by Peter Darman
The day was warm and pleasant, eastern Cappadocia in spring being a pleasant place. Wheat grew in the fields either side of the dirt road that lanced through the rolling plateau the Armenians were crossing, watered by an abundance of streams running off the mountains in the distance, plus the underground springs that littered the area. Artaxias breathed in the bracing air.
‘It is no coincidence we are here,’ he said to his general and high priest. ‘Aramazd himself has guided the Romans’ thoughts and actions, of that I have no doubt.’
Aramazd, the father of all Armenian gods, the creator of heaven and earth, the source of the earth’s fertility, was honoured throughout Armenia in a special ceremony held in the spring, called Amanor. Artaxias thought it more than a coincidence that the invitation to attend the meeting of kings at Melitene had arrived just after he and his people had paid homage to Aramazd by sacrificing dozens of bulls and oxen and drinking their blood from gold and silver cups.
‘You speak the truth, great king,’ said the fawning Voski, ‘we live in an age of miracles. First, the barbarian King Spartacus was slain last year, the gold that was paid to him has been returned to you, and now a great coalition has materialised to wreak vengeance on the kingdom that has been a thorn in the side of Armenia for so long.’
‘I would advise against re-opening old wounds, majesty,’ cautioned Geghard. ‘At the moment, the border between Armenia and Gordyene is quiet. If we join a war against Gordyene, there is the very real possibility of renewed conflict with that kingdom on our southern border.’
Voski looked daggers at the imposing general, the head of the Sunik clan who had huge influence in Armenia.
‘How is your daughter, general?’ asked Artaxias casually.
‘My daughter, sire?’
‘Queen Lusin,’ smirked Voski, ‘whose husband is King of Media and brother to King Castus, King of Gordyene.’
Geghard turned on the priest.
‘I am well aware of the position my daughter holds.’
‘I have been remiss,’ said the king. ‘My congratulations on the birth of your first grandchild. Lusin gave birth to a boy, I believe.’
‘She did, sire,’ replied Geghard.
‘And your son, who was captured at the Araxes last year, has returned safely to Armenia after being held in Media?’
Geghard knew that Artaxias was aware that his son, Vahan, had returned from Irbil safe and sound after what had been by all accounts a happy time in Media.
‘Yes, sire.’
‘I agree that our participation in the forthcoming war against Gordyene is risky, general,’ said the king.
Geghard was delighted. ‘You do, majesty?’
‘But when I agreed to take part I did so partly to protect you, Geghard.’
The general’s heavy brow creased. ‘Me, majesty?’
‘There are some at court who believe that your position as commander of Armenia’s armies is inappropriate with regard to your family connections,’ remarked Artaxias casually.
‘Give me their names, majesty, so they can tell me to my face,’ snapped Geghard.
‘Calm yourself,’ said the king softly. ‘No one is questioning your loyalty, least of all me. But you have to appreciate that for those who do not know you as well as I do, you being the father of the Queen of Media and a relation of the King of Gordyene, two kingdoms that have waged savage war against Armenia, might be considered problematic.’
‘Savage,’ emphasised the high priest.
‘Well, let us say it makes your position as Armenia’s most senior military commander rather awkward,’ smiled Artaxias. ‘However, your participation in the campaign against Gordyene will be a demonstration of your allegiance to the Artaxiad Dynasty to the whole world. Your son, too.’
Geghard knew he was being manipulated but short of calling the king a schemer, could do nothing.
‘It will disprove the old adage that blood is thicker than water,’ said the king.
‘I do not trust the Romans,’ seethed Geghard.
‘Neither do I,’ agreed Artaxias, ‘but if they are willing to shower me with gold in the hope I will become their lackey, who am I to spoil their delusions.’
Chapter 8
Of all the metals gifted to humans by the gods, gold was far and above the most alluring. The world had been built on seven metals: tin, copper, lead, iron, silver, quicksilver and gold. But gold was the most precious, the most revered and the most sought after. The ancient Egyptians had buried their pharaohs with hordes of gold, rich living Egyptians wore gold jewellery and adorned their homes with gold art, all sourced from the mighty Nile, the great river that gave life to all Egypt. When the Persians had reduced Egypt to a satrapy, they had plundered the land of its gold, shipping it back to the Tigris and Euphrates Valley to decorate the palaces of the great king. And when Alexander of Macedon conquered the world he in turn plundered the cities and palaces of the Persians, shipping an enormous amount of gold back west.
Gaius Arrianus turned the gold aureus coin he was holding in his hand, smiling to himself. The meeting in Melitene had exceeded his expectations. Not only had the rulers of Cappadocia, Pontus and Galatia agreed to wage war against Gordyene, he had, more importantly, managed to entice King Artaxias of Armenia to the meeting, though admittedly reimbursing the thirteen hundred talents of gold the king had paid to Gordyene had helped, plus a bonus of an additional thousand talents. Nevertheless, he hoped it marked the beginning of Armenia’s return to the Roman sphere of influence.
It was also gold that would be financing the campaign, Gaius having agreed to pay each of the three kingdoms five thousand talents – one hundred and fifty tons – to cover the costs of fielding their armies and as a gesture of thanks from a grateful Augustus Caesar. Unknown to Archelaus, Amyntas and Polemon, this gold was not in fact Roman in origin. The previous year, following their great victory outside Kayseri, the Parthians, specifically King Castus of Gordyene, had demanded that the Cappadocians pay twenty thousand talents of gold before he and his army departed. To encourage them to do so, Castus dumped hundreds of corpses at the foot of the city walls and waited for them to rot in the summer sun and pump pestilential gases into the air. The gold was paid, but unfortunately for Castus, and in a brilliant piece of diplomacy, the Syrian governor, Cicero the Younger, met with King Pacorus and brokered a deal whereby Castus would surrender the gold to the governor in exchange for the maintenance of the peace that existed between Parthia and Rome. Castus, hot-headed and burning with a desire to avenge his recently killed father, was against the idea. But King Pacorus was a powerful and influential figure in Parthia and his counsel held sway. The gold was shipped back to Syria where it was melted down into ingots bearing the Roman eagle. Five thousand talents were shipped off to Rome as a gift for Augustus; the rest was allocated to Gaius to distribute as he thought fit, subject to the approval of the crafty Cicero.
Thus Cappadocia was financing the expedition against Gordyene, but Gaius reasoned that it was a form of justice as Gordyene and its young king had grossly wronged that kingdom. His musings were interrupted by the appearance of his steward.
‘General Tullus waits in the atrium, master.’
‘Show him in.’
The slave bowed and left the well-appointed office looking out into the colonnaded garden, the scent of roses drifting into the room on the breeze. In the corner of the room a marble bust of Gaius’ father stood on an ornate plinth. The ambassador’s desk was mahogany, beneath which was a blue mosaic floor. He leaned back in his over-sized chair when Tullus, yellow-plumed helmet in the crook of his arm, entered and saluted. The ambassador pointed to the chair opposite his desk.
‘Please take a seat, general. You will take refreshment?’
‘I will, sir.’
The steward was ordered to fetch wine, two attractive, olive-skinned female slaves appearing moments later with silver rhytons shaped to resemble dolphins and a silver wine jug. One placed the rhytons before their mast
ers and the other poured the wine, Gaius then dismissing them with a wave of the hand. He lifted his rhyton.
‘Rome.’
Tullus raised his own rhyton.
‘Rome. I hear the gathering at Melitene went well, notwithstanding the dramatic death of its governor.’
Gaius put down his rhyton.
‘The governor’s death was a most unedifying business. Poisoned by a slave girl, by all accounts. King Archelaus had all the slaves in the palace executed to ensure all her accomplices were caught.’
‘Is that supposed to reassure me?’
Gaius smiled. ‘The king has confirmed your temporary appointment?’
Tullus took a large gulp of wine. ‘As governor of Melitene? I can hardly wait.’
‘If I may be so bold, general,’ said the ambassador, ‘the governor’s death is rather fortuitous.’
‘Not for him, it isn’t.’
Gaius ignored the barb.
‘King Polemon shares my opinion that you hold the unique position of being trusted by not only the King of Pontus, but also the rulers of Galatia and Cappadocia on account of your services during last year’s campaign. You also have the trust of Rome, itself, general.’
Tullus emptied his rhyton.
‘I feel like a bull being prepared for ritual slaughter.’
‘Come, come, why so morose?’
‘Long experience, ambassador. May I enquire as to why I am being sent to Melitene to be poisoned?’
Gaius frowned in annoyance. He had forgotten how crude and blunt non-patricians could be.
‘Fifteen thousand talents of gold, general.’
Tullus’ eyes lit up.
‘That is a tidy sum, ambassador.’
‘Four hundred and fifty tons of gold, which will be shipped from Antioch to Melitene, protected by soldiers under your command.’
‘There is a legion in Syria, why not use that?’
Gaius took a sip of wine. ‘The Parthians have many friends in Syria, general, specifically the eyes and ears of King Pacorus. I do not want our friend the King of Dura becoming curious as to why the garrison of Syria is on the march.’
‘He will learn of our glorious war soon enough when the three kings, plus the Parthian rebels, invade Gordyene. Not forgetting the Armenians, of course.’
‘That may be, general, that may be. But by then it will all be academic. You may be interested to know that the strategy agreed upon at Melitene is to march into Gordyene, capture its capital and seize King Castus so he may be ransomed.’
Bullus roared with laughter.
‘It would be easier to march into the underworld and grab Pluto by the balls.’
‘This is not the time for levity, general,’ sniffed Gaius. ‘Your task is to ride to Antioch, collect the gold, deliver it to Melitene and guard it until the campaign is over. After the kings have returned from Gordyene, they can take their share back to their kingdoms.’
Tullus nodded and reached over to grab the wine jug to refill his rhyton.
‘And if they do not return?’
Gaius showed Tullus the palms of his hands.
‘The thought is preposterous, general. What can a boy king do in the face of such a host that will be assembled except quake and beg for mercy?’
Tullus drank some more wine and remembered why he disliked Rome’s patrician order so much, though Gaius Arrianus was Greek, not Roman. But his upbringing, family wealth and connections had ensured he was fully imbued with the elitism of Rome’s rulers. His paymaster, Polemon, wanted rid of Tiridates and Atrax and the ambassador was fully supportive of this objective. But unknown to the King of Pontus, Gaius Arrianus was willing to sacrifice him in order to achieve it, along with Archelaus and Amyntas. The only thing that mattered was the preservation of Rome’s interests. The ambassador leaned forward.
‘You will remain in Melitene with your soldiers until the campaign has been concluded.’
‘The king will be expecting me to command his army in Gordyene.’
‘I have convinced him that it would be more diplomatic to grant Tiridates the privilege of commanding the invasion force, with Prince Atrax acting as his deputy. With the other kings also participating, I think the army will have enough commanders, general. You should be flattered.’
‘Flattered, why?’
‘Polemon trusts you implicitly. Archelaus trusts only you to stop Amyntas storming Melitene to take all the gold back to Galatia. And Amyntas trusts you to not allow the Cappadocians to retain all the gold that will be stored in their town.’
He raised his rhyton to Tullus. ‘My congratulations.’
The general had no doubt the ambassador was viewing him as nothing more than another sacrificial bull.
*****
Phraates was surprised that it took only two weeks for Kewab to reach Ctesiphon. Following Claudia’s advice, he wrote to her father requesting that Dura not march its army north to join with the soldiers of Hatra prior to assisting Gordyene in repulsing the invasion by Rome’s allies. He assured King Pacorus that Kewab would be given reinforcements before he journeyed to the realm of King Castus. He also penned a letter to King Gafarn with a similar plea, his concern being not to inflame an already incendiary situation, which might lead to a general war between Rome and Parthia. If that happened he would never get his son back.
To his great surprise, he received a polite letter back from Dura informing him King Pacorus had every faith in him and Kewab to deal with the situation, with the caveat he and King Gafarn would intervene to assist Gordyene only if that kingdom was in danger of falling to the enemy.
Ctesiphon looked magnificent the day Kewab, officially named by Phraates satrap, deputy lord high general of the empire, conqueror of the Kushans and Lord Melitene in honour of his great victory in Cappadocia the year before, rode through the ornate gatehouse of the complex. He did so escorted by a phalanx of Scythian axe men on foot and a hundred Babylonian lancers in dragon-skin armour commanded by Adapa. The satrap’s own soldiers – three thousand of his own eastern horsemen, three and a half thousand exiled horse archers from Mesene, gifted by King Pacorus, plus a camel ammunition train – made camp outside the white walls of the palace complex, for only the high king’s soldiers were permitted inside.
The road from the gatehouse to the royal palace resembled Babylon’s famed Processional Way. Iron-shod hooves clattered on white paving stones as the horsemen passed specially built walls on each side of the road decorated with glazed bricks depicting standing lions, the symbol of Ishtar, the Goddess of Love. As in Babylon, the lions had alternate white fur with yellow manes and yellow fur with white manes.
The scent of burning frankincense wafted into Kewab’s nostrils as he neared the palace, which like the temples that surrounded it sat on a huge stone terrace. He saw the large metal incense burners and priests tipping great quantities of the expensive aromatic resin on to the hot coals. Purple-uniformed Babylonian guards with whetted spears points and burnished helmets decorated with purple plumes lined the steps leading to the terrace and the front of the palace itself. Slaves walked forward to take his own horse and Adapa’s mount as the high priest of the Temple of Marduk, a stolid individual with a thick beard and bulging eyes, raised his arms to the heavens.
‘Great Marduk, the Bull of Babylon,’ he roared, ‘behold your servant Kewab, your weapon against the vainglorious and treacherous barbarians. Give him the strength and wisdom to lay waste their armies, reduce their lands to empty husks and consume them to the vengeful fire.’
Kewab neared the steps and was momentarily startled when two bulls were dragged before him, each one held by two young priests.
‘Let your servant Kewab walk in the enemy’s blood, oh Divine One,’ bellowed the high priest.
Seconds later two burly Scythian axe men stepped forward and hacked down on the necks of the bulls with their two-handed weapons, the force of the blows and sharpness of the axe blades killing the animals instantly and almost decapitating their head
s. Blood gushed on to the white stone slabs and splattered the priests who were holding the beasts. Grimacing, Kewab stepped on the gore-covered slabs and walked up the steps, leaving red footprints where he had stepped. Adapa skirted the dead animals to avoid treading in their blood.
‘Behold,’ shouted the high priest, ‘just as the Kushans were smitten by Satrap Kewab, so shall he now walk in the enemy’s blood. Hail Kewab!’
To the Egyptian’s surprise, the other priests, guards, Scythian axe men and Adapa’s horsemen all shouted ‘hail Kewab’. The commander of the high king’s bodyguard waved forward a bevy of slaves, a mix of men and women, who clustered around Kewab to halt his progress. As the high priest continued to beg for Marduk’s indulgence in a loud voice, Kewab was seated on a stool, his boots were removed to be cleaned and a fresh pair of soft-soled shoes with even softer uppers was placed on his feet.
‘This way, lord,’ smiled Adapa, the slaves disappearing quicker than they had appeared. ‘The high king awaits.’
Kewab’s own men wore a mixture of colours when it came to leggings and tunics, giving the appearance of sloppiness and indiscipline. It was proof of the old adage that appearances can be deceptive. But for his visit to Ctesiphon, Kewab dressed to impress. His black curly hair had been cut short, and like the King of Dura whom he modelled himself on, he always sported a clean-shaven face. His white tunic was spotless, his light tan leggings fresh on, and a fine sword in a black scabbard decorated with silver gilding, plus the dagger he was awarded when he had graduated from the Sons of the Citadel, hung from his black leather belt. His weapons were taken from him at the entrance to the palace, but they were not the most distinguishing items of his apparel.