The Tortoise in Asia Read online

  Being brought up in a stable, albeit simple home and rising in a career that’ll lead to affluence most probably, he feels a tug of guilt that he can’t identify fully with that depth of sadness. He was too young at the time to feel what his father felt, except vaguely, and now the thought of losing his home isn’t something he really considers. He’s always had one; these days it’s in the army, a peripatetic one, but a home just the same. It gives him the emotional security everyone needs. Nevertheless it’s impossible to forget that day – the only time he saw a grown man cry, an event shocking to the core. His Stoic background with its requirement to control feelings through disassociating emotion from pain seemed assaulted. Later he understood that certain tragedies permit a different response.

  The loss of the family land brings Crassus to mind, ironically the one man who must be impressed. Was he somehow implicated? He was among the most aggressive latifundia owners, those powerful men who drove down the price of agricultural produce by using slave labour from Rome’s conquests. By squeezing the small farmers during those distressed times he added vast amounts to his domain – unconscionable behaviour in the extreme. Perhaps he’s using some of those disgraceful gains to fund the Parthian campaign.

  Is his presence here somehow condoning the outrage to his family? Should he be doing something about it?

  There’s no point thinking about the past; any suggestion that Crassus was involved specifically can’t be proved one way or another. The man’s presently the Commander in Chief and that’s all there is to it. Besides he’s showing kindness now and he’s in a position where he’s capable of helping or destroying careers, certainly his own. The man’s an affable fellow, friendly to everyone, even says hello to people of low status, often calling them by name. It’s difficult to imagine him in an evil role.

  The clanking beast of war lumbers out of the Syrian plain into rough country framed by low lying mountains of smoky grey. A long shaky line, drawn like a child might, separates earth and sky. Heat smacks his face like the palm of an unseen hand.

  Half focussed, he sees a man on the right hand edge of the Road in front of him walking in the same direction as the army – not beside it but on it. Dressed in simple Syrian clothing, he’s bent over like an old man. A pole with a hanging bundle is on his shoulder. He wouldn’t ordinarily notice except for the fact the soldiers ahead make way for him as they pass. They veer around him. He does himself. Later he asks why they all did that. No one knows why. They just did it, as if in response to some instinct.

  A rise in the Road appears, a feature more common now. But this one’s different. It looks down to a mighty river, wider than the Tiber, writhing over the landscape like a pregnant brown snake, fat and fertile. A Syrian scout says in perfect Latin,

  “The Euphrates – border with Parthia. It’s dangerous these days. The currents are usually lazy but they’re livelier now, what with the snow melt from the Armenian highlands.”

  This is it. The invasion’s ready to begin. On the other side of the famous river, the march will take on a different character – more dangerous, more exciting. Discipline will tighten as they start to move through hostile territory. He looks down at the Road, almost feels like patting its stones for it’ll take him to his destiny as if it were a beast of burden. He feels a certain affinity with the trusty track he’s been on so long; it’s like an ally, for once the water barrier is crossed it’ll lead him and his comrades to a victory which promises to be Olympian. The Road will share in it, become more than an ally – a partner. An ideal one too, for he’ll not have to share the spoils with it.

  The army takes up rest positions under the trees by the bank. A human ribbon forms along the meander as the troops jostle to get close to the water. The air’s sticky and clouded with blow flies. Since it’s a sign of weakness to slap them off, they keep irritating at will; only reflex action prevents them from entering the men’s eyes. His uniform tossed aside like the others, he wades into the water stripped down to his loin cloth. Thousands of chaotic white shapes spray onto the brown water, staying close to the shallow edge. The water’s too cold for more than a quick dip, the current too fast for a proper swim, not that he has the skill anyway.

  He lies down on his side, propped up on his elbow, letting the air cool him as he’s drying. His childhood friend Gaius, who grew up in the same neighbourhood, comes over and sits on the grass, also stripped to his loin cloth; they all are. He’s a crag of a man, big, blunt and square-faced. Unlike Marcus who is quite handsome, Gaius is too rough to be attractive to women, but he could lift a tree trunk heavy enough for three men, or smash into enemy soldiers like a battering ram breaching a fortress wall. He’s the Ajax of the Roman army.

  “What d’you think of this Gaius? Isn’t it great – far cry from the marching huh? That dip sure beats the heat.”

  “Yeah it’s all right. Nothing wrong with a break. But the men’ve slackened off – not good. Been like that for a while. Slipped off their peak. The Commander doesn’t keep discipline up. Pompey would never allow it – no godamn ever.”

  “What are you worried about? They’re still the best in the world.”

  “No argument, but I don’t like spending all that time booty hunting. Shit, we could pay for that when the battle starts. Too damn slack.”

  “Maybe, but you have got to admire the crafty way he requisitioned those men from Damascus and then let them off after they paid. He didn’t want them anyway – useless idiots; just after the money. I know the locals hate us for it, but who cares.”

  “Yeah, but he don’t keep the drills up. Look at what happened when he robbed the Jewish Temple – seemed like the whole damn army went on leave. Nobody did anything for weeks.”

  “I agree about that. Wrong to do it. Pompey never took their gold when he invaded Jerusalem. Had respect. Remember? We were both there. I’m glad Crassus didn’t make us go with the squad. I don’t know what I would have done.”

  “That’s not the point – he shouldn’t have wasted time.”

  “I know. I know. Look at those engineers. Aren’t they terrific. No one can build like Romans.”

  Men with huge saws are cutting local trees into planks. Long, square – edged nails drive into newly planed boards. Rafts spring into life and are lashed together to make pontoons. A timber walkway is progressively nailed on top. Steadily and efficiently the structure moves across the rushing current. Its leading edge rolls towards the Parthian shore like the tip of a chameleon’s tongue lunging towards its prey. Engineers overcome the impatient waters with technology which has no rival.

  The scout attached to Marcus’s cohort comes to the river’s edge and says in a loud voice;

  “We’re going to cross near Zeugma. It’s a small trading town a couple of kilometres away – almost three hundred years old. One of Alexander the Great’s generals founded it. It’s a stopping off point on the Caravan Road.”

  Marcus’s heart quickens. Finally they’re about to enter enemy territory. The interminable boredom will yield to the exitement of danger and action. Nothing’s better. He’ll have a chance once again to use his fighting skills, work with his comrades to smash the enemy. Owl’s Head is ready to do its job.

  “This is it Gaius. Don’t worry about a little slackness. We’re going to win just the same. This time we’ll change history. Those barbarians’ll sink below the tide of another Roman victory. They’re too disorganised to be respected. No point in showing any mercy to them.”

  Showing no mercy is just a figure of speech. He doesn’t think of himself as a cruel man. In fact he treats prisoners well and has never killed a man who’s surrendered.

  “I don’t doubt we’ll win. What’ll we do afterwards?”

  “Once we roll up Parthia I’m sure we’ll push into Bactria and India. Crassus is ambitious and he’ll have the troops to do it. Everyone knows he wants to be civis princeps. Probably the Parthian victory’ll be enough for that but he’ll go further. It’s in his nature – he’s greedy
. We’ll get past where Alexander went, past the Indus.”

  “What’s the Indus?”

  “It’s a big river, a long way east. On the other side is where huge booty lies, even more than what the Parthians have. We’ll really be wealthy, really rich. The Macedonians conquered the land where the Parthians are. Now it’s our turn, but we’ll go further. It’ll be interesting to see what it’s like that far east. But not as much as seeing the booty – ha ha ha.”

  He doesn’t say he hopes to become a landowner of substance and be inducted into the Ordo Equester. What a climb that would be for the son of a farmer who lost his land.

  CHAPTER 2

  Orodes II, divine ruler of Parthia, king of Kings, Brother of the Sun and Moon, hasn’t arrived yet. In the congress hall of his grand summer palace in the Zagros foothills, long-robed nobles and priests stand in little groups nervously chatting, awaiting the royal presence. Scouts are reporting the Roman army is at the Euphrates – a full scale invasion by the mightiest force in the world is under way and there’s no strategy. Normality has changed overnight.

  Torches in sooty brackets on the walls extract blackness from the dark, leaving a dim visibility. Usually the gloomy light enhances the majesty of the marble hall but today it doesn’t; foreboding lurks in the corners like jackals in the night and impending catastrophe infects the air.

  Four densely bearded soldiers with pikes and round shields stand rigid at the tall bronze – studded doors, massive enough to withstand a siege. Soft bonnets cover their long black hair which is tied in knots on top of their foreheads. The style looks like a battering ram. Outside, a huge stone lion reminds all who come of the glorious time when Cyrus the Great forged the Medes and Persians into the largest empire the world had known. These days the Parthians, of raw and lusty origin on the eastern steppes, are in power, having absorbed the cultivated ways of Persian civilization, or mostly so.

  A priest separates himself from the little group of fellow clerics to shuffle over to where some nobles have gathered, and corners one he knows.

  “My Lord Santruk, have you heard what’s going on? What’s the latest news? I’ve never seen people so worried. Everybody’s talking about it at the Temple. We’ve got to mount a national resistance and do it fast.”

  “The situation’s really bad Your Holiness. The Romans have a daunting army – tens of thousand of troops I hear. They’ve never lost a battle in our part of the world. Remember Pompey? Meanwhile we’re bogged down in Seleucia. That rebellious brother of the King is dividing us just at the wrong time. I don’t know what we can do.”

  “No defeatist talk my Lord.”

  “No sense putting our heads under a pillow.”

  The priest frowns and clasps his hands.

  “This is a national emergency for goodness sake. Not the right time to be negative. At times like this that sort of talk doesn’t do any good, just drains courage. Besides, if we appeal to Ahura Mazda, he’ll save us.”

  “We need strong leadership in this world Your Holiness. Will the King give it?”

  By now the hall is in uproar, everybody talking without listening and milling around, too agitated to stand still. Priests are loudly advocating warlike action, nobles trying to draw courage from their faith. Ahura Mazda is on everybody’s lips. Nobody agrees on anything except the need for divine intervention. In the midst of it all, a sudden hush quells the chaos.

  The Great King appears at the entrance. He’s silhouetted against a brooding sky, sunlight struggling uncertainly with lumps of stygian clouds. He looks supernatural in the gloom, a threatening figure who can harness the power of nature at will. The fear of the moment is heightened by his dark presence which seems not only backed by the sky but invested with its might.

  Wearing a half moon crown encrusted with rubies and emeralds, a star of diamonds on each side, Orodes stands in gravitas. After a moment, he proceeds slowly over the tribal carpets that lead to a dais of polished wood which supports his throne. It’s made of lapis lazuli mined in the mountains of Bactria on the eastern border, worth more than gold. The blue mineral, with flecks like tiny stars, speaks of a sacred link to the life force of the sky.

  The arms and legs are clad in gold leaf and lush, silk cushions soften the opulent stone. A window, cut high in the white marble wall, lets through a shaft of light when the sun breaks through the clouds, touching the royal seat like a celestial wand.

  As the monarch passes by, the courtiers drop down progressively, like grass in a meadow bent by the wind, prostrating on the floor in his direction. He approaches the throne, and gravely turning, takes his seat, slave boys arranging his robes around his feet.

  The Supreme Magus in turn sits on his high-backed wooden chair, intricately carved with symbols only the initiated would understand. He’s lower down, off the dais. His tall conical hat points heavenward and the star – patterned shawl over his black and silver gown bespeaks astrological wisdom for which Zoroastrians are famous. A large gold clasp that gathers it indicates he’s not entirely devoted to the ethereal.

  Rising slowly, the rest of the assembly stands mute on either side of the carpet pathway.

  The majestic solemnity of the occasion is somewhat blighted by the unimpressive figure of the King, now seen without his background, although no one would dare say it. Instead of a grand personage which many of his predecessors were, he’s a pouty-lipped, podgy little man with a peevish voice, saved from insignificance only by his sumptuous robes. Everyone knows, however, he can be very cunning where his personal interests are involved, and vindictive, suddenly lashing out at an offender without warning and always with an exaggerated sense of slight. Prison, or worse, can be the consequence. The reaction he engenders is not respect, certainly not love, but caution.

  “My Lords, you are gathered here with ourselves to consider the threat to our sacred homeland. We are informed that the Romans are at our frontier.

  “Why isn’t the Commander in Chief present? We’ve had to delay this conference for several days waiting for him. His emissary gave assurances he would be here by now and he hasn’t come. We can’t be kept waiting like this. It’s so annoying.”

  As he slaps an over-fed hand on his thigh, thrusting his head up so violently his crown slips to one side, Surena appears at the doors.

  The chief of the Parthian army is the second most powerful man in the realm, of royal lineage too, the one who placed the crown on the head of Orodes when the nobles and priests elected him king. But he’s not the first; so he has to prostrate before the throne. He’s of commanding presence, tall and handsome. Many say he’s like the great Cyrus, whose uncommonly handsome looks alone demanded admiration. His soft, symmetrical face might be envied by women for themselves, except for the tightly sculpted black beard. But his beauty doesn’t bespeak weakness, for he’s a formidable warrior and brilliant tactician. Not at all a man stifled by modesty, his self confidence is so high that it’s said he thinks he can dodge rain drops.

  A deadly cruelty lurks beneath his skin, still smooth as he’s just under thirty years of age. Unwilling to quell an arrogance fed full on his achievements, he has a contempt for Orodes which he finds difficult to disguise. In turn, the monarch feels diminished in his presence.

  Noting the look of displeasure in the King, he says,

  “Noble Sire, I offer as many apologies as I have troops for being late. My reason, which I humbly ask Your Majesty to accept as an excuse, is that I had to stay in south Mesopotamia longer than expected. Your Majesty’s brother put up a stubborn resistance. I have come to Ecbatana as soon as I could.”

  Never with an attention span longer than a child’s, the King interrupts.

  “Yes, yes. But what success did you have?”

  “I am pleased to report that Seleucia and Babylon are in Your Majesty’s hands and I have brought Mithridates here in chains. He is outside. As to be expected, he begs for clemency – remorseful for his foolish rebellion. He promises to be loyal from now on if your Majest
y spares his life. The civil war is over Sire; the Kingdom is reunited. We are in a much stronger position now to turn back the Romans.”

  Controlled satisfaction spreads over Orodes’ face – he has always hated his brother. Relieved murmurs fill the hall. He says in a reedy voice,

  “We’re pleased with your work Commander. Our sad judgement is that Mithridates be put to death. It is not our wish but regrettably it must be done to ensure lasting order in our kingdom”.

  Dabbing his eye with a handkerchief, a gesture that produces a nod from the Supreme Magus, he says,

  “Though he is my brother, we must sacrifice him for the general good. See to it Surena.”

  As the Commander bows his head, a thrill rises up in him, so euphoric it almost overcomes his reason. For a delicious instant he thinks of doing it himself, with a bow string pulled tight around the neck deep into the skin, tongue flopping out as the death rattle begins. But that would be unseemly. Too bad, it’ll have to be left to the professional executioner. He says.

  “That is a wise decision Sire, in keeping with the prudence Your Majesty is renowned for. I will carry out the execution without delay.”

  “Good, Surena. Now what’s your advice on how we are to deal with the invasion?”

  “Sire, while I have confidence we can defeat them, to do it we will need more troops. I humbly request Your Majesty to give me at least another five thousand, more if possible. With them and my secret strategy we will win, throw them back into Syria.”