The Cursed Kingdom

by Peter Darman

  Four days after leaving the forests and mountains of western Armenia, Spartacus rode into the courtyard of his palace in Vanadzor. His lion banner had alerted the sentries on the walls of his arrival and Rasha, her arm almost healed, stood at the top of the palace steps to greet him, flanked by Castus and Haytham. Spartacus vaulted from his horse, bounded up the steps and gathered all three in his arms. He closed his eyes and thanked the Horsemen for keeping them safe, kissing Rasha fondly and embracing his boys. He examined Haytham closely for any wounds.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ smiled Rasha.

  ‘Nothing.’

  The king looked around. It was good to be home. He frowned as he remembered he had a third son.

  ‘Well, where is Akmon? Hiding in the palace with the Armenian girl?’

  Rasha looked glum. ‘He did not return to Vanadzor. He has vanished.’

  Chapter 14

  The leaves on the deciduous trees were turning yellow when Haytham became sick. Just a tickly cough at first that irritated everyone within earshot, not least his father who berated him for his manners for coughing throughout meals. But Spartacus grew concerned when the boy’s condition worsened and he began to fight for breath. The court physician was summoned who examined Haytham’s throat and declared it a severe case of soreness. He prescribed a mixture of salt and warm water for the boy to gargle with.

  ‘The briny solution helps to rinse away infection in the throat,’ he assured the king.

  But it had no effect and the next day Haytham lost the ability to speak. His distraught mother stayed by his bedside as the doctor administered a host of remedies. They included lemon and water, the juice of the lemon being well known for helping to shrink swollen throat tissue. Ginger, honey and lemon juice in water was tried next, followed by a mixture of sage and water. The physician sent for myrrh from the local temple and mixed it with water, instructing the mixture should be gargled six times a day. The days passed and Haytham’s condition worsened. Father and mother stayed by their son’s side as his breathing became laboured and he slipped into unconsciousness. Prayers were said in all the city’s temples and wailing women gathered outside the palace, praying to implore the gods to save the king’s youngest son. The grey leaden skies over the city seemed to predict the boy’s death, and the rumbles of thunder in the mist-shrouded mountains around the Pambak Valley were interpreted as an ominous sign.

  Claudia pulled the cloak around her as rain lashed her and the four riders behind her as their horses walked down Vanadzor’s main street leading to the palace. The city looked abandoned and forlorn, the dark stone of the buildings reinforcing the sombre mood hanging over the capital. It looked like a place bereft of people and hope. There was at least life at the palace gates, though it was a collection of misery and tears, black-clad women sitting in the mud, rocking to and fro and chanting prayers with their eyes closed. Others were simply sobbing and tearing at their breasts, imploring the gods to take them instead of Prince Haytham. Claudia rolled her eyes as she halted in front of the massive iron-braced gates.

  ‘State your purpose,’ shouted a guard above the barriers, an Immortal wrapped in a cloak.

  ‘I am Princess Claudia of Dura and am here to speak to the king.’

  In the rain the guard squinted at her and her four Scythian guards and disappeared. Moments later one of the gates slowly creaked open and the duty officer appeared, bowing his head to Claudia.

  ‘Welcome, highness, I have sent word to the palace of your arrival. Make way, let Princess Claudia pass.’

  The wailing stopped with the realisation the sorceress Princess Claudia was in Vanadzor. It was replaced with an excitable chatter among the women who rose from their knees to surge forward to touch her, for everyone knew it was highly auspicious to lay one’s hands on one beloved of the gods. A score of Immortals and the spear shafts of the Scythians held them at bay to allow Claudia to enter the rain-lashed courtyard. She rode straight to the palace entrance, jumped down from her horse and left it with the duty officer to walk up the steps into the palace. The steward hastened to greet her, bowing his head.

  ‘Welcome, highness.’

  She tossed her cloak to a slave. ‘Take me to the king.’

  She was taken to the throne room, which was like a dark cave with its black floor and walls. Only a few torches flickered, no light came through the windows cut high in the walls because the shutters had been closed to keep out the rain. The steward walked up to the dais and bowed his head.

  ‘Princess Claudia, majesty.’

  Spartacus, clothed all in black and wearing black boots, waved him away without looking up. He held his sword in his right hand, its point resting on the stone dais, turning the pommel with his fingers. In the subdued light his brown hair appeared black, his eyes black pools as he looked at Claudia walking towards him.

  ‘Come to gloat?’ were his welcoming words.

  There was a clap of thunder outside the hall and the shutters rattled as a downpour buffeted them.

  ‘Your welcome is almost as warm as the weather outside.’

  Spartacus continued to turn his sword.

  ‘In such times you are wont to come, Claudia. Do you bring a message from the gods or is it your own wisdom you intend to impart?’

  ‘Wisdom seems to be in short supply in Gordyene of late,’ she answered, ‘but so apparently is memory. Have you forgotten the words I spoke to you outside Irbil?’

  At that moment the door at the rear of chamber opened and Rasha entered, relief on her drawn and pale face as she spotted Claudia. The two embraced fondly.

  ‘I am so glad you are here,’ she said to Claudia. ‘Haytham is dying.’

  Spartacus looked bitterly at the Scythian Sister, wanting to plead for his son’s life but his pride holding him back. His face looked fit to burst.

  Claudia held Rasha’s hands. ‘He will not die.’

  Rasha began sobbing. ‘He will not?’

  ‘Not if the king follows my instructions,’ said Claudia.

  Spartacus leapt from his throne. ‘What instructions?’

  ‘I will need papyrus and writing implements,’ announced Claudia.

  ‘Guards!’ bellowed the king.

  In the blink of an eye the two Immortals who had been guarding the doors to the throne room burst into the chamber, swords drawn.

  ‘Fetch the palace steward,’ barked Spartacus.

  He appeared after a couple of minutes, walking briskly into the chamber and bowing to the king.

  ‘Fetch papyrus and writing instruments,’ Spartacus told him, ‘and a desk.’

  Claudia comforted Rasha as they waited for the materials to arrive, servants manhandling a small desk in front of the dais, complete with papyrus sheets, ink pot and bronze stylus.

  ‘Bring a chair for the princess to sit in,’ he commanded, thinking Claudia was going to pen a spell or enchantment.

  ‘I am not going to write anything, you are,’ Claudia told him.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Of course. I have no authority to command the withdrawal of your soldiers from Armenia and Media.’

  ‘What?’ the servants flinched when the king roared his disapproval. ‘Is this some sort of joke?’

  Claudia stood her ground. ‘I have just travelled from Dura, sitting on an uncomfortable horse. Believe me, the whole experience was far from amusing. Your son’s affliction has nothing to do with him but is a sign from the gods. His illness is a manifestation of your sin, Spartacus, and a cure will require a confession of that sin, an acknowledgement you have done wrong, followed by an affirmation by you to do right in the future.’

  ‘I do not understand,’ said Rasha softly.

  Claudia led her to the throne next to the king’s and asked her to be seated. Spartacus glowered at the princess but she was unconcerned. She proceeded to tell the queen of what she had informed her husband back in the summer, of the origins of Gordyene and why its king was not allowed to leave his cage.

  ‘
If you do not believe me,’ said Claudia, ‘speak to those who remember Balas and Surena.’

  ‘They are nothing to do with me,’ sneered Spartacus.

  ‘You sit on Gordyene’s throne,’ she retorted, ‘just as they did, so they are everything to do with you.’

  She shivered. ‘It is cold in here.’

  ‘Fetch warm milk,’ ordered Rasha. ‘You must get out of those wet clothes, Claudia, or you will catch your death.’

  Spartacus smirked. ‘We don’t want that.’

  Rasha left her throne to put an arm around Claudia’s shoulders.

  ‘Come, let us find you a warm room and some dry clothes. We will leave the king to conclude his business. Write the orders, Spartacus.’

  After they had left he ordered the servants to leave the chamber, after they had departed sitting alone to brood on Claudia’s words. He was not a fool. He had seen all the treatments administered by the court physician fail, much to the unfortunate man’s despair. He could replace him with another, but he had tended to his family since his boys were infants. He was a skilled healer and if he could do nothing then why would another have any success? He looked at the papyrus and stylus and sighed. All that blood spilt, for nothing.

  Rasha was delighted when he told her he had written the orders and despatched them earlier. She was less pleased when Spartacus questioned Claudia about their eldest son. They were eating in the dining hall, which if anything was darker and more morose than the throne room. But at least it was warm, fires raging in the great stone hearths cut into the sides of the chamber. A little smoky, too, the wind and rain still battering the city blowing the smoke down the vents despite the metal grills that topped them outside. But the chamber was warm, the food hearty and hot and the drink palatable.

  Castus, overwhelmed by the illness of his younger sibling and missing Akmon terribly, sat in silence, picking at his food. Perhaps it was the realisation that if Haytham died and Akmon did not return to Gordyene he would become crown prince, with all the attendant responsibilities.

  ‘So, having surrendered what was bought at a heavy cost,’ complained Spartacus, ‘can we expect Haytham to recover?’

  Claudia sipped at her wine, which was surprisingly good considering the wine-making skills of Gordyene lagged well behind the more civilised parts of the Parthian Empire. The king saw the look of surprise on her face.

  ‘It is Armenian. A memento of our recent visit.’

  ‘Haytham will live,’ said Claudia casually.

  Rasha closed her eyes and gave thanks to the gods. ‘And Akmon?’

  ‘The Goddess Anahit has stolen him from you,’ answered Claudia harshly.

  ‘He’s with that Armenian whore,’ spat Spartacus, ‘he will come crawling back home when he tires of her.’

  Claudia ate a spoonful of the bowl of harissa a servant had placed before her. Technically it was porridge with chicken in it but it bore little resemblance to the broth eaten at breakfast. It was made from wheat grits and strips of chicken breast that were cooked in water until both were soft. Cooking time was around six hours but at the end the light brown food was delicious to the taste, especially when topped with butter, as now. Things were certainly improving in Gordyene, on the culinary front at least.

  Rasha wiped a tear from her cheek. ‘How blind are you? I told you months ago she was spinning a web of affection and now she has ensnared him in it.’

  ‘He will not return to Gordyene,’ stated Claudia, ‘for that is the price the goddess has charged you for the gold you stole from her temple.’

  She looked kindly at Rasha. ‘But that does not mean you will never see him again. I see a happy future for them both, a blessed future.’

  Spartacus slammed his fist on the table, causing Castus to jump.

  ‘He is the crown prince of Gordyene, not a wastrel poet or teller of tales. You think I don’t have people looking for him as we sit here? He will be brought back and I will have the head of the whore.’

  Rasha looked alarmed but Claudia put a hand on her arm.

  ‘Have no fear, they are both safe and will be. For I have woven a spell of concealment for them both.’

  Spartacus gulped his wine and began laughing.

  ‘Spell of concealment? Do they walk the earth invisible to others now?’

  ‘Only to you, lord king,’ Claudia replied. ‘When your anger has abated then you shall see your son, not before.’

  ‘The gods are cruel,’ said Rasha.

  ‘Not as cruel as they could have been,’ offered Claudia. ‘Haytham will live and Akmon will prosper, others who have offended them will not be so lucky.’

  ‘Who?’ demanded Spartacus.

  Claudia emptied her cup of wine. ‘This really is excellent. When Mark Antony took possession of Armenia he plundered a temple dedicated to Anahit in the town of Erez, his troops smashing the golden statue of the goddess and dividing it among themselves. Such sacrilege carries a heavy price. He will be dead within a year.’

  ‘Mark Antony?’ Spartacus was incredulous.

  Claudia nodded. The king raised his cup and beamed with delight.

  ‘I will drink to that.’

  The next day Haytham opened his eyes and the day after spoke his first words since being struck down by illness. He was still very weak and dehydrated but could at least drink water to satisfy his thirst. The wailing women at the gates of the palace, on being told the prince was recovering, stopped their weeping and returned to their homes. Also returning home were the soldiers who garrisoned Mepsila, northern Media and the outposts in Armenia, delighted to be back with their families before winter arrived.

  Claudia departed a week after her arrival, Haytham having fully recovered, up and walking about. It was a beautiful sunny autumn day when the princess of Dura walked down the palace steps to her horse, her trusty Scythian guards waiting along with a camel loaded with tents and supplies. Lion banners flew from the palace and gatehouse and a guard of honour of Immortals stood to attention in the courtyard, General Hovik on his horse with sword drawn in salute to the princess. Claudia thought it most amusing. She embraced Rasha fondly and kissed Castus on the cheek, Haytham still confined to the palace for fear of catching a chill. Spartacus was polite but distant, acknowledging the debt he owed Claudia but resentful he had had to relinquish his conquests. He followed the princess to her horse.

  ‘I hope you are right about Mark Antony.’

  She hauled herself into the saddle. ‘Parthia will not see him again.’

  ‘What about the Romans?’

  She looked at him. ‘What about them?’

  ‘When will they return?’

  ‘To Parthia? Not in your lifetime, Spartacus. You will have to find new foes for your army with its magic swords to fight.’

  She smiled at Rasha, turned her horse, raised a hand and rode from the palace, her Scythians trotting after her.

  Epilogue

  There were many among the nobles of Media who believed if given the chance the queen mother would be more of a general than her son and Joro. She may no longer have been queen but she was still a formidable figure in the kingdom, notwithstanding its weakened condition following the disaster at Mepsila. As a result of that defeat thousands of farmers had been killed, and not a few of their lords, which meant crops rotted in the fields for lack of anyone to harvest them. Northern Media had become a wasteland when villagers fled south to seek sanctuary at Irbil rather than live under the rule of King Spartacus and his barbarian Sarmatian allies. Half of Media was lost and Spartacus seemed set to march on the capital to either capture it or burn it to the ground. But while Darius sought solace in wine his mother showed her backbone and had rallied the support of Dura, Hatra and Elymais to her side. The move inspired those remaining nobles still loyal to Darius and astonished the empire. The masterstroke of diplomacy that had brought the armies of King Pacorus, King Gafarn and King Silaces to Irbil led to a victory arguable greater than Mepsila. It not only sent Spartacus back north wi
th his tail between his legs, it also sent a powerful message to King of Kings Phraates that Media was still a force to be reckoned with. Even Darius revived when Spartacus inexplicably withdrew from Media altogether, which was interpreted by the priests in the citadel as the intervention of Shamash himself.

  Aliyeh looked at the wooden board and the pieces on it, opposite Darius also studying the marble pieces. There were still black rings around the king’s eyes but at least they were no longer bloodshot and there was some colour in his cheeks. Aliyeh had feared for his reason after his defeat and humiliation at the hands of the barbarian Spartacus, but the latter’s withdrawal from Media had made him listen to her insistence that the gods had not abandoned him or his kingdom. She also discovered he was most receptive to ideas when playing alquerque.

  Enjoyed by the ancient Egyptians and Mesopotamians, it was a war game in which two sides of twelve pieces each faced each other on a board. The latter comprised twenty-five points joined by horizontal, vertical and diagonal lines in a lattice pattern. The aim of the game was to capture all of the opponent’s pieces by moving one’s own pieces to adjacent points along the marked lines between those points. An opponent’s piece was captured by manoeuvring one’s own piece so it was in a position to leap over it to land on an empty point beyond. If such a capture could be made, it was compulsory.

  ‘Phraates has returned to Ctesiphon,’ said Darius, moving one of his pieces. ‘Artaxias has been installed as king in the Armenian capital. Thus does Media face foes to the north and south.’

  Aliyeh responded to the move by moving one of her own pieces. ‘Phraates is in a much weaker position than he imagines.’

  Darius responded to her move. ‘The Romans have abandoned Armenia; whose new king is an ally of Ctesiphon. It will take Media years to recover from the depredations of King Spartacus, a fact not lost on Phraates, I am sure.’