Sons Of the Citadel Read online

  Sons of the Citadel

  Peter Darman

  Copyright © 2016 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

  Map

  List of characters

  Introduction

  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

  Epilogue

  Historical Notes

  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

  Aaron: Jew, royal treasurer at Dura Europos

  *Alaric: German, soldier in Dura’s army

  *Alcaeus: Greek chief physician in Dura’s army

  Azad: commander of Dura’s cataphracts

  *Byrd: Cappadocian businessman resident at Palmyra

  Chrestus: commander of Dura’s army

  Claudia: daughter of Pacorus and Gallia, princess of Dura

  *Gallia: Gaul, Queen of Dura Europos

  Kewab: Egyptian, officer in Dura’s army

  Marcus Sutonius: Roman, quartermaster general of Dura’s Army

  *Pacorus: Parthian, King of Dura Europos

  Rsan: Parthian, governor of Dura Europos

  Scelias: Greek, head tutor of the Sons of the Citadel

  Sporaces: commander of Dura’s horse archers

  Talib; Agraci, chief scout in Dura’s army

  The Kingdom of Hatra

  Adeleh: Parthian princess, youngest sister of Pacorus

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

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

  Pacorus; Prince of Hatra, son of Gafarn and Diana

  Other Parthians

  Aliyeh: Queen of Media and sister of King Pacorus

  Aschek: King of Atropaiene

  Atrax: King of Media

  *Nergal: Hatran soldier and former commander of Dura’s horse archers, now the King of Mesene

  †Phraates: King of Kings of the Parthian Empire

  *Praxima: Spaniard, former Roman slave and now the wife of Nergal and Queen of Mesene

  Silaces: King of Elymais

  Valak: commander of King Silaces’ bodyguard

  Non-Parthians

  Malik: King of the Agraci

  †Mark Antony: Roman triumvir and husband of Queen Cleopatra of Egypt

  Noora: Agraci wife of Byrd

  Rasha: Agraci, Queen of Gordyene

  Spartacus: adopted son of Gafarn and Diana, King of Gordyene

  Introduction

  Asher finished the last roll of papyrus and rubbed his eyes. The mansion was quiet; everyone aside from him was asleep. The flames of the oil lamp on his desk did not flicker, for there was not a trace of a breeze. He leaned back in his chair and took a sip of wine. From his study he could see the black outline of the Citadel framed against a starlit sky. A few torches dotted the ramparts where sentries patrolled the walls. He closed his eyes and sighed. Like everyone else he had known the sorry story of Queen Claudia, of how happiness had been cruelly snatched from her. But the other half of the story had been unknown to him, until now. It was a measure of the man that King Pacorus had not carried a grudge in his autumn years. But still….

  Asher rolled up the papyrus scroll bearing the king’s words and placed it back in the wooden box with the others. In the morning he would take the container to the Citadel to present it to the queen. They were the final words of her father, a great king who should have been king of kings of the empire. If he was unlucky he would encounter the centurion who had taken a dislike to him and delighted in ridiculing him for his faith. Asher the Jew, grandson of Aaron the Jew, the man who had been royal treasurer to King Pacorus. It was a great shame that such sentiments existed in Dura, a city known throughout the Parthian Empire and beyond for welcoming people of all religions and races, irrespective if they were highborn or low.

  He chuckled to himself. Notwithstanding the opinions of brutish men like the centurion, Dura had been kind to him and his family. He had grown rich thanks to his thriving papyrus business, his wife lived and dressed like royalty and his children had the best Greek tutors that money could buy. He stared at the box. It had all been made possible because of King Pacorus and his wife Queen Gallia. A simple licence, that is how his business started, allowing him to purchase a plot of land to the north of the city, next to the River Euphrates. An unpropitious stretch of marsh had been turned into a highly profitable area where papyrus reed was grown and cultivated to produce writing material. Over the years he purchased more marshland to become the supplier of papyrus not only to Dura but also Hatra, Syria and even Egypt.

  In kingdoms such as Media and Susiana, Jews were merely tolerated and were certainly not granted licences to establish businesses. Jews were even discriminated against in Judea, their homeland where the Romans were overlords. But in Dura he and his family were treated no differently from those who were Parthian, Greek, Pontic, Syrian or even Agraci. Many said the legacy of King Pacorus was his prowess on the battlefield, but Asher believed the harmony with which different races and religions lived side by side in the Kingdom of Dura would be his lasting achievement. How ironic it was that a man of war should usher in a period of long-lasting peace and prosperity. He was not old enough to remember Pacorus the warlord and so had difficulty associating the kindly, stooping old man in the floppy hat who rode in a cart pulled by a donkey with the famed victor of Surkh, Susa and Carrhae.

  He suddenly wondered if the queen ever got lonely, living alone as she did in the Citadel, but then discounted the idea. He looked at the scrolls and remembered that she was a member of the secretive and sinister Scythian sisterhood, the network of sorceresses that Dobbai had once belonged to.

  ‘Once?’ he said to himself.

  He shuddered when he thought about the old witch, now long dead but still talked about with reverence and apprehension among Dura’s citizens. Some said her ghost haunted the Citadel. His religion told him there was only one god who was all-powerful. But he had often wondered how Dura, the geographically smallest kingdom in the Parthian Empire, had become one of its most powerful under the rule of Pacorus. If not by magic, then how? It was common knowledge that Queen Claudia was a skilled sorceress who unleashed demons and curses against her enemies. How else to explain the fact that no foreign army had threatened the walls of Dura for an age?

  ‘How indeed?’ he sighed.

  And then there was the griffin at the entrance to the city. Legend had it that as long as it stood sentry the kingdom would be safe. He knew that guards at the Palmyrene Gate took money from people to allow them to climb the steps inside the gatehouse to touch the griffin for good luck. The priests of the synagogue had denounced such blasphemy but just for luck and long life, he had paid to lay his hands on the smooth, cool, reassuring statue. God would forgive him for his weakness; indeed, had forgiven him
because he and his family prospered.

  He picked up the first scroll and caressed it. He had never known the old king, occasionally seeing him in one of the city’s markets. An old man passing the time of day with traders and citizens. He was escorted at all times by guards but there was little need. He had been universally respected, even loved. The greatest danger to his health was the threat of being mobbed by over-exuberant well-wishers. Dura would miss King Pacorus. He unrolled the papyrus and read again the opening lines.

  ‘It had always amused me that Carrhae has been accorded the greatest of Parthian victories over the Romans. There was another, to my mind far more significant and epoch-making and one that laid the foundations for the amenable relations that now exist between Parthia and the Roman Empire. The numbers of combatants involved dwarfed the size of the armies at Carrhae, and the stakes were far higher. It was also unusual in that it was a conflict manipulated to a large extent by women. These women were the Queen of Egypt, the Queen of Media and a princess of Dura, my daughter Claudia. I nicknamed it the War of Three Women, though no one else ascribed it this name. My accounts of Spartacus’ campaign, the Parthian Civil War and Carrhae were for posterity but this volume was written solely for Claudia, may the gods love her just as I and her mother did.’

  Chapter 1

  I tossed the letter to Gallia, too stunned to even try to explain its contents. I walked over to the balustrade and placed my hands on the warm stone structure. Below the blue waters of the Euphrates were slowly flowing south towards the Gulf as it had done since the beginning of time. I watched a small fishing boat on the river, its occupant casting a net over the glimmering surface. Beyond a camel train was making its way towards the pontoon bridges spanning the waterway – two dozen or more of the humped beasts accompanied by men on foot and others on horses. I heard a groan and turned back to my wife.

  ‘I cannot believe it.’

  I nodded glumly and walked over to her, flopping down in the wicker chair beside her. She wiped a tear from her eye.

  ‘We should have made a greater effort to see him more often, Pacorus. Now it is too late.’

  ‘Too late,’ was all I could utter in reply.

  Orodes was dead. The king of kings of the Parthian Empire, who had ruled from the Euphrates to the Indus for many years, overseeing a period of peace and prosperity after the bloodletting preceding it, was gone. History would remember Orodes as a fair and wise ruler who tried to heal the empire of its many wounds, but we would also think of him first and foremost as a dear friend. Dura had been his home for many years when he had been a landless prince; he had commanded the army’s cataphracts and had fought beside me in more battles than I could remember. Brave, honourable, jovial and compassionate, the world would be a darker place without him.

  When he had met Axsen and married her I had rejoiced, their union being blessed with the birth of a boy I hoped would grow up to be a great king. How could he not be with such fine parents? Alas Phraates, named after Orodes’ father murdered by his treacherous son Mithridates, turned out to be a disappointment. Axsen died three days after giving birth to him, a blow Orodes never fully recovered from. It was a measure of the high king he never bore any resentment against his son for the death of the love of his life. Indeed, he went out of his way to shower the boy with love and affection. The result was Phraates was indulged too much and his father became blind to the boy’s manipulative and malicious nature.

  Orodes found a way of dealing with his grief by throwing himself into the duties of high king, which meant he wore himself out travelling the breadth of the empire. Over the years we saw less and less of him and neither I nor Gallia were inclined to visit Ctesiphon when he was in residence there, partly because I had always disliked the poisonous atmosphere at the royal palace but mostly due to the sarcastic tongue of Prince Phraates. Long gone were the days when I had to bite my tongue while being insulted by cocky courtiers who had the ear of the high king. The fact the cockiest was his son made trips to Ctesiphon all the more unbearable. So we stopped going along with most of the empire’s kings, meaning Orodes had to visit them. It wore him out but perversely I think he too was glad to be away from his scheming son and his hangers-on.

  ‘Guard,’ I shouted.

  Seconds later a legionary presented himself and bowed.

  ‘Take a massage to the duty officer to assemble the council.’

  He bowed again and disappeared. I leaned back, closed my eyes and sighed. I felt distraught and also guilty.

  ‘I should have done things differently.’

  Gallia laid a hand on my arm. ‘Orodes loved you, Pacorus, he loved all of us. You should not reproach yourself.’

  But I did. I blamed myself for allowing a gulf to develop between him and me. I should have made more of an effort to visit him, but when we did see each other the topic of conversation invariably got around to Syria. Ever since Carrhae he had become obsessed by the Roman province, convinced it could be conquered with ease. He had sent me on a campaign against Syria after Carrhae that achieved nothing, though the fact I had led a force of horsemen through the enemy province at will, confirmed in his eyes it was ripe for the plucking. He badgered me constantly to take my legions and their siege engines west to capture Antioch. He promised me tens of thousands of soldiers to reinforce my own but I always refused. I had no interest in invading Roman territory because I knew to do so would provoke retaliation, which would lead to an endless cycle of war. I saw Carrhae as a victory guaranteeing peace whereas Orodes viewed it as the beginning of a westward expansion of his empire.

  We walked from the terrace, through the palace to the Headquarters Building. The day was waning but it was still very warm, mid-summer having barely passed. Guards were standing beside pillars sweating in their mail armour, leather vests and helmets. However, in the hottest months, sentries were relieved every hour so they could refresh themselves and take off their armour. Despite it being positioned on a tall escarpment surprisingly little wind reached inside the Citadel, resulting in high temperatures inside the palace and surrounding buildings. Those standing guard on the battlements could take advantage of any wind, though they invariably roasted in their mail and helmets under a merciless Mesopotamian sun.

  It took a while for the council members to assemble in our usual meeting room, which like the other rooms in the Headquarters Building had marble floor tiles and window blinds to prevent it getting too hot. Servants brought earthenware jugs filled with water and fruit juice and placed towels on the table.

  One by one the council members arrived, bowing their heads to Gallia and me as they entered the room and took their places round the table. City Governor Rsan, old and stiff, wore a worried expression. A stickler for routine and order, anything out of the ordinary made him apprehensive and fearing the worst. I smiled at him in an attempt to reassure him.

  Aaron, the treasurer, entered in the company of two clerks carrying handfuls of scrolls, just in case the meeting concerned pecuniary matters requiring reference to past meetings. Rsan’s clerks would take minutes of the meeting. The last to arrive was Chrestus, fresh from the training fields and sweating profusely. He picked up a towel and wiped his face and neck. The commander of the army, originally a native of Pontus, had cold black eyes, a chiselled face and a muscular torso. He shaved his head and face and always carried a vine cane with him, the same cane his master, Lucius Domitus, had carried. Chrestus was a worthy successor of my dead friend and people remarked he was more Roman than the Romans, an insult the army’s leader took as a compliment.

  ‘I have called you all here,’ I began, ‘to inform you we have received word from Ctesiphon. Orodes has died.’

  They looked at each other and me in shock. Rsan was most upset.

  ‘This is a black day, majesty, not only for his friends but also the whole empire.’

  ‘The letter was from Phraates,’ I continued, ‘whom I assume will become high king after a suitable period of mourning.’

>   Rsan’s crinkly forehead creased. ‘According to procedure the new high king should be decided by a meeting of the empire’s kings at Esfahan, majesty.’

  I filled a cup with water, handed it to Gallia and filled another for myself.

  ‘Let me tell you about Esfahan, Rsan. When Orodes became high king fifteen years ago…’

  ‘Sixteen,’ interrupted Rsan.

  ‘What?’

  ‘He became high king sixteen years ago.’

  Gallia rolled her eyes.

  ‘Well, be it as it may,’ I said. ‘Orodes insisted all the empire’s kings should meet at Esfahan every two years so any potential conflicts and grievances could be aired and settled without recourse to conflict.’

  ‘Most sensible,’ agreed Rsan.

  ‘Sensible and immensely tedious,’ I told him. ‘But if I learned anything, other than how uncomfortable the seating arrangements in the great tent were, it was there were no rival claimants to the position of high king.’

  ‘You will support the election of Phraates to the high throne?’ asked Gallia.

  ‘I will,’ I replied.

  ‘Even though you yourself described him as a snake?’ said Chrestus, to a sharp intake of breath from Rsan and Aaron.

  I laughed. ‘At Ctesiphon Phraates will rule like a tyrant. The palace will become an even greater nest of vipers than it is already, if that is possible.’

  ‘Not much of a recommendation,’ said Gallia.

  I shrugged. ‘Let me put it another way. As far as I know no one apart from Phraates wants the high throne, though it is not to say a rival claimant will not appear in due course. Phraates is the legitimate heir of Orodes and is recognised as such throughout the empire. If the kings vote for another then he has every right to try to win back the high throne by force, which means civil war. No one wants that.’

  ‘One of the kings might wish to try his luck and put himself forward,’ said Chrestus.

  ‘Always a possibility,’ I replied, ‘though I know for certain most will not.’