Companions (The Parthian Chronicles)

by Peter Darman

  Tripolis was over seven hundred years old, a great walled city that had been founded by the Phoenicians, a seafaring people whose ships had once sailed the Mediterranean. Roman soldiers stood sentry outside the northern gates and on the battlements as our beasts ambled through the ancient entrance, trade caravans filling the road in front and behind us. People on foot carrying bundles of wood, sacks of wheat and baskets of bread and fruit walked beside us as a sweating centurion stood outside the guardhouse wishing he was somewhere else. The air was filled with the sounds of chattering and complaining people, camels grunting as we moved through the entrance.

  ‘Which way to the docks?’ I shouted at the centurion in Latin.

  ‘Just keep going until the air becomes less rancid,’ he answered gruffly.

  We carried on, passing markets selling fruit, fish and meat and heaving with people dressed in a variety of black, white, yellow and brown robes. The sun occasionally reflected off a bronze helmet or spear point, indicating that Roman legionaries patrolled the streets. But the atmosphere was of frenzied commercial activity rather than military occupation.

  The city had originally been called Athar and had been ruled over by a king, who at times served as high priest in the temple of the city’s patron god, thus ensuring that he ruled over the people both physically and spiritually. But now it was ruled by Rome, which had already begun to stamp its mark on Tripolis. The majority of the city comprised single-story mud-brick abodes, with old stone buildings in the administrative and religious districts. But outside the city, on the lower slopes of the mountains that rose up behind the city, among the cypress and cedar trees that blanketed the region, were newly built villas. And as we neared the docks area we passed newly constructed tenements to house Roman clerks, officials and their families.

  ‘That soldier was right,’ said Byrd, sniffing the air, ‘it smells fresher here.’

  The docks area was large and impressive, the jetties on the seafront comprising wooden platforms sitting on piles of stone blocks. At least a dozen merchant ships were moored alongside these quays, sailors and dockers loading two with goods, the others lying idle, a few sailors on board keeping watch. Two long breakwaters that curved first outwards and then inwards, resembling the front claws of a giant lobster, enclosed the harbour. These breakwaters had a sloping mound on the seaward side and a quay made of stone blocks on the leeward side. Docked stern first along these breakwaters were Roman warships: mainly triremes and biremes but also two huge quinqueremes with five banks of oars. Detachments of marines dressed in blue tunics, blue-faced shields and bronze helmets with blue plumes stood guard over each ship. We dismounted and looked around at the line of ships along the quay.

  ‘Which ship belongs to the Cretan?’ asked Byrd.

  ‘I have no idea,’ I said.

  I accosted a flustered official who was walking towards us after appearing to remonstrate with a sailor who towered over him menacingly.

  ‘Excuse me, friend,’ I called to him.

  He stopped and eyed us suspiciously, three figures wrapped in black robes, one of whose faces was adorned with black tattoos. He stopped but kept his distance.

  ‘I am looking for the Cretan Captain Athineos,’ I said.

  He turned and pointed to a gap between two warehouses.

  ‘Ask at the Cretan traders’ office. They will know,’ he said before scuttling away.

  We led our animals between the warehouses into a square where the whitewashed offices of the ship owners and traders were located. Each building was a two-storey structure with wooden shutters covering the windows. Each office had a plaque outside its entrance, with names in Greek and Latin. I pointed to one that had an elephant symbol above its plaque.

  ‘The office of African traders.’

  ‘That doesn’t help us,’ remarked Byrd.

  ‘There is the Cretan office,’ said Malik, pointing to a building with a bull’s head symbol above the door. The sign did indeed say it was the Cretan traders’ association. I left them with my camel as I strode over to it and walked through the open doorway. A gaunt man with thinning brown hair looked up from the papyrus document he was reading.

  ‘I am seeking the Cretan Captain Athineos,’ I said. ‘I was told that you would know his whereabouts.’

  Behind him clerks were filing documents in pigeonholes, two of their number sitting at tables writing.

  ‘You have business with him?’

  I nodded. ‘A cargo being shipped to Ephesus.’

  ‘Ah, well you find him at the Golden Anchor, an inn around five minutes from here. He usually spends his days there between voyages.’

  The inn was tucked away in a narrow street near the harbour, opposite a brothel whose pockmarked whores stood outside inviting passers by to sample their wares. I told Malik and Byrd to guard the animals while I went inside, various unsavoury characters loitering in the street casting us disapproving glances.

  ‘Where is a Roman patrol when you want one,’ I said.

  Malik was armed with a sword and dagger but I was satisfied that his size and tattooed face would deter any aggression, though I was not so sure about the whores. They were calling to us to go over and enjoy their bodies.

  ‘Try to ignore the temptation,’ I grinned.

  The interior of the inn was less inviting than the exterior, groups of sinister-looking individuals huddled at tables drinking and speaking in hushed tones. They turned their heads when I entered, scrutinising me before going back to their business. I scanned the dimly lit interior and saw a thick arm rise into the air.

  ‘More wine over here.’

  I recognised the voice and then saw the tattoos on the arm. I walked over to stand behind him.

  ‘A bit early to be drinking, isn’t it?’

  He jumped up and turned to face me, a hand on the hilt of his sword. His two companions likewise rose menacingly to their feet. But Athineos threw back his head and roared with laughter.

  ‘So, you came. I had to admit I had my doubts.’ He slapped me hard on the arm. ‘But here you are. Bring that wine, and quickly,’ he ordered the innkeeper.

  He pulled up a chair for me and indicated to his companions that I was a friend.

  ‘Sit yourself down, lord.’

  I looked around. ‘My name is Nikephorus, Athineos.’

  He tapped his nose with a finger. ‘Say no more. Are you alone?’

  ‘There are six others with me. You can accommodate them?’

  He smiled. ‘Of course, the price will be higher, though.’

  The innkeeper brought a fresh jug of wine, though it tasted so bitter that I could have sworn it was vinegar.

  ‘We can pay our passage, Athineos, and that includes the return journey.’

  Athineos leaned forward. ‘I’ll have to take all the money for both journeys up front. Just in case you don’t make the return journey, you understand.’

  I raised my cup but then thought twice about taking another sip of the wine. I put it down. ‘Very well.’

  ‘We leave in two days,’ he told me.

  ‘Could you spare me a few moments, Athineos?’ I said. ‘There are two people I would like you to meet.’

  His companions looked at me suspiciously but Athineos waved away their concern.

  ‘Of course, any friend of Pacorus, that is Nikephorus, is a friend of mine.’

  We walked outside to where Malik and Byrd were waiting. I introduced them to the sea captain, who blew a kiss at one of the whores standing on the brothel balcony opposite. She leered and pulled down her top to reveal one of her sagging breasts.

  ‘They are waiting for you, Athineos,’ she shouted.

  ‘And I’ll be over to sample your goods later,’ he beamed.

  Malik turned, looked up at the scabby woman and shuddered. ‘You will lie with her?’

  Athineos winked at him. ‘I won’t be lying. Still, a harbour is a harbour for my warship.’

  He examined Malik’s facial tattoos. ‘You are Agraci, ar
en’t you?’

  ‘You know my people?’ enquired Malik coolly.

  ‘Everyone in these parts knows your people, though many without any affection.’

  Athineos looked at Byrd. ‘Are you coming as well?’

  ‘We not coming,’ answered Byrd. ‘We just look after interests of Pacorus.’

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I look forward to seeing you at the docks in two days, Athineos. Now we must be away. I have no wish to keep you from your wine and women any longer.’

  ‘In two days, then.’

  He turned and disappeared into the murky interior of the inn, leaving the three of us in the street. I took the reins of my camel from Byrd and led him out of the street and back into the square before getting him to kneel to allow me to sit in the saddle. I rode back to camp in the company of an unhappy Malik.

  ‘You should not trust that man, Pacorus. He will betray you.’

  ‘He might,’ I agreed, ‘and we might be killed in a storm at sea or I might get killed at Ephesus. But if I do not satisfy my curiosity then the doubt will eat away at me and drive me insane.’

  ‘You should not be taking Gallia,’ said Byrd.

  ‘She believes it is her destiny to go to Ephesus,’ I replied. ‘But if you feel so strongly about it, Byrd, you are welcome to try to convince her to stay.’

  But he did not say anything to Gallia and so, two days later, we all stood on the quay of Tripolis’ docks, our clothes, gold, weapons, armour and Alcaeus’ medicines in wooden chests that had been unloaded from the camels by the side of Athineos’ vessel. We said our farewells to Malik and Byrd as their scouts began leading the camels away from the dockside. The Agraci prince took one long, last look at the Cretan captain before vaulting into his saddle and riding away with his friend.

  Athineos stood on one of the overhanging side balconies of his ship and began shouting orders at his sailors.

  ‘Now that the camels and horses have gone, get the beasts out of the warehouses. And hurry up. I want to be away before noon.’

  The docks were busier than when we had first visited them, the quays heaving with dockers, sailors, officials and pallets and crates filled with goods to be loaded onto ships. Sacks of wheat were being hauled aboard one vessel, while dozens of amphorae filled with wine, olive oil and spices were being loaded onto another. But Athineos’ vessels would be carrying more volatile cargoes: lions.

  Athineos bellowed at his sailors to get our chests aboard before the animals arrived, and so we gave them a hand to load them on the ship. Gallia went to assist me carry one of the chests, which had rope handles on each end to facilitate lifting.

  ‘It is heavy,’ I told her.

  She dismissed my concern. ‘Just because I am a woman does not mean I am incapable of work.’

  But it was filled with spare swords, armour, shields and tridents and she found it hard going hauling it up the gangplank. A grinning Athineos left his place on the side balcony and came over.

  ‘She’s not much use,’ he said to me, pointing at Gallia, who like me was dressed in black Agraci robes.

  ‘I can match you or any of your men, Cretan,’ she snarled.

  His eyes opened with surprise as he realised who she was. He hurried over to her side and grasped the rope with his huge hands.

  ‘Forgive me, lady, I had no idea you were journeying with us.’

  We hauled the chest aboard and placed it beside the others in front of the single cabin at the stern of the vessel.

  ‘We’ll put them in the cabin after we’ve loaded the beasts,’ said Athineos.

  He looked at Gallia. ‘I think it might be best if you sleep in my cabin, lady. I’ll bed down in the hold.’

  As we stood in front of the cabin I noticed that the crew were bringing baskets filled with cured meat aboard.

  ‘At least we won’t starve,’ grinned Surena.

  ‘They’re not for you, boy, they’re for the lions,’ said Athineos.

  ‘I’m not your boy,’ snapped Surena but I glared at him to hold his tongue.

  The crowd on the docks parted as clerks shouted at slaves to pull the wheeled carts that held the lions: a score of snarling, angry beasts that looked in remarkably good health considering they had been transported from far away Gordyene or Atropaiene. I said as much to Athineos.

  ‘If I don’t get twenty fit and healthy lions to Ephesus then I won’t get paid. So they have been treated like little princes on their way here.’

  ‘To be butchered in the arena,’ said a disapproving Gallia.

  Athineos nodded at me. ‘In the wild Parthian princes and nobles hunt lions. Don’t see much difference between dying in the arena or dying in the wild.’

  The cages, each one measuring around nine feet in length and width and four foot in height, were moved alongside Athineos’ vessel and his other two ships. Dockers operating cranes lowered hooks on the end of ropes and then slaves nervously jumped on the carts to secure the hooks to ropes fixed to the tops of the wooden cages so they could be hoisted aboard. The animals began to get agitated and tried to maul the slaves. But the tops of the cages were tightly meshed to make this impossible; only the bars on the sides were more widely separated to allow air to circulate more freely.

  One slave, standing on top of a cage with a snarling male lion with a huge mane beneath him, tried to catch the hook but missed as it dropped lower. I watched, horrified, as he crouched on the cage and reached down in an effort to retrieve the hook, only to have his hand that strayed near the bars ripped open as the lion’s claws moved in a blur. The beast leapt at the bars and grabbed the poor wretch’s arm in its mouth and began pulling it into the cage.

  As the slave let out a series of high-pitched screams Gallia bent down and pulled her bow from its case and nocked an arrow in the bowstring.

  ‘No,’ implored Athineos, who jumped in front of her. ‘Don’t kill it. Please don’t kill it.’

  As horrified onlookers stood, transfixed, staring at the lion tearing at the slave’s flesh, Athineos ran down the gangplank and rushed over to the cage. He stood on the opposite side to where the slave was screaming, reached in and grabbed the lion’s tail. The beast, enraged, let go of the slave and spun round, launching itself at Athineos. It shook the cage as its bulk crashed into the bars that fortunately held.

  A centurion, drawn sword in his hand, walked up to him with four marines in tow.

  ‘Is this your animal?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied Athineos. ‘He’s going to Ephesus to entertain the fine citizens of that city in the upcoming games.’

  He pointed to his ship. ‘We are trying to load it on my ship, sir.’

  ‘Well get it loaded,’ ordered the centurion, ‘otherwise I’ll have it killed. It’s causing an obstruction.’

  While this was going on Alcaeus had descended the gangplank with his medical bag and was attempting to treat the slave, who was now shaking as shock took hold of him. Blood was spurting on to the quay from the wound that Alcaeus was attempting to bind. Athineos bellowed at the crane operator to raise the hook as he jumped on the cart and then on top of the cage to secure the hook to lift it. The lion, now wanting more human blood, began clawing at the top of the cage as it and Athineos were hoisted up and over the side of the ship.

  The centurion walked over to where Alcaeus was treating the slave.

  ‘Leave him.’

  ‘He’s badly wounded, you imbecile,’ replied Alcaeus.

  I nudged Domitus. ‘Trouble.’

  I walked down the gangplank with him following as the marines circled Alcaeus menacingly.

  ‘Offer to buy the slave,’ I said to Domitus.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Just do it.’

  Drenis and Arminius held Surena back as we walked over to the centurion, an irate Alcaeus and a trembling slave.

  ‘Salve, citizen,’ said Domitus to the centurion.

  The centurion, about the same height as Domitus, looked at the general of Dura’s army.

&nb
sp; ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Lucius Domitus, lanista of the Ludus Palmyra.’

  The centurion grunted and pointed his cane at me. ‘And him?’

  ‘One of my gladiators, centurion.’

  The slave groaned as Alcaeus tightened the tourniquet. The centurion pointed at the doctor.

  ‘I told you to leave him. Now move, otherwise you will be arrested.’

  Alcaeus ignored him.

  ‘I wish to buy this slave,’ said Domitus.

  The centurion frowned. ‘This slave?’

  ‘I collect one-armed slaves,’ replied Domitus, ‘my wife likes to staff our villa with them. She says that one-armed slaves steal less because they are, by definition, less light fingered.’

  The marines sniggered and the centurion was confused.

  ‘He belongs to the port authority,’ he announced, ‘you will have to clear it with them. By the look of him he will be dead by tonight.’

  I assisted Alcaeus in lifting the slave up and helping him towards the gangplank. He looked pale and half-dead but at least Alcaeus was no longer in danger of being arrested. While Domitus sauntered off to the office of the port authority with a representative of the organisation, the centurion and the marines, the rest of the lions were loaded on the ships. There were six cages on our vessel, each one holding a lion.

  We placed the slave on the single bed in the cabin and I left Alcaeus to treat him and went back outside.

  ‘That was dangerous,’ Athineos rebuked me. ‘They could have arrested you. And all for a slave? You’re a strange one, Parthian.’

  I paid Athineos for our passage while the sailors loaded food and water for the voyage to Cyprus. He told me that he would have visited the island anyway, but since I had paid him handsomely he was more than happy to call at the port of Paphos.

  ‘Why Paphos?’

  ‘I have an appointment with someone there.’

  Domitus returned with the ownership papers for the slave, a Syrian named Adad. He tossed me the documents.

  ‘He didn’t come cheap. Let’s hope he lives to thank you.’