The Tortoise in Asia

by Tony Grey

  “Sir, my name is Marcus Velinius Agricola and I’m a Roman soldier. I’ve come to offer the services of my cohort of a hundred and fifty men, skilled in warfare”.

  Jir-Jir sits straight-backed, a golden hilted dagger hanging across his flat belly. His neck is stiff, chin high, jutting out like a small shovel. It’s the haughtiness of the warrior who always wins, who never doubts the certainty of victory. After a silence calculated to diminish the supplicant’s confidence, he says, also in Sogdian, “Yes, I know. You were sent for.”

  Marcus shifts his feet – the only sign of nerves.

  “What would you like us to do, Sir?”

  “You’re big men, taller than ours. But are you strong?”

  “You can find that out for yourself. Give us a test.”

  Jir-Jir leans back and nods slowly, a shadow of a smile crawling into his horseshoe moustache. He fingers his dagger, maybe a distraction, maybe an unconscious gesture to show the foreigner he’s in his power. He’s never seen a Roman soldier before – the breastplate, the greaves are strange. Facially, Sogdians look similar but he assumes they’re different, a lot softer.

  “All right. Let’s see if you can string a Hsiung-nu bow. I’ll send for you in the morning and you can demonstrate your strength. If you pass the trial, I’ll use you and your men as part of my army. If you fail, I’ll still use you. But in the next battle you will fight the enemy first, before we come in. Your deaths will amuse my troops.

  “We’re here to fight the Wu-Sun. I’m going to manoeuvre them into battle in a couple of weeks. You’ll be part of that. Jiyu will take you and your men to your tents. I expect you outside my tent tomorrow morning.”

  He stands up, seeming much shorter than the man in the chair. But his broad raw-boned shoulders and barrel chest show he would a tough adversary in hand to hand combat. Shoes don’t lift his height for he wears soft soled skin boots with round toes. Coming half way up his shins, they have an elliptical pattern in light blue on the sides. His stature exaggerates the size of his head, or perhaps it’s the large round fur hat he wears.

  Jiyu comes over and leads Marcus and Lushan out of the tent, mercifully away from the noxious smell. He gently steers them to walk out backwards, as he does himself. Outside the tent the air is clear and fresh and the light hurts the eye. He motions to the rest of the Romans to follow and takes them all over to a group of round white tents on the outer edge of the camp. Marcus and Gaius are to have their own while the rest have to share. Lushan looks worried.

  “Marcus, you have to learn how to string the bow. It is not easy. Strength is required but there is a trick to it. You must use the time until tomorrow to practice. Jir-Jir is testing you as much for adaptability as for strength. I will get someone to teach you”.

  At their new quarters the Romans gather around Marcus to hear the news. Like some of the others, Trebonius is concerned.

  “Watch out Marcus Velinius. Jir-Jir might be setting you up. Maybe he’s got no respect for foot soldiers since his people are cavalry – just wants you to fail so he’s got an excuse to send us out front like he said. Might want to see us cut down like wild beasts in a hunt. How do we know what he’s thinking?”

  “Maybe so, but I’ve got to try, got no choice. No choice is the same as the best choice.”

  ”Yes you have. You could just refuse and tell him we don’t fight with bows. It’s too big a risk. If you fail we’ll be all doomed.”

  “No that’s the coward’s way out. I can do it. It’s important we impress him. You don’t balk at a challenge with the strong. You take it up.”

  Most of the men agree that he has to try; certainly Gaius does, but all are worried. In a way it’s like the ancient way of determining a conflict – a champion tested in single combat while the troops stand by. Everything depends on it – life or death for all.

  Lushan has spoken to Jiyu and he he’s agreed to teach Marcus the art of stringing the bow. They spend the rest of the day at the lesson. The prospect of imminent death concentrates his mind. Time and time again he tries it. As Lushan warned, it’s not easy. The technique requires agility and co-ordination as well as strong arms. Soon his arms are screaming like harpies but he continues.

  He tries to pace himself, stopping from time to time to recover his strength. The sun passes overhead and sinks towards the steppe and he’s still at it. Gradually the clumsiness smooths down and the times the string spills out of the slot become fewer. By the time darkness arrives he feels he can do it; but doubt remains. A sudden attack of nerves in front of the man who can decide life or death could unsettle him. It’s still a technique he’s just learned, not one he feels comfortable with.

  Next morning, just after the sun has climbed out of the horizon, Lushan arrives to collect him. He’s been up for an hour practising.

  They walk to Jir-Jir’s tent and meet him and Jiyu outside the pool which is flashing sunlight as if it’s drawing attention to the event about to occur. The Sharnyu doesn’t acknowledge their presence, nor does Jiyu. They stand silent, examining him, legs slightly apart in perfect balance. It’s the beginning of an unseasonably hot day, a hark-back to summer. A throng of the Sharnyu’s people are there to see the spectacle; the Roman contingent stands in square formation, apart and tense.

  The Hsiung-nu banners shudder nonchalantly against their poles in a slow breeze, adding colour to the white tents and gnarled vegetation. Marcus says good morning in Sogdian. Jir-Jir doesn’t reply but tosses him an unstrung bow. The string jumps in the air forming a rat’s tail, but stays connected.

  “String it. You have until I count to five.”

  The pressure is enormous. Burdened with the fate of his comrades, the task is like pushing a huge boulder up a hill. One slip and it’ll roll back and crush him like a beetle. He must focus all his faculties, precisely following the instructions of his teacher. If he bungles, he’ll do himself a serious injury as the bow will whip from the pressure, possibly gauging out an eye with the string. But that would be the least of his problems. He’ll get no second chance; Jir-Jir will fail him unless he strings it with no mistakes. Death is sure to follow failure. Being sent into battle while the Hsiung-nu troops watch will ensure that.

  He catches the bow and places it upright on the ground, his foot as a chock. He slides the string up past the horn- plated belly and toward the recurved end, toughened with strips of laminated bone that make the apparatus strong and stiff. In a mighty pull with one arm he bends the bow and slips the loop into its slot. He does it in one elegant motion, like a move in a dance. The Romans cheer as he holds it high for all to see. He’s well within the time limit.

  Jir-Jir smiles, eyebrows rising to open up his face for the first time.

  “All right, you succeeded. But we shall see how well you fight. Come with me.”

  Together with a small entourage, they walk towards the edge of the camp. Jir-Jir moves with his knees slightly flexed and legs apart in a rolling gait on the balls of his feet. It gives him stability and the capacity to spring into action suddenly in any direction. In a way it’s like a gorilla walks but more balanced and smoother. Alertness seems to inform every movement. He could be expected to attack or defend in a split second, before anyone could land a blow. No enemy could surprise him, even from behind. There’d be no doubt as to the outcome if one tried.

  “My scouts tell me that the Wu-Sun are forming up a few days march away. They expect us to attack. Which of course is what we intend to do. We’ve got them where we want sooner than I expected. Now, you and your men – give me the bow.”

  He grabs it and in a curved flash pulls an arrow from the quiver on his back. With a fluid movement that allows virtually no time to aim, he slots it into position and shoots. Everyone is silent.

  Marcus looks in the direction of the arrow and sees a hare stumble and fall about fifty paces away in the scrub. They walk towards it and a warrior picks it up by the arrow to show the Sharnyu. Shot through the heart just behind the forequarters, the
animal is dead.

  “If I had missed I would’ve blamed you for not stringing the bow properly. Then you would’ve been in trouble.”

  He throws back his stiff neck and laughs to the sky. The retainers join in and Marcus feels accepted.

  In a few steps they come across a recently flattened piece of ground with no vegetation. On it are marks which seem to represent two armies facing each other, with lines coming out of the one on the right indicating the direction of attack. The map, elaborated with little flags, is so neatly drawn it could be a work of art.

  Jir-Jir points to the contingent behind the attackers’ right wing.

  “Here’s where you and your men will be positioned”.

  “I want your men to be ready to march tomorrow morning. They must be on horseback. Can they do that?”

  “By now they can, but they’ll be much slower than you people.”

  “I know that. Nobody is as fast as us. I’ll give you guides so you won’t get lost. You can catch up to us later at the battle site.”

  It’s a relief to see that when Jir-Jir referred to fighting he meant against the Wu-Sun and not another test. Also good that his cohort won’t lead the attack but will be used as a reserve to be committed later. It’ll give them a chance to see how these strange people operate in battle.

  CHAPTER 12

  Jir-Jir leads an eight thousand strong force out of the camp in full panoply. Drums bouncing on the sides of the horses begin the growl of war and regimental banners flash colour onto the steppe. The Romans are on foot in the rear, carrying two standards, one for each century, a sober contrast with the flamboyance of their new comrades. An enterprising man has made them out of found objects.

  It’s an odd combination – a barbarian army of horse archers leading the most sophisticated infantry in the world. But Marcus doesn’t think it shameful as once he would. He and his comrades are free and that’s what counts. Besides, proving the merits of the Roman way to the sceptical Sharnyu is a welcome challenge. The pressure is heavier though than in a normal battle where victory solves all. They can be part of a winning event but still fall short of the standards this unpredictable character requires.

  It’s just as well that he had the men keep up their skills in the daily practice at Margiana. It was really done for morale boosting but today its effect in the battle could be decisive. He looks at his men steadfastly marching as they used to and feels confidence return – good to be at battle again. The cohort’s like a slack sail without wind tighten up from a new breeze and become full and strong. Today he’ll wipe the slate clean after the ignominy of Carrhae, or die in the attempt. He has no doubt the others feel the same.

  The Romans soon fall behind. After five days on the march, they catch up. The centaurs of the steppes take less than half that time to reach the site. Jir-Jir had his troops ride all night, every night. They slept on their horses. It’s something they often do, a feat worthy of respect – another example of merit in people east of the Hellespont. It’s something he’s finding himself less and less reluctant to see, a factor that’s making him question his earlier cast of mind, possibly reverse it.

  The speed of the Hsiung-nu march has taken the Wu-sun by surprise. Their slow reaction permitted Jir-Jir to manoeuvre his army onto high ground overlooking them.

  His position established, Jir-Jir ordered his troops to rest, allowing the Romans to catch up and join them. Opposite, on lower ground, the round white tents of the Wu-Sun spread out like mushrooms across the steppe. As darkness falls, their small brazier fires light up like stars coming out one by one. All is quiet, except for sporadic voices, thin and hollow in the distance, oddly peaceable. Notwithstanding the calm, the periodic breaks in the silence warn there’re unseen enemies out there that must be faced in the morning.

  Jir-Jir sends for Marcus.

  “Tomorrow we’ll line up in three sections. I want you and your force behind the right wing as part of the reserves. It’s my intention to overpower their left after the first charge and turn it. You’ll be part of that. Fight well and you’ll be rewarded. Fail and I’ll make sure you and your comrades are meat for the vultures. They’re always hungry out here – ha ha ha.”

  “You’ll see how well Roman infantry performs. You can depend on it.”

  For all the bravado countering the Sharnyu’s banter, he’s under no illusion about how testing the encounter will be tomorrow. He’s never seen the Wu-Sun in battle before and the composite bow he knows they have will be as daunting as what he saw on the field of Carrhae. How they’ll use it is yet to be seen; it’ll be formidable that’s certain. The Testudo will have to be tight. Gone is the confidence he used to have about winning battles against barbarians. It seems so long ago that he thought like that. Still, he hasn’t forgotten how to concentrate, how to block out insinuating doubt, how to deluge fear in the storm of battle passion. And how vital the morale of his troops is. He knows the fears of his men tonight, fears born of the unknown, the great exaggerator. Some are beginning to bend to negative talk.

  He goes from tent to tent calling them brothers, friends and countrymen. Showing not a scintilla of fear or doubt, he reminds them of their skills and abilities – the best in the world. He gives praise to individual commanders, engendering confidence in the others.

  “All you have to do is fight as well as you know how. Remember your tactics and follow your officers. Do that and we’ll earn a permanent place in Jir-Jir’s army. Above all, be aggressive. Take the fight to the enemy.

  “It’s good we’ll have the Hsiung-nu as allies. Jir-Jir’s impressive. He’s beaten the Wu-Sun before – and he’s clearly got the drop on them. Getting the high ground was a master stroke. Look at the discipline and stamina of his troops marching all night. We’ve got to show we’re as good as them in a fight. We can do it.”

  He looks everyone in the eye and the confidence he exudes thaws cold.

  All the same, it’s difficult to sleep tonight. But at least the anxieties of the coming challenge block out the Eumenides for once, when at last he falls asleep.

  Next day, while the copper disc struggles to rise from a thin bed of clouds, the big drums start up. Both sides try as hard as they can to outdo the other. The thumping pierces the air with insistent rhythm, deep and base, full of portent and confidence. Suddenly a tumultuous roar breaks out of the high ground. A mass movement of horses and shouting men thunders down and across the steppe. It’s like a giant stain spreading over the landscape in splotches. Reds, greens, blues, and yellows of regimental banners flutter vertically beside the straining horses. He orders the Testudo to form. Holds it back out of range. The first salvo of enemy arrows flies into the charging horsemen. A few of them fall but the main body surges towards the lower ground intact.

  On Jir-Jir’s command given in Sogdian he orders the Testudo to move forward at a slow pace. High speed arrows hiss through the air. They hit it like a sheet of black hail, rattling the bronze shields. The formation holds firm. Its scales are intact. The waves of missiles aren’t as thick as they were at Carrhae; the Wu-Sun are concentrating more on the Hsiung-nu charge.

  Inexorable, oblivious to danger, the Testudo lumbers over the flat ground. It’s like a primordial monster hankering after its prey. Arrows ping off of its carapace and do little harm. Abruptly it halts behind the front line. The horsemen are starting to fight with swords, still mounted. They’ve exhausted their ammunition. No more arrows to worry about. He orders his men to collapse the Testudo. They form the square and wait, ready to charge at the command. It’s frustrating not to be part of the action but he must obey orders.

  Despite thirty minutes of intense combat, the wings of both sides remain stable. They show no sign of bending. In the centre, the Wu-Sun are making some headway. It’s not much but noticeable. He’s starting to fear the worst. If the line cracks he and his cohort will be on the defensive. They might even be deluged by a panicky swarm of fleeing men, jostled and unable to fight as they should. He’ll be de
nied the chance to prove Roman worth. Is another disaster looming?

  Just as the bend in the centre is reaching its breaking point, Jir-Jir gives the order for the Romans to attack. In a mass they charge the left wing of the enemy. They bump into horse and man with their shields and lock them into close action. That’s where their gladii are supreme. Unlike them, the Hsiung-nu and Wu-Sun have long swords. They fight with a slashing motion. The Romans easily parry their swings with their large shields. Up close the short gladius has the advantage.

  He’s in front, thrusting upwards at the mounted men and bashing with his shield. Gaius comes up beside him, overpowering all before him in a killing spree. The rest of the cohort press behind, yelling battle cries. The assault causes the enemy to bunch up. They’re unable to move their horses out of the way of the converging infantry. Their legendary riding prowess is inhibited. There’s not enough room. The Roman skills are beginning to have effect. Wu-Sun casualties mount; the gladius finds its mark. It’s more manoeuvrable than the long sword, more responsive to quick reflexes. The sharp blade easily slides through the leather that passes for armour in this part of the world for most of the troops.

  The spurting blood and cries of dying men ignite his battle fury, lain dormant since the great defeat. He’s a Roman soldier once again. He’s acer in ferro in the thick of battle. He’s winning again. Like his comrades, he loves hand to hand combat. It’s what they’re best at. It’s nobler than killing at a distance with arrows.