by Peter Darman
‘The Sauromatae, Siraces, Iazyges and Roxolani now infest the regions west and east of the Caspian Sea,’ Scylax informed me.
‘From where they either join their Aorsi allies or undertake raids against Hyrcania and Margiana,’ added Khosrou.
‘As lord high general, Pacorus,’ said Ali calmly, ‘it is my duty to protect the empire, from both external and internal enemies. Laying aside the gross insult to my daughter, at least for the moment, Castus needs to have his wings clipped.’
‘If he will not apologise to Ali, rein in his Sarmatian dogs and pay compensation in gold to each of our kingdoms for the damage they have caused,’ said Scylax, ‘then we will lay waste to the Pambak Valley.’
I stared into my wine, thinking of how arrogant and deluded Castus had become, and how his new wife would continue to pour poison into his ears. There was scant hope Castus would apologise for anything, let alone dip into his precious gold reserves to pay any compensation. And I could tell the men I now sat with would not back down from their threats. War was a distinct possibility, though technically it had already begun as an invading army was on Gordyene soil.
And yet…
‘I ask you all to withdraw your forces,’ I pleaded, ‘before blood is spilt.’
‘Blood has already been spilt,’ growled Ali. ‘The villages of my kingdom raided by the Sarmatians have become lifeless places, Pacorus.’
‘It is the same in Hyrcania,’ added Scylax.
‘And Margiana,’ said Khosrou.
‘If Castus was summoned to Ctesiphon, ordered to control his allies and commanded by Phraates himself to pay you compensation in gold; would that be an acceptable compromise?’ I asked.
‘Why do you protect this puppy, Pacorus?’ said Scylax. ‘This man who has humiliated you, insulted you and now sends you to us like a slave doing his master’s bidding?’
Ali frowned at his ally. ‘Your words are ill considered, Scylax.’
The King of Hyrcania’s thin lips clenched together, but then he nodded.
‘I meant no disrespect, Pacorus. You were a friend of my father and have been Parthia’s guardian for longer than I have walked the earth. But Castus is rotten to the core. Marrying the daughter of the man who was an enemy of the empire proves he has taken leave of his mind.’
‘I care nothing for Castus,’ I said, ‘but I have spent my life defending Parthia and I have no stomach to see it being ripped apart once more because a foolish young man has allowed his loins to rule his head.’
Ali laughed. ‘We are all guilty of that at one time or another, Pacorus.’
He looked at his two companions-in-arms.
‘Out of respect for you, Pacorus, I will agree to your proposal. But only because you have suggested it, and only on the understanding that Castus will pay us all reparations.’
‘And get rid of his Sarmatian allies,’ added Scylax.
‘If my father were here, he would also agree to the terms proposed by King Pacorus,’ said Khosrou, ‘so great is the respect he has for the king and queen of Dura.’
‘Let it be so, then,’ agreed Scylax, ‘though to encourage Castus to be a good boy, we will keep our army close to Gordyene’s border. If you have no objection, Ali.’
‘No objection at all, my friend,’ smiled Ali. ‘Sixty thousand horsemen will hopefully quicken Castus’ journey to Ctesiphon. I will have a scribe compile a letter after this meeting. What about you, Pacorus?’
‘I will take the letter and hand it to Prince Haytham, who is nearby.’
Scylax’s eyes narrowed. ‘Perhaps we should capture him and force him to fight Hyrcania’s champion, and then send his head back to his brother.’
Khosrou roared with laughter and Ali rubbed his hands together.
‘Tempting.’
I was appalled. ‘I will deliver the letter and hand it to Haytham, and impress upon him the urgency of the situation.’
‘What about the Roman ambassador?’ asked Ali, changing the subject.
‘I will escort him to Syria via Dura,’ I replied. ‘From there he can make his way back to Pontus. Castus was going to ransom him and his companion for a great deal of gold.’
A mischievous glint appeared in Scylax’s eye.
‘Perhaps we should let him do that. Then he would find a Roman army knocking at his palace gates as well.’
‘That is precisely why I want to get him back to Roman territory as quickly as possible,’ I said. ‘Not that the Romans want a war.’
‘I never thought I would hear those words,’ said Ali. ‘The Romans not wanting a war. What is the world coming to?’
Gaius Arrianus spent an enjoyable morning being shown around the huge camp, discussing subjects ranging from the equine heritage of Parthian horses to the different types of arrows carried in the quivers of horse archers. He had an enquiring mind, a military mind, and seemed at home in an army camp. He informed me he had experience of military command, having fought at Actium on the side of the then Octavian.
‘I have heard you met Mark Antony, majesty.’
‘First in Syria and then when he invaded Parthia, yes. That was, let me see, twelve years ago. I liked him. My wife did not.’
‘He insulted Queen Gallia?’
I chuckled. ‘Far from it. He was charm itself when he met her. But she was in a testy mood that day and wanted to use him for arrow practice. I persuaded her it was better to swap him for something precious.’
‘What was that, majesty?’
‘The mother of the son who is causing all of us so much anguish at this time.’
An officer of King Ali’s bodyguard interrupted our tour of the camp, requesting I accompany him to his liege’s pavilion. I left Gaius in the capable hands of one of Ali’s dragon commanders and rode to the king’s living quarters. The son of Aschek handed me a letter signed and sealed by himself, Scylax and Khosrou, setting out their grievances, all the actions Castus should take to avoid war, including his attendance at Ctesiphon ‘as soon as the high king summons you’.
I went to take the letter, but he held on to it.
‘We are only offering Castus this olive branch because you asked it of us, Pacorus. I pray Castus will receive it with the solemnity and respect with which it was written.’
‘I pray to Shamash that will be so, my friend.’
‘Are you sure you don’t want an escort?’
I smiled. ‘I will take just one with me.’
Bullus had a face that could sour milk as we rode at speed back to the forest we had left that morning, his square jaw set solid. When we neared the treeline, we slowed the horses and he shook his head a couple of times. It was warm and humid, sweat running down my neck and face. I used a cloth to wipe away the perspiration, catching sight of Bullus mumbling under his breath. I pulled up Horns.
‘What is the matter, Bullus? Spit it out, for pity’s sake.’
‘You are the King of Dura,’ he said through gritted teeth, ‘not some errand boy to do the bidding of other kings.
I reached into one of my saddlebags and pulled out the rolled papyrus scroll.
‘Do you know what this is?’
‘A letter,’ he said, dismissively.
‘This, centurion,’ I said slowly, ‘is a document that might avert a very costly and bloody war in northern Parthia. And if my being an errand boy means there will be peace instead of war, then I am quite prepared to assume the role. Now, where is that wretched track?’
I heard a whistle and my eyes were drawn to what looked like a scarecrow sitting on a horse, one gesticulating to us with its arm. It was Agar. He said nothing as we followed him into the humid forest, the air thick with the aroma of pine, our horses making little sound as they trod on ground covered with moss and brown pine needles. After an hour we reached Haytham’s camp and I handed the prince the letter signed by two kings and once prince.
‘There will be peace,’ I told him.
He smiled with relief, but I held his eyes.
‘If
,’ I continued, ‘your brother fulfils the obligations set down in that letter. If you have any influence with Castus, I strongly advise you use it to avert war. There are sixty thousand soldiers but an hour’s ride from this camp, who are about to withdraw back to Atropaiene. But they are not just from that kingdom but also from Hyrcania and Margiana. Those three kingdoms can easily muster twice that number if forced to do so.
‘You understand, Haytham?’
He swallowed. ‘I understand, majesty.’
I hoisted myself back into Horns’ saddle, Bullus’ dark eyes observing Haytham with a mild contempt.
‘You must impress upon Castus that the war he seems intent on starting is one he cannot win,’ I said, tugging on Horns’ reins, ‘whatever his wife may think.’
I was in a bullish mood as we left his camp to retrace our steps through the forest, the scruffy and silent Agar being our guide once more. Fate had brought me to Gordyene, and the gods had blessed me by being in the right place at the right time to be a peacemaker. I said a silent prayer of thanks to Shamash for his divine guidance.
‘You want to know what I think, majesty?’ said Bullus.
‘Not really.’
‘I think Castus is already thinking of new conquests and fresh glory, and all the words in the world won’t change that.’
But it was not Castus and his delusions that shattered my world but devastating news from Hatra.
Chapter 9
The army of invasion quit its camp and headed east, towards the border of Gordyene and the eastern shore of Lake Urmia, where it would remain until Castus agreed to the conditions in the letter I had delivered. Ali, Scylax and Khosrou felt cheated, that much was apparent. But if they bore me any ill will they did not show it or bear me any resentment. And if they were bored by the stories I told them of the time when their fathers had been great warlords in the defence of Parthia, they did not show that either. The sun was warming the earth, a war had been avoided and I believed it had been the will of the gods that had directed me to Media to seek out Klietas, which had led to my journey to Gordyene.
But the gods are fickle, and fate is a wheel that is in perpetual motion. On a dazzlingly beautiful morning by the shore of Lake Urmia, the surface of the water glittering like a thousand mirrors reflecting the sunlight, a sweat-covered courier riding an exhausted horse arrived at the camp, his arrival prompting an urgent request from King Ali for me to attend him in his pavilion. When I walked into his audience chamber his face was ashen, his eyes moist. Scylax and Khosrou stood with heads bowed, consciously avoiding my eyes. I saw the parchment in Ali’s hand and knew something was terribly wrong.
‘Pacorus, dreadful news has arrived from my capital. King Gafarn is dead.’
I saw his mouth move as he spoke to me afterwards, but I did not hear him. Nor Scylax or Khosrou who offered their condolences. The news hit me like a hammer. Gafarn, the man I had known all my life, first as a master, then as a fellow slave and finally as a brother and fellow king, was gone. After I had recovered from the terrible news, my first thought was to get to Hatra as quickly as possible to comfort Diana.
Ali provided me and my companions with spare horses to quicken our journey, Gaius Arrianus and Titus Tullus electing to accompany me to Hatra. I agreed as from Hatra they could journey in safety to Roman Zeugma. We covered sixty miles each day, swapping horses regularly and watering them in the many springs and streams that blessed King Akmon’s kingdom, not bothering to visit Irbil to pay our respects but pressing on to Assur, the city beside the Tigris that was the gateway to eastern Hatra. We reached the city on the fourth day, five individuals covered in dust with dirty clothes and faces and aching limbs, nearly toppling from our spent horses when we rode into the governor’s courtyard.
Assur, mighty stronghold on the west bank of the Tigris, was administered by Lord Rodak, a nephew of Lord Herneus, the former governor, now commander of Dura’s army and resident in Hatra. Rodak was a gruff, no nonsense individual but unlike Herneus had a full head of hair and thick beard. The moment he was informed we had arrived at his mansion, he took charge of the situation. We were shown to bedrooms where we were bathed, massaged with invigorating balms and fed foods that would replenish our spent reserves – fruits, dates, eggs, seeds, rice and yoghurt. We were denied wine in favour of water, which produced much grumbling from Bullus and Tullus. But at least we felt human again and mercifully the bath and massage had prevented my left leg from seizing up.
There was no banquet that evening. Food was served to my companions in their rooms, after which they retired early as I was determined to leave Assur at dawn the next day to reach Hatra by the afternoon. I dined with Rodak so he could bring me up to date on the dreadful events that had engulfed the kingdom. Rodak had a somewhat severe countenance and a face that wore a frown better than a smile. As such, he was perfectly suited to provide a summary of the awful events that had taken place recently.
‘The king’s leg ulcer returned with a vengeance, majesty. There was nothing the physicians could do to halt the spread of infection.’
‘Poor Diana,’ I whispered, morosely. ‘Alone with her grief.’
He looked surprised. ‘Have you not heard, sire? Queen Gallia is at Hatra.’
I looked up at him. ‘Gallia is at Hatra?’
‘As soon as she heard of the king’s death she rode to the city, with her Amazons.’
I picked at the food laid out before me. Fish caught earlier in the Tigris and served on a bed of rice were arranged on long silver dishes. Kebabs of freshly cooked chicken were arranged in neat lines on a gold platter, surrounded by dishes filled with butter, olives, yoghurt, cheeses and both spicy and mild sauces. Other dishes held bread, biscuits, pastries, cakes and fruits. But I had no appetite.
A slave came forward to refill my rhyton.
‘Prince Pacorus has been notified of his father’s death?’
‘Yes majesty. But the prince is currently fighting in the Zagros Mountains against incalcitrant tribesmen. It may be some time before word reaches him of the king’s death.’
The Zagros Mountains began on the Mediterranean coast inland from Antioch and extended east before curving southeast to take them all the way to the Persian Gulf. As well as snow-capped peaks, cliff faces and glaciers, the mountains were home to huge forests, lush valleys and windswept steppes. The massive oak forests were home to numerous tribes, including the Bakhtiari, Uxians, Cosseans, Mardians and Kashqai. These nomads were a law unto themselves and paid no taxes to the kingdoms they happened to live in. But they traded with towns and cities and many of their young men, wanting more than a meagre existence in the uplands, took service in Parthian armies. Occasionally, a tribal chieftain would declare himself a god and lead his people against their Parthian overlords, prompting retaliation.
Prince Pacorus, the son of Gafarn and Diana and heir to Hatra’s throne, had been made protector of Elymais in the wake of King Silaces’ death at the Battle of Ctesiphon. Silaces had married a slave, a beautiful woman by the name of Cia who had borne him a son, though after the king’s death. Cia was not from Elymais nobility and was thus very isolated and at risk of being killed by an ambitious local lord, her infant son, too. The decision was therefore taken to install the prince as their protector to quash any rebellions, and to facilitate the rule of Queen Cia until Prince Silaces came of age. And by all accounts, judging by the lack of any rebellions in the six years since, he had made a splendid job of his task. But then Pacorus was the archetypal Parthian hero. He was brave, handsome, undefeated in battle and a prince of Hatra, one of the oldest and most traditional kingdoms in the empire. He had married the beautiful Arezu, the scion of a wealthy and influential Hatran family, who had borne him two sons: Varaz and Orodes, who were now princes of Hatra. And now Pacorus was King of Hatra, or would be once he had been crowned in the city’s Great Temple.
The next morning, the sun still a pale-yellow ball hanging low on the eastern horizon, Rodak bid us farewell in the mansion
’s courtyard. He gave us fresh horses to ride the last leg of our journey to Hatra, our own mounts being fatigued after the forced ride from Lake Urmia.
‘I have will them sent on to you after they have been rested and examined for any loose shoes, majesty,’ he told me.
He also gave us an escort of a dozen horse archers, all wearing white tunics, their red saddlecloths emblazoned with a white horse head motif in each corner. They all wore shemaghs, as did we, though Gaius was curious as to why they were necessary. During the ride from Lake Urmia through Media the terrain had been alternately rocky and green, but as we ventured further south the landscape changed to one of desert. And in the desert one needs a shemagh as protection against blowing dust, and to keep the sun off the head, neck and face. Bullus and I also had floppy hats as sun protection, but dust was also a problem.
The road from Assur to Hatra was well-trodden, being used by thousands of camels and horses each year as camel caravans on the Silk Road transported their wares east and west. The horses’ hooves kicked up immense amounts of fine particles into the air, which on windless days hung around to tickle the back of the throat and irritate the eyes. For a short journey it is not a problem; but four hours in the saddle requires prior planning.
As we cantered along the dirt road that was already filling with caravans, I reflected on the life of Gafarn, the Bedouin child who had been captured by my father during a raid against his people and brought back to Hatra as a slave. Many children would have been overwhelmed by such a trauma, but Gafarn had a quick wit and easy-going manner that soon ingratiated him to my mother, who suggested he become my personal slave. Life as a slave in Hatra’s palace was bearable enough. For an intelligent slave made a companion to the king’s only son, it resulted in a life of relative ease. Until we were captured in Cappadocia Gafarn was always a slave, albeit one who could be very free with his tongue and became de facto a member of the royal family, like a loyal dog. All that changed when we were taken to Italy as slaves.