by Tony Grey
“Your Majesty, I thank you for your gracious words, but I must remind myself that the glory is to be shared by the men who fought that day. They excelled in their duty, a feat that was rewarded by the favour of Ahura Mazda.
“Your Majesty’s generosity has taken me by surprise. I beg for a little time to think of what I’d like for the reward Your Majesty so kindly speaks of.
“Now, we must decide what to do with the Roman prisoners. There’re about ten thousand. Is it your Majesty’s wish that they be killed or spared?”
“It would be a pity to waste them. They’re skilful soldiers, despite their defeat. Send them to Margiana as slaves. There they can help guard our eastern frontier. Best if they’re far away.
“You can go back to Carrhae now. We’ve had enough conversation. We’ll stay here for a while. We’ve brought our falconer. He claims there’re some trophy specimens in these hills.”
“Thank you Sire. I wish Your Majesty good hunting. I will prepare a banquet for tonight.”
“Yes. Do that.”
The Road takes the famous warrior and his small retinue towards the town at a comfortable pace. Like him, it feels pleased, proud to host a conference between such noble men. The effects of the flattery worn off, Surena concludes that the King realizes he’s in a weak position. That’s why he offered that reward. It could be huge. He’d be embarrassed to refuse any request, whatever it is. He’s trying to buy him off.
It doesn’t really matter; the only worthwhile reward is the kingdom. That can only be had by force. Now is the time, when the King and his retainers are exposed. They’ll be no match for the victors of Carrhae, flush with loyalty to their Commander. Only a pretext is needed. Something can be worked out. The senior officers must be persuaded to cooperate – an easy task. Then key nobles and priests will have to be brought onside – they’ll follow the army. Much needs to be done, and quickly, before Orodes leaves Carrhae. Allies must be recruited without delay.
As he’s musing in the gently rolling woodlands, the hot air completely still, a cluster of horsemen bursts out of the trees ahead, brandishing swords. They’re Parthians. But not from his army. Not looking friendly. It’s an ambush. Must be that damned king. No time to prepare. He’s heavily outnumbered. How can that be? The sneaky bastard has outmanoeuvred him, him the great warrior.
Fortunately they have their swords. And they’re mounted. He took the bold step of appearing before the King armed, confident he would get away with it, given the glory of his victory and the monarch“s weakness.
The attackers ride hard at his troops and slash down two men who’re a few paces in front. He shouts to the others to defend themselves. “Head for the trees. They’re assassins”, and charges off, closely followed by his comrades. His reaction was so quick it caught the attackers by surprise. But soon they recover and gallop off in pursuit. They catch up when their quarry is slowed down by fallen trees. A fierce combat begins in which no quarter is given, no time for prisoners.
Surrounded now, he parries the long blade of the man in front of him and cuts him down. His sword dispatches three more in quick succession, causing the assassins to pull back in fear. He feels confident he’ll prevail. His history of success, his unshakable faith in himself give him energy, afford him superhuman strength. He’ll beat off this scurrilous attempt by that podgy cretin.
He and his men kill a few more, their long swords flailing like a farmer threshing grain, and push back the assassins. Their leader shouts at them to regroup yelling insults at their timidity. As they retreat, Surena and his remaining men take off into the forest. Chastened by their lack of success, the assassins charge after them through the trees. The forest becomes thicker and allows them to catch up. Surena has to turn and face them. For a while the fight is even; his efforts inspire his men, combine with their terror to produce more commitment than the hired killers can muster. Just one great surge may be enough. But they can’t do it; the enemy’s superior numbers are overwhelming. His men start falling one after the other, until he’s left fighting alone.
He’s still on his horse, so fierce a warrior that his enemies show reluctance to attack. Nevertheless, at the furious urging of their leader, they eventually unhorse him. Several jump off their horses and try to knock him down with their shields.
They can’t subdue the leonine man who’s lost his sword and is now fighting with his dagger, stabbing two men and lunging at a third. The assassins hang back in indecision. He knows they won’t kill him with their swords. Because he’s from an exalted family they would be under orders not to spill his blood.
Then, suddenly four men charge from different directions, and before he can beat them off, grab him around the waist and wrestle him to the ground in a mighty struggle, kicking the dagger out of his hand. Another pulls a bow string around his neck. A monstrous roar leaps out of his throat as he’s choked, cursing the King to hell, and then a dry gurgle, which diminishes slowly into death, but not before the strangler has to tighten the string three times. Twice he thought he had killed his man only to see him recover.
❧
As the falcon lands on his gloved hand with a small bird in its mouth, Orodes sees the leader of the assassins riding up, dishevelled and panting.
“Your Majesty, Surena is dead. I’ve never seen a man fight so hard. But we were able to subdue him with the bow string. I lost a lot of my men though.”
“Excellent news. Well done. You’ll be handsomely rewarded, particularly if you and your men promise never to speak of today’s events. Your life will depend on silence. So will theirs. Even a whisper will be fatal. Remember that. Only I will report the tragedy that befell the esteemed Surena.”
All the same he plans to put them all to death as soon as possible, just to make sure. He pulls the bird out of the falcon’s mouth, tosses it on the ground and hands the splendid hunter over to a servant to put the hood on.
“We must go back to Carrhae right away.”
The heartily relieved King and his entourage ride back along the Road at a steady pace. It has another story of treachery to add to its archives. No need to rush. What a relief that now his blood can run through his veins no longer inflamed by the fear and anxiety that never left him in peace.
When they reach Carrhae he calls a conference of the nobles and priests in the Great Hall of the fortress. All stand; he sits.
“We have grave news to report. While we were conversing with Commander Surena outside Carrhae, a contingent of his troops charged out of the woods and attacked us and our retinue. As soon as the assault began, Surena joined in. We could see immediately that the ambush was part of a plot to usurp the throne.
“Fortunately our men were able to subdue the conspirators and kill them all, including, we’re sorry to say, our illustrious Commander in Chief. We’ve brought his body back for a proper funeral.
“We must now inform the two armies here and explain Surena’s treason to them. What makes it even more despicable and what saddens us the most is the fact that we offered him a reward of whatever he wanted for his victory over the Romans.
“It’s tragic that this great hero who saved our Kingdom should have such a fate”.
He pulls out his handkerchief and dabs his eyes and sits down forlornly.
The High priest nods his head and folds his hands in front of his gown.
“Your Majesty has been most fortuitously preserved by the grace of Ahura Mazda, bless his name.” All mumble a repetition.
“And the nation has been spared the baleful presence of Evil through another civil war. Lord Surena was a gifted man, a great warrior who won the most important victory in Parthia’s history. But, as the report of Your Majesty indicates, he failed to control the ambition his undoubted talents evoked in him.
He was tempted to excess by high achievement, a failing of many gifted men. The extent of this sin is measured by the enormity of his crime. His attack on Your Majesty was a breach of the sacredness that surrounds the throne, the divine u
nifying element that gives order to our nation. In doing that, he committed an act engineered by Evil, which Ahura Mazda, bless his name (all mumble again), justly punished through Your Majesty’s hand. We must all unite behind the throne and move forward to enjoy the enhanced position our nation now enjoys after the defeat of the Forces of Darkness.”
The nobles and priests nod their heads in agreement; there’s no alternative. Some may doubt the King’s version of events, but there’s no evidence that he wasn’t telling the truth. Besides he’s the monarch, too exalted to be challenged in public. True, Surena’s troops will have to measure their loyalty to their Commander against having to fight their brothers. But he’s just a memory now. Expedience prevails as nobody wants another civil war. Orodes is satisfied he’ll get away with the murder. But all are not as happy as he.
CHAPTER 8
Next day, the Parthian guards order the prisoners out of Carrhae onto the Road in the direction of the awakening sun. Everyone wonders who will fall victim to the brutality of the morning. All prepare to dive quickly to the ground, hopefully into a gully. But as the sun emerges from the pale blue, the usual signal for the dreaded horseman to arrive, he doesn’t appear.
News of Surena’s fate winds through the straggly line. A ragged cheer breaks out from the tired Romans in stages, as word of the deliverance passes along the Road, whose flatter stones here seem to indicate its relief too. Marcus says to Gaius that Epicurus had a point when he said pleasure is the absence of pain. The big man merely grunts.
Even the Parthians seem pleased, for while admiring his talents, many of them suffered from his dark side. They have a new commander for the march, a junior officer, noted for harshness but not savagery. And so the prisoners know they will live today, unless sickness or unhealed wounds claim their due. It’s a blessing, even when measured against their journey into slavery.
From time to time they pass by local people walking short distances, farmers sometimes, sometimes just villagers on donkeys. They share the Road with them, easily moving around them as they’re not marching in column as before. Marcus doesn’t know why but his eyes fall on a lone man a few paces in front of him dressed in a tunic, head covered by a dusty red cap that gathers his hair in the Parthian fashion. He’s walking slowly, wearily, as if he has a long way to go. He’s carrying a bundle over his shoulder and is leaning forward. It’s not possible to get a look at his face because his head is turned the other way as Marcus walks past.
The guards don’t say where the trek is heading; but it’s always east, fatally lengthening the distance from Roman territory. As the days fall by like sand slipping into the next chamber of the hour glass, inexorably and without distinction, the terrain leaves its trees behind and dries out into seared fields. Then it yields to steppe country of paltry scrub; sparse grass takes over, spreading its flatness into a wilderness that has no boundaries, except a horizon blurred in dusty haze. The sun, sol invictus, is in a wicked mood, devoid of pity for the struggling unfortunates. No cover shields them from its baleful shafts. Even the Road has lost sympathy, its stones magnifying the heat in cruel alliance. It seems it’s punishing them for their defeat, or perhaps for their hubris.
Each step pulls a little more at the hope Marcus has allowed himself to hold. No chance of escape exists, for even if he and a few comrades were able to elude the guards, the huge and hostile country would ensure their recapture and certain death. While there’s some possibility of a high level truce which might permit repatriation, it’s dauntingly remote. Too much enmity separates the two nations.
The epic struggle of Odysseus comes to mind, carrying a hint of guilt. He recalls the hero’s sacred duty to return home – the Greek tradition and his own. Must he follow it? Yes of course; he’s been brought up to it. But only if circumstances permit. While Poseidon frustrated the determined Greek a number of times, whipping up the sea to drive him off course and a series of monsters sought to detain him, it was not an impossible task. This one would be. It’s normal for the sense of duty to dissolve in the face of a superior force. Maybe he’s rationalizing again, not like Cassius would think.
Gaius is walking beside him, grimly silent. He hasn’t said anything for hours.
Marcus has to mention what’s on his mind.
“I wonder if my last letter to Aurelia got out.”
“Marcus, you have to be realistic. The only hope is if Cassius’ group escaped, and that’s not likely. If the letter had any chance it would’ve been with his contingent.”
“Yes I know. He’s still in charge of logistics. In a way it’s probably better for her not to get it. Or would it? If she got it, at least she would know my true intentions. But it might create a false hope. If she hears nothing she would be freer to find someone else.”
“My friend, you’ll have to forget her. Some one’ll tell her about the defeat. She’ll wait a while for stragglers to come home and find out you’re not among them. Then give up hope.”
“I know, but as long as there’s some chance of getting home, even if it’s remote, that’s hard to do.”
There’s no point in continuing the conversation. They trudge on in silence, retreating into their own thoughts. A wave of self pity breaks over him no matter how hard he tries to resist it. Why was he chosen to suffer this degradation? Who chose it for him? Was it a force activated by the choices he made, or does he bear no responsibility- a victim of uncaring chance? Why did the gods who are supposed to protect Rome permit it? Nothing has prepared him for this.
Briefly, he looks over at Gaius’ impassive face. His friend doesn’t seem to have the same or even similar thoughts. He just accepts his fate like a true Stoic without questioning it.
The books that used to while away the weary hours of night are no longer of interest. Perhaps they contain some answers but what difference do they make? He husbands them though; at least their presence offers a kind of connection. Fortunately the Parthians don’t think they’re worth stealing.
Of late he has retreated more and more into himself, downwards in a vortex, farther and farther from the horizon marking the boundary with the outside world. Down there, a cold fog of lethargy seeps in and stifles any movement except aimless drifting.
Nothing is worthwhile; self worth is an illusion – shadows on the wall trapped in the past. To an equal and opposite degree, erstwhile pride has morphed into self loathing. His summons to destiny has vanished like a vision faded; it’s become an unreadable parchment, all meaning dying in blurred ink. Positive thoughts of the past or the future have abandoned him, escaped into the terrible vastness of the steppe. He’s locked in a negative mentality of the present which constrains his freedom as much as the guards.
He can’t think of change, even for the better, though he knows Democritus showed that everything changes; nothing stays the same; you can’t step into the same river twice.
A paradox bedevils him – if he’s worth nothing, is nothing, why is it that all he can think of is himself. How can something that doesn’t exist be so consuming? Ex nihilo nihil fit -out of nothing, nothing comes. If there’s nothing left, no Aurelia, no home, no family, no prospects, no self, why not end life now, right here on the callous Road? At least it would have the elegance of demonstrating the ultimate futility of it all.
That evening when the others have gone to bed, he wanders off into the steppe. It seems lonelier at night, devoid of life, a place where death would feel at home. He takes out Owls Head, looks for a full minute at the lethal beauty of its silver damascene; the pale star light picks it out. He holds it with both hands. His arms stretch out. The tip is pointed to his belly. One thrust and he’ll be at peace. The nothing will return to nothing, where it belongs.
Why doesn’t he do it? Cowardice isn’t the reason; his bravery is proven. Perhaps there’s something deep in the vortex that’s an antidote. It can’t be the hope of repatriation; that’s become too slight to matter. No, it must be something else, something beyond consciousness, a hidden devic
e of nature that whispers denial to the negative.
He puts Owl’s Head away and returns to the camp. He has a restless sleep and wakes up jaded. His sense of failure is compounded by last night’s brush with his reluctant dagger.
All that can be done is to march in leaden sullenness with the rest of the unfortunates. The Road is as hard hearted as its stony path. It’s leaving Roman territory behind, steadily moving away from civilization and humbling its habitat as it penetrates the fearsome unknown. Human settlements are further and further apart. Towns and villages become smaller and poorer as the bedraggled throng heads east.
Soon the parsimonious Road offers only dry and sun-blasted steppe which stretches out in a vast beige wilderness, struggling to support even camel thorn. The Romans are constantly beaten to walk faster, their strength compromised by the meagreness of the meals they get once a day at the end of the march. The smell of putrefaction poisons the air as some of the wounds progress to the mortal stage.
Marcus is beginning to smell it around Quintus, who’s looking pale these days and has lost his vigour.
“Quintus, how’s that wounded hand?”
“It’s turned bad. I didn’t want to say anything – thought it would heal by itself. But it’s not going to. Blood poison’s set in. Spreading. I know the symptoms Marcus. I’m done for.”
Marcus doesn’t know what to think. Quintus would never say a thing like that unless it was serious, very serious.
“Quintus, you shouldn’t keep walking. I’ll arrange to put you in one of the wagons.”
“No. It’s too late. I’ll keep going as long as I can and then just sit down. It’s the fortune of war.”
