Blood of Kings
Page 34
Darius remembered that Dakrur was at the extreme south-eastern tip of the oasis. Barely suppressing his excitement he imagined a line of mules fitted with these harnesses and loaded with Turquoise’s stores, slipping into the open desert at night. By morning they would be out of sight. The Fifty Day Wind would quickly cover their tracks.
Responding to the light in his eyes, Turquoise turned to the dunes and smiled a secret smile.
Fearing a trap, he searched her eyes. She looked up into his face, and to his surprise she kissed him full on the lips. ‘I know what you are thinking. Perhaps I will help.’
That evening, after supper she came to his room with a jar of wine. As he lay on the bed she asked him about his life and told him about hers. Sitting beside him on the edge of the pallet, she drank like a seasoned warrior and a need came into her eyes. As the soft night settled over the desert, as the owls swept low over broken scrub, the wild dog packs yowled at each other on the desert fringe and the asses brayed in a competitive chorus that spread from village to village, she rustled her gown to the floor and straddled him.
Thinking of Parmys, Darius rolled aside. Seeing the hurt on Turquoise’s face he reminded her that he was betrothed. Her body resting on his, her breasts hanging down, the large dark nipples engorged and her face twisted with drink and lust, she was full of scorn. ‘Are the men in your land so feeble, they must ask their wives’ permission to enjoy another woman? Little wonder your army was defeated.’
Biting back his fury, Darius understood she was dangerously offended.
She put a finger over his lips. ‘You want to escape? I can make it happen. You fulfil my needs … and I will fulfil yours.’ Seeing the anger in his face she smiled sweetly. ‘Or would you rather trust my father’s word that he will release you when your ransoms are paid? In case you had not noticed, he is not an honest man.’
Closing his eyes, Darius heard Parmys’s voice urging him home. ‘No matter what it takes, come back to me alive!’ Parmys would know this woman was no threat to his love for her. If he refused a chance of escaping she would call him a fool. He felt nothing for Turquoise but his body responded to her nakedness and her scent. Letting his animal instincts take control, he reluctantly entered her. Animated with hunger she thrust down hard.
He woke in the night with her spent body sprawled across him, her mouth open, face on his chest. Her breath was sour with wine. Rolling her off, he thought of the woman he missed.
The next afternoon, pretending nothing had happened, Turquoise led him to the spring. She tilted her hand. ‘The entire cropland slopes away from the spring. When the sluice gates are opened, water runs down these channels and floods each field. The sandbanks keep it in. Just imagine! One man can irrigate the whole farm!’ she said proudly.
Endless sunshine and an abundance of water, in a land never touched by frost or ice, made the oasis lush. Shades of green were cut by lines of glittering light as the sun struck the network of narrow irrigation channels, each caulked with palm fibre and fringed with reeds or razor-sharp grass. The sand was rusted red from iron in the water and a thin dry crust on the ground glittered with tiny white crystals.
Swept up by her enthusiasm, Darius found himself marvelling at this miracle in the desert. Kneeling by the water, he dipped in his hand. It was hot. He tasted it. ‘Salty!’
‘Yes, that is why the sand glitters. It is crystals of salt. But to me it tastes good. The Prophetess says the water is Ammon’s miracle, his gift to us. As long as we honour him it will flow. As long as it flows we will not be conquered.’ Her smile faded. ‘My people have been here for three hundred years, Darius. These fields and channels have taken generations to build. Your men would have destroyed it all?’
He remembered the talk of putting the Ammonians to the sword. ‘Yes.’
Her fingers plucked at the embroidery on her dress, her eyes avoided him. ‘Then it is good that Ammon protected us. You brought men here to do terrible things. This I do not understand.’
Darius scowled at her double standards. For centuries the Ammonians had grown fat preying on the lands around them. ‘And your warriors?’ he asked. ‘When they raid other tribes do they not pillage and destroy?’ He pointed at the silver on her body and the ivory beads in her hair. ‘All this came from scratching a shallow desert soil? Or it was taken from tribes too weak to resist?’
Before she could answer a wind squall swept through the reeds. The southern horizon turned rough, the sky was bruised purple. With broad beating wings a flock of white egrets rose chook-chooking from the flooded fields and disappeared into the groves. Urgently Turquoise took his hand. ‘The Fifty Day Winds still blow! There will be a storm.’ They ran hand in hand through hot swirling dust till they reached the house. The wind roared across the dunes and smashed into them, flinging Turquoise against the wall. The tiny fields of barley rippled furiously, the unfurling leaves on the grapevines shook. Darius pulled open the door and pushed her inside, then another burst of wind flung the door back against its hinges and slammed it shut behind them. Whistling and roaring, the wind forced its way between the planks, squeezing past closed shutters, bursting them open to clatter and bang on their leather hinges. It lifted rugs and screamed through the house, choking the air with dust. As the desert closed in, Turquoise led him to her bed with a flask of wine.
Early the next morning, Darius was woken by the sound of an ass braying outside the house. He jumped up, threw open the shutters and saw a cart attended by four spear-wielding warriors. ‘Turquoise? Wake up! Look outside!’
Naked on the bed, she stretched slowly but didn’t move. ‘Oh, did I not say?’ she asked, feigning innocence. ‘Someone must have told my father you were walking again. He sent a message two days ago. This morning you must go to the palace.’
He started rushing around looking for clothes. ‘What for?’
‘You need not hurry.’ She yawned. ‘They will wait.’
Suddenly suspicious of her, his voice was hard. ‘Why the palace, Turquoise?’
‘He wants to speak with you. You must tell him you are rich, for he too is a cruel man, like my husband. He will demand a large ransom, or let my brother kill you.’
She got out of bed and crossed the room languorously. Looking up into his eyes, she kissed him. ‘Take your things, you must live in the palace now. But if you want my help you must not forget me. In four days’ time, when the sun has set, come and visit. I will be alone.’
25
Four warriors jogged alongside the cart as it rattled along. It wound its way through small villages, each clustered around a spring, surrounded with date gardens and olive groves. The low, flat-roofed houses were of salt and mud, painted sky blue or earthy red, spangled with stars and moons. Geese squawked in sandy streets. In one village a boy guarded a flock of brown and black sheep, the broad-shouldered rams standing watchful guard while the ewes and lambs clambered on the walls like mountain goats.
The cart reached a clearing and suddenly, ahead of him, Darius saw a flash of crisp white stone standing proud on a hilltop. He knew at once this was the Oracle of Ammon. From its lofty height the sacred building commanded a view of the entire oasis. The early light was subtle and clear. He wondered, was this why the Oracle Temple seemed to glow? For in the softness of morning, it was suffused with gold. Beside the Oracle, coarse and plain in comparison, stood a small palace.
The cart trundled under the shady fronds of a palm grove and the Oracle disappeared, only to reappear again when the palms ended. This time it loomed right over Darius, and he knew his journey had ended. Pulled off the cart by rough hands, he was guided through a triple ring of mud-brick fortifications, marched up a hill and shoved through a gatehouse into a large, high-ceilinged hall. The palace was shockingly rustic; there was no gold, no ivory, no ebony, no marble. No incense to sweeten the air, which stank of sweat and scorched mutton fat. Pale, lightly spotted hounds slept curled in a corner. Half-gnawed bones littered the floor, reddish-brown cockroaches the si
ze of fat thumbs scuttling among them.
Through an open doorway, the Great Chief was sitting in a rectangular chamber on a throne of olive wood that gleamed with oil. Across his forehead he wore the white linen diadem of a Greek monarch. His counsellors, tribal elders and firstborn son, Prince Si-Ammon, stood beside him. Beams of sunlight filtered through the reed-thatch roof.
The guards twisted Darius’s arms behind him and wrenched him to the ground. A spear jabbed into his back. ‘Crawl!’
Choking down anger, he crawled across a striped rug, past an amphora of imported Greek wine and a low table with a mixing bowl and jug. He stopped at the throne, where the Great Chief sat holding a clay goblet. Focusing his mind on the trivial to avoid the humiliation, Darius noticed the goblet had a Greek keystone motif in red around its rim. The mixing bowl and jug bore the same design, Greek apparently being seen as the height of sophistication in this primitive land. As he lay prostrate on the floor, the Great Chief ostentatiously poured a stream of wine into the mixing bowl, added water, tipped it into his goblet and drank. Smacking his lips noisily he finally looked down to acknowledge Darius.
Darius had to stifle the urge to smile at the absurd piece of theatre. For all the Great Chief’s pretensions at being civilized, he was sure even the Greeks would have laughed at him and called him a savage barbarian.
Beside Darius, Vinda and Dadarshi were also kneeling on the ground, their hands bound, faces bruised, clothes torn. Their cheeks were hollow and drawn like starving men. Feeling guilty, Darius knew he’d had things easy. He wondered what had happened to Mithrayazna, the archery commander.
The Great Chief began to harangue them, tilting back his head, narrowing his eyes and looking down his nose. ‘You made war on my people! You invaded my land! You cut down hundreds of trees in one of my oases. You killed one of my lesser sons and insulted my heir. You killed thousands of my men. Now you will pay.’ He paused to drink.
Raised voices came from the courtyard, followed by a loathsome scream. The Great Chief ignored it. ‘I hired thirty thousand mercenaries at a cost of one Greek drachma each per day. That is nine hundred thousand drachma a month, or one hundred and forty-two talents of silver. I hired them for four months, which is five hundred and sixty-eight talents of silver. I need that money back. But you will pay me in gold.’
Darius made a calculation. ‘Thirty-six talents of gold. Twelve each,’ he said flatly, trying to hide his dismay.
‘Any man who pays his share may leave, any man who doesn’t will die. You have six months to bring the gold.’
Shocked by the huge sum, Darius tried to grapple with the practicalities. ‘How do we contact Persia?’
‘You will be given clay tablets and styli. You will write messages proving who you are and give tokens your families will recognize. You will tell us who must receive them. My men will see they are delivered.’
Another scream came from outside, shrill and full of panic. Trying to ignore it, Darius pictured twelve talents of gold in his mind. It was more gold than a man could easily jump over, enough to build and equip a temple or a palace, or a trading fleet or small army. Hystaspes couldn’t raise one mina let alone twelve talents. And even if he could, Darius doubted he would send it. Opposite Darius, Si-Ammon’s lean face radiated hatred, the eyes shining with a desire for revenge. Darius remembered the viper on his pillow and knew he either had to raise the money or pretend he could for long enough to plan an escape. ‘I have people who will send you the gold,’ he told the Great Chief, ‘but they live more than three months away.’
Vinda raised his eyebrows. If he had guessed Darius was thinking of Ardu and Parmys, it couldn’t be helped.
The Great Chief hunched forward on his throne. ‘Even as my captive you mock me? The world is not that large. A man on a horse could reach Ocean in three months.’
Again Darius had to stifle the urge to laugh. ‘The world is vast! My friends are so far east they are almost in India. If you want your money you will need to give me longer than six months.’
The Great Chief folded his arms stubbornly across his chest. ‘This “India” is a myth. It does not exist. There is Persia, then Ocean.’ He looked through the window to where date palms creaked gently in the breeze. ‘I will give you until the date harvest in eight months’ time. If the gold is not here by then, I will hand you over to Si-Ammon.’ He headed for the door, motioning to the guards as he went. The guards pointed their spears at the prisoners, herding them outside.
‘If you’re thinking of anyone at Bardiya’s court,’ Vinda whispered as they shuffled out, ‘they won’t make it there and back in eight months. I’ll write to Cambyses and ask him to aid us all.’
Surprised but relieved, Darius thanked Vinda. Though he doubted Cambyses would ransom him, even at Vinda’s request. And he only knew one person close enough who could raise twelve talents. A man he really did not want to ask. Frada’s words came back to him: ‘You saved my life. You are my brother; what is mine is yours. Nothing should ever come between us.’ Despite the oaths they had exchanged as brothers, despite their bonds of blood on the battlefield, Frada had gone behind his back to try and steal Parmys. To seek a favour from him now would be humiliating. But remembering the malice on Si-Ammon’s face, Darius realized he must either forego his pride or his life.
When they reached the courtyard a man was staked out on the sand, back arching, arms and legs jerking hopelessly against the ropes that held him. He was naked, with masses of huge black ants swarming over his skin, which was livid with thousands of tiny red bumps. Each insect was longer than the nail on Darius’s thumb, the massive bulbous head working powerful jaws. The ants were clustered so heavily over the man’s face that his features were hidden. Darius shuddered at the repulsive sight but couldn’t stop staring, as the wretched prisoner was slowly eaten alive.
The Great Chief watched, expressionless, as the victim arched his back again and opened his mouth wide in a horrible scream. Ants clogging his throat turned the sound into a strangled gasp.
The Ammonian king warned the guards: ‘Don’t let him suffocate.’
A warrior bent cautiously over the man’s head. With the back of his hand he wiped the ants from the face then quickly pulled back, flicking away a handful of the vicious monsters as they ran up his arm or clamped pincer-like mandibles onto the skin of his wrist.
For a few moments the man’s face was revealed. Beneath a mass of angry red skin, Darius recognized the contorted features of Mithrayazna. Honey had been smeared on his cheeks, rubbed into his eyes, nose and mouth. His eyelids were swollen and puffy from bites, the eyes wild and frantic, showing no sign of recognition. The archer commander took a few gasping breaths before the ants gathered so thickly over his face that he was soon invisible again. As they crawled into his mouth and nostrils he began to choke, his wrists struggling against his bonds.
The king looked at the sun, then addressed a chieftain. ‘Keep his mouth clear. When the sun reaches noon, pour water down his throat. Keep him alive for two days.’ Turning to the three captives he motioned towards the twitching mass of flesh on the ground. ‘This fool tried to escape. I will release you to wander freely in the oasis, but try to leave and you will share his fate.’
Shocked by sudden freedom, the three men walked from the palace into a blustery wind sweeping the hilltop. ‘What are we going to do about Mithrayazna?’ Dadarshi asked.
‘There’s nothing we can do,’ Vinda argued.
‘We can’t just leave him!’
Vinda stopped and faced the Armenian. ‘There were six warriors guarding him and dozens more in the palace. Do we kill them all, with our bare hands?’
Feeling hollow inside, Darius knew he was right. ‘Poor bastard.’
Putting the horror behind them, they turned left from the palace gate then left again, and began exploring the Temple Mount. Tumbling down the hillside was the village Turquoise had called Aghurmi. As they walked towards it Darius told his companions about her.
‘She says she will.’ Darius thought of her promises and that mysterious secret smile. ‘But whether I trust her …’
In silence they turned another corner. Vinda and Dadarshi were talking. As he walked, Darius’s mind wandered; suddenly he was alone. Ahead were some steps. He followed them down into a dark, dank chamber where dripping water echoed. Looking around the deserted chamber he saw a stone well almost hidden in the gloom. Feeling thirsty, he pulled up some water in a leather bucket. It tasted salty and strangely ancient, as though it had lain for a thousand years in that dark place. He climbed back up the steps and followed a path running north, up another nine terraced steps, turning left, standing in front of a gleaming white stone doorway flanked by fluted stone columns unlike anything he had seen in the palace. He knew it was the Oracle, the Temple of Ammon, a holy place forbidden to normal men, and that he mustn’t go any further.
Feeling some strange compulsion, Darius pushed the heavy wooden door. He heard it creak as it swung open, and his footsteps seemed horribly loud in the silence of the forecourt as he passed into a hall, where the air smelled as musty and as ancient as the water he had just drunk. Weak light spilled in, diluting the single flame that flickered at the far end. When his vision adjusted he stepped back quickly, a hand reaching out to steady himself. Above him, a god with vile eyes and curling horns was staring down from the wall.
Darius paused, gathered his courage and pressed on, feeling himself drawn deeper despite the fear into a second, even darker chamber. Breathing heavily, he dimly made out signs of Ammon’s cult worship: drinking bowls and horn-shaped rhytons of silver and gold, ancient bronze tripods, votive offerings in metal and stone, trophies of outlandish armour from long-forgotten battles, all of it glittering in lamplight that was strangely cold. It was a treasure which any king would covet, yet it lay unguarded except by another image of Ammon. This time the god’s right arm was raised, a fan-shaped flabellum threatening in his hand, and a feather crown on his head. Ammon’s cold ram’s eyes stared straight at Darius. They seemed to follow him as he moved.