Amazon

by Peter Darman

  ‘Consider this. If a horse could paint or sculpt, it would create the gods in its own image. And the same would happen if a snake was given the same ability. But the existence and power of the gods are real, and those who can harness that power, albeit fleetingly, are a great asset.’

  ‘Claudia is elsewhere,’ I said, ‘and I doubt we will hear from her in the foreseeable future.’

  ‘That is…’

  ‘Unfortunate,’ I interrupted, ‘I know.’

  He tilted his head at me and departed back to the barracks across the courtyard, which housed his office. I walked towards the palace but was stopped in my tracks by Arsam pacing from the gates.

  ‘A word, majesty, if I may.’

  Arsam rarely left the armouries a short distance from the Citadel, preferring the company of his armourers and their apprentices to soldiers and officials. In his prime he had had thick arms and a barrel chest and though he still looked strong, the chest was a little saggy and the arms had thinned. Years of working near furnaces and hammering hot metal on anvils had decorated those limbs with a host of tiny scars and he was now completely bald. He may have been in his sixties but he was still the man who had forged the weapons that had given the army victory after victory.

  ‘Arsam, we don’t often have the pleasure of your company. Will you join me for refreshments in the palace?’

  ‘Thank you, majesty, but no. I have the production of a huge quantity of arrows to oversee, the city being placed on a war footing, you understand.’

  ‘So how can I help you?’

  He looked me straight in the eye. ‘It’s the queen, majesty.’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘I was wondering if you could have a word with her about moving her training sessions from the armoury compound. It upsets the normal routine, you see.’

  I had no idea what he was talking about but I could see he was agitated and an agitated Arsam was the last thing I wanted with Dura about to face its greatest trial.

  ‘Perhaps you could show me.’

  He said nothing as we left the Citadel to walk the short distance to the armouries, a party of Exiles providing an escort. But he was mumbling under his breath to indicate he was most unhappy. For the life of me I had no idea why Gallia was training in the armoury compound.

  The armouries, Dura’s own version of the underworld with their furnaces, growling bellows and sheds where temperatures exceeded those outside in the blazing sun, were encompassed by a thick, high mud-brick wall and were guarded day and night. The vault beneath the Treasury in the Citadel may have held a hoard of gold, but the storerooms in the armoury compound held the real wealth of Dura – its weapons and armour. And Arsam was our very own Cerberus, the multi-headed dog in Greek mythology that guarded the gates to the underworld. And he was not happy.

  He kept mumbling as we passed the guards to the armouries, the legionaries snapping to attention as we walked by them. Inside the air smelled of charcoal and an acrid metal-like aroma that was unpleasant to inhale. Apprentices came and went from the forges where swords, maces, axes and armour were being made and repaired, others coming from finishing sheds where mail armour was being manufactured and handles were being attached to finished swords, axes and maces. A cart arrived at the gate loaded with hide from the tannery located some miles south of the city and one of Marcus’ quartermasters was examining a row of finished shields, replete with hide covers painted white and sporting red griffins. Everything looked quite normal.

  ‘This way, majesty,’ said Arsam.

  Behind the sheds, warehouses and forges was a cleared area containing straw-filled targets so new and repaired bows and arrowheads could be tested; straw dummies fitted with mail and scale armour and helmets to test them against arrows, spears and blades; and stands to hold shields to carry out similar tests. Except the area was filled with Amazons and young girls, the former teaching the latter how to shoot arrows at a row of targets. And behind them was Gallia, walking up and down and talking loudly to the trainees.

  ‘When the enemy comes they will not care if you are a girl or a young woman. If they breach the walls you cannot rely on the menfolk to protect you for if Dura’s walls are taken then they will all be dead. You will be raped and killed, or perhaps enslaved, which is a living death worse than anything you can imagine.

  ‘Your only choice is to fight and kill those who would rape and kill you. So pay attention to your instructors and shoot straight. In your minds let the target become Tiridates, for he above all deserves to die.

  ‘Always remember – it is better to die on your feet than live on your knees.’

  The trainees, all teenage girls and a few no older than ten or eleven, squealed with delight and set about their shooting with gusto, shooting so-called baby bows that were smaller versions of full-sized recurve bows. Arrows thudded into targets and into the sand banks behind when a girl missed. There must have been fifty girls and a score of Amazons, the latter giving encouragement. Gallia gave us a withering look when she spotted us. I nodded and smiled but I could tell she was in a prickly mood as she strode over.

  Dressed in full war gear – boots, legging, mail shirt and sword and dagger hanging from her belt – she shouted at the girls to keep practising when a few spotted me and stopped their shooting to gawp. Arsam bowed to her but she ignored him.

  ‘What is this?’ I asked.

  ‘Is your eyesight poor?’ she shot back. ‘I would have thought it was obvious what is going on. I am preparing Dura for a siege. What are you doing?’

  Arsam smarted at her terse tone to her husband but I had been on the end of her sharp tongue for many years and barely noticed. He cleared his throat. She rolled her eyes.

  ‘Begging your pardon, majesty.’

  ‘Why, what have you done?’ she asked.

  ‘The armouries are not the Amazons’ training fields, majesty,’ he told her, ‘nor are they a nursery.’

  Her blue eyes bored into him.

  ‘The armouries and everyone in them are mine to command,’ she hissed. ‘I do not have to explain myself to you, Arsam. However, as I am in a good mood…’

  I laughed, to be frozen by a Gallic glare.

  ‘You surely would not condemn these girls to marching out to the training fields in the heat of the sun. They cannot ride so this is the ideal place for the Daughters of Dura to hone their skills.’

  ‘The Daughters of Dura?’ I queried.

  ‘Seeing as that pompous old Scelias has forbidden the entry of women to the Sons of Citadel, I have decided to establish an all-female scheme so those from less privileged backgrounds can learn to defend themselves.’

  ‘That is very commendable, majesty,’ said Arsam, ‘but the fact remains that these girls are interfering in the day-to-day running of the armouries.’

  ‘The city is on a war footing, Arsam,’ she snapped, ‘so they will use these targets until the danger has passed, either that or the city is a pile of smoking rubble.’

  ‘What do the parents say about their daughters partaking in martial activities?’ I asked, changing the subject.

  ‘They have no parents,’ said Gallia, ‘they are orphans, many of them were beggars on the streets until I set up an orphanage in the city to save them and prepare them for life.’

  I had to admit I was impressed. The girls looked healthy and well fed, and extremely eager.

  ‘They are taught to read and write as well as fight,’ said Gallia. ‘That must be a shock for you, Arsam, girls being able to fight.’

  Before he could answer Gallia called one of the girls over, a lithe individual around sixteen with her long dark brown hair plaited down her back in the Amazon style. She stood before me, bow in hand, and bowed.

  ‘Haya, what is best in life?’ said Gallia.

  The girl did not hesitate. ‘To crush your enemies, to see them driven before you, to avenge friends killed by the foe, and never yield to anyone.’

  ‘What is your ambition, Haya?’ asked Gallia.<
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  ‘To join the Amazons, majesty.’

  ‘What is the motto of the Amazons?’

  ‘Behind every strong man is a stronger woman,’ came the reply.

  ‘Very good,’ smiled Gallia, ‘back to your practice.’

  The girl bowed and ran back to her quiver and target.

  ‘Perhaps the royal stud farm could provide some horses so the girls could ride out to the training fields,’ I suggested.

  ‘There is no time, Pacorus,’ said Gallia. ‘Even as we stand here Tiridates is probably marching on Dura with his army.’

  She was like the escarpment upon which Dura sat: unmoveable. So I told Arsam that as soon as the present emergency passed, if we still lived afterwards, the Daughters of Dura would relocate to a more suitable location for their training sessions.

  ‘And when will that be, majesty?’ he asked.

  ‘I estimate Tiridates will be here in less than two weeks.’

  Chapter 8

  Nothing happened. Tiridates went back to Ctesiphon and spent his time writing letters, lots of them. He appointed King Darius of Media Lord High General of the Empire, and then sent a letter to every kingdom announcing the appointment. He appointed Dagan King of Babylon and then sent a letter to all the kingdoms in the empire informing him of the former governor’s elevation. Then followed the elevation of the turncoat Osrow to the throne of Persis, with the inevitable missives to every Parthian king explaining why this was long overdue. He sent letters to Gafarn, Spartacus and Silaces thanking them for their services to the empire and stressing his desire to avoid any further bloodshed and to usher in a ‘new age’ for Parthia. This prompted more letters between Elymais and Dura, Hatra and Dura and Vanadzor and Dura, my friends pledging their allegiance and Spartacus stating he would not support a war against Dura.

  But there was no war against Dura. Tiridates embarked on a more long-term strategy to isolate me and make my support for Phraates irrelevant. As the days turned into weeks the army was stood down, the city was no longer on a war footing and things returned to normal. The trade caravans continued to travel through Dura, on to Palmyra and vice-versa. As a gesture of goodwill, Tiridates informed all the kings that he would not collect the annual tribute. The only military move he made was to send a force to Uruk to secure the capital of our dead friends’ kingdom.

  ‘It is an insult to their memory.’

  Gallia was spitting blood when Rsan read out the latest letter from Ctesiphon to add to the already bulging volume of correspondence from the new high king. Rsan unfortunately threw fuel on the fire.

  ‘According to custom, majesty, the high king is entitled to appoint a ruler to a kingdom whose former rulers have no male heir.’

  ‘Entitled?’ roared Gallia, making us all jump. ‘Tiridates is a murderer and outlaw who is responsible for the deaths of Nergal and Praxima.’

  Rsan, mortified, began to babble an apology.

  ‘Majesty, I did not wish to…’

  But Gallia cut him dead.

  ‘I will hear nothing more about Tiridates’ entitlement. The only thing that concerns me is getting justice for Nergal and Praxima.’

  ‘We all want that,’ I said, ‘but that depends on Phraates making an appearance and no one knows where he is.’

  ‘Or if he is still alive,’ mused Chrestus.

  Rsan was looking very morose. ‘I pray Princess Claudia is safe after the high king’s outlawing of the Scythian Sisters. Such a petty act.’

  ‘On that we can agree,’ said Gallia.

  ‘So, what is our strategy?’ asked Chrestus.

  ‘Hatra, Elymais and Gordyene have pledged their support if Dura is attacked,’ I told him, ‘but they have no appetite for a war of aggression against Tiridates.’

  ‘So there will be no war, then,’ suggested Chrestus, ‘for Tiridates will not move against Dura, or at least he has made no intimation of doing so.’

  ‘He is clever,’ said Aaron, toying with his beard, ‘he has seized the high crown and now spends his time making conciliatory gestures towards those who might be potential enemies. On a positive note, trade has returned to normal and the caravans are travelling freely again. This brings me to a related matter, majesty.’

  He turned and snapped his fingers to prompt one of his two clerks to hand him a roll of papyrus. Chrestus groaned but Aaron ignored him, perusing the contents of the scroll before revealing them to the rest of the council.

  ‘General Silani and his Babylonians and the Scythian soldiers are proving quite a drain on the treasury, majesty. When will they be leaving for Babylon?’

  ‘Silani’s horsemen are excellent soldiers,’ said Chrestus, ‘and as such are a useful addition to the army. The Scythians are a rough and ready lot, I will grant you, but they are hardy and don’t mind dying for a good cause.’

  ‘If we send Silani back to Babylon, Aaron,’ I said, ‘most likely Tiridates will have him executed for being the commander of Phraates’ bodyguard. I will not sanction that.’

  ‘So, they are to be added to the army’s order of battle, majesty?’ asked Chrestus.

  ‘For the foreseeable future, yes,’ I answered.

  Aaron sighed, Rsan looked thoughtful and Chrestus triumphant.

  I saved Silani’s life but could do nothing as that of another slipped away. Marcus continued to deteriorate and Alcaeus summoned me to the Roman’s home when his condition suddenly worsened. I walked with Gallia to his house, which was surrounded by a high wall with a large gate directly opposite its main entrance, with stables and store rooms along the walls either side of the courtyard. In the middle of the courtyard was a large fountain, the sound of running water pleasing to the ears to give the residence a calm aspect. I stood just inside the gate, our escort standing either side of the entrance, Gallia carrying on towards the house’s entrance. She stopped as I was looking around the courtyard, walking back to me.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I was just thinking this was where Marcus and the other Romans we captured were imprisoned after our victory over Lucius Furius.’

  ‘I never thought I would hear that name again.'

  A wave of sadness washed over me.

  ‘Where do the years go? I wish.’

  She laid a hand on my arm. ‘Wishes are futile, Pacorus, we have to deal with the reality of life, however harsh it becomes. Come, our friend awaits.’

  An elderly steward, distress etched on his face, came from the house to greet us.

  ‘Welcome, majesties, may I serve you some refreshments?’

  Gallia smiled at him. ‘That will not be necessary. We have come to see your master.’

  Inside the sparsely furnished house weeping servants went about their business, the steward speaking words of comfort as we passed them. We walked up the stairs to the first floor where a tired Alcaeus was sitting on a bench outside Marcus’ bedroom. He rose when he saw us, Gallia wrapping her arms around him and kissing him on the cheek.

  ‘How is he?’ I asked, knowing the answer.

  ‘He’s dying,’ his friend told us. ‘His lungs are failing and his breathing is very laboured.

  ‘Is there nothing you can do for him?’ I pleaded.

  His brown eyes were filling with tears.

  ‘I have tried everything I know and have paid for prayers to be said in the temple, but alas there is no remedy for a tired, worn-out old body.’

  Alcaeus opened the door a fraction and peeked inside.

  ‘I think he is awake.’

  We entered the darkened room, the shutters drawn to keep out the light, and I saw Marcus lying in the middle of his bed, a sheet covering his body, his head supported by a pillow. Alcaeus leaned over him.

  ‘Some people are here to see you, old friend.’

  His eyes opened and he smiled wanly as he recognised us. Gallia gently stroked his crown and kissed it.

  ‘How is my favourite Roman?’

  He tried to rise but she told him to remain horizontal.

  �
��I don’t seem to be able to muster enough strength, majesty,’ he replied weakly. ‘I’m sure a few days’ rest will see me fine.’

  He lifted a hand from the sheet to acknowledge me and I held it, emotion welling up inside as I saw a dear friend slipping away. We sat on the edge of the bed and listened as Marcus recounted episodes of his life at Dura. Tears ran down my face as he talked with pride about his siege engines and the services they had rendered the army.

  ‘I have been happy here and if a man can say he has lived a happy life, then that life has been worth living.’

  ‘Dura is safe and strong because of you, Marcus,’ I told him. ‘It owes you a debt that can never be repaid.’

  ‘You have all been very kind,’ he said, his voice very weak. ‘I thought I would miss Italy but I came to love Dura, its rulers and people.’

  He looked at me. ‘I would ask a favour, majesty.’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘Would you bury me according to Roman custom. I would like to see my parents again to tell them all about Dura and Parthia.’

  ‘I promise.’

  He died that evening, Alcaeus sending word to the palace that his friend had gone. The relief that Dura was not going to be attacked was replaced by a feeling of great loss that infused the whole Citadel. Marcus Sutonius had been the army’s quartermaster general, the man who had ensured its smooth running in times of peace and war. And now he was gone. I did not send a message to Rsan’s mansion but went there myself to convey the sad news, knowing he would take it hard and did not think it appropriate he should receive ill tidings while alone. For my aged governor the loss of a dear friend was a hard blow, but I comforted myself and him by stressing he still had Aaron and Alcaeus to call on for friendship and support.

  The funeral was held the evening after Marcus had died. It was a very Roman affair, the corpse being washed, perfumed and dressed in finery, Alcaeus placing coins on Marcus’ eyes to ensure his soul had a safe passage to the underworld. A century of Durans with torches provided an escort when the body was carried from the house to the site where it would be cremated. It was carried on an open bier by six people: Lucius Varsas, myself, Alcaeus, Azad, Sporaces and Farid, the latter unashamedly crying as we carried Marcus on his final journey in this life. Behind walked an ashen-faced Rsan, arm-in-arm with Gallia, and Aaron with his wife, son and daughter-in-law. Behind them came a long line of Romans who lived and worked in Dura, mostly merchants who had found rich pickings living in a city through which ran the Silk Road. I was surprised just how many Romans there were. But Dura had always welcomed anyone regardless of race or religion, so long as they obeyed the law and paid their taxes.