by Peter Darman
When they had first fled Egypt, making their way through Judea and Syria to reach Dura, they were relieved to be still alive. Kewab had offered his services to the army and he and his wife had lived in a very modest house in the city, Menwi giving birth to a child, a boy, and being content to be a soldier’s wife. Or so I thought. But that was twelve years ago and since then Kewab had risen in the world, becoming the man who had single-handedly held Parthia’s eastern frontier against the Kushans. The great victories at Kayseri and Melitene had elevated his reputation still further, which was why Agrippa was in Dura.
For her part, Menwi had given Kewab a second son during his time in the east and had also become used to living in the royal palace in Farah, the capital of Aria. How bitter must have been her return to Dura to live in a simple house again, albeit a mansion complete with servants, horses, gardeners and stable hands. The latter relieved me of Horns when I had eased my way out of his saddle after reaching Kewab’s home, which was surrounded by a high stone wall to keep out unwanted guests. The mansion itself had white-painted walls to reflect the sun’s heat and a red-tiled roof supported by white stone columns. All the floors were tiled with white marble and the interior walls and ceilings were white throughout to give it a spacious and airy feel.
Kewab and Menwi stood in the reception hall and welcomed me to their home, the satrap dressed in a simple white tunic and tan leggings, the attire of a common horse archer. Menwi’s attire and appearance were altogether more elaborate. Like many Egyptian noblewomen, she wore a black wig over her own hair of the same colour, with blue eyeshadow and antinomy to line her eyes and eyebrows. Now in her mid-thirties, her light olive skin was flawless, what I could see of it. Alcaeus had told me the length of the dress worn by Egyptian women was in direct proportion to their social status. The longer the dress, the more important the wearer. And Menwi’s white dress reached all the way down to her expensive red leather shoes.
Her dark brown eyes followed me as I hobbled into the reception hall, the steward taking my sword after I had unbuckled the belt. My horse archer escort, which would wait outside the mansion, were served refreshments by other servants.
Kewab and Menwi bowed their heads.
‘Welcome to our home, majesty,’ he said.
‘Thank you for inviting me,’ I smiled.
I was introduced to his two sons, Ramesses, the oldest, and Seti, aged six. They bowed, avoiding my eyes, and were then ushered from our presence by a rather stern looking nanny. Kewab invited me into the dining room where burning oil lamps were suspended over a long table. I eased myself into a large wicker chair generously stuffed with cushions and picked up a silver rhyton after it had been filled with wine, raising it to my lips.
‘We give thanks to Ra before we eat,’ said a scowling Menwi.
I put down the rhyton.
‘Apologies, majesty,’ said Kewab.
Before I could tell him it was quite all right, Menwi’s voice filled the dining room.
‘Hail to thee, Amun-Ra, lord of the thrones of the earth, the oldest existence, ancient of heaven, support of all things; chief of the gods, lord of truth; father of the gods, maker of men, beasts and herbs; maker of all things above and below; deliverer of the sufferer and oppressed, judge of the poor; lord of wisdom, lord of mercy; most loving, opener of every eye, source of joy, in whose goodness the gods rejoice, thou whose name is hidden. Thou art the one, maker of all that is, the one; the only one; maker of gods and men; giving food to all. Hail to thee, thou one with many heads; sleepless when all others sleep. Adoration to thee. Hail to thee from all creatures from every land, from the height of heaven, from the depths of the sea. The spirits thou hast made extol thee, saying, welcome to thee, father of the fathers of the gods; we worship thy spirit which is in us.’
She then clapped her hands to signal the meal could begin.
It was a lavish affair, with honey-roasted gazelle, spit-roasted ducks, strips of fish in sauce, wild vegetables and onions. An endless procession of side dishes included bread, cheese, butter, raisins, figs and nuts.
‘You have spoken to Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa?’ I asked Kewab.
‘I have, majesty.’
‘A most charming man,’ opined Menwi. ‘He has offered my husband the governorship of Egypt.’
I picked up a raisin. ‘I am aware of Rome’s offer, lady.’
‘Then you are also aware of Parthia’s ingratitude shown to my husband for saving the eastern half of the empire,’ she hissed back with barely concealed venom, ‘to say nothing of the services rendered by him on Parthia’s western border during the last two years.’
‘Menwi, that is enough,’ Kewab rebuked her.
I popped the raisin into my mouth. ‘I understand your frustration, lady, but understand that the Romans do nothing out of the kindness of their hearts. They wish to steal your husband to weaken Parthia, and they dangle the prospect of governor of Egypt before him to lure him away.’
‘My husband is not a child to be seduced by a trinket,’ she shot back, much to the embarrassment of Kewab. ‘He is Parthia’s greatest general.’
Kewab’s mouth dropped open. ‘I must apologise again, majesty.’
I picked up another raisin. They were delicious and must have been soaked in honey before the meal.
‘I agree, your husband is Parthia’s greatest general, and I most strongly desire that he should remain so. In Parthia.’
This delighted Kewab but perplexed his viper of a wife.
‘What is a Roman governor,’ I asked, ‘but a glorified tax collector?’
‘The governor of Egypt commands an army of twenty-seven thousand troops and a fleet of Nile ships,’ stated Menwi.
I ate a third raisin. ‘They are not soldiers, lady, more a police force to impose Rome’s laws and extract money from Egypt’s population.’
I looked at Kewab. ‘How long does a Roman governor hold his position?’
‘Around five or six years, majesty,’ he replied.
‘And after that?’ I asked.
‘The full restoration of General Achillas’ estates to my husband, and compensation to myself for the loss of my father’s linen business when he and my mother were imprisoned and later executed by the whore Cleopatra,’ Menwi answered.
‘Agrippa showed us documents signed by Augustus himself confirming the return of our respective families’ wealth and lands, majesty,’ confirmed Kewab.
‘I cannot see you running a linen business, Kewab,’ I smiled.
‘He will not,’ said Menwi, ‘I will be running the business.’
I laughed. ‘You?’
Menwi was not laughing. ‘Unlike in Parthia, in Egypt women can own and operate their own businesses, work at a trade, inherit property and train in medicine. In Egypt, we will be able to live in our own palace, to live in the lifestyle we have become accustomed to.’
Live like a queen is what she meant. She was dripping with gold, from her earrings, diamond-encrusted necklace, armlets and the gold rings adorning every one of her fingers. I looked at Kewab, whose loyalty to me, Dura and Parthia had never faltered despite being stripped of his position of lord high general in the east and Satrap of Aria. He had been recalled by Phraates in response to the great threat against Gordyene and had risen to the challenge, winning a victory that had made all my battlefield triumphs pale into insignificance. And his reward? To be dismissed a second time by an ungrateful king of kings. And yet the high king might yet be able to rescue the situation.
‘Have you given Agrippa your answer to his offer?’ I asked Kewab.
‘No yet, majesty.’
‘Then I ask you to delay your decision until I have spoken personally to King of Kings Phraates.’
Menwi rolled her eyes but Kewab froze her with a glare.
‘I shall inform Agrippa he will have my decision when you have returned from Ctesiphon, majesty,’ he said happily.
When I returned to the Citadel it was late, Agrippa having retired to his quar
ters, the palace quiet and filled with long shadows. I found Gallia in our bedroom, brushing her hair in front of a mirror of polished bronze. I flopped down on the bed and stared at the ceiling.
‘Have you heard of the Nile crocodile?’
‘Vaguely.’
‘Five hundred pounds of teeth and a vicious man-eater. Well, tonight I met one.’
She turned to stare at me. ‘Have you been drinking?’
‘Not enough, unfortunately.’
‘I thought you were dining with Kewab?’
‘I was, although I got the distinct feeling I was on the menu. His wife is a fearsome creature.’
‘In what way?’
‘Very outspoken to the point of rudeness.’
‘You mean she sticks up for herself.’
I propped myself up on an elbow. ‘Menwi seems to forget that her position is entirely dependent on Kewab, and yet if you had been at the meal, you would have thought she was the great military leader who had been insulted.’
‘That is because you know nothing of Egyptian society, Pacorus.’
‘I know its women have tongues sharper than a sword blade.’
She ignored my barb. ‘Egyptian society maintains a duality between the male and the female. Just as its people worship both the sun and the moon. The sun is associated with the divine male, the moon with the divine female. Female voices are not crushed in Egypt as they are in Rome and Parthia.’
‘Yes, you look very crushed.’
‘Women can become pharaohs in Egypt, and no one questions their authority. Is Kewab going to accept Agrippa’s offer?’
‘He will delay his decision until I have journeyed to Ctesiphon.’
She was surprised. ‘To what end?’
‘To persuade Phraates to offer Kewab a position commensurate to his status and talents in order to prevent him leaving Parthia. To appeal to his reason and common sense.’
‘What use is appealing to things that do not exist?’
Kewab informed Agrippa of his decision to delay giving him an answer until I had returned from Ctesiphon. The next day, the Roman accepted the Egyptian’s invitation to visit Palmyra and King Malik and Queen Jamal rather than linger in the palace. From there he would journey back to Syria and on to Cyprus and Italy. Aa a parting gift I gave him the lavish silk robes that had been made for my sixtieth birthday, and which had been stored away in a wooden chest. They made me look like a Persian eunuch and so, though they had been a gift from Byrd, I reasoned that he would not be upset if they were used to improve Romano-Parthian relations.
Agrippa was genuinely touched and thanked me profusely. On the day he departed in the company of Kewab, the robes in the chest strapped on the back of a spitting, ill-tempered camel, he stood beside me at the top of the palace steps. Kewab, Rsan, Aaron, Ira, Almas and Chrestus were also in attendance, the Amazons on parade and a century of Exiles standing to attention in the courtyard below. The day was overcast but warm, rivulets of sweat running down the cheeks of Agrippa’s mail-clad Syrian horsemen.
Gallia stepped forward and kissed him on the cheek.
‘Rome would like to see the Queen of Dura grace it with her presence, majesty.’
Gallia smiled. ‘I will consider your kind offer, Marcus.’
Agrippa turned to me. ‘And the senate would welcome you giving a speech to its august members, majesty.’
‘I’ve never given a speech in my life,’ I told him.
‘Now that you have retired from military service, majesty, I am sure you could turn to oratory to impart your wisdom to the world. Perhaps this might help.’
He unfastened his dagger in its sheath and handed it to me. ‘From one friend to another, majesty.’
‘I will endeavour to wear it with honour, Marcus,’ I said.
We watched the second-most powerful individual in the Roman world trot from the Citadel in the company of Kewab. The symbolism of his visit had been enormous, and I was glad to have lived long enough to see Parthian and Roman generals sit down to dine together as opposed to butchering each other on the battlefield. But I was determined that one Parthian general would not be wearing the uniform of Rome. I turned to Almas.
‘You and I are going to pay a visit to that farmer friend of yours.’
We rode a few miles south of the city to a ramshackle building with stables attached and a well for water. The former office-cum-farmhouse was empty and so we trotted on. Around us dozens of labourers and farmers were working in ripened fields of wheat, which extended as far as the eye could see both south and west into what had formally been barren desert. I pulled up Horns to admire the sun-ripened crops.
‘Your determination and vision have made this possible, Almas,’ I told him in admiration. ‘Of all the victories won by Dura, yours over what was once barren land stands tallest.’
‘The peace you brokered with the Agraci all those years ago has allowed Dura to develop its agriculture, majesty. Without peace, there would be no crops or farmers to grow them.’
Our small self-admiration society meeting was interrupted by the appearance of what I first thought was a beggar: an old man dressed in a filthy tunic, frayed leggings and nothing on his feet. He was wearing a straw hat to shield his leering face from the sun, which had turned his sinewy arms almost black over the years.
‘Deputy Governor Almas,’ he grinned, revealing uneven, stained teeth. ‘We don’t often have the pleasure of your company.’
‘This is Cambiz, majesty,’ Almas said to me, ‘the old rogue I placed with Klietas to assist him on his farm.’
Cambiz squinted at me, quickly removed his hat and bowed his head.
‘Begging your pardon, majesty, I didn’t recognise you.’
‘I desire information about Klietas,’ I said.
‘He’s gone, majesty,’ Cambiz replied.
‘I know that,’ I said. ‘I want to know where he went. Do you know the name of his village in Media?’
He concentrated for a moment before shaking his head.
‘He told me once, but I’ve clean forgotten, majesty.’
‘Think, man,’ snapped Almas.
Cambiz shrugged. ‘It never cropped up much in conversation, lord, not like that she-devil he was besotted with.’
‘Haya,’ I sighed.
‘Met her once,’ said Cambiz, ‘just before Klietas left with her. When he came back, he was not the same. Perhaps she knows where he took himself off to, majesty.’
I had questioned Haya concerning the whereabouts of Klietas, and indeed all the others whom Gallia had sent north to do her dirty work, but neither she nor they could shine any light on the name of Klietas’ village.
‘Shame,’ reflected Cambiz, looking around at the fields, ‘he had a lucrative business going for him. Now he is probably starving somewhere, all because of a woman.’
‘That’s enough from you,’ Almas cautioned the older man
Cambiz shrugged. ‘He was not the first to be ruined by a tight behind, tidy breasts and a dazzling smile, and he won’t be the last.’
‘Cambiz!’ Almas shouted in frustration.
I nodded. ‘You speak the truth, however crude. Do you think Klietas will return?’
‘No, majesty, not in this lifetime.’
‘The farm prospers?’
‘Yes, majesty.’ Cambiz tilted his head at Almas. ‘I work it for Lord Almas since Klietas is no longer with us.’
I tugged on Horns’ reins to wheel him around.
‘Work it for yourself. You own it now.’
Almas registered surprise and Cambiz beamed with delight. We trotted away.
‘That was very generous, majesty,’ said Almas. ‘Cambiz knows a lot about farming but is a notorious womaniser and gambler. Whether he keeps hold of the farm is open to debate.’
‘It was obviously the will of the gods that he rather than Klietas should tend to the farm,’ I said.
And it was surely the intervention of the gods that placed me at that spot at that parti
cular time, for I heard Cambiz shout and pulled up Horns.
‘Aref, over here.’
I spun in the saddle to peer at a figure ambling towards Cambiz, a reed basket on his back, and turned Horns to direct him back towards the farmer. Why I did not know but something, an instinct, a sixth sense, told me the stranger was of value. Or perhaps it was Shamash himself whispering into my ear.
The newcomer was obviously wretchedly poor judging by his filthy, tatty clothing, though his condition did not appear to weigh heavily upon him judging by the happy-go-lucky expression on his face. Cambiz saw us return and waited for the newcomer to get close before speaking.
‘Aref, this is the king.’
The man called Aref grinned to reveal a mouth with no teeth and bowed.
‘The gods bless you, majesty.’
He took the basket off his back, placed it on the ground and reached into it to pull out a fish, a carp.
‘Aref was a friend of Klietas, majesty, who has a farm near the river. Young Klietas let him use his oxen for free in exchange for a fish supper every night.’
Aref held out the fish to me. ‘Caught earlier, majesty. You and the queen are welcome to have it for your meal tonight.’
‘That is very generous of you, Aref,’ I said, ‘but I have enough fish to eat.’
Aref, disappointed, put the fish back in the basket.
‘The king wishes to know where Klietas has gone,’ said Cambiz.
Aref slung the basket on his back. ‘The village of Vazneh, ten miles south of the great lake.’
I jumped down from Horns and confronted Aref, who stank of fish guts.
‘Are you certain?’
‘Vazneh, ten miles south of the great lake,’ Aref repeated. He was clearly mentally deficient but, like many with such an affliction, had a memory that recorded minutiae that he could divulge with ease, like a clerk consulting itemised scrolls in a library.