by Tony Grey
As the desiccated land yields to grass, puffy white shapes appear on the blue horizon. Soon they emerge as mountains, their peaks so high they host permanent snow. Marcus has only heard about the Alps, never seen them. Are they equally majestic or as dangerous? As the Road approaches the grassy lower slopes leading to the pass they must cross, he steels himself for the deprivations that Hannibal’s troops had to suffer.
CHAPTER 17
The weather is clear and warm as the troops wind through the dense forest that hugs the lower slope. As they ascend, the trees grow at steeper and steeper angles, and conifers start to appear. It’s really a walk at first but after several hours it becomes a climb, though not requiring skill. The temperature is noticeably dropping. They’re coming close to the clouds which glide over the peaks in white and grey shapes, like ships. They tease the eye, covering everything then opening up patches of empyreal blue. A rainbow from a recent shower shines in the distance.
Little white flowers peek out of the underbrush. And large blossoms in clusters of brilliant reds, mauves and pinks on trees with twisted branches paint blocks of colour on the mountainside and in the valleys below. Monkeys sit in the taller trees and gossip about the strange intruders who have no right to come into their abode.
It’s a relief from the grimness of the steppe. Here everything has a green presence, green in all shades and textures, moist and luxuriant green. It’s hard; it’s soft, sometimes threatening in its impenetrable mass, other times seductive and mysterious. Like siblings, its forms compete with each other for attention. At altitude, dwarf bamboo plants in pale green appear and eventually give way to the darkness of conifers. Meadows like lawns are revealed without warning, so smooth they could have been scythed by human hand. Sometimes they surround tumbling streams which carve the host rock as if with a white knife and crash in misting cascades. Often they’re flat like balconies in the sky. On one of these the Romans spend their first night.
Next day’s climb shatters any complacency that might have tempted a few during the journey so far. In three hours Marcus is above the snow line, bracing against icy winds that knife through his clothing into his bones and slap hard against his forehead. Within minutes it starts to ache furiously. He has to put his hand up to protect it; so does everybody else. The Road disintegrates into a miserly track, as if it has lost interest in the climbers, content to let them struggle along in lonely single file.
Little clouds, more like patches of mist, dart around at eye level like incoherent thoughts. An eagle glides among them, eyes on the lookout, its moving head a contrast with its wings. He looks into its eyes, so cold and menacing they seem like spear points. It sails on by and fades from sight around a peak, then reappears and disappears again. For a moment he thinks of the army standards and the times as a boy he and his friends climbed the hills of Rome looking for nests of the noble bird but not finding any. Then an image of the Eumenides emerges out of the cold air and he bends his head further against the wind.
Further up, the troupe enters the world of full cloud. It’s not dense, but shifting in intensity, transforming the landscape into a magical state, where objects appear and dissolve as they’re observed. Mysterious forces and strange happenings are possible here, even a passage to Hades for the unwary. Stark dead trees, like shape monsters, scratch at the vaporous air and disappear. Large shaggy brown creatures emerge out of the mist, vanish and suddenly reappear in different positions on the slope as if in a magician’s trick. He’s told their tails are used as tassels for the dreaded banners of the Hsiung-nu.
The Road has become part of the mountain’s form, its rocky track here fully integrated with the peril of the heights. It winds tortuously up the face and stares across the lethal void to snow capped peaks that look like serpents’ teeth. At this altitude the path shrinks to a precarious shelf, cut into the cliff. The Road is challenging the climbers to go into the jaws of doom, just as the Alps dared Hannibal’s troops. He and his comrades have no choice but to take it up without flinching for they must impress their new employers. Nothing is as important as that.
Snow is blowing in the wind and covering the path in a slippery film. The temperature has dropped to a skin-shrinking low. Not a man is without fear of falling into the void that waits in silence like a giant predator. The soft falling snow blends with cloud to wrap a blindfold around the men, reducing visibility to fuzzy shapes. They’re ordered to hold hands and move cautiously, small step by small step. Each expects a sudden pull from his neighbour at any time. There’s just enough width for the wagons and chariots, but only just. Sometimes they have to be eased around sharp bends with ropes.
Marcus’ breath starts to come in short gasps, driving shards of pain into his lungs. A strange headache breaks out, different from what’s caused by the wind, and much worse. The pain wracks his entire skull. It’s difficult to hold concentration, avoid the pull of the void that calls to him like Sirens on the shore. Several of his comrades are vomiting, doubled over in pain. So are many of the Han. He’s never experienced anything like this before. However, the fear of the unknown at least is relieved when one of the Han says it’s just mountain sickness that’ll go away once they descend.
Suddenly, a horrifying shriek breaks out behind him. It’s followed by others and an ugly crashing sound. He turns to see the outlines of a wagon and three Han soldiers bumping down the face. The cries of the doomed men echo down the slopes and into the valley, diminish and fold into the wind. The spirit of the mountain has claimed its due. And the Road is complicit.
Everyone stops. They’re immediately risk averse, brave men terrified. The deaths are starker than usual, more foreboding in this other-worldly environment. It’s as if they shouldn’t be there, as if they’re being punished for being out of place by a malevolent force that’s protecting its forbidden domain. But in a minute or so, officers bark orders and the trek starts up again. Painful hours pass as the struggle with the mountain pushes the limits of endurance further than he thought possible.
As he climbs higher, the visibility opens up. The snow belt thickens into deep powder, stretching smooth and pure up the mountain slope, its contours shaped in clean curves by subtle shadows. Sheets of bright sunlight bounce off its crystals like the silk at Carrhae forcing him to look down where the snow is broken. It’s harder to walk now as his feet sink in up to his knees. It’s worse for the men ahead who have to walk in virgin powder up to their waists. If the climb weren’t so arduous, if the venture into the unknown weren’t so disquieting, he would have marvelled at the beautiful whiteness which wraps the mountain like a wedding dress. The fresh snow creates its own universe, a place of purity and innocence, but lurking within it unseen, is the constant threat of a sudden avalanche or a fall through a corniche.
Soon the clouds close in again and visibility drops to nil. At the front of his cohort he reaches the top of the pass but has to be told it’s not just another ledge; the cloud masks everything. It’s a huge relief to get there without Roman casualties – a few close calls but not even a minor injury. Now he and his comrades can start the descent. However it proves more difficult than the climb in many ways, although thinking of the finish line is a consolation. The withering headache fades with the lower altitude, but his thighs and knees are on fire and the cold is still wracking. Finally he and the others reach the warm grass of the lower slopes. On the flats, the first of the Han troops are marshalling, commands and regimental banners filling the air. It’s pleasant there; the warmth brings his cold – shrunken skin back to normal. The passage now is just a memory of challenge, justifying a sense of pride and repeated telling with embellishment.
Once all the men have reached the flats and have rested a while, Colonel Chen orders the march to start up. After an hour or so, Marcus catches up with Kang who says,
“That was a very successful crossing. Too bad about the wagon accident, but we had minimal casualties really given the risks. You might be interested to know we call that range the
Roof of the World. People go up there for a spiritual experience. Its remoteness allows the mind to roam free from the strictures of everyday living. In our land we have many mountains and they’re the inspiration of poetry and calligraphy, our greatest art form.”
❧
The Road soon loses its green mantle to the grip of the desert. Marcus is used to it now, able to see more in it. If he bends down to look at the sand closely he can see that it’s made up of tiny stones, a splendid array of individual shapes in various colours – reds, blues, magentas, yellows, whites. They’re like jewellery in microcosm, secretly beautiful in their own right. It just takes patience to see them, something most people aren’t willing to muster. Little lizards dash around in the sun, camouflaged against the stony sand which appears beige even from a short distance.
In a few days they reach an oasis where the Road changes into a parkland of poplar trees, their leaves scintillating in the breeze like silver coins. Marcus asks Kang about the town built here.
“It’s called Kashi, famous for its weekly markets, where thousands of people from all around come to shop. It’s the furthest west we’ve extended our power. Although we go on punitive expeditions, we have no permanent interest on the other side of the mountains. The locals are a branch of the Hsiung-nu although some are Sogdians. A few, mixed. They’re in a tributary alliance with us. Not an easy one though; it’s always at a breaking point. As you can imagine we don’t get on terribly well”.
Townsfolk line the thoroughfare as the army marches past, staring at the Romans as if they’re watching a freak show. It’s mid day and the sweet spicy smell of roasting meat is in the air. But sight of the bizarre cooking on the side of the road squelches the appetite of even the hungriest Roman. Sheep heads are bubbling in murky water, thick wet steam rising from the pot. A sweaty cook pulls one out, tosses it on a wooden block and hacks it two with a small axe. One thwack and the two halves fall outwards. He throws one on a metal plate; it lands with a splash of fluid. The customer takes it over to a rickety wooden table and eagerly demolishes its steaming eyes, brains and cheeks.
Past the sheep heads, vendors are selling small birds in cages. They’re singing so loudly they can be heard above the clatter of the soldiers and the babble of the locals. Perhaps it’s a song of protest, or maybe they’ve transcended their condition. Anyway the Romans no longer have to think of themselves as captives.
“That’s the song of the nightingale,” Kang says. “Its sweet voice has captivated the Han people since before time, especially emperors. The contrast between the beauty of its sound and the plainness of its brown body is a common theme in poetry.”
Nearby a scruffy man with one eye is selling dogs, strange little animals Marcus has never seen before. They’re beige with wrinkly black faces squashed flat, unlike the long snouted variety in Rome. Their eyes are striking – large, black, and bulging, giving them a trusting air. All are animated, jumping up in their cages and wagging their tails which are curled in a tight spiral. He asks Kang about them.
“They’re a special breed that goes back centuries. They were bred to be chunky, with flat muzzles. It gives them trouble breathing sometimes. Emperors favour them because they have such appealing personalities-friendly and whimsical. And they’re good watchdogs, totally fearless. Even though they’re too small to survive in a fight with big animals they will attack anything. Here they’re sold for the table.”
To be both a pet and a food seems a contradiction – a disturbing one.
“I’d like to buy one, but for a pet. I know we must keep going but could you arrange that for me somehow? I’ll repay you when I get paid.”
“Yes, of course. We’re marching slowly. Don’t worry about repaying. It won’t be much.”
Kang speaks to someone who disappears into the crowd and brings back a male – just past the puppy stage. He’s animated, squirming around as he’s being carried, trying to get down.
“What shall I call him? What’s a good local name?”
“Well, Ting Ting might be all right. You’ll have to carry him until we stop for the day. That’ll be soon, when we’re outside the town. Then he can travel in one of the wagons.”
Marcus says as he picks up the little dog. Ting Ting settles down in his arms, wagging his curly tail, and seems content – at least willing to be carried now. Within a few steps he feels a warm wetness spread over his bare arms.
❧
The Road leads the troops out of Kashi into the desert. Soon they come to a small oasis where they set up camp for the night. He keeps Ting Ting with him as the tents are pitched and gives him his first feed – raw sheep meat meant to be cooked for the army. It disappears in a few seconds. That night he sleeps in his new master’s tent.
Next day he puts his little friend in the baggage train and joins the rest of the cohort. In a short time the Road comes to mountains striking due east. Wrinkled drainage channels give them a personality of benign old age. The Road continues parallel, keeping watch, perhaps in awe of their wisdom so much more ancient than its own.
Marcus’ language is improving and he’s now able to hold a conversation with Kang without too much Sogdian.
“Can you tell me about this place?”
“That range is the Heavenly Mountains. It’ll be with us all the way to Gaochang, like a guardian. We’re passing through the Taklamakan, the most dreaded desert in the world. Countless people have died in it. The name means “If you go in you never get out’. People say stone demons emerge out of it and eat caravans whole. The Emperor sent troops in once and the stone demons ate them all.
“Sand storms blow up without warning and cover everything. They completely change the landscape so you’ll lose your bearings unless you’re an expert. It’s said there’re hundreds of rich cities, full of gold and precious jewels buried out there. Treasure hunters have been searching for years. So far they haven’t found any, but they keep trying.”
They continue to march together, discussing the wild terrain, so removed from the comforts of Rome and Chang-an. It’s the remotest place he’s ever been in and the strangest, far from any human presence whatsoever, a land entirely of itself, an entity with its own rules. On their left the Heavenly Mountains are their chaperone, stern and constant. Reddish bedding, with white patches and green inclusions lies in wavy layers across vertical wrinkles. Soft dust in the air covers them in a subtle gauze. During a lull in the conversation, he lets his vision slip out of focus, allowing faces to appear on the slopes, their eyes narrow and cheekbones high.
Further down the sides, outliers take on supernatural forms that come alive in the shifting haze as reference points disappear. At the base of one a giant dragon sleeps on the sand ready to devour any traveller who wakes it. He knows the Hsiung-nu worship the dragon; so do the Han. It’s a creature of power and authority.
On the flat ground that stretches to the right as far as the eye can see, salt pans and isolated tufts of camel thorn form a ragged pattern on the stony sand. The Road is taking them into an otherworldly place, a retreat for ascetics. Its severity beckons the mind towards the sacred and liberates it from mundane distraction. Here it’s possible to go through a portal into a state entirely divorced from conventional life. Perhaps it’s the Road’s spiritual home, a place where it takes travellers so they can begin to understand the meaning of its mission.
Kang points out that the Road is now passing across lands never fully subdued by the Han armies, lands where death and destruction can suddenly swirl around caravans like quixotic gusts of desert wind. It’s no wonder that tales of sand demons and other magical figures have been animating the imagination of caravaners for years. Marcus is intrigued by something he’s just noticed.
“What is that tall thin structure just off the Road to the left?”
“That’s a beacon tower, made from rammed earth. It’s part of an early warning system. We’ve built a chain of them from here to the borders of our Kingdom. They’re the scariest buildings t
his side of the Great Mountains. When the smoke comes out of them, it means the Hsiung-nu are about to attack. Those devils are a constant threat to caravans, also settlements. They can come out of the haze at any time – leave no one alive, unless they’re on a slaving raid. However, our army is too big to attack, so don’t worry. They’ll leave us alone”
“It looks impressive. We have nothing like this where I come from. How does the system work?”
“Whenever a threat breaks out, each tower signals to the next one – wood fires at night, black smoke from wolf dung in the day. The dung – it’s quite a chore to collect it, produces a colour different from normal fires, so there’s no confusion when that smoke is seen. It means danger pure and simple.”
The troops have to go over a subsidiary range striking outwards from the Heavenly Mountains. The Road winds through a pass down to a river and onto a wide plain. Its surface is sculpted in sand waves whipped up by the wind. Jagged shores edge it and sandstone cones rise up like islands. It looks like a vast inland sea enclosing random landforms. Not a scrap of vegetation intrudes on its lifeless form.
While the Road is crossing the sculpted plain, little puffs of dust begin to dart around like unruly smoke. Wind start to suck up particles and swirl them, first slowly, then faster, in a torque like a spinning top. Kang says
“We have to take cover. Wrap yourself in what ever you can find and stay close to the ground.”
The wind builds to a shriek and darkness descends over the desert; new waves form on its surface. They’re in motion now but soon they’ll stabilize and change the terrain once again. Visibility plunges to blizzard level. Dust particles so fine they invade the pores come in endless blasts. Marcus pulls his tunic over his head and lies down curled up in a ball. Though uncomfortable, flying dust stinging his exposed flesh like wasps, it’s nothing like the tornado at Carrhae. Three hours and then slowly it subsides into a thin orange shield which the sun eventually pushes through. Brown lumps on the sand begin to stir and men emerge as from a chrysalis. Ting Ting is safe in the baggage train. Marcus feels guilty that he didn’t go back to look after him, but there was no time. He does now and finds the poor little dog terrified but unharmed; fortunately someone had covered him during the storm. The locals call it a Black Hurricane.
