The Tortoise in Asia

by Tony Grey

  Instead of the red garment Roman generals wear, he came out of his tent in a black robe. Why, nobody knows. He changed it as soon as he saw the reaction. Also, several standard bearers had trouble pulling up their eagle standards which were stuck in the ground. Marcus was near his cohort bearer as he tugged at the standard for several minutes to get it out; he needed some help for what should have been done by one man. Are these omens – if not a supernatural sign then at least something reflecting a sense of foreboding? There’s no way of knowing, a source in itself of concern. It’s best to put anxious thoughts aside and concentrate on the welcome news that the long and sterile prelude is soon to end.

  Next morning, three Roman scouts ride up to the praetorium in a rush, bloody and dishevelled. Their horses are sweating and foam spills out of their mouths. People run over to grab the reins. Crassus comes out. While still mounted and bending over with three arrows in his back, the leader gasps, “Large Parthian patrol. Killed four of us. Saw army on other side of Belikh. Could see tents”, and collapses on his horse.

  A firm and delighted smile breaks out over Crassus’ face,

  “The time has come. No more waiting. Sound the battle march”. Almost as an afterthought he says “Look after the scouts.”

  Even Cassius manages a smile, like a skull, but still a smile of sorts.

  ❧

  Soon the mighty instrument of war reaches a grassy plain emerging from the desert. The Belikh River is in the distance, a wavy silver slash flush with flood. Not a tree, not even a bush interrupts, nor undulation or declivity disturbs the perfect smoothness of the land.

  Cassius moves close to the Commander in Chief,

  “Commander, we should deploy the troops in line and open the ranks to widen the front. Deter their cavalry from surrounding us.”

  “I agree”, says Crassus and gives the command.

  It passes down the ranks to Marcus and the other centurions. After a few hundred metres another order comes, this time to marshal his cohort into its place in the hollow square, the traditional Roman formation that creates a front in every direction. What’s going on up there?

  The troops march across the flats, coming upon the little stream that’s the Belikh River – a vision of the Elysian Fields. For days they’ve been persecuted by the baleful sun which has been baking them in their armour and sucking moisture from their throats. Perhaps it’s supporting Parthia, angry that the peace of the land is to be broken. Even the Road has become discouraging lately, its surface converting to sharper stones and foot -burning heat. Is it telling them to go home, giving them a warning, a last chance to avert catastrophe?

  Cassius approaches the Commander in Chief,

  “Marcus Licinius, should halt here, make camp – send scouts out to see how the enemy will line up. Men need rest. Fight better in the morning.”

  Crassus barely hears, certainly doesn’t listen. He’s impatient for battle, for the victory that will see him lead Surena, followed by his defeated troops to Ecbatana, take possession of the Parthian king and his treasure. He can’t wait for his return to Rome as an Imperator – there’ll be no doubt about it this time. He’ll receive a Triumph and become the civis princeps – the number one citizen.

  “The men can eat and drink standing in their ranks. I’ll allow one hour, no more. Then we march to battle.”

  Cassius stands still, sullen, saying nothing; the twitch in his left eye is the only thing that moves. After an awkward moment that seems longer than it is, he leaves to go back to his post.

  The hour goes by slowly, the sense of time stretched by anticipation. But it eventually passes. The moment for battle has arrived. They’re about to fight that afternoon, the 9th day of June, 53 BC. The wise and ancient Road will soon be charged with carrying the news of victory and defeat, and the tragic pool of blood spilled on the field close by.

  ❧

  At the far end of the open space, Surena watches a dust cloud rising on the horizon. It’s coming closer and closer, inexorably, like a huge rolling boulder. It holds to its path as if pushed by a divine source and is approaching the very place where it’s wanted. The Parthian Commander smiles; he’s pleased as much with himself as with what he sees. It confirms the deeply held belief in his judgement, a singular skill proven once again, this time in the most important challenge in his life.

  “Noble Commander, you can see how well I’ve succeeded in enticing the Europeans onto the Carrhae plain as you wished”, says the Arab who sits mounted beside Surena, also on his horse. The fidgety beasts sense the restlessness in the air, like chariot horses straining at the starting blocks in the hippodrome. Ariamnes is accompanied by his tribe, a group of irregular skirmishers. They’ve been with the Parthians all along.

  Surena’s face is painted, reds and blacks put on like a woman would, incongruous against his chiselled black beard. His hair is parted and hanging in the manner of the epicene Medes, not like his fierce warriors who tie theirs up on the forehead in a knot like the point of a battering ram. No one thinks to criticize him though, even in their thoughts, for he’s ferocious and cunning in battle. It’s his practice to paint his face like this on every military occasion.

  He jerks his horse’s head back as it tries to move forward.

  “I can observe that for myself. Take your men and join the right wing.”

  Now that Ariamnes has fulfilled his purpose, he sees no point in wasting time with him. It’s a huge relief to see the Romans fall for the treachery, for all depends on it. He’s got no infantry, nothing but horse archers. The Romans can be assumed to count on the usual combination of cavalry and foot soldiers they see in Asia; he plans to do something different, unexpected. He places a thousand camels behind the front line, laden with spare arrows so his archers can reload without having to ride to the rear. He expects this to unsettle the Romans for Asian armies normally keep their ammunition in the baggage train, well behind, where it’s safe from a collapse in the front line.

  At the appropriate time he’ll deploy the secret weapon, a device the Romans have never seen before.

  ❧

  Crassus’ round face opens in a crescent moon smile. Confident in his role as Commander, an Imperator to be, he says to the officers around him, especially Cassius,

  “Look at that. Surena’s allowed us to manoeuvre with the sun at our back. I knew we were dealing with a second rate adversary.”

  Today the sky is without cover, its golden disc bursting with early summer vigour and aimed right at the Parthian lines. High above the armies, its light flashes off the wings of an eagle banking over a little life in the grass, preparing to swoop down to extinguish it.

  The combatants are not on the Road but they’re not far away, close enough for it to feel, at least dimly, the ground waves radiating from the mighty rumble of horses and men moving forward to engage each other in the great battle of East and West.

  As the armies approach, a deep and hollow roar bursts from the Parthian ranks, like the roll of thunder or the bellowing of Tryphon in his underground cave. It’s not the blare from conventional trumpets but the demonic rhythm of kettle drums. The Parthians have perfected the art, creating a sound that insinuates the dread of alien power into the ear, penetrating the emotional well where fear lurks, ready to rise up and quell the will.

  In retaliation, Roman commanders shout orders for their curved horn trumpeters to bray louder as the square closes with the enemy, but they can’t drown out the drums, nor match their unsettling effect. Marcus and the other officers aren’t in the front ranks but in the hollow middle, their regular position; it affords a better view of the action, facilitating the giving of tactical commands. The Parthians are to be drawn into close combat where Roman discipline and tactics are the best in the world. The square formation is as solid as the earth.

  Suddenly a wall of light leaps up from the Parthian side, as bright as the sun but a thousand times wider. It’s the full length of the front side of the square. Before Marcus has a chan
ce to blink, it hurls a salvo of rays like a storm of needles. Paralysis seizes him. It’s more frightening than the drums. No one can fight blind. There’s nothing more ineffectual than thrashing around without sight.

  Something supernatural is happening. It’s as if Jupiter himself is revealing his face to consume the Romans in a mortal blaze. The men lift their shields and stumble around aimlessly, ceasing to care about the enemy. They forget their discipline and let the line waver. The more credulous claim the gods must have abandoned them.

  Recovering his sight, Marcus rushes to the front, shouting to the men around him, “It’s only something that reflects the sun. There’s nothing divine about it. Hold your shields up. Stand your ground.”

  Other centurions and their optios join in with angry commands. The troops begin to regain their composure. With squinting eyes they straighten up their ranks. But their confidence has been dented, something impossible to contemplate before the secret weapon came into play. They need the urgent reassurance of their officers, who themselves are shaken. Like them, Marcus has to drive his will to the sticking point to rally his men. He runs throughout the front line shouting encouragements, and insults to the waverers. The biggest problem is to debunk the superstition affecting many of his men.

  Within minutes, a mass of cavalry explodes towards the square. A figure taller than the rest is in the lead. As the horsemen approach, they drop the cloaks covering their armour – Surena had ordered the disguise. They reveal themselves as the dreaded cataphracts, the heaviest armed cavalry in the world. These terrifying troops wield long lances and are protected by interlocking plates of Margianian steel. Their horses are armed too and look like weird metallic monsters. Their polished plates flash like sheets of lightning, amplifying the radiance of the wall.

  They charge the square at full gallop, the shining wall blazing at their back. The metallic mass hits the square with a tremendous crash. But it holds fast. The disciplined rows give way slightly to absorb the energy of the charge as one does in catching a ball. The long lances of the attackers glance off the shields. The massive Roman barrier, several rows deep, dismays the horses, causing them to pull up and shy away despite the furious urgings of their riders. Confidence returns to the Romans.

  They suddenly break the square and, with shields held up to protect their eyes, advance on the double into the faltering Parthians with shouts of triumph. Marcus and Gaius are at the front, thrusting their swords at the horsemen and bashing with their shields. But the armour of the cataphracts is impenetrable; they can’t make headway against the monsters. Marcus drops his sword and grabs the end of an enemy lance, just before the tip. The rider holds tight, his horse bucking in fright. Marcus throws away his shield and yanks with both hands. The Parthian holds on with just one, reluctant to let go of his shield. With a piercing shout from the pit of his stomach, Marcus pulls him from his horse.

  On the ground, the cataphract can’t get off his back. He’s like an overturned sheep heavy with fleece. As he wriggles in the dust, kicking in the air for leverage, Marcus finds a gap in his armour, just under his chin at the junction. He pulls out Owl’s Head and rams it in; arterial blood spurts over the man’s brightly polished breastplate. Marcus barely hears the hoarse gasp of death before he’s off to try again, the fury of battle in his lungs. But suddenly the Parthians break off and retreat.

  With the roar of thousands the Romans charge forward. Marcus is at the head of his cohort, sword in the air, shouting “Ad victoriam, ad victoriam”. Everyone takes up the cry, lusting for blood and triumph. But they only catch stragglers, the few who fail to get their horses moving fast enough. The rest disappear into the mystic wall. It shifts back, maintaining its distance from the charging Romans, gradually draining their energy. Marcus slows down. “It’s useless. We’ll never catch them. Stop. Get back into formation.”

  An uneasy quiet descends while the Romans dress into the square. Despite the frustration, they’re buoyed by their tactical victory. Once again the highly trained infantry has proved its mettle against cavalry. Gaius cries out “Come on you dung worms. Next time we’ll pull twice as many off your horses.” The rest of the cohort joins in yelling insults at the enemy, highlighted with derisive laughter.

  Surena pulls his cataphracts behind the shining wall. The attack was only a probe; it’s time for his main strategy. He says to his second in command,

  “Take down the sheets Vardanes. They won’t be needed any more – done their job. Did you see how the Romans staggered around? I knew they’d never seen silk before, ha ha ha”.

  He’s right. The diaphanous cloth has travelled along the Road for years but never farther than Parthia. And its secret composition is still locked up far away in the East, past the great deserts and the mountain barrier. As the wall of light comes down, the kettle drums, silent during the lull in the battle, start up again in full throated roar. Suddenly Gaius says, “Marcus, look over there”. An undifferentiated mass, like a heap of debris, is rolling across the plain, blurred in a cloud of dust. In just a minute, the Romans recognise it as mounted men dressed in open-chested tunics and cloth trousers, forehead bands collecting their wild black hair. Recurved bows wave above their heads, arrow–stuffed quivers on their backs. The ground begins to rumble as they approach and the air fills with war cries in a strange language. The Romans are about to experience the huge torque of the composite bow. Layered with wood and bone it unleashes arrows with enormous penetrating power. It’s a product of the East.

  Suddenly they split in two and swarm past the square, shooting. Then they stop dividing and the remainder comes straight at Marcus’ section, pulling their horses up to fire.

  Passing the order from the High Command, Marcus says, “Form the Testudo”. Immediately the troops close ranks and interlock their shields, the front row holding them upright and those behind horizontally. Bronze clashes on bronze. The army is transformed into a Testudo, a tortoise, its soft tissues protected by scales which form a carapace. Capable of standing its ground in the midst of mayhem, it requires the discipline and training only Romans have.

  A cloud of arrows rises in a wide black arc, casting shade onto the armies fighting in the sun. In the dim light the projectiles hurtle down like pelting hail, thick and furious. Feathers whoosh through the air, and barbed iron heads hit bronze in chaotic pings. Some of the archers ride close enough to shoot in a straight trajectory, more deadly still. Again and again they fire, in a barrage without end. Inevitably the missiles find junctions in the Testudo – even Romans can’t keep the scales from moving, however slightly. Man after man slumps down.

  It’s as if killer bees, angry that their hive has been disturbed, are in murderous swarm, intent on punishment. They get in everywhere, never stopping. No place is free from them. They’ll never be content until their infuriator is stung to death.

  Marcus says “Hold firm with your shields. They’ll run out of arrows. Barbarians always do. Once they do we’ll fight hand to hand. That’ll turn the tide.”

  But the arrows keep coming. It’s as if they’re from a magical source that has no limit. They never stop. Casualties are mounting; even the tiniest gaps between the Testudo’s scales are penetrated and blood flows freely on the ground. Unless something’s done soon, the carnage will weaken the army to the tipping point.

  In desperation, Marcus decides to charge. With shouts of “ad victoriam” he leads his men into the barrage, shield in front. Before they can reach the enemy however, the archers turn their horses and retreat, twisting their bodies around to continue shooting at the advancing troops. After the battle the Romans call it the Parthian shot.

  The charge peters out, arrows creating even more effect. Marcus orders his cohort to pull back and re-form the Testudo. He tries again, once more leading an assault against the retreating swarm; but that fails too, and again a charge, but to no avail. The highly mobile horse archers avoid contact. Roman skills can’t be used; they’re as useless as grasping at puffs of mist.
/>
  As more and more men collapse, doubt, the subverter of courage, infects the army. Paralysis takes hold. No more orders come down the line from the High Command. How can anyone continue to fight a foe that won’t engage but kills at a distance?

  Doubt morphs into despair – Marcus hears that the cavalry charge of Publius, Crassus’ courageous son, has failed. It was the last chance for a break out. Nothing remains now but steady attrition and inevitable collapse.

  The arrows keep coming. Some men try to yank them out only to have nerves and veins, even intestines drawn by the barbs. One screams that an arrow has gone through his foot pinning him to the ground; Quintus has his hand stuck to his shield. The darts have more penetrating power than the Romans are used to but it’s the never ending quantity that’s causing the trouble.

  The terrible day comes to an end in a crescendo of suffering. It’s as if the troops are standing naked in prison, the jailer thrashing them with a barbed lash. He keeps at it hour after hour with no compassion, oblivious to their pain.

  As the western sun splits into horizontal fragments and merciful dusk spreads over the plain, the cloud of arrows thins out, subsides into single shots and ceases altogether. The victors disappear, leaving everything calm except for the groans of the Roman wounded. Even they fold quietly into the dark as their pain is dulled with time and the mortally injured slip into the silence of death. Squadrons of birds fly over, mute as if in sympathy, black shapes against the dimming sky. They’re in their nightly migration to the safety of their nests. But some of them spy a meal for the morning.

  Marcus flops down, stunned among the dead, wounded and silent others. No one has energy to bury the fallen. Even the stalwart Gaius is sitting listless on the ground, head bowed. Quintus is on his back propped up by one elbow, his torn hand across his chest, head hanging to one side. The impossible has occurred. No experience has prepared them for this. It’s beyond comprehension. Today’s disgrace blots out the glory from even their greatest achievements.