by Andrew James
Darius had a sense of foreboding. Enslave them and the Egyptians might forgive you. But whip their priests and insult their gods and he knew trouble would surely follow.
27
Memphis
‘Two military disasters in a year. Now this. If that bloody bull dies they will revolt. None of us will ever make it home …’ Megabyzus tossed a cup of wine down his throat and lay back on his couch. ‘It’s fine robbing their temples, but we need soldiers not gold. Twenty thousand men can’t hold a country this big if it goes up in flames.’
Darius was stunned. ‘Is that all that came back from attacking the Kushites?’
‘The rest starved, poor bastards. Or got eaten.’
‘Men really ate each other?’
‘They drew lots. It was either that or everyone dying. No choice really. Cambyses had said: “We’ll take the enemy’s supplies, like at Pelusium.” But there was a great tract of empty desert between Egypt and the Kushites. No cities to plunder, no crops and no Edomites to feed us, so we starved. Most died without ever seeing the enemy. The asabari ate their horses. The levies ate each other.’
Megabyzus still looked the same solidly built, well-nourished soldier Darius remembered. His chins were ample, his complexion decidedly florid. ‘You don’t seem that hungry, I have to say.’
‘Me?’ Megabyzus shook his rippling cheeks in horror. ‘Of course not. He didn’t let us starve. We had first pick as ever. It was the mercenaries and the levies who died. Gods, man, if the Immortals starved who would keep him on the throne?’
‘And will they?’ Darius demanded. ‘Aren’t they as fed up as everyone else?’
Megabyzus put a finger to his lips. ‘You trying to get us all killed? No one’s safe from Cambyses’ spies these days. Even Croesus was burnt at the stake a day or two before you got back. The silly old fool started comparing Cambyses with his father and sent him into a rage. As for Spearbearers, they’re falling like flies.’ Megabyzus levered his bulk off the couch and walked to the door. He looked into the corridor, shut the door with a firm clunk then came back and lay down. ‘They’ll fight the Egyptians,’ he confided in a conspiratorial whisper, ‘but they won’t defend him against Bardiya. They’d drop Cambyses the moment our golden prince raised his standard. If we can persuade him to raise it.’
Darius sat bolt upright. ‘Bardiya? But he’s dead!’
There was a shocked hush.
‘Dead?’ Megabyzus asked. ‘Why on earth d’you think that?’
‘The Prophetess told us.’
Lying on the next couch to Megabyzus, Otaneh lifted his head and frowned. ‘Then she is not infallible after all. Bardiya is very much alive. I had a letter from him not half a month ago.’
Darius was baffled. Bardiya alive? It made no sense. Bardiya was dead. It wasn’t only the Prophetess who said so. Parmys had seen the body.
Vinda sounded equally surprised. ‘By all the daevas you did? Saying what?’
Otaneh ran a finger through his luxuriant red beard. ‘It could be construed as highly treasonous. I am not sure you would want to know.’
Despite Vinda’s obvious coolness towards the king on his return from the desert, Darius sensed that the officers were still suspicious of Cambyses’ former close friend. ‘Either we are all in this together or we are not,’ he said, surprised to find himself defending Vinda.
Megabyzus and Otaneh had a whispered conversation. Otaneh sipped his wine thoughtfully then took a deep breath. ‘Fair’s fair,’ he agreed. ‘To paraphrase, it said he had heard of the disappearance of Phanes’s army in the desert and presumed that it was lost for good. Reports had also reached him of the death of thousands of men in the south. He recognized that there was great dissension in the Empire, that Cambyses had committed huge blunders, and that he had lost the respect and confidence of the army. But he had also heard that the magi were supportive of Cambyses’ campaign against the beast-gods, and so any attempt to oust his brother might be bloody. Therefore, although he – that is Bardiya – was raising forces, he was still undecided whether to march.’
Vinda was staring at his fingernails. Darius realized he was chewing his lip as he listened with growing confusion. There was so much to digest it took a while for the obvious errors to surface. ‘Why does Bardiya place so much emphasis on the magi? They don’t control any soldiers. And why does he need to raise forces anyway?’
‘To defeat Cambyses, obviously,’ Otaneh replied.
‘But surely the Immortals are the key? Either they support Cambyses or they don’t. If not, he is finished.’
Otaneh bit his finger. ‘That’s true …’
‘And Megabyzus said it himself a moment ago: they’d drop Cambyses the moment Bardiya’s standard was raised.’
‘Also true …’
‘So what’s Bardiya waiting for?’
No one answered. Megabyzus stared longingly into his empty wine cup, too lazy to reach down and fill it. Otaneh looked contemplative. Vinda was frowning to himself, his mind working through things in his own slow but methodical way. Darius felt uneasy. It was that feeling of something indefinable being wrong. Spitameneh, the baivarapatish commanding the Immortals, and Bardiya had been friends since boyhood. Darius had often seen Spitameneh at Bardiya’s hunting feasts, where he was always given the seat of honour. They would sit drinking and joking into the small hours. True, Spitameneh had refused to kill Cambyses on the day of the coronation, but that was because he had been taken by surprise. There had been no time to think. If the same opportunity arose now, with Cambyses thoroughly discredited in the eyes of the army, he was sure Spitameneh would jump at it. Which meant Bardiya had the perfect opportunity for a bloodless seizure of power. Simply raise the Camel Standard, ask his good friend to declare for him and he would be as good as crowned. So why didn’t he? ‘Otaneh, have Bardiya and Spitameneh fallen out?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘Can we find out for sure?’
Otaneh stretched on his couch and yawned. When he realized everyone was looking at him expectantly he raised his hands in a defensive gesture. ‘Oh no! Don’t expect me to send a question like that to Bardiya on the Royal Road. I value my skin. And I’ll not approach Spitameneh either. We have never been friends.’
Vinda sat up. ‘My friend Homdat would know. He’s Spitameneh’s nephew.’
Otaneh gave him a look of pity. ‘I’m sorry, Vinda. You obviously haven’t heard. Cambyses and Homdat argued. Homdat blurted out that Cambyses drank too much. Cambyses had him buried alive.’
Vinda went white. Grief was written on his face … but also fear. First Croesus, now his close friend Homdat, who Darius knew had been a member of Cambyses’ inner circle since boyhood. It wasn’t difficult for Darius to guess what Vinda was thinking: if Cambyses could kill Croesus and Homdat, he’d kill anyone.
Vinda recovered. ‘Priests are priests and warriors are warriors,’ he said caustically. ‘Cambyses is neither. He is a perverted drunkard who should have stayed with the other drunkards in the wineshops where he could do no harm. Why wait for Bardiya to stop vacillating? Let’s just do this thing ourselves. Before Cambyses kills the lot of us.’
Darius couldn’t have put it better himself.
One month later …
To the casual observer – a passing eunuch, or busy scribe – it would have seemed purely a matter of chance that Darius and Megabyzus were on duty in the throne room of Cambyses’ palace in Memphis when the messenger arrived. With them were Hormuzd and Zamasp, the other pair of guards that now made up their group of four. Darius felt slightly uncomfortable at sharing guard duty with Zamasp. The man was a prig, who refused even to acknowledge a friendly greeting. But when Darius had suggested using the fake seal of the King of Kings to change the rota, Otaneh had demurred. ‘Better to save it for when we really need it,’ the old general advised. ‘We can’t afford to have anything go wrong.’
Darius was pleased with the messenger’s appearance. He looked as though he had r
idden hard and far. His leggings were thick with dust and spattered with mud from the banks of the Nile. He wore armour that was hacked up and bloodstained. The blood was dark and old, suggesting that he had been riding hard for many days without time to clean it. A strip of bloody cloth was tied around a cut on his shield arm, visible through the slashed sleeve of his tunic. That tunic was the most remarkable thing about him. Since the split with Bardiya, few Easterners had been seen at Cambyses’ court. From its short length and square cut, its embroidered trimming and the long cloak he wore over it, this man was plainly from the mountain passes of Gandara in the East, and his face bore signs of the long, exhausting journey. His eyes hollow and sunken, dark bruises beneath the untrimmed beard that straggled across his cheeks. Nervous at being thrust before the King of Kings, he shook slightly as he prostrated himself full length on the ground. When Cambyses crooked a finger he rose slowly, averting his eyes from the royal gaze. ‘I bear a message from your brother, Great King.’
Cambyses seemed to fall into a trance. He stared blankly at the messenger as though he had been speaking some strange tongue. At last Bagapata leant forward and whispered in his ear. The king’s face finally showed some emotion, but Darius couldn’t have said what it was. Fear? Shock? Hatred?
When he finally spoke, Cambyses sounded confused and distant. ‘My brother, you say?’
‘Yes, Your Majesty.’ As he answered, the messenger kept his eyes low and slowly raised his right hand. In it was a small leather pouch sealed with clay. Darius cursed the man’s nervousness as, in a sudden movement, he thrust it forward with more force than was proper. Darius seized the pouch and pushed the messenger roughly to the ground, making a show of being incensed at the man’s impudence in raising his fist, however slightly, towards the King of Kings. The Chief Eunuch reached out and Darius passed the pouch to him. Staring with a puzzled look at the seal, Bagapata tore it open and handed the unread clay tablet to the king.
Cambyses took the tablet reluctantly in his hand, stared at it blankly, glanced up at Bagapata and gave a faint, distracted nod.
‘Clear the court!’ Eunuchs hustled everyone except Cambyses, Bagapata, the messenger and the four Spearbearers out of the throne room. Looking at Cambyses, Darius felt his spear twitch in his hand. Shifting his gaze to Megabyzus, he saw a mask of studied indifference, but Darius sensed beyond any doubt that his friend felt the same powerful urge to run the King of Kings through, here and now, while they had the chance. But Darius knew this wasn’t the moment: Hormuzd and Zamasp might well defend Cambyses, plus the king was armed, Bagapata had his axe and outside another four Spearbearers waited to burst in at the first sign of trouble. Darius and Megabyzus might kill Cambyses, but they wouldn’t escape alive.
Besides, everyone had agreed that when it was done it would be in secret, with no witnesses, and no lives lost other than Cambyses’. His death would be a tragic accident. No one wanted to go down in history as the murderer of Cyrus’s son.
In any case, there was no need to take the risk. The seal had fooled Bagapata. The message was accepted as coming from Bardiya. Everything was going according to plan.
Cambyses read the tablet then sat staring at it as though it were a viper he was cradling in his hands. A sick pallor spread across his face. When Darius remembered the contents of the message he wasn’t surprised. Bardiya was rising in revolt! The man Cambyses thought he had killed had come back to haunt him and, decent man that he was, Bardiya was giving his brother fair warning and suggesting that they meet. Somewhere on the borders of the Empire, midway between Egypt and Persia. The Land Between the Rivers, perhaps? Why not come north? Let us try to settle our differences.
Cambyses showed no interest in settling differences. He dashed the tablet to the ground. A corner broke off. Rising from his throne with his face red and eyes bulging, he lifted his foot and brought it down hard, grinding fragments of dry clay beneath his soft court slippers against the marble floor. The veins in his neck pulsed with rage and his body trembled. Forgetting the Spearbearers were present, Cambyses pulled the broad-handled Elamite dagger from his waistband and held it close to the Chief Eunuch’s face. ‘You swore he would never trouble me again!’
Startled by the king’s indiscretion, Bagapata leant closer to Cambyses, putting his lips to the king’s ear. ‘I killed him with these two hands, Great King!’ he hissed, lifting long bony fingers. ‘Unless the dead can rise, you will have no trouble from him, I swear.’
Standing beside the eunuch, Darius heard every word clearly. He looked at the other Spearbearers, but their faces were blank.
The king stamped again on the tablet. It shattered, sending shards skittering across the floor. ‘Then who?’
The eunuch shook his head in helpless misery. His eyes flicked around the chamber. Darius felt them on his face, as though trying to read his thoughts. Wondering if Bagapata suspected, he stared straight ahead.
The Old Royal Palace, Susa, Persia
The door was of thick walnut planks, but the wood was old and rotten. Barely pausing in his stride, Ti battered it down with his fists, swinging his huge limbs like clubs. Inside, a lamp revealed a man lying on a simple couch. His chest was bare, his kilt of fine white linen. His face was lined with sorrow, until he looked into Ti’s eyes and recognition sparked.
Ti was slightly breathless. ‘Please, follow quickly.’
The captive seemed too overwhelmed to respond. Ti hesitated before taking his arm, then guided him firmly but respectfully into the corridor. The man didn’t flinch as he passed the two Persian spearmen on the floor, just slowed slightly to take in the throat wounds gaping open. He showed no sign of regret. They were the price of his freedom.
When the two men reached the courtyard Ti drew his sword in readiness, but ten quick paces saw them safe in the shadows once more. He found the apple tree, tugged at the rope to check it was still secure, then knelt on the ground. ‘Please, use my back. There are horses beyond the wall.’
Ti felt the foot on his spine, but bore the weight without a sound. As the white kilt disappeared into the branches he straightened up. Raising his arms he grasped a branch, and disdaining the rope heaved his massive bulk into the canopy. Dropping over the wall Ti found the man waiting, along with seven others already mounted up. The white-kilted man touched his arm. ‘You are a faithful friend, Ti. You shall have your reward.’
Ti fell at his feet and clasped his knees. ‘Your people need you, Pharaoh. Returning you to them is the only reward I seek. I am your eternal slave.’
It was a cold late-winter’s night, half a month after the message bearing Bardiya’s seal had arrived at Cambyses’ court in Memphis. The moon was a silver crescent hanging in the sky, mist hovered low on the ground. Darius and Otaneh stood shivering in the courtyard of the palace, surveying the crates and bundles that had been stacked high, ready to be loaded onto camels or carts. Despite the cold Darius felt pleased, and Otaneh was uncharacteristically talkative, chattering happily about Cyrus’s old campaigns. The growing stack of baggage was proof that their plan had worked. Only a few days remained before Cambyses and the Immortals left the palace and marched north to confront Bardiya.
The last half month had been frantic. The message from Bardiya had set the court buzzing, rumours flying thick and fast. Darius had laughed when he heard three different versions of the wording, each more lurid and improbable than the last. The one thing they all agreed on was that Bardiya had risen in revolt. No one was surprised by that; it had been a long time coming. But Darius had wondered about Cambyses’ plans for Egypt. Would he abandon it when he took the Immortals north? The question was soon answered. His claim to Vinda that he was impecunious was given the lie when fifteen thousand Arab and Greek mercenaries suddenly appeared to help his new satrap, Aryanda, hold the conquered land.
Suddenly Otaneh stopped talking, cocked his ear and drew his red eyebrows together in a frown. Alerted by the break in conversation, Darius listened; from the direction of the Great Temp
le of Ptah came what sounded like a long, drawn-out scream. It was followed by a heartrending wail, shrill with misery. Within moments a whole chorus of shrieks was rising into the cold night, the focus spreading in a circle away from the temple, and soon the whole central district of Memphis was alive with noise. As the wailing spread across the city, Darius saw a bright flare of light. ‘What the daeva …?’ He raised an arm to point as a tongue of flame leapt crackling into the night air, showers of sparks shooting red into the sky.
With Otaneh close behind, Darius climbed a ladder to the palace roof and watched, stunned, as the flames quickly spread; first to the villas and mansions of the wealthy districts on the east bank, then to the small mud-brick houses and craft workshops of the artisans, sending the livelihoods of hundreds of stoneworkers, wood carvers and metal smiths flaring into oblivion, and finally to the slums and shacks of the labouring poor. It was from these that the howls of grief and despair deepened into cries of anger, and the contagion of violence began to spread with the conflagration. From cries of sadness the noise changed into clashing metal and splintering wood, collapsing masonry and a baying mob, shrieks of fear and the unmistakable terror of violent death. Senseless, all-consuming fires began burning the houses of rich and poor alike, but the angry mob didn’t care. Darius could hear them tearing through the city, venting their rage in death and destruction.
A trumpet blared in the palace. Immortal guards began running through the courtyards. Darius saw a handful of rushing heralds appear from the direction of Baivarapatish Spitameneh’s quarters, their brightly chequered gowns muted in the moonlight. Soon the Immortals were assembling outside the main palace gates.
The Immortals had been hastily roused to keep the violence away from the palace, but Darius was certain nothing could extinguish it. Speechless and horrified, he watched the destruction in the lurid glow of a burning city. The gods alone knew what atrocities were being visited on the long-suffering people of Memphis. The cries of the raped, burning and murdered filled the night, but this time it wasn’t Persians sacking the city, it was the Memphisites. They were rioting. And Darius had already guessed why. After a long battle against the corruption in its wounded thigh, Apis, their bull-god, must have died.