by Tony Grey
This is the final degradation, for little skill is required, just a strong back and the fortitude to withstand harsh working conditions and the lash. He has seen how Romans build their roads and bridges. So little regard for health and safety that the spectre of death stalks the workers every day. Can he expect any better treatment?
So this is how the rest of life will be spent, in a distant hinterland where half civilized barbarians interact with people even more feral. A slave forever – a tool that can be discarded when it’s no longer sharp enough or if it’s too difficult to wield. The most arbitrary commands must be obeyed and all civilized scepticism stifled in a servile acceptance of the masters’ whims.
Former life afforded an identity and self esteem, indeed an exalted one. It was nourished by the connection with home and a sophisticated culture. Now those are gone. There’s no home here and probably never will be, and Roman culture is not appreciated, nor even known. A vignette of his father’s sad figure flashes up. How much more fundamental is his deracination than his father’s! Identity must be rethought entirely, much more profoundly than the stubborn farmer did, or should have done. Unless that can be accomplished somehow, it’ll be impossible to convert mere existence into a life, and he’ll be condemned to unrelieved misery for the rest of his days.
❧
However, the situation turns out to be better than expected. The Parthians realize they’re a long way from the super heated centre of the Empire where hatred of Rome has the rawness of immediacy. Everyone knows that Margiana is too far from the borders of the Roman Empire to permit serious thoughts of an escape West and no one would be expected to test the unknown East. So security is comfortably lax. The Romans are allowed to take possession of their armour and weapons; they’re needed for their job as frontier guards. And the rich soil of the oasis produces so much food that there’s no need to scrimp on diet, even for slaves.
At present, no threat from the East disturbs the peace, so military activity is reduced to desultory patrols and exercises. Marcus’ cohort, now shrunk to a hundred and fifty, is still intact as a unit.
He calls his men together one day after their guard duty is over. In a voice strong enough to cover up his depressed state of mind, he says,
“Men, we don’t have enough to do out here. Besides, if we aren’t careful our skills will decline. I don’t care what the others in the army do – they don’t do anything but what the Parthians order. We’re going to exercise hard– for two hours a day, starting now.
“I want everyone to make a wooden sword for himself. We’ll use them for practice. Divide into two groups for a skirmish. I’ll be joining you – so watch out. Tomorrow we’ll concentrate on shield manoeuvres.”
There’re a few groans but Gaius quietens them down with a stern call to pride and they all go off looking for pieces of wood in the oasis, leaving Marcus alone in his thoughts.
It’s some consolation that the boredom at Margiana has a tendency at times to dull the soul’s anguish, and activity helps, but never for long. Nothing can salve the abject humiliation of slavery. The bathos of that is intolerable – for him, a man used to the pride that springs from superiority. It bores into him every day and toxic anger and frustration pour into the holes until he’s ready to explode. The reality of slavery is with him always like a chronic disease sharp with pain. The line he knows by heart from the Odyssey rubs it in. “Zeus, the Old Thunderer, robs a man of half his virtue the day the yoke clamps around his neck.”
Just today a guard came over to him with an arrogant expression on his face. Standing about three metres away, he said “Bring that rock over here”, and moved another five metres away. When he brought the rock, the guard said, with a superior smile, “Now put it back.” He couldn’t stand the insult and threw the rock at the guard’s feet. This brought a savage slash with the whip and a kick in the groin.
Everyday the Parthian guards find some new insult to throw at him and his comrades, whether it’s verbal or a stroke of the lash, whether provoked or not. He must find a way to escape or he’ll go mad. But that’s impossible, stuck out here surrounded by enemies and terrain as dangerous as a hungry lion.
Religion fails to offer solace, for its tenets, as many people are thinking these days, are too difficult to accept. But that doesn’t mean the spiritual dimension doesn’t exist; it’s just that another way will have to be found to activate it. In a small measure, the way the loaf of bread lifted him out of himself for a moment was a rudimentary step. Nevertheless, the sea of lethargy that presses in retards the process from going further and anger interrupts his thoughts. Besides there’s no one to help; in this he’s on his own. However, while it still takes too much effort to read, of late he finds comfort in picking up the books at the end of the day, just to hold for a moment.
Wandering at random through the camp at the edge of the oasis, he encounters Gaius.
“Ave Marcus, you look lost. What’s the matter?”
“Nothing much. Just thinking. Let’s go to my tent to get out of the cold.”
They sit down inside on makeshift wooden stools. Marcus lights the brazier but they keep their thick winter cloaks on.
“What do you think of the men’s morale? I mean the men in our cohort.”
“Not bad. Shit, they’re depressed but stubborn. They’re trying to survive. It’s hell being slaves. Nothing worse. They talk of escape all the time. Useless though. The daily exercises you make them do are good for them. What d’you think?”
“I agree. It’s against the natural of things for Romans to be slaves. Anything’s better than that. They’re angry though at Crassus, blame him for the disaster.”
Gaius’ eyes suddenly flare.
“So do I. The man’s an idiot. I can’t believe he led us onto that plain. The silly goat should’ve known. He got what he deserved.”
“That’s right. Should never have left the business world. Too fixated on his own way of doing things – couldn’t put himself in the other man’s shoes, underestimated the enemy, saw no ability there. It’s very Roman though, don’t you think?
“Maybe it is but can’t do anything about it now. All we can do is endure. Take each day as it comes and get through it. It’s not much of a life but no worse than death.”
“The biggest mistake was going into Parthia in the first place. I know we went for booty, but maybe that isn’t a good enough reason. Besides, it’s a bad decision to invade another country without being really sure of winning.”
“Are you getting soft Marcus? What difference does it make? We’re here, slaves, and that’s all there is to it.”
“No, I’m not. I just believe it’s worthwhile to think about these things sometimes. It doesn’t mean I don’t have the toughness to survive like the rest of us.”
“All right. All right. Don’t get upset. No offence.”
They chat on for a while and Gaius goes off to his own tent, Marcus thinking about his friend. He’s a good man, reliable and uncomplicated. He doesn’t think too much and can’t even read properly, but seems to cope with adversity well – doesn’t complain when fortune turns its wheel against him, but takes it as it comes. That’s the Stoic way and he practises it better than many who study philosophy, including himself. And he was right to prefer a good commander to a good booty hunter. Would he have stood up to Crassus in the tent?
❧
The retreat of the frost makes way for the next stage of captivity – building the fortification walls around the city. Since ancient times people in this part of the world have used mud bricks for permanent structures. The technique is simple but ideal for the climate where rain is as scarce as the gratitude of kings.
It’s easy to learn how to make the little rectangular wooden boxes, fill them with mud and straw, wet enough to expel the air, and smooth the tops with a trowel, then to set them in rows for drying in the sun which shines more than three hundred days a year. After a short time and a little tap, the rock hard bricks fall out of th
e mould and are ready to be laid. Before long each man is making hundreds a day. Under supervision, the Romans are soon able to lay them, keeping the rows straight – at least when they try.
But they don’t always try. Surreptitiously some men slip half- made bricks into the wall or deliberately make crooked rows. They’re punished when the Parthian foremen catch them – beaten for minor offences and thrown into the dungeon for more serious ones. Still the subversion goes on.
The Parthian construction manager takes Marcus aside to complain. He’s upset and worried that unless more co-operation is achieved, the fortress will not only miss the schedule deadline he has promised the local satrap but may turn out to be unstable. Threats of harsher punishment are shouted – maiming and even execution. Marcus says he’ll speak to the men. In fact, although he doesn’t mention it, he also is concerned, for he doesn’t agree with their attitude.
He calls the men together next morning before the work begins.
“Some of you have the attitude of not caring how well we build this wall. I’ve even seen sabotage. I understand that. We’re slaves so why should we care how we build it. We don’t benefit – they do.
“But that’s not the right attitude for Romans. We’re the civilised people – not them. We should show we’re capable of excellence – not for them but for ourselves. If we can fight well we can build well too.
“I want you all to do as good a job as you are capable of. We should build the best wall possible. Then we can be proud of our work, and because of that we can be proud of ourselves. If we do it, in our hearts we won’t be slaves. That’s the benefit. We don’t need to feel guilty if it helps the enemy. What we do out here makes no difference to Rome – too far away. We do it for ourselves. Besides, the wall could protect us too.
“Any man found shirking or doing a sloppy job will be put on report. The optios will be looking out for it. It’s a matter of military discipline – Roman not Parthian.”
Marcus’ initiative is taken up by the commanders of the other cohorts who also call their men together and, despite some mumbling, they accept the order and lift the quality of their work. The wall begins to show its form, strong and thick, nut brown against an aquamarine sky. Over the weary months it gradually crawls around the city – a barrier against the wildness of the East. Towers for archers emerge at strategic intervals, adding symmetry to the creation.
The labour is not onerous. The Parthian bosses don’t want to exert themselves particularly, so the working day usually ends in the early afternoon. The worst effect is boredom, and, of course, humiliation; though pride in the construction allows for some self esteem. The construction manager asks Marcus to pass on his congratulations to the men. He doesn’t bother to do it; they’re not doing it for him or the Parthians.
The tedium dries up the sap of life, leaving only a wilted husk at the end of the day. Everybody longs for respite in sleep. And that, for Marcus, the screeching eagles are prone to interrupt. Months drift by like pieces of driftwood on a sluggish river and it’s now late summer, one and a half years since they arrived at Margiana. They’re still building the wall and still in slavery, getting used to it, or some are. Not Marcus though – never will.
The Parthians maintain a desultory role count at the beginning of the day but generally allow free movement into the town for the officers once the work is finished. They assume their charges are unlikely to escape; there’s nowhere to go. The desert surrounding Margiana would soon swallow them up.
❧
The chaotic and spirited markets on the inside of the wall are an attraction, almost like a theatrical performance – a pageant of shape and sound and colour. By now Marcus has learned enough Parthian to hold a conversation. He’s taken the trouble to pick up some of the related Sogdian language too because it’s the lingua franca of the Road immediately to the east. It bespeaks a brilliant culture – its country said to be the second of the good lands Ahura Mazda established when he created the Earth and divided everything into Good and Evil.
The Sogdians he’s met so far are friendly – a race of merchants who’re reckoned to be the most astute traders in the world. The other day he saw two of them bargaining. When he came by them again two hours later, they were still at it, offering imaginative and persuasive reasons to support their positions. The issue was but a trivial advantage in the price.
The Parthians, who don’t particularly like them, acknowledge that years of profitable trade have smoothed the wildness of their original character into a sophistication that ranges freely into philosophy, fine cuisine and art.
They admit that Sogdian knowledge of medicine and science combines with a refined strain of Zoroastrian thought to create a renown for wisdom that resounds throughout Asia, penetrating cities as diverse as Babylon, Damascus and Jerusalem. Sogdian magi are frequent travellers on the Road, always willing to engage in conversations with strangers about the meaning of life. They’ve learned the secrets of the stars and can read the fate of humans in the patterns they form. Sogdian music is considered the most beguiling anywhere along the Road.
He’s recently found himself part of a disparate group of merchants and other travellers who congregate late in the afternoon. Sometimes magi join them, spectacular in their long flowing robes and tall conical hats, decorated with crescent moons and stars. He’s welcome though everyone knows he’s a slave; all are humane enough to ignore it. The condition is commonplace in these parts. However, that an officer of the Roman army, renowned as conquerors even this far East, has fallen into that state is a novelty worthy of attention.
They meet at the Margiana caravan inn for refreshment and conversation. Here one seldom drinks wine. If it’s consumed at all, it’s always cut with water and drunk sparingly. Though the composition of the assembly constantly changes as people come and go, there’s always a core who know each other. Set in the heart of the buzzing population centre close to the market, it resonates with the throb of visitors from distant lands who come along the Road. Everyone looks to the Margiana as a clearing house for news and the exchange of ideas. No subject is taboo, even religion, which, despite a diversity ranging from the sceptical to the pious, everyone treats on a basis of tolerance.
Today’s gathering was particularly interesting – Marcus hardly said a word, just listened. A magus in full religious garb, complete with conical hat, who’s a frequent visitor to the Margiana, had a long and intricate conversation with a leading caravan merchant. The subjects they discussed ranged from commerce and various types of goods, to a mathematical means of estimating their quantities without individually counting them, to philosophy, music and art. Even warfare was a topic.
That night the day’s conversation stays in his mind keeping him from going to sleep. After a while he dozes off, but suddenly he sits up, startled as if someone had prodded him with a sharp stick. It’s not the Eumendides though. Instead, a thought as clear as a shooting star has come to him. It shouldn’t be amazing at all, rather absurd in a way that it is, but the sense of superiority he’s grown up with has been such a block to perception. These Sogdians he’s been meeting with are remarkable, really impressive; their knowledge of the world and its workings, their cultivated ways are clearly admirable, even, though awkward to admit, to some extent awe – inspiring. There’s real merit on display here; he can learn from it – as long as he has an open mind. It’s not an easy thing to do when he’s been so sure of what constitutes the only civilization.
At first he was visiting the Margiana tavern just to have some company, slumming it among barbarians, because there was nobody else around except his comrades, and he wanted to broaden his acquaintances. But the demonstration of expertise today, which puts into sharper focus what’s been seeping into his view for some time, perhaps subconsciously, requires a change in how he looks at non Romans. Perhaps it’s the need to adapt in these strange circumstances, perhaps it’s because he’s so far away from home, perhaps something else, but whatever the reason, tonight
he’s passed through a portal into a new state of mind.
The next day he hurries to the Margiana after work, expecting a continuation of yesterday’s discussion. But that’s not to be; the magus isn’t there; something more pressing to talk about has come up. One of the merchants, a Parthian, says
“Last week someone tried to poison King Orodes. He was at a banquet – you know how he loves his food – and somehow poisoned meat got past the tasters. He fell violently sick on the spot and had to be taken away immediately. Miraculously he didn’t die and began to recover in the morning. Obviously the poisoner botched it – probably didn’t put enough in.”
“Who would do such a thing?” says one of the others.
“Just a minute; there’s more. After sundown, while he was in his bed sleeping, an assassin snuck into the room. Got past the guards who must have been bribed and strangled him with a bow string.
“It’s thought that Phraates, one of his sons, was behind it. He’s ambitious enough. Support was building for some time against the King. His effete habits were offending many of the nobles after Surena’s death. They complained about the lack of a strong military leader. Maybe the great general’s clan also had something to do with it. No doubt they had a motive. They never believed the King’s story of how their kinsman died.
“Good riddance I say. Everyone’s been worried that with Surena dead, Parthia’s vulnerable – without a good commander any longer. Orodes was weak and useless in war – only good at intrigue.
“Fortunately, the speculation is that the succession will probably be settled without a civil war. Orodes’ faction is not strong enough and there’s nobody else to challenge Phraates. In any event we’re too far east to be affected even if there is one.
