Blood of Kings

by Andrew James

  From the direction of the sentry there was a shocked intake of breath, a groan, a clatter as a mess plate fell to the floor. Darius looked up and saw an arrow shaft sticking through the sentry’s neck. As the man slid down the rock there was a nasty gurgling as he tried to breath but sucked in blood. Springing to his feet, Darius looked over the cliff edge where the watch fires cast a flickering orange glow. He expected to see men approaching, but the ground in front of the fires was bare. Puzzled, he started turning back then flung himself down as more arrows clattered against rock just two paces away. They had come from behind him. He spun round to see a line of shadows spilling from a dark cavernous tomb fifty paces distant, ostrich feathers rising like horns from their heads. For a fraction of a heartbeat he stared, then fury at the Ammonians’ treachery swept over him and spurred him into action. He pulled the cavalry horn from his neck and blew a shrill rising alarm. The Ammonians responded by abandoning stealth and pouring out of the tomb in a mass.

  Persians camping near the tombs heard the horn and jumped up, sandalled feet clattering against rock. Torches flared with an explosive whoosh as they were dipped into cooking fires, sending shadows dancing across the plateau. Darius filled his lungs and shouted at the top of his voice, ‘Attack! By the tombs!’ Answering cries came from several directions at once. With the alarm sounded he drew his akinakes sword, picked up his figure-of-eight shield and ran at the Ammonians, anger and battle heat combining to make his pulse race. Screaming a battlecry Darius barrelled into the first warrior, knocking him flying, leaping forward and stabbing into his guts. The blade came out, red and glistening with slime as more warriors emerged, spreading out along the plateau, with more Persians running to engage them.

  A chieftain shouted something then four warriors came at Darius, short spears and woven palm-frond shields in their hands. The first stood three paces away with his spear levelled; the others stood back to give him room. Beneath his open coat the muscles stood out on the warrior’s stomach and chest, gold rings pierced his navel and ears. He was some sort of champion, the spear in his hand larger and thicker than most, yet he held it lightly as a stick. His lips were drawn back in a snarl, a soft growl rose from his throat, then he sprang, his arm blurring, the spear coming at Darius with tremendous speed. Darius stepped aside. As he passed, Darius backhanded his sword across his enemy’s ribcage, the newly sharpened point slicing muscle and scraping against bone, then kicked him hard over the kidney, sending him sprawling on his face. A stab into his spine, the point grating, then the blade pulling out, blood flying from its tip as Darius spun to face the other three, who roared and thrust their spears together. Darius stepped back and blocked with his shield. There was a crack of metal against bone-hard leather as the spear points struck, then two were withdrawn, the third sticking in the densely woven reeds. Jerking the shield up, Darius forced the spear to the sky. The Ammonian clung to it, lifting his arm over his head. Darius drove his sword into the warrior’s armpit and stepped back, dropping down, withdrawing the sword to scythe it low into the legs of the next warrior, where it jarred against his ankle bone, severing tendons and dropping him howling to the ground. Before Darius could strike again the last Ammonian turned and ran.

  Panting hard, Darius saw Ammonians pouring from the cavern by the dozen. A Persian archer knelt down, strung his bow, took an arrow, notched it and fired. It struck a running Ammonian in the chest, stopping him dead. More archers skidded round the corner, bows in one hand, torches in the other. Seeing the Ammonians they pulled up short. A knot of warriors ran across the plateau to meet them. Darius heard a hoarse voice give a command and recognized it as Dadarshi’s. The archers knelt in a line, torches dropped to the ground, bows were raised. The Ammonians hesitated, judging the distance. Calmly the archers notched, drew and released. The warriors panicked, some freezing, others trying to run. Seven fell, the rest charging at the Persian archers who were already drawing again. In four heartbeats the Ammonians covered twenty paces and the archers took down another six, the survivors scattering before a data of Persians who turned the corner and ran straight at them, swords in hand.

  More and more Persians were coming now, rushing from half-eaten meals without stopping to buckle on armour, carrying whatever weapons were near. Darius yelled for the standard bearers. They gathered around him and thrust their standards into the ground where men flocked to them. A hundred Ammonians had made it onto the plateau but there were now three times as many Persians. Darius swept his arm forward, the trumpet blew and the Persians charged, piercing war cries echoing, feet pounding, blades glinting in the firelight as they drove the Ammonians against the flank of the hill.

  And butchered them.

  When the last pockets of resistance had been rounded up, Darius went to the tomb they had come from. Sending someone to fetch two torches, he pointed at the surviving Ammonians who were being tied up and dragged across the ground into the middle of the plateau. He was still furious at the enemy’s treachery, a frown like a dark slash on his brow. ‘Keep those men alive,’ he told Dadarshi. ‘I want to know how they got here.’

  The torches filled the tomb with shadows as Darius and Dadarshi’s feet crunched the shingle floor. In one corner the yellow light fell on a pile of dry, ancient bones. Two skulls, arm and legs, some shattered ribs. Near them were smashed clay pots and funeral urns. Dadarshi made a sign with his hand and muttered something as he passed them. Darius was more worried about the living than the dead. How had they got in?

  He held his torch against the back wall, searching for a way out. The flame was feeble against the blackness. On the ground against the wall something caught his eye, a glint of metal half buried in dust. He brushed some sand away. It was just an old copper dagger. As Darius curled his hand around the hilt to pick it up, something tapped his wrist, just the lightest of touches, then a thin white line of pain seared deep into his arm and his heart thumped. Dropping his torch he jumped back in shock. Thinking some spirit had got Darius, Dadarshi cried out. The two men were standing next to each other, but to Darius the Armenian’s voice sounded far away. Darius grabbed his torch, searched the ground and shuddered at the sight of a yellow-green scorpion as long as his finger, pincers held forward, evil legs bent, the tail arched over its fat body ready to strike again. Taking a deep breath, he brought his foot down on it hard, grinding it into the dust, while the pain in his arm began to swell and his heart ran wild. Deep inside there was a terror that he was going to die. He fought against it. The pain was bad, but didn’t yet feel deadly. He took three deep breaths and his heart steadied. ‘Come on,’ he said.

  Blocking out the pain and the panic in his chest, Darius carried on searching, waving the torch left and right against the rock. Suddenly its light was swallowed into the dark void of a rock-cut tunnel. Regular chisel marks showed up clearly on the walls. They were old and darkened with exposure to the air. He drew his sword and was about to step into the tunnel when Dadarshi put a hand on his shoulder. ‘You can’t fight with your arm like that, sir. I should go first. Just in case …’

  Darius was moved. Clasping the Armenian’s wrist he reflected for a moment how war didn’t just kill, it could also bring men together in comradeship. ‘Thank you, friend. But you’ve had your share of danger today. I’ll take my chance.’

  He stepped into the tunnel, feeling hemmed in by the closeness of its walls. The tunnel descended and the walls grew narrower and narrower, pressing in on Darius until he was in a sloping passage barely wide enough for a man in armour to squeeze through. So narrow that he realized with alarm that he probably couldn’t turn around. He told himself it didn’t matter, there had to be a way out if the Ammonians had come this way …

  As the passage descended the air was dusty and dry. They had walked so long the torches were guttering, flickering their remaining light against rough textured walls. Darius felt his breath growing ragged in the thin air. He stumbled, dropping his torch, which sputtered and went out. For a moment everything was b
lack. Then his eyes adjusted and he saw the light ahead, a patch of starlit sky framed by darkness. Gasping with relief he emerged onto the dunes.

  The moon wasn’t yet up. When Darius turned it was too dark to see Dadarshi clearly, but he sensed his friend’s relief equalled his own. ‘When we get back have this blocked up, Dadarshi, and put men on permanent guard.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Perhaps they can check the other tombs as well, and question the captives to see if there are any more passages.’

  ‘Good idea …’ Darius’s voice trailed away as the silence of the desert overwhelmed him. He looked up at a sky spangled with silver and felt a moment’s peace. But his arm was swelling, a blister rising where the scorpion had struck. The pain was still bearable, but inside his head was the dark horror, the fear that he would start to convulse and his heart would stop. He had heard of men dying of scorpion stings, but also of them surviving. There was nothing he could do but wait and see.

  Staring into the desert, the exhaustion hit him. He swayed on his feet then caught himself. It was a long time since he had slept and there would be little rest tonight. He remembered Phanes’s warning that the Ammonians have pride, but no honour. Darius had a bad feeling about them. They were no great fighters, but they were cunning. It was impossible to know what they would do next.

  Darius staggered forward and the darkness rushed up to meet him.

  ‘You do choose your moments, sir!’ Dadarshi grinned as he handed Darius a wineskin. ‘Went out like a lamp. Took four of us to carry you back the long way round. The surgeon threatened to flay my hide for letting you go down there, what with the scorpion sting and the wound.’

  It was morning. After a night of pain, Darius was drunk with exhaustion. The oasis seemed to be filled with glaring sunlight and harsh shadows. Splashing water over his face and beard he ordered a rope ladder to be lowered down the cliff to visit the spring. When he arrived men were already hard at work, cutting and bundling the tough woody sections of palm fronds, building a screen to protect the engineers damming the pool. The Great Chief had sworn not to attack, but after the shameful assault last night Darius could hardly trust him.

  From the surrounding marsh came repeated thuds as engineers drove palm trunks into the ground to act as posts. Leading Dadarshi and twenty armed men, Darius walked towards the Ammonian camp, while five hundred archers and five hundred cavalry watched from a distance. The Great Chief came out smiling to meet him, flanked by his chieftains. Darius instinctively disliked men who smiled so freely. When the Ammonian launched into his oily greeting, Darius cut him short. ‘You promised not to attack. Plainly the word of a desert savage is not worth taking after all.’

  ‘I kept my word!’ the Great Chief protested angrily. ‘I swore not to attack your men working around the spring. I said nothing about trying to free the prisoners.’

  Darius shook his head in disgust. ‘When a Persian boy lies his father beats him. We soon learn to tell the truth.’

  ‘That is harsh,’ the Great Chief said, softening his voice. ‘We had a misunderstanding, that is all.’ He gave a furtive glance past Darius to the cliff top, where he could see Persians moving about. ‘Do not kill innocent men for it. I tell you I keep my word.’

  Darius turned towards the cliff and waved his arms above his head. Tiny stick-like Persians began throwing Ammonians over the edge, with a distinct thump as each man fell. The Ammonian chieftains muttered angrily, some fingering swords. The Great Chief tilted back his head, looked down his nose and narrowed his eyes in threat.

  Darius faced him. ‘Those are the corpses of men killed last night in your attack. You can take them for burial. Next time, the men we throw down will be alive. We now have three hundred and thirty prisoners, including three of your sons, a Prince Si-Ammon, a Prince Aldum and a Prince Wen-Ammon. They will be released last. We will give your men water but if you want them to eat you will have to provide the food.’

  Hearing that his sons were alive, the lines of tension around the Great Chief’s eyes relaxed. ‘If I give you food how do I know you will feed them?’ he asked.

  Darius laughed harshly. ‘Coming from you that is rich. I am Persian. We do not lie.’

  It was the third day, and Darius was going to inspect Zariadris’s newly finished pool. On the way he passed squares of cultivated land, each tiny field cut low into the ground with a sandbank around it to hold in irrigation water from the spring. Although still only late winter, barley and spelt were already growing strongly in the constant sunshine, the ears milky and plump. It struck Darius that though the nights were very cold, at no time all winter had there ever been a frost.

  Nearby was a cluster of farm labourers’ huts. Darius ducked through the nearest doorway and found two bare rooms with fleabitten sheepskins in a corner. The walls were thick and plastered with mud. The only light came from a tiny shuttered window set high up. Six steps led to a flat roof. ‘You could put the wounded in here,’ Darius told Dadarshi, standing in the main room. ‘And some men on the roof as a lookout.’ Nearby was a flimsy palm-frond shelter, closed in on three sides with the fourth half-open, its roof held up by windfall branches from a nearby ironwood tree. Inside, Dadarshi rummaged through a heap of farm implements, lifted a reed mat and laughed when he found a woven basket full of onions and a sack of dry dates. ‘We’ll have those dates, sir,’ he said. ‘And give the onions to Zariadris. He loves his onions.’ Darius smiled at the fondness in his voice. It wasn’t the first time he had noticed the two brothers were close.

  Moving on to the reedbeds, Zariadris proudly showed off the finished pool, lined with clay and filling quickly from the spring. The sweet water gushed from the ground in a stream wider than a man’s thigh, eddying and foaming in its hurry to reach the surface. Around the pool, a neat barrier of upright palm-frond bundles was held in place every twenty paces by wooden stakes. Where the palm fronds were cut from the tree they had thick, fibrous plates. As tough as armour, Darius saw they had been cleverly arranged to provide an almost impenetrable barrier. Thousands of men working day and night had completed it all with astonishing speed. Darius nodded approval. ‘Well done,’ he said, impressed by Zariadris’s efficiency.

  The Armenian beamed. When Dadarshi presented him with the onions he laughed delightedly and hugged his brother. Their laughter was infectious, lightening everyone’s mood.

  With the spring as secure as Darius could make it he turned his thoughts to the plateau. Remembering how easily it had been stormed from the desert, he had ordered a palm-trunk stockade built across its narrowest part, where it sloped down to the west. Two thousand men worked constantly until it was finished, while others stood guard. When Darius inspected it he thumped one of the upright palm trunks half buried in the sand. ‘It will stop a cavalry charge, sir,’ Dadarshi promised.

  ‘Yes,’ Darius agreed. ‘But perhaps it won’t need to. Phanes must be very close now.’

  They climbed up rocks of pale, weathered sandstone to the permanent watches that Darius had set looking south towards the Spring of the Shade, and west towards Siwa. Darius smiled when he saw the soldiers on duty had made themselves comfortable. A canvas awning had been rigged up against the sun, with blankets to sleep on. To preserve their night-sight they weren’t allowed fires after dark but a ring of grey ashes showed where they cooked their midday meal.

  It was a calm day and the desert horizon was crystal clear. ‘Good view from up here,’ Darius said.

  The watch officer raised his palm in salute. ‘Can see half a day’s march at least, sir,’ he agreed. Then shook his head dismally. ‘But not a sign.’

  ‘He’ll come,’ Darius assured them. And he believed it. Phanes was brutal but reliable. If it was humanly possible, he would come. Leaving the watchers to their duties, Darius and Dadarshi trod carefully over uneven ground until they reached a level spot among the broken rocks. Darius had overcome his fear of being outnumbered. He was content with the stalemate in the oasis, knowing that when Phanes arrived everything w
ould change. Still troubled by a sharp pain from the scorpion sting and half dead from lack of sleep, he sighed wearily and lowered himself to the ground, sitting with his back against a boulder that was warm from the sun. Deep in the desert, the smooth planes of razor-edged dunes shaded darker or lighter as the sun caught them. The air was soft, the sky blue, the light golden, everything tranquil. Intense sweetness wafted on the breeze from the honey-scented palms below. ‘You know, this isn’t a hellhole, Dadarshi,’ Darius said. ‘I wouldn’t want to be here in the summer, but at this time of year it’s a beautiful land.’

  Dadarshi laughed his low, morose laugh. ‘You’re Persian, sir. You’re used to date palms and sand. Armenia is green, all mountains, lakes and forests. I’d kill to see a proper tree.’

  Darius was curious. ‘You speak of your land fondly. But you don’t seem to mind being part of our Empire?’

  ‘It’s the way of the world; the Medes conquered us, you conquered the Medes. In fact we’re pleased. It’s a fertile land when we’re left alone to farm it. Before we were under constant threat: Assyrians, Medes, Saka. You let us worship our own gods and you’ve given us twenty years of peace and stability.’ He gave an ironic smile. ‘The peasants and horse breeders who groan under the weight of your taxes grumble a bit. But for most of us nobles, things could be a lot worse.’

  Darius laughed at the mild reproof. No one liked taxes, but peace always has its price. Still, he liked the Armenian’s gentle humour. ‘Parsa – my part of Persia – isn’t a desert land, it’s green. And Medea – where I spent my youth – is famous for its fields of clover. In summer they’re ablaze with purple flowers.’ Darius breathed deeply as he remembered the intoxicating scent. Medea reminded him of Frada, and his father’s estates where they learned to fight. He felt achingly sad for the lost past. Then he thought of Frada’s betrayal over Parmys and the sadness was replaced by anger. The anger faded as he thought of Parmys. It had been nearly a year since he had seen her. Soon he was lost in thought, hoping that she, Ardu and Vivana were safe. He hardly noticed the gusts of wind that sprang up, lifting sprays of sand off the dunes and flinging them playfully away, or the dust devil that twirled crazily across the desert fringe.