Richard Blake - The Curse of Babylon

Water squelching from his open boots, the officer hurried across the last few yards that separated us and poked me in the chest. ‘What do you think you’ve been doing half the sodding afternoon?’ he asked in the tone you put on for an idiot child. He poked me again, before lapsing into a manner more anxious than angry. ‘If we aren’t there soon, we’ll be lucky to get off with a flogging.’

‘I think my horse is a bit lame,’ I said in an Armenian accent so strong, the officer had to listen hard to me. I stumbled through a few set phrases in Persian, ending with a look of blank stupidity.

‘Oh, for an army filled with natives!’ the officer cried. But I’d explained my appearance and enough of my absence from whatever I was supposed to have been doing. With an impatient snort, he waited for me to get the horse turned round and to follow him over to the file of other dismounted horsemen. One of these gave me a funny look. But the officer was almost shaking with impatience and we set off as fast as we could lead the horses. We passed by the eunuchs again and the steep incline Rado had chosen for our departure from the pass. We picked our way steadily past the stationary mass below us on the right.

Even at fifty yards, I could see that Chosroes was out of sorts with the world. His throne had been set up on a broad and reasonably flat rock that overlooked the pass. In the harsh sunlight of these mountains, he would have been a glorious sight. His throne was of white marble. He was dressed in his favourite yellow. The idea was plainly to have had Shahrbaraz and his other generals standing behind him, and behind them a few dozen priests of their fire-worshipping faith. The thousands upon thousands in the pass could have looked up to behold their Lord and Master arrayed in all His Majesty.

Of course, the rain had spoiled everything. The tall hats of the priests had collapsed over their faces and robes that should have flowed clung in a less than flattering manner to their bodies. Chosroes was more or less dry under his canopy. But this was only kept from sagging inward and leaking over the royal head by regular poking with a rod, so that water splashed on the silvered armour of the Royal Guard. The Great King and latest alleged posterity of Cyrus slumped on his throne. As ever, the old fraud Urvaksha was huddled on the ground before him. His hat too had fallen down his face. But you couldn’t mistake the golden collar about his scrawny neck, or the golden chain which led from the collar to the Royal Hand. Nasty creature, I’d always thought him. Though blind, he’d sized me up soon enough and thought the same of me. Luckily, Chosroes had broken with his general custom and paid no attention to the gibbered warnings of betrayal. A shame the poison he’d accidentally eaten on my behalf hadn’t finished him off.

The Persian officer slammed his fist against my leather breastplate. ‘Move yourself, fuckwit!’ he groaned. ‘Must I tell you everything ? Where were you this morning, when Shahrbaraz spoke to the army?’ Looking vacant, I let my mouth sag open. The officer swore again. He looked quickly about and leaned closer. ‘You don’t have security clearance,’ he whispered, leaving a gap between each word. ‘If you don’t want to be thrown head first over the edge, give me your sword. You can have it back afterwards.’ With another slap of his hand on leather, he pushed me towards the back of the disorganised and shivering mob of guards. ‘Go on, then — just get over there. Stand at the back and try not to look like a moron. Leave the horse for the grooms.’

I shuffled across to stand in place. I counted a dozen Royal Guards. These still had their weapons and stood in formation close beside the Great King. The rest of us, it was clear, were there to fill up the numbers. It was a bit of a come down from public appearances in Ctesiphon, where Chosroes wouldn’t have thought to show himself without the whole of the Royal Guard. How many had he brought with him? I wondered. The plain answer was that he must have brought all of them. The question, then, was where they were. Guarding the harem, perhaps? I had one answer as we were pushed and nagged by a couple of eunuchs into a more regular formation. Each of the Royal Guards was given his own sunshade bearer. The rest of us were left to get even wetter. Silvered armour doesn’t come cheap. When you’re already spent out on a gigantic invasion, a bit of rust on iron underlay becomes a serious concern.

One of the senior eunuchs now set about arranging us in detail. Speaking a Persian so rarified even the natives didn’t understand all of it, he poked and prodded with a cane until we bore some resemblance to a guard of honour. ‘Taller men at the front,’ he shrilled quietly at me and then at a hulking beast whose beard was so dense it made his face look like the back of his head. I gave up the pretence of not understanding and let myself be pushed into a standing place one away from the front, and perhaps fifteen men along from Chosroes on my left.

So long as the bearded one next to me didn’t breathe too hard, I could hear snatches of the conversation with the Grand Chamberlain. ‘If it isn’t in the iced compartment,’ Chosroes said in the silky drawl that, once heard, no one ever forgot, ‘it must have been stolen.’ He snatched up an ivory scratching stick and pushed it inside the front of his robe. Grunting like an ape that’s being fed, he rubbed it back and forth. He finished and took it out. He leaned forward to sniff the teeth. Displeased with the smell, he tossed it aside. ‘Why is no one looking for it?’ he asked.

The Chamberlain darted forward to pick up the scratching stick. ‘If I might suggest, Your Majesty,’ he wheedled, ‘somebody, somewhere in the baggage train must have a replacement. I can send out a demand once the review is finished.’

I couldn’t see him but Shahrbaraz now spoke. ‘Everything’s ready, Your Majesty,’ he said gruffly. ‘If we don’t start soon, the rain will get worse again.’ It wasn’t the hushed, deferential tone most would use to a borderline lunatic vested with absolute and arbitrary power. Then again, whether or not he was actually mad, Chosroes wasn’t stupid. If the only military leader of any talent thrown up on either side by eleven years of war didn’t choose to address the Great King in a deferential squeak, he’d not have a bowstring tied round his neck.

Chosroes held up a hand for attention. ‘My dear friend, Shahrbaraz,’ he cried sternly, ‘when Xerxes sat on a throne such as this at Abydos, it hadn’t been pissing down all day. He could see his entire fleet and army in one glance. If that mist comes any closer, the best I’ll be able to do is smell the assembled swine who call themselves my army.’

The reply was something I didn’t catch. Nor could I hear what Chosroes said after that. But the polite laughter from the Chamberlain and the other eunuchs told me it wasn’t relevant. Chosroes raised his hand again. ‘Enough, enough!’ he said. ‘Be seated beside me, O greatest of my generals. The army has been brought together and must see us together and at one in all our deliberations.’ He wriggled upright on his throne. Eunuchs ran forward to catch the loose cushions before they could hit the ground. ‘Where is my fucking melon?’ he suddenly spat. ‘I’ve been fancying it since breakfast.’ He took his scratching stick from Shahrbaraz and set about his calves.

Urvaksha looked up from muttering over his tangled strings. He turned conveniently sightless eyes in my direction. ‘The knots tell me one of the serving boys ate it,’ he cackled. ‘The knots are never wrong — just let them be read by one who understands them. The knots are never wrong, I tell you!’