by Andrew James
‘Cambyses is a fool!’ Darius spat. ‘I warned him.’
Otaneh’s eyes reflected brightly in the firelight. ‘Gods above, all this over a bull? What sort of religious madness can prompt such destruction? It’s senseless. They are murdering their own people!’
‘It’s nothing compared to what’s coming,’ Darius predicted. ‘It’s just one city. Soon the whole country will be in flames.’
The sun rose over more charred, blackened houses, more bodies in the streets. Daylight showed the sheer scale of destruction. It was apocalyptic, whole sections of the city reduced to wreckage. Even daylight could not quench the anger or still the fighting. Climbing to the palace roof again, Darius could still hear sounds of violence and see fresh plumes of black smoke curling up as new fires were set. The Pomegranate Bearers and another hazara were kept to guard the palace, the remaining eight thousand Immortals sent in units of five hundred to different parts of the city. From the reports Darius heard, the fighting was thickest around the Great Temple of Ptah, where the bull-god lay in state.
Standing guard by the throne each morning, Darius watched the messengers arrive one by one, tired and dusty, overawed by the magnificence of the palace and the richness of the courtiers’ dress. They cast wide eyes around the throne room before prostrating themselves and crawling before Cambyses. Most were humble soldiers. Often they had fought hard, battling through a land in revolt to bring news to their king.
But reaching the palace did not bring them safety. They came shaking with fear at the tidings they carried, and Darius knew they had every reason to be afraid. As each month of rebellion passed the news grew worse, and more than one messenger lost his head, tongue or ears as victims of Cambyses’ temper. They had come from the cities of Lower Egypt first, perhaps because the cult of Apis was strongest there. They told how Sais and Bubastis had massacred their Persian garrisons, how, in the limestone quarries of Tura, Persian overseers had been burnt alive and the stone being quarried for a new palace Cambyses was building smashed. The contagion then spread south, even to places where the dead god had held less sway. News travelled up the Nile that Khmun, Gebtu and Tjenu had revolted, their garrisons cut off and starving. The large garrison of Judaean mercenaries Cambyses had installed at Yeb, far to the south near the first cataract of the Nile, reported they were besieged but holding out. From Thebes it was relayed that the Persian garrison was trapped in the palace. The Great Temple of Ammon was surrounded by tens of thousands of Egyptians keening and wailing for Apis, a god which Darius was fairly sure the Thebans had never even worshipped. It didn’t matter. The beast-gods had become a symbol of resistance, and all Egypt wanted to resist.
Finally, an urgent dispatch carried by an officer from Admiral Udjahor-Resne’s fleet in Pelusium brought disastrous news. Pharaoh Psamtek had arrived across the desert, having escaped from his captivity in Persia. Parts of the fortress city were still securely held by Persians and loyal mercenaries. They were being supplied by the admiral from the sea, but they had been unable to prevent the exiled king from returning in triumph, promising eternal glory to those martyred in his cause. The message Pharaoh had disseminated was simple but devastating. ‘The ancient gods have not deserted you. Rise up and claim back your land!’ Thousands were flocking to his banner, peasants, artisans and nobles alike.
The throne room filled with an anxious buzz as the terrible news was whispered from eunuch to eunuch, courtier to courtier. Cambyses reacted by downing three large cups of wine in succession then ordering the officer’s tongue sliced off for speaking treasonous filth. But nothing could hide the truth: the crushing defeat at Pelusium had been forgotten, Egypt was in full-scale revolt.
Then, three months after the rebellion had started, came the worst message of all, the one Darius really didn’t want to receive. He longed for news of Parmys, but had prayed it would not come like this. Darius had just come off duty and returned to his tent. Sitting on his bed was a small leather pouch with a clay seal. Perhaps the messenger had searched for him, discovered he was on duty, not wanted to enter the royal presence and left it there. It had obviously taken ages to reach Darius. When he tore open the seal with trembling hands, he saw it was dated the twentieth day of the month of Anamaka in Year Three of the reign of Cambyses, but it had reached him three months later, on the twenty-fourth day of the month of Viyaxana at the start of Cambyses’ Year Four, during the festival of Nowruz, while Cambyses was mustering his forces to meet Psamtek in battle for the second time.
Dear Darius,
Do you believe in ghosts? I ask because all those I love seem to be taken from me, but then returned. Sometimes happily, sometimes not. Am I speaking in riddles, my love? Forgive me. I have mourned your loss this last year. They say I was close to death for want of food. I was fading away. Then the news arrived that you are safe and well in Memphis! The light-headedness of hunger was nothing compared to that of my joy at hearing you are alive! Did I not say you were being preserved by the gods? But even as part of me rejoices, still I cannot bring myself to believe it. Or I should say I dare not let myself. Imagining you alive is the sweetest thing in the world, but if I am dealt another blow I will lose my mind.
Is it really you, my heart? Or another of the spirits Angra Mainyu has sent to torment me? I ask because of what has happened with my father. He too has returned from the dead. But he is a changed man. Vicious, cruel, bloody. So many here have been murdered for no reason. Others with their eyes put out, tongues cut out and hands lopped off. My half brothers and sisters, loyal guardsmen, nurses, slaves, even many of his wives. It is senseless savagery. He must have some disease in his mind, for all those he was closest to, the ones he loved the best, have been slaughtered or maimed. I survived only because Ardu and Vivana managed to get me out of my father’s palace to safety. I cannot tell you where I am in case this letter falls into the wrong hands. But I pray you will find me. In this hellish madness there is nothing I want more than the comfort of your arms.
Your loving P.
Tears glistened on the clay tablet as Darius lowered it. He closed his eyes, shaking with relief that at last he had heard from her, but horrified at what she had said, terrified for her safety and baffled by her belief that Bardiya was still alive. Was it possible he had never been killed in the first place? Had the eunuch killed the wrong man and Bardiya, forewarned, taken himself off into hiding? Or had Cambyses staged his death, kidnapping Bardiya and holding him in some secret location until Cambyses’ own position was secure enough to let his brother go free? Or, most chilling of all, was it possible he had really returned from the dead as Parmys believed? Could men return from the dead? And if so, would they be changed? Darius simply didn’t know. But something dramatic must have happened for Bardiya to try to harm his daughter. The old Bardiya would have died twice over rather than hurt a hair on her head.
What was clear was that Parmys was in danger, somewhere far away. Ardu and Vivana would give their lives to protect her, Darius was sure of it. Ardu particularly, he was as stubborn as a she-camel and once he had sworn to do something he would never give up. But what if his friends were already dead? What if Parmys was out there alone? Perhaps she had been taken by bandits, perhaps …
Darius pushed the images from his mind and made himself concentrate. Even if he set off now and rode hard, it would be months before he reached her. By then the message would be at least six months old, maybe more. In that time, anything could have happened. But that only made the urgency greater. Almost without thinking, he found himself walking to the palace stables, leather kitbag slung over his shoulder.
His footsteps rattled through the courtyard. Among the neat rows of columns he passed the giant statue of an ancient Pharaoh, six times lifesize, maybe more. The statue’s face had always seemed friendly until now. Suddenly his thick lips were smiling down at Darius’s folly, his eyes laughing at him. ‘Where in the Empire will you look?’ the Pharaoh taunted. And Darius knew he was right. He froze mid-step, thinking
hard. Why was he rushing off in a panic, when he could ride around for a whole year without finding her? What would he achieve? Parmys could be anywhere in the East. Or had she come west? Perhaps Ardu and Vivana had hidden her in Babylon or one of the other great cities? Perhaps they had taken her to some remote hilltop village in Sogdia? Or to a port city on the Phoenician coast? Even if, by a miracle, he did find her, she would not be truly safe until Cambyses died. If Darius rode off and abandoned the plan to kill him it would fail, just as it had failed when he was sent off with Phanes into the desert. Vinda’s enthusiasm would dim. Megabyzus was stalwart but lazy. Otaneh had already put up with Cambyses for years; he was too timid to act alone.
It was the feeling of abject helplessness that hurt Darius most. The panic in his heart made him want to drop everything and go to her. But hunting blindly around the Empire was futile. He let his kitbag slide off his shoulder and fall to the ground. Aching inside, he knew he had to stay.
The Palace, Memphis, one month later
A noise woke Darius. He sat up in the dark. It was obvious from the commotion that something big was happening. It was the middle of the night but he could hear eunuchs flapping around the corridors of the palace chattering, doors slamming, messengers kept arriving and departing, shouts echoing through the courtyards as squadrons of asabari were roused and hastily assembled for action. With a tap at Darius’s door, a palace slave came in carrying a flame to light the lamps. ‘Orders, sir. Arm up and be ready to leave. Breakfast on the move, I’m afraid.’ He brought a basin of water, which Darius splashed on his face. The slave helped Darius into his armour corselet and tightened the straps over his shoulders. Darius buckled on his sword belt, swung the dagger from its hoop and grabbed his spear, helmet, shield and bow case.
Carrying them outside he saw the night sky pricked with stars. The air was mild; spring was gathering pace as it rolled into summer. The courtyard echoed with the sounds of soldiers assembling, Cambyses’ war chariot standing in the centre, Bagapata and the king on the footplate. Darius mounted up, taking his usual place by the right wheel. The gates opened and the chariot rumbled into the main avenue where a thousand asabari were waiting on richly caparisoned mounts, their tails and manes neatly knotted, their rosettes and harness rings glinting in the light of torches on the palace walls. The horses were stamping their feet restlessly, the men yawning. A command was shouted and the thousand Pomegranate Bearers – mounted on the finest Nisaean horses in the entire Empire as befitted the King of Kings’ personal guard – and the asabari set off west at a cracking pace. Beside Darius, a bleary-eyed Megabyzus crammed hot bread into his mouth as he explained. ‘Cambyses’ spies have located Psamtek camping overnight in an old tomb. We’re going to snatch him.’
‘What about his army?’
‘Camped a day’s march away. Probably returning there in the morning. He’s been moving quickly from place to place, drumming up support.’
High on a sandy plateau to the west of Memphis, three great pyramids were stunning silhouettes against the sky, golden capstones shimmering in the moonlight. Darius wondered what on earth had prompted the ancient Pharaohs to build such things. Standing like mountains in the desert they were vast, bigger than the biggest ziggurat he had ever seen, taller even than the Tower of Babel. Next to them were two lesser pyramids, and surrounding them on the plateau were hundreds of small tombs, low, bench-like structures that crowded round the great edifices like slaves around their king. The small tombs had bland, squat outlines broken by an occasional fluted column or grandly carved entrance. It was in one of them, Cambyses’ spies reported, that Pharaoh was hiding.
They were led to the spot by a shifty-looking man with the lower half of his face veiled, but when they approached the tomb, advancing on soft feet, there was no sign of anyone. Darius began to feel dubious. He didn’t like the look of this veiled informer. He hoped for his sake they hadn’t all been dragged out of bed for nothing.
The tombs were deathly silent. A few lights showed in a nearby village that lay in a scooped-out hollow beneath some hills. There was a distant sound of crickets, and a bird like a nightjar rattling harshly on the open ground. The air had the clean scent of the desert. Suddenly, carried on the breeze from the north came the rumble of many horses approaching at a trot. ‘Bloody fools were meant to be walking,’ Megabyzus whispered. ‘They’re going to give the game away …’
The Pomegranate Bearers had split into two groups, one approaching from the west while Cambyses’ party approached from the south. The asabari had also divided, coming from the north and east. Psamtek was said to be in a party of just ten men, holed up overnight. Taking him would be easy, as long as he could be found. Darius watched the doorway to the tomb about thirty paces away. A rectangular black shadow was a void beneath the carved stone lintel. Suddenly there was light, a tiny blur within the blackness. The pale, fluttering wings of a moth, or the swish of a linen sleeve as its owner peered out. The tomb must be open. Someone was inside. Darius leant over on the saddlecloth, tapped Megabyzus on the arm and pointed.
‘Don’t see anything,’ Megabyzus whispered.
‘Wait …’
Cambyses had seen the exchange. He tapped Darius on the shoulder with his charioteer’s whip. Again Darius pointed at the tomb and made a sign that he had seen something move. Cambyses nodded and drew his bow, training it on the doorway. They sat in silence.
The sound of horses drew closer, until about three hundred paces away Darius saw them approaching, dark shapes and soft glints from equipment and armour. They were strung out in a cordon. At least they had got that much right.
Again movement showed against the black rectangle, this time the unmistakable shape of a face skulking in the shadows. Darius jumped down, drew his sword and jogged softly towards it. Megabyzus followed, his stocky body and heavy tread making rather more noise as his feet crunched over gravel and sand, but it didn’t matter, the line of horses was approaching quickly, and before they reached the tomb a figure in a tall helmet shot out like a rabbit bolting from its hole. Darius saw the shape come at him then had the wind knocked from his chest as they collided with a thump. His sword was dashed from his hand, powerful arms gripped his throat. He drew back his head and butted the man in the face. Falling back, the man spat an Egyptian curse. There were more figures behind him, and the sound of running feet. Darius leaped on the recumbent figure and punched down hard. He couldn’t tell where he had connected, but felt yielding flesh and heard a groan. Somewhere a bow released followed by a scream, some blows, then a volley of arrows and more screams. Grabbing the front of the man’s tunic Darius pulled him upright, brought his knee up into his groin and punched him again, twice, in the face. The man fell back, retching in agony. Darius recovered his sword and stood over him, pointing the blade at his throat. ‘Sit forward,’ he commanded in Egyptian. The man complied. ‘Both palms flat on the ground.’
For the first time, Darius had a chance to examine his enemy, marvelling at the richness of his dress. Cold moonlight glittered on the intricate patterns embroidered in silver thread into the neck of his tunic, the gold-edged scales of his armour, the jewelled dagger at his hip, the gold-hilted sword on his belt and the magnificent war bow, its belly chased with electrum, that had fallen from his shoulder. Lying on the ground beside him was a tall, blue leather khepresh war crown, in its centre a fiery serpent rearing up to strike. ‘Pharaoh!’ Darius exclaimed.
Pharaoh said nothing. Darius saw moonlight reflected in the bright highlights of his eyes as they darted left and right, as though searching for an escape route. Before Pharaoh could move Darius was on him, dragging his arms behind his back and binding them with the purple Spearbearers’ headcloth that he unknotted from his helmet. Psamtek did not try to resist. For a keepsake, Darius reached down and took Pharaoh’s magnificent dagger, hiding it in his gown. Then he looked around. Megabyzus had grabbed the second man, a priest, and beaten him to the ground. The other eight were all tall, well-built Egyptia
n guardsmen, now lying on the ground riddled with arrows.
One, much larger than the rest, was a massively muscled giant with an arrow through his heart.
Cambyses rolled his chariot forward and dismounted. A torch flared into life and was held aloft near the king. With barely a nod of thanks to Darius, he stood over Pharaoh and looked down, hatred on his face. Darius knew that by escaping and rebelling Psamtek had sealed his own fate. In a long-standing precedent set by Cyrus, Persia’s enemies were treated leniently once they had surrendered. But if they then rebelled, mercy was never shown.
This time Cambyses didn’t speak. To the disgust of everyone watching he fumbled with his gown, lifted it to his waist and pissed noisily on Pharaoh. As Pharaoh trembled with humiliation, Cambyses waved an outstretched finger towards the captive, ordering his guards to tie him up and sling him over the back of a horse.
Darius’s mood on the journey back to Memphis was strangely flat. This hadn’t been a victory, just a necessary exercise. By the time Cambyses jumped down from his chariot in the palace courtyard the sun was up, bathing the lotus-topped capitals on the columns in morning gold. Full of contempt, the king pointed his bow at the trussed-up Pharaoh. ‘Take him to the roof of the palace and skin him alive. Let the people hear their man-god squeal.’
Pharaoh was hanging by his wrists from a wooden frame by the time Darius reached the palace roof. A eunuch with a small, very sharp knife was examining the Egyptian’s flank, looking for the best place to cut. The skin down the back of each calf had already been sliced in a neat line and was being carefully peeled away, the flesh underneath red and raw. Apparently, Cambyses wanted the skin of each limb removed in a single piece, a challenge even for his skilled butchers. Drawn by the screaming, an angry crowd had gathered in the nearby streets, but with archers on the roof and squadrons of asabari in the courtyard visible through the newly restored palace gates, the Egyptians didn’t dare approach too closely.