by Peter Darman
‘It is not as shiny as others I have seen, highborn.’
He was sitting on a stool polishing my boots, holding one between his knees as he burnished the leather with a soft cloth.
‘That is because it has not been treated with lacquer,’ I told him.
‘Why not, highborn?’
He probably did not know what lacquer was but I indulged him.
‘When I made it, there was none available.’
‘Your palace does not have any?’
‘I was in a place called Italy at the time, far from my home and my father’s palace, fighting for a man called Spartacus.’
‘The father of King Akmon,’ he beamed.
‘No, the Spartacus I fought for was from Thrace and he was a gladiator before he became a great warlord. He was the father of the current King of Gordyene.’
He looked at me with enthusiastic eyes, but I might as well have been speaking a foreign language. He had no knowledge of Italy, Thrace or gladiators, so I tried to make the conversation more relevant to him.
‘My sword that you have spent so much time cleaning and polishing was a present from the first Spartacus.’
‘He must have liked you very much to give you such a gift, highborn.’
‘I like to think so.’
‘Do you see him often, highborn?’
‘He died forty years ago.’
He stopped polishing the boot. ‘And yet you still remember him. He must have been a great warrior for a warlord such as yourself to honour him.’
‘He certainly was.’
‘Was he cruel like his son, highborn?’
His question surprised me. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘My father was killed fighting King Spartacus when he invaded Media. I remember standing with my mother watching him and the other men of the village leaving with our lord to fight the invaders. None returned.’
His head dropped.
‘And your mother?’ I asked.
‘She died of a broken heart when my father did not return. The idea of my father dying far from home and his body being left to rot tormented her. At least they are together now.’
My heart went out to him and I thought of the countless thousands of other families that had been ripped apart by the wars engineered by my sister and her son Darius. They would not have given a fig about the misery of commoners, of course, but I had spent too long in the company of slaves and commoners over the years not to be acutely aware of the miseries war brought, which is why I detested men like Atrax who viewed it as a sport akin to hunting.
‘Leave them,’ I told Klietas, ‘you are excused serving at the evening meal tonight. Get some rest instead.’
The meal was a subdued affair, Akmon in an earnest and reflective mood picking at his food and only drinking sparingly. Kalet was his usual larger-than-life self but was kept in check by Eszter and Dalir. I was warming to the latter by the day, despite his occasional coarse tongue and forthright manner, which bordered on the impolite. But he adored Eszter and did not drink to excess on social occasions like his father. For their part Soter and Orobaz chatted to each other amicably and Joro sat next to his king brooding. On what I had no idea.
After we had eaten dishes of chicken, goose and goat, washed down with wine and accompanied by radishes, almonds, raisins and bread cooked in Irbil that very morning, I rose and proposed a toast.
‘To Akmon, rightful King of Media. May your reign be a long and happy one and may your heirs sit on Irbil’s throne for a thousand years.’
Everyone aside from Akmon rose and toasted him with their drinking vessels. He in turn rose and raised his cup to me.
‘And to you, King Pacorus, who has on too many occasions saved the empire from internal and external enemies. I thank you, Media thanks you and I hope the gods reward you for your long years of service to Parthia, lord.’
He and the others toasted me, Gallia catching my eye and giving me a knowing smile. It had been the gods that had brought me to Media, and to this barren plain, and I thanked them for it. Tomorrow we would crush Atrax and finally erase the poisonous legacy of my sister and her son from Parthia. Media, the breadbasket of the empire, could then begin the long road to recovery and prosperity. Our victory would also remind Phraates that he might be high king, but the empire was not his plaything. It would also show Claudia that Parthia was the domain of men and not subject to the whims of a coven of witches.
More wine flowed, and the conversation became lighter, Soter chatting with Chrestus about the merits of raising and maintaining a professional force of foot soldiers. Gallia was trying to convince Akmon his wife should have a group of female warriors to be her bodyguard, modelled on the Amazons and his own mother’s Vipers. He was not averse to the notion, but stressed Media’s treasury was not Dura’s and was in effect empty. The only one who was not happy was Joro, his blue eyes narrowing and the worry lines on his face very pronounced as he sat opposite me. At first, I thought it was I who had invoked his displeasure but then I realised he was staring at something behind me. I turned to see Talib who had entered unannounced. All talk died instantly when the others recognised him, an air of concern filling the tent, which became one of alarm when he spoke.
‘The Armenians are here.’
Chapter 17
‘It changes nothing.’
They all looked at me with surprised expressions. Even Gallia was taken aback.
‘How many Armenians?’ she asked Talib.
‘Piecing all the reports of my scouts together, and taking into account we could not get close to the enemy…’
‘A figure Talib,’ I demanded, ‘that is what we want.’
‘At least thirty thousand, majesty.’
There were sharp intakes of breath from Soter and Orobaz, while Chrestus looked thoughtful.
‘Our horsemen are in the east,’ he said.
I knew what he meant. Dura’s professional cataphracts and horse archers were in the east of the empire fighting for Phraates, a decision I now deeply regretted. But what Chrestus was alluding to was that they were highly trained horsemen who could work closely with the legions, and as such acted as a force multiplier on the battlefield. I looked at Soter and Orobaz, both of whom commanded thousands of horse archers but their men only capable of the most basic battlefield tactics. Even Kalet, the gods love him, and his lords, who had fought beside the Durans and Exiles, could not be relied upon to undertake complicated battlefield manoeuvres.
I picked up my cup and sipped at the wine.
‘We are greatly outnumbered majesty,’ stated Soter.
I put the cup down. ‘No, my lord, we are outnumbered by but two-to-one. You may have heard of the Battle of Carrhae.’
‘The whole empire has heard of Carrhae, majesty,’ he said.
‘At Carrhae I fought fifty thousand Romans with ten thousand horsemen and defeated them. Numbers are but part of the equation, Lord Soter, and what I know of the Armenian army it is far from the formidable force created and commanded by Tigranes the Great.’
‘We should inform Irbil of this development,’ urged Joro, ‘just in case.’
I leaned back in my chair. ‘In case we are beaten, general?’
His brow creased into a frown.
‘A prudent commander considers all possibilities, majesty.’
‘You’re right,’ I told him, ‘he does. But I am forgetting myself. This is not Dura but Media. I therefore leave the decision to King Akmon, whose kingdom has been invaded by first rebels and now the Armenians. The decision is yours, Akmon.’
Akmon’s grey eyes examined each of us in turn. In those few moments, he must have felt the loneliest man in the world. But that is the nature of kingship. There can be only one standing on top of the pyramid that is a kingdom. With hindsight, I realised my journey on that path had had an easy start. I had been given a piece of land infested with snakes, scorpions, bandit lords, the banished, unwanted and dangerous, all exiled to the barren wasteland that was
Dura. I was expected to fail, my fate perhaps to be killed by the hated Agraci, the desert nomads reviled and feared by all decent Parthians. Nothing was expected of me, except perhaps to die a good death. But Akmon ruled one of the most prestigious kingdoms in the empire, a place of great and ancient noble families, long-held customs and high etiquette.
The atmosphere in the tent, before light and convivial, was now heavy with foreboding and uncertainty. Akmon smiled to himself.
‘In Gordyene we did not have Greek tutors to teach us how to sing or recite poetry. But my father did hire instructors to teach us how to used a sword and he himself taught me how to shoot a bow and wield an axe, mace and spear.
‘I remember one tutor, a gaunt, morose man from Thrace, my father’s homeland, who used to tell us stories about ancient battles and famous warriors. His favourite story was about how a handful of Spartans defied the might of the Persian army at a place called Thermopylae in Greece. When the tens of thousands of Persians were arrayed before the Spartans, an emissary was sent to the Greeks from the Persian emperor Xerxes. His message threatened that he had so many archers that when they shot their bows the volume of arrows would blot out the sun. The Spartan King Leonidas sent back his reply: then we shall fight in the shade.’
‘A rousing tale, majesty,’ commented Soter.
Akmon looked directly at me. ‘Tomorrow we will fight in the shade.’
Kalet roared his approval and Joro nodded in agreement.
‘I suggest we get a good night’s sleep,’ I said, ‘we will need it.’
Kalet drained his cup, belched and stood. ‘What happened to those Spartans?’
‘Slaughtered to a man,’ Akmon replied flatly.
When they had left the tent, I told Talib to sit down and get some food inside him. He did as he was told, eating greedily the uneaten fare within reach.
‘In the morning, send one of your men to Irbil and report what has happened,’ I told him. ‘He must impress upon Queen Lusin that she must inform Ctesiphon, Hatra and Vanadzor that the Armenians have invaded Parthia.’
‘They have taken advantage of our best horsemen being away in the east,’ said Gallia, drinking from her cup. ‘They will be missed tomorrow.’
‘Can’t help that,’ I replied, ‘I am not running away when I have a chance to corner and kill Atrax, and slaughter a few Armenians as well.’
‘Have you heard the expression: pride comes before a fall?’ queried Gallia. ‘The prudent thing would be to withdraw back to Irbil and await reinforcements.’
‘By which time Atrax and the Armenians will have overrun all Media and perhaps even Atropaiene and Susiana. So much for Armenia being an ally of Phraates.’
‘I think Spartacus is responsible for their foray,’ she said, ‘we did warn him not to invade Armenia.’
I thumped the table, causing Talib to jump.
‘No doubt Spartacus has wreaked havoc and his Sarmatian thugs have plundered and pillaged to their hearts’ content, and now he is probably marching back to Vanadzor with a smug grin on his face. He is the most selfish person I know.’
Gallia began laughing. ‘Oh, Pacorus, you are so moral. You should have been a high priest so you could spend your time lecturing everyone about their lack of integrity.’
‘Integrity?’ I growled. ‘That is a quality singularly lacking in most parts of the world, including Parthia. I blame Phraates for this mess.’
‘Some might blame you.’
‘Me! What have I done?’ I protested.
‘You refused the high crown when it was offered to you. You have spent your life defending Parthia but you would have done a better job if you had been sitting on Ctesiphon’s throne.’
I shook my head. ‘We have been over this a thousand times.’
‘And yet here we are,’ she said, ‘once more clearing up the mess of others.’
Talib, who had never heard his king and queen speak thus, kept his eyes down as he ate and drank, occasionally glancing at the two of us.
‘Perhaps you should have sat on the high throne,’ I jested.
‘I could not have done any worse than Phraates or indeed Mithridates,’ she spat back, ‘but of course women are not allowed to aspire to the highest position in the Parthian Empire, more’s the pity.’
‘The empire would never accept a queen of queens,’ I agreed.
‘And why is that?’ she demanded.
I shrugged. ‘Men have always ruled the empire. It is the way of things.’
‘Then things should change.’
She rose, walked over to me and kissed me on the cheek.
‘I stay with the Amazons tonight. I look forward to learning of your battle plan for tomorrow. You do have a battle plan?’
‘Not yet.’
She tutted. ‘We are all relying on you, Pacorus, don’t let us down. Klietas.’
The boy came scurrying from the tent’s sleeping quarters.
‘Yes, highborn?’
‘Make sure the king does not doze off before he has worked out how to beat the enemy tomorrow.’
He bowed. ‘Yes, highborn.’
‘Good night, Talib.’
Talib jumped up and bowed his head. ‘Good night, majesty.’
‘Get me some wine,’ I commanded Klietas.
‘That will make you sleep, highborn,’ he said, trying to be helpful.
‘Just get the wine.’
The Gird-I Dasht sits in the middle of the vast Diyana Plain, an undulating fertile piece of terrain that is largely devoid of trees. It is crisscrossed by small streams but not in sufficient number to inhibit horsemen. Our camp was five miles west of the former stronghold, the tents of the Armenians – a blaze of reds, purples, blues and greens – visible on the horizon when the sun showed itself above the snow-capped mountains in the east the next day. It was a fresh, invigorating morning, a breeze blowing from the north making the temperature unusually cool for this time of year.
Out of courtesy to Akmon, it was his kingdom we were in after all, we assembled for a council of war in his pavilion just after dawn. He looked pale and drawn, his eyes bloodshot and he kept biting his bottom lip. He was obviously nervous but I endeavoured to calm his fretfulness.
‘The enemy outnumbers us and thinks he has the advantage over us, especially Atrax who believes he has lured us here so we can de defeated.’
‘He has lured us here,’ commented an unhappy Joro, chewing on a piece of bread smeared with butter.
‘That may be,’ I said, ‘but it does not matter. ‘He wants a battle and we will give him one, and his Armenian allies will not make a difference.’
Kalet grinned in approval and Orobaz nodded out of politeness. Lord Soter brought his hands together to ponder my words.
‘I will make this simple,’ I continued. ‘Just like the enemy, our army is composed of disparate units that have varying levels of training and discipline, and have no experience of working with each other. However, unlike the enemy we have ten thousand highly trained foot soldiers, each of which is worth ten Armenians.’
‘That few?’ joked Kalet.
Gallia and Chrestus smiled and Dalir slapped his father on the back. Even Akmon cheered up, if only temporarily. I clicked my fingers to draw the attention of one of the slaves standing ready to refill our chalices with water. Gallia had bridled at the presence of slaves in camp, both Akmon and Soter having brought their own retinues of servants. Even Orobaz had his own slaves to attend him in his tent and to care for his horse. I had to admit I too was uncomfortable with the presence of slaves in camp, but there was little point in antagonising the lords of Media and Hatra. Akmon needed them. I needed them.
A slave came over with a tray of wafers. I took a handful and thanked him, Soter smirking at my acknowledgement of a lowborn servant. I arranged some of the wafers in a line on the table.
‘Dura’s foot soldiers will deploy in a single line of cohorts in the centre of our battle line.’
Chrestus raised an eyebrow. ‘T
hat will be a thin line, majesty.’
I nodded. ‘The horsemen will be deployed behind the foot soldiers, ready to counterattack against the enemy.’
‘You are certain the enemy will launch an attack, majesty?’ queried Orobaz, nibbling a grape.
‘Very certain,’ I replied. ‘The vast majority of the enemy’s foot soldiers are a rabble and they will be easy to rile. My chief scout informs me the enemy has few horse archers, aside from the Median rebels riding with Atrax.’
Soter grimaced in embarrassment.
‘That is fortunate,’ I said, ‘but I am mindful our own horse archers will not be able to call on Dura’s ammunition train, so we must be prudent with their use. I intend to deploy the horse archers of Lord Soter and Lord Orobaz on the right.’
The two lords smiled. On the battlefield the right flank was considered the place of honour, which befitted their status. I thought the notion ridiculous but to those obsessed with ideas of honour and protocol it was the very opposite.
‘King Artaxias himself is with the enemy army,’ said Akmon suddenly.
‘Are you sure, majesty?’ asked a concerned Joro.
Akmon looked at me. ‘I have my own scouts, and they informed me that among the enemy banners they saw a large deep crimson banner bearing a golden star in the centre flanked by two reverse-looking eagles, also in gold.’
‘Beware the two eagles,’ I said to myself.
‘Majesty?’ asked Chrestus.
‘Nothing,’ I snapped. ‘It does not matter if Tigranes himself has returned from the dead to lead the Armenians, we will still beat them.’
We toasted Akmon and victory and then left the pavilion to return to our horses. Around us the Durans and Exiles were marching out of camp, together with their scorpions, medical orderlies tramping alongside the centuries they were assigned to. Out of the corner of my eye I spotted Alcaeus deep in conversation with one of his senior staff, both of them wearing leather aprons and bags containing medical supplies slung over their shoulders. I nudged Horns in their direction and called to him.
‘A word, Alcaeus.’
He finished speaking to his subordinate and walked over, nodding to Gallia who drew alongside me.