The Tortoise in Asia (2 page)

Is it an illusion that Crassus is filling the role of a general, acting a part that's really not his to play? He's certainly not type cast for it. Will that spoil the expectation of riches? If it does, he's made a bad decision to come, possibly even a disastrous one.

Perhaps all that doesn't matter anyway; the Roman army can be counted on. It always wins. Besides, an illusion isn't necessarily bad in itself – can often be harmlessly pleasant. However sometimes it can sidetrack the logical flow of thought and seduce even worthwhile motivation into a perilous dance with fate.

He's thinking too much – time to go to bed. Maybe it would have been better if he had gone out with Gaius and the others – they always have a good time. But at least he'll be healthy in the morning while they're nursing hangovers.

❧

Next day the army's on the march early, heading towards the fingers of the dawn which are slipping over the Road stirring up another hot day. Light splinters in the dust kicked up along the way cause eyes to squint and recovering heads to ache.

The morning banishes the doubts he had last night; its freshness brings out the positive. He's pleased with himself, a little cocky even, justifiably proud of his recent promotion to
pilus prior
; and why not. It's unusual for one so young, a few months shy of thirty, to be in charge of 600 men, a cohort. Since it's the largest tactical combat unit in the army, he'll have a certain independence of command.

He's on the way up. Eventually, if fortune maintains its smile, he'll become an eques, a knight, complete with an estate. It's not out of the question. Also, Crassus has begun to include him in strategic conferences. Why, the great man even comments on his talent for instant pattern recognition in the battlefield – an instinct everybody knows outstanding generals have. The Commander in Chief says he could become one. How complimentary is it when he's said to offer a new perspective, unspoiled by the conventional thinking so common in the High Command.

The opening battle, which he senses will be a decision point in history, is going to be his ultimate test.

As he marches, he looks at Owl's Head, his dagger; it's the one piece of equipment for which he has allowed himself a bit of indulgence. It was a curious little man, the master craftsman in Damascus who made it for him the last time he was in Syria, with Pompey's army – never stopped talking about his celebrated skills. How disgusted he was with the regular
pugio
issued by the Roman army; he could do so much better, make something that had a killing urge in itself, a spirit imparted by the elegance of his design. He was very persuasive. It's not hard to accept when a weapon is personally made it has a magical quality, something that enhances a young man's belief he's immune to the risk of death.

When he had finished it he took forever to explain the technicalities behind how he had etched the silver hilt and the wide-leaf blade in their arabesque patterns, how he had decorated the scabbard with silver and gold bars, how he had inlaid an owl's head in gold on the pommel, and how carrying Athena's favourite bird would instil the goddess' martial spirit and some of her wisdom. The fellow charged a fortune – almost six month's wages, most of which had to be borrowed. But it was worth it.

Owl's Head always reminds him how important the dagger is to his style of fighting. He can still hear his old instructor, as loud – voiced as Stentorius, shouting at the new recruits to get in closer to their opponents, right up close, how that's the Roman way. The admonition was meant to overcome any natural inclination to stand back, but he often goes further; he can close so tight that it's hard to use his sword. That's where Owl's Head comes in. While he's proven he's above average in general weapons skills, he accepts he's not with the best. However, his reflexes are so quick he's lethal with the dagger, nobody faster. It's where speed is of the essence.

As the march gets under way, the uniform steps never wavering from the beat, slip into a sandal-crunching monotony. The Road compounds the Asian heat, so much more extreme than in Europe; maybe its stones are imposing a mischievous test of endurance. Every day is like this – hot and boring. Tedious though they are, the daily marches complement the training exercises to make the Roman soldier the fittest in the world, at least normally so.

No one likes the marches, but they must be endured. How else can infantry cover the vast overland distances? It's part of being a soldier, however humdrum. He looks for relief in day dreams – images of the booty that lies ahead, gold and silver in sacks of shining coins, gold goblets inlaid with precious stones, and polished silver plates, jewellery by the wagon load, heaps of glistering plunder which the cunning Commander in Chief will extract from the opulent Parthian nobles, the richest people in the world. Try as they will, they'll never be able to hide it from the master wealth collector. As a
pilus prior
he'll get a handsome distribution, not a lion's share for that'll go to the legati and Crassus himself, but a leopard's portion, enough to make him rich.

A commotion erupts beside the Road; a donkey is bucking and braying. But it fails to divert the locals. They keep staring with wooden eyes at the shiny creature in a submissiveness that inflates his natural pride.

But not for long. Like most of the people who've arrived to watch, he too hails from the land. His late father comes to mind, the face like a rusty quince insinuating into his mind's eye. The old man is reminding him, as he always did, that the land is a member of the family, more than that, it's the
dominus familias
, the boss. The phrase won't go away; it's like a pesky moral tenet. Why should it? The army will never replace his formative attachment. Even his cognomen reflects it. Anyway, returning eventually to agriculture, hopefully as the owner of an estate, is not inconsistent with a soldier's lot – quite common in fact. It might just be lying in wait for his retirement from active service.

Through the hot simmer that bounces off the cobblestones in an eye – bending miasma, he sees the image of a ten year old boy. He's with his younger sister and mother in their wooden hut, the
pater familias
sitting amongst them on a rough-hewn chair, head bowed. It's a hot summer day, like today, and a short distance away one of their cows is calling in distress, possibly for a calf that's just died. Struggling for control, his father reveals the awful decision he's been forced to make.

Wetness trickles down his cheeks as he mumbles, almost too embarrassed to speak, about giving up their way of life. The
defensor familias
is powerless, unable to do what it's the essence of a man to do. By the time he's finished, the moisture is gone, leaving a salt track, gritty white against his sunburnt skin.

It was a day of pain stifled in silence when the family moved to a cheap district in Rome where the erstwhile farmer learned the blacksmith's trade. Money was never plentiful but enough for a decent, if largely self-taught eduction for the only boy in the family. It's remarkable that his mother encouraged learning, as she was illiterate. But she saw, more clearly than her husband, that education was the best way to advance for someone not born into the senatorial class. She pushed him hard – difficult for her sometimes, for it went against her gentle nature. However she believed that, like sugar in teeth, there's an acid in the sweetness of compassion which tends to dissolve strength in a boy. Nevertheless, as Danae did for Perseus, she gave him a sense of self worth, a faith that he was destined for an exceptional life.

It was tragic how the wrench tore a piece off his father's soul, how what remained was too reduced to allow for happiness, how city life turned out to be too different, too remote, how he could never feel the mellow connection there which is the essence of home, and how unsettling feelings would always disturb him, like the rumblings of Tryphon in the subterranean cave.

Being brought up in a stable, albeit simple home and rising in a career that'll lead to affluence most probably, he feels a tug of guilt that he can't identify fully with that depth of sadness. He was too young at the time to feel what his father felt, except vaguely, and now the thought of losing his home isn't something he really considers. He's always had one; these days it's in the army, a peripatetic one, but a home just the same. It gives him the emotional security everyone needs. Nevertheless it's impossible to forget that day – the only time he saw a grown man cry, an event shocking to the core. His Stoic background with its requirement to control feelings through disassociating emotion from pain seemed assaulted. Later he understood that certain tragedies permit a different response.

The loss of the family land brings Crassus to mind, ironically the one man who must be impressed. Was he somehow implicated? He was among the most aggressive latifundia owners, those powerful men who drove down the price of agricultural produce by using slave labour from Rome's conquests. By squeezing the small farmers during those distressed times he added vast amounts to his domain – unconscionable behaviour in the extreme. Perhaps he's using some of those disgraceful gains to fund the Parthian campaign.

Is his presence here somehow condoning the outrage to his family? Should he be doing something about it?

There's no point thinking about the past; any suggestion that Crassus was involved specifically can't be proved one way or another. The man's presently the Commander in Chief and that's all there is to it. Besides he's showing kindness now and he's in a position where he's capable of helping or destroying careers, certainly his own. The man's an affable fellow, friendly to everyone, even says hello to people of low status, often calling them by name. It's difficult to imagine him in an evil role.

The clanking beast of war lumbers out of the Syrian plain into rough country framed by low lying mountains of smoky grey. A long shaky line, drawn like a child might, separates earth and sky. Heat smacks his face like the palm of an unseen hand.

Half focussed, he sees a man on the right hand edge of the Road in front of him walking in the same direction as the army – not beside it but on it. Dressed in simple Syrian clothing, he's bent over like an old man. A pole with a hanging bundle is on his shoulder. He wouldn't ordinarily notice except for the fact the soldiers ahead make way for him as they pass. They veer around him. He does himself. Later he asks why they all did that. No one knows why. They just did it, as if in response to some instinct.

A rise in the Road appears, a feature more common now. But this one's different. It looks down to a mighty river, wider than the Tiber, writhing over the landscape like a pregnant brown snake, fat and fertile. A Syrian scout says in perfect Latin,

“The Euphrates – border with Parthia. It's dangerous these days. The currents are usually lazy but they're livelier now, what with the snow melt from the Armenian highlands.”

This is it. The invasion's ready to begin. On the other side of the famous river, the march will take on a different character – more dangerous, more exciting. Discipline will tighten as they start to move through hostile territory. He looks down at the Road, almost feels like patting its stones for it'll take him to his destiny as if it were a beast of burden. He feels a certain affinity with the trusty track he's been on so long; it's like an ally, for once the water barrier is crossed it'll lead him and his comrades to a victory which promises to be Olympian. The Road will share in it, become more than an ally – a partner. An ideal one too, for he'll not have to share the spoils with it.

The army takes up rest positions under the trees by the bank. A human ribbon forms along the meander as the troops jostle to get close to the water. The air's sticky and clouded with blow flies. Since it's a sign of weakness to slap them off, they keep irritating at will; only reflex action prevents them from entering the men's eyes. His uniform tossed aside like the others, he wades into the water stripped down to his loin cloth. Thousands of chaotic white shapes spray onto the brown water, staying close to the shallow edge. The water's too cold for more than a quick dip, the current too fast for a proper swim, not that he has the skill anyway.

He lies down on his side, propped up on his elbow, letting the air cool him as he's drying. His childhood friend Gaius, who grew up in the same neighbourhood, comes over and sits on the grass, also stripped to his loin cloth; they all are. He's a crag of a man, big, blunt and square-faced. Unlike Marcus who is quite handsome, Gaius is too rough to be attractive to women, but he could lift a tree trunk heavy enough for three men, or smash into enemy soldiers like a battering ram breaching a fortress wall. He's the Ajax of the Roman army.

“What d'you think of this Gaius? Isn't it great – far cry from the marching huh? That dip sure beats the heat.”

“Yeah it's all right. Nothing wrong with a break. But the men've slackened off – not good. Been like that for a while. Slipped off their peak. The Commander doesn't keep discipline up. Pompey would never allow it – no godamn ever.”

“What are you worried about? They're still the best in the world.”

“No argument, but I don't like spending all that time booty hunting. Shit, we could pay for that when the battle starts. Too damn slack.”

“Maybe, but you have got to admire the crafty way he requisitioned those men from Damascus and then let them off after they paid. He didn't want them anyway – useless idiots; just after the money. I know the locals hate us for it, but who cares.”

“Yeah, but he don't keep the drills up. Look at what happened when he robbed the Jewish Temple – seemed like the whole damn army went on leave. Nobody did anything for weeks.”