by Peter Darman
Spartacus was like a brooding bear in a cave as a constant stream of visitors came to the palace to convey their admiration for his son’s exploits. Some were merely fawning lords and merchants hoping to exchange a few sycophantic words for a favour, but most were well meaning and earnest. Akmon, left arm in a splint and sling, was like a conquering hero as he accepted congratulations and gifts, which included a plethora of daggers, charms to ward off evil and ointments to speed the recovery of his arm.
The king sat watching Akmon as he ate a bowl of porridge, Lusin sat next to him holding the bowl so he could heap food on to a spoon. Haytham and Castus were grinning at their older brother in an effort to share in his fame. The family was dining in a small room next to the feasting hall, which was invariably cold and draughty when not filled with dozens of raucous guests.
‘Let me do that,’ said Lusin, taking the spoon from her hero’s hand so she could feed him.
‘In the name of the Horsemen he’s not a cripple, girl,’ growled Spartacus.
The king always invoked the Horsemen, the oldest of the Thracian gods, when troubled. Castus and Haytham hissed in disapproval at him.
‘And you two can be quiet.’
‘The physician informed us the arm will heal quicker if there is no strain put upon it,’ Lusin informed the king. ‘I owe the prince my life. The least I can do is make his recovery as comfortable as possible.’
She continued feeding the purring Akmon.
‘The monster he slayed on the mountain is nothing compared to the one you have created,’ Rasha said quietly to her husband.
He frowned at her. ‘Monster? It was a goat with a pair of horns.’
She leaned in closer so only he could hear her words.
‘The monster that is the growing bond between our son and Lusin, Spartacus. Today I heard gossip among the Vipers that Akmon and Lusin are to be married.’
The Vipers were the queen’s all-female bodyguard of horse archers, named after their founder, Viper, the wife of Surena, and modelled on the famed Amazons of Dura.
‘You should have the culprit flogged,’ said the king.
‘Why? For speaking fondly of our son? Don’t be absurd.’
‘Lusin is a hostage, nothing more.’
She gave a shake of the head. ‘People have forgotten she is a highborn Armenian whom you stole away from her homeland. They see only a handsome young couple who are in love.’
‘They are not in love,’ he insisted.
Rasha looked at a smiling Lusin heaping porridge into her son’s eager mouth.
‘I’ve arranged for you to see the court physician.’
‘Why?’
‘So you can have your eyesight checked.’
‘She will be gone in the spring,’ he said, ignoring her jibe, ‘and with it his affection for her.’
‘I will cancel your appointment with the physician as you have obviously lost your sight and senses. You should return the gold when it arrives.’
‘Return the gold?’ his loud voice prompted the others at the table to stare at him.
Rasha smiled at her children and told them to continue eating. She spoke in hushed tones to her husband.
‘Tell the Armenians Lusin has decided to stay in Gordyene to become wife to Prince Akmon.’
‘That will stir them up.’
‘Isn’t that what you want, a final showdown with the Armenians?’
He was going to dismiss her idea out of hand. But as he weighed it up in his mind he saw it had its appeal. Anything that provoked the Armenians was worth considering and he grudgingly accepted his son and the girl made a good pairing.
‘They are both young,’ he said, ‘but in the back of her mind she still thinks she is going back home. No, the original plan stands.’
‘And Akmon?’
‘He’ll get over her.’
*****
General Joro entered the palace’s throne room and marched up to the dais, snapping to attention and bowing his head to the king and queen. Darius acknowledged his salute and noticed the scowl on the officer’s face. The commander of Media’s army glanced disapprovingly at Fabius Maximus and Milo Atticus, the Roman merchants who had seemingly become permanent fixtures at the court of King Darius.
‘How may we help you, general?’ asked Darius.
‘I have received no instructions concerning the composition of the escort that will guard the annual tribute to Ctesiphon, majesty.’
Darius smirked. ‘That is because there will be no tribute going to Ctesiphon.’
Joro looked surprised. The annual tribute was paid to Ctesiphon by every kingdom in the empire, being a payment in gold, the sum corresponding to the number of soldiers each kingdom could put into the field. To refuse to pay the tribute was an insult to the king of kings.
‘May I ask why, majesty?’ enquired Joro.
‘You may not,’ retorted Darius. ‘The affairs of kings do not concern soldiers.’
Joro smarted at the insult but kept his tongue in check. He knew the royal treasury was filled for the Romans had already paid in full for the grain they had purchased, the grain that was usually sold to Ctesiphon. It did not take a genius to see that relations between Media and King of Kings Phraates were deteriorating rapidly. The question was: why?
‘In the spring,’ announced Darius, ‘you will move contingents of the army north to the border with Armenia, ready to cross the Araxes at a moment’s notice.’
Joro noticed this delighted the Romans who were both smiling and bowing their heads to Aliyeh, no doubt in recognition of her influence over the king in this matter.
‘Are we going to war with Armenia?’ enquired Joro.
‘The Armenians are our enemies, general,’ answered Darius, ‘and we must take precautions to ensure they are not allowed to cross the Araxes to lay waste my kingdom.’
Curious, thought Joro, he was part of King Atrax’s army that had faced the combined army of Romans and Armenians two years before. The bulk of that army was made up of Roman legionaries who went on to lay siege to Phraaspa. He always thought the Armenians were Roman puppets who did nothing without the orders of their masters. He wondered if Media was becoming the Romans’ servants? If true it saddened him. He had had the privilege of serving under strong kings – Farhard and Atrax – but he was concerned about Darius. He respected the queen mother because she came from an ancient Parthian family, but he wondered if her corrosive influence would lead Media to disaster. He was unaware of the whole court staring at him as he daydreamed about the future.
‘Are you ill, general?’ asked Darius to titters from the courtiers.
Joro was absently stroking his beard, which like his hair was pure white.
‘My apologies, majesty.’
‘We are on the cusp of a new age for Media, general,’ proclaimed Darius, rising from his throne, behind him a huge dragon banner hanging from the wall, ‘an age of new allies and new opportunities.’
The courtiers clapped enthusiastically but the general’s blue eyes registered sad resignation. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the gloating figure of Aliyeh and feared for the future of Media and indeed all Parthia.
*****
Phraates sat at his immense mahogany desk with his eyes focused on the polished top. Ashleen had brought along High Priest Timo for support, the holy man’s piggy eyes switching between the high king and the chief of court. Phraates was silent for what seemed like an age, his hands clasped together under his chin, his elbows resting on the desktop. Then he began to speak very slowly.
‘I made Atrax lord high general and when he died I elevated his wife to matriarch of Ctesiphon. I created her idiot son Satrap of Persis, at great risk to my crown when the dotard raped the daughter of King Pacorus and nearly plunged the empire into civil war. And now Media refuses to pay the annual tribute, after having reneged on the agreed sale of its grain surplus to us, preferring instead to sell it to our sworn enemies the Romans.’
‘This is treaso
n,’ asserted Timo.
‘And treason must be punished, highness,’ added a gleeful Ashleen.
‘King Darius and his poisonous mother have angered the gods, highness,’ proclaimed Timo, ‘and as such the immortals have forsaken them.’
Ashleen placed his palms on the desk. ‘Now is the time to show Media, and the whole world, highness, that treason carries the severest of punishments.’
Timo, his bulky frame encased in a gleaming white robe with gold around the cuffs and neck, clenched a fist.
‘Media can be crushed like an eggshell, highness.’
Phraates glared at his chief of court’s chubby hands soiling his desktop. The official withdrew them and stepped back.
‘Sit,’ he told his chief advisers. ‘Slaves.’
Two male slaves entered along with a pair of Scythian axe men, one servant pouring wine into three gold rhytons held on a tray by the other. He served Phraates first followed by Ashleen and Timo. When they had left, Phraates stood and walked to the map of the Parthian Empire painted on wooden panels fastened to the wall. He pointed at Irbil.
‘If I assembled an army it could be at Irbil in two weeks. But to make war on Media is to invite the wrath of Dura.’
‘King Darius and his mother have made no secret of their dislike for King Pacorus, highness,’ said Ashleen.
Phraates traced a finger from Irbil to Hatra. ‘But King Gafarn and his queen are not alienated from Media, and if they pledged allegiance to King Darius then Dura would inevitably support Hatra.’
He jabbed a finger at Uruk and Elymais, ‘As would Mesene and Elymais.’
‘King Pacorus has had many opportunities to revolt against you, highness,’ said Ashleen, ‘but he has remained loyal. He wishes above all to preserve unity in the empire.’
‘He is an honourable man,’ conceded Timo.
Phraates stared at the map and the lands he ruled, from the River Euphrates in the west to the River Indus in the east, a length of over a thousand miles. An area of land currently at peace.
‘I will do nothing,’ he said.
Ashleen nearly choked on his wine.
‘With all respect, highness, to do so will be interpreted as weakness and…’
Phraates held up a hand to still his words.
‘When every other kingdom has paid the tribute, you will inform said kingdoms that Media alone has reneged on its pledge to preserve the unity of the Parthian Empire. You will furthermore make it known that Media is forging links with the Romans. These things will make it easier for me to punish Media when the time comes.’
Two years before he would have been raging against Darius and threatening to erase Media from the face of the earth. But in the aftermath of Mark Antony’s invasion of Parthia and the recent Kushan incursion into the empire, he had learned that angry responses to crises invariably led to mistakes. And he also recognised armies were but one means of achieving one’s desires. Wars and preparation for conflicts were also costly, as the recent establishment of Satrap Kewab and his mobile army on the eastern border was proving. But he also knew prevention was better than a cure. In the east the Kushans were observing their two-year truce, the Romans were quiet in the west and there was no conflict with the Armenians, whose relations with the Romans had soured as a result of Artavasdes’ desertion of Mark Antony. He would not be the one to toss a large stone into the pool of tranquillity.
‘There will be ample time to deal with Media,’ he told them.
After the meeting Ashleen walked with Timo through Ctesiphon’s palace. The two had never been friends, more rivals for the high king’s ear, but they had entered into a sort of unholy alliance when Phraates had become high king. Ashleen was from Phraates’ native Susiana and Timo had been his religious adviser during his upbringing. Both had benefited from the son of Orodes becoming king of kings.
‘He is learning,’ said Timo.
‘He had a good tutor.’
They stopped when they reached the huge portico. Ashleen would return to his office and Timo would walk to the temple enclave. Beyond the confines of the palace a yellow dust haze filled the air as Ctesiphon’s renovation continued apace.
Timo looked down at the shorter chief of court.
‘What will you do when he no longer has a use for your services?’
Ashleen’s round face cracked a smile. ‘He still has much to learn about the world. I would be remiss to deprive Phraates of my knowledge.’
Timo turned and walked on. ‘To say nothing of your vanity.’
They had all forgotten about the one kingdom that was about to set off a series of events that would have far-reaching consequences for Parthia.
Chapter 4
There were no gold statues in Vanadzor, no perfumed nobles walking around in silks or gaudily painted villas where rich owners spent their time reclining on couches drinking fine wines. If one word was used to describe the city and its inhabitants, it would be dour. Bleak would be another, made worse by the local black limestone used to build the city’s walls and buildings. Inside Vanadzor most of those buildings were squat and ugly, cruel tongues in kingdoms like Media stating they reflected the people who lived in them. Even the palace in the centre of the city was ugly, its high, black walls, round towers at each corner, and its three-storey gatehouse having no grace or beauty. The gates to the palace, constructed of thick oak reinforced with iron spikes and bars, resembled the entrance to the underworld. Yet there was great treasure in Vanadzor if one cared to look closely.
The usual cold, snowy winter was now easing, though the mountain passes were still blocked. But the lower roads were now free of snow and ice; the rivers they ran parallel to becoming bloated with raging melt waters. The evergreens provided a semblance of colour but on the cusp of spring Gordyene was still a cold, grey, unwelcoming land. But a warm greeting was extended to General Hovik and his men when they rode into the city on a bitterly cold morning, the sun in a cloudless sky causing Spartacus to squint in the brightness as he ran down the palace steps to greet his commander. Unusually he embraced the middle-aged soldier, beaming with delight when Hovik informed him five hundred men were dismounting in the square behind him.
‘Good journey?’ asked Spartacus.
‘A long, tiring journey, majesty.’
‘And you have the ingots?’
Hovik’s weathered face broke into a smile. ‘Five hundred and one.’
He turned to the now dismounted men. ‘Stand to and present!’
‘The additional ingot is a gift for you, majesty, from King Satakarni the Second, the ruler of the Satavahana Empire.’
‘Where the ingots are sourced from,’ said Spartacus, his eyes focused on the ingots being held by each soldier. He walked over to the front rank of soldiers, behind the formation servants leading the horses to the stables. He peered at the black metal ‘cakes’.
Hovik waved over a slave holding his horse. When the beast arrived, he unfastened the saddlebag and pulled out another ukku ‘cake’. This is for you, majesty, as King Satakarni thought it not proper that your soldiers should be armed with ukku swords and not you.’
Spartacus took the ingot, which was remarkably light, and stroked it admiringly.
‘The journey was uneventful?’
The party had ridden north to the Araxes to skirt Median territory, before heading south through Atropaiene and Elymais and then east through Sakastan to the border of the Kushan Empire. There Hovik had waited for the Satavahana emissaries to arrive. King Pacorus, who had purchased ukku ingots years before, had sent a letter to the Indians to request his nephew be allowed to purchase the precious metal. King Satakarni had agreed, not least because the King of Dura had inflicted a reverse on Kujula, emperor of the Kushans and his bitter foe. Ukku was found only in southern India and the Satavahanis only sold it to certain foreigners and a select band of fellow Indians. Spartacus was immensely privileged.
He tingled with excitement when he stood with Hovik and Gurgen watching the ingots b
eing placed in the stone storeroom adjacent to the armouries.
‘They are to be guarded day and night,’ the king instructed Hovik. ‘I have given instructions that every ingot is to have a number and its history recorded in the palace archives.’
‘The ingots will be guarded by the men who have guarded them since they were offloaded from the Indian camels, majesty, the same men who will carry them in battle when they have been turned into swords.’
The wealth of Gordyene was to be found in the hot, dusty, dangerous and noisy armouries where Gurgen and his band of sword smiths and their apprentices worked their magic to create weapons for Gordyene’s army. It was a closed brotherhood, the smiths unwilling to share the knowledge they had acquired over many years with anyone save their apprentices. Spartacus may have been king but the forges were Gurgen’s kingdom. Outsiders were not welcome inside his domain, be they kings or commoners. But he made an exception for Spartacus when he began work on the ukku ingots. He respected the king who treated him and his smiths well, giving them everything they needed to practise their craft. They had comfortable homes, were well paid and were free to come and go as they pleased.
‘How long will it take to produce the first sword?’ asked Spartacus, his eyes full of fire like the red-hot furnace he was standing in front of.
‘Two weeks’ work for each blade, perhaps longer,’ replied Gurgen.
‘Two weeks?’ the king was disappointed. ‘I wanted them to accompany me when we march into Armenia.’
Gurgen shook his huge head. ‘You’ve got no chance.’
The workshop resembled a vision of hell, though a very efficient version of the underworld. Each furnace was made of fire bricks, enclosed by a rising brick tunnel to allow fumes to escape from the roof and inlets for the bellows supplying air to feed the fire. The fire itself was created by high-quality charcoal sourced from hardwoods, the most favoured being acacia and pistachio. Charcoal was first loaded into the furnace, followed by the ingot and then more charcoal. Because Indian specialists produced ukku, sword smiths working it were free to concentrate on shaping and tempering it into shape. But that process was time-consuming and exacting. When the fires were lit the bellows’ operators, not slaves but paid workers, pumped furiously to generate sufficient heat. And then Gurgen’s mission began.