The Slave King

by Peter Darman

  I beckoned Eszter and Dalir forward as Phraates nibbled on a slice of melon.

  ‘This is my daughter Princess Eszter, highness, and her future husband Dalir, son of Kalet, Dura’s chief lord.’

  They both knelt before the high king and bowed their heads.

  ‘Princess Claudia informs me it is the custom for Dura’s lords to build their own desert strongholds.’

  Dalir nodded. ‘Yes, highness.’

  ‘As a wedding gift, you will be given fifty talents of gold so you can construct your own home in the desert.’

  Eszter, unused to palace protocol at the best of times, looked up and gave Phraates a dazzling smile.

  ‘You are most kind, lord, and when it is finished you will be our first guest.’

  She then went to embrace him, prompting the commander of Phraates’ bodyguard, a strapping individual in his early forties, to step forward gripping the hilt of his sword.

  ‘You are dismissed, Eszter,’ I said quickly. ‘To touch the body of the high king means death.’

  Dalir grabbed her arms and bundled her away, bowing his head as he did so. Claudia rolled her eyes and Eszter gave her a withering look.

  ‘You are too generous, highness,’ I said, the officer stepping away from his lord.

  ‘I owe a great debt to Dura,’ said Phraates, ‘as I do to you, Lord Byrd.’

  Byrd smiled and bowed his head, looking happy because the high king had finally mastered the correct pronunciation of his name.

  ‘The Roman governor of Syria is at Dura?’

  ‘Yes, lord,’ said Byrd. ‘He good man.’

  ‘That remains to be seen.’

  After half an hour of polite conversation about nothing in particular, Phraates declared he wished to visit the legionary camp outside the city. It was approaching midday now and the summer heat was intense, but he was not to be dissuaded and so we left the terrace. Gafarn, using his aching leg as an excuse, declared his intention to stay in the palace, while Byrd, who had a permanent limp, also declined to accompany us, citing his affliction.

  ‘I hope you are not going to abandon me as well, King Malik,’ pleaded Phraates.

  ‘It will be an honour to journey with you, lord,’ replied Malik.

  I looked at Gallia who smiled with satisfaction. We had lived to see the day when the ruler of the Parthian Empire was treating the leader of the Agraci people like an old friend. In that moment, I felt great happiness that all the years toiling to convince Parthians that the Agraci could be valued allies had seemingly paid off.

  Phraates walked from the terrace beside Malik.

  ‘It is good to see you again, majesty.’

  I turned to see the commander of Phraates’ bodyguard before me, helmet in the crook of his arm. He looked vaguely familiar but I could not place him.

  ‘Forgive me, but my memory fails me as to our last meeting.’

  ‘This is Commander Adapa, father,’ said Claudia beside me, ‘you last met him when he was about to escort the high king from Seleucia.’

  The gravity of her words struck me like a punch to the stomach. Adapa, the former soldier of Babylon. Adapa the leper.

  ‘By the gods.’

  Before I knew it, I was recoiling from him, tripping over a couch to land on my back. Everyone turned to see what the commotion was about as I lay on my back staring up at the man who had once been a leper. Was a leper, and yet did not have a mark or blemish on his face. Gallia rushed over.

  ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘What? No.’

  She helped me up, Gafarn finding it most amusing.

  ‘Too much wine on an empty stomach, Pacorus.’

  I ignored him. ‘How can this be?’

  ‘Simple enough,’ said Gallia, ‘if you don’t look where you are going you will end up flat on your back.’

  ‘Not that,’ I snapped. ‘This is Adapa.’

  She looked at me with a blank expression.

  ‘The leper leader, at Seleucia.’

  Her jaw dropped as she beheld the living miracle before her. Claudia walked over and took my arm.

  ‘It is rude to stare, father,’

  I looked back at the blushing Adapa.

  ‘That is Adapa,’ I said.

  ‘Commander Adapa, father, that is his official title.’

  ‘You cured him?’

  She shook her head. ‘There are blessed pools in the Alborz where afflictions can be washed away.’

  ‘It is a miracle,’ said Gallia.

  We followed Phraates and Malik who had resumed their amble, Adapa rushing past us to catch up with his lord. The two Scythians who had been waiting in the hall adjacent to the terrace fell in beside him.

  ‘You remember the lepers who were with Adapa?’ Claudia asked.

  I nodded, their disfigured limbs and faces filling my mind.

  ‘They were in the courtyard earlier.’

  ‘Lepers in the palace?’ I said loudly, Diana and Gafarn turning to stare at me.

  ‘As they are members of the high king’s bodyguard, they can hardly be lepers, father.’

  ‘They were all cured?’ I was astounded.

  Claudia gave me a malicious grin. ‘They were given life to replace the living death they were enduring. Such a gift means they will be absolutely loyal to Phraates.’

  ‘How so?’ asked Gallia.

  ‘Because I said the gods would make them lepers again if they were disloyal, mother.’

  ‘Is that true?’ I queried.

  ‘The gods give and they take,’ she shrugged.

  In the courtyard Phraates’ horse was brought to him, along with our own. Adapa mounted his own horse and I scanned the riders of the Babylonian Guard for the other lepers but saw only men in their prime. We trotted from the Citadel, flanked by Scythians on foot and a large detachment of legionaries led by Chrestus. The searing heat had dispersed the crowds and the road to the Palmyrene Gate was largely free of traffic, sensible people seeking shade during the hottest part of the day. In front of us Phraates chatted to Malik and behind trotted five hundred Babylonian Guards.

  ‘You possess a great gift,’ I told Claudia beside me, ‘for you have the power to cure diseases that have plagued man for centuries.’

  ‘You think I should announce the presence of the healing pools in the Alborz to the whole world?’ she asked.

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘I would rather slit my own wrists,’ she scoffed, ‘mankind is inherently corrupt and diseased, father, that is why the gods punish us with ailments and disfigurement.’

  ‘That is harsh.’

  She threw back her head and laughed, which turned into a malevolent cackle.

  ‘You are a dreamer, father, a man who longs for a world that will never exist. Like a small child chasing a rainbow, you seek to find a pot of gold, except your dream is to see the world free from war, want and corruption. But it is a dream, and not a desirable one, for what would men such as you do if there was no war in the world?’

  The legionary camp was, as usual, half-empty when the Durans and Exiles were in residence. A substantial number of soldiers were manning the mud-brick forts spaced at five-mile intervals north and south of the city. Others were garrisoning the city itself, and some centuries were conducting desert marches. Outside the camp new recruits were learning how to use wooden copies of the gladius against wooden posts sunk in the ground, under the watchful eyes of centurions armed with vine canes that they used liberally on the trainees when they failed to obey instructions.

  Phraates was genuinely interested and halted his horse to watch the trainees sweating profusely as they wielded training shields and wooden swords.

  Phraates pointed at the recruits. ‘They are wooden weapons and shields?’

  ‘Yes, highness,’ I said, ‘though heavier than the real things to strengthen the recruits’ arms.’

  A recruit nearest to our party slashed at the post with his sword, prompting the centurion behind him to whack him on the arm and berate
him loudly.

  Phraates was confused. ‘He hit the target.’

  ‘He hit the target, highness, yes,’ I said, ‘but Dura’s foot soldiers are taught to stab, thrust, feint and lunge with the short sword. There is no place for wild slashing in the ranks.’

  ‘Where do you recruit your soldiers from, majesty?’ enquired Adapa.

  ‘Any male who presents himself at the recruitment office in the city will be considered, irrespective of his status, subject to certain conditions.’

  ‘Which are?’ asked Phraates.

  ‘They must have all their limbs, be of average height or above, and possess good eyesight.’

  ‘What if they are runaway slaves?’ asked Adapa.

  ‘We make no distinction in Dura between freemen and women who volunteer for service in the army,’ said Gallia, ‘and those who have escaped from bondage.’

  ‘Their former owners do not seek compensation for their lost property?’ asked Phraates.

  Gallia bristled at his words. ‘In such a situation, highness, the court of trial by combat will decide.’

  ‘I do not understand,’ said Phraates.

  ‘The former slave turned soldier and his former master are given the opportunity to fight each other to decide the merits of the claim,’ replied Gallia. ‘Curiously, fat, indolent masters are reluctant to try their luck against a trained soldier.’

  Claudia laughed and Malik grinned, though Phraates said nothing but nudged his horse forward. We entered the camp and rode to the three tents positioned to the rear of the commander’s tent in the centre of the huge compound. The trio of tents woven from goat’s hair as used by the Agraci, housed the semi-religious totems of the Durans and Exiles and the army’s Staff of Victory.

  Each tent housed a single emblem and Phraates wished to see them all. The first tent contained the Durans’ golden griffin, fashioned years before by a testy Greek named Demetrius. Each tent was guarded by a detail commanded by a centurion, who insisted all visitor weapons were surrendered before entry, though only Adapa was forced to give up his sword as the rest of us were unarmed. Phraates admired the gold griffin before walking to the middle tent that housed the Staff of Victory, a simple kontus shaft decorated with silver discs, each one commemorating a military triumph.

  For the army the staff was a source of immense pride; for me, a reminder of friends and family I had lost over the years. At Susa I had lost my father; at Hatra, when the Armenian hordes had been destroyed, I had seen Lucius Domitus slain by a slingshot; at Carrhae, Vagharsh, my faithful banner man, had met his end; and recently at Ctesiphon where my dear friend Silaces had fallen. Blood is the currency of war but I had paid a high price for glory over the years.

  Phraates was bedazzled by the Staff of Victory, insisting I inform him of the significance of every disc; Gallia pointing out the battles his father had taken part in. His head dropped when she had finished.

  ‘I have never been victorious in battle,’ he said softly, almost apologetically.

  ‘You are still young, highness,’ I said, ‘besides, the empire has a chance to be free from Roman aggression. Negotiation is always better than fighting.’

  ‘Tell me, King Pacorus, if you were me, would you surrender the captured eagles to Octavian?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Even though it would cause discord within the empire.’

  ‘Discord?’

  He sighed. ‘There would be many who would view such a gesture as a slight to the pride of the empire.’

  ‘Only those who took the eagles residing in your Hall of Victory have the right to decide whether giving them back to the Romans is a dishonourable act,’ I told him. ‘Of the ones taken at Carrhae, only I, Queen Gallia and King Spartacus should be consulted, if you wish to solicit opinion. Similarly, of the two taken at Lake Urmia, only King Spartacus and Queen Rasha should be consulted.’

  We walked from the cool of the tent into the searing heat of the sun.

  ‘King Spartacus is an implacable enemy of Rome,’ said Phraates, ‘he will never agree to giving the eagles back.’

  ‘Then don’t ask him.’

  He gave me a curious look. ‘And risk offending him?’

  ‘King Spartacus is capable of starting an argument in an empty room, highness, though if he should take exception to your decision you can remind him you are high king, not he.’

  We entered the tent housing the Exiles’ silver lion, guards eyeing us to ensure those they did not recognise did not get too close to the sacred totem. Phraates studied the lion, which in truth was not as inspiring as the gold griffin, but was intoxicating nevertheless.

  ‘Spartacus is useful to secure the empire’s northern border,’ he said, ‘especially as he possesses a very capable army. I admit I have indulged him, but the gold I have gifted him is spent on that army. He also keeps Armenia in check.’

  I was surprised. ‘I thought Artaxias is now an ally of Parthia.’

  He strolled from the tent. ‘For the moment, yes, but the heirs of Tigranes the Great do not take kindly to being subservient to Parthia, or Rome.’

  I remembered Tigranes; a big man with big ambitions who thought Parthia was his toy. He had died mysteriously at the height of his powers and my mind went back to a strange ceremony Dobbai had conducted to enlist the aid of the gods to safeguard the empire. The price for the assistance of the immortals had been a heavy one and of those who had taken part in the ceremony, only I had survived. But Tigranes had died and the power of Armenia had been broken, so much so that the Sarmatians – allies of Spartacus – now occupied the Armenian city of Van and the surrounding land.

  The next day my youngest daughter married Dalir in the city’s temple dedicated to Shamash. A far cry from the Great Temple at Hatra, it was nevertheless a lavish affair, both the bride and groom wearing white robes in honour of the Sun God. Again, cheering crowds turned out to wish the newlyweds well as they walked from the temple to the Citadel after the ceremony, Phraates in a nice gesture walking behind Eszter and holding a parasol over her head as a defence against the sun. Gallia walked beside him and behind them strolled Diana and Gafarn.

  Eager crowds surged forward to get a closer look at the newlyweds, as well as the high king, Chrestus and his men ensuring they did not get within ten paces of the wedding party. Phraates was caught by surprise when the air was suddenly filled with red, purple, pink and white desert roses, thrown by well-wishers to create a carpet of petals in front of Eszter and Dalir. Unfortunately, many hit the couple, Phraates and Gallia. I was walking beside Claudia, behind Gafarn and Diana, and grinned when I saw the parasol momentarily waver.

  ‘Phraates is unused to the love of the people.’

  She gave a smirk. ‘He finds such closeness to commoners disconcerting, though he will lap up the increase in popularity that comes with it.’

  ‘He has changed.’

  ‘Has he?’ she retorted.

  ‘I remember a cynical, malicious, pale young man surrounded by sycophants when I first met Phraates. In looks and mannerisms he is far removed from that individual.’

  She laughed. ‘Oh, father, after all these years you still look for the best in people. Like a drowning man clinging to a fragile piece of ballast, you latch on to the flimsiest evidence to support your hopes and dreams.

  ‘Phraates is the same as he ever was, father, though the rebellion of Tiridates and the desertion of so many of those he believed to be allies shook him to the core. For the moment he is malleable, vulnerable even. But it will not last.’

  ‘And you decided to take advantage of his vulnerability.’

  She looked disappointed. ‘Naturally. Far better to have the Scythian Sisters influencing Phraates than men such as Timo and Ashleen, and let us not forget the sycophants Osrow and Dagan. No, the empire is in safer hands now.’

  ‘How long will you remain at Ctesiphon as Phraates’ adviser?’

  ‘Until you and mother die,’ she answered matter-of-factly, ‘then I will return to r
ule Dura.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Now that Eszter is married, any sons she gives birth to will be the heir to Dura’s throne when you and mother have left this life.’

  ‘That is the custom.’

  ‘However, in return for saving his life, his reign and the empire,’ she said, ‘Phraates has pledged to support my elevation to Dura’s throne.’

  ‘You will not harm your sister or any children she might have,’ I told her sternly.

  ‘You think I would kill my own sister? I hope she and Dalir enjoy many happy years together. But Dalir is the son of Kalet, a glorified horse thief who would oversee the ruin of what you have built over four decades. I cannot allow that to happen and the empire cannot tolerate a weak Dura.’

  ‘What if I and your mother outlive you?’ I teased.

  ‘Then Dura’s future will be yours to safeguard. In your heart, you must know Eszter and Dalir will make poor rulers. At least at Ctesiphon I will be a part of trying to ensure the smooth running of the empire.’

  I was unsure. ‘So Dura will be subject to the whims of the Scythian Sisters, for surely you take your orders from them rather than Phraates.’

  We were nearing the Citadel now, the crowds having been ushered away by Chrestus’ men. As a result the streets were quiet and largely deserted, aside from a few curious onlookers peering at us from tiny first-floor balconies.

  ‘You are wrong, father. The sisters do not exercise control like some sort of secret society. They seek harmony within the empire, so a united Parthia can defeat external enemies. We serve the gods, good kings serve the gods, and in turn the gods give their support to those who respect and serve them.