by Peter Darman
‘Help him,’ he called to his men.
Phraates shook his head in disappointment. ‘Take him back to the palace.’
The executioners-cum-torturers stopped their grisly work to stare at the semi-conscious Ashleen being carried away.
‘Who told you to stop?’ asked Phraates.
The slaves, now barely alive, were probably aware of their eyeballs being gouged out before death mercifully took them. For Phraates the spectacle was over all too quickly, the blood-soaked cadavers hanging limply from the posts. He was always surprised by the amount of blood contained in a human body and invariably disappointed that the gorier the method of torture the quicker the victim died. He had heard the Roman method of execution – crucifixion – made the victim suffer for up to three days before he or she died of suffocation. But beyond observing long nails being driven into the condemned’s feet and wrists, where was the pleasure is bearing witness to three days of groans and moans? Even for a high king life was filled with disappointment.
*****
The journey back to Irbil for Queen Aliyeh was a long one, her carriage moving leisurely through a land that changed slowly from desert to a greener landscape as it trundled north back to Media. During the ten days of the journey the queen’s body healed, the bruises faded and it became more comfortable to sit as her intimate parts recovered from the foul deeds committed on them by Phraates’ slaves. But as the days passed Aliyeh forgot about her physical discomfort as her mind was filled with black thoughts directed at the high king. Rage and hurt gave way to a cold loathing as she vowed to herself she would have revenge on Phraates.
In herself she felt better when she inhaled the cooler air of Media on the final leg of the journey. It had been her home for nearly thirty-five years, first coming to the ancient kingdom when she was a serious, aloof young woman madly in love with Prince Atrax, son of King Farhad. As she passed through the many villages dotting the kingdom, young children came running beside her carriage and waving, their mothers and fathers bowing their heads respectfully, she reflected wistfully on her life. The joy of her marriage had produced two fine sons and her husband had inherited the crown of Media when his father died. A grateful, pliant Phraates had made Atrax Lord High General of the Empire and Media’s star was in the ascendant. But her husband had been killed fighting the Romans and her brother, the individual who was the cause of so many of her and her family’s misfortunes, had murdered her youngest son, Alexander.
‘The king, majesty.’
She was snapped out of her plotting by her commander’s voice. She leaned out of her carriage to see a column of horsemen approaching, at its head a billowing flag showing a white dragon on a black background. Behind the king rode a company of cataphracts, men and horses encased in scale armour and every kontus topped with a pennant embroidered with a dragon motif. The riders passed the carriage to form up behind the royal wagon as Darius, his handsome face framed by a splendid burnished open-faced helmet, smiled at Aliyeh.
‘It is good to see you, mother.’
‘And you, too. We need to speak.’
Darius, named after the famed Persian ruler of old, instantly knew his mother’s trip to Ctesiphon had gone badly. She had left Irbil in a confident mood, having convinced herself and him he would soon be named Lord High General of the Empire and thus follow in his father’s footsteps. Her demeanour indicated she had failed in her mission. As they finished the final stretch of the journey back to the city his spirits sank and he rode in silence.
Irbil, an ancient city nearly three thousand years old, comprised two separate settlements. At its heart was the citadel, a walled stronghold sitting on a huge stone mound at least one hundred feet high. It was reached via a long ramp cut into the mound’s southern side, leading to a huge gatehouse. The perimeter wall, yellow-ochre in colour, surrounded a host of brick buildings in the middle of which was a central square. Around it stood the royal temple, palace, barracks and stables. Surrounding the citadel was a great sprawl of mud-brick homes and businesses where the majority of Irbil’s population lived. No wall had been built to protect these dwellings.
In the citadel’s square an honour guard waited to greet the return of the king’s mother. The foot soldiers had been the creation of her husband and had been armed and equipped to fight Roman legionaries. They wore helmets with large neck protectors and cheek guards, over their torsos short-sleeved scale armour tunics. Thick leather greaves over leather boots protected their lower legs and their large oval shields were faced with black-painted hide sporting a white dragon motif. Their primary weapon was a mace – a short length of wood topped with a spiked iron head – though each man was also armed with a short sword and dagger. These men were trained to literally batter their way through an enemy formation and at their peak numbered five thousand professional soldiers. But after Carrhae their numbers had declined and they now numbered no more than a thousand men. Darius had considered disbanding them altogether now his father was dead, viewing them as an expensive luxury. But their discipline was immaculate and they presented a fine spectacle to the returning Aliyeh who barely acknowledged them as she greeted Queen Parisa and her three children standing in front of the palace, before the royal party disappeared into the building.
Aliyeh went straight to her private apartments to lie down and rest. Her head was throbbing and her throat dry but after a nap, a bath, massage and refreshments she was ready to face her son. She was resolved not to disclose the depravities she had been subjected to and so kept the conversation brief and to the point.
‘Phraates is no longer a friend of Media.’
Darius looked at his wife who looked surprised. He waved away the slaves who had been serving them wine in his small dining room that abutted the great banqueting hall of the palace. He waited until the slaves had left and closed the door. Slaves were like mice: they were everywhere and they always found ways to make their miserable lives easier. Gossip was a currency they could use to their advantage and he had no desire to share the momentous news his mother was revealing.
‘He turned down my request that you be made lord high general,’ continued Aliyeh. ‘His allegiance is shifting.’
‘To whom?’ enquired Darius.
‘To my brother. He offered him the position.’
Darius put down his rhyton. ‘My brother should have killed his witch daughter.’
‘Surely you do not mean that, husband?’
Mother and son looked at the fair Parisa, a woman of childbearing hips who was as dull as a rain-soaked autumn day. She was the product of one of Media’s most ancient families, their lineage going back as far as Assyrian times, so her bloodline was pure. And like the soil of Media she was fertile, having produced a son and heir named Atrax and two daughters who could be used as bargaining counters in arranged marriages. But that was the limit of her talents.
‘How else could King Pacorus engineer victory over the Kushans, the humiliation of King Phanes and the elevation of his daughter to the throne of Sakastan if not by sorcery?’ spat Darius. ‘Princess Claudia is an abomination that should be eradicated.’
The atmosphere in the room became oppressive as Aliyeh leaned forward to speak to her son facing her across the table.
‘If Media has lost the friendship of Ctesiphon then it needs new friends, and soon.’
The next morning Aliyeh visited the temple dedicated to Shamash, the Sun God, the deity of Hatra and the god of truth and justice. The interior of the building was painted white to make it bright, with many windows cut high in the walls to let the Sun God’s rays flood into the interior and brighten it further. Behind the altar covered with a white cloth was a large gold disc cast so its surface resembled the sun’s rays. Incense burners gave off the sweet smell of frankincense and saffron, filling the chamber with white smoke to enable mortals to converse with Shamash. White-robed priests bowed to their queen as they quietly went about their business, their footsteps silent as they trod on white marble tiles in s
oft leather slippers. Kneeling temple slaves were cleaning the floor but were instructed to stop and make themselves scarce when Aliyeh walked towards the altar. The priests also retreated to allow the queen to converse with the Sun God. Because the temple was in the citadel worshippers were drawn from the nobility and families of rich merchants, the lower orders attending temples built among the city sprawl.
She knelt on the white silk cushion before the altar and bowed her head, reciting the prayer she had learned as a small girl.
‘O light of the great gods, light of the earth, illuminator of the world-regions, exalted judge, the honoured one of the upper and lower regions. Thou dost look into all the lands with thy light. As one who does not cease from revelation, daily thou dost determine the decisions of heaven and earth. Thy rising is a flaming fire; all the stars in heaven are covered over. Thou art uniquely brilliant; no one among the gods is equal with thee. With Sin, thy father, thou dost hold court; thou dost deliver ordinances.’
She closed her eyes as she pleaded with Shamash to send her a sign to indicate the path she should take to erase the shame of her humiliation at Ctesiphon and have her revenge on Phraates. The incense made her feel light-headed and slightly detached from reality and when she emerged from the temple she felt in a much better mood than when she had entered. The narrow streets around the place of worship were filling with people, mostly slaves running errands for their masters, tradesmen delivering their goods to the palace and homes of those who lived inside the citadel, and individuals making their way to the palace to petition her son on matters legal or commercial. The four slaves carrying her litter moved as one once she had reclined in the plush, curtained transport, slowly walking forward flanked by six foot guards. The litter stopped abruptly, causing Aliyeh to sigh. She heard the voice of the commander of her escort.
‘Get out of the way.’
She heard alien tongues apologise in Greek, which the commander did not understand.
‘Bloody foreigners.’
The foreigners began pleading for their lives when he drew his sword. Aliyeh, annoyed the litter was not moving, alighted from it.
‘What’s going on here?’
The officer, sword in hand, bowed his head to her.
‘Apologies, majesty, these two imbeciles were in the way.’
Aliyeh looked at the two slightly plump, balding men now smiling at her. Physically they were uninspiring but their rich togas and fine leather shoes indicated a certain amount of prosperity.
‘Please accept our apologies,’ said the plumper man. ‘We were on our way to the palace on business.’
‘What business?’ asked the queen.
‘We are here on behalf of the Triumvir Mark Antony,’ the other told her, ‘to purchase food for his army.’
‘You are Romans,’ said the queen.
They both nodded. Normally she would have had them thrown into prison before being ejected from the kingdom. But her visit to the incense-filled temple had lightened her mood and she was curious as to their presence in Media. She told the officer to put away his sword.
‘I am Queen Aliyeh…’
‘Mother of King Darius and wife to the late, lamented King Atrax,’ said the shorter Roman, bowing, as did the other. ‘It is an honour to meet you, lady. I am Fabius Maximus and this is Milo Atticus.’
The taller Roman smiled and bowed.
‘Walk with me,’ she commanded.
The officer frowned as she sauntered ahead. He barked at the slaves to pick up the litter and follow the queen. People stared in amazement as they saw Queen Aliyeh walking alongside two foreigners, quickly moving out of the way and bowing their heads as she passed by.
‘You do know that Parthia recently fought a war against Mark Antony?’ she said. ‘A war in which my husband, may the gods love him, was killed?’
‘Mark Antony was deceived by King Artavasdes of Armenia into thinking that Parthia was weak and divided, majesty,’ said Fabius Maximum, ‘and that many Parthians were desirous of the friendship of Rome.’
‘That is true, majesty,’ added Milo Atticus.
‘He was rudely made aware the opposite was true,’ continued Fabius Maximus.
‘But he would be desirous of Media’s friendship,’ said Milo Atticus.
‘Why would Media be interested in the friendship of a man who recently tried to conquer it by force?’ asked Aliyeh, to her surprise rather enjoying the conversation.
‘Because,’ said Fabius Maximus, ‘when Mark Antony crushes Octavian he will be the ruler of the Roman world, and will look favourably on those who lent him their support beforehand.’
‘Media would become a great power, majesty,’ stressed Milo Atticus, ‘not just a kingdom of the Parthian Empire.’
They were first-rate businessmen that much was apparent, and though normally she would not tolerate such talk, these were not normal times. She suddenly stopped and looked back at the temple.
‘Thank you, Shamash.’
Her son was less than enamoured by her suggestion he should speak to the two Romans about purchasing food for Mark Antony. He had had a long day hearing petty and not-so-petty grievances, petitions for business licences and requests from city officials. He was hot, tired and irritable and his mother’s apparent flight from reality was the final straw.
‘We sell the Romans grain so they can feed their soldiers during a fresh campaign against Media? I think not, mother.’
A slave was massaging his head in an attempt to alleviate the throbbing headache that was assaulting his brain.
‘There are no Roman soldiers in Armenia,’ she told him, ‘besides, to sell our surplus to Mark Antony rather than Ctesiphon will send a message to Phraates that Media is not a slave to the king of kings.’
He opened his eyes to look at her. ‘If we were to sell grain to the Romans, such a move might be construed by the high king as a hostile act.’
‘Not making you lord high general was an insult to you and therefore Media. The Parthian Empire is a grouping of equal kingdoms and not a collection of vassal domains,’ she shot back. ‘Besides, why should not Media sell its wealth to the highest bidder? And these Romans are bidding high.’
Many Parthian kingdoms benefited from the Silk Road that brought the precious material from China through the empire and on to Egypt and Rome. But Media’s wealth was derived from its rich soil, which made it the breadbasket of the empire. The rain that watered Media’s fertile soil meant its farmers could grow an abundance of crops. Barley was the most common, followed by wheat, millet, flax and onions. Though the kingdom suffered hot summers and cold winters, the proximity of the Zagros Mountains resulted in a constant supply of rain to water farmlands. Irbil itself was located in a vast flat, fertile grassland plain that was beautifully green from the winter rains to the next spring, turning to bronze as the harvest approached. The dozens of villages were sited near springs or wadis, around which grew orchards, vineyards and small gardens. After the harvest sheep and goats fed on the stubble in the wheat and barley fields.
Darius was intrigued. ‘How high?’
‘It amounts to double the annual tribute Media pays to Ctesiphon.’
Darius’ headache suddenly subsided. ‘That much?’
Aliyeh nodded. Her son dismissed the slave and filled a cup with water. The shutters of his office were closed to subdue the lighting, the marble bust of his father in the corner barely visible.
‘The Romans also revealed something very interesting,’ said Aliyeh.
‘What?’
‘That Mark Antony is concentrating on vengeance against Artavasdes who abandoned him during his recent campaign.’
Darius took another swig of water. ‘The campaign against Media, you mean. It sticks in the craw, mother, and I am surprised you are recommending dealing with people who not so long ago were our enemies.’
Not so long ago Phraates was her lover, but now…
‘Alliances shift, Darius, and in rejecting you for high office Phraa
tes has indicated he views Media as a second-rate power. How much further will it slip if he makes my brother lord high general?’
‘Impossible,’ snapped Darius.
‘Impossible? Phraates himself told me he had offered the position to Pacorus, as I told you. He turned it down this time. Who knows if he will reject a second offer?’
Aliyeh smiled to herself after reminding her son that it was King Pacorus who was responsible for the death of his brother Alexander. They had been close and Darius had been delighted when his brother had been made Satrap of Persis, which he believed would be the first step towards Alexander being made king of that realm. Only for his younger brother’s life to be cruelly snatched away at the hands of his detested uncle. Darius may have disliked the Romans but he despised the King of Dura. An evil glint appeared in his eye as he considered how cosying up to the Romans would infuriate King Pacorus.
‘I will meet these Romans.’
The meeting the next day went well, partly because Darius was refreshed following a good night’s sleep but mostly because of the fawning of Fabius Maximus and Milo Atticus. Both had spent a considerable time in the east and they knew how to flatter and persuade the kings and nobles of Pontus, Armenia and now Parthia. They listened politely as the effeminate eastern potentates with their ridiculous beards and long hair waxed lyrical about the fly-infested shit-holes they called home and boasted about their military prowess. A few kings were dangerous and had to be treated with the utmost respect, or better still avoided. Such figures included King Pacorus of Dura, King Gafarn of Hatra and the unpredictable King Spartacus of Gordyene. The first two had been Roman slaves and Roman vanity insisted the only reason they were formidable figures was because they had learned their military trade in Italy. If further proof were needed then observers would have only to look to Dura where two replica Roman legions existed.