The Slave King

by Peter Darman

  The sun was beating down and we were all sweating profusely when we entered the tent from the southern side, the flaps tied open to allow what little breeze there was to enter the interior that was just as hot as the temperature outside. Cataphracts removed their helmets and shouted at slaves rushing round to fetch water for themselves and their horses, sliding off their saddles and resting their lances on the ground. Atrax’s escort, visible beyond the open opposite entrance to the tent, were also sating their thirst. Inside the tent five couches had been placed on the red carpets that covered the grass, a shaven-headed slave bowing and inviting us to take the weight off our feet. We were glad to do so, as was Atrax and who I assumed was the commander of his army. My eyes, adjusting to the interior of the tent, did not recognise him at first. But when I had removed my helmet and accepted the offer of a rhyton of wine, I nearly choked when the thickset individual in a muscled cuirass made of hammered bronze and embossed with silver smiled at me.

  ‘Titus Tullus,’ I said in disbelief.

  ‘Good to see you again, King Pacorus.’

  ‘By what strange quirk of fate do you find yourself here?’

  He snapped his fingers to bring a slave bearing a tray holding a chalice of wine.

  ‘We all have to learn a living, lord. After the expedition to Uruk my service was up with Rome, so I had to search around for new employment. To cut a long story short, I found it with King Polemon of Pontus.’

  ‘We are not here to discuss your life history, general,’ snapped Atrax.

  The prince was certainly a lot healthier than the last time I had seen him. Then he had been pale, on a litter and close to death. Lucius Varsas had escorted him and his sisters to Hatra where he was expected to expire. But here he was, attired in a silver muscled cuirass, blue silk tunic and red leather boots. He resembled his father with his slim figure, handsome face and height. I prayed he did not resemble him in personality.

  He looked directly at Akmon. ‘Well, here we are. I will make this short. You have one day to leave my city and kingdom.’

  Akmon sipped at his wine. ‘Your kingdom? I was created King of Media by King of Kings Phraates himself, following your father’s decision to support the traitor Tiridates. That makes you a traitor, Prince Atrax.’

  Atrax did not rise to the bait but rather removed a roll of papyrus from inside his cuirass. He held

  it out and a slave took it, handing it to Akmon.

  ‘You recognise the seal, the handwriting?’ said Atrax. ‘You would agree the wording is hardly hostile. I say again, you have one day to leave my city.’

  Akmon said nothing as he read the letter, though his shoulders slumped as he did so, and all the time the eyes of a smirking Atrax flitted between him and me.

  ‘Allow King Pacorus to read it,’ gloated Atrax, ‘for he too now stands on the wrong side of history.’

  Akmon passed me the missive. I instantly recognised Phraates’ handwriting and saw the seal of a bull’s head – the seal of Babylon, the city of the high king’s birth. My heart sank when I digested its contents. It began with the words ‘My dear Prince Atrax’ and stated that ‘who wears the crown of Media is an internal affair of that kingdom, which the high king has little interest in, as long as whoever rules Media remains loyal to the legitimate high king of the Parthian Empire’. I waved the letter in the air to indicate to the slave I had finished with it. He took it and returned it to its owner. In that moment, I could have cheerfully throttled Phraates for his betrayal of Akmon.

  But why?

  ‘This changes nothing,’ said Akmon. ‘You may have an army of mercenaries at your back but I still hold the city.’

  ‘With what?’ asked Atrax. ‘A paltry garrison reinforced by two hundred soldiers from Dura, of which half are women? You have seen my army. Even with your new wooden wall, you will not be able to prevent my soldiers from breaching it. Do you really want to condemn the citizens of Media to death for the sake of your vanity?’

  ‘I see the traitor Cookes has kept you fully abreast of developments,’ I said to Atrax.

  ‘He is loyal to the rightful King of Media,’ replied Atrax, ‘the son of Darius, grandson of Atrax and great grandson of Farhad. I wonder, King Pacorus, what the last two would have made of your siding with a foreign usurper.’

  ‘Unlike your father,’ I told him, ‘they did not drag Media into catastrophic wars, which bled the kingdom white. King Akmon and his queen have embarked on a programme to rebuild the kingdom that was wrecked by the intrigues of your father and Queen Aliyeh, my sister. I see no reason to interrupt that programme.’

  Atrax regarded me with contempt.

  ‘Is it not curious that in every misfortune Media has been subjected to, the spectre of King Pacorus is always present. My grandmother was always carping on about how it was a black day for Parthia when you returned. I always thought she was eaten away by bitterness that distorted her mind. But I now realise she was right.’

  ‘She flattered me,’ I said dryly, causing Tullus to smirk. A reproaching glance from Atrax wiped it off his face.

  ‘You murdered my uncle,’ spat Atrax, ‘and brought about the destruction of my family.’

  ‘I think your father and my sister achieved that all by themselves,’ I replied.

  I thought he was going to explode in anger, which would have been entirely predictable. But instead he gave an unconcerned shrug.

  ‘I can see that my attempt to avoid bloodshed has failed. So be it.’

  He stood and tipped his head to Joro, ignoring Akmon and me.

  ‘Know that when I unsheathe my sword there will be no mercy. No mercy for you and no mercy for those in Irbil.’

  He stood, turned and marched from the tent. Joro was appalled by his lack of manners. Akmon appeared unsurprised. He had obviously been well briefed by his general about Prince Atrax. I picked up my helmet and rose from the couch, Tullus accosting me as I followed Joro and Akmon back to our horses.

  ‘He means what he says about butchering everyone inside Irbil, majesty.’

  ‘I have no doubt. It saddens me to see you in the service of such a man.’

  He shrugged. ‘I was a soldier and the idea of being a farmer or merchant in some small provincial town does not appeal. Unlike like you, sir, I do not have my own kingdom to keep me amused.’

  ‘So, you keep yourself amused killing people?’

  Another shrug. ‘It’s what I do. I’m good at it. And King Polemon is paying me well.’

  ‘Not Atrax?’ I probed.

  ‘He hasn’t got a pot to piss in, but he is a useful idiot in a greater scheme.’

  ‘Greater scheme?’

  Tullus finished his wine and tossed the chalice to a slave.

  ‘Your nephew has managed to make enemies of Rome, Pontus and Armenia, majesty,’ he said, ‘and whereas Octavian has no desire to wage war on Parthia, he is more than willing to see Gordyene humbled. The army you saw arrayed before the walls earlier has been paid for by Rome, not Pontus. And King Artaxias of Armenia was quite happy for it to march through his kingdom if it meant replacing the current King of Media with one more hostile to Gordyene.’

  ‘You may be interested to know that as we speak here, the King of Gordyene is marching at the head of his army into Armenia.’

  He replaced his helmet, which sported a magnificent yellow crest.

  ‘Even his own high king has grown tired of him, it would seem. Someone should try to make him see sense.’

  ‘Someone already has,’ I sighed.

  He suddenly grabbed my arm.

  ‘Leave Irbil tonight, majesty, you and your wife. It was an honour fighting beside you both at Ctesiphon and I have no desire to fight against you now. But come the morning, I will have no choice but try my utmost to breach the city walls and storm Irbil. You understand, lord?’

  I rested a hand on top of his.

  ‘From one soldier to another, I would not expect anything less.’

  He knew I would not leave the c
ity and neither would Gallia and in that moment, I thought I detected sadness in his cold, black eyes, and if not sorrow then regret. The veteran of Pharsalus, Philippi, Phraaspa and Ctesiphon let go of my arm and nodded.

  ‘Until tomorrow, then.’

  ‘Until tomorrow, general.’

  He looked me up and down.

  ‘You look well, sir. Very well. A trip to the hot springs, perhaps?’

  ‘Hot springs?’

  ‘To restore the mind and body. Wherever you have been, it has done you the world of good. You look twenty years younger.’

  His eyes rested on my gleaming armour cuirass.

  ‘The armourers of Dura must be highly skilled to produce such a piece.’

  ‘Actually, it was a gift,’ I said.

  ‘Nice gift. It would be a great shame to get it damaged, sir.’

  He stepped back, raised his right arm in salute, turned on his heels and marched from the tent.

  We rode back to the city in silence, the sun still high in the sky, sweat dripping from our faces. The days were long, which would mean hot and prolonged fighting when the enemy attacked. I looked left and right. There were as yet no siege lines, no archers and slingers shooting at defenders on the walls, and indeed no sign of the enemy at all, Tullus having withdrawn them into camp, hill men and all. It was deliberate ploy to invite Akmon to flee the city via the southern, eastern or western entrances. And go where? To Gordyene, whose ruler had called his wife a whore? Ctesiphon, whose high king had essentially abandoned him? His only recourse would be to flee back to Palmyra and live the life of a wandering, landless prince. The truth was, if he chose to do so, I would not blame him for such an action would save many lives.

  In the citadel he declared his intention to stay and fight, Lusin standing beside him as he did so. I informed Lucius the enemy forces were commanded by a Roman veteran, Gallia seething when I revealed his name.

  ‘I will take great delight in putting an arrow through his heart,’ she threatened.

  ‘In my experience, such as it is, majesty,’ said Joro, ‘when he and his superior, Quintus Dellius, were allies of King Darius, I found him a capable officer, if a little rough around the edges.’

  ‘Judging by the encampment the enemy has created,’ said Lucius, ‘I believe the enemy might be more disciplined than we had hoped for.’

  ‘What does that mean?’ asked Lusin, sitting beside her husband in the throne room, a huge dragon banner hanging on the wall behind them.

  ‘It means the coming battle will be more difficult than we anticipated, majesty,’ said Joro.

  ‘I suggest we take up our allotted positions tonight,’ I said.

  Pogon was dismayed by the idea. ‘Parthians do not fight at night, majesty.’

  ‘No, but Romans do,’ I told him, ‘and if I were Titus Tullus I would be thinking the same as you do. A night assault against our thinly held wall might just succeed.’

  ‘I agree with King Pacorus,’ said Akmon, ‘we will man the walls immediately.’

  Lucius’ plan had divided our forces into four self-contained units, each one allotted to one of the gates in the perimeter wall. All units were equal in number, with the two hundred men of the palace guard forming a small reserve. But we were spread thinly, and I worried we would be overwhelmed in the first assault, though I kept my apprehension to myself.

  I went with Gallia to the western gates, torches on the walls and towers illuminating the defences and those manning them. I found Klietas standing on the battlements above the gates, peering at the distant glow of the enemy camp to the north. Amazons, Daughters of Dura and legionaries slept on the bone-dry ground at the foot of the sloping embankment on the city-side of the wall, sentries pacing the ramparts above and keeping watch for any movement beyond the ditch. As usual, Bullus stalked the area like a wolf looking for prey. I told him of my meeting earlier with Atrax and Titus Tullus, who we had fought alongside at the Tigris and Ctesiphon.

  ‘So the enemy aren’t all an ill-disciplined rabble?’ he grunted.

  ‘No.’

  ‘That will make the coming battle interesting, majesty.’ He looked up at Klietas on the city wall. ‘He should get some sleep. He will need it.’

  ‘So should you, Bullus.’

  ‘I will get a few winks, majesty, have no fear. What about you?’

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘Well, meaning no disrespect, but at your age.’

  ‘I will get some rest as soon as I speak to Klietas.’

  He saluted and marched off, tapping his cane against his thigh. In truth, though, I felt alert and the last thing on my mind was sleep. It was odd but I thirsted for the fighting to begin, to hear the sounds of battle and test my mettle against the enemy. I had not felt as eager for combat in years. I paced up the earth bank to stand beside Klietas, the youth flashing me a smile.

  ‘We fight tomorrow, highborn?’

  ‘We do indeed, which is why you should get some sleep.’

  ‘I do not want to miss anything, highborn.’

  I laughed. His innocent naivety was most endearing.

  ‘I will keep watch. I promise you will be woken before the battle begins. Go on.’

  He scurried off to sleep among the other civilian slingers camped either side of the gates. I stood and peered into the darkness before turning my head to better hear. I heard crickets and the occasional bark of a fox but no trace of human activity. I felt disappointed; it had been long time since I had shot a bow at night, trying to hit a target by sound rather than sight.

  ‘Eager for battle?’

  Gallia was beside me, bow in hand, quiver slung over her shoulder.

  ‘How do you feel?’

  She grinned. ‘I can hear the sound of every creature and the breathing of all those sleeping below. I have never experienced such sensations. You?’

  ‘The same. I yearn for battle, like a drunk craving wine or beer. But I do not need sleep.’

  ‘Me neither. I wonder how long it will last?’

  I breathed in the warm night air. ‘Only the gods know that.’

  ‘Do you think they will aid us?’

  ‘A pair of fire-breathing dragons would be nice.’

  ‘Or a demon, like the one Claudia summoned at Sigal.’

  I shuddered when I remembered the price Sakastan had paid for such help.

  ‘The gods give nothing for free.’

  She caressed the armour of her cuirass.

  ‘What price will we have to pay, I wonder?’

  Chapter 9

  ‘Blast like the wind, scan the circumference of the earth.’

  The dawn came soon enough, the sun an angry red ball rising in the east to herald the spilling of blood. Despite my eagerness for the clash, I managed to grab a couple of hours’ sleep, Gallia slumbering beside me. I woke to the cry of a trumpet being sounded to rouse those earmarked to defend the western gates. Cooks prepared a breakfast of cured meat, cheese, porridge and bread, all washed down with water. To us it was basic fare, to Klietas a veritable feast. He gobbled down the food heaped on his wooden plate, sitting huddled over his breakfast and casting his gaze left and right to ensure no one was close enough to steal it. I sat next to him, our backs against the wall, picking at my food. He gave a loud belch.

  ‘Apologies, highborn.’

  ‘You will get indigestion, eating so fast.’

  He finished his food and gulped down some water, his eyes fixed on my full plate.

  I ate some cheese and a strip of cured meat, but I had other things on my mind aside from food. I saw his eager eyes. I handed him my plate.

  ‘Here, don’t bolt it down.’

  No sooner had I finished my sentence than his right hand went to work shovelling food into his mouth, his jaws working overtime to consume the fare. He finished, belched again and handed me back my plate.

  ‘Thank you, highborn.’

  He emptied his cup of water. ‘Now I am ready to fight.’

  As if on cue, th
e sound of drums broke the morning silence, a low rumble indicating the drummers were some way off. The enemy was leaving camp.

  ‘On your feet.’

  Bullus’ booming voice filled our ears and as one those on the ramparts stood and tested their bowstrings. Bullus’ legionaries walked up the earth bank and took up position on the wall. Empty barrels around three feet in height had been placed against the inside of the wall to allow each legionary to rest his shield on top of one, thus extending the height of the wall and crucially creating gaps through which the Amazons could shoot. This would provide a modicum of safety for archers shooting down at an enemy that would be shooting back arrows and slingshots. The Daughters of Dura’s task was to replenish ammunition stocks, assist the wounded and act as runners to liaise with the other sectors of the wall. They would fight only as a last resort.

  Bullus called all the civilian archers and slingers together and assembled them at the gates, the sound of drums filling the air. While Gallia conferred with Zenobia, I walked down the earth bank to address them, their faces betraying nervousness. Many were biting their lips and looking around anxiously. Bullus shook his head and began tapping his cane against his thigh – always a bad sign.

  ‘The enemy will soon be testing us,’ I began as I stood before them all. ‘I realise none of you are soldiers, so I will give you some simple advice. Obey the commands you are given. They are intended to save your lives. Do not stand on the wall when the enemy attacks; peek over it. Make yourself as small a target as possible. When you take a shot, afterwards immediately take cover behind the wall. That goes for those among you who are slingers and who will be manning the towers. Any questions?’

  There were none.

  ‘Then may the gods keep you safe.’

  ‘Right, then,’ hollered Bullus, ‘to your positions. Collect your helmets first.’