by Peter Darman
The arrogant King Darius was easy to win round, the two Romans indulging his favourite hobby – talking about himself. He ordered chairs and refreshments to be brought to the throne room so they would not tire, as he waxed lyrical about himself, his children and the strength of Media. But after what seemed like hours, during which the eyelids of both Romans felt like slabs of lead as they struggled to stay awake, the deal was done. In exchange for gold Media would supply grain to feed Roman troops in Syria, Pontus and Cappadocia. It was plundered gold, of course, and some may have even been stolen from Parthia. But King Darius was happy, his mother was happy and Mark Antony would be happy.
*****
A hundred miles north of Irbil another shipment of plundered gold was about to leave the palace at Vanadzor. The weather was cold now, bitter northerly winds sweeping down from the mountains bringing sleet that would soon turn to snow, blocking all the high passes. Spartacus drew his cloak around him and smiled with satisfaction at the line of packhorses, each one loaded with the gold taken from the Temple of Anahit, all melted down into bars. He stood back and rubbed his hands together, not because he was cold but in anticipation. Soon he would have the magic ingots from India to forge ukku blades. Hovik finished talking to the commander of the escort and walked over to his king.
‘All is ready, majesty.’
‘I hope the snows stay away until you are on the way south.’
Hovik looked up at the grey leaden sky.
‘With the gods’ help we will be in warmer climes before they fall.’
Spartacus never understood why men invoked the gods for assistance. Why should the immortals answer the prayers of his general? More likely they would arrange for the column to be ambushed.
‘Spadines has sent word there are no Armenians near the border, but remain vigilant all the same. We don’t want the Armenians stealing back their gold and I don’t want to lose my best men.’
The escort numbered five hundred men, each of whom had been promised an ukku sword once they had returned from the east. They had been chosen because they were the best soldiers and swordsmen in the army and would become the royal bodyguard, revered and feared in equal measure. A unit that would be an inspiration to the rest of the army and one that other soldiers in the army would thirst to join.
Hovik bowed his head and walked to his horse at the head of the column. Spartacus walked back to his family standing at the top of the black palace steps. Black was a feature of Vanadzor, from the stone used to construct its walls and buildings to the hair of the king’s wife and their children. Rasha held her youngest son Haytham close as the king strode up the steps, beaming from ear to ear as Hovik led the horsemen from the bleak palace courtyard. He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her on the lips, prompting Haytham to screw up his face. The king pinched the ear of the boy who unfortunately looked like his dead Agraci grandfather and gave his middle son Castus a gentle pat on the shoulder.
‘This time next year I will have five hundred ukku blades.’
He cast a sideways glance at Akmon standing next to Lusin, the girl’s pretty face framed by the fur-lined hood of her cloak. He frowned when he noticed Akmon staring longingly at her.
‘They should be separated,’ he said to Rasha.
She rolled her eyes. ‘She is a beautiful young noblewoman and he is a lustful young prince. What did you think would happen?’
‘I thought her father would have paid her ransom by now, that’s what I thought.’
‘You should have left her in Armenia, Spartacus, for every day she spends here she wins a little more of Akmon’s heart.’
He did not answer, aware his wife was right. He had believed the negotiations to ransom Lusin would be speedy and profitable. But Artavasdes himself became involved and his representatives were insistent that certain conditions be met before they would pay an ounce of gold. Was Lusin still alive, was she in good health, what did she weigh?
‘What did she weigh!’ said Spartacus to himself.
Rasha looked at him. ‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
So Armenian representatives arrived at Vanadzor to inspect Lusin and the quarters she was housed in, which were spacious. Spartacus smiled when the young woman was weighed and a sum of gold was agreed. Lusin had been so well fed and cared for that she had put on weight. The palace may have looked austere but those who lived in it fared well. The Armenians returned to their king, informing Spartacus they would be recommending to Artavasdes that Lusin’s body weight in gold should be paid. The king looked at his son chatting to the girl. Perhaps he should have her killed and have done with it all. Akmon would get over it. In time. Then again, why should he lose the gold? In any case once it was paid she would be gone and out of his son’s life.
‘When do we get the metal?’
Spartacus was tall and muscular but he paled into insignificance beside the figure of his chief armourer. Cruel tongues spread rumours that Gurgen was the son of mountain trolls who lived in the Caucasus but frequently travelled south to bathe in the cool waters of Lake Urmia. But he was so ugly they left him there, after which he made his way to Vanadzor to offer his services. Huge with massive shoulders and arms as thick as the trunk of a small tree, he had worked in the royal armouries for years. A young apprentice when King Balas ruled Gordyene, he forged sword blades for Surena before becoming the chief armourer by the time Spartacus and Rasha arrived at Vanadzor.
‘You will not be disappointed, Gurgen.’
The brute wiped his nose on his sleeve, much to the disgust of Lusin, as the rear of the column left the courtyard to link up with its escort waiting outside the city.
‘The sword blades forged in my armouries are the best in all Parthia,’ Gurgen’s voice was deep and harsh.
‘The ukku blades will be better.’
Gurgen looked at Lusin, an ugly beast staring at a vision of beauty.
‘And then you will quench them in Armenian blood?’
‘Rather ironic, don’t you think?’
Chapter 3
The tomb was quiet, the public having been barred from visiting it on the orders of the queen herself. The marble floors and walls made the large room pleasantly cool, the few oil lamps casting the chamber in an eerie glow. The atmosphere was sombre, which matched the mood of the solitary figure staring down at the mummified body beneath the sarcophagus’ marble top. The original sarcophagus had been gold but that had been melted down to create emergency gold coinage for Pharaoh Ptolemy fifty years before. But the replacement was still a splendid affair, the white and red marble panels carved into reliefs of Greek soldiers on foot and horse. Around the walls were stone friezes showing the dead man’s victories – Granicus, Tyre, Gaugamela and Hydaspes – triumphs that conquered the Persian Empire and spread Greek influence throughout Egypt, Mesopotamia and beyond the Indus.
‘What would you do?’ said Mark Antony.
Recent events had not gone in his favour. His invasion of Parthia had cost him a third of his army and had ended in failure. The Armenians had deserted him and in the west Octavian, his rival who stood in the way of him becoming ruler of the Roman world, was prospering. His ally Sextus Pompeius, the son of the great Pompey, who had held Sicily with a powerful fleet, had been defeated in a naval battle at Naulochus. This gave Octavian complete control of the western Mediterranean, and his rival had gone on to force the resignation of Lepidus, a member of the Triumvirate who had controlled parts of northern Africa. Octavian’s power was increasing while his was seemingly declining.
He heard footsteps and turned to see his friend and military commander, Quintus Dellius, approaching. The same age as the triumvir, he had been at Antony’s side for ten years, sharing hardships and triumphs. Quintus was of a cheerful, carefree disposition but today he wore a deep frown. Antony went back to staring at the sarcophagus. Quintus stopped beside him with head bowed in reverence to the mummified body of Alexander of Macedon lying within.
‘You bring bad news, Qui
ntus?’
His subordinate looked at the carved marble before him.
‘Sextus Pompeius is dead, killed by Octavian’s men.’
Antony closed his eyes. ‘He was a good man.’
‘Better news from Parthia,’ said Quintus. ‘The King of Media has agreed to sell grain to feed our troops in Cappadocia and Pontus, so at least they won’t starve during the winter.’
Antony looked at him in surprise. ‘Are you certain? The last time I looked the King of Media was my sworn enemy.’
‘Quite certain. My sources inform me Media and the high king of Parthia have had a disagreement. This is good news indeed.’
‘Is it?’
‘Armenia must be punished for its treachery; both you and Queen Cleopatra have said so. Now you have the opportunity to do it.’
Antony turned and walked away from the sarcophagus. ‘Explain yourself.’
The mausoleum was in the Cema district of Alexandria, a sprawling city built on a tight peninsula along the inhospitable north African coastline. It was bisected by the Canopus, a wide street some three miles in length always filled with litters carrying rich aristocrats and their perfumed wives to and fro between their luxurious villas and the many shops and temples that fronted the street. In the middle of the concourse was a line of large fountains where commoners and horses sated their thirst.
Antony and Quintus walked to where their Roman escort waited with their horses.
‘I do not have the time nor the soldiers to invade Armenia,’ Antony told Quintus. ‘I must muster my forces for the coming clash with Octavian.’
They vaulted into their saddles.
‘I know that,’ said Quintus, ‘but with political changes in Parthia you will not have to. A small force would be able to seize Armenia with ease.’
Antony accepted his horse’s reins from the commander of his escort.
‘Armenia has a large army, Quintus; you remember how it deserted us in Media. A small force would be crushed by Artavasdes’ troops.’
He nudged his horse forward to enter the Canopus.
‘Not if Artavasdes was concerned with his southern border with Media. Offer the king of Media an alliance.’
Antony laughed, the first time he had done so in days.
‘You missed your calling, my friend, you should have been a teller of tall stories.’
‘Armenia is adjacent to Media,’ said Quintus, ‘and if the former was conquered and the latter became our ally, then the situation in the north would change radically. Parthia would be cowered, leaving you free to deal with Octavian.’
They trotted from the mausoleum and turned left to take them to the entrance of the Royal Quarter, men and women cheering the handsome Mark Antony in his hammered bronze cuirass made to resemble the muscles of a man’s chest and embossed with silver. He waved back – adulation always revived his spirits.
‘I am no longer interested in Parthia,’ the triumvir announced, ‘but I will have my revenge on Artavasdes.’
They rode through the main gate towards the palace built on the promontory called the Lochias where his queen and their children waited. Antony liked Alexandria, the city of three hundred thousand people that was a centre of trade, culture and learning. It was a place where Egyptians, Greeks, Jews, Indians, Syrians, Nubians and Romans rubbed shoulders and co-existed in relative harmony. But he knew the world he and Cleopatra had created needed shoring up if it was not to crumble into dust. Quintus offered a ray of hope but even if Media was prepared to switch sides, what of the rest of Parthia?
*****
The snow crunched underfoot as Spartacus and the rest of the hunting party moved through the trees. On his right was Akmon, on his left Kuris, the archer having become something of a personal bodyguard to the king after his exploits at the Temple of Anahit. They were high in the hills surrounding the Pambak Valley, tracking game. Much to his annoyance Akmon had requested Lusin be allowed to join the party, the wretched gold for her ransom having been delayed on account of Artavasdes’ officials being held up during their journey back to Artaxata, or so the courier reported. It was all a lie, of course. Spartacus, delighted at his haul of gold, had assured the Armenians Lusin would not be harmed during her stay at Vanadzor. That was a mistake. Next time he would send a finger to Artaxata to speed up negotiations. He glanced at the young woman in her boots, leggings and padded tunic to keep out the cold. Next time? There would be no next time.
They froze when they heard sounds ahead, the noise of hooves on rock. They were above the treeline now, ascending through a landscape of rocks and snow-covered grass. Lusin had wanted to carry a bow and quiver but the king had forbidden it. She insisted she could shoot well enough. He did not doubt this daughter of a general could use a bow. On him or his son if he gave her a chance. So, she walked behind Akmon, behind her trackers, a pair of local hunters and servants to carry the carcasses back to camp. In front of them the snow-covered tops of the mountains were hidden by low grey clouds.
The beasts, normally inhabiting the high slopes, had come down from the mountain slopes to scour for food. Skilled climbers, they were wary and quiet animals. They had tracked the group all morning; the scouts noticing the deep tracks made by the bucks and does. As far as they could tell there were five animals in the group, which would make a lot of meat for tonight’s feast. A male ibex grew to a height of over five feet and weighed in at over two hundred and fifty pounds. But to kill one demanded patience and quiet.
Spartacus sensed they were close, perhaps around one of the rocky crags that littered this part of the Pambak Valley. No one spoke, everyone moved slowly and an arrow was nocked in every bowstring. The king held up a hand to halt the party. He scanned the rocks ahead and spotted the mere glimpse of a horn. A wind, light but bitter, was blowing from the north, which meant they were downwind of the ibex. He focused on the horn peeking over the rock. It was moving slowly to the left. He carefully drew back the bowstring as the ibex came into view, a big beast with a magnificent pair of long, thick horns bent backwards in a great curve.
He smiled to himself when he saw two does following the buck, both smaller and lighter than the male. The buck froze, turned his head and stared at the three men with raised bows. He never moved a muscle before Spartacus’ arrow pierced its chest, dropping it instantly. Kuris killed one of the does and Akmon felled the other. The boy shouted in triumph, his father glared at him and three more ibex bolted from behind the rock. Kuris nocked another arrow in his bowstring and killed the first before it had gone ten paces, Spartacus dropping the second in a flash. But the third ibex, vaulting over the rock, bolted straight for them. Or rather for Lusin.
It all happened in seconds. Two hundred and fifty pounds of beast running head down at the young Armenian girl. Spartacus did nothing to stop him and Kuris was unable to shoot because the king was in the way. The king was unconcerned. If she died, she died. He could live without the ransom gold and her demise would hopefully provoke the Armenians even more. The ibex buck was about to do him a great favour.
But the king had forgotten about his son who suddenly flung himself at the ibex, the beast’s horns slamming hard into the boy’s left arm. Lusin was frozen with fear but the intercession of Prince Akmon saved her as he and the beast collapsed in a heap at her feet. He cried out in pain but managed to pull his dagger and stabbed it several times in the neck. Kuris put an arrow into the ibex’s hindquarters, strung another missile and shot that into its body, all the time Akmon, his left arm useless, stabbing at the neck and head of the now dead ibex. Spartacus ran through the snow to grab his son by the scruff of the neck to haul him to his feet.
‘It’s dead, Akmon.’
His son, wincing with pain, his arm hanging uselessly, had a look of determination on his face. It turned into a beaming smile when Lusin snapped out of her catatonic state to fling her arms around her wounded saviour.
‘You saved me, may the gods protect and revere you. Thank you, Akmon, you shall forever be my f
irst knight.’
She kissed his cheek, cupped his face and planted a loving kiss on his lips. Spartacus pushed her away.
‘Keep away, girl, can’t you see he is injured?’
‘Clean break, I’ve seen many like it,’ said Kuris beside the king. ‘It will heal, majesty.’
Spartacus handed his bow to one of the trackers, used his dagger to cut open the left sleeve of his son’s tunic to examine the broken arm. No bone was jutting from the limb. Kuris was right; it was a clean break. He looked at Akmon who was becoming very pale as euphoria left him to be replaced by pain. He unbuckled his son’s sword belt and used it to fashion a sling, handing Lusin the sword in its scabbard.
‘Make yourself useful, carry this. And don’t get any ideas about pulling it from the scabbard. It’s a long walk back to the city.’
He turned to the servants. ‘Get the carcasses.’
Spartacus led the party back to Vanadzor as the snow began to fall. Akmon trailed behind him, by his side an adoring Lusin carrying his sword, both staring into each other’s eyes. Kuris walked behind the prince to ensure he did not stumble, and behind him came the trackers and servants hauling the dead ibex. Kuris was grinning at the love-struck couple and the trackers were delighted the hunting trip had reaped a rich reward. Only the king was in a foul mood as he tramped back to his capital.
The court physician pronounced that the prince’s arm would take around six weeks to heal but he saw no reason why the limb should not recover fully. The story of how Akmon had saved Lusin quickly spread throughout the city and kingdom, being embellished as it was passed on. Soon rumours were circulating that the ibex resembled a bull in size, with razor-sharp horns that would have cut Lusin in two had it reached her. That the prince had thrown himself in the path of such a monster was brave enough, but to tussle with it armed only with a dagger ranked him alongside such legendary figures as Achilles and Hector. Stories were repeated of how Akmon had fought the beast with a broken arm for half an hour before the creature died. Other tales spoke of how the beast was not an ibex at all but a demon in animal form come down from the mountains to devour young children. The cold winter evenings were ideal for gathering round fires and swapping stories, and during that winter the name on the tip of everyone’s tongue was Prince Akmon.