The Cursed Kingdom

by Peter Darman

  Kuris crouched on the ground and stared at the ramparts of the Roman camp. Spartacus beside him, arrow knocked in bowstring, scanned the ramparts but saw no movement.

  ‘They will have their own archers searching for us, majesty, though fortunately the absence of the moon makes their task all but impossible.’

  They heard a crack as one of the Parthian archers took a shot. It sounded hundreds of yards away but it was impossible to judge distances in the darkness. Another crack, this time further away. They were perhaps three hundred paces from the enemy ramparts.

  ‘They look empty,’ said Spartacus.

  ‘To the untrained eye, majesty.’

  Kuris stood, pulled back his bowstring and let it slip through his fingers. There was a sharp crack and then silence. They scooted away lest any Roman archer was able to identify the spot the shot was taken from. Highly unlikely but it was better to be safe than sorry. When they had darted around a hundred paces they threw themselves on the ground and waited for a few minutes, around them the sounds of feasting birds being mercifully drowned out by thwacks of bowstrings being released.

  Spartacus looked up at the Romans’ camp and saw no activity. He desperately wanted to shoot an arrow but could see nothing to shoot at. So instead he stood, drew back the bowstring, aimed the arrow high into the sky and released the sinew. Kuris sighed in a disapproving fashion but said nothing. They dashed to the right for another hundred paces and waited for any response. There was none.

  ‘Disciplined, these Romans,’ said Kuris, peering at the enemy rampart.

  ‘They are good soldiers,’ conceded Spartacus.

  ‘They will offer battle in the morning, majesty?’

  ‘They might, but if they do the high king’s army will have departed by the time they have formed up in battle array, and so will we.’

  Kuris stopped talking and focused on the rampart, which was highlighted against the red backdrop of burning homes in Irbil.

  ‘Yes. See the crest, majesty?’

  ‘No.’

  Kuris stood, drew back the sinew and shot his arrow. There was a sharp crack, silence and then a piercing yelp followed by silence.

  ‘You have the eyes of an eagle,’ said Spartacus as they sprinted back to an earlier position.

  They again threw themselves on the ground and this time waited for at least ten minutes, around them other parties of Gordyene archers tormenting the Romans.

  ‘What is to stop the Romans marching on Ctesiphon, majesty?’ asked Kuris.

  ‘They will not march further south with only two legions,’ Spartacus told him, ‘not with their garrison in Armenia being troubled by external forces.’

  Kuris did not understand but their conversation was halted by a column of Roman soldiers leaving camp, a mixed force of legionaries, archers and slingers. The Gordyene archers had been briefed thoroughly as to tactics beforehand – they were to retreat into the distance if threatened. Spartacus and Kuris fell back rapidly as the Romans began scouring the area around the camp. For two hours parties of Romans searched for their elusive foe, without success. But when they returned to camp the Parthians once more advanced towards the Roman ramparts to torment the occupants. At dawn the sun rose to cast light on the dreadful sight of birds still gorging on corpses already swarming with flies. Spartacus and his archers returned to camp, tired, dirty and hungry but having accomplished their task. The air was tinged with wood smoke, a slight northerly breeze carrying the results of arson in Irbil to the Roman camp and beyond. Pillars of smoke were still rising from Irbil as the king and Kuris trudged into camp, Rasha and a party of Vipers waiting at the barricaded gate.

  She jumped down from her horse to embrace her husband.

  ‘You look terrible.’

  ‘A night without sleep will do that. Where’s Hovik?’

  ‘Organising the dismantling of camp. He says we need to put as much distance between us and the Romans as possible.’

  ‘He’s right, but first I need to fill my belly.’

  Casualties of the night’s activities were light, a few Immortals and archers lost in the skirmishing, a few more with sprained ankles and broken wrists as a result of crawling and running around in the dark. It had been a good night’s work.

  Hovik sent parties of horse archers to the south to confirm Phraates and what was left of his army were on the road back to Ctesiphon, while the queen organised a screen of more horse archers and her Vipers to cover the retreat of Gordyene’s army to the west. A frustrated Akmon, having been confined to camp during the previous evening, went with her, though he took no part in fighting, only frustrating feints and withdrawals. In the early morning King Darius led a large party of horsemen from his citadel to both link up with Mark Antony in his camp and drive away the army of Gordyene. He was successful on both counts, though Spartacus’ men had struck camp and had been on the road for two hours before the King of Media’s ‘valiant’ assault. He turned back to Irbil when he ran into Queen Rasha, her Vipers and five thousand horse archers fifteen miles west of his capital.

  The pall of smoke hanging over Irbil was a visible sign of how the battle the day before had gone awry, but it was nothing compared to the atmosphere of recrimination and accusation that infested the meeting between Darius and Mark Antony in Irbil’s citadel. The stronghold was choked with horses and soldiers, while at the foot of the stone ramp giving access to it were hundreds of homeless civilians, desperate to flee to the sanctuary above. Antony and his escort had to wait until Darius’ foot soldiers had cleared a path through the throng before he could enter the citadel, where he found a frosty reception.

  Antony and Quintus Dellius met with Darius and his senior commanders in the throne room, guards escorting the Roman triumvir and his friend into a sullen chamber to a king wanting answers.

  ‘What are you going to do about King Spartacus and his army?’

  Antony bowed to the king. ‘Good morning, majesty, I hope you slept well.’

  ‘I hardly slept at all thanks to you.’

  ‘Me, majesty? How so?’

  ‘You and your men were in camp while King Spartacus burned my city when you should have been attacking him.’

  Antony’s handsome face hardened. ‘It is folly to launch large military operations at night, majesty, and anyway I believe you still have your own army to guard your city.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ demanded Darius to nods of agreement from his officers. ‘For all I know King Spartacus is now waiting to link up with his father and uncle prior to launching an assault on Irbil.’

  Quintus glanced at Antony and gave a slight shake of the head. They could almost taste the fear that filled the hall.

  ‘I was assured that King Gafarn and King Pacorus would not march against Media,’ said Antony, ‘which would give us a free hand to deal with Phraates. We have dealt with Phraates because my scouts inform me he and what is left of his army are retreating south at speed. But if you believe the armies of Hatra, Dura and Gordyene are about to attack Media, then we must amend our plans accordingly.’

  ‘There will be no attack on Media.’

  Aliyeh swept into the hall, a look of determination on her face. She marched up to the dais and took her place beside her son, who visibly diminished in her presence. She stood by the throne but in truth she was the power behind it, issuing an order for the officers to leave the chamber. They did not bother to wait for Darius to confirm the order but merely sullenly trooped from the hall. Slaves carrying rhytons and wine passed them.

  ‘You must be thirsty after your ride here,’ she smiled at the two Romans.

  Antony took a rhyton filled with wine and raised it to Aliyeh.

  ‘Your servant, lady.’

  She was like a breath of fresh air and her beautiful blue dress, silver jewellery and immaculate hair were in stark contrast to the haggard appearance of her son.

  ‘We were discussing the possibility of an alliance of Gordyene, Hatra and Dura against Media, lady,’ sa
id Antony.

  ‘There will be no alliance,’ replied Aliyeh, ‘I will see to that. In the meantime, I think we should progress with the betrothal of your son to my granddaughter to cement the alliance between Media and Rome.’

  Alexander Helios, the son of Mark Antony and Cleopatra, and Princess Iotapa were both young children but that would not prevent their marriage to tie Rome, or least the eastern half of the lands ruled by Mark Antony, to Media, one of the most prestigious kingdoms in the Parthian Empire.

  ‘This woman has more balls than the king of Media and all his officers put together,’ whispered Quintus.

  ‘Though your march on Ctesiphon will have to wait, I fear,’ said Aliyeh to Antony.

  ‘Phraates is broken,’ replied Antony, ‘but we cannot allow King Spartacus to roam at will with an intact army. We must ensure he goes back to his homeland and stays there. To which end I will despatch troops to the west to shadow his army.’

  The leader of those troops was Titus Tullus, who was informed of his new task when the triumvir and Quintus returned to camp after their meeting in Irbil. As well as being trustworthy, Tullus was also blessed with the ability to use his initiative when required, which made him useful for ad hoc tasks. He would lead his own cohort and one more, giving him a total of eight hundred legionaries. In addition, Antony gave him two hundred Gallic horsemen, fifty archers and fifty slingers, plus a few Median scouts who knew the terrain of eastern Gordyene. It was a relatively small force but still required a baggage train of one hundred and twenty mules and over fifty two-wheeled carts to carry spare rations, clothing, tents, weapons, boots, plus equipment and tools to repair armour and weapons.

  Antony pointed at the papyrus map sitting on the desk in his command tent.

  ‘Go north to Lake Urmia and then strike west into Gordyene. The king of that realm sprung a surprise on us yesterday and I have no wish for him to repeat the trick. Make a nuisance of yourself but avoid battle if at all possible. That way you will tie down Spartacus’ troops to give me a free hand.’

  Tullus’ grim visage looked at the triumvir. ‘He was one of those who gave us a hard time two years ago in this very kingdom, along with that uncle of his.’

  ‘King Pacorus,’ smiled Antony. ‘If only I was allied to him instead of our friend Darius.’

  ‘Why aren’t you?’ asked Tullus.

  ‘You forget yourself, centurion,’ warned Quintus.

  ‘Apologies, sir.’

  ‘It’s a fair question,’ said Antony. ‘The truth is King Pacorus harbours an understandable grievance against us on account of him being enslaved by Rome thirty-five years ago. It was fortunate for him, less so for us, that he was liberated by Spartacus the Elder on the slopes of Mount Vesuvius.’

  ‘He was the one they called “the Parthian”, as I seem to remember,’ said Tullus.

  ‘Quite so,’ nodded Antony. ‘Indeed, Roman mothers still threaten their infants with a visit from “the Parthian” if they fail to behave themselves.’

  ‘Perhaps you should send me to kill King Pacorus,’ suggested Tullus.

  ‘Perhaps we should,’ agreed Quintus.

  ‘Romans, and Parthians for that matter, have been trying to kill King Pacorus of Dura for three decades. They have failed, which leaves me to believe that he has the gods on his side. As such, I will not actively seek to battle a man with such powerful friends.’

  ‘What about King Spartacus, sir?’ asked Tullus. ‘If I encounter him should I kill him, or is he beloved of the gods as well?’

  ‘Kill him by all means, Tullus,’ said Antony, ‘it will be one less problem for me to deal with.’

  *****

  Aliyeh left Irbil with an escort of a hundred cataphracts, two hundred squires, a hundred horse archers, three ladies-in-waiting and just over two hundred camels. General Joro wanted to accompany her in person, fearing King Spartacus’ soldiers might still be near the city, but she dismissed the notion and told him if she did happen upon them she would insist she be taken to see her nephew. After which he could escort her to Hatra in person. When she visited Ctesiphon, she had travelled in a covered wagon but now she rode a horse like her escort, her hair plaited down her back and her dress swapped for boots, leggings and a leather tunic. It was still warm but the intense heat of the summer had mercifully departed as the column left the city to strike west, towards the Tigris. The queen mother and her party rode close to a Roman column of legionaries, auxiliaries, horsemen and carts heading north, for what purpose she did not know.

  Her party headed southwest towards Assur, the Kingdom of Hatra’s second city. They moved fast across the flat terrain, making forty miles on the first day and another forty the day after, to reach the sun-baked city on the western bank of the Tigris. The river itself was brown and slow moving, the level having dropped considerably after a particularly hot summer. Small boats and barges plied the waterway, some fishing, others ferrying people between the two banks. Aliyeh sent a party ahead to announce her arrival, General Herneus himself waiting with a very large escort when she arrived hot and flustered at the river.

  ‘Greetings, majesty, I was surprised to receive word of your coming.’

  Aliyeh, irritable, had no time for niceties. ‘Surprised, why? I am the sister of Hatra’s king after all and the city was my home before I left to become Media’s queen. Now kindly arrange transportation across the river so I can bathe and refresh myself. This heat is intolerable.’

  She looked past the general at the large number of mounted lancers and horse archers.

  ‘Expecting trouble, general?’

  ‘There are Romans on this side of the river, majesty, and my duty as general of your brother’s army is to ensure they do not cross into Hatran territory.’

  ‘You always were a blunt, tedious man, Herneus. Even as governor of Assur you were over-promoted. Things in Hatra must be desperate for you to follow in the footsteps of Lord Vistaspa.’

  Herneus did not rise to the bait. He was long used to the sharp tongue of Aliyeh, formerly Princess of Hatra and Queen of Media before the death of her husband. Atrax had been a fine man and good king, the light to the dark of the princess. Perhaps that was why they made such a good match; or perhaps Atrax had been blind to Aliyeh’s shortcomings.

  He bowed his head. ‘Your quarters await, majesty.’

  Assur was a somewhat bleak, mud-brick stronghold that acted as a shield on Hatra’s western border. And in the summer the stench of the river, which acted as a giant latrine for the city, could be pungent. For that reason, and her desire to reach Hatra as quickly as possible, Aliyeh only stayed in the city for one night. Herneus had penned a letter to his king as soon as he learned of the intention of his sister to visit him. Aliyeh left the city immediately after breakfast, Herneus arranging a guard of honour to escort her and her soldiers from Assur all the way to Hatra, some forty miles to the east, delighted to see the back of the poisonous bitch.

  Aliyeh received a warmer welcome from Gafarn and Diana, the king and queen meeting her outside the northern city gates giving access to the Royal Quarter. Prince Pacorus and Princess Arezu were also present, along with five hundred cataphracts of the Royal Bodyguard magnificent in gleaming steel scale armour, white plumes in their helmets, a pennant on every kontus showing a white horse’s head on a red background. A line of trumpeters sounded a fanfare when Aliyeh rode by and banner men on white horses lowered their standards in salute when she passed them. Foot soldiers of the city garrison lined the road to the gates, across the causeway and all the way to the Great Square in front of the palace. They were equipped in the Greek style with full-face bronze helmets sporting white plumes, leather cuirasses faced with iron scales, leather shin greaves, large round wooden shields faced with bronze, swords and six-foot spears.

  Diana laid a hand on Aliyeh’s arm. ‘It gladdens my heart to see you, sister.’

  ‘And you,’ smiled Aliyeh.

  It was a sincere smile. There was a time when Aliyeh had taken delight
in ridiculing Diana and Gafarn for their low births and disliking them for their closeness to her brother Pacorus. But Gafarn had strengthened his hold over Hatra by taking part in the great victory over the Armenians before the city’s walls. A hold that had become unchallengeable after the great triumph at Carrhae. She was also mindful that Hatra had marched to the assistance of Media during Mark Antony’s campaign against Phraaspa. It was also nearly impossible, even for her, to dislike Diana, a woman with a pure soul. And she had produced Prince Pacorus, the talk of the empire who would make a fine king of Hatra when his time came, and perhaps even king of kings if he so desired.

  He presented himself now, all protocol and formality as he removed his helmet and bowed his head to her.

  ‘Hatra rejoices that you bless her with your presence, aunt.’

  Princess Arezu, demure, enchanting, said nothing as she too bowed to Aliyeh.

  ‘My congratulations on the birth of your son,’ she said to the princess, ‘my father would have been proud he shares his name.’

  When the party rode into the city to the Royal Quarter there were tears in Aliyeh’s eyes when she spotted the city’s nobility, priests and richest merchants gathered in the Great Square to welcome her. That night she was treated to a sumptuous feast in the palace and for a while the years melted away as she remembered happy times with her parents, sister and even her brother. She was delighted to sit next to her sister Adeleh, now the Senior Sister of the Sisters of Shamash, a religious order of women whose lives were devoted to the Sun God. It had been some time since she had seen her sister and she was surprised by her appearance, which was youthful and radiant. There was not a trace of grey in her curly black locks and her eyes were free of bags and worry lines.

  The next morning Aliyeh visited her sibling in the Sisterly Retreat, the residence of the Sisters of Shamash located to the rear of the Great Temple where they worked, prayed and cleaned the home of the Sun God. It was an unassuming, one-storey white-washed building with a red tile roof, the interior walls and ceilings painted white and the floor laid with white marble tiles. There were many windows to allow sunlight to flood into the gleaming corridors and rooms. Each sister slept in a cell furnished with a bed, bedside table and oil lamp. There were no books or other luxuries, though there was a library containing ancient religious texts.