Sarmatian

by Peter Darman

  Ashk took the Roman’s cloak before he seated himself and enquired if he wanted to retire to his bedchamber to rest. Agrippa told him he was not in need of sleep. I noticed the gold brooch on the red cloak, which was decorated with a scarab motif.

  I pointed at it. ‘An Egyptian design, I believe.’

  ‘You have a keen eye, majesty’ said Agrippa, accepting a silver rhyton of wine from a female servant. ‘It was a gift from Augustus after the successful conclusion of the Egyptian campaign against Mark Antony and Cleopatra.’

  ‘Did you ever meet her?’ asked Gallia.

  Agrippa smiled when he tasted the quality of the wine.

  ‘Cleopatra? A few times, majesty.’

  Gallia was intrigued. ‘What was she like?’

  ‘Devious, untrustworthy and a corrupter of men,’ he replied bluntly. ‘Because of her, Rome was wracked by civil strife for years.’

  Gallia caught my eye. Rome’s internal strife had been to Parthia’s gain, and we both wondered what new challenges a united Roman world would pose to the empire. Gallia grabbed the bull by the horns.

  ‘Parthia wonders if a united Rome will once again seek to expand its eastern frontier at the expense of Parthia.’

  ‘Caesar Augustus has stated that the Euphrates is the permanent boundary between Rome and Parthia, majesty,’ said Agrippa, ‘and does not wish to jeopardise the peace that now exists between the two.’

  ‘If you have come to Dura to hasten the return of the eagles lost at Carrhae and Lake Urmia, you should know that Dura, or its king, has withdrawn from the politics of the empire,’ I told him.

  ‘I am not here concerning the eagles, majesty,’ he replied.

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Satrap Kewab, majesty.’

  Gallia’s mask of civility slipped.

  ‘Kewab is under Dura’s protection and is not answerable to Rome’s laws.’

  ‘You misunderstand me, majesty,’ said Agrippa in haste. ‘I am not here for justice against Satrap Kewab but am authorised to offer him the post of governor of Egypt on behalf of Augustus Caesar.’

  I nearly spilt my wine and Gallia’s jaw dropped in astonishment.

  ‘I believe that the satrap is currently without an official position,’ added Agrippa, ‘having been relieved of his duties by King of Kings Phraates.’

  I should have been annoyed at this Roman who had dared to step into my kingdom to try to steal one of its jewels. But I had to admit it made perfect sense. For years Parthia had been watching and studying Rome and its leaders as a way of preparing for any threats that might appear on its western frontier. And Rome had been studying us. Alcaeus had remarked that Kewab had become the talk of the eastern Roman world, and word of his military prowess had obviously reached Rome itself. The Romans must have known Kewab had been dismissed from his position as lord high general in the east and Satrap of Aria, that kingdom now ruled by King Altan, much to my regret. And whereas Phraates had created Kewab deputy lord high general during the recent campaign against the enemies of Gordyene, it was only because the incumbent lord high general, King Ali of Atropaiene, had been unable to take the field on account of his broken ankle. I gave Agrippa a knowing look. He knew, as did I, that Kewab was a man without a real position, a satrap without a land to rule and lord of a town that was in a foreign land.

  ‘Kewab fled Egypt to seek sanctuary in Parthia,’ said Gallia. ‘Why would he want to return to a land where there is a price on his head?’

  ‘You are alluding to a time when Egypt was devoid of law and order, majesty,’ smiled Agrippa, ‘when civil strife between Cleopatra and her brother Ptolemy over who would be pharaoh resulted in much bloodshed. Fortunately, both are dead, and Egypt is under the firm rule of Rome.’

  ‘That being the case, why would Rome wish a Parthian general to be placed in charge of its province?’ asked Gallia.

  ‘Augustus believes an Egyptian in charge of Egypt would facilitate a peaceful and prosperous province,’ said Agrippa. ‘Moreover, a man with Kewab’s reputation would act as a deterrence to those thinking of inciting rebellion.’

  ‘Kewab has explained to me how his father was murdered on the orders of the younger sister of Cleopatra, whose name escapes me,’ I said.

  ‘Arsinoe,’ offered Agrippa.

  ‘Yes, that’s her,’ I nodded. ‘At the time of his murder, Kewab’s father was besieging the palace in Alexandria where Cleopatra and Julius Caesar were in residence.’

  Agrippa nodded. ‘Yes, majesty.’

  ‘And if I am not mistaken,’ I continued, ‘was not Julius Caesar the great-uncle of your master, Augustus Caesar?’

  ‘Yes, majesty.’

  I took a sip of wine. ‘And Augustus Caesar would have no objection to an enemy of his uncle ruling Egypt in his name?’

  ‘Caesar wishes to draw a line under the past, majesty, to put in place measures that will secure the future rather than rake over what has passed.’

  ‘Very noble,’ said Gallia. ‘But why have you yourself bothered to journey here, when a simple letter to Kewab would have sufficed?’

  ‘Not that we are not happy to see you, Marcus,’ I quickly added. ‘It cheers me that Romans and Parthians can enjoy each other’s company.’

  Agrippa smiled at Gallia. ‘Out of courtesy and respect for the rulers of Dura. Caesar, and I concurred, was adamant that all dealings with regard to Satrap Kewab should be conducted openly and honestly, in the spirit of the healthy relations that now exist between Rome and Parthia.’

  I raised my rhyton to him. ‘And Dura both appreciates and respects the forthrightness Augustus Caesar has displayed in this matter.’

  Agrippa was the consummate diplomat, never once mentioning the fact both I and Gallia had once been slaves in Italy, never referring to our participation in the Spartacus uprising, or the Servile War as the Romans termed it. He was at all times polite and made great efforts to be a considerate guest, his charm and good manners winning over Gallia, which was no small feat in itself. I sent a courier to Mari to bring Kewab back to the city. He had taken an interest in the rebuilding works, which allowed him to be near the troops he had brought with him from the east. Because Dura did not have an army of slaves to call upon, the laborious task of producing mud-bricks had to be undertaken by Kewab’s troops and the exiles from Mesene. But as they were making what would be the bricks for their own homes, there was a general dearth of grumbling. The huge building project also kept thousands of men fully occupied and was a way of integrating them smoothly into the kingdom.

  The process of making mud-bricks was simple enough, though messy and time-consuming. Soil and water were mixed to produce a thick mud, to which was added chopped straw. The composite mixture was then kneaded by feet for up to four days, after which it was left alone for another four days. The mixture was then poured into moulds and left for a while before being deposited on a drying floor sprinkled with sand and straw to prevent them sticking. After a week of drying, they were ready to be used as bricks for building or repairs.

  While we waited for Kewab’s return, I showed Agrippa around Dura. For a man used to living in Rome, Alexandria and Athens, my city must have been a disappointment. But if it was, he never let it show. He was clearly impressed by the size of the caravan park immediately north of the city, which was always full of camel caravans travelling east and west. We rode to the park the day after Agrippa had arrived and before he was due to meet Kewab that afternoon. As well as the guards employed by the caravan bosses themselves, the area was patrolled by Chrestus’ legionaries to maintain law and order.

  It was like a small city beside the larger one of stone and mud-bricks where I lived, a sprawl of tents, camels, horses, bored and irritable guards and equally flustered camel drivers. Swarming around them and their animals was a small army of traders offering food, clothes and tickets to the city brothels, government officials charging fees, and squads of soldiers patrolling the chaos.

  ‘It is a curious thing,’ said
Agrippa, looking around the caravan park. ‘All I see is camels, tents, people and horses, majesty, and yet within this park is the great wealth that has made your kingdom rich.’

  I nodded. ‘It is ironic the commodity for which there is an insatiable demand in Egypt, Parthia and the Roman world is light, compact and ideally suited to long-distance transportation.’

  I pointed at the tents. ‘The silk is stored in the living quarters whilst in the park and carried on camels when on the move. The caravans also transport dyes, precious stones, spices and medicines, all items that are relatively easy to transport on the backs of camels.’

  ‘Do you levy tariffs on each commodity, majesty?’

  I shook my head. ‘We do not interfere with or examine the goods transported by the caravans, and neither do the other kingdoms the caravans pass through.’

  He looked perplexed. ‘Then how does Dura make money?’

  ‘It charges a fee for every animal quartered in the park, and all traders selling their wares in the park are required to purchase business licences from the city authorities beforehand.’

  ‘Each stopping place charges similar fees?’

  I nodded.

  ‘It must cost a great deal to transport silk from China to the Mediterranean.’

  ‘It does,’ I said. ‘But consider this. Each of my wife’s bodyguards, the Amazons, wears a simple white sleeveless silk vest beneath her tunic. If she had to purchase the vest, it would cost her a year’s wages. And that is for a very basic garment. Those worn by the fine ladies of Egypt and Rome, not to mention their husbands, can cost four or five times that amount. The caravan bosses do not starve.’

  ‘May I ask why the queen’s bodyguards wear silk, majesty?’

  ‘As a defence against arrows,’ I told him. ‘If an arrowhead pierces their mail armour, the silk makes it easier to extract from the torso. An arrow spins in flight, you see, and the silk would not tear but rather wraps itself around the metal head, thus making it easier to extract it from any wound cleanly.’

  He sat still in the saddle, pondering what I had told him, around us the bustle, noise and pungent aromas of Dura’s caravan park. Our horse archer escort swatted away flies from their faces, their horses using their tails to flick away the winged irritants.

  ‘There is another matter I wish to speak to you about, majesty,’ he said at last, ‘a rather delicate matter.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Caesar is most troubled by the behaviour of Gordyene, majesty, specifically its king. Whereas no one blames King Castus for defending his kingdom against the aggression of Pontus, Cappadocia and Galatia, he is concerned King Castus will take advantage of the current weakness of those kingdoms and launch a fresh war against Rome’s allies.’

  I smiled. ‘You need not have any worry on that account, Marcus,’ I reassured him. ‘King Castus will only send his soldiers beyond his borders if he is provoked.’

  I told him the story of how Prince Haytham had become gravely ill after his father, King Spartacus, had annexed northern Media, and how Claudia had travelled to Gordyene and explained the legend of the lion called Gordis, and how she had cured Haytham.

  Agrippa was fascinated. ‘How did she cure him, majesty?’

  ‘With pen and parchment, I believe.’

  ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘She persuaded Spartacus to write an order recalling all his soldiers from northern Media and got his pledge that he would never again try to expand Gordyene at the expense of that kingdom.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘The soldiers returned to Gordyene and Prince Haytham recovered,’ I replied.

  ‘I have heard your daughter is a powerful sorceress, majesty.’

  ‘Please inform Caesar that he should not worry himself unduly about Gordyene,’ I said, changing the subject. ‘Castus will not seek to expand the frontiers of his kingdom. Besides, he has a wedding to look forward to.’

  ‘A wedding?’

  ‘I hear he is to marry the daughter of King Ali of Atropaiene, which should swell Gordyene’s coffers. The princess will command a big dowry.’

  Agrippa looked around the caravan park.

  ‘King Castus must now be one of the wealthiest kings in Parthia, majesty. His recent campaign won him not only a great victory, but also twenty-five thousand talents of gold.’

  I looked at him in amazement. ‘That much?’

  ‘The price of convincing him to retire from Melitene cost Cappadocia, Pontus and Galatia a combined total of twenty thousand talents, majesty, plus the five thousand talents King Artaxias of Armenia paid to Gordyene to keep the peace.’

  Twenty-five talents of gold – equivalent to seven hundred and fifty tons of the precious metal – was a huge sum. I worried that a young king with a victorious army and a full treasury might be tempted into rashness. Perhaps wiser heads would prevail. I prayed to Shamash it would be so.

  I began coughing when a gust of wind blew dust into our faces. I turned Horns.

  ‘I think we should get back to the palace, Marcus, before we begin to reek of horse and camel dung.’

  He wheeled his horse around and rode beside me as we trotted from the park.

  ‘What is done, with all the dung, I mean?’

  I laughed. ‘Romans are a most practical people. It is collected and the horse dung is sold as fertilizer, the camel dung is left out in the sun to dry it before being used as a substitute for firewood.’

  At the Palmyrene Gate there was the usual press of people, carts, donkeys, camels and horses either exiting or entering the city, the vine cane of a hot and humourless centurion directing traffic. The commander of our escort rode forward and began shouting.

  ‘Make way for the king, make way for the king.’

  But he had difficulty making himself heard above the cacophony of raised voices, camels bellowing, roaring and bleating, and the braying of donkeys.

  ‘The sights and sounds of prosperity, Marcus,’ I shouted. ‘It was very different when I first arrived at Dura all those years ago.’

  I pointed up at the walls. ‘The first person I met upon arrival was the city governor, whose body was hanging from the walls. The gates were closed, and nothing stirred. Would you like to take a closer look?’

  ‘Majesty?’

  I pointed up at the stone statue above the gates.

  ‘Very much so, majesty.’

  We left the horses with the commander of the escort and made our way on foot through the slow-moving throng, the centurion spotting me and ordering half a dozen of his men to close around us. As soon as I was recognised, people tried to crowd round me, not with ill intent but to wish me well and savour the moment of being within touching distance of their king. Kings and queens were for the most part remote figures who rode on horses surrounded by guards and lived in walled palaces high above the general populace. The idea of being in close proximity of the common people filled them and their nobles with dread, not least because if they were unpopular, they risked being assassinated. There was also the chance of becoming infected with some sort of dreadful disease from those who did not have access to doctors, medicines, baths, clean clothes and fresh bedding. Having spent weeks as a stinking, barefoot slave and three years in the company of a slave army, being close to commoners never troubled me. The same could not be said of Agrippa, who looked genuinely alarmed at the wall of smiling, filthy, misshapen faces that surrounded us.

  His calm demeanour returned once we had ascended the steps to take us above the gates where the stone griffin stood gazing to the west, keeping watch over the road that led to Palmyra, the highway that gave Dura its great wealth. Protected day and night by four guards standing at each corner of the stone plinth on which it rested, the griffin was the silent guardian of the city and kingdom.

  Agrippa ran a hand over the stone.

  ‘It is a curious thing. Before this statue was carved, it was just a block of stone. And now it is a sacred totem, a symbol of Dura’s strength and pros
perity.’

  ‘We are all mere superstitious mortals, Marcus,’ I said. I pointed to the dagger in a sheath at his hip, the only weapon he carried.

  ‘May I look at your dagger?’

  He pulled it from the sheath and handed it to me. It was a simple affair with a triangular-shaped blade, brass hilt, wooden grip and brass pommel.

  ‘A parazonium dagger, as carried by the Goddess Virtus, I believe, who presides over bravery and military strength. A small, insignificant weapon but one with enormous symbolism.’

  He was delighted. ‘How knowledgeable you are, majesty.’

  I handed it back to him. ‘Those who carry it are associated with might and leadership,’ I said, ‘and hope to be blessed with the qualities of the goddess. We are all toys of the gods, Marcus.’

  That afternoon Kewab returned to the city and Marcus met with him to discuss him becoming governor of Egypt. I was determined that Parthia would not lose such a valuable son but was equally determined to play a subtle game with regard to Agrippa and his master’s offer. I might yet persuade Kewab to stay in Parthia, but I had reckoned without the influence of Menwi, his wife.

  Chapter 2

  I knew little about the heritage, culture and politics of Egypt, and seeing as it was a Roman province and far from Dura and Parthia, I saw little reason to study its history in depth. I was grateful its nobles craved silk and therefore indirectly supported Dura’s economy, and I was happy that one of its more famous sons had sought sanctuary in Dura after the murder of his famous father. Had I taken the time and effort to learn more about Egyptian society, it would have prepared me for the verbal roasting I would receive from Kewab’s wife.