The Flame of Destiny

It’s not so much a tent as a mobile palace, thought Rojan as he stepped into the immense pavilion. The wooden beams were thick as logs. He had actually wanted to burn down Vologast’s imperial command tent when they captured the camp during the final stage of the battle, but Kallisto had stopped him. For some reason, she insisted on keeping the tent.

Maybe it was the right choice. After all, it was about the only loot they had kept for themselves from the entire campaign. They had transported the tent on six large carts to Babylon and set it up outside the city gates.

It proved immediately useful. The massive city was still in the hands of Vologast and his warriors had to camp outside the city walls. That was fine with them as Kurds from the mountains couldn’t bear the stench of a great metropolis like Babylon. The negotiations between the royal brothers moved at a glacial pace, but at least, Kallisto and Rojan never lacked comfort in their palatial tent.

He shook his head as he thought of Parthian politics. Vologast had lost two major battles but still proudly and arrogantly maintained that he was the true heir and the rightful Shah.

He had suggested to storm Babylon, kill Vologast, and end this bloody war quickly. But Ardaban had a different approach. He was convinced that time was on his side. Vologast and his remaining followers were holed up in the city. How long could they survive?

But he was wrong. Vologast had used the time to strengthen his position. He had the already strong walls fortified. Supplies were brought in over the river on massive ships. He sent messengers to the eastern provinces with promises of gold and grants of land in the west if they would rally to his banner. He even recalled his veterans from Fars, giving the rebellious Babak a free hand in the east. One day we’ll have to deal with him too, thought Rojan grimly.

He kept Ardaban busy with terms he was never going to agree on until he felt strong enough and broke off negotiations abruptly. Vologast was a terrible battlefield commander, but a wily politician that still ruled all the lands south and east of Babylon. He controlled the camel and ship routes to India and beyond. The wealthy trading cities of Susa and Babylon were firmly in his hands, as were the mythical ruins of Persepolis, the ancient capital of Cyrus the Great, the first King of Kings that was destroyed by Alexander five centuries ago.

We can never drive him out of Babylon if we go on like this, thought Rojan sadly. What started as a battle between two brothers slowly and inevitably turned into an all-out civil war - or perhaps a permanent split of the empire.

Babylon was the keystone, it was a massive city in a strategic location and held enormous prestige. If Ardaban could just break the walls, he could end the war. It was their best hope.

Rojan entered the first room of his tent which had become the Kurdish command center. Not that it was much in use these days. Sieges were not Kurdish specialties, negotiations even less. Yet his scouts and foragers were still needed, so he agreed to keep most of his force around Babylon to support Ardaban.

He wore a blue silk shirt over his usual leather tunic and riding trousers. That was the only concession he was willing to make to blend in at Ardaban’s court. Well, that and his beard that had recently been neatly trimmed at the request of Kallisto. He tried the flowing robes of the Parthian nobles once, but they were utterly useless: neither suitable for riding, nor fighting. They were only good for sitting and talking. He sighed, even if that was exactly what he did most these days, he could not wear them.

The imperial tent was divided into three large sections. The front section, facing the rising sun in the East, was devoted to war matters. There were rooms for meetings with officers and scouts. The main room of this section, where Rojan and Kallisto received guests and envoys, was richly decorated with tapestries depicting scenes of ancient Parthian victories over the Romans and the savage Sacae with their pointed hats.

During a campaign, it would be busy as an ant’s nest. Scouts, spies, and officers would keep coming and going. But now it was empty, strangely empty.

“Where’s Kallisto?” He asked the lone guard.

The man looked at him with a strange smile. “Further down,” he replied, “Lord Madig.”

He walked on to the middle section which was devoted to feasting. The portable kitchen was still in place. There were several storerooms to keep food and drink. The large room in the center served as a banquet hall and the beautiful carpets showed hunting and farming scenes.

As he walked through this section he still didn’t see any sign of Kallisto, the large tent was eerily quiet.

If Rojan was impatient and restless because of the lack of action, Kallisto was doubly so. She missed her mountain homelands and could not understand why the brothers were fighting each other. “This is just the kind of excuse the Romans are waiting for to invade,” she said, “with Babak in the east and Rome in the west, will there be an empire left to rule?”

At the back of the banquet hall, a purple silk drape marked the entrance to the rear section of the tent. These had been the private quarters of Vologast who never traveled without his retinue of concubines and dancers. It was much too large for the two of them.

Rojan passed cautiously underneath the curtain and entered a world of luxury and beauty. The walls were draped with the finest silk and lined with gold thread. Scenes of mountains and lakes that reminded him of his homeland featured on the tapestries. He went from one room into the next, each more beautiful than before.

He entered the largest and most beautifully decorated room in the center of the west wing. This used to be Vologast’s private bedroom. The room’s far wall was decorated with the moon and stars in gold and silver on a dark blue background. The eastern wall had the rising sun in vibrant yellow and red colors. In the center of the room was a large bed, covered with dark purple sheets and blue pillows.

“These Armenians drive me crazy, we discussed for hours. After all, we did for them, they still can’t choose sides…” he stopped mid-sentence.

[Picture Kallisto on bed]

Kallisto sat in the center of the bed. She didn’t wear her riding clothes, for once. She had donned a dress of fine silk, too light for the time of the year thought Rojan. The flowing white dress was attached below her shoulder by a single silver pin. She had undone her braids and her long black hair was spread about her. Her tanned skin looked smooth and soft. Her cheeks were red and her lips were full.

“Let’s not talk politics tonight,” whispered Kallisto.

Rojan’s breath was taken away. He had never seen her like that, at least not in many years. He stared at her with an open mouth. And her eyes...

“What are you looking at,” she asked coyly.

“Your eyes,” he said, “they sparkle like a thousand stars.”

“Come here,” she whispered.

Rojan sat down on the bed and gently stroked her hair.

Rojan was right, Kallisto felt ‘sparkly.’ Something had happened, she didn’t know what or where, but she had definitely felt something. A feeling she’d not had for many years. It came suddenly and brought warmth and joy all over her body and when it went away, a warm fire still burned inside her.

She had no idea what it meant, but one thing was certain. She had never felt so alive. It could only be good.

“I’m ready now,” she said.

Rojan bent over and kissed her tenderly.