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by Peter Darman

  ‘What for?’

  The answer came a few seconds later when the man in the cot behind me sat up and threw up over my back.

  Alcaeus gave me a wicked grin. ‘Because he’s going to be sick. Orderly.’

  A flustered individual with blood and other body fluids on his leather apron rushed over to assist the patient in lying back down, snatching the bowl from me and shoving it under his chin. He uncorked a water bottle and raised it to the man’s lips.

  ‘Swill out your mouth and spit it out.’

  The patient did so and flopped back down. The orderly passed me the bowl.

  ‘Empty this.’

  ‘Welcome to the world of battle medicine, Pacorus.’

  ‘You look tired.’

  He took a towel from a nearby table and wiped his sweaty brow. He had dark rings around his eyes and he looked world-weary.

  ‘Your battles always keep me busy.’

  A man in a cot nearby was groaning, his eyes barely open, spittle dribbling from the corner of his mouth. Alcaeus walked over and wiped his mouth with the towel, uncorking the water bottle slung over his shoulder, lifting his head and gently pouring some liquid into his mouth.

  ‘Thank you,’ the man said in Latin.

  His breathing was shallow and by the look of the blood-soaked bandage around his shoulder a spear or sword had been thrust into his flesh. Alcaeus saw my look of concern after he had made the man comfortable and replaced the cork. He took my elbow to lead me away.

  ‘He’ll live to return to being a Roman legionary.’

  ‘I had no idea we would be fighting beside the Romans. I know it must have been difficult for you to stomach their presence in camp, you and others.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘I do not dislike the Romans as a race, Pacorus, I merely object to them treating the world as their personal property. You leave for Media soon?’

  I nodded. ‘Another mess that needs cleaning up.’

  ‘The spilling of more blood,’ he groaned.

  ‘I am hopeful I can convince my sister to yield Irbil without the need for fighting.’

  He shook his head. ‘Ever the idealist, but I pray it will be so. I also pray that there are no repercussions concerning inviting the Romans into Parthia.’

  ‘There will not be,’ I said firmly.

  ‘One thing I have learned above all things, Pacorus, is that the Romans never do anything for nothing.’

  A patient began screaming and clutching at his chest, tearing at the bandages wrapped around his torso. Alcaeus dashed over to him and assisted two orderlies in trying to calm the man down. He had no time for further discussion and so I left the tent reeking of vomit and carrying a bowl of bloody spittle.

  After a change of clothes I left Ctesiphon in the company of Gallia, the Amazons, five hundred of Dura’s horse archers and camels carrying spare arrows, food, fodder and tents. We rode with a sizeable escort because there were still roving bands of enemy horsemen at large, not that we saw any as we headed north into Media, the terrain gradually changing from one of barren stretches of dirt and sand to green undulating farmland watered by underground springs and a plethora of streams. Not for nothing was Media called the ‘breadbasket of Parthia’, Irbil itself situated in a rolling flat plain blessed with fertile alluvial soil, which was beautifully green from the time of the winter rains into the spring months, turning to bronze in summer and the approach of the harvest. The gods smiled on Media and created thousands of natural springs fed by underground water to nourish the crops that grew in abundance. As a result, the kingdom had a great number of villages populated by hale and hearty commoners, the menfolk having provided the horsemen and foot soldiers of the kings of Media for generations. When Media had had good kings, fine men such as Farhad and Atrax, the kingdom and its population had been unmolested by war. But Darius, may the gods torture his soul, had brought conflict to his people and they had paid a heavy price both in lives and plunder. The empty villages we passed stood in mute testimony to the failed ambitions of my sister and her vainglorious son.

  We took Quintus Varsas with us on our journey. I wanted him to see an actual siege first-hand as part of his military education, and alleviate the disappointment he felt at not being able to conduct his own siege against Babylon, Seleucia and Ctesiphon. He might have been frustrated but I was relieved some of Parthia’s most ancient cities had not been besieged, stormed and plundered.

  The journey north took five days, our column riding hard and covering forty miles a day. We skirted many villages surrounded by orchards, vineyards and small gardens, seeing few people, those we did encounter running for their lives when they spotted us.

  ‘The reputation of the army of Gordyene precedes us,’ said Gallia darkly.

  I scanned the grey horizon, dark clouds overhead threatening rain to add to the bleak atmosphere hanging heavily over the land. But I could see no telltale pillars of smoke in the distance to indicate burning villages.

  ‘This is a rich land,’ observed Quintus.

  ‘Very rich,’ I said. ‘Media’s lords were given tracts of land to farm and administer. They were allowed to accrue great personal wealth from their estates on condition they paid a share to the crown. But many of those lords are now dead and their estates ruined, sacrificed on the altar of King Darius’ ambition.’

  He looked around at the green landscape.

  ‘Under a wise king, majesty, this land would soon be restored to prosperity.’

  ‘Wise kings are a rarity these days,’ said Gallia.

  ‘Will King Spartacus be Media’s new ruler, majesty?’ he asked.

  ‘He will not,’ she stated. ‘Spartacus has his own kingdom.’

  ‘He might see things differently,’ I cautioned.

  Before we reached Irbil a party of Gordyene’s horse archers intercepted us, their commander welcoming us to the protectorate of Gordyene.

  ‘Protectorate?’ I said.

  The officer smiled and bowed his head.

  ‘Yes, majesty. Media is under the control of Lord Protector Hovik.’

  Gallia looked at me and shook her head.

  ‘The king arrived yesterday, majesty,’ smiled the officer, ‘he will be pleased to see you.’

  ‘I doubt that,’ muttered Gallia.

  It was raining when we arrived at the camp of the Immortals a couple of miles from the outskirts of Irbil, an ancient, sprawling city that was hundreds of years old. The oldest part of the settlement was the citadel positioned atop a great circular stone mound around a hundred feet high, on top uof which was a high stone wall, yellow-ochre in colour. Around the citadel was a mass of mud-brick homes, shops, stables, inns and warehouses, with no circuit wall to protect them. There was now a perimeter wall of sorts, but it comprised an earth rampart surmounted by a wooden palisade and was manned by the soldiers of King Spartacus.

  He and Rasha greeted us at the entrance of their tent in the centre of camp, which was modelled on the marching camps of Dura’s army, and indeed the Roman army that Spartacus so despised. The neat rows of tents and ordered calm inside the camp was reassuring and gave me hope Hovik had tempered his king’s volatile nature. The general was beside his king when Spartacus and Rasha welcomed us and invited us into their quarters. Officers showed the Amazons and horse archers to the stabling area where their horses would be out of the rain, afterwards to be shown to their tents.

  Rasha and Gallia embraced warmly; the greeting between me and Spartacus more formal. Immortals brought warm water and towels so we could wash our faces and dry our hair, soldiers taking our helmets and armour to be dried and cleaned.

  Spartacus had arranged soft couches inside the tent, the floor of which was covered with thick carpets. The sides had been reinforced as a defence against the winter weather, though in truth it was not cold, merely damp. Nevertheless, we were served warm wine and freshly baked pastries and pies, which were very welcome. Hovik obviously had the camp kitchens running at peak efficiency. He was a curious fe
llow, slight of build who always seemed to be dressed in clothes that had seen better days. His brown, thinning hair and beard were laced with grey and his skin was weathered like an old saddlebag. At first sight such an unprepossessing individual might have appeared a strange choice to be commander of Gordyene’s army. But appearances can be deceptive.

  Hovik bowed his head to Gallia and me and stood behind Spartacus and Rasha as they reclined on the couches and toasted our arrival.

  ‘Sit down, Hovik,’ commanded Spartacus, ‘you are not a servant.’

  The general perched on the edge of a couch. ‘Thank you, majesty.’

  ‘I’m glad to see Irbil is still standing, general,’ I said.

  ‘General Hovik is Lord Protector of Media,’ stated Spartacus before Hovik had time to answer, ‘it would be the height of folly to reduce his city to ashes.’

  ‘So you mean to take over Media, then?’ I asked.

  ‘Only until matters are resolved,’ came the reply.

  ‘Most of those who lived in the homes around the citadel fled to villages in the east of the kingdom, majesty,’ Hovik told me, ‘though I dare say a fair number have taken refuge with the queen. That is Queen Aliyeh, your sister, majesty.’

  ‘It is only a matter of time before she is forced to yield the citadel, either that or starve,’ gloated Spartacus.

  Gallia sipped at her wine. ‘Should not Parisa, the wife of Darius, be the ruler of Media rather than Aliyeh?’

  Spartacus laughed. ‘Darius was never Media’s ruler. His mother always pulled the strings in the kingdom. Indeed, I wonder if Parisa and her children are still alive.’

  I came straight to the point. ‘What are your terms for Aliyeh yielding Irbil?’

  ‘They are very simple, uncle. Your sister will answer for the many crimes she has committed against Gordyene and its people. The wife and children of Darius will be taken into my custody, their fate to be decided at a later date.’

  ‘You intend to murder them,’ said Gallia bluntly.

  ‘No children will be murdered while I am Queen of Gordyene,’ stated Rasha, ‘and nor will they be cast into a cell while I have power in Vanadzor.’

  Spartacus did not contradict his wife but merely stared into space while he demolished a meat pie. I had to admit they were delicious.

  ‘Perhaps I might be able to break the impasse,’ I said. ‘Tomorrow I will go to the citadel to talk with my sister. If I can persuade her to surrender Irbil, will you agree she and her family be allowed to go into exile?’

  Spartacus’ eyes bored into me. ‘Exile? Not in Dura or Hatra, from where she can plot and scheme to create more mayhem in Parthia.’

  ‘I was thinking more of Syria or Egypt,’ I replied.

  ‘If they will have her,’ scoffed Spartacus. He then turned serious. ‘When I was boy, there was another poisonous queen who caused great mischief within the empire. She too fled to Syria where she met an unfortunate end.’

  He looked at me and smiled. ‘Nothing is forgotten, uncle, always remember that. Nothing is ever forgotten.’

  I knew he was speaking of Queen Aruna, the mother of Mithridates, who had been savaged to death by a wild beast during her exile in Syria. I had heard rumours that Spartacus had been responsible and now he admitted it. He had a fearsome dog at the time called Scarab, named after an Egyptian slave whom I had rescued but who unfortunately died as a result of Aruna’s attempt to kill me. The incident came hurtling through the mists of time. I could not blame Spartacus for seeking vengeance on the mother of Mithridates, who was one of the most vindictive people I had ever met. But I would not countenance my sister being murdered, even if she was responsible for thousands of deaths.

  ‘Tomorrow I will bring this sad episode to an end,’ I said.

  Sieges were invariably tedious affairs interrupted by occasional brief but brutal violence when either the besieged mounted a sally or breakout, or the besiegers attempted a storm. Both tactics risked high losses and so once a city was surrounded and siege lines established, it was preferable for those who encircled the target to starve the besieged into surrender. For Irbil there was no hope. There was no relief army mustering, no allies to plead for mercy and no high king to order Spartacus and his ten thousand Immortals to retreat back to Gordyene. So his soldiers manned the ramparts, carried out patrols within the deserted buildings surrounding Irbil’s citadel and waited until the day the desultory siege came to an end and they could return home.

  I walked with Gallia and Hovik into the city outskirts, either side of us Immortals with swords drawn scouring the streets and buildings ahead and either side of us. But aside from the occasional stray dog and raven there were no signs of life.

  ‘It saddens me to see a once-great city reduced to a lifeless husk, general,’ I said.

  ‘Gordyene did not want this war, majesty, but once war comes it is my duty to do everything in my power to give my king victory.’

  ‘You fought under King Balas?’ asked Gallia.

  ‘I did, majesty,’ he smiled, ‘though I was but a young foot soldier then.’

  ‘I liked Balas,’ she said wistfully, ‘did you ever meet him?’

  He smiled again. ‘Kings rarely meet the common soldiery, majesty, though I did once see him ride past on his horse, accompanied by his lords.’

  Like Balas, those lords had mostly perished fighting the Romans, allowing the latter to conquer Gordyene and carry away many of its people as slaves. Hovik had survived by fleeing to the mountains, afterwards rallying to Surena who liberated the kingdom from the tyranny of Rome.

  ‘You also fought under Surena, I believe,’ said Gallia.

  ‘Yes, majesty, and King Silaces. I was greatly saddened to hear of his death. It seems the killing never ends.’

  ‘It will end, general,’ she told him, ‘you must have faith.’

  ‘Why don’t you invest the citadel more closely?’ I asked. ‘What is to stop those inside from sallying forth and entering the city?’

  ‘Nothing, majesty, which is the king’s strategy. He hopes those trapped in the citadel will venture forth to give battle. They will not, of course.’

  ‘You think not?’

  ‘Media is broken, majesty. Its king is dead, its army destroyed, its lords either slain or scattered to the four winds. I doubt there are many soldiers under the command of General Joro in the Citadel. Good man, Joro.’

  ‘Then let us hope he is prepared to talk with me,’ I said.

  We had reached the citadel, our Immortal escort forming up in front of us prior to shuffling forward in testudo formation as a precaution against enemy arrows or spears. We were near the long ramp that had been cut into the southern side of the stone mound on which the citadel sat, leading to the huge gatehouse from which fluttered the dragon banner of Media. The centurion in command of the Immortal detachment who carried my message shouted up at the guards on the walls when he and his men reached the bottom of the ramp, one of the few Medians manning the defences shouting back in answer. It must have been a favourable reply because the testudo broke apart and the Immortals withdrew to leave the centurion alone. He proceeded to pace up the ramp, a small door cut in one of the gates to the citadel opening and a soldier stepping out.

  ‘A good sign,’ said Hovik.

  I looked up at the grey clouds gathering overhead, threatening more rain. My mind was taken back to another time when I had arrived at Irbil, when Atrax had been wounded during a battle against the Romans. Atrax survived his wound but walked with a limp thereafter, an injury that Aliyeh blamed on me. On reflection, that was the beginning of her animosity towards me, which had grown over the years. Now Atrax was dead and his sons were also dead.

  ‘What a waste,’ I said to myself.

  Hovik gave me an inquiring look. ‘Majesty?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  We waited for the centurion to arrive, spits of rain in the air and in the distance the rumble of thunder. It suddenly became dark as the black clouds overhead thickened p
reparatory to emptying their contents over the city. The banner on the gatehouse was flapping furiously as the wind picked up. The centurion stood to attention in front of Hovik and saluted.

  ‘General Joro will meet with King Pacorus, majesty,’ he reported.

  Hovik turned to me. ‘I will organise an escort, majesty.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary,’ I told him.

  ‘I would advise against that,’ said an alarmed Gallia.

  ‘Aliyeh will want to hear my words,’ I reassured her. ‘Sieges are above all boring and I am certain she will want to amuse herself by reminding me of all my failings.’

  The spits of rain had turned into drops as I walked up the ramp towards the waiting Joro at the top. The general was in his sixties now, his hair and beard white as snow. But he still cut a strong and graceful figure, the more so in his gleaming silver dragon-skin armour, blue tunic and black leather boots. He held a helmet with a blue plume in the crook of his arm and bowed his head to me when I reached him.

  ‘Greetings King Pacorus, son of King Varaz, Irbil welcomes you.’

  ‘I trust you are well, Joro?’

  He gave me a forced smile but his blue eyes told me he was tired. Nevertheless, he maintained a façade of optimism as he escorted me from the gatehouse to the palace, speaking only in reply to my queries. All the buildings inside the citadel were brick, with a myriad of narrow alleyways cutting through the settlement. The streets and alleyways were not filled with refugees, leading me to believe most of those who inhabited the buildings around the citadel had fled the city rather than seek sanctuary in Irbil’s stronghold. I knew the citadel had access to underground water sources so thirst would not be a problem. Food to feed the garrison and their horses, to say nothing of those who lived and worked in the palace, was a different matter.

  We walked to the palace, its gates guarded by a pair of soldiers in helmets with large neck protectors and cheek guards, short-sleeved scale-armour cuirasses and large oval shields faced with hide painted black, sporting a white dragon motif. I recognised them from the days when Atrax had fought beside me. He had created a corps of such soldiers numbering five thousand, all professional and well trained and equipped. Most of them were now dead, their lives squandered by his son and his wife.