The Tortoise in Asia (37 page)

Everyone has their eyes fixed on the horizon, fearing the time they will see the clear sky dirtied with the signal of doom. So far no beacon tower has released its smoke. But two weeks out of Jiuquan, one day in the morning the dreaded black plume rises ahead of them. They can see its origin in the direction they're heading, standing tall and lonely on the steppe, breathing out its dark smoke straight up into the still air.

Marcus knows they're in for the fight of their lives. Shiung-nu scouts must have been shadowing them, taking cover behind the slight rises in the land. They'll be salivating at the tortoise shaped chariots because they would know a rich party is there for the taking, coming into their territory with a relatively small escort, easy to overwhelm.

Gan orders a halt and his military Commander calls the officers together, including Marcus. As they discuss strategy a dust cloud soils the horizon.

“It's the Hsiung-nu,” says the Commander, “Take up the emergency positions. They'll be here in a few minutes.”

In a rush, the wagons and chariots are collected and overturned. Gan and his family take refuge in the centre, huddled in a group. Soldiers dash to put on their armour and grab their weapons. Han cavalry mount their horses. Their infantry forms up around the vehicles. Shouts and frantic movement startle the air.

The Romans have to go to the wagons to get their arms. They run as fast as they can back to the front of the caravan. They arrive as the first wave of horse archers appears, riding hard towards them at right angles to the Road. The raiders are yelling ferociously, their recurved bows stretched for action. Yak tail standards with vertical banners announce their identity – not from Jir-Jir's tribe. Marcus is relieved. A burden is removed that might have weighed him down. Now nothing can stand in the way of utter determination to kill.

He gives the command “Form the Testudo”. The men raise their shields as one, drawing the scales across their heads and torsos. Arrows bounce off in pings and nobody is hurt. The quantity is nothing like the inexhaustible arsenal at Carrhae. The archers look perplexed, uncertain. The Testudo is new to them. To anyone who has not seen it before it would look invulnerable to attack. It might be capable of something devastating, imbued with the hidden power of the unknown. They flinch and withdraw.

After regrouping they charge again. This time they avoid the Testudo and go straight for the Han on the left, shooting a cloud of arrows that covers the sun. Despite being heavily outnumbered, the Han cavalry ride out and halt the assault temporarily. They're soon overwhelmed but manage to change the form of battle. The Hsiung-nu, still on horseback, sling their bows and fight hand to hand with their long swords. The Han infantry now enter the fray. They wield hook – tipped halberds to pull the riders off their horses. It's a difficult task as the centaurs of the steppes are at one with their beasts. Frenzied fighting engulfs the Road and blood saddens its dust.

Marcus orders a collapse of the Testudo and yells out,

“Fight like you've never fought before. They'll kill us all if we lose.”

He leads a charge from the side into the battle storm. Thoughts of Meilin, vulnerable among the wagons, animate him more than ever before. Gaius has never seen him so fierce. He's berserk, a state unusual for Roman soldiers. They're trained to be steady, methodical. He's like Achilles leading his Myrmidons at Troy. He feels like him, invulnerable. He's faster than the fastest, more skilful than the most skilful, destined by the gods to conquer. In a flurry of upward thrusts he dispatches three horsemen. He sees an opening in their ranks. Instinctively, he orders his men to crash through behind him. Nothing can stop him.

The ferocity of the Roman attack unnerves the Hsiung-nu and they retreat – but not for long. Soon they attack again, with renewed vigour and their superior numbers begin to tell. They surround the defenders, both Roman and Han, and squeeze them into a smaller and smaller ball around the wagons and their precious cargo. Confusion, of men charging and retreating, horses rearing up and neighing, shouts of triumph and cries of death, envelopes the Road in a chaos that would make even Mars shudder. It's hard to see through the swirling dust, often only weird shapes can be made out, like the ones the Sogdian merchants recounted. The Hsiung-nu fight in a disorderly mob, without pattern or predictability, but they're fierce and determined, wielding their long swords with tremendous agility, so at one are they with their horses. And they have numbers on their side. Inevitably they start to overwhelm the defenders. Soon they'll cut them to pieces and all will be lost. It seems only a matter of a few more minutes. The caravan is doomed to be another trophy for the Road.

In the melee, Marcus notices something that gives him an idea. It's a man with armour highlighted in gold, furiously urging his men on. A comrade is carrying a vertical banner by his side. It must be their leader.

Marcus yells out: “Gaius, our only hope is to get that commander.”

Standing back from the fight momentarily, he quickly points to ten men:

“Back up Gaius and me. Follow me.”

They charge in a wedge, led by Marcus, through the Hsiung-nu horsemen, bashing with their shields. Gaius is slowed down, wounded, but keeps fighting like a Homeric hero. Marcus reaches the commander who rears his horse up and gives him a mighty swipe with his sword, hitting his shield and knocking him down. Rolling just in time to avoid the stamping hooves, Marcus gets on his feet, drops his shield and sword. He rushes at the man before he brings his sword into play again and grabs his clothing, pulling him off his horse with a sudden shout from the pit of his stomach, contracted into a ferocious concentration of will.

The wounded Gaius and the rest of the Romans hold back the Hsiung-nu as they move in to protect their leader. Dust and confusion swirl around the lethal combat. No quarter can be given – there's no time; the blood is too hot, the stakes too high. The pressure on the Romans is intense; pushed back and taking casualties they can't hold out for long. Marcus knows he has very little time to do his job.

He picks up his shield just in time to parry a vicious slash by the Hsiung-nu commander, now on his feet. The strength of the man is prodigious. Marcus is forced onto his knees. Holding his shield up, he scrambles over to his sword, grabs it and stands up. He must get in close where his short weapon has the advantage, but try as he might he can't get past the man's defence. The Hsiung-nu is too agile, keeping his distance. He's like Jir-Jir, moves like him, on the balls of his feet, which are always a little apart just under his shoulders, keeping him on balance at all times. With a sudden movement too quick to see, he flips Marcus' sword out of his hand.

Marcus retreats and pulls out Owl's Head, holding his shield out in front. The commander circles him. Then, again in a sudden move, he swings his sword at Marcus' head. This time the Roman sees it in time and raises his shield. The blow glances off and wounds him in the shoulder, penetrating his armour. The sight of his own blood infuriates him, propels him with new energy.

He rushes at his opponent in a charge of desperation and feints to the left with his shield. As the Hsiung-nu reacts, he manages to get close enough to plunge Owl's Head upwards into the bottom of the man's chest, underneath his breast plate. The commander goes down, sword falling from his hand, shock twisting his stony face in the last sign of life. For an instant, a breathless Marcus stands looking at him lying flat on his back. He assumes he's dead.

“Get back to the wagons – on the double.”

It all happened so fast that the Hsiung-nu troops couldn't react in time – or at least not enough of them. And those who were close to the commander the Roman contingent were able to keep at bay, just long enough. A few minutes more and it would have been overwhelmed.

When word spreads that the leader is lost, energy goes out of the Hsiung-nu, like air from a blown up bladder punctured by a dagger. Without him, doubt, the subverter of courage, infects their minds and they decide it's better to save their own skins than continuing to fight. It's too difficult, too costly. They break off, intent only on retrieving their dead and departing as fast as possible. The defenders stand by, too tired and relieved to fight any more. They watch like condemned men given reprieve, as the scourges of the steppe ride away into the dusty haze, limp bodies hanging over their horses.

Marcus checks for casualties – fortunately the wounds suffered, while in some cases serious, are not mortal. Except for Gaius. Everyone knew he was hurt but no one realised how seriously. He's lying down, shoulders propped up by a colleague and one knee slightly raised. His huge frame is covered with wounds. The worst one is in the side, where the breastplate fails to protect. Someone has taken off his armour, revealing the gash, the width of a sword. His breath is laboured and low.

“Marcus, we've come a long way. Sorry I can't go on.”

Before Marcus can respond, Gaius' head flops. All are stunned, especially Marcus. He can't speak, can only kneel down and pick up his friend's hand and hold it. Not only was Gaius a lifelong friend, he was the last personal link with home. Now that is broken. The loss is crushing; it breaks his heart. Suddenly Kang realises the situation, and dropping his voice in sympathy, says;

“Marcus! Come to the main chariot. Meilin's been wounded. A stray arrow hit her.”

In a fog Marcus runs over. Meilin is lying in her mother's arms, pale and quiet, the arrow still in her shoulder. Gan is standing by, frozen. Sensing something, she half opens her eyes. A glance of recognition flashes across the space, and fills it with love. Gan catches the look, a touch of sympathy crinkling his impassive face for an instant. Marcus can only stand apart, silent, staring. In a few moments he feels able to ask the Han physician who's standing by: “How bad is it?”

“Not too bad. The arrow hasn't touched anything vital. It isn't in very deep – must have glanced off something which slowed it down. I'll be able to remove it easily. I'll give her some healing herbs now and some others when I've taken the arrow out. She'll make a full recovery. She needs rest though.”

Gan says, “We'll stay here for a while. It's best she's not bumped around on the Road. Anyway there're others who also need a few days to recover.”

They can't remain long though; there's not enough water. But they must bury the dead. Small parties of Han and Roman soldiers carry their fallen to separate locations in the desert within eye distance of the Road. The full Roman cohort is there, even the wounded, some hobbling with the support of their comrades. All is quiet and the sun has just slipped behind a line of dark clouds high on the horizon.

Each group conducts its own ceremony a hundred paces apart. They're close enough for the prayers of each to be heard by the other, connected as it were by the solemnity of death in a common cause. The sympathy each feels for their own fallen reaches across the distance and forms a silent bond.

Dressed in full uniform, Gaius is lowered into a hastily dug hole. With the Romans standing in formation, Marcus stoops over him in tears and places his last denarius in his mouth, payment for the grim boatman who'll ferry his soul across the Stygian river into eternity. He stands up slowly, his eyes fixed on the grave.

“We'll miss you Gaius Fulvius. You were the Ajax of the Roman army. Like that mighty hero of the Achaeans, no enemy could stand up to the battering of your shield. It was a shield which no man but you was strong enough to wield like you did. You were a bulwark, an inspiration to your comrades to the end. May your spirit find happiness in your life to come. I'm sure it'll be in the Elysian Fields. If anyone deserves to be there it's you. From this time on you'll live in two places, there and here in our hearts.”

They spend a few moments in silence and with a different tone of voice Marcus says

“We battered the Hsiung-nu so hard they won't come back. This'll be the last raid we'll have to beat off. Well done. You all fought at the top of your form –never better. We saved the Protector General and his family. Sometimes I'm not sure which side the Caravan Road is on but there's no doubt it was on our side today. Our wounds will heal – only a matter of time. Gaius Fulvius would have appreciated your effort in coming to bid him farewell. It's fitting it was at a time of victory.”

Back at the caravan, Marcus runs into Kang.

“Kang, would it be possible for me to visit Meilin?”

“I know it's hard, but for the moment I think it best for you to stay away. The parents want to be with her alone, and the issue of marriage would be embarrassing to them, especially as the Protector-General has forbidden contact. Her prognosis is favourable so she'll get better soon”.

“Unpleasant advice Kang but I suppose you're right. I would risk a confrontation, the last thing Meilin needs now. All right I'll stay away, be with my comrades.”

❧

After three days, the caravan starts up and moves on to the next oasis, a day's march away. The beacon tower on its border is thankfully free of the dreaded plume. The Hsiung-nu have departed this area – for now.

Past the oasis the Road moves into a wide expanse of fertile land, studded with rivers and small lakes, green and agricultural. They stop beside one of the lakes for the night.

Meilin's mother goes to her husband,

“I'm worried about Meilin. She's not recovering as well as the doctor predicted – seems depressed; she's given up. It's because you won't give your consent. That's certain. I know it's difficult and I was in two minds about it myself. But things are different now.