The Slave King

by Peter Darman

  We found it limping badly further on, grunting and having difficulty breathing. I put an arrow through its heart to end its misery. The other parties enjoyed similar success and after the Daughters of Dura had collected a great quantity of fallen branches for firewood and Bullus’ men had skinned and butchered the carcasses, everyone ate their fill of venison. I sat with Gallia in front of one carcass being turned on a spit, the fire hissing when meat juices fell into the flames.

  ‘I got nothing out of Kuris,’ I complained, ‘Spartacus has trained him well.’

  Gallia smiled when one of her teenage protégés handed her a wooden bowl filled with sizzling meat.

  ‘Gordyene is surrounded by hills and mountains to keep it remote, apart from other kingdoms. Its people are by their nature suspicious, distant.’

  ‘Like their king,’ I remarked.

  She chewed on a piece of meat. ‘It seems the fate of Gordyene is to either suffer invasion or strike first, with no third way. Of the two, I prefer the latter.’

  A girl bowed and handed me a bowl of meat. ‘You would, though I worry that now Gordyene is a major power in the north, Spartacus will be tempted to strike without provocation. After all, Van never belonged to Gordyene; it was always Armenian. I cannot criticise King Artaxias for taking back one of his cities.’

  ‘Spartacus is not a fool,’ she said, ‘he knows that as much as we do. I’m sure with our gentle persuasion, war with Armenia can be avoided.’

  We were both to be disappointed.

  It took three days to ride through the mountain passes to reach Gordyene proper, and another day to enter the Pambak Valley where Vanadzor was located. The ancient city, nestled in the narrow vale, straddling the river of the same name, was once a small settlement on the west bank of the river, no more than a collection of wooden huts protected by a stake fence. But in time the wood had been replaced by stone as trade with Armenia and its southern neighbours had brought a degree of prosperity to the kingdom. That had been over a hundred years ago. Now the city was a great fortress and Spartacus had filled the Pambak Valley with other stone strongholds to guard the approaches to his city, all constructed from the dour, black stone used to build Vanadzor itself.

  The Pambak Valley was a beautiful sight, full of flowers, the rivers and streams filled with ice-cold water from the mountains no longer capped with snow, their lower slopes basking in the warmth of the summer sun, though in Gordyene the heat never reached the heights found in the deserts to the south.

  We followed a track that hugged the eastern bank of the river and then crossed a wooden bridge over the waterway. It was not wide at this point, around forty feet or so, the water below blue and crystal clear. I smiled to myself.

  ‘Many years ago, commander,’ I said to Kuris beside me, ‘I rode along this track with my young squire, intent on insulting the occupants of Vanadzor and goading them into sending out a patrol to kill us. The city was occupied by the Romans at the time.’

  ‘My grandfather once told me of that time, majesty,’ he said.

  I suddenly felt very old.

  ‘Well, the Romans obliged and sent out a party of horsemen to apprehend us,’ I continued, ‘but we had arranged an ambush and wiped them out not far from this spot. You may be interested to know that the name of my squire was Surena, who later wore the crown of Gordyene.’

  Kuris nodded approvingly. ‘My father also once told me that Surena was a good king, majesty.’

  ‘He was,’ said Gallia, ‘though a little hot-headed.’

  ‘And killed by outsiders,’ said Kuris, which also killed the conversation.

  I was still smiling, thinking about that time when we had been bandits in the forests of Gordyene fighting the Roman occupiers. My smile disappeared when we came within sight of the city.

  What is in a word? When is a legionary not a legionary? The simple answer in Gordyene was when he was an Immortal. As I rode towards the city a wondrous sight greeted me: ten thousand Immortals arrayed on parade to welcome us to Vanadzor. A neutral observer would have assumed the soldiers arrayed in perfect order were identical to Roman legionaries. But the King of Gordyene hated the Romans and so it was forbidden to call the ten thousand foot soldiers that marched, dressed and fought in a similar fashion to Rome’s legions, legionaries. Cruel tongues remarked that Spartacus hated not only the Romans but also the whole world and everything in it. That was not quite right: he loved his wife, his children and his kingdom, though Akmon’s ‘betrayal’ meant it would be a long time before his oldest son was forgiven. Claudia had once told me Spartacus was a brooding menace best left alone, an apt description of the former prince of Hatra. And if he had been content to sit in his palace in Vanadzor and ruminate then he could indeed be left alone. But he had been raised at a time when the empire was at war, both fighting external enemies and ripping itself apart in civil strife. He had seen at first hand the army of Dura training and fighting, and he himself when no more than a boy had fought at Carrhae, taking an eagle from the Romans so he could marry his beloved Rasha. Orodes had made him King of Gordyene, an appointment some frowned upon, but the former high king and my great friend saw huge potential in the angry young man who raged against the world. And Spartacus fulfilled that potential, turning Gordyene into a major power in the empire.

  The instrument that transformed Gordyene’s fortunes was drawn up in the Pambak Valley – the army that Spartacus had created and had used so effectively to establish his power in the north of the empire and win the favour of Phraates. Spartacus had an interesting relationship with the high king, seeing him as a source of gold to finance the equipping and services of his army. Phraates in turn was happy to hire the services of that army for it supported his strategic aims. To date, Spartacus had extorted or had been gifted, depending on one’s point of view, thirteen hundred talents of gold – the equivalent of one hundred and thirty tons of the precious metal. Many kings would have used such a sum to dress themselves in rich clothes, decorate their palaces with fine works of art and hire poets, artists and sculptors to indulge their every whim. But Spartacus lavished his wealth on his army.

  As Horns walked slowly along the lines of Immortals, I could immediately see changes in their uniform. Gone were the spears, leather cuirasses and leather greaves protecting their lower legs. In their place were javelins and mail armour, their heads still protected by helmets with large cheek and neck guards. At their hips were short swords, identical to the Roman gladius, though to even infer it risked a fine. The shields of the Immortals were also identical to the design of the Roman scutum, being large, curved and oval, faced with leather painted red, though with a silver lion’s head design around the central boss. And now they had scorpion bolt throwers, a line of the wooden weapons deployed beyond the front ranks.

  The Immortals formed a corridor through which we rode, at the end of which, a huge red banner bearing a lion billowing in the wind behind them, were Spartacus and Rasha, both seated on black horses. Nearby the rulers of Gordyene were the King’s Guard and Vipers, a thousand professional riders, all highly trained and superbly equipped. Less highly trained, though effective enough if employed correctly, were Gordyene’s lords and their retainers: men and women wearing little or no armour and equipped only with a bow and a dagger, a lucky few armed with swords.

  A similarly ragtag group were the Sarmatians drawn up behind the Immortals. Members of the Aorsi tribe, they had first been invited to Gordyene by Surena, who had hit upon the idea of securing his northern border by populating that region with the Aorsi who in return for lands in northern Gordyene sent a portion of their plunder to Vanadzor. The Aorsi raided Armenian lands and had until recently been based in the city of Van, which had fallen to Spartacus following a brief war with Armenia. The Aorsi presented a sorry spectacle: a scruffy lot dressed in a myriad of different colours and wearing a mixture of mail and leather armour or no armour at all. They carried a mix of weapons, ranging from bows, spears, swords, maces and axes. They had poor
discipline and were notorious for brawling among themselves, though an observer would have noticed that every horse was well fed, groomed and looked in peak condition.

  As we neared Spartacus and Rasha I saw with disappointment that the leader of the Aorsi, Spadines, was beside the king. He may have been the Prince of Van but he still looked like a horse thief, his thin face framed by wild hair and beard. I also saw the tall, dark and ugly figure of Shamshir in front of the King’s Guard.

  We halted our horses in front of Spartacus and Rasha, trumpeters on horseback sounding a fanfare as Rasha grinned at Gallia.

  ‘Welcome, uncle, aunt,’ said Spartacus after the trumpets had fallen silent, ‘where are my parents?’

  I pulled out a letter carrying a horse head seal and handed it to Spartacus.

  ‘King Gafarn has a leg ulcer that prevents him from travelling,’ I said, ‘he asked me to give you this.’

  Alarm showed in Spartacus’ brown eyes and his square jaw locked.

  ‘It is nothing serious,’ Gallia reassured him, ‘just a leg ulcer that requires rest and daily treatments.’

  ‘I will pray for him,’ said a concerned Rasha.

  ‘You waste your time,’ scoffed Spartacus, ‘the gods are a mere fiction, invented by men to control other men.’

  ‘Perhaps you could visit Hatra,’ I suggested, ‘my brother would be delighted to see you both, and you too, young princes.’

  ‘We have to punish the Armenians first.’

  It was the first time I could remember hearing Prince Castus speak, though no doubt as a child he had made his voice known on the occasions when we had been in his presence at Vanadzor, Hatra or Dura. As the second son he was given scant regard by those other than his parents, though now Akmon had departed Gordyene he was the heir to the throne and a young man of some importance. I studied him momentarily, this tall, handsome prince with a severe countenance not unlike his father’s. But unlike his father, or mother for that matter, he had blue eyes and long dark blonde hair, setting him apart from his younger brother, Haytham, whose hair was as black as night.

  ‘Punish them for what, Prince Castus?’ I asked, already knowing the answer.

  ‘Now is not the time to discuss such matters,’ said Spartacus, ‘our guests will be tired after their journey. Please, aunt and uncle, avail yourselves of our hospitality.’

  To be fair he appeared to be in a convivial mood as he and Rasha rode beside us the short distance to the city gates and on to the palace. Shamshir and his King’s Guard, Kuris and his men joining them, rode into the city to clear a path through the curious crowd that had gathered to see the King and Queen of Dura. There was no cheering, shouting or waving of hands, for the people of Gordyene are a dour lot, their land subjected to extremes of weather, especially in winter when high winds from the north bring blizzards and thick snow. But they are also hardy and with the right training and weapons can be turned into formidable soldiers.

  The buildings in Vanadzor were squat and ugly, words used by unkind individuals to describe the people who inhabited them. The city walls and buildings were constructed from local black limestone, giving the city a rather bleak and forbidding appearance, especially in winter when the Pambak Valley became a dour, cold and snow-covered place. No thought had been given to making the city’s palace an attractive place, its high, black walls, round towers at each corner, and its three-storey gatehouse having no grace or beauty, though at least the latter had been decorated with red lion banners to lessen its ugliness. The city walls and palace projected strength and power, as did the gates to the palace, constructed as they were of thick oak reinforced with iron spikes and bars.

  A welcome bath and change of clothes brought relief to our tired limbs, and that evening Spartacus and Rasha were the perfect hosts as they laid on a lavish feast, Lucius and Bullus joining us at the top table, the palace’s hall filled with the city’s nobility and the army’s senior officers. Spadines also sat at the top table, a score of his senior officers, if such posts existed among the Aorsi, gorging themselves on food and drink on a nearby table. The Sarmatian said nothing to me and I in turn ignored him. I saw him as the spark that might ignite a war between Rome and Parthia, and I’m sure he in turn regarded me as an unwelcome restraint on his friend and lord, Spartacus.

  He was also present the next day when we met in the same hall to discuss the reason for our arrival in Vanadzor. The previous evening had been a riotous affair, the Sarmatians drinking too much and making fools of themselves, with their endless toasts to Spartacus and Rasha and pledges to die in their service. Despite the burning of incense to banish the unpleasant aroma of sweat, leather, meat juices, spilt drink and vomit, the chamber was still slightly rank. At least Spartacus was relaxed as he sat next to his wife, his two sons flanking them.

  ‘So, uncle,’ he said, slaves nearby scraping dried vomit off the stone tiles, ‘I assume you have come to Gordyene to deliver sage advice.’

  I gave Spadines a disparaging look.

  ‘I will come straight to the point. I assume the army arrayed in front of the city yesterday was not for our benefit. Your father is of the opinion, as am I, that launching a war against Armenia is a mistake.’

  Spartacus poured himself a cup of water.

  ‘Armenia has attacked Gordyene’s most valued ally. As such, I have no choice but to support Prince Spadines, for it was agreed long ago that an attack on either the Aorsi or Gordyene would be considered an assault on both.’

  ‘How convenient,’ I said, ‘though how can the liberation of an Armenian city by King Artaxias be considered an act of aggression.’

  ‘Van is an Aorsi city,’ insisted Spadines angrily, his spittle showering the table.

  I sighed. ‘We all know it has nothing to do with the Sarmatians, who I believe have traditionally inhabited the lands around the Caspian Sea, over two hundred miles from Van.’

  ‘Armenia insults us,’ said Castus, ‘and insults must be answered.’

  Spadines roared his approval and slammed his fist on the table. Gallia rolled her eyes.

  ‘How did the Armenians retake their city?’ she asked Spadines. ‘I have heard it has strong defences.’

  ‘There is no point picking over the past, aunt,’ said Spartacus. ‘I will march against Artaxias for his discourtesy in attacking my Aorsi allies.’

  ‘The same allies that are attacking Pontus?’ said Gallia.

  I noticed an exchange of glances between Spartacus and Spadines, but the latter said nothing.

  ‘Allow me to expand on what my wife has said,’ I smiled. ‘The governor of Syria was recently at Dura, a charming man who is facilitating the improvement of relations between Parthia and Rome.’

  Spartacus was staring into space, seemingly uninterested. Rasha looking concerned and her two sons bored.

  ‘The governor informed me that if these raids against Pontus continue, then Octavian will retaliate, as Pontus is a client kingdom of Rome.’

  ‘Slave kingdom, you mean,’ grunted Spartacus.

  ‘It is as you say,’ agreed Gallia, ‘but that does not change the fact Rome will strike against you if these raids continue.’

  I confronted Spadines. ‘What do you have to say, prince?’

  ‘The strong prey on the weak,’ he grinned.

  ‘Is this what Gordyene has become,’ I said in exasperation, ‘a kingdom that inflicts misery and war on its neighbours for sport?’

  ‘Gordyene is the northern shield of the empire,’ stated Spartacus.

  ‘It gives the impression of being more of a spear,’ said Gallia.

  ‘You must desist the raids against Pontus,’ I said bluntly. ‘Parthia does not want another war with Rome, especially one caused by the depredations of a bunch of vagrant Sarmatians.’

  Spadines jumped up. ‘You insult me.’

  ‘Is it possible to insult a Sarmatian?’ I asked.

  Spartacus calmly indicated Spadines should sit down, leaning back and bringing his hands together.


  ‘I am a reasonable man, uncle, and have no reason to provoke a war between Parthia and Rome. I will make you this bargain. The raids against Pontus will cease, you have my word.’

  ‘I must object, lord,’ protested Spadines. Spartacus ignored him as his gaze held mine.

  ‘In return,’ said Spartacus, ‘Dura and Hatra will support my punitive campaign against Artaxias of Armenia.’

  ‘Our best horsemen are in the east,’ I replied, ‘and my legions are three hundred miles to the south. There is no way I or your father can reinforce your army.’

  A mischievous glint appeared in Spartacus’ eye.

  ‘I do not need your soldiers, uncle, or those of Hatra for that matter. What I need is your assurance you and my father will support Gordyene when King Artaxias goes whining to Phraates.’

  ‘Only if you guarantee not to annex any Armenian territory,’ I shot back.

  ‘Van is mine,’ bleated Spadines.

  ‘The Armenians must make restitution for the distress they have caused Prince Spadines,’ said Spartacus.

  ‘You are intent on war, then?’ I asked.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘As am I,’ said Spadines.

  ‘And is it a war of conquest?’ asked Gallia.

  ‘No,’ said Rasha firmly. ‘I will not lose another child.’

  Claudia had told me how she had ‘cured’ Prince Haytham after he had fallen ill, though her remedy was to convince Spartacus to abandon his plans to absorb Media into his own realm. I seemed to remember her talking about the legend of Gordis but my memory was not what it was and I could not recollect the precise details.

  ‘We will not offend the gods,’ she said.