The Tortoise in Asia (7 page)

He grabs the rope along the side and staggers forward on the rocking pontoons. The gale is heaving the clouds around like fragments of mountains. It's as though everything has fallen backwards into primordial chaos, where the gods are fighting the titans and the whole world breaks apart in their fury.

Waves rise as tall as horses, tossing white manes in deadly sympathy with the wind. Rain slashes down in whips stinging the eye and leaving pock marks on the surface of the water. Marcus is almost blinded. The raft in front starts to give way, its lashings tearing loose. Men frantically try to haul the ropes back into place but those closest to the water are swept overboard, eyes wild with terror as they're pulled down. Everyone's shouting, officers giving orders that make no sense. One man cries with arms outstretched, “We're doomed. O Neptune, save us.” Another yells, “Call on Jupiter you fool. This isn't the sea.”

Others shriek “This is an omen, this is an omen”, repeating the phrase ad nauseam, overlapping each other in a chaotic chorus. Marcus tries in vain to get them to calm down. The men behind him bunch up in panic, adding to the instability of the bridge. Some rafts break away, dumping their terrified charges into the roiling brown stream.

The pontoon which Marcus is on holds, but only just, pulling and tearing at its sinews. As he stumbles, trying to get a better hold on the rope, a clutch of horses flashes by, frantically holding their heads above the water. They're neighing but can't be heard; only scared teeth show the poor animals are calling out to be saved. Some sink and rise only to sink again without trace. Among them his commanding officer's steed bravely fights the waves, its bridle catching whatever light there is, glistering gold against grey and black. Soon it's too far down stream to see, or in its watery grave.

Not normally superstitious, Marcus feels the cold hand of doom on his heart. Is there within nature's anger a law behind all laws, whose ultimate purpose is not for him to know, which today is somehow connected with the visceral misgivings about why he came to Parthia? Many in Rome oppose the war, spilling into the streets in protest. Parthia is a friendly nation and has done nothing to deserve the aggressive treatment. The real issue though is that it's blessed with riches that are the envy of the world. Crassus is after them, and so is he.

As the troops are sliding into despair, pleas for divine help the only hope, the storm clears as abruptly as it came. The clouds disappear and all is calm. It's as if an imperious hand has swept away the turbulence, giving permission to the elements to rest now they've delivered their sign.

❧

With few fatal casualties, the host is now on Parthian soil. The invasion has formally begun. As the sun peeks out of the fleeing clouds, morbid feelings are put aside and pride returns. It was just a freakish prank of nature, Marcus thinks, no more than that. But still, it's not a good way to start.

Camp can now be set up near the grassy bank, close to a water supply. The storm has caused an annoying delay. As the task takes six hours, it'll be well into the night before it's finished. There's no way to shorten it. The cluster of square, brown tents must be protected by earthen walls and a ditch, a requirement that takes time. Roman discipline allows no corners to be cut, ever.

As pitched roofed tents of oiled calf's skin begin to pop up in the usual linear pattern, Marcus slips away to sit under a tree to read the letter. It was right to wait until he can read it unrushed. It's from her – the faint perfume her signature. A touch of anxiety comes; her affection can't be taken for granted.

My beloved
,

Your fingers will feel mine as you pick up this parchment for the ink still bears the imprint of my touch. I miss you so. How's the campaign going? When will you come home? I hold your letters close to me all the time to keep a connection that, alas, can only be spiritual at this stage. Please write more, at least one a day. I know you're busy but spare a thought for the one who loves you. Everything's so dull here without you and I'm lonely. Anyway life must go on
.

I spend most of my days with my mother. Her sickness makes her bad tempered so I'm finding it difficult to look after her. No one knows what's wrong with her. It's a big worry. But anyway I know I must do my best to make her life as good as it can be. But sometimes it's hard
.

I'm back playing the harp, but only by myself. It gives me comfort in those long days when you're not here. I think of the notes as little messengers that might go all the way to where you are. Well, must go now to mother who's calling me
.

All my love, and write soon
,

A

He reads and rereads, drifting into a reverie in the drowsiness of the moist heat. The river of civilization seems benign now; it has rediscovered peace. Such a short while ago it threatened to swallow his life. Aurelia's long black hair coiffed in the latest fashion hanging over her forehead curls into his mind's eye, and the image gradually extends to her broad and pretty face as a slightly impish smile creeps into her chestnut eyes.

That time he came home with wounds Aurelia was so sympathetic. But only until she realised they weren't serious. Then she showed a hardness admirable on one level but worrisome on another. They need to be weighed up – though impossible to calibrate. There's strength there but it may be difficult to live with depending on how it's wielded. On the whole though, it may be worth taking a chance. While he's holding the letter, an optio comes up to him and abruptly says,

“Sir, the Commander in Chief requires your attendance at seven tomorrow morning, sharp.”

“Thank you Antonius. Tell him I'll be there.”

The optio snaps to attention and salutes – right arm straight upward just above the shoulder, fingers flat against downward- facing palm. He spins around stiffly and marches off.

What's the old man want advice on now? The summons seems importunate. Some urgency's at hand.

G
aius Cassius Longinus is sure to be there, the tall rope- muscled Quaestor and second in command. How could anyone like the man's cold and mineral personality? But you have to admire his quenched iron intellect, his uncanny ability to sense immediately the controlling ingredient in a muddle of facts, the main thing or critical combination that will determine an outcome. He knows instantly that it's a thorn in his paw that causes the lion's reactions while his colleagues still canvass other possibilities.

Although wary of him, Marcus reluctantly admires the man, keen to learn what makes him so successful. It seems that while his memory and cognitive ability are impressive, although not outstanding, he has an inexplicable additional element, something that can't be learned, which he brings to decision making. But, though present in military applications, that element is absent in others, in human relations for example.

Dressed in a white rust-fringed tunic fastened with the usual wide leather belt extending from below the rib cage to the abdomen, Marcus arrives at the praetorium, the command centre. Two exceptionally tall centurions, faces as still as stone, guard the tent's entrance. Close by is the flagpole that flies the colours of the army, hanging flaccidly, hot and lazy. An eagle sails high on the thermal currents keeping watch and the Road runs by, patiently waiting for information. It's within earshot.

Fattened with humidity from the river, the heat seems more sapping than in Europe. Despite this, the guards wear full uniform, festooned with disk-shaped medals. They're formidable specimens. With bronze greaves on their shins, short coats of heavy chain mail and polished helmets with fanning plumes, they stand inert, like metal posts, but that's an illusion for they can move in an instant. A short, stubby sword – the gladius, hangs on their left side and their right hand holds a spear.

Crassus and Cassius, also dressed in rust-fringed tunics, are in a purse-lipped mood, not looking at each other. It's as though they are competitors at the games in Rome, or in Olympia. Senior officers, including the seven legion commanders, stand by, silently self conscious. A slave scuttles over with an amphora and fills earthenware cups with water. Nobody picks them up.

Manius Decius Cincinnatus, the commander of Marcus' legion, stares down at his foot, repeatedly smoothing the sand. Even Crassus' son, Publius, who commands the cavalry and is noted for his bellicose character, looks sheepish. Ineradicable flies, stimulated by the rising heat, keep everyone on edge and no breeze brings relief.

Irritated by his colleague's hectoring manner, Crassus stoops over a table with maps lying around like untidy thoughts, not saying anything. He overcomes his mood for a moment when he sees Marcus and straightens up. The frown on his face dissolves into the smile for which he's famous. It's in the form of a crescent moon lighting up his round face in a frankness which gives the impression that he's the nicest man in the world.

“Marcus Velinius, I'm glad you're here. I want you to hear the discussion and let me have your views. You come from a fresh perspective.”

Thin-faced Cassius also acknowledges his presence but with a detached air, just on the safe side of rudeness; he considers friendliness a waste of effort. Besides, a career soldier, he's particularly annoyed at having to argue with a superior whose military acumen he doesn't respect, whose battle experience is almost entirely lacking.

Marcus' nerves tighten. The atmosphere's like a summer storm forming up. Held for a while in unnatural stillness, the wind is waiting to leap into sudden fury armed with explosive rain as soon as the tension bursts.

Leaning forward on the map table with two hands, Crassus breaks the silence.

“Gaius Cassius, our scouts have been out there for days without seeing the enemy. The footprints they noticed that time pointed in the opposite direction. That signifies retreat. How could it mean anything else?

The sign's obvious; the Parthians are afraid of us. The logic's clear. We should go after them. Give them no time to rest. Hunt them down. Show them a touch of Roman spirit. Like Terentius said,
Fortes fortuna adiuvat
– fortune favours the bold.”

Cassius' left eye twitches. In a tenor voice, nasal and rasping, he says,

“Marcus Licinius, it's always possible to lose a battle”

“But if we're bold we won't lose.”

“Not the point. There's a right time for action and it's not now. Need more preparation. First, billet the men in the garrison towns along the river”.

“What's the point of that? It'll just waste time.”

“No it won't. We'll get intelligence. Don't know much about the Parthian army – a cavalry force, that's all. Got to find out more – their weapons, tactics, strength. Besides, the men need rest – regain condition. Battles are won by preparation, by knowing the enemy.

After that, march south to Babylon and Seleucia. Those people hate Parthians – were just in a civil war. Recruit them. Then bring the enemy to battle”.

He shuffles the maps to find the one that shows southern Mesopotamia, pointing vigorously to the cities. “I don't agree”, says Crassus, standing up stiffly, his voice gaining force, round and full, produced from the diaphragm like the best orators. Its volume expands like a boat's sail filling with wind.

“We must attack them without delay. Our troops aren't exhausted; they can still march and fight. By Jupiter, they can beat any enemy, certainly the Parthians. We know enough about them already. You're too timid. We'll have no trouble. You can be sure of that.”

It's a curious argument, a case of role reversal. Cassius is a young man not much older than Marcus, his rotund commanding officer well over sixty and looking old for his age, grey hair receding into baldness, and sometimes clumsy. At the last rite of sacrifice, when the priest gave him the entrails they slipped out of his hand. One would think the impatience would belong to the younger man, caution to the older.

“Commander, our troops are slack. No time for exercise because you had them confiscating wealth. Lost time in Hierapolis weighing treasure. Wasted more robbing the Jewish temple. All this instead of keeping our troops sharp. Got to correct that now.”

“How dare you imply I haven't maintained the discipline of our troops! There's no reason why they couldn't be deployed for a little time to extract treasure and still fight. I must remind you, Gaius Cassius, you, as well as the others, will benefit.”

“You're a better business man than a military commander.”

“That slur's completely unfounded. I led the army which defeated Spartacus when the slaves rebelled and the whole of Rome was terrified. I had six thousand of them crucified. Remember, their crosses lined the road from Capua to the gates of Rome. “

“That victory was only against slaves.”

Marcus knows the story. Pompey had a full Triumph for his exploits in the East – that was the one he was in, but Crassus received only an Ovatio. He was so jealous that he could scarcely be civil to Pompey even while sharing power in the Triumvirate.

After a pause that has the whole tent expecting an explosion, Cassius drops his voice, now worried he's pushed his Commander in Chief too far.

“Marcus Licinius, if you insist on attacking now, don't do it across open country. Stay close to the river. It'll protect us against being surrounded. If you don't like that, engage through Armenia. The terrain's rugged there.”