Authors: Peter Darman
‘We are now in Darius’ territory, my liege,’ said Vistaspa. ‘He may not take kindly to being treated as an unequal.’
Normally the commander of a king’s bodyguard would not dare to address his lord thus, but Vistaspa himself had once been a prince and he and my father had a close relationship, almost like brothers, which was another thing that annoyed me about him.
My father bristled at the suggestion. ‘We’ve saved his lazy fat arse from being roasted over a Roman fire, and he can’t even be bothered to ride out himself to thank me. He doesn’t deserve to be a king. Little toad.’
‘A rich toad,’ remarked Vistaspa.
We reached the city of Zeugma two hours later. Lying on the west bank of the River Euphrates, the city hugged the river for four miles either side of the bridge of boats that spanned the waterway. Surrounded by rocky outcrops, Zeugma was like a golden egg in a stone nest. As we approached the bridge we encountered heavy traffic on the road, mostly camel caravans going east or heading for Roman Syria. Soon we were covered with a fine dust kicked up by the dozens of camels, donkeys and human feet on the highway. In the distance, on a gently rising hill that swept up from the river, sat a host of large villas, where the city’s aristocrats lived I assumed. And on the top of that summit, standing alone but proud, sat a building more magnificent than the rest, with brightly coloured flags flying from every tower.
‘Vistaspa, find a place to pitch our camp for tonight. My son and I will visit our host and convey our greetings. Find a place upstream, where the water is fresh. Come Pacorus,’ my father urged his horse forward. Vistaspa motioned for a troop of horse to escort us, and then went in search of the garrison commander.
As we moved across the wooden bridge and into the city, we passed through one of the gates in the city’s walls. Guards stood on the ramparts and both inside and outside the wooden gates, each one hung on large iron hinges. The guards watched us as we passed but made no effort to stop us. Clearly we were expected. Once inside the city we were met by a richly adorned officer on a shiny black stallion flanked by two of his men, who also rode immaculate black horses. He wore a red headband, a yellow tunic with silver edging at the neck and yellow trousers. His only weapon was a sword at his left hip, which was encased in a red scabbard adorned with jewels. He placed his right hand on his chest and bowed his head.
‘King Varaz, my liege King Darius welcomes you to his city and asks that you partake of his hospitality.’
‘I and my son would be honoured,’ my father replied. ‘Please lead the way.’
Our escorts rode before us as we headed away from the city’s wide main thoroughfare onto a side road that was obviously reserved for nobles and the king, as it was empty of all traffic. Guards in yellow tunics and trousers, armed with spears and wicker shields, stood on each side of the road every ten paces or so.
After about twenty minutes of climbing gently we came to the royal palace. The palace’s main gate was a single arch flanked by two towers, the whole structure covered with yellow enamelled tiles. The palace itself was set in the middle of verdant gardens filled with palm trees, fountains and carefully manicured lawns. Servants rushed forward and placed wooden stools beside our mounts to aid our dismounting. Our escort also dismounted and bowed again to my father.
‘Your horses will be fed, water and groomed. My master awaits your pleasure, King Varaz.’
My father acknowledged him and bade him lead the way. I followed, while our cavalry troop led their horses towards the stables. The palace was of pure white stone fronted with white marble columns with gold-covered volutes. We ascended the marble steps and entered the portico, which had a marble floor. We were led through the portico and into the throne room, the centerpiece of which was a golden throne, upon which sat a middle-aged plump man with a bulbous nose, piggy eyes and a somewhat leering expression. As soon as he saw us he jumped out of his throne and ambled towards my father, arms outstretched.
‘Hail King Varaz, conqueror of our foes. Slayer of our enemies,’ his voice was slightly effeminate.
‘Hail, King Darius,’ replied my father, as they embraced each other as brother kings and equals.
My father turned to me. ‘May I present my son, Prince Pacorus, whose courage brought victory against the invaders.’
Darius observed my slyly for an instant with his piggy eyes, then forced a smile as I bowed to him. ‘Of course, of course. How grateful we are that you have saved us from a dreadful fate. Prince Pacorus. Splendid. Now we must eat. You must be hungry. I certainly am.’
He gestured towards a small ante chamber, into which he scurried, followed by a host of slaves, most teenage boys and girls, all of whom were young, attractive and immaculately groomed, and all of whom were naked from the waist up. In the antechamber Darius flopped down on a luxurious red couch. He invited myself and my father to sit on other couches that were arranged in a circle around his. The walls were covered with paintings of wild animals and naked nymphs. Guards in yellow tunics and trousers stood at each corner, each armed with a spear with a highly polished blade. Darius clapped, and within second more semi-naked slaves brought in silver platters piled high with food — bread, fruit, roasted lamb, fowl and fish — while others carried flagons of wine. A small table was laid in front of us, upon which was soon piled dishes of food. A young girl, no older than sixteen, poured wine into a silver goblet held by another young slave, a pale-skinned boy who bowed and passed it to me once it was full. The wine was exquisite.
‘They will come again,’ said my father, ‘you must look to your defences. How many troops do you have?’
Darius was being fed honey-coated lamb by a young boy, who pushed the meat into the king’s mouth with his fingers. I looked aghast as Darius then licked the meat’s juices off the boy’s fingers. My father looked disgusted at the spectacle. ‘Alas, King Varaz, my army is small,’ Darius pointed to a bunch of grapes on the table. A slave plucked one and daintily pushed it into his mouth. ‘Solders cost money, and my treasury is bare.’
This was not the answer my father wanted. ‘Yes, I can see that times are hard. You must strengthen your city’s defences.’
‘But brother,’ protested Darius. ‘The Romans have been defeated. With warriors such as you and your son, I’m sure we have nothing to fear.’
‘We have everything to fear, King Darius. This time they sent only one legion, next time they will send an army.’
Darius pointed at me. ‘Then they will be as stubble to your son’s sword. Is that not so, Prince Pacorus?’
I pushed another piece of freshly baked almond cake into my mouth. It melted on my tongue. ‘Yes, sire.’
In truth I was loving the feast and taking almost no notice of the conversation, but I could see that my father was annoyed. When we had finished eating Darius clapped his hands and the food was taken away. More slaves appeared carrying bowls of warms water and towels for us to wash our hands. Afterwards two female slaves each took one of my hands and began massaging the fingers with oils. They were both in their late teens, gorgeous, bare-breasted with gold bracelets on their arms. They had dark complexions and teeth of pure white, with thick eyeliner to accentuate their large brown eyes. They smelt and looked divine. Another, a beautiful Persian woman with a gold headband and oiled black hair, motioned to me to lie back on the couch. I did so and she began to massage my temples with her fingers. Her touch was sublime, and soon I was drifting into a trance-like state as she massaged my head. The conversation between my father and Darius was becoming fainter as I surrendered to the angelic caresses of three female slaves. This was heaven, and I wanted to experience it forever.
I was rudely awakened from my bliss by my father, who shook me out of my dream.
‘We are leaving, Pacorus.’
‘Father?’
‘We have imposed on King Darius’ hospitality enough,’ he bowed to Darius. ‘We thank you, lord king, but we must be on our way.’
Darius had been lying back with his eyes closed, listening to a young harpist who was playing at his feet. He now looked at us in surprise.
‘Leaving? But surely you will stay for the night. Your son, does he like boys or girls? Such a hero should be rewarded with at least one night of abandon.’
‘Alas, no,’ replied my father. ‘We must get back to Hatra.’
‘Such a shame. Very well, very well.’ Darius beckoned to one of the guards and instructed him to see that our horses were brought to the palace steps. We thanked Darius and left him to his harpist and young boys and girls.
Our horses had been groomed, fed and watered and the troop of my father’s bodyguard had been similarly revitalised. The men were happy, as was I, but as we trotted from the palace and through the bustling city, my father’s mood darkened. At the bridge across the Euphrates we met with Gafarn, who had been sent by Vistaspa to inform us where he had made camp.
‘Five miles upstream. Did you have a nice time, master?’
‘Very,’ I replied. ‘King Darius is a generous host.’
‘King Darius is a snake,’ snapped my father.
‘How so, father?’ I asked, surprised.
‘He wants to leave the empire and become a client king of Rome.’
I was astounded at the idea that anyone would want to leave Parthia. ‘Surely not. Why?’
My father halted his horse to face me. ‘Because, my son, it is easier to be a servant of Rome than a Parthian king. As long as Darius is prepared to lick the boots of some Roman governor then he can live in his gilded palace forever without having to worry about keeping his kingdom.’
‘Why would he do so?’
My father smiled, the first time he had done so that day. ‘Because it is easier, especially for a fat king whose only ambition is to surround himself with pretty catamites and teenage girls. And I’ll warrant that the Romans have used honeyed words and the promise of much wealth if he should do so. Zeugma stands on the western edge of the empire, and if it becomes Roman it will point like a dagger at Hatra. A Roman army at Zeugma could strike south into my kingdom with ease.’
We finished the journey to camp in silence. I could not understand why a Parthian would want to be under Roman rule, but I was young then and naïve about the avarice of men. We moved through rocky terrain until we came upon our camp, a collection of canvas tents arranged in lines beside a fast-flowing stream. Soldiers and servants groomed horses and fed camels, while other soldiers sharpened sword blades. Vistaspa had posted guards around the camp and had scouts out patrolling as well. My father dismounted and immediately marched off with his commander, deep in conversation. The light was fading now, the sun disappearing behind a snow-capped mountain in the western sky.
Gafarn took Sura away to the makeshift stable area of stalls constructed from wooden poles and canvas sheets as I sat on the ground beside a small fire. I checked my sword in its scabbard, the straps on my shield and ensured my bowstring was taught and my quiver full. Looking round, I was beginning to wish that we had stayed in the palace of King Darius. A night sleeping on the ground, with a breakfast of salted pork and hard biscuit washed down with water, did not fill me with relish. The darkness was encroaching quickly now, and as I glanced at a guard standing not twenty paces away I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. The next instant there was a dull hiss followed by a groan, and then a clatter as the guard fell to the ground. I saw an arrow protruding from his back, and then suddenly other arrows were cutting through the air. I grabbed my shield and drew my sword as other arrows found their targets. Horses squealed in panic and camels bellowed as animals were pierced by arrows.
‘Rally, rally.’ I felt as though I was alone as I sprinted away from the fire to throw myself behind the relative safety of a tree. Then the air was filled with shouts and cries as our unseen assailants attacked — black-clad figures armed with swords and spears. Had they been assailing a civilian caravan they would have achieved an easy victory, but they were fighting the cream of Parthia’s warriors, and though we had been surprised it did not take us long to find our discipline. Vistaspa was a hard taskmaster, and now his hard work paid dividends.
Horns blared as he and my father formed a solid block of the royal bodyguard, fifty across who locked shields to defeat the volley of arrows launched before our enemies attacked. Our assailants then hurled themselves into a charge, screaming wildly as they did so. There was a loud crack as the two groups came together and started the killing at close quarters. Man for man we were fitter, stronger and more skilled, our blades reaping a deadly harvest of the enemy. I saw my father and ran to get beside him. The enemy was between him and me and so I slashed and hacked at black-clad figures in front of me. I felt the same calm determination as I did when I fought the Romans, only this time I was in a hurry to kill. An enemy ran at me with a spear levelled at my belly. I caught the blow with my shield, feinted right and plunged my sword into the man’s shoulder. Withdrawing the blade, I saw another figure about to swing his sword at my unguarded right side. I dropped onto my left knee and ducked so his blow cut only air. I swung my sword and the blade cut deep into his right leg just below the knee. He uttered a high-pitched scream and collapsed to the ground.
I reached my father’s side, the king briefly acknowledging me as Vistaspa bellowed an order. ‘Archers, ready. First line, kneel.’ As one our ragged shield wall knelt to allow the archers who had formed up behind them to fire. As they loosed their first volley the archers immediately stringed and fired a second. Then my father screamed the charge and we raced forward, over a line of arrowed-pierced bodies to get to grips with what remained of the enemy. They were losing heart now. They had expected an easy victory, these assassins of the night, but had instead met with determined resistance. I ran at one of them, armed with a sword and a wicker shield. He tried to aim a blow at my chest, but the impetus of my charge meant my shield barged his sword out of the way and, screaming, I thrust my sword through his shield and into his throat. He made a gurgling sound and died still skewered on my blade. I yanked the sword from him and saw a figure try to run to safety. I raced after him, tripped him and sent him sprawling to the ground. Before he could get up I brought the edge of my shield down hard on the back of his neck, the loud snap signaling the spinal cord had been broken.