Blood of Kings Page 11

  The king’s eyes flicked from Darius to the guards, then the gold drinking cup. Darius held his breath. Seduced by the glitter of the gold, Malik-Rammu waved the guards away, and as the slap of their sandals receded Darius felt the tension ebb.

  Malik-Rammu announced gravely, ‘Since my brother Cambyses has shown proper respect with such fine gifts, it is my pleasure to accept payment as each delivery is made.’

  Darius met Hadar’s eyes. They both smiled. Seeing their smiles the king also smiled.

  ‘His Majesty is pleased,’ Hadar announced. ‘Tonight we shall feast, and you and he shall swear in blood.’

  From a wooden chest in the corner of the chamber, Hadar produced two khanjar daggers matching the one in Malik-Rammu’s belt. Their flat blades nestled in curved sheaths bound with gold. As he held them up, torchlight imparted a glow to the precious metal. ‘The first is a gift for the Great King,’ Hadar explained. ‘The second is a gift from my father to you.’

  Darius took it solemnly, impressed by the weight of the blade and beauty of the gold-work. Malik-Rammu laughed at his obvious delight. ‘I have heard of your feat with the bow. It is good to have friends who strike fast and hard. May it bring pain to your enemies.’

  Torch flames danced in the desert wind. Hadar grasped Darius’s hand and drew a stone-bladed knife across the palm. Darius tensed his hand as the wickedly sharp blade slashed a red line across the skin. Hadar repeated the ritual on Malik-Rammu and, standing across a circle of seven stones, the Arab and the Persian clasped their palms together and swore the treaty in blood as they looked up at the stars. Cambyses’ army would be given food, water, fodder and safe passage across Malik-Rammu’s land to attack Egypt; in return, Malik-Rammu would see his Egyptian enemies crushed and receive two hundred talents of Persian gold. ‘And whoever breaks his word, may Orotalt strike him down,’ Hadar intoned. Darius nodded solemnly, though he knew it would take more than fear of Orotalt to prise so much meat from the Arab king’s flocks.

  When the ceremony was over Malik-Rammu chattered and laughed like an excited boy at the prospect of so much gold. Darius was also pleased; Cambyses had been prepared to pay twice as much. His treasury would barely notice the loss.

  Slaves set out a feast of lamb boiled in yoghurt, Darius copying the Edomites as they sat around a great copper platter and tore at the meat with their right hands. After the meal a strong dark drink was poured steaming hot into cups. Men beat hand drums, wine was drunk, and a beautiful girl with a diamond on her brow and her stomach bare danced to a haunting pipe. Finally, as the moon sank west and Darius’s head spun from wine and exhaustion, Hadar came and put his arm around his shoulder. ‘Do not give up hope for your friend, Darius. For killing the wolf I owe you a debt of honour. Say nothing of it to my father, but if I can, I shall help.’

  The next morning Darius set off east towards the Land Between the Rivers, where Parmys would be waiting. Alongside him were six Edomite warriors, grim men who rode their Arab stallions expertly and rarely spoke. This suited Darius, whose mind was seething with anticipation at the thought of seeing Parmys again.

  10

  The Land Between the Rivers

  Tall ivory flower spikes bloomed on the date palms lining the banks of the Euphrates, sunlight danced on water. The stockade on the plain was bordered by fields of sesame and barley, the curve of bows and flash of bronze betraying archers and spearmen manning its perimeter. As Darius scanned the view, a cloud of dust rising against the sun told him horsemen were scouting the area. He sat on his horse, vaguely following their progress, his mind filling inevitably with thoughts of Parmys. It was seven months since he had seen her. He had never been parted from her for this long since they were children. And with distance had come doubt.

  When Darius was a young boy his father had spent long periods at the palace under Cyrus’s watchful eye. As Hystaspes’ firstborn son, Darius had also been forced to attend. Being of royal blood he had been allowed to play with the Imperial grandchildren, and even from an early age he and Parmys had shared a bond. When she turned thirteen she spent much of her time locked in the seraglio. Frustrated with the few state occasions when they could meet, she had encouraged Darius to visit her. He had found a way into the palace gardens and on moonlit nights they had shared trysts beneath a cherry tree, among the peacocks and nightingales. It had been romantic and beautiful.

  But people change as they grow. What if her love had cooled?

  Deep in Darius’s chest lay a nagging fear. Until now their relationship had never been tested in adversity. Perhaps Frada was right? Perhaps to Parmys it was just a childish infatuation, doomed to end with its first real hardship? He imagined her, angry and strident as she told him about the indignities she’d suffered after his letters were intercepted. She had been the one who gave him the pirradazish warrants and asked him to write, but that didn’t mean she would forgive him. Darius loved her, but he wasn’t blind to her faults. She had grown up accustomed to privilege and power, and such people rarely admit their mistakes.

  He hoped he was just being foolish. She had agreed to marry him, after all. But a lot had changed since then. Darius knew she would never willingly marry Pharaoh; but could he blame her if she abandoned her powerless, landless betrothed and sent word to Bardiya asking him to offer her in marriage to one of the powerful satraps of Cyrus’s old guard? Or a son of one of the great noble houses, who might have a hope of interceding with Cambyses? If she asked, Bardiya would surely agree. It was better than the alternative, sweeping west with his army to try and free her in a bloody civil war. Not that anything seemed to have come of the threatened rebellion. Bardiya had obviously lacked the courage to see it through.

  Gloomily Darius admitted that expecting Parmys to persevere with their betrothal now was madness. First and foremost she had to save herself. He tried to prepare for the inevitable rejection, swore that he would not disgrace himself by letting the pain or anger show. He would accept it calmly and leave. Though how he would cope later he couldn’t imagine.

  Darius’s attention was jolted back to the scouting horsemen, as they disappeared into a dip in the ground. Shifting his gaze back to the stockade, he saw a massive purple and gold tent in the centre of the camp, with the Persian Griffin and Bardiya’s Camel standards fluttering in the breeze above. Despite his gloom he smiled at the familiar sight. Everything in order, he kicked his horse forward. At the gate he identified himself, passed through, and was immediately greeted by a shout.

  ‘Darius? At last. We’ve been waiting for days!’ Trembling with exhaustion from his journey back from Edom, the imperious voice grated on Darius’s overstretched nerves. Twenty paces off he recognized the man on the white stallion, his hand raised in summons. Flanked by four burly asabari guards, what the daeva was Vinda doing here?

  ‘Just in time to check the afternoon roster.’ The noble’s white teeth flashed in his usual supercilious smile. ‘We have five hundred foot and a hundred asabari.’ His lip curled in a sneer. ‘Medes unfortunately, but there you are. Two horses lame, six men off with inflamed eyes. It’s this bloody dust I expect. It will only get worse as we cross Syria. But from now on it will be your worry, they’re your men after all.’

  ‘Vinda, I’ve ridden solid for eight days. I’ll deal with everything in the morning.’

  ‘You look surprised to see me, Darius. You didn’t imagine the King of Kings would let you travel with her alone? I shall be the King’s Eye, making sure you behave.’

  Darius sucked in his breath. ‘Cambyses chooses his men well. He makes me his soldier, and you his snitch.’ Leaving a red-faced Vinda, Darius went straight to Parmys’s tent. Giving his horse to a guard he paused at the entrance, leant against the upright post and pressed his hands into his eyeballs.

  ‘Everything all right, sir?’

  ‘Yes, datapatish. Just tired, thank you.’ The guard looked at Darius’s travel-stained cloak and leggings and nodded understandingly. But Darius wasn’t just tired. He was wor
ried, his earlier fears about Parmys swelling to fill his mind.

  He entered the tent.

  The lamps were burning, but there was no one inside except a solitary maid spinning flax in a corner. She was old, grey and unsmiling. ‘Where is Dukshish Parmys?’ Darius asked, hearing the uncertainty in his own voice.

  ‘She will be out presently,’ the maid said primly. She did not invite him to sit.

  The tent was furnished with gold and silk. Parmys’s favourite childhood doll sat on a chair. By a cushion on the floor, a parchment scroll was held open by two bronze lions. Darius bent down, began to read, and felt a surge of nostalgia as he recognized the story of Ninurta, the warrior who ‘mastered the seven whirlwinds that dance in the dust’ and ‘mustered his battle array with terrifying formation’ then used them to kill Anzu, the evil god who had stolen the power of the Tablet of Destinies. The poem was special to Parmys, and the fact that she had been reading it now gave him hope. Once, when Darius returned from the wars, she had shyly admitted that she pictured him as Ninurta, the hero. She had said it sincerely, adoration in her eyes. Remembering that look, Darius felt a fluttering in his stomach. It was moments like that which made him love her beyond endurance and reason.

  A light silk screen twitched and Parmys stepped out, wearing a flowing gown of purple and white and a diamond tiara. She moved with the confident, supple grace of a princess, and Darius’s breath caught at the sight. Sometimes it was hard to believe that the bossy, lanky girl he had pulled from the river in Pathragada one hot summer’s day – after she discovered, too late, that she couldn’t swim – had grown into this beautiful woman. She swept into the chamber with her face bare, causing her maid to cluck in horror. ‘Veil yourself, Dukshish!’

  Parmys ignored her, turning straight to Darius. Her mother – Bardiya’s favourite wife – had been a north Indian princess of great beauty, and Darius could see in Parmys’s face her mother’s clear, milky complexion, small nose and dark almond eyes, along with Cyrus’s long, well-proportioned face. But his firm chin had been gently softened, and her mouth was a pink rosebud. Darting quickly her eyes searched Darius’s face, shoulders, chest and arms, looking for wounds. He sniffed the air and frowned. Something was missing. Ever since she was a girl she had worn the same perfume, a scent of jasmine, roses and cedar, but now it was gone. She saw his nose twitching and said defiantly, ‘Why should I bother? I shall never wear face paint or perfume again. I care nothing about pleasing Pharaoh, and he will care nothing for me. I am just a pawn in Cambyses’ game of chattaranga, being sacrificed so that he may advance his chariot.’ She threw herself against Darius’s chest, her arms around his neck and her breath hot against his ear. ‘Something terrible has happened, Darius. We must speak alone.’

  ‘Your Highness!’ The maid creaked to her feet. ‘You must not touch him! I shall call the lord Vindafrana …’

  Parmys turned on her, almond eyes flashing. ‘Asma, have I ever beaten you?’

  The old maid looked down. ‘No, Your Highness.’

  ‘That will end if you utter a single word to Vinda. Do you understand?’

  Parmys hugged Darius again and laced her fingers into his. Years of arranging clandestine meetings told him to wait for the square of folded parchment that would be pressed into his palm. When it came he quickly closed his fingers over it. As soon as he had it she pulled away.

  Feeling the message burning in his hand, Darius turned to leave. ‘I only came to pay my respects, Dukshish. I should go.’

  Stepping outside, he unfolded the parchment.

  The sun slipped below the horizon. A slave lit the lamps in Darius’s tent. After the gruelling ride from Edom he was coated head to toe in dust. Stripping off his gown he found a thick rime of sweat and dust around the neck and inside seams, and realized he stank. Pouring water into a bronze basin he washed, oiled his hair and beard, put on fresh clothes and then, feeling like a nervous lover, he slipped out of the tent.

  The night smelled moist from the Euphrates, slightly dusty from the plain. Pipe music and singing floated on the breeze. In the shadows near the horse lines a slim figure was wrapped in a cloak. Darius approached from the dark side and called softly: ‘Parmys!’ She spun round and gave a small gasp of surprise, then another of joy, flying at him, flinging her arms around his neck. Grasping her fiercely he kissed her mouth. For a heartbeat she hesitated, then her resistance faded and, opening her lips and letting his tongue find hers, she allowed herself to melt into the security of his arms. They stayed mouth on mouth, crushed together while the pain of their long, forced separation worked its way out of their bodies in shuddering gasps. They pulled apart, taking hungry breaths, then kissed again. After so long it felt good to be close to her, to feel her warm, soft body beneath his hands.

  She touched the healed wounds on his face and wrist then closed her eyes in silent prayer. When the shock of reuniting finally died away Darius pulled back with a sober expression on his face. ‘How did they get you?’

  ‘It was the eunuch, Darius! He brought Pomegranate Bearers and snatched me from the Hunting Lodge! Tied me with ropes and carried me away! I couldn’t believe it! I knew there was something wrong as soon as I saw their faces, though I never imagined they would use force.’

  Red-faced with anger at the picture of her being bound and dragged away, Darius hugged her. He swore in his heart that no man would lay hands on her again. Then he pulled out her note. ‘Is it really true?’

  She stood very still, her broken heart clear from the hurt on her face. Starlit tears were bright in the corners of her eyes. Angrily, she dashed them away. ‘I do not know, Darius! The body was horribly bloated when they pulled it from the lake. But it was wearing my father’s gown. And if it was not my father, where has he gone? No one has seen him.’ As she told him about the corpse found at Bardiya’s Hunting Lodge her lower jaw quivered, but she kept it bravely under control. Now Darius understood Bardiya’s strange silence. The messages hadn’t been replied to because Bardiya was dead. A brave, decent man struck down on the orders of his loathsome brother. Any hope Darius had of Bardiya sweeping west with an army to overtake Parmys’s long, slow journey to Egypt was finished. Darius was on his own. If he didn’t manage to save Parmys, no one would.

  Parmys was too distraught as she told her story to notice the hopelessness that flitted across his face. ‘The death was no accident, Darius. The lake is too shallow to drown unless you are held down. And a trail of blood climbed the wall and disappeared into the woods, where they found my father’s dagger with blood on the blade. The guards’ hazarapatish said my father must have stabbed the assassin, who removed the dagger after he climbed over the wall. Oh, Darius! I do not know what to believe. I have seen a body, but my heart tells me my father is alive. Surely not even Cambyses could send an assassin to murder his own brother?’

  ‘Why not?’ replied Darius. ‘He murdered his father, why not his brother?’

  ‘Cambyses killed Grandfather Cyrus?’ Parmys let out a long hiss. ‘How do you know?’

  Darius told her about Prince Spargasippa and the plot to discredit him.

  ‘There were rumours flying around the palace about something dirty, but I thought it was just grief. Did no one question this Saka afterwards to discover why he lied?’

  ‘He was found with his throat cut. Cambyses’ men no doubt, but nothing could be proved.’

  ‘Poor father … and poor grandfather. My uncle makes great play of venerating the Fire and offering the sacrifices, but in his heart he is as crooked and rotten as any daeva.’

  ‘But he had what he wanted, with you in his power. Why kill Bardiya now, when Persia is preparing for war?’

  ‘That I can answer.’ Parmys lifted her chin. ‘My father took my case to the judges. They’re always full of fine phrases about justice but when it comes down to it they’re as corrupt as everyone else. Except they do it more subtly. They said there was no law allowing Cambyses to force my father to break his word … but there wa
s certainly a law saying the King of Kings can do as he pleases, so the marriage to Pharaoh would stand. When my father heard this he knew they’d been bribed.’

  ‘So now Cambyses has corrupted even the judges. He is poisoning the Empire.’

  She nodded. ‘Father was furious. He was a good man, Darius, he did not want to plunge the Empire into civil war. But he had no choice. He mustered his levies and began preparing.’ Her hand went to her mouth. She choked. ‘That is why I think he was killed. And it is my fault!’

  Parmys collapsed against Darius, slim shoulders wracked by grief. He grasped her tightly, giving what comfort he could. Darius didn’t believe Bardiya’s death – if he really was dead – was her fault. He was convinced that Cambyses had provoked the confrontation to put Bardiya in his place. If Cambyses’ war with Egypt went badly the Persians would turn on him, and Bardiya would be the obvious choice for king. Popular in his own right, he was also the son of Cyrus. Parmys or no Parmys, in the long run Cambyses simply couldn’t afford to leave his brother at large.

  Parmys’s twenty baggage camels made slow time, her carriage’s massive spoked wheels trundling over the track. Unable to take the shortcut across open country that he had taken with Hadar, Darius was forced to follow the Royal Road as it looped north to Aleppo, then south again. Each day brought them closer to Egypt and Parmys’s forced marriage, and each day Darius noticed her face was a little thinner, a little more strained. He had left messages in Pathragada for Ardu and Vivana to join him on the journey. Now he let them command the troops while he spent as much time with Parmys as possible. Approaching her tent one afternoon he found her taking the air. It was the first time in ages he had seen her face in daylight. He was upset at how thin she was. Her eyes seemed too large, her complexion no longer glowed, her cheekbones stuck out. A slave was carrying away the dinner dishes on a silver tray. Darius stopped him and lifted the lid off each in turn. The fine food was untouched. Parmys was starving herself.