The Flame of Destiny

Ten miles East of Hatra, Mesopotamia, Parthian Empire

“Isn’t this amazing?” said Rojan. “Only a few years ago we were poor goat herders roaming the barren mountains of Zagros.” The bearded Kurdish warlord emphasized his point by loudly slamming his silver wine cup on an exquisitely carved wooden table, chasing away some young goats. “And now look at us!”

“We still live in tents,” remarked Arak dryly as his fingers played with his fine mustache, “we drink goat milk when we run out of wine and they still call us Kurds.” He sat on a pile of exquisite Persian rugs in front of a large silk-draped tent.

“They can call us what they want,” said Rojan. His eyes laughed from under his thick black brows, “but mark my words, we’re not going to live in tents forever!”

The Parthian nobles called all Zagros nomads ‘Kurds’ though the tribes spoke different languages. A few generations ago, these Parthians were poor nomads themselves, thought Rojan, and now they’re the richest people in the world. Our day will come too. Before long we’ll sit at the table with the seven Clans of Parthia and we’ll dine and sing together as equals. This could be that day. “I’m expecting good news,” he said grinning broadly. “Great news in fact.”

“What is it?” asked Arak with a smirk while he poured more wine into Rojan’s cup, “did the shaman finally figure out how to fix your hideous face?”

“Yea, that was easy,” smiled Rojan, “he told me to sit next to you then I’ll always be the handsome one.”

The two men laughed heartily.

“No seriously,” said Arak just when Rojan was sipping from his wine, “what great news? Is Kallisto coming back?”

“What!” spewed Rojan, spilling wine over the Persian rug. “What’re you talking about? She’s not coming back. Not ever.”

“Come on, take it easy. I think you actually miss her.”

“No, I don’t,” said Rojan assuredly. His neck and face turned a deep red, except where it was blackened by a charcoal tattoo of a lion. “She has broken the law, she can’t come back. That’s final.”

“Then why haven’t you divorced her?”

“There’s no need,” argued Rojan, “I can always take on a second wife. And I need no justification. She disobeyed a direct order from her husband and lord! I could have killed her for that.”

“But you didn’t,” remarked Arak calmly. “And you didn’t take a second wife either.”

Involuntary they looked to their left where a group of young women from the other clans had gathered to exchange gossip. Covered by multiple layers of cloth and decked by shining necklaces, a casual observer could have mistaken them for noblewomen. Yet all of them grew up herding sheep and milking cows and would no doubt grudgingly readjust to that life if today’s meeting went sour. As if summoned, a young woman separated herself from the group and strolled up to the pair with a jug of wine. She wore traditional riding pants and high boots under a red silk dress with elegant fringes that agreed nicely with her clan’s adornments and her voluptuous body. The reddened cheeks and lips revealed to Rojan that she come to the gathering for more than the pleasure of exchanging gossip.

“Some of them managed your dress advice quite well,” whistled Arak. Earlier today he had called Rojan a fool for suggesting to these shepherdesses to dress up nicely for the Parthian envoys.

“Thirsty lords?” the young woman said when she reached them. She was in her early twenties, her face tanned but still untouched by age. Her hair was braided in an elegant bun.

Rojan smiled as the woman poured the wine from the heavy jug into their cups without losing a drop.

“Quite the wait isn’t it?” she said.

“Don’t worry my love,” said Arak, “they’ll come.”

“I’m wolf clan,” she said, “we’re known for patience.”

“I know,” said Rojan, “I fought with your brothers and your sister scouted for us. They acted with valor and loyalty.

“I too hope to prove myself one day,” she said.

“I’m sure you will, but let’s enjoy peace and hope it lasts.”

“I share your hopes,” she said looking him in the eyes, “and I can assure you that my talents are quite suitable for peacetime.”

The young woman bowed and turned back to her friends. Rojan followed her with his eyes. One of her brothers who was haggling over a Roman cup paused and gazed at him in eager anticipation.

Did they expect some kind of marriage decision today, thought Rojan? That’s not why I summoned the clans. “I will, for sure take a new wife one day,” he said to Arak, “doesn’t mean I have to do it right away.”

“It’s been six years you know.”

“Kallisto had my child killed for Mazda’s sake!”

“Are you sure, it was yours?” quipped Arak.

Rojan’s jaw twisted. His muscles tightened and his hand moved towards his sword. He had killed men for lesser insults. Then his countenance softened into a grin, this was Arak, he had taunted him since they were boys herding goats in the wilderness. “I sense some ignorance and frustration,” he quipped, “it’s time you make your move for Shida and learn the difference between desire and duty.”

“Duty is for daytime, desire is for the night,” laughed Arak, “please don’t ask me to reverse it.”

Rojan shook his head. “Will you ever grow up?”

“I mean, it was also her child,” continued Arak, “she was just as devastated as you, perhaps more so. She doesn’t even believe your daughter is dead.”

“Doesn’t change anything,” replied Rojan stubbornly, “she won’t come back and neither will her mother. Why are you going all sentimental on me anyway?”

“You owe her a lot,” said Arak slyly, “you owe your rise to Kallisto.”

“No, I don’t”

“Then you owe it to the Romans.”

“The Romans!!” Rojan coughed out another mouthful of wine. “Please don’t repeat that when the Parthians arrive. They’ll have you impaled for your sense of humor.”

Yet in a way, Arak was right, thought Rojan. They had fought the Romans continuously for the better part of a decade, driving them back beyond the river Tigris. This is why he hoped, no why he knew for sure, the King of Kings, Shahanshah Vologast V of Parthia would make him governor or ‘satrap’ of all of the western domains. The domains that he liberated from the Romans.

“It started with my father,” Rojan reminisced, “in the old days, we were just a bunch of petty clans scraping an existence from the barren rocks. We were poorer than the poorest farmers and even as warriors we were mocked. The Alans and Sarmatians from the great steppes strike fear in the settled peoples with their large horses and deadly arrows. But we had ponies,” Rojan laughed, “we were small vermin, a joke. We raided a couple of farm villages but never conquered any towns and we fought amongst ourselves most of the time.”

His father had put an end to the infighting and united all the tribes of the western Zagros. But the hard-fought stability was brittle; tensions among the hot-tempered chieftains were always brewing.

“Alas, my father’s peace didn’t last long,” continued Rojan, “that treacherous chief from the east, he betrayed him. He betrayed everyone.”

“Kallisto saved you then,” said Arak.

“Oh no,” said Rojan, “you got it all mixed up. She was the cause of the trouble in the first place! She dissuaded me from marrying that chief’s daughter. That was precisely the incident that caused his rebellion.”

“You canceled the wedding,” said Arak dryly, “she didn’t.”

“Yea. But I… but I...”

“I take it back,” interrupted Arak, “you didn’t cancel the wedding. You just changed the bride at the last moment! You didn’t want all the pigs and cows that he had brought for the feast to go to waste.”

“It didn’t go like that!”

“You were in love my friend,” chuckled Arak. “Like any man that has possession of some functioning senses, you preferred to marry Kallisto over that chieftain’s daughter.”

“Still it was bad council,” said Rojan, “Kallisto was supposed to be an advisor to the envoy of the Shah. I trusted her in politics. But she played me, some say she bewitched me. The chieftain was furious. He killed my father in cold blood when he couldn’t find me – may the gods be merciful on his soul - and then found a way to blame me for his death. My own father.”

“Yep. And then I came to the rescue.”

Rojan looked at his friend. He folded his hands and bowed his head. “I owe you my life,” he said in mock reverence.

“Yea, don’t you forget,” laughed Arak, “you owe your life to me, but you owe your kingdom to Kallisto. And that’s where the Romans come in.”

Roman legions had overrun all of the Mesopotamian lowlands. They had sacked Ctesiphon, the fabulously wealthy capital of the Parthians. They had taken everything of value and enslaved the inhabitants.

The Parthian elite heavy cavalry consisting of cataphracts, armored warriors on armored horses, were known to many as the strongest fighting force in the world. Yet they were taken by surprise. They could not break the solid ranks of disciplined Roman legionnaires whose armor was strong and whose shields formed an impenetrable wall. They had no weapons that could take on the giant warships that sailed on the Tigris like floating fortresses.

Septimus Severus was the most ruthless and effective adversary the Parthians had ever faced. The legendary Parthian horsemen, the cataphracts, retreated to the hills on their mighty steel-clad mounts and left the Romans to pillage the rich farmlands in Mesopotamia, the land between the two rivers.

The nomadic Kurds were not concerned with the struggle of the two mighty empires. It didn’t matter to them who ruled the cities and farms of the Mesopotamian mudflats. In their remote valleys and mountain strongholds, they heard only whispers of the great battles. They didn’t care about Parthia and Parthia had never cared for them.

But that could change. Kallisto understood the Shah was desperate. After their narrow escape from the scheming chieftain, they rode straight to the Parthian King of Kings in his mountain exile. It was entirely Kallisto’s idea, he had no idea on how the great King would react to a young, ousted chieftain from a backward tribe. He didn’t even know if the King would deign to meet them.

To his surprise, he wanted to meet them and they entered the royal pavilion where they found the deeply troubled Shah Vologast V on a simple wooden chair. He couldn’t get rid of the Romans. Every army he had sent against Septimus was summarily defeated and he had no funds to raise new troops. His vassals were abandoning him and the empire was on the verge of collapse.

Rojan’s command of the Greek and Parthian language was faltering even when he wasn’t stressed out, so he let Kallisto do all the talking. She captured the King’s ear and he watched her pleading with increasing admiration. But his jaw dropped when he heard Kallisto solemnly promise the Shah that ten thousand Kurdish mounted warriors would drive the Romans back to Syria. In return, she asked for his approval of their marriage and recognition of Rojan as the leader of the Kurds.

“Yes, she took a gamble but read the situation well. The King was desperate,” said Rojan, “and the Kurds needed a real leader.”

The Shah approved their marriage and endorsed Rojan as the new Kurdish overlord and granted him the title ‘Madig,’ or Prince of the Medes. He also promised him the governorship of half of the lands that they could free from the Romans – a promise he still had to fulfill - and a fifth of all the recaptured loot. He appointed young prince Ardaban, his favorite son, to closely coordinate the campaign with the Kurds.

When they returned with the news, the Kurdish chiefs were ecstatic. They imagined themselves living in grand palaces with many servants. Kurds would no longer be poor nomads and hunters, but rulers of cities and trade routes. They embraced the young couple as their new leaders and expelled the rebellious chief.

“There was only one obstacle,” said Arak with a painful grin, “an army of 60,000 veteran Roman legionnaires.”

“We managed all right,” said Rojan but he shivered as he recalled the battles. The fighting was relentless and vicious and would have continued for years had not Septimus decided that he needed his forces elsewhere in his empire for more pressing matters.

“Still convinced you don’t want Kallisto back,” asked Arak, “it’s been peacetime but things haven’t really improved since she’s gone. We’re never going to get our lands without her guiding us through the treacherous intrigues in the Parthian halls of power. We’ll be lost when we go to Ctesiphon.”

“Now that’s where you’re mistaken,” said Rojan confidently and rose to his feet. From his vantage point on a hill, he oversaw the Kurdish camp, a city of hundreds of small triangular tents spread around a dozen large domed yurts in the center. Further away, a cloud of dust was just visible in the distance.

“Riders,” said Arak.

Rojan nodded. “Ctesiphon is coming to us and will present our reward on a platter.”

Twelve Parthian cataphracts clattered into the camp. They escorted three men in long robes and were guided by Kurdish scouts led by Shida, a senior female officer.

One of the robed men was tall and rode a large white horse. He wore the golden faravahar, the sign of the shah over gold-trimmed white robes. “That must be the Parthian envoy,” said Rojan.

The rider next to him was dressed almost as exquisitely and carried the signs of the House of Suren. Close behind the noble pair was a rider on a dark horse. His face was hidden below a hooded white cloak, his long white beard fluttered in the wind. He carried no weapons but wore the sign of the priests of Ahura Mazda on a golden chain.

“They look pretty grim and well-armed for attending an award ceremony,” said Arak.

“You still doubt?” laughed Rojan and shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Tell the men to prepare the main yurt. Let’s give our benefactors a warm welcome.”

[Picture Kurdish Camp]

After the Parthian travelers has some time to rest they were invited into largest yurt, where they were greeted by the smell of grilled meat and the sight of a beaming Madig. “Welcome my friends from Parthia,” Rojan said.

A diminutive Armenian scribe expertly translated Rojan’s words into Parthian, adding the necessary formalities. Shida, who was still in her riding outfit, pointed them to their comfortable seats on thick rugs. The long tresses of her hair, one for each enemy killed in single combat, fluttered in the air as she bowed her head to welcome them.

The robed men took their seats. Six of the guards accompanied them in the yurt and took position near the back of the tent. They were in full battle dress and kept on their helmets that hid their faces.

Arak threw an anxious look at the grim warriors. “Still think they’re here to reward you?” he whispered as they sat down.

Rojan felt the tension but was not the least worried about his safety. He was flanked by Arak and Shida, warriors of great renown. “Just do your job and observe them,” said Rojan impatiently.

“That’s what I’m doing,” replied Arak sheepishly. “Have you noticed that one of the bodyguards in the back is a woman? I’ll focus my observations on her, thank you very much.”

“Of course you will,” whispered Rojan.

While the Kurdish officers were happily munching on spicy meat, the Parthian guards didn’t even take off their helmets. The three dignitaries barely touched the food and had taken just a few polite bites and a modest sip of wine before Rojan asked servants to clear the meal.

Unfazed by their coolness, Rojan spoke as eloquent and grandiose as he could without the help of his wife who was more versed in such matters. “Welcome your grace, welcome excellencies, welcome noble warriors. We are honored to receive you here in our humble tent. We wish Shahanshah Vologast V, the King of Kings, our eternal ally in Ctesiphon, a long and prosperous life.”

The scribe translated and there followed a long silence. The royal envoy looked at the priest. There was doubt in his eyes and a sense of tragic sadness. The Kurdish commanders in the room started whispering, speculating about the message that they would hear. Rojan felt the first inkling of doubt. Were they going to deny him again?

At last, the envoy spoke up but the words came out wavering and uncertain.

The scribe was visibly shocked and took a deep breath before he translated. The yurt was completely silent in anticipation.

“We are eternally grateful for the hospitality of the Kurds and the welcome by their lord Madig, Rojan, the Lion of the Zagros,” he started then paused and took a deep breath. “Alas, we bring ill news. The King of Kings,” he continued with a broken voice, “the shah, noble Vologast V has died! That’s the message that we bring to you. It’s a time of great sadness and mourning.”

The Kurdish chieftains were stunned. Their bearded, wrinkled faces that had witnessed war and death, turned gray and dismayed. It was as if life had been sucked out of the yurt. Vologast was the King they had cherished for so long, the first Parthian ruler that had recognized them as a people and granted their Madig his royal title. And now he was dead! This was the worst news.

After the initial shock, they gasped in disbelief and wept in despair. Tears were in their eyes. But nobody was more touched than Rojan. “Please convey our deepest sorrow to the Shahbanu and her sons,” he said, giving profound expression to his grief, “and to the House of Arsacid and the Parthian people. Vologast was a great and wise shah. We’ll all miss him.”

Over the next hour, the chieftains stepped forward one by one. They bowed, touching the feet of the envoy, and expressed their sorrow. The long speeches of mourning and grief were patiently translated by the scribe who frequently paused to wipe away a tear.

The envoy thanked them all, “the warmth and kindness among the Kurds are unmatched in the empire,” he said. There was a murmur of approval.

Just as the tension was abating, Rojan asked, almost casually, “who will succeed him, who will be the new shah?”

Everyone went quiet and gazed intently at the envoys. Kurds had never dealt with politics, but now, for the first time in their history, they cared about royal succession. Would the heir of the great King be as good to them? Would he uphold the promises of his predecessor?

Again, the envoy hesitated before he spoke. “His oldest son claims the throne and already calls himself Vologast VI,” he said.

The envoy spoke slowly and deliberately. The priest looked intently at Rojan from underneath his hood. The envoy from the House of Suren showed no emotion, his face was like a statue.

“But…” the envoy sighed, “this is contested by the King’s brave and noble younger son, Ardaban, who was chosen by his father and is the rightful heir, the true Shah.”

He paused to let the news sink in and allow time for translation.

“The Seven Noble Houses are divided,” he added, “the succession is disputed.”

“Will there be war?” asked Rojan softly.

The envoy nodded. “Alas,” he said, “an armed confrontation appears to be inevitable.”

“On whose side is the House of Suren?” asked Arak. This was the most powerful clan whose ancestry included the great Surena, the Spahbed or supreme commander that annihilated seven Roman legions establishing Parthia as a great power. They still owned the position of supreme commander and held the privilege of crowning the new Shah.

The man from Suren’s house looked at Arak intently then at Rojan, “the question is, on whose side are you?”

Rojan, Arak, and Shida exchanged glances and didn’t know how to react. The last thing they wanted was to choose sides in a civil war between the two brothers. They discussed quietly in Kurdish amongst themselves.

“We’ve fought by the side of Ardaban against the Romans,” whispered Shida, “he’s a great commander and loyal to his friends. I believe his claim to the throne to be just. He would never lie about that; his word is solid as a rock. We should support him.”

Rojan was less convinced. “I too prefer Ardaban, he’s my friend and brother-in-arms. We fought side by side against the Romans. But there’s no proof that he was chosen; we have to believe the envoy on his word. Vologast has the better claim since he’s the oldest. He’s also the richest because the Romans didn’t destroy his lands in the East. And what about this lord from Suren, why didn’t he answer my question?” He shook his head, “oh damn, we shouldn’t be forced to choose. Nothing good will come of it. We’ll lose all we have fought for.”

The chieftains debated vigorously amongst themselves without any courtly finesse - Rojan was grateful that the scribe had stopped translating - some favored the younger Ardaban, more favored the wealthy Vologast.

Arak raised his voice. “Which of the sons will honor his father’s promises to us? To be clear, I mean the promise of gold and land.”

“You’re a fool if you believe that either of them has time to think about us now,” snapped Shida, “they won’t give us anything before the throne is secure!”

“In that case,” said Arak, “why should we support either? We’ll just wait until one brother comes begging for our support with a chest of gold.”

“I suppose this is what it will come down to,” whispered Rojan. “We have to think about our people, not about friendship. The brother that promises the most gold and land, will get our support. And since Vologast controls the rich East and Ardaban the ravaged West…”

The envoy tried in vain to influence the discussion, but he only spoke Parthian, and few understood him. Gesturing wildly, he only managed to irritate the Kurds.

The Zoroastrian priest stared before him in silence and no one paid him any attention. Why was he even here? His eyes betrayed that he was not neutral in the debate and indicated a whirlwind of emotion behind his stiff face.

Suren’s envoy in contrast was cool and aloof. The bodyguards at the back remained motionless and disinterested, except for the woman who occasionally moved her head as if she was following the debates in Parthian and Kurdish. How can that be, thought Arak and he touched Rojan on his arm to draw his attention.

Just then, a loud crack turned everyone’s attention to the priest.

The cup that he held in his hand shattered.

He sprang to his feet, threw off his white robes, and pulled at his long beard.

The onlookers gasped at him in complete surprise.

In their midst was no longer an old priest with a long white beard, but a tall and handsome prince in a gold-fringed white tunic. His face was clean and noble, his beard was short and trimmed, his locks long and golden, and his blue eyes flamed with a deep passion.

“It is Ardaban,” whispered Rojan in awe, “the youngest prince. He came to us himself!”

“Friends and brothers in arms,” said Ardaban, “you were always loyal to my father and he has promised you rewards: lands, titles… and gold. Now I ask you to extend your loyalty once more and support my claim to the throne and thus realize my father’s last and deepest wish. I solemnly swear that, if you choose my side, I’ll do everything in my power to fulfill his promise and grant you the rewards that you deserve.”

What bravery and trust to travel without an army to the lands of the savage Kurds, thought Rojan, this is a man for whom friendship and loyalty are worth more than all the gold in the world.

Behind him, Arak whispered. “Such a fool that lofty prince. If we take him captive now, his brother will offer us rich rewards.”

Rojan hesitated, his duty was to his people, the Kurds. Should he get them involved in a civil war between brothers?

“Be sensible, Madig. Take him and we avoid war,” advised Arak and many elders and officers agreed.

Rojan didn’t know how many noble houses supported Ardaban against his older brother. Which side would the powerful House of Suren choose? Would they follow the gold or follow their heart?

Ardaban turned and addressed Rojan directly, “please brother, ride with me and confront the usurper Vologast. Let’s join in arms one more time.”

“He took a big risk trusting us,” whispered Shida, “we must not betray him. He deserves our loyalty.”

What to do? Taking him captive would be so much easier thought Rojan. Perhaps Arak is right and we can still avoid a civil war. Uncertainty spread over him like a dark cloud. Why did Ardaban risk his life to come here? Why is Shida so sure of him?

All around him, officers expressed their point of view. Their awe at the prince had dissipated and they voiced their reservations with increasing insistence. Most chose Vologast or preferred to stay neutral and the atmosphere became tenser.

Arak saw the doubt on Rojan’s face and gently grasped his arm, “it’s your decision,” he whispered. “You have the fate of your people at heart. I will follow you, and so will the others. You’re our general, you’re the Madig.”

After a long pause, Rojan got up and walked to Ardaban. Silence fell over the large yurt. Ardaban trembled as the great warrior stood before him.

The female bodyguard was so tense, she stumbled against a tent pole.

Rojan drew his sword and looked down at the handsome prince.

He dropped to his knees and kissed the feet of the exasperated prince. “I choose your side, my brother,” he said, “my sword is at your service.”

[Picture Rojan and Ardaban]

Then he rose again and shouted with a deep and powerful voice, “long live Shahanshah Ardaban!”

Shida smiled. “Long live the King of Kings!” she cried. Arak joined her.

Loud cheers broke out and everyone chanted, “Long live the King!”

When Ardaban spoke he had tears in his eyes, “you have my deepest gratitude, and that of the Iranian people,” he said. “If we win, I will grant you the satrapies of Adiabene, Mesopotamia, and Arabia and will call you Guardian of the West.”

Cheers erupted.

“But,” said Rojan when the cheers had finally died down, “there’s one condition if you want our support. We fight our own way, with our own commanders.”

“Of course, Madig,” smiled Ardaban, “I wouldn’t expect anything else from my old friend. I have mustered my loyal forces in Arbela. We’ll head south along the Tigris River in ten days. Spies told me that my brother is assembling a large army near Babylon. If you hurry, you can catch up with us before we cross the River at Opis, a month from now.”

Rojan’s lips curled slightly at the edge but he hid his smile and replied with a straight face. “We’ll follow our route and report to you directly, your brother’s spies are everywhere.”

“That’s prudent,” agreed Ardaban, “I have faith in your judgment. Even better, I will lend you my best advisors. Let me present to you Lord Pedram of the house Suren, cousin of Lord Suren himself. He will advise you on all matters pertaining to warfare and he will be your link to the supreme general and Spahbed Lord Suren.”

The man with the silver-rimmed robes stepped forward and smiled. From his bland face, Rojan still couldn’t tell if he was happy with his choice or not. Pedram bowed deeply, his shining scale armor clattered softly and the unused leather creaked.

Rojan nodded politely, then pulled Ardaban aside. “You cannot be serious, that guy is a novice,” he whispered. “We can’t even be sure of House Suren’s loyalty.”

“That’s true but I can tell you,” said Ardaban calmly, “that if you don’t take him with you, we can be sure of Suren’s enmity. And that’s not in our interest either.”

“No,” replied Rojan, “that’s not what I want. But if I have to take an advisor from you, I want someone capable. Someone that has seen battle, that is smart and resourceful, that understands strategy and logistics, that knows the way we fight and can connect to my warriors.”

“I’ve just such a person for you,” he said smilingly.

Rojan frowned. “Who do you have in mind?”

Ardaban beckoned to the bodyguards at the rear. To Rojan’s astonishment, the female guard stepped forward, a bit nervous and awkward. She still hid her face under the helmet with a closed visor.

“Let me present your second royal advisor, selected and appointed by myself to advise you on military matters and liaise with my personal staff.”

The woman bowed, then slowly took off the helmet revealing a face the Kurds knew all too well.

Rojan’s eyes widened and his face turned red.

“Kallisto!? How in Mazda’s name!”