Blood of Kings

by Andrew James

  ‘Form a wedge!’ Vivana heard the shouted order followed by a confusion of running feet, and he rushed to join the tight-packed mass of Persians. Then he was running, the entire hazara charging to help the beleaguered Immortals, but it was too late. There was a clash of arms, frantic shouting, and the tide of Saka warriors swept over the King’s Spearbearer guard. Vivana heard a horrible sound, a groan of pure misery that rose from the Immortals’ ranks as Cyrus’s chariot was overturned, wheels spinning crazily. Axes flashed above the melee, blood spattered the white stallions then a moment of utter silence broken by wild animal shrieks.

  Vivana saw Bardiya’s Camel Standard rise from the chaos and heard the furious scream on the prince’s lips as he led a charge to recover his father’s body, killing four warriors with his onslaught, taking back the headless corpse and rallying the men around it.

  Even when the retreating wave of Saka stuck the bloody head on a spear and waved it above the battlefield, Vivana still couldn’t believe that Cyrus, the King of Kings, was dead.

  7

  The cells beneath the Residential Palace in Pathragada, Persia

  Doors slammed and footsteps echoed. From outside came the sound of horses. Endless cart-wheels rattled on stone as they were drawn into the palace courtyard. Men were groaning, occasionally screaming in pain. Others were solicitous, trying to calm the injured or calling for stretchers.

  A eunuch slave appeared outside Darius’s cell. Immaculately dressed, respectful in his manner, it looked as though he’d been crying. The eunuch opened the door and walked in. No guards escorted him, which struck Darius as strange. He was considering overpowering the eunuch when the slave pulled a clay tablet from his gown and held it out. Pressed into it was an image of a horseman killing with a bow – Cyrus’s seal. Darius read the cuneiform impressions, took a deep breath, clenched his teeth and looked up at what would have been the sky if he wasn’t deep underground.

  Cyrus had reprieved him. He was free.

  ‘It was the last order he gave before the battle, lord. And he was most anxious it reached us safely,’ the eunuch explained as the chains were struck off. ‘When he saw the Saka army, he knew you spoke the truth. As you see, we are receiving the first carts of wounded now.’ Then he burst into tears. Dabbing his eyes with the sleeve of his gown, he led Darius from the cells, up some steps, down a corridor of smooth white stone and into a stunningly beautiful suite of rooms. The furniture was Indian teak, the curtains were silk, the bed had silver feet. Summer flowers were painted on the walls. Rummaging in a chest the eunuch held an embroidered linen gown to Darius’s body, finer than anything he had ever owned. ‘You are broad in the chest, lord, but not too tall. That should fit. Please accept it as a gift from the Palace.’

  He indicated a bronze tub at an angle behind a tastefully carved wooden screen. ‘You will want to bathe. Hot water is coming. Should you wish for anything else at all, please call.’

  The hot water was scented, the towels warm and the attending slave’s fingers as light as a butterfly’s wings as she massaged oil into Darius’s back. She dressed his short beard then fed him bread, cheese, cold meat and fruit, and poured a fine red wine.

  Darius tossed back a cup and let it relax him. His nerves were as taut as bowstrings and his head felt battered. As his beard was being dressed he had been horrified by the face in the mirror: high cheekbones sticking out, and his wide forehead now had a prominent, bony line. He looked like a living skull. He drained another cup of wine, savouring the taste of freedom. Later he’d go into the city, walking where he wanted without a chain around his ankle or a guard to scream abuse, feeling the wind on his face. He had been through hell, but he was luckier than the poor bastards who had died in the battle.

  Now pleasantly drunk, Darius lay back on a yellow silk couch, linked his hands behind his head, closed his eyes and struggled to take in the implications of Cyrus’s death. There would be a funeral, then a coronation. Cambyses would take the throne that Cyrus had stolen from Darius’s family. At least Cyrus had been easy to respect: a soldier and a statesman. Cambyses was merely a drunken, embittered fool.

  Yet Darius would have to grovel before the man, offer him earth and water, swear to serve him on his life. Years of abasement would follow. In thirty years Darius would be as craven as Hystaspes. Except he wouldn’t last that long. Hating the falseness and insincerity, hating the endless flattering, he’d lose his temper and speak to Cambyses like the fool he was, and end up impaled on a stake.

  On the day of his arrest he remembered his father telling Cyrus that in defeating Astyigas he had ‘led us from slavery to empire’. Not true. For Darius’s family, Cyrus’s rise had been a disaster. Along with their land, they had lost their power and status. For most of the Aryan tribes it had just meant exchanging a Mede overlord for a Persian one. Only for the inner circle of Cyrus’s clan – the high-ranking generals, the favoured satraps, the nobles with vast estates – had the change really been good. Now they would watch Cambyses like hawks. As long as they were satisfied, he would be safe on the throne. But if Cambyses was as much of a fool as Darius suspected, it wouldn’t be long before he alienated them.

  Perhaps all Darius had to do was wait. Sooner or later there would be a crown for the taking. Darius’s crown.

  Three days later …

  From his seat inside Prince Bardiya’s apartment in the Residential Palace, Darius could see his host standing on the terrace that graced his suite, lost in thought. Bardiya’s face was in profile. Normally, when not in mourning, it combined the strength and humour of his father, Cyrus, with a masculine beauty rare in a fighting man. Now it wore an expression of dignified grief as Bardiya looked south towards the river. Beyond the river lay the gatehouse, leading to the plain where his father’s squat white tomb waited to be filled. If Bardiya faced north he would see the mountains, and high among them the wide, crater-like rims of the Towers of Silence, where Cyrus’s body had been taken to be cleansed by the birds of the air. All day the vultures had been circling on dark wings above them, waiting to feed. Lowering his eyes from the Towers of Silence, Bardiya would see the exposed place on a hill above the city where men gathered to pray. Below that the city was a stunning vista, a chequerwork of palaces, mansions and squares, an Imperial city of ivory and gold.

  As Darius waited for Bardiya to collect his thoughts, he considered the delicacies piled on the table in front of him. Glazed fruits, spiced cakes, honeyed nuts. He rejected them, too tense to eat as he wondered why Bardiya had summoned him. Darius wasn’t exactly scared; he was fairly sure his indiscretion with Parmys had been quietly forgotten in the wake of the massive shock of the King of Kings’ death. Besides, alone of the men of Cyrus’s house, Bardiya had always shown Darius’s family kindness and respect, often inviting Darius to join his hunting parties and the lavish feasts which followed, frequently sending game from his estates to Hystaspes’ table. But with men of power, Darius reasoned, you never knew what they were really thinking. Affected by the obvious grief that Cyrus’s death had caused him, there was no knowing what surprises Bardiya might throw up.

  At last Darius heard footsteps, the door banged shut and the icy wind blowing into the apartment died. Bardiya strode to the fire and rubbed his hands briskly. ‘He was murdered, Darius! But everyone is too scared to admit it.’

  Darius nodded soberly, grateful that at last it had been acknowledged by a member of the Imperial family.

  ‘I tried to tell him my brother was evil, but he would never accept it. Cyrus was a great man. A shepherd to his people, a loving husband to his wives, an attentive father to his children. But when it came to Cambyses he was blind. And you paid the price of that blindness. I am so sorry for what you have suffered these past months.’

  Darius was touched by Bardiya’s humble decency. ‘Your Highness is kind. But I shall recover. It is Persia’s fate that worries me more.’

  Bardiya looked at Darius shrewdly, and for a moment Darius thought he’d gone too far.
Then the prince cleared his throat majestically and flattened the already immaculate pleats in his gown. ‘Just so. We must watch carefully. But to interfere with my father’s choice of heir would be sacrilege, and I shall respect it as long as possible. Who knows? Perhaps Cambyses will make a better king than we fear?’

  ‘Perhaps, Your Highness.’

  Moving away from the fire, Bardiya’s tone softened. ‘But that is not why I summoned you, Darius. My father’s death has made me realize how precious is the happiness of those I love. Parmys is my shining jewel, the light of my life, and I want her to be happy. That is what you want too, I believe?’

  Startled, Darius struggled to reply. ‘Your Highness … yes!’

  ‘More than anything?’

  ‘More than anything!’

  ‘She came to see me a few days ago and apologized for her improper conduct, risking her honour and the honour of our house in a shameful liaison. The magi said she was a harlot, needing to be cleansed with pain. But I care little for magi, so I forgave her. And for her sake I forgive you.’

  Darius bowed his head. ‘Your Highness is merciful.’

  Bardiya acknowledged the apology with a soft sound in his throat. His noble brow relaxed and his voice thickened, a tenderness overcoming him at the thought of his daughter. ‘Parmys said her love for you knew no bounds. Love like that is precious.’

  Darius sat very still while his heart pounded.

  ‘You are a brave soldier and of royal blood, Darius, even if your family have … fallen on hard times.’ Bardiya’s smile was tinged with embarrassment. ‘I can hardly hold that against you, since it was my father who took your estates, may Mazda spare him.’ He walked to a couch, perched against it and moistened his throat with a cup of fruit sherbet. Darius watched intently, lips slightly parted, eyes wide. ‘It is unconventional, but I would see my daughter marry the man she loves.’

  The joy that erupted inside Darius lit up the room. He knew he was smiling at the prince like an idiot, but he didn’t care. ‘You mean Parmys and I … we can …? Your Highness! I … I do not know what to say.’

  Bardiya waved Darius away with a regal hand. ‘All I ask is that you cherish her. Make her happy, Darius! Prove me right. She is already well provided for in her own right, but since you have no land I shall settle an estate on you fitting to her status as an Imperial Princess.’

  Darius leapt to his feet with tears in his eyes. His mouth opened and closed but all he could do was stare stupidly at Bardiya. After waiting and hoping for so long, he could hardly dare believe he would really marry Parmys. When Frada had said she would choose someone ‘more sociable’ Darius had denied it, but in his heart he had been scared. Now he knew her love was real, and the relief, gratitude and joy overwhelmed him.

  Touched by the young man’s reaction, Bardiya’s own reserve broke down. For a moment the sadness of his bereavement and the strain of the massacre left him. He grasped Darius by the hand, then by the shoulders and hugged him like dearest kin. Bardiya managed to recover his composure. ‘Our houses have been at odds for too long, Darius! It’s time the past was set aside. Life must go on. The marriage may take place as soon as the year of mourning for my beloved father has ended. Until then, you will be formally betrothed.’

  Bardiya’s Hunting Lodge, a day’s journey east from Pathragada

  Princess Parmys’s life was normally serene. Three times a year she moved from palace to palace, a slow stately rhythm that took her from the brilliance of her father’s court at Nashirmeh in the East, to the cool mountains of the Summer Palace of Ecbatana for the hottest months, then on to her grandfather’s Imperial court at Pathragada for autumn. Sometimes she would winter at Pathragada and celebrate Nowruz, the New Year festival that started on the first day of spring, with her grandfather. More often she would return to Nashirmeh and spend it with her father. That was how things had been for as long as she could remember. At seventeen, she was long overdue for marriage. But Bardiya had been in no hurry to lose his daughter, and she’d been in no hurry to precipitate a decision which might see her parted for ever from her beloved Darius. Each time an offer was made for her hand Bardiya brought it to her, and each time she refused. It was bad enough being parted from Darius for large parts of the year. The thought of losing him for ever was too much to contemplate.

  Sometimes her serene life had its frustrations. The terrible longing that seized her body whenever she met Darius on one of their moonlit trysts was so powerful it often left her disturbed and short-tempered for days. Not that she had seen him in recent months, since he last rode off to war. Then came the terrible news of his arrest. She struggled to find out more, bribing the seraglio eunuchs to bring her snatches of information. But what they told her made no sense: Darius would never conspire against Grandfather Cyrus! Next, while she fretted over his fate there was the visit from Grandmother Cassandane, Cyrus’s senior wife. Parmys had been instantly on guard, for Queen Cassandane ruled the seraglio with a rod of iron. She had waved around some clay tablets which, although she had never seen them before, looked suspiciously like letters from Darius, fixed Parmys with those cold brown eyes – like two pebbles plucked from the bottom of a lake – and accused her of dishonouring the Imperial house. When Parmys realized what she was referring to she had blushed, assuring her grandmother no such dishonouring had taken place. To her horror they’d insisted on checking, making her lie down and show herself while a eunuch doctor had intimately examined her. Less than a month later the terrible news had arrived. The battle had gone badly. Though her father had survived, Grandfather Cyrus had been killed! At first Parmys couldn’t understand what she was being told. She shouted at the eunuch to get his account straight before he dared present it. It wasn’t possible. It was like saying the sun had not risen or that the seasons had gone backwards. When the eunuch had broken down weeping and beaten his head on the ground she realized it was true, and she was overcome not just by grief but confusion. What happened now? The world would never be the same again.

  Then her father had arrived, wounded but fit, and she heard of her grandfather’s death from Bardiya’s own lips. That was when the reality of the loss finally sank in. Grandfather Cyrus really was dead. Quite apart from her own grief, she felt terribly upset on her father’s account; he had worshipped Grandfather Cyrus, and his face bore a pain she had never seen before. Bardiya had always treated Parmys with great tenderness and she loved him dearly in return. Seeing him distraught hurt her deeply.

  When he told her of Darius’s release she was overjoyed, but hardly surprised. She had prayed to the Holy Fire for his safety, as she always did each morning without fail; and Ahura Mazda had protected Darius, as He always did. Parmys had reached an understanding with God. She offered the prayers she knew Darius neglected; in return, the Wise Lord ensured that nothing would ever harm him.

  Bardiya had then shown her the latest offer for her hand in marriage, from a young man called Frada from a rich Medean family whose costly parchment letter was sealed with a running horse. She knew Frada well. Without hesitation she had rejected it angrily, and that was when, deeply affected by his grief, Bardiya had agreed to let her marry Darius!

  There were no words to describe her excitement. She loved Darius. He was different from anyone she knew. His warm, intelligent, grey eyes and expressive mouth affected her deeply. As did his broad shoulders, straight-backed carriage and soft, low voice. Sometimes he could send shivers down her spine just by looking at her. With Parmys he was always gentle, affectionate, understanding. But he was also decisive and confident, and when he was annoyed she occasionally saw a hardness, perhaps even ruthlessness, that gave her a glimpse of what he might be like in battle. And that was good. A man needed to be strong.

  But the attraction wasn’t simply physical. She was far too astute to let her body betray her into loving a man who didn’t have the qualities required to succeed. Darius had a profundity she had only ever seen before in Grandfather Cyrus. In candid moments she ad
mitted to herself that even her father didn’t have quite the same depth. It was their understanding of the world that set her grandfather Cyrus and Darius apart. They had rarely agreed on anything, but their reasons for holding their views were always impeccable. Darius would say things which made Parmys sit up and think. He’d once argued that Cyrus’s conquests had gone far enough. ‘Expanding the Empire further is not the way to grow rich. You can only take so much tribute before you bleed a nation dry. Instead we should encourage the different nations to trade. Expand the Royal Road, sponsor trade fairs, get merchants moving from place to place. The Lydians would buy Medean saffron if someone took it to their bazaars, the Medeans would clamour for Indian gems, and the Indians would swoon at the taste of Lydian wine. And Cyrus could grow rich taxing the merchants as they moved from place to place. But as soon as there is war, ships stay in port, merchants stay at home.’ He said it with such straightforward simplicity, she knew he was right. When she repeated it excitedly to Cyrus he’d laughed. ‘Darius son of Hystaspes said that? The impudent young pup! If he doesn’t like the way I run my Empire, tell him to conquer one of his own.’

  Naturally Parmys hoped that her father would rule the Empire one day, but she thought Darius was destined for greatness. She saw him standing in the place of honour to the right of Bardiya’s throne, whispering wise words into his ear. Darius was by no means tall, but in wisdom he stood head and shoulders above anyone else she knew, and for that alone she loved him. She knew some people thought him too quick-witted for his own good. But they were just jealous.

  A few days after Bardiya had told her they could marry he left for Pathragada, and her joy at the engagement settled down to just a constant buzz in her mind. Other thoughts began intruding. She still had trouble making sense of so many strange events so close together. Within three months the serenity of her life had been shattered. And though she was tremendously excited about seeing Darius, Parmys had an uneasy feeling that serenity would not return, that the Empire was heading for troubled times.