by Tony Grey
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.
The sight speeds up the inevitable; the Hsiung-nu army disintegrates into individuals and the battle is over. The Romans are left standing on the plain, the enemy no longer showing any sign of attacking them.
There’s only one order Marcus can give.
“Stand still. We wait to see what happens.”
CHAPTER 15
The wooden palisade, its entire length set alight by the flaming arrows, is receding into charred stumps, and the town that was to be Jir-Jir’s permanent residence is slumping into a shapeless mound that will soon be abandoned to oblivion. A senior officer comes up to the Han Commander in Chief and says,
“Colonel Chen, during the battle we saw something curious outside the gate on the eastern side of the town. It seemed like a giant creature covered in fish scales. When we looked closer, it was a group of soldiers with round eyes like Sogdians but in uniforms we’ve never seen before. They’re there now. I counted them. There’re a hundred and forty-five.
“During the battle they showed a lot of discipline, holding their formation stubbornly against our attacks. They may look odd but they’re impressive soldiers, and big, taller than our men.”
The officer leads Chen and other senior commanders over to the Romans. A detachment including Gan and Kang goes with them. The legionaries are silent and still, holding their shields with the bottoms on the ground and their swords pointing down. They’re passive but ready to defend themselves. They expect to die and intend to charge a high price for their lives. It’s what honour demands.
The Han soldiers stop a few metres away and stare. No one says a word. Both sides merely stand in silence, studying each other. They’re like walls of sandstone on opposite sides of a river, in each other’s presence but utterly separate. Arabesques of smoke curl up from the dying palisade.
With no idea of the language these strange people speak, the Romans can do nothing but wait. Kang takes a chance that the foreigners can understand Sogdian. He speaks to Marcus who’s standing in front of the square, head high.
“Who are you people? Where do you come from? What are you doing here?
“We’re soldiers from a great city in the west, far away. A
fter a battle in Parthia – the other side of Sogdiana, we were taken prisoner. We escaped to Samarkand – joined Jir-Jir’s tribe as mercenaries. I’m the commander. My name’s Marcus Velinius Agricola.”
Kang translates into Han what Marcus says. Assuming the Romans would not understand, Chen speaks in his own language.
“Protector-General, these men fought bravely. They’re skilled soldiers. They come from far away so they probably don’t have loyalty to the Hsiung-nu. They’re only mercenaries. I think we should enlist them.”
“I agree. Killing them would be a waste. We might as well try them out. If they’re no good or start to cause trouble we can always sell them into slavery. They’re not that many.”
Chen speaks directly to Marcus, his tone hard and sharp, incomprehensible words coming out in staccato, like a stabbing sword. Kang translates into Sogdian,
“My officers tell me you’re brave soldiers and fought well. Since you stopped fighting before we captured you, officially you’re not prisoners. Therefore we can give you a dignified choice. You can join the Han army as auxiliaries. Because you’re foreigners you’ll be treated as mercenaries. The alternative is for you to be slaves. What’s your decision?”
With no need to consult his comrades, Marcus says “We accept your offer. Mercenaries get paid. How much are you willing to pay?”
“Yes, you’ll be paid. The amount will depend on how well you perform. In our culture we expect service first, before any discussion of reward. Show us what you can do and we’ll decide on your compensation. We’re not raiders like the Hsiung-nu so don’t expect as much as Jir-Jir paid you.”
“That’s all right. We’re not greedy. We know how to prove ourselves. When you see how much use we can be, you may feel generous. Where will you take us? You people don’t seem to be from around here.”
“We’ll travel back east to the frontier of our kingdom, over the mountains and past the desert. But we’ll not go yet. It’s necessary to stay here until the spring thaw. The mountains are impassable in winter. Keep to yourselves until we’re ready to leave. We’ll give you food.”
Chen gives the order that the Romans are not to be molested. With that the Han party turns and leaves the bemused mercenaries standing alone. They go back into the smoking ruins of the town to collect their belongings, passing rampaging troops running, looting and shouting, and throwing lighted torches into anything that burns.
The Romans save most of their tents. To make up the deficiency, they salvage felt from the Hsiung-nu’s tents still intact. What’s left of Jir-Jir’s tribe, and that’s not much, has fled into the steppe, except for prisoners who have been rounded up for transport to slavery. The Road will take them to the Chang-an markets.
Marcus sees a soldier in a Sogdian uniform carrying the strange weapon he saw in the battle.
“What’s that weapon? How does it work?”
“It’s a crossbow. Yun, come over here and explain how the cross bow works.”
The Han soldier cannot speak Sogdian so his friend translates.
“It’s more powerful than the ordinary bow. We invented it. It depends on a special trigger mechanism which allows the bow to be made much stiffer. The thrust is increased several times. We reduced the length of the arrow and made it thicker.”
Marcus is ready to accept another instance of merit. These strange people who look so different must have a certain base of culture to invent such a formidable weapon.
“Thank you. It’s very impressive. We’ve got nothing like that where I come from. I wonder when we’ll get it.”
❧
As they wait out the bitter winter months, Marcus and Kang are often seen together. The Confucian is keen to know about the odd and distant civilization whose soldiers have come such a long way. Marcus of course has no choice but to be interviewed at Kang’s pleasure. It’s enjoyable though, not a prisoner’s interrogation but an opportunity to speak of a whole range of subjects where no harm to the interests of Rome is possible. He’s proud of his culture and is happy to talk about it. Besides it offers a certain connection, however ephemeral, with the home he’s been forced to leave. For a moment he’s there in spirit talking about things that give it life.
They meet in the scholar’s tent, at least once a day. Kang is content to spend hours satisfying a curiosity that seems to have no limit. The questions he asks are always in a quiet and respectful tone. A scribe is present, sitting alertly in the corner taking notes. The language of the conversation is Sogdian, so Kang has to translate for the scribe. Sometimes the poor man’s face tightens as he struggles to keep up, his brush jerking in an uncharacteristic rush.
He’s writing on parchment at Kang’s instruction because the amount of information is too great for the more cumbersome bamboo slips. The scrolls are put into a special box after each interview and properly marked. It’ll all be useful once the scholar returns to Chang-an. The Palace, maybe even the Emperor, will be interested. It’s important to know about remote countries, especially one as powerful as this one seems to be. Maybe one day in the future actual contact will be made.
The tent’s interior is lined with silk drapes of blue phoenixes on white which curve around the walls. Red lacquer boxes sit open on the ground, stuffed with rolls of parchment showing angular markings that Marcus takes for a type of script. Three braziers keep the cold’s savagery at bay. It’s comfortably warm inside.
Small tables for serving tea are on silk rugs woven with striding tigers. The strange beverage is served in small lacquer-ware cups, decorated with stylized flowers. It’s an acquired taste but quite pleasant – producing a relaxing effect and stimulating conversation without the gross effects of wine.
Kang is confident and unruffled, always sitting with his hands in his silk sleeves. The folds are like billowing clouds. Surprisingly, the edges carry a pattern that’s very like the key motif so common in Greek tradition. Where did that come from? Did Alexander’s army bring it to the Sogdians who passed it along the Silk Road or was it invented independently? Kang doesn’t know.
In a few weeks it seems appropriate to ask Kang about his own culture. So probing and charged with insight are the questions he’s been asking about Rome that his answers should be revealing. Each question seems to have a background of profound knowledge of the human condition, its good points and bad. And all are suffused with a degree of humility and sense of wonder. To think of Kang as a sage is not outlandish. It’s surprising to encounter someone like this. He might even be considered the equivalent of a Greek philosopher. He’s seen nothing like him in Rome. Marcus has been reading again. Each night he unrolls different authors and stays up late. His interest is recharged by these meetings but also he wants to be prepared to discuss ideas with this unusual man.
As to be expected, Kang speaks about completely different traditions and customs – the Han monarchical form of government with its rigid conventional court, the intricate rules of interpersonal behaviour for example. But there’s one aspect that takes Marcus off guard.
He’s curious about how the Han society enforces order;
“What’s the role the law in your country plays in ensuring appropriate behaviour?”
“We have laws of course; every society must, and we enforce them where necessary. But we’re instructed by the saying of Confucius, our great Master: If a man is correct in his own person, then there will be obedience without orders being given.”
“But that’s similar to what Democritus in our tradition asserted – The persuasion of reason is a stronger inducement to virtue than law.
“Does Confucius deal with the human tendency to go to extremes?”
“Certainly. His grandson wrote it down in one of the books of the Four Classics which every educated person must study. When the passions attain due measure and degree, that’s harmony, or the moral order, which is the universal law in the world. It’s called the Doctrine of the Mean.”
“We have that too. The Greeks have an inscription on th
e temple at their main religious site saying “Nothing in excess” Aristotle took it up in his work, calling it the Golden Mean. He said a virtue is the midway point between two extremes.”
It’s an astonishing similarity of ideas, something impossible to have foreseen. Could there really be such sophistication so far from Rome? The thought is jolting. It’s difficult to decide whether the resemblance diminishes the importance of Graeco – Roman civilization or whether it’s a fascinating addition to it.
Since the escape, merit in foreigners is becoming progressively obvious. It can no longer be denied. Kang, particularly is worthy of respect. The realization is so much at variance with Roman attitudes that it’s embarrassing to admit. It’s confronting. But out here, far past the Hellespont, after so many misfortunes, thick-skinned pride has peeled away, allowing observation to inform opinion, uncomfortable though that may be. But not that uncomfortable; it’s possible to feel interest, even admiration in what’s encountered. It’s a weird experience, but exciting – an adventure into the unknown, with more to come. Kang’s revelation is like the harvest on one section of a farm; it’ll undoubtedly be followed by others.
Marcus begins to speak faster, eager to hear more about the cultural connections. He stumbles over words and has to slow down. His Sogdian is reasonable but not completely fluent. In his agitation he knocks over his cup, spilling tea over the table. A slave quickly moves over to wipe it up. He’s embarrassed and begins to apologise for his clumsiness but Kang interrupts him saying there’s no need. Encouraged by the warmth of the man, he says,