by Peter Darman
The next day Spartacus arrayed his army, plus the Aorsi, around the walls of Van. Figures filled the battlements to stare at the barbarian army that had humbled Armenia’s best general the day before. Akmon, now fully recovered and wearing fresh clothes, sat alongside his mother and father and scanned the walls.
‘She’s not there,’ Spartacus told him. ‘Lusin will be in the fortress in case we launch an assault.’
Akmon’s shoulders slumped.
‘And are we going to launch an assault?’ asked Rasha.
‘We are not,’ said Spartacus.
But the next day the good citizens of Van might have been led to believe the barbarians from Gordyene were going to attack their city as Spartacus again arrayed his army before the walls. The Immortals, now short of a thousand men, were deployed in open order to give the illusion of greater numbers. The horse archers and lancers were also widely spaced, lion banners fluttering among their many companies. The Aorsi resembled a gaudily dressed mob in their stolen Roman equipment but at least added to the numbers.
The day before had been fine and dry but the new morning was overcast and a light drizzle began just after dawn that turned into a desultory rain that showed no signs of abating. But nothing could dampen the spirits of the rulers of Gordyene who sat on their horses waiting for a reply from the city as rain soaked them.
Spartacus sent an emissary to the city gates with a request to meet Lord Geghard.
‘You think he will come, majesty?’ asked Hovik. ‘The city has high walls and we have no siege engines.’
‘He will talk because he knows all southern Armenia is open to us,’ said Spartacus.
‘He will make us wait until we are soaked to the skin,’ added Rasha, ‘so he can win a small, insignificant victory.’
She was right and it was an hour before a reply came from Geghard that he was prepared to meet with the King of Gordyene only. Hovik sniffed and shifted in the saddle, prompting Spartacus to enquire as to his discomfort.
‘I would advise against antagonising the general, majesty.’
Spartacus feigned surprise. ‘Perish the thought. I will be a model of protocol. After all, I was always taught to be magnanimous in victory.’
Geghard rode alone from the city on a black stallion, dressed in a magnificent silver scale-armour cuirass and silver helmet sporting two purple plumes. Spartacus in his simple cuirass of iron scales sewn onto thick hide, looked very much the inferior in status.
‘What do you want?’ demanded Geghard curtly.
‘Van,’ smiled Spartacus.
Geghard allowed himself a chuckle. ‘You may have prevailed yesterday but you will have to starve us out, and already King Artavasdes will be organising a relief force.’
‘The siege of the city is not my concern, general,’ remarked Spartacus, ‘I will soon be marching north. I merely wish to save the city being stormed with the resulting loss of life and property.’
Geghard removed his helmet, his heavy brow deeply furrowed. ‘You are bluffing. Even a fool knows that to leave an unguarded city filled with troops would mean your supply lines would be severed.’
Spartacus also removed his helmet.
‘You are quite right, lord, which is why the army of Dura will be arriving shortly to undertake the siege of Van, and it has siege engines, as I am sure you are aware of.’
Geghard scowled. ‘King Pacorus?’
‘The very same, along with the army of my father, King Gafarn of Hatra who is most eager to avenge Tigranes’ incursion into his kingdom.’
‘That was nineteen years ago.’
‘My father has a good memory.’
‘You are bluffing,’ said Geghard.
‘I am wet, cold and hungry, general, and am in no mood to debate the matter. I will give you until this time tomorrow to vacate Van with what remains of your army, plus those among its citizenry who wish to leave. You and they will be free to go wherever they wish. But when the armies of Dura and Hatra arrive, there will be no more negotiations.’
He put his helmet on his head. ‘A day, general, in which to decide if you want to save the good citizens of Van or condemn them, and you and your daughter, to death.’
He turned his horse and left Geghard alone. His horse plodded back to the army of Gordyene getting drenched in the rain that was increasing in intensity. But nothing could dampen his growing sense of elation that a great prize was about to fall into his lap. He saw little reason to stand his men in the rain unnecessarily and so withdrew the army to its forest base where it shivered and built hundreds of campfires filling the trees with grey smoke. That night everyone stank of wood smoke as the fires consumed damp branches and green leaves, but at least his soldiers could eat hot food. The spring evenings were still cool, the mountain streams were filled with water that was like ice, and the king woke shivering, the air inside his tent damp and laced with the smell of smoke.
‘I’m need some air.’
Rasha beside him stirred and opened her eyes.
‘Don’t you want to claim your prize, conqueror?’
She threw aside the thick blanket on the large cot they shared to reveal her slender naked body. Even after giving birth to three sons her breasts were still shapely and her belly and thighs firm. He had been too exhausted to satisfy her the night before, but suddenly staying in the tent was far more appealing.
Afterwards he walked through the camp of his bodyguard, the men who would receive ukku blades, down to the pool beneath a waterfall. He disrobed and plunged into the water, the ice-cold temperature making him gasp. He swam in the pool and stood beneath the waterfall, the cascading liquid invigorating his tired limbs and exhausted loins.
Through the tumbling water he saw a figure and stepped forward to see an embarrassed Hovik standing on the far side of the pool.
‘Apologies, majesty, I thought you should know. The Armenians are leaving Van.’
Spartacus dressed speedily and followed his general to a waiting Rasha and his horse, his wife handing him his sword and his son his scale armour and helmet. Around them the king’s bodyguard was already mounted and waiting, the camp stirring into life as the news spread throughout the army. The king’s banner billowed in the spring air as he rode from the woods across the plain to view a most wondrous sight – a long column of Armenian horsemen, carts, camp followers and citizens leaving Van. The rich families rode in wagons with their belongings on a separate cart, the poorer trailing on foot with their belongings in handcarts or on their backs. The great line was heading north, outriders providing flank protection and a great phalanx of horsemen forming a rearguard, at its head Geghard and his cataphracts.
‘Send word no one is to harry the enemy,’ said Spartacus to the commander of his bodyguard. ‘Where are the Aorsi?’
‘Still sleeping off their hangovers, most likely,’ suggested Hovik.
By mid-morning those Armenians who wished to quit Van had left the city, Spartacus despatching scouts to keep watch on their movements. Hovik sent the Immortals into the city first to secure the gates, walls and the fortress on the escarpment. Their commander reported back that the streets were mostly deserted and the harbour was empty, some citizens paying fishermen to take them across the lake in their boats. It was just past midday when Spartacus and Rasha rode into the city, behind them Prince Akmon and Spadines, now fully recovered from the heavy bout of drinking the night before. His Aorsi were kept outside the city.
Hovik marvelled at the citadel perching on a long, narrow escarpment in the middle of the city, which had been made into a fortress hundreds of years before. Its base was constructed from massive stone blocks, the superstructure being mud bricks with a timber roof. It was reached via a stairway cut into the rock, the entrance to the fortress being a huge stone-built barbican.
‘The Armenians must have been mad to give up such a stronghold easily,’ said the general.
‘Mad, yes,’ agreed Spartacus. ‘But even the strongest cities fall when they are starved int
o submission or stormed.’
‘We had neither the numbers or the machines to storm Van,’ stated Hovik, ‘and if we had laid siege to the city King Artavasdes would have organised a relief force.’
‘To force the issue, I informed Lord Geghard my uncle and father were on their way with their respective armies.’
‘And he believed you?’ said Rasha.
Spartacus turned and spread his arms wide. ‘Clearly.’
‘And might I enquire as to what you intend to do with Van, majesty?’ asked Hovik.
‘You should keep it, father,’ urged Akmon, ‘it could be the first of your conquests.’
The king stopped and turned to his son. ‘That would be a mistake. I have no desire to conquer Armenia or bring its people under my control.’
Akmon was confused. ‘I do not understand.’
‘That is why I am king and you are not.’
In the citadel’s main hall, the minor dignitaries, priests and those hoping to benefit from a change of regime had gathered to hear their fate. They were an unprepossessing lot, mostly those who could not afford to leave their homes or businesses, or would not. The priests, like most religious types, displayed a haughtiness born of a belief their gods would protect them. Immortals lined the walls and guarded the stout oak doors as Spartacus and his entourage made their way to the wooden dais at the far end of the hall. The banner of the Artaxiad Dynasty still hung on the wall behind the dais, causing Hovik to frown at his senior commanders. One barked an order at two men flanking the dais who began to tug at the red and gold flag.
‘Leave it,’ commanded Spartacus.
They withdrew as he strode onto the dais, turned and addressed the assembly.
‘Today begins a new era in the history of Van. This city is no longer under the tyranny of Artavasdes and his corrupt officials. It has been freed and my intention is that it shall remain free. Take this message to your families, friends and associates – you have not exchanged one tyrant for another. I will not rule this city. Instead, it will be become a free city under the leadership of Lord Spadines.’
Hovik’s brow creased in consternation and Spadines was nodding his head unthinking, not really paying heed to what Spartacus was saying. Politics was for politicians; he was a warlord.
Rasha jabbed him in the ribs.
‘He’s talking about you, Spadines.’
The leader of the Aorsi turned and looked at Spartacus, who beckoned him to his side, raising his hand aloft when he had done so.
‘Behold,’ said Spartacus, ‘I give you the Prince of Van.’
The representatives of Van stared in silence at their new leader.
Chapter 5
The royal garden at Irbil was small compared to veritable parks around other palaces, constrained as it was by the citadel’s limited space, but it was an intimate and pleasing place. Positioned to the rear of the palace, its centrepiece was a wooden pavilion where the royal family and their guests could enjoy the beauty and the fragrant air. The underground springs that brought water to the palace and citadel fed fountains interspersed among the foliage. A small army of gardeners maintained fruit trees, such as pomegranate and cherry, almonds, vines and roses. There was an under carpet of clover that required constant watering, as did the spring-flowering bulbs such as iris and tulips. The whole garden was surrounded by white-stemmed poplars to provide both windbreaks and give the impression it was remote and apart from the citadel.
Joro stood to attention in the pavilion in front of Aliyeh and her son, both listening intently to his report.
‘King Spartacus defeated a large Armenian army and afterwards took possession of the city of Van.’
‘Does Gordyene now have siege engines?’ asked Darius.
‘No, majesty.’
‘Then how did its army capture Van, a city with strong defences?’
‘I do not know, majesty.’
‘Where is King Spartacus now?’ enquired Aliyeh.
‘Marching back to Gordyene, majesty,’ answered Joro.
‘He has abandoned his prize?’ Darius was astounded.
‘What do you expect from the son of a slave?’ added Aliyeh.
‘He has not abandoned Van, majesty,’ said Joro, ‘he left it under the control of Spadines and his Aorsi.’
Aliyeh rolled her eyes. ‘Having reduced Gordyene to a realm of beggars and thieves, its ruler is determined to infect adjacent kingdoms with lawlessness. Still, at least it weakens Artavasdes’ power. I doubt we will see an Armenian invasion of Media any time soon.’
Darius looked at Joro. ‘What news from the north?’
‘There are no reports of Armenian troop concentrations near the Araxes, majesty.’
‘I would advise strengthening our defences along the border with Gordyene,’ Aliyeh said to her son.
‘Gordyene would never attack Media, majesty,’ said Joro with conviction.
‘Oh, why is that, general?’ asked the queen.
‘Two years ago, King Spartacus took part in the relief of Phraaspa and the subsequent harrying of the Romans back to Armenia. He proved a valuable ally of Media in our time of need. He is, after all, Parthian.’
‘What a naïve view of the world you have, general,’ she told him, ‘The King of Gordyene is not Parthian, he is Thracian, a barren region of rock to the north of Greece. His wife is an Agraci and you know my views regarding that particular race, a race I might add that is detested throughout Parthia, or at least the decent parts of the empire. Though those parts are in rapid decline. Whatever motives the King of Gordyene had in attacking Armenia, you can be sure they had nothing to do with Parthia’s interests.’
‘We must do as my mother says,’ said Darius, ‘I do not trust King Spartacus. He is the nephew of King Pacorus who murdered my brother in Persis. Strengthen our defences on the border with Gordyene.’
Joro bowed to him and Aliyeh and withdrew from their presence. Darius sipped on his freshly squeezed fruit juice.
‘The defeat of the Armenians will make Mark Antony’s task easier.’
‘The world is changing,’ said Aliyeh. ‘I remember when the Armenians were once knocking at the gates of Hatra and now the son of slaves can humiliate their army. Armenia’s decline can be to Media’s advantage if we are wise.’
He put down his cup. ‘You mean closer ties with Mark Antony? I am uncertain, mother. For one thing such a move would set us apart from the empire, for Phraates would not tolerate an ally of Rome so close to Ctesiphon.’
‘Phraates is weak,’ she told him. ‘I thought he was the future of Parthia but I was wrong. The power behind his throne is my brother. Have you not forgotten it was Dura and its allies that came to Media’s aid at Phraaspa? It was Pacorus who turned back the Kushans after Phraates’ own lord high general, Phanes, proved so lamentable.’
Darius was confused. ‘But you hate your brother and everything he stands for.’
‘Naturally, but my brother will never raise a hand against Media, not if he believes there is a chance of a reconciliation between him and his older sister.’
‘And is there?’
‘No,’ came the icy reply.
A slave appeared holding a silver tray, upon which was a rolled papyrus. He bowed his head and stood before Aliyeh.
‘A message for you, highness.’
She took the note, read it and sighed.
‘Problems?’ asked Darius.
Aliyeh waved the slave away. ‘Just a loose end that needs tying up.’
She left the pavilion and palace to ride from the citadel to a property she owned beyond the outskirts of Irbil, a modest-sized villa surrounded by vineyards and orchards and managed by a small, loyal staff. It was a place where business could be conducted away from the prying eyes of courtiers, palace officials, priests and gossiping slaves. The slaves who worked at her villa were loyal and could be relied upon to carry out her wishes. In return they lived lives of relative ease.
The stable hand took her horse after she
had dismounted in the courtyard, the head steward coming forward and bowing to her. She walked past him to enter the white stone villa.
‘Where are they?’
‘In the kitchens, highness.’
‘Bring them to the reception room.’
He bowed and scurried off. The reception room was just that: an area for formality with no chairs or couches. Her face was a mask of simmering anger when the two ‘guests’ were shown into her presence. The first thing she noticed was their rich apparel, that and the older man appeared to have grown fatter.
‘The last I heard you had fled to China.’
The fat man bowed his head. ‘That was a ruse to throw our enemies off the scent, majesty. In truth, we have been living on our wits as we retraced our steps back to Media.’
Cookum looked at the younger man who nodded vigorously. Vartan was perhaps an inch taller than the last time she had seen him, when he had been slightly plump. He was distinctly plumper now. Clearly living on one’s wits was nutritionally beneficial. She had not expected to see them again and in truth had hoped they were both dead. But here they were, after using up all the gold she had given them and the additional treasure they had stolen from the palace in Sakastan.
‘What do you want?’ she asked, already knowing the answer.
‘We need money to get out of Parthia, majesty,’ said Cookum.
‘We thought we would travel to Syria and then on to Greece,’ added Vartan.
It was her own fault, she saw that now. What did she expect from a forger and a thieving slave. She had saved Cookum from the noose when she discovered he was an expert forger, and had prevented Vartan from being castrated when the germ of an idea had first taken root in her mind. Her intimacy with Phraates allowed her to ‘borrow’ a number of letters written by the high king’s dead father. This in turn allowed Cookum to forge correspondence ostensibly written by Orodes enquiring as to the health and wellbeing of his bastard son Vartan. Curiously, the most difficult part of the enterprise was acquiring old papyrus on which Cookum could work his magic.