The Slave King

by Peter Darman

  ‘Atrax has left Hatra,’ announced Gafarn.

  ‘I’m amazed he was able to summon the strength to leave his bed,’ remarked Gallia, noticing Gafarn was rubbing his right leg. Diana saw her stare.

  ‘He tripped and fell in the palace a few days ago and cut his leg.’

  ‘Wretched thing won’t heal,’ complained Gafarn.

  ‘You should see Alcaeus,’ I said.

  He rolled his eyes. ‘I’ve seen a small army of physicians, plus a host of priests, sorceresses and faith healers, all of whom got word of my ailment and beat a path to the palace. Their wittering and wailing were an excellent cure for insomnia but did nothing for my leg.’

  ‘So what are you taking for it?’ asked Gallia.

  ‘Keeping it clean and fresh bandages every day,’ he told her. ‘It’s only a large cut. I’ve suffered worse.’

  ‘But you were younger then,’ I said. ‘You must take care of yourself.’

  ‘Yes, father,’ he grinned.

  ‘So, Prince Atrax survived his wounds,’ I said.

  The son of the late, unlamented King Darius of Media had been grievously wounded during Darius’ abortive invasion of Hatra, which had resulted in the king’s death. His son had made it back to Irbil but was expected to succumb to his wounds. He was still on the verge of death when he, his mother and sisters left Irbil in the aftermath of Aliyeh’s suicide to seek sanctuary in Hatra.

  ‘It was a miracle,’ said Diana. ‘Prayers were said day and night for the prince and the high priest of the Great Temple had been planning for his funeral. But the gods smiled on Atrax and he slowly recovered.’

  Gafarn nodded. ‘He made a full recovery, and as soon as he was able to walk declared his intention to leave Hatra.’

  ‘And go where?’ enquired Gallia.

  ‘Zeugma,’ he replied.

  The city on the Euphrates had formally been part of the Parthian Empire but its ruler, the debauched King Darius, had defected to the Romans for a large bribe. Darius was long dead, but his city thrived under Roman rule, being on the Silk Road and benefiting from its riches.

  ‘Another penniless prince,’ said Gallia.

  ‘Not so penniless,’ her friend informed her. ‘When they left Irbil, Atrax’s two sisters took the crown jewels with them, along with a substantial amount of gold.’

  I remembered the two young women at Aliyeh’s funeral. Darya and Setareh had appeared vulnerable and lost.

  ‘They have their grandmother’s propensity for scheming,’ said Gafarn bluntly. ‘Unlike their mother who has joined the Sisters of Shamash.’

  The Sisters of Shamash was a religious order dedicated to the care of unfortunates, its female devotees living lives of chastity, poverty and obedience to the Sun God. My own sister Adeleh was a member and now it seemed Queen Parisa had joined the order.

  ‘Of course, Parisa will have to serve two years as a novice before she becomes a fully-fledged member of the Sisters,’ said Diana.

  ‘The death of her husband was the final straw,’ remarked Gafarn, ‘but Adeleh informs us she is happy living the simple life of a servant of Shamash.’

  ‘That’s the last we will see of Atrax and his sisters, then,’ I surmised.

  Gafarn looked at me. ‘I hope so, because his character leaves a lot to be desired. He hates you, of course.’

  I sipped at my wine. ‘Me? Why? What have I done to wrong him?’

  ‘You underestimate yourself, Pacorus,’ smiled Gafarn. ‘You killed his uncle, Prince Alexander, was responsible for his grandfather walking with a limp, and caused his grandmother to take her own life. Or so young Atrax believes.’

  I was most disappointed. ‘I saved his life, and those of his sisters. If Spartacus had had his way, they would be rotting in cells in Vanadzor by now, or worse.’

  ‘Talking of Spartacus, can we assume he will not be attending the wedding?’ asked Gallia.

  Diana avoided her friend’s eyes and Gafarn’s head dropped.

  ‘He is stubborn,’ said the King of Hatra, ‘I apologise on his behalf.’

  ‘He seems to hate the world and everything in it,’ lamented Diana.

  ‘Parthia is fortunate to have him guarding its northern border,’ I said, ‘but we have to accept Spartacus is a man who does not forgive or forget. I assume he has not visited the new King and Queen of Media?’

  Gafarn laughed. ‘He holds you responsible.’

  I was not amused. ‘Me? As I seem to remember, it was Rasha, cooperating closely with our wives, who instigated Akmon becoming the ruler of Media.’

  Gafarn winked at Gallia. ‘We know that, but Spartacus, for all his faults, loves his wife dearly and so refuses to believe she was the progenitor of the plot to make Akmon ruler of Media. He loves and respects his mother, of course, and so believes she is blameless in all things. He respects his aunt greatly and though he accepts Gallia was responsible for Akmon’s elevation, he also accepts she was grieving deeply for the loss of Nergal and Praxima, so in his own way he has absolved her of any blame.’

  A wicked grin spread across Gafarn’s face. ‘So that leaves you, Pacorus, to be the focus of my son’s wrath.’

  ‘There are no words,’ I replied.

  In truth Spartacus did not occupy my mind at all as the wedding drew nearer. Ashk showed me the seating arrangements for the wedding feast, Chrestus accompanied me as we walked the route the newlyweds and their guests would take from the Temple of Shamash, located around half a mile from the Citadel, back to the palace, and Aaron briefed me on the expected costs of the ceremony and entertaining Phraates and his entourage. Chrestus had requested, and had been granted, money for new mail tunics and helmets for the soldiers lining the wedding route, as well as those who would be fulfilling the role of guard of honour when the high king arrived. Hundreds of plumes had also been purchased to decorate the helmets of legionaries.

  I waved the papyrus scroll at Aaron. ‘I did not realise red and white plumes could be so expensive.’

  ‘The colours of Dura, majesty, to symbolise the red griffin on a white background.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Can I say we are all very excited about the high king’s visit, especially Rsan. He is like a man reborn.’

  I had to admit Aaron was right and for that reason alone all the expenditure and inconvenience was worth it to see my governor truly happy. For him Phraates’ visit was the culmination of a lifetime’s dedication to Dura and the empire. I just hoped Phraates treated his visit to Dura as a privilege and not a chore.

  The high king arrived on a searing hot summer’s day, his great pavilion taking shape on the eastern side of the Euphrates, the sun sitting high above it in a cloudless sky. I sent Chrestus and a mounted party to the sprawling encampment of multi-coloured tents, wagons, camels, horses and soldiers. Gafarn sent the commander of his bodyguard to accompany him, as the land across the river was Hatran territory, though I had declared Dura alone would pay for the upkeep of the high king and his followers for the duration of their stay. Due to the temperature the high king would rest in his pavilion before journeying to the city on the morrow, but as was custom I sent an official party to his residence to inform him the requirements of his entourage would be provided for by the Kingdom of Dura. It was a mere formality because as soon as the royal party was within sight I had ordered supplies to be sent across the river.

  Lucius Varsas, Roman, graduate of the Sons of the Citadel and the army’s quartermaster general, had been given the responsibility of supplying Phraates’ encampment. He had spent weeks preparing the logistics of such an exercise, liaising with the deputy head of the camel corps, who had remained in the city in Farid’s absence, concerning supplying the high king’s compound. Water for men and beasts would be provided by the Euphrates, but the hundreds of camels and horses also required fodder. The soldiers and servants of the high king also had to be fed, which meant a steady stream of carts leaving the city each morning loaded with bread, cheese, beer, wine, fresh
ly caught fish, fruit and vegetables. Cattle, goats, chickens and pigs would be transported alive across the river, to be slaughtered, butchered and prepared for consumption by imperial cooks. Feeding the high king’s entourage was like preparing for a military campaign and fortunately Lucius was up to the task.

  I invited Rsan, Alcaeus, Aaron and Scelias to the palace terrace the night before Phraates entered the city, the high king’s camp across the river being illuminated by dozens of burning braziers and campfires.

  ‘Everything is ready?’ I asked Rsan.

  ‘All is ready, majesty,’ he replied, gazing in wonder at the great camp on the other side of the Euphrates.

  Alcaeus gently laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

  ‘He’s just a man, Rsan, and is subject to the same bodily functions as all of us.’

  ‘The more so if his diet is excessively rich,’ added Scelias.

  ‘The richest if the daily requirements of his court are anything to go by,’ said Aaron.

  But nothing could detract from the sense of awe and wonder Rsan was experiencing as he gazed upon the camp of Phraates, son of Orodes, grandson of another Phraates and great grandson of Sinatruces. The high king was more than just another ruler, he was the living embodiment of the idea of Parthia – an empire of disparate kingdoms, races and religions – the thread that bound those differences together. And after an unsteady start Phraates was finally becoming the high king we all wanted him to be.

  ‘Tomorrow will be a great day for Dura,’ I told them. ‘For the first time in its history, Dura will receive an official visit from the king of kings of the empire. It will be your day, Rsan, for you above all have been the steadying hand that has guided this kingdom through both prosperous and perilous times.’

  He bowed his head. ‘Thank you, majesty.’

  Gallia stepped forward and planted a kiss on his cheek.

  ‘We are in your debt, Rsan.’

  The governor, a stickler for protocol, stiffened slightly at such familiarity but his eyes were moist with tears of gratitude and joy.

  ‘Let us hope, now that the time of adversity has passed,’ said Scelias, ‘Dura does not enter an age of decadence.’

  I looked at him. ‘Decadence?’

  He returned my gaze. ‘Rich apparel, extravagant expenditure. These are the outward signs of decadence, which invariably corrupt a kingdom as sure as a plague of locusts strips the land bare.’

  ‘I can assure you,’ I informed my stoic Greek, ‘the change of clothes is a purely temporary measure, as is the current, admittedly high, level of expenditure. We don’t want Phraates to think Dura is an impoverished backwater, Scelias.’

  ‘If Phraates has a brain,’ he said, ‘he would have realised years ago that Dura is the brightest jewel in his crown, whose army has saved his hide on numerous occasions and lately restored him to his throne.’

  ‘Well said,’ remarked Alcaeus.

  ‘Not all that glitters is gold,’ continued Scelias. ‘Only a fool mistakes displays of opulence and wealth as indicators of real power.’

  He made a great sweep with his arm. ‘Real power can be found in the most modest of places, forged by keen minds and determined spirits. I hope you will show Phraates the Staff of Victory, lord, because such a simple totem speaks volumes concerning real wealth and power.’

  Real wealth and power were on display the next day when Phraates entered the city. The Exiles and Durans, plumes and all, lined the route from the pontoon bridges that spanned the Euphrates all the way to the Palmyrene Gate, and from there to the Citadel. In the Citadel itself an honour guard stood to attention and Kalet and his lords stood behind Gallia and me at the foot of the palace steps. Flanking us were Malik, Jamal and Riad, Byrd and Noora, Gafarn and Diana, and Eszter and Dalir, my daughter actually attired in a dress, her arms bare, following a heated argument between father and daughter in which I suggested she might like to try looking feminine for once instead of a desert raider. To one side stood Chrestus, his senior officers, all sporting large crests in their helmets, Lucius Varsas, Rsan, Aaron, Alcaeus and Scelias. All were dressed in their finery, including the lords and their wives who lived in the city, mostly former merchants who had lived in Dura for many years and had been ennobled as a reward for their services to the city and kingdom.

  The morning was warm and getting hotter as we waited for the arrival of the high king. The courtyard was full of soldiers and civilians, and behind them, near the stables, stood stable hands, farriers, veterinaries, servants, smiths, bakers and armourers, all craning their necks to get a glimpse of the demi-god who ruled the Parthian Empire. We heard his arrival before clapping eyes on him, the cheers of the crowds lining the main thoroughfare growing in volume as he neared the Citadel. I smiled when I heard cries of ‘Phraates, Phraates’, and glanced at Rsan who was bursting with pride. I was glad his friend Alcaeus was standing next to him because when Phraates appeared he might pass out.

  The irritating sound of kettledrums, a low rumble that I had come to loathe on the battlefield for its intense annoyance, reached my ears, heralding the arrival of Phraates. Before the pair of mounted kettledrummers appeared, young girls carrying baskets of white petals from the lotus flower appeared at the gates, scattering petals on the ground to create the image of a white carpet. The lotus flower was associated with innocence and holiness and the petals symbolised the sacred nature of the high king’s visit. The girls emptied their baskets as the kettledrummers rode into the foliage-adorned courtyard, their incessant thumping mercifully drowned out by a fanfare of trumpets from the musicians beside the colour party. And then Phraates himself appeared, dressed in a rich purple tunic and purple leggings, his boots white leather adorned with silver clasps. Behind him rode his Babylonian Guard – men in purple uniforms wearing shimmering dragon-skin armour cuirasses: a thick hide vest covered with overlapping silver plates that protected the chest and back. Their burnished open-faced helmets sported huge purple plumes, their swords were carried in purple scabbards and their purple saddlecloths were decorated with golden bull symbols. The bull, symbol of Babylon, was also a totem of strength, power and rage.

  Beside the mounted guards walked Scythian axe men: big men with broad shoulders who cradled their massive war axes menacingly. Shields were strapped to their backs and wicked long knives dangled in sheaths attached to their belts. Looking out of place among such fearsome individuals was a slave who dashed forward to stand beside the high king’s horse. The royal stool bearer’s job was to ensure Phraates never dismounted from his horse without the aid of a step.

  ‘Perhaps we should hire one of those,’ whispered Gafarn, Phraates dismounting from his horse and walking towards us.

  As one we bowed our heads to him, the fanfare ceased and the kettledrummers desisted their din.

  ‘Welcome to Dura, highness,’ I said, ‘please avail yourself of our hospitality.’

  Phraates smiled and looked around at the courtyard, guards standing to attention on the walls and at the top of the steps, where normally we would have stood to greet guests. But protocol dictated that no king or queen should stand higher than the king of kings and so we stood at the foot of the steps.

  ‘I am glad to be here,’ smiled Phraates, ‘for too long I have been confined within Ctesiphon’s walls.’

  He held out his arm. ‘Claudia, you will be my guide to your home.’

  My daughter, as ever dressed in black robes, had dismounted from her horse and now walked up to Gallia, embracing her mother and then Diana, leaving Phraates’ arm in mid-air. She kissed me on the cheek.

  ‘Introduce him to Rsan,’ I said quietly, ‘it would mean a lot to the governor.’

  She took the high king’s hand and whispered into his ear. Phraates turned and walked towards Rsan, the old man gulping and staring in wonder at the tall, now athletic young man before him, the gleaming golden crown of Babylon on his head. He bowed deeply to Phraates, causing me some concern his back might lock. But it did not, and he ra
ised his head to look at Phraates but two paces away.

  ‘Governor Rsan, Princess Claudia informs me it is you who has been the bedrock that has allowed King Pacorus to provide such sterling service to the empire. On behalf of myself and the Parthian Empire, I thank you for your services.’

  ‘You, you are most kind, highness,’ stammered Rsan.

  Phraates smiled, turned and walked up the steps beside Claudia, the rest of us in tow. Rsan, not believing the high king had taken the time to speak to him personally, stood rooted to the spot, awe-struck.

  I thought Phraates would make some condescending remark about Dura being tiny compared to Ctesiphon, or indeed Babylon and Seleucia, but he was all smiles and polite conversation as we strolled through the entrance hall into the throne room, the commander of the high king’s guard falling in behind his lord. Phraates stopped when he spotted my griffin banner hanging above the dais, pointing at the flag.

  ‘Is that it?’

  Claudia nodded. ‘Yes, lord.’

  He walked forward to step on the dais, peering up at the banner.

  ‘It looks freshly made and yet it is how old?’

  Claudia looked at me.

  ‘It was gifted to me forty years ago, highness,’ I told him.

  ‘And it has been carried in every battle you have fought in?’ asked Phraates.

  ‘Yes, highness.’

  ‘And yet it does not have a mark on it. It was given to you by the sorceress Dobbai, your daughter informs me.’

  ‘Yes, highness.’

  ‘And where did she get it from?’

  ‘I never asked, highness.’

  He turned to look at me. ‘The gods themselves must have forged it; for it is well known the army of Dura has never tasted defeat. Who is entrusted with its care when you go to war?’

  ‘The commander of my Amazons, highness,’ Gallia told him.

  ‘A woman?’

  ‘An Amazon,’ she shot back.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  On the terrace we enjoyed refreshments under the large awning to shade us from the sun. There was a slight breeze blowing from the east that made the terrace pleasant enough as we reclined on soft couches and Phraates rested his feet on his footstool. Only the kings and queens were in attendance, plus Byrd and Noora. My former chief scout had made an effort with his attire and was dressed in a fresh robe, Noora looking delightful in a white dress complemented by gold rings on her fingers and a gold tiara. I chuckled when I compared Byrd’s modest attire to the gold and silver jewellery and silk clothes on display. He was probably wealthier than all of us put together following his reward for financing the campaign that put Phraates back on his throne.