M. Scott: The Eagle of the Twelfth

The earth rolled beneath them. Birds fled from the skies. It was said that the King of Kings could command the weather, that he ordered sun for himself, except when his subjects needed rain for their crops, and that he sent hail and snow, mud and thunder to plague his enemies. I stood less than a spear’s throw away and watched him, as he watched the display of his army, and I believed every word of it.

Three hundred at a time, they rode by us, clad in chain mail that chimed softly over the echoing beat of their mounts’ feet. As they passed the pavilion, they turned to face us, and even the hardened warriors of the Hyrcanians gasped the first time, for every man and every horse was masked in polished iron, so that the men were silver-faced but for theireyes, which were black behind the gaps in the masks, and the horses were monsters, inanimate and terrifying, and I, who had never seen their like, felt my innards churn.

A thousand by a thousand by a thousand, they rode by, and now the last phalanx of three hundred horsemen came to take — perhaps to retake — their oath.

At their rear, a man shouted an order. Another blew a horn, not a curled one, such as we use to control our legions, but a long one that stretched to the high sky.

Three notes sounded, and the galloping men wheeled left in a single block, so that they were riding straight away from us. Another blast, and they turned left again, and another and they were riding straight for us, and this time I saw their twin-headed axes, which could kill a horse with a single blow — we had seen it done, earlier in the day — I saw their lances, the mythical kontos, ten-foot poles with long-swords affixed to the ends that might both slash and stab the enemy. Rumour said they had daggers on their butt ends, so that the riders might pierce a man beneath them should they have need. I could not see that they would have need.

They came at us, spear-swords levelled, and even though we had been subject to this seventeen times already I still flinched when I saw the eyes of the front rows flare white at the edges before the trumpet blasted one final time and, in the finest display of horsemanship I had ever seen, they brought their horses to a level halt.

Their leader stepped his horse forward. The silks at his waist and neck, I saw, were blue, and the sign on the funnelling banner behind him was a blue seabird; a tern.

Monobasus of Adiabene took off his helmet and the same fox-faced, death-eyed king who had wanted to kill us in the forest on the afternoon of what was now known as the Day of the Traitor’s Death looked out at us.

Bowing to his King of Kings, he raised his right hand. ‘We give our lives in the service of the King of Kings. Adiabene is ready for war, whenever it comes.’

He had a good, carrying voice, if somewhat nasal in its tones. Vologases inclined his head. He looked more massive now, as if kingship had given him layers of his own personal armour. ‘Parthia is grateful to her sons for their sacrifice, and will honour their memory if death takes them on the field of battle.’

It was the same that had been said, by both sides, seventeen times before. All the eighteen client kings were here, for Tiridates had found that he could, after all, leave Armenia for the celebration of his brother’s return to power. Each had brought three hundred cataphracts, the heavy cavalry of Parthia, so feared by her enemies.

Earlier, we had seen the lighter cavalry, and before them the horse-archers, who had shot their deep-bellied bows in the eight directions at targets in front, at angles on either side, behind. Having seen them with my own eyes, I can vouch that what men said was true: they could shoot a dozen arrows in the space of a long, slow breath, and do it as easily backwards as forwards.

Monobasus of Adiabene led his horsemen away in a jingle of mail and harness-mounts. A small brass gong sounded to end the display. The King of Kings rose. His courtiers rose with him, and then fell to their knees, brows pressed to the canvas beneath our feet. I was with them, Pantera on my left, Cadus on my right. I felt the swirl and play of silks as Vologases, King of Kings of all Parthia, walked down from his dais. His son, now dead, had used a litter to move amongst his subjects. Men respected his father more for rejecting it.

I felt him walk by, and then stop. An order was given in a language I did not know. The silks passed us, and the faintsmell of frankincense, which was burned to keep the king free from ill intent.

A shadow remained over us. I looked to my right and saw a courtier bend and speak to Pantera. ‘Be at the palace in the hour before dusk. The King of Kings will speak to you then.’

I bit my lip and offered a prayer to the local gods, begging that this might not be the final audience that saw us chained and impaled on spears in the market square for our actions on the Day of the Traitor’s Death.

‘I must leave this place and return to Parthia. Before I go, there is the matter of the bay mare on which the traitor was mounted. She has shown herself to be ill-favoured by the gods. She cannot remain here.’

Vologases let his words roll across the floor. His voice carried an authority I had never yet heard from any man. Even Corbulo, Rome’s greatest general, who many, even then, said should have been emperor, did not sound this comfortable with power.

Nobody answered; the King of Kings had not yet asked a question. I remained on my knees with my brow pressed to the oak boards. Cadus and Pantera held my either side. Neither of them moved. Together we three contemplated the fate that had befallen the traitor whom Pantera had killed.

There had been no pyre for the king’s late son; his corpse had been left to lie in the forest as food for the wolves and carrion birds. It was the worst thing they could do to a man who had paid with his life for his treachery, for here even the stillborn children were given fire to carry them to the gods; even the women who died on the cartwheels pushed into the sea were drawn back out at low tide, and burned.

Nobody was left to the wolves, except this prince who had thought to usurp his father’s throne and whose name was now unspeakable, whose own sons were… gone, and theirmothers with them. No pyres had been lit for them, either.

The mare on which the traitor had been seated at the time of his death was, obviously, no longer considered the best horse in Parthia. It was amazing that she had not been served as stew at one of the banquets. There had been many banquets; an entire month of banquets without pause. I found it best not to think of those, nor the wine that had flowed as each minor king outdid his peers in celebrating his supreme ruler’s return.

But the mare… she was young, and fit, and exceptionally fast. I knew her breeding and what would be lost to the world were she to die. I began to think how I might find a way to speak.

Pantera thought faster, and had more authority. Quietly, he said, ‘If my lord might permit me to suggest an answer to the problem?’

I held my breath. The air did not fold about us. None of the nine men standing guard about Vologases skewered Pantera with a lance.

‘You may speak,’ said the King of Kings.

‘It is necessary that I travel west again, soon; perhaps tomorrow. I could take the mare with me and sell her and return the gold — for she will fetch gold, I have no doubt of that — return that gold to your gracious majesty. In this way her worth will return to your majesty while she herself will not.’

‘So you are leaving us.’

There was accusation in that flat, heavy statement, and a hint of a question. Or perhaps a request. Looking to my left, I found that Pantera had raised his head and was sitting back on his heels, still kneeling, but facing the king.