Blood of Kings

by Andrew James

  Darius watched, sick to the core at the thought of sharing the same fate.

  The body was dragged away on its stake, the mess hastily cleared and the leather sheet replaced. The court chamberlain motioned a shaken Hystaspes back towards the throne, where a hugely fat eunuch waddled towards him, carrying a silver bowl full of earth and another of water. Handing them over with a pitiful look, he bowed to the throne and backed away. Trembling slightly, head down, eyes low, Hystaspes placed them on the ground before the king then leant further forward and touched his lips to Cyrus’s purple slippers. ‘You led us from slavery to empire,’ he intoned. ‘All that I have is yours.’

  Cyrus tapped a lean finger against the lotus topped ivory sceptre in his hand. ‘Does that include your son?’

  Thoroughly cowed, Hystaspes nodded. ‘Indeed, sire. If Darius has conspired, do with him as you wish.’

  A sharp intake of breath hissed across the tent. Darius couldn’t help crying out: ‘Father!’

  Hystaspes refused to look at his son. Ice water flooded Darius’s guts as he realized his father was abandoning him to his fate. The courtiers realized it too, staring at the prisoner in delicious shock, mouths open, eyes bright, waiting for him to explode. Darius wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. True, part of him resented his father for failing to defend him. But his overwhelming emotion was pity. For thirty years, Hystaspes had been ground into the dust by Cyrus and his house. They had reduced him to poverty, crushed his spirit, destroyed his dignity. How could Darius blame him now for clinging to his life?

  But Cyrus was not yet satisfied. He rapped his ivory sceptre against a low table. On it lay the clay tablets he had shown Darius earlier. ‘What of these?’ he demanded. ‘Did you know your son was conducting a scandalous correspondence with my maiden granddaughter, the Princess Parmys?’

  Unable to bear the fear on his father’s face, Darius looked away.

  ‘No, Great King!’ said Hystaspes.

  ‘And calling the Crown Prince unfit for the throne?’

  ‘Never, Great King!’

  ‘And – most heinous of all – did you encourage him in his false claim that there is a Saka army lying in ambush? A claim plainly designed to frustrate my invasion?’

  Hystaspes hesitated, but since they rarely spoke about anything, Darius was fairly sure he’d never spoken to his father about the war. He turned to look and saw the large copper rings dangling from Hystaspes’ ears swinging back and forth, as he shook his head with a weariness which tugged at Darius’s heart. ‘I knew none of it, Great King.’

  ‘Even if I believe you, as his father it was your duty to teach him right from wrong. To love Truth and shun the Lie.’

  Hystaspes raised his palms in supplication. ‘Show me mercy, Great King.’

  Angry at the needless humiliation of a man already defeated, Darius’s temper finally snapped. ‘My father knows nothing of my correspondence with Dukshish Parmys!’ he shouted, rattling the chains on his wrists. ‘He taught me to speak the Truth and I am speaking it now! The Saka are there! A vast horde filled that valley, more than all the date palms in Persia, more than the stars. They are waiting. If we cross the river they will destroy us …’

  ‘Enough!’ Cyrus’s eyes blazed, then cooled to an icy calm. Staring regally ahead, he addressed the slope-shouldered man standing behind his right shoulder. ‘What do you say, Cambyses? It is your word he doubts.’

  Darius saw in Crown Prince Cambyses the tired look of a man who had waited too long for his father’s throne. He was certainly a fool and a drunkard, and Darius strongly suspected other, darker, vices. ‘I have questioned all his men,’ the Crown Prince said in his nasal voice. ‘At least, the few who survived,’ he added tartly. ‘Darius is the only one who claims to have actually seen this army. He is lying. It doesn’t exist. My spies are sure.’

  ‘I was scouting alone!’ Darius yelled. Frustration made his blood boil. ‘Besides, how do you come to have spies in the enemy camp?’ he added, too resigned now to hide his contempt.

  ‘You suggest it is not true?’ Abandoning any attempt at being regal, Cambyses began to pout.

  ‘Darius does have a point, sire,’ Prince Bardiya interjected from behind Cyrus’s left shoulder. Tall, straight-backed and handsome, Bardiya’s linen gown hung in elegant pleats from his waist, swinging lightly as he turned. He looked down at his brother. ‘Who are these spies? My beloved brother always refuses to name them. If we do not know who they are, why should we believe what they say?’

  Behind Cyrus’s back, Cambyses shot Bardiya a vicious look. ‘My brother doubts me, as ever.’ Cambyses smiled, as though Bardiya had just fallen into a carefully laid trap. ‘With your leave, sire, I shall prove him wrong. There is a man outside. May he enter?’

  Darius noted the bewilderment on Prince Bardiya’s face, then turned back to Cambyses and saw he was still smiling. That smile made Darius uneasy. Cambyses was a fool, but right now he looked a confident fool, and that was unusual.

  Cyrus nodded and Cambyses raised a forefinger to the chamberlain. With a rustling of fine cloth, the courtiers turned as one to the entrance portal. Footsteps approached. The guards’ armour clanked, the gold pomegranate-shaped counterweights on their spears thumped against the ground. While the court was in session the leather tent flap had been closed. Now a eunuch pulled it open. A cold draft ruffled the torches and cooled the sweat on Darius’s skin, as he wondered who the mysterious visitor could possibly be. The courtiers shivered, some sighing aloud in surprise as an incredibly savage man in garish bronze armour stepped through. The breadth of metal across his shoulders was accentuated by a cloak of rare white fox, fastened with a gold brooch in the barbaric Saka style. On his head was a Saka war helmet, the crest topped by a prancing horse. The face beneath it was sallow, the cheekbones high, the features hard. The visitor’s leather riding trousers and short boots were dusty from the road but exquisitely tooled. His weapons had been taken by the Immortals but he still wore the sword belt, inlaid with swirling patterns of gold. Darius felt an immediate, almost animal hatred for this man. He strode across the tent, bowed at the neck to Cyrus, but did not prostrate himself.

  Hands flapping helplessly, the chamberlain stood on tiptoe and whispered urgently in the Saka’s ear, stabbing a finger at the ground in front of the King of Kings’ throne. The man shook his head.

  Angered by the refusal, two Spearbearers alongside the throne pointed their weapons at his chest. Expressionless, Cyrus gave the stranger an appraising look. ‘By custom and law of the Persians, when a man enters the presence of the King of Kings he must prostrate himself on the ground. Who are you that you refuse to submit?’ he asked coldly.

  A hint of a smile played across the stranger’s lips. ‘By custom and law of the Ma-Saka, men of our royal house must suffer death before submitting to anyone. I am Prince Spargasippa, firstborn son of Tomyris, Queen of the Ma-Saka, ruler of all lands North of the Yaksharta and West of the Great Mountains. I command the Saka army.’

  It felt to Darius like he had just been punched in the head. Watching as though in a dream he saw Cyrus sit bolt upright on his throne, the king’s expression changing rapidly from elation to suspicion, then confusion. Cyrus looked at Cambyses. Cambyses nodded gravely. Leaning forward, sceptre in his lap, Cyrus fixed his eyes firmly on the stranger, who calmly returned his gaze. ‘Why should I believe this?’ he demanded.

  The courtiers began shuffling and murmuring. Croesus, in his saffron-gold robes, stepped forward, and Darius wondered what part the former Lydian king could possibly be playing in all this. His voice was silky soft, but plainly audible. ‘I think I may be able to vouch for him, Your Majesty.’

  ‘You, Croesus of Lydia?’

  ‘Indeed, Your Majesty. For many years my people and the Ma-Saka traded, their gold for our wine and horses. The summer before you invaded my empire, Prince Spargasippa came with an embassy to my court and we hunted together. I got to know him well.’

  ‘You are sure this
is the same man?’

  Croesus beckoned a eunuch over with a torch. In its flickering light he studied the stranger’s face, noting the high wide cheekbones, the thin slashed mouth and wild grey eyes, with crow’s feet just showing at their corners. Darius noted them too; whether he was a prince or not, it was clear from his face that the man was certainly a Saka.

  ‘He has aged, of course, but which of us has not?’ Croesus asked. ‘It was seventeen years ago, and he was only just growing a beard.’ Laughter echoed around the tent, and the old Lydian smiled to himself at the memory of when he had been famous as the richest man in the world. But the smile faded as he came back to the present. Waving the eunuch away he gazed at the dais where Cyrus sat in state. ‘Yes. I believe it is the same man. But there is a way to be sure.’ Croesus addressed the stranger in his thin voice. ‘If you really are Prince Spargasippa then tell me, young man, what was the name of the stallion you used to ride?’

  The stranger’s face creased into a broad grin. ‘Time and Fate have preserved you, Croesus my friend. You always said you were the luckiest of men. I am pleased to see you looking well.’ Now that he had time to reflect, Darius was surprised the Saka spoke such good Persian, though admittedly he had an accent of the North. ‘And pleased to be remembered. The stallion’s name was Arrow and when I left you gave him to me as a gift.’

  ‘That proves it!’ Croesus said triumphantly. ‘Prince Spargasippa, without a doubt.’

  Cyrus studied the man. In the total silence of the tent, the creak of his throne as his weight shifted seemed loud. ‘When the heir to the Ma-Saka throne comes to the tent of his enemy …’ he said slowly, his eyes scrutinizing the stranger’s face, ‘I smell treachery. Who are you deceiving? Your own people? Or mine?’

  The man who claimed to be Prince Spargasippa threw back his shoulders. ‘Your Majesty is right to smell treachery,’ he said bitterly. ‘But not on my part. The treachery is by that fiendish Tomyris, who drove me out. She is unnatural, a she-wolf who turns on her own cub.’

  Cyrus was incredulous. ‘Your mother drove you away?’

  ‘Aye,’ the Saka said. ‘That she did. And I swear by the power of the war god, it was no fault of mine. When she invited you to cross the River Yaksharta and fight us, many Saka were angry. Warriors came to me saying: “We have always raided into Persian territory. Why let them come here?” But none dared challenge her openly. The council of tribal chieftains met in secret, and implored me to make her see sense. I was reluctant because I knew her temper, but eventually I agreed. I went to her tents with gifts of gold and sweet Greek wine. I told her the warriors were angry and begged her to reconsider. She turned on me, hurling my gifts across the tent, calling me an ungrateful dog, and summoning her guard.’ He raised the sleeve of his gown to show a sword cut below the elbow. Darius looked at it carefully, noticing it was freshly scabbed. ‘I had to fight my way out! As I was leaving she screamed that if she ever saw my face again, she would kill me.’

  The man spoke with a passion which suggested that his story must be true. The entourage of Persian courtiers stood very still.

  ‘That night the camp was in uproar. My friends were dragged away to torture. I learned that a price of five hundred ponies had been set on my head. So I left. I knew that if I wanted justice, I needed a powerful ally. I rode south for twenty days before hitting the Yaksharta …’

  Cyrus’s head snapped up. ‘Did you say twenty days? You rode south for twenty days from the Saka camp?’

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

  Darius straightened up as he experienced a surge of frustration and anger. He had to clamp his throat tightly shut to stop himself shouting out. Every word was a lie! But the courtiers were lapping it up. Even Cyrus seemed convinced. The king glanced at Darius, then back at the stranger, as though comparing their accounts. ‘And you know the terrain well? You did not get lost on the way?’

  The Saka laughed. ‘I have travelled this land all my life! Besides, a man only has to follow the star that rises low in the southern sky, late in the evening, and he cannot miss the Yaksharta.’

  Cyrus glanced at Darius again. ‘That must mean the Saka army is camped twenty days away?’

  ‘Why, yes.’ The Saka glanced surreptitiously at Cambyses. Darius saw their eyes meet. Neither made any sign.

  Cyrus stared the man full in the face. ‘Come now! Do not try to fool us! Is there not a great Saka host camped in a valley three days north of the Yaksharta?’

  The tent fell utterly silent. Everyone turned to the stranger, who raised his hands palm upwards. ‘Eating and drinking what? I mustered the tribe by the lakes of the north-east where they would be well supplied. They will only come south to give battle. No army could camp on the open steppe for long.’

  Cyrus’s eyes turned to Darius, hard as stone. ‘This man condemns you, Darius. What do you say?’

  Darius felt himself slipping into that tense, brittle state where nothing seemed real. He forced himself to concentrate. But none of this made sense. First being arrested for treason … now a stranger calling himself a Saka prince turning up in Cyrus’s council, accusing him of lying. He had seen the Saka army. He was telling the truth. But barely a man in the tent seemed to believe him. Wondering what he had done to turn the world against him, Darius became defiant. ‘I have told the truth, Great King! Croesus, Cambyses and … this stranger … must be in league together!’ There were cries of ‘Shame!’ across the tent. Darius’s cheeks burned, particularly when he saw the triumph etched on Cambyses’ face.

  But why? Surely this hadn’t all been set up just to condemn him? The fighting between Cyrus and Arsama had been bloody, the conflict between their houses bitter. But that was thirty years ago, when Cambyses was a child and Darius not yet born. As Arsama’s grandson, Darius was potentially a threat to Cambyses’ succession. But after the war Cyrus had stripped Arsama of his estates, leaving Darius’s family in poverty, without land or influence. Nowadays a dozen other men posed much greater threats. Why would Cambyses have gone to such lengths to single Darius out?

  Cyrus looked at Darius like something his camel had trodden in. ‘If ever I had any doubts, I am now entirely satisfied that the charges against you are true,’ he said. A scribe inscribed the verdict on a clay tablet. Cyrus took a cylinder of carved obsidian from a chain around his neck and rolled it over the tablet, impressing his royal seal into the clay. ‘Your father has wisely abandoned you. But you may plead for your own life if you wish.’

  Darius thought of all the people who had died to gather the intelligence about the Saka army. The asabari who fell in the ambush and those who fell breaking out of the pass. The datapatish, with his throat ripped open by an arrow. Baba, shaking with fear. Frada, whose life still hung in the balance after the surgeon’s knife. Now their sacrifice was for nothing. Taking one look at the courtiers’ scornful faces a stubborn pride took over. If he pleaded for his life like a coward his honour would lie in shreds. Perhaps he would be spared, perhaps not. But even if he lived, for the rest of his days men would point at him and say, ‘He was spared because he was afraid to die.’ Hystaspes had surrendered self-respect long ago, but Darius refused to do the same.

  He pulled himself up straight and spoke calmly, but with as much conviction as his exhausted mind and body could muster. ‘I swear by the Holy Fire that I speak the Truth. And you will see soon enough that I do. When they surround you in that valley, you will wish that you had listened.’ The tent fell deathly silent, the expressions of even the jaded courtiers tinged with respect. ‘But if you’re determined to kill me, I ask to die in the land of my forefathers, so my remains may be cleansed in the Towers of Silence.’ Darius shuddered at the thought of the vultures picking his bones clean.

  Cyrus settled the ivory sceptre across his knee. There was regret in his eyes, but his voice was unyielding. ‘You are an obstinate young man. Had you pleaded, it may have been my pleasure to spare you. As it is, I shall grant your wish. You shall be executed in Persia. Whe
n Crown Prince Cambyses departs south tomorrow, you shall go with him.’ He turned back to the stranger and carried on talking.

  Darius took the weight of the chains in his lap. He was going to die. Looking back at the events of the day, he had the feeling that nothing he could have said or done would have changed his fate. It was as though someone had been working deliberately to undermine him from the start. But that made no sense. Vinda might denounce him to Cambyses, but he’d hardly have organized such a far-reaching conspiracy for no reason. There had to be something running much deeper. Yet, if Cambyses and Croesus wanted him out of the way, why not just slip a dagger into his ribs? It was forbidden for the King of Kings and the Crown Prince to fight on the same battlefield, which explained Cambyses returning home. Somehow that seemed important.

  Darius was sure the explanation was at the end of his fingertips. But he couldn’t think straight. All he could think of was the unfairness. He’d risked his life for Cyrus, tried to save Persia from catastrophe and now, for reasons he did not understand, it was all wasted. His only thanks would be a sharpened stake driven inside him in the most excruciatingly painful way.

  6

  Central Persia, south-west of the Desert of Kavir and north of Pathragada

  When the caravan taking him south to his execution wasn’t moving, Darius was chained to a pole in his tent. In fifteen days he had seen no visitors and spoken to no one but guards, who were cold and aloof. The intense loneliness, starvation rations and constant abuse had left him moody and depressed. Now he heard footsteps approaching, and a murmur of speech. Longing for a familiar face or friendly voice he tried to move closer to the entrance. But the chain attached to his leg jerked him back. Suddenly the tent flap opened and bright light flooded in. Darius squinted as two slaves appeared carrying a man lying on a stretcher, his fine woollen cloak held closed by an exquisite gold brooch shaped like a horse’s head.