The Cursed Kingdom Read online

  The Cursed Kingdom

  Peter Darman

  Copyright © 2017 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

  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

  Epilogue

  Historical notes

  List of characters

  Those marked with a dagger † are known to history.

  The Kingdom of Gordyene

  Akmon: oldest son of Spartacus and Rasha and prince of Gordyene

  Castus: second son of Spartacus and Rasha and prince of Gordyene

  Haytham: third son of Spartacus and Rasha and prince of Gordyene

  Hovik: commander of the Army of Gordyene

  Rasha, Queen of Gordyene

  Spartacus, King of Gordyene

  Other Parthians

  Aliyeh: Queen Mother of Media and sister of King Pacorus of Dura

  Adeleh: Parthian princess, youngest sister of King Pacorus of Dura

  Ashleen: Chief of Court to King of Kings Phraates

  Claudia: daughter of King Pacorus and Queen Gallia, princess of Dura

  Darius: King of Media

  Diana: former Roman slave, now the wife of Gafarn and Queen of Hatra

  Gafarn: former Bedouin slave of King Pacorus, now King of Hatra

  Gallia: Gaul, Queen of Dura Europos

  Pacorus: King of Dura Europos

  †Phraates: King of Kings of the Parthian Empire

  Timo: High Priest to King of Kings Phraates

  Romans

  †Mark Antony: Roman triumvir and husband of Queen Cleopatra

  †Quintus Dellius: soldier and friend of Mark Antony

  Titus Tullus: centurion

  Armenians

  Artavasdes: King of Armenia

  Artaxias: son of Artavasdes

  Geghard: commander of Armenia’s army

  Lusin: daughter of Lord Geghard

  Sarmatians

  Akka: leader of the Siraki tribe

  Spadines: leader of the Aorsi tribe

  Chapter 1

  Sitting in silence they ate their meal, huddled round a campfire in one of the long-abandoned small caves where once a family had lived. Flames cast a red glow on the occupants, all wearing capes despite the fire, for the wind had picked up. It was cold in the mountains and there was no longer a door to the cave. They had killed a mountain goat earlier and were feasting on its flesh, the youngest member of the party greedily eating the juicy meat. He had yet to grow his first beard, his youthful faced contrasting sharply with the haggard visage, wild hair and beard of the man sitting next to him, who was impersonating an individual who had not eaten in days. He nudged the young man and smiled, meat juices dripping on to his beard. The youth smiled back.

  Across from them a middle-aged man with a weathered face and brown, thinning hair laced with grey, observed them with tired eyes, giving a mild shake of his head. He had not approved of the mission they were on and thought even less of dragging the king’s eldest son along. But his lord had been insistent as soon as he had been told of a great treasure within striking distance. The mission was both to acquire the means to purchase the goods he desired, and to blood his son in what he believed would be an easy victory. If the older man had learned anything these past years it was no victory was easy, and certainly not one guaranteed to offend the gods.

  The youth looked at the powerfully built man opposite, with his square jaw and thick neck, studying him.

  ‘Not hungry, father?’

  The man with the wild hair stopped his gorging and tossed a water bottle to the boy’s father.

  ‘Have some of this, lord, it will warm your insides.’

  The man caught the water bottle, removed the cork plug and took a swig. He was delighted to discover it was wine, and good wine at that. He took another swig, replaced the cork and threw the water bottle back to its owner.

  ‘Been robbing the wine cellars of the nobility, Spadines?’

  The owner of the wild beard gave him an impious grin but did not answer. He was the leader of the Aorsi tribe, part of the Sarmatian race, which inhabited the northern borderlands of the Kingdom of Gordyene, though his people were not averse to encroaching on the lands of that realm’s northern neighbour, Armenia. The Aorsi had lived in the borderlands for over twenty years, having been invited from their domain around the Caspian Sea by a former ruler of Gordyene – King Surena. The current king of Gordyene drew his sword from its scabbard and began cleaning the blade with a cloth. It was a fine sword, beautifully balanced with a long, straight, double-edged blade, a steel cross-guard, a grip wrapped in black leather strips and a silver pommel in the shape of a horse’s head.

  He thought about Surena often, about how he had defeated the Romans to free Gordyene, had been rewarded by King of Kings Orodes with the crown of the kingdom, and how the same high king had led an army against him to depose and kill him. The Parthian Empire had regarded Surena as an upstart who had grown too ambitious and had to be removed. But the people of Gordyene remembered the man who had freed them of Roman tyranny with affection. He too remembered the man who had comes from the marshes south of Uruk with fondness, though he had been a callow youth when Surena had helped King Pacorus inflict a heavy defeat on the Romans at Carrhae. How he would love to inflict a similar loss on Rome.

  He had taken part in the campaign against Mark Antony when his uncle had marshalled Parthian forces excellently to relieve the besieged city of Phraaspa and harry the Romans all the way back to the Armenian border. The Romans had lost many men and most of their supplies but it was only a half-victory. Mark Antony still lived, King Artavasdes still lived and most of his Armenian army was intact, and while northern Media was littered with the bones of thousands of Roman legionaries, the Romans still had many soldiers in Syria, Cilicia, Pontus and Cappadocia. He would have fought the campaign against Mark Antony differently, but then King of Kings Phraates did not hold him in high esteem. He wiped the blade without thinking, dreaming about a world free of Romans.

  ‘You will keep your fine sword, lord?’ asked Spadines.

  Spartacus heard the voice but did not discern the words.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your sword, you will keep it? It is a beautiful weapon.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I?’

  Spadines grinned to reveal brown, uneven teeth. ‘When you purchase your new swords, you will surely want one?’

  Spartacus smiled. ‘They are too precious to be wasted on a king.’

  The other man tossed the leg of meat he had been chewing on into the flames, sparks shooting over Spadines. He did not look up as he cleared his throat. Spartacus’ smile disappeared.

  ‘Lord Hovik thinks our plan is a bad one. Is that not right, Hovik?’

  ‘It is not my place to comment, majesty,’ replied the army’s commander.

  ‘You don’t have to, it’s written all over your face.’

  The boy looked nervously at his father and the commander of h
is army, catching the king’s eye.

  ‘What about you?’ snapped Spartacus. But his son had nothing to say, casting his eyes down.

  Spadines took a swig of wine. A gust of wind entered the cave and fanned the flames of the fire. Spadines tossed a couple of logs on the flames.

  ‘It is always cooler in the mountains. I hope these swords are as good as you believe they are, lord.’

  Spartacus turned his gaze away from his son. ‘I have seen them at work, Spadines. I saw the cataphracts of Hatra literally hack their way through Kushan swords, armour and helmets, each of the heavy horsemen armed with an ukku blade. The metal is truly a wonder.’

  ‘A gold bar for each sword blade is a high price to pay, majesty,’ cautioned Hovik, ‘and I hope where we are going has enough gold to purchase the five hundred you require, for surely as night follows day there will be a heavy price to pay for our actions.’

  Spartacus heard the nervousness in the voice of his commander. Hovik was a good man, perhaps too cautious but a diligent and honourable man, nonetheless. When old King Balas had been killed fighting beside Tigranes the Great, in the days when Gordyene and Armenia had been allies, most of the kingdom’s nobles had died alongside their king. This had left Gordyene leaderless when the Romans had marched in, but it also meant those of low birth but with talent could rise when Surena had wrested Gordyene from Rome’s grasp. So had it been with Hovik’s family, his father having been a lowly spearman in Balas’ army. Now his son was general of Gordyene’s army. Despite their frequent disagreements, Spartacus felt at ease in his company, as he did in that of Spadines, though the roisterer drove him to distraction at times.

  ‘Armenia is weak,’ said Spartacus, ‘it will do nothing.’

  He pointed at Spadines. ‘How long has the Aorsi raided Armenian lands? And what have the Armenians done? Nothing.’

  Spadines grinned at the king. The youth looked around the cave.

  ‘Did you raid this village, Lord Spadines?’

  The Sarmatian put an arm around his shoulders. ‘We never make war on innocent civilians, young prince.’

  ‘What about those civilians who aren’t innocent?’ queried Hovik.

  Spadines grinned. ‘They are fair game.’

  Fair game for taking and selling as slaves, for raping and abusing. Spartacus knew what went on just beyond his northern border but turned a blind eye to it. That was the price he paid for having eyes and ears in the north. The Aorsi were the shield that kept his kingdom safe and provided him with information regarding the Armenians. They and their king had deserted Mark Antony after the Parthian victory at Lake Urmia, during which the army led by his uncle had taken two Roman eagles. The flight of the Armenians had convinced him Artavasdes and his army were weak.

  ‘The Romans probably burnt this village,’ he told his son, ‘they destroy everything they touch.’

  His son looked around at the cold cavern, which had once been inhabited for perhaps hundreds of years but was now home only to animals and birds. Just one cave village among many now abandoned because of the simmering hostility between Armenia and Gordyene.

  Spartacus looked at his son. ‘There was once a time when the Armenian Empire ran from the shores of the Caspian to the waters of the Mediterranean. But no longer, and do you know why?’

  ‘No, father.’

  ‘Because the Armenians allowed themselves to become the slaves of Rome.’

  Slavery. It was a word and notion that haunted the strapping King of Gordyene. He had grown up in the lap of luxury, a prince of the city of Hatra, which was the jewel in the crown of the Parthian Empire. He was tutored by Greek scholars, had worn rich apparel and eaten the finest food. And yet from an early age he knew the truth of his lineage: that he was the son of the slave general Spartacus who had died in a battle in Italy, in a place called the Silarus Valley. His adoptive parents, King Gafarn and Queen Diana, also slaves, had at first been resented by the nobility of Hatra who were appalled that the former slave of Prince Pacorus now ruled over them. The prince had left the city to rule the Kingdom of Dura, a wild frontier realm where the high king of the empire exiled troublemakers and oddballs.

  Life had been hard for young Spartacus, his contemporaries mocking him for his low birth and calling him servus – slave – to his face. This had two consequences. Firstly, it made him angry and quick to resort to violence, resulting in many fine young Parthian nobles having their noses broken and their faces bloodied. Secondly, it made Spartacus vow to himself he would never deny his heritage and would discover as much as possible about his birth parents. In this he was aided by the king and queen who regaled him with stories of Spartacus, his wife Claudia and their role in the slave war. He talked often with the Companions, the name given to those who had fought in Italy and returned to Parthia with his uncle King Pacorus, about the leader of the slave revolt. He learned how his natural father, a Thracian, had adopted the fighting techniques of the Romans to achieve victory after victory. In this way, he attained an intimate knowledge of Roman tactics, the more so when he lived for a while at Dura, home to two legions modelled on their Roman counterparts. He even put aside his hatred for Rome to spend time with the commander of those legions, the Roman Lucius Domitus. He smiled when he remembered the time he had tried to run through the commander of Dura’s army with his sword, only for the squat Roman to give him a thrashing with his vine cane.

  So Spartacus had learned to control his temper and acquire as much knowledge as possible about military strategy, tactics and logistics. He was ecstatic when King of Kings Orodes handed him the crown of Gordyene, a wild, rugged kingdom somewhat cut off from the rest of the Parthian Empire. It was also a poor kingdom, unlike Hatra or Dura, both of which benefited enormously from the Silk Road bringing silk from China to dress the fine men and ladies of Parthia, Rome and Egypt. The customs’ dues paid by the unending stream of camel caravans criss-crossing those kingdoms made them rich. And that wealth had allowed Dura to equip a thousand cataphracts with ukku swords.

  ‘And a weak animal is prey for vultures,’ grinned Spadines.

  ‘Gordyene is not a vulture,’ stated Hovik forcefully.

  Spadines gave him a nonchalant shrug. ‘I was speaking, how you say…’

  ‘Figuratively,’ said Spartacus.

  Spadines nodded. ‘That’s the word.’

  ‘Do you wish to conquer Armenia, father?’ asked the boy.

  ‘No, Akmon. I wish to deter any aggressors from attacking my kingdom, which one day will be yours.’

  His oldest son was named after a man he felt he knew intimately, even though he had been killed before he had been born. Akmon had been a squat, rock-like Thracian who had been his natural father’s second-in-command. His son was very different: tall, lean and handsome. Lucius Domitus had once told him the original Akmon had resembled a heavy-set demon with his stubby arms and scarred face, but was a fearsome fighter.

  ‘Get some sleep,’ he told his son, ‘tomorrow will be a long day.’

  When dawn broke soldiers were already saddling horses, a light mist dampening men and beasts alike and causing the temperature to drop. The mountains around the village were wreathed in grey clouds threating rain, the stream that coursed off the rocks above it icy cold to the touch. A score of lancers and the same number of horse archers, all wrapped in big, heavy hooded woollen cloaks, went about their business in silence.

  Spartacus fastened the girth passing under the barrel of his horse and watched Spadines and his five Aorsi ride from the village. They were the scouts, among them a man who had been in these parts many times over the years and was well acquainted with the mountain passes and deep gorges of this part of southern Armenia. He was the one who was leading the king and his men to the target.

  ‘They look ridiculous.’

  Spartacus patted his horse and looked at Hovik beside him, the general staring with disgust at Spadines and his men, all wearing captured Roman legionary mail armour and a mix of centurion and officer
helmets. The crests were damaged or had been removed and all the helmets needed a good polish. The captured Roman armour had been gifted to the Aorsi by Spartacus following the victory at Lake Urmia, a gesture much appreciated among the Sarmatians.

  ‘They are certainly distinctive,’ replied his king.

  Hovik watched the line of packhorses being untethered.

  ‘Are you certain about this, majesty?’

  Spartacus vaulted into the saddle. ‘Quite certain. We are not turning back now.’

  The column threaded its way through terrain covered in oak, beech, pines, hornbeam, linden, maple, ash and birch, though many of the extensive forests were hidden from view by low-hanging clouds. It was still autumn but the signs of the approaching winter were all around – the leaves of deciduous trees creating a red and orange carpet on the ground.

  They rode north all morning, threading their way through a river gorge covered by pine, oak and elm. The sun never showed its face and as the morning wore on the mist gave way to a light drizzle, which combined with a gentle northerly wind, soaked and chilled everyone. The mood of the column grew more morose when the king forbade the lighting of any fires to cook a midday meal for fear of alerting any Armenians in the area. But they saw no one, no animals or birds, and as they plodded on some began to think they had left the world to enter a cold, grey hell. But in the mid-afternoon, the rain having finally stopped, they left the forest to ascend towards a basalt plateau where their destination was located.

  Spadines’ scout reported to the king with his lord as the party halted in a treeless ravine a short distance from the track. The trees were sparser now and the ground increasingly rock-scarred. But the wind was sharper making the air much cooler.

  ‘We are five miles away, lord,’ the scout told Spartacus.

  ‘How many guards?’ asked the king.

  ‘Always two at the gates but more inside.’

  Hovik frowned. ‘That makes no sense. There are surely more manning the walls.’

  ‘No, lord,’ the scout reassured him, ‘most guards are inside to keep control of the crowds.’