The Cursed Kingdom

by Peter Darman

  ‘And concubines, no doubt,’ thought Spartacus.

  ‘You and your men may ride back to your camp, general,’ said Spartacus, ‘General Hovik and some of my men will accompany you to ensure there are no outrages. Though you will find Gordyene’s army has strict discipline.’

  ‘Though not its allies,’ Joro retorted, an obvious reference to the Aorsi.

  ‘Shall we retire to your camp, lord?’ Hovik said to Joro, eager to get him away lest Spartacus decide he was a barbarian after all and order the captured Medians to be executed.

  As the two generals rode away from the terrible debris of battle, Spartacus walked up to Darius’ standard bearer and yanked the staff out of the holder’s hand.

  ‘I will take that,’ he said in a menacing tone.

  The King’s Guard were delighted, the disarmed and demoralised Median cataphracts distraught, but Spartacus was determined to have a token of victory. Around him soldiers of the King’s Guard drank greedily from water bottles, some removed helmets and all were drenched in sweat. They sat on tired and listless horses, waiting for their king to issue orders. Spartacus, captured banner in hand, looked at his son a few feet away. Around them were dead men, dead horses, flies already feasting on dead flesh and the ground soaked with excrement, urine, vomit, blood and guts. The rancid odour was already tickling the back of men’s throats and would intensify as the bowels of lifeless bodies slowly emptied.

  ‘Once again you disobeyed me.’

  ‘How so, father?’

  ‘Did I not issue orders to kill Darius?’

  ‘He was unarmed and at my mercy.’

  ‘Mercy is an over-rated virtue,’ sniffed his father. ‘Your actions, or rather inaction, will come back to haunt Gordyene.’

  ‘I will not kill defenceless men,’ said Akmon.

  Spartacus changed the subject. ‘Your mother will live, by the way, though her broken arm would have healed quicker if you had presented the severed head to Darius to her as a gift.’

  ‘I will go and see her now.’

  Spartacus shook his head. ‘No. In the absence of Hovik you will organise patrols to ensure the army is not surprised during its retreat back to Mepsila. There are still thousands of enemy horsemen at large. I hold you personally responsible for our safety. Speak with Shamshir.’

  Spartacus turned and walked to his horse, tossing the captured standard to a King’s Guard. Then he and his escort were gone, leaving a fuming Akmon standing alone surrounded by the dead.

  Chapter 12

  Spadines, his Aorsi and Gordyene’s lords and their horse archers drifted back to Mepsila as the sun was dropping in the west. They and their horses were blown but they reported scattering the enemy horsemen over a wide area. Spartacus knew some would return to the camp of King Darius, perhaps with the hope of resuming hostilities the next day. But their king was safely incarcerated in the governor’s mansion in the town; a rather drab, two-storey mud-brick building that had seen better days. Spartacus and Rasha were quartered in the town’s small barracks. The captured dragon banner was furled and resting in the corner when the king addressed his commanders and Spadines in what had been the garrison commander’s office, the two oil lamps casting them all in a pale-yellow glow.

  Spadines was already drunk, having emptied a jug of wine and was halfway through a second. The rest were also drinking liberally. Spartacus did not mind. They had earned it.

  ‘What are our casualties?’ he asked Hovik.

  ‘A preliminary count has revealed we lost three hundred Immortals, two hundred medium horsemen, fifty King’s Guard and two hundred Vipers.’

  ‘That many?’ Spadines was astounded. ‘My dead total only one hundred.’

  ‘We lost three hundred,’ the leader of the lords informed his king.

  Hovik did a quick count in his head.

  ‘Just over eleven hundred killed, then.’

  ‘The queen will return to Vanadzor with the Vipers to mend her arm,’ said Spartacus. ‘The walking wounded will go with her; the more seriously injured will remain here. The army will rest for two days before recommencing our march to Irbil.’

  ‘What about the town, majesty?’ enquired Hovik.

  ‘Mepsila is now part of Gordyene and will be garrisoned to ensure it remains so,’ said Spartacus.

  Spadines belched. ‘Where is Prince Akmon?’

  ‘On patrol,’ the king told him. He allowed himself a grim smile. ‘You have all done well today. We have defeated an army twice the size of our own and captured the King of Media. Thousands of his soldiers lie dead on the battlefield and his power is broken. I have appointed General Hovik Lord Protector of Media and he will assume his position when we take Irbil.’

  ‘Irbil has high walls, majesty,’ said the senior lord.

  Spartacus extended his arms with his palms facing towards them.

  ‘Who is left to defend the city? Not the king, though perhaps his mother might put up a fight. General Joro will limp back to the city with what’s left of his army, but that army has had the stuffing knocked out of it.’

  He saw their tired, dirty faces and bloodshot eyes and so called the meeting to an end. They filed out of the office drained but elated. Spartacus called Spadines back and refilled his cup.

  ‘I know you and your men are tired, lord prince, but before the dawn breaks I want you to lead a raiding party against the Median camp. Joro is too good a commander not to try to rally what troops he has to hand. No heroics, just kill as many as you can, their horses, too.’

  ‘Their horses?’

  ‘A horse archer who has no horse is no threat.’

  Spadines nodded. ‘Ah, I see. My men would prefer to steal them, lord.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  The Aorsi prince emptied his cup. ‘Good wine.’

  ‘Plundered from the garrison commander’s personal wine cellar. There is plenty more where that came from.’

  Spadines and his Sarmatians hit the Median camp at dawn, killing many women and civilians and carrying off hundreds of horses. They also torched dozens of tents, the smoke filling the horizon as Rasha bade farewell to her husband after they had eaten breakfast with their three sons. Haytham and Castus would return to Gordyene with her, escorted by the Vipers and three hundred soldiers who had a variety of light wounds ranging from broken bones like hers to sprained ankles and minor lacerations. Most of them could still use a weapon of some sort so the queen would be in no danger.

  ‘The physician says it is a clean break,’ she said, ‘so I will still be able to shoot a bow and wield a sword.’

  Spartacus held her gently, careful not to press his body into hers to avoid harming the broken arm that was secured by wooden splints and strapped across her chest.

  ‘You can come back with us,’ she whispered in his ear, ‘forget Phraates and the conquest of Armenia. You have already secured his crown. Gordyene has bled enough.’

  He cupped her face in his hands and looked lovingly at her. He realised the loss of so many Vipers and her injury had shaken her more than he had realised. That explained her morose manner.

  ‘I will be back at Vanadzor before the summer is out,’ he promised. ‘What I do is for our children’s future.’

  ‘Is it, Spartacus? Or is it to satisfy your own vengeance?’

  He kissed her tenderly on the lips and indicated to Narin the column should be on its way. He assisted Rasha into the back of the two-wheeled cart after Akmon had said farewell to his mother. Spartacus embraced Haytham and Castus and watched with satisfaction as they vaulted into the saddle and sat proudly on their horses, which were two aged, docile mares.

  ‘Take care of your mother,’ he told them.

  Haytham, now eleven years old, pulled his bow from its case.

  ‘We will not let you down, father.’

  After he had stood and watched the column of horses, camels and carts leave the fort he returned to his office to pen a letter to Phraates, informing the high king he had defeated King Dari
us’ army and was about to march on Irbil. This would clear the way for the army assembling at Ctesiphon to advance north through Media to the Araxes River, the boundary between Parthia and Media. He would await the high king’s arrival at Irbil. If Aliyeh and Darius’s family fell into his hands, did he want them sent on to Ctesiphon? The letter was signed, sealed and given to a courier to send on its way. He leaned back in his chair and felt a wave of satisfaction wash over him.

  ‘Where is he? I demand to see him. Get out of my way.’

  The commotion outside was followed by an incandescent General Joro being escorted into the office by a most unhappy Hovik, the latter fuming fit to burst.

  ‘Majesty,’ said Hovik, ‘the Median camp was raided in the early hours of this morning.’

  ‘Contrary to the agreement reached yesterday,’ hissed Joro. ‘Your Sarmatian thugs have butchered many innocents.’

  Spartacus slowly stood to face the irate Joro.

  ‘That is most unfortunate. What do you want me to do? The Sarmatians are my allies not my slaves. If you have an argument with them I suggest you take it up with their leader.’

  ‘I demand justice,’ said Joro.

  ‘Then go and get it,’ shouted Spartacus. ‘It is of no concern to me.’

  Joro was disgusted. ‘Is this what passes for honour in Gordyene?’

  ‘The fact you are still breathing is testament to the honour of my kingdom, general,’ said Spartacus. ‘What remains of your army will disband today and disperse back to their homes. If any Median is still under arms tomorrow I will consider it a hostile act on your behalf.’

  Joro’s cheeks were red with rage. ‘What is to stop the Sarmatians returning to finish their nefarious work?’

  ‘I will organise a guard around your camp, lord,’ offered Hovik.

  ‘This audience is at an end,’ announced Spartacus, glaring at Hovik to remove the seething Median from his office.

  The general ushered Joro out of the room, bowing his head as he closed the door behind him. That night most of the Median lords and their men stole into the night rather than face the ignominy of surrendering their weapons to the enemy. When Hovik appeared just after dawn at the head of five hundred horse archers he was met by Joro and a pathetic band of wounded and civilians. He ordered his men to assist the wounded on to wagons and then escorted what was left of Darius’ army to the southeast, back towards Irbil. No one disturbed its journey for Spartacus had issued strict orders to Spadines that his men were to stay in camp until he commenced his own march.

  Much to his chagrin Hovik’s conciliatory gesture delayed his march to Irbil by a day, the general returning with the sombre General Joro who had declared his intention not to abandon his king. Darius himself began his captivity like a spoilt child, refusing to eat and drink until he realised his captors cared not if he lived or died. After a day of abstinence, he accepted the food and wine provided for him, thereafter maintaining an air of sullen silence. Joro was assigned to be his guardian during the march to Irbil, both men being disarmed until the capital was reached.

  ‘I am looking forward to seeing the citadel of Irbil,’ said Spartacus to Darius during the ride east, ‘I have heard it is remarkable place.’

  Darius was riding behind him, next to Joro and the King’s Guard behind them. The captured standard of Media flew next to that of Gordyene immediately behind Darius, thereby giving the impression the two kingdoms were allied.

  ‘No doubt it is full of pure-blood Parthians,’ grinned Spartacus, enjoying goading Darius immensely.

  He had left a small garrison in Mepsila to safeguard the town and the immediate area, but still marched at the head of twenty-seven thousand men, including the Aorsi who had been ordered not to plunder any villages or farms on the way. Spadines had been most unhappy but Spartacus reminded him those settlements now belonged to Gordyene and he did not want them despoiled.

  To be fair Darius took his humiliation well, his dragon-skin armour gleaming in the sunlight and his burnished helmet sporting a black plume still making him look like a king. He replied to Spartacus’ insolent questions with one-word answers but did take the time to converse with Prince Akmon, the young man who had captured him and who had shown himself to have manners, something sadly lacking in his father. In truth Darius was in the pit of despair. In a short space of time he had lost his father, his brother, his favour with Phraates and now his kingdom. His chief concern, his only concern, was the welfare of his wife and children, now alone in the citadel at Irbil. What if Phraates had already reached the city and had them in his power? What if a vengeful high king had murdered them? These thoughts tortured him as he and the army of his vanquisher marched southeast, on the third day of its march approaching the capital of Media.

  Darius saw the citadel of his city from afar on a clear and sunny spring day; the stone walls a shimmering yellow shadow on the horizon. He also saw the rider galloping furiously towards them, kicking up a cloud of dust as his horse sped along the dusty track. The soldier did not bother to bow or salute as he pulled up his sweating mount and spoke to Spartacus.

  ‘There is an army drawn up before Irbil.’

  ‘What army? Compose yourself, soldier,’ growled Hovik. ‘Make your report in the correct manner when you address your king.’

  ‘Yes, sir, sorry, sir,’ panted the soldier. ‘A great army is gathered before the city, majesty, horse and foot.’

  ‘Must be Phraates,’ suggested Hovik.

  ‘He has yet to leave Ctesiphon,’ insisted Spartacus. ‘What banners did you see?’

  The soldier stared open-mouthed at his king. ‘I, er, did not see, majesty.’

  Spartacus waved him away and turned to his bodyguard.

  ‘One company with me. Continue the march, Hovik.’

  He ignored Akmon as he and a hundred King’s Guard galloped towards the city, a lion banner at their head. Anger surged through Spartacus, intense annoyance that the prize of Irbil was going to be denied him. Phraates must have marched from Ctesiphon earlier than expected. It was typical of the high king’s duplicitous nature to allow others to do the dirty work while he reaped the rewards. No doubt Phraates would try to install one of his over-dressed sycophants as satrap of Media. He roared in frustration, his horse thundering across the lush green terrain towards the city. He could see the horsemen and foot soldiers now, the sun glinting off whetted kontus points and spears. He slowed his horse when the unidentified army was around half a mile distant, holding up a hand to slow the King’s Guard behind him. His stomach churned when he saw the banners fluttering in the breeze. To him war was about creating a well-trained and equipped army and using that army to win battles and campaigns. But for others, warlords and armies were just a means to an end, part of a greater game involving diplomacy, deception, politics and alliances. Family ties were also important to rulers often linked by marriage to other kingdoms. How he had underestimated Queen Aliyeh whose machinations now manifested themselves before him.

  He pulled up his horse. In front of him stood the serried ranks of the Durans and Exiles and on their flanks hundreds of cataphracts and horse archers deployed in long lines.

  The armies of Dura, Hatra and Elymais had answered Aliyeh’s plea.

  *****

  The kings and queens were gathered in one group, behind them their banners: the red griffin of Dura, the white horse’s head of Hatra, the four-pointed star of Elymais and the white dragon of Media. Queen Parisa, her eyes puffy and red from the river of tears she had shed over her husband, whose death had been reported when the first accounts of the battle had reached Irbil, sat next to the flint-eyed Aliyeh, whose eyes were like a cobra’s when she spotted the lion banner approaching.

  ‘You had better let me do the talking,’ said Gafarn, glancing at Pacorus, Silaces and Aliyeh, ‘we don’t want to inflame an already incendiary situation.’

  ‘Just tell him to leave Media and crawl back to Gordyene,’ spat Aliyeh.

  Pacorus rolled his eyes and G
allia smiled. Diana was most unhappy at the suggestion her son was a snake. Gafarn nudged his horse forward. Claudia, who had insisted on accompanying her parents north, smiled and shook her head.

  ‘You are with me, Pacorus.’

  They walked their horses ahead for around two hundred paces, far enough away from the others to be out of earshot. Spartacus left his guard to ride over to his father and uncle, raising a hand in acknowledgment.

  ‘I am surprised to see you both here,’ he said.

  ‘We wanted to avoid any further unnecessary bloodshed,’ replied Gafarn.

  ‘That is simple enough, father, allow me to take possession of Irbil and you can be back on your way to Hatra.’

  ‘That cannot happen,’ said Pacorus. ‘We cannot allow one of the founding kingdoms of the Parthian Empire to become a plaything of Ctesiphon.’

  ‘Why not?’ sneered Spartacus, ‘you sat by and let it become a plaything of Rome.’

  ‘That is enough,’ said Gafarn, ‘show your uncle some respect. You cannot take possession of Irbil and that is that.’

  ‘Is Darius still alive?’ asked Pacorus.

  ‘He lives,’ replied Spartacus.

  ‘Then return him to his wife and let us have an end to this dismal affair,’ said the King of Dura.

  Spartacus looked past the pair and scanned the lines of foot soldiers and horsemen. Gafarn frowned and looked at Pacorus, who shrugged.

  ‘Something troubles you, son?’

  ‘I was just looking for the Romans, who have a treaty of friendship with Media, or had you forgotten?’

  ‘Don’t be facetious,’ snapped Gafarn. ‘You will turn around your army and march it back to Gordyene.’

  Spartacus eyes rested on the scorpion bolt-throwing machines arrayed in front of the Durans and Exiles.

  ‘I see you have come prepared for a fight, uncle.’

  ‘We are not going to fight you, Spartacus, and you are not going to fight us. Let us bring this unfortunate situation to a conclusion. You are after all going to accompany Phraates into Armenia, are you not? There will be laurels to win there, I have no doubt.’

  Spartacus sniffed. ‘The only reason I do so is because I have been paid and wish to secure a cordon of territory to safeguard my kingdom.’