by Peter Darman
Castus began drumming his fingers on the table once more.
‘Is the lecture over, Khalos?’
‘To return to my original point. You should be thinking of marriage, majesty.’
The drumming stopped. ‘Marriage is the least of my concerns.’
‘You are a king without a wife and such a king cannot produce an heir, so marriage should be uppermost in your mind. I assume you have given it no thought?’
‘You can assume rightly,’ snapped Castus.
‘I have been giving it some consideration. I assume you would be averse to marrying an Armenian princess.’
Castus glared at him. ‘You assume correctly.’
‘Then there is only one viable alternative, the daughter of King Ali of Atropaiene, who by all accounts is young and available. Such a union would bind Gordyene and Atropaiene together,’ said Khalos. ‘As you are already tied by blood to the rulers of Hatra and Media, such a marriage would create a powerful alliance of kingdoms in northern Parthia.’
‘What is her name?’
‘Majesty?’
‘King Ali’s daughter.’
Khalos thought for a few seconds.
‘I have no idea but will make enquiries, majesty.’
‘I may not like her. What if she is ugly?’
‘I’m sure she has all her limbs and eyes, majesty.’
Castus jumped up from his chair.
‘I am not an impoverished market stall holder, Khalos.’
‘No, indeed, majesty, you are a king and that is why you must marry well. Time is of the essence. You will permit me to begin formal enquiries with King Ali regarding the subject of the availability of his daughter?’
Castus sunk back into his chair and gave a half-hearted nod.
‘Try to find out what her name is, and what she looks like, at least. This is not my idea of what kingship should be. I’m not sure what is worse. Being attacked by an alliance of enemies or being coerced into a marriage I do not desire.’
Khalos gave him a sympathetic look.
‘You must think about your future son and heir, majesty.’
‘If she’s ugly there will be no heir,’ grumbled Castus.
Chapter 9
Gordyene was a natural fortress, a kingdom surrounded by mountains that restricted invading armies to tracks and valleys where they could be more easily intercepted and destroyed. Or Gordyene’s king could bide his time and wait until an enemy was approaching the walls of his capital before engaging him at a time and place of his choosing. But since the time of Surena, the barefoot boy of the Ma’adan who became Parthia’s premier warlord, the kings of Gordyene had fought hard to keep any enemy away from the soil of their realm. Surena had evicted the Romans from Gordyene and Spartacus had waged war on those who had once treated his kingdom as their plaything. He unleashed the Aorsi against the Armenians and joined in when it suited him. He had also turned his wrath on Media, reducing that proud kingdom to a shadow of its former glory. Though he was now dead, his legacy lived on in his son Castus, who was determined to keep Gordyene strong and free from foreign invaders.
It had been many years since hostile soldiers had troubled Vanadzor, though in the intervening period great efforts had been made to strengthen its defences. The ancient city, nestled in the Pambak Valley straddling the river of the same name, was once a small settlement on the west bank of the river, no more than a collection of wooden huts protected by a paltry stake fence. But in time the wood had been replaced by stone as trade with Armenia and its southern neighbours had brought a degree of prosperity to the kingdom. That had been over a hundred years ago. The city was now a great fortress, but to strengthen it further Spartacus had filled the valley with other stone strongholds to guard the approaches to his capital. The walls, towers and buildings of Vanadzor were constructed from locally sourced black limestone, the outlying strongholds also constructed from the same dour material. This gave them and the city a forbidding appearance, one that projected a message that visitors were not welcome in Gordyene, and entered at their peril. It was a message Spartacus in particular had encouraged. He was very much cast in the same mould as Gordis, the mythical lion that the gods had imprisoned in Gordyene, being an individual who attacked first and asked questions later. The inhabitants of Vanadzor and the hundreds of villages that dotted the valleys of the kingdom were insular, hardy and had long memories.
Unkind voices thought it entirely appropriate that the buildings in Vanadzor were squat and ugly because they had been created to mirror the people that lived in them. But though the city was bleak and functional and paled into insignificance when compared to the lavish buildings found in cities such as Hatra, Babylon, Seleucia and Esfahan, it had a major advantage over them all: it was clean and free from the pestilential air that cursed the great cities of Mesopotamia. Surrounded by tree-covered hills and always blessed with pleasant summer breezes, it was mercifully free of the stench of humans and animals. It was true the armouries of the city pumped out noxious fumes all-year round as they forged the weapons and armour to equip the kingdom’s professional soldiers, but the residents reckoned this was a small price to pay for the security that army provided. And in summer they could always journey a short distance outside the city to appreciate the flowers that blanketed the hillsides of the Pambak Valley.
The flowers were not the only splash of colour in the valley when the army of Satrap Kewab trotted towards Vanadzor on a beautiful early summer’s day, the many banners among the horsemen fluttering in a northerly breeze. Drawn up in front of the city, a huge red banner sporting a silver lion in the centre of their line, stood the King’s Guard. Like the ten-thousand-strong Immortals, this bodyguard was always maintained at a strength of five hundred men, each one magnificently attired in a cuirass of alternating steel and bronze scales, with leather pteruges protecting the shoulders and thighs. Like the kingdom’s foot soldiers, the King’s Guard wore red tunics and black leggings, the horsemen also equipped with black boots and burnished helmets. Each rider carried a recurve bow and two quivers – each one holding thirty arrows – an expensive ukku sword and a dagger. When it had first been formed to protect Spartacus, the King’s Guard had ridden an assortment of different coloured horses, but now every mount was wholly black, the former King of Gordyene believing black horses increased the unit’s menacing aura.
Either side of the King’s Guard were the Vipers – five hundred female horse archers in red tunics and black leggings, named after the wife of King Surena, a former member of Queen Gallia’s Amazons, on which the Vipers were based. Commanded by Narin, whose name meant ‘delicate’ but was anything but, it was a battle-hardened unit trained to operate closely with the Immortals.
Castus, flanked by Haytham and Shamshir in front of the King’s Guard, pointed at the banners at the head of the column of horsemen approaching them from the far end of the valley.
‘I see three banners.’
‘I thought the high king was sending Kewab and Otanes only,’ said a confused Haytham.
‘Ride forward and confirm the third standard,’ Castus told Shamshir.
The commander of the King’s Guard turned and ordered a dozen of his men to follow him, digging his knees into the side of his horse to urge it forward. He and his men broke into a gallop as they sped away. His scouts had reported seeing a dragon banner among the host of horsemen that had ridden through Media on its way to Gordyene. The two brothers were delighted that their eldest sibling, Akmon, had sent reinforcements to aid them in their fight, but the presence of Media’s banner beside the other two indicated Akmon himself was with Kewab and Otanes. If so, it would be the first time all three would be meeting since the death of their father.
‘Khalos thinks I should marry,’ said Castus to his brother.
Haytham was surprised. ‘To whom?’
‘The daughter of the King of Atropaiene.’
‘Have you even met her?’
Castus shook his head. ‘No.’
‘She might be fat and ugly.’
Castus nodded. ‘That had crossed my mind.’
‘You should at least see her before you marry her.’
Castus began laughing.
‘What’s so funny?’ asked Haytham.
‘If I fall in battle, you will have to marry her.’
The returning Shamshir, the ugly commander wearing a smile-cum-leer, interrupted their musings. He pulled up his horse and saluted.
‘Your brother, King Akmon, rides with the approaching column, majesty.’
*****
The arrival of summer heralded the assembly at Melitene of the great army that would punish Gordyene and its impudent boy king, which would exact a terrible revenge for the Parthian invasion of Pontus, Cappadocia and Galatia the previous year. Nearly forty-five thousand troops gathered around the town, the new temporary governor of Melitene, Titus Tullus, issuing an order forbidding any armed men from entering the town, aside from his own Pontic legionaries who patrolled the streets, manned the walls and garrisoned the palace where the gold Tullus had transported from Antioch was stored. There were five hundred of them, though they had not escorted the huge amount of gold shipped from Syria. That had been the privilege of the thousand lancers – King Polemon’s finest – that had guarded the camels carrying the gold ingots.
Those ingots were now arranged in neat piles in the palace throne room, around them yellow-crested legionaries lining the walls, as the recipients of Rome’s largesse were allowed into the chamber to view their reward, or bribe depending on one’s point of view. The whole theatrical spectacle was a triumph for Gaius Arrianus who stood beside the seated King Archelaus on the stone dais. The king and the town had been shaken by the death of Governor Cenk, especially as the investigation afterwards revealed a slave girl, who had seemingly vanished after the dreadful event, had poisoned him. Archelaus had wondered if one of the other kings had had a hand in the affair, but the whole episode was shrouded in mystery, which fed his suspicions even more.
Amyntas and Polemon were shown into the throne room where four hundred and fifty tons of gold ingots were stacked in three piles, hanging above each one a banner to indicate who owned it. The apricot on a blue background, the eagle grasping a dolphin and a white boar on a red background indicated Cappadocia, Pontus and Galatia, respectively. Even to the most cynical eyes it was an impressive sight and prompted broad grins from both Amyntas and Polemon. As a gesture of courtesy, King Artaxias was also allowed into the chamber, though his golden bribe had already been delivered to Artaxata, along with Tiridates and Atrax. The two Parthians already felt embarrassed by the paucity of their contribution to the campaign: fifteen hundred exiles from Media and two hundred horsemen that accompanied the former high king of Parthia, all paid for by Rome. Tiridates had already been imbibing wine and it was only mid-morning, while Atrax looked like a man who had lost a pouch of gold and found a couple of drachmas. But already his cunning mind was thinking of how he would manipulate the situation when the army of the kings had forced Vanadzor to surrender and they had Castus in their hands. He would demand the immediate execution of the son of Spartacus and his own restoration to the throne of Media, which was his birthright. The present king of his kingdom, Akmon, could swap the throne of Irbil for that of Vanadzor and balance would once again be restored to Parthia. Or so his deluded brain believed.
Amyntas was picking up individual ingots and caressing them, much to the amusement of Archelaus, while Atrax was trying to maintain a dignified demeanour. Tiridates belched, promoting everyone to look at him.
‘Apologies,’ he muttered.
Gaius whispered into Archelaus’ ear.
‘Be my guest,’ said the king.
‘Friends and allies,’ began the Roman, ‘we are here today at the beginning of a journey to restore the balance of power between Parthia and Rome.’
He extended an arm towards the piles of gold.
‘As promised, Rome is financing the campaign to finally bring Gordyene to heel and send a powerful message to King of Kings Phraates that Rome stands by its allies. Augustus himself has informed me that he considers you all his brothers, united in the common cause of standing up to Parthian aggression.’
He looked at Tiridates and Atrax.
‘He also views this campaign as an opportunity to restore our Parthian friends to their respective thrones, to counter the aggressive voices at Phraates’ court with more moderate influences.’
Archelaus rose from his throne. ‘Thank you, ambassador. Last year, Castus, so-called King of Gordyene, not content with spreading pestilence in my fair city of Kayseri and laying waste to its vast vineyards and orchards, extorted twenty thousand talents of gold from the city authorities.’
‘Murdering robber,’ hissed Atrax.
‘Barbarian,’ slurred Tiridates.
Archelaus pointed to the east, or at least towards the closed doors of the chamber.
‘That gold was taken to Vanadzor where it remains.’
Gaius Arrianus nodded earnestly.
‘I intend to get it back once we have that insolent brat of a king in our possession,’ promised Archelaus, ‘and when I have it, I pledge that it will be equally shared between us all.’
Amyntas roared his approval and even Polemon applauded the decision. He glanced around the chamber at the others. Divided between five meant he would receive another four thousand talents of gold to add to the five thousand he had just been gifted. Nine thousand talents of gold – two hundred and seventy tons of the precious metal – was indeed a kingly sum. Whatever misgivings he had concerning the campaign were fast receding.
‘You are a most generous ally and friend,’ beamed the King of Pontus.
His smile diminished somewhat when a clearly concerned Titus Tullus entered the chamber, closing the doors behind him. He marched up to Polemon and saluted.
‘The Parthians are approaching the town, majesty.’
Polemon could hardly believe what he was hearing.
‘What? Surely you are mistaken?’
‘No mistake,’ answered Tullus, ‘our scouts have just reported in.’
‘Is there a problem, King Polemon?’ asked Archelaus.
‘Tell his majesty what you have just told me,’ said a now grim-faced Polemon.
Tullus stood to attention before the dais.
‘Scouts have just reported that the army of King Castus is around ten miles to the east of the town, majesty.’
Archelaus’ jaw dropped. ‘This cannot be. The scouts are mistaken.’
‘No mistake, majesty,’ said Tullus.
‘How many?’ Amyntas demanded to know.
‘Numbers are as yet unknown, majesty,’ answered Tullus.
There were a few seconds of silence before the big Gaul began chuckling.
‘Camulus smiles on us, my friends. This Castus, this whelp who thinks he is a great warlord, has saved us having to march into his own kingdom to destroy him. By nightfall, he will be dead and his army scattered to the four winds.’
‘He is arrogant like his mongrel father,’ spat Atrax.
‘And like his father he will end up skewered on the end of a Galatian spear,’ bragged Amyntas.
He began walking towards the doors.
‘My lord,’ said Polemon, ‘surely we should devise a battle plan before we march?’
‘The enemy is upon us,’ said Amyntas, ‘there is no time for plans. Besides, I remember the days spent planning the attack on the Parthians at Kayseri, and we all remember how that turned out.’
Archelaus stood. ‘King Amyntas is right. I cannot sit on my arse while the Parthians invade my kingdom for a second time. We will meet this impudent boy and stop him in his tracks.’
He marched from the dais, following Amyntas. Tiridates and Atrax likewise trailed after the Gaul, leaving Polemon with little option but to leave the throne room. Tullus went to follow his lord but was called back by his paymaster.
Gaius spoke in a hushed to
ne to the Roman.
‘How is it that the Parthians are knocking at Melitene’s door?’
‘I am as ignorant as you are, ambassador.’
‘It is three hundred miles from this town to Vanadzor, so we can discount the possibility it is a mere coincidence. That leads me to assume King Castus had prior warning of the campaign against him.’
Tullus was unconvinced. ‘A spy? None of the kings has anything to gain from informing Castus of the intention to invade Gordyene.’
‘And yet here we are,’ said Gaius. ‘The town is well provisioned?’
‘Well enough, though I doubt the Parthians are considering staying longer than necessary.’
‘Longer than it takes to defeat the army of our valued allies, you mean.’
Tullus nodded. ‘I should be with King Polemon.’
‘Your task is to safeguard the town and this gold, general. We may need both in the event of an emergency. Secure the palace. I will pen a note to the governor of Syria to alert him of the situation.’
‘It would all come down to a battle with Castus anyway,’ said Tullus. ‘At least now we don’t have to face him deep in his own territory. If I was him, I would have lured us to a place of my choosing.’
‘Then let is thank the gods you are not King Castus, general. May Mars smile on us this day.’
*****
The fertile plain around Melitene, abutting the headwaters of the Euphrates and surrounded by the high ranges of the eastern Taurus Mountains, was ideal terrain for armies to manoeuvre in. Kewab knew this and had made a mental note of it when he and the rest of the Parthian army had passed through it the year before. Castus had at the time been nursing a grievance against King Pacorus concerning surrendering twenty thousand talents of gold to the Romans and had taken no notice of the landscape in which he and his army now found themselves in. But Kewab thanked the Egyptian gods he still prayed to when he realised he would have to fight on the plain.