The Tortoise in Asia (23 page)

J
ir-Jir leads an eight thousand strong force out of the camp in full panoply. Drums bouncing on the sides of the horses begin the growl of war and regimental banners flash colour onto the steppe. The Romans are on foot in the rear, carrying two standards, one for each century, a sober contrast with the flamboyance of their new comrades. An enterprising man has made them out of found objects.

It's an odd combination – a barbarian army of horse archers leading the most sophisticated infantry in the world. But Marcus doesn't think it shameful as once he would. He and his comrades are free and that's what counts. Besides, proving the merits of the Roman way to the sceptical Sharnyu is a welcome challenge. The pressure is heavier though than in a normal battle where victory solves all. They can be part of a winning event but still fall short of the standards this unpredictable character requires.

It's just as well that he had the men keep up their skills in the daily practice at Margiana. It was really done for morale boosting but today its effect in the battle could be decisive. He looks at his men steadfastly marching as they used to and feels confidence return – good to be at battle again. The cohort's like a slack sail without wind tighten up from a new breeze and become full and strong. Today he'll wipe the slate clean after the ignominy of Carrhae, or die in the attempt. He has no doubt the others feel the same.

The Romans soon fall behind. After five days on the march, they catch up. The centaurs of the steppes take less than half that time to reach the site. Jir-Jir had his troops ride all night, every night. They slept on their horses. It's something they often do, a feat worthy of respect – another example of merit in people east of the Hellespont. It's something he's finding himself less and less reluctant to see, a factor that's making him question his earlier cast of mind, possibly reverse it.

The speed of the Hsiung-nu march has taken the Wu-sun by surprise. Their slow reaction permitted Jir-Jir to manoeuvre his army onto high ground overlooking them.

His position established, Jir-Jir ordered his troops to rest, allowing the Romans to catch up and join them. Opposite, on lower ground, the round white tents of the Wu-Sun spread out like mushrooms across the steppe. As darkness falls, their small brazier fires light up like stars coming out one by one. All is quiet, except for sporadic voices, thin and hollow in the distance, oddly peaceable. Notwithstanding the calm, the periodic breaks in the silence warn there're unseen enemies out there that must be faced in the morning.

Jir-Jir sends for Marcus.

“Tomorrow we'll line up in three sections. I want you and your force behind the right wing as part of the reserves. It's my intention to overpower their left after the first charge and turn it. You'll be part of that. Fight well and you'll be rewarded. Fail and I'll make sure you and your comrades are meat for the vultures. They're always hungry out here – ha ha ha.”

“You'll see how well Roman infantry performs. You can depend on it.”

For all the bravado countering the Sharnyu's banter, he's under no illusion about how testing the encounter will be tomorrow. He's never seen the Wu-Sun in battle before and the composite bow he knows they have will be as daunting as what he saw on the field of Carrhae. How they'll use it is yet to be seen; it'll be formidable that's certain. The Testudo will have to be tight. Gone is the confidence he used to have about winning battles against barbarians. It seems so long ago that he thought like that. Still, he hasn't forgotten how to concentrate, how to block out insinuating doubt, how to deluge fear in the storm of battle passion. And how vital the morale of his troops is. He knows the fears of his men tonight, fears born of the unknown, the great exaggerator. Some are beginning to bend to negative talk.

He goes from tent to tent calling them brothers, friends and countrymen. Showing not a scintilla of fear or doubt, he reminds them of their skills and abilities – the best in the world. He gives praise to individual commanders, engendering confidence in the others.

“All you have to do is fight as well as you know how. Remember your tactics and follow your officers. Do that and we'll earn a permanent place in Jir-Jir's army. Above all, be aggressive. Take the fight to the enemy.

“It's good we'll have the Hsiung-nu as allies. Jir-Jir's impressive. He's beaten the Wu-Sun before – and he's clearly got the drop on them. Getting the high ground was a master stroke. Look at the discipline and stamina of his troops marching all night. We've got to show we're as good as them in a fight. We can do it.”

He looks everyone in the eye and the confidence he exudes thaws cold.

All the same, it's difficult to sleep tonight. But at least the anxieties of the coming challenge block out the Eumenides for once, when at last he falls asleep.

Next day, while the copper disc struggles to rise from a thin bed of clouds, the big drums start up. Both sides try as hard as they can to outdo the other. The thumping pierces the air with insistent rhythm, deep and base, full of portent and confidence. Suddenly a tumultuous roar breaks out of the high ground. A mass movement of horses and shouting men thunders down and across the steppe. It's like a giant stain spreading over the landscape in splotches. Reds, greens, blues, and yellows of regimental banners flutter vertically beside the straining horses. He orders the Testudo to form. Holds it back out of range. The first salvo of enemy arrows flies into the charging horsemen. A few of them fall but the main body surges towards the lower ground intact.

On Jir-Jir's command given in Sogdian he orders the Testudo to move forward at a slow pace. High speed arrows hiss through the air. They hit it like a sheet of black hail, rattling the bronze shields. The formation holds firm. Its scales are intact. The waves of missiles aren't as thick as they were at Carrhae; the Wu-Sun are concentrating more on the Hsiung-nu charge.

Inexorable, oblivious to danger, the Testudo lumbers over the flat ground. It's like a primordial monster hankering after its prey. Arrows ping off of its carapace and do little harm. Abruptly it halts behind the front line. The horsemen are starting to fight with swords, still mounted. They've exhausted their ammunition. No more arrows to worry about. He orders his men to collapse the Testudo. They form the square and wait, ready to charge at the command. It's frustrating not to be part of the action but he must obey orders.

Despite thirty minutes of intense combat, the wings of both sides remain stable. They show no sign of bending. In the centre, the Wu-Sun are making some headway. It's not much but noticeable. He's starting to fear the worst. If the line cracks he and his cohort will be on the defensive. They might even be deluged by a panicky swarm of fleeing men, jostled and unable to fight as they should. He'll be denied the chance to prove Roman worth. Is another disaster looming?

Just as the bend in the centre is reaching its breaking point, Jir-Jir gives the order for the Romans to attack. In a mass they charge the left wing of the enemy. They bump into horse and man with their shields and lock them into close action. That's where their gladii are supreme. Unlike them, the Hsiung-nu and Wu-Sun have long swords. They fight with a slashing motion. The Romans easily parry their swings with their large shields. Up close the short gladius has the advantage.

He's in front, thrusting upwards at the mounted men and bashing with his shield. Gaius comes up beside him, overpowering all before him in a killing spree. The rest of the cohort press behind, yelling battle cries. The assault causes the enemy to bunch up. They're unable to move their horses out of the way of the converging infantry. Their legendary riding prowess is inhibited. There's not enough room. The Roman skills are beginning to have effect. Wu-Sun casualties mount; the gladius finds its mark. It's more manoeuvrable than the long sword, more responsive to quick reflexes. The sharp blade easily slides through the leather that passes for armour in this part of the world for most of the troops.

The spurting blood and cries of dying men ignite his battle fury, lain dormant since the great defeat. He's a Roman soldier once again. He's
acer in ferro
in the thick of battle. He's winning again. Like his comrades, he loves hand to hand combat. It's what they're best at. It's nobler than killing at a distance with arrows.

The cohort's charge propels him right up close to the enemy. Even the gladius is difficult to wield now. Marcus pulls out Owl's Head and drags a man off his horse onto the ground. He drives it through his face into his brain. Owl's Head has had its first taste of blood on the steppe.

As the Wu-Sun in front of the Romans show signs of weakening, a surging weight of cavalry comes up from behind. The Sharnyu flashes by, swinging his sword, lopping off heads and arms, a thrashing demon cutting a swath through the enemy line. He and his tribal guard are smashing into the enemy like a flash flood hitting a town. The violence of its flow subdues every obstacle and overwhelms all in its way.

The Wu-Sun wing falls back; the Romans rush forward yelling “
ad victoriam, ad victoriam”
. With Gaius beside him, Marcus shouts his men on as the mass in front begins to turn. Once the retreat starts it picks up momentum. It's like a wind change evolving into a storm. The invading wind starts slowly, gradually picks up speed and becomes a raging gale. The wing collapses, exposing the centre's flank and drawing in the foe. Flights of Hsiung-nu cavalry rush past on the right and get behind. Faced with the assault, the main body curls up like a dying leaf in autumn. Inevitably the enemy loses confidence; panic takes hold and rout explodes.

The Romans are on the double now and charge with their allies into the mass of trapped horsemen. They're like a hammer striking the anvil. He's amazed to see how similar it is to the strategy adopted by Alexander the Great in all his battles. The Wu-Sun army breaks down completely. All cohesion disappears. As the fighting stops, crowds of prisoners are disarmed and herded into a limp throng.

The Romans suffered a few casualties – five killed and twice that many wounded. Every death is regrettable, but under the circumstances, the loss is not too heavy, and the wounded are expected to recover. It's an unambiguous victory. Although only achieved in the company of barbarians, it's still a victory. Some at least of Carrhae's shame has been scrubbed clean.

Gaius, still out of breath, finds Marcus.

“Trebonius is among the dead. He fought well but was overwhelmed in the action.”

“I'm sorry to hear it. What an irony. He would still be alive if we had listened to him in Margiana.”

“Marcus, it was the right decision for him to come with us. Death on the battlefield is better than a life in slavery. He did his duty. That's what counts.”

“Yes. I agree. There's no doubt about that. Come, we must bury our dead and do it in the Roman fashion. They helped restore our honour. It's a debt we owe them.”

❧

After the burial ceremony, Marcus joins Jir-Jir, sitting beside him as his special guest at the victory banquet in the Sharnyu's tent. Marcus is on the left, facing north, the place of honour in Hsiung-nu tradition. Tables had been quickly set up to accommodate them and thirty senior officers. Braziers provide light and heat as the autumn evening, no longer flirting with summer, cools into night. Jir-Jir is in thunderous voice, fuelled by drink.

“Roman, you and your men fought well today. You've earned your keep. Our army will have a place for you. Tomorrow I'll send Jiyu to say what your wages will be. You'll be happy for I'm a generous man. Here's a reward for today.”

In a grand gesture, he gives him a leather bag, heavy and clinking. Marcus puts it on the floor out of sight between his legs and mumbles thanks as he bends down. Before he can say something appropriate Jir-Jir slaps the table.

“Have some drink, Roman.”

He hands him a bronze goblet full of off-white and foul smelling liquid. Marcus nearly gags as the sour odour billows up. It's worse than the body sweat in the tent, which, fortunately, he's getting used to. He takes a deep gulp and maintains a straight face. The liquor sears his throat. At least it's better than the smell. Right away, he swallows another; Jir-Jir smiles and nods approval.

The Sharnyu drinks from a silver-coated skull of an enemy chieftain. The handles are two stags facing each other. He drains it to the last drop and slams it down on the table. The cup next to him leaps up and spills its contents over his neighbour's tunic. The victim merely laughs, pats it down and calls for more drink.

“What is this stuff?” he whispers to Lushan who's siting on his other side.

“It's fermented mare's milk – what they drink out here.”

Slaves bring wooden platters heaped with mutton, beef, and goat cut up into little pieces and stuck on metal skewers. They strew loaves of coarse bread over the table, a solid structure made of planks, crude product from the local trees. The cooking, over a wood fire, is done inside the tent which has an opening at the top to let the smoke out. Notwithstanding that, the air soon becomes a fug. But nobody seems to mind.

The diners eat with their fingers, wiping them from time to time on the table or on their rough woollen tunics. Lushan has brought a cloth which he keeps surreptitiously under the table on his knees. As the drink takes hold, the reluctance of the Hsiung-nu to speak vanishes into a raucous din. They all talk at once, interrupted only by uproarious laughter. Occasionally groups break out into song which spreads around the tent. People bang the tables with their fists and slap each other on the back. The wild energy makes Roman parties look funereal.