Blood of Kings Page 8

  As always when the real world became too much she retreated into poetry. On one of her estates in the East there was a female works manageress who oversaw the manufacture of shoes for the Imperial staff. She had taught Parmys to read, after which the princess had been voracious, badgering the eunuchs into bringing her everything they could find. She loved Babylonian poetry especially. Its myths of ancient gods and heroes enthralled her. Of course she knew they were false gods. Ahura Mazda, the Wise Lord, invisible and all-powerful, was the only true God. But the poetry’s power and drama still thrilled her.

  A few days after her father had left, a cold winter afternoon found Parmys lying in her apartments in the Hunting Lodge – in reality a large two-winged palace, where Bardiya entertained satraps, foreign kings and ambassadors – surrounded by her favourite scrolls and clay tablets. A roaring fire of heavy walnut logs kept the chill at bay. Two maids accompanied her, chatting as they embroidered. Outside, a weak watery sun had lost its battle against the overnight ice in the walled pairidaeza garden. As the afternoon wore on the air was growing increasingly bitter, threatening a severe frost.

  The sound of horses intruded. Losing her thread of thought Parmys wondered if her father had returned early from Pathragada, then realized he could not have done; the coronation of her awful uncle Cambyses was not due until tomorrow. She was glad she would not be attending. Ever since she’d been a child Cambyses had looked at her in a way that scared her.

  She heard more hoofbeats. From the sound it was a whole troop, hooves clattering loudly against the stone paving. Too distracted to continue reading, she jumped lightly off the couch and crossed to the window. Her maids stopped talking.

  ‘There are fifty asabari outside!’ Parmys exclaimed to her maids. The horses were huge, the men in burnished scale corselets and helmets with saffron-yellow plumes and short purple riding cloaks. ‘Wearing the colours of the Great King’s Pomegranate Bearers!’

  Parmys felt her unease return. Her father had said nothing about expecting Pomegranate Bearers to guard her. What was wrong with Bardiya’s own guards?’

  The chamberlain appeared, looking rather put out. ‘Your Highness, a hazarapatish of the Great King’s Pomegranate Bearer guard apologizes for the intrusion but seeks the honour of attending on you. He seems most … determined.’

  ‘I suppose you had best show him in.’ Raising her veil, Parmys sat on a stool by the fire.

  The hazarapatish was about thirty years old, his short curled beard a deep black, and he was dressed in armour with silver-edged scales. Beside him was a eunuch in an expensive blue woollen gown. His beaky nose and fox-like features were vaguely familiar to Parmys. She thought he was the Chief Eunuch, and wondered what could have brought him so far from the palace. To her surprise it was the eunuch who spoke, not the officer. ‘Dukshish, the Crown Prince is concerned for your safety and has asked us to escort you to his palace. A carriage awaits you.’

  He was stiff and formal, his manner unsettling. She felt a shiver of apprehension. ‘I thank the Crown Prince for his concern, but I am perfectly safe here.’

  The officer and eunuch exchanged glances. ‘Unfortunately there have been reports of bandits roaming the countryside and you cannot remain here unprotected. I must insist you come.’

  Parmys disliked the tone of the eunuch’s voice. And something in it frightened her. ‘Surely not against my will?’ she reproached him.

  The eunuch gave her a chilly smile. ‘Tomorrow the Crown Prince will be the King of Kings. To set your will against his would be a serious matter, Your Highness.’

  Parmys slapped him across the mouth. ‘Then I shall come tomorrow,’ she said icily. ‘And in the meantime I shall send word to my father. Now leave.’

  The eunuch took the blow without emotion. He did not move. ‘Your wishes are of no account, Dukshish. I have orders from my master to take you to the palace. Willingly if possible. But if not, by force.’

  Pathragada

  Standing by the river on the edge of a throng of weeping nobles, Darius watched half a million Persians wail under a cold winter sun. Still dazed at the prospect of marrying Parmys, he couldn’t quite manage to share the masses’ grief and desolation.

  But nor was he entirely unmoved. The noise alone was astonishing, the roar of the enormous crowd rumbling through his body like the Last Great Battle, when Angra Mainyu – the Evil One – would send nine hundred and ninety-nine plagues to destroy the works of Ahura Mazda. But this was no battle, it was a funeral, on a scale Darius had never imagined possible. From the sprawling mass of wood and mud-brick dwellings to the west of the Residential Palace, the common people had flocked here. The houses were deserted, their doorsteps unswept. Shutters were left swinging and hearths unlit as every man, woman and child crushed into the streets lining the funeral route. In the bazaar and craft workshops, men of every trade had laid down their tools: the artisans, bakers, butchers, potters and smiths who supplied and serviced the palaces and mansions of the rich; the armourers, bowyers, weapon smiths and fletchers who manned the armouries and weapons manufacturing facilities at the Immortals’ barracks on the outskirts of the city; the scribes who kept the accounts at the Imperial palaces and storehouses. Darius had heard that even outside the city, for four or five days around, bazaars were closed, bakers’ ovens cold, winter fields untended, animals left in the care of wives or daughters. With the streets already full to bursting, tens of thousands more streamed in. He watched them stare wide-eyed at Pathragada’s splendour. Free labourers, peasants, soldiers, carpet weavers, tradesmen, camel herders, goatherds, shepherds, ostlers – any man who had the freedom to travel had come to pay his respects to Cyrus, King of Kings.

  Suddenly from the plain to the south, a deep sound of slow beating drums reverberated across the city. Ritual words were chanted. Axe blades flashed and the black, sacrificial horses fell screaming to the ground. Darius watched astonished as a solid gold burial casket was carried slowly into view, the rich metal shocking in its intensity. It was preceded by an honour guard of Spearbearers, flanked by conical-hatted magi with sacred myrtle twigs in their hands. And as the casket passed through the streets a low moan of grief swept the crowd.

  As Cyrus’s tomb was sealed Darius felt the swell of emotion around him, and an immense wave of ululations rose shrill above the plain. The trumpets blared: Cambyses’ coronation procession could begin its stately progress.

  A thousand measured steps later, the Crown Prince stood before the ancient tent pitched to the north of the palace. Darius watched from a distance, trying to control the turmoil in his heart as Cambyses ate the ritual figs, drank the curdled milk, donned the mantle of Cyrus and received the gold kitaris crown onto his head. Darius suppressed his anger. It was his crown and his throne.

  Beside him, as though aware of his cousin’s tension, Ardu was silent and watchful. Somewhere nearby Hystaspes was just a figure in the crowd. Darius’s eyes sought him out and settled on the severe, craggy face beneath the green felt hat. He wondered what his father was thinking. Then instinctively knew that behind the cold mask he was feeling the pain of what might have been. If it wasn’t for Cyrus, Hystaspes’ life would have been one of power and command, luxury and status. He would have been a different man. Darius wondered what it would have been like to know the friendship of his father, who had only ever been cold and remote.

  Bright light flickered in the corner of Darius’s eye. He turned and saw the Eternal Flames in their silver bowls flaring back to life. There were high cries and thundering hooves, the crowds parted as galloping horsemen were dispatched across the Empire bearing the news of a new King of Kings.

  Suddenly the most powerful man in the world, Cambyses led the procession of nobles and dignitaries through a slow drizzle to the Audience Palace. It was time to take control of his Empire.

  In the apadana, the great open-sided columned hall, trumpets blared and a purple carpet awaited the King of Kings’ feet. Beneath cedarwood capitals carved into lions, g
riffins and bulls, Darius steeled himself and joined the thousand courtiers who fell on their faces as Cambyses passed. The thought of swearing to serve this painted doll repelled him, but the prospect of a life with Parmys was too sweet to waste on foolish resistance.

  Moving through a haze of gold and rosewater scent, his face rouged and painted in a way never permitted when Cyrus was king, Cambyses appeared slightly overwhelmed by the blaze of pageantry, turning his head slowly from side to side.

  More horn blasts, and everyone rose. Darius was lost in a sea of men from every corner of the Empire. Persians in soft tiaras, Medes in trousers and belted gowns, Indians in turbans, Greeks in tunics, Arachosians with hawk-like faces and large circular caps, swarthy Babylonians, pale Armenians, Bactrians, Sogdians, Phoenicians, Judaeans, Arabians … every man of standing, every tribal chief, satrap or important noble in the civilized world had been summoned to crawl to the dais and swear allegiance. They stood steaming from the drizzle, a smell of incense-impregnated linen and damp wool rising to the gilded roof beams.

  All afternoon men pledged themselves, sometimes alone, more often in groups. Darius tagged onto a group of foreign ambassadors, his obeisance barely noticed by the bored crowd.

  As soon as the last allegiance had been sworn the crush in the apadana eased, as ambassadors and foreign dignitaries bowed themselves out. When only an inner core of pure-blooded Persian nobles remained, the court went into secret session. The king and nobility of the greatest empire in history stared each other in the face. Darius felt the expectation around him like the crackle in the air before a lightning storm. A new era was beginning.

  Cambyses cleared his throat, rested the ivory sceptre across his knees and folded his hands across it. In clipped sentences, the nasal voice penetrated to the apadana’s furthest pillar. ‘I am Cambyses, son of Cyrus, son of Cambyses of Anshan. The great God Ahura Mazda has bestowed royal command upon me. Twenty-two lands bear me tribute. What I say, they do. My law binds them. Now I shall lead them into war. The fight against the Ma-Saka was a distraction; Egypt is by far the richer land. It was my beloved father’s fondest wish to see Egypt brought into the Empire. I intend to fulfil it.’

  He paused. The silence was intense as everyone wondered what he was about to announce.

  ‘Pharaoh Amasis’s army is strong. Our recent losses mean that an invasion of Egypt will require intense preparations. Camels must be bred up, warhorses trained, food, arms and armour stockpiled. I shall need two years before I am ready to march. While we prepare for their destruction the Egyptians must be blinded by the sweetness of our words, disarmed by the generosity of our gifts. We shall make a gesture so great that even the hawks at Pharaoh’s court will believe we want peace.’ Cambyses turned to his brother, Prince Bardiya. ‘I will give them your daughter. Parmys and Pharaoh shall wed.’

  8

  The silence lasted several heartbeats. The shock was a lump of stone in Darius’s belly. Clenching his fists and raising his eyes to the rafters he silently swore that not in ten thousand years would Parmys marry Pharaoh.

  Bardiya was trembling with fury; his retinue of Eastern nobles were growling. With a soft clinking of jewellery they shuffled away from Cambyses’ men, opening a divide down the middle of the columned hall. A turbaned Gandaran behind Darius bent down and hurled his soft kidskin shoes at the king’s men, backed by a barrage of insults from Bardiya’s nobles. Darius was jostled as a party of angry satraps tried to push past to get at the shoe thrower. Relishing the chance to thump someone Darius raised his fists and shouted a warning. They backed away to Cambyses’ side of the hall, where a Mede in a belted green and yellow gown picked up the shoes, spat on them and flung them back. Arcing over Darius’s head the shoes provoked shocked cries and running feet as the crowd parted to avoid them, and a chorus of low, outraged shouts as they landed. Everywhere men were pointing fingers and waving fists. Seeing the danger to the King of Kings, Immortal guards fingered their spears and looked anxiously at Spitameneh, their baivarapatish, for guidance. Darius sensed the apadana was poised on the brink; just one wrong move, one sign, and violence would erupt. With his pulse racing he hoped it would. He longed to pull Cambyses off the throne and kill him with his bare hands.

  From his vantage point near the throne, Baivarapatish Spitameneh gave his close friend Bardiya a helpless, open-handed gesture. Bardiya stared at his hated brother, sitting tight-lipped on the throne, then imploringly at Spitameneh, urging him to withdraw his guards. Spitameneh hesitated, torn between duty to his friend and duty to his king. Darius’s heart sank. He groaned and threw up his hands in disgust as the general gave Bardiya a commiserating look, then shook his head. With that fateful gesture, the Immortal commander had saved Cambyses’ life.

  But men were clamouring around Bardiya, competing to touch him on the back and shoulders. Despite the oaths they had just sworn to Cambyses, Darius heard them loudly assuring the prince of their support. Darius joined them, thrusting forward his clenched fist. ‘Stand up to him, Your Highness! Or none of our lives will be worth living.’

  Firm-jawed, Bardiya nodded decisively and grasped Darius’s wrist. His nobles cheered and stamped their feet. Emboldened by the loyalty of his retinue Bardiya took two paces forward and stood square to the king. ‘She is already betrothed!’ he thundered.

  Darius joined the great cry that broke out from Bardiya’s men.

  Unable to be heard, Cambyses waited for it to subside. ‘Then unbetroth her!’

  ‘Break my word?’ Howls of derision came from Bardiya’s ranks.

  ‘You will have to!’

  The brothers glared at each other across the suddenly silent hall. Ignoring protocol, Bardiya refused to look away from the royal gaze. He pointed his finger at the king and spoke in a low, menacing voice. ‘I shall never give her up. The gods know I want peace, but I warn you, if you try to take her it will be war.’

  A deadly hush fell. The silence stretched. Darius began to feel uneasy at the confidence on the king’s face. At last Cambyses spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. ‘Too late. She is already in the Residential Palace under guard. You have lost her, brother. And if I hear another word of the threats you have just uttered, you shall pay dearly.’

  ‘She cannot be!’ Bardiya staggered back, ashen-faced, his hand covering his mouth. A broken man, he looked away to try to compose himself.

  Realizing it had all been planned, Darius felt his chest tighten. Parmys was lost to him.

  Cambyses pressed his advantage. ‘Besides, I do not recall being consulted about a betrothal?’

  Bardiya’s shoulders slumped. ‘I … I was going to tell you.’

  Jabbing his sceptre the king rounded on his brother. ‘Women of the Imperial Family are mine to command!’ he shrieked. ‘It is your place to ask, not tell. Who was she betrothed to?’

  Bardiya opened his mouth, closed it, glanced at Darius and raised his palms in a hopeless gesture. Cambyses saw the gesture, looked at Darius and burst out laughing. ‘Darius? Son of Hystaspes? You were going to marry the most beautiful virgin in the Empire to him?’ Surprised noises came from the courtiers. Cambyses looked at Darius again and laughed even louder.

  Humiliated and gripped by rage, Darius bunched his fists at his side and shook with the effort of controlling himself. To lose his temper now would be fatal.

  Cambyses smirked lopsidedly at Bardiya. ‘Plainly, brother, you have taken leave of your senses. I am doing you a great service in preventing you making a fool of yourself. When you recover your wits you will thank me.’

  ‘I gave my word.’

  ‘Then you must take it back. She could never have married a landless nobody like Darius. She is now unbetrothed. I have commanded it.’

  Bardiya’s face was a picture of misery. Distraught at the fate of his daughter, the fight had gone out of him. Wearily, he pleaded for Parmys’s life. ‘If … if you send her to Pharaoh, when we invade he will kill her.’

  Cambyses smiled, and suddenly everythi
ng became clear to Darius. Cambyses wasn’t taking Parmys to get at him – though he must really have known about the engagement – he was doing it to weaken his brother, to establish his authority right at the start of his reign.

  ‘Come now,’ Cambyses’ voice was smooth. ‘We must all give our bodies to serve the Empire which raised us, must we not? We men serve as soldiers, while the women serve … well, in the way nature intended. Bad luck for Parmys, of course, but think of all the calamities that might have befallen her without doing anyone the least bit of good. At least this way she knows she has been sacrificed in a patriotic cause.’ He crooked a finger at Darius. ‘Come.’

  Bardiya nodded at Darius, who reluctantly went to stand before the dais.

  Cambyses looked down and shook his head. ‘My, my, you seem to be causing me trouble before my reign has even started. I do hope you will not be making a habit of it?’

  Darius breathed deeply, not trusting himself to answer when one wrong word would get him killed.

  Cambyses tilted his head and studied the soldier thoughtfully. ‘So, you are in love with Parmys? How touching. And in this case it is a happy coincidence, because I am going to give you a chance to be near your beloved …’ his smile was crooked, ‘at least for a while. The desert Arabs between our border and Egypt are renowned for their savagery. I need someone equally savage to protect her. You are the one. You will take her to Pharaoh.’

  Darius stared at him, imagining the pleasure to be had from ripping that filthy tongue from his throat.

  ‘Look after her well, Darius. As cruel as Pharaoh is, the Arabs are far worse. They rape captured women like animals. If you really love her, you wouldn’t want her to fall into their hands.’