The Tortoise in Asia

by Tony Grey

  Covered in dust and blood, some his own, some the enemy’s, Marcus wants to say something positive to his comrades, if only to lessen his own depression, but can’t think of anything. Defeat ties his tongue. Only something banal could come out and that would do more harm than good. No other words are possible. The shock is even beyond black humour or escape into the absurd. It overwhelms the natural tendency to rationalise failure.

  It might have been possible to take comfort in the fact they’re not prisoners; the Parthians won the battle but they left the field and are known never to fight at night. However, the beaten troops are beyond thinking, capable only of nightmarish sleep on the open ground. It’s to escape, not refresh, for few are that physically tired. Active fighting was impossible after the first few encounters. Casualties are so high the army will never again threaten the enemy. The only course to take now is to retreat to Syria.

  ❧

  Encamped across the plain, the Parthians erupt in exuberance as the horse archers return, one after the other, dismount and join the triumphal feast that has spontaneously started. Casualties are few. Camp fires light up the plain in hundreds of blazing eyes as the victors rejoice with food and wine in the cooling night. They’ve a right to celebrate; they’ve won the most important victory in Parthian history; they’ve saved their country from the power of the West. It was a feat that seemed impossible when they saw the size of the Roman army. Everyone feels a hero, even on par with the Empire’s ancestors, the soldiers in the legendary army of Cyrus the Great.

  Surena is in his command tent with the senior commanders. Wooden tables accommodate fifty, their black beards soaked in wine. Within easy reach of their greasy fingers are piles of barbequed lamb and duck, flat loaves of bread, and rice. Earthen jugs are in motion, brimming with the best vintage of Shiraz. Slaves move in the uncertain light of oil lamps, keeping the noisy party supplied.

  A thousand happy thoughts swirl in his head and like thermal currents in a summer morning lift him off the ground higher and higher into the sky. He touches heaven and feels at home. His face flushed, he stands up unsteadily with a silver goblet in his hand, filled so full that the wine spills in a sheet-like splash over the edge and down his tunic.

  “Here’s to the greatest victory of all time. Today we’ve destroyed the pride of Rome, completely smashed it – and with a smaller force. I foresaw that getting them onto the flat ground was the key to victory. Wasting them with our arrows did the trick. The ammunition never ran out – putting it behind the front line speeded up reloading like it was supposed to. Everything worked according to my plan.

  “Rome will never be the same again. Never again will those foreign devils invade our land. We’ve made our Empire safe, impervious to attack. The might of our army is the greatest in the world. Nothing else comes close. We saw that today. Tomorrow we’ll finish the rest of the rats off. I look forward to it – my personal pleasure. I’ll lead a killing spree myself – I’ll wipe them off the face of the earth, ha ha ha.

  “Sillaces, send a message to the Roman commander. I give him one night to mourn his son. Then he must decide whether to surrender and walk to the King or be carried there.”

  Sillaces, a thick, rough-bearded man, almost as tall as Surena, but ugly and coarse, says,

  “I’ll see to it, my Lord. But to get Crassus alive we need to persuade him to negotiate; otherwise he may commit suicide. That’s the Roman custom.”

  “Obviously. You don’t need to tell me that. He’ll be our greatest prize. But tonight just have one of our men with a loud voice approach the Roman camp. Shout the message across. We’ll follow up in the morning.”

  A troupe of dancing girls from the Commander’s harem, diaphanously erotic, weaves out in front of the revellers, accompanied by flutes. They’re as gentle as the men are rough. A wave of silence overtakes the guests. They’re entranced by the beauty and grace of the performers but each knows it’s worth his life even to speak to one in private.

  Music and the lithe movements transport the tipsy banqueters to a universe beyond the battle, a realm of inspiration. There, they sense with even greater clarity the brilliance of their victory, and more keenly enjoy the sweetness of its pleasure. Before the spectacle is finished though, Surena waves nonchalantly, impatient to get back to talking and boasting. The dancers glide off in an elegant curve like a rainbow fading in the distance. He says

  “Ariamnes, as I told you, I would reward you if we won. Well we did, and I’m ready to give you a prize”.

  He produces a bag of coins from under the table and holds it up. The Arab minces over with shining eyes and takes it with a bow, low and deep. A slight glistening appears on his nose. As he goes back to his seat he looks surreptitiously in the bag. But he sees silver, not gold. How could his grand service be so meagrely rewarded? Before he sits down he says,

  “Thank you my Lord; I’m much obliged. But forgive me for saying, I was thinking of a somewhat more valuable reward. I don’t wish to overstate my contribution to the great victory, but enticing the Romans onto the open ground, as you yourself said, was the determining factor. Would it be possible for your Lordship to consider something more, particularly since I’ll have to share with my tribe, who, as you know, fought valiantly on your side?”

  Surena stands up, ramrod straight, red with fury.

  “You dog, you insult my generosity. I won’t tolerate your insolence. Either you accept your reward with gratitude or you’ll have your head cut off. Bring me my sword, Vardanes. I’ll do it myself.”

  His eyes show the eagerness of the thought. The tent is suddenly silent. Ariamnes’ mouth flies open. He doubles over in supplication, shaking so hard he can hardly maintain his balance. His voice quivers and sweat bursts through his skin.

  “My noble Lord, I humbly beg – forgiveness. My stupidity. Must’ve been the wine. Twisting my thoughts. What I said not what I meant. Deeply grateful for your generosity, heavenly generosity, heavenly, heavenly. Not even a king could be so generous. Will be grateful for all time. Never forget, never, never. Will extol your virtues among my tribe. Always be your loyal supporter – and ally. Always, always. Please, please, please forgive my awful transgression. I assure you, not meant. Not meant at all. Please.”

  “All right Ariamnes. I accept your apology and acknowledge your gratitude. But see to it you keep your word.”

  While Ariamnes shuffles back to his seat Surena mutters to himself darkly. He calls over Maiphorres, one of his more villainous officers, a swarthy man with a sharp, bent nose and small eyes, and whispers in his ear.

  Stupefied but relieved, Ariamnes carries on with the banquet. He has no choice. The reprieve could vanish at the slightest offence. Surena is well known for multiple eruptions when insulted. Even a tiny rudeness would cause one.

  All he wants to do is to go home with his measly treasure but he’s in a state of terror. So he stays on, speaking only when spoken to and then with little gusto. His tribal elders are embarrassed into silence. Virtually none of them speaks to the Parthians at the table and when they do, it’s with uncomfortable restraint. No one else cares and soon they’re ignored.

  As the banquet progresses into the night, the guests become more fulsome in their praise of Surena, which he’s happy to do nothing to discourage. While, if a vote were taken for who contributed most to the victory each would vote for himself, all would give second place to their Commander in Chief. And so he would get the accolade.

  Any distaste for the man or fear of his cruelty has dissolved into adulation for his brilliance today and the euphoria of glory they share with him. He’s the leader Ahura Mazda has sent to fight the pivotal battle between Good and Evil, Light and Darkness. It’s the cosmic conflict which the Avesta foretells, the defining nature of life and the basis of morality. In the grand scheme of things it’s irrelevant whether he’s personally virtuous or not; he’s the divine weapon that saved the nation. Nothing else matters.

  Sillaces stands up with a cup in his h
and and says,

  “Here’s to our noble Lord. Your brilliant strategy and incomparable skills have led us to this day of glory. Admittedly the Arab performed a service but it was your strategy that caused the victory. You, Supreme Commander Surena, have the entire army of Parthia at your beck and call. We’ll follow you anywhere, any time, against any foe.”

  All the officers leap to their feet with their cups on high and shout their commitment at the top of their voices. The din is enough to bulge the sides of the tent. Even Ariamnes’ tribal officers have to stand and raise their cups, at least a bit, but their voices are weak.

  The alacrity is pleasing of course, especially to a man of his ego hunger, but more important, it shows that the victory can be parleyed into a coup against the King. He’s confident of that now. Although Orodes has his own army in Armenia, it could be won over. Even if not, the old retainer who commands it will be no match for the victor of Carrhae and his battle-hardened troops.

  This is the time he’s been waiting for. History’s grand hinge now stands before him, oiled and ready to allow its door to swing open, revealing his illustrious destiny. He merely needs to give it a slight push. If he waits, the hinge will seize up and the door will stay shut. That’ll mean he’ll be ravaged for the rest of his life by the fires of unfulfilled ambition. No peace will quench the burning in his heart.

  It’s certain that he can subdue any military resistance the weak monarch is capable of mounting. But before he makes his move, he has work to do. He must take or destroy Crassus, for, as an oriental warrior, he’s been brought up to believe that a commanding general is more than just a man in charge. He’s the brain of the organism. Once he’s removed, the body falls apart; it changes from an army to a mass of individuals who care only for their own lives.

  CHAPTER 6

  As night thickens and no leadership emerges from the Roman camp, everyone wonders what’s happening at the top. The command structure has broken down. Marcus and the other officers are receiving no orders, no information, nothing. In a state of shock he goes in search of Crassus but can’t find him. He comes across Cassius, looking more tense and gaunt than usual. It seems the man has some feelings after all.

  “Sir, where’s the Commander in Chief? I’ve been sent by Legatus Cincinnatus to see what’s going on.”

  “Not here. Don’t know where he is. Should look for him.”

  They’ve no idea where to look. Cassius says they should use an old hunting technique. If the lion is known to be somewhere not too far away, the tracker walks around the place he was last seen in widening circles. They do this, starting at the Command Post. After a few circuits they find him, alone. He’s lying on the ground huddled in his cloak, shivering. He’s looking so small, so shrunken. Even phlegmatic Cassius is jolted at the sight of the man who such a short time ago had the stature of a god. He asks for orders, for direction. Crassus can’t reply; he just shakes.

  Cassius says, his eye twitching,

  “Beyond help. Let him be. Still shocked at seeing the head of his son. Parthians rode by with it on a spear. He’ll recover later. Doesn’t matter anyway; I’ll take charge. Got to get the army out of here while still night. Parthians don’t attack in the dark.”

  Cassius calls the centurions and legion commanders together for a conference, at least those not seriously wounded.

  “Can’t stay here; we’ll be annihilated in the morning. Best chance’s to slip away to Carrhae under cover of night. Wall will keep Parthians out for a while. Give us time to work out what to do next.

  Leave anyone behind unable to make the march on foot.”

  Marcus considers challenging the order but thinks better of it. Cassius has made the right decision, tough though it is. They would all be jeopardised by the delay, including the incapacitated. It’s too big a risk to take. If they’re caught, everyone would suffer and the wounded would be no better off. There’re too many to be put out of their misery so they’ll just have to take their chances.

  He accepts it’s not a decision anyone would favour if they were among the unfortunates left behind, for when in extremis, hope, no matter how forlorn, trumps probability. And, like many hard decisions, its seemingly compelling objectiveness is tinged with the interests of the ones empowered to make it.

  Comrades are in the fatal category, men he has feeling for. It’s one thing to see a comrade die in battle; it’s vastly different to leave him defenceless to an implacable enemy. He knows the hatred Parthian have for Romans. The order leaches out the glory from war, the heady feeling of dominance, leaving only a dry and numb realization of terrible waste, a waste that scars the soul. Blessed by the unbroken string of victories in the past, he hasn’t had to encounter this before, and it deeply hurts. It’s personal in a way that’s shocking to the core.

  Cassius gives the command to abandon camp and make for Carrhae. When it becomes apparent what’s happening, the cries and curses of the wounded left behind flood the night air, now a messenger of grief to anyone who would hear. It carries the lamentations all the way to the Parthians. But the victors are too caught up in their celebrations to wonder about the plaintive sounds in the distance.

  Lucius Albius Aquila is one of the wounded to be left – from Marcus’ cohort, a colleague from Pompey’s campaign. He still has arrows sticking out of his side and neck, through gaps in his armour. The broken ends are blood-soaked stumps, too close to vital parts to remove. He stops crying out when he sees Marcus and for a few moments their eyes lock in silence.

  A trusting appeal for help gleams in the wounded man’s eyes, a return to innocence, like a small child might express to its mother when a fatal disease is making its final call. Marcus puts his hand gently on the man’s shoulder, unable to speak, and moves on. This part of war is too contradictory. Comrades are meant to be helped, not abandoned to die, possibly in horrible agony at the titillation of a heartless enemy. For a moment he feels guilty at being the one to survive when it’s but chance that separates him from his comrade’s grisly fate. But there’s no time for thought; the column of survivors must get going or everyone will die.

  After the fall of evening, when a makeshift camp is made, with no attempt to defend it in the usual way, Marcus goes over to Cassius with a delegation of officers.

  “Gaius Cassius, it’s obvious Marcus Licinius is no longer able to lead us. The men have confidence in you and want you to take over command. You have the full backing of the army. Will you do it?”

  “No. I will not. I’ve sworn an oath of loyalty to the Commander in Chief – like rest of you. I won’t break it.”

  “We implore you, Gaius Cassius. All our hope of survival rests with you. He’s finished, can’t lead. Only you have the men’s confidence. You’ve got the skills – he never had them. What few he did have are gone. What’s an oath compared to the lives of the rest of the army? You’re the only one that can get us out of this mess. We’ve got a chance with you, none with him. Besides, surely your oath would only apply while he’s fit to lead. And clearly he’s not. The gods surely would release you.”

  Other officers chime in noisily. After listening for a while with a stony face, his eye twitch its only expression, he raises his hand for silence and says.

  “He’ll recover – won’t be in shock much longer. Be as fit to lead as before. Give him time. Oath of allegiance is sacred. I won’t break it. Go back to your posts and shut up.”

  Marcus and the others know it’s pointless arguing with the strong-willed man. As always, he pushes the tenets of the Stoic philosophy further than most people would, not budging when he thinks an action is morally right. All they can do is obey the command. They’re gallingly disappointed though, as Cassius is so clearly a better leader, always was.

  Too bad the crisis has gone to waste. Ironically, the very capacity for logic and clarity of thought which could have helped has been turned in another direction. Cassius has chosen as the premise for his decision the sacredness of the oath of allegiance, a val
ue which must take precedence over everything else, even survival, whose worth in this instance anyway is diminished by the shame of defeat. No rationalization is permitted.

  Marcus has to admit to himself that his argument about the gods not insisting on obeying the oath is disingenuous. It would have substance only if the facts were supportive. They’re not. The shrewd Quaestor expects Crassus to regain his faculties eventually, unsuited though they may be to solving the predicament they’re in. It doesn’t matter if his prediction is right or wrong, the important thing is that he’s made it.

  Taking over leadership now would therefore constitute a breach of oath. If later, Crassus should break down entirely, Cassius would be free to assume command, as he has just done, temporarily. In the meantime, he’s rigorously applying the Stoic dictum of making the right moral choice without regard to the consequences. He knows this and was really hoping Cassius would bend his principles in the spirit of pragmatism. He wouldn’t, and Marcus is not surprised. He wonders though what he would have done if he were in Cassius’ position. He feels a touch of admiration for the man, and a bit of shame for himself because deep down he knows what he would have done.

  ❧

  On the march, as the Second in Command predicted, Crassus recovers his composure enough to take charge. Under his unsteady command the sorry remnants of the army reach the safety of the town just before dawn. The journey is hard, undertaken at an uncomfortable pace, causing many of the walking wounded to collapse. They’re left behind on the Road in a trail of human suffering, slumping into a distant and lonely death. The Road is sombre and not surprised to be claiming more trophies, for it knows the price of over confidence and arrogance. It brought these troops here, witnessed their attitude, and is ready to abandon them without compassion.