Sarmatian

by Peter Darman

  Villages are usually insular, tight-knit places that often display hostility towards outsiders. Two men riding powerful horses wearing swords and armour would invariably arouse suspicion and so we avoided any settlements, giving them a wide berth. On the fourth day of our journey we reached the Pambak Valley where Vanadzor was located. There were now black strongholds guarding the approaches to the capital, along with many villages sited along the length of the Pambak River, all surrounded by well-tended fields growing wheat and barley. The men and women in the fields paid us no heed as we rode by them. They had no need to for the whole valley was patrolled by horsemen, a party of which intercepted us before we reached the city.

  I had seen them many times on the battlefield where they had been allies, but now the riders in red tunics and black leggings gave the impression of being hostile, or at least their commander did. He sat on his horse blocking our way, three of his lancers behind him in a line.

  ‘What business do you have in Gordyene?’ he demanded of us.

  Our horses, clothes and weapons marked us out as strangers, and since we had only one draught horse carrying a tent and supplies, we were clearly not merchants visiting Gordyene for business reasons. Emotionless brown eyes peered at me from a face encased by a helmet with large cheek guards, his men wearing similar headgear. The officer was wearing a scale-armour cuirass of rows of overlapping iron scales riveted on to a thick hide vest, reinforced with scale-armour shoulder guards. Black leather pteruges hung from the lower edge of his scale armour to protect his thighs from sword cuts.

  ‘I am waiting,’ he said, impatiently.

  ‘I am King Pacorus of Dura,’ I informed him, ‘and am here to see your king. I assume he is in the city?’

  The officer blinked in surprise, momentarily lost for words. His men looked at each other and then at me. The officer saw the scar on my right cheek and then glanced at Bullus. I could read his mind. King Pacorus was a man in his sixties with a scar on his right cheek, which was always clean shaven. But where was Queen Gallia and where were the Amazons, who always escorted the King of Dura? And where was the king’s famous griffin banner?

  ‘Are we going to sit here all day?’ I snapped.

  ‘Do you have any proof you are who you say you are?’ he retorted.

  It was an excellent question. I realised I had nothing to prove I was indeed the King of Dura.

  ‘Your king will verify my identity,’ I told him. I reached inside my tunic and pulled out the chain holding a lock of Gallia’s hair.

  ‘I always wear this around my neck. It is a lock of Queen Gallia’s hair. You have heard of Queen Gallia?’

  He saw the blonde hair and I saw in his eyes that he knew the story of how Dura’s king wore a lock of his wife’s blonde hair around his neck. I pulled my sword from its sheath. His men instinctively lowered their lances, but the officer held up a hand to calm them.

  ‘You know what a spatha is?’

  ‘I know what a spatha is,’ he replied.

  ‘How many Parthians do you know who keeps a shaved face, wears a lock of blonde hair around his neck and who is armed with a Roman sword?’ said Bullus in exasperation. ‘You see our saddlecloths?’

  I think they convinced him. The large white blankets had red griffins stitched in each corner, the emblem of Dura.

  ‘I will take you to the city,’ said the officer, grudgingly.

  ‘The welcome in Gordyene is not what is was,’ remarked Bullus, icily.

  We were not taken to the city but rather escorted to the fort nearest to the capital. Built by Spartacus, until this moment I had never stepped inside one. Constructed from the same black stone used to build the city itself, up close it was an impressive affair. The fort was surrounded by a double row of ditches, the spoil from which had been used to construct the sloping rampart on which the walls and square towers at each corner sat. The entrance was a twin-arched affair, the gates plated with iron as a defence against fire and locked by a hefty crossbeam on the inside. The gatehouse had two storeys, with arrow slits on each level and what looked like a fighting platform on the roof. A huge red banner decorated with a silver lion motif fluttered from a flagstaff above the gatehouse. The fort covered a large area, its courtyard surrounded by what appeared to be barracks and stables and fronted by a squat building, the entrance to which was guarded by sentries – Immortals uniformed and equipped like Dura’s legionaries.

  The officer of our ‘welcome party’ dismounted.

  ‘Wait here.’

  He removed his helmet and marched across the dirt courtyard to what I assumed was some sort of headquarters building, the sentries snapping to attention as he passed them to disappear into the interior. I looked around and saw Immortals patrolling the walls and keeping watch from the roofs of towers, while behind us another party of horsemen trotted towards the gates. Clearly the fort’s garrison comprised both foot and horse for defence and attack.

  The officer reappeared with an Immortal wearing a red plume in his burnished helmet. He paced over to us and stared up at me, his expression turning from annoyance to alarm. He removed his helmet and bowed his head.

  ‘King Pacorus. My apologies, we did not know you were coming to Gordyene.’

  He turned on the officer beside him.

  ‘You idiot, do you not recognise the King of Dura? King Castus will hear of this.’

  The haughty officer’s eyes bulged with trepidation.

  ‘It is quite all right,’ I said. ‘I am eager to see the king. Is he in residence?’

  ‘Dismiss your men,’ ordered the fort’s commander to the unfortunate officer who had stopped us. He smiled at me. ‘I will escort you to the palace myself, majesty. Unless you require rest and refreshments.’

  ‘No, we are fully refreshed,’ I told him.

  ‘Bring my horse,’ barked the commander.

  He said nothing further to his chastened subordinate, who slunk off to the stables with his men. A stable hand passed him and his soldiers leading a fine brown stallion with a magnificent red saddlecloth decorated with lion motifs, which the commander mounted. He rode beside me, perturbed by my lack of an escort.

  ‘The consequence of an unforeseen set of circumstances,’ I told him, not wishing to divulge I had taken part in a brief but bloody clash with the Aorsi, who were regarded as valued allies in Gordyene, much to my dismay.

  ‘I hear you have a new queen now,’ I said, changing the subject.

  ‘Yes, majesty,’ he beamed. ‘Queen Yesim will make a fine wife for King Castus.’

  ‘Yesim?’ I said. ‘Is she from Gordyene?’

  He shook his head in horror. ‘No, majesty, she is from Pontus.’

  ‘Pontus? Then she is the daughter of King Polemon?’

  ‘The daughter of King Laodice, majesty.’

  I pulled up Horns. Laodice had been the leader of the hill men of Pontus, who were a scourge on humanity akin to the Aorsi. My heart sank at the prospect of Castus marrying the daughter of a man whose warriors had inflicted great misery on Parthia, not least when they were part of Atrax’s rebel army that besieged Irbil. I sank into silence and the commander no longer engaged me in conversation, sensing my sudden frostiness.

  At the palace, the commander acted as our escort after our horses had been taken from us by stable hands. Bullus look around at the bleak black stone buildings that fronted the large cobblestone courtyard.

  ‘Something troubles you, Bullus?’

  ‘The last time I was here, majesty, we were about to flee for our lives from the vengeance of King Castus.’

  ‘Do not worry, you are under my protection.’

  He said nothing but gave me a sympathetic look, as though anticipating my pledge might not amount to much now we were in the heart of Gordyene. My mood did not lighten as we were shown into the palace, a place of dark, cold corridors, heavy, iron-studded doors and grim-faced guards. Unlike the great palaces in Babylon, Ctesiphon and Hatra, which were spacious, light and airy places, the residenc
e of the King of Gordyene had always been an austere place. It had been a perfect reflection of the brooding menace that had been King Spartacus.

  The commander left us in the capable hands of the chief steward, a dour, thin man whose pale skin looked like it had never seen sunlight. As he showed us into our rooms, which were spartan to say the least, he informed us Castus and his queen would see me in the throne room shortly. He loitered in the doorway of my bedroom like an old crow looking for carrion.

  ‘Fetch my clothes and armour from the stables,’ I commanded, ‘and those of my companion also. And some fresh goose feathers.’

  ‘Goose feathers, majesty?’

  ‘Yes, and make sure they are clean. Now leave me.’

  He gave me a condescending smile and bowed his bony head before departing.

  ‘Bullus,’ I called.

  The centurion appeared seconds later.

  ‘Majesty?’

  ‘Come in and close the door.’

  ‘We have a slight problem, Bullus. As you will have heard, it would appear that the new queen of Gordyene is none other than the daughter of the bandit Laodice, who was one of your targets for assassination last year. And who was killed after the Battle of Melitene, according to Akmon.’

  ‘When young Azar was flogged, I remember,’ nodded Bullus.

  ‘Indeed. Well, I doubt his daughter will be well disposed towards anyone associated with her father’s death. So be very careful how you reply to any questions you are asked.’

  ‘I could stay here,’ he said.

  ‘Unfortunately, Castus is no fool and he will have been informed that two of us arrived in his palace. No, we shall both meet him. I will be the epitome of courtesy and diplomacy to get Klietas back, so I ask you to not do anything to provoke Castus.’

  ‘I’m just…’

  ‘Just a soldier,’ I interrupted. ‘I know. Let us hope Castus is in an amicable mood now he has found love.’

  Slaves brought our armour and helmets, which I ordered to be cleaned, along with my boots. When they had finished and when I had fastened white goose feathers into the crest of my helmet, the spidery chief steward arrived requesting we follow him to the throne room where the king and queen waited. The corridor leading to the royal chamber was dark, notwithstanding the oil lamps that hung from the walls. It resembled a prison and for some reason, a chill came over me as I marched into the throne room. It too had black walls, pillars and ceiling, though fortunately white floor tiles brightened the chamber, plus the oil lamps hanging from the pillars. In front of the wall at the far end stood a black stone dais, on which sat two individuals. Behind them, hanging on the wall, was a huge red banner embossed with a snarling silver lion.

  Helmets in the crooks of our arms, Bullus and I walked over to the dais, the steward bowing his head and retreating as we did so. As we got closer, I recognised the loathsome Shamshir, the commander of the King’s Guard, standing next to the dais, on the other side the figure of Prince Haytham, the youngest son of Spartacus and Rasha. We halted a few paces from the dais and Bullus bowed his head. I did not bow because I was a king like Castus. That was probably my first mistake.

  ‘King Pacorus,’ said Castus coldly, ‘what an unexpected pleasure.’

  ‘Greetings Castus,’ I replied, my eyes studying the young woman seated next to him. ‘I hear congratulations are in order.’

  Now he smiled, beaming with delight at his new bride. She had full lips, high cheekbones, olive skin and was attractive enough, considering she had been sired by a brute. But her long black hair was arranged in a long braid that gave her a somewhat severe countenance. She was also dressed in boots, leggings and long-sleeved tunic. I bowed my head to her.

  ‘It is an honour to meet you, lady.’

  ‘Majesty,’ Castus corrected me. ‘Yesim is a queen.’

  I forced a smile. ‘Apologies, majesty.’

  ‘Who is he?’ asked Yesim, ignoring me to point at Bullus.

  The centurion, attired in mail armour, silver greaves and carrying a helmet sporting a magnificent white transverse crest, cut an imposing figure in the throne room. He stood spear straight, his black eyes staring straight ahead.

  Castus stood and stepped from the dais to circle the centurion.

  ‘This, my queen, is Centurion Bullus, a member of the group of assassins sent by Queen Gallia to rid the world of Dura’s enemies. He and they were my guests last year but left without saying goodbye. Perhaps he has returned to kill me.’

  Shamshir took a step forward and placed a hand on the hilt of his ukku sword.

  ‘We are here to save a life rather than take any, Castus,’ I said.

  The young king turned to face me.

  ‘What life?’

  ‘That of Klietas, my former squire who was apprehended by your Aorsi lapdogs a few days ago. By chance, or perhaps it was the will of the gods, I was visiting Klietas when that waste of a skin Spadines arrived with a horde of his thugs.’

  Castus took a step forward until our faces were inches apart. He was slightly taller and broader than me, but then he was in his early twenties and I was an old man. He had crystal-clear blue eyes and dark blonde hair, a strange combination bearing in mind his mother and father both had brown eyes and dark hair. Those eyes now bored into me.

  ‘The affairs of Gordyene do not concern Dura.’

  ‘They do if your bandits are invading other kingdoms of the empire and abducting innocent civilians.’

  Castus sneered at me. ‘Klietas is not innocent.’

  I smiled in an attempt at levity.

  ‘You have a new wife, Castus. Concentrate on a new life with her and forget about Haya.’

  As soon as the words left my lips I regretted saying them. I winced when Yesim spoke.

  ‘Who is Haya?’

  Castus, shaking with anger, spun and smiled at his queen.

  ‘No one, a whore who once bewitched me.’

  He turned to face me again.

  ‘You will regret provoking me.’

  He stomped back to his throne.

  ‘You are not welcome here, King Pacorus. You will leave my palace and city forthwith, never to return.’

  I stood my ground. ‘Not without Klietas.’

  ‘He will be sacrificed to the God Ma as a gift to my wife.’

  ‘Ma?’ I guffawed. ‘Is there such a deity? I have never heard of him.’

  ‘The Goddess Ma is the bringer of victory, the mother goddess who watches over us all,’ said Yesim.

  I admit I found the whole business of Castus marrying the daughter of a Pontic hill man ludicrous. They did not.

  ‘I may be old,’ I said to her, ‘but were not your father’s warriors slaughtered by the soldiers of Gordyene at Corum and last year outside Melitene? Where was your goddess then when his troops,’ I pointed at Castus, ‘were butchering your people?’

  I heard Haytham take a sharp intake of breath and saw Shamshir glower at me. But Yesim was obviously a calculating woman for she merely shrugged.

  ‘My people were deceived by the traitor King Polemon, who used sorcery to lure my father and his warriors to their deaths. But Ma never forgets her loyal servants and gave me a great gift and told me to take it to King Castus, which would result in my own happiness and that of my people.’

  This was gibberish. Had Castus married an insane woman?

  ‘General Shamshir,’ said a smug Castus, ‘fetch the great prize gifted to me by my beloved wife.’

  General Shamshir? More madness. I looked in vain for Hovik, the commander of Gordyene’s army and a man who was both reasonable and intelligent, two qualities sadly lacking in Shamshir.

  ‘Where is General Hovik?’ I asked, unable to hold my tongue.

  ‘Retired,’ answered Castus, leaning forward. ‘He was old and the old must give way to the young, King Pacorus, it is the natural order of things. Shamshir is now head of the army and my brother has assumed the duties of leader of the King’s Guard.’

  I looked at Haytha
m. ‘My congratulations, prince.’

  ‘Thank you, majesty,’ he beamed, the smile disappearing when his brother glared at him.

  Shamshir was gone only for a short time, returning with two men flanked by guards. Both were solid individuals, though each had unshaved faces and unkempt hair. They were dressed in simple red tunics and black leggings – the uniform of a common soldier in Gordyene’s army – though when they were bundled in front of the king, my jaw dropped in astonishment. One was Titus Tullus, the former trusty centurion of Mark Antony, latterly the commander of King Polemon’s palace guard, and a man who was supposed to be dead.

  ‘That’s one lucky bastard,’ whispered Bullus.

  Castus looked at the sorry pair and pointed at me.

  ‘This is King Pacorus of Dura. I believe you know him, Tullus, but you have not had the pleasure, ambassador,’ he said.

  They both turned to look at us.

  ‘It is good to see you again, majesty,’ said Tullus.

  He had visibly aged since the last time I saw him, when he had been the commander of the execution party assigned to nail me to a cross in front of Irbil’s citadel when Atrax had besieged the city. To be fair to him, he had tried to save my life, but I had been unwilling to pay homage to Atrax.

  ‘It is good to see you, general,’ I answered.

  He had a cough and his eyes were sunken, indications of mistreatment. His companion, a man who looked younger than Bullus but also possessed of a martial bearing, looked kindly at me.

  ‘It is an honour to meet the famous King Pacorus. My name…’

  ‘He is Gaius Arrianus,’ interrupted Castus, ‘Roman ambassador to the court of King Polemon and currently a guest of the Kingdom of Gordyene.’

  The ambassador had a square jaw, broad forehead and long nose, but the jaw was covered in stubble, his hair was uncut and his clothes entirely inappropriate for a man of his position. I was appalled.

  ‘Have you taken leave of your senses, Castus? Do you not realise that Roman ambassadors are accorded the friendship of Caesar Augustus himself? You insult or mistreat one of them, you insult the leader of the Roman world. Release them at once.’