Usurper, p.1
Usurper, page 1
Usurper
Peter Darman
Copyright © 2017 Pete Darman
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Formatted by Jo Harrison
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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
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
*Alcaeus: Greek chief physician in Dura’s army
Azad: commander of Dura’s cataphracts
*Byrd: Cappadocian businessman resident at Palmyra, formerly chief scout in Dura’s army
Chrestus: commander of Dura’s army
Claudia: daughter of Pacorus and Gallia, princess of Dura
Eszter: daughter of Pacorus and Gallia, princess of Dura
*Gallia: Gaul, Queen of Dura Europos
Isabella: daughter of Pacorus and Gallia, princess of Dura
Kewab: Egyptian, deputy commander of cataphracts 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
Sporaces: commander of Dura’s horse archers
Talib: Agraci, chief scout in Dura’s army
The Kingdom of Hatra
*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
Khosrou: King of Margiana
*Nergal: Hatran soldier and former commander of Dura’s horse archers, now the King of Mesene
Peroz: King of Sakastan
†Phraates: King of Kings of the Parthian Empire
*Praxima: Spaniard, former Roman slave and now the wife of Nergal and Queen of Mesene
Roxanne: Queen of Sakastan
Salar: prince of Sakastan
Silaces: King of Elymais
Non-Parthians
†Kujula: Emperor of the Kushans
Malik: King of the Agraci
Noora: Agraci wife of Byrd
Rana: Kushan, queen and Kujula’s sister
Rasha: Agraci, Queen of Gordyene
Spartacus: adopted son of Gafarn and Diana, King of Gordyene
Chapter 1
‘It looks brand new, as though it has just been carved.’
The man who had escorted my daughter Isabella from the eastern edge of the empire stroked the limestone.
‘It is magnificent and looks like it has been created by one of the gods.’
I laughed when I thought of the man who had carved the griffin standing guard over the city of Dura by day and night.
‘The stonemason was a barrel-chested Greek by the name of Demetrius,’ I told him, ‘who had a foul temper, irreverent manner and treated me like one of his apprentices. But he knew how to create a masterpiece from a slab of rock.’
‘The princess told me your kingdom is safe as long as the griffin stays here, majesty, though your sorceress once told her that one day it might fly away to the mountains in the far north.’
He was talking of Dobbai who had been dead for eighteen years but who still cast a long shadow over Dura and its king. I thought back to the encounter with the old woman in black at Lake Urmia during the campaign against Mark Antony. It was she, I know it was, but as the weeks passed the meeting became more and more like a dream. Perhaps it was a dream?
‘Majesty?’
I snapped out of my daydreaming to smile at Agbar, the commander of King Peroz’s bodyguard from far-away Sakastan. He and two hundred of his men had arrived three weeks ago along with my daughter. Isabella had spent many months in Sakastan and it would have made sense for her to stay there while the guests to her wedding, which included her parents, made their way to Sigal, Sakastan’s capital. But Gallia had wanted all her daughters to be reunited at Dura one last time and insisted she and I accompany Isabella to the wedding. And so Isabella had returned to Dura to prepare for the journey to her betrothed’s city and their marriage bed. Gallia was delighted. I thought it a complete waste of time that Agbar and his men had been dragged across the breadth of the empire for no reason at all.
‘Would you like to inspect the legionary camp?’ I asked.
‘That would be a great honour, majesty.’
Tramping round a dusty, sun-baked camp was not everyone’s choice but since his arrival Agbar had shown a keen interest in Dura and its army. I had no idea if he was genuinely interested or was being the perfect guest but he had made a favourable impression with his impeccable manners and generous sense of honour. We walked down the stone steps in one of the towers flanking the griffin that stood above the Palmyrene Gate, mounted our horses and rode to the camp half a mile to the west. As usual the entrance to the city was a mad press of people, carts, spitting camels and flustered guards trying to keep a semblance of order, but we managed to thread a way through the throng to ride the short journey to where the Exiles and Durans were based. Both legions were on an extended training exercise though a skeleton garrison had been left behind to guard the mud-brick wall perimeter, stores and the Staff of Victory. The griffin and lion standards always marched with the legions but the staff stayed behind under heavy guard.
Because the camp was mostly empty it was mercifully free of dust but not the heat beating down from an angry sun in a cloudless sky. We rode to the commander’s large tent, though Chrestus was away leading his men in the desert to the west and would not return for ten days. Agbar, wearing his open-faced helmet but not his cuirass of overlapping polished square steel scales, dismounted and looked around at the neat rows of tents accommodating the legionaries, almost all empty. Among them were larger granary tents, a hospital, stabling blocks and workshops.
‘What do your soldiers sleep in when they are away, majesty?’
‘In tents exactly the same as the ones here in camp. But because these tents stand in the open for months until they are replaced, tents used for campaigns and exercises are held in warehouses in the city.’
I nodded at the nearest block of tents. ‘These are replaced on a regular basis though in truth they are very hardy.’
‘They are Roman?’ he asked.
‘They are based on those used by the Romans, yes, but are produced by the city’s tannery.’
‘I would like to visit it, majesty.’
I thought of the stench of urine hanging over it at all times, a consequence of the need to employ piss in the manufacture of hides, which is why it was located well away from the city.
‘If we have time I should be delighted to take you there.’
Legionaries took our horses and those of our escort to the stables near Chrestus’ grand headquarters tent but what Agbar really wanted to see was the Staff of Victory. There were three tall, square tents positioned immediately behind Chrestus’ living quarters, all usually heavily guarded but today only one of them ringed by legionaries. The other two normally housed the golden griffin and silver lion but they marched with the legions. The remaining occupied tent was where the Staff of Victory resided. We walked over to it, the duty centurion with his white transverse crest eyeing warily the tall man beside me wearing a yellow silk tunic, yellow leggings and red leather boots. But he and his men snapped to attention as we passed, though he held out his vine cane to prevent the escort – yellow-clad soldiers from Sakastan – from entering.
‘You lot stay here,’ he growled, menace in his voice.
A frown spread across Agbar’s clean-shaven face.
‘We only allow a limited number into the tent at any one time,’ I said apologetically. ‘When we have finished your men can take turns to see the Staff of Victory.’
It sounded grand but in truth it was an ordinary wooden pole topped with a silver horse’s head, the brainchild of Lucius Domitus. The silver discs fixed to the staff, each one bearing a unique design, had value in themselves but it was what they represented that made the Staff of Victory priceless. Inside the tent Agbar stood admiring the discs, each one created to c ommemorate a victory won by the army of Dura. The army that had never tasted the bitterness of defeat, albeit one that had come close on several occasions. There were discs saluting the victories of Surkh, Susa, Uruk, Carrhae and Persepolis. I tried to maintain a kingly demeanour when Agbar’s eyes rested on the disc showing a dying elephant being speared by legionaries – my defeat of King Porus of Sakastan. That triumph really belonged to Domitus and a herd of swine and I hoped Agbar would not question me about it.
The atmosphere inside the tent was oppressive, not only due to the heat but also because each legionary present stood with his hand on the hilt of his gladius , ready to pull it should the foreign stranger attempt to steal the Staff of Victory. If in a moment of madness he tried such a ruse my presence would not prevent him from being hacked to pieces.
‘It should be in more appropriate surroundings,’ said Agbar at length.
‘A marble hall, perhaps?’ I suggested. ‘I have thought about it but this has been its only home and over the years the army has come to regard its presence in camp as a lucky mascot. And with each victory the idea that to move it would anger the gods took root. So it stays here.’
‘So many victories, majesty,’ he said admiringly.
I smiled politely but as the years passed all I saw was the loss of friends and the earth drenched in blood. The moment of victory was sweet indeed but glory commanded a high price; perhaps too high.
We rode back to the city after an inspection of the camp, which must have disappointed Agbar somewhat on account of it being largely deserted. When we arrived at the Citadel an agitated Rsan was waiting for me. Tegha and the other horses were taken to the stables to be rubbed down and unsaddled. Agbar and his men returned to barracks to refresh themselves before Sporaces, the commander of my horse archers, gave Agbar a tour of the armouries beyond the Citadel’s walls.
Rsan bowed his head. ‘May I have a word with you, majesty?’
He held a rolled papyrus scroll in his hand and I suspected that more than one word would pass between us.
‘Of course,’ I replied, ‘come to the terrace.’
We walked across the cobbled courtyard to the palace steps. Near us carts were unloading supplies at the bakery and granary along the northern wall, and the sound of hammers working metal on anvils came from the workshops in the northwest corner. Rsan said nothing as we walked through the porch into the high-ceilinged hall leading to the throne room. But I could tell by the frown he wore he was far from happy. Now in his seventies, unlike most of us his skin was not dark and weather beaten, a result of him purposely staying out of the sun. The first day I set eyes on him he was wearing a spotless flowing white gown and today was no different, though now his steps were a little stiff and his shoulder-length hair thinning.
We passed the guards on each side of the dais and made our way to the palace terrace accessed via a corridor to the rear of the throne room. The head steward reported to me on the terrace as we settled under a white canvas awning in wicker chairs stuffed with cushions. Below were the blue waters of the Euphrates and beyond the river the lands of my brother, King Gafarn of Hatra. I ordered refreshments to be brought, though I knew most would be sent back to the kitchens. Rsan was abstemious at the best of times and more so when he was troubled.
‘How can I help you?’ I asked him.
He smiled politely and unrolled the scroll.
‘We are all delighted that Princess Isabella is back in the city, majesty, albeit only for a short time. I remember when she was a young, carefree girl and now she is to marry. How the years pass in the blink of an eye.’
I too smiled politely and held up a hand.
‘I’m sure you did not want to speak to me to reminisce about my daughter’s childhood.’
Rsan said nothing as servants placed a table between us and loaded it with dishes of olives, pastries, bread, cheese and a jug of water, pouring the liquid into two cups. The governor waved them away but took no refreshment as I sipped at the water. He held up the scroll.
‘This is a list of people who will be accompanying the princess back to Sakastan in a few weeks.’
He perused the list. ‘You and the queen, naturally, the princesses Claudia and Eszter, Lord Byrd and his wife, the king and queen of Hatra.’
‘I am acquainted with who will be travelling with us to Sakastan, Rsan. What of it?’
He cleared his throat. ‘May I draw your attention to King Malik and Queen Jamal, majesty?’
I picked up a pastry and took a bite. ‘You should try one of these, they are delicious. What of Malik and Jamal attending Isabella’s wedding? She has known Malik since she was a child.’
‘Can I assume King Malik will be accompanied by a bodyguard, majesty?’
I finished the pastry and picked up another. ‘Two thousand warriors will be accompanying the Agraci king and queen, the same number that will be escorting each of the monarchs of Dura, Mesene, Hatra and Gordyene.’
‘Is it wise for so many Agraci warriors to be crossing the Euphrates in light of King of Kings Phraates’ policy, majesty?’
‘You mean his ludicrous Parthian purity policy?’ I answered, finishing the second pastry. ‘Please, try one, they melt on the tongue.’
Rsan picked up a pastry and nibbled the end. ‘Most appetising. But to return to the Agraci problem.’
‘There is no Agraci problem, Rsan,’ I told him. ‘Isabella wants Malik and Jamal at the wedding, Gallia and I want them there and it would be entirely inappropriate for a king to travel anywhere without an escort. As a stickler for rules and regulations I would have thought you would be the first to acknowledge this.’
Rsan put down the pastry. ‘Such a gesture will arouse the ire of the high king, majesty.’
I picked up an olive. ‘It may, though I’m sure the high king is mindful he is only high king and not a Roman puppet due to the armies of Dura, Mesene, Elymais, Hatra and Gordyene in the recent campaign. Like a pair of finely balanced scales he will find that his annoyance over a party of Agraci travelling from the Euphrates to the Indus will be offset by the recognition that he owes his crown to those traveling with King Malik and Queen Jamal.’
‘A most interesting analogy, majesty,’ said Rsan without enthusiasm.
I had received no word from the high king since the return of the army from Persis after the campaign to kill Prince Alexander, the second son of my dead friend King Atrax and my very much alive and embittered sister Queen Aliyeh. Alexander had indeed been killed and Dura’s army had marched back to its homeland, soon after another silver disc being added to the Staff of Victory. I had no doubt Aliyeh and the new King of Media, King Darius, had petitioned Phraates long and hard about mounting a campaign against my kingdom but the high king had been content to stay at Ctesiphon. The son of Orodes and Axsen had inherited few of his parents’ good qualities but he was the rightful heir to the high throne and for the sake of continuity I had lobbied hard for his coronation. His reign and indeed the empire had faced an immediate challenge when Mark Antony had invaded Parthia at the head of over one hundred thousand Roman and Armenian soldiers. But we had chased Antony back to Armenia in a campaign that had cost him a third of his army and left the rest demoralised and without weapons and equipment. Phraates had been present throughout most of the campaign, though had taken little direct control of actual operations. Nevertheless, his presence had reinforced his credibility and afterwards the scribes and priests at Ctesiphon had been working tirelessly to create an image of the young high king as a military genius who had inflicted defeat after defeat on the Romans.
‘To allay your fears, Rsan, I have given much thought to how we may proceed without provoking the high king into taking any action he may later regret.’
‘I do not understand, majesty.’
I finished off another olive. ‘The clarification will be arriving shortly.’
King Silaces arrived three days later. The ruler of Elymais was now in his early sixties and had always had a world-weary look but the recent campaign in the north, during which he had lost Valak who had been like a son to him, had deepened the worry lines on his face. It had also made him more embittered. He arrived at the head of a hundred horse archers who were quartered in the Citadel along with the yellow-uniformed soldiers of Agbar.
