I’d called to him as he was going past about ten feet away. A couple of the Royal Guard had pulled their swords out and were moving swiftly across the rocky ground in my direction. Chosroes stopped and looked round. I took off my helmet and pulled at the black cloth that covered my hair. He gave me one of his blank and disconcerting scares. Then he smiled and hurried forward through the rain. He waved the armed men back into line.
‘Alaric, my dear fellow!’ he cried in Greek. ‘I’d been wondering when you would show your face.’ He took me by the hands. ‘Come out of this awful rain. You’ll catch your death of cold.’
Chapter 58
I held the scroll in each hand, and unwound it to what I knew was a favourite passage. I put my mind into order and read:
Now that he had taken Athens, Xerxes sent a messenger back to the Persian capital, to announce his success. The next day, he called together all the Athenians who had deserted their nation and sworn fealty to him, and ordered them to make sacrifice on the Acropolis in the manner of their nation. It may be that the Great King had himself been ordered in a dream to make this concession. Or it may be that he was sorry to have burned the temple of Athene. Whatever the case, these renegade Athenians at once obeyed.
Chosroes interrupted: ‘I don’t think, dear Alaric, you are making a completely faithful translation of the text.’ He pointed at one of the words on the page I had before me. ‘The Athenians here are described as exiles, not as traitors. Also, there is no mention of fealty in the Greek of Herodotus.’
So far as you can when the man behind you has a sword to your throat, I shrugged. ‘I can’t argue with that,’ I said. ‘However, a literal translation into Persian might not make as much sense as you presently want. Where individual passages are concerned, some degree of paraphrase must be permitted.’ Chosroes nodded and sat back. He looked about to see that everyone had noted his command of his mother’s language. He smiled complacently and motioned me to continue:
I mention this circumstance because, on the Acropolis, there is a temple of Erechtheus, in which there is both an olive tree and a representation of the sea. These commemorate the ancient contest between Athene and Poseidon for mastery of Attica. Now, the Persians had burned this olive tree along with the temple. However, just one day after this, the renegade Athenians saw that the tree had miraculously put forth a new shoot about eighteen inches long.
Though not quite the Prodigal Son, I had few reasons to complain about my reception into the Great King’s bosom. I was bathed and shaved and oiled, and arrayed in a clean and reasonably dry robe. I was sitting beside him, a smell of cooking drifting my way as often as one of the tent flaps was open. After a brief intermission, the rain was back and its rapid and continuous beating on the leather roof meant that I had to keep my voice loud as well as steady.
‘There will be no olive shoots after my visit to Athens,’ Chosroes said firmly. ‘Such Mass as I may permit in the converted temple of Athene will be held in Syriac.’ He looked about once more and laughed. ‘But tell me, Alaric, you were in Athens some years ago. Does the sacred olive tree still grow there?’
‘Justinian had it dug out eighty years ago,’ I answered. ‘Since the proscription of the Old Faith, no one had pruned it and it was undermining the foundations of a building he wanted for a monastery.’
‘Did you hear that?’ Chosroes asked the line of trembling boys for whom I’d been translating. ‘Do you see why total extirpation is the only answer to the Greek menace?’ He glowered and sat forward. ‘But which of you will confess to sacrilege against my person?’ he demanded in a voice that suddenly dripped menace. ‘Who has eaten my melon?’ One of the younger boys started to cry – not a good move when Chosroes was in this sort of mood. ‘Silence!’ he barked. He got up and pointed, his finger wavering now right, now left. ‘Start at that end,’ he said eventually. He sat down and reached for his scratching stick. Two of the guards stepped forward and seized the boy farthest on the right from us. They pulled him to the floor and ripped his shirt away. To screams that left me clutching the scroll so hard its papyrus split and crumbled, one of them slit his stomach open. Even as I told myself not to, I watched the boy’s red and steaming entrails pulled out of his body and then at his shocked, uncomprehending eyes.
‘Nothing in this one, Your Majesty,’ the guard said, wiping his hands on a cloth. ‘Shall I carry on with the others?’ No longer screaming, the boy was letting out a shrill, rattling moan. His body flopped about in a dying rhythm.
‘Chosroes turned the corners of his mouth down. ‘In your own time,’ he said. He looked at me. ‘But Alaric, enough of Athens – tell my boys about the futile stand of Leonidas and his Spartans.’ He got up and rummaged in a box. He came back with another large and battered scroll. I took this in hands that I forced not to tremble and unwound it to the relevant passage:
The Persians now attacked once more, and the Spartans, knowing that this would be their end, came out to fight in the wide area of the pass at Thermopylae. Driven on with whips by their officers, the Persians surged forward. Many fell into the sea and were killed. Many fell down on the ground and were trodden to death. Many more were killed by the Spartans, who knew they would soon be attacked from behind and fought on with the most reckless courage . . .
‘Get on with it, Alaric!’ The Great King urged. ‘It is a most dramatic narrative. Don’t deprive my boys of what awaits those who defy the majesty of a Persian King.’ Perhaps the most awful scream I’d heard all year had brought me to a sudden stop in the reading. I took my eyes away from a splash of blood over my polished toenails, and forced myself back to seeking Persian equivalents for the Greek words in the column of text before me.
Giggling and talking gibberish to himself, Urvaksha had never stopped from playing with his tangle of knotted strings. Now, he bounced up and down, rattling his golden chain. ‘The knots don’t lie,’ he cackled. ‘The knots never lie.’
I waited for someone to bring a lamp closer to me, and went steadily through the last stand of the Three Hundred – the death of Leonidas, the fourfold repulse of the main Persian army, the culmination of a frantic slaughter that had held up the advance long enough for the Athenians to stop arguing with each other and get their naval counter-attack ready in the Bay of Salamis. Raising my voice above screams for mercy and of terror, I reached the closing stage of the battle:
At last, however, the Persians were able to attack from behind, and the surviving Spartans withdrew to a low mound at the entrance to the pass – that is, to where a stone lion is now placed in memory of King Leonidas. Here, they continued fighting against overwhelming odds. Those who still had them fought with knives. Those who had lost all their weapons fought on with hands and teeth. It was only by volley after volley of arrows that their resistance was ended and all were finally killed.
I think I was expected to continue into the next chapter. But one of the prettier boys suddenly broke free of the guards and ran forward and threw himself into a prostration. ‘Please, Your Majesty,’ he sobbed – ‘please don’t hurt me. I didn’t mean any harm.’
Chosroes stopped scratching himself and got up. ‘Come into my embrace, Babar,’ he cried in a voice of soft affection. He took the boy and kissed his face. He squeezed his behind and pulled a face in my direction. ‘You should have asked me, Babar,’ he said. ‘You should have said how you longed to share the sweet taste of my melon. How could I have denied you anything?’ He kissed the boy again and stroked his oiled hair. With a spasm of rage, he pushed him into the arms of one of the guards. ‘Take him away,’ he screamed. ‘Geld him. Blind him. Put him in a cage. I’ll think of a punishment after dinner.’ He kicked the boy backwards and stood over him. He looked at me again, his eyes shining mad. He controlled himself. ‘No, don’t take him away,’ he said to the guards. ‘Gag him and do it here. I want my friend Alaric to see the justice of a Great King.’
I’ll pass over the ghastliness of all that happened next. If you’ve a taste for si
ck porn, you’re approaching the end of the wrong memoir. It was eventually over. The unconscious boy was pulled out of our sight. The bodies of the dead and dying were dragged outside into the rain. The dozen boys who’d survived sat cross-legged on the ground. They sat in silence, their eyes turned down. Urvaksha was rattling his chain again and talking about his infallible knots.
‘Is the lion memorial still there at Thermopylae?’ Chosroes asked.
Cautiously, I shook my head. ‘I believe it was taken apart and used to reinforce the pass a few hundred years ago,’ I said.
‘So what did they fight for?’ he asked triumphantly. ‘Where is Sparta now? Where even is Athens? If I hear right, it’s a provincial town in the middle of nowhere. Why did they resist Xerxes? All he wanted was surrender.’ He nodded to the man behind me. The sword came away from my throat and one of the eunuchs brought me a cup of wine. I avoided answering the question by sniffing at the cup.
Chosroes laughed. ‘No poison for you, Alaric!’ he said, pushing his face close to mine. ‘No death for my young friend Alaric. Why, not even a sniff of the torments I resolved for you after your treacherous escape from Ctesiphon.’ His face darkened for a moment. Then he was all grinning maniac again. ‘Drink, my friend, and be happy.’ He took the cup from me and lapped its contents with his tongue. ‘Drink – it’s perfectly safe.’
‘The knots tell me he’s a bigger snake than last time,’ Urvaksha called up from the floor. ‘They say you should kill him.’ As if in agreement, the man with the sword poked me gently in the back. I sniffed and didn’t look round.
Chosroes tugged hard on the old loon’s chain, pulling him into a pool of blood. He laughed at the result. ‘Don’t listen to Urvaksha,’ he said. ‘Just because he was right about you last time doesn’t mean we can’t be friends – does it?’
I drank deeply. Even the best Persian wine tends to be disgusting – they mix it with honey to cover the sour taste of the grapes. This was no exception. But wine is wine when your nerves are in tatters. Chosroes took the cup from me with his own hands and looked about for the jug. ‘Have you seen Shahin?’ he asked, a slight tremor in his voice.
‘I have met him,’ I said slowly. ‘We spoke several times in Constantinople. You might say I’m here because of the assurances he gave on your behalf.’ I drank more wine and made a show of casting about for words. ‘It took me longer to get away from the City than I’d have liked. Shahin had a good head start. Can I take it that I’ve beaten him to you?’
He pushed his face close again. He lurched back and went at himself with his scratching stick. A flash of reddened chest under the hair told me his skin condition had now spread up from his waist. His entire body might be a mass of rotting sores. By the look of things, not even heroic doses of opium could keep the irritation under control. Bad luck for him. Bad luck for anyone in his power. That meant me. Plans that had seemed sensible enough earlier in the day were beginning to crumble about the edges.
Chosroes finished with his scratching stick. He narrowed his eyes. ‘I had a letter from Shahin the day before yesterday,’ he said. I kept my face immobile and stifled a fart. ‘He wrote it some while ago. All he told me there was that he’d soon be in possession of a most valuable object. Can you shed any light on his progress in this endeavour?’ He looked at the yellow scabs on the teeth of his scratching stick.
I coughed politely for the sake of getting some moisture into the back of my throat. ‘I believe he’s travelling here, or to Ctesiphon, with the Horn of Babylon,’ I said evenly. ‘Unless he’s a better liar than he used to be, he didn’t know about the invasion, or that you’d be leading it.’ I tried for the sort of smile a man gives who is trying for nonchalance and not quite getting there. It wasn’t hard to manage. I stayed silent and counted slowly to ten. Like a lover who’s put off the moment of climax far beyond any reasonable limit, Chosroes was beginning to shake. I got myself ready to confirm what he must have been asking himself again and again since I’d bearded him in the rain. I didn’t dare allow myself to feel any the better for it.
‘I’m here only because this was the easiest place to reach where I could claim asylum,’ I said. I pretended not to see the slight sagging of tension in his body. I allowed myself a more confident smile. ‘I never realised I’d be able to ask for it directly, or to remind you of Shahin’s assurances.’
I stood away while the Grand Chamberlain himself cleaned the scabs away. Chosroes took no notice. His face took on an exultant smile. ‘Is Heraclius still alive?’ He whispered.
I shrugged. ‘He wasn’t in Constantinople when the revolution broke out,’ I said. ‘I did hear he’d been hanged by his own soldiers. But I also heard that he was on a ship going west – possibly to Carthage, where he can still claim a bit of support.’
‘So who is Emperor in Constantinople?’ he asked.
I shrugged again. ‘I didn’t wait for the dust to settle,’ I said. ‘Shahin’s people got the city guard to proclaim Nicetas, which I believe was part of the deal you sanctioned. However, Timothy, the City Prefect, was being proclaimed by the mob as I finally slipped out of the City. Assuming he had any real support, I’d say he was now Emperor. But I don’t know more than that,’ I ended. It was possible Chosroes was playing with me. He enjoyed these little games. Any moment now and Shahin might pop out from behind a curtain. How they’d laugh as I was dragged screaming from the tent. If I was lucky, I’d find myself sharing Babar’s cage. Anything was possible. But not everything was likely.
Chosroes sat down and covered his look of relief by pretending to blow his nose. He was still watching me, though. I took another mouthful of wine. A good liar gets his way through relentless charm and a focus on what his hearer wants to be told. But I was in the absolute power of a man who was only alive because of his skill at seeing through ordinary liars. Babar’s eyes and genitals had been arranged on a silver dish. I moved this to the far end of its table and put my cup down.
‘It doesn’t mean you’ve won the war, however,’ I said. Chosroes looked up from his obvious reverie on that topic. ‘As said, I got out while the dust was all still in the air. But I’ve no real doubt that Timothy is now Emperor. He’s no fool. Once he’s got his hands on the Intelligence Bureau reports, he’ll scrape an army together from somewhere.’
‘Spies?’ Chosroes hissed. He jumped out of his chair and pushed his face very close – I could smell his foetid breath, and see the tiny dots his eyes were becoming from a dose of opium I hadn’t seen him take. ‘The Intelligence Bureau has no spies in Ctesiphon. I had the last of them crucified a year ago. I assembled this army without any consultation. I didn’t tell even Shahrbaraz where it was going till the final orders had to be issued. The new Emperor will be told nothing by the Intelligence Bureau.’ Gradually relaxing, he pulled back and laughed. ‘You know, by the way, I flayed Roxana alive with my own hands? Her dying moans may have mimicked the sound of the orgasms you gave the slut.’
It was no more than I’d expected. No one likes an adulteress. But I still felt sorry for Roxana. I nodded and stared at my wine cup. Chosroes scowled something about the need for another purge. I’d done enough. More would be too much. I changed the subject. ‘However, you did say that you were expecting me. Does this mean the Persians have now taken to the ways of espionage?’
A broad and wolfish grin spread slowly over the royal face. ‘I could keep you in the dark, my dear,’ he sniggered. ‘But why should I keep from you one whose only word in the past two days has been your name?’ He clapped his hands and pointed at one of the eunuchs. ‘Go and get him,’ he said coldly.
Two days? I thought. It couldn’t be any of my people. Had Shahin sent a messenger after all? My innards turned to ice. I had my answer while finishing my wine. One of the flaps opened and a dark and very wet shape was pushed inside the tent. It looked round and saw me. With a howl of maddened rage, it rushed at me, only slipping at the last moment on the bloody silk of the carpet.
‘Get thee behi
nd me, Satan!’ Theodore screamed in Syriac. He raked feebly in my direction with bony fingers from which all the nails had been pulled out. ‘I know your secret!’
Chapter 59
The rain had stopped. It was getting on for late afternoon but the sudden brightening of the sky put me in mind of morning. So too the sharpness of the chilly breeze. All about us, the interminable drumming of the rain was replaced by the gurgle of a thousand streams that would probably bring water gushing into the pass for days yet to come.
I stepped over the body of one of the gutted boys and stood at the edge of the tent’s raised wooden platform. I knew Chosroes was behind me. ‘Trying to count the uncountable?’ he asked slimily in Greek. ‘Or are we perhaps looking for an escape?’
I continued looking at the sodden crowd that stretched on and on, as far along the pass as I could see. Even without his coded squeals of hate, it was plain that Theodore must have been brought here by Priscus and had run away. For all I knew, Priscus might be lurking somewhere atop the bleak walls of the pass. He might be watching us. If so, I could be happy I wasn’t alone. For the time being, it was enough to know that whatever sense Theodore had made under torture hadn’t been enough to do for me. I was still in with a chance. I turned and smiled. ‘No to both,’ I said. ‘And if my simple word isn’t enough, why should I come here to spy when I no longer have a master?’
Chosroes stood beside me. We watched in silence as the base of his travelling night palace was unpacked and fitted together. The grovelling engineer had explained in Greek that ten-foot poles should keep it above the water – and should keep it safe from some other threat neither had thought to mention other than obliquely. The poles, I’d heard, shouldn’t give way, so long as the upper floor was omitted from this evening’s build. I’ve said the Persians weren’t that good at the technical aspects of life. Much as in the time of Xerxes, though, they had no shortage of Greek renegades to go some way to supplying their own defects. And the night palace was an impressive thing to watch taking shape. All wooden compartments and leather straps, it was already bearing its planned resemblance – if on a smaller scale – to the Summer Palace in Ctesiphon. Not for Chosroes to slum it in a tent like everyone else.
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