by Peter Darman
‘Will you attend, majesty?’
‘I will. And I will be taking Atrax and Tiridates with me, as any campaign against Parthia involves them, or should do.’
‘May I accompany you?’
Polemon was surprised by the request, not least because Gaius had already stated Rome would not be paying for the raising of any legions to support an attack against Gordyene.
‘Rome’s unwillingness to support a fresh campaign will make you unpopular,’ warned Polemon.
‘Perhaps there might be a way to remove the rebels from Pontus and satisfy Galatia’s and Cappadocia’s thirst for vengeance without the direct involvement of those two kingdoms,’ smiled Gaius.
Polemon was confused but intrigued. ‘Oh?’
‘If I could ask you to delay the meeting at Melitene for three weeks, majesty, I think I might be able to create the conditions that will satisfy all parties involved.’
Polemon was none the wiser but nodded his assent.
Gaius bowed, turned on his heels and retraced his steps back to his residence, a palatial mansion in the city with its own colonnaded garden complete with fountains. He smiled when the two guards at the entrance to the palace snapped to attention when he passed. They were to all intents and purposes Roman legionaries with their javelins, short swords, helmets and large oval shields, the only thing marking out their Pontic lineage being the yellow crests that adorned their helmets. He was pleased that Pontus was slowly but surely being ‘Romanised’, but for the process to progress smoothly required peace and stability in not only Pontus itself, but also in the surrounding kingdoms. As the personal representative of Augustus, he had the power to declare war on the enemies of Rome, and the Parthian invasion the previous year was technically grounds for supporting an assault against Gordyene. But Augustus had specifically instructed him not to inflame tensions between Gordyene and Pontus, Cappadocia and Galatia, and certainly take no actions that might lead to hostilities between Parthia and Rome.
He was glad the Parthians had not captured Sinope and put its population to the sword. He found it a pleasant posting, the city built on the low landward neck of a rocky peninsular jutting out into the Black Sea and always free of pestilential odours thanks to sea breezes. The peninsula was two miles in length and one mile broad at its widest part, being blessed with fresh-water springs on the plateau and an abundance of vegetation. It had strong defences, but it was well known King Pacorus of Dura had a full complement of siege engines to batter down the walls of enemy cities. That he had not employed them against Pontus was reckoned a miracle and a sign that the gods were on the side of King Polemon and his Roman allies.
Back at his mansion, Gaius first had a bath followed by a massage at the skilled hands of one of the Greek slaves of his household, the man’s strong fingers easing away the tension in his shoulders and neck. Afterwards, he sent another slave to the royal barracks with an invitation to the commander of King Polemon’s corps of legionaries to visit him. ‘Corps’ was too grandiose a title for the barely thousand men who comprised the formation, which had been decimated on the Diyana Plain by the Parthians two years before. But under the diligent eye of its commander the unit was being rebuilt to become what Gaius hoped would be the king’s bodyguard – another sign of the growing influence of Rome in Pontus.
The commander accepted the invitation to dine with Gaius that evening and the cooks of his household were ordered to prepare a very Roman meal, for the commander of the Pontic legionaries was a veteran of the Battle of Pharsalus, where an outnumbered Julius Caesar had routed the army of Pompey. At that engagement the commander in question had encountered Mark Antony, Caesar’s deputy, and six years later he and Antony fought together at the Battle of Philippi where they and Octavian defeated the army of Brutus and Cassius. After the battle Octavian returned to Rome, leaving Mark Antony to establish control over Rome’s eastern territories. The fateful decision would lead to the triumvir travelling to Egypt a year after Philippi, taking his first spear centurion with him. Sixteen years later, that former centurion stood in the mansion’s reception room with his plumed helmet in the crook of his arm.
Titus Tullus was no longer a young man but he had not allowed himself to run to fat, notwithstanding his well-paid rank of general in the army of King Pontus and the mansion, slaves and potential for easy living that came with it. He had made his way in the world first as a legionary in the Roman army, then a centurion, winning the trust and favour of Mark Antony, whom he followed around the eastern half of the Roman world like a loyal dog. The dog had been rewarded with money and rank, and had been fortunate not to have been at the Battle of Actium where the triumvir had been defeated. He had been in Syria at the time, and after the death of Antony had been fortunate to be re-enlisted in a Roman legion hired by some rich merchant for service in Parthia. Afterwards, he had made his way to Pontus and had sold his services to King Polemon.
He still looked like a brute, though what remained of his hair on his close-cropped head was showing a few flecks of grey, and his shoulders were not as broad as the killing machine that had slaughtered Caesar’s enemies at Pharsalus. But with his cold eyes and hard visage he was intimidating enough.
The slave who held the bowl of warm water avoided eye contact with the general as he washed and dried his hands prior to removing his muscled breastplate and boots and slipping into indoor sandals before being shown into one of the dining rooms. The mansion had two: one for summer that overlooked the mansion’s garden, the other for winter.
‘Welcome, general,’ smiled Gaius Arrianus, extending an arm to one of the ornate couches in the room.
Tullus tipped his head in acknowledgement and placed his stocky frame on the couch. He was offered and accepted a goblet of muslum, a chilled white wine sweetened with honey. The ambassador was also served a goblet of the same beverage. When they were settled slaves then served a succession of courses comprising dormice wrapped in honey and poppy-seed, hot sausages, poached eggs, pickled tunny, grapes, apples and cherries, cheese and nuts. Both ate sparingly, Gaius because he was naturally abstemious; Tullus because he distrusted the rich, influential ambassador who had won his position due to patronage and money, while he owed his rank to years of sweat and blood-letting. As a result, most of the food was returned to the kitchens uneaten.
After half an hour of polite conversation about nothing in particular, Gaius got to the meat of the matter.
‘Today, the king informed me the monarchs of Cappadocia and Galatia are planning an attack against Gordyene to punish King Castus for his violation of their realms last year. They have invited Polemon to a meeting in the town of Melitene to thrash out the details.’
Tullus stared at the fresco on the wall depicting a Pontic sea god ravishing a young maiden, a crashing wave hiding the modesty of the mortal.
‘It will fail,’ snorted Tullus.
Gaius sipped at his wine. ‘I intend to encourage the venture.’
Tullus chuckled. ‘Which king does Augustus want dead?’
Gaius did not answer. ‘Rome believes it is time for a realignment with regard to its relations with Armenia.’
Tullus frowned. ‘What has Armenia got to do with attacking Gordyene?’
‘Everything, my dear general,’ replied Gaius smugly. ‘Augustus believes Armenia’s suffering at the hands of Gordyene can be used to bring it back into Rome’s sphere of influence.’
Tullus shook his head. ‘Even though we killed the entire family of its current ruler?’
‘Mark Antony and Cleopatra murdered the family of Artaxias, general. Augustus had nothing to do with it. And as both the triumvir and his Egyptian whore are dead, I believe King Artaxias will be receptive to my invitation to him to join us at Melitene.’
‘To what end?’ asked Tullus.
‘To open negotiations between Armenia and Rome.’
‘I doubt he will be interested,’ said Tullus. ‘He would be merely swapping one overlord for another.’
‘We will see. Now, what makes you think this new military venture by our allies against Gordyene will fail?’
Tullus picked up an apple and took a bite.
‘The same reason they failed last year. Their soldiers are woefully deficient compared to the Parthians.’
Gaius sipped at his wine. ‘Even though King Spartacus is dead, King Pacorus has declared his intention to retire from military affairs, and King Gafarn is likewise reluctant to support Gordyene’s foreign adventures.’
Tullus cracked a smile.
‘I have fought against and beside the soldiers of Gordyene, and Dura and Hatra for that matter, and even if King Castus is forced to fight alone, his army is a superb instrument, and he will be fighting on home territory. And even if Castus is defeated and confined behind the walls of Vanadzor, Dura and Hatra will march to his aid. And believe me when I say I have no desire to face King Pacorus in battle again.’
Gaius could not resist the opportunity to taunt the former centurion.
‘Yes, I heard about the debacle at Kayseri. Seven Roman legions and still the Parthians escaped.’
Tullus took a large gulp of wine.
‘Never faced the Parthians, have you, ambassador.’
‘I fought the Gauls, general. It was a pity the Parthians were allowed to escape at Kayseri. Augustus is most desirous to meet King Pacorus and was hoping he was going to be escorted to Rome as an honoured captive.’
Tullus roared with laughter.
‘He’s got more chance of Jupiter descending from the heavens and giving him a kiss.’
‘But did you not yourself have King Pacorus in your possession, when you accompanied Prince Atrax on his invasion of Media? You let him go, which was most remiss.’
‘I did not let him go,’ growled Tullus, ‘he was freed by the Parthians when that idiot Atrax insisted King Pacorus be crucified in front of Irbil’s stronghold. Atrax is a vindictive half-wit who is unfit to rule a city, let alone a kingdom.’
Gaius emptied his goblet and clicked his fingers to a slave to indicate it should be refilled.
‘What’s he like? King Pacorus, I mean?’
Tullus pondered the question for half a minute before replying.
‘Affable, unassuming and kind.’
‘Kind? This is the same man who destroyed Crassus at Carrhae, chased your own master Mark Antony out of Parthia, routed the army of Prince Atrax and, just last year, marched through Pontus, Galatia and Cappadocia with impunity, despite being opposed by over one hundred thousand troops, which included seven Roman legions.’
It pleased Tullus to see the condescending patrician mask slip.
‘Kind is hardly a word I would use to describe such a formidable character,’ said Gaius irritably.
‘That is why he is so formidable, ambassador. His charitable nature means those he commands are only too happy to go above and beyond their duty for him. The army of Dura has never been defeated in battle and I doubt it ever will be, not while he commands it, anyway.’
‘Praise indeed, general. But perhaps you have been enchanted by the legend of King Pacorus, rather than the reality.’
‘I saw the reality at Phraaspa, the Araxes, Irbil and Kayseri, ambassador,’ said Tullus. ‘Believe me when I say that Rome does not want to cross swords with King Pacorus again.’
‘Then we are fortunate indeed that King Pacorus has officially retired from military affairs.’
‘I heard that about him last year,’ grumbled Tullus.
‘So, to recap,’ said Gaius, eager to focus on events about to take place. ‘You believe any attack against Gordyene will fail?’
‘I do. Even without King Spartacus, may Pluto torture his soul in the underworld, Gordyene’s army is still a formidable instrument, as I said, and its commander, General Hovik, is not a man to be underestimated.’
‘And the likely result of a battle between the forces of Cappadocia, Galatia and the Parthian rebels on one side and the army of Gordyene on the other?’
Tullus shook his head. ‘An easy victory for Gordyene, barring a miracle, or the intervention of the gods.’
‘Are they not one and the same thing?’
‘I suppose they are.’
‘What do you make of King Polemon’s son?’
Tullus was surprised. ‘Prince Zenon?’
Gaius nodded.
‘He’s like most royalty. Not too bright, brave enough and will make a decent king if given the chance.’
‘He is reliable?’
Tullus gave a malicious leer.
‘You mean is he loyal to Rome?’
Gaius gave a non-committal shrug.
‘As long as Rome shows him and his kingdom respect, I believe he will be happy to allow the current relationship with Rome to continue.’
‘Your presence here can only help to strengthen the bonds between Pontus and Rome, general,’ smiled Gaius.
Tullus gave him a forced smile. ‘Happy to help, ambassador.’
Chapter 4
The journey from Dura to Zeugma was one of the happiest times in Klietas’ life. He had been born in a poor village in northern Media to parents who were farmers eking out a living of sorts. The Kingdom of Media was rich; many of those who toiled on its fertile lands were not. The soil was fertile enough, but the demands of the local lord were exorbitant and resulted in over half of the village’s crop yield being surrendered to him, in addition to the rental fees levied to hire the noble’s oxen and ploughs to till the fields. And the same lord could demand military service when his king called him to war. Each lord had a retinue of horsemen that lived in and around his household to provide him with a complement of horse archers or mounted spearmen, or both. But in times of emergency, ordinary villagers were impressed as foot soldiers.
There was never a possibility of Klietas being anything more than his father: an impoverished farmer. Even that was denied him when his father was killed fighting in a war against King Spartacus of Gordyene, which resulted in his mother dying of a broken heart soon afterwards. And when soldiers of Gordyene came to burn his village, Klietas and what remained of the settlement’s population fled south to seek sanctuary in Irbil. It was there that he encountered King Pacorus of Dura and his life changed forever, thanks to the benevolence of Gula and the charity of the king.
His life had now come full-circle. He was once again a farmer, though one with the patronage of the king himself, which earned him the respect of his peers and gave him a bright future. And now Gula had gifted him the greatest prize that any man could desire, for the goddess had made his dream of marriage to Haya a reality. The king had told him that the Amazon was a warrior, a killer unsuited to civilian life. But only the gods are infallible and even kings can be wrong. And here she was, riding beside him on the road north to Pontus.
They rode in civilian clothes but still kept their bows and quivers attached to their saddles, taking turns to stand guard at night when they camped in the open. Talib and Minu preferring that to seeking shelter in towns and cities. Like wraiths they travelled north, following the course of the Euphrates through Roman Zeugma, Cilicia and into the client Kingdom of Cappadocia. The traffic on the road was now civilian rather than military – camel caravans, farmers leading donkeys pulling carts and travellers on foot. They paid scant attention to the seven riders and three camels laden with tents and supplies heading north for the Cappadocian town of Melitene. From there they would head north to Pontus, the lair of the rebels and traitors who had inflicted so much misery on Dura and Parthia.
The landscape changed from barren desert to barren mountain steppes and finally a rolling plateau cut by limestone and basalt mountains as they approached Melitene. The region’s high altitude meant the passes and roads were blocked by snow during the winter, but in the spring and summer the water from the mountains made the plateau bloom. Temperatures, traditionally high in summer, were mild and pleasant in spring. And the abundance of freshwater coursing off the mountains meant frequent opportunities for
bathing along the way.
‘After I have harvested the crops, I will knock down my home and build another.’
‘Why?’ said Haya, not really taking notice of Klietas’ incessant chatter.
‘So we can have more room, for when our children come along.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘You should concentrate on the mission first. Everything else is just wishful thinking.’
‘Nothing wrong with wishful thinking,’ he announced.
‘And there’s nothing wrong with keeping your mouth shut,’ said Bullus behind them. ‘We are on serious business, not some sort of holiday. Why don’t you do something useful and kill us something to eat for our evening meal with that sling of yours.’
Klietas looked around at the barren hills either side of the rocky track they were using.
‘Nothing to kill here, centurion.’
‘Then shut up.’
‘Both of you shut up,’ hissed Talib in front. ‘Sound can travel far on the wind in rocky terrain.’
Dura’s chief scout had been in a testy mood since they had left Dura, as had his wife. Only Haya knew of Minu’s miscarriage and she was sworn to secrecy. Bullus put Talib’s mood down to natural Agraci sullenness, and as far as he was concerned the Amazons were always in a bad mood if they weren’t killing someone. The wind was blowing from the north, not a bitter breeze but just enough to cool the air slightly and bring the sound of human voices to their ears. Talib held up a hand and they all halted. Around a hundred paces ahead the track veered to the right, blocking the long-range view.
Talib slid off his horse, crouched low and darted forward, Minu and the others withdrawing their bows from the leather cases fastened to the right sides of their saddles and pulling arrows from the quivers on the left side. Klietas was no longer talking as he nocked an arrow in his bowstring and glanced at Haya. Her face was a mask of steely concentration. Suddenly the atmosphere, formally carefree and relaxed, became laced with sombre anticipation. Talib scuttled back to the others to report.