The Tortoise in Asia (15 page)

He was tempted to excess by high achievement, a failing of many gifted men. The extent of this sin is measured by the enormity of his crime. His attack on Your Majesty was a breach of the sacredness that surrounds the throne, the divine unifying element that gives order to our nation. In doing that, he committed an act engineered by Evil, which Ahura Mazda, bless his name (all mumble again), justly punished through Your Majesty's hand. We must all unite behind the throne and move forward to enjoy the enhanced position our nation now enjoys after the defeat of the Forces of Darkness.”

The nobles and priests nod their heads in agreement; there's no alternative. Some may doubt the King's version of events, but there's no evidence that he wasn't telling the truth. Besides he's the monarch, too exalted to be challenged in public. True, Surena's troops will have to measure their loyalty to their Commander against having to fight their brothers. But he's just a memory now. Expedience prevails as nobody wants another civil war. Orodes is satisfied he'll get away with the murder. But all are not as happy as he.

N
ext day, the Parthian guards order the prisoners out of Carrhae onto the Road in the direction of the awakening sun. Everyone wonders who will fall victim to the brutality of the morning. All prepare to dive quickly to the ground, hopefully into a gully. But as the sun emerges from the pale blue, the usual signal for the dreaded horseman to arrive, he doesn't appear.

News of Surena's fate winds through the straggly line. A ragged cheer breaks out from the tired Romans in stages, as word of the deliverance passes along the Road, whose flatter stones here seem to indicate its relief too. Marcus says to Gaius that Epicurus had a point when he said pleasure is the absence of pain. The big man merely grunts.

Even the Parthians seem pleased, for while admiring his talents, many of them suffered from his dark side. They have a new commander for the march, a junior officer, noted for harshness but not savagery. And so the prisoners know they will live today, unless sickness or unhealed wounds claim their due. It's a blessing, even when measured against their journey into slavery.

From time to time they pass by local people walking short distances, farmers sometimes, sometimes just villagers on donkeys. They share the Road with them, easily moving around them as they're not marching in column as before. Marcus doesn't know why but his eyes fall on a lone man a few paces in front of him dressed in a tunic, head covered by a dusty red cap that gathers his hair in the Parthian fashion. He's walking slowly, wearily, as if he has a long way to go. He's carrying a bundle over his shoulder and is leaning forward. It's not possible to get a look at his face because his head is turned the other way as Marcus walks past.

The guards don't say where the trek is heading; but it's always east, fatally lengthening the distance from Roman territory. As the days fall by like sand slipping into the next chamber of the hour glass, inexorably and without distinction, the terrain leaves its trees behind and dries out into seared fields. Then it yields to steppe country of paltry scrub; sparse grass takes over, spreading its flatness into a wilderness that has no boundaries, except a horizon blurred in dusty haze. The sun,
sol invictus
, is in a wicked mood, devoid of pity for the struggling unfortunates. No cover shields them from its baleful shafts. Even the Road has lost sympathy, its stones magnifying the heat in cruel alliance. It seems it's punishing them for their defeat, or perhaps for their hubris.

Each step pulls a little more at the hope Marcus has allowed himself to hold. No chance of escape exists, for even if he and a few comrades were able to elude the guards, the huge and hostile country would ensure their recapture and certain death. While there's some possibility of a high level truce which might permit repatriation, it's dauntingly remote. Too much enmity separates the two nations.

The epic struggle of Odysseus comes to mind, carrying a hint of guilt. He recalls the hero's sacred duty to return home – the Greek tradition and his own. Must he follow it? Yes of course; he's been brought up to it. But only if circumstances permit. While Poseidon frustrated the determined Greek a number of times, whipping up the sea to drive him off course and a series of monsters sought to detain him, it was not an impossible task. This one would be. It's normal for the sense of duty to dissolve in the face of a superior force. Maybe he's rationalizing again, not like Cassius would think.

Gaius is walking beside him, grimly silent. He hasn't said anything for hours.

Marcus has to mention what's on his mind.

“I wonder if my last letter to Aurelia got out.”

“Marcus, you have to be realistic. The only hope is if Cassius' group escaped, and that's not likely. If the letter had any chance it would've been with his contingent.”

“Yes I know. He's still in charge of logistics. In a way it's probably better for her not to get it. Or would it? If she got it, at least she would know my true intentions. But it might create a false hope. If she hears nothing she would be freer to find someone else.”

“My friend, you'll have to forget her. Some one'll tell her about the defeat. She'll wait a while for stragglers to come home and find out you're not among them. Then give up hope.”

“I know, but as long as there's some chance of getting home, even if it's remote, that's hard to do.”

There's no point in continuing the conversation. They trudge on in silence, retreating into their own thoughts. A wave of self pity breaks over him no matter how hard he tries to resist it. Why was he chosen to suffer this degradation? Who chose it for him? Was it a force activated by the choices he made, or does he bear no responsibility- a victim of uncaring chance? Why did the gods who are supposed to protect Rome permit it? Nothing has prepared him for this.

Briefly, he looks over at Gaius' impassive face. His friend doesn't seem to have the same or even similar thoughts. He just accepts his fate like a true Stoic without questioning it.

The books that used to while away the weary hours of night are no longer of interest. Perhaps they contain some answers but what difference do they make? He husbands them though; at least their presence offers a kind of connection. Fortunately the Parthians don't think they're worth stealing.

Of late he has retreated more and more into himself, downwards in a vortex, farther and farther from the horizon marking the boundary with the outside world. Down there, a cold fog of lethargy seeps in and stifles any movement except aimless drifting.

Nothing is worthwhile; self worth is an illusion – shadows on the wall trapped in the past. To an equal and opposite degree, erstwhile pride has morphed into self loathing. His summons to destiny has vanished like a vision faded; it's become an unreadable parchment, all meaning dying in blurred ink. Positive thoughts of the past or the future have abandoned him, escaped into the terrible vastness of the steppe. He's locked in a negative mentality of the present which constrains his freedom as much as the guards.

He can't think of change, even for the better, though he knows Democritus showed that everything changes; nothing stays the same; you can't step into the same river twice.

A paradox bedevils him – if he's worth nothing, is nothing, why is it that all he can think of is himself. How can something that doesn't exist be so consuming?
Ex nihilo nihil fit
-out of nothing, nothing comes. If there's nothing left, no Aurelia, no home, no family, no prospects, no self, why not end life now, right here on the callous Road? At least it would have the elegance of demonstrating the ultimate futility of it all.

That evening when the others have gone to bed, he wanders off into the steppe. It seems lonelier at night, devoid of life, a place where death would feel at home. He takes out Owls Head, looks for a full minute at the lethal beauty of its silver damascene; the pale star light picks it out. He holds it with both hands. His arms stretch out. The tip is pointed to his belly. One thrust and he'll be at peace. The nothing will return to nothing, where it belongs.

Why doesn't he do it? Cowardice isn't the reason; his bravery is proven. Perhaps there's something deep in the vortex that's an antidote. It can't be the hope of repatriation; that's become too slight to matter. No, it must be something else, something beyond consciousness, a hidden device of nature that whispers denial to the negative.

He puts Owl's Head away and returns to the camp. He has a restless sleep and wakes up jaded. His sense of failure is compounded by last night's brush with his reluctant dagger.

All that can be done is to march in leaden sullenness with the rest of the unfortunates. The Road is as hard hearted as its stony path. It's leaving Roman territory behind, steadily moving away from civilization and humbling its habitat as it penetrates the fearsome unknown. Human settlements are further and further apart. Towns and villages become smaller and poorer as the bedraggled throng heads east.

Soon the parsimonious Road offers only dry and sun-blasted steppe which stretches out in a vast beige wilderness, struggling to support even camel thorn. The Romans are constantly beaten to walk faster, their strength compromised by the meagreness of the meals they get once a day at the end of the march. The smell of putrefaction poisons the air as some of the wounds progress to the mortal stage.

Marcus is beginning to smell it around Quintus, who's looking pale these days and has lost his vigour.

“Quintus, how's that wounded hand?”

“It's turned bad. I didn't want to say anything – thought it would heal by itself. But it's not going to. Blood poison's set in. Spreading. I know the symptoms Marcus. I'm done for.”

Marcus doesn't know what to think. Quintus would never say a thing like that unless it was serious, very serious.

“Quintus, you shouldn't keep walking. I'll arrange to put you in one of the wagons.”

“No. It's too late. I'll keep going as long as I can and then just sit down. It's the fortune of war.”

Marcus puts his friend's arm around his shoulder and grips his good hand. With his other hand he holds his belt. For a while he's able to help him walk fast enough to avoid the attention of the guards. But soon his weight begins to pull as his legs buckle. There's nothing for it but to carry him piggyback. While there's still life he must do what he can. Fortunately the guards call a rest halt. Marcus looks at the eyes of his comrade. He's gone.

Telling one of the men to look after him, Marcus goes to see his legion legatus.

“Manius Decius, Centurion Quintus Tullius has just died – only a few minutes ago. We must bury him. Can you persuade the Parthian Commander to allow it, maybe as an exception? We can carry him until the end of the march today and bury him then.”

“I've been to see the Commander of the March about the burial policy – several times. He won't budge – must have orders not to allow us to bury our dead. They're being vindictive.”

“He was a close friend. I can't just leave him for the vultures.”

“Nothing more I can do. I'm sorry. I know it's appalling but that's it.”

Marcus goes back to Quintus and calls his officers and a few of the others together.

“I'm not ready to let Quintus rot out here. It's an outrage that the Parthians won't let him be buried. I propose that our cohort refuse to get up when the guards order a restart until we're allowed to bury him. This is not an order but I'll do it even if I'm the only one. Who's with me?”

Everyone agrees without hesitation. Word is passed down the line to the others in the cohort. When the rest period is over, they all refuse to get up. The guards are furious, prodding and hitting them with the cattle whip. But nobody budges. A guard officer comes up to Marcus,

“You, you're the commander of this section. Order your men back on the march.”

Marcus says nothing, only stares defiantly into the distance.
Alea iacta est
.

“What's the matter with you?”

”One of our officers has just died. We want to carry him to the end of the march today and bury him. It's only civilized that we be allowed to do it.”

”You know the policy. No burying. Now get up and order your men to move out.”

Marcus sits still, silent. The officer comes over and cuffs him across the face, then orders a guard to give him ten strokes of the lash. This produces no action. Then another ten. Marcus' back runs rivulets of blood but still no obedience. He doesn't care. Life's hardly worth living out here anyway.

The officer's frustrated. After a moment's hesitation, he disappears to go to the Commander of the March, leaving the guards to kick Marcus a few times until he tips over on the ground, barely conscious.

The Commander is in a quandary. He can't just leave the stubborn Romans behind, or kill them; they're too many. His orders are to bring the prisoners to Margiana as slaves to do important work. They're all needed, except for unavoidable losses. He'll be held responsible if the expected number doesn't arrive.

He's a pragmatic man, not particularly driven by hatred, and he's in a remote area, far from headquarters. Besides, the burial policy was instituted by Surena, and he's dead. Why is it vital to keep it now without exception? It's more important to complete the march with the full complement. Without giving reasons, he abruptly orders the guard officer to allow the burial so long as it doesn't slow the march. This means it has to be done at the end of the day, on the time of the Romans, and by them.