The Slave King

by Peter Darman

  An image flashed through my mind of my mother kneeling on a cushion with a small trowel in her hand as she planted flowers in her beloved garden at Hatra. How long ago that seemed.

  ‘She certainly was.’

  ‘You have visited the royal gardens at Ctesiphon, majesty?

  I thought of the pools filled with fish and fountains, and peacocks strolling around the grounds.

  ‘They are most impressive.’

  Dura would never rival Ctesiphon for wealth and opulence, but Adel worked hard to make the city pleasing to the eye. Foliage appeared on the main street that led from the Palmyrene Gate to the Citadel, though Chrestus complained he had to post extra guards to prevent the plants and shrubs from being stolen. The general was in a testy mood in the period leading up to Phraates’ visit, not because the high king was gracing Dura with his presence, but because he wanted to be in the east with Azad and Sporaces. He was commander of the army and half that army was hundreds of miles away, which sat ill with him. But he was able to take out his frustrations on the Durans and Exiles, organising long route marches in the desert and punishing battle simulations with the aid of Kalet and his lords and Malik and his warriors. When he had returned from one such exercise he came to the Citadel to make his report, meeting me at the armouries where I was making my weekly rounds of Arsam’s hot hell on earth. Afterwards I walked back to the Citadel with Chrestus, a party of Exiles providing an escort.

  ‘When will the high king be arriving, majesty?’

  ‘Within the month, you will be pleased to know.’

  ‘And then we can get back to normal?’

  ‘I sincerely hope so.’

  We entered the Citadel and paced towards the palace, walking up the steps to enter its porch, to be accosted by a young man. He jumped out from behind a large terracotta pot holding a flowering acanthus shrub. ‘Armed’ with a lyre that he held in the crook of his left arm while he plucked at the strings with his right hand, he was suddenly before me, singing a song in a most harmonious voice.

  ‘Behold, behold, Pacorus of Dura.

  ‘When enemies do threaten, he declares you go no further.

  ‘Though outnumbered and bereft of allies he did not falter or fear,

  ‘Riding towards the barren plain of Carrhae.’

  Now his voice hit the high notes as he sang the name of the battle over and over again.

  ‘Carrhae, Carrhae, Carrhae.’

  A horrified Chrestus had had enough.

  ‘Guards!’ he shouted.

  Two sentries standing next to the stone columns of the porch rushed forward with swords drawn, stopping the singer who threw up his hands.

  ‘I meant no offence, majesty. I arrived this morning on the orders of Lord Byrd.’

  I waved the guards back, Chrestus eyeing the young man suspiciously and ominously tapping the vine cane he was carrying against his thigh. Always a bad sign.

  ‘Byrd?’ I said. ‘Put down your arms. Who are you.’

  He flashed a smile to reveal a row of even white teeth.

  ‘Nicias, lord.’

  ‘You are Greek?’

  Another smile. ‘Yes, lord. Originally from Thebes but now resident in Damascus where I make my living composing and singing songs.’

  There was a disapproving sigh from Chrestus beside me.

  ‘I often sing for the governor of Syria,’ Nicias informed me, ‘who is a great friend of Lord Byrd. The governor suggested I come to Dura to compose songs about Parthia’s great warlord. Lord Byrd has kindly financed my trip here, lord.’

  ‘How generous,’ groaned Chrestus.

  ‘You travelled alone from Damascus?’ I asked.

  ‘No, lord, I am part of a group sent here by Lord Byrd for your entertainment.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Poets, dancers, musicians and costumiers, lord.’

  ‘Costumiers?’ bellowed Chrestus. ‘The king doesn’t need anyone to dress him, boy. Byrd has more money than sense, if you ask me.’

  With mounting trepidation, I walked from the porch into the reception hall and through to the throne room where Gallia was being entertained by a poetry recital. She sat on her throne listening to a young man with a soft voice reciting a tale of Remus, my old warhorse. Behind me Nicias plucked gently at his lyre until Chrestus turned on him.

  ‘You continue to play that and I will shove it up your arse.’

  ‘Chrestus,’ I rebuked him mildly, ‘don’t be a barbarian. Don’t you know Dura has become a place of beauty, civilisation and learning?’

  ‘Quite right.’

  I saw a beaming Alcaeus standing near the dais and an equally happy Scelias next to him. I had never seen so many Greeks in the throne room, all enjoying the soft voice of the handsome young poet who was coming to the end of his recital. His voice became tremulous as he told the story of the death of Remus and my horse’s journey to the afterlife. I stepped on to the dais and sat beside my wife as the poet’s head dropped and he wiped a tear from his eye.

  ‘That was most moving, Agis,’ smiled Gallia, ‘you must return to the palace this evening so the king may hear your poem in full.’

  The young Greek bowed deeply to Gallia, who tossed him a gold coin. Agis caught the coin, knelt before the queen and spread his arms.

  ‘I will write a poem about the Queen of Dura and the Amazons, which will rival the Iliad and the Odyssey when it is finished.’

  ‘Bravo,’ shouted Alcaeus. ‘The queen is worthy of such epics.’

  Gallia, delighted that a handsome Greek poet had heard of her and the Amazons, stood and held out her hand.

  ‘You shall by our guest at Dura for as long as it takes, Agis.’

  The Greek sprang forward and planted a dainty kiss on my wife’s hand.

  ‘Your beauty and fame inspire me, majesty. I shall waste no more time but will away to start my work.’

  ‘Hopefully back to Greece,’ said Chrestus loudly.

  Agis gave the general a disparaging glance and skipped from the throne room.

  Alcaeus stepped forward. ‘Heard of the Iliad and the Odyssey, Chrestus?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘They are epics from ancient history,’ Alcaeus told him, ‘written by a Greek named Homer and tell of the war between the Greeks and the Trojans. They are required reading for anyone who purports to consider themselves civilised.’

  ‘I’ve never read them,’ I confessed.

  ‘Me neither,’ added Gallia.

  Alcaeus looked at Scelias who rolled his eyes.

  ‘We live in a cultural wasteland,’ lamented the head of the Sons of the Citadel.

  ‘Culture doesn’t stop foreign armies burning your home or killing your friends,’ said Chrestus.

  ‘No, indeed, general,’ admitted Scelias, ‘but it does save one from a slow, lingering death.’

  Chrestus pointed his cane at him. ‘Whenever I hear the word “culture”, I reach for my sword.’

  He pointed the cane at a rotund man with a neat beard and bald crown who was dressed in a white, knee-length tunic with red boots and fingers adorned with gold rings. Draped over his left forearm was a blue cloak, which was fastened to the tunic at the left shoulder by a gold clasp. He stepped forward and bowed to Gallia and me.

  ‘Pontius Cinna at your service, dresser to Marcus Tullus Cicero, Governor of Syria.’

  ‘I thought Lucius Didius was the governor of Syria,’ I said.

  ‘Cicero the Younger is newly appointed, majesty,’ Cinna informed me. ‘And is eager to meet you when your daughter marries the son of Lord Kalet.’

  I had extended an invitation to the governor of Syria following Gallia corresponding with Octavian concerning the return of the eagles lost at Carrhae and Lake Urmia. This had prompted a discourse between Phraates and Octavian that was leading to lasting peace between Parthia and Rome, or so it seemed and so I hoped. In the climate of improving relations between the empire and Rome, I thought it appropriate to extend an invitation to the governor to travel to
Dura, not least because he could have a face-to-face meeting with Phraates.

  ‘Cicero the Younger is high in Octavian’s favour?’ I probed.

  ‘Very high, majesty,’ replied Cinna. ‘He took an active role in the defeat of Mark Antony, the triumvir having killed Cicero’s father. Both the governor and indeed Octavian himself are mindful of your own part in the defeat of Mark Antony.’

  I was surprised. ‘My part?’

  ‘You alone were responsible for defeating Mark Antony before the walls of Phraaspa and later when the triumvir formed an alliance with Queen Aliyeh. The governor is in no doubt his defeats in Parthia contributed towards his eventual crushing at Actium.’

  ‘Are you a poet, too?’ asked Chrestus.

  Cinna smiled. ‘I am the personal tailor to Governor Cicero, sent to Dura to fit the king’s new clothes.’

  ‘What new clothes?’ asked a bemused Gallia.

  ‘The ones ordered by Lord Byrd, majesty, and currently stored in his mansion in the city.’

  I wasn’t really interested in a new set of clothes but I was eager to quiz the Roman on the whereabouts of Tiridates, who had sought and been granted sanctuary in Syria. I had gifted Byrd a mansion in the city in the hope he and Noora would make it their home. But they were happy living in a tent in Palmyra, albeit a large tent. So the mansion was unoccupied for most of the year, though Byrd did pay staff to maintain it and prevent it falling into disrepair. The building itself was an impressive mud-brick structure, built in the Greek style like all the buildings in Dura, specifically according to Hippodamian principles, named after the Greek architect Hippodamus of Miletus. A two-storey building, the first floor contained bedrooms and a library, the ground floor an entrance hall, kitchens, study, dining room, entertaining lounge and colonnaded garden. We availed ourselves of the study when I had my fitting, Cinna overseeing a young male apprentice who took my measurements. Gallia reclined on a couch sipping wine as Cinna studied my attire.

  ‘Are they your working clothes, majesty?’

  I looked down at my simple white tunic, tan leggings and leather boots.

  ‘This is my normal attire.’

  Cinna’s brow creased into a frown. ‘Oh, dear.’

  He clapped his hands to prompt the appearance of another young assistant, also male, young and attractive. The youth was carrying a white silk robe, upon which were stitched red griffins.

  ‘Try this on, majesty. Lord Byrd gave me your approximate measurements but the robe can of course be adjusted.’

  I unstrapped my sword belt and handed it to Gallia before putting on the robe, which was as light as a feather. It had long, loose-fitting sleeves and was open at the front to facilitate ease of fitting. The boy handed me a red silk sash that Cinna informed me was to be used as a belt to keep the robe closed.

  ‘What about my sword belt?’ I asked.

  Cinna tutted. ‘No weapons to be worn with this robe, majesty. Presumably you have guards to keep you safe?’

  Gallia laughed. Half a dozen Exiles had escorted us to the mansion but I felt naked without my spatha.

  ‘Is Tiridates still in Syria?’ I asked.

  A servant handed me a chalice of wine, proffering another to Cinna.

  ‘Yes, majesty, I believe he is.’

  ‘Where?’

  His confident manner disappeared as his piggy eyes darted between Gallia and me.

  ‘Near the coast, majesty, or so I am told.’

  ‘Have no fear, Cinna,’ Gallia reassured him, ‘the king has no intention of sending assassins to kill him, though we cannot vouch the same for King of Kings Phraates.’

  The boy tied the sash around my waist.

  ‘The high king will not try to kill Tiridates while his son is in Rome,’ I said.

  ‘The governor informed me the child is under the care and protection of Octavian himself,’ said Cinna.

  The tailor stepped back and admired his creation, his gaze concentrating on my boots. More tutting.

  ‘They will not do, not at all. Bring the boots.’

  The youth with the tape measure disappeared and reappeared moments later with a pair of beautiful red leather boots. Cinna saw my admiring look.

  ‘You’ll not find a finer pair in the whole of Mesopotamia, majesty. They are made from ox leather prepared by a vegetable tanning process that takes two years to complete. They are more comfortable than a pair of slippers yet very durable for outdoor wear.’

  The youth placed the boots on the floor. I removed my own footwear and slipped my feet into them. Wide straps that passed under the feet and crisscrossed up the lower leg secured the soft leather uppers. They were certainly comfortable and as a nice finishing touch were adorned with silver griffins. I liked them. I stepped back and faced Gallia.

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Very kingly.’

  ‘I have more robes in blue, red and purple, majesty, with corresponding complementary sashes. I assume you will be taking them all?’

  ‘He will,’ smiled Gallia.

  ‘Lord Byrd has also paid for a number of dresses for yourself, majesty,’ Cinna told Gallia. ‘Perhaps you might send your female dressers to collect them later.’

  ‘I have no dressers,’ Gallia told him.

  Cinna was perplexed. ‘Then who dresses you, majesty?’

  ‘I dress myself,’ she told him.

  ‘No slaves, majesty?’

  ‘No slaves.’

  Cinna was shocked. ‘But I have seen slaves in your palace.’

  ‘They are paid servants,’ I said, ‘free men and women who are hired for their services.’

  ‘Has Tiridates indicated he will stay in Syria?’ I asked, changing the subject.

  ‘I am not privy to that information, majesty,’ said Cinna.

  ‘Does he have any supporters around him?’ queried Gallia.

  ‘Again, majesty, you must forgive my ignorance but I do not know.’

  Afterwards, wearing my new robes, I walked back to the Citadel with Gallia.

  ‘When the Roman governor arrives we can question him more closely about the whereabouts and motives of Tiridates,’ she said.

  ‘It seems strange he is lingering in Syria. I suspect he is biding his time until conditions are right.’

  ‘To return to Parthia?’

  I nodded. ‘He has had a taste of being high king and I doubt the prospect of being an exile in Syria holds much allure.’

  ‘We should get Byrd to locate him,’ she said. ‘He has offices and contacts throughout Syria.’

  ‘To what end?’

  ‘To kill Tiridates, of course.’

  I stopped to look at her.

  ‘If we kill Tiridates, Octavian might retaliate by murdering the son of Phraates.’

  ‘Not if we are careful.’

  ‘Careful?’

  ‘A pretty girl could infiltrate his household easily enough.’

  My blood ran cold. ‘I was not aware the Daughters of Dura were being trained as assassins.’

  She continued walking back to the Citadel.

  ‘They are trained to be loyal to their king and queen and their homeland. Or I could send one of the younger Amazons. It makes no difference.’

  ‘And when your girl or young woman has slit Tiridates’ throat, what then? She will be far from home and alone. You would be condemning her to death, a slow death nailed to a cross.’

  We walked into the Citadel, guards at the gates snapping to attention as we passed by. I dismissed our escort and the duty centurion coming from the office just inside the gates instructed them to return to barracks. He looked surprised to see me in such rich attire but composed himself and saluted us both.

  ‘She would not be alone,’ said Gallia. ‘Some of Kalet’s men would be her escort, or Malik’s warriors if we asked him. Tiridates deserves to die.’

  I could not argue with her logic, though I would not sanction an assassination attempt.

  ‘We do nothing until after the wedding.’
/>   She shrugged. ‘As you wish.’

  We walked up the palace steps.

  ‘Promise me you will not take matters into your own hands,’ I beseeched.

  She raised a well-manicured eyebrow. ‘Not until after the wedding. You have my word.’

  The presence in Syria of the man who had been responsible for igniting a civil war in Parthia, in addition to causing the deaths of Nergal and Praxima, meant he could expect no mercy from Gallia still bent on exacting revenge. But the crushing of Tiridates’ rebellion, combined with the negotiations that were ongoing between Octavian and Phraates, had resulted in the prospect of a lasting peace on the empire’s western border. I saw no reason to endanger the blossoming relations between Rome and Parthia, not least because there existed a very real danger in the east. Kujula had recovered from his battle wounds and his gaze was once again focused on expanding the Kushan Empire at the expense of Parthia. Fortunately, the arrival of King of Kings Phraates focused Gallia’s attention on Dura and her daughter’s wedding rather than on murdering the former King of Aria.

  Dura suddenly seemed small and overcrowded as the guests and their entourages began to arrive. The Governor of Syria, Cicero the Younger, arrived in the company of Byrd, Noora, Malik, Jamal and Riad, his son who had recently returned to Palmyra. We greeted them in the palace, Byrd complimenting me on my new clothes and Malik asking if I had lost my sword. The governor, in his late thirties, his hair receding, reminded me of one of Aaron’s clerks but was most courteous and softly spoken. Byrd had thought it prudent for him to be lodged in his mansion for the duration of his stay, which made sense as he and my former chief scout were friends and the governor was also familiar with Malik and his family.

  The next to arrive were Gafarn and Diana, though without Prince Pacorus who was ruling Elymais while Queen Cia concentrated on giving birth to the kingdom’s heir. It seemed strange not to see the prince at the head of Hatra’s Royal Bodyguard, though nothing could diminish the happiness we felt at the arrival of our oldest friends. When he had finished chiding me about my new apparel and complimenting me on the greenery in the Citadel, Gafarn had some interesting news from Hatra. We were sitting on the palace terrace, enjoying a vivid sunset of a white sun dropping in a red western sky, the heat of the day yet to leave the earth.