The Tortoise in Asia (9 page)

❧

The small bronze oil lamp, which looks like a baby's shoe, casts a flickering light onto the brown leather walls of Marcus' tent. The worry about Ariamnes' reliability has dissolved into a pleasant sense of rightness about the decision he's just made. Usually finding it easy to make up his mind, he's taken a long time over this one. Love for Aurelia struggles with the pull of campaigning. To bring a wife into the rigours of the march and the risk of defeat seems unfair, especially to someone as refined as Aurelia. The alternative of long absences would create its own problems. Besides, how can someone as impecunious as he, expect Aurelia's upper middle class family to give consent?

However, the money issue should be resolved shortly. The Parthians will be defeated and Crassus will empty their cornucopia in a stream of plunder. Given the seniority of his new rank, he'll do well in the distribution. He'll have to negotiate the periods of absence, but that should be possible. Anyway, in a few years he could retire and buy a farm near Rome with his winnings. Her family would be impressed with his rise to the equestrian class, something his father would have considered unthinkable for someone of his social background.

The parchment crinkles on the table as he shifts it to write. He pauses at the marriage part. What if she rejects him? Her letters indicate he doesn't have much to fear, but expressions of affection, even love, aren't the same as willingness to marry. Practical considerations can intervene, especially when class is relevant. And Aurelia's rather haughty. Might she feel she would be stooping to marry a blacksmith's son?

There's such definiteness in putting something in writing. Ink provides a nondeniable record. Exposing his soul can't be explained away.

He makes the proposal, finishing the letter with a flourish of affection, and rolls it up. The postmaster will load it in his pouch in the morning. But it'll have to await the outcome of the battle. He goes to bed satisfied he's made the right decision and confident about the future. As he slides off to sleep, comfortable thoughts of home drift by, a new home for Aurelia and him, a traditional one in Rome, or, if things go well, outside in the country, but not too far away.

❧

In the morning, Cassius decides to retain his silence, but reluctantly; he's ready to challenge the Arab unless his prediction comes true soon. Marcus too is concerned, but not as much as the hard-nosed Quaestor. Besides, he's somewhat invested in the unctuous navigator.

Three days later, as the Road rediscovers green, Crassus is pleased to inform the officers that the Belikh River is two days' march away and Ariamnes has gone to the Parthian camp as a Roman spy to mislead them about the strength and deployment of their foe. He appears jovial, his round face beaming confidence, which is just as well, for there were two strange occurrences in the morning.

Instead of the red garment Roman generals wear, he came out of his tent in a black robe. Why, nobody knows. He changed it as soon as he saw the reaction. Also, several standard bearers had trouble pulling up their eagle standards which were stuck in the ground. Marcus was near his cohort bearer as he tugged at the standard for several minutes to get it out; he needed some help for what should have been done by one man. Are these omens – if not a supernatural sign then at least something reflecting a sense of foreboding? There's no way of knowing, a source in itself of concern. It's best to put anxious thoughts aside and concentrate on the welcome news that the long and sterile prelude is soon to end.

Next morning, three Roman scouts ride up to the praetorium in a rush, bloody and dishevelled. Their horses are sweating and foam spills out of their mouths. People run over to grab the reins. Crassus comes out. While still mounted and bending over with three arrows in his back, the leader gasps, “Large Parthian patrol. Killed four of us. Saw army on other side of Belikh. Could see tents”, and collapses on his horse.

A firm and delighted smile breaks out over Crassus' face,

“The time has come. No more waiting. Sound the battle march”. Almost as an afterthought he says “Look after the scouts.”

Even Cassius manages a smile, like a skull, but still a smile of sorts.

❧

Soon the mighty instrument of war reaches a grassy plain emerging from the desert. The Belikh River is in the distance, a wavy silver slash flush with flood. Not a tree, not even a bush interrupts, nor undulation or declivity disturbs the perfect smoothness of the land.

Cassius moves close to the Commander in Chief,

“Commander, we should deploy the troops in line and open the ranks to widen the front. Deter their cavalry from surrounding us.”

“I agree”, says Crassus and gives the command.

It passes down the ranks to Marcus and the other centurions. After a few hundred metres another order comes, this time to marshal his cohort into its place in the hollow square, the traditional Roman formation that creates a front in every direction. What's going on up there?

The troops march across the flats, coming upon the little stream that's the Belikh River – a vision of the Elysian Fields. For days they've been persecuted by the baleful sun which has been baking them in their armour and sucking moisture from their throats. Perhaps it's supporting Parthia, angry that the peace of the land is to be broken. Even the Road has become discouraging lately, its surface converting to sharper stones and foot -burning heat. Is it telling them to go home, giving them a warning, a last chance to avert catastrophe?

Cassius approaches the Commander in Chief,

“Marcus Licinius, should halt here, make camp – send scouts out to see how the enemy will line up. Men need rest. Fight better in the morning.”

Crassus barely hears, certainly doesn't listen. He's impatient for battle, for the victory that will see him lead Surena, followed by his defeated troops to Ecbatana, take possession of the Parthian king and his treasure. He can't wait for his return to Rome as an Imperator – there'll be no doubt about it this time. He'll receive a Triumph and become the
civis princeps –
the number one citizen.

“The men can eat and drink standing in their ranks. I'll allow one hour, no more. Then we march to battle.”

Cassius stands still, sullen, saying nothing; the twitch in his left eye is the only thing that moves. After an awkward moment that seems longer than it is, he leaves to go back to his post.

The hour goes by slowly, the sense of time stretched by anticipation. But it eventually passes. The moment for battle has arrived. They're about to fight that afternoon, the 9
^th
day of June, 53 BC. The wise and ancient Road will soon be charged with carrying the news of victory and defeat, and the tragic pool of blood spilled on the field close by.

❧

At the far end of the open space, Surena watches a dust cloud rising on the horizon. It's coming closer and closer, inexorably, like a huge rolling boulder. It holds to its path as if pushed by a divine source and is approaching the very place where it's wanted. The Parthian Commander smiles; he's pleased as much with himself as with what he sees. It confirms the deeply held belief in his judgement, a singular skill proven once again, this time in the most important challenge in his life.

“Noble Commander, you can see how well I've succeeded in enticing the Europeans onto the Carrhae plain as you wished”, says the Arab who sits mounted beside Surena, also on his horse. The fidgety beasts sense the restlessness in the air, like chariot horses straining at the starting blocks in the hippodrome. Ariamnes is accompanied by his tribe, a group of irregular skirmishers. They've been with the Parthians all along.

Surena's face is painted, reds and blacks put on like a woman would, incongruous against his chiselled black beard. His hair is parted and hanging in the manner of the epicene Medes, not like his fierce warriors who tie theirs up on the forehead in a knot like the point of a battering ram. No one thinks to criticize him though, even in their thoughts, for he's ferocious and cunning in battle. It's his practice to paint his face like this on every military occasion.

He jerks his horse's head back as it tries to move forward.

“I can observe that for myself. Take your men and join the right wing.”

Now that Ariamnes has fulfilled his purpose, he sees no point in wasting time with him. It's a huge relief to see the Romans fall for the treachery, for all depends on it. He's got no infantry, nothing but horse archers. The Romans can be assumed to count on the usual combination of cavalry and foot soldiers they see in Asia; he plans to do something different, unexpected. He places a thousand camels behind the front line, laden with spare arrows so his archers can reload without having to ride to the rear. He expects this to unsettle the Romans for Asian armies normally keep their ammunition in the baggage train, well behind, where it's safe from a collapse in the front line.

At the appropriate time he'll deploy the secret weapon, a device the Romans have never seen before.

❧

Crassus' round face opens in a crescent moon smile. Confident in his role as Commander, an Imperator to be, he says to the officers around him, especially Cassius,

“Look at that. Surena's allowed us to manoeuvre with the sun at our back. I knew we were dealing with a second rate adversary.”

Today the sky is without cover, its golden disc bursting with early summer vigour and aimed right at the Parthian lines. High above the armies, its light flashes off the wings of an eagle banking over a little life in the grass, preparing to swoop down to extinguish it.

The combatants are not on the Road but they're not far away, close enough for it to feel, at least dimly, the ground waves radiating from the mighty rumble of horses and men moving forward to engage each other in the great battle of East and West.

As the armies approach, a deep and hollow roar bursts from the Parthian ranks, like the roll of thunder or the bellowing of Tryphon in his underground cave. It's not the blare from conventional trumpets but the demonic rhythm of kettle drums. The Parthians have perfected the art, creating a sound that insinuates the dread of alien power into the ear, penetrating the emotional well where fear lurks, ready to rise up and quell the will.

In retaliation, Roman commanders shout orders for their curved horn trumpeters to bray louder as the square closes with the enemy, but they can't drown out the drums, nor match their unsettling effect. Marcus and the other officers aren't in the front ranks but in the hollow middle, their regular position; it affords a better view of the action, facilitating the giving of tactical commands. The Parthians are to be drawn into close combat where Roman discipline and tactics are the best in the world. The square formation is as solid as the earth.

Suddenly a wall of light leaps up from the Parthian side, as bright as the sun but a thousand times wider. It's the full length of the front side of the square. Before Marcus has a chance to blink, it hurls a salvo of rays like a storm of needles. Paralysis seizes him. It's more frightening than the drums. No one can fight blind. There's nothing more ineffectual than thrashing around without sight.

Something supernatural is happening. It's as if Jupiter himself is revealing his face to consume the Romans in a mortal blaze. The men lift their shields and stumble around aimlessly, ceasing to care about the enemy. They forget their discipline and let the line waver. The more credulous claim the gods must have abandoned them.

Recovering his sight, Marcus rushes to the front, shouting to the men around him, “It's only something that reflects the sun. There's nothing divine about it. Hold your shields up. Stand your ground.”

Other centurions and their optios join in with angry commands. The troops begin to regain their composure. With squinting eyes they straighten up their ranks. But their confidence has been dented, something impossible to contemplate before the secret weapon came into play. They need the urgent reassurance of their officers, who themselves are shaken. Like them, Marcus has to drive his will to the sticking point to rally his men. He runs throughout the front line shouting encouragements, and insults to the waverers. The biggest problem is to debunk the superstition affecting many of his men.

Within minutes, a mass of cavalry explodes towards the square. A figure taller than the rest is in the lead. As the horsemen approach, they drop the cloaks covering their armour – Surena had ordered the disguise. They reveal themselves as the dreaded cataphracts, the heaviest armed cavalry in the world. These terrifying troops wield long lances and are protected by interlocking plates of Margianian steel. Their horses are armed too and look like weird metallic monsters. Their polished plates flash like sheets of lightning, amplifying the radiance of the wall.

They charge the square at full gallop, the shining wall blazing at their back. The metallic mass hits the square with a tremendous crash. But it holds fast. The disciplined rows give way slightly to absorb the energy of the charge as one does in catching a ball. The long lances of the attackers glance off the shields. The massive Roman barrier, several rows deep, dismays the horses, causing them to pull up and shy away despite the furious urgings of their riders. Confidence returns to the Romans.

They suddenly break the square and, with shields held up to protect their eyes, advance on the double into the faltering Parthians with shouts of triumph. Marcus and Gaius are at the front, thrusting their swords at the horsemen and bashing with their shields. But the armour of the cataphracts is impenetrable; they can't make headway against the monsters. Marcus drops his sword and grabs the end of an enemy lance, just before the tip. The rider holds tight, his horse bucking in fright. Marcus throws away his shield and yanks with both hands. The Parthian holds on with just one, reluctant to let go of his shield. With a piercing shout from the pit of his stomach, Marcus pulls him from his horse.