Sons Of the Citadel, page 18
part #6 of Parthian Chronicles Series
‘Don’t be so vindictive,’ hissed Gallia.
‘Valak knows how to use a sword,’ said Silaces.
I gave him a sly grin. ‘So does Alaric.’
Over thirty thousand horsemen left Hatra the next day along with over one hundred thousand camels and thousands of spare horses as remounts. We headed northeast towards the Tigris where we would hug the western riverbank to take us past Media before crossing the waterway to head for Vanadzor, the capital of Gordyene. Though Prince Pacorus commanded Hatra’s Royal Bodyguard his mother rode with Gallia and the Amazons, Praxima also joining her old unit for the march north. In addition to the Royal Bodyguard Gafarn led another thousand cataphracts and five thousand horse archers. As in my army two squires served each cataphract so Hatra’s force included three thousand squires. Dura’s contingent numbered a thousand cataphracts, two thousand squires, five thousand horse archers and a hundred Amazons, like Gafarn’s soldiers all professionals.
Nergal’s men were also full-time soldiers and though they numbered only five thousand they were perhaps the finest horse archers in the empire, each man reputedly an expert shot with the bow both from the saddle and on foot. All Parthians fancied themselves as expert shots but Nergal, formerly the commander of Dura’s horse archers, had introduced exacting standards for entry into his five dragons of horse archers.
Mesene’s soldiers looked radically different from my own horse archers and those of Hatra and Elymais. Each rider wore a simple woollen kaftan dyed red. Called a kurta it opened at the front and was wrapped across the chest from right to left. It was loose fitting so as not to constrict movement. His leggings – saravanas – were baggy and on his feet each man wore leather ankle boots called xshumaka tied in place by leather bands wrapped around the ankles and under the sole.
My own and the horse archers of Hatra and Elymais wore no armour but Nergal’s men were protected by scale-armour cuirasses: short-sleeved leather garments reaching down to the mid-thigh, slit at the sides to facilitate riding. Horizontal rows of rectangular iron scales were attached to the leather, each row partly covering the layer below. A helmet made from curved iron plates attached to a skeleton of vertical bands, complete with large cheek guards and a long leather neck flap, protected the head.
Silaces had brought eight thousand horse archers, the majority wearing blue tunics, white leggings and no armour of any kind. Valak’s bodyguard of fifty men wore leather back and breast plates and carried swords and lances in addition to their bows but also wore nothing on their heads aside from red headbands. Round shields sporting the four-pointed star of Elymais dangled from their saddles on their left sides, their quivers attached to the rear right horn of their saddles.
It was now summer and a blazing sun roasted man and beast alike as we made a leisurely march towards the Tigris. In addition to the heat the thousands of hooves kicked up a vast amount of dust getting in our eyes, clothes and hair. Frequent halts did nothing to dissipate the dust cloud that became our constant companion, forcing us to wrap our heads in material similar to the shemagh the Agraci favoured. We also wore wide-brimmed floppy hats to keep the sun off our heads. And to make our misery complete there was no wind so the heat became most unbearable.
Talib and his scouts rode far and wide to gather intelligence but there was little activity in the vastness of the desert away from the caravan routes, other than the occasional gang of bandits and religious fanatics seeking to be alone and close to the gods. Things improved when we reached the Tigris where the animals could be watered on a regular basis and we could fill our waterskins. When the Persians had ruled the earth the Tigris was known as Arvand Rud, literally ‘Swift River’, but the spring meltwaters had long gone and now the brown water had a slow current and the level had dropped considerably. At night we camped among the expanses of date palms growing on either side of the river, hundreds of campfires twinkling along the river into the distance under a clear, star-studied sky.
I sent Talib ahead to make contact with Spartacus as we continued our journey, horsemen on the other side of the river carrying banners showing white dragons now our constant companions.
‘Atrax’s soldiers,’ said Gafarn, ‘he will know a great body of horsemen is journeying north.’
‘As will Phraates,’ added Silaces.
‘And your sister, Pacorus,’ said Nergal.
‘They will not care,’ announce Claudia riding beside Valak, ‘for all they see is glory and the chance to eclipse the one in whose shadow they stand. They wish to step into the light of their own making.’
‘In whose shadow do they stand?’ enquired an intrigued Diana.
‘Father’s.’
‘Nonsense,’ I insisted.
‘Phraates is not a fool, father, he knows you were the one who secured his accession to the high throne. But instead of being grateful he resents you for it and thinks if he wins a victory greater than Carrhae he will eclipse your achievements and thus banish the idea the son of Orodes owes a debt to the King of Dura.’
‘Which he does,’ said Silaces.
‘It is true Phraates seeks battle with the Romans,’ I agreed, ‘though I doubt it is anything to do with me.’
Claudia chuckled. ‘It is everything to do with you, father. This whole war is to do with you and your actions will determine the fate of the empire.’
‘No pressure, then,’ quipped Gafarn.
Eventually the soldiers of Media disappeared when we reached the border of Gordyene, its western frontier marked by the Tigris. Talib had left the column several days before to make contact with Spartacus and when we reached the crossing point, a wide, shallow stretch of the river flanked by steep banks cut into the limestone by a countless number of spring surges, the banners of Gordyene were waiting for us on the other side.
There was a southerly wind filling out our own and the standards of the son of the slave general I had followed. I saw the black-clad figure of Talib beside Spartacus, behind him a huge red banner upon which was a silver lion. Either side of him, along the riverbank, were lines of horse archers carrying dragon windsocks, while around the king were horsemen armed with spears and carrying round shields.
It was Diana who first urged her horse forward down through the gap leading to the ford, Gafarn and the rest of us following. Three horses likewise walked forward from the opposite side of the river. In midstream we halted. Spartacus removed his helmet, leaned over and kissed his mother, bowing to Gafarn. Talib walked his horse forward to take up position behind us. A beaming Rasha likewise kissed Diana and waved to Gallia. I laughed.
‘How many men have you brought?’ asked Spartacus bluntly.
‘Over thirty thousand, including the squires,’ said his father, ‘and it is nice to see you too, son.’
Spartacus nodded warmly at Prince Pacorus beside his mother and gave Claudia a quizzical look.
‘My apologies, I have little time for social niceties,’ replied the King of Gordyene. ‘Three days ago the Romans and Armenians crossed the Araxes River with a combined strength of nearly one hundred and twenty thousand men.’
‘Where is Phraates?’ I asked.
‘Marching with all haste to meet them.’
‘With how many men?’ asked Silaces.
‘The two armies are evenly matched in terms of numbers,’ replied Spartacus.
‘But that is where the similarities end,’ I said, ‘we must hasten to support Phraates.’
‘Most likely the two armies will have engaged by now,’ stated Spartacus, ‘I fear you are too late, uncle.’
Chapter 6
The mountainous kingdom of Gordyene came as a welcome relief after the heat and dust of the desert. The hot winds were replaced by pleasing breezes. The terrain changed from sand and hard-packed dirt to soil and grass as we headed north into Spartacus’ lands. He said little as we left the Tigris and proceeded to his capital Vanadzor, though he did chat to his parents and brother, mostly about trivial matters relating to their health and enquiring after affairs in Dura, Elymais and Mesene. His laid-back manner in the face of a great crisis unnerved me. Rasha was more animated but only because she was in the company of Gallia again, and was desperate to reach Vanadzor so she could reveal a great spectacle to my wife. At least she seemed to grasp the gravity of the situation.
Only the kings, queens and the senior commanders of their forces rode into the city, the bulk of the horses and camels were quartered along the lush green banks of the Pambak River by the side of which Vanadzor had been built. If Spartacus appeared brooding and remote he suited his domain; a cold, grey land filled with high, snow-capped mountains, rivers frothing with raging currents, endless expanses of beech and oak forests and wind-swept steppes. Vanadzor sat in the valley of the Pambak, a dour, formidable stronghold whose walls and buildings had been constructed from locally quarried hard, black limestone. There were also quarries producing marble but most was exported to raise money for the upkeep of the army.
Guards on the walls watched the party of kings and their banner men enter the city. Inside the buildings were squat and unsightly like the people who lived in them. The inhabitants of Gordyene were a tough mountain race, used to hardships and deprivation but stoical, hardworking and resourceful. As we rode along the main street leading to the palace they stopped and bowed to their king and queen but gave the rest of us short shrift. As usual there was a cool breeze blowing through the streets to make the standards billow.
‘I’ve had warmer welcomes,’ I commented as a local stared at me with cold eyes.
‘Anyone would think we are foreign occupiers,’ said Gafarn half in jest.
‘Gordyene remembers when Orodes and his allies killed its king,’ replied Spartacus, ‘Surena was very popular in these parts.’
‘That was years ago,’ I said.
A half-smile cum leer spread over Spartacus’ face. ‘People have long memories in Gordyene. It has taken me and Rasha a long time to earn their trust and I do not intend to betray it.’
The palace was as dour as I remembered it from my last visit to Vanadzor: a bleak structure surrounded by a high square stone wall with round towers in each corner and a stout three-storey gatehouse on its southern side. There were wooden shutters on each storey to allow archers to fight from should the need arise. We trotted through the thick oak gates festooned with iron reinforcing strips and spikes, to halt on the paved square fronting the palace. Around it were barracks, stables, storerooms, armouries and ironworks all belching black smoke.
Stable hands took our horses and servants showed us to our quarters. I smiled when Rasha informed us there were no slaves in the palace. The king’s father would have been proud.
Less proud, perhaps, if he had been at the council of kings gathered in the austere, grim throne room after we had rested, changed and eaten. Spartacus took his place at a large oak table in front of the dais, candles burning on stands around the walls because the chamber was always dark, its walls of sombre stone, the only windows small and near the ceiling. Behind Spartacus stood his commanders in red tunics and black leggings, though one man with wild hair and beard looked like he was a hill man from some remote mountain habitat. Servants served us a locally produced and most excellent honey coloured wine, the climate of Gordyene being favourable for the growing of grapes.
‘We need to move with all haste to link up with Phraates and Atrax before they engage the Romans,’ I proposed. ‘How many men can you muster, Spartacus?’
‘Enough,’ replied the King of Gordyene, ‘but first I will receive an apology from the high king for insulting us at Ctesiphon.’
I looked at Gafarn but he was deliberately avoiding my stare, Silaces shrugged and Nergal, who had also initially been insulted by Phraates before the high king had been persuaded to change his mind on account of the divine status of Mesene’s rulers, was nodding in agreement. I persevered.
‘You do not seem to understand the gravity of the situation.’
‘No, uncle,’ said Spartacus, ‘it is you who fails to understand my position. If Phraates and Atrax are in so much peril, why is it neither has approached me for help? How is it Media continues to shut its borders to Gordyene, its king and queen regarding it as a land ruled by a slave and his Agraci wife?’
‘Such things can be addressed later,’ I stressed.
He slammed his fist on the table. ‘Such things will be addressed before Gordyene sends its warriors to war.’
‘You are most wise, lord king,’ said the hill man.
I pointed at him. ‘Who is this who dares to speak in our presence?’
Spartacus turned and nodded at the wanderer.
‘This is Lord Spadines, leader of the Aorsi and a valued ally of Gordyene.’
My heart sank and I was taken back to a time many years before when I had attended a feast in this very palace attended by a rough group of men whom Surena had invited into his kingdom. They were warriors of the Aorsi tribe, a branch of the Sarmatian people who had originally been living along the coast of the mighty Caspian Sea. They were a law unto themselves and I viewed them as trouble. I had hoped in the aftermath of Surena’s defeat and death they would have returned to their homeland, but they had clearly stayed, more’s the pity.
Spartacus extended his arm towards me.
‘And this is King Pacorus of Dura, once a friend of King Surena and my uncle.’
Spadines’ eyes narrowed as he studied me, then opened wide.
‘I remember the name Pacorus. My lord Diophantes met you once and talked of how King Surena respected you greatly. He must have looked for you on the battlefield when the tyrant high king came.’
‘Pacorus is blameless,’ said Silaces. ‘I fought with Surena many times and the cause of his downfall was entirely of his own making.’
‘King Silaces of Elymais,’ Spartacus informed Spadines.
‘I remember you,’ smiled the hill man, ‘I was just a young man when you rode with King Surena.’
Spartacus rose and placed a muscular arm around Spadines’ shoulders.
‘I would never criticise Orodes because he was the one who made me King of Gordyene, but nor will I criticise my friends the Aorsi who are the ever-vigilant guardians of my people’s northern border.’
‘Will the Aorsi fight beside us when we march against the Romans?’ I enquired.
‘We fight the Armenians,’ said Spadines as Spartacus retook his seat.
‘You are in luck,’ Silaces told him, ‘for Artavasdes marches with the Romans.’
‘We will not fight beside the Medians,’ sneered Spadines, ‘Atrax is our enemy.’
‘Why?’ I demanded.
‘This is not Dura, uncle,’ said Spartacus. ‘The Medians frequently raid Gordyene for entertainment. Its two princes regard it as good sport to butcher my people and take the pretty ones as slaves.’
‘Mine too,’ growled Spadines.
‘Queen Aliyeh despises me and Rasha,’ spat Spartacus. He looked at Gafarn.
‘And you as well, father.’
There was an uncomfortable silence as we all contemplated his words. I wanted to contradict them but knew in my heart they were true. Aliyeh had made it quite clear she regarded Gallia and me with contempt, and Nergal and Praxima for that matter. Gafarn looked distraught, Silaces was resigned and Spartacus unyielding. This was not going how I had anticipated, not at all. But at least things could not get any worse.
I could not have been more wrong.
The doors to the hall opened and three men, all in red tunics and scale armour, scale armour shoulder guards with pteruges hanging from their waists, strode towards us. The air crackled with dread and as one we all rose as they halted and bowed to Spartacus. By the look of their tired faces and weathered clothing they had been riding hard for hours.
‘Lord Yerev delivers his compliments, majesty, and sends urgent news from the east,’ announced the commander.
‘Lord Yerev keeps watch on my eastern border,’ Spartacus explained to us, ‘mostly for raiders led by the princes Alexander and Darius, may the gods rot their bowels. What news?’
The commander glanced at us, unsure what to do, which made me think his news was not good.
‘Speak,’ ordered Spartacus.
The commander drew himself up. ‘King of Kings Phraates and Lord High General Atrax fought the Romans and Armenians three days ago, majesty, to the east of Lake Urmia. Their army was scattered and Atrax was killed.’
‘Atrax dead?’ I could not believe it.
‘What of Phraates?’ demanded Gafarn.
The commander looked at Spartacus who nodded.
‘We have no news of the high king or the remnants of his army. Lord Yerev identified the body of King Atrax when his scouts reported the battle to him. It had been left to rot on the ground.’
‘And his sons?’ asked Spartacus.
‘There is no word regarding princes Darius and Alexander.’
He dismissed his men and ordered servants to refill his cup. I slumped in my chair. Notwithstanding his wife and sons Atrax had been a good friend. We had fought together in many battles and he was always a steadfast ally. I suddenly heard the mocking laughter of Dobbai in my head as all my carefully laid plans for the empire lay in ruins. What if Phraates was also dead? The Romans could be in Ctesiphon in two or three weeks. And after that?
‘What now?’
Nergal brought me back to the present.
‘If the Romans reach Seleucia and Ctesiphon they will split the empire,’ I said, ‘we must hit them as soon as possible to slow them down allowing us to raise another army.’
‘How many men do the Romans and Armenians number?’ asked Spartacus.
‘Over one hundred thousand,’ I answered.
‘Does such a number exist?’ said an astounded Spadines.
‘How many men ride with you, uncle?’
‘Just over thirty thousand, including squires.’
‘Long odds.’
‘How many men can Gordyene field?’ asked Gafarn.
‘Ten thousand horsemen, father, more if I send word to the outlying regions.’
