The Slave King

by Peter Darman

  Spadines gave her a quizzical look but I noticed Spartacus just stared at the table top, saying nothing.

  ‘Armenia is currently beholden to Parthia for freeing it of Roman subjugation,’ I said, ‘but if you embark on a campaign to humiliate and plunder his kingdom, Artaxias might be tempted to rethink his relationship with Rome.’

  ‘The Romans murdered his family,’ said Castus. ‘Why would he side with them?’

  ‘You are only half-right, prince,’ I told him. ‘The family of Artaxias were taken hostage by Mark Antony and transported to Alexandria where they were murdered. Mark Antony is dead and Octavian, a leader who is radically different from the triumvir, now rules the Roman world. For one thing, he does not murder the family members of rivals.’

  ‘Then he is weak,’ sneered Spadines.

  His mere presence was irritating me immensely but I kept my temper in check.

  ‘Acting like an uncivilised barbarian is not strength, prince. You may think that Pontus is your plaything, but if you provoke a Roman response you will find Octavian will marshal the full strength of the Roman world against you. Remind me, how many men do you command? Four thousand, five? The Romans can raise one hundred thousand soldiers with ease.’

  Spadines grinned, to reveal stained, uneven teeth. ‘But behind the Aorsi stands King Spartacus, and behind him all Parthia.’

  ‘Parthia will not support a war of aggression against Armenia,’ I told him, ‘especially as Armenia is an ally of High King Phraates. If Armenia threatened Gordyene then Parthia would indeed come its aid, but this campaign is nothing more than one of retribution.’

  ‘You are right, uncle,’ agreed Spartacus. ‘Dura is fortunate to have friends and allies for its neighbours, but Gordyene only has the Aorsi and I will not abandon them.’

  It made sense. For years Media had raided Gordyene when Darius had been its king, and when Armenia had been strong it had posed a threat to Gordyene’s northern border. But now it was weak and I worried Spartacus would take advantage of that weakness to plunder Armenia and leave a legacy of lasting animosity towards Parthia that Octavian, despite him favouring diplomacy over war, would take advantage of.

  ‘All I would ask,’ I said, ‘is that any campaign is of a short duration, for the longer you occupy Armenian territory the more lasting damage you will do.’

  ‘We go to clip the wings of King Artaxias, uncle,’ stated Spartacus, ‘nothing more.’

  ‘Why don’t you come with us?’ said Castus. ‘Our victory would be assured with the famous King Pacorus by our side.’

  Gallia laughed and reached over to squeeze his arm in congratulation and Spartacus looked at me expectantly.

  ‘A most inviting offer, prince,’ I replied, ‘but my army is not here and besides, your father is younger and more able then me. I would just slow you down. However, be assured that if Armenia violates Gordyene’s border, then Dura’s army will march north to support its king and queen.’

  ‘You are becoming an adept diplomat, uncle,’ said Spartacus, ‘is that what happens to old soldiers?’

  ‘Old soldiers thank the gods they have reached their autumn years,’ I replied, ‘and are most reluctant to embark on unnecessary wars. You should all remember that most wars are started by old men but fought by young men.’

  I looked at Spadines. ‘How old are you, prince?’

  He thumped his chest. ‘Fifty-eight and still capable of bedding a maiden all night and fighting a battle the next day.’

  Gallia sighed disapprovingly and Rasha shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

  ‘My point exactly,’ I said.

  Gordyene’s army set out the next morning, the Immortals marching six abreast as they headed north, Spartacus’ scouts having left before dawn with Spadines and his Aorsi to reconnoitre the route the army would take. It was more an exercise in logistics, to plan how twenty thousand soldiers and hundreds of packhorses and carts would negotiate the mountain passes in northern Gordyene. This would mean dividing the army into separate parts, thus increasing its vulnerability, though I doubted there were any Armenian troops anywhere near the border lands.

  Kuris was left as commander of Vanadzor’s garrison, which comprised the unit that was responsible for the induction and training of new recruits into Gordyene’s army. At Dura it was called the replacement cohort but at Vanadzor such Roman terminology was banned and so the formation was called the replacement battalion. As in the famed Immortals who guarded the Persian kings before Parthia even existed, ten men formed a company; ten companies formed a battalion, ten battalions a division, and ten divisions a corps. Kuris could also summon army veterans from the city and outlying towns and villages to the colours if need arose, though that scenario was highly unlikely.

  We rode with Spartacus and Rasha from the city towards the track we had taken to reach Vanadzor, the King’s Guard following and behind them the Vipers. Red lion banners billowed in the wind as the Immortals tramped north. The vast collection of tents around the city had disappeared, the swathes of flattened grass the only evidence of their presence. Castus and Haytham chatted with the brooding Shamshir as they waited for their father to say his goodbyes.

  I extended an arm to him. ‘Keep safe and return with all your family.’

  He reached over to clasp my forearm. ‘I will keep my word about preventing the Aorsi from raiding Pontus. I have no desire to see Roman soldiers marching against Parthia.’

  Gallia embraced Rasha and I kissed the Queen of Gordyene on the cheek.

  ‘Try to act as a restraint on him,’ I said, looking at Spartacus embracing his aunt before wheeling his horse away.

  ‘On them,’ she said. ‘Castus and Haytham are eager to share in their father’s glory.’

  ‘I remember when I thought like them,’ I smiled, recalling the time I had captured a Roman eagle in my youth. Then the memory of my capture in Cappadocia and subsequent enslavement flashed through my mind. ‘It resulted in me becoming a Roman slave. Youth is like a sword blade that has yet to be tempered.’

  ‘I will try my best to ensure Armenia is not humiliated,’ she said.

  ‘The gods be with you, Rasha.’

  She turned her horse and galloped to catch up with her husband, the King’s Guard and Vipers following. I smiled to myself. Gordyene would try not to humiliate Armenia. How times had changed. Once Armenia was a major power and Gordyene was an insignificant kingdom on its southern border. Now, thanks to the efforts of Spartacus, the army of Gordyene was the power broker in these parts. I took comfort that he had kept his notorious temper in check and appeared to be more considered in his opinions. Perhaps he was finally maturing into a well-rounded ruler.

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ I said to myself.

  I sat with Gallia watching Spartacus and Rasha grow smaller and smaller as they headed north with their escort, the last of the Immortals forming the rear of a huge black and red column that snaked through the Pambak. I stared up at the sky dotted with puffy white clouds. It was pleasantly warm with a nice breeze – ideal campaigning weather. The gods seemed to be smiling on Gordyene.

  ‘Time to go,’ I said.

  I nudged Horns ahead. Lucius sitting on his horse nearby gave the signal for our own escort to move, and we began the journey back to Dura.

  Chapter 5

  The forests of Gordyene are beautiful in the summer, the air filled with the woody scents of pine, juniper, spruce and fir. Honeysuckle clambers up trees, white dog roses illuminate the forest floor, and oak moss, a greenish-silver lichen, clings to oak trees. By streams and rivers grows mint, and between the trees are stretches of camomile, which when trampled on by horses’ hooves emit a sweet, fruity apple-like scent that is most pleasing to the senses.

  The sun shone through the forest canopy to warm our faces, the air was sweet and the streams filled with crystal-clear water, and yet I felt dejected. I had failed to persuade Spartacus to refrain from attacking Armenia, though at least he had promised to halt the raids against
Pontus. But while his wretched Aorsi allies still inhabited his northern borderlands, the threat to Pontus still existed, and with it the possibility of it causing trouble between Parthia and Rome.

  We moved slowly through the landscape, as there was no rush to reach Hatra to inform Gafarn and Diana of my failure.

  ‘What did you expect?’ said Gallia, reading my thoughts.

  We had camped near a wide stream in the middle of an ancient and large oak and beech forest, the camp alive with the sound of activity as horses were unsaddled and rubbed down, camels corralled and tents erected. I was rubbing Horns down with a brush; having examined his hooves to ensure none of his shoes was loose. Gallia was doing the same with her mare, Daughters of Dura erecting temporary stables with poles and canvas around us. Bullus, having established a perimeter of guards, prowled the camp like a wolf hunting for prey, berating anyone who appeared to be idling.

  ‘In truth, nothing, but I had hoped our presence might have sowed the seeds of doubt in his mind.’

  She took a nosebag from a waiting female squire and attached it to her mare.

  ‘There is no doubt in Spartacus’ mind. His world is black and white. You are either for him or against him.’

  I finished brushing Horns and fitted his nosebag containing fodder.

  ‘It would help if he was not surrounded by those wretched Aorsi.’

  ‘Those “wretched Aorsi” are the only people Spartacus truly trusts, Pacorus. It will not be lost on him that when Orodes marched against Surena, only the Sarmatians stood by him.’

  ‘That was a different time,’ I said dismissively.

  ‘They have long memories in Gordyene.’

  One of the Amazons had downed a large stag that morning and Zenobia had gifted the carcass to the queen to enjoy as an evening meal. So we invited her to dine with us, along with Bullus and Lucius, the former ill at ease in the company of royalty and so once again said almost nothing as we took our seats. The night was warm and pleasant, the air filled with the delightful aroma of pine, juniper and cooking meat.

  ‘We have a guest,’ said Gallia sitting opposite, looking past me.

  I turned to see a boy, no more than ten years old, his feet bare, standing behind me. In the light of the oil lamps in the tent he had golden hair and piercing blue eyes.

  Lucius jumped up. ‘Are your sentries asleep, centurion?’

  Bullus rose and drew his sword.

  ‘No, no,’ I commanded, ‘stand at ease and put your sword away. We do not murder children.’

  Gallia smiled at the boy, who was dressed in a white tunic fringed with silver. He smiled back at her.

  ‘Greetings, Queen Gallia, King Pacorus. My master invites you to dine with him tonight. His camp is just a short distance from here.’

  Bullus gave a low chortle. ‘Be on your way, boy, before I take my cane to you. There’s no camp within a mile of our own.’

  The boy ignored him. ‘It will require only a short walk, majesties.’

  ‘What is the name of your master?’ asked Zenobia.

  ‘The lord of justice,’ came the reply.

  Bullus guffawed. ‘He is obviously mad, majesty. Let me beat him out of camp.’

  ‘My lord has information about Irbil, majesty,’ he said to me, his voice full of authority despite his young age.

  I grew concerned. ‘What do you know about Irbil?’

  ‘I know nothing, majesty,’ he replied calmly, ‘only that Irbil is in danger, son of Hatra.’

  A chill danced down my spine. There was something odd about this boy and his last three words confirmed it. I looked at Gallia who wore a severe countenance. The look in her eyes told me all I needed to know.

  ‘You say your lord’s camp is near?’

  ‘No more than five minutes away, majesty.’

  ‘Impossible,’ snapped Lucius, ‘we would have seen the campfires and heard the sounds of men and horses.’

  Gallia nodded to me.

  ‘Then lead on,’ I said, to the astonishment of our guests.

  ‘I will organise an escort,’ said Lucius.

  The boy rounded on him. ‘No escort, Roman, the king and queen will be safe in my lord’s care.’

  How did he know Lucius was Roman?

  ‘We will be quite safe, Lucius,’ I said.

  Despite further protestations from Zenobia and Bullus, we followed the boy from our tent, walking through the camp seemingly invisible. No one noticed their king and queen following a barefoot boy among them. We reached the perimeter where Bullus’ legionaries patrolled, passing through them like ghosts, unseen. There were no sounds in the forest as we followed our young guide through trees illuminated by silver moonlight flooding through gaps in the canopy above. We carried no weapons but I sensed no threat; indeed, I felt very at ease. The air was sweet and the ground soft underfoot. I could see no camp ahead, though, and as we ventured deeper into the forest I wondered if we were the willing victims of dark sorcery. I started to panic and grabbed Gallia’s hand, ready to turn around and race back to camp, cursing myself we had brought nothing to defend ourselves with.

  ‘We are here,’ said the boy.

  Seemingly out of nowhere a camp materialised. A fire burned in front of us and beyond it were five tents, each one of a different shape and colour. One was round, another square, the one nearest to us was rectangular and a fourth had an arched roof. The largest tent was like a miniature royal pavilion with a central entrance and a high roof.

  ‘Welcome, welcome.’

  A figure appeared out of nowhere on our left, a tall man with a long face carrying a spade, a snake dragon motif on his robes that would not have looked out of place on a king. He smiled at us and bowed his head.

  ‘Please accept my apologies, camp duties, you understand.’

  The spade he was carrying appeared to have a silver blade and looked as though it had never touched any dirt.

  ‘You must be famished,’ he smiled, ‘please avail yourselves of our hospitality.’

  Whoever he was he had an amazing ability to put people at ease, his eyes filled with kindness, his voice soft and warm. So calming was his effect on us that we never asked him his name as he led us towards the pavilion, passing his spade to a handsome young man in a pure white tunic.

  We followed him into the tent, the interior of which was lavishly decorated with plush carpets on the ground, silver oil lamps and large, luxurious couches, upon which sat four individuals. They all stood when they saw us, three of them smiling and the fourth viewing us with angry eyes. My own eyes were drawn to the only female in the group, a stunningly beautiful woman with a voluptuous body. Her skin-tight robe barely concealed her large breasts, though despite her ample chest there appeared to be not an ounce of fat on her. Her light brown eyes lit up when she saw Gallia, gliding over to grip my wife’s hands.

  ‘It is so good to meet you at long last, warrior queen.’

  Gallia had always been a striking woman, and she could still turn heads, but against this beauty she paled. Not into insignificance but certainly into a distant second place.

  ‘Forgive me, but I do not know your name,’ said Gallia.

  ‘Her name is Ishtar.’

  The man who spoke was the oldest in the group who wore a horned headdress. He stood tall, aloof from the rest, his long robes white as the driven snow, his skin a dark olive brown. There were flecks of grey in his neatly trimmed beard and he wore a large gold signet ring on the smallest finger of his right hand. I could not see the crest carved on it. Before either Gallia or I could respond he beckoned us over to the two vacant couches.

  ‘Drinks for our guests.’

  ‘About time,’ said the stocky man with a short, wide face who was wearing a curved sword at his waist. ‘I’m starving.’

  ‘You must forgive Erra,’ smiled his companion, ‘his temper is shorter than his height.’

  I sat myself on a couch. ‘Erra? You are named after the God of Death, War and Destruction.’

  E
rra frowned at me. ‘Named after?’

  His companion, a man with pure white hair and light skin, giving him the appearance of an albino, rolled his pale eyes.

  ‘Hurry with those drinks.’

  Young men with perfect skin and pristine white tunics served us wine in gold chalices. I wanted to stare at the one named Ishtar but my eyes were drawn to the albino’s armour. I was well acquainted with dragon-skin armour but this was unlike any I had seen before. Every scale on his cuirass shone like a thousand suns, the colour alternating between silver and gold. It must have cost a large fortune to produce such armour.

  The elderly man retook his couch and shook his head disapprovingly.

  ‘I hope you are not going to get drunk, Erra.’

  I sipped at the wine, or at least I think it was wine because it was unlike anything I had tasted before. The beverage was sweet and red in appearance, but when I swallowed a warm, tingly sensation went down my throat and into my stomach. It was not unpleasant, far from it, more invigorating and I took a large gulp. It was as if my insides were being cleaned and renovated at the same time. I could feel my limbs being energised and my senses heightened. The only other time I had felt this alive and enthused with energy was in the midst of battle. I glanced at Gallia and saw her blue eyes sparkling. She too was obviously benefiting from the drink.

  ‘This is a fine wine,’ I said.

  ‘It is not wine,’ said Ishtar, ‘more an elixir.’

  ‘More for our guests,’ roared Erra, emptying his cup in one gulp.

  Our cups were refilled and I drank the strange elixir once more. Any aches and pains in my leg disappeared and I felt ten, twenty, years younger. I caught the eye of the pale man.

  ‘Fine armour.’

  ‘Would you like one like it? I will make you one.’

  ‘Girra is very skilled with his hands,’ said the leader of the group.

  I took another gulp. ‘Girra, the God of Light and Fire? I do not appreciate taking the names of the gods in vain.’

  ‘Nor do we,’ remarked the man with the snake dragon motif on his robe.

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ I said, ‘you are Marduk, the deity of Babylon, whose symbols are the snake dragon and spade.’