Amazon

by Peter Darman

  ‘Well, that is very generous of him,’ I said, wondering what my present was. ‘Is it an animal?’

  The Babylonian officer appeared perplexed. ‘Animal, majesty?’

  ‘A lion, perhaps?’

  He shook his head. ‘Allow me to show you, majesty.’

  He looked at the centurion who shouted to the guards at the gates.

  ‘Let them enter.’

  Those within earshot around the courtyard – servants, stable hands, legionaries, clerks – turned to stare at the gates, through which tramped two rows of men and woman in chains.

  ‘Oh dear,’ muttered Aaron, unused to seeing slaves in the Citadel.

  Both their wrists and ankles were chained, and they were linked together with other chains, their feet bare and bleeding and their arms dirty, scratched and torn.

  ‘Sixty slaves, majesty,’ beamed the Babylonian, ‘thirty males and thirty females, all in their prime.’

  ‘Release them at once,’ I shouted at him. ‘Is this some sort of joke?’

  His haughty, high-born demeanour vanished as I took two paces towards him until our faces were inches apart. He was taller than me, but he appeared to visibly diminish as I stood fuming at him.

  ‘I, I do not understand, majesty,’ he blurted out.

  The overseers flanking the slaves were drinking greedily from their water bottles for it was another blisteringly hot day. Most of the female slaves, despite being in their twenties or teens, looked fit to drop. Out of the corner of my eye I saw one girl hold out her hands pleadingly to an overseer for some water. He grinned at her, held out his water bottle and poured its contents on the ground, replaced the cork plug and then struck her across the arm with his whip.

  I stormed over to him, grabbed the whip from his hand, tossed it aside and struck him across the face.

  ‘Hurts, doesn’t it.’

  He was a thickset brute, immune to human suffering and used to dishing out punishment, not receiving it. His ugly face contorted into a mask of rage and he pulled his knife. I stepped back and drew my sword, but his rage was replaced by a pained grimace and he dropped to the ground, a javelin embedded in his body, thrown by one of the Exiles at the gates, who had seen me walk towards the overseer. The centurion blew his whistle, which brought the duty century running from the guardhouse.

  ‘Help the king, the king is in danger,’ squealed Aaron, unsteady on his feet when he saw the skewered body of the overseer gushing blood. Exiles surrounded the Babylonian Guards with swords drawn and others disarmed and knocked to the ground the other overseers. More soldiers came running from the barracks on the south side of the courtyard and stable hands armed with knives and hammers ran from the stables.

  The centurion was beside me, gladius in hand, shielding me with his body.

  ‘Are you hurt, majesty?’

  ‘No.’

  The female slaves began wailing and sobbing, thinking they too might be killed by javelins. From the palace came Gallia, Claudia and Praxima, the two queens with swords in hand as they ran down the palace steps to add to the pandemonium, the alarm bell ringing at the gatehouse.

  ‘The treasurer is dead.’

  I heard the cry and saw the crumpled figure of Aaron lying on the cobblestones. More wails and screams from the female slaves. Gallia and Praxima ran over to Aaron, my wife cradling his head in her arms.

  ‘Fetch Alcaeus,’ she shouted.

  I ran over to them and saw no blood. He had fainted.

  ‘Water!’ I hollered.

  A stable hand ran to one of the water troughs in the courtyard and dipped a bucket in it, running over and handing me it. I emptied the contents over Aaron, splashing Gallia. Aaron came back to the land of the living with a start. Praxima left her wet friend to begin circling the Babylonian officer with sword in hand, who was at a loss to comprehend what had just happened. She sneered at his expensive uniform, boots and helmet.

  ‘You dare bring slaves into Dura’s Citadel. On your knees, dog.’

  ‘Take Aaron into the palace so he can regain his wits,’ I instructed.

  ‘I did not know,’ pleaded the officer, two Exiles forcing him down on his knees.

  ‘To do so is death,’ spat Praxima.

  One of the Exiles grabbed the officer’s helmet and tossed it aside, the other forcing his head down. Praxima gripped her sword with both hands and raised it high above her head, ready to sever his head.

  ‘Praxima, no,’ I bellowed, racing over to put myself between her and her intended victim. ‘No more bloodshed in the courtyard, it will only upset Aaron.’

  She lowered her sword and I assisted the shaken officer to his feet.

  ‘You should not return here,’ an angry Praxima told him, slipping her sword back into its scabbard before walking over to Gallia to assist her in taking Aaron into the palace.

  ‘Stand down,’ I ordered, ‘everyone back to their duties.’

  Disappointed stable hands and off-duty soldiers shuffled back where they came from. The Exiles disarmed the overseers and placed them under arrest.

  ‘And get these slaves unshackled and into the shade,’ I shouted.

  Blacksmiths from the workshop in the northwest corner of the courtyard brought anvils and chisels to break the slaves’ fetters, servants bringing buckets of water and ladles to supply much-needed drinks. An amused Claudia sauntered over to me.

  ‘What are you smiling about?’

  ‘I was just thinking that Phraates would be delighted to know he was the cause of such a commotion. Will you be keeping his gift?’

  ‘The slaves, you mean?’

  She nodded.

  ‘They will be freed so they can decide their own futures. I will find work for them in the palace or on the crown estates if they desire to stay.’

  ‘Which they will,’ she said, ‘a slave has a very simple outlook on life. They tend not to be deep thinkers.’

  ‘May I remind you that I was once a slave.’

  She grinned. ‘My point exactly.’

  A panting Alcaeus, medical bag slung over his shoulder, trotted into the courtyard and came over to us.

  ‘Where is the emergency?’

  I nodded at the dead overseer. ‘He’s beyond help, and Aaron fainted.’

  ‘I heard he had been killed.’

  ‘Alas, no,’ quipped Claudia.

  ‘That’s enough,’ I scolded her.

  ‘So, no emergency,’ gasped Alcaeus.

  ‘No,’ I answered.

  He readily accepted a ladle of water offered him. He wiped his brow with a cloth and looked at the slaves waiting patiently to be freed.

  ‘Slaves?’

  ‘A birthday gift for my father from King of Kings Phraates,’ Claudia told him.

  ‘It is sometimes difficult to believe such an amoral, vindictive individual is the son of Orodes and Axsen,’ said Alcaeus.

  Chapter 3

  The day of the feast finally arrived, dozens of guests making their way to the palace’s banqueting hall as the sun dropped in the west. The cooks had been hard at work all day preparing a banquet fit for not just one but several kings and their queens. Kalet and his lords arrived already inebriated, the former stating they did so out of respect because they did not want to abuse my hospitality by drinking excessive amounts of beer. Their demand for drink as soon as they were seated meant their pledge disappeared quicker than any lingering sobriety. Despite their face tattoos and black garb, the Agraci lords Malik had brought were more abstemious, as were Prince Pacorus, Adeleh and the senior commanders of Hatra’s Royal Bodyguard.

  Spartacus was his usual reserved, brooding self, frequently sneering at the richly attired Hatran nobles whom he despised, though he was always respectful to his mother, father and brother. For the first time in what seemed like an age I was eating with all my daughters, Eszter having managed to drag herself away from Kalet’s roguish son who winked and grinned at her as he descended into drunkenness. She smiled back and tried to be demure, failing miser
ably. Relations between Isabella and Claudia were cordial, though the sorcery the latter had weaved at Sigal had created a chasm between them that had yet to be bridged. For his part Salar engaged Claudia in polite conversation and said nothing of the time he and his wife had requested my eldest daughter leave their kingdom.

  As the drink flowed the noise increased, men shouting at each other to be heard and calling for more food and drink. Individuals were jabbing knives at those opposite in animated conversation, probably about some insignificant matter that had become wildly exaggerated as a result of alcohol. The main cutlery item was a knife, which was held in the right hand. A piece of bread was traditionally held in the left hand, food was cut with the knife and placed on the bread before being eaten. The more sophisticated guests ate the main course in such a fashion; the rougher elements grabbed roast mutton, goat, lamb, beef, goose and chicken with their hands. Extra servants had been hired to ferry the meat, bread and vegetables from the kitchens to the banqueting hall, plus the jugs of wine and beer that were emptied as soon as they were placed on the long tables covered with white cloths.

  A favourite food of mine was round flat bread topped with cheese, dates and herbs, which had been cooked on a metal plate over a stove. The cheese melted to give the dish a unique taste.

  ‘It will never catch on,’ said Gallia beside me.

  I looked at Salar, Eszter and Isabella tucking into slices.

  ‘I don’t know, it is very palatable and easy to make by all accounts.’

  ‘Melted cheese on bread?’ she scoffed. ‘Hardly the food of the gods.’

  ‘Claudia,’ I called, ‘do you think the gods would like my cheese-topped flatbread?’

  ‘I doubt it will make them forego nectar and ambrosia, father,’ she replied.

  After the main course had been finished, fruit – apples, pomegranates, almonds, raisins, pears, figs, plums, apricots, melons and mulberries – was served, along with yoghurt, cakes and pastries. The yoghurt and cakes were usually eaten from bowls with spoons but Kalet, his companions and the Agraci used their fingers. The Hatran officers were aghast at such behaviour.

  I emptied my cup and poured more wine into it. I grew up in an empire where beer was favoured above all beverages but my time in Italy had resulted in me acquiring a taste for wine. I turned the cup in my hand. It was a simple metal affair, a far cry from the gold rhytons found at Ctesiphon, Babylon or indeed Hatra. I looked at the table where the surviving Companions were enjoying themselves. A hundred and twenty had fled to Parthia in the aftermath of the disaster in the Silarus Valley and now only a score remained. Of them only Alcaeus still served in the army, the rest having retired, though the sons and daughters of the Companions could still be found in the ranks. Sadness suddenly washed over me. I had lost so many friends and Companions over the years. I searched the tables in vain for those who had been my friends: Lucius Domitus, Drenis, Kronos, Spandarat, Vagharsh, Surena and Orodes. Dear Orodes, a man of honour, generosity, bravery and warmth.

  ‘How Parthia misses you, my friend,’ I said.

  ‘Did you say something, Pacorus?’ asked Gallia.

  ‘No, nothing.’

  After more than two hours of drinking and eating Kalet sprang to his feet and called for silence.

  ‘Be quiet, you whoremongers,’ he bellowed, earning him dark stares from the more refined of those present. ‘Let’s hear from the king.’

  This earned a more positive response, men banging the tables and chanting ‘speech, speech’ to get me to speak. I had not planned to say anything but a sea of expectant and flushed faces staring at me, plus Gallia jabbing a finger into my side to urge me on, made me rise to my feet. The banging on the tables increased in intensity and so I waited for the din to subside. Then the hall was strangely quiet aside from the odd belch.

  ‘My friends, it warms my heart to see you all here. I came to Dura many years ago to a city that was a backwater of the empire, a place where those unwanted by Parthia were exiled.’

  I extended an arm to Malik and the Agraci. ‘At the time this city and the lords who lived beyond its walls were at war with King Haytham of the Agraci, a man who provoked fear throughout Parthia. I consider it one of my greatest achievements that his son now sits in this hall, a man I am proud to call a friend and ally.’

  This was greeted with applause and cheers, though I noticed a couple of Hatran officers stared down at the table. Old habits die hard and especially so in Hatra.

  ‘I would like us all to take a few moments to remember those of our friends and colleagues who have left this life over the years, but who still live in our hearts and memories. They and we have fought to make the world, or at least the part of it called Parthia, a better place. A place where justice, truth and honour hold pride of place. Some may scoff at such notions, but the blood that has been spilt in the wars we have fought in my mind only makes sense if those wars were waged to replace the bad with something better, a fairer place where the rule of law and justice are held in high esteem and are respected by high-born and commoners alike.

  ‘Just one man’s opinion.’

  My words were greeted with applause, though I suspected individuals like Kalet would have applauded if I had proclaimed myself a god. I looked at Gallia.

  ‘Finally, I would like to honour the one person who has been my rock ever since I met her on another piece of rock called Vesuvius many years ago. I fell in love with her the moment I saw her and my love for her has not dimmed over the years, even if my physical demonstration of that love has dropped alarmingly.’

  I raised my cup to her. ‘To you, Gallia, Princess of the Gauls, Amazon, Queen of Dura and mother to our daughters. May the gods bless you and keep you safe.’

  The guests stood and raised their drinking vessels.

  ‘To Gallia,’ they said as one.

  ‘Now enough of talk,’ I said, ‘there is wine and beer to be drunk.’

  There were hearty cheers and everyone sat, the volume of chatter gradually rising as the feast continued. When I retook my seat Gallia squeezed my arm and kissed me on the cheek.

  ‘Oh, dear.’

  ‘Did I say something remiss?’ I asked but she was not looking at me.

  Her gaze was directed at the entrance to the hall where two individuals stood holding hands. Others saw them and soon people were pointing at the couple as the babble of noise died down. I saw alarm on Diana’s face and surprise on Malik’s. Byrd looked at Noora and shrugged but Spartacus rose from his seat like an angry cobra rising up to bare its fangs.

  For Akmon and Lusin had come to my hall.

  The majority of people present had no idea who they were, but they soon realised their arrival signalled a change in atmosphere. I stood and smiled at them but Spartacus’ face was a mask of simmering rage. Rasha jumped from her seat to walk briskly towards the pair, prompting an outbreak of whispers. Spartacus stood still but turned to the commander of his King’s Guard and said something I could not hear. His name was Shamshir and I did not care for him. He was always dressed immaculately in black boots, black leggings and red tunic, his hair and beard well groomed. But he had a callous nature and his eyes were as cold as ice. He followed Rasha with two of his officers, obviously intent on apprehending Akmon and his wife.

  Chrestus speedily left his seat and came to my side.

  ‘Your nephew appears to have suddenly lost his humour, majesty.’

  ‘Bring more guards,’ I commanded.

  He quickly paced from the chamber, passing Rasha who was embracing her son fondly, Akmon still clutching his wife’s hand. Shamshir and his lieutenants were then behind their queen, waiting for Spartacus’ orders, which were not long in coming.

  ‘Arrest him,’ the King of Gordyene’s voice was deep and purposeful.

  ‘Hold,’ I shouted, ‘Akon and Lusin are under my protection.’

  Now Spartacus moved, storming from his place to stand before me, all eyes in the chamber fixed on him.

  ‘This is
a private matter, uncle, best let me handle it.’

  Chrestus re-entered the hall with a dozen legionaries behind him.

  ‘Akmon and his wife are here to see you and Rasha,’ I told him, ‘not to be dragged away like common criminals.’

  ‘Wife?’ roared Spartacus, spinning on his heels to look at his son. ‘You married the bitch?’

  Rasha was surprised but Akmon enraged. ‘How dare you speak of Lusin in such a way. I knew it was a mistake coming here.’

  Spartacus had probably had too much to drink. He had certainly not taken the news his son had married Lusin well, but what he said next was unforgivable.

  ‘She is an Armenian whore,’ he roared.

  There were gasps from the other guests and Gafarn and Diana were appalled. Prince Pacorus had gone ashen. Akmon released his wife’s hand and stormed over to confront his father, the son as tall but not as broad or muscular as Spartacus. But it is not the size of the dog in a fight that counts but the size of the fight in the dog, and he struck his father across the face, the blow taking Spartacus by surprise and knocking him backwards.

  Cue pandemonium. Spartacus lunged at his son but Chrestus and his guards interposed themselves between the two, Shamshir joining in to keep father and son separated. It took four men to restrain the lion of Gordyene, only the intercession of Diana eventually calming him down.

  ‘Is this how Dura treats its guests?’ raged Spartacus.

  ‘I will never return to Gordyene,’ spat Akmon.

  ‘Do not say that,’ pleaded Rasha, ‘it is your home.’

  ‘Not any more, mother, Palmyra is my home.’

  Spartacus, Chrestus and his men forming a barrier between him and Akmon, looked at me and then at Malik, who cast his eyes down. Spartacus nodded.

  ‘You both knew of this?’

  ‘Not until recently,’ I answered.

  ‘I had to respect your son’s wishes,’ said Malik by way of apology.

  Spartacus’ rage returned. ‘Respect? What respect have you shown to Rasha or me? None. You knew I was searching for my son and yet he was hiding in Palmyra all the time and you were content to deceive me and Rasha.’