The Tortoise in Asia (5 page)

He produces a solid gold pectoral, inlaid with stags fashioned from lapis lazuli, to be worn flat just under the neck.

“Here, I bought it especially for you, as I know you love lapis. It comes from the main market in Seleucia. Remember, we were there for the civil war? I hope you like it. Come, sit down with me.”

“It's beautiful, the most beautiful necklace I've ever seen. You're really so generous my Lord. I don't know what to say, except thank you, thank you, thank you.”

She throws her arms around his neck and gives him a long kiss on the lips, and he smiles, for the first time today, the first time for many days. It's not the thing he normally does. In fact sometimes he looks a touch artificial when he does it. But not tonight.

He feels the cares fall away like a piece of silk slipping from a table as she tells him about her day – the bumpy ride in the chariot, the antics of the horses, the gossip of the other women, the heat, and, best of all her longing to see him. Her voice is beguiling, like a cascading mountain stream, sparkling in the sun.

He calls for wine and drinks with her. He feels comfortable, gruntled, as her open and affectionate attitude begins to penetrate his skin, so hardened by the demands of his character. Dinner comes and goes in a happy haze. She might well do for a bride, but no of course not; he must marry into a noble family.

The night passes in quiet pleasure and he feels refreshed in the morning. It's just as well for he'll have to spend the day's march completing the action plan he's been forming in his mind. One more day after this and he'll be close to Carrhae where he expects to meet his adversary.

W
hile the bridge crawls across the Euphrates, Marcus and Gaius Fulvius Aquila take a stroll to Zeugma. Never taken by education – uninterested in books, Gaius only ever wanted to join the army. He accepts that high rank is beyond him, content with being an ordinary centurion, practical and reliable. In the earthy twang of his youth, he often teases Marcus about his aspirations, especially the improved accent.

The two are life-long friends, unfazed by differences. Underneath, their values are the same, a moral linkage which allows each to admire the other's qualities. Gaius is stronger, Marcus quicker. The big man has more of an earthy attitude to life, uncomplicated by the disappointments attending ambition. He's a natural Stoic; Marcus works at it.

In a few minutes, another centurion in their cohort catches up with them, slightly out of breathe. Marcus says,

“Ave Quintus. You want to come with us for a drink?”

“Sure. I thought we were all going together.”

Slightly embarrassed for leaving him behind, Marcus and Gaius mutter something friendly and non committal and Quintus joins them. He might have said something sarcastic but lets it pass.

When they get to the town they wander through unpaved streets full of bustling merchants, women too, but not many. Some people are on donkeys, others on camels laden with packing cases, but most are on foot, busy and loquacious. The atmosphere is organic, of braying and snorting and shouts, of sweat and animal droppings, of the touch of strange bodies brushing by in the moving crowd. Spicy cooking smells flow through the street like a light fog.

A large mud brick building with an open door stands out among the rest. They go through to a noisy quadrangle, with camels and donkeys hitched at one side, trade goods stacked beside them. A few gnarled trees snatch space for themselves and no grass intrudes upon the dried mud ground. It's a full service caravan inn, with sleeping quarters, stables and a dining room opening out onto the courtyard.

The Romans sit outside in the early summer sun and order a jug of wine and some water. Red appears. Marcus says “We Romans usually drink white wine, don't you have any?” The waiter says there's only local wine and it's red. “All right then, we'll take it”.

Other customers are there. Their clothing styles mark the varied origins collected here by the Road. Clouds of meat- filled smoke belch out of the kitchen on one side. All the tables are full, the courtyard bursting with laughter and torrential conversation. The patrons are too engrossed with each other to notice the newly arrived overlords who're the only Romans in the place. But the Romans notice them, at least three attractive young women sitting together, locals probably. Marcus stares, knows he shouldn't but does anyway; they remind him of an incident years ago. Fortunately they're too involved in their conversation to catch him.

He had just returned to Rome from Syria with Gaius and Quintus to participate in Pompey's Triumph for the Eastern victories. They were celebrating in the Boar tavern.

The day was one of the most memorable in their lives, possibly the most. It was the only Triumph they'd been in. The atmosphere was euphoric. The whole of Rome was in the streets, excited with virtually religious fervour. Everyone but the marchers was dressed in pious white. They lined the Via Appia all the way to the Forum, like long thin clouds. People strained to see around the heads in front of them. Some were on the tips of their toes. No one wanted to miss the slightest detail.

Solemn magistrates and senators in their togas came first, striding the cobblestones and backed by trumpeters, their instruments winding into a G around their shoulders. Rolling cheers erupted as the booty wagons passed by, laden with captured armour and weapons, and, best of all, treasure – goblets, plates, vases, ewers, bowls of precious metal specially polished for the day, and mounds of gold and silver coins so brilliant they looked as if the sun had broken off a piece of its crown and tossed it down for the adornment of Rome. Downcast Eastern prisoners with tearful wives and children came next. After them, a group of soldiers carried paintings, holding them on high with upstretched arms. Artists had just finished making them to commemorate the most dramatic parts of the victories. Last of all came Imperator Pompey, the Triumphator himself, with red-painted face and crowned with a golden laurel. He was standing benignly in his chariot which was pulled by a team of elephants, a sign of the East. So intent on acknowledging the adulation of the crowd, with nodding head and broad smile whose energy never left his face, that he completely ignored the slave at his back who whispered repeatedly in his ear the customary “
memento homo
” – remember you are mortal.

Because the owner of the Boar could tell the three comrades were from Pompey's legions, he found a table for them even though the place was jam packed. Immediately a waiter bustled over with wine. Before long, the self congratulatory toasts repeated ad nauseam were taking effect. However, the revelry didn't prevent them from noticing a pretty young girl sit down at the next table. She was dressed to attract male attention. Soon, it seemed she was slipping discreet glances at Quintus. Or at least so he thought, but said he couldn't be sure. Suddenly he got up and appeared at her table with his wine cup.

Before long, Quintus brought her over. “This is Lucia” he announced. She was quite vivacious and self-assured, but in a pleasant way, aged around twenty. It was difficult not to look at the revealing tunic that spoke more compellingly than the voice. As time went on she became a little tipsy, and friendly – seemed to like the attention. And she was impressed by the stories of exploits in the East, grossly exaggerated of course, and the descriptions of the lavish gold and silver jewellery even the ordinary girls wear.

Soon she and Quintus slipped into a flirtatious phase, although still part of the general conversation, now somewhat coarsened by the wine. Eventually it got late and the tavern keeper announced in a loud voice it was time to drink up and leave. Quintus said

“Let's buy a couple of jugs here and go over to your house Lucia. We promise to be quiet.”

“You don't have to be that quiet. My parents are staying with friends outside the city. They don't like Triumphs and their crowds. My father's an artisan; he makes shoes. We live over his workshop – not far from here.”

At that, Marcus called for the bill and two amphorae of wine. The four brushed by talkative patrons reluctantly spilling out into the smooth-stoned street, palely illuminated by a half moon struggling with clouds.

They were completely inebriated by the time they got to Lucia's place, or at least the men were. She was fairly sozzled but steady. They entered the cobbler's shop, which was dark except for some timorous light coming in from the moon. They could just make out sandals in various states of repair neatly arranged on benches by the wall. Lucia lit a small oil lamp and led the way up roughly made wooden stairs that creaked all the way to a suite of small rooms. They went into what seemed to be the main room and Lucia lit two large lamps which stood on metal stands. There was running water in the room, a luxury which indicated the family was doing well.

The room was bare of all but a few pieces of furniture – a reclining bed, three rough-sawn chairs and a low table. Shadows flickered across the walls which seemed to be painted red. Nothing covered the wooden floor. Quintus sat on the bed, Marcus and Gaius on the chairs.

Marcus put the amphorae on the table and Lucia brought some earth-enware cups. She sat down beside Quintus and everyone restarted the drinking campaign with raucous dedication.

All of a sudden, Quintus got up and took Lucia into the next room. Without those two, the party became quieter, lapsing into conversation about the Triumph. As Marcus was pouring another wine, Quintus called out in a thick voice;

“Gaius, you're next. Come in”, and appeared at the door, smiling. Lucia protested “No. No. I don't want that. What d'you think you're doing Quintus?”

Quintus said, “It's all right Gaius. Don't worry. She won't mind.” He took the cue and went into the bedroom. Screams came through the door, then muffled cries, and silence.

Marcus said “Is this right, Quintus? She obviously doesn't want to do it with Gaius.”

Just as Quintus was about to reply, the front door burst open and six men appeared, armed with daggers. The companions had no weapons as they had just been in the Triumph.

“Tenement people; they must have heard her scream”,

Marcus said, as he picked up a chair and crashed it over the head of the leader of the pack. His dagger fell on the floor and Marcus picked it up. He thrust it at the second man, gashing him in the arm and moved back quickly. Gaius came dashing out of the bedroom dishevelled and stood still at the doorway. For a moment all was motionless, an eerie hiatus as everyone took stock of the opposition, trying to work out the best move. Although the companions were outnumbered and had no weapons except for Marcus now, the tenants were wary as they would have known they were up against trained fighting men.

Suddenly Marcus leaped to the right and, wetting his fingers with saliva, doused one of the lamps on the table. He tried for the second but accidentally knocked it on the floor. It rolled over to the corner. Flames began to lick up the dry timber wall. The little blaze distracted the intruders. They knew only too well the terrible scourge that fire can be in the wooden tenements.

Before the tenants could react, the three ran out of the door, down the lightless stairs, across the little shop and into the street, slamming the door behind them. They sprinted around the corner and along the cobblestone street until they felt safe enough to slow down to a walk. The moon had sunk leaving the night mercifully dark and the revellers had left the streets. There was not much they could do except go home and meet the next day to discuss a way out of the mess they were in.

The three met outside the Temple of Castor and Pollux at noon, hung over and worried. They sat on the wide marble steps off to one side, out of the way of the streams of people coming to worship.

Marcus was feeling awkward for not trying to restrain Gaius. Partly it was because he didn't see clearly enough the seriousness of what was happening at the time and partly because of comrade solidarity. He was sharply mindful of the tradition of how soldiers fight primarily for their comrades, to support and be supported by them, to be seen favourably in their eyes, how this camaraderie forms the basis of honour, which Homer said, in the nearest the Greeks ever came to a religious book, is the essence of manhood, and how the highest decoration for valour is the
corona civica
– the crown of oak leaves which can only be won by saving the life of a comrade in battle.

Clearly anxious, Gaius said “How could she not expect something like that would happen? Shit, she was in a tavern of loose women; she was dressed sexy; she invited all three of us back to her place. We were all drinking – she was too. It was obvious she liked the attention, enjoyed flirting. It wasn't only Quintus she flirted with. She did with you too Marcus, although not with me, I admit.”

“I agree”, said Quintus. “I thought she was up for it with all of us. Plenty of girls like her would be. Some say no only to go along with it once it gets started. How were we supposed to know the difference?”

Marcus was perplexed by the ambiguity and felt uncomfortable, like they all did. It was easy to see that Lucia liked Quintus and was willing to have sex with him. That much was clear. It turned out that her consent stopped with him, but the atmosphere was set by that time. Expectations were aroused, fuelled by the wine. In a sense she was complicit. But still the consent wasn't there and that posed a problem. Something had to be done and done quickly.

“Look, we have to stop her going to the authorities,” Marcus said. “We're all in this together. If there's a trial we're done for. Those tenants will support her, give her a good character reference. Besides, they heard her scream. It won't just be her word against ours.