by Peter Darman
Quintus wanted to laugh but restrained himself.
‘I will indulge you, Tullus. Let us say the enemy agrees to a parley and after hearing your most generous offer, rejects it. What then?’
‘Then we fight our way to the border, sir, because if we stay here we surely die and the enemy takes Armenia anyway.’
The governor rested his chin on his folded hands and stared at the reports. Mark Antony had left him to hold Armenia. But that was before King Spartacus had defeated the army of Media and the Roman legion and thus left Armenia defenceless. Artaxata occupied a strong position: built on a peninsula-shaped spur of land surrounded by water on three sides and protected by a ditch and palisade on the fourth. But it had a large population, which had been swelled by Romans fleeing from other parts of Armenia. Artaxata was also four hundred miles from Cappadocia and any possible relief force. How long could the city hold out before Mark Antony came? If Mark Antony came.
Tullus leaned forward. ‘What’s the point of dying in vain, sir? A tactical withdrawal is just that. We will be back after the triumvir has dealt with Octavian. But if we stay we give the enemy an easy victory. Request a parley, sir.’
‘I will think on it. You may leave. By the way, you are the ranking centurion and so find yourself second-in-command to me. Get yourself washed and shaved and go to the stores to get a new uniform. You look like a vagrant.’
Tullus stood, saluted and left the office, closing the silver inlaid door behind him. Quintus peeked at the reports and shuddered. He found reading them immensely depressing. Instead, he picked up a pen and began writing on a blank sheet of papyrus.
‘To my dear friend, King of Kings Phraates…’
Tullus’ band of comrades was waiting for him outside the palace, all of them looking as though they had just fought a hard battle. They were sat leaning against the whitewashed wall, heads down and resembling a group of farm slaves.
‘On your feet!’
They jumped up when their leader appeared, a broad grin on his face.
‘Well, lads, you will be pleased to know I have just been promoted to be the governor’s deputy. The bad news is this city is about to be besieged by the Parthians. But never fear, Titus Tullus has found a way out of our dilemma.’
At the same time he sent a courier to the approaching Parthian army, Quintus Dellius ordered all Roman troops stationed in Armenia to the capital, along with any Roman citizens still living outside Artaxata. Supplies and livestock were also brought to the city to prepare for a siege should the Parthians refuse a parley, the governor not yet reconciled to the idea of abandoning it. Titus Tullus collected his new uniform and deposited the money from the sale of the slaves taken in Gordyene in the garrison’s treasury. He ensured his men were kitted out in new uniforms and then he and they set about whipping the four cohorts, all that remained of the army Mark Antony had led into Armenia three years before, into shape.
He was pleasantly surprised to learn the majority had not grown fat and idle but had spent the previous few weeks defending settlements from Sarmatian raiders, which had maintained their fitness and battle skills. That said, chasing ghosts had done nothing to improve their morale. What did bolster their spirits was the arrival of a thousand veterans, who had marched from the three military outposts established in Armenia in the aftermath of Mark Antony’s occupation of the kingdom. Before the Phraaspa campaign Armenia had been an ally of Rome. After Artavasdes’ betrayal of the triumvir, Mark Antony had conquered Armenia to become a Roman province like Syria and Cappadocia. As was the custom, colonies of veterans – legionaries who had completed their service in the army – were established in the new province. Only three veteran outposts had been established, each containing a few hundred people, but as part of their veteran status the former soldiers could be recalled to active duty in emergencies. Quintus Dellius had done so, the veterans marching with their families to Artaxata. Thus did the governor muster three thousand soldiers to face the might of Phraates’ army, though it remained to be seen whether there would be any actual fighting.
*****
For Phraates the campaign was rapidly turning into a victory parade. He and his army had crossed the Araxes and linked up with Spartacus before proceeding north into Armenia through a land of rugged mountains and extinct volcanoes. The summer was hot and dry, the tracks bone-hard and dusty. The snail-like advance of the army frustrated Spartacus immensely, the ruler of Gordyene barely concealing his contempt for the general ill discipline among Phraates’ troops. His own men constructed a fortified camp every night, well away from the high king’s pavilion. On the third day the army halted when the far end of the valley through which it was marching suddenly started filling with horsemen. An alarm of trumpets and horns was sounded, along with an unceasing din of kettledrums, Phraates ordering his horsemen to deploy on the flanks while his foot soldiers were brought forward to form a battle line. The commander of his Babylonians reported to him, Spartacus and an alarmed Artaxias riding with the high king.
‘Scouts report the horsemen are wearing Roman uniforms, highness.’
Phraates went ashen. ‘How many of them?’
‘Several thousand, highness.’
Phraates spun in the saddle. ‘King Spartacus, why haven’t you ordered your men to deploy for battle?’
‘There will be no battle, highness.’
Phraates eyes bulged in astonishment. ‘No battle?’
‘They are not Romans, highness. They are Sarmatians and my allies.’
Spadines had found Akka and their two bands had united to ride south to meet the Parthian army. The day was windless and hot, odours hanging in the air. Spartacus sniffed the air and detected an unpleasant smell. He looked at Artaxias beside the flustered Phraates and smiled. The Armenian king required a speedy change of leggings. He laughed. He would have an amusing tale to tell Spadines and Akka later.
‘Something amuses you, King Spartacus?’ asked Phraates.
‘No, highness.’
‘I must protest,’ spouted Artaxias, ‘the Sarmatians are barbarians who deserve no mercy.’
‘These barbarians have been doing your work for you,’ Spartacus shot back, ‘killing Romans while you have been sitting on your arse at Ctesiphon. Talking of which, shouldn’t you go and wipe it.’
Artaxias, mortified, blushed in embarrassment and anger.
‘Enough,’ ordered Phraates. ‘We will halt for the day to assess the situation. King Spartacus, you and your Sarmatian allies will come to my pavilion this evening so we can hear what they have to say about events in Armenia.’
Spartacus was glad to see Akka and Spadines, the former looking hale and hearty, greeting him with a bear hug.
‘How do you find Armenia?’ asked Spartacus.
‘Like a young virgin, lord, warm and inviting.’
Spartacus introduced Akmon to the Sarmatian, the Siraki lord slapping the prince hard on the shoulder and nearly knocking him over.
‘When this war is over young prince, you should come to Upse, the capital of my people, and I will find you a good woman with child-bearing hips to provide you with many sons.
‘I am pledged to another,’ said Akmon.
‘Pity,’ said Akka, ‘I hope she has wide hips. Too many women today are as skinny as a spear shaft.’
‘Try not to offend anyone,’ Hovik said to the Sarmatians, ‘we are going to meet the high king of the Parthian Empire.’
Akka broke wind. ‘I will be on my best behaviour, lord.’
They may have been rough-hewn raiders but they were both lost for words when they rode into Phraates’ camp and saw his pavilion for the first time. Its roof supported by white painted columns thirty feet high and the interior decorated with expensive draperies and fine linens astounded Akka and Spadines. It was a structure that projected power and wealth. The same wealth that made Parthia a target for Rome and its greedy rulers, men such as Crassus and Mark Antony. Akka stopped and stared in wonder at the purple and crimson rugs interwoven with gol
d thread he walked on as he entered the pavilion, having first surrendered his boots in exchange for a pair of soft slippers, which made him look ridiculous.
It was a rectangular structure with a circular canopy at the centre, which was the location of the dais and throne upon which Phraates sat. But Spartacus and the others were shown into the feasting section where the high king’s most trusted advisers sat on couches with golden feet, along with Artaxias, Geghard, his son Vahan, his wife Katar and the lovely Lusin. Phraates himself was reclining on a couch being fed grapes by a beautiful slave girl; an equally attractive male slave was extracting the pips from each grape before it was fed into the high king’s mouth.
‘Bow,’ Spartacus hissed as he walked up to the high king and bowed his head.
Akka and Spadines did the same, the former leering at female slaves wearing pristine white gowns clinging to their lithe figures.
‘Welcome, King Spartacus,’ said Phraates, his eyes walking over the body of the male slave. ‘These are your Sarmatian allies?’
‘Lord Akka of the Siraki, highness, and Prince Spadines of the Aorsi,’ answered Spartacus.
There were titters directed at the two Sarmatians in their shabby attire and wild hair and beards. Phraates ignored them and the glares of Artaxias and Geghard who had no reason to welcome the presence of men who had been pillaging their homeland, indicating they should sit themselves down. Hovik and Prince Akmon stepped forward and bowed.
‘You already know my son, Prince Akmon, highness,’ said Spartacus, ‘and may I introduce the commander of my army, General Hovik.’
Phraates waved a hand at them and went back to his grapes. Spartacus ushered his son to a couch and Hovik stood behind the one his king occupied. Akmon smiled at a slave who proffered a tray holding rhytons filled with wine, and beamed with delight when he spotted Lusin sitting on a couch behind her father and brother. She gave him a dazzling smile and everyone else in the pavilion disappeared.
Geghard glowered at Spartacus and his allies, much to the satisfaction of the King of Gordyene. Ashleen sipped at wine with some trepidation, fearing the obvious enmity between the guests might flare into violence. At least all parties had been relieved of their weapons at the entrance to the pavilion.
‘What have the Sarmatians learned?’ asked Phraates, staring at Akka.
‘The only Romans in Armenia are in the big city,’ he told the high king, ‘the rest are either dead or slaves of my people.’
‘It is true, lord,’ said Spadines, ‘the Romans gather behind the walls of Artaxata.’
Phraates clicked his fingers, prompting a scribe to scuttle forward with a papyrus scroll, handing it to the high king before retreating with head bowed.
‘This arrived just an hour ago, written by the Roman governor of Armenia, a certain Quintus Dellius, friend of Mark Antony and commander of all Roman and allied forces in Armenia, Parthia and Cappadocia.’
Spartacus howled with laughter.
‘There are no Romans in Parthia, I butchered them all, and soon I will kill all those remaining in Armenia.’
There was a stunned silence at his outburst, Phraates staring open-mouthed at the man who was like an untamed wild animal. Ashleen cleared his throat loudly and scowled at the King of Gordyene.
‘Anyway,’ continued Phraates, ‘this Roman has requested a parley, which I assume is to negotiate a surrender.’
‘You assume wrongly,’ stated Spartacus flatly.
Exasperated, the high king tossed the papyrus on the floor and pointed to Spartacus.
‘Then let us all hear your opinion on the matter, as you are determined to have your say regardless of manners or protocol.’
Spartacus was momentarily taken back by Phraates’ brusque tone, which he had not encountered before. Perhaps the young ruler was growing a pair of balls at last. He put down his rhyton and stood, out of the corner of his eye, catching sight of Akmon beaming at Lusin. Not all that again.
‘We are waiting,’ said Phraates.
‘In my experience the Romans are only interested in one thing,’ began Spartacus, ‘and that is increasing the size of their empire. This Quintus Dellius realises he is in a difficult position and is determined to string us along until his master returns.’
‘How do you know he will return?’ asked Artaxias in a mocking voice. ‘For all we know Parthia has seen the back of Mark Antony.’
‘He has invaded Parthia twice in the last four years,’ said Spartacus, ‘he will be back. It is not in a Roman’s nature to surrender what he has won.’
‘What would be your strategy?’ demanded Phraates.
‘Simple, highness, continue the march to Artaxata, lay siege to the city and starve it into surrender, afterwards putting everyone to the sword as a warning to all those who defy King of Kings Phraates.’
Artaxias and Geghard jumped from their couches in protest.
‘No, there are thousands of Armenians in the city, in my city,’ said Artaxias loudly.
‘If you wish to win over the people of Armenia, starving and killing them is the wrong way to go about it,’ warned Geghard.
‘King Artaxias and General Geghard make valid points,’ said Phraates, ‘and therefore I propose we accept the Roman’s offer of a parley. We will hear what he has to say and if we decide he offers only empty words, then we will proceed accordingly.’
‘If you are going to have a parley, at least ensure it is held within sight of the city walls,’ suggested Spartacus. ‘In that way, we can array all our forces so the defenders may appreciate our strength.’
‘Artaxata is a beautiful city and a treasure of Armenia, it must not be destroyed by the army of Gordyene,’ pleaded Artaxias.
‘One city burns much like another,’ stated Akka.
The debate raged on, Spartacus deliberately goading the Armenians, much to the annoyance of Phraates, who wavered between secretly delighting in Spartacus reminding his guests that it was Parthian power which was in the ascendant, and chastising the King of Gordyene and his ruffian allies for their threats and general coarseness. Akmon, more interested in the woman who had stolen his heart, moved to be near Lusin, who stood to be closer to her champion. For a few moments they said nothing, gazing into each other’s eyes, the plush surroundings disappearing as they basked in their mutual affection for each other.
‘I kept all your letters,’ she said softly.
‘And I yours,’ he smiled.
She lowered her eyes. ‘I am to be married.’
‘I heard.’
‘To a rich old man.’
‘I will kill him.’
She laughed, a rare occurrence of late. ‘He is rich and powerful and a friend of King of Kings Phraates. To do so would more likely end in your own death, and that is the last thing I desire.’
‘What do you desire?’
Her tear-filled brown eyes looked into his. ‘You know what I desire.’
‘Stand away from my sister.’
Vahan was perhaps half an inch smaller than Akmon but definitely broader, his dark eyes boring into the prince, his jaw set rigidly. He looked nothing like his sibling, having inherited his father’s heavy brow and black hair.
‘This is nothing to do with you,’ replied Akmon.
Vahan moved closer to the prince but stopped when he felt a tap on the shoulder. He turned to see Akka standing inches from him.
‘If you want to kiss another man I’m sure you could find yourself a pretty slave boy.’
‘Do you know who I am?’ fumed Vahan.
‘A pretty young Armenian. I’ve taken many as slaves in the past few months, the rest I killed. Which do you wish, slavery or death?’
‘I will have you…’
Vahan never finished his sentence as Akka gripped his throat in a vice-like hold. The Armenian tried to swing a fist into the Sarmatian’s large head but was rapidly losing control of his faculties and indeed consciousness.
‘I would ask you to release my brother, sir.’
Akka turned from the soon to expire Vahan to look at the pleading eyes of the tall beauty standing next to Akmon, a look of alarm and concern on the son of Spartacus’ face.
‘Is this her?’ he asked Akmon.
‘It is.’
He threw Vahan back, the Armenian retching and gasping for air, his knees buckling under him as he failed to get control of his senses.
‘Pretty enough.’ Akka agreed. ‘You should bring her to Upse when you have tamed her.’
Lusin blushed.
‘She is promised to another,’ said Akmon.
‘Kill him,’ Akka told him.
Spadines had spotted the faces of horrified courtiers and the minor altercation and hastened over to calm the situation, placing an arm around Akka’s shoulders.
‘It is time we left, my friend, before we cause an incident.’
But Phraates himself had seen the ruckus and instructed the parties to stand before him, Scythian guards with huge axes ensuring they did so without hesitation. Spartacus was fuming with his son and Geghard was incensed at the outrage committed against his own son. Phraates also requested Lusin present herself before him.
‘I grow bored of talk of Romans. This looks far more intriguing. So, what do we have here?’
He smiled at Lusin. ‘You know Prince Akmon, lady?’
‘Yes, highness,’ said Lusin.
‘She knows him because he and his father abducted her from the Temple of Anahit and then forced me to pay a ransom to get her back,’ seethed Geghard.
Disapproving murmurs greeted this announcement.
‘Silence,’ commanded Phraates. ‘Is this true, prince?’
Akmon looked at his father who shrugged. He cared not if the whole world knew he had raided a temple in Armenia.
‘Yes, highness.’
Phraates knew the story, of course, it was common knowledge, but he liked to make people squirm in his presence and Akmon was certainly uncomfortable.
‘And was your stay in Gordyene unpleasant?’ he asked Lusin.
‘No, highness, the prince was very kind to me. He saved my life.’
This was a snippet of information Phraates had not heard before.