The Cursed Kingdom

by Peter Darman

  ‘It is unbecoming for a Parthian prince to be so familiar with a barbarian woman, lord,’ he said in Greek.

  Clearly the concept of ‘Parthian purity’ was still alive and well at Ctesiphon.

  ‘You should never assume barbarians do not understand what you are saying,’ she replied in perfect Greek.

  That was Lusin: perfect. Or at least she was to him. He did not care she was an Armenian, or the enemy of Gordyene. To him she was the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. They ignored the condescending steward and unhappy guards and walked arm-in-arm through the gilded corridors of a palace neither belonged in. She told him about how the Romans had captured the entire family of King Artavasdes save Artaxias, who had fought the Romans and lost. All this he knew, but she then revealed the defeated king and a small retinue had fled to Ctesiphon to enlist the help of Phraates, who had promised to restore Artaxias to his throne.

  ‘I will soon be going home.’

  He told her his father was high in the favour of Phraates and in the spring the army of Gordyene would throw the Romans out of Media and assist Phraates in liberating Armenia.

  ‘Armenia and Gordyene will no longer be enemies but allies,’ he said naively. ‘And then.’

  ‘And then?’ she cooed.

  ‘And then I will ask your father for your hand in marriage.’

  She gripped his arm and kissed him on the cheek. In the delirium of each other’s company anything seemed possible. He was already thinking of their union producing children that would be half-Parthian, half-Armenian and who would help to soothe the animosities between the two races. It seemed so achievable, so easy. And yet it was all illusion.

  There was no feast that night, Phraates having been informed of the abduction of the daughter of Artaxias’ general and her subsequent ransoming. Alarmed that the always volatile Spartacus and the aggrieved Geghard might come to blows, thus disrupting his carefully laid plans, he requested that the king of Gordyene dine in one of the smaller feasting halls in the palace complex. He cited the possibly of a ‘diplomatic incident’ if all parties ate together. Spartacus replied he would be delighted to eat alone, being ‘finicky’ about whom he dined with. The next day he and his son left Ctesiphon.

  ‘You must forget that young girl,’ an angry Spartacus told Akmon. ‘We are no friends of the Armenians, you would do well to remember that.’

  ‘But Lusin informed me King of Kings Phraates is going to restore King Artaxias to the Armenian throne after the Romans have been ejected from Media. That suggests Parthia and Armenia are now allies.’

  Spartacus pulled up his horse. ‘Before you were born, when I was a young prince in Hatra, a great Armenian army marched south into my father’s kingdom with the intention of subjugating that kingdom. Armenians and Parthians will always be enemies.

  ‘Not that it is any of your business, but Phraates will restore the king without a kingdom or army because it serves his interests to do so. And I have no intention of allowing Armenia to regain its strength. As for you, find yourself a Parthian girl.’

  ‘Surely the race of the woman I will marry is irrelevant, father.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ snapped Spartacus, ‘only a fool would believe such nonsense.’

  ‘But you married an Agraci princess,’ said Akmon, ‘a race that is viewed with distaste by many in the empire.’

  Spartacus dug his heels into his horse and galloped away from his son. Akmon smiled. It was fate that he and Lusin should be together.

  *****

  The Alborz Mountain range straddled the border between Atropaiene and Hyrcania, filling the land along the southern coast of the Caspian Sea. A wild, inhospitable region, it was sparsely populated due to its barren and rugged nature and also because it was the abode of gods and mythical beasts. It was common knowledge the mountains were the home of the chamrosh, a bird with the body of a dog, and the more fearsome griffin, a creature with the body, tail and back legs of a lion, the head and wings of an eagle, and eagle’s talons for its front feet.

  The highest peak was Mount Damavand, a simmering volcano called the ‘mountain of many faces’. Its many ridges, crevasses and rocky crests lured the gullible and unwary to their deaths, seemingly swallowing them up in its vastness. Sensible people stayed clear of the mountain, a wasteland of snow, geysers and hot sulphur springs lashed by fierce winds. But the gods had purposely created the mountain range to disguise the settlements of the people who lived there, and on the lower slopes of Mount Damavand, behind the crags and deep ravines, were wide, shallow basins encircled by rocky crests where crops grew in fertile soils fed by warm springs filled with invigorating fresh water. Every village enjoyed plentiful crops, healthy livestock that fed and clothed the race that had inhabited the hidden land since the beginning of time – the Scythians.

  The first Scythian had been Targitaus, son of Zeus and a daughter of the river god Borysthenes, who ruled the desolate lands of the Alborz range. Targitaus had three sons – Lipoxias, Arpoxais and Colaxais – who ruled jointly when their father died. The gods, dissatisfied with this state of affairs, decided there should be only one leader of the Scythians. They thus sent to earth a plough, a yoke, a sword and a flask, all made of gold. When either Lipoxias or Arpoxais tried to approach the objects they began to burn, but when Colaxais went near them they were cool to the touch. In this way he became king of the Scythians and under his rule they increased in number and travelled far and wide to settle new lands. But the Alborz range remained their spiritual home.

  The horse threaded its way up the ridge. Above loomed the towering, snow-capped peak of Mount Damavand. As usual the wind was howling around the mountain but the ridge was sheltered from its ravages by a high rocky crag. Ahead a Scythian horseman led the way, his great war axe slung on his back, a quiver filled with arrows hanging from his saddle on the left and his bow in its leather case dangling from the saddle on his right. Claudia removed her shemagh and shook her hair. She loved the Alborz Mountains for their fresh air, breath-taking views and savage beauty. This was a special place, a holy place where men did not rule. She smiled when she remembered Dobbai’s words when her former tutor had first brought her here.

  ‘This is the land of the gods, a blessed land for those chosen to live here, where neither night nor darkness, neither a cold nor a hot wind, neither harmful pestilence nor the pox rules.’

  Behind her rode three more Scythian axe men pulling two camels loaded with tents, food and fodder. She had been alerted by courier that her sect was gathering and the Scythians arrived at Dura two days later. Her father would have given her an escort befitting a princess of Dura but she told him even his fabled soldiers were prohibited entry to Mount Damavand. She had left Dura in the company of the Scythians and rode east and then north; the high priestess having wrapped a cloak of invisibility around her to ensure her journey was not interrupted.

  The barren, rocky landscape disappeared when the party left the ridge to ride into a narrow, steep-sided ravine leading into a lush basin fed by bubbling springs and warmed by the sun overhead. The wind was not biting but gentle and pleasing, blowing the aroma of aromatic plants into their faces. Shepherds looked up but went back to tending their flocks. They had seen the fearsome axe men escorting a single black-robed woman many times, as had the village headman and his wife who welcomed Claudia when she halted in front of them.

  ‘Welcome, sister,’ they said in unison.

  ‘I trust your journey was uneventful, sister?’ said the headman.

  Claudia dismounted. ‘Uneventful, thank you.’

  ‘Your quarters have been prepared,’ lady,’ smiled his wife.

  Claudia was shown to a hut with stone walls and a thatched roof, exactly like the others in the village. One of the Scythians led her horse to the stables next to the headman’s hut, the others following with their mounts and the camels. Claudia was shown into the hut and found it unchanged since the last time she had been there, with a single bed, tabl
e, chair, oil lamp and chest for her clothes.

  ‘There’s a change of clothes for you in the chest, sister. Will you want to bathe before the meeting?’

  ‘That would be most welcome.’

  It was now autumn but the temperature was pleasant when she immersed herself in the warm, bubbling pond fed by the volcano. The aches in her limbs slowly faded away as she closed her eyes and floated in the water. No one would disturb her or spy on her nakedness for she was a Scythian Sister, a sect as old as the Scythian race itself, first formed by Targitaus himself when the world was young.

  She bathed in the pool until all the tiredness of her long journey had been washed away, emerging refreshed and invigorated. The sun was waning and would soon disappear behind the high peaks in the west, and yet the temperature was not falling. On the way back to her hut villagers smiled and nodded at their guest, though no one engaged her in conversation. Only the headman and his wife were allowed to speak to a sister.

  The Scythian Sisters numbered thirty, the same number of arrows held in the quiver of Targitaus and the same number of arrows carried in the quiver of every Parthian archer. Each sister was allocated to a village on the lower slopes of Mount Damavand and they never encountered each other until the meeting. They all arrived on the mountain at the same time in an exercise in timing that would be the envy of military planners. No one questioned how this came about. It was just so.

  After a meal eaten alone in the hut Claudia changed into the garb that had been left for her: pristine black leggings, boots and thick tunic as protection against the cold. It was unnecessary for the night was clear but mild. The moon shone like a brilliant silver ball in the sky, which normally would herald a cold night, but her breath did not mist as she walked from the hut carrying her bow, a full quiver slung on her back. The Scythians who had escorted her to Mount Damavand said nothing but bowed their heads as she mounted the horse held by one of them. The village was completely deserted, as if it had been uninhabited for many years.

  They left the village and followed the track up the mountain. The air was so still and clear she could hear every sharp sound of her horse’s iron-shod hooves on the hard surface. There was no need for torches because the night was like day so radiant was the moon overhead. She saw other parties of riders on different tracks, all heading towards the black hole in the side of the grey mountain. Further up the sheer rock face was thick snow but her fingers and nose were not numb; indeed, she felt very warm in her stout tunic.

  When she reached the entrance to the cave she saw familiar faces: other sisters who had made the journey from the four corners of the empire. They smiled and nodded in acknowledgment but this was not the time for idle chatter. The Keepers – those among the local villagers who were trusted to maintain this sacred site – had lit the torches illuminating the passageway from the entrance to the cave’s interior. The sisters filed into the tunnel to follow the line of torches on the walls, the Scythian axe men staying with their wicked weapons with razor-sharp edges to guard the horses and cave entrance.

  The tunnel led to a large cavernous chamber containing a circle of ancient stone seats, every one of which had been furnished with cushions by servants of the Scythian Sisters, called the Servers. All mute and illiterate so they could not reveal the marvels they often bore witness to, they were recruited from the army of orphans that inhabited the Parthian Empire, and indeed all empires the world over.

  There were no torches in the chamber because there was a circular hole in the cave’s roof, through which moonlight flooded in to illuminate the seat of the high priestess who sat impassive on her stone throne as the twenty-nine other sisters took their places. The Servers waited until everyone was seated before distributing drinking vessels. These were the skulls of the strongest, most respected of the Scythians’ enemies from antiquity, which had their tops lopped off and the edges gilded with gold to turn them into drinking vessels. The Servers then poured wine into the goblets, bowed to the high priestess and retired out of view.

  Each sister placed her goblet on the armrest of her seat, took a dagger from its sheath and used the point to prick one of her fingers. The resulting drips of blood were directed into the wine goblet before each sister held up her drinking vessel and recited the words that were as old as the Scythian Sisters.

  ‘Once we have cut our fingers, let the blood drip into a cup and then, both at once, have it set to our lips and drink, there is nothing thereafter that can dissolve the bond between us.’

  They drank from their goblets and then the high priestess spoke, the voice echoing around the chamber.

  ‘We live in dark times, sisters. For nine hundred years our order has guarded the sacred lands from barbarians. Now the barbarians are threatening to occupy those lands following the foul alliance between the Queen of Media and the Romans.’

  Dobbai looked at the assembled women. ‘It is up to us to guide those who wield power in the Parthian Empire, just as we guided those who ruled the Persian Empire before the Parthians were selected to guard the Scythian heritage and its holy sites. Time is against us in this matter, for Phraates’ power is weak and Queen Aliyeh has used her poisonous nature to neuter the individuals who could have thwarted her intrigues.’

  ‘Cannot poison be used to solve the problem of Queen Aliyeh?’ asked Aella, a former noblewoman from Aria whose name meant ‘whirlwind’.

  Dobbai nodded thoughtfully. ‘Normally, yes. But to do so would mean the finger of accusation being pointed at Phraates, which would further weaken his already shaky rule. But if we kill Aliyeh then I fear the King of Dura would lead his army against Phraates, with all the resultant chaos that would ensue. No, Aliyeh must take her own life.’

  ‘She has the survival instincts of a cockroach,’ opined Melanippe, a sister from Carmania whose hair was as black as night, making her name meaning ‘black mare’ entirely appropriate.

  ‘King Spartacus is determined to march against Media next year,’ said Claudia. ‘He has a formidable army and allies he can call upon. The omens for his victory over the Medians and Romans are auspicious.’

  ‘Which brings us to the next problem,’ said Dobbai, her haggard features cracking a smile at her protégé. ‘King Spartacus will fight for Phraates solely to further his own interests. He has already installed the leader of his Aorsi allies as the ruler of the city of Van and seeks to add to the territory of his own kingdom at the expense of Armenia and Media.

  ‘Claudia, you must travel to Vanadzor to reason with him and warn him of the dangers of empire building.’

  ‘He is headstrong and arrogant,’ said Claudia, ‘but I will do my best.’

  A woman in her fifties began to chuckle. ‘I remember visiting Vanadzor twenty years ago to plead with King Surena who sat on Gordyene’s throne at the time. He too was headstrong and arrogant and refused to listen to me. He went the same way as King Balas before him. The kings of Gordyene are cursed.’

  ‘The kings of Gordyene have a role to fulfil,’ said Dobbai, ‘but of late they seem to have forgotten or wilfully ignored it. Claudia, you will remind King Spartacus that he occupies an ancient position and if he wants to prosper, he must respect the gods’ restraints on Gordyene and rein in his ambitions. If not, they will punish him. Remind him of the fate of Balas and Surena.’

  ‘I will leave for Gordyene immediately,’ replied Claudia, ‘for if he defeats the Romans and Medians, his arrogance will know no bounds.’

  Dobbai turned to Aella. ‘Tell us of the Kushan threat.’

  ‘They have launched several incursions into the empire,’ said the sister from Aria, ‘which Satrap Kewab is confident he can repulse.’

  ‘And the king, what does he think?’ probed Dobbai.

  The ruler of Aria was King Tiridates the Younger, an ambitious man who was quick to take offence.

  ‘He does not share Kewab’s optimism,’ replied Aella, ‘and has called on Phraates to lead an army to reinforce the eastern kingdoms.’

  �
�Which Phraates has neither the resources nor the inclination to fulfil,’ said Claudia, ‘not with the Romans and Medians threatening him.’

  Dobbai looked at her. ‘It was a stroke of genius on the part of the son of Hatra to create his Egyptian satrap of the east. The foreigner has both military and political skills, making him somewhat of a rarity among men. However, I fear even his talents will be unable to stem the Kushan tide. Will the son of Hatra take his army east if asked to do so?’

  ‘I fear he will not,’ answered Claudia. ‘He worries the Romans will try again to capture Ctesiphon and so will keep his army close to home, as will his friends with their armies.’

  ‘If Satrap Kewab fails,’ said Aella, ‘Tiridates will call for Phraates to be overthrown, though he himself will most likely be overthrown by Kujula.’

  ‘What is your opinion of the eastern kings, sister?’ said Dobbai.

  ‘Tiridates’ ambitions exceed his talents,’ she stated bluntly, ‘Antiochus of Drangiana is man of very average talents, King Salar of Sakastan is able but wet behind the ears, and his brother Phanes of Carmania is a broken reed. Only the power of Khosrou can be relied upon to provide a bulwark against the Kushans in the event of a full-blown war.’

  ‘An old man in his seventies,’ lamented Dobbai. ‘As I said, we are entering dark times.’

  ‘Perhaps it is time to seek the help of the immortals,’ suggested Claudia.

  Dobbai chuckled. ‘Such as when you summoned Pazuzu to deceive the Kushans at Sigal?’

  ‘It needed to be done,’ insisted Claudia.

  ‘Sakastan paid a high price for the demon’s help, sister,’ said Polemusa, a fierce-looking individual whose name meant ‘war woman’. ‘New-borns died not only in Sigal but also in towns and villages throughout the kingdom. Sakastan’s pain will not subside for many years.’

  ‘The immortals will not help men who will not help themselves,’ said Dobbai. ‘It is our task to remind those men what actions they should take to safeguard the empire. Only in desperate times should we seek to invoke divine help, for the price of such assistance is often a heavy one.