by Tony Grey
Marcus and the others in the task force spread the word to the rest of the cohort. They’ve left it to the last minute for security. As it’s not prudent to call a meeting, they visit the men’s tents individually, starting just before bedtime so they don’t miss anyone. There’re twenty tents in their section of the camp, normally with eight men each but in some cases fewer. Each takes five tents. As they go around, they encounter enthusiasm – sometime whoops of joy, even though a few men express a little concern, mainly about details. They’re easily answered.
Gaius however, runs into trouble. One of the men, Trebonius, is quite outspoken, complaining it’s too risky, that if they’re caught they’ll be executed. He’s so forceful that some of the men in his tent get wobbly and begin to agree with him. Gaius calls Marcus over who says;
“What’s the matter with you Trebonius? You’re the only one in the entire cohort that doesn’t have the guts to go for freedom. Do you prefer slavery you piece of shit? Pick yourself up; be a man. If you don’t show some spine I’m going to run you through.”
As he puts his hand on Owl’s Head, Trebonius steps back and drops his head in shame.
“All right, all right Sir. I agree. I was only pointing out the risks anyway. Count me in.”
Gaius has rarely seen Marcus so angry. The tongue lashing stops the rot; all is now settled. Everyone supports the escape. Alea iacta est. Tense and alert, few will sleep that night. They quietly pack their belongings. The Parthians never come into the camp so, for the time being, they’re safe from discovery.
The Romans are guards; it’s normal for them to keep their armour and weapons. They’re obliged to leave their tents behind for fear of alerting the Parthians by striking them (besides they’re too bulky), but they can take what they need as soldiers, except their throwing spears, their pila, which are too unwieldy.
Next day, everybody goes about their business as usual, building the wall; the only difference is that nobody feels like speaking, but that isn’t enough to create suspicion. Besides they’re only one cohort in an army of prisoners. No other Romans know about the plan. They’ll be as surprised as the Parthians, maybe a little envious. The day goes by with intolerable slowness but finally the sun drops down. The men are in their tents awaiting the signal.
As soon as the evening dies into night, the task force saunters towards the edge of the camp. They’re dressed in their tunics. Daggers are hidden in the folds. Marcus has Owl’s Head. Their armour is stored in the dark nearby. They move towards the nearest Parthian squad, trying to appear casual.
The guards have congregated around a brazier, as the late summer night is cold. They should be on patrol but, predictably, they prefer the warmth and conversation. Besides, nothing ever seems to happen during these long nights. An important uncertainty in the plan has been avoided. Marcus has counted on them being together – they always are, but there might have been an exception.
The Romans sidle up to the Parthians, who remain sitting, and begin a casual conversation. Nothing seems abnormal; often Romans fraternize with their keepers. But suddenly, Marcus recognises one of them; he’s the man who gave him the loaf of bread. How can he kill him, the one whose kindness rescued him from despair?
The plan is that once he scratches his head they all attack, each taking out the guard nearest him. If he weakens, fails to give the signal and leads his comrades back to the camp for another attempt, or even moves to another patrol squad, the escape will be jeopardised, possibly fatally. Once momentum is lost it’ll be impossible to regain. The Hsiung-nu won’t wait around for ever. If the cohort doesn’t escape tonight, chances are he and his comrades will lapse back into slavery and stay there. And it’ll be his fault.
He can just kill the man as planned. No one would know, and his comrades would applaud his action. After all, he’s responsible for one hundred and forty-nine men. That should outweigh the life of a single enemy, even a kind one. Slowly he moves close and scratches his head. His comrades leap forward, quickly get behind the Parthians they have marked, and shut their mouths with one hand. With the other they slit their throats before they have a chance to utter a sound, and quietly let them down on the ground.
At the same time, Marcus slips behind his Parthian and jams a straightened hand under his chin. With the other crossways in support, he yanks the man back in a choke against his hip. No sound can come out, none except a subdued gurgle. Holding him tight, he orders his comrades to rip off some fabric to fill the man’s mouth. As soon as he’s gagged he loosens the choke – just as the man is turning white and limp.
“Tie him up with your belts, we’re bringing him with us”
Gaius says in a tense whisper, “Are you crazy? Why are you sparing him? If we take him he might escape, alert the others. It’s safer to kill him, damn it. Are you getting soft Marcus? What’s the matter with you?”
“I don’t care what you think Gaius. This man did me a favour. We’re not killing him. He comes with us to the meeting point. Then he can walk back. If it’s a risk it’s a trivial one. I take personal responsibility for it.”
As soon as the Parthian is secured, Marcus gives the signal for the mass movement – a short wave of the arm. Instantly it’s passed around the camp. As the men are emerging from their tents, Trebonius tells his bunk mates he’s changed his mind and decided to stay, repeating his fears. This is reported to Marcus who comes over immediately. He pulls the man aside by the front of his tunic and draws Owl’s Head, pointing it at his throat.
“Trebonius, I’ll kill you on the spot if you don’t come with us.”
That’s enough to pull the reluctant legionary into line and the crisis fades. It would too dangerous to let him stay. For whatever reason – perhaps to ingratiate himself with his captors, he could give the escape away.
The cohort quietly slips out of the camp and into the darkened trees. As always it’s a clear night, but the moon has not risen yet; besides it will a small one, on the wane. All is calm. No Parthians seem to notice. An escape is the last thing they expect – the desert has always deterred it before.
That night a hundred and fifty fully armed Roman soldiers and a Parthian slink through the darkness and disappear into the desert. The waning moon is up too late and too weak to give them away. Outside the oasis they look like a stain spreading haphazardly on to the landscape which is wanly lit by stars.
They make good time and reach the Road by midnight. Using the North Star as their guide, they have no trouble finding it. Marcus orders a roll call as they emerge onto the roadway. All are present, even Trebonius. There’s no sign of their Parthian masters.
It’s too soon to feel liberation. At any time horsemen could appear out of the trees and run them down, even at night, for the Parthians could overcome their reluctance if they discover the escape.
The pace picks up now they’re on smoother surface and the distance from the camp widens satisfactorily. Marcus pushes the men to the heavy breathing point. The Road embraces the vulnerable soldiers, its smooth path helping them. It likes the drama, pleased to play a role in support of men it’s grown to favour.
There’s still no sign of the Parthians, but their swift horses could easily make up for a late start. The last thing they need is another encounter with the penetrating missiles.
As pale blue light rises from the horizon to swallow the stars, a dust cloud appears in the distance. It’s moving towards them at pace. The men let out a cheer as the forms of horse archers materialise on the Road. There’re about twenty, ahead of a herd of horses. They stop a few metres away as if they hit a wall. Marcus has never seen such control. Man and beast move as one creature, totally coordinated. A single brain seems to animate both. Roman cavalry is capable but nothing like this; even the Parthians weren’t that good. The newcomers look supernatural.
He thinks back to the centaurs of the classical Greeks – torso rising out of the horse’s back, one brain, one creature, a human horse. It could well have been that in ancient ti
mes a few Greeks encountered these unique people and brought back the story as myth. Arrow stuffed quivers cling to their backs and short, recurved bows of wood and bone are slung over their shoulders. Their oblique narrow eyes and high flat cheekbones as immovable as sculpture are like nothing the Romans have seen before – unreadably implacable. They’re the strangest people imaginable– could be the invention of some myth.
In the front is Lushan, riding well but not like the others. He dismounts and embraces Marcus.
“What a happy meeting! Our plan has gone better than expected. You are safe. Even if the Parthians catch up they will not attack now that you have a Hsiung-nu escort. They wouldn’t dare commit an act of war against Jir-Jir.
“Marcus Velinius Agricola I would like to introduce you to Jiyu the commander of the escort and a close comrade of the Sharnyu. He will take us to him.”
The Hsiung-nu commander, remaining on his horse which is completely still, motions a greeting without a smile.
“Thank you Lushan. You’ve done a brilliant job. What’ll you do now?”
“I will accompany you to the Sharnyu’s camp. It is not far from Samarkand. I have some business there. It is my birthplace. I will return to Margiana after that with my caravan”.
“That’s good. You can interpret for us.” Marcus says to his comrades,
“Bring the Parthian over.”
He gives him a couple of denarii, his last but one, and says in broken Parthian,
“You go back home now. Sorry for this. Good luck.”
The man turns without a word and starts the long walk back along the Road.
Horses are brought. Most of the Romans need a lesson. The Hsiung-nu, who’ve been forewarned of this, patiently show the novices how to mount and dismount, how to guide the horse with the reins, how to sit and hold on with their thighs. The instruction, done without language, is pretty rudimentary and stops short of the cantering stage, let alone the gallop. But it’s enough for the purpose. It seems bizarre that the best horsemen in the world are taking the time to teach a bunch of beginners. It’s not easy, for they naturally assume too much knowledge in the Romans. But they’ve been well briefed. They find it’s amusing to encounter people so ignorant of something as fundamental as riding. To them it’s unimaginable. But they don’t show any emotion.
As soon as Jiyu has decided the Romans have had enough instruction, he signals the start of the long trek to Samarkand. The cohort falls unsteadily into line. Marcus is in front, just managing his difficult horse. How are they ever going to be able to fit in with these people who’re so unusual? He wonders what the leader they’re about to meet is like. Tonight’s escape has shuffled him through another portal into the unknown, another domain too different to imagine; like the one he’s just been in it’s sure to be fraught with danger and challenge. But however it turns out he’ll be free.
CHAPTER 10
The Hsiung-nu seem to be showing a concern for the safety of the Romans above what might be expected. Of course it’s in their interests to have the potential mercenaries arrive intact but they could just leave them to their own devices along the way and defend them only if an attack materializes. Instead, Jiyu has split his escort so that it protects the Romans in both front and rear. Just what they’re protecting them from isn’t clear. Perhaps it’s the Parthians who might catch up once they notice the escape but that’s not likely now that so much time has passed. It’s certainly not the peaceful Sogdians, nor the usual marauders of the Road; it’s the Hsiung-nu themselves who’re the bandits. Anyway, it’s refreshing to see Roman soldiers valued again – something not evident for such a long time.
Jiyu rides in front by himself, silent and aloof. Just behind are Marcus and Lushan. The merchant is riding competently and is as voluble as ever. As the sun comes up he says;
“We are entering the fearsome Red Desert, home of cobras. Tell your men to be on their guard. These snakes can be very aggressive. Sometimes they even spit their venom. They are liable to slither into the camp looking for food and warmth, even sliding into the bedclothes. Check them every night before you get in. Stamping around usually gets rid of them. Be careful. Their bite out here in the desert will mean certain death”.
The going is mercifully smooth as the landscape is reasonably flat – a boon for the novices. Though exhaustingly sandy it’s not entirely without vegetation. A threadbare carpet of camel thorn stretches into the distance and passes under the horizon through a dusty portal. Pale green saksaul bushes, like small weeping willows, grow along the sides of the Road, and little purple tamarisk flowers. A few wild camels are chewing, imperious heads in the air. They fix the intruders with a contemptuous stare while their lower jaws slowly rotate in a shallow ellipse. Perhaps it’s that they feel superior to the horses, but likely to humans also.
The cloud-free sun glares at the travellers, but it no longer causes them discomfort. Indeed all it can manage is to warm up the day to a pleasant temperature by ten o’clock. The troupe moves along steadily. The newly recruited horsemen are doing reasonably well, even though they’re getting sore. It hasn’t taken long for their untrained thighs and buttocks to be rubbed raw. No respite is given as Jiyu wants to maintain the pace. Besides he has scant sympathy for sedentary types. The Romans don’t complain; they’re used to hardship and are happy anyway to be slaves no more, despite the risks that lie ahead.
In a few days they see the silver flash of a mighty river carving its channel through the sands, leaving a calling mark of vegetation along its sides. Lushan raises his voice to demand attention.
“This is the famed Oxus, one of the two great rivers of Sogdiana. Its origin lies hidden in the roof of the world far to the south. It is where Alexander the Great tracked down Bessus the assassin of the Persian monarch and killed him because he had killed a king. The massive water flow of the noble river travels north to feed the cold and mighty Aral Sea, which stands by itself in the desert, alone and majestic”.
So that’s the mystical Oxus; he’s heard of it, every Roman schoolboy has. It’s always been seen as so distant, so far way from the Mediterranean, at the extreme end of the world, where strange things happen and magical creatures live. It would never have been discovered if the great conqueror hadn’t led his unbeatable phalanxes so far. And now he’s here, but not in a victorious army, just as a mercenary, lucky to have a job – only so long as he can convince his employer that he and his comrades are worthy of their hire.
They cross where a shoal rises, a point traditionally used by travellers. On the other side, the Road follows the meander for a while, sometimes venturing north. However, it turns east as it leaves the river into land which is the last link to the world he knows. Even the most learned European geographers are ignorant of anything past the mighty river. All there may be on the eastern side lurks in a mysterious void, a knowledge blank that permits only wild and fanciful speculation. An attack of loneliness grips him, a feeling of being removed entirely from his world, a final break. But there’s excitement too, a sense of adventure; it’s almost a privilege to be venturing into this unknown hinterland. He loses concentration for a moment and lets the reins go slack. His horse rears up, intent on throwing him off. Lushan grabs the reins and settles it down. “Thanks Lushan. Just as well you know how to ride.”
In a few minutes Lushan raises his arm in excitement.
“Bukhara is ahead, the great trading hub of the Caravan Road. We are making very good time. We will stay there for a day to rest and restock on supplies. I have arranged it with Jiyu. Besides, you should see the sights. I will take you around.”
On approaching the metropolis it’s easy to see why Lushan is so proud of it. The desert stops as if in reverence in front of a vast fortress built into a wall that runs around the city. It’s the highest structure he’s ever seen, looming as large as a square-topped mountain, all made of mud brick. The amount of back -breaking labour to build something that tall would have been prodigious, even for the gods. It rises
in a brown textured mass out of the grass-studded sand and articulates its height against the clear sky. Crenellated turrets linking with each other on high create an elegance that ties the whole structure together. Its unity of design and scale speak of the highest architectural skill.
Jiyu and Lushan lead the troupe through the majestic stone gate set at the bottom of the wall. Suddenly they’re engulfed in the cheerful chaos of a Sogdian city. Nothing is orderly; everything is tangled like a garden grown to weed. There’s a happy confusion in the loud voices often springing into laughter, in the erratic movement of sweaty people, donkey carts and camels lumbering among the crowd.
Still mounted, they walk their horses down the main street, cobblestones worn smooth by centuries of feet. It’s a relief from the Road, which out here often challenges travellers with sharp stones pushing through the sand. Brazen stares indicate the Romans are a curious sight. They’re of course familiar with the Hsiung-nu. The Sogdian men are dressed like Lushan, although more economically. The women, who are rarer, are in bright colour too, their long dresses inspired by the rainbow. Ever present silk weaves throughout the throng like a whispering breeze.
Jiyu allows everyone to dismount and wander at their own pace through the markets. The Romans and the Hsiung-nu mix. At first some of them make an attempt to communicate with each other in sign language and laughter but soon give up. No one has money to buy anything but that doesn’t deaden their enjoyment of looking at the wares or the ardour of the merchants trying to make a sale.
