The Tortoise in Asia (22 page)

“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.

T
wo 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 smell 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,

“Sir, my name is Marcus Velinius Agricola and I'm a Roman soldier. I've come to offer the services of my cohort of a hundred and fifty men, skilled in warfare”.

Jir-Jir sits straight-backed, a golden hilted dagger hanging across his flat belly. His neck is stiff, chin high, jutting out like a small shovel. It's the haughtiness of the warrior who always wins, who never doubts the certainty of victory. After a silence calculated to diminish the supplicant's confidence, he says, also in Sogdian, “Yes, I know. You were sent for.”

Marcus shifts his feet – the only sign of nerves.

“What would you like us to do, Sir?”

“You're big men, taller than ours. But are you strong?”

“You can find that out for yourself. Give us a test.”

Jir-Jir leans back and nods slowly, a shadow of a smile crawling into his horseshoe moustache. He fingers his dagger, maybe a distraction, maybe an unconscious gesture to show the foreigner he's in his power. He's never seen a Roman soldier before – the breastplate, the greaves are strange. Facially, Sogdians look similar but he assumes they're different, a lot softer.

“All right. Let's see if you can string a Hsiung-nu bow. I'll send for you in the morning and you can demonstrate your strength. If you pass the trial, I'll use you and your men as part of my army. If you fail, I'll still use you. But in the next battle you will fight the enemy first, before we come in. Your deaths will amuse my troops.

“We're here to fight the Wu-Sun. I'm going to manoeuvre them into battle in a couple of weeks. You'll be part of that. Jiyu will take you and your men to your tents. I expect you outside my tent tomorrow morning.”

He stands up, seeming much shorter than the man in the chair. But his broad raw-boned shoulders and barrel chest show he would a tough adversary in hand to hand combat. Shoes don't lift his height for he wears soft soled skin boots with round toes. Coming half way up his shins, they have an elliptical pattern in light blue on the sides. His stature exaggerates the size of his head, or perhaps it's the large round fur hat he wears.

Jiyu comes over and leads Marcus and Lushan out of the tent, mercifully away from the noxious smell. He gently steers them to walk out backwards, as he does himself. Outside the tent the air is clear and fresh and the light hurts the eye. He motions to the rest of the Romans to follow and takes them all over to a group of round white tents on the outer edge of the camp. Marcus and Gaius are to have their own while the rest have to share. Lushan looks worried.

“Marcus, you have to learn how to string the bow. It is not easy. Strength is required but there is a trick to it. You must use the time until tomorrow to practice. Jir-Jir is testing you as much for adaptability as for strength. I will get someone to teach you”.

At their new quarters the Romans gather around Marcus to hear the news. Like some of the others, Trebonius is concerned.

“Watch out Marcus Velinius. Jir-Jir might be setting you up. Maybe he's got no respect for foot soldiers since his people are cavalry – just wants you to fail so he's got an excuse to send us out front like he said. Might want to see us cut down like wild beasts in a hunt. How do we know what he's thinking?”

“Maybe so, but I've got to try, got no choice. No choice is the same as the best choice.”

”Yes you have. You could just refuse and tell him we don't fight with bows. It's too big a risk. If you fail we'll be all doomed.”

“No that's the coward's way out. I can do it. It's important we impress him. You don't balk at a challenge with the strong. You take it up.”

Most of the men agree that he has to try; certainly Gaius does, but all are worried. In a way it's like the ancient way of determining a conflict – a champion tested in single combat while the troops stand by. Everything depends on it – life or death for all.

Lushan has spoken to Jiyu and he he's agreed to teach Marcus the art of stringing the bow. They spend the rest of the day at the lesson. The prospect of imminent death concentrates his mind. Time and time again he tries it. As Lushan warned, it's not easy. The technique requires agility and co-ordination as well as strong arms. Soon his arms are screaming like harpies but he continues.

He tries to pace himself, stopping from time to time to recover his strength. The sun passes overhead and sinks towards the steppe and he's still at it. Gradually the clumsiness smooths down and the times the string spills out of the slot become fewer. By the time darkness arrives he feels he can do it; but doubt remains. A sudden attack of nerves in front of the man who can decide life or death could unsettle him. It's still a technique he's just learned, not one he feels comfortable with.

Next morning, just after the sun has climbed out of the horizon, Lushan arrives to collect him. He's been up for an hour practising.

They walk to Jir-Jir's tent and meet him and Jiyu outside the pool which is flashing sunlight as if it's drawing attention to the event about to occur. The Sharnyu doesn't acknowledge their presence, nor does Jiyu. They stand silent, examining him, legs slightly apart in perfect balance. It's the beginning of an unseasonably hot day, a hark-back to summer. A throng of the Sharnyu's people are there to see the spectacle; the Roman contingent stands in square formation, apart and tense.

The Hsiung-nu banners shudder nonchalantly against their poles in a slow breeze, adding colour to the white tents and gnarled vegetation. Marcus says good morning in Sogdian. Jir-Jir doesn't reply but tosses him an unstrung bow. The string jumps in the air forming a rat's tail, but stays connected.

“String it. You have until I count to five.”

The pressure is enormous. Burdened with the fate of his comrades, the task is like pushing a huge boulder up a hill. One slip and it'll roll back and crush him like a beetle. He must focus all his faculties, precisely following the instructions of his teacher. If he bungles, he'll do himself a serious injury as the bow will whip from the pressure, possibly gauging out an eye with the string. But that would be the least of his problems. He'll get no second chance; Jir-Jir will fail him unless he strings it with no mistakes. Death is sure to follow failure. Being sent into battle while the Hsiung-nu troops watch will ensure that.

He catches the bow and places it upright on the ground, his foot as a chock. He slides the string up past the horn- plated belly and toward the recurved end, toughened with strips of laminated bone that make the apparatus strong and stiff. In a mighty pull with one arm he bends the bow and slips the loop into its slot. He does it in one elegant motion, like a move in a dance. The Romans cheer as he holds it high for all to see. He's well within the time limit.

Jir-Jir smiles, eyebrows rising to open up his face for the first time.

“All right, you succeeded. But we shall see how well you fight. Come with me.”

Together with a small entourage, they walk towards the edge of the camp. Jir-Jir moves with his knees slightly flexed and legs apart in a rolling gait on the balls of his feet. It gives him stability and the capacity to spring into action suddenly in any direction. In a way it's like a gorilla walks but more balanced and smoother. Alertness seems to inform every movement. He could be expected to attack or defend in a split second, before anyone could land a blow. No enemy could surprise him, even from behind. There'd be no doubt as to the outcome if one tried.

“My scouts tell me that the Wu-Sun are forming up a few days march away. They expect us to attack. Which of course is what we intend to do. We've got them where we want sooner than I expected. Now, you and your men – give me the bow.”

He grabs it and in a curved flash pulls an arrow from the quiver on his back. With a fluid movement that allows virtually no time to aim, he slots it into position and shoots. Everyone is silent.

Marcus looks in the direction of the arrow and sees a hare stumble and fall about fifty paces away in the scrub. They walk towards it and a warrior picks it up by the arrow to show the Sharnyu. Shot through the heart just behind the forequarters, the animal is dead.

“If I had missed I would've blamed you for not stringing the bow properly. Then you would've been in trouble.”

He throws back his stiff neck and laughs to the sky. The retainers join in and Marcus feels accepted.

In a few steps they come across a recently flattened piece of ground with no vegetation. On it are marks which seem to represent two armies facing each other, with lines coming out of the one on the right indicating the direction of attack. The map, elaborated with little flags, is so neatly drawn it could be a work of art.

Jir-Jir points to the contingent behind the attackers' right wing.

“Here's where you and your men will be positioned”.

“I want your men to be ready to march tomorrow morning. They must be on horseback. Can they do that?”

“By now they can, but they'll be much slower than you people.”

“I know that. Nobody is as fast as us. I'll give you guides so you won't get lost. You can catch up to us later at the battle site.”

It's a relief to see that when Jir-Jir referred to fighting he meant against the Wu-Sun and not another test. Also good that his cohort won't lead the attack but will be used as a reserve to be committed later. It'll give them a chance to see how these strange people operate in battle.