The Thrice Named Man VII: Illyrian, page 12
part #1 of The Thrice Named Man 07 Series
“The politics of the East is not that simple, Marcus”, I said, and gestured to Pezhman to continue.
“The great king ordered the priceless gifts from Lord Odaenathus to be cast into the waters of the Tigris, the letters to be torn up and burned. He then sent a messenger to Odaenathus, informing him that the Palmyrians, through the actions of their lord, have greatly insulted the great king of the Sasanians – a slave must know his place and not write letters to his lord and master. Shapur called Odaenathus a coward who begs for a lesser punishment, so the great king decreed that Palmyra would be destroyed and the people sold into slavery.”
We all gaped at Pezhman in disbelief.
“Why in Hades would he do that?” Hostilius said.
Pezhman had lived in Persia for long and appeared all but surprised. “Shahanshah Shapur is a high priest of Ahura Mazda, the Lord of Wisdom”, he said, “while Lord Odaenathus is the high priest of Bel, the Lord of the Wind. Surely everyone knows that they can never be allies.”
“Sounds rather stupid for a man serving the Lord of Wisdom”, Hostilius said and drained his cup.
* * *
Cyriades listened intently.
“That is truly good news”, he said. “But I fear it will not help Antioch.”
He hesitated for a heartbeat, as if deciding whether to share a secret. Then he sighed and his shoulders slumped. “I know you have the ear of the emperor”, he said. “It is better that he hears it from you.”
He took a swallow from his chalice and continued. “Have you heard the rumours concerning my son Mariades?”
Marcus replied with a curt nod.
“The truth is far worse than the rumours”, he said. “Mariades’s trade is to procure horses for the chariot races. He used to travel to Persia as the best horses are bred in Sasanian lands. During one of his visits to the East he was approached by a man, an agent of Shapur, who offered him an inordinate amount of gold if he could persuade me to open the gates of Antioch to the Sasanians.”
“And you declined?” Marcus asked.
“I would be lying if I said that I did not consider it”, he said. “It was just after Emperor Decius’s defeat at Abritus after years of suffering the evil of Priscus.”
“Priscus was an evil man”, I said. “He ordered the murder of my father.”
“That sounds like the work of the Arab’s brother”, Cyriades said, and wetted his throat. “When I turned my son down, he fled to the court of Shapur without fulfilling his obligations to his clients. He made many unsavoury friends during the time that he was involved in the races. I fear that Mariades will try to enter the city unseen and persuade his shadowy friends to let the enemy in.”
Just then, a man entered the room and bowed low to Cyriades, who gestured for him to approach. He whispered words into the quaestor’s ear, who nodded in response. The man, who I assumed was a secretary, hurried off, only to appear again moments later, this time accompanied by a man wearing the loose-fitting robes of the Easterners.
The man, whose clothes were permeated with dust, inclined his head.
“Lord”, the man said in accented Greek, “King Tiridates and his grandson are in our care, but the old king is infirm and cannot travel fast. We have made camp thirty miles to the north, but we fear that tomorrow the Sasanians will catch us. We request that you send Roman cavalry to stall the approach of the Sasanian advance scouts. It will allow us to reach the safety of the city.”
“We have no horsemen”, Cyriades whispered as if to himself.
“Lord?” the man asked.
“We sent our cavalry to fight at Barbalissos”, he said, this time louder. “They are all gone.”
Marcus and I exchanged glances and I noticed Hostilius draining his cup, anticipating the inevitable.
“Legate”, Cyriades said. “I cannot allow you to put yourself in harm’s way.”
Marcus silenced him with a glare. “Ready your best horses, Quaestor”, he said. “We leave within the hour.”
Chapter 24 – The Parmenion Gate
Quaestor Cyriades indicated the plain north and west of the Orontes where the flickering lights of campfires were clearly visible from our elevated position on the wall walk. “Shapur has sent his fastest riders ahead”, he said. “Your fate is now tied to that of the city.”
Marcus shook his head. “We will not fail in our mission”, he said. “Even if we have to sneak through their lines.”
Cyriades sighed. “There might be another way”, he said, “but I will be sending you to your deaths.”
“Tell us”, Marcus replied.
“In the eastern wall there is a service gate which gives access to the Gorge of Parmenius. I know that in the mountains there are paths used by the followers of Jesus. I have tried to put a stop to it, but still the Christians sneak into the hills to worship. It is near impossible to navigate the paths on horseback. Even in daylight it cannot be done.”
“Gordas and I will go”, I said.
“You are dead men, Tribune Domitius”, Cyriades said, and pointed at the campfires of the Sasanians. “But so are we all, eh?”
* * *
I bent down and ducked through the low door, entering the small room of the dwelling. Inside, the air was heavy with the smell of burning incense. Three men sat cross-legged on a thick-woven carpet, the only illumination provided by two flickering oil lamps placed in recesses in the whitewashed wall. My companion, a centurion of the city guard, inclined his head.
“We wish to speak with Demetrianus”, he said.
“We know not of this man you speak of, Roman”, one replied.
The centurion removed a leather thong from around his neck, revealing a silver cross. “Three one eight”, he said, and replaced the cross around his neck.
“Wait here”, the younger of the men said, and disappeared through the door, returning a hundred heartbeats later with an old man. The priest was garbed in a thin, knee-length tunic and an undyed mantle.
“I wish to ask for your assistance”, I said.
The man eyed me warily. “Your emperors wish to eradicate our faith and now a Roman wants my help?” he said in heavily accented Greek.
“We wish to cross the mountains through the Gorge of Parmenius, priest”, I said. “We need a guide.”
“Why would I help you, Roman?” he asked.
“I have heard that the One you serve, the Shepherd, accepts all into His flock. Would He have turned away from the pleas of someone in need?” I asked.
Demetrianus eyed me for long as if trying to divine my thoughts. Then he nodded to the men on the carpet, turned around and melted into the darkness.
The younger of the three men stood and inclined his head. “I am Domnus, and I will be your guide.”
* * *
Gordas leaned from the saddle and grabbed Domnus by his cloak, arresting his fall. Our guide righted himself and brushed the dust from his clothes while peering down the dark precipice. Even though the night was cold, pearls of perspiration were clearly visible on his forehead. He mumbled words in some desert dialect which I took to be a thank you to Gordas, and continued along the winding path.
Again, I asked Fortuna to protect me from tumbling to my death. From behind I heard the Armenian muttering a prayer to whichever god he worshipped.
“It is better to navigate the gorge by night”, Domnus said. “When it is light, you see how far you will fall and the fear causes many to plunge to their deaths.”
His words did little to calm me. Many times, our horses stumbled on rocks or slipped down gravel-covered slopes, but the gods chose to answer our prayers. Domnus led us through the gorge, across peaks and through overgrown valleys. By the time it was light enough to see without a torch, we were descending into a green river valley.
“The Orontes”, Domnus said and pointed to the river far below. “Let the water guide you north, it will place you behind the scouts of the Sasanians. I will wait here until you return.”
The road we followed ran parallel to the route of the advancing Sasanians, which meant that there was little danger of running into horsemen on their way to bolster the blockade of Antioch. It would take time for the bulk of the Sasanian army to arrive. But still, within days the countryside would be crawling with Sasanian scouts and foraging parties.
Come late afternoon, we were close to our destination.
The Armenian, who was called Mardig, led us along a shallow, overgrown ravine meandering up a steep slope, which, to Gordas’s chagrin, forced us to dismount. Three hundred paces farther our guide called a warning and three men, with arrows nocked, appeared from behind a small outcrop. After an exchange of words, they lowered their bows and Mardig signalled for us to follow him.
Tiridates was a big man, broad in the shoulders with a thick, silver beard and piercing dark eyes. He was dressed as a soldier, with a gilded breastplate noticeable underneath his embroidered green cloak. Beside him stood a toddler garbed in a simple tunic. The boy could not have been older than three.
The king beckoned me to approach. “I appreciate that you have come to aid us, Tribune”, he said. “But I was expecting a larger force of cavalry. Or are they waiting close by?”
“Nearly sixty thousand Romans lost their lives at Barbalissos, lord”, I said. “The cavalry based at Antioch perished there also.”
“For twelve years Shapur’s father tried to conquer the mountain kingdom of Armenia”, the king growled. “Eventually he skulked back to the lands he stole from the Parthians, with his tail between his legs like the Persian dog he is. How come the armies of Rome are so easily defeated?”
“Because, lord”, I replied, “the Romans who led the army were politicians grown fat from feasting on the fruits of corruption. They were no soldiers.”
“Are you a warrior, Tribune?” he asked.
“That”, I said, “is something you will have to decide for yourself, lord.”
“I pray to the gods that you are”, he said, and placed an arm around the child’s shoulders. “In this boy’s veins flows the last of the blood of the Arshakuni, the Parthian kings of old. I, for one, will gladly give my life to protect him. I trust you will do the same.”
When it was dark, Gordas and I were summoned to join the king. We sat on woollen carpets around the fire.
Mardig passed us each a cup of white wine and retook his seat to the left of Tiridates, the toddler sitting on the king’s right-hand side.
“I am a Parthian”, Tiridates said. “Five hundred years ago, my forebears flooded into these lands from the Sea of Grass and defeated the Greeks, who had held power ever since Iskander the Great, the man-god, defeated the Persians. Ardashir exploited the internal strife between the Parthian kings. He sowed division and widened the rifts that already existed, until Parthia was a kingdom divided, a kingdom ripe for conquering.”
He took a deep swallow from his cup. “The Parthians conquered with the sword, the Sasanians through backstabbing and deceit.”
“It is true”, he continued. “I have no love for the Romans. But I hate the Sasanians – no, I despise them.”
“The enemy of my enemy is my friend”, I mumbled.
“You speak words of wisdom, Roman”, Tiridates said.
“For twelve years Ardashir and Shapur had tried to conquer the lands of Armenia, and for twelve years we pushed them back. Time and again. But the Sasanians did not give up, they only changed tactics. While I was fighting our enemies, Shapur’s agents poisoned the mind of my son, Chosroes. He sided with Shapur. I feared for the life of my grandson and decided to save him before all our throats are opened by Sasanian blades while we sleep.”
“For now, Armenia is doomed”, he said, his features dark and brooding in the firelight. “Soon Shapur will arrange the murder of my fool son, Chosroes, so that he can place a Sasanian on the throne.”
But then a grin split his leather-like face. “But Shapur does not know the mountain lords of the Arshakuni. They will only bow the knee to the blood of the old kings. Whoever tries to rule them will fail – they will await the return of my blood”, he said, and his gaze came to rest on the boy who was staring into the flames.
Chapter 25 – Arshakuni
Domnus crouched behind a rock and pointed to the host swarming south across the plain in the direction of the city. “It is the horsemen only. The baggage train must still be on its way.”
“The Roman galleys will flee from the port of Seleucia”, I said. “They will not stay in the harbour and risk capture.”
“How will my grandson reach the safety of Rome?” Tiridates asked.
“We will follow the Orontes south”, I said, “to Emesa, from where we will take the Roman road to the coast. From there we will take ship to Rome.”
Tiridates walked to where his horse was tethered. “The sooner we leave, the better.”
“My friends are still in Antioch”, I said. “I will not leave without them.”
“Since when do Romans have honour?” Tiridates growled.
“My mother was a Scythian”, I said, which caused the king to raise his eyebrows.
Domnus led the Armenians to a cave in the side of the mountain. We left our horses with Mardig, and made our way into the passes, heading back to the city.
After a while Gordas growled, “The Jew is right. It is worse travelling the cliffs during the day. And”, he added, “I miss the sure-footedness of my horse”, and cursed as he stumbled over another rock.
Domnus led the way, but kept staring up at the darkening sky. “I will pray to God that he keeps the rain from falling”, he said. “I suggest you do the same.”
I did not waste my time to demand an explanation, and immediately started to speak to Fortuna. Behind me I heard Gordas muttering to his gods.
Before the middle hour of the night we reached the service gate in the mountain-facing wall of Antioch. I turned to Domnus and handed him a purse with five gold coins. “Thank you”, I said. “If you lead my friends to safety, you will be rewarded with more gold.”
The man shook his head. “No”, he said. “I wish to travel with you when you go south.”
Cai’s words echoed in my mind, ‘When the poor wish to leave, it is already too late.’
“Do you know how to ride?” I asked.
“Yes”, he said.
“But you have no horse”, I countered.
“Neither do your friends”, he answered, and I conceded his point with a nod.
* * *
Hostilius stared at the thousands of Sasanian cooking fires burning on the plain on the western banks of the Orontes. “No use going that way, eh?” he said.
“Our orders are to make sure the boy arrives safely in Rome”, Marcus said. “It will be of no use if we die on the walls of Antioch.”
“Will the Sasanians breach the walls?” I asked.
“Who knows”, Hostilius said. “They will lose thousands if they try. And you know that Sasanian horsemen aren’t too keen to fight on foot - which is what they will have to do if they wish to take the city.”
“Best leave soon”, Cai said.
“We will depart a third of a watch before first light”, I said. “It will allow us all a few hours of rest.”
Hostilius took one last look at the hippodrome, silhouetted against the night sky. “I didn’t even get the chance …”, he said, his voice trailing off.
“To do what?” Vibius asked.
“To admire the architecture from up close, of course”, he said. “You know the Easterners are an artistic lot.”
“Any word of Cyriades’s son?” I asked. “Did he not fear that his son, Mariades, had sided with Shapur?”
“Seems like nothing came of it”, Vibius replied.
We walked to our rooms in the villa of the quaestor to enjoy a short rest before our treacherous journey through the gorge.
“Let us bid Cyriades farewell”, I said. “I know that it is the middle hour of the night, but I am sure he will not be abed yet.”
The first sign of trouble was the absence of guards outside the quaestor’s quarters.
Hostilius tried to find an explanation. “They’re probably on the walls, which is better than them wasting their time standing guard in here”, he said, and knocked on the door. “At least he is awake”, the Primus Pilus added and pointed at the sliver of light visible underneath the door.
After a hundred heartbeats Hostilius shook his head. “To Hades with this”, he said and kicked in the door.
The old quaestor lay facedown on the floor, a Persian dagger firmly lodged in his back. The white eastern carpet underneath was red with blood.
“This is the work of Mariades”, Hostilius growled.
I have come to trust the intuition of my friend. “If that is the case”, I said, “I suggest we leave sooner, rather than later.”
Then, a flash of lighting from beyond the window illuminated the room, followed by the booming sound of thunder. Heartbeats later the heavens opened.
“I agree, Domitius”, Hostilius said. “Hope you’ve brought your sealskin cloak”, he added. “But I’m willing to lend you my spare if you haven’t.”
We grabbed our weapons and cloaks before making our way south. The guards at the tetrapylon saluted as we passed. Halfway across the bridge connecting the island to the rest of the city, the first shouts of panic reached our ears, seeming to originate from the eastern gate.
“The bastard killed his father and betrayed the city to Shapur”, Hostilius shouted, struggling to be heard above the sounds of the fast-approaching clash of blades and the wailing of panic-stricken people.
We crossed the main colonnaded street at the pool of the nymphs and carried on straight, past the theatre on the right, towards the service gate that led to the gorge.
We arrived at the gate when another, all-too-familiar sound gradually drowned out the wailing of the townspeople – the thunder of hooves pounding cobbles.
