by Peter Darman
‘And yet all may fall into place. King Spartacus has manoeuvred himself into a pivotal position with regard to Gordyene and the Parthian Empire, and if he listens to Claudia matters will improve.’
‘What of his alliance with the Sarmatians?’ asked Melanippe. ‘King Spartacus has invited them into the empire.’
‘The Sarmatians are the offspring of the Scythians and Amazons,’ Dobbai told her. ‘As such, the gods do not object to them assisting the Parthians, as long as they do not abuse the hospitality extended to them.’
‘King Spartacus has recruited more to lay waste Armenia,’ reported Claudia, to groans from the others.
‘If they desecrate Armenia,’ said Polemusa, ‘afterwards they may decide to extend their campaign of rapine south of the Araxes River.’
‘And so we come back to King Spartacus,’ said Dobbai. ‘It will be up to him to restrain his war dogs. Claudia will clarify matters for him.’
The moon began to wane, its light not as bright as it did so.
‘I must leave you all now,’ announced Dobbai. ‘Stay strong and remember you have the power to change men’s minds for good or ill. Remember the great Scythian Queen Tomyris who killed the Persian Cyrus the Great, so called. The gods gave men the brawns to batter each other on the battlefield, but they gave us the brains to solve the many riddles they create.
‘Until we meet again.’
The sisters rose and as one replied. ‘Until we meet again.’
The moon’s rays disappeared from the chamber and darkness surrounded the sisters. The Servers appeared with torches to cast the cave in a faint yellow light, which showed Dobbai’s seat to be empty.
Claudia chatted informally to some of the others as she made her way from the chamber, the Servers collecting the skull drinking vessels and cushions after the sisters had left. She would not tarry in the village. She had a long ride ahead, first striking northwest towards the Araxes River and then along the northern shore of Lake Urmia to enter Gordyene. With the arrival of autumn some of the mountain passes would be already closed but she would stick to the lower river valleys to reach Vanadzor. The four Scythians would escort her but it was unnecessary. She could enlist help along the way if she encountered unforeseen threats. She bade farewell to her sisters outside the cave and mounted her horse, the burden of responsibility weighing heavily upon her.
Chapter 9
Eastern Gordyene was formally an empty land whose inhabitants had been burned out of their homes by Armenian or Median raiders. It had taken a long time for Spartacus to restore peace and stability to a region of wild meadows, huge forests and fertile river valleys. The villages had slowly been rebuilt and repopulated, crops once again grew in the fields and livestock filled pens and barns. There were no large towns in the area, which was a pity because had there been a garrison it might have been able to repulse the eleven hundred Roman soldiers who arrived just as the first snows were falling on the hills.
Titus Tullus pulled up his horse to take a closer look at the bedraggled column of women and children being herded away from their village, the screams of their menfolk piercing the air as they were nailed to crosses.
‘Should fetch a tidy sum in the slave markets,’ said the centurion’s deputy commander beside him.
Tullus sniffed the air. ‘It’s getting colder. They might not survive the journey north to the Armenian capital. How many have we taken so far?’
‘Three hundred, thereabouts.’
‘That will suffice. Get this lot back to camp and employ fifty horsemen to get them to that Armenian shit-hole. I want them sold before the winter snows us in.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The deputy nodded at the figures being nailed to crosses, other figures lying prostrate on the ground as a result of the brief but bloody battle to take the village.
‘You could double your money if you took the men as slaves as well, sir.’
Tullus sneered at the young pup. ‘If we had just won a great victory and conquered all this miserable land, I would agree. But we are in enemy territory and I can’t spare more men to escort hundreds of captives to slave markets. Old men are worthless so there’s no point in letting them live, young boys are like eels and will try to wriggle free, and men in their prime need shackling and guarding before they turn a profit. Too much trouble, you see.’
Some of the women had collapsed in fits of wailing when they saw their nearest and dearest being nailed to crosses, much to the annoyance of Tullus.
‘Get those bitches moving; use force if you have to. They’ll heal before they’re put on sale.’
He nudged his horse forward into the village, a collection of stone huts with thatched roofs near a small, fast-running river in a heavily wooded valley. It was a pleasant spot and the abundance of timber made the Romans’ task much easier. Tullus slid off his horse and ambled over to where half a dozen legionaries were positioning a reluctant man in his fifties on to a freshly made cross.
‘Murderers, barbarians, the king will have his vengeance on you all, you…’
He emitted a high-pitched scream when a long nail was hammered through his right wrist into the wood, a scream following every blow of the hammer on the nail’s head. He was thrashing around wildly, desperately trying to wrench his pinioned wrist free, which only exacerbated his pain. He was sobbing with distress but the sobs were replaced with more screams when a second nail was driven through his left wrist. The legionaries pressed the victim’s right foot backwards against his left and with toes down before a third nail was driven through the arch of each into the vertical beam of the cross. The wrought-iron nail easily penetrated the flesh, bone and pine beam to secure the man’s feet in place. Ropes were tied around the victim’s elbows to secure him to the pine cross, which was speedily raised and set in the ground. The man was whimpering with pain, his eyes bulging in fear as the horror of his situation dawned on him. He would be left to die slowly, days of pain ahead as he fought for breath and his body was wracked by spasms as his strength gave way. A crushing pain would engulf his chest as it filled with fluid. As his head dropped he caught a final sight of his wife and daughter being led away to endure a life of slavery.
Tullus looked up at the now groaning man. ‘Not so lippy now, are you? There’s nothing like crucifixion for silencing a troublemaker.’
‘That’s the last of them, centurion,’ said the legionary with the hammer.
‘Has all the livestock and grain been removed from the village?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Before he dismounted the deputy ordered his horsemen to ride to the west to scout for possible enemy patrols. Tullus shook his head.
‘King Spartacus is safely tucked up in his palace over a hundred miles away. He won’t stir until the spring.’
‘Word might have reached him of our arrival, sir.’
‘I hope so,’ smiled Tullus, ‘that is what we are here for, to draw off some of his army so it won’t be marching south against Mark Antony. But we won’t have to worry until the spring. These Parthians don’t like to get their boots muddy so they only fight when it’s warm and sunny.’
‘King Spartacus is not Parthian but Thracian, sir,’ the deputy corrected him.
Tullus picked his nose and flicked the phlegm on the just-crucified man.
‘He was raised in Parthia so that makes him Parthian, either that or the son of a slave. I don’t know which is worse but I won’t be losing any sleep over trying to figure it out. We see out the winter stuffing ourselves with the grain and livestock we have plundered, and in the spring march west to goad the son of the slave. He’ll take the bait, mark my words.’
It was the seventh village they had plundered since their arrival in Gordyene just days before, reaping a rich haul in slaves, livestock and grain to supplement the rations they had brought with them. Tullus had established a camp in an upland meadow with a river nearby and excellent fields of view in all directions. No enemy would be able to surprise the Romans but th
ey would be able to range far and wide from their base.
*****
Claudia pulled the cloak tighter around her, the wind from the north biting into the flesh of her face. Behind her the Scythians had their heads down like their horses, the plain north of Lake Urmia offering no protection against the elements. She had been in a morose mood since entering the lands she had once ridden through as a carefree princess of Dura with her intended by her side. That was before the dreadful ordeal that had signalled the beginning of her induction into the Scythian Sisters. From an early age she had been taught by Dobbai about the gods, rituals to summon them, useful spells, poisons, cures, curses and seeing into the future. It was all exciting and intoxicating and as she got older she longed to become a fully-fledged member of her teacher’s sisterhood. Little did she realise the gods exacted a heavy admission price for those chosen to serve and share in their secrets. Dobbai had never revealed the ordeal that had erased her former life so she could enter the Scythian Sisters as a resurrected soul. But Claudia remembered her rape at the hands of the Prince Alexander’s soldiers well enough and the torture and murder of Valak. No amount of rebirth could erase such a searing experience.
She allowed herself to remember Valak and the short time they had spent together as her horse plodded across the wind-swept terrain. She must have been daydreaming for some time for when she snapped back to the present, she and the others had entered thickly wooded, undulating ground. The trees acted as windbreaks and as they ventured further west the trees became thicker and more diverse, with beech, oak, ash and junipers interspersed among the pine. The wind had dropped and the air smelled fresh and invigorating. The Scythians began to talk among themselves and Claudia closed her eyes and inhaled the cool, fresh air. She opened them again when her escort fell silent and she spotted a party of horsemen on the track ahead, around two hundred paces away.
She recognised the green oval shields, mail shirts, red tunics and helmets with cheek guards.
‘No weapons,’ she commanded, nudging her horse forward.
‘They are Romans, sister,’ warned the leader of the Scythians.
She sighed. ‘I am aware of that. Keep your bows in their cases and your axes away from your hands. They won’t be needed.’
The Romans trotted forward, the one at the head of the party holding up a hand.
‘Halt! State your business.’
Displaying the arrogance of many of his race he assumed the woman dressed entirely in black and her formidable escort spoke his language.
‘We are on our way to Vanadzor,’ Claudia answered in perfect Latin.
‘Why?’ came the terse retort.
‘To warn the King of Gordyene there are Roman soldiers in his realm. Perhaps you could do me the courtesy of providing details as to the exact number of Romans here in Gordyene.’
The Romans began laughing mockingly at her. Behind her the Scythians began growling in an animal-like fashion. She spun in the saddle and glared at them. She faced the laughing Romans.
‘If you will not furnish me with answers then move aside. I have better things to do than bandy words with foreign barbarians.’
The laughter stopped.
‘Who are you calling barbarians, bitch?’
The Romans lowered their spears.
‘You are coming with us, you and your boyfriends.’
Claudia smiled. ‘As I am in a generous mood, I will give you the opportunity to turn around and depart.’
The Roman commander nudged his horse forward until the point of his spear was but inches from her throat.
‘Romans don’t take orders, they give them.’
‘Of course, but before we leave allow me to tell you a story about the River Tigris.’
‘What nonsense is this, bitch?’
Claudia ignored his threatening tone and the weapon at her throat.
‘The Tigris was so named because a tiger carried a pregnant princess across the turbulent waterway on its back. Once safely on the other side, she gave birth to a healthy son so thereafter the tiger was associated with the fertility of the river. But the tiger can take life as well as give it.’
Among the trees no one saw the beasts when they moved into position, at least twenty paces from the horses. Had the Romans been more focused on the behaviour of their steeds rather than trying to intimidate a woman who clearly did not frighten easily, they would have noticed the beasts becoming nervous and skittish. They would also have been aware of the sudden silence as the birds stopped their chirping and cawing. No one saw them; their thick reddish coats with black stripes set in a close pattern, the perfect camouflage for the forest foliage they hid in. Then they sprang.
The Caspian tigers lunged from their hiding places, their powerful back legs propelling them forward to pounce on their victims. Claudia gave the mere hint of a smile as the tiger flew through the air to take the Roman commander, who in the split-second before the five-hundred-pound beast’s jaws closed on his neck realised something was very wrong. The Romans’ horses reared up in alarm after the men on their backs had been knocked from their saddles, bolting away into the forest or back down the track they had come from. There was only a single scream as the tigers either snapped the spinal cords of the Romans or ripped out their throats, the beasts dragging the lifeless, limp bodies back into the forest.
The Scythians, hardened warriors that they were, stared open-mouthed at the now empty track ahead. Few had seen a Siberian tiger much less half a dozen, and none had seen one take a soldier on horseback. Claudia turned to the astounded men.
‘Calm your horses, they will be very nervous for a while yet.’
It took three more days to reach Vanadzor, her party running into no more Romans as they neared the capital of Gordyene. As they approached the city the number of villages increased, as did the quantity of garrisons holding detachments of Immortals. Spartacus had filled the Pambak Valley with stone strongholds to guard the approaches to his city, all constructed from the dour, black stone used to build Vanadzor. Twenty miles from the city Claudia and her riders were intercepted by a group of horsemen wearing red tunics, black leggings, scale armour cuirasses and carrying red-painted shields sporting a white lion’s head motif. Once more a soldier held up a hand to her.
He looked at the Scythians behind her, noting their bow cases.
‘You are travelling to Vanadzor?’
‘We are,’ answered Claudia.
‘May I enquire as to what business you have there?’
Claudia turned in the saddle. ‘You see how Parthians are much more courteous than Romans.’
The officer looked alarmed. ‘Romans? We have learned there are Roman troops in the east of the kingdom. How long ago did you encounter them?’
‘Four days ago, a small party of horsemen.’
The officer regarded her suspiciously. ‘And they let you pass? I must insist you accompany me to the city authorities so you can reveal everything you know.’
‘I will tell the king myself,’ said Claudia.
The officer laughed. ‘The king is a busy man. But I will take you to someone you can talk to.’
Claudia sighed. ‘I am Princess Claudia of Dura, cousin to King Spartacus of Gordyene. I think he will see me.’
The officer’s face showed surprise but then scepticism. He looked at the four riders, the camels loaded with supplies and the strangely dressed woman in front of them.
‘Have you any proof of your identity? I see no griffin standard.’
‘I am not my father,’ said Claudia irritably, ‘I do not ride around with a large escort of soldiers. You want proof? Please ride to the palace and inform the king his bribing the bandit Akka and his Siraki thugs was a gross error, one I would have counselled against. But I see wise heads are a rarity in Gordyene. Go take a look at the queen’s bow; a present gifted her by my mother, Queen Gallia. Tell her that her friend Claudia is here to see her.’
The officer placed Claudia and her Scythians under arres
t. He did not know who she was but knew of the visit of Akka and his Siraki to Vanadzor well enough. He knew nothing of the origins of the queen’s bow but did not like the strange woman’s condescending tone. In any case she might be a Roman spy. How else could she pass through their lines so easily? So he escorted her to Vanadzor, encountering General Hovik who had just returned from an inspection tour of Pambak’s strongholds. He pulled up his horse when he recognised Claudia.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ he growled at the officer who was holding her reins.
‘I have been arrested, general,’ said Claudia nonchalantly.
Hovik was enraged. ‘What! Do you know who this is?’
‘Says she is Princess Claudia of Dura, sir,’ replied the officer smugly.
‘She is Princess Claudia,’ shouted Hovik. ‘Idiot. Release her at once.’
‘I, er, forgive me, highness,’ stuttered the officer. ‘I had no idea.’
Claudia took back her reins. ‘It is quite all right. These things happen. You were right to be suspicious. We live in dangerous times and we all need to be on our guard.’
The general escorted Claudia and her guards into the city, which with a light rain and overcast skies looked glum and forbidding. She glanced at the sword at Hovik’s hip.
‘Is that one of the ukku blades the king purchased?’
‘It is not, highness. But the king is very pleased with his new swords.’
‘I imagine he is, especially as he did not pay for them. Robbing a temple, even a foreign one, can have far-reaching repercussions.’
Hovik shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. ‘I know nothing of those things, highness, I am just a soldier.’
‘The common excuse of a soldier. The gods do not discriminate when they mete out punishment, general.’
‘I have always honoured the gods, highness, but I have a duty to my king and the people of this kingdom to defend him and them.’
‘From what?’