by Andrew James
The village was up on a hill, a collection of scattered hovels of mud and palm wood that looked deserted. Darius nudged Megabyzus, who cleared his throat. ‘We should leave the asabari out of sight, Great King. I have the horn. If we blow they will come.’ Cambyses inclined his brow, Gobryas rode back with the order and moments later the asabari’s hoofbeats faded into the palms then stopped altogether. Soon Gobryas returned. With his four Spearbearers flanking him, and the two hounds following, Cambyses trotted his mount up the hill.
Darius glanced at him sideways. The king’s mouth was set in a determined line, his bloodshot eyes narrowed painfully against the glare, his forehead creased. He had donned the full regalia of the throne, with the kitaris crown on his head and the lotus-topped ivory sceptre in his hand. He wore gilded armour over a pleated gown and finely tooled riding trousers of soft kidskin.
When a lone horseman appeared from among the beehive-shaped hovels, everyone reined in. The horseman walked his mount slowly down the hill towards them, onto the open hillside. The afternoon sun was behind him; Darius couldn’t see him well. Just beyond bowshot from the village, the horseman stopped. Nearby was a small grove of palms, enough to hide five or six men but no more. Cambyses stared at the grove suspiciously. ‘Go make sure those palms are clear,’ he told Darius. ‘And the village.’
Darius bowed at the neck, lifted the reins and trotted towards the lone horseman. As he approached he saw the man was richly dressed, his horse a magnificent white Nisaean stallion. Backlit by the sun, Darius still couldn’t see his face clearly. Without speaking they exchanged nods as Darius rode past and on into the village. Absurdly, Darius’s heart was pounding. A few chickens squawked at his approach. Farm implements lay against the walls of some hovels, near stacks of drying hay. Glancing down the hill, Darius saw Cambyses watching him. He thrust his spear noisily into the hay. There was no one there. Laying the spear against the wall of the hovel he drew his sword, shouted a challenge and pushed open a door. Goats bleated at the intrusion, the air inside smelling of them and an old smoky fire. Passing through the village he slammed each door open in turn. Other than livestock the village was deserted. Someone had cleared it.
Darius turned and looked down the hillside. The wooded valley where the asabari were sheltering was just out of the line of sight. The horsemen would be able to hear, but not see. Mounting up again, Darius rode downhill to the small grove, where an impenetrable thicket of spiky side shoots was growing from the base of the palms. With a show of thoroughness and plenty of noise he thrashed them with his spear, jabbing it deep into the tough vegetation. The grove was empty. His mouth dry, Darius shouted down. ‘All clear, Great King!’
Cambyses came up the hill slowly, the three other Spearbearers with him, bows strung and arrows in hand. Darius saw the king squinting into the sunlight, trying to make out the face of the lone rider. The hounds ran ahead, excited as they approached the horseman, barking and wagging their tails in recognition. Suddenly Cambyses stopped. His face screwed up in alarm. ‘You’re not …’
Darius seized Cambyses, clapping a hand around his mouth and dragging him off his horse. He fell with a bone-bruising thud that left him gasping. The hounds jumped around in confusion. Cambyses’ chest heaved as he tried to shout out, his arms and legs struggling violently, but Darius kept his hand clasped tightly over the king’s mouth. Megabyzus and Gobryas jumped off their horses and grabbed his arms; Armantidat bound his feet.
Otaneh dismounted from his white horse and stood over the king. ‘I am not Bardiya? No, Great King. Bardiya is far away. But after the humiliation of the last few years, I wanted to be here at the end.’
The King of Kings was sick. Very sick. So sick that no one was permitted to see him except his most loyal, trusted guards, who maintained a constant vigil at his bedside, praying for his recovery. It was reported that he had injured himself riding. By an astonishing stroke of misfortune, it was said, the cap had somehow fallen off his scabbard and the blade which had struck down the bull-god Apis had now pierced the king’s own thigh when he hastily mounted his horse. The wound had become corrupted, just as the wound on Apis’s thigh had become corrupted. Lying on a mat in a hovel in a deserted village he was wasting away, too weak even to be moved. Anyone visiting the village would see the cordon of soldiers thrown around it to ensure privacy, and a second cordon of picked men around the hut where the King of Kings lay dying.
Darius heard the whispers around the camp. Many said it was the revenge of Ptah, the Egyptian god, for Cambyses’ insult to his son Apis. Others pointed to the sudden and unexplained disappearance of Bagapata, the Chief Eunuch, who had vanished into thin air the same day as his master, and of the Spearbearer Zamasp, to suggest darker forces were at play. But who or what those darker forces might be, no one could say. In a hastily convened meeting of the senior army generals, Spitameneh, baivarapatish of the Immortals, confirmed that no one had been suspected of plotting against the King of Kings. And Otaneh, his loyal counsellor throughout his reign, said the same. At Otaneh’s invitation Darius was present at that meeting, as a trusted Spearbearer to the king and witness to the events when he was injured. No one questioned Darius’s account of what took place on the hillside. As long as the peace of the Empire was preserved, most of the officers seemed relieved at the thought of Cambyses quietly dying. Better he dies this way, they said, than after a rebellion, with all its messy business of killing an anointed king.
Inside his hut that night Cambyses accepted his fate surprisingly calmly. The harsh lines of his face relaxed as he gave himself up to it. ‘I knew someone would kill me in the end,’ he declared. ‘But I always thought it would be Bardiya, which is why I had Bagapata kill him.’
Stunned, everyone in the hut looked at the figure tied up on the ground. Cambyses smiled grimly. ‘Oh yes. Why do you think I was willing to come and meet him? I wanted to know if the dead could really rise. I wanted to see it with my own eyes. Now I know that they cannot. Whoever is sitting on my throne, urging you to kill me, it cannot be Bardiya.’
Recovering their composure, it was clear from their faces neither Otaneh nor Megabyzus believed Cambyses. Standing over his mat, Megabyzus made a blunt, rude gesture with his fingers, while Otaneh looked down at Cambyses with disgust. ‘You are contemptible to the last, trying to stir trouble against your brother.’
Darius alone thought Cambyses was telling the truth, that Bardiya really was dead. This conviction was strengthened when, instead of protesting loudly like a liar who was not being believed, Cambyses simply rolled onto his side and laughed. ‘Disbelieve me if you wish. It’s my one great consolation that you have all been fooled.’ Summoning the dregs of his malice, he laughed again, very softly, like a man who found his own joke highly amusing but didn’t expect anyone else to share it. ‘You dolts have put a changeling on the throne, and I think I know who it is. Rather than taking orders from a man of royal blood, an acknowledged son of Cyrus, you will be bowing down before a common magus – a slave girl’s bastard, a man so lowly most of you have never even noticed him as he went about his duties at the palace.’
He spoke with such conviction even Otaneh looked shaken. Darius realized it could be true. Cyrus had sired many bastard sons. Sometimes you saw one around the palace, or in the bazaar, and you just knew. It was the eyes normally, or the set of the head, the slightly stiff carriage, or some other indefinable characteristic that marked them out. But you knew; here was another of Cyrus’s bastards, got off serving girls or slaves or low-ranking concubines. They were often very able, but as bastards they were not eligible for the throne. Cyrus never abandoned them. Many became army officers, priests or senior scribes. But only Cambyses and Bardiya were acknowledged as royal sons, born in the purple from an acceptable, high-ranking wife.
Bagapata struggled and spat like an alley cat when he was dragged into Cambyses’ hut after dark. He had spent the day blindfolded, gagged and bound in a chest. Clinking with chains, Darius threw him to the ground be
side his former master. He said nothing about Parmys; but the irony that her former captor was himself in chains gave Darius great satisfaction. When he put to Bagapata that he had killed Bardiya, the eunuch staunchly denied it. Having heard his confession to Cambyses, Darius shook his head in disgust. The two prisoners sat staring at each other, both implacable in their assertions; Cambyses insisting Bardiya was dead, Bagapata that he was not.
Uncertainty was etched on Gobryas’s face as he listened to them argue. ‘It’s possible Cambyses is telling the truth, y’know.’
‘I don’t trust the eunuch,’ Otaneh answered. ‘But I trust Cambyses even less.’
When the death of the King of Kings was finally announced, most people heaved sighs of relief. The way was open for Bardiya to peacefully assume his throne. Only Darius had misgivings. Vinda, Megabyzus and a few others clapped him on the back in commiseration that he had lost his chance. ‘But at least with Bardiya on the throne we are all safe and secure,’ Megabyzus added. ‘He’s a sound, level-headed fellow.’
Hearing him, Darius fell into crisis and self-doubt. Every fibre of his body had told him he was destined to be king, and the Prophetess had hinted broadly at it too. Her words had thrilled him at the time, but that burning desert oasis was so far from the Syrian hills that her prophecies now seemed distant, almost incredible. Darius half wondered if he had imagined them. Had she really spoken of him uniting the ancient kings with the house of Cyrus? If so, she was wrong. Just as that deep, intense, almost visceral belief of Darius’s that he was destined for the throne was wrong. The fact was Bardiya had been crowned and Darius could never hope to supplant him. The prince was hugely popular, and still young enough to rule for twenty years or more. In that time, he would surely sire sons of his own. Sometimes, Darius mused bitterly, hope is so powerful it can twist reason; and that is what had happened to him. Now that reason was reasserting itself he sank into a confused and demoralized state. He would never be king after all.
Then the reign of terror began.
29
Magi everywhere. Hundreds of them, perhaps thousands, they seemed to be springing out of the ground like warriors from a serpent’s teeth. Darius hadn’t known this many of the priests even existed. No sooner was Cambyses dead than they began appearing in the Immortals’ camp, their tell-tale pointed caps bobbing among the tents. When the army finally reached Aleppo the city was crawling with magi, the craggy citadel under their guard and the labyrinthine bazaar patrolled by them, their sacred robes standing out from the crowds.
With Cambyses dead and the new king far away, Otaneh, as spadapati, was the most senior man present. He took control of the army, proudly announcing his intention to place himself and it at Bardiya’s disposal as soon as they reached Persia. As he marched the column steadily east, it seemed to Darius that every magus in the entire Empire had come to follow their progress. They gathered in small huddles, passing comment on everything they saw, whispering in their arcane language, scribbling furtive notes.
Darius wasn’t the only one who noticed. Six days west of Babylon, the Immortals made camp for the night. Shortly after the tents were pitched Megabyzus stormed into Otaneh’s tent and hurled himself onto a couch, fuming. ‘A committee of magi to vet all military appointments? What nonsense. Might as well have a committee of bakers to vet the slaughterhouses. What do magi know about fighting?’
Otaneh looked up sharply. ‘On whose orders?’
‘Bardiya’s, of course. I even checked the seal. It’s absolutely genuine, not like the one we cobbled together.’
‘That’s odd.’ Darius’s uneasy feeling about Bardiya returned. ‘Why would Bardiya suddenly be involved with the magi?’
‘Odder than you know,’ Otaneh added. ‘According to my reports, they have persuaded him to abandon Pathragada entirely and set up court at the castle where he was crowned. An obscure, out of the way spot, perched on the top of a mountain. No one’s allowed access to him without being vetted first by the High Magus.’
Darius had never liked the tribe of magi. Too crafty. And too subtle, with a secret agenda all of their own. Keepers of the sacred lore of mountains, streams, rivers and winds, the magi understood and interpreted the mysteries of the birds in flight and other, darker, signs. At least, that was their claim. Their realm was meant to be purely spiritual, so why were they surrounding Bardiya like bees around a honey pot? And him a man who had always spent his time hunting and feasting, rarely troubling himself with thoughts of the spiritual world. Just as the magi had never before involved themselves with the army.
Darius and his friends were eating bowls of fesenjan, a rich saffron stew of duck, walnut and pomegranate, prepared by Otaneh’s excellent chef, when the chamberlain announced an ‘important-looking visitor’ had arrived and was demanding ‘immediate’ access to the spadapati. ‘Whoever he is he can wait,’ Otaneh snapped. ‘A man is entitled to eat in peace in his own tent.’
The chamberlain bowed himself out. There was a shout. A deep ringing voice called out a blistering curse. Pursued by two guards rushing to catch him a man pushed his way through the flap and burst into the dining salon. He looked at each of the diners in turn, taking in the opulence of the chamber with a sneer. Darius saw on him the sacred robes and signs of a magus: the white gown, the tall cap, the bundle of myrtle twigs in his hand. His beard was long and straggling, but his eyes were rimmed with kohl like a courtier, he flashed with gold, and a sword was strapped to his waist. His voice was like thunder. ‘Spadapati Otaneh? I have ridden far. When I am on God’s work I do not expect to be kept waiting!’
He made his declaration with shocking insolence. Otaneh blinked twice. ‘Whoever you are, get out!’
The guards levelled their spears but the magus ignored them, thrusting forward a sealed leather pouch. ‘An order relieving you of your command. Sealed by the King of Kings. You will lay down your office at once.’
The Land Between the Rivers
‘Have you decided what to do?’ Vinda asked, when the group of friends reconvened in Otaneh’s tent for a light supper. An entire day had passed, and to Darius it still didn’t look as though Otaneh had fully recovered from the shock. His eyes were alert and thoughtful, his expression dignified, but there was a sadness on him, a hesitance that hadn’t been there before. He examined the order for the hundredth time and let it fall to the table. ‘It’s genuine. Bardiya is the king and I shall have to obey.’ He pursed his lips. ‘I must say, it does leave a nasty taste in the mouth. After all our efforts to dispose of his tyrannical brother. Not to mention all my years of friendship with Bardiya. Not a single word of thanks. It’s as though he’s writing to a complete stranger.’
Darius knew Otaneh well enough to realize he was deeply hurt by Bardiya’s offhand dismissal. It seemed remarkably inept, and Darius wondered what the new king hoped to gain by upsetting such a powerful ally.
‘Well, I have been waiting for an excuse to visit my estates,’ Vinda said philosophically. If he had been hoping for preferment under the new king, there was no sign of it arriving. ‘Now it seems the opportunity is here.’
Disappointed at Bardiya’s lack of recognition and gratitude, one by one the conspirators went their separate ways, Otaneh drifting slowly towards his palace in Pathragada, Megabyzus and Gobryas to their family lands. Darius had also hoped vaguely for some lucrative post from Bardiya, but the disappointment was less sharp as his mind was focused elsewhere. With Cambyses dead, Darius was finally free to search for Parmys. Politely declining Otaneh’s offer of hospitality he rode ahead alone at a fast pace, taking nothing but his weapons and armour. The last couple of months had given him ample time to plan a strategy. Now it was time to put it into effect.
From the tone of her letter he was certain Parmys would have wanted to get out of her father’s lands as quickly as possible, which surely meant escaping Nashirmeh and coming west. Darius put himself in her position and tried to think where she would hide. The obvious place would be to lose herself in a
city; the larger the city and the bigger its crowds, the better. Which made Babylon the obvious choice. He urged his horse towards the great city and remembered the sweet time they had spent there. The longing for her, the fear for her, returned with such force he felt his eyes water.
As he ran through events in his head, Darius felt terribly sad at the way things had turned out. Little could Parmys have imagined a few years ago that her father would be King of Kings. Even less could she have imagined that crowning Bardiya as king would be a disaster that threatened her life and blocked Darius’s ambition. For the old Bardiya, the kind, generous soul Darius had once known, perhaps he could have given that ambition up. But not now. Not for the strange, blood-crazed man who was emerging from three and a half years of obscurity to claim the throne.
When Darius reached the Euphrates it was winding its way lazily across the plain, as calm as ever. Sesame and millet were ripening in the fields. But curls of black smoke were rising over Babylon. He lifted a hand to his forehead and scanned the city’s skyline, eyes flicking across the squat, square buildings for signs of fighting, the glint of armour or blades. He saw none but alarmingly, on the peak of the Tower of Babel the solid gold statue of Marduk no longer flashed brilliantly in the sun. That statue was the soul of the city. More than anything else, what had earned Cyrus the love of his new Babylonian subjects was the honour he paid it. For it to be missing now was a sign of the severest calamity, as was the smouldering wreckage of the Esagila, the great temple beside the Tower, and the smoke rising from a dozen other temples dotted around the city.
Darius had always known Babylon as a city that lived for its gods. Deprived of them, it was already starting to look pale. The crowds on the Processional Way were scant, where normally they were heaving, and with growing anxiety he followed the route he and Parmys had taken to the temple of Ishtar. The temple of Enki, Lord of the Absu, was a smoking ruin, the doors smashed in, the pillars broken, as were the temples of Adad, the storm god, and Enlil, King of Heaven. With mounting tension he walked through the gateway of the temple of Ishtar and into the courtyard, where the body of the lithe priestess who had been kind to him and Parmys was tied to a palm tree, her gown around her feet and her throat cut. The rest of the raped and mutilated priestesses were scattered around, rotting in the sun. Steeling himself, Darius looked at each corpse. Thank the gods, Parmys was not among them. Nailed to the palm trunk was a piece of parchment bearing an edict. Written in Babylonian, Persian and Elamite, it read: