The Tortoise in Asia (27 page)

“But we have to do something to cover ourselves. At least dampen the enormity of what's been done. We must send a letter to the Emperor – build the case for the action we're taking as a dire necessity. Also we must admit the forgery and the mobilisation of imperial troops without authority. If we confess it might make it easier to forgive us, assuming we win the battle. If we lose, it goes without saying we'll both be executed no matter what.”

“Yes. I agree. I'll draft it for your approval and we'll both sign. The vassal troops will arrive the day after tomorrow. Our own force will be ready then so we can begin the march. I suggest we divide our army for the expedition. You and I can lead the bulk of the troops along the northern route. The rest can take the southern.

I'm so sorry I offended you, Protector-General. I apologize. I'm sure the expedition will be a success and end in glory for both of us. The Emperor is certain to be so pleased he'll forgive us and give us a big reward. You'll see.”

“I accept your apology Colonel. I know you did what you thought was right. I'm not used to taking that much risk. Anyway, let's hope you're right and we win a great victory. It's life or death for both of us.”

❧

In the hot and flaccid morning, as the sun fires up the Flaming Mountains, forty thousand troops of disparate nationalities march out of the sandy marshalling fields at Gaochang. The Han army is swollen to several times its normal size by vassal forces arriving the night before. It's like a river in flood when individual streams flow across the land to join the main course, threatening to deluge everything in its way. While the core of the army is composed of experienced Han soldiers, who double as farmers when not on military duty, most of the numbers are made up from subordinate Hsiung-nu and Sogdian populations – sixteen states in all.

The grand army feeds slowly onto the Road like a file of ants moving towards a spill of honey – inexorable, unstoppable. Multi-hued banners splash colour haphazardly onto the land like a drunken painter might, and the bronze hubcaps of the chariots flash in the sun. Gan and Chen have their own – comfortable seats on wooden wheels drawn by four horses. Flat lacquer roofs like tortoise carapaces shield against the skin – darkening sun. Scions of the ruling class, they don't wish to be identified with tillers of the soil. Soon they pass the first beacon tower, standing proud in the desert, no smoke rising from its top.

Gan has insisted on bringing a staff of envoys educated in Chang-an. They're to assist in establishing trade relations with the states around the Talass river in the event of success. Their leader is Kang Guiren, a Confucian scholar who speaks fluent Sogdian. He's a graduate of the Imperial University founded a century ago by Emperor Wu, an elite institution focussed on literature and philosophy, gated by an exacting national examination. Only the top minds get in.

Kang is a mild mannered man who has a way with people, friendly and modest, with an easy laugh. Slated for high office, he agreed to be assigned to the Far West Protectorate for a stint in order to gain broader life experience. It's a career move favoured in Chang-an. He's older than the others, his beard sprinkled with the salt of middle age.

The two forces navigate around the fearsome Taklamakan desert, one taking the northern route, the other the southern. They're both part of the Road and each offers it an opportunity to acquire trophies of whitened bones; sometimes they lie in the scouring sun for long periods of time awaiting the quixotic sands to blow over them, uncover them and blow over them again.

The arms of the Road converge at an oasis town that looks up to the vast mountain range which has kept the Han peoples separate from the rest of humanity throughout history. They've passed several beacon towers, but none had smoke, not that they expected any. After a few days rest, the combined army begins the daunting task of passing over the peaks, their dense snow caps defeating the sun even at the hottest time of year. While a few unfortunates are lost to the precipices, it reaches the other side.

The host swarms down off the western slopes and marches through medium dense woodlands. There the Road takes the visitors north-west, deep into steppe country and then to the wide grasslands of Fergana (called Dayuan by the Han), the ancient Sogdian breeding grounds of the heavenly horses. Access to these magnificent steeds, so much superior for war than the undersized Han ponies, was the main reason Emperor Wu opened up the Road.

In Fergana, which is just a couple of weeks' march east of Samarkand, they're welcomed by the local Sogdian population, disaffected by Jir-Jir's rapaciousness. Gan and Chen hold a conference to decide on how best to take advantage of the situation. They call in Kang, who can be counted on for giving wise advice, particularly in unfamiliar circumstances. He says,

“I think now is a propitious time to negotiate a treaty of trade and friendship with them. Through commerce that benefits them as well as us we can gain influence and gradually make them dependent on us over time. We must act now; any delay could waste their good will. With your permission, Protector-General, I'll arrange contact with their leaders.

“We'll need some time for this, which is just as well. It's important to remember we're on a punitive expedition. Confucius said that punishments ought to be carried out in winter. If you win a victory against Jir-Jir and the Hsiung-nu a month or so later, the Emperor will consider it more glorious. Besides the troops could use some rest after the arduous passage over the mountains.”

Gan looks to Chen who nods his head so slightly it would be necessary to pay strict attention to notice it. Anything that can be done to increase the chance of winning the Emperor's favour is imperative given the perilous situation they're in with the Court, something of course the sagacious Kang doesn't know about. Gan says,

“That's sound advice Kang. We'll adopt it”.

Negotiations are successfully concluded with the Sogdians as the first snows of winter arrive. The expeditionary force starts up again. The Road takes them through the grass plains into the endless steppe, cold – blasted by winds uninterrupted in their sweep. Although more or less accustomed to it now, the men who're from the clement East still feel the wind chill bore through their quilted coats and rattle their bones. The Sogdians are happy to guide them to the outskirts of the oasis where Jir-Jir's town borders the newly frozen Talass River. There they stop to rest and prepare for battle.

❧

Word gets through to the Hsiung-nu that they're about to be attacked but they're slow to react. They've been hearing rumours for some time that the Han army is on the march against them. However, as horizontal flags with ox tail tassels streaming off the ends appear in the distance through the trees that fringe the oasis, the town jumps to action. The Han take up positions outside where dense vegetation meets the open steppe. Jir-Jir calls an emergency conference of the senior commanders. Marcus attends, with a translator. The Sharnyu is tense but deliberate, his igneous eyes flashing will power, but unusually mixed with a tinge of doubt, something Marcus has never seen before. The man never seemed capable of anxiety.

“Jiyu, see to it our best archers are on the towers. As soon as the enemy attacks, our main force will sally out. Forget about their allies; shoot at the Han. Roman, take your men to the eastern gate and follow our assault. Get ready. We don't have much time.”

Pandemonium is breaking out around them. Men are rushing all over the town shouting, archers mounting the battlements, horsemen getting into position behind the gates. Pots of scalding oil and man-crushing boulders are being lifted to the top of the towers. Horses are neighing in fear at the confusion and all the women have disappeared inside their tents. Marcus clambers up the inner steps of the eastern tower, pushing past the porters to get to the highest point.

What he sees is shocking. There seems no end to the troops swarming around the town. Spears are standing up in thickets. Cavalry officers in long capes covering the rear of the horses are marshalling their forces in the thousands. The fields are crammed with manoeuvring regiments, their clothing varied. Multi coloured flags, some of them with strange, curvilinear markings, flap impatiently like a stand of young poplars. Two gigantic drums set up sideways, as big as wagons, thunder out bass notes with a mind-numbing beat. Marcus looks to Gaius who's joined him on the tower.

“Gaius, look how many of them there are. If they can fight at all, we're doomed. Our only hope is to stick together and ride it out. Defence is the right strategy. Jir-Jir has bitten off more than he can chew.”

They go down the winding steps and join their comrades who are assembling inside the eastern gate behind the cavalry.

“I estimate the enemy outnumber us at least five to one. They've been reinforced by a lot of Sogdians Jir-Jir's offended. Also, other Hsiung-nu tribes who don't like him. Clearly he wasn't expecting that big a force.

“Remember we're only mercenaries. We get paid to fight but that doesn't mean we have to go down in a hopeless situation. Our best strategy is to stay on the defensive. Let Jir-Jir's troops take the brunt of the battle. Keep your ranks tight in the Testudo and move cautiously. No charging. Look after yourselves and your comrades, and we'll come out of this all right.”

It's just as well he's speaking Latin, for the defeatism would offend his employers to the core if they knew what he's saying. He doesn't like taking this line but it's the only sensible thing to do for mercenaries under the circumstances.

As he finishes, the first salvo of arrows flies over the walls like a sheet of knives. In the interval before the next one, Hsiung-nu horsemen thunder out of the gate brandishing their long swords. The Romans march behind at slow pace in the Testudo formation. Outside on the plain furious fighting swirls in front of them as the Hsiung-nu sally out in strength from the other gates. They're like a turbulent river debouching into the sea, driving its current into the open water, but soon getting swallowed up.

Before they can engage, the Romans are confronted with a new weapon, one they had never heard of, much less seen. It shoots short, thick arrows with greater penetrating power than even the Parthian arsenal. They pierce shields as if they were made of paper. The only consolation is that the assault is not sustained. Marcus shouts an order.

“Retreat to the walls. Keep your formation. Move”.

They manage the manoeuvre before any deaths occur, but several men are wounded by the strange missiles. They fall back just in time. The air thickens with black spines but they fall on the attacking Hsiung-nu.

The battle is going badly for Jir-Jir. His troops are being overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of the Han, despite the famous Hsiung-nu ferocity which inflicts heavy casualties on the besiegers. The town is now completely surrounded. Jir-Jir and his body guard retreat behind the walls. Others follow him chaotically, slashing at the enemy as they fall back. Clouds of arrows fly over the walls into the troops inside who desperately try to parry them with their shields. Their only chance against the short arrows is to turn their shields slightly to cause them to glance off.

The Han start shooting flaming arrows at the palisade, setting it alight at several points. The fires join up and for a while the town is encircled in a blaze. Once the flames die down the attackers break through and run at the wall with shouts of triumph. A mass of Han soldiers clamber up and spread over the wall like a dark blanket. The town itself is weakly defended now as most of Jir-Jir's forces are engaged on the plain. The oil and boulders strip off some of the intrepid soldiers, but nothing can stop the human tide mounting the fortress; its momentum overwhelms all obstacles like an angry sea. The palisade is no help; it's now burned and breached.

As the besiegers threaten to surround the Romans, who are on the plain close to the walls, Marcus orders the square formation. Seamlessly the Testudo changes form, its scales receding out of sight, and collapses into a shape that confronts the enemy on all sides. The Romans engage with the first of the attackers, using their shields as a battering ram, their gladii held out front, but not moving forward. After a few minutes of inconclusive fighting, the Han leave the prickly force, too small anyway to be a strategic threat, and charge off to the main body of the defenders.

Nothing can save the town now. The fortifications are not holding – the pressure of numbers is too great. They were never designed for such a force. The Hsiung-nu who're not yet overrun are still fighting though; their leader is alive and hasn't ordered a surrender. Besides, it's in their nature. They're like wild beasts cornered by the hunter, desiring only to kill their tormentor, or die trying.

For a few minutes Jir-Jir can be seen on top of the northern tower shouting orders and firing arrows. He has several women with him, concubines and servants. They're gallantly wielding bows beside him like Amazons. One by one they slump down, hit by incoming fire. The Sharnyu staggers as he takes an arrow in the thigh but he retains his balance and continues to shoot. The Han archers have spotted him as the chief and concentrate their fire in a deadly cloud. Suddenly he disappears from sight down the steps followed by the last of his Amazons. Marcus is seized with sympathy; for all his faults he's a gallant and formidable warrior. Now he's doomed.

The Han and their allies charge through the northern gate en masse and spill into the town in a wild killing spree. Almost nobody is left alive. Women and children are pulled out of their hiding and slaughtered. No time is taken even for rape. The carnage is colossal. Among the chaos, a victorious yelling splits the air, overwhelming the general noise of battle. A Han soldier stands on top of the tower holding the Sharnyu's head on a spear.