Amazon

by Peter Darman

  ‘Annoyed rather than angry. I wish she had confided in me.’

  A cackle came from inside the hood.

  ‘So you could have persuaded her the scheme would fail? You underestimate her.’

  ‘I know that now.’

  ‘She has given you your heart’s desire. For now you have peace throughout Parthia. Isn’t that what you have fought so long and hard for?’

  ‘But will it last?’

  Another cackle. ‘Nothing lasts forever, son of Hatra, but you will never again see Roman soldiers invading Parthia. For that alone you should thank your wife. Happy birthday, by the way.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘How do you feel?’

  ‘Old,’ I admitted.

  ‘It is the way of things. Claudia will be staying at Ctesiphon for a while to guide Phraates. It has been agreed.’

  I was alarmed. ‘Agreed by whom?’

  ‘The Scythian Sisters. For too long he has listened to bad advice, including your sister’s. You could not save her. Now, however, in return for a favour, Claudia has agreed to Phraates’ request for her to be by his side for the foreseeable future.’

  I eyed the stooping figure dressed in filthy rags. ‘What favour?’

  ‘That is for her to divulge, or not. You refused the gold, then?’

  Phraates had offered me five hundred talents of gold after the deaths of the Egibi brothers. I had turned it down because it was part of the brothers’ considerable fortune they had amassed over the years. It was a kingly sum and would have made Aaron delighted, but I did not want to be tainted by what was in effect blood money, especially after Phraates had murdered the entire Egibi family, including several children. I felt the breeze stiffen on my face, with dust particles in the air.

  ‘Dura has enough gold.’

  ‘But you will take gold for the hire of your soldiers.’

  With the imminent departure of Silani to Persis, Phraates had been eager to keep the Exiles in the vicinity of Seleucia and Babylon for security reasons, loyal troops being a premium of late. I had agreed they could remain in camp near Ctesiphon provided the royal treasury paid their salaries for as long as they were in his service. He had readily agreed.

  ‘That was a purely business matter. He has hired the Exiles to maintain control in his kingdoms.’

  The wind made her hood flap but try as I might I could see no face within. I wanted to walk over and embrace her but something stopped me. Reverence? Awe? Perhaps both but also because I knew she would hate it.

  ‘How is the King of Gordyene?’

  ‘Like an angry cobra.’

  She chuckled. ‘The presence of Antiochus, Osrow and Dagan was revealed to him in a dream, though doubtless any fool could have worked out they would attempt to flee across the Tigris after their defeat.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Spartacus has a restless spirit and is quick to take offence. Normally such an individual would spend his life wandering the earth in search of a place where his talents are celebrated by his peers. But the King of Gordyene has, through an unhappy sequence of events, a powerful army at his command and a strong kingdom.’

  ‘That is good for Parthia, surely?’

  ‘Only as long as Spartacus’ sense of grievance remains dormant. He has his gold, so for the moment is happy enough.’

  ‘Two hundred talents? Not as much as he desired,’ I said.

  She emitted a rasping laugh. ‘While you were threatening him at Irbil, which I commend you for, his soldiers were relieving Seleucia’s wealthiest citizens of their gold and jewellery.’

  The wind increased in speed, the horizon disappearing as the gusts picked up dust particles. Horns began to whinny in alarm.

  ‘There is a storm coming, son of Hatra. Time to be on your way.’

  I pulled Horns to me and hauled myself into the saddle, the breeze having turned into a biting wind filled with sand and dirt that stung my eyes. Squinting, I nudged him forward into the fledgling storm.

  ‘You let one of the dragons escape, son of Hatra. That was a mistake, one that will return to haunt you.’

  I turned to look at her. ‘What do you mean?’

  But she was gone and all I could see was swirling dust. I shouted at Horns to move and he bolted forward into the gathering yellow cloud.

  Ctesiphon was battered by a sand storm that lasted for two days, all movement ceasing while the air was filled with sand and dust that not only reduced visibility to a few feet, but which could also cause permanent eye damage. Indeed, if the wind is strong enough combined with the sand and grit it carries, it can peel off exposed flesh. The sun took on a strange reddish colour that cast everything in an orange hue. We were trapped in the palace, with all the shutters and doors being closed while the storm raged outside. Phraates treated us to musical recitals, poetry readings, plays and indoor archery contests. All very tedious but at least it allowed me to rebuild bridges with Gallia. By the time the storm petered out we had agreed that what was done was done, and there was little point in crying over spilt milk, as the saying goes.

  The morning we left Ctesiphon the sun was shining on the palace, and indeed on Phraates’ reign. He stood with Claudia beside him to bid us farewell, dozens of slaves shovelling sand heaped against buildings by the storm into wheelbarrows. The morose figure of Antiochus, dressed in a white robe decorated with blue horses, an unnecessary insult, stood behind the high king, behind him his permanent shadow – two Scythian axe men.

  ‘Farewell, my friends,’ said Phraates as we gained our saddles, our escort of horse archers and Amazons standing to attention on the great square that fronted the palace entrance, behind them the camels loaded with tents and supplies for the journey. ‘Do not be strangers.’

  Byrd limped to his camel, the mangy, bad-tempered beast kneeling and being held by a slave who was covered in its spittle. But it clearly loved Byrd because when he was in its saddle, it stood and obeyed his command to walk forward to join us.

  We bowed our heads and smiled, turning our horses to trot to the gatehouse, behind us the standards of Dura and Hatra barely moving in the windless air. When we reached the gatehouse a Babylonian honour guard stood to attention in salute, lancers in dragon-skin armour and purple uniforms dipping their weapons as we passed them. I drew my sword and saluted the officer in command, the fanfare of trumpets on the battlements above signalling our departure from Ctesiphon.

  ‘At least the sand storm removed the ghastly site on the gatehouse,’ said Diana.

  She was referring to the severed heads of the insurgents that had been placed on spikes atop the entrance to the palace complex, including members of the Egibi family.

  ‘So, Byrd,’ said Gafarn, ‘do you intend to live in your Babylonian palace?’

  ‘Don’t like palaces,’ mumbled Byrd. ‘Will rent it out.’

  I laughed. ‘Truly Adad smiles on you, my friend.’

  ‘I not met him,’ sniffed Byrd.

  ‘And hopefully will not for a long time,’ I said. ‘He is a god, the son of Anu who is hailed as the Lord of Abundance. But as surely as Shamash rides across the sky during the day, you are blessed, my friend.’

  ‘The same cannot be said for Tiridates,’ said Gallia. ‘A man with a high price on his head is unlikely to keep his head for long.’

  Phraates had promised a chest full of gold to anyone who captured Tiridates and returned him to Ctesiphon to face justice, but thus far the leader of the rebellion had seemingly vanished into thin air.

  ‘It is the child of Phraates I feel sorry for,’ remarked Diana, ‘he was an innocent soul and did not deserve to be foully murdered.’

  ‘Rahim believed he still lives,’ I said.

  ‘Lived,’ Gafarn corrected me, ‘for if the child was alive before Tiridates’ defeat, you can be certain he is dead now.’

  ‘Poor child,’ lamented Diana.

  Chapter 19

  He had been surprised when he had reached Dura, surprised by how small and unprepossessi
ng it was. The moment he spied it from afar he could appreciate its strong position, sitting atop an escarpment with a sheer drop to the Euphrates below on its eastern side. And when he arrived in the city he could see the walls and many towers along their extent were well maintained and garrisoned. He even journeyed to the Citadel, the seat of power of the famed King Pacorus, though he did not venture inside. But he always envisaged Dura to have been a huge sprawling city filled with tens of thousands of people, instead finding it a modest, albeit thriving place.

  He had seen the great military camp to the west of the city – it was hard to miss – and had come across the famed foot soldiers of Dura, Parthia’s own Roman legionaries, patrolling the streets. The caravan park directly north of the city was perhaps even larger than the camp and that was where he and his fellow travellers stayed, though both he and they visited the city daily to call at the many teeming markets occupying its squares. He liked Dura. It was clean, filled with healthy people and guarded by a formidable army. That army was on constant display, either in the form of patrols of foot soldiers; horse archers escorting caravans west to Palmyra, though it was common knowledge they were not needed as the King of Dura and the leader of the Agraci were great friends; troops garrisoning the curious mud-brick forts that had been built north and south of the city along the Euphrates; or the impressive sight of cataphracts on training manoeuvres. He had seen Dura’s soldiers up close and knew them to be ruthless killing machines, and hoped he would never again have to face them in battle.

  He had brought a slave woman with him to care for the infant, promising her freedom when they reached their destination. His men had been against the idea, but he had ordered them to treat both her and the child with respect, and in any case none of them knew the first thing about caring for a baby.

  The first few days had been fraught with danger, he and the others fearing they would be captured at any moment. But he had been clever because the enemy was looking for men dressed in expensive armour and riding pure-breed horses, not individuals in simple robes riding camels. They had made it to Dura, from where they would continue on to Palmyra and Syria.

  ‘We can move whenever you give the order, lord.’

  His commander, a man in his fifties who was naturally pessimistic, had been pestering him for days to given the order to strike the tents and depart.

  ‘The infant is well?’

  ‘Yes, lord.’

  ‘Too much travel is not good for a baby, or so the woman informs me.’

  The commander’s brow creased. ‘We should get rid of her, lord. I will do it myself and put the body in the river.’

  ‘Certainly not. I gave her my word she would be freed when we reached Syria. She is still integral to our plans.’

  The commander scratched his head. Around them the other occupants of the caravan park were going about their business. Merchants were inspecting loads on the backs of camels, drivers were leading their beasts to the plethora of water troughs dotted around the camp, fed by water channels from the Euphrates, and city worker were clearing rubbish and camel and horse dung from the park. Other attendants were collecting lodging fees from caravan owners.

  ‘It’s like a military exercise,’ he said approvingly.

  ‘Lord?’

  ‘Do you know, there was a time when Dura was a backwater, the place where the king of kings sent the empire’s unwanted, dangerous and downright deranged. And look at it now. It is the kingdom that makes or breaks high kings. There is a lesson for us all there.’

  He looked at the anguished face of his commander.

  ‘Very well, we will leave for Palmyra in the morning.’

  The commander was going to salute but was frozen by an icy stare. So relieved had he been to hear they were leaving Dura, he had forgotten his orders. No saluting, no show of weapons, keep conversation with strangers to a minimum, and no talking about the recent war. The commander departed and he wandered over to his tent, two of his men standing guard nodding to him in recognition. It must have been strange for them to use such a familiar gesture, but needs must. The interior was pleasant enough, with carpets spread over the floor and incense burners filling the tent with pleasant aromas. The slave woman stood and bowed to him as he walked over to the crib, removing the shemagh he always wore outdoors. His reddish-brown hair might give him away. It was a remote possibility but he was taking no chances.

  ‘The child is well?’

  ‘Yes, highness.’

  He looked down at the baby in the crib, a smiling infant with a perfectly formed body and limbs and a strong pair of lungs judging by the way he wailed and screamed when he wanted feeding.

  ‘Carry on,’ he told her.

  She knelt by the crib and continued to dangle a thread of string over the child, cooing and smiling as he tried to grab it. When they reached Syria, the infant would be handed over to the Roman authorities, subject to them agreeing a substantial fee for the boy. The son of Phraates would be a powerful bargaining tool in any negotiations between Rome and Ctesiphon and he intended to milk him for all he was worth. And with enough gold he could set about devising a plan to get back to Aria to reclaim his crown, perhaps even the high crown itself. Tiridates gave the infant a broad grin. He had lost a battle, but the war was far from over.

  Epilogue

  We were glad to arrive back at Dura, glad to be away from Ctesiphon and glad to return to normalcy. As the weeks passed we learned that Tiridates had reached Syria where he applied for and was granted sanctuary. In addition, what Rahim had told me had been the truth and the infant son of Phraates was indeed alive, albeit in Roman captivity. The child was taken to Rome by Octavian, living in luxury under the care of the new leader of the Roman world. Ambassadors were despatched from Ctesiphon to Syria with requests to return the child, Phraates promising an ocean in gold for his son. But the Romans did not want gold, they wanted the eagles they had lost at Carrhae and Lake Urmia. A war of words followed, both sides accusing each other of duplicity, aggression and unreasonableness. But it soon became clear a discourse, however tenuous, had been established between Octavian and Phraates.

  For my part I encouraged Phraates to agree to Octavian’s terms. If the return of a few standards guaranteed future peace between Parthia and Rome, it was a small price to pay. Few of those who had fought at Carrhae still lived in any case, and those still breathing – me, Gafarn and Gallia – urged the path of peace rather than war. There was an exception, of course. Spartacus had been but a boy when he had taken an eagle from Crassus’ beaten army to win the hand of Rasha. Unsurprisingly, he begged Phraates not to give the Romans anything, pledging the full support of Gordyene’s army should he wish to mount a punitive campaign against Syria. But no one had the stomach for another war and thankfully his cry for conflict was ignored.

  His son was not the only concern for Phraates in the aftermath of Tiridates’ rebellion. The eastern kingdoms, having suffered heavy losses, were vulnerable to attack and I feared the Kushans would launch a new offensive. But correspondence arrived from Kewab and Salar informing us that Kujula’s recovery was taking longer than expected and so Rana was content to pay the northern nomads to raid the kingdoms of Hyrcania and Margiana. The eastern border of Parthia was still vulnerable, though, and so Phraates began assembling an army not to punish the kingdoms that had risen against him, but to support them as they rebuilt their own armies to face the Kushans. I had to admit it was a stroke of genius when he appointed King Ali of Atropaiene commander of that army. Gallia insisted the influence of Claudia had been responsible and I had to concur.

  I watched my wife from the sidelines the day she inducted new members into the Amazons. The unit was always one hundred strong, which meant Gallia could be extremely picky when it came to recruitment. She operated a strict ‘many are called, few are chosen’ selection process whereby only the best were accepted into the sisterhood, and only then when a vacancy appeared. The Daughters of Dura had been established in a time of crisis and t
here was no guarantee those who were members would become Amazons. One was deemed to have the right qualities, however, and the campaign against Tiridates – in which twelve Amazons had been killed in battle – meant she was able to join the élite sisterhood. I was delighted to see Haya among the line of women. She had obviously survived the campaign against Tiridates unscathed and would hopefully enjoy many years as an Amazon, though hopefully ones of peace rather than war.

  Ten replacements stood to attention in the courtyard facing the palace and their queen at the top of the steps. The gates to the Citadel had been closed and the courtyard cleared of soldiers, servants, clerks and visitors to the palace. The ceremony was sacred and was treated accordingly, and as a show of respect Chrestus, Azad and Sporaces were in attendance in recognition of the Amazons’ élite status within the army.

  When a male squire entered the ranks of the cataphracts, it was custom for a male priest from the city’s Temple of Shamash to conduct the oath taking. However, because the Amazons were all women, their oath-taking ceremony was administered by the high priestess of the city’s Temple of Ishtar. As Ishtar was the goddess of war as well as love, it made perfect sense. She now stood in front of the row of young women and ordered them all to kneel and bow their heads. In front of each recruit was laid her mail armour cuirass, helmet and her weapons: bow, full quiver, sword and dagger.

  The priestess, a beautiful middle-aged women with full lips, lustrous black hair and a tight-fitting white robe that accentuated her voluptuous body, commanded the young women to repeat the words she now spoke:

  ‘I will never disgrace my sacred arms,

  ‘Nor desert my comrades, wherever I am stationed.

  ‘Nor will I take a step backwards in battle.

  ‘I will fight for things sacred,

  ‘And against things profane.

  ‘And both alone and with all to help me.

  ‘I will defend my homeland, its people, its crops and its sacred waters.

  ‘I will obey the king, who rules reasonably,