by Peter Darman
‘Akmon needs some of your soldiers to strengthen his garrison until he can rebuild his army.’
‘He did not say anything to me.’
‘He is proud, like his father,’ I said, ‘but pride comes before a fall and I worry the Armenians might be back.’
‘I will ensure Media is safe, uncle, you have my word.’
At the city gates we said farewell to him and his two sons, around us slaves working feverishly making mud-bricks to build the wall that would surround the city. Spartacus pulled up his horse and pointed at the bare-chested slaves sweating in the sun.
‘Here’s an idea, uncle. I will leave a thousand enemy captives behind to work on the walls, with five companies of Immortals to act as their guards. That should speed up the construction process. Shamshir.’
The commander of the King’s Guard rode forward and saluted.
‘Lord?’
‘Send some men to ride ahead to catch up with the army. Give General Motofi my regards and tell him five companies of Immortals are to return to the city accompanied by a thousand captives.’
‘Yes, lord.’
He returned to his men and a party of four riders galloped north. Spartacus spread his arms.
‘Am I not generous?’
Gallia rolled her eyes and I smiled kindly at my nephew, who peered to the west, his eyes suddenly filled with anguish.
‘And now we ride to Hatra to inform my parents of recent events. It will be hard on them. Farewell uncle, aunt.’
He raised a hand and dug his knees into his horse, the beast cantering forward, Castus and Haytham and then the King’s Guard following. I looked at Gallia.
‘I’m done with all this.’
‘With what?’
‘Fighting. I have lost too many friends and family fighting the empire’s enemies over the years. Rasha was the final straw. I want to enjoy my autumn years in peace.’
I nudged Horns forward. ‘I have drawn my sword in anger for the last time.’
Epilogue
Zeugma had once been a Parthian city. Straddling the River Euphrates, it had been founded by Seleucus I Nicator, the ‘victor’, one of Alexander of Macedon’s generals. Indeed, Zeugma meant ‘crossing’ in old Greek and its position on the mighty river blessed it with an abundance of wealth. Standing as it did on the dividing line between east and west, the city’s rulers were able to reap a rich reward by charging road tolls on the unending trade caravans that travelled along the Silk Road. The last Parthian king of Zeugma had been Darius, an old, corrupt monarch who liked young boys as well as rich living. When the Romans offered him peace, security and an endless supply of slave boys in exchange for becoming a client king of Rome, he grabbed the opportunity with both hands.
Where once gaudily dressed spearmen patrolled the city’s streets, now mail-clad Roman legionaries walked the well-maintained thoroughfares. A Roman governor administered the city and Roman laws prevailed over Parthian rules and customs. On a day-to-day basis this mattered little to the thousands of people who lived and worked in the city, which made it easy for those who had fled Parthia for whatever reason to make Zeugma their home. Those who were rich settled among the large villas built on the cliffs overlooking the blue waters of the Euphrates below. Those villas boasted large atriums – open-roofed central courts – graced with fountains, statues, flowerbeds and miniature citrus trees, around which were galleries filled with upholstered and finely carved furniture. On the walls were exquisite frescoes, and on the floors intricate mosaics.
Cookes rubbed his hands and placed them on the table in expectation of another delicious meal. The dining room of the villa he and his wife had rented for a very reasonable fee had a splendid view of the Euphrates and the Kingdom of Hatra beyond. As well as being obese, an alcoholic and a man of low morals, like all cowards he also had a highly developed sense of self-preservation. At Mepsila he had controlled all the post stations along the Tigris after receiving a large amount of gold from Prince Atrax, but he had also monitored the prince’s campaign to win back Media’s crown carefully. He ensured he received daily updates regarding the progress of the prince’s siege of Irbil, deciding to flee Mepsila when he learned of the approach of a relief force led by none other than King Spartacus himself. He and his wife had planned their escape even before Prince Atrax had left Pontus. They took his gold, crossed the Tigris and headed west to the city of Nisibus and on to Zeugma.
Cookes and his wife thought they would miss Media but in truth they found the rich living of Zeugma highly appealing. They quickly settled into their new home, which boasted fountains in the atrium and mosaics on the floor depicting mythological scenes, such as water fairies laying on grass with springs flowing from their bodies, the bull of Minos and dragons, the latter making them feel at home. There were curiosities, of course, such as the bronze statue of a Roman god named Apollo in the atrium, but these were minor irritants compared to the ease of living he and his wife enjoyed.
He was particularly enamoured of a young slave girl who the chief steward, a rather stern individual, had purchased for his entertainment. In no time at all she was serving him his meals, preparing his bath and massaging his fat body. His wife usually passed out from drinking too much wine in the afternoons, and formally he had joined her in her inebriation. But the new slave girl, with her firm body and attractive face, diverted him from his alcoholic indulgences. His obese frame and shortness of breath made him incapable of performing sexual acts, but Cookes was still very capable of groping young, nubile bodies and licking hands and arms that served and massaged him. And, to complete his happiness, the girl smiled and made no attempt to avoid his lascivious clutches.
‘Where is my wife?’ he moaned, belching as he shoved a boiled egg into his mouth and washed it down with wine. ‘Come here, girl.’
The slave girl, wearing a skimpy tunic that barely concealed her modesty and accentuated the shape of her breasts and pert buttocks, smiled and walked over to stand beside her gross master at the over-sized table. The stench of his body odour was repellent, and she nearly threw up when his chubby fingers began exploring her undergarments. He licked his podgy lips and leered at her, his eyes falling on her breasts as he abused her.
She hastily leaned over to refill his rhyton with wine. Cookes stopped fondling her and reached for the drinking vessel, drinking greedily and spilling wine on the table as he did so.
‘Where is Hanita?’ he bleated.
‘She is coming, master,’ said the girl, pointing to a slave boy coming from the corridor leading to the kitchens.
‘That’s not my wife,’ chuckled Cookes, ‘he’s far too thin. Drank herself into a stupor, I suppose. Fat bitch.’
He began stroking the girl’s buttocks. ‘Not like you, eh?’
The slave boy placed the large silver tray, which had a silver dome-shaped cover to retain the heat of the dish it held, before Cookes.
‘Tonight I will lay with you,’ panted Cookes, his lecherous eyes staring at the slave girl’s breasts.
‘What about your wife, master?’
‘What about her?’
‘Shall we not ask her, master?’
She reached over and lifted the cover on the silver tray. To reveal the severed head of Hanita resting on a bed of rice and garnished with lettuce. Cookes squealed with horror, his eyes bulging at the sight of his wife’s head, her tongue protruding from the mouth and her eyes closed. He did not see the slave boy hand the girl something, but he was aware of her roughly grabbing his chin.
‘Queen Gallia sends her regards.’
Haya drew the knife across his neck, severing the windpipe and sending a spurt of blood over the head of Hanita. She continued to saw until the edge of the blade had reached the spine, blood sheeting over his robe, the table and the floor.
The steward, who had been standing by a pillar, walked forward and stared at the bloody mess.
‘We should leave. Haya, change your clothes and wash the blood from your hands.’
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‘It will be a pleasure.’
She spat on the corpulent corpse and walked with Klietas to one of the galleries where they had stored a change of clothes.
‘You look very beautiful,’ he complimented her.
‘Don’t get any ideas,’ she warned him.
Talib shook his head. Klietas would go far, if he managed to keep his head. He had ordered the other slaves of the household to vacate the villa in a covered cart driven by Minu, now his wife following the ceremony held at Palmyra and attended by King Malik, Queen Jamal, King Pacorus and Queen Gallia. His former master Byrd was also in attendance and it was he that had sent word to all his offices to keep an eye out for the fat former governor of Mepsila, who had seemingly vanished from the face of the earth. Byrd was the owner of the large transport guild that operated throughout Syria, Judea, Cilicia, Cappadocia and western Parthia. The men who staffed the offices in those lands and who operated Byrd’s camel caravans and boats were told to keep a lookout for Cookes and Hanita. In a short space of time, word reached Palmyra they had taken up residence in Zeugma.
They could have left the slaves at the villa, but to do so would sentence them to death. The Romans were very particular when it came to slaves murdering their masters and mistresses, executing all of those in the household irrespective of whether they had committed the crime or not. This was to deter any slave even considering visiting violence on his or her owner.
Talib met Haya and Klietas in the stables to the rear of the villa, Haya holding the reins of his horse and Klietas waiting at the open gates. The boy’s equine skills had improved immensely after his arrival at Dura, the king himself taking a personal interest in the orphan’s development.
‘You have done well, Haya,’ said Talib after vaulting into the saddle, ‘I hope this mission has not been too unpleasant.’
She shrugged. ‘It was an honour to be chosen by the queen herself. My only regret is that we cannot take both heads back to Dura to show her our handiwork.’
He turned his horse and nudged it forward, all three riding from the villa to head for the bridge across the Euphrates. Minu would be already across the waterway by now, the forged documents of slave ownership in her possession meaning her passage through the Roman checkpoints would be trouble free. Then she and the now freed slaves would be in Hatran territory where they could begin new lives.
During the ride through the crowded streets Klietas wore a dumb grin, oblivious to the dust, heat, horse and camel dung and press of people and beasts. When they arrived at the bridge over the Euphrates, Talib smiled when he caught sight of the covered wagon trundling across the stone structure, having passed through the checkpoint on the western side of the river. He and the others slid off their horses to join the queue, Haya cursing under her breath. Klietas continued to smile at all and sundry.
‘Keep calm,’ Talib told them, ‘they cannot look into your souls.’
A sweating centurion waved them through the cordon with his vine cane, at the other end of the bridge another press of people waited with their beasts to pay tolls to admit them into the Kingdom of Hatra. Such was the volume of traffic between the Roman and Parthian worlds that a pontoon bridge had been built across the Euphrates beside the Greek-built stone structure. This facilitated the movement of camels, mules, carts, wagons and people wishing to enter Roman Zeugma after leaving King Gafarn’s domain.
When they had paid the tolls and linked up with Minu and her group of bemused former slaves, Klietas took the opportunity to kiss Haya on the cheek.
‘I love you,’ he whispered into her ear.
His reward was a slap around the face.
‘Don’t be an idiot,’ she scolded him.
His face throbbed but he did not care. He had found his princess.
*****
It was only when Spartacus had returned to Vanadzor from Hatra did the enormity of his loss hit him. The black stone palace of his capital served only to reinforce his gloom, made worse by seeing his dead wife in every corridor and room. At night he lay alone in his bed, staring up at the ceiling and waiting for dawn to arrive. A lesser man would have crumbled in the face of such misery, but the beast within him, dormant since that dreadful day on the Diyana Plain, reawakened to stir him into action. Rasha had been a brake on his more vindictive and violent plans: a voice of reason that he listened to, even when he ignored the advice of Hovik.
He now sent letters recalling his general and the horsemen he had contributed towards Phraates’ ‘great muster’. Why would he support a high king who had engineered a rebellion against his son, which had led to the death of his wife? He took his two sons and a small party of King’s Guard and rode to the wild region of northern Gordyene, a place of mountains, cave dwellings and a plethora of villages occupied by the Aorsi tribe. In this area of rock, steep-sided valleys and low-hanging clouds the Sarmatians had established a kingdom within a kingdom, which acted as a shield for the rest of Gordyene against the Armenians.
He sent word ahead of their intention to visit Prince Spadines, formerly the ruler of the city of Van but now reduced to living in the same stone hut where he had been born. In truth, though he was most grateful to King Spartacus for giving him land and a city to rule, the Sarmatian was always ill at ease living in a city. He was a brigand at heart, a raider who loved nothing more than leading his men in plunder and rapine. That was why he liked the King of Gordyene so much – he indulged his baser instincts.
Spadines welcomed the king to his humble abode on a cool autumn afternoon, drizzle in the air.
‘Welcome, lord,’ he gushed, walking forward to embrace the king.
Spartacus returned the gesture, nodding to Spadines’ hard-faced henchmen gathered in a semi-circle around their chief.
‘We live to avenge the queen’s death,’ grunted Spadines. ‘Come, let us get out of the rain.’
Later, when the rain had passed to leave a cool, damp evening, Spartacus sat with Spadines round a raging fire in the chief’s hut, the Sarmatian’s wife serving her husband and his guests dumplings filled with mutton, warm bread and thick broth. Spartacus ate sparingly but both Castus and Haytham filled their bellies with gusto. The young sons of Spadines stared in awe at the famous, fierce King of Gordyene who regarded them with cruel eyes but said nothing. He had been disappointed when Artaxias and Atrax had evaded the Aorsi to escape back to Armenia, but what was done was done.
‘I wanted to thank, you, lord, for the generous gift you bestowed on me,’ said Spadines.
He was alluding to the thousands of slaves gifted to him by Spartacus, the majority of whom had been sold on to slave merchants in Atropaiene and Hyrcania, the reasoning being that men in their prime should be moved as far away from their homelands as possible to both demoralise them and reduce the likelihood they would revolt against their masters in an effort to return home. Some he had kept, which had been given to his subordinates, so their wives could play at being fine ladies with their own slaves.
‘Think nothing of it,’ said the king, tossing a package wrapped in goatskin to the Sarmatian.
Spadines’ eyes lit up as he unwrapped the gift, turning to surprise and then disappointment as he held a blue tunic and a pair of grey leggings. Spartacus grinned.
‘I do not understand, lord,’ said Spadines.
‘Before the snows close the high passes,’ the king told him, ‘I will send you five hundred of these tunics and leggings, along with banners showing a white dragon on a black background.’
Spadines was now even more confused.
Haytham stopped his gorging. ‘The banner of Media?’
Spartacus stared into the fire, the memory of his wife’s cremation hitting him like the bludgeoning of a mace.
‘In the spring send parties into Armenia to plunder its settlements. Make sure your men are all wearing these clothes and flying a dragon banner. In each village leave a few alive to spread the message that the King of Media has come to wreak revenge on them for killing his mothe
r.’
‘I do not understand, lord,’ said Spadines.
‘The Armenian king will not be able to tolerate such incursions,’ Spartacus told him, ‘and will retaliate against Media. This will bring about a confrontation between him and Hatra, Dura and Gordyene, all three kingdoms having forged an alliance with Media.’
‘We do not need Hatra or Dura to destroy Armenia, father,’ said Castus, ‘not with our Aorsi allies fighting beside us.’
Spadines raised his cup of ale to the prince.
‘No, but we need Dura’s siege engines if we are to capture Artaxata,’ Spartacus informed his son.
‘If Dura was ruled by Queen Gallia, then its army would march beside our own without the need for deception,’ sneered Haytham, ‘but its king is no friend of Gordyene. In any case, King Pacorus has retired from war.’
‘He saved your brother, remember that,’ snapped Spartacus.
‘He does not like me,’ muttered Spadines, clearing his throat and spitting phlegm into the fire.
Spartacus nodded. ‘My uncle is a moral man and that morality means he will not wage aggressive war against Parthia’s enemies.’
‘Weakness,’ spat Castus.
Spartacus chuckled. ‘I have never heard the army of Dura being described as weak, nor indeed its commander. Do not mistake a reluctance to wage war with cowardice. The army of Dura has never lost a battle. Never. It came close on the Plain of Diyana, though there it was without its cataphracts and professional horse archers. No, the army of Dura is the finest military instrument in the Parthian Empire, and I include my own army in that estimation.’
‘King Pacorus will never sanction the capture of the Armenian capital, father,’ said Castus.
‘He will if he believes Armenia has been waging a war of aggression against Media,’ Spartacus retorted, ‘a kingdom he has just spilled the blood of his men defending. Anyway, we do not necessarily need to take Artaxata. The fact our army will have siege engines will convince King Artaxias that we have the means to reduce his capital to rubble. That will convince him to offer battle before we reach the city.’