The Tortoise in Asia (25 page)

After an interval in the proceedings, the drums now returning to their quieter tone, a soldier brings a snow white horse up to the altar and holds it still by the bridle. Jir-Jir moves forward, the Shaman stepping back. The Sharnyu spreads his arms upward and murmurs a quiet incantation, his face serene, eyes closed, all fierceness gone. He looks almost gentle. The crowd is still, heads bowed.

By this time Marcus knows how important the horse is to the Hsiung-nu, that the human soul is a wind horse, the spiritual power that steers the lives of men. No wonder horse and man are at one like centaurs. The beast is not sacrificed; sometimes horses are but not today. It just stands there docily, from time to time shifting its legs and switching its tail at the flies. Perhaps it feels the reverence in which it's held.

He's moved by the ceremony, somehow becoming part of it involuntarily even though he doesn't understand what's being said. It's created a mood of calm in him, even mellowness. Certainly it has in others, judging by the faces in the crowd. It's as if the people have moved out of themselves to feel near a higher power present at the ceremony and through that connection become closer to each other for the moment.

The contrast with the normal fierceness of these horse archers is remarkable. But even more startling is the similarity with Roman religion after one penetrates the superstructure of ritual. Of course he sees them very different in many respects, certainly in style. At a fundamental level however, they both seem to express a reverence for the heavens above and the moral law within.

He's struck most of all by the stark disparity between the spiritual sincerity evident in these people, even Jir-Jir, and the lack of it in Rome, so sophisticated and cynical. The sincerity and the connection it stimulates with a force superior to the mundane are producing a strangely liberating effect on him. It's freeing him from the shackles of self absorption, a relief which he now realises is an antidote to the depression which so often grips him. Maybe that liberation is the main purpose of religion and it doesn't matter what type it is so long as it accomplishes that end.

The sacrifice over, the whole tribe participates in a feast of roasted sheep, the Romans included. The spirits are propitiated and none ignored. Everybody is in high spirits and particularly friendly, even to the Romans. They can start their trek to their new home now with confidence.

❧

Soon the entire Hsiung-nu tribe is in its nomadic mode. Thousands of families plus a hundred and fifty Roman soldiers head towards the Road, a couple of days away. A vast herd of sheep and cattle stumble along setting the pace, slowing the horses down to a leisurely walk. The colourful mass reaches the Jaxartes, crosses at a low point and enters the daunting steppe. There they meet the Road which is waiting for them, eager to take them on its back again, especially the Romans whom it seems to have adopted as a client. Marcus is getting used to it, feeling a warm connection with it. True, it brought him to the disaster of Carrhae but it also introduced him to adventures and education that he would never have had otherwise. It's easy to think of it as a mentor of sorts.

They head north – east into a gnarled scrub wilderness devoid of any human presence. Only an eagle sailing on high seems able to penetrate this far. The animals have barely enough to eat from the sparse vegetation, a threadbare carpet on the sand. It's getting thinner as the journey progresses. Everything goes smoothly though, as would be expected of people who're following their natural way of life. At least the novice riders can easily keep the pace. Anyway they're becoming more expert, although they have no hope of ever being as skillful as the centaurs who teach them.

They pass through oases, somehow appearing just when the leather water bags need replenishing. The navigational expertise of the Hsiung-nu is impressive, as is their affinity with nature. They know from evidence too subtle for others to see where the elusive springs are.

Marcus is riding beside Jir-Jir who's showing interest in Roman technology. Tales of the glory of Rome, its civilization and power, slide off his back like arrows bouncing off stone, but more concrete things capture his attention. Unashamed of the technical limits of his people, the Sharnyu says,

“Can you suggest ways to help us build my town? We're not used to building anything – don't know how to work with bricks. Not part of our culture.”

Jir-Jir appears almost childlike in his question, his tone quiet, all fierceness gone; even his chin is no longer jutting out. Unshakable confidence in his warrior culture allows him to admit without embarrassment to lack of technological knowledge. It can be bought or taken. It's superficial.

“If you're thinking about a permanent residence, you need to consider protection. My comrades and I can work with your men to build earth-works to surround the town like we do in the Roman army. We know how to make mud bricks for a wall and lay them straight. Also I recommend a wooden palisade, like we normally have. We build them around our camps.”

Weeks on the trek accompany autumn's journey into winter, a cold and windy challenge to the Romans who're still not used to the rigours of the steppe in full frost. Not so with the Hsiung-nu who relish the clear cold days.

They give the Romans furs to wear. By now their worn out sandals have been discarded and they're wearing the round-toed boots of the Hsiung-nu. As in the summer, the sun is virtually always with them, but now aloof and tepid. Infrequently clouds appear and toss meagre snow flurries into the wind.

They go off the Road onto a subsidiary track, leading due east, until they come to wide grasslands, squashed by winter but promising lush growth in the spring. A narrow river of ice runs through them into the distance. Jir-Jir orders a stop and gestures to Marcus who's riding close by.

“This is the Talass River. I'm going to build here. There's plenty of water and the grazing's rich for the cattle and sheep. As soon as we set up camp we'll start. You'll help us.”

“We have to wait till spring, Sir. The ground's too hard for digging now.”

“All right, if you say so. We'll stay in the camp until then, but no unnecessary delay. I'll be watching.”

“There won't be I assure you. We want to get it done as much as you do. It'll be our home too”.

Jir-Jir jerks his head back and laughs.

“It's good to have you Romans with us. You're useful”

❧

Once the spring has loosened the earth and the ice thaws to water, the project starts. Mud bricks can be made now. Marcus takes charge, not that he's an engineer; he's there by default. The Sharnyu was not exaggerating when he spoke of his people's capabilities. They truly have no experience with permanent structures, even simple earthen fortifications.

Jir-Jir is happy to leave everything to the Romans, merely supplying unskilled labour, which is on the lazy side of motivation. Marcus has the Hsiung-nu make shovels from the plentiful oasis wood. Not much good for digging, at least they can be used to shift dug soil into the wicker baskets the women make. The Romans still have their metal spades – an essential part of their equipment.

First they dig a ditch around the town in the Roman fashion – a square. The excavated material creates a ramp next to it, extending into a mud brick wall with a tower and gate at each side. With the wood of the oasis they construct a double palisade in front of the wall. It's made of thin trunks and branches set upright against each other, placed closely enough to stop arrows. The whole enterprise is finished in six months, well before the winter frost arrives. The Hsiung-nu and the Romans are now installed in a permanent residence; but they still live in tents.

Marcus and Gaius go on an inspection tour – like a commissioning. Marcus says

“I think we did a pretty good job, not perfect but good enough. It's no Bukhara – couldn't stand up to a big attack, but at least it would delay the enemy for a while. I'm not surprised the Hsiung-nu are pleased.

By the way, have you noticed a change in Jir-Jir recently? He was always full of himself but now, with all his success, he seems down right arrogant. Maybe it's because no one criticises him. He's out of touch with what he's supposed to be doing here”.

“What d'you mean?”

“Samarkand merchants tell me he's been sending out raiding parties to pillage the Sogdian towns. They're meant to be allies. Extracts tribute from the whole of Fergana, when the King already pays him. Pushes the people past any sensible limit. He's worse than Crassus.

“Thank Jupiter he hasn't ordered us to help him. I like the Sogdians. Anyway we should stay on good terms with them in case we have a falling out. He's an unpredictable character. Cruel too; he's been allowing his men to kill and rape all over the country. Although, I have to say, other Hsiung-nu chiefs do the same.”

“I've noticed. The Sogdian King's spoiled him. He's getting greedy. You're right Marcus – like Crassus. I don't trust him.”

“I don't either. He needs us though, at least for a while. Doesn't have enough of his own troops. We'd better be on our guard in case he does something stupid. He can be likeable though at times, and he's been really generous to us. Anyway, I'll see you at dinner.”

Negative feelings are intruding again. Marcus doesn't want his friend to know; better put up a positive front. The pleasure of freedom is sustaining to a certain degree but its first flush has dissipated. The euphoric end of slavery felt on the Road is only a distant memory now. As time wears on, this alien place where life is so primitive becomes more and more depressing. It could never be a home. And how is it possible to go anywhere else? The nightmares still haunt; the vicious birds attack without mercy. He can never get a decent sleep.

The Hsiung-nu culture is too unevolved to allow real friendships to form. Comrades are around but the conversation is not the same as with the senior officers, Crassus particularly, who're long gone. The building of the town provided a certain distraction; action always defeats morbid thoughts. But it's over now. Nothing remains but waiting for military action that hasn't come for a while. What purpose there is consists merely of earning some money, not that there's much for the mercenaries. Anyway, what use is it on the steppe?

It's hard to avoid slipping back to that melancholy state where outside connections are lost and there's little point in life. Aurelia is gone and no prospects exist for someone else, not that he's ready in any case. Somehow her picture is missing – probably fell out of his pack when the Romans were moved to the other side of town. He searched for it in vain.

One of Jir-Jir's men who can speak a little Sogdian comes to his tent and says through the opening,

“The Sharnyu summons you.”

He comes out immediately and goes to the command tent. Jir-Jir is seated serenely on his wooden chair flanked by his officers. In front are four men who look like the Hsiung-nu but are dressed differently. They have tunics and trousers of dark blue silk with strange patterns and wear small black caps. Long thin beards hang from their chins. They're speaking a language he's never heard. While he doesn't understand the Hsiung-nu tongue he's picked up its cadence and a few words. What he's hearing is completely different. Not a syllable is similar. Jir-Jir seems to be able to speak it though.

The Sharnyu nods at him but gives no indication what he should do, so he merely stands near the entrance. One of the visitors, who seems to be the chief, makes a long speech and the Sharnyu nods his head passively. An exchange follows, the Sharnyu barely saying anything and looking unimpressed. Progressively the chief's voice becomes louder and more insistent. Apparently he's demanding something the Sharnyu is not willing to give. After a climactic passage, he points his finger at Jir-Jir, his voice now shrill with anger.

Jir-Jir's expression suddenly darkens, his eyes narrow and his head jerks forward, chin jutting out. He shouts at the visitors and raises his arm, palm towards them to command silence. It produces no result; they're all talking now, in loud voices and gesticulating wildly.

Jir-Jir leaps up, eyes blazing like lava flowing from a volcano, and shouts a command. Six of his men move forward and seize the visitors around the neck, forcing an arm behind their back and jamming it up until it almost breaks. Terrified into silence, they're bundled out of the tent. As they pass Marcus he sees black patterns painted on their faces.

Jir-Jir motions for him to come forward, his expression still fierce.

“Roman, are the fortifications completed?”

“Yes Sir. They are. They're strong enough to beat off an attack – even withstand a siege as long as the enemy don't have engines. Who were those people?”

“They're emissaries from the Han Emperor. His armies are becoming more and more aggressive. They're pushing our tribes further west. We always used to beat them and raid their lands from the north. That's why they built that big wall. It's to keep us out. You've never seen it but it's huge, very tall and long. But now they've got better weapons and are more difficult to defeat. However I'm not afraid of them.”

“What did they want that made you so angry?”

“They were demanding that I return the corpse of a major of their Palace Guard I had executed last year. The Emperor sent him to negotiate a new treaty. Wanted too much so I had to show who's boss of the steppe. The arrogant weasels, they're lucky I didn't have them killed too. I'm just expelling them.”