The Slave King

by Peter Darman

  I had to admit the girls, all aged between eleven and sixteen, went about their tasks diligently, their enthusiasm and pride at being selected to accompany their queen resulting in them tackling rubbing down and feeding horses with gusto. For their part the legionaries mounted sentry duty around our camp, their commander liaising with Zenobia, the leader of the Amazons, concerning shifts pairing legionaries with female archers. His name was Bullus and if ever there was a man who resembled what his parents had named him it was he. He had a large head decorated with scars, broad shoulders, thick neck and muscular arms. I invited the centurion to dine with us in our tent that evening, along with Zenobia and Lucius Varsas. We were served bread baked in Dura, dates, yoghurt and goat freshly slaughtered by teenage girls dressed in leggings, leather shoes and white tunics. Bullus shook his head when a smiling girl placed a wooden plate heaped with bread and cooked goat in front of him, taking a sip of wine when another young female filled his wooden cup.

  ‘Food not to your liking, centurion?’

  He tore off a chunk of bread. ‘Food is excellent, majesty.’

  ‘Then what? Speak freely.’

  His dark brown eyes glanced at the queen. ‘No offence, majesty, but it is a bad idea bringing all these girls along.’

  ‘Why is that?’ asked Gallia. ‘Are your men not disciplined?’

  ‘They are under tight control well enough, majesty, but men are men, not slabs of stone, and fifty teenage girls are an unwelcome distraction.’

  He stuffed some meat in his mouth. ‘No offence meant.’

  ‘The Amazons have been part of the army for years,’ remarked Zenobia, her dark locks hanging freely around her shoulders, ‘and there have never been any problems.’

  ‘That’s different,’ said Bullus.

  ‘In what way?’ I asked.

  He swallowed the meat. ‘The whole army knows it is death to lay a hand on a member of the Amazons, and in any case they are always around the king and queen, so detached from the rest of the army. But if the army is going to have teenage girls running around camp, that will be a recipe for trouble.’

  ‘All those girls are under the same protection as the Amazons,’ said Gallia in a low voice.

  ‘Besides, this is not a campaign, centurion,’ I said in an effort to lighten the mood, ‘merely a visit to Gordyene. Ever been there?’

  ‘No, majesty.’

  ‘A land of hills, mountains, fast-flowing streams and wild valleys,’ I told him, ‘quite beautiful in summer, bleak in winter.’

  ‘King Gafarn and Queen Diana will be joining us on our journey north,’ said Gallia.

  ‘I am looking forward to seeing Hatra again, and Vanadzor,’ stated Lucius, ‘I was impressed by Hatra’s one hundred and fifty towers along its perimeter wall.’

  ‘And a moat,’ I said, ‘in front of the wall around its circumference.’

  He nodded. ‘A moat in the middle of the desert, quite extraordinary.’

  ‘Hatra is extraordinary,’ I waxed, ‘an oasis of green and life in the middle of a barren desert.’

  I noticed Bullus had a grin on his face as he tucked into his evening meal, a girl filling his cup with more wine after he had emptied it.

  ‘Something amuses you, centurion?’

  ‘No, majesty, ignore me, I’m just a low-born soldier.’

  ‘When you sit at this table, centurion,’ said Gallia, ‘your opinion is as valid and worthy of being heard as every other diner. So, I will hear what amuses you.’

  Lucius nodded to him. Bullus inhaled deeply and took a gulp of wine.

  ‘Good man King Spartacus, your nephew, majesty, a no-nonsense soldier at heart. We were glad to have him beside us at the recent Battle of Ctesiphon. But I don’t think you and his parents are travelling to Gordyene to wish him well.’

  ‘So why are we going to Gordyene?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m just a soldier who obeys orders, majesty.’

  ‘But you have an opinion, surely? I would hear it.’

  ‘If I was a betting man,’ he said, ‘I would hazard we are going to Gordyene to prevent conflict breaking out.’

  ‘We are not here to interrogate our king and queen, Bullus,’ said Lucius sternly.

  ‘You have a keen mind, centurion,’ I complimented him. ‘And you are right, we journey north to prevent a war, a war that might spread to provoke a clash between Rome and Parthia.’

  Lucius was surprised. ‘It is that serious, majesty?’

  ‘It is that serious.’

  ‘Hopefully, with the assistance of King Gafarn and Queen Diana,’ said Gallia, ‘war will be averted.’

  But when we reached Hatra we discovered that our friends would not be accompanying us north. Gafarn’s leg ulcer had worsened, with the result he was confined to the palace and forbidden to ride until it had healed. A concerned Diana hovered around him like a mother hen, overseeing the ulcer being cleaned and dressed on a daily basis, much to the annoyance of Gafarn.

  ‘I am not an invalid,’ he complained as the court physician, a fussy, irritable individual examined the ulcer before a fresh bandage was applied to it, Diana peering at it beside him.

  ‘Of course, if you had journeyed to Dura in a cart instead of on a horse,’ said the physician, ‘you would not have exacerbated the wound. And you failed to keep it clean and dressed. Most unacceptable.’

  ‘Will it heal?’ there was concern in Diana’s voice.

  ‘If the king follows my instructions,’ replied the physician, ‘then yes.’

  He stood and gestured that the waiting assistants should begin cleaning the wound. He observed Gallia and me coolly and stroked his neatly trimmed beard.

  ‘The king requires rest and recuperation.’

  ‘I have to go to Gordyene,’ said Gafarn, watching as one of the medical orderlies applied a honey-coated dressing directly to the ulcer.

  The physician’s nostrils flared. ‘Out of the question. I assume you wish to keep your foot?’

  Diana went pale. ‘His foot?’

  The physician’s forehead creased into a frown.

  ‘Ulcers are notorious for developing into more serious afflictions. Should the infection worsen, the entire limb might be in danger. Naturally, I would act before this occurred.’

  ‘Act how?’ demanded Diana.

  The physician gave me knowing look.

  ‘I’m sure King Pacorus is well acquainted with the procedure, being a skilled practitioner of war. I would remove the foot by first using a scalpel to cut the skin, followed by a long, double-edged knife to cut through any muscle, followed by the swift application of a sharp saw to carve through the bone. This should take no more than three to four minutes, after which hot oil would be applied to the seal the wound.’

  Gafarn, usually never wanting when it came to a sarcastic quip, stared at the physician with worried eyes.

  ‘You will stay here, in the palace, until the ulcer heals,’ commanded Diana sternly.

  ‘As ever, my queen,’ smiled the physician, ‘you are the voice of wisdom among fools.’

  The orderlies finished cleaning and dressing the wound and escorted the physician from our presence.

  ‘Is he always like that?’ I asked.

  ‘He has a curt manner,’ agreed Diana, ‘but he is an excellent physician. You two will have to go to Vanadzor alone.’

  The thought of confronting Spartacus had hardly infused me with excitement when it had involved Gafarn and Diana. Without them its appeal was diminishing by the second.

  ‘He won’t listen to me,’ I said bluntly, ‘especially after our altercation concerning giving sanctuary to Parisa and her children.’

  The wife and children of the late King of Media had fallen into Spartacus’ hands following the surrender of Irbil in the aftermath of Aliyeh’s suicide. Spartacus had wanted to retain them, their fate to be decided by him alone. But I told him in no uncertain terms that they were to be allowed to go to Hatra, making it clear I was prepared to back up my demand with
force.

  Gafarn looked at us both. ‘You two are the only ones that stand between peace and war.’

  ‘There is something else you should know,’ said Gallia, nodding at me.

  I told him and Diana about the meeting we had with Governor Cicero and his concerns regarding the Sarmatian raids against Pontus. As peacocks strolled in the royal gardens outside the intimate reception room and gardeners trimmed lawns and pruned bushes, Gafarn, his injured leg resting on a footstool, leaned back on his couch and closed his eyes.

  ‘It is even more imperative that you travel to Gordyene, Pacorus. The last thing we want is another war with Rome, and I have no desire to see Armenian soldiers outside the walls of Hatra again.’

  ‘Very well,’ I said without enthusiasm. ‘We will go.’

  ‘I have written to my grandson, King Akmon, requesting safe passage through Media,’ said Gafarn. ‘He agreed, of course.’

  ‘How is he faring?’ asked Gallia.

  ‘He rules a land laid low by years of war and plunder,’ replied Gafarn.

  ‘But at least Media is now at peace, thank the gods,’ added Diana.

  ‘He knows he can call on us for aid at any time,’ said Gafarn.

  ‘Can he make the same call on his father?’ said Gallia.

  ‘They are still estranged,’ Diana told us, ‘though hopefully in time, and with Rasha’s persuasion, father and son will be reconciled.’

  We would have liked to stay longer in Hatra, sharing the company of our old friends, but I felt the momentum of events bearing down on me and so we left the city the next day, striking east to head for the ford across the Tigris at the city of Assur. Before we left I visited my sister Adeleh in the retreat of the Sisters of Shamash located near the Great Temple where the Sun God was worshipped. She was now head of the all-female holy order, though she dressed and lived exactly the same as the other sisters who dedicated their lives to Shamash. She said she would pray for the intercession of the Sun God to ensure my mission to Gordyene was a success, replying I said I needed all the help I could get. In our hurried conversation and tearful goodbye, no mention was made of the presence of Parisa, former Queen of Media, among the holy sisters. Nor did the topic of Parisa and her children arise during our time with Gafarn and Diana. Once part of Media’s most ancient and august family, they had become a mere footnote in Parthia’s history.

  Sixty miles to the east of Hatra was Assur, a city that guarded the east of my brother’s kingdom. Sited on the western bank of the Tigris, which was low and slow moving following the end of the spring melt waters weeks before, Assur was a formidable stronghold. It had been originally constructed so that the Tigris protected the city on two sides, with a moat that covered the other two sides. A double wall, the space in between filled with buildings to house troops of the garrison, surrounded the city on the landside. On top of the outer wall was a parapet protected by battlements, the latter containing narrow slits from where archers could shoot down on attackers below. There was no bridge across the river to link the Kingdom of Hatra with Media on the other side, but there was a ford that was passable throughout the year, though in spring the current could be dangerous to travellers.

  We stayed one night in the city; the governor informing us clearance had been given by the Medians for transit through their territory. General Herneus, now the commander of Hatra’s army, had been the governor for many years and the current occupant was his nephew. Unlike his uncle, he had thick black hair, a bushy beard and a talkative character. As we reclined on couches in his mansion sipping wine served in silver chalices, he briefed us fully on affairs across the river.

  ‘By all accounts King Akmon is mounting a great effort to make himself and his queen popular amoung their subjects, though it may take a while.’

  ‘Why is that?’ I queried.

  ‘Akmon is the son of King Spartacus, your nephew, who has spent the last few years raiding northern Media,’ he replied, ‘and he butchered a fair few when he defeated the late King Darius at Mepsila.’

  ‘You think the lords of Media will rise up against Akmon?’ asked Gallia.

  He shook his hairy head. ‘No, majesty, not with Hatra pledging its support to King Akmon, that and the fact many of Media’s lords are dead. Media is crying out for peace after King Darius’ series of disastrous wars.’

  ‘Were you here when he invaded Hatra?’ I asked.

  He laughed. ‘He was a fool, bringing his army across the river with no means to reduce this city or indeed Hatra itself.’

  He suddenly realised Darius had been a distant relation.

  ‘I meant no offence, majesty.’

  ‘You are right,’ I told him, ‘Darius was a fool and a fool leading an army will invariably bring about the destruction of that army.’

  ‘You go to Mepsila, majesty?’

  I nodded.

  ‘The governor there is the one weak link in Akmon’s armour, a scheming, duplicitous character who has turned self-preservation into an art form.’

  ‘You think he might foment rebellion?’ I asked with concern.

  ‘The only thing Governor Cookes foments, majesty, is the beer that he consumes in great quantities,’ he replied. ‘But he attained great wealth and position under King Darius and Akmon effectively banished him to Mepsila.’

  ‘He should have banished him from Media or executed him,’ said Gallia.

  The governor raised his chalice to her. ‘Therein lies King Akmon’s problem, majesty. He cannot act ruthlessly for fear of alienating Media’s surviving lords, but he needs to get rid of any seditious elements to cement his reign.’

  ‘Now that there is peace,’ I said, ‘he has a chance to win over the people of Media.’

  The people of Media had suffered greatly during the wars involving Mark Antony. King Spartacus and the recent conflict saw the armies of Hatra and Gordyene marching across their land. We saw for ourselves the consequences as we journeyed north after crossing the Tigris and riding along the eastern riverbank of the waterway. Many villages alongside the river were deserted, their fields untended and their livestock long gone. As we journeyed to Mepsila we came across many settlements that had been torched, probably by the soldiers of Spartacus. It saddened me greatly to see such devastation, especially as Media was not for nothing termed the ‘breadbasket of the empire’. The capital Irbil was located in a great plain blessed with fertile alluvial soil, fed by underground water and thousands of natural springs. Those villages sited near the Tigris used its waters to grow their crops and maintain their livestock, as well as catching fish in the river.

  Inland from the Tigris, the hundreds of villages on the great plain, enjoying the blessing of an abundance of water, grew a host of crops, including barley, wheat, flax, onions, figs, grapes, turnips, lentils, dates, pomegranates and olives. Of these, barley was the most valuable food source because it could be ground into flour for bread, made into soups, or fermented and turned into beer. But to grow barley required between forty and fifty days of moist soil, a blessing deprived most kingdoms. As a result, Media was able to export great quantities of flour to neighbouring kingdoms, along with wine, beer and flax, which was used to produce cloth, netting and linseed oil.

  As we neared Mepsila, my spirits rose when I saw thriving settlements filled with healthy villagers, animal pens holding sheep and goats, and irrigated fields, orchards and vineyards. We were met by a party of mounted spearmen five miles from the town, every rider wearing a blue tunic and grey leggings, protected by a helmet, leather cuirass and a round wooden shield faced with leather sporting a white dragon emblem.

  The commander pulled up his horse and bowed his head to Gallia and me.

  ‘Governor Cookes is expecting you, highnesses.’

  Mepsila was a dingy place; a small town next to the Tigris surrounded by a mud-brick wall urgently in need of repair and filled with single-storey mud-brick homes packed tightly together. The governor’s mansion was a two-storey building faced with cracking plast
er in need of a renovation, the nearby barracks surrounded by a wall that was at least well maintained. Before we entered the town the commander of our escort requested that the Amazons and legionaries remain outside Mepsila because the barracks was too small to accommodate them.

  The words ‘too small’ could not be applied to the governor, who stood in front of his mansion to greet us when we rode into the small courtyard in front of his home. He was a grotesque figure, a portly man with an enormous gut encased in a gold robe with a huge red sash around his mid-rift, gold rings on nearly all his fingers. On his feet were a pair of red boots and a slave held a parasol over his head as a defence against the sun that was roasting Mepsila and its inhabitants. Despite this his bald crown was beaded in sweat, as was his bloated, puffy face, another slave rushing forward to dab his enormous fat head when a steward ordered him to do so.

  We dismounted and the fat governor bowed his head, waving forward more slaves to take our horses to the stables.

  ‘Welcome, King Pacorus and Queen Gallia’ he said.

  He walked forward and extended an arm to an over-painted, plump woman on his left.

  ‘May I introduce my wife, Hanita?’

  ‘It is an honour to meet you, majesties.’

  I estimated them both to be their fifties, though the wife had so much makeup on her face it was difficult to determine her age. She wore almost as much jewellery as her husband, though at least her skin was in a better condition than Cookes’. Obsequiousness dripped from them in greater quantities than sweat and I felt instantly uneasy in their company. Judging by the false smile on my wife’s face so did Gallia. Lucius Varsas was diplomacy itself but Bullus made no attempt to disguise his contempt for our hosts, though he did appreciate the meal laid on by Cookes that evening.

  He may have been the governor of a drab backwater of a town, but Cookes lived like a king. He deprived himself of nothing and neither did his wife. What a repulsive pair they were, gorging on meat and fish as they entertained me, Gallia, Lucius Varsas and Centurion Bullus in the dining room of their mansion. We sat at a huge table with feet carved to resemble dragons, with more dragons painted on the walls and stucco dragonheads decorating the ceiling above us. Cookes devoured great portions of meat, the juices running down his face and beard on to the napkin he had tucked into the top of his robe. The napkin caught most of the meat juices but failed to prevent the beer that dribbled from his mouth staining his clothes. I had never seen anyone drink so much beer, a slave standing behind him with a jug of the beverage ready to refill his rhyton when it had been drained. In an effort to halt his ferocious consumption of alcohol, I endeavoured to engage him in conversation.