The Tortoise in Asia (19 page)

His comrades have not been so lively since the capture. It's like seeing colour return to the cheeks of a dying patient. A hopeless condition has been reversed by a miracle.

“This is great, Marcus, Gaius says. “The money's no problem. Nobody'll care. We've got to get out of here, that's all. The main thing is to keep everything secret. Let's give the bastards a surprise, ha ha ha.”

The men are keen to organize the details. Suggestions and counter suggestions keep the discussion going well into the night. Nobody wants to go to bed.

Expectation and tension, almost too much to bear, dominate the days until the meeting with Lushan. They meet outside the Margiana inn. Marcus suggests they go for a walk nearby in the wooded parkland bordering one of the delta's arms. Flocks of long-billed egrets are taking refuge from the sun in the trees, standing motionless on the branches like white lilies. Too hot to care, they're unperturbed by the strolling conspirators.

“I have good news,” Lushan says. “The caravan leaves tomorrow and I can be in Samarkand in three weeks. From there I can ride to Jir-Jir's camp in a couple days. There is a Hsiung-nu officer in the Sharnyu's's army I met at the palace of the Sogdian King. He was in charge of the negotiations for the military aid. I am confident that he will pave the way for me to meet Jir-Jir. I arranged a personally lucrative trade deal for him while he was there. Have you brought the money?”

Marcus hands over three small sacks of coins. Lushan takes them with a gracious bow, not looking inside.

“Don't you want to inspect the money?”

“It is unnecessary. I trust you. Besides you are too intelligent to cheat me at the beginning of our grand enterprise, which can only be successful if we work together. I will contact you when I return. We will meet at the same place.

“Make sure that you are ready to leave quickly as the Sharnyu is an impatient man. If he has made up his mind to take you and your men on, he will insist you come over immediately. He might change his mind if you are later than he expects. Then you will really be in a fix.

“You will have to find a way to bring your military equipment. The Hsiung-nu won't have weapons for foot soldiers like you. They are cavalry people”.

He nods; the requirement is obvious. He gives Lushan the Roman salute and heads back to camp, his heart thumping so hard it lifts his tunic.

The estimated period of time passes wearily and stretches into lateness that has everyone on edge. Tempers are stoked up and hard to control; petty comments seem to take on an importance they shouldn't.

The plans are laid, rehearsed ad nauseam. There's nothing more to be done. The conspirators try to quell their anxiety by reminding each other that time estimates involving the Road are always imprecise and Lushan might be detained at the Sharnyu's court for longer than expected. Marcus allows no negative talk.

His anxiety builds though, and as it's descending into despair, one of the guards, a Sogdian, approaches him as he's on his hands and knees making mud bricks. Ensuring that nobody is watching, he leans over and says in Sogdian,

“Your friend has arrived. He wants to see you when you finish work.”

Showing no sign of a jumping heart, Marcus looks up, nods slowly and goes back to work. It's hard to wait for the remainder of the working day; hard to concentrate fully on his trivial task. As soon as possible he goes to the parkland beside the water.

Lushan greets him effusively with a hug, his short conical hat slipping sideways. A broad smile pulls his pencil moustache to its full width.

“My friend, I have been successful in pressing your case. Jir-Jir is willing to hire you and your men. He says, though, you will have to prove yourselves. If he judges you not up to the mark he will sell you all to the slave traders on the Caravan Road. He is a man without mercy, so be warned.”

“Thank you Lushan. I'm very grateful for your efforts. I'm sure Roman fighting skills will satisfy even the most demanding Hsiung-nu. Did you discuss the terms of our engagement?”

“I mentioned the subject but the Sharnyu said it must wait until you arrive and prove what you are capable of. You will have to take the chance. However, he is a shrewd man and, although extremely tough, will want you satisfied. On the other hand he is known to be capricious and given to bouts of temper, particularly when stoked up by drink. Are you willing to go ahead with this? To be fair, I cannot guarantee what will happen to you once you are in his power.”

Venturing so far into the unknown East and joining up with savage men are at the extreme end of the risk spectrum. Their culture would be as far removed from Roman norms as war from peace. He could be leading his men from misery into catastrophe, even death. However, his officers all agreed that the prospect of freedom so outshines other choices that even to consider them would be cowardly. There's not a man who hasn't suffered the pain of humiliation to the core. Any risk is worth taking to get rid of that. As is so often the case when desire for change is extreme, hope is energised to minimise the fear of consequences.

The walk with Lushan among the quiet trees is exhilarating. He feels the caress of the goddess
Libertas
for the first time since Carrhae. True, he's still a slave, but her touch of freedom can be subtle, expressed in simply making a choice. And he's done that. His life force, drained so completely after that fateful battle, is coming back, flowing warmly through his veins and restoring his confidence.

“Of course we'll go ahead. We're committed. Assuming we can get onto the Caravan Road in the night, what then?”

“As you requested, the Sharnyu will send a detachment to meet you on the Caravan Road at a landmark I will give you. It is a half day's march from Margiana. The Hsiung-nu don't want to encounter a Parthian patrol if it can be avoided. They will bring spare horses for your men to ride. That will speed up the journey to their camp. It is just as well you will be going soon because Jir-Jir has decided to take his tribe to the Talass River on the other side of the Jaxartes, a long way east”

“Most of my men have never ridden a horse”.

“They will just have to learn on the spot. Anyway, as long as the horses don't go faster than a trot, they should cope.”

It doesn't take much thought for Marcus to realise the critical time is the first twenty –four hours. It's vital that they get as much of a head start as possible before the Parthians realize what's happened.

“That seems fine. We'll work to that plan. What's the next step?”

“I will send a fast riding emissary to tell Jir-Jir of your decision. We will have to take the chance he will get through. I know a man who will do it for money – not much since he is a daredevil. He loves risks – any chance to prove himself.

“The Sharnyu will send his escort to you as soon as he is informed. This will mean you should time your escape for two weeks from now. I will give you a more precise date next week. Just be ready.”

It's easy to like this sophisticated man, with his genuine friendliness. Surprising really, to find resonance in a foreign voice. Who would have thought a year or so ago, of counting a barbarian as a friend? It takes some getting used to. But somehow it seems natural now.

“That's excellent. I'll come back just before the escape with the rest of the money. Let's keep in contact.”

❧

Everything seems to be propitious for the escape, but there's one obstacle. While Parthian security is lax, it's not non existent. At night, squads of four soldiers patrol the perimeter of the camp at intervals.

One must be taken out, but silently, so none of its members can give the alarm. He's ascertained that if that's done, a sufficient gap would open up to allow the cohort to slip through unobserved and head for the Road. He details Gaius and two others to join him for the job.

They spend the time before the appointed day training how to get close to the guards without creating suspicion and how to kill them in the dark with no sound. Footwork is important; they must maintain their balance at all times, feet directly under shoulders, taking small steps to get into position. Movement must be quick and smooth so as to avoid a scuffle. Speed is essential, with the number of separate motions required to get to the throat kept to the minimum. Any clumsiness will give the targets a chance to cry out.

Marcus will lead the mission, for the responsibility can't be delegated. One slip and the whole enterprise will fail. It's vital that it run without a hitch. All in the little task force are keen to practise, even until they're sick of it, and beyond, until there's no danger of a mistake.

Time passes and merges into a heart throbbing present, the day before the planned escape. All along, tension has been building up. Freedom's in the air, but so is the risk of failure. Despite the practice, something unforeseeable can intervene. Killing four men without setting off an alarm is no trivial matter; the human factor is often unpredictable. And after silencing the targeted squad, the others could somehow be alerted, even though they'll be some distance away. One hundred and fifty Romans will be there also, in the dark, moving through the gap. They must be silent too. Fortunately Roman discipline will help, but nothing is certain.

Marcus and the others in the task force spread the word to the rest of the cohort. They've left it to the last minute for security. As it's not prudent to call a meeting, they visit the men's tents individually, starting just before bedtime so they don't miss anyone. There're twenty tents in their section of the camp, normally with eight men each but in some cases fewer. Each takes five tents. As they go around, they encounter enthusiasm – sometime whoops of joy, even though a few men express a little concern, mainly about details. They're easily answered.

Gaius however, runs into trouble. One of the men, Trebonius, is quite outspoken, complaining it's too risky, that if they're caught they'll be executed. He's so forceful that some of the men in his tent get wobbly and begin to agree with him. Gaius calls Marcus over who says;

“What's the matter with you Trebonius? You're the only one in the entire cohort that doesn't have the guts to go for freedom. Do you prefer slavery you piece of shit? Pick yourself up; be a man. If you don't show some spine I'm going to run you through.”

As he puts his hand on Owl's Head, Trebonius steps back and drops his head in shame.

“All right, all right Sir. I agree. I was only pointing out the risks anyway. Count me in.”

Gaius has rarely seen Marcus so angry. The tongue lashing stops the rot; all is now settled. Everyone supports the escape.
Alea iacta est
. Tense and alert, few will sleep that night. They quietly pack their belongings. The Parthians never come into the camp so, for the time being, they're safe from discovery.

The Romans are guards; it's normal for them to keep their armour and weapons. They're obliged to leave their tents behind for fear of alerting the Parthians by striking them (besides they're too bulky), but they can take what they need as soldiers, except their throwing spears, their pila, which are too unwieldy.

Next day, everybody goes about their business as usual, building the wall; the only difference is that nobody feels like speaking, but that isn't enough to create suspicion. Besides they're only one cohort in an army of prisoners. No other Romans know about the plan. They'll be as surprised as the Parthians, maybe a little envious. The day goes by with intolerable slowness but finally the sun drops down. The men are in their tents awaiting the signal.

As soon as the evening dies into night, the task force saunters towards the edge of the camp. They're dressed in their tunics. Daggers are hidden in the folds. Marcus has Owl's Head. Their armour is stored in the dark nearby. They move towards the nearest Parthian squad, trying to appear casual.

The guards have congregated around a brazier, as the late summer night is cold. They should be on patrol but, predictably, they prefer the warmth and conversation. Besides, nothing ever seems to happen during these long nights. An important uncertainty in the plan has been avoided. Marcus has counted on them being together – they always are, but there might have been an exception.

The Romans sidle up to the Parthians, who remain sitting, and begin a casual conversation. Nothing seems abnormal; often Romans fraternize with their keepers. But suddenly, Marcus recognises one of them; he's the man who gave him the loaf of bread. How can he kill him, the one whose kindness rescued him from despair?

The plan is that once he scratches his head they all attack, each taking out the guard nearest him. If he weakens, fails to give the signal and leads his comrades back to the camp for another attempt, or even moves to another patrol squad, the escape will be jeopardised, possibly fatally. Once momentum is lost it'll be impossible to regain. The Hsiung-nu won't wait around for ever. If the cohort doesn't escape tonight, chances are he and his comrades will lapse back into slavery and stay there. And it'll be his fault.

He can just kill the man as planned. No one would know, and his comrades would applaud his action. After all, he's responsible for one hundred and forty-nine men. That should outweigh the life of a single enemy, even a kind one. Slowly he moves close and scratches his head. His comrades leap forward, quickly get behind the Parthians they have marked, and shut their mouths with one hand. With the other they slit their throats before they have a chance to utter a sound, and quietly let them down on the ground.