Blood of Kings Read online

  Remembering his duties as host, Darius smiled at the leader of the Edomite embassy and lifted a fluted gold bowl from the table. ‘Here, Hadar, try some camel tongue in honey. It’s delicious!’ Leaning closer he ladled a piece onto the Edomite’s plate, trying to ignore the smell from the desert dweller’s filthy robes and unwashed body. Men were supposed to bathe before they dined with the Great King, and dress in clean white clothes. Somehow the instruction had passed Hadar by. A sudden roar of wine-fuelled laughter on the far side of the hall drowned the Edomite’s reply, but seeing his enthusiastic grin Darius offered him the ladle. Instead Hadar stuck long, slim fingers into the bowl and grabbed handfuls of the meat. Darius raised his eyebrows, put the ladle down and watched resignedly. Though the men of Edom were soon to be Persia’s allies, they were no more civilized than the rest of the Arab tribes.

  Having emptied the bowl the Arab licked it clean, then looked greedily at the beaten gold. Glancing furtively around he placed it under his robes, patted the cloth flat, then shook his head and returned it to the table. ‘I cannot take it,’ he said sadly.

  Darius was relieved. ‘Honour prevents you?’

  ‘Honour? No. What do you Persians call us? “Thieving Arabs.” So, I thieve.’ He drew back fleshy lips revealing yellow teeth. ‘But the bulge is too large, it will be seen. And if it is seen your king will have me impaled, like so many others. Tell me, why does he kill so many men? The new moon has not yet risen since he was crowned, but when we came into the city the street was already lined with wretches on stakes.’

  Darius leant closer. ‘They were men who displeased him. Twelve were high nobles who insulted him.’

  Hadar nodded sagely. ‘That is good. It is right that a man should die if he insults his king. What did they do?’

  ‘One spilt his wine as he was toasting the king’s health, another stumbled as he abased himself before the throne …’

  Hadar’s jaw fell open. ‘They died such deaths for that? I see now that in this land it is wrong to steal from the king.’ Hurriedly he pulled another, much smaller gold bowl from his robes and replaced it on the table. Darius hadn’t even seen him take it. Looking at the wealth of gold plate like shining suns on each torch-lit table, Darius laughed softly and quickly covered the bowl with a linen towel. ‘Keep it, friend. Cambyses has plenty more.’

  A gong sounded and the Edomites erupted into excited conversation, touching each other’s shoulders and pointing as roasted peacocks were carried in on platters of electrum, the iridescent blue tail feathers arranged artfully around each bird, followed by a baked whole young camel on a bronze platter which took twenty slaves to carry.

  Darius rested his chin in his palm and watched the Edomites’ frenetic chattering. He wished he could join in the spirit of the feast, but felt no excitement at the sight of a dead animal and some dead birds. Perhaps this was how it would always be from now on; without Parmys, perhaps there would be no pleasure in his life ever again. His fingers went to his wine cup, then he changed his mind and pushed it away. If he drank he’d just become morbid.

  After the camel had passed Hadar put his arm across Darius’s shoulder. ‘Tomorrow we set off for my land. Since we are to travel together, we must keep no secrets. Tell me what worries you, my friend?’

  Darius liked this man. Despite his coarse ways, thieving fingers and uncouth appearance, he had a warm heart.

  ‘I’m just thinking of someone in trouble.’

  ‘Ah. But can you not help him?’

  ‘Her,’ Darius corrected. ‘And no … I fear she is beyond hope.’

  The Land Between the Rivers, nearly a month later …

  Standing on the crest of a low hill on the northern bank of the River Euphrates, Darius pointed across a flat landscape of green and brown squares. ‘If you follow the Royal Road north it divides. One branch takes you to Ecbatana, and the King of Kings’ Summer Palace. The other goes west into Cappadocia, Phrygia and Lydia. From Susa to Sardis, the Lydian capital, is a journey of four months on foot. To the coast is even further.’

  ‘All part of your Empire?’ Hadar whistled in astonishment.

  ‘Of course. And if you travel east rather than west, it stretches to India, a journey of nearly five months.’

  ‘Nine months to cross your Empire from end to end? It takes four days to cross my land.’ Hadar translated to his men, who shook their heads in awe.

  Remembering the treaty he had been sent to obtain, Darius scented an opportunity. ‘Surely King Malik-Rammu would welcome such a powerful ally to fight his battles for him?’

  Hadar smiled wryly. ‘In my land we have a saying: “The lion and the lamb may be friends. But they should not sleep together.” ’

  With Babylon behind them they abandoned the Royal Road, cutting west across open country into the Land Beyond the River. The Syrian hills were damp and cold, peasants ploughing the stony soil. Seeing men on horseback they fled, bolting themselves into beehive-shaped mud houses. Darius didn’t blame them; the band of Edomites looked like rustlers or raiders, with crudely cut hair and straggling beards, armed to the teeth with spears, daggers or short swords and bows. Chattering excitedly as they approached their home, they led Darius over purple hills where stunted trees clung precariously to rocks in the face of searing winds, and russet doves rested on narrow ledges.

  As dusk fell they camped in a valley bounded by dense thickets, where the outlines of trees swayed against the night sky. Firelight reflected from the Edomites’ fierce dark eyes, illuminating their hawk-like faces as they lay back and drank wine. As Hadar sang in a clear sweet voice of a hot desert wind melting the mountain snows at the end of winter, Darius noticed the nearest trees begin to shake. He heard crackling undergrowth, hard running feet and snapping branches as something crashed through the wood. Alarmed he sat upright, searching the shadows, but the orange glow of the fire failed to penetrate the dense thicket. Expecting a party of Moabite raiders he snatched up his bow. A bush shook violently and a ram with broad shoulders and great curving horns burst into the circle of firelight, its shaggy wool strewn with leaves and twigs, its eyes wild. Frightened by the flames, it slowed. The bush shook again and a pale wolf leapt through, tail streaming, jaws forward, eyes bright green points like glowing emeralds. With a rattle of hooves the ram lowered its head and ran for its life. A second wolf appeared and they bounded after the ram, running swiftly, the sharp clatter of their claws loud against the ground as they gained on their fleeing prey. The ram swerved in panic as the leading wolf sprang, its large shadowy bulk flying right in front of Hadar.

  Darius shouted a warning. Jumping to his feet Hadar thrust his spear but missed and the wolf twisted in mid-air to face him. Darius marvelled at the killer’s massive jaws, powerful forelimbs and huge, meaty paws. Landing on all fours it growled deep in its throat, drew back its ears, bared its fangs, bunched its muscles and sprang at the Arab. His spear already extended, Hadar was caught off balance as he tried to bring it between his body and the wolf. He cried out in fear as he staggered, tripped and fell.

  One knee on the ground, eyes fixed on the snarling beast, Darius drew, spun, loosed again and again. Arrows whistled, there was a sound of iron thudding into flesh and the wolf thumped to the ground at Hadar’s side with a shaft through its heart, followed by the second wolf, which fell with a shaft sticking crosswise through its throat. A bare moment later the ram cartwheeled past the fire before coming to rest with one shoulder against a rock.

  As the beasts lay dying, the Edomites were still fumbling with their bowstrings. They stared at Darius then whooped and shouted, coming over and clapping him on the back. ‘My friend!’ Hadar cried, eyes bright as he picked himself up off the ground. ‘Where did you learn to shoot like that?’

  Darius shrugged. ‘I’m Persian. Didn’t you know we’re born with bows in our hands?’

  When the ram had been spitted and was roasting over hot coals, Hadar moistened his throat with wine, then lay back on a pile of sheepskins cradling
the wineskin. ‘You are a worthy soldier and a fine man, Darius, but when you think no one is watching I see a great sadness on you. Is it your friend? Is she still in distress?’

  Darius sighed heavily. He had drunk too much wine, his head was spinning and his heart was aching. He told Hadar about Parmys.

  An outcrop of rock was coloured in magical shades of rose, purple and cream. Shivering from the damp, Darius dismounted and followed the Edomites as they walked their horses into an obscure, open-topped chasm. Footsteps echoed. The chasm became a passage which twisted like a canyon without a river, so narrow that Darius realized a handful of men could hold it against an army. At last, Hadar took his elbow and led him round a small bend. The passageway flared into an open space, which widened into a valley floor lined with caves where women balanced water jars on their heads or stacked round, flat loaves in their arms. Flocks of dark long-eared sheep grazed, while black goat-hair tents stood unmoved by the breeze, their roof panels sloping at crooked angles. From the cooking fires rose a smell of burning dung. ‘Welcome to Sela, my city!’ Hadar beamed.

  On a flat mountain above the valley sat a cluster of crude, square stone buildings. After a long, treacherous climb up a winding goat track, Hadar flourished a hand and invited Darius to approach the mountaintop retreat. ‘The palace of King Malik-Rammu! But first, look over there.’ Hadar pointed towards the low winter sun, where a jagged rock hung over the abyss which plunged between two mountains.

  Screwing up his face against the sun and trying not to stare into the abyss, Darius followed the Arab’s finger. ‘The High Place of Sacrifice. Where we cast down our enemies!’ Hadar grinned. ‘After the priests of Orotalt have skinned them.’

  Approaching the palace gates, Darius hid his disappointment at the lack of splendour. Any modest merchant in Pathragada lived in greater luxury. Inside, slaves poured copper bowls of water and removed the travellers’ sandals to wash their feet, then offered dates and clay jugs of thin wine. Malik-Rammu’s audience chamber was smaller than the ante-chamber in the King of Kings’ campaign tent. Loosely knotted rugs covered the walls and floor, cushions lay around a small round table sparsely inlaid with silver. The king sat cross-legged on a tasselled cushion on the ground, his white robes set off by a huge, flat-bladed, curved khanjar dagger in the centre of his waist. His face was lined and wary, the nose large and hooked, the mouth slack above an unkempt white beard yellowing with age.

  Hadar bowed and sat on a sheepskin rug. Darius sat on a cushion.

  The Arab king looked at Darius through narrow, suspicious eyes, then touched his heart. He spoke Aramaic in a harsh, guttural voice. ‘Peace to you, Persian.’

  Darius bowed at the neck. ‘And to you, king, peace.’

  ‘You are welcome … But why have you come? I sent my son, Hadar, to Persia as an embassy. I did not expect him to return so soon.’

  ‘Cambyses, King of Kings, sent me with gifts for his brother Malik-Rammu, renowned warrior and leader of the Arab tribes.’ The Arab watched like a hawk as Darius set before him a richly carved Persian bow, a gown of purple pleated linen embroidered with silver thread and a two-handled drinking cup of solid gold.

  The king strung the bow and drew it. He felt the weight of the gold cup, ran his fingers over the crisp purple linen. A slow smile spread over his face.

  Darius folded his hands in his lap. ‘Cambyses hopes that his brother is in good health? And that his wives and flocks are fertile?’

  Malik-Rammu caressed the golden cup and nodded. ‘And Cambyses?’ he asked. ‘Has Orotalt yet sent him sons?’

  Darius shook his head. ‘Alas.’

  ‘Such a rich empire to rule over, such fine cities, but still no sons?’ The Arab king lifted his hands and eyes to the ceiling. ‘Let Orotalt’s will be done.’

  Darius nodded gravely. ‘Sela too is a fine city, and strongly held. Your enemies must despair?’

  The king lowered his gaze to study his guest’s face. ‘The Moabites and Egyptians press in on us, raiding the moment my back is turned. Of course, when we catch them we teach them the error of their ways.’ He sniffed. ‘But of what interest is this to Persia?’

  ‘The King of Kings will be pleased to hear that they do not go unpunished, for he believes that your enemies are his enemies, and his enemies are yours.’

  Malik-Rammu’s rheumy, red-veined eyes hardened. ‘If Cambyses believes this, why does he not join us in our fight?’

  ‘He would like nothing more than to strike at your enemies!’

  ‘Then what stops him?’

  ‘To reach them he must bring his army across your land.’

  Malik-Rammu sat upright. ‘And how many men is this army of Cambyses’ …?’

  Darius met the king’s gaze. ‘About one hundred thousand.’

  Suspicion returned to the Arab’s face. ‘With an army so great, what could Cambyses possibly want from me?’ The king turned his head away, forcing Darius to speak to the side of his jaw.

  ‘He seeks permission to cross your land to strike at Egypt … plus food, water and fodder for his men, horses and camels, from the border of our Empire to the Sinai Desert and beyond.’

  The king twirled an upright finger. ‘How much is this “food” that Cambyses requires?’

  ‘Two thousand sheep a day, Your Majesty.’ Darius took a deep breath. ‘Plus eight thousand bushels of grain, six and a half thousand flasks of oil, one hundred and fifty thousand skins of water, thirty-seven and a half thousand bushels of fodder for our horses and draft oxen. Enough dates to feed twelve thousand baggage camels and four thousand fighting camels.’

  Malik-Rammu’s eyes widened. ‘No great amount …’ he said airily, placing the golden cup on the inlaid table. ‘And yet, it is more than my people can spare. They are poor desert tribesmen. I cannot ask them to starve themselves …’ he looked at the flaking paint on the walls, ‘unless I have the means to reward them well.’

  ‘Cambyses would not want to be a burden on his brother,’ Darius responded genially. ‘Swear alliance with Persia, and he would demonstrate the generosity of a true friend.’

  There was a glint in the Arab’s eye. ‘This generosity would be demonstrated in gold?’

  ‘In gold,’ Darius agreed, reading the calculation in Malik-Rammu’s face. The Arab did not trust his powerful Eastern neighbour, but there was a profit to be made, and a chance to humble his enemies.

  Malik-Rammu addressed Hadar in a series of rapid bursts in a dialect of Aramaic which Darius could not follow. Hadar shook his head. The two men argued loudly, hands waving and heads shaking. With each exchange Malik-Rammu grew angrier. He hawked and spat, he snorted and thumped the ground in disgust at his son’s replies. Unmoved, Hadar met his father’s outrage with practised anger of his own.

  With a final reluctant grunt the king turned back to Darius, and announced gravely, ‘It shall be done.’

  They clasped hands. Everyone smiled.

  Malik-Rammu folded his arms implacably across his chest and set his jaw. ‘Payment must be in advance. Then we shall gather the supplies.’

  Darius’s heart sank. Cambyses would boil him alive if he agreed to such terms. He smiled through gritted teeth. ‘Payment can only be made as each delivery is made.’

  Malik-Rammu drew back his head, bared his teeth, thumped his fist on the ground and unleashed another torrent of outrage at Hadar. Hadar shrank back. ‘My father the king thinks that you insult him.’

  Darius answered cautiously. ‘That is not my intention.’

  Hadar hawked and spat on his rug. ‘Nevertheless, he is insulted. There is no distrust between friends, and no dealing with enemies. If my father makes a promise, it is as certain as the rising of the sun that he will deliver. Not a shekel less.’

  ‘I do not doubt that King Malik-Rammu is a man of great honour, whose virtue and integrity are legendary throughout the land. But I have orders from the King of Kings, and I dare not disobey.’

  At this reply, the king drew his khanjar dag
ger and waved it in Darius’s face, shouting at the top of his voice. Darius sat very still. The blade looked very sharp.

  ‘My father the king says you accuse him of cheating,’ Hadar gave a nervous sniff, ‘and he will throw you from the High Place of Sacrifice. I have told him you are the ambassador of the Great King, whose gifts he has accepted, and killing you would make him angry. But my father says if King Cambyses wants the supplies he must either pay in advance or come in person to explain this insult.’

  Malik-Rammu’s eyes were on Darius’s face. His life hanging in the balance, Darius strained to keep his expression blank and voice neutral. ‘The King of Kings is a busy man, with forty million subjects to watch over,’ he said softly. ‘But I am sure he would not wish to spurn his brother Malik-Rammu’s call. Perhaps he will send his hundred thousand soldiers to explain for him?’

  Hadar stiffened. The king went pale. Darius hoped he hadn’t gone too far. Everyone knew that Cambyses could simply march in, take what he needed and ravage the land. It would mean a blood feud, hostile tribes on Persia’s western border down to the second or third generation, but it could be done.

  Hadar snatched the gifts from his father and placed them back at Darius’s side. The king looked furious, his shouts rising, the vertical lines on either side of his hooked nose deepening into angry furrows. Drawn by the commotion two guards burst through the doorway, weapons drawn. Darius wondered how much of the king’s anger was real. If he was misjudging the Arab, he would not live long.