The Slave King

by Peter Darman

  Akmon welcomed Talib to his palace after we had entered the citadel, unsure of what to make of the short, slim individual with a sharp beard dressed in black robes who stood before him in the throne room. Like most Agraci and indeed many Parthians, he wore black eye make-up made from antimony powder sourced from a black stone, which was ground to dust and diluted with olive oil. Regarded by the Egyptians as attractive and pleasing to the gods, they and we wore the black eye make-up to repel flies that carried diseases and as a defence against the glare of the sun.

  ‘This is my chief scout, Talib, majesty,’ I informed Akmon, ‘who rides ahead of Dura’s army.’

  There was a chorus of excited and approving grunts from the officers present, as well as the priests, now few in number, from the Temple of Shamash.

  ‘You are most welcome, Lord Talib,’ smiled Akmon.

  ‘I am not a lord, majesty,’ Talib corrected him, ‘just a scout in the service of the King of Dura.’

  ‘Well you are welcome anyway.’

  ‘Tell the king who accompanies the army, Talib,’ I said.

  ‘Lord Soter and his forces joined with the army of Dura at the Tigris, majesty,’ reported Talib, ‘and it was Lord Soter who notified Dura of the situation in Irbil.’

  The news was greeted with smiles and nods. Akmon closed his eyes and gave thanks to the god he worshipped, the Horseman I assumed.

  ‘How many men?’ asked Joro, professional to the last.

  ‘Two thousand horsemen, lord,’ Talib told him.

  ‘And the army of Dura?’ queried Akmon.

  ‘Ten thousand foot soldiers and the same number of horsemen, majesty.’

  I was surprised. With the army’s professional horse archers and the cataphracts absent in the east, to raise such a number must have denuded my kingdom of all its lords and their retainers. As if anticipating my query, Talib provided further information.

  ‘Kalet leads five thousand horsemen, majesty, and the rest are commanded by Lord Orobaz.’

  ‘Who?

  ‘A rich lord from the Kingdom of Hatra, majesty. The commander of the army sent an urgent request to your brother, King Gafarn,’ said Talib, ‘to send horse archers to rendezvous with the army.’

  Gallia raised an eyebrow. ‘General Chrestus has grown bold in our absence.’

  ‘It was not the general who sent the request, majesty,’ explained Talib, ‘but the army’s commander.’

  I looked at Gallia in confusion. ‘And who is that?’

  ‘Princess Eszter, majesty.’

  I was not amused. ‘What?’

  ‘As soon as news reached Dura of your predicament, majesty, the princess was most diligent in mustering the lords and liaising with Hatra, as well as sending instructions to Lord Soter concerning when and where to meet the army.’

  Joro emitted a gruff chuckle. ‘That must have come as a shock to him, a woman telling him what to do. Dura is different from Media.’

  ‘Very different,’ snapped Gallia, ‘and to the benefit of Media, I think.’

  Joro, ever the stickler for court rules, bowed his head to her.

  ‘Both I and Media are most grateful for your daughter’s diligence, majesty.’

  The news of our relief spread throughout the citadel, people flocking to the Temple of Shamash to give thanks for their delivery. In a generous gesture, Lusin ordered food to be distributed to civilians before they returned to their homes. Fortunately, Media’s homes, businesses, temples and warehouses were still intact. Normally when a city was stormed, its inhabitants were usually slaughtered or enslaved and the buildings were put to the torch after they had been plundered. As Atrax intended to rule after Akmon had been deposed, he had not embarked on a rampage of destruction. That was a blessing, at least.

  The first task was a grisly one and involved heaping the now bloated and gaseous corpses on carts to transport them outside the city for cremation. I sent Talib back to the army with orders for my daughter and Chrestus to hasten to Irbil and take possession of the campsite of Atrax’s army. Its ditch and earth palisade were still extant and would save the Durans and Exiles time and energy. Talib’s scouts rode with their leader back to the army, though others had been sent north to trail Atrax and his army. I too would be following the fleeing prince at the head of my army. But first I intended to greet Chrestus and my daughter.

  Akmon and Lusin accompanied us on our short ride, Media’s dragon banner flying beside Dura’s griffin behind us and the Amazons and Joro’s surviving cataphracts providing an escort. The first troops we encountered were some of Dura’s horse archers, attired in dark robes and riding nimble horses capable of great speed and endurance. They recognised the griffin banner and galloped towards us, pulling up their mounts sharply and bowing their heads.

  ‘Greetings, lord,’ said their olive-skinned commander, his teeth white and his eyes keen and dark brown.

  He was bare headed but most of his men were wearing shemaghs, the headdress favoured by the Agraci. All carried bows and at least two full quivers of arrows, every man also armed with a curved sword and dagger hanging from his hip.

  ‘How far away is the army?’ I asked.

  ‘Less than five miles, lord.’

  We left them to their vanguard duties and carried on, passing deserted farms and riding through a village that was also devoid of life. Akmon said nothing as we trotted past the mud-brick huts with reed roofs, but I saw the pained expression in his eyes. Media had already suffered because of his father’s invasions of the kingdom, and now it had endured a further setback at the hands of Atrax, though the real culprit was Phraates. All to make a point to the King of Gordyene. At that moment, I deeply regretted fighting to put the son of Orodes back on the high throne.

  ‘It is Eszter,’ said Gallia, breaking the silence.

  A mile south of the village, the dirt track we were riding on cutting through fields filled with ripe golden barley that swayed in the gentle breeze, we ran into our youngest daughter at the head of a large party of horsemen. She was dressed in mail armour, open-faced helmet and had a sword strapped to her waist. Her bow was in a leather case fixed to the right side of her saddle and two quivers hung on its left side. On her right side rode her husband Dalir, also wearing mail. Next to him rode his father Kalet who wore no armour and resembled an Agraci warrior in his dark robes. On Eszter’s other side was Lord Soter, the sun glinting off the burnished scales of his scale-armour cuirass and his helmet adorned with a blue plume. To his left was a man I had not seen before but who must have been Lord Orobaz judging by the expensive scale armour that covered his torso, shoulders and thighs. He too wore an open-faced helmet, though a white plume adorned it. Eszter held up her hand to halt the column she led before giving us a mischievous smile.

  ‘Greetings, father and mother, I hope we are not too late.’

  ‘Too late for what?’ I asked.

  ‘To fight Atrax, of course,’ came the impious reply.

  ‘Atrax has fled,’ I told her.

  ‘We are most pleased to see you, princess,’ said Akmon, halting his horse in front of hers, ‘I, my wife and Media are in your debt.’

  ‘We are all in Lord Soter’s debt,’ I said, ‘for without his foresight we would not be at this happy reunion.’

  ‘My sincere thanks, lord,’ said Akmon.

  The Median noble, his expression haughty and severe, bowed his head to Akmon.

  ‘Media has a king and does not need another. What it needs is peace, so it may be rebuilt to once again become the first kingdom of the empire. I took an oath of loyalty to you, sire, that neither my sons nor I will break. And we will not tolerate foreigners invading Media and turning it into their plaything.’

  ‘We will build a new Media, that I promise,’ pledged Akmon.

  ‘This is Lord Orobaz, majesty,’ Eszter said to Akmon, ‘who has brought five thousand Hatrans to fight by your side.’

  Orobaz, tall in the saddle, slender, with broad shoulders, bowed his head to the King of
Media. I estimated him to be in his fifties, though I could see no hint of grey in his beard. His eyes were green, and they conveyed a man of intelligence and breeding.

  ‘It is an honour to serve you, majesty,’ said Orobaz, ‘you who are the son of King Spartacus, who in turn is the son of King Gafarn of Hatra and the brother of King Pacorus. Hatra and Media are thus linked to each other by blood ties. My king’s only regret is that he himself could not be here.’

  ‘And how is my brother?’ I asked.

  ‘Healing, majesty,’ Orobaz told me, ‘though the queen informed me his patience is somewhat frayed.’

  ‘You look like you’ve been on holiday, lord, as opposed to being under siege. And who did you steal that armour from?’

  Kalet could always be relied upon to lower the tone of the conversation and both Soter and Orobaz shifted uneasily in their saddles.

  ‘Perhaps we should ride back to the city,’ suggested Joro, ignoring my chief lord.

  ‘Excellent idea,’ agreed Akmon, turning his horse to commence the journey back to Irbil.

  ‘I will ride ahead to speak with Chrestus,’ I said, pointing at Eszter, ‘and you will be coming with me.’

  Gallia joined us as we cantered south to link up with Chrestus, encountering more of Dura’s lords and their horsemen as we approached the army. Kalet and Dalir also accompanied us, the former pestering me with questions about my cuirass and the one worn by Gallia.

  ‘Where did you get them from?’

  ‘They were gifts.’

  ‘Can I get one?’

  ‘I think that is very unlikely.’

  ‘Have you lost your Roman armour?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So you have two suits of armour and I don’t have one.’

  I sighed. ‘You remember the two hundred horses I paid you so Eszter and your son could get married?’

  He appeared to wrack his brains. ‘Vaguely.’

  ‘Then sell some to buy yourself some armour.’

  He cast his eyes on the fields of golden crops we rode by, interspersed with vineyards and orchards heaving with fruit.

  ‘Rich country this. Soter tells me there is so much water anything can be grown here.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Lots of livestock, too.’

  I knew where this was heading.

  ‘What a shame you are forbidden from plundering Media, Kalet. It must be hard for an old raider like you to see such bounty and be unable to steal it away.’

  He went into a sullen silence, mumbling under his breath. He was wealthy in his own right, owning many horses, goats and camels, as well as having lordship over hundreds of people. In his youth he had fought the Agraci, raided Roman Syria and even ventured south into the lands of the Bedouin. But now there was peace with the Agraci and Rome and only the Bedouin provided sport for my desert lords.

  ‘How are you finding married life, Dalir?’ asked Gallia.

  His name meant ‘brave’ and he had proved it was an appropriate moniker during the campaign against Tiridates. In looks he resembled a younger version of his father, with wild hair and beard, and just as forthright.

  ‘I hope to put a baby in her belly soon, majesty, to give you another grandson.’

  I winced at his coarseness, but Gallia took it in her stride.

  ‘I remember when I first became aware I was pregnant with Claudia. I was on campaign at the time, fighting a king called Porus. Perhaps the fact you and Eszter are on campaign is a good omen.’

  I laughed. ‘I remember you fainting in our tent after the battle. Alcaeus berated me for taking a pregnant woman on campaign. Is he with the army?’

  ‘He is,’ said Eszter, ‘and is as free with his comments as ever. Greece must be a terrible place to live if they are all as sharped-tongued as Alcaeus and Scelias.’

  ‘Greece is a terrible place to live because it is a Roman province,’ said Gallia.

  It was good to see the army again, reassuring to see the long lines of legionaries in mail armour, helmets and white tunics marching six abreast in perfect step. I rode to the command group where Chrestus and his senior officers were located, together with Alcaeus, who used to walk with his medical orderlies but now sat in a saddle out of consideration for his age. Chrestus, attired in mail armour and a helmet sporting a magnificent white crest, saluted stiffly when we drew alongside him. Now a veteran commander in his forties, he rarely smiled and his black eyes conveyed menace and determination. They now rested on my shining armour.

  ‘It is good to see you, majesties, you look well.’

  ‘Very well,’ added Alcaeus, ‘I thought you had been under siege and fighting for your lives, but you both look remarkably healthy and invigorated.’

  ‘Clean living and a healthy mind will do that, Alcaeus,’ I said. ‘Is everything well, Chrestus?’

  His eyes portrayed no emotion, though I did notice he tightened the grip on his reins.

  ‘All is well, majesty.’

  ‘Ever the calm professional, Chrestus,’ said Alcaeus, ‘though the mask did slip a little when Princess Eszter announced she would be commanding the army.’

  ‘She is joint commander,’ emphasised Chrestus.

  ‘Try telling her that,’ smiled Alcaeus. ‘I must say she has done a commendable job getting all the disparate elements assembled so quickly and getting them to Media in a short time. Perhaps you should make her Chrestus’ deputy, Pacorus.’

  Chrestus’ knuckles went white as he throttled the reins with his hand.

  ‘It would be an honour,’ beamed Eszter behind us.

  ‘Well, let’s see,’ I said. ‘How many campaigns have you taken part in, Eszter?’

  ‘Two, including this one.’

  ‘And have you ever commanded soldiers in battle or in a siege?’

  ‘No, but…’

  I held up a hand. ‘Now, General Chrestus has commanded Dura’s army for over twenty years, and before that was a soldier in the Exiles for…’

  I looked at Chrestus.

  ‘Ten years, majesty.’

  ‘I therefore think Alcaeus’ idea has merit,’ I told my daughter.

  ‘You do!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘And once you have served for thirty years in the army, then you will be made its deputy commander.’

  Chrestus’ hard visage briefly wore a smile, though when I turned to look at Eszter she had a scowl that could curdle milk at a hundred paces.

  ‘But you have done well, daughter, and King Akmon owes you his life.’

  ‘As do we,’ said Gallia.

  Eszter’s scowl disappeared, to be replaced with a smile when I announced we would be hunting down and destroying Atrax and his army.

  ‘Not tempted to save his life a second time, then?’ asked Alcaeus mischievously.

  ‘No.’

  The army made use of the extant earth ramparts that had been created by Atrax, or rather his general Titus Tullus. As I walked through the camp with Chrestus as the sun was beginning to dip in the western sky after a gloriously warm day, I mentioned that the bulk of the prince’s army was made up of soldiers from Pontus.

  ‘That is a great shame, majesty, but is the consequence of Pontus being a client kingdom of Rome. That is the reason I left all those years ago.’

  He had been a threadbare, bare-footed sixteen-year-old when he had arrived at Dura, or so Domitus had informed me. Just one among thousands who had travelled from their homelands to take service in the army of Dura. And they still arrived, mostly runaway slaves who desired a life worth living as opposed to a living death in bondage. Cruel tongues ridiculed Dura for being a slave kingdom with a slave army and a slave king, but Dura’s army had never been bested on the battlefield thanks to men like Chrestus and thousands of others who had preferred to die on their feet rather than live on their knees.

  ‘How large is the enemy army, majesty?’

  ‘Around fifteen thousand men, give or take. The best are the legionaries, essentially copies of their Roman counterpar
ts, but they number only three thousand at most. Around a third of Atrax’s army comprises poorly armed hill men, so we can discount them.’

  Chrestus’ eyes scanned the rows of tents taking shape around us, all neatly laid out in blocks that duplicated the layout of the legionary camp that was a permanent feature a short distance from Dura’s walls. The first tents to be pitched, even before my own, were those housing the army’s most sacred symbols – the golden griffin of the Durans and the silver lion of the Exiles. I walked with Chrestus to pay them a visit, as usual each tent ringed by legionaries and a centurion assigned to each guard section.

  ‘Drop him,’ I suddenly heard, turning to see one of the legionaries shouldering his javelin.

  I looked around and saw Klietas bounding towards us. He waved and smiled at me.

  ‘Stand down,’ I commanded.

  The legionary relaxed and rested the end on his javelin on the ground, the centurion who had given the order to spear Klietas curling his lip at the youth who stopped before me, panting after running in the heat.

  ‘Highborn.’

  Chrestus placed a hand on the hilt of his gladius.

  ‘This is Klietas, Chrestus, who took an active part in defending Irbil during the recent siege.’

  Chrestus looked the boy up and down.

  ‘Things must have been desperate indeed, majesty.’

  ‘How did you get past the guards?’

  He suddenly remembered something and pulled out a folded piece of papyrus.

  ‘The queen gave me this for you, highborn.’

  I took the note and read the words. It was an invitation for me, Gallia and Eszter to attend a feast in the palace in celebration of Irbil’s deliverance.

  ‘Tell the queen we will be delighted to attend,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, highborn,’ said Klietas, stepping past me to enter the tent holding the gold griffin. To be stopped in his tracks by Chrestus who grabbed his tunic.

  ‘Get back to your queen, boy, unless you want a flogging.’

  Crestfallen and looking to me for support, in vain, he shrugged and trooped away, shoulders slumped.

  ‘You should come, too,’ I told Chrestus, ‘you and Lucius can talk about dragon fire, which he used against the enemy.’