The Slave King

by Peter Darman

  ‘They can stay in camp tonight,’ I said to Akmon, ‘and in the morning undertake the journey back through the gorge to Irbil. You have done well, Akmon.’

  He seemed morose. ‘As long as Atrax lives, Media will have no peace.’

  ‘First’s things first,’ I emphasised. ‘We get your people back to Irbil and then we can think about tracking Atrax down. What are you going to do with the rebels who sided with him?’

  ‘Pardon them.’

  I was surprised. ‘A more prudent move would be to banish them.’ I looked at Spartacus. ‘Or to execute them.’

  ‘I will not be doing that,’ he said forcefully, ‘there has been too much blood spilt in this kingdom already.’

  But the gods love chaos and the effusion of blood to alleviate their boredom, and the screams and wails of alarm coming from the streams put a halt to our debate when I saw horse archers putting arrows into the civilians. They were not intentionally trying to butcher innocents; rather, they were trying to clear a path through the scattered groups endeavouring to quench their thirst. But the quickest way to do so was to shoot down anything in their way.

  ‘King’s Guard, to me.’

  Spartacus drew his sword and without hesitation led his score of horsemen towards the oncoming riders. The latter were the vanguard of more riders coming from the south – the remnants of Median rebels that had been deployed on the left wing of the enemy army during the battle. Soter and Orobaz had been sent against them and I wondered where those two lords and their men were. Behind the attacking horse archers, which numbered around a hundred men, were mounted spearmen carrying shields bearing a white dragon motif. I spied a large group of riders behind them, some way off and difficult to identify. I prayed to Shamash they were not the remainder of the enemy horsemen. Where were the lords of Media and Hatra?

  Akmon was gone. I turned to see him galloping over to Joro’s cataphracts that had ridden down the ramp to deploy in a wedge formation, two ranks deep, the king placing himself at the tip of it. Behind them came Rasha and her Vipers, galloping to catch up with Spartacus and his sons who were now charging at the enemy horse archers, which immediately wheeled about and shot a volley over the hindquarters of their horses at the King’s Guard, several toppling from their saddles and others falling to the ground because their horses had been hit.

  Without arrows I was reduced to being a bystander, as were the Amazons that Gallia was mustering behind the cataphracts that had now broken into a canter, Akmon leading them against the mounted spearmen that were bearing down on his father’s horsemen. The civilians had scattered in all directions, some being trampled underfoot in the panic and others throwing themselves into the streams, two of which ran east-to-west straight across the cataphracts’ path. I sat on the ramp looking down at the unfolding drama, Gallia and the Amazons following Akmon’s armour-clad horsemen and Spartacus and the Vipers chasing the enemy horse archers, the female warriors loosing arrows over the heads of the dozen or so King’s Guard as they did so.

  A prudent commander would have waited for the streams to disrupt the charge of the cataphracts, for mounted spearmen equipped with shields and spears cannot stand against men encased in helmets, scale and tubular armour and riding horses protected by armour comprising thick hide covered with iron scales. The kontus, between twelve and eighteen feet long depending on the preference of individual kingdoms, is heavier and longer than a standard spear. In the charge it is gripped by both hands, usually on the right side of the horse, its iron point capable of going straight through a shield and a body when it is driven at an opponent. For the dozens of mounted spearmen galloping towards the blue-plumed cataphracts, their only chance, albeit slim, of defeating Joro’s horsemen was to wait for them to negotiate the streams.

  But the rebel horsemen merely slowed to splash through the shallow, narrow streams before emerging in a disorganised mass. To be hit head-on by Joro’s horsemen. The general was next to his king and I saw him drive his kontus through the chest of the enemy rider directly opposite Akmon. There was a rasping sound as forty kontus points pierced wood, armour and finally flesh, each cataphract releasing his lance that was embedded in an opponent to draw his sword or perhaps grip a mace or axe to battle the enemy. There was another horrible scraping sound when the second rank of cataphracts joined the mêlée, another forty enemy horsemen being skewered and knocked from their saddles. As the second line began hacking and slashing with their close-quarter weapons, Gallia and the Amazons joined the fray, swords drawn to support the cataphracts. I shouted at Horns to move because I grew alarmed by the increasing numbers of enemy horsemen appearing to the south and splashing through the streams.

  In no time at all I was in the mêlée, ducking when a rebel swung his sword at my head and jabbing the point of my spatha into his unprotected thigh. He yelped like a frightened puppy, dropped his sword and died when I slashed the sharp edge of my sword across his throat. Other enemy horsemen slashed at me as they passed, though all of them showed a marked reluctance to stand and fight. I saw Gallia alongside Zenobia and a dozen other Amazons.

  Gallia turned to look at me and I saw her jaw drop and the Amazons around her look similarly horrified. My sixth sense, honed by four decades of being a soldier, screamed at me that something was wrong. It was. I looked to my left to see a rider approaching, his horse cantering towards me as it threaded a path between duelling horsemen. He wore an evil leer as his mount covered the last few paces between us, in his right hand a spear levelled at my belly. Then he hit me, the iron point driving into my cuirass. I thought I heard Gallia scream above the din of battle and believed it would be the last thing I would hear in this life. But the point shattered and the shaft it was attached to splintered and I felt no pain, not even the force of an object striking me with the energy of a man riding a horse behind it. The horseman, expecting to see me skewered on the end of his spear like a human kebab, looked hurt and disappointed. It had been a perfect strike, but he had been robbed of a kill. He was robbed of his life when his horse drew alongside Horns and I rammed the point of my spatha into his neck just above his leather cuirass. He gasped, gurgled and watched with horror as his blood sheeted over the blade of my sword. His eyes then rolled into his head and he fell from his saddle.

  Gallia and the Amazons rallied around, many gaping at me and no doubt wondering why I was not dead.

  ‘Stay alert,’ snapped Gallia, smiling and laying a hand on my arm.

  ‘Do you think Girra would supply me with a thousand of these cuirasses?’ I smiled.

  ‘You should not mock the gods, Pacorus, they can take as well as give.’

  Around us the Median rebels were fleeing north, passing the Gird-I Dasht, panicking civilians, cataphracts, Amazons and Spartacus’ men to make good their escape. The horse archers the King of Gordyene had charged had skirted the great mound to escape and others of the enemy had likewise given the ancient fortress a wide berth to flee. It was apparent they had fought us only because we were in the way and blocking their escape route.

  The reason for their urgency soon manifested itself when Soter and Orobaz appeared, both riding horses lathered in sweat, they themselves looking tired and frustrated. Orobaz raised a hand in salute as he pulled up his horse before me, having identified my griffin banner.

  ‘Greetings, majesty,’ he panted, ‘your scout and his men found us as the enemy was leading us a merry dance on this seemingly limitless plain. We came as fast as we could.’

  ‘My thanks, lord. You will be pleased to know King Spartacus arrived with his army to tip the scales of battle in our favour. The enemy is beaten and those who can are fleeing Media.’

  ‘Praise be to Shamash,’ said Orobaz.

  ‘Praise be, indeed.’

  But Gallia’s words were to be prophetic and when the enemy had passed, and we rode to seek the banner of Gordyene, a knot tightened in my stomach. My sense of apprehension increased when we drew near to the lion standard of Gordyene and saw a group of
men and women standing in a circle, many with their heads in their hands. As if to reinforce the impression of dread, clouds had suddenly appeared overhead. Not light, fluffy buds of white but dark-grey clouds that hung like huge celestial vultures over us all. The gods can indeed take, and they had taken a jewel among women for Rasha, Queen of Gordyene, was dead.

  Chapter 19

  An arrow had penetrated her heart to kill her instantly. I stood, stunned, as Spartacus scooped up his dead wife in his arms and wept bitter tears, his two sons standing behind him trying their utmost to remain stoic in the face of tragedy and failing miserably. Narin, commander of the Vipers, held one of her young warriors who was on the verge of collapse. Akmon stared, unblinking, at his father cradling his dead mother, while Gallia wept. We had both known Rasha since the first day we had stepped inside Dura’s Citadel, when a frightened young Agraci girl in chains had been brought into our presence all those years ago. From that moment Gallia had enjoyed a special bond with the daughter of King Haytham; indeed, she became like a daughter to us both and soon had her own bedroom in the palace. Gallia had given her a bow, the same bow Rasha had carried as she became a teenager, adult, wife and then queen.

  Spartacus, holding his wife, turned to Castus and Haytham.

  ‘Remember who you are. You are princes of Gordyene not a pair of milkmaids. Stop your blubbing. You insult your mother with your whining. We will cremate her in the morning and tonight we will stand vigil over her body.’

  He wept no more tears now and his face was a mask of granite: hard and unyielding. But he avoided any eye contact with those of us who had known him and Rasha since childhood as a path cleared before him and he walked back to the Gird-I Dasht.

  I saw Akmon comforting his two brothers and they in turn embraced him. No ill will between them, it would seem, though the dreadful situation they found themselves in may have merely put aside any resentment between Castus and Haytham and the King of Media.

  ‘Palmyra will weep when it learns of this day.’

  Talib stood beside me, distraught at what he had seen. I laid a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘You should be the one to tell Malik, Talib, rather than some words written on papyrus. Leave after the cremation tomorrow. There will be no more fighting now.’

  In the hours of daylight still left it was Joro who took the lead in organising the prisoners into parties to scour the battlefield to collect the thousands of wicker shields that lay on the ground, after which they were taken to the Gird-I Dasht to create a vast funeral pyre on which Rasha’s body would be cremated the next day. After the pyre had been built the prisoners were confined in the Roman-style camp created by Titus Tullus before the battle. He had disappeared, along with Atrax, Artaxias and the loathsome Laodice. They would all be dealt with in time. But the immediate priority was to pay our respects to Rasha.

  Shamshir organised a cordon of King’s Guard to ring the remains of the stronghold on the Gird-I Dasht, a long line of visitors waiting patiently in line to file onto the mound and into the small post station office where Rasha had been laid out on a table draped with a red banner emblazoned with a silver lion. Guards stood outside the office but only one person stood sentry over Rasha inside: Spartacus. His brown eyes locked on every person who stepped into the room, creating an air of intimidation to add to the despondency that hung over the mound.

  The first to enter were her sons, all three now in a numb state and perhaps unwilling to believe their mother was dead. Castus was a man but Haytham, three years younger, was still a boy, albeit one raised in Vanadzor rather than the gilded palaces of other kingdoms. Akmon had won a great victory that would cement his reign, his right to rule Media and his credibility throughout the empire. But he looked lost and gaunt, his naturally lithe body making him look emaciated. He said nothing to Gallia and me as he walked past us in a daze in the company of his siblings, all of them with their heads down after paying their respects to the body of their mother.

  We entered the office next, Gallia choking back tears when she saw Rasha, pale, eyes closed and clothed in a simple red tunic and black leggings, her black hair having been combed and her body washed. I bowed my head to her and then Spartacus, walked forward to kiss Rasha’s cold forehead. Her sword had been placed on her chest and her bow was beside her. As Gallia stroked Rasha’s hair and whispered something into her ear that I could not hear, I looked at the recurve bow. It been made for the then Agraci princess on the express orders of Gallia and was a masterful weapon, a thing of beauty and power. The arms and setback centre had been fashioned from layers of mulberry and maple with water buffalo horn plating on the inside. Additional horn had been used to stiffen its handle and tips. The latter had been carved into horse’s heads and the wood and horn had been bound together by fish glue and tendon strings. The whole bow was covered in lacquer brought from China to keep it waterproof. It seemed a shame that it would be incinerated but it was fitting that the weapons Rasha had used during her life should accompany her to the next one.

  Gallia then whipped her dagger from its sheath, gently took hold of a length of Rasha’s black hair and placed the blade next to it. She then looked at Spartacus, who did not say anything but after a few seconds nodded his approval. With a deft flick of the wrist Gallia severed a lock of hair and replaced the dagger in its sheath. She then walked over to Spartacus, embraced him, kissed him gently on the cheek and walked briskly from the room, leaving me alone with the King of Gordyene.

  I stroked Rasha’s white face and walked over to Spartacus and offered him my hand. He took it.

  ‘I wanted to thank you for keeping Akmon safe,’ he said flatly. ‘From what I hear, he is proving himself a good ruler and Parthia needs good kings.’

  ‘He and Lusin will make Media prosper,’ I told him, ‘and if they achieve nothing else that alone will be a fine legacy.’

  He looked at his wife. ‘Others are waiting, uncle.’

  Taking my cue, I embraced him and walked from the room to allow others in the long line of mourners to pay their respects. Among them was a distraught Alcaeus who had known Rasha as long as I had, for he had accompanied Gallia and me when we had made the journey from Hatra to take command of Dura all those years ago.

  ‘I have lived too long,’ he sighed. ‘I have seen too much death and lost too many friends. And now this. The gods are cruel. Earlier I held a soldier, barely out of his teens, as he died from his wounds. I have lost more than I have saved.’

  ‘That is not true, my friend,’ I insisted.

  ‘I’m too old for all this, Pacorus. I am going to retire. I feel like butter spread too thinly over a piece of bread.’

  ‘That is your prerogative, my friend, and the gods know you have served your time. All I would ask is that you think about your decision when we get back to Dura.’

  ‘In truth, I have been thinking about it for some time. I wish to go back to Greece.’

  I was shocked. ‘You wish to leave Dura?’

  ‘I was thinking more of a long holiday. I would like to see Athens again before I die.’

  ‘As long as you return,’ I said.

  ‘You can rely on it. Dura is my home now and I wish to enjoy what years I have left living them out in peace. You should try it, Pacorus.’

  I thought about his words when I rode back to camp in the company of a silent Gallia. I tortured myself with the idea that I had brought about Rasha’s death, or at least had put in motion events that had led to it. Perhaps Alcaeus was right; perhaps I should think about retiring. Despite my reinvigorated body, I was not getting any younger and neither was Gallia, though she would vigorously argue otherwise. Did we not deserve to live out our autumn years in peace? I realised with alarm that of all the kings in Parthia, only Khosrou was older than me.

  ‘Alcaeus is retiring,’ I told Gallia, ‘he just told me.’

  ‘He has earned it.’

  There was a time when Gallia would have turned her horse around and ridden back to our Greek friend
and harangued him for voicing such a ridiculous notion. But now she just shrugged.

  ‘He has the right idea.’

  The next day thousands of soldiers from Dura, Gordyene and Media lined up on parade to pay their respects to Rasha, her body carried from the room it had spent the night in by a party of Vipers, a tired, unshaven Spartacus leading the way. The remains of the stronghold were crowded with senior officers, lords and others who had been close to Rasha, including Alcaeus who looked old and frail in the harsh early morning sunlight. Talib stood among his scouts, all of them recruited from the Agraci and all of them sharing a bond with the woman who had been of the same blood as they. A distressed Eszter was held by Dalir and flanked by Kalet and Dura’s other lords, all of them familiar with the black-haired girl from Palmyra who won the heart of a prince of Hatra and spent much time in the Kingdom of Dura. I was also happy to see Orobaz and many of Hatra’s lords, traditionally hostile to the ‘barbarian’ Agraci who lived in the lands to the west of the Euphrates. But out of respect for their prince, king and queen, they too stood around the tall pyre, upon which Rasha lay on a huge lion banner.

  Akmon walked from the group where Joro, Soter and Media’s loyal lords stood, a King’s Guard handing him a burning torch. Others were handed to Castus, Haytham and Spartacus, the king and his sons taking up position at the four corners of the pyre. The king raised his torch and thrust it into the bone-dry pile of wicker shields. His sons did the same and there was an audible groan from those present as the flames took hold and the fire began to crackle and spit.

  ‘I grieve for you, King Pacorus.’

  Where before there was no one on my right side there was now a tall individual wearing a cowl, a long, hooded garment with wide sleeves. The hood was large and obscured the face. Everyone’s gaze was directed at the pyre that was now roaring as the flames took hold. The sun illuminated the mysterious stranger’s hands that were clasped before him and I saw the signet ring, the same one I had seen in the camp of the immortals.