Sarmatian Read online

  Sarmatian

  Peter Darman

  Copyright © 2019 Pete Darman

  All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.

  Formatted by Jo Harrison

  Smashwords Edition License Notes

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  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Contents

  List of characters

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  List of characters

  Those marked with an asterisk * are Companions – individuals who fought with Spartacus in Italy and who travelled back to Parthia with Pacorus.

  Those marked with a dagger † are known to history.

  The Kingdom of Dura

  *Alcaeus: Greek, chief physician in Dura’s army, now retired

  Almas: deputy-governor of Dura Europos

  Bullus: centurion in the army of Dura

  Chrestus: commander of Dura’s army

  Claudia: daughter of Pacorus and Gallia, princess of Dura, Scythian Sister, now adviser to King of Kings Phraates at Ctesiphon

  *Gallia: Gaul, Queen of Dura Europos

  Kewab: Egyptian, former Satrap of Aria, senior officer in the army of Dura

  Lucius Varsas: Roman, quartermaster general of Dura’s army

  *Pacorus: Parthian, King of Dura Europos

  Minu: commander of the Amazons

  Rsan: governor of Dura Europos

  Talib: Agraci, chief scout in Dura’s army

  Other Parthians

  Akmon: King of Media

  Anush: wife of Klietas

  Castus: King of Gordyene

  Haytham: prince of Gordyene

  Klietas: native of Media, former squire to King Pacorus of Dura

  Pacorus: prince of Hatra

  †Phraates: King of Kings of the Parthian Empire

  Rodak: governor of Assur in the Kingdom of Hatra

  Shamshir: commander of Gordyene’s King’s Guard

  Non-Parthians

  Gaius Arrianus: Roman ambassador to the court of King Polemon of Pontus

  Lusin: Armenian, Queen of Media

  Menwi: Egyptian, wife of Kewab

  †Marcus Vipsanius Agrippa: Roman, deputy of Augustus Caesar

  Spadines: Sarmatian, ally of King Castus, chief of the Aorsi tribe

  †Tasius: Sarmatian, leader of the Roxolani tribe

  Titus Tullus: Roman, commander of King Polemon’s Royal Bodyguard

  Yesim: tribeswoman of Pontus, Queen of Gordyene

  Chapter 1

  Success is infectious. Dura’s army had taken no part in the great victory won outside the town of Melitene in Cappadocia the previous summer. But everyone in the kingdom knew it was Dura’s triumph. It had been Dura’s chief scout and the commander of the Amazons who had alerted High King Phraates of the great enemy coalition that was preparing to invade Gordyene. It was Dura which sent its genius commander, Kewab, to assist King Castus in defeating that enemy alliance. And it was Kewab’s plan that had won a great victory, perhaps the greatest victory achieved by a Parthian army. And Dura basked in the glory won by its favourite son. When Kewab and his soldiers returned to the city, he and they were greeted by cheering crowds, thousands chanting ‘pharaoh’, ‘pharaoh’, in recognition of his ancestry and his military skills. His soldiers were decorated with garlands, young women kissed the hand of the returning hero and pregnant women declared their intention to name their infants after him, even if they gave birth to females.

  The whole army was paraded for the benefit of the returning heroes. The Durans and Exiles were arrayed in their cohorts, the dragon of cataphracts stood in full armour on their horses similarly attired, and the horse archers lined up in their companies before the Palmyrene Gate, the white tunics of Dura deploying next to the red uniforms of the exiles of Mesene, now resident in the reincarnated city of Mari. Dura’s lords, their families and retainers also came to pay their respects to Kewab, their indiscipline and flowing black and brown robes in stark contrast to the well-dressed ranks of Dura’s soldiers.

  King Malik and Queen Jamal came from Palmyra with two hundred black-clad Agraci warriors to salute the man who had helped their grandson, the King of Gordyene, become the most feared warlord in northern Parthia. Castus was the young king who had cowered the allies of Rome and sent a clear message to Rome itself that Gordyene was to be meddled with at its peril.

  In recognition of his services to Parthia and his talents, Kewab was asked to join Dura’s royal council, though whether he liked listening to Almas discussing irrigation systems, rebuilding work at Mari or Ira’s mind-numbingly boring lectures on Dura’s finances, he did not say. Though to his credit he did manage to stay awake during council meetings, which is more than can be said of the aged Aaron and Rsan, governor and treasurer respectively, who often dozed off during proceedings.

  When the dust of exhilaration had settled and life at Dura returned to normal, no one noticed seven weathered figures dressed in black robes riding from the north and entering the city without fanfare to journey to the Citadel. There was nothing to mark them out as being unusual or particularly conspicuous, which had been the point. They disappeared into the Citadel without notice. Treated as greater heroes than Kewab by the queen, they were all sworn to secrecy concerning the mission they had just completed, though each of them was rewarded by Gallia personally. They then slipped back into their former lives; all save one.

  Klietas had left Dura in the aftermath of the assassins’ return, and as he left another returned to the kingdom. Alcaeus, Companion, physician, austere Greek and former head of the army’s medical corps, had been away for over a year. He had travelled to Syria and then taken ship to Greece, having been desirous to see Athens, the ‘cradle of civilisation’ as he termed it, before he died.

  I had first met him in Italy, a sinewy Greek with a mop of thick black hair treating injured soldiers, who like him had been former slaves before finding refuge with the Thracian gladiator Spartacus. It was my great fortune that Alcaeus not only survived the crushing of the slave revolt but accompanied me back to Parthia. Now his hair and beard were grey, though still thick, his step was shorter, and he had taken to having a nap most afternoons. But his mind was as sharp as ever and his tongue as keen as the edge of a freshly sharpened gladius.

  In the weeks after his return I had made regular visits to his home, a rather austere two-storey mud-brick house a short walk from the Citadel. He could have had a mansion like Byrd but, true to his Greek roots, preferred to live in modest circumstances. There were aspects to the house
to indicate its owner was a man of substance, however, such as a stone floor instead of mud, a bathing room and servants to attend to his needs. But the furniture was functional rather than opulent, though the couches we reclined on were plump with cushions, and the wine we were served was not diluted according to the Greek custom but was rather a fine vintage from Susiana.

  ‘General Kewab is the talk of the Roman world, or at least the bits I travelled through,’ he told me.

  ‘He is a rare talent,’ I agreed. ‘We are lucky to have him, though I worry we will not be able to hold on to him.’

  He raised a grey eyebrow. ‘Oh? I thought he was an officer in Dura’s army.’

  I ran a finger around the rim of my cup. ‘That was years ago. He is now a satrap, was once deputy lord high general of the empire and Lord Melitene. By rights, he should be living in a grand mansion at Ctesiphon and attending the high king.’

  ‘Then why isn’t he?’

  ‘Loyalty to Dura, I suppose.’

  ‘Loyalty to its king, more like,’ he said.

  ‘I like to think so, but I fear Dura is now too small for a man of his reputation and talents.’

  ‘Perhaps young Castus will start another war in which Kewab can fill the world with his radiance once more.’

  ‘Parthia’s western frontier is not a problem, or at least it should not be. The real threat lies in the east, and when the Kushans have finished fighting the Satavanhanas, they will turn their attention to Parthia’s eastern kingdoms, notwithstanding the perpetual peace that supposedly exists between the Kushan Empire and Parthia.’

  ‘How is your friend Kujula?’ he grinned mischievously.

  ‘Recovered and returned to full health, I am informed, which is bad news for Parthia.’

  He looked thoughtful. ‘Perhaps Gallia should send assassins to kill him.’

  I had told him all about Gallia’s band she had despatched to the north to do her dirty work, about how they learned of the alliance of enemy kings intent on attacking Gordyene, of how Tiridates had been killed in the Battle of Melitene, how her assassins had killed Prince Atrax, Laodice and Glaphyra, and how they had fallen foul of King Castus and taken offence at the actions of King Akmon. And how Titus Tullus had died in the hills of Pontus. Gallia had also reported with glee that King Amyntas of Galatia had also been killed, slaughtered in some internal quarrel. She had been delighted and relished in the vengeance she had served on her enemies. Her saw my glum expression.

  ‘What did you expect, Pacorus, that Gallia would mellow with age and take to gardening to see out her autumn years? She is a Gaul and we all know the attributes of that particular race, not that I am one to generalise about tribes and peoples. Nevertheless…’

  ‘All Gauls appear to have similar traits,’ I interrupted.

  ‘In her defence, her actions appear to have made Parthia stronger in the eyes of her potential enemies.’

  ‘Has she, my friend? She has strengthened the hold of Augustus Caesar over Cappadocia, Pontus and Galatia, the latter having been reduced to a province under a Roman governor.’

  Alcaeus shrugged. ‘At the very least, Phraates must be delighted both Tiridates and Atrax are dead.’

  I took a large gulp of wine. ‘Phraates? As long as others are bleeding on his behalf, he is happy to play the god-king. It is an outrage he has not rewarded Kewab with a kingdom of his own to rule. If I were high king…’

  He rose from his couch, picked up the wine jug and walked over to top up my cup.

  ‘Ah, now we return to the age-old question. Why was not Pacorus of Dura created high king?’

  ‘Because he did not want the position,’ I shot back.

  He retook his couch. ‘I often wonder if you made the right decision, and whether Parthia, and Dura, would have been saved the spilling of an ocean of blood if you had seized the high crown after the death of Orodes.’

  He smiled. ‘It is irrelevant now. But at the very least, neither Tiridates nor Atrax will be fomenting any more trouble on Parthia’s borders. You have Gallia to thank for that.’

  I took a swig of wine. ‘The fomenting now occurs within my kingdom, in that wretched Sanctuary.’

  He chuckled. ‘A former brothel, I believe. There is a certain amount of irony in Gallia’s choice of headquarters for the Amazons.’

  ‘There is only one headquarters in Dura,’ I said irritably, ‘and that is in the Citadel.’

  At that moment, I spilt wine on my tunic.

  ‘In the name of the gods,’ I cursed.

  He clapped to bring the head servant into the andron, the room reserved for entertaining that was the preserve of men only, a Greek custom Gallia found infuriating. The manservant saw my stained white tunic, disappeared and a couple of minutes later reappeared with a young girl carrying a sponge and a bowl of water.

  ‘You should remove your tunic, majesty,’ said the manservant, ‘otherwise the stain will be permanent.’

  ‘Fetch the king a new garment,’ ordered Alcaeus.

  The manservant bellowed a command to bring a new tunic, making us both jump and causing me to spill more wine down my tunic. Moments later a new garment was brought. I unbuckled my sword belt and removed the stained article, the servants lowering their heads to avoid gazing upon the body of the king. I put on the clean tunic, which felt abrasive against my skin. Alcaeus smiled. I did not.

  ‘This feels like sackcloth,’ I complained.

  ‘It will make you more virtuous,’ said Alcaeus.

  I pondered for a moment. ‘You mean wearing uncomfortable garb means a person will not have immoral thoughts because his mind is focused on his whole torso itching?’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘I assume you have heard of Plato?’

  ‘A Greek, a thinker, I seem to recall,’ I answered.

  Another roll of the eyes, this time accompanied by a sigh.

  ‘Plato was a Greek philosopher, Pacorus, which is more than a thinker, whatever that may be. To cut to the quick, he believed the well-being of society rested on the four pillars of wisdom, courage, justice and temperance.

  ‘The first three are self-explanatory, but the fourth is sadly neglected, which is a pity because it is most important.’

  I scratched my chest. ‘So, in Greece, wearing uncomfortable clothes makes people better citizens.’

  ‘Temperance is crucial in regulating the pleasures and basic desires of citizens,’ he said very slowly. ‘Self-control in all things prevents individuals becoming decadent and immoral.’

  He stood and began pacing. ‘For example, how did an army of around seven thousand Greeks hold off tens of thousands of Persians at the Battle of Thermopylae?’

  ‘Better tactics, a very favourable position and a brilliant commander,’ I answered. ‘Plus, the help of the gods.’

  He shook his head. ‘Obedience, endurance, courage and self-control, the characteristics of Spartan society, held the pass at Thermopylae in the face of overwhelming odds, Pacorus, against a Persian foe riddled with decadence, depravity and corruption.’

  ‘The Persians still won,’ I said.

  He pointed at me. ‘Only through the base treachery of a Greek who showed the Persians a way through the mountains to allow them to get behind the Greek position.’

  He retook his couch. ‘Let me ask you a question. You find Ctesiphon distasteful?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because it is full of scheming courtiers and their wives, who live in gilded cages, and over-ambitious priests who serve themselves instead of the gods.’

  ‘No. It is because the immorality and decadence of Ctesiphon offends you, Pacorus. Because in your heart you are a moral individual who practises temperance. Why do you not wear the garments purchased for you in celebration of your sixtieth birthday? You remember them?’

  I smiled when I remembered a white silk robe upon which were stitched red griffins, and a red silk sash that acted as a belt, a birthday gift from Byrd.

  ‘They are in
a chest in the palace somewhere,’ I said. ‘They were made by the Governor of Syria’s tailor.’ I wracked my brains. ‘Cinna, that was his name.’

  ‘And why do you not wear them on a daily basis?’

  ‘I am not a Babylonian peacock,’ I told him.

  ‘I rest my case. You are at heart a simple, straightforward man, Pacorus, which is why you have achieved so much for so long. Kewab is cast in a similar mould, actually, which accounts for his many achievements.’

  ‘I’m sure there is a compliment in there somewhere,’ I said, scratching my shoulder.

  ‘So, you have really retired?’ he asked me, changing the subject.

  ‘I have, unless Dura is attacked, of course. But there will be no more tramping around the empire for me. I’m too old to spend weeks on end sleeping in a tent and sitting all day on a horse.’

  ‘Quite right,’ he agreed. ‘You and Gallia should organise a trip, a holiday.’

  I laughed. ‘Holiday?’

  ‘Why not? Perhaps you could take her to Italy and then Gaul.’

  I nearly choked on my wine.

  ‘There is probably still an arrest warrant that has my name on it in circulation in Italy, Alcaeus.’

  He wagged a finger at me. ‘That is ancient history, my friend. If my experience in Greece is anything to go by, you and Gallia would be feted by all and sundry. The Romans love to be associated with living legends and individuals who have links to the past. You and Gallia fought Crassus and Mark Antony, and both have passed into Roman folklore.’

  ‘You mean we are both ancient relics.’

  He laughed. ‘Naturally. But even me, a lowly physician in the slave army of Spartacus, was treated with respect and awe by the wealthy and influential of Athens.’

  I grinned at him. ‘No wonder you were away for so long if the fine ladies of Athens were making their couches available to you.’

  ‘The spirit may have been willing, my friend, but the body manifested a serious dereliction of its duties in that department.’

  ‘No regrets about leaving Athens?’