by Peter Darman
‘Do you, lord? You could have saved her.’
‘Did Marduk not tell you it is death to kill one of his high priests?’
I was indignant. ‘Rasha did not kill one of his priests.’
‘No, it was Spartacus, at Ctesiphon, but the lion of Gordyene’s destiny is not to die in this place.’
‘So an innocent dies to satisfy some prophecy?’
‘When you have finished here, King Pacorus, take a walk on the plain and examine the rotting corpses on the ground. How many of those were innocent men, pressed into service by a king they had never previously seen or by a lord they despised? Innocents are the first to die, it is the way of things.’
‘Ishtar saved Haya,’ I hissed.
‘For which she has been rebuked. But in her defence, she does admire Queen Gallia greatly.’
Rasha’s body had disappeared now, the pyre becoming a huge, roaring inferno and the flames becoming pillars of red and orange. I could feel the heat on my face and saw that Spartacus and his sons had retreated a few paces to avoid getting singed.
‘It is the fate of the kings of Gordyene to lose their wives,’ he told me. ‘You yourself have been witness to Surena and Viper and you knew King Balas, did you not?’
‘I did. Is it also their fate to die on the battlefield?’
‘Surely that is the desire of all warriors, King Pacorus.’
We stood as the fire burned savagely, reducing the body of Rasha to ashes and allowing her soul to leave it and depart to the realm of the immortals.
‘Rasha was a good person,’ I said pathetically.
A chuckle. ‘She will be welcomed among us, King Pacorus, if only because you desire it.’
I laughed, earning me a stern frown from Gallia, who as far as I could fathom was ignorant of my august companion.
‘What else do you desire?’ he asked.
‘Peace, I ache to see an end to war.’
‘That will come about only when men no longer walk the earth. But if you speak only of Parthia, then I can help you.’
‘Oh?’
‘The high crown is yours, should you desire it. The widely held view is that you alone can bring about peace in the empire.’
I was shaken by his offer. I had always believed in Dobbai’s prophecy all those years ago that the king who has no crown shall have no crown, and had therefore dedicated my life to serving others who I believed would make good high kings. I had succeeded when Orodes had become king of kings, but only after an ocean of blood had been spilt. My determination to ensure the same did not happen again had made me a fervent supporter of his son Phraates, despite his failings.
‘We have a high king,’ I said.
A snort of derision. ‘Phraates is not an ethical man, King Pacorus. This sombre gathering is testament to that, for without the scheming of Phraates this plain would not now be littered with carrion. So, what do you say?’
I was mightily tempted, I have to admit. To sit on Ctesiphon’s throne, knowing I had the support of the Sun God himself, was a powerful inducement to accept his offer. But then I remembered the oath I had taken to Phraates, who would be deposed if I took the high throne, perhaps even poisoned by his trusted adviser, my daughter Claudia. Thus I would break my oath and what sort of man breaks a vow, and why would others follow such a man? Dobbai was right: the gods are cruel. They sought to entrap me by dangling a rich prize before my eyes. Did they think my honour could be purchased so cheaply?
‘Parthia already has a king of kings,’ I said firmly, ‘and I have no appetite to replace him, much less fight another civil war in the empire.’
‘So be it,’ he said without emotion, ‘though in your dotage you may look back on this moment and regret your decision.’
In that moment, I realised I was no better than a temple slave. All my life I had served the gods and Parthia and as I stared at the raging pyre I realised my life had been that of a servant, riding hither and thither to quell the empire’s internal and external enemies. And after forty years I was still doing it.
Afterwards, when the troops had been sent back to camp and the mourners on the mound had dispersed, I told Gallia what Shamash had offered me. She sat in a chair in our tent with her eyes closed, Klietas filling our cups with wine and taking away our cuirasses that we had discarded. She did not open them when she spoke.
‘You made the right decision. I just want to return to Dura and be away from this place.’
It was a sign that we had become so accustomed to the immortals revealing themselves that she spoke of the Sun God in such a cursory manner.
‘And Atrax?’
She opened her eyes, picked up her cup and drank from it. She looked pale and drawn, black rings around her eyes, which were bloodshot as a result of having had no sleep the night before. She looked worn out and surely I presented a similar sorry appearance. I rubbed my leg, which was aching like fury. Gallia saw me wince.
‘The gift of eternal youth has been withdrawn, then.’
I nodded.
She drank some more wine. ‘Youth, beauty and strength are for the young, which is the way it should be.’
I raised my cup to her. ‘You are still beautiful.’
She smiled. ‘To you, perhaps, but to the rest of the world I am just another ageing woman whose looks are fading.’
She grabbed some of her hair and examined it.
‘Alcaeus told me that people with blonde hair go grey quicker than those with dark hair, but informed me the greying is less noticeable.’
I rubbed my crown. ‘At least your hair is still thick. I’m so thin on top I was thinking of borrowing some of Klietas’ hair. Klietas, what do you say?’
He ran from the sleeping quarters where he had been hanging our cuirasses on wooden stands.
‘Highborn?’
Because he was young he had a mop of thick dark brown hair that tumbled to his shoulders.
‘I was wondering if I could borrow some of your hair, seeing as you have so much and mine is diminishing by the day.’
‘Of course, highborn,’ he picked up a dagger lying on the table.
I shook my head. ‘It was a joke, Klietas.’
Gallia examined the youth, who had gained some weight after being fed on a regular basis and looked far healthier than the miserable wretch we had first encountered. He was in the unique position of having physically improved while being trapped in a city under siege.
‘So Klietas is coming back to Dura with us,’ said Gallia. ‘What will he do there?’
‘Well, aside from finding himself a princess to marry,’ I said, ‘I thought he might make a cataphract, one day.’
‘You know how to use any other weapon aside from a sling?’ Gallia asked him.
‘A knife also, highborn,’ he replied with an evil glint in his eye.
‘Very useful,’ she said.
The conversation was interrupted by Kalet, Eszter’s father-in-law bowing to us both and noting Klietas, who retreated from our presence when I told him to fetch another cup.
‘Excuse the interruption,’ said Kalet, ‘but the men I sent to kill that fat governor have returned empty handed. It appears the governor and his wife left Mepsila before they arrived and no one knows where they went. They have disappeared.’
‘Sit down,’ I told him.
He pulled up a chair and flopped down into it. Klietas returned with a cup, filled it and handed it to Kalet.
‘Bad business about Rasha,’ he said.
‘Have you made a count of your losses?’ I asked, the death of Rasha too raw to discuss.
‘Nearly five hundred dead,’ he declared, draining his cup and holding it out to be refilled. Klietas obliged.
‘One in ten, the same number in killed and wounded suffered by my foot soldiers,’ I lamented.
‘The army will be rebuilt,’ said Gallia, staring at Klietas, ‘Dura’s treasury is well stocked and there is no shortage of men and women willing to fight for the red griffin. The fire of free
dom will never be extinguished.’
Kalet drank more wine. ‘My flame was nearly extinguished, princess, I don’t mind telling you. I’m getting too old for charging around Parthia fighting all and sundry.’
‘You are right, Kalet,’ she agreed, her eyes still on Klietas, ‘we have played the same game for too long. It is time to play another.’
I had no inkling what she had in mind and she said no more on the matter, smiling at Kalet and asking after Dalir and Eszter. I did not realise it at the time but looking back her words marked the beginning of a new, darker period in the history of the Amazons. Gallia’s bodyguard became her private army, undertaking nefarious missions in what she termed ‘Dura’s interests’. I did not object; indeed, I had set the precedent by asking Kalet to send a band of assassins to find and kill Cookes, the fat, traitorous governor of Mepsila. It had been a decision taken very much in the heat of the moment, but Gallia had a cooler, more calculating head on her shoulders and allowed more time and effort to be committed to the covert missions of the Amazons. But all this was in the future.
To my great surprise Spartacus and his sons journeyed back with us to Irbil, greeting Lusin fondly on the steps of the city’s palace and Castus and Haytham likewise being courteous to their sister-in-law. She in turn was all charm and sympathy, weeping when she was informed Rasha was dead and embracing Spartacus warmly. In truth she was difficult to dislike, her soft voice and large brown eyes being able to charm the birds from the trees. For his part Spartacus displayed none of the prickly temper that had been his hallmark for so long. But it was a tragedy that it had taken the death of his wife to melt the wall of ice that he had built around himself.
The armies were sent home, the wounded Chrestus and the legions returning to Dura and the Immortals journeying north to Gordyene. Happily, the odious Spadines and his Sarmatians had not yet put in an appearance, Spartacus informing me he had orders to pursue the Armenians all the way back to the border, and beyond.
‘Not that he obeys orders,’ he reflected, running a finger around the rim of his chalice.
After the armies had departed there were no more grand feasts in the banqueting hall to celebrate Media’s deliverance. Instead, meals were eaten in Akmon’s private quarters, in an intimate dining room near the palace garden. The large mahogany table had been polished so regularly and with such vigour that its surface was like a mirror. While reaching forward to lift my chalice I caught sight of myself in its surface. I looked old again with thinning, greying hair. I took a sip of the wine. It was excellent.
‘But not as invigorating as the elixir of the gods,’ I mumbled.
Spartacus gave me a quizzical look. ‘Uncle?’
I shook my head. ‘Nothing.’
‘I should ride to Hatra and inform my parents of recent events,’ he announced. ‘It will be good to see them again.’
He still could not bring himself to say Rasha was dead.
‘They will be pleased to see you,’ said Gallia.
‘The Armenians must pay for their treachery,’ spat Haytham. ‘We must avenge mother’s death.’
He was shorter than his father but had the same muscular build. His hair was black as night, inherited from his mother, his long nose and high forehead giving him a somewhat scholarly appearance. Until he opened his mouth and spewed venom.
‘We should lay siege to Artaxata and burn it to the ground.’
He slammed his chalice down on the table.
Spartacus regarded him coolly.
‘Apologise to your sister.’
Haytham was shocked. ‘Father?’
‘Apologise! Now!’
His roar made us all jump, not least Haytham.
‘I am sorry, sister,’ he muttered.
‘I am sorry, majesty,’ growled Spartacus, ‘for Lusin is the Queen of Media.’
‘It really isn’t necessary,’ said Lusin, who was cut dead by a raised hand from the King of Gordyene.
‘He must learn proper court procedure if he is to marry well,’
Spartacus glowered at his son, who bowed his head to Lusin and apologised once more, this time as his father had wished.
‘You are welcome to visit us at any time,’ said Lusin to Haytham, which disarmed the prickly young man somewhat.
Spartacus said nothing about Lusin visiting Vanadzor where she had been held captive after he had raided southern Armenia to pillage the Temple of the Goddess Anahit. Lusin’s father had to pay a substantial ransom to get her back, but though Vanadzor’s coffers may have been filled with Armenian gold, the episode had led to Akmon falling in love with her. Such is fate.
‘Lucius has been working hard on the defences,’ said Akmon, changing the subject. ‘He thinks it would be better to construct a mud-brick wall to replace the wooden one.’
‘Who is Lucius?’ asked Castus.
‘Lucius Varsas is my quartermaster general,’ I told him.
‘A Roman,’ Spartacus told his son.
Castus’ blue eyes narrowed. ‘There are no Romans in Gordyene, they are not welcome.’
‘Gordyene’s experience of Romans is not a happy one, uncle,’ said Spartacus, ‘and the same Romans who invaded my kingdom fought beside you to restore Phraates. That was a mistake.’
‘To restore Phraates or hire Roman soldiers?’ Gallia asked him.
‘Hindsight is a wonderful thing,’ he said, ‘and I do not blame you for taking measures to rid Parthia of Tiridates. Rasha was also involved in the plot, as was my mother, but bringing Roman soldiers into the empire was dangerous. It will have whetted their appetite regarding plundering Ctesiphon’s riches.’
‘The Roman leader Octavian has agreed that the Euphrates will mark the boundary between Rome and Parthia,’ I told him, ‘subject to Phraates returning the Roman eagles he holds. In return, Octavian will return the high king’s son.’
‘You really believe the infant is still alive, uncle?’
‘The Governor of Syria has assured me he lives,’ I answered.
‘You believe the word of a Roman, lord?’ asked Castus.
‘I believed him, yes,’ I told him. ‘Just because he is a Roman does not mean he should immediately be considered a liar or schemer, in the same way that you cannot consider all Parthians as paragons of virtue.’
‘But you have spent your life fighting Romans,’ said Haytham.
I sipped at my wine. ‘I have spent all my life defending Parthia, Haytham, which has included battling the Romans on occasion, yes. But, and it pains me to say so, I have killed more Parthians than Romans doing so. When you become king, and I pray that day is a long way off, you will find it is better to judge people on their merits rather than their race.’
I looked around at the walls painted light blue, the silver candle stands and the silver chalices encrusted with jewels.
‘It was in this palace that the ludicrous policy of Parthian purity was born, but such notions are meaningless.’
‘Not to King Darius and your sister Aliyeh, the queen mother,’ remarked Haytham.
‘Watch your tongue,’ Spartacus warned him.
‘It is quite all right,’ I said. ‘My sister and her sons believed themselves to be pure-blood Parthians with an ancient lineage.’
‘Which is what they were,’ opined Haytham, who had clearly drunk too much wine.
‘Indeed, and like my own family could trace their blood line back to the first Parthian king, Arsaces,’ I told him, drinking more wine, ‘the only problem being that Arsaces himself was descended from nomads of the great steppes. My sister despised above all the Agraci, who are also nomads, not knowing that she too was descended from a tribe of wanderers. I wonder if all the peoples of the world are actually descended from one tribe.’
‘The Romans want to make all peoples one tribe, their own,’ said Castus, ‘that is why we fight them.’
‘That is why we keep our quivers full and our sword blades sharp,’ I smiled, ‘just in case they try.’
‘They will
,’ muttered Spartacus. He looked at Akmon. ‘That is why I would like to propose an alliance between Media and Gordyene, to cement the new relationship between our two kingdoms and to stand shoulder-to-shoulder in the face of foreign aggression.’
Akmon was delighted. ‘I accept, father.’
Gallia raised her chalice. ‘Dura will also join the alliance, won’t we, Pacorus.’
I looked at Spartacus. ‘As long as it is a defensive alliance.’
He nodded.
‘Then Dura will be delighted to join, as my wife says.’
It was a cordial evening, Spartacus in a conciliatory mood as he grieved, the angry beast within him having been laid low by the enormity of his loss.
We said our goodbyes the next morning, the sun beating down from a clear sky to herald another beautiful day. The farewell between Spartacus and Akmon was warm and heartfelt, the King of Gordyene also making a great effort to be courteous and affectionate towards Lusin. Castus was friendly enough but Haytham, having drunk too much wine the night before, was sombre and irritable. While they were exchanging goodbyes I pulled Lucius aside. I had asked him to remain in Irbil to oversee the strengthening of the city’s defences, having promised I would send his family to him.
‘You must impress upon Akmon the need for him to rebuild his army,’ I said. ‘Increase the palace guard and the number of horse archers and cataphracts. Soter and his lords will be returning to their estates to oversee the gathering in of the harvest. This city is still vulnerable.’
He looked serious. ‘Soldiers cannot be created out of thin air, majesty. Perhaps if Dura could loan King Akmon some soldiers?’
‘No,’ I said firmly, ‘his father can supply soldiers. He has enough of them and if they are here then they won’t be making war on Armenia or Pontus.’
‘Ah, excellent point.’
‘I thought so. I have every confidence in you, Lucius.’
The reality was I was leaving him with few resources with which to build a mud-brick wall around Irbil, rebuild the garrison and repel an enemy attack should the Armenians decide to raid Media. I told Spartacus the same when we rode with him from the citadel, a long line of Amazons, King’s Guard and camels behind us.