Parthian Vengeance
By
Peter Darman
Parthian Vengeance
Copyright 2012 Peter Darman
Published By Peter Darman
Formatting By Ironhorse Formatting
Kindle Edition
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
Learn More About Peter Darman
www.PeterDarman.com
Table Of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Epilogue
List of Principal Characters
Chapter 1
It had been three years now – many months spent preparing for an attack I was sure would come. While the trade caravans travelled east and west along the Silk Road transporting the precious material, ivory and spices from China through the Parthian Empire to fulfil the insatiable demand of Egypt and Rome, my army prepared. Every day the mud-brick forts that had been built north and south of Dura kept watch for an army that might attempt to approach the city by surprise; every day I received the same reports – there was no sign of any hostile forces. It had been over three years since the death of Phraates, the king of kings who had supposedly died of a broken heart, brought on by my having stormed the city of Uruk. This city was the capital of the Kingdom of Mesene and the residence of King Chosroes, the man who had marched an army to Dura and had attempted to storm it. But his army had been destroyed in front of my city and then I had captured Uruk and Phraates had supposedly taken his own life. The empire was now ruled by his son Mithridates, the man I had long suspected of being responsible for the death of his father. And ever since I had waited and prepared for the day when Mithridates would send an army against me. The days, weeks and months passed and nothing happened.
‘Not this again,’ barked my opponent.
Lucius Domitus came at me again with a thrust of his sword over the top of his shield aiming the blow at my own shield. Normally he would attempt to thrust his short sword – a straight, double-bladed weapon – into my neck or face. But as we were only practising and I was his friend he put aside the pleasure of killing me. Domitus, like many Romans, was shorter than me, by around six inches. Muscular, crop haired and uncompromising, he had been by my side since we had fought together under Spartacus in Italy all those years ago. He stabbed my oval shield – modelled on the Roman scutum – again with the point of his sword, forcing me back once more.
‘It’s a good job we’re doing this for sport otherwise I would have killed you twice by now.’
I rested my shield on the ground. ‘You’re right, my mind’s elsewhere today. My apologies.’
‘Daydreaming about Mithridates again?’
I smiled. ‘How did you guess?’
He sheathed his sword. ‘It’s written all over your face. Come on, you’re no use to man or beast today.’
He began walking back to the camp, a sprawling collection of tents enclosed within a mud-brick wall half a mile from Dura.
My city was located on the west bank of the mighty River Euphrates and the dues raised from the caravans crossing the river were not Dura’s only source of revenue, but they were crucial to the kingdom’s prosperity. When the animosity between myself and ‘King of Kings’ (so called) Mithridates had escalated into open warfare, he had decreed that no trade caravans were to travel through the Kingdom of Dura Europos. I had at first been greatly alarmed at this, but the royal order had been ignored by the merchants and had earned Mithridates the wrath of China’s emperor and Egypt’s pharaoh. No wonder – the route through my kingdom saved merchants around a month’s journey time. Time was money and money was too important to be compromised by the arguments of kings.
After the humiliation of Chosroes’ defeat and his father’s death I had expected Mithridates to march against me but nothing had happened. Now, with the beginning of a new year, I again began to wonder if the king of kings would send an army against Dura.
‘You waste your time dwelling on what will never happen,’ said Domitus, handing me a cup of water as I sat in his command tent in the middle of the camp.
‘He must come sometime. This kingdom’s existence stands as a physical affront to his authority.’
Domitus shrugged and sat in one of the chairs opposite me.
‘A man, and I use the term loosely when referring to Mithridates, thinks twice before going up against someone who has won as many victories as you have. In any case he prefers to let others do his fighting for him.’
I emptied the cup and then toyed with it, turning it round as I held it in my hand. What Domitus said was true enough. Mithridates had achieved the high crown probably through murder but every day that I ruled at Dura was a personal insult to him. And I knew that he would like nothing more than to see me dead and my kingdom destroyed. I placed the cup back on the small table beside me and stood up.
‘Perhaps you are right. But when he does come I will be ready. Same time next week, Domitus?’
‘Same time, same place. But don’t bother turning up unless you are in the right frame of mind. It’s no fun if you don’t put up a fight.’ I raised my arm in acknowledgement and left his tent.
I am Parthian and that will never change, but my time in Italy, first as a slave and then fighting in an army of slaves under Spartacus had given me the opportunity to see at first hand the military methods of the Romans. They had left a lasting impression upon me. Parthians were famed for their great armies of horsemen but these armies lacked discipline. Most kings in the empire had small retinues of professional soldiers, mainly mounted personal followers and palace guards. In times of war they would call upon the lords of their kingdoms to furnish them with thousands more troops, tens of thousands in some cases. But these soldiers followed their vassal lords, fighting around them in battle and doing their bidding. And when the fighting stopped they went with their lord back to the farms they worked on his lands. In Italy Spartacus had trained and organised his army along Roman lines, with the exception of his mounted arm, which I had commanded. We had beaten the Romans on many occasions but I had seen ho
w effective Roman discipline and organisation had been and was determined to combine them with Parthian tactics. When King of Kings Sinatruces had given me my own kingdom, may Shamash bless his memory, I had the opportunity to put my ideas into practice. The result was the camp I was now strolling through, a giant rectangle that housed tents arranged in neat rows and blocks, workshops, stables, hospital, granaries and a parade ground. The oiled leather home of Domitus, the large and well appointed headquarters tent, stood in the centre of the camp. Either side of it were two smaller tents containing the legionary standards. Guards ringed these three tents.
As I made my way to the camp’s stables I encountered one of the Companions. Gruff, burly and the veteran of many battles, Thumelicus was a German who had fought beside my friend Castus, a fellow German, now long dead, in Italy.
‘How are your skills with the short sword progressing, Pacorus?’ I may have been a king, but all the Companions were allowed such familiarity. Discipline in Dura’s army was strict for all, but there were no ranks between those who had served under Spartacus.
‘I think I might be getting the edge over Domitus,’ I lied.
He raised an eyebrow at me. ‘Really?’
I shook my head. ‘No, not really.’
He looked round at a century of legionaries marching past us in its ranks, a centurion at its head barking orders at his charges. He raised his vine cane at Thumelicus in salute, for my German friend was the first spear centurion in the Duran Legion. This status was usually accorded to the bravest, meanest and most ruthless man in the legion. Thumelicus met all these criteria.
‘Perhaps I should ask you to take my place and then we can determine who is the best swordsman in the army,’ I said.
He looked at me with his pale blue eyes. ‘We all know that Lucius Domitus is the best soldier in the army.’
I smiled at him. He was probably right but it was a close call. ‘Well, I best get back to the city. Children to attend to.’
‘How are your daughters?’
‘Loud, full of energy and running rings round me.’
I was now the father of three children, all girls: Claudia the eldest now five, Isabella two, and the youngest Eszter, just six months old.
‘I know how you feel. I have two of my own; both boys and both are bundles of energy. They live in the city with their mother. Future soldiers for your army.’
‘Hopefully, Thumelicus, they won’t see as much fighting as we have.’
He looked appalled at the notion. ‘I hope they do. I’m raising them to be soldiers. No point in having the skills to use a sword and having no opportunity to show them off.’
‘Well, let us hope that they won’t have to do any fighting for the next few years at least.’
He smiled wryly. ‘Have it you own way.’
He saluted and paced away to attend to his duties as I continued my journey to the stables. Once there I saddled my horse, a white stallion with muscular shoulders, thick neck and blue eyes called Remus. He was usually quartered in the stables in the Citadel, the city’s stronghold perched atop a rocky escarpment overlooking the River Euphrates. The Citadel also housed the palace, the royal armouries, the treasury, Domitus’ headquarters building which he rarely slept in, barracks, stables, granary and various other workshops. Like all the horses of Dura’s army he lived a regal existence on the most nutritious fodder available and received the best care and attention from a host of farriers and veterinaries. When I visited the legionary camp he was fussed over by the grooms who worked in its stables, but just as when I had first owned him I always liked to saddle him myself.
Like all our mounts his saddle had been made especially for him. The hardwood frame was contoured to the shape of his back. It had four horns – two at the front and two at the back – to hold the rider in place. The front two horns were made so that they swept back to wrap themselves around the thighs of the rider and thereby anchor him in place. The rear horns were vertical but the joining arch between them was sloped to offer a curved feel to the rear of the saddle that also created a dip to form the seat. The entire frame was covered with felt for padding. Over the top of this were stitched pieces of rawhide leather. The leather was stained and finished with a polish containing a beeswax base to seal the material. Under his saddle Remus wore a white saddlecloth edged with red. Such equipment did not come cheaply, and neither did Remus’ bridle, head collar, reins and the rest of his saddlery.
I had just finished tightening his straps when a mounted courier halted his horse in front of me and raised his hand in salute.
‘Hail, majesty. Your presence is needed at the palace urgently.’
I was suddenly alarmed. ‘Who has made this request?’
‘Your sorceress, majesty.’
I had feared that one of my children had been taken ill, but if it had been so the queen would have summoned me. As I heaved myself into the saddle I felt more curious than apprehensive. I galloped from the camp and made my way to the city. The courier followed me as we galloped east along the road that led to Dura’s main entrance – the Palmyrene Gate. Over the gate was a great stone arch, on top of which was a large stone statue of a griffin, Dura’s symbol and protector. The city had twenty-four other towers along its circuit wall and from each one flew my banner of a red griffin on a white background. I slowed Remus as we entered the city. The guards at the gates and on the walls snapped to attention as I passed them. As usual the city streets were thronged with tradesmen, citizens and beasts of burden and it took us a while to thread our way through the multitude to reach the Citadel.
Dura’s Citadel could never be described as a beautiful or ornate place, with its thick walls, solid, squat buildings and its barracks, stables and armouries; but it was strong, built to withstand and defeat assaults and sieges. Perched high on the rocky escarpment on which the whole city was built, it radiated strength.
I dismounted and handed Remus’ reins to a stable hand, then walked up the stone steps that fronted the palace. The courier bowed and left me as I walked through the entrance hall and into the throne room. At the far end, sitting on my throne – which in truth was nothing more than a simple high-backed wooden chair – was Dobbai. She had been the one who had foretold all those years ago at the court of King of Kings Sinatruces of my going to Italy and my return with Gallia my wife. Dobbai had made my city her home, and her gift of foresight and closeness to the gods had made her feared and respected throughout the kingdom. Now she was sitting on my throne as she regarded me with her black eyes. Queen Gallia was sitting next to her.
‘May I know the reason you sent a courier to fetch me like an errant schoolboy?’ I enquired.
‘Do not be churlish, son of Hatra,’ replied Dobbai, ‘it does not suit you.’
‘Then I will ask again. Why did you send for me?’
‘Your life is in danger, Pacorus,’ said Gallia.
My eyes went from Dobbai to my wife, from ugliness and old age to beauty and youth. How contrasting they were: Dobbai old and foul, her black hair lank, while Gallia’s long blonde hair and beautiful face with its high cheekbones and slim nose were perfection.
‘It is true, son of Hatra,’ continued Dobbai. ‘I was taking my afternoon sleep when a vision appeared to me, of a griffin limping and afraid, a blade in its belly and blood gushing from the wound.’
‘Every time I fight on the battlefield I am in danger.’
Dobbai scowled. ‘I did not mean that. I sense an assassin’s dagger in your belly.’
I must confess a chill ran down my spine. The prophecies of Dobbai were not to be dismissed out of hand.
‘You must have a personal bodyguard,’ said Gallia, looking alarmed, ‘soldiers who will be with you at all times.’
‘At all times?’ The idea filled me with horror. ‘I have guards enough. They fill the Citadel and the city. There are also thousands of soldiers camped half a mile away. I do not intend to spend my life looking over my shoulder.’ I smiled. ‘Besides, the serva
nts in the Citadel have been with us for years. I trust them.’
‘With your life?’ asked Dobbai.
‘They have not poisoned my food or stuck a knife in my guts yet; why should they do so now?’
My words were met with stern countenances. Gallia started shaking her head.
‘The risk is too great. We will have more guards in the palace.’ She pointed at me. ‘And you will not be riding alone in the foreseeable future. I shall organise an escort for you.’
Dobbai nodded approvingly at her. ‘It is well that you take my words seriously, child.’
‘I did not say that I did not believe you,’ I reproached her, ‘merely that I will not live my life in fear.’
‘Perhaps the Amazons should protect you,’ mused Gallia. ‘At least I know I can trust them.’ In Italy she had recruited a group of females that had served in my cavalry and named them Amazons. Now a queen of the Parthian Empire, Gallia retained her Amazons as a bodyguard. There were always one hundred of them but the idea that I would be protected by a group of females was ridiculous. It would lead to derision.
‘I will not require the services of the Amazons,’ I said curtly, then looked at Dobbai. ‘Was it revealed to you when an attempt would be made on my life? What he or she will look like?’
Dobbai glowered at me. ‘If I knew that then I could send someone to kill the assassin myself.’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘let us keep this matter among ourselves. There is no need to burden others with something that may not occur.’
‘It will occur unless we are vigilant,’ insisted Gallia.
‘Your queen speaks the truth, son of Hatra.’
‘Nevertheless,’ I replied, ‘we will keep this our little secret. The matter is closed.’
I may have seemed untroubled by Dobbai’s revelation, but for the rest of that day and the day after I was uneasy. I began to see danger everywhere and became a bag of nerves because of it. Gallia increased the number of guards both inside and outside the palace and had them stationed behind and beside the dais in the throne room when I received foreign embassies or heard the petitions of Dura’s citizens. Dobbai took to attending all these gatherings and after a while I looked to her first to see her reaction when a visitor was presented to me. With each one I expected her to nod alarmingly to indicate that the assassin stood before me, but after examining each individual carefully she just shrugged and shook her head. After a month of this I grew tired and stood down the extra guards. Things returned to normal. Perhaps not all Dobbai’s dreams came true after all!
Parthian Vengeance (The Parthian Chronicles) Page 1