bull shark, most likely,’ said Silaces, ‘though I can’t believe it has swum this far up the river.’

  ‘An ill omen,’ I said, ‘but one that is easily dealt with. Tell the kitchens to find me some animal and fish guts.’

  Gafarn was perplexed. ‘For what?’

  ‘I’m going to kill this shark.’

  ‘I would advise against that, uncle,’ said Gafarn’s son. ‘You may suffer a serious injury, or worse.’

  I looked at him. ‘Why, because I am old and slow?’

  ‘No, no, of course not,’ he replied.

  ‘He is old and slow,’ said Gafarn.

  ‘And a fool,’ added Gallia.

  ‘It is not your place, Pacorus,’ she told me.

  ‘On the contrary, it is in my kingdom and I intend to deal with it.’

  ‘It might be in my kingdom,’ Gafarn ribbed me. ‘After all, half the Euphrates between our two kingdoms is Hatran.’