by Peter Darman
‘Look happy,’ I said to him, ‘your face is showing contempt.’
‘These people stink,’ he remarked with disdain.
He was right: the place reeked of animal and human dung and sweat. ‘Think of Rasha to take your mind off it.’
The village was made up of round and rectangular wooden-framed huts with thatched roofs of varying size, and animal pens for sheep and goats alongside them. Our ‘quarters’ consisted of a round hut that had a crude stable beside it, in truth nothing more than a pen with a thatched roof. A fire had been lit inside the hut to warm it that also had the unfortunate effect of filling it with smoke, which was supposed to exit via the hole in the centre of the roof. The floor was covered in animal skins and the entrance was also covered with skins.
‘This is cosy,’ remarked Domitus after we had unsaddled our horses and carried the saddles inside the hut.
Like the other dwellings in the village the walls were made up of wattles – interwoven branches made weather resistant with daub, a mixture of mud, straw and animal dung.
‘It is like a stable,’ said Spartacus, dumping his saddle on the ground.
‘I would readily exchange it for a stall in Dura’s stables.’ I said, ‘but needs must. At least we don’t have to sleep with meat hanging from the ceiling rafters.’
Spartacus looked at me with surprise. ‘Meat?’
‘Just as we cure meat, so these people hang meat from the rafters so the smoke from the fire cures it. All very practical.’
‘All very uncivilised,’ he replied.
‘What about you, Scarab?’ I asked, ‘what do you think of our lodgings?’
‘They will suffice, majesty.’
Spartacus rolled his eyes as he bent down and lifted one of the animal skins to discover how many insects he would be sharing his bed with.
We may have been guests but Zand posted two guards outside the hut’s entrance and another two to watch our horses, though this may have been to deter any thieves, or at least that is what I liked to think. After we had placed the food and fodder in the hut we went back outside to groom the horses and check their shoes and hooves. Looking around I could see a large rectangular hut that I took to be the chief’s home, in addition to food stores and warehouses. There was also an open-fronted smithy where two squat bearded men were hammering iron on an anvil. I wondered how many such villages Zand controlled and how many people his tribe numbered, many thousands if the numbers that were arrayed against us at the Battle of Susa was anything to go by. I clutched the leather bag that contained the gold that was slung over my shoulder. Hopefully its contents would be proof of my good faith. Then again, it might get all our throats slit. I was about to find out just how civilised or not the hill men of the Zagros Mountains were.
In honour of our arrival at the village a feast was held in Zand’s long hut where we were seated on benches arranged around the walls. Women served us roasted mutton and chicken. They filled cups with milk, wine that tasted of vinegar and an equally foul-tasting alcoholic beverage made from fermented mare’s milk. I sat next to Zand on one bench, flanked by his warriors, while Domitus and my two squires were accommodated at another bench. The hut was filled with smoke that made my eyes smart. It came from the great fire that burned in the centre on the earth floor, over which fresh meat was roasting on spits. I noticed Zand drank very little while his warriors got roaring drunk and tried to grope the female servants, who seemed to like being mauled by the stinking oafs.
The Sagartians largely ignored Domitus and my squires but the women brought them wooden platters heaped with meat and ensured their cups were always full. Domitus kept looking at the entrance where his sword and dagger lay on the floor, along with everyone else’s weapons. Only Zand, the chief, was permitted to carry weapons in his hut, which was probably a sensible precaution as a group of ill-disciplined, drunken warriors armed to the teeth was a certain recipe for bloodshed.
Zand tore at a piece of meat with his teeth, the juices dripping onto his hand.
‘You wish to buy some of my warriors, King Pacorus of Dura?’
I nodded. ‘I will pay you gold for them.’
He glanced at me with narrowed eyes. ‘The last Parthian king who wanted the Sagartians to fight for him promised the same but paid me nothing,’ he said bitterly. ‘Why should I believe or trust you?’
‘For one thing, I have come to your village in person to signal that I trust you and wish to deal with you face to face.’
I reached into the bag that was slung over my shoulder and pulled out a small ingot of gold. I placed it on the bench before him.
‘Secondly, I bring gold as an act of good faith.’
He put down the meat on his platter, wiped his hand on his tunic and picked up the ingot, belched and examined it. He passed it to Gourlay who sat on his left and who turned it over in his hand.
‘How many of my warriors do you wish to take back with you to your kingdom?’ he asked.
‘Two thousand.’
He sat back in his chair and stared at the raging fire before him. ‘Why does a great Parthian warlord wish to hire Sagartian warriors, and so few? We have heard of your name in these parts, of the Parthian king who rides a white horse and leads a terrible army that has never been beaten. Tell me, King Pacorus of Dura, how many of my people did you slaughter in the Valley of Susa?’
Gourlay passed the ingot back to his lord as the din in the hut subsided and Zand’s warriors nudged each other and turned to look at me. I suddenly felt decidedly uneasy. I glanced at Domitus who was frowning severely and also looking at his sword and dagger, no doubt wondering if he could reach them before any of Zand’s warriors stopped him.
I sipped at my cup of warm milk. ‘As many who wished to kill me.’
Zand stood and walked round the bench to stand in front of me with his back to the fire.
‘I cannot decide if you are very brave or very stupid for coming here, King Pacorus of Dura. You are a man who has many enemies in this place,’ he declared in a loud voice.
There were murmurs of assent and several hateful stares were directed at me.
I remained calm, sensing that he was testing as opposed to threatening me. ‘All warlords have enemies, King Zand. How many fathers and sons have you killed during your reign with the sword that hangs from your belt? You decided to send warriors to aid Mithridates, my enemy, at Susa. Most of them died. On another day perhaps they would have lived and I would have died. Men die in battle. It is the way of things.’
I stood and spread my arms. ‘You can slay me now if you wish to avenge the deaths of your men. It makes no difference to me.’
I took off the bag that hung from my shoulder and emptied its contents onto the bench.
‘You can kill all of us with ease and take this gold, our horses and our weapons. Your people and mine have always waged war against each other and no doubt always will while there are men in the world.’
He folded his arms. ‘Why should I, Zand, king of the Sagartians, extend mercy to you, King Pacorus of Dura?’
‘Perhaps because I will give you gold for your men and with it you may purchase weapons to arm your people against their enemies,’ I answered.
He said nothing for what seemed like minutes but then nodded his head and roared at his warriors to stop staring at me and to continue feasting. They were soon emptying their cups and demanding the female slaves bring more wine as Zand returned to his seat.
‘And horses,’ he said before belching loudly once more.
‘Horses?’
‘You want two thousand warriors. Then you will have to pay gold and supply me with two thousand horses as well. The coming winter may be harsh and our enemies, the Lors and Kashkai, press on my borders.’
‘You wish to raid their lands?’ I asked.
He grinned savagely. ‘I wish to empty their warehouses. They will starve if they have no food for the winter.’
There were a number of tribes who inhabited the Zagros
Mountains but in the western region the Sagartians held sway against the incursions of the Lors and Kashkai. It would appear that after their losses at the Battle of Susa Zand’s people had lost territory at the hands of the other two tribes.
‘Very well,’ I agreed. ‘Two thousand horses. When can you supply the warriors?’
He smiled. ‘You can have them as soon as you bring me the gold and horses. What will you do with them?’
‘They will be sent to a place called Judea, to fight the Romans.’
The blank look on his face told me that he had never heard of Judea or the Romans. How lucky he was.
He looked surprised. ‘You do not have enough warriors to fight these Romans?’
‘My warriors will be needed elsewhere.’
What I did not tell him was that his warriors were ideally suited to the type of warfare that Alexander waged in Judea. Having been defeated in battle he had been forced to live the life of a bandit leader, launching hit-and-run raids from the hills of eastern Judea. The hill men of the Zagros Mountains had been carrying out such raids since time immemorial. It was in their blood.
At the end of the evening the benches were cleared from the hut and Zand his warriors slept on the floor while we were escorted back to our lodgings. Spartacus and Scarab were both drunk and Domitus and I had to help them stagger back to our quarters, after which they both collapsed on the floor in a deep sleep. The men who had escorted us from Zand’s hut stood guard outside our own as I sat on the floor propped up against my saddle while Domitus secured the animals skins over the entrance. He came and sat by my side, talking in hushed tones.
‘I thought that chief was going to kill you.’
‘He needs gold and horses more than my head,’ I said. ‘The losses he suffered at Susa have dented his power. The other tribes are increasing their strength as his diminishes.’
‘Why does he need horses?’
‘To raid his enemies’ villages before winter to destroy their stores so the inhabitants will starve. In this way he will re-establish the Sagartians as the region’s strongest tribe.’
‘Have you thought that he might also use them to mount raids against Orodes’ lands?’
‘It is easier for Zand to raid the lands of the other Zagros tribes,’ I replied.
‘Let us hope you are right,’ Domitus commented dryly.
The next morning a subdued Spartacus and Scarab doused their bodies in the cool waters of the stream as I stood bare-chested nearby and used my dagger to shave the stubble from my chin. Another two guards stood nearby as villagers went about their daily affairs. I saw no one coming from Zand’s hut and assumed that he and his warriors were still deep in slumber. Looking round at the different-sized huts and animal pens I realised how poor these people were, especially as this was the home of the tribe’s chieftain. I also realised that two thousand horses to mount raiding parties would greatly increase their power.
‘What is that, uncle?’
I turned to see a wet Spartacus wading to the bank who was looking at the lock of hair around my neck.
I clutched the chain. ‘A lock of Gallia’s hair. I wear it always.’
He came out of the water and sat on the earth. ‘I will ask Rasha to send me a lock of her hair and then I too can wear it close to my heart.’
I slid my dagger back in its sheath. ‘Just make sure you do not wander into Agraci territory.’
He smiled and pointed at Scarab ducking his head in the water. ‘Perhaps Scarab can ride to Palmyra and bring it back.’
I shook my head. ‘Are you determined to get him killed as well as yourself?’
He peered up at me. ‘My parents told me that you killed Gallia’s father.’
I put on my shirt and sat next to him. ‘Not quite right. It was in fact your father, the king, who killed him, with a shot that I have never seen bettered in all the years since. That was a good day.’
Scarab walked from the stream and stood with the early morning sun warming his muscular torso.
‘What did Gallia, I mean Queen Gallia, say about it?’ asked Spartacus.
‘She has never said a word about it to me then or since, but I like to think that she approved.’
Spartacus looked surprised. ‘Of killing her father?’
‘King Ambiorix, Gallia’s father, was a cunning, ruthless bastard who sold his own daughter into slavery, something that Haytham would never do whatever you think of him. Besides, Ambiorix sided with the Romans against us and deserved his fate.’
I looked at Spartacus. ‘You should concentrate on staying alive rather than filling your head with dreams.’
‘If I take an eagle my dreams will become reality,’ he said with conviction.
‘I think,’ I said, ‘that the key word in all of this is “if”.’
‘The gods must have placed Spartacus in a position where he could save King Haytham for a reason,’ remarked Scarab, to the delight of my nephew who grinned at him.
‘Really, Scarab?’ I said. ‘And what reason would that be?’
‘I am not in the confidence of the gods, majesty,’ he replied, ‘but all things on earth happen for a reason.’
I looked at him. ‘Do you believe that you were sent to me for a purpose?’
He flashed his white teeth. ‘Yes, majesty.’
‘And what is it.’
‘I do not know, majesty.’
I stood up and buckled my sword belt. ‘Listen to me, both of you. The gods meddle in the affairs of men but do not believe that they do so for the benefit of mortals. They do so for their own amusement, of that I am certain.’
‘It is said that you are beloved of the gods, majesty,’ said Scarab, ‘that you are immune from enemy weapons and that your army is invincible.’
I thought of the many scars that covered my body as a result of wounds received at the hands of enemies. I slapped Scarab on the arm.
‘Don’t believe everything you are told, Scarab.’
Chapter 12
The hung-over warriors eventually staggered from Zand’s hut and threw themselves in the stream to restore some sense to their dulled brains. A few threw up outside the hut first to provide a breakfast for the mangy dogs that stalked the village. They really were a disgusting people, and yet they were also hardy and had resisted foreign powers for thousands of years. As his warriors splashed in the water and engaged in boorish horseplay Zand himself appeared from out of the forest carrying the body of a wild goat and a bloodied spear, Gourlay beside him. He nodded at me and shouted at his men to get out of the stream and attend to their duties as Domitus sidled up to me fully dressed in his mail shirt, helmet in the crook of his arm.
‘I have attended so many feasts that they now bore me,’ said Zand, handing the dead goat and spear to Gourlay who walked back to the hut with them.
‘Too much drinking eventually deadens the mind so I prefer to stay sober these days,’ he continued. ‘I trust you and your men slept well, King Pacorus of Dura.’
‘Yes, thank you,’ I replied. ‘You like to hunt in the early hours?’
‘It is the best time to take life,’ he said. ‘The senses of both men and beasts are befuddled at such times so a hunter can get close. Their blood can be watering the earth before the first of the sun’s rays brings light to the world.’
I wondered how many people would die as a result of the horses that I would be supplying him with, how many pre-dawn raids he would lead in the coming months? It was not my concern. My concern was the safety of the empire, though I had to admit that it irked me that I was assisting such people. But then, I too was almost certainly sending the warriors I would be hiring to their deaths.
‘Gourlay will escort you back to Susa,’ he continued. ‘When can I expect delivery of the gold and horses?’
‘When will you send the warriors?’ I asked.
‘Gourlay will lead them to Susa as soon as I have received your payment,’ he replied.
‘What is to stop you from taking the g
old and horses and not fulfilling your part of the agreement?’ asked a sceptical Domitus.
Zand’s pitiless blue eyes narrowed. ‘Nothing, you will just have to trust me.’
‘I have never put much stock in trust,’ growled Domitus.
Zand studied the short, crop-haired individual in front of him dressed in armour and armed with a short sword and dagger, so different from the wild, long-haired warriors of his own tribe.
‘You are not Parthian, are you?’
‘I am a Roman,’ said Domitus.
Zand glanced at me. ‘The same people that King Pacorus of Dura wishes to send my warriors to fight against.’
‘They won’t be your warriors once he has paid for them,’ said Domitus, ‘they will be his.’
‘The gold and horses will be accompanied by soldiers to ensure that the exchange goes smoothly,’ I said.
Zand did not take his eyes off Domitus. ‘And what is to stop those soldiers from shooting down my men with your Parthian bows, King Pacorus of Dura.’
I smiled. ‘Nothing. You will just have to trust me.’
Zand burst into laughter. ‘I think we can do much business, you and I. Come, let us eat breakfast before your journey.’
We retired to his hut that still stank of human odour and smoke but which was soon filled with the more pleasant aroma of fresh bread as the female slaves prepared food for us to eat. Fresh logs had been thrown on the fire and then domed metal plates were placed on top of the flames and left to get hot. The benches had been replaced around the fire and we took our seats and watched the women toss dough balls made from flour, salt and water on the hot plates and then flick them over and over, sprinkling water over the bread to prevent it from getting too dry. The bread was served with kebabs made from the wild goat that Zand had killed earlier, honey from the tribe’s hives and eggs that had been collected that morning. It was an altogether delicious meal.
Two hours later Zand himself was escorting us back to Susa, following the same route that we had used to reach his village. This time we had an escort of a dozen of his warriors on horseback, each one armed with a spear, round wooden shield and a long knife. Compared to Dura’s horsemen they were a sorry sight but I knew they were masters at moving unseen through hills and forests and would make much trouble for the Romans in Judea.