Blood of Kings Read online

  Blaring horns escaped from inside the apadana, signalling the start of the coronation feast. But Darius didn’t trust himself near Cambyses. Besides, the thought of honeyed bread and roasted peacocks sickened him. Dashing past the white stone columns on his way out he raised his fist and smashed it against the wall. There was no pain, just a welcome numbness and relief. In the open courtyard in front of the palace horses were rearing, chariot wheels clattering as Bardiya and his Eastern retinue rode off to a council of war. Darius understood exactly why they were worried. All rulers have the power to steal from their subjects. Cyrus had demanded nothing more than loyalty and obedience, but now the Empire was entering an age when even the highest in the land were not safe. Today Cambyses was taking an unmarried princess, next time it might be a nobleman’s wife, or their estate, or even their life. He had the power to take whatever he wanted, and he had just shown he intended to use it.

  Darius toyed with the idea of following Bardiya, but preferred to be alone with his thoughts. Walking home he cut through the bazaar, now open after the funeral. Despite mourning for Cyrus, men had to eat. Above the noise of hammering from the coppersmiths and sawing from the woodworkers rose the shouts of people clamouring for bread, hot off the stones in a massive oven glowing red. The baker couldn’t pull the steaming flat sheets out fast enough.

  As Darius pushed his way through the crowds, a glaze over his eyes separated him from the world. The colours of the vegetables looked dull, scents of turmeric, mint and cumin were flat, cries of hawkers and hagglers distant. He passed a butcher with a freshly slaughtered camel’s heart on display on a stand, huge, glossy and purple-red. Almost the size of a human head, the raw meat turned into Parmys’s face before his eyes, flayed, bleeding, raw. The Egyptians were a backward, brutal people. He couldn’t bring himself to think what they would do to her when they realized they had been tricked.

  Heading south he wandered through winding streets, eventually ending up at the covered lane that led to Hystaspes’ modest, mud-brick house. Coming through the courtyard Darius passed the low clay oven, built against the wall, that his sisters used for baking lavash. When he touched the sooty opening it was cold, which meant yesterday’s stale bread for dinner again. One of the five goats tethered in a corner bleated and butted his leg for food. Darius had nothing to give it, but stroked its head. Every time he saw the animals he thought of the huge estates his grandfather had once owned, the flocks and herds, the cropland and woods, and he smarted at the thought of this once royal house reduced to keeping its own goats or going hungry.

  Inside, the smell of a stew rose from a large copper pot in the centre of the rug. Clay lamps flickered out a poor light, black smoke from cheap oil curling to the ceiling.

  No one spoke as Darius entered. Sitting cross-legged around the rug he saw the male members of the family: his two half-brothers, Artana and Pharnaka, his visiting uncle, also called Pharnaka, and Hystaspes. Darius nodded his respects to his grandfather Arsama, sitting in the only chair. Once King of Parsa, his wrinkled face had been baked by more than seventy Persian summers. Though his body was frail his eyes were alert, following Darius across the room and smiling. As Darius settled onto a cushion a burst of laughter came from up on the flat roof where the women spent their days. They would eat when the men had finished.

  From the men’s faces it was obvious they had heard the news. Young Pharnaka glanced at Hystaspes as he ate, then quickly looked down rather than catch his father’s eye. Artana gave Darius a surreptitious look as he reached for some bread. Ignoring his brother, Darius leaned forward and sniffed. There was no meat in the stew. Hystaspes’ monthly allowance of two sheep and thirty bushels of flour from the palace stores did not go far with five men living in the house, along with six sisters, Darius’s mother, Hystaspes’ second wife, and the single household slave. Today more than ever Darius resented the pitifully small amount a man of his father’s lineage was expected to live on, a man born a prince living on the allowance of a mid-ranking scribe. The dusty mud house was a hovel compared to the palace in Parsa where Hystaspes had been born.

  Darius reached out, piled some stewed vegetables into a clay bowl, took some white salty cheese from a wooden platter and added a sheet of the stale flatbread. Dreaming of lamb skewered on sticks and sizzling over hot coals, or horse steaks, dark, sweet, succulent, he tasted the stew. It was bland. Aubergine, lentils, onion, garlic and something green and leafy. No meat, a touch of turmeric, some sesame oil, but no saffron or other costly spices. At least it had salt. Remembering Parmys, the food turned to ashes in Darius’s mouth. After a few spoonfuls he pushed the bowl aside.

  It wasn’t just the humiliation of having his betrothed publicly stolen away, although that was bad enough. Nor was it the hurt, or even the sense of loss. It was the feeling of emptiness. A void where his heart should have been. If Parmys had chosen someone else he would have been crushed, but at least he would have known she was happy. She wouldn’t last six months at Pharaoh’s court. She would starve herself into the grave.

  Darius stared at the copper pot, remembering his thoughts the day he was released. Something had to be done. Parmys was gone and to get her back would need a war, but it remained to be seen if Bardiya had the stomach for a fight that would tear the Empire apart. If he didn’t, Darius would have to take matters into his own hands. The thought frightened him. Rebelling against the King of Kings would probably end badly. But looking at his father, he decided that death was better than a life of perpetual humiliation.

  Hystaspes glanced up from his food, saw his eldest son’s unfinished stew and gave an outraged snort. ‘Stop sulking, boy! Cambyses is the king. The anointed of Ahura Mazda. He has made his decision and you must accept it.’

  ‘He has no right to make Bardiya break his word.’

  ‘Yes he has. And to challenge it would be treason.’

  ‘Treason?’ Darius fixed his eyes on his father. ‘Cambyses has been on the throne for a single day and he is already riding roughshod over the ancient liberties of the Persians. A father has always had the power to decide who his daughters marry. No one – not tribal chief, nor king, nor magus – has ever interfered with that.’

  ‘Cyrus gave princesses away to foreign kings.’ Hystaspes sounded uncertain.

  ‘But he consulted the fathers first.’

  Hystaspes drank some barley wine and grimaced. ‘Well, Cyrus is gone and Cambyses didn’t. He is still the king.’

  ‘That is a mistake all Persia will regret. This family in particular. He should never have been crowned. He’s barely even a Persian! Cyrus’s blood was Elamite and Mede, and Cassandane is half Egyptian-Greek. For generations our fathers fought to keep Parsa free from our enemies, now we let ourselves be enslaved. What’s wrong with us?’

  Hystaspes snorted angrily, but there were tears in Arsama’s eyes. ‘He’s right, son. I should have fought Cyrus to the bitter end.’

  Hystaspes’ expression softened. ‘No, Father. You did the right thing. Everyone who fought Cyrus lost. He was a force of nature, sent by Ahura Mazda to impose order on the world.’

  ‘Well, Cambyses certainly isn’t!’ Darius replied. ‘The man’s a drunkard, a lawbreaker and a fool.’

  Hystaspes slammed his fist on the ground, knocking the wine jug over onto the rug. ‘I will not have talk like that in my house! The girl is an Imperial princess. You are nothing. Forget your dreams, before you bring trouble on us all.’

  Darius’s brothers looked down at their food, recognizing that unreasoning, scathing tone of their father’s, knowing it meant trouble. Darius recognized it too. It brought back memories of the temper tantrums, beatings and threats he had endured as a child. But he was no longer a child and felt no inclination to back down. ‘What will bring down trouble on us all,’ he said slowly, barely holding on to his temper, ‘is allowing this ridiculous painted doll to think he can get away with humiliating us. Cyrus was bad enough; his son is going to be ten times worse.’

  ‘A
king is a king. Whether you like his decision or not, you knuckle under and accept it.’

  Darius grasped the tight muscles at the back of his neck as though trying to contain his anger. ‘Accept it? Is it too much to ask you to take my side just once in my life? But then you would know all about knuckling under, wouldn’t you, Father? You were persecuted for thirty years by Cyrus, and you just “accepted it”. And look where it got us. Our family is on the edge of ruin.’

  Hystaspes’ greying temples were pulsing. ‘We were not “persecuted”. He kept us alive, boy! We’re eating his food now. You don’t know how lucky we are.’

  Darius picked up a sheet of the stale flatbread and laughed harshly. ‘The slaves in the palace eat better than us. Cyrus kept us alive, but without dignity or honour.’

  ‘There’s no dishonour in bowing before a king.’ Hystaspes sounded defensive.

  ‘There is when he’s sitting on your throne!’

  Hystaspes stared at his food. Suddenly his head shot up, his eyes full of scorn. ‘You hot-headed fool! Is that where all this is leading? Our throne’s gone! It’s in the past! You will never be a king! Your only hope of advancement is to accept your lot, and pray in time Cambyses gives you some rank worthy of your blood.’

  Darius had always feared there would be a confrontation with his father one day; now Hystaspes’ attitude was making it inevitable. ‘You mean I must live in poverty and obscurity, like you? Even as a child you put me down. Your greatest fear is that I might succeed where you failed.’

  Uncle Pharnaka laid a steadying hand on Hystaspes’ arm as he squeezed the wine cup so tightly his knuckles turned white. In the old days Darius knew he would have struck him, hard, but something in his son’s face must have warned Hystaspes against it. Instead he put his energy into being scathing. ‘If you want to get yourself killed, boy, go ahead. A man in the bazaar yesterday was looking for mercenaries to fight in Samos. Go with my blessing. But I will not have you endanger your mother, sisters and brothers. For all our sakes, I forbid you to criticize Cambyses or speak of marrying Parmys again.’

  He carried on eating, not looking up. The conversation was over. He had forbidden Darius, and there could be no further debate. Darius watched his father, the sagging face and greying temples, worn out by a life of disappointment. Hystaspes wasn’t a bad man. At least, he didn’t mean to be. But he was opinionated and narrow-minded, and hardship had made him scornful and short-tempered. Darius didn’t want to end up the same. He had dreams of a bright future and they included Parmys. Bardiya had betrothed her to Darius and Cambyses had stolen her away, yet here was his father telling him to abandon her and accept his lot! He might just as well have told Darius to hack off an arm or a leg.

  He stood slowly. ‘You have lost the right to forbid me, Father. I would have respected your authority better if you had apologized for doubting me about the Saka army. Then I might have believed you were speaking out of love, not bitterness.’

  Hystaspes’ surprise at being challenged quickly turned to anger. His eyes bulged.

  ‘I agree the throne is out of reach at the moment,’ Darius carried on. ‘But none of us will ever be safe as long as Cambyses is on it. As for Parmys, one way or another I shall marry her, whether you forbid it or not.’

  His brothers kept their eyes low. Hystaspes pointed at the door, his voice a hoarse whisper. ‘Get out of this house!’

  Darius stormed to his room, took his armour, shield, spear and bow case, buckled on his swords and left.

  Darius rode through a freezing land, working off his anger through the mare’s long strides. Cyrus’s white tomb loomed ghostly in the darkness, then Pathragada was behind him and the southern star ahead. He rode hard across a land of moonlit mountains and plains and upland lakes with marshy fringes. In daylight the mountains would be soft hued green and the lakes impossibly blue. Now they were all a magical silver. The ache in his heart told Darius how much he loved this land. To leave it would make him desolate. But he also loved Parmys, and he could never abandon her. If somehow he saved her from Pharaoh they would have to leave the Empire and never return. In forcing Darius to choose between the land he loved and the woman he loved, Cambyses was firing a hatred in his chest that would make him an implacable enemy.

  A ring of poplar trees on the crown of a hill revived a distant memory. It was ten years since he had seen those trees. Though they must have grown they were no longer the towering giants of his childhood. Passing them on his left Darius slowed at the sight of a rampart of mountains. His horse blew as she climbed their gentle slopes, then rested in the lee of a crumbling city wall. Once its battlements had stood proudly against the sky, but now it was decrepit, ravaged by time and decay. He dismounted and scrambled through a hole in the wall, the outline of his footsteps crisp in the dust of disintegrating mud bricks. Inside he straightened up, wandering ancient streets lined with black shadowed houses. The roofs had fallen in, the houses silent, though once as he walked the deserted streets there was a pattering of claws as a jackal slunk away, and twice he saw crescent-winged bats silhouetted against the stars. No one came to investigate the crunch of his boots on the ground. No one lived here. It was a city of ghosts.

  A gatehouse barred his way. But the gates were long gone, an empty space where once copper-sheathed wood had towered to the sky. Darius even knew the designs that had been embossed on the copper; of griffins and lions, and the eight-petalled roses which rambled over the hills nearby. Passing between the empty gateposts he hung his head and wept at the sight. When Hystaspes brought him here ten years ago the palace had still kept some of its ancient grandeur. Now the roof had finally caved in, the west wing just a pile of bricks crumbling to the ground. The ladders had rotted long ago. Finding an upright tower he clambered up the brickwork and stared out. At the sight of the forlorn city a terrible sadness washed over him, a heavy feeling of things long past. The air was thick with ghosts. Arsama was a king in his prime, now striding through the corridors while his courtiers followed, now mounting his war chariot with its prancing white horses. A young Prince Hystaspes practised swordcraft in a courtyard that echoed with the ring of iron. His eyes were bright and his face full of the glorious future awaiting him. There was no sign of bitterness or scorn.

  Darius narrowed his eyes at the flash of gold, as the first rays of sun pierced the eastern mountains. As the daylight spread the ghosts faded. But their shadows stayed with him, whispering dangerous words in his ears. He listened to their voices, and felt a surge of emotion. To hell with the false oath he had been made to swear! He wanted to be free of Cambyses’ tyranny. He wanted to be safe. And he wanted Parmys.

  But the only way to have all these things was to be king, like his ancestors before him. Warrior kings who had carved this city out of hostile territory and fought tooth and nail to hold it. Here on this very spot the ancient kings of his blood had stood. Darius heard their voices calling to him across the ages. Their message was clear.

  Destroy the House of Cyrus. Let Parsa rise again!

  9

  Bardiya’s Hunting Lodge

  Bardiya paced between the wood and the lake, arms folded across his chest, hands thrust into the flaring sleeves of his gown, his riding boots crisp on the frosted ground. The flocks of small birds in the trees of the pairidaeza were subdued by winter cold. Staring out over the lake, Bardiya stopped with his back to the wood and clutched his stomach. He had had griping pains all day and knew it was tension, brought on by the order he had given that morning. Even now, relays of fast horses would be carrying the message east at breakneck speed, the sealed leather pouch being handed from rider to rider, never stopping day or night until it reached his castle in Nashirmeh. The relay of pirradazish couriers would take just days to cover the distance a single man on horseback would need a month or more for, and as soon as it arrived his trusted guards would be mobilized, the levies from his Eastern satrapies would be mustered, the vast might of the Empire would be turned in on itself in what he fea
red would prove a destructive and bloody civil war.

  Bardiya wondered over and over if he had done the right thing. But what choice did he have? Parmys was his shining jewel. Giving her up into marriage was wrench enough; he could never let her go virtually as a slave to Pharaoh. Yet war within the Empire was a terrible thing. Thousands of innocents would die so that he could save his daughter. But if Bardiya didn’t remove Cambyses thousands of innocents would die to satisfy his brother’s perversity. As Bardiya’s nobles had insisted at his council, he had to act, or no one would be safe.

  Bardiya looked out over the lake. Wildfowl broke its surface as they bobbed and dived. A marsh harrier swooped low on fast wings and the flocks of smaller birds scattered into the reeds. He closed his eyes, fell to his knees and prayed. ‘Ahura Mazda, Wise Lord, forgive me for the blood I shall spill …’

  Head bowed, eyes shut, mind distracted, Bardiya paid no attention to the faint rustle in the trees behind him. If he heard it at all he dismissed it as a small scurrying creature, or perhaps a deer. Even when the garrotte closed lightly around his throat, he was at first too absorbed to register the danger. Only when it pulled tight in a quick practised movement, and a knee was brought hard into the small of his back, did the terror hit him. By then it was almost too late. He staggered forward, the shock of the grip around his neck, the shortage of air, the pounding blood in his head and the confusion almost robbing him of the power to resist. Yet a tiny part of his brain told him to fight back. Without knowing what he was doing his hand found the dagger at his hip and pulled it free. With the unconscious strength of a dying man struggling for life he plunged it into his attacker, part of him vaguely registering the distant scream. Meanwhile his choking became a horrible gurgle in his throat, his head swam, the pressure built up and blackness settled over him.

  Reclining on his thickly padded couch in the feasting hall of the palace in Pathragada, Darius chewed some bread distractedly, his mind only half focused on the Edomite embassy he was meant to be entertaining. It was unlike Bardiya to ignore his messages. Rumours of war were flying around the city and Darius was desperate to know if they were true, but despite two requests for an audience Bardiya had not replied. If Darius hadn’t been summoned to the palace to deal with this embassy, he would have ridden out to Bardiya’s Hunting Lodge to find out first-hand what was going on. But on Cambyses’ orders, he was leaving with the Edomites in the morning to negotiate a treaty of alliance with their king. When he returned, Parmys and her escort would be assembled for the journey to Egypt. Darius would be away from the city for months. Vaguely, he wondered if Cambyses had planned it this way deliberately.