The Cursed Kingdom

by Peter Darman

‘No, father,’ pleaded Akmon.

  ‘The penalty for trying to kill a king is death.’

  ‘I plead for her life,’ said Akmon, now distressed that the girl’s life was hanging by a thread.

  Spartacus released her and threw her to the floor. She began retching and coughing, Akmon dashing to her side to hold her hand. He wanted to hold her close but hesitated when she spat venom at his father.

  ‘You are a blasphemer and barbarian.’

  She snatched her hand away from Akmon. ‘Leave me alone.’

  ‘I preferred her when she was choking,’ said Spadines.

  ‘Are you wounded, majesty?’ asked Hovik with concern.

  Spartacus picked up the dagger and pointed it at the girl.

  ‘When you try to kill a man wearing armour make sure you have a weapon that will go through metal and leather. Otherwise strike for his face.’

  ‘My father will hunt you down and kill you,’ she threatened him.

  ‘And who is your father?’

  She had regained control of her breathing and stood to face the king, her neck still red but otherwise she was unharmed. She was attractive enough, her heart-shaped face framed by a mass of chestnut curls, and when she drew herself up she was nearly as tall as Spartacus himself.

  ‘Lord Geghard, commander of King Artavasdes’ armies and one of the most powerful men in all Armenia.’

  Akmon’s eyes opened with surprise and admiration. Spartacus nodded.

  ‘I knew you were nobility. Your arrogance gave you away. What is your name?’

  ‘Lusin.’

  ‘Well, Lusin, you will command a fat fee when I ransom you to your father. Take her.’

  Two soldiers grabbed her arms and led her away, Lusin protesting loudly but to no avail. Akmon was delighted though his father pointed the dagger at him.

  ‘Don’t get any ideas. She is the enemy and her only worth is the amount of gold her father will pay me to get her back. Make yourself useful and help load the packhorses.’

  A beaming Akmon followed the cursing Lusin outside.

  ‘Do you think stealing the daughter of Artavasdes’ general is a good idea, lord?’ queried Hovik. ‘It might incite the king to launch an invasion of Gordyene.’

  Spartacus adopted a grim countenance. ‘That is the idea, general. Just as we defeated the Romans so shall we crush the Armenians. See that the gold is loaded speedily, I wish to be away from this place quickly.’

  Hovik saluted and disappeared. Spartacus walked with Spadines to where the granite slabs had been lifted to reveal a wide, shallow hole where the offerings to the goddess had been secreted.

  ‘Keep an eye on Akmon during the ride back. Make sure he is kept away from the Armenian girl.’

  ‘You think she might try to kill him too, lord?’

  Spartacus shook his head. ‘He likes her and she is a smart girl. She might use his fondness for her as means to make her escape.’

  ‘Perhaps we could cut her face up to make her less pretty,’ suggested Spadines.

  Spartacus sighed. ‘Just keep Akmon away from her, and keep your men away from her as well.’

  *****

  Artaxata, the capital of Armenia, was a city in shock. The first rumours were disbelieved. Everyone knew the King of Gordyene was an uncouth barbarian but even he would not desecrate a temple dedicated to the Goddess Anahit. But then official notices posted throughout the city confirmed the worst: King Spartacus and his Sarmatian bandits had plundered the temple and taken hostage the daughter of Lord Geghard, the commander of the king’s armies, fierce warlord and richest man in all Armenia. Shock gave way to anger and then a burning desire for retribution throughout the kingdom.

  ‘I want that bastard’s head on a spike, majesty,’ roared Geghard, to cheers and applause from the courtiers packed into the throne room, guards around the walls tapping the butts of their spears on the marble tiles to signal approval of their general’s words.

  Such profanity was alien to the rich trappings of a royal palace where Greek actors, poets and writers plied their trade and noblewomen dressed in silks walked the corridors.

  ‘The defiling of the Temple of Anahit cannot go unpunished, majesty,’ said the high priest standing next to the ornate stone dais where King Artavasdes and Queen Satenik were sitting.

  A huge banner hung from the white wall behind them, a deep crimson flag with a golden star in the centre flanked by two reverse-looking eagles, also in gold. It was the standard of the Artaxiad dynasty that had ruled Armenia for over one hundred and fifty years. Its greatest son had been Tigranes the Great, the king’s father, who had bestridden the land between the Caspian and the Mediterranean like a colossus. But even he had been defeated by the Romans and was forced to become an ally of Rome, the ramifications of which were still being felt by his son.

  Artavasdes was not like his father. He was a man of learning and the arts who wrote plays in Greek and saw them performed in the city’s theatre, the first in all Armenia. He was a thinker who desired to maintain the peace and prosperity of his kingdom and its people. It was unfortunate for him, and Armenia, that his realm was in the middle of the ongoing rivalry between Rome and Parthia. He had reluctantly taken part in Mark Antony’s campaign against the Parthians, which had ended in retreat and humiliation, though not for Armenia as he had absented himself and his army following the reverse at Lake Urmia. He had hoped the Parthians would take no further action against Armenia, a forlorn wish it would appear. The last thing he wanted was a war with the newly resurgent Parthian Empire. But he had to do something.

  Geghard waved a sheet of papyrus in the air. ‘This is the ransom demand from King, so-called, Spartacus. It demands my daughter’s weight in gold for her safe return.’

  Groans accompanied his words, ladies shaking their heads and a few wiping away a tear from their well-manicured cheeks.

  ‘I demand justice,’ roared Geghard.

  His name meant ‘spear’ and his words were certainly finding their mark, arousing cheers and applause from the kingdom’s nobles. Artavasdes held up a hand, the marshal of the court calling for silence. Artavasdes, resplendent in purple robes, the colour symbolising wisdom, stood and looked directly at his general.

  ‘We are greatly saddened by the abduction of your daughter, Lord Geghard, and will take every measure to ensure she is speedily returned to you.’

  ‘We can be before the walls of Vanadzor in a month, majesty,’ said Geghard, his heavy brow giving him a grim visage.

  ‘It shall be so,’ said the king to rapturous cheers.

  Artavasdes waited for the noise to die down. ‘But not this year.’

  Men glanced at each other, the High Priest of Aramazd frowned and Geghard’s officers clenched their fists in anguish. The general himself kept his legendary temper under control.

  ‘I do not understand, majesty.’

  ‘The mountain passes are already blanketed in snow and in a month they will be closed altogether. Winter is approaching and I have no desire to lead my army to its doom, general.’

  ‘The gods demand vengeance, highness,’ said the high priest.

  ‘And they shall have it,’ promised Artavasdes, ‘but next year, in the spring. In the meantime, I will pay the gold to King Spartacus to secure the release of your daughter.’

  ‘Such a gesture will be interpreted by King Spartacus as weakness, majesty,’ said Geghard.

  Artavasdes nodded. ‘Let him interpret it as he wishes. It does not matter. In the spring, we will march against Gordyene to punish its king for his depravity.’

  He left the dais holding the hand of his queen and followed by his three children, accompanied by polite applause. The marshal of the court trailed after them, followed by the royal justices, all dressed in blue, the colour traditionally associated with justice. But in his private quarters, having removed his jewel-encrusted diadem and dismissed his attendants, Artavasdes questioned the general about the feasibility of attacking Gordyene. They sipped wine produced
by the royal vineyards outside the city and reflected on the circumstances that had led to the abduction of the daughter of the kingdom’s second most powerful man; the girl living in a draughty temple in the middle of nowhere. It was a long tradition that the daughters of the kingdom’s most eminent families were required to serve as temporary priestesses in the realm’s temples before marrying.

  ‘What does her intended have to say about her abduction?’ asked the king.

  ‘Oh, he’s spitting blood and vowing revenge,’ answered Geghard, ‘though he’s not yet a man so he’s about as much use as a blind man in an archery contest.’

  He cast his head down and spoke softly. ‘They say the King of Gordyene nearly choked her to death.’

  ‘I feel your pain, lord, and in truth am only interested in getting Lusin back to you.’

  Geghard, surprise in his eyes, looked up. ‘Surely you want justice, majesty?’

  ‘Justice, yes, but a war with Parthia? No.’

  Artavasdes sipped at his wine. ‘After the debacle of Mark Antony’s invasion Armenia has a chance to finally free itself from Rome’s grip. At the same time, I do not wish to embroil my kingdom in a war with those Parthians who humiliated Mark Antony.’

  ‘Gordyene is small and weak,’ sneered Geghard.

  ‘But has powerful allies. Do not forget its king is the son of King Gafarn of Hatra and nephew of King Pacorus of Dura, who in turn can summon the aid of Mesene and Elymais if he has a mind to. Having got rid of Rome’s legions I do not wish to invite Dura’s to invade my kingdom.’

  ‘So, we do nothing,’ Geghard’s temper was beginning to rise. His sharp cheekbones were turning red with rage.

  But Artavasdes was nothing if not thoughtful.

  ‘On the contrary, my friend, we provoke the King of Gordyene into invading Armenian where we can defeat him at a time and place of our choosing.’

  Chapter 2

  Ctesiphon was a place of noise and dust. The sound of dozens of chisels carving stone, complemented by the unending din of blacksmiths making hammers, chisels, pry bars and chains, without which stone could not be carved nor moved. And as the chisels became blunted they were returned to the forges to be sharpened. The work on the walls surrounding the vast palace complex had been completed; the enterprise involving the creation of thousands of mud-bricks by an army of hundreds of slaves. Those slaves now joined the hundreds of others who were moving quarried rock brought by barge to Ctesiphon, to be either transported by ox carts from the Tigris, or shifted on rollers made from tree trunks.

  Queen Aliyeh held a handkerchief to her nose as her covered wagon made its way from the gatehouse to the palace. The fine dust hanging permanently over Ctesiphon as a result of the restoration works permeated her carriage to make her cough. The wagon came to halt, the door was opened and Media’s matriarch was welcomed to the court of the king of kings in a manner befitting her status. An honour guard of Babylonian royal spearmen, Scythian axe men and dismounted cataphracts from Susiana stood to attention as trumpeters sounded a salute. Dragon-skin armour composed of overlapping silver scales shone in the sun and whetted spear and axe blades glinted as Phraates himself greeted Aliyeh.

  The high king was nineteen years old, and though he was still pale and thin, he no longer looked like a vulnerable teenager. Aliyeh, now in her late forties though her skin was still flawless and her figure shapely, bowed and embraced the ruler of the Parthian Empire. Phraates linked his arm in hers and escorted her into the palace.

  ‘How was your journey?’

  ‘Long, hot and tedious.’

  She stopped and glanced behind at the frenetic activity.

  ‘Ctesiphon will soon look like it was always intended to appear. You have done well.’

  ‘Will you take refreshments in my private quarters after you have revived yourself?’

  She gripped his arm. ‘Of course.’

  Inside the great audience hall, the dozens of courtiers – nobles and their wives drawn mainly from the kingdoms of Babylon and Susiana, bowed to Phraates and his illustrious guest as they glided by. Women half her age looked with envious eyes upon Queen Aliyeh, scion of a famous family who was the close confidante of the high king, trusted even more than Chief of Court Ashleen and High Priest Timo. Those two trailed after the pair who could have been mother and son so close was their bond. Aliyeh had been the mentor of Phraates and had steadied his nerves when his crown was seemingly slipping away when one hundred thousand Roman soldiers had invaded Parthia. It was she who stayed steadfast when his court was riddled with defeatism and alarm. For that he would be ever grateful to her. Out of respect for her he had commanded a replica of the Great Temple at Hatra be built at Ctesiphon. It stood beside the shrines to Marduk, God of Babylon, and Ishtar, Goddess of Love.

  That night he laid on a huge banquet in Aliyeh’s honour, every guest eating from gold bowls with silver spoons. Silver platters brought copious amounts of roasted mutton, beef, goose, pigeon and chicken from the kitchens, along with bread, radishes, honey, almonds, raisins, yoghurt and mustard. Wine and beer flowed like a raging torrent, though Phraates drank sparingly to preserve his senses. Aliyeh too, wrapped in a beautiful blue silk dress, was also abstemious. They conversed little during the feast, Ashleen and Timo politely enquiring as to the prosperity of Media and the health of its king, Aliyeh’s son Darius.

  Afterwards, in the quiet of Phraates’ private apartments, the two relaxed on couches in the high king’s bedchamber. Slaves took Phraates’ golden crown, lit oil lamps and poured wine into golden rhytons before retreating. As ever, two huge Scythian axe men stood guard outside the king’s door. In the early part of his reign Chief of Court Ashleen had slept on the floor at the foot of Phraates’ bed, but the old man’s snoring and flatulence made his stay a short one.

  The oil lamps cast the large room in a pale, yellow light, hiding the queen’s wrinkles around her eyes. Phraates picked up the wine jug on the table next to him and walked over to where Aliyeh was reclining, refilling her rhyton. She took the jug and placed it on the table beside her couch, also putting down her drinking vessel. The high king was wearing a long purple robe fastened at the waist by a white leather belt.

  ‘Has the chief of court made enquiries regarding a suitable wife?’ asked Aliyeh, unbuckling his belt and letting it fall to the floor.

  Phraates watched her fingers gently open his robe.

  ‘There is plenty of time to produce a son.’

  She opened his robe and played with his silk undergarments.

  ‘You should father children while you are young and strong. Take off your robe.’

  He did as he was told, his heart beating rapidly as she eased down his underwear to reveal his rock-hard manhood. She toyed with it before taking the throbbing shaft into her mouth, Phraates groaning with pleasure as her expert tongue worked its magic. He suddenly grabbed the back of her head and forced it down as his heart rate increased and he started to gasp. Aliyeh caressed his testicles with one hand and gripped one of the high king’s buttocks with the other as Phraates arched his back and cried out in ecstasy, emptying his royal seed into the Queen of Media’s mouth. Aliyeh continued to suck on the phallus, Phraates’ forehead now beaded with sweat as he struggled to control his breathing. She eventually released it from her mouth and looked up at the king of kings.

  ‘Such potent seed will produce a strong son.’

  ‘You are too kind,’ he said in a faltering voice.

  She stayed in his bed that night, allowing him to use her body as he wished. He had seduced slave girls and the daughters and young wives of nobles, of course, but none aroused him so much as the daughter of King Varaz of Hatra. Aliyeh was a force to be reckoned with in the empire, a woman of power who came from one of the most revered families in all Parthia. She may not have been as beautiful as some of the female courtiers at Ctesiphon, and was certainly older than most, but it was what she encapsulated that aroused him to the heights of sexual ecstasy. It also allowed him to
triumph over the man who cast a long shadow over the empire, his empire – King Pacorus of Dura. A man whose talents he needed, which irritated him immensely. When Aliyeh was moaning beneath him or grimacing in pain when he committed an unnatural act on her, in his mind he was putting her and her family in place.

  The next day he took the queen on a journey down the Tigris on a lavishly appointed riverboat with a large white awning covering the whole deck to shield those below from the sun. It was of course, rowed by slaves. The queen looked ravishing in a simple white dress, soft sandals on her feet. She had absented herself from Phraates’ bedchamber in the early hours so slaves could bathe and massage her in preparation for the journey.

  ‘It is good to get away from the incessant noise of Ctesiphon,’ he told her, eyeing her breasts.

  A slave offered him a tray of sliced pears. ‘I have instructed the master builder to increase the rate of work. Even when I am asleep the sound of stone being chiselled torments my mind.’

  ‘At least last night I saved you having to endure much sleep.’

  He grinned boyishly at her. ‘You are a wicked woman but it gladdens my heart you are here. Your brother was here a few weeks ago following his adventures in Sakastan.’

  Her eyes narrowed. ‘Oh? What mischief was he creating?’

  ‘The empire owes him a great debt in defeating the Kushan invasion.’

  ‘I thought King Khosrou provided the bulk of the forces that turned back the Kushans.’

  Phraates waved away the slave holding the tray.

  ‘Had it not have been for King Pacorus and his friends, I fear the Kushans would have overrun the eastern half of the empire.’

  Aliyeh stared across the blue waters of the Tigris, so calm and peaceful in stark contrast to the bustle and chaos at Ctesiphon.

  ‘King Phanes proved a disappointment.’

  ‘That is putting it mildly. He assured me an alliance of Carmania, Drangiana and Aria could easily defeat the Kushans, but instead he managed to orchestrate the defeat of the armies of all three kingdoms. Only your brother’s intervention prevented a crisis turning into a disaster.’