The Tortoise in Asia

by Tony Grey

  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 mercifu
lly 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.

  Even if the sentences are light our careers will be over. We all know how seriously the army takes moral character and relations with the public. The only thing we can do is offer her money. And it has to be a lot.”

  The others agreed and pooled their resources. Next day Marcus appeared at the cobbler’s shop, this time with Owl’s Head hidden in his tunic. Fortunately, the fire had been put out before it destroyed the building. The door was locked. He knocked loudly and called out Lucia’s name.

  After several anxious minutes, he heard the scraping of a key. The door opened tentatively. Lucia recognised him and scowled, starting to close the door. Quickly he stepped in to keep it open.

  “Lucia, I’m very sorry for what happened last night. We’re not bad men; we just got carried away with the wine. I know we can’t rewind the threads, but I’m here to offer compensation and our apologies.”

  “Why didn’t Quintus come? Why did they send you?” she said with a sour look.

  “I don’t know exactly. He sends his apologies too and says if you aren’t too angry with him, he’ll come by later.”

  This wasn’t true but he said it anyway, a little red-faced.

  “In the meantime I’m to offer you this bag of denarii. I hope you’ll not complain to the authorities.”

  She gasped at the amount, half the bonus Pompey awarded for the campaign and enough to set her up for life. Sullenly she accepted the heavy bag of coins, adding that she wanted him and the others to realize the deep hurt she felt, particularly for the callousness of Quintus, and the lack of respect all three had displayed. Marcus acknowledged it, his head lowered. He knew of course that she could go to the authorities anyway. But if she did, her acceptance of the compensation would most probably ensure they would take no action.

  He left the tenement building with the sort of relief one experiences after falling into a well and being thrown a rope. He felt a rush of gratitude to Lucia, even affection. She could have ruined the careers of three men and didn’t. The others felt the same way when he told them of their escape.

  It’s an experience Marcus never wants to go through again.

  As he drains his earthenware cup, Gaius says, “This wine tastes like sandal sweat – only good for getting drunk. Shit, we might as well do that. Life’s getting pretty boring out here. All we do is march or wait around while Crassus adds up how much these people own. At least we could be doing field exercises.”

  “What do you think of him, Marcus?” Quintus says. “You must know him pretty well by now.”

  “Oh, he’s all right, maybe not the most brilliant general. He’s bright though, a logical thinker – pleasant to deal with. Never loses his temper. He’ll listen to advice; even though he doesn’t always take it. The big problem is he’s spent most of his time in business and politics. He’s confident though he can make the switch. To be fair, he should get there. Anyway, the good thing is he’s greedy enough to collect lots of treasure, better at it than the career army types. We could get rich on it. Who’d object to that?”

  “I’d rather have a good commander,” says Gaius.

  “I know that’s ideal. But we can do with less. Our army’s far better than anything the Parthians have. That’ll more than compensate. After all, he’s got good officers. They’ll advise him”.

  He’s made his decision, gone through all the pros and cons. However there’s still a tugging doubt that it’s a gamble, a toss of the dice. Maybe it adds too much to the normal risks of war. The thought is superfluous; what’s done is done and cannot be undone. Besides, doubts belong to the night; in the day preponderance of evidence should overwhelm them.

  “I hope the stupid donkey listens to them”, Gaius says with a grunt and drains his cup, bringing it down in a thud with a hand like a boulder.

  “So what if he doesn’t; how could our army ever be beaten by a bunch of barbarians who fight in a mob? “

  “I hope you’re right Marcus. I’m just sick of waiting around while that greedy bastard grabs money. We should be out there thrashing those dung worms. Anyhow, shit, we haven’t seen anything come our way yet.”

  “I know, but there’s plenty of time. Everyone knows the best’s in Parthia. It’ll make what he’s got now look like a pile of trash. He’ll have to hand out our share. I’m confident, even though he’ll keep more for himself than he should. He’s on the stingy side, except where he wants to impress.”

  He’s reluctant to talk too much about his Commander in Chief; it would be a bit unseemly. He has to admit that he’s slipping under the influence of the plutocrat’s financial success and alluring personality. He’s not the richest man in Rome for nothing; he has technique. The almost friendly manner towards people as he filches their property is impressive. What disarming cleverness! He uses his patrician bearing to convince them that he’s saving them from the crude avarice of the army’s lower class officers who couldn’t be expected to show the same consideration. He always leaves them with something, never takes it all.

  Within the confines of the army, the sleek and round Crassus can be charming in an avuncular sort of way, always courteous and solicitous about the wellbeing of his officers. Prone to the enjoyment of praise himself, he offers it freely to others. Like Marcus but more learned, the Commander in Chief is schooled in Aristotelian thought, much admired in Rome. It helps him make rhetorical points in the Senate. The conversations in the evening Marcus has been having with him are enjoyable, and instructive. When enveloped in the wisdom of the great philosopher, Crassus shows a goodness of nature at variance with his reputation for avarice.

  Feeling a wine-inspired generosity, Marcus invites the two black-bearded men at the next table over for a drink. They can speak struggle Latin.

  “Where�
��re you from?”

  “From Zeugma; we Syrians. Just returned from trip across Parthia on Caravan Road. Three months.”

  “We know the Caravan Road. We’ve been on it through Syria. What’s it like out in Parthia?”

  “It’s all right, mostly routine. Long rides with donkeys and camels. We stay at inns like this, but usually not as good. It’s safe in Parthia because of army. They have to protect us. Whole economy depends on trade. King collects taxes from us.”

  “How does it all work?”

  The merchant smiles, a little flattered at these feared overlords showing ignorance about such an important matter. Do they do nothing but march around and collect taxes?

  “Buy goods here in Roman Empire like wool and linen textiles, bronze vessels, lamps, glassware. Gold, silver bullion most valuable. We carry to Margiana in East. Sell to other merchants. Buy Eastern goods. Carry back to Zeugma and sell in markets here. Those people take to Rome. We go on one section of Road only. No one goes all the way. Too long. Not know what it’s like past great desert. We just know little bit from stories of Eastern traders.”

  “What stories?”

  “Past Margiana country wild, no army protection. Weather bad – winter very cold, summer very hot; sand everywhere. Dune monsters come out of desert, carry people off track. Never seen again. Shapes come in shadows, go in flashes of light. Peer into your eyes, make you confess secrets – all you know, all you ought to know. Other spirits seem good, sing soft songs, melody beautiful as if it comes from heaven, make you happy; but lead you off to die in wilderness. Can never tell what will happen. Magic there. Caravan Road sends monsters and spirits; controls destiny. It the master.