Sarmatian

by Peter Darman

  ‘Follow me,’ he said curtly, scuttling away down a dimly lit corridor leading to a large room filled with rows of shelves holding papyrus scrolls.

  ‘Don’t touch anything,’ he snapped, muttering under his breath, suddenly stopping at the end of a row of shelves and turning to me.

  ‘Can your majesty inform me of the name of the lord who rules the land this village you are looking for is situated in?’

  ‘I cannot,’ I said, holding out a piece of papyrus on which the name of the village was written. ‘But I know the name of the village.’

  Dilshad huffed dismissively. ‘Does your majesty know how many villages there are in the Kingdom of Media?’

  ‘Not off the top of my head, no.’

  A groan. ‘Hundreds, which makes giving me its name meaningless.’

  ‘It is ten miles south of the great lake,’ I stressed, beginning to lose my patience.

  A flicker of interest. ‘Ah, that will narrow down the options. Please follow me.’

  Off he scuttled again, disappearing down another row of shelves holding what looked like hundreds of papyrus scrolls. I followed, the end of my scabbard banging against a desk leg of a scholar-librarian writing on papyrus. He gave me a murderous look as ink spilled on the papyrus.

  ‘Have a care,’ hissed Dilshad.

  The library was a strange place, a building with small windows cut high in the walls to allow some light to enter, though not enough to read without the aid of an oil lamp. The subdued lighting was to preserve the scrolls and make the room cooler than if it had been exposed to large amounts of sunlight. But oil lamps were dangerous in a hall containing wooden shelving and thousands of bone-dry papyrus scrolls, and so attendants patrolled the desks at which scholars and scribes worked, keeping a close eye out for any dangers.

  ‘Bring me light,’ Dilshad said to one such attendant, who rushed off to do his master’s bidding.

  ‘Here we are,’ said the chief librarian, pulling a scroll from a shelf.

  He walked to a nearby empty desk and sat at it, looking up at me when I casually went to pluck a scroll from its resting place.

  ‘Do not touch anything,’ he hissed.

  The attendant returned with an oil lamp and placed it on the desk. Dilshad was still muttering to himself as he unrolled the scroll. Each scroll was identical, the papyrus being rolled around a winding boss, the text becoming visible to the reader as he wound the scroll from right to left, as Dilshad did now. The text was organised in columns, each scroll containing around fifteen hundred lines of handwritten text. For ease of reference, each scroll had a parchment ticket glued to its edge, which stuck out when the scroll was laid flat and which recorded what it contained.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Dilshad to himself, peering at a column of text. ‘There, Vazneh.’

  I moved closer to examine the text and saw Vazneh listed.

  ‘The village belongs to Lord Nerseh, or used to.’

  ‘Used to?’ I queried.

  Dilshad pointed to a black cross against the lord’s name.

  ‘He is dead, majesty, most probably killed in the Battle of Mepsila. I have a list of casualties if you wish to see it.’

  ‘That will not be necessary. Is there a map of Lord Nerseh’s lands?’

  He carefully rolled up the scroll and looked up at me.

  ‘There is, though you may not take it out of the library. I will have a copy made for you.’

  He rose and stepped across to the shelf to replace the scroll.

  ‘How long will that take?’ I asked.

  ‘As long as takes,’ he answered testily, shaking his head as he walked away with the oil lamp.

  I retraced my steps, absently glancing left and right at ancient and new scrolls, the history of the Kingdom of Media gathered in one place. Dura had the minutes of the weekly royal council meetings and the accounts of the kingdom, but nothing to compare to the records stored in this library. I shuddered when I thought of King Spartacus capturing such a place, and I was glad I, and Gafarn, had prevented him from capturing Irbil in the aftermath of the Battle of Mepsila.

  ‘If someone had told me that one day I would find the King of Dura in Irbil’s library, I would have scoffed at the idea. But here you are, a retired warlord seeking knowledge.’

  I recognised the voice and saw a huddled figure sitting at a desk, poring over a scroll. A bony hand pointed to the desk adjacent to her own.

  ‘Sit down, son of Hatra.’

  I did so, smiling at the haggard face encased by a black hood, her visage cast in a dim yellow light by the oil lamp flickering on the desk. I pointed at the scroll.

  ‘Are you researching the ingredients of a new poison?’

  ‘Don’t be facetious, it does not suit you. You are still angry with Gallia, I take it. That would account for your childish decision not to bring the Amazons with you on this current mission.’

  ‘I have an escort that is quite sufficient.’

  ‘So, you go to rescue the young farmer?’

  The hairs on the back of my neck stood up in alarm.

  ‘Rescue him from what?’

  She rolled up the scroll and peered at me, her black eyes looking into my soul.

  ‘I thought you had retired from military affairs?’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘I have to tell you, son of Hatra, if you go north you risk unravelling all that you have laboured to achieve.’

  ‘I am just going to try to persuade Klietas to return with me to Dura, that is all.’

  She sighed. ‘Still concerning yourself with the welfare of waifs and strays after all these years. Have you learned nothing, son of Hatra? Some individuals cannot be saved.’

  ‘I owe Klietas a great debt,’ I insisted. ‘He saved my life.’

  ‘And was richly rewarded for it, too richly in my opinion.’

  ‘He was wronged.’

  ‘No mawkishness, please. I advise you not to go north, not that you ever took any notice of my advice. Men have a stubborn streak that can be infuriating.’

  ‘What lies in the north that worries you?’ I probed.

  She ignored my question. ‘How is Gallia?’

  ‘As hard and unyielding as ever.’

  ‘You object to her despatching assassins to kill Parthia’s enemies?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It is underhand.’

  A low cackle. ‘But more efficient.’

  ‘Than what?’

  ‘Two armies spending all day butchering each other. Do you ever think about the countless thousands who have died because of your orders?’

  ‘I have never unsheathed my sword except in the defence of the empire.’

  ‘That is not quite true, son of Hatra. What about when you marched into Persis to take revenge on Prince Alexander, who was responsible for raping Claudia?’

  ‘Am I on trial?’

  She changed the subject. ‘Claudia has exceeded my expectations.’

  I thought of my carefree young daughter who had turned into the aloof, calculating Scythian Sister at Phraates’ right hand.

  ‘It was not the life I wanted for her.’

  A groan. ‘You cannot control the whole world and all those who inhabit it, son of Hatra.’

  ‘I grow tired of this world, and lament those I loved who have departed it.’

  ‘The usual whine of the elderly. But I have some good news for you.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘As you are determined to ignore my advice, you will not have the time for morose thoughts, which should come as a relief to all those around you who have to endure your self-indulgent lamentations.’

  ‘You are, as ever, a comfort.’

  ‘Claudia was right, by the way.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘That trinket of the enemy that dangles from your belt. It will draw you towards the servants of Rome.’

  I looked at the parazonium dagger. ‘It was a gift and it would be the height of bad manners
to discard it.’

  She shook her head. ‘Ever the hopeless romantic. Well, if you will excuse me, I have work to do.’

  I laughed. ‘Work? What possible work could you have to do?’

  ‘Hush, this is a place of study and quiet contemplation, not that I would expect you to understand such gentle virtues. Warlords tend to be like the weapons they wield: blunt and unsophisticated.’

  She pointed a bony finger at the papyrus unrolled on the desk.

  ‘I don’t suppose you have heard of Homer?’

  I wracked my brains. ‘A Greek writer of antiquity.’

  ‘Very good, son of Hatra. This is The Iliad.’

  ‘The poem about the Trojan War,’ I said. ‘I read it when I was a boy. I rather enjoyed it.’

  ‘Naturally. Boys and young men like war and bloodshed, and the ten-year Trojan War was certainly bloody.’

  ‘I wanted to be Achilles,’ I reminisced.

  A belittling chuckle. ‘A self-centred brute.’

  ‘He fought to defend Greek honour.’

  She emitted an unnerving cackle. ‘Greek honour? Is there such a thing? The entire Trojan War was fought to protect the so-called honour of one Greek king, Menelaus of Sparta, whose wife Helen ran off with Prince Paris of Troy.’

  ‘What was Menelaus expected to do?’

  ‘Perhaps ponder on why he had been such a bad husband that his wife ran off with the first handsome young man to come along?’

  She pointed at me. ‘The point is, son of Hatra, countless lives were lost, and a great city was reduced to ashes to avenge a personal slight. Rejection and insult trigger anger. Remember that, in the coming time of trial.’

  I grew alarmed. ‘What trial?’

  ‘Will you allow me to read in peace? You have a farmer to search for. Who would have thought it, the great King of Dura fretting over the fate of a meaningless farmer? But then, they say old age addles the mind. Farewell, son of Hatra.’

  She turned back to the manuscript and refused to speak any more. As usual, her warnings were shrouded in mystery and cryptic comments. But I was determined to seek out Klietas and speak to him, if only to return to Dura having achieved something after my failure at Ctesiphon.

  Dilshad’s archivists produced a map that provided details on how to get from Irbil to Vazneh, being a roll of papyrus, upon which was drawn the road from the capital to the village. It included the villages we would pass, along with streams and rivers we would encounter during the journey. Dilshad also gave me a leather tubular case to hold the map when on the move.

  ‘It is the best my cartographers could do in the short space of time, majesty.’

  ‘It is excellent,’ I told him, perusing the settlements along the way.

  ‘Are all these villages occupied?’ I asked, pointing at the various settlements either side of the road, stretching to the southern shore of Lake Urmia.

  ‘The further one travels from the capital, the fewer occupied villages,’ he told me. ‘That is why I fear you will find no one living in Vazneh, majesty. Northern Media was devastated by Mark Antony and then King Spartacus. The refugees from the north never returned home.’

  I rolled up the map and slipped it into the leather case.

  ‘None?’

  He shrugged. ‘Perhaps a few, though there have been no tax revenues from the area in the past few years.’

  Kingdoms did not despatch tax collectors to gather revenues. Outside the capital and royal estates, which were administered by the crown, the realm was ruled on behalf of the king by individual lords, who were given tracts of land to farm and administer as the king deemed fit. They were permitted to accrue personal wealth from their lands in return for military service when called upon, with a share of their wealth paid annually to the crown. Each king’s accountants held a detailed record of every lord’s estate, including the number of villages he held sway over, to determine the taxes he should pay to the crown. These annual taxes were paid in either gold, silver or, more usually, grain, which in the days when Media had been untroubled by war, was exported to neighbouring kingdoms.

  ‘Thank you for the map,’ I said.

  The next day, a fresh breeze blowing through the citadel to invigorate the senses, Bullus, Navid and the rest of my escort sat on their horses in the palace courtyard, the camels grunting and spitting in disapproval at being kept waiting. Two ranks of palace guard stood to attention in the sunlight, their metal helmets glinting and the sun reflecting off whetted spear points. This unit of soldiers had once numbered five thousand men, and under the first King Atrax had been a formidable fighting force. Now, sadly, it was a shadow of its former self. Out of politeness I had refrained from enquiring as to its current strength. But I doubt it totalled more than two hundred.

  Akmon and Lusin looked resplendent in their blue royal robes, the queen’s curls tumbling to her shoulders. As before, pregnancy obviously suited her. The severe Joro stood behind the couple, a deep frown etched on his face. He kept glancing at me and then my escort, giving a slight shake of the head.

  ‘We wish you a safe journey, King Pacorus,’ smiled Lusin, stepping forward to kiss me on the cheek. ‘And do not be a stranger.’

  Joro cleared his throat loudly, prompting Akmon and his wife to turn to look at him.

  ‘You have something to say, Lord Joro?’ said Akmon.

  ‘I think King Pacorus should be escorted by more men,’ answered Joro.

  ‘An excellent idea,’ nodded Lusin.

  ‘I go to search for one man in Media,’ I said, ‘rather than marching to war. I have sufficient soldiers.’

  ‘There may be brigands in the area,’ said Joro. ‘I regret to say that parts of northern Media are currently not under the rule of law.’

  ‘A situation that we are doing our utmost to rectify,’ stated Akmon sternly. ‘My father’s depredations inflicted great sorrow on Media.’

  ‘Castus should pay us reparations, in addition to the gold he already owes us,’ reiterated Lusin.

  ‘The queen speaks wisely, majesty,’ added Joro.

  Not wishing to be drawn into a quarrel, I tipped my head to Akmon and Lusin and walked to a waiting Horns, a stable hand bowing his head before handing me his reins. I slowly hauled myself into the saddle and took my helmet decorated with fresh goose feathers from Navid. A line of mounted trumpeters sounded a fanfare as I turned my horse and he trotted from the courtyard. I led the mounted column through a citadel whose streets and alleyways were pristine, passing immaculate brick houses and whitewashed stone temples. Sentries stood to attention when we rode through the gatehouse, the huge dragon banner of Media billowing in the wind above us. Below was the bustle of Irbil; beyond the verdant landscape of Media.

  Chapter 5

  Dilshad’s map proved a great aid as we cantered north, following the road to Vanadzor before veering right to head northeast towards Lake Urmia. On the first day, we rode through villages filled with people, well-maintained mud-brick homes with thatched roofs and ringed by equally well-maintained orchards and vineyards. Children stopped their playing to wave at us, before concerned mothers ushered them out of sight. Men working in fields stopped their work to stare at us, unsure what to make of the column of white-uniformed soldiers with a man wearing black armour at their head. But we did not stop and when it became clear we were not a threat, the men resumed their work. The fields of wheat and barley cheered me, though Bullus succinctly summed up what we were all thinking when we left one village.

  ‘We were about as welcome as a plague of locusts.’

  ‘An apt analogy,’ I said. ‘Soldiers have inflicted great misery on Media these past few years. The common people have little reason to cheer when troops suddenly appear.’

  ‘We meant them no harm,’ stated Navid, innocently.

  ‘They do not know that,’ said Bullus. ‘In any case, where there are more women than men, civilians are naturally suspicious of young, lusty soldiers.’

  He gave me a mischievous grin.<
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  ‘Why are there more women than men?’ asked Navid.

  ‘Because many of Media’s menfolk are dead, boy,’ Bullus told him bluntly. ‘You must have killed a fair few yourself.’

  Navid frowned at the veteran. ‘Dura fought beside Media in the war against the rebel Atrax.’

  ‘It gets confusing, Navid,’ I said. ‘Fighting alongside Atrax were many Median lords and their retinues. They are all dead now, to add to the thousands of slain when King Spartacus decided to torture Media. Gordyene has much to answer for.’

  I was thinking of the deception of Spartacus when he had lured Dura and Hatra into Pontus, which ultimately had cost him his life. We would have all gone to the afterlife had it not been for the genius of Kewab, who had aided Gordyene again a year later to give Castus a victory that had elevated Gordyene to become a major power in northern Parthia. Reason enough to reward the Egyptian. But it appeared the Romans would now benefit from his talents.

  The further we ventured from Irbil the less people we saw. I heard Dilshad’s shrill voice in my head as we rode through abandoned villages, weeds growing among huts, animal pens deserted, passing unploughed fields and overgrown orchards.

  The land changed, too. The flat verdant plains gave way to rolling, hilly country, bisected by many watercourses. In the distance were mountains but the terrain was still green and fertile, watered by babbling brooks, freshwater springs and rain. On the third day we were lashed by a heavy downpour, horses plodding on with heads down as they and their riders were buffeted by rain. We pulled our cloaks around us for protection. Yellow-brown in colour, they were a far cry from the white cloaks worn by Dura’s cataphracts, which were thinner and used for display purposes. The standard-issue army cloak was a big, thick woollen affair that was undyed, and which retained it natural lanolin to make it water resistant. Boiled flax oil was applied at regular intervals to keep it waterproof. As a result, it became rather smelly but was vital for wet- and cold-weather campaigning.