The Tortoise in Asia (24 page)

Jir-Jir leans back in his chair with his goblet.

“I like you Roman. We'll get on. I saw the way you and your men fought today, very disciplined. You'll have to teach my people some of that. Only I don't think they will learn – ha, ha, ha.”

Marcus has passed the stage where taste and smell are relevant. He picks up his goblet and says with a slur nobody would notice,

“Thank you Sir. We worked well with your troops today – tough warriors, very skilful riders. We'll enjoy it here. You Hsiung-nu are very hospitable.

“I'd like to say that I appreciate what my friend Lushan has done. Without him we wouldn't have gotten together.”

Lushan is visibly pleased.

Jir–Jir holds his goblet up in an expansive gesture.

“That's right. Lushan you deserve a reward too. You're my friend. Here, take this.”

Lushan accepts the bag with a bow. It's smaller than Marcus', but he's not disturbed by that. In a few minutes, they quietly open their bags. Marcus is surprised to see his is full of large gold coins. He's never seen any this big except in Samarkand at the jewellery market. Even there most were much smaller. Their lustre is powerful enough to catch the uncertain light in the tent and flash it into his eyes. It's much more than he expected. For a moment he feels rich. What a stroke of luck he's linked up with a man with access to the Sogdian King's wealth and one who's so generous – a good deal more than Crassus. The alliance could well be even more lucrative as time goes on, particularly when news of the Wu-Sun's defeat reaches Samarkand.

As Jir-Jir takes another gulp from his silver goblet, one of the officers sidles up to him quietly, head bowed. He receives a bag and, bent over, slinks back to his place. Some time after, another comes up surreptitiously and shuffles back with a bag. Throughout the evening, Jir-Jir hands out bags of varying sizes. There's always a period between approaches, as nobody wants to appear eager. Everyone is pleased with the Sharnyu's generosity.

Suddenly there's a commotion at the entrance. Guards force three men forward and push their heads down in front of the Sharnyu. When the noise settles down, he turns to Marcus with a stern look.

“I have to pass sentence on these men. What's the punishment in the Roman army for cowardice in the face of the enemy?”

“It depends on the circumstances. The most severe is death but there're other less drastic ones.”

“It's reported that they didn't show enough aggression in the attack. What would you do with them?”

“That's not as bad as desertion or real cowardice. I would just demote them if they have rank or, if they don't, put them in prison for a few days.”

Jir–Jir points a finger at the men.

“Tie them to a tree and shoot them”

As they're led out in silence, Jir-Jir picks up his goblet and drinks, his sternness melting into a half smile.

“You see, Roman, we're tougher than you. We Hsiung-nu don't tolerate anything but the utmost bravery. Aggression is everything. That's why we always win battles.”

Before Marcus has a chance to reply, although he doesn't know what to say, five musicians come out. Taking their place on the floor in the ample space between the Sharnyu's table and the others they start playing. Their instruments are flutes and awkwardly bent string contraptions which they pluck. The sound is completely drowned out by the revellers who pay not the slightest attention to it. Then, a small group of dancing girls, exotically pretty, emerges from the entrance. The drunks become quiet, showing instant respect.

The music can now be heard. Its soft and beguiling sound completely changes the atmosphere. It's now a sphere of peace. Beauty has entered the tent and war departed. Lushan whispers to Marcus.

“The Hsiung-nu are very musical. It's a basic part of their culture. They got the flute they are playing from us and passed it on to the Han. Those are the people on the other side of the great mountain barrier. It is an essential part of the Han music – usually played along with the stringed instruments they pluck.”

Suddenly the whole table breaks into a slow song, deep and mellow, its simple melody moving in and out of resolution in sombre waves. Large tears role down the cheeks of the singers, possibly the most feared warriors in the world. Jir-Jir sings along with them, his goblet in the air and his eyes closed. He sways from side to side with the others as the song transports them all into a state of sentimental camaraderie.

The young girls, dressed in purple gowns with golden silk overlays, move forward in fluttering steps. Gold bands with dangling silver medallions surround their foreheads like a beautiful frame and necklaces of gold plaques with ruby inlays spread to their shoulders.

They move slowly forward and back, and gracefully twirl around with elegant movements of head and arms. Their hidden feet propel them so smoothly they seem to glide over the carpets. From time to time they look up sideways to expose the whites of their eyes in a gesture of innocence. They“re skilfully made up, the outlines of their lips and eyes sharply clean and differentiated. Marcus can't help but stare. Their gentle and precise movements are so completely opposite to the clumsiness of the warriors at the table.

The performance is well received but, sensibly, doesn't last long, the entertainers leaving on their own timing. The revellers have a short attention span and want to get back to serious drinking. The jollification is accompanied from time to time by resonant singing in slow, soulful songs. The whole table joins in, the participants bending from side to side in unison with goblets spilling and nobody noticing. Woollen tunics are soaked and the carpets wet.

Jir-Jir is in an expansive mood.

“Now we've defeated the Wu-Sun I'm taking my tribe east. Closer to our traditional lands. You and your Romans will come with us. There'll always be fighting to be done. You won't get bored ha ha ha.”

“Where are we going?”

“The Talass river. You probably don't know where that is. No matter. It's east of here. The Sogdian King has granted us rich grazing land around it. I'm going to build a permanent residence there. We leave in a couple of weeks. Be ready”.

It doesn't make any difference where they're going; they're so far from home now. Besides, the Sharnyu's generosity is a pleasant surprise and the atmosphere in the tent tends to quell any thoughts that might stir up worry. Being part of a victory again boosts his mood, as does the potency of the liquor. And the Sharnyu promised him some female company tonight – one of the dancers, as a special reward.

The raucous camaraderie pushes the hour well past midnight and still no one is showing any sign of slackening. At last, the Sharnyu rises and says in a slurred but loud voice that it's time to go to bed. The guests depart, leaving a colossal mess behind and a smell that would frighten a satyr.

Marcus leads his reward by the hand out of the tent into the night air. Its cool clarity hits him like a slap in the face. They stand still for a few moments looking at the moon, new like his life now. Slaves can be heard bustling around cleaning up inside. A little squeal emerges from the sleeping quarters and a short time later, snores.

A
week later Lushan appears at Marcus' tent.

“My good friend, I have come to say goodbye. I am off to Samarkand. Jir-Jir has given me an escort. I am very pleased that you have found a place with him and the Hsiung-nu. Your life will be so much better than under the Parthian yoke.”

This is a moment that had to come. As Lushan speaks, nostalgia begins to tug at him. The chances of meeting again are as unlikely as the steppe avoiding the coming freeze. The Sogdian is the first non Roman friend he's made. He'll miss him. He's grown used to his expansive manner and sentimental attitudes – so unlike the Stoic approach but engrossing all the same. In a way Lushan has been a teacher, one who has sympathetically led him to at least a partial understanding of the world outside the Roman imperium. He's shown him how to see things from the perspective of another culture, a perception seldom experienced by Romans and never before by him.

“Lushan, I've been honoured to know you. Who can tell, maybe our paths will cross in the future. I hope so. Anyway, best of luck in your endeavours. You deserve it. You've been a good friend to me and my comrades.”

“I too feel honoured Marcus Velinius to be your friend. Hopefully we will meet again. The Hsiung-nu are nomads and even though Jir-Jir says he wants to build a permanent home, it is likely he and the tribe will still wander – maybe even to Samarkand. I am often there, as you know. It is my base. If you can come, please get in touch. I would love to see you again. You would be welcome in my home any time.”

As the farewells are creating embarrassing blushes, a ruckus starts not far away. They go over. Outside the Sharnyu's tent, people are gathering round, talking excitedly and gesticulating at a four camel baggage train. Jir-Jir comes out and orders the drivers to unload the beasts. At a guttural command, they slump down, awkward and bad tempered, allowing the metal- strapped chests on their sides to be taken off. A driver opens one.

A gasp of amazement seizes the onlookers as a heap of gold coins is uncovered, glistering and luxuriant, as opulent as the Sogdian empire that produced them.

Jir-Jir strides over, bends down and digs his hands in, a smile softening his warrior face. Again and again he washes himself in it up to his arms, sometimes tossing glances over to the other chests. The head of the Sogdian King on the coins seems to nod its approval and beckon him to dig deeper. The riches would have impressed even Crassus and gone a long way to reaching his monetary objectives for the campaign.

The gold is a cruel reminder of the choices Marcus made. He's here because he wanted wealth. While he's reasonably paid as a mercenary and did well after the battle with the WuSun, he'll never get rich. His feeling of opulence at the banquet was suffused in drink. Yes, what he's seeing in these chests is impressive but virtually all the bounty will go to others. His standing is much lower than it was in Crassus' army so he'll get proportionately less. He isn't in a position to complain, to insist on more even though there's so much. He's like Tantalus, standing under a tree and reaching for the fruit only to have the branches rise out of his grasp every time he tries to pick it.

In any case, out here in the wild steppe, there's nothing to spend on and certainly no estate to boost his social status.

Jir-Jir looks up at the crowd who're fascinated by the size of the tribute and salivating about their share. Noticing Marcus, he says;

“It's just as well for the King that he paid us what he promised. We could've taken all this by force, and more. Maybe in the future we should anyway, ha ha ha … Jiyu, strike the camp tomorrow after the journey ceremony. We're off to the Talass River. Roman, you and your men will come with us.”

He orders the camel drivers to store the chests and walks away, leaving his tribesmen still marvelling.

Marcus and Lushan give each other a final hug and say goodbye, Lushan using more words. The Sogdian turns to mount his horse and trots off back to civilization with his escort. Marcus suddenly feels lonely; he's lost touch again with civilization, albeit not his own but one which he's grown to appreciate.

❧

As the sun is about to breach the horizon and the cold morning air blows quietly across the steppe, the entire tribe gathers in front of the Sharnyu's pool. All are in respectful silence. Not a person moves. The Romans are there too, their attendance required.

Jir-Jir comes out of his tent, wearing a tall crown of two circles, one on top of the other, surmounted by an eagle, all of gold. He's accompanied by the tribal Shaman who's dressed in a long white robe of tightly spun wool.

They proceed in measured steps around the pool to an altar of rough wood. It sits on a rise in the sand in front of the congregation. Four men are standing by with tall drums on the ground. Jir-Jir moves back, allowing the Shaman to approach the altar alone.

The tribal gathering is as quiet as the sand, motionless; the children don't fidget. It's as if they're all blending into the steppe, at one with its spirit. Their benign faces show that they've allowed their vanity to submit to its power as a small child does to its parent. In return they receive its benevolence which envelops them like a warm blanket on a winter's night. It will keep them safe and guard them from evil as they take their long journey.

Quietly the drums start up, the beat slow and muted, inexorable like it was in battle but now gentle and peaceful. The Shaman spreads his arms to the sky and intones an invocation with a strong and musical voice, the drums adding foundation. Someone tells Marcus that he's imploring the mother goddess of the sky, who lives in the great Dome of Heaven, to bless their journey and bring fortune to their new home, and that he's acknowledging the ancestors of the tribe and the spirits of the steppe, seeking their support. The prayer lasts a few minutes and when it's over, two assistants, also in white robes, lead several sheep through the silent crowd and hold one, struggling, on the altar.

With a deft motion, the Shaman slits its throat, blood splashing over his white garment and onto the ground. The rest of the sheep follow one by one, noisily giving up their lives. The drums are still beating, although their sound is louder as they give emphasis to the sacrifice. They're insistent, forceful, now carrying overtones of war and the dreadful punishment the spirits of the steppe can exact if they're not propitiated.