by Peter Darman
She stared ahead. ‘No.’
‘It is a shame to see so much devastation,’ remarked Lucius riding behind us.
We left the settlement and followed the track through a large apple orchard, now sadly neglected. Like many other villages in the kingdom it was surrounded by orchards and a vineyard, plus small gardens to the rear of huts.
‘Media’s wealth is derived from its rich soil, which makes it the breadbasket of the empire,’ I told him. ‘Unlike at Dura, Media is blessed with seasonal rains and an inexhaustible supply of underground water. This village should be filled with healthy, happy people and the fields should be brimming with crops turned bronze by the sun and waiting to be harvested. It is a tragedy.’
‘And now more tragedy is to be visited upon the kingdom,’ lamented my quartermaster general. ‘May I compliment both you and the queen on your new armour, by the way. Arsam has excelled himself.’
‘Indeed,’ I said sheepishly, while Gallia grinned.
We sent riders ahead to scout out the stronghold of the local lord, a sprawling two-storey mud-brick building with its own lake, our intention being to relay our compliments and ask permission to ride through his territory. But they returned with news that the residence was empty and had been thoroughly looted.
‘The lord and his retainers are probably dead,’ said Gallia, ‘either killed at Mepsila or during Spartacus’ invasion.’
Only now did the stark reality of the devastation visited on northern Media dawn on me. It would take years for the kingdom to recover, though if it were true that another army was about to invade it, any recovery would be more a distant hope than a certainty.
After two days of riding past deserted villages and seeing no one on the road to the capital, it was a relief to see Irbil in the distance as we approached it from the north, the same direction the army of Prince Atrax would follow. I sent a rider ahead to announce our approach, it being bad manners for a foreign king to appear in another ruler’s city unannounced. It was midday, the sun at its midpoint in a clear blue sky and the air hot and dusty, when we sighted a column of riders approaching from the city, a large banner billowing at its head. I ordered Zenobia to remove the wax sleeve that covered my furled griffin banner to display the emblem of Dura as the Median riders slowed to a walk, at their head a tall man wearing an open-faced helmet, his beard pure white. I called a halt as he did likewise and both he and we walked our horses forward until we were around ten paces apart.
‘Greetings, King Pacorus, Queen Gallia, the king and queen send their compliments and look forward to speaking with you.’
His name was Joro and he had commanded Media’s army for many years. He had been a senior officer when my friend Atrax, the husband of my sister Aliyeh, had been Media’s ruler, and a junior officer under Farhad, and when Media’s army had been a force to be reckoned with. Now that army had been bled white and I wondered how many men Joro would be able to summon at short notice.
‘The king and queen are well?’ I asked him as he rode beside us back to the city.
‘Yes, majesty.’
His voice contained not a shred of emotion, but then Joro was a traditionalist, the scion of an ancient lineage that could be traced back to the time of the Persian Emperor Darius. Many of Media’s ancient families also had proud heritages and I wondered what they thought of the son of the hated King of Gordyene and an Armenian woman being appointed to rule them. Media, after all, had been the progenitor of the policy of ‘Parthian purity’ that I and others had ridiculed. But in Media where customs and age-old practices were strictly adhered to, such a policy had seemed entirely appropriate.
‘The city has a wall.’
Lucius’ voice interrupted my musings. So busy had I been fixing my stare on Irbil’s citadel in the distance – a yellow-ochre walled stronghold atop a hundred-foot high circular stone mound – that I had not seen the wall that now surrounded the hundreds of homes, shops and warehouses around it.
‘How fortunate,’ I said, ‘and long overdue. My congratulations on your foresight, general.’
‘The idea was not mine, majesty, but the king’s. When his father besieged Irbil, he erected an earthen rampart around the city. King Akmon retained the earth bank, strengthened it and built a wooden wall on top of it, with four gates giving access to the city.’
I estimated the earth rampart to be approximately twice the height of a man, the wooden wall on top of it ¬– made from horizontal timbers interlocked between grids of wooden posts – to be around the same height. To add strength to the rampart and wall, there was a wide ditch in front of them, which meant an attacker would have to traverse the ditch before attempting to clamber up the rampart and scale the wall. In addition, there were wooden towers at regular intervals along the wall: nothing more than simple two-storey structures really, but they gave defenders using bows and slings extended range and allowed archers and slingers to make cross-shots at attackers approaching the walls.
The population of the city had swelled since the last time I had been in Irbil, many tents being pitched between the new perimeter wall and the mud-brick buildings ringing the citadel. Joro saw my look of concern as we rode through one of the gates.
‘Refugees, majesty, who have fled from their villages in the north of the kingdom. The king feeds them and paid them for their labour during the construction of the city wall. But now they have no work and drain the royal granaries.’
There was disapproval in his voice but he would never openly criticise his king. Men like Joro believed in the natural order of things. Kings were appointed by the gods, or in Akmon’s case by the high king acting as the mortal vessel of the gods. The king sat at the top of a pyramidal society, beneath him the lords who carried out his wishes, enforced the laws throughout his kingdom and provided soldiers in times of war. Priests also enforced the law and cemented the legitimacy of the king by reminding worshippers that flocked to their temples that the gods had appointed their ruler. At the bottom of the pyramid, or more accurately the pile, were the commoners who worked the land to produce food to fill the bellies of the king and his family, the kingdom’s lords and the appetites of the gods, who demanded vast quantities of food daily to keep them appeased. To men like Joro, feeding homeless commoners did not form any aspect of kingship.
‘The city prospers, general,’ said Gallia as a huge press of people, camels, donkeys and handcarts near the city bazaar slowed our column.
‘Clear a path,’ ordered Joro.
His horsemen used their beasts to try to move people out of the way but short of using their swords, there was nothing to be done except remain patient.
‘There is no rush, general,’ I said. ‘It is good to see Irbil on the mend.’
The bazaar was a sprawl of self-contained, two-storey buildings packed tightly together, bisected by alleyways. The latter were lined on both sides with rows of small shops, workshops on the ground floor opening on to the alley, the rooms on the upper floor being used mainly for storage. The smell of spices, animals, their dung and the excited chatter of individuals haggling and arguing reached our nostrils and ears and made me smile. Life had returned to Irbil and I was determined it would not be snuffed out by Prince Atrax.
Things were quieter near the ramp that led to the citadel. The long, narrow slope had been cut into the rock and led to a huge southern-facing gatehouse from which flew a giant black banner showing a white dragon. Guards at the gates stood to attention as we entered the citadel, an oasis of calm and order compared to the mad bustle below.
The citadel was around a quarter of a mile in diameter and in the centre stood the walled palace, around which were temples and the homes of the richest lords, all built of brick and surrounded by a maze of narrow alleyways. I wondered how many nobles remained in the citadel after the costly wars of King Darius.
When we entered the palace compound a guard of honour stood to attention, trumpets and kettledrums sounding a fanfare. Horns grunted at the noise and a few of
the horses flicked their tails in annoyance but desisted when the din stopped. The guard of honour comprised around fifty mounted cataphracts and a hundred foot soldiers.
‘I thought Media’s professional foot soldiers were wiped out at Mepsila,’ I said to Joro as slaves came forward to take the reins of our horses. We dismounted and the beasts were led to the stables.
He removed his helmet and adjusted his blue tunic.
‘The replacement unit remained at Irbil during the march to Mepsila, majesty, and King Akmon has recalled some veterans to the colours in an attempt to rebuild the army.’
Akmon himself, resplendent in a blue silk tunic, white leggings and black boots, took the hand of his wife and led her down the palace steps to greet us. Queen Lusin, her heart-shaped face framed by lustrous chestnut curls, wore a flowing blue dress and both wore gold crowns. They were both slender, tall and in their prime, which was just as well as they were about to face a stern test. They came forward and embraced us, both Akmon and Lusin kissing Gallia on the cheek. Akmon noticed our shining cuirasses.
‘Fine armour, lord.’
‘I am not your lord, Akmon,’ I told him, ‘merely your friend and ally.’
‘Would you like to inspect the honour guard?’ he enquired.
We did so, the cataphracts immaculate in their burnished scale armour, the men sweating as they paraded on horses encased in armour, each holding a kontus vertically. The foot soldiers were as I remembered them from the time of my friend Atrax, the grandfather of the man who was marching on the capital. In appearance, they resembled the Roman legionaries they had been created to fight: helmets with large cheek guards and neck protectors, short-sleeved scale armour tunics, and thick leather greaves over leather boots. Their large oval shields were faced with hide painted black and sporting a white dragon motif. Their primary weapon was a mace, originally a short length of wood topped with a spiked iron head, the latter now replaced by a more effective head with iron flanges. They were also equipped with short swords, by the size and shape of the scabbards at their hips, weapons identical to the gladius carried by Dura’s foot soldiers and Spartacus’ Immortals.
Afterwards we took refreshments in the palace garden, which due to the limited amount of space in the citadel was small in comparison to the ones at Hatra and Ctesiphon. Nevertheless, because the citadel was blessed with abundant underground water sources, there was a pond full of goldfish in the front space of the garden and numerous fountains among the apricot, peach and apple trees and the lush green lawns.
As at Hatra, in the middle of the garden was a gazebo painted white where we sat down on couches with gold feet in the shape of dragons and were served wine in silver rhytons in the shape of a crouching dragon. We toasted Akmon and Lusin, the austere Joro standing like a sentry beside his king.
‘Sit down, general,’ smiled Akmon, ‘you are making us all feel nervous.’
He did as he was ordered, refusing the offer of wine and looking like a sentry perching on the edge of a couch. But he looked every inch the general when I revealed the purpose of our visit.
‘We have been reliably informed that an army is heading for Irbil, Akmon, advancing from the Araxes River and intent on storming this city and taking your crown.’
Joro jumped up. ‘What army?’
‘The army of Prince Atrax, eldest son of the late, unlamented King Darius,’ Gallia told him.
Akmon, to his credit, remained calm.
‘Do you have any information as to the strength and composition of this army, lord?’
I shook my head. ‘I do not.’
The worry lines on Joro’s face appeared to increase by the second.
‘I thought Atrax was at Hatra, grievously wounded.’
‘He underwent by all accounts a miraculous recovery and left Hatra weeks ago,’ I informed him.
‘We must send riders north at once, majesty,’ advised Joro.
Lusin looked frightened but her young husband maintained his resolve.
‘See to it.’
He bowed his head to his king and marched briskly back to the palace.
‘One more thing, general,’ I called after him, ‘you should know that Governor Cookes is a traitor who has secured all the post stations along the Tigris, and perhaps in other parts of Media.’
He took in the information, frowned and left our company.
‘Cookes has betrayed me?’ said Akmon in a faltering voice.
‘We will deal with him later,’ promised Gallia.
‘I will send a rider to Dura to fetch my army,’ I said.
‘What of Hatra’s army?’ he asked.
‘It has been committed to the east,’ I deceived him.
Gallia selected one of the Amazons, an Agraci by birth, who was known for her endurance in the saddle. She carried with her a letter for Chrestus ordering him to bring the Durans and Exiles to Irbil, together with Kalet and his lords, but leaving the siege engines behind. To avoid Hatra I ordered the army should use rafts to float down the Euphrates for around fifty miles before striking east across the desert well south of Hatra and crossing the Tigris on a pontoon bridge. Thereafter he was to march to Irbil with all haste.
I stared at the papyrus map, the oil lamp flickering on the table beside it. Gallia sat opposite, staring at me. The shutters were open to allow a pleasing breeze to enter our bedroom.
‘It will take your woman five days to reach Dura, even with her two fresh horses. Another two days for Chrestus to organise the army and a further fifteen to get to Irbil. Just over three weeks.’
‘Well, then, we had better put our newly gifted energy to use.’
‘Impossible!’
Soter was indignant.
The head of an ancient Median family, he had vast estates in the south of the kingdom and a house in the citadel itself. Like many of his fellow nobles he had been an avid supporter of Darius’ and my sister’s Parthian purity policy. As in many Parthian kingdoms, Dura’s included, the lords of the realm elected one of their own to represent their interests at court. The very first king of Media had elevated his closest friends to the nobility, bequeathing them land to farm and administer, in return for which they were permitted to accrue personal wealth on condition they paid a share to the crown. That was generations ago and the ties between the king and his nobility were now not as tight, especially in the wake of Darius’ disastrous reign.
‘I can assure you, Lord Soter, it is very possible,’ I shot back.
Akmon had assembled a council of war in the palace the following morning, the attendees including Pogon, the harassed commander of the city garrison, Joro, the high priest of the citadel’s Temple of Shamash, an aloof individual named Parmenion, Lusin and Gallia.
‘May I enquire as to the source of your information, majesty?’ asked Soter.
Gallia shot me a glance.
‘From a very reliable source,’ I replied.
‘Scouts left the city earlier,’ said Joro, ‘they will provide detailed information on the location and size of any army approaching from the north.’
‘How many of your fellow lords are still loyal to Prince Atrax?’ I asked Soter.
He bristled at the suggestion of treachery.
‘Media’s lords have always been loyal to the crown,’ he replied.
I looked at Akmon. ‘I would advise summoning them all to Irbil, together with their retainers, to muster an army to confront Prince Atrax.’
Soter looked at Akmon. ‘Highness, we have no evidence an army is approaching Irbil, and the suggestion Media’s nobility would betray you is thoroughly scurrilous.’
Parmenion examined his well-manicured hands.
‘High King Phraates himself appointed King Akmon to rule Media, King Pacorus. Why would Media’s lords betray their king and high king for a landless prince?’
It was a fair point and one I would normally agree with, but not even the high priest of Shamash’s temple in Irbil had broken bread with immortals.
‘He
has foreign backing,’ declared Gallia, ‘Armenian, most likely.’
‘King Spartacus, in retaliation for the Armenian recapture of Van,’ I told them, ‘is marching with his army to invade Armenia.’
‘Then I would have thought King Artaxias has enough to contend with rather than supporting Prince Atrax,’ said Soter. ‘We all know Gordyene is the major power in these parts. I doubt Armenia has enough soldiers to contain the Thracian…’
He stopped mid-sentence, realising he was no longer in the company of Darius and Aliyeh but rather the son and uncle of Spartacus.
I smiled. ‘Please continue, Lord Soter.’
‘I was merely trying to emphasise that the Armenians will be hard-pressed containing the king’s father,’ he replied, ‘and will not have the resources to support a wild scheme in Media.’
‘It is a valid point, majesty,’ said Joro.
The general had kept his counsel but now supported Soter. It was an astute move. Soter represented Media’s nobility and Akmon would need the kingdom’s nobles if his reign was to prosper.
‘I will summon my lords,’ stated Akmon. ‘It would be unwise not take precautions after King Pacorus has provided us with timely and valuable information.’
Soter was unimpressed but said nothing, preferring to stare into space.
‘Governor Pogon,’ said Akmon, ‘is the city prepared to repel an assault?’
He began shaking his head immediately, running a hand through his thinning hair and exhaling loudly.
‘The city is filled with refugees, highness, all from the north when Spartacus, that is King Spartacus, invaded and laid waste the land.’
‘I am quite aware of the damage done to this kingdom by my father,’ said Akmon tersely. ‘I have spent the past few months trying to repair it.’
‘The refugees should be expelled, majesty,’ suggested the governor, ‘to save our food supplies.’
‘Where would they go?’ asked Lusin.
Pogon shrugged and Soter gave an evil leer.
‘You should not concern yourself with the welfare of commoners, majesty. If I have discovered anything it is there is an inexhaustible supply of them, but not an inexhaustible supply of food in Irbil to feed them.’