The Tortoise in Asia

by Tony Grey

  ❧

  As the copper disc turns to yellow blister and lights up the low hills at the edge of the plain, Surena lurches out of his tent. He’s been up all night drinking with his officers, make-up shoddy. Blinking at the sun and with Sillaces staggering out behind, he slurs his words.

  “Get the men together. We ride into the Roman camp. Let’s see how many are left.”

  “My Lord, what shall we do when we get there?”

  “Slay them all; Ahura Mazda will be pleased. Let their bodies rot in the sun. That’ll purify the vermin, ha ha ha.”

  Within minutes, sword flashing in the sun, he leads a cavalry charge across the plain and into the wounded Romans. They cry for mercy in pitiful pleas, unmindful of their status as soldiers of Rome. As many as can, twist their pain-wracked bodies onto their knees, their arms outstretched; but the swords slice off their heads without compunction. Often the drunken cavalrymen make a mess of it, missing their targets or hitting them obliquely only to prolong the misery. They charge and go back to charge again. It takes several attempts to finish the job. Four thousand men die that day, their once healthy bodies stripped of clothing and armour, and left naked on the field. Not a scrap of dignity remains. Compassion has buried its face in rampant hatred.

  All the Romans don’t die in the massacre. A few survive, only just, a fortunate outcome for Surena. He orders an interrogation, and with promises of treating their wounds accompanied by threats, finds out where Crassus is heading. Satisfied they’re telling the truth, he says to Sillaces in a thick voice,

  “Kill them. Assemble the rest of the army back at the camp; we march to Carrhae.”

  As the sated Parthians ride away, triumphant shouts fading over the soaking red plain, cruel-beaked vultures move in to claim their right. At first, one swoops to the ground, its large grey wings shuddering down as it waddles over to a corpse. And then another, spying the cue from a distance, flies over, itself signalling to a third further off. Soon a flock assembles in savage ecstasy around the fallen men, taking charge of their bodies like a butcher handling meat.

  The dead lose possession of their mortal form, their identity, everything, to the heartless birds. They eat so much they’re too heavy to take off and have to rest for a while on the deserted field. Other creatures, large and small, come to the feast, walking, crawling, flying. Before long the bones of the proud European warriors brought to Asia by the Road will be polished by the wind and mark the tragic spot with shards of white. Eventually their atoms will mingle with the earth, making permanent a macabre liaison of continents enabled by the great connector.

  ❧

  Despite the defeat, the Roman army remains at large, though dramatically pared down. Like a wild animal wounded by the hunter, it’s still dangerous and unpredictable, capable of rushing out of cover at any time to exact revenge. There“ll be no security until it’s killed or captured.

  Before long the Parthians are surrounding Carrhae, calling on the Romans to surrender or be slaughtered. The town can’t withstand a siege for long since the newcomers are swelling the population with too many extra mouths to feed, and fresh supplies are blocked. They have to do something soon, before the enemy brings up battering rams. Crassus calls the officers together.

  “We’ve got to break out during the night and make for Syria”,

  he says in a toneless voice devoid of energy. Gone are thoughts of glory, of becoming the number one citizen of Rome. No statue of him will stand in the forum to face down Pompey. If life remains at all, it’s an existence only, self-respect flayed off like the skin of a buffalo after the hunt.

  Cassius furrows his brows, his eye now twitching every time he speaks,

  “Yes, but should break into three groups. Take different routes. Better chance. You lead the largest, Marcus Licinius. Legatus Octavius and I’ll take the others.”

  He’s given up on Crassus. His chances are better on his own. By himself he should be able to outwit the Parthians, especially since they don’t use the night. He doesn’t think Crassus would be up to it. But his principles don’t allow him to take over command of the whole army.

  Crassus goes along with the plan without discussion. Just after midnight, under a moon that’s still a sliver, the fugitives slip out of Carrhae quietly, past the sleeping Parthians who have failed to maintain a proper watch. Five thousand men go with Crassus in the direction of the Armenian hills. Marcus is with them. They’re guided by one of the townspeople. Once again, the Commander in Chief has made an unfortunate selection; the guide leads them in a roundabout way not towards the hill country but into largely flat land.

  Next day, the Parthians, who’ve been tipped off by sympathisers in the town, chase down Crassus’ group and attack. He’s been caught again in open ground. The deadly archers swarm around the hastily formed Testudo and start shooting. This time the end is certain; it’s possible merely to stand helpless, eventually succumbing to the barbs. The thread the Three Sisters have cut is at its end.

  ❧

  But that’s not so. All of a sudden, Octavius, who was thought to have escaped, appears out of a nearby rise in the terrain and leads an infantry charge across the plain. The onslaught takes the Parthians from the side by surprise and forces them to move back in their usual manner. The reprieve allows Crassus’ troops to retreat to one of the few wooded hills in the region. Octavius’ contingent joins them. There, with the combined forces spread out over the top, Crassus gives the order to make a stand. But nothing happens. The Parthians, who’re on lower ground, don’t attack and the Romans don’t dare. Stalemate grips both sides.

  In the distance, two Parthian horsemen appear, riding across the plain, alone and unarmed. Crassus is alerted. They come up the hill and dismount. Speaking Latin, one says, with an attitude that seems almost friendly, certainly civil,

  “My Master, Surena, sends you his greetings. He admires the courage and prowess of your soldiers and sees no purpose in continuing the loss of life. He wants you to know that our King desires friendship with Rome. He proposes a peace conference to work out the details of a treaty. You will have to give up something but your army will be allowed to return to Syria so long as you abandon all territory east of the Euphrates.”

  The words of reprieve weave through the Romans like a heavenly melody, salving their wounds and softening their fears. Soon their ordeal will end. However, after the emissaries ride back down the hill, Crassus says to his officers and a large group of common soldiers nearby,

  “I’m suspicious of this. Why has Surena suddenly changed his attitude? He’s always shown implacable determination until now. What’s he thinking? Best to be cautious.”

  The troops will have none of this hesitation. Individuals, even centurions, call out demanding that he accept the offer. They hurl criticisms at him, like stones from the countryside. He’s shouted down as he tries to argue that they should make for Syria via the Armenian hills where the trees and uneven ground will slow the Parthian horses to a walk. Finally he’s absorbed Cassius’ advice.

  Men nearby the senior officers start clashing their swords against their shields. More take up the protest as the word spreads. Before long the staccato noise spreads across the hillock in a crescendo of dissonance that no voice can surmount, certainly not Crassus’. It’s a warning even the most obstinate must heed. Crassus succumbs.

  “All right, all right. I hear what you say. I’ll parley with them.”

  As the din subsides, he mutters that he’s being undone by the subtlety of his enemy. The Parthian Commander is playing upon the minds of his men, their judgement blunted by his seductive pairing of fear and hope. A more charismatic leader, Julius Caesar, or, perish the thought, Pompey, could have held sway, but not him. That doesn’t bear thinking about. Still, however, the remnant of the army is not an inconsiderable force. He can take comfort in that, a factor that might explain why Surena is offering to negotiate.

  A meeting is arranged at noon. The day is hot, windless, and muggy.
With Octavius and some of the other officers, Crassus descends the hill on foot to where it slumps into the plain. Marcus is among them, his limbs at the edge of action, determined to go down fighting if this is a trap. All are sweating in rivulets inside their armour, as much from nerves as from the heat. Crassus is in his red robe, stiff with apprehension. Everyone is armed except him.

  The Roman party meets Surena and a small delegation of his officers. The Parthians are on horseback. Surena is carrying an unstrung bow ostentatiously in his right hand, and in full makeup, the red looking radiant in the sun. The two groups stop within a few metres of each other.

  “I embarrassed that you, supreme Roman general, on foot while I and my aides on horse”,

  says Surena in halting Latin. He’s relaxed, full of confidence, on the cusp of arrogance. With a flourish he tosses his bow to an assistant.

  “It’s the custom of Romans” says Crassus, quelling his surprise at the appearance of his adversary, “to attend conferences on foot, so there’s no need for embarrassment.”

  Surena smiles condescendingly, as he holds his horse from moving.

  “As my King commands, I offer you retire to Syria. We will not harm as long as you leave all lands this side of Euphrates. Forever. I give you escort to river. You have to give me all treasure you took on campaign. I hear you took much riches from Syria.

  You come with me to sign treaty. Necessary to sign. Even after short time, memory of Romans loses touch with word.”

  Crassus gulps at the part about the treasure but his bargaining position is too weak to quibble. He accepts the proposition and orders horses to be brought.

  “No need General. My King commanded me to give you this, his favourite horse. It has golden bit.”

  Two grooms come from behind the Parthian officers with the horse and bring it to Crassus. They help him mount, a little too forcefully for good manners. Once he’s in the saddle, one of them hits the beast with a crop. As it starts to bolt, Octavius jumps forward to catch the bridle and a scuffle breaks out with the grooms. Octavius shoves one aside and tries to pull the horse up. The groom punches him in the face. Staggering backwards, but still on his feet, Octavius draws his sword and runs him through.

  A conflagration erupts. It’s as if someone threw dry kindling on a fire that has just died down. Its flames suddenly leap up, sharp tips piercing the air. Marcus draws his sword and stabs a Parthian in front of him but takes a blow on his breastplate that knocks him down, winded. One of the Parthian officers kills Octavius and the treacherous horse gallops off towards the Parthian lines with the Roman Commander frantically trying to manage it. Surena and his party quickly disappear across the plain.

  ❧

  The Parthian commander has what he wants but must deal with the leaderless Romans. They’re still dangerous. A thorough man, he’ll take no chances; absolute elimination of the Roman threat is what he needs to complete the victory.

  He sends another delegation to the Romans, offering fair treatment if they surrender. This, he accepts, is a bit presumptuous in view of the recent trick played on their Commander in Chief, but he gives it a try – better than taking casualties in a final battle. Anyway, a shrewd judge of character, he’s confident the enemy no longer has the stomach for a fight. Whether that’s because their morale is shattered or because they’ve lost their head doesn’t matter.

  He’s right. The Roman officers hold a brief conference and agree to accept the terms, for a wasted death is the only alternative. Quietness descends on the broken conquerors as the fateful decision takes hold and they prepare to face a future whose only certainty is disgrace and privation.

  The dispirited legionaries begin trickling down the hill between the trees toward the Parthian lines in irregular rills, silently carrying the burden of their shame. Each has his own apprehension but says nothing. Marcus, Gaius and Quintus stay close to each other. No one suggested it; they just naturally drifted that way as if instinct propelled it. Everything is so disorganised there’s no need for them to be with their units, which have dissolved anyway. Like everyone, their pace is slow and shambling, hindered by fear and the heat of the day that has reached a searing height. They barely notice the blow flies that land on their faces and crawl into their ears. Nor do they see the eagle circling high above them as they come onto the flat grassland. Their thoughts are narrow, their feelings inward.

  The changing status is too weird to absorb. Captivity is something that has only ever occurred to others, never to them; it’s beyond contemplation. How could it be, so outside the natural order? They’re in the middle of a phase change, not yet prisoners, only about to be. It’s like a larva in the process of becoming a moth; only the moth is destined to fly away. The transition has seized the present, freezing it in a state where it’s neither freedom nor slavery. It can’t be understood or felt.

  Along with the others, Marcus walks towards captivity like an automaton, his legs moving as if bound to an outside force, his brain thickening like cream as it’s churned into butter. Disbelief rubs against reality, producing a numbness that grips his entire body and prevents any thinking past what is necessary to move his feet in the direction of the enemy lines.

  As the Romans are sullenly received into the Parthian ranks, their weapons and armour confiscated, a bonfire rages not far off at the bottom of a gentle rise that forms a rectangular hillock, like an outdoor altar. Its flames penetrate the sky in jagged stabs. Why do the Parthians find it necessary to compete with the heat of summer?

  A commotion springs up among the captors. People mill around the hillock talking excitedly. Marcus is close enough to hear distinct words but doesn’t understand the language. A tall and impressive man whom he recognizes as Surena is giving orders. He’s standing near the fire gesticulating to the men in charge. Suddenly Crassus appears, bound hand and foot, dressed only in his tunic. Two burly men, their thick black hair tied forward in the Parthian knot, push him roughly up the hillock in stages.

  His appearance is shocking. The round and pleasant face is now a slump-cheeked spectre with glassy eyes. He stoops and stumbles forward, shackles shortening his steps into the unsteady gait of an idiot. The guards force him onto a chair at the top of the hill. They tie his arms around his back and stand off a few paces, faces hard. The Roman is silent, features tense but unmoving; Stoic pride is all he has left. He has no idea what the Parthians will do to him. The most he could be hoping for is a quick death, but it“s troubling that they’re tying him to a chair in front of all to see. Why is that necessary?

  From the direction of the bonfire, three macabre figures emerge close together, silent and deadly. Heavy black quilt bulks up their bodies to twice the human size. It covers their heads except for narrow slits for the eyes, which can’t be seen. Two of them carry a long-handled stone ladle with something very hot inside – ragged clouds of smoke with a base of flame spew out. The trio appear inhuman, a three-headed monster. Without a sound it slowly glides up the hill like a fire-spitting dragon, intent on devouring its prey, helplessly trapped for its satisfaction. The cataphracts were less terrifying. Crasssus stares, motionless, transfixed, his eyes too terrified to blink. The monster stops directly in front of him, far enough away that its heat does no more than slightly singe his face. He barely feels it.

  The prisoners are mesmerised. Even the Parthians are shocked speechless. The armies of thousands are as silent as the wispy clouds slowly sliding by overhead.

  Out of the motionless crowd, Surena emerges and strides up the hillock, the magnificence of his pride on display. Standing beside Crassus but far enough from the heat, he says in Latin, projected loudly so that all the Romans can hear,

  “General Crassus, you have appetite for gold. Tried to steal ours. But no need. We give it to you. See how generous Parthians are.”

  In silence, he nods his head in a gesture scarcely noticeable. The part of the creature not holding the ladle, whose hooded eyes are fixed on Surena, suddenly jerks the Roman commander�
��s head back, its gloved hand jammed under the nose – Crassus has little hair to take hold of. It forces the clenched mouth open with an instrument like the sacred mouth opener the Egyptians use when they perform the ceremony of the dead. The other hulks pour liquid metal, smoking and whitish yellow, into the mouth of the richest man of Rome. In sizzling climax, the gold fills his throat, some running down his chin, burning a channel. Within seconds it congeals and darkens to its normal colour. Crassus’ head slumps to his chest, a large lump fixed inside.

  A roar, tentative at first but building into tumult, erupts from the Parthians at the demise of the man who came to grab their country’s wealth. The Romans are spellbound, the horror of their leader’s death a presage of their future. In a black thought he can’t help thinking, Marcus recalls the syllogism invented by someone seeking to praise the precious metal. Gold equals sun, sun equals love; therefore gold equals love. There’s no love today, but only punishment for a love that lurked in the dark side of gold. That errant love blighted the virtues of an intelligent, cultivated and sometimes kindly man and led inexorably to his tragic end. Does his own fate also stalk in the shadows of that love?

  “Cut off his head and his right hand.

  “They’ll be a fitting trophy for our King. Sillaces, take them to His Majesty with my compliments. The rest of us will go to Seleucia with the prisoners to celebrate.”