by Tony Grey
Lushan takes Marcus over to one of the pools where the city gets its water. They’re strewn all over, like shiny buttons on a green garment. In the protection of bending trees, it’s still and deep, a sanctuary of cleanness in the dusty and sweaty city of trade. Its surface is like a silver sheet, gleaming and unsullied.
“Purity is an important ideal in the Zoroastrian faith. It is celebrated in many forms. Fire is the main one. The sacred pool is another.
“See those giant storks resting in the branches of the trees over there, the ones lining the pond?
“They fly here from Egypt every year. Men of wisdom claim that in ancient times they brought the learning of the Pharaohs to Sogdiana. That is why our culture is renowned all along the Caravan Road. You can see their nests near the top of the canopies.”
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Next day the travellers are back on the Road, heading through the Red Desert. Green-spiked karagach, about two spans high, invades the desolation in small clumps. At times the sand has a red ochre tinge. The colour tends to relieve the bleak and endless expanse. Suddenly Marcus sees a creature scuttle in the sand. On closer look he recognises a small tortoise about a span long. No doubt it has strayed a bit far from the leafy greens of the Bukhara oasis.
After a week of monotony, a mountain range rises in the distance, capped in snow. The troupe moves up and onto a wind-swept mesa with an open field of view. In front of them a great city carves a turreted profile into the sky. It leaves the desert suddenly, within an explosion of vegetation. Lushan announces that it’s the legendary Samarkand.
Lushan pulls his horse closer to Marcus.
“The sages of the past always claimed that after a long journey through the desert seeing Samarkand washes away all melancholy and worry. It gives people a sense of purification that puts them in a state of mellow contentment. And when they go through the gate they feel uplifted by the many gardens that bless the city. You should know that the Zoroastrian concept of eternal paradise is based on the garden.”
He can see the point, despite the exaggeration of the Sogdian patriot. He’s getting used to his flamboyance – even starting to enjoy it.
They approach the daunting walls, built thick with mud brick and rammed earth. Not even the savviest enemy could knock them down. They pass under the big stone lintel of the main gate into a bustling throng even larger than in Bukhara. Samarkand is the capital of Sogdiana and the royal residence.
The loquacious merchant can’t contain his pride.
“Samarkand is the jewel box of the Caravan Road. Its wealth and culture have attracted visitors for centuries. And conquerors too. It was here that Alexander the Great married Roxanne, the Sogdian princess he won at the battle of the Sogdian Rock. That was nearby – in that direction. She was the only woman he ever truly loved”.
What might have been with Aurelia?
Everyone dismounts, leaving their horses in the care of a few Hsiung-nu so they can walk through the town. As they amble along the main street, crowded and set in cobblestone, they smell a complex and beguiling aroma. It turns out it’s from the spice market. Lushan claims it’s the largest in Sogdiana, possibly the world. Waist high stands of mud brick fifty paces long are arranged in rows. On them, sacks with turned down tops and brimming with multi-hued spices sit touching each other. A few of them are slumping, in danger of spilling their contents. Lushan recites their names – coriander, rosemary, thyme, mint, basil, saffron, cloves, and cumin.
Women in long dresses with zigzag patterns of bright yellow, green, blue, and red are sitting behind the stands taking money and packing goods into the shoppers’ baskets. They’re garrulous and giggly. Indeed all the people in the market, the men too, are unreservedly friendly. It’s a happy place, where commerce playfully joins with socializing.
They pass into the fruit area, where silver-grey peach kernels are sold. Looking like limestone gravel, they’re piled in elbow-high heaps, giving off a white dust which covers the saleswomen. Customers are eating them as nuts as they shop. Figs wrapped in vine leaves, mounds of red and green grapes, apples, peaches and plums crowd the sides of their stands. A magus in tall, conical hat and flowing robes, pale blue with gold stars, picks up a fig. With one hand he puts it in his mouth, with the other he holds a roll of parchment, a look of quiet contentment on his face.
Next in line, plump lettuces, onions, tomatoes, cucumbers, squash and eggplant crowd the stands. Sweet smelling dried grass to be used for incense is on a stand nearby. Beside it, in the shade, men are stacking melons, some palely beige, others striated green. A man throws one from a donkey cart to his workmate on the ground in an elegant arc. He places it neatly on the pile. Lushan says that all the produce has been brought fresh this morning from the oasis farmland.
Before they leave the food markets they go past the meat section. Men in blood-stained tunics are butchering, slicing pieces off large carcasses of sheep and quartered camels hanging from hooks, complete with heads. Nearby, meat is being cooked over braziers to eat on the spot. Smoke billows over wooden tables, spreading the cooking smells, which are spiced with cumin, garlic and cloves.
Tinkers and blacksmiths hammer out a form of chaotic music in the next section. Remarkably, the blacksmiths use the same technique Marcus has seen in his father. The high-pitched staccato spreads to where the rare fabrics are sold – the silks. The Romans are amazed. They’re like sheets of mist imprinted with the rainbow and their smoothness seems as subtle as poetry. They speak of luxury and sophistication. It seems a wonder why no one has brought them to Rome. Perhaps, after Carrhae someone will.
But the most enthralling is the jewellery quarter. Unlike the rest of the market, it has proper shops – built from mud brick set side by side in a long row. Armed guards slouch around outside. He’s never imagined a display of wealth like this. It’s a treasure only the gods could amass. Long gold chains hang like bunches of grapes on the walls; clusters of rubies, emeralds, diamonds and sapphires are set in rings, brooches, bracelets and necklaces. Sometimes they’re piled loose in heaps. They seem even more opulent like this.
The money tumbles into the coffers of these mercantile people like ripe apples falling on a windy day. What are the Hsiung-nu allies thinking as they see all this affluence? Although they’re in this part of the world to protect the Sogdians from the rapacious Wu-Sun, they’re rough nomads just like them.
He knows the meeting of the poor and strong with the rich and soft is often incendiary. How long will Jir-Jir hold to the alliance once the Wu-Sun are beaten off? It’s possible to imagine his warriors riding through the market place, slashing the heads off the merchants and sweeping the saleswomen onto their horses, or at least the younger ones, and taking them off into the desert for violation and abandonment.
He drops back out of earshot of Lushan to speak to Gaius.
“I hope our new employers don’t turn on the Sogdians and make us fight them. They seem a friendly people – a lot more civilized than these nomads we’re joining up with.”
“What does it matter who we fight for as long as we’re free?”
“Yes, I guess. But I still wouldn’t like it – wouldn’t seem right to fight for a backward tribe against these civilised people. I like the Sogdians. Never thought cities like the ones we went through existed. They’re really impressive. And what about their men of wisdom?”
“Marcus, you worry too much. Are you getting seduced by these barbarians? Shit, that’s not what you used to sound like.”
“Maybe I just see things I never saw before. Besides Lushan’s a friend. We wouldn’t be here without him. One thing’s certain. If the Hsiung-nu do turn against them, we’ve got to look after him. We owe him that.”
“All right. I agree. But let’s leave it at that. We’ve got to look after ourselves. That’s number one. Don’t get soft.”
“I’m not getting soft, Gaius. Anyway, we probably won’t get recruited against them. Changing the subject, the big thing now is to impress the Hsiung-nu
leader when we get to his camp.”
“That’s right. Stay focussed on that Marcus”
The troupe continues walking along the cobblestone street, stared at by the locals but left alone by the city officials. At the eastern gate everyone mounts his horse and passes through undisturbed, onto the Road.
Soon the riding soreness, given respite in the city, starts up again, but the Romans have no option but to endure it. Jiyu is not willing to accord stops. He does once though. As a caravan comes alongside from the east, he orders a halt and talks to the lead caravaner. At a guttural signal the camels lurch down on their haunches, their crates dangling near the ground.
“What are you carrying?” Marcus says to one of the merchants.
“Medicine herbs to Margiana – rhubarb, cinnamon and ephedra.”
He’s seen rhubarb in Rome – a rare product used as a digestive. Cinnamon too – for combating diarrhea, toothache and colds.
“What’s ephedra?”
“It comes from a plant in the hills. Usually it’s diluted – for respiratory problems. However some of the Magi take it in full strength because it alters the mind. It helps them get close to Ahura Mazda. There they can truly see his wisdom. Do you want to try some?”
“All right.”
The merchant hands over a small packet of brown powder.
“Eat it.”
For a while nothing happens. Then other worldly feelings come over him – wave after wave. He becomes dizzy and the desert begins to move, folding into the sky and out again, and the tamarisk bushes crawl towards him. It’s not unpleasant, quite good in fact, suggestive of an extraordinary advance in perception – he sees the Platonic form in everything around him as never before. His mind leaps out of his brain and embraces the forms in a metaphysical connection that lifts his spirit to a new height. But it doesn’t last.
Suddenly the blazing sun sheds a flock of black birds, expelling them as if they were enjoying its brightness for longer than they should. They swoop down, beaks and talons as sharp as Parthian arrow heads. He turns away, ducking in fright and tries to fend them off, but they keep coming, relentless and savage. They’re more vivid than in the dreams. In their flapping wings is Aurelia’s face, scornful and reproachful, coming closer and closer until it envelops his head and disappears only to reappear in front. He sees himself bound to a mast, screaming at the ear-plugged sailors to untie him so he can swim to the seductive singing on the shore.
The merchant hurries over to give him water, helping him to sit down.
“Don’t worry. You’ve just had a bad reaction. It’ll be all right in a few minutes.”
He recovers slowly and laughs off the experience.
Jiyu gives orders to restart the march and they pass by the caravan, leaving it in the shimmering haze. They go off the Road into wasteland unmarked by tracks. It’s amazing how he knows the way. No one says a word; the Hsiung-nu have said virtually nothing since Margiana, except for a short while in the market and that of course was unintelligible. They seem to take on the taciturn nature of their leader, unlike Lushan who talks all the time. Much of what he says makes sense though and he’s always willing to answer questions. One comes to mind.
“Lushan, what’s the Hsiung-nu society like?”
“It’s tribal, with a sharnyu as the head. Sometimes the tribes come together in a federation with the most powerful sharnyu at the top. That’s when they are most dangerous. Jir-Jir is only the head of his own tribe. Right now there is no federation.
“They are ferocious most of the time, but they have a spiritual side – in touch with nature and its spirits. The spirits can be beneficent or harmful. It depends on whether they are propitiated or not. Even though the sharnyu is all powerful he must show respect to the shaman – like a high priest. He is the one who conducts religious ceremonies. Whenever the tribe is about to begin something important, the shaman performs sacrifices to the ancestors, also to heaven and earth and the spirits of the steppe”.
A herd of wild camels shambles among the thorn bushes just off the Road, quiet and insouciant. They’re different from the beasts further west. This type has two humps, rising out of their backs like sand dunes with a space in between. It’s as if their design was derived from the landscape. Lushan says,
“They are from Bactria, the mountainous country to the south – a breed common out here.”
The camels are unimportant; it’s the meeting with the Sharnyu that matters. Anxiety is building up. If it goes wrong, things could be far worse than the Parthian captivity. How should the barbarian be approached? How can he be impressed? Any mistake could be fatal – Lushan said he’s unpredictable.
Weird imaginings are fruitless. All the Romans need to do is demonstrate their martial skills. That’s what they’re there for. To steel his nerves he recites under his breath, like a prayer, the three moral building blocks, virtus -self discipline, pietas – respect, and fides – faithfulness to an engagement. Above, an eagle circles with unmoving wings, looking for little lives hiding in the karagach.
Any doubt he might have had about Jiyu’s sense of direction dissolves as an array of circular white tents appears. They’re set up along the bank of a mighty river, tinged with green, which Lushan says is the Jaxartes – the other Sogdian river that feeds the northern sea. He points to the bank and says
“Not far from here, Alexander the Great built a city called Alexandria Eschata – Alexandria the farthest, because it was the furthest east of all the cities he founded. Mothers out here still name their children after him, although the pronunciation has drifted from the original Greek. Sometimes it is Iskander.”
The tents are strange – of white felt, not brown leather of the Roman type, and round, not square. Horizontal bands near the top hold the fabric onto frames which are made from tree branches. The structure is adapted to the extreme cold that’ll settle in soon like the embrace of death. Felt insulates against the temperature and the ferocious steppe winds slip around the sides.
Women and children are scattered outside, unselfconsciously staring at the weird people in their strange uniforms. All are silenced by the sight. They’ve never seen anything like it.
Jiyu leads the troupe through them to a master tent several times the size of the others. In front is an artificial pool. Lushan says
“That pool you see there is in imitation of one that is famous in Hsiung-nu culture. In the far distant past a dragon fell from heaven into it. The dragon is worshipped out here.”
“How do you know so much Lushan?”
“I don’t think I know any more than anyone else in my country.”
They go around the pool and stop at the entrance of the tent. Several men with faces like round granite suddenly appear, arrow-stuffed quivers on their backs. Jiyu dismounts and they take his horse. After a brief consultation, he waves at the Romans to get off their horses, then motions to Marcus and Lushan to come with him. The fateful meeting is about to begin.
CHAPTER 11
Two expressionless soldiers stand outside the entrance of the tent, armed with long swords and composite bows. They guide Marcus and Lushan through the flap. A slight stoop is necessary, to put visitors in an inferior position. Their eyes take a while to adjust to the dim light inside. Brightly coloured carpets cover the raw ground, overlapping each other to the walls – soft under foot. Some are of thick felt, articulated with animal and abstract designs and others, more refined, are tightly woven and thin, like the ones sold in the Bukhara markets.
In the middle of the tent the Sharnyu sits on a rough wooden chair with arm rests. A guard on either side stands rigid with a vertical banner attached to a spear. The banners have different patterns and colours, presumably belonging to distinct regiments. Marcus has never seen their like before. Flags are always set to flap horizontally not to cling up and down the pole. Body odour fills the tent like smoke and almost causes him to gag. It’s as strong as the stink of a boar’s carcass in the second day; but it’s not a sm
ell of death. Life, sweaty and energetic and disdainful of creature comforts produces it. The foul air projects the savage reputation of these men he’s seeking to join and gives fair warning of the risk he’s taking.
The atmosphere is dark, silent and menacing. The shades of the after life must be like this and Pluto just as impassive as the figure in front of him. He’s in the power of darkness, utterly exposed. As in the myths, strength of character is his only means of survival. He tells himself to concentrate, to ignore the threats that surround him like demons in a dream.
He looks at the Sharnyu and tries not to stare. What’s noticeable is not his small, black beard trimmed just below the lower lip to highlight a moustache which curves down to his chin. Nor the nose that spreads to his high cheek bones. It’s his eyes.
They’re hot, like obsidian fresh from the volcano. Shining splinters explode from narrow slits, sourced from something terrible inside. Everything else is still, including the rest of his warriors, presumably officers, who’re filling the tent, the ones further away fading ominously into the shadows. They’re all motionless and silent like the Sharnyu. It’s as if they’re a collection of black granite statues, the eyes of their leader the only living force.
The eternity of a minute goes by and nothing happens. He has to do something to break the tension. In a few steps taken as firmly as he can, he approaches the Sharnyu but not so close as to be disrespectful, leaving Lushan in the background. Looking straight at the igneous eyes, he says in Sogdian,
