The Cursed Kingdom

by Peter Darman

‘How so?’

  ‘Prince Akmon saved me from being killed on the horns of a huge ibex, highness.’

  Phraates’ eyes flitted from Lusin to Akmon. They clearly adored each other, much to his amusement. It was time for some entertainment.

  ‘You like Prince Akmon, lady?’

  She gazed lovingly at the prince. ‘Yes, highness.’

  ‘And you, young prince, you desire to make this Armenian beauty your wife.’

  Akmon’s eyes lit up. ‘Yes, highness.’

  ‘The man who intends to marry the Lady Lusin is paying her father twice her weight in gold. If you can match the amount I will allow you to marry her.’

  ‘Highness, she is promised to Nabu Egibi,’ protested Ashleen.

  ‘You will remain silent,’ Phraates hissed. ‘Do you have enough gold to seal the deal, young prince?’

  Akmon looked pleadingly at his father, who had access to more than enough gold in Vanadzor’s vaults. But Spartacus’ face was a mask of indifference.

  ‘No, highness,’ said Akmon.

  Phraates threw his hands into the air.

  ‘Then I’m afraid you cannot marry her. Such a shame to see young love throttled. Alas. You are not to see Lady Lusin again, prince, for we do not want her future husband to discover he might be marrying despoiled goods.’

  Geghard and the now-recovered Vahan were delighted by this pronouncement.

  ‘Perhaps an apology, lord,’ suggested Artaxias.

  Phraates smiled at him. ‘You are quite right. Lord Geghard, your son will apologise for his display of ill manners.’

  Geghard was dumbfounded. ‘What?’

  ‘Now!’ shouted Phraates.

  ‘I apologise,’ Vahan mumbled to Akka.

  Akka smiled triumphantly at the young man with the bruised neck. Phraates dismissed all his guests immediately afterwards, before withdrawing into his private chambers with a small group of courtiers. An infuriated Spartacus did not speak to his son during the ride back to his camp, though Akka whispered to Akmon during the journey through a bleak landscape turned silver under a full moon.

  ‘If you want my help to steal her, just let me know.’

  Chapter 13

  The army stood before the walls of Artaxata in an impressive display of power, dozens of brightly coloured banners fluttering in the breeze, the sun glinting off thousands of spear points. The tent that had been pitched outside the walls, beyond the main gates into the city, looked puny by comparison. From their position on the battlements of the city they had a bird’s eye view of the might of Parthia come to Armenia.

  Titus Tullus pointed at the spearmen standing in a phalanx on the right centre of the Parthian battle line.

  ‘Yellow tunics and blue leggings. They are from Persis, which currently has no king and is ruled by a satrap.’

  He moved his finger to indicate the spearmen next to them. ‘Purple leggings and tunics. They are Babylonians.’

  Finally, his digit stopped at the foot soldiers of Gordyene.

  ‘Those are the troops of King Spartacus and are the best in the enemy army, perhaps the best in all Parthia. Trained and equipped like our own legions and just as good, perhaps better.’

  Quintus Dellius nodded. ‘Praise indeed. I still find it strange to hear the name “Spartacus” and even stranger to find his son a king in the Parthian Empire.’

  ‘Blame King Pacorus, sir, it was he who spirited the son of the slave leader out of Italy.’

  Quintus scanned the ranks of the enemy army.

  ‘I wonder if he is here?’

  Tullus shook his head. ‘He has fallen out with the high king, by all accounts.’

  ‘We thank the gods for that, at least. Who are the horsemen?’

  ‘Red tunics, black leggings. Gordyene. Red tunics, tan leggings. Susiana. Purple tunics and leggings are Babylonians and the yellow tunics and blue leggings indicate horsemen of Persis.’

  Quintus laughed. ‘What a strange people these Parthians are, all gaudy colours, beards and long hair. The gods alone know why Mark Antony wants to conquer them.’

  He stared at a group of horsemen, perhaps three thousand strong, next to the riders from Gordyene. They appeared to wear no uniforms and looked more like a mob than soldiers.

  ‘And those must be the Sarmatians who have been tormenting Armenia for months. How I wish I had two more legions.’

  Tullus had a mischievous glint in his eye. ‘We could always give it a try, sir; they won’t be expecting an attack.

  Quintus gave him a wry glance. ‘I have three thousand men, a thousand of whom are veterans, plus perhaps a hundred horsemen. There must be, what, over thirty thousand Parthians?’

  ‘Don’t forget the handful of Armenians,’ grinned Tullus.

  ‘Odds of ten-to-one, Tullus.’

  ‘That’s about right, sir. One Roman is worth ten Parthians, and twenty Armenians.’

  Quintus jerked a thumb backwards. ‘The city is on tenterhooks. Every citizen can taste their freedom and I have no desire to incite a riot as well as a battle with the Parthians. No, we stick to the plan.’

  Having decided to quit the city, the plan involved meeting with Phraates and negotiating safe passage to Cappadocia for three thousand Roman soldiers and around eight thousand Roman citizens, a mixture of merchants, administrators and a host of women and children, all eager to be away from a province that was on the verge of insurrection. Quintus Dellius thought he would be meeting with Phraates alone, but a flurry of heralds between the Parthian camp and the city disabused him of that notion. The high king informed the governor, via his chief of court, that he as the divinely appointed leader of the Parthian Empire would not meet face-to-face with a lowly governor. Chief of Court Ashleen, who would have full authority to decide things in the high king’s name, albeit within strict limitations, would represent him instead. He would, for example, have no authority to declare war on Rome. In addition, there were two other kings present in the Parthian camp – Spartacus and Artaxias – and both expressed a desire not only to be included in any discussions, but also to meet the governor in person. The inclusion of Artaxias was logical as it was his kingdom they would be talking about, though he had no army and no real power. Spartacus was invited because the last thing Phraates wanted was to offend a man who was becoming increasing erratic, and who had a powerful army at his beck and call.

  The drawn-out preparations infuriated and frustrated Quintus Dellius in equal measure. In Rome business was conducted in face-to-face meetings where it was expected that all parties would conduct communications and negotiations in person. Ideally, Quintus would have preferred to meet Phraates alone but as he was in the weaker position he had no choice but to acquiesce to the Parthian’s demands.

  It took a full day to pitch the tent where the negotiations would take place, which was equidistant between the city gates and Phraates’ pavilion. Then there was a problem regarding the number of attendees. On the Parthian side there would be three – Ashleen, Artaxias and Spartacus – but the Romans proposed only two people: Quintus Dellius and his deputy, Titus Tullus. It would have been far easier to have informed Spartacus his presence was not needed but no one dared upset the man who wanted to unleash his army against the city and its inhabitants. So to placate him he attended, which meant the Romans had to furnish another individual, Quintus asking the city tax collector to attend. A nervous, balding man in his sixties, he was sweating profusely when the three walked to the open-sided tent to meet with the enemy.

  ‘Don’t say anything,’ Quintus told him, ‘and avoid eye contact with the Parthians, especially King Spartacus.’

  The tax collector nodded feverishly, then remembered the name.

  ‘King Spartacus? Is he any relation to the Thracian slave who led the revolt in Italy nearly forty years ago?’

  ‘His son,’ said Tullus, ‘and word is he’s just as violent as his father.’

  The governor and Tullus looked magnificent, each sporting crimson plumes in their h
elmets and the governor wearing a highly polished bronze muscled cuirass. The centurion wore mail armour decorated with phalerae – silver discs awarded for valour for specific engagements. His shins were covered by silver greaves and on his helmet was a corona aurea, a gold crown, awarded for killing an enemy in single combat and holding ground to the end of a battle. Both Quintus and Tullus surrendered their weapons at the entrance to the tent, a score of legionaries standing to attention as they did so. The same number of Babylonians presented arms as two of the three Parthian dignitaries surrendered their weapons and entered the tent from the other side.

  The six couches had been carefully arranged so three faced three at a distance of two paces, the huge rug on the ground being purple, the colour Armenians believed expressed wisdom. A herald introduced the Roman governor and his companions, another the chief of court and the two kings who accompanied him. Ashleen sat on the middle couch facing Quintus Dellius, Spartacus facing Titus Tullus and the young Artaxias, who was known to the Roman governor, faced the sweating tax collector. As was the accepted custom, all conversations were conducted in Greek. Because the day was hot and airless slaves with large fans wafted the guests, much to the amusement of Spartacus, the king studying the bravery awards being worn by the centurion opposite.

  ‘Shall we have some refreshments?’ suggested Ashleen, smiling obsequiously.

  ‘Excellent idea,’ agreed Quintus.

  Official tasters tried the beverage before it was served to the attendees, Ashleen taking a sip and reclining on his couch to look at Quintus.

  ‘As you requested this parley, perhaps you could provide more details as to its purpose.’

  ‘I will come straight to the point,’ began Quintus, ‘due to strategic considerations, we have decided to withdraw our forces from Armenia. To avoid unnecessary bloodshed, we request safe passage for all Roman military personnel and citizens to Cappadocia.’

  ‘Impossible,’ hissed Spartacus. ‘Surrender now and all officers will be spared, the rest will be sold into slavery.’

  Quintus remained calm, Tullus smirked and the tax collector uttered a low whimper.

  ‘King Spartacus speaks out of turn,’ said Artaxias. ‘I am king of Armenia.’

  ‘A king without an army or kingdom,’ mocked Spartacus. ‘Surrender now, Roman, and spare the citizens of Artaxata being put to the sword.’

  ‘Getting back to your proposal, governor,’ said Ashleen, ‘you would accept that you appear to be in a very weak position, do you not? What incentive does King of Kings Phraates have to offer you safe passage out of Armenia, considering you are effectively under siege?’

  ‘Two reasons,’ answered Quintus. ‘First, if you lay siege to Artaxata I can guarantee its Armenian citizenry will suffer the most. You will capture a burnt-out shell of a city.’

  ‘No great loss,’ remarked Spartacus.

  Ashleen frowned at him. ‘And the second reason?’

  ‘May I point out that King Artavasdes is currently a guest of Queen Cleopatra in Alexandria, together with his family,’ smiled Quintus. ‘The massacre of Roman soldiers and citizens in Armenia might place the royal family in great danger.’

  Artaxias jumped up from his couch. ‘You dare threaten my family.’

  ‘Sit down, boy,’ said Spartacus. ‘You are king only because your father is no longer here.’

  ‘If, if we allow you to leave,’ spat an angry Artaxias, ‘I demand you return my family safe and sound to Armenia.’

  Spartacus guffawed. ‘How little you know of Romans. Your family are gone, never to return. That is why we must ensure the Romans we have at our mercy suffer the same fate.’

  Titus Tullus spoke for the first time. ‘So you are the son of the slave king. His army ended up being nailed to crosses. Perhaps you will suffer the same fate.’

  Spartacus pointed at him and looked at Artaxias.

  ‘You see how Roman arrogance is undimmed even when they are penned into a corner like rats in a trap.’

  Ashleen held up a hand. ‘Can we please act as civilised men rather than backstreet brawlers. I will convey your offer to King of Kings Phraates, who will weigh up all factors to arrive at a judgement. In the meantime, I am authorised to assure you his army will make no aggressive moves against the city.’

  At that moment a slave girl tripped and spilt the wine jug she was carrying, the contents splashing the silver greaves of Titus Tullus.

  ‘Idiot bitch,’ he raged, striking her across the face with back of his hand.

  ‘Sorry, master,’ she sobbed, cowering as he stood to strike her again.

  But Spartacus’ ears pricked up when he recognised her Parthian words and, more importantly, the accent that told him she was from eastern Gordyene. He sprang up and placed himself between the girl and the angry centurion.

  ‘You will not lay a hand on one of my subjects.’

  Tullus was perplexed. ‘What nonsense is this? She is a slave.’

  Spartacus turned to the girl. ‘You are from Gordyene?’

  She nodded.

  He squared up to Tullus. ‘She is coming with me, along with any other people of my kingdom being held in Artaxata.’

  ‘King Spartacus, really this is not acceptable,’ complained Ashleen.

  ‘Indeed not,’ added Artaxias.

  ‘Take the girl,’ said Quintus. ‘Centurion Tullus, retake your seat. That is an order.’

  Spartacus and Tullus stared at each other, unblinking, as each retook their couches, the king grabbing the girl’s arm and hauling her to stand behind him.

  Quintus stood and tipped his head at Ashleen.

  ‘I think this meeting is at an end. You will send word regarding King of Kings Phraates’ decision?’

  Ashleen stood and bowed his head. ‘I will, governor.’

  Tullus smirked at Spartacus as he left with the governor, the King of Gordyene hauling the girl past Ashleen and Artaxias.

  ‘Your family are most likely already dead,’ he uttered to the latter.

  Phraates approved of the governor’s plan to abandon Artaxata and agreed the Romans could have safe passage to Cappadocia. He had no wish to conduct a lengthy siege in a foreign land; the only thing he insisted on was that Quintus Dellius should quit the city speedily. As soon as the Romans had left he and Artaxias would sign a treaty of friendship between Parthia and Armenia to signal the latter was now an ally of Ctesiphon rather than Rome. And as an added bonus, King Spartacus declared his intention to return to Gordyene rather than stay and play courtier. Phraates could barely conceal his delight, though Artaxias was infuriated when Spartacus refused to instruct his Sarmatian allies to cease their raiding activities in Armenia.

  *****

  It was easy to infiltrate the high king’s camp, there being no perimeter defences to bar his way. Indeed, there were no defence at all until one reached the location of Phraates’ pavilion itself. The rest was a disorganised sprawl of different-sized tents, camel parks, temporary stables, slave compounds and thousands of foot soldiers sleeping out in the open. Whores, hawkers and beggars circulated among the common soldiery in the hope of earning, begging or stealing some coin.

  Akmon was dressed in a plain tunic and leggings, a cloth cap on his head and a shemagh wrapped around the lower half of his face. He walked with head down so as not to draw attention to himself, carrying a bundle of firewood he had ‘borrowed’ from the Immortals’ supplies. His initial fear of discovery melted away when he realised he was to all intents and purposes invisible, just one commoner among thousands going about his business.

  He recognised the banner showing a single star flanked by two eagles and began to loiter around the circular red tents, in Armenian culture the colour symbolising bravery. He saw Geghard walking from one and ducked behind a cart to avoid being seen. He was in animated conversation with two of his officers and disappeared to the Armenian stabling area. He reappeared from behind the cart and thanked the gods when Lusin emerged from an adjacent tent, her face a mask of abj
ect misery. She too had heard her father’s voice and wished to speak to him, to plead she be allowed to devote her life to the Goddess Anahit at the temple where she had served as a novice. Better that than the living hell of marriage to the fat Babylonian. Her days of servitude were drawing closer now the Romans were abandoning Armenia. Her father had already written to his future son-in-law to make haste to Artaxata so he could wed his daughter. She had perhaps two weeks of freedom at most left. Was the goddess so cruel to abandon her despite her many prayers and sacrifices to her?

  ‘Lusin.’

  She spun to see a masked man before her and went to scream. Akmon sprang forward and placed a hand over her mouth, lowering his shemagh.

  ‘It’s me, don’t scream.’

  Relieved, she dug him in the ribs with her fingers.

  ‘What nonsense is this? Why are you dressed like a beggar?’

  ‘To infiltrate the camp. I want you to come with me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do you want to marry that fat rich man?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Will your family give permission for us to marry?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Well, then, this is the only way. I have horses and supplies waiting. We can be miles away before anyone notices.’

  She was intrigued and delighted he had risked his life to see her, but she had a wise head on her shoulders.

  ‘You want me to leave my family and home to go to Gordyene, where I was held prisoner?’

  ‘We are not going to Gordyene.’

  ‘Then where?’

  ‘Somewhere we will be safe and anonymous.’

  He looked around. ‘If you want us to be together, you must come now.’

  She looked at her dress and bare arms. ‘Dressed like this?’

  ‘You have a tunic, leggings and boots?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Change into them, and bring a cloak. I’ll wait here.’

  She giggled with delight. ‘Are we really going to do this?’

  ‘We are. Now go.’

  She was perhaps five minutes but it seemed like five hours as he returned to crouching by the tent, fearing a party of guards would appear at any moment to arrest him. But his only visitor was a mangy dog that sniffed him, cocked its leg against the cart and scurried away. Then Lusin reappeared, having donned boots, leggings and a silk tunic, still looking every inch the noblewoman she was. She looked lovely but would stick out like a nugget of gold in a tray of soil. He began to grow concerned but the Goddess Anahit smiled on the young lovers because Akmon noticed the cart was filled with empty sacks. Of course, the answer was simple. He picked one up, drew his knife and cut two holes in the sides. He handed it to Lusin.