Читать книгу The Tortoise in Asia - Tony Grey - Страница 10

Gaius Cassius Longinus is sure to be there, the tall rope- muscled Quaestor and second in command. How could anyone like the man’s cold and mineral personality? But you have to admire his quenched iron intellect, his uncanny ability to sense immediately the controlling ingredient in a muddle of facts, the main thing or critical combination that will determine an outcome. He knows instantly that it’s a thorn in his paw that causes the lion’s reactions while his colleagues still canvass other possibilities.

Although wary of him, Marcus reluctantly admires the man, keen to learn what makes him so successful. It seems that while his memory and cognitive ability are impressive, although not outstanding, he has an inexplicable additional element, something that can’t be learned, which he brings to decision making. But, though present in military applications, that element is absent in others, in human relations for example.

Dressed in a white rust-fringed tunic fastened with the usual wide leather belt extending from below the rib cage to the abdomen, Marcus arrives at the praetorium, the command centre. Two exceptionally tall centurions, faces as still as stone, guard the tent’s entrance. Close by is the flagpole that flies the colours of the army, hanging flaccidly, hot and lazy. An eagle sails high on the thermal currents keeping watch and the Road runs by, patiently waiting for information. It’s within earshot.

Fattened with humidity from the river, the heat seems more sapping than in Europe. Despite this, the guards wear full uniform, festooned with disk-shaped medals. They’re formidable specimens. With bronze greaves on their shins, short coats of heavy chain mail and polished helmets with fanning plumes, they stand inert, like metal posts, but that’s an illusion for they can move in an instant. A short, stubby sword – the gladius, hangs on their left side and their right hand holds a spear.

Crassus and Cassius, also dressed in rust-fringed tunics, are in a purse-lipped mood, not looking at each other. It’s as though they are competitors at the games in Rome, or in Olympia. Senior officers, including the seven legion commanders, stand by, silently self conscious. A slave scuttles over with an amphora and fills earthenware cups with water. Nobody picks them up.

Manius Decius Cincinnatus, the commander of Marcus’ legion, stares down at his foot, repeatedly smoothing the sand. Even Crassus’ son, Publius, who commands the cavalry and is noted for his bellicose character, looks sheepish. Ineradicable flies, stimulated by the rising heat, keep everyone on edge and no breeze brings relief.

Irritated by his colleague’s hectoring manner, Crassus stoops over a table with maps lying around like untidy thoughts, not saying anything. He overcomes his mood for a moment when he sees Marcus and straightens up. The frown on his face dissolves into the smile for which he’s famous. It’s in the form of a crescent moon lighting up his round face in a frankness which gives the impression that he’s the nicest man in the world.

“Marcus Velinius, I’m glad you’re here. I want you to hear the discussion and let me have your views. You come from a fresh perspective.”

Thin-faced Cassius also acknowledges his presence but with a detached air, just on the safe side of rudeness; he considers friendliness a waste of effort. Besides, a career soldier, he’s particularly annoyed at having to argue with a superior whose military acumen he doesn’t respect, whose battle experience is almost entirely lacking.

Marcus’ nerves tighten. The atmosphere’s like a summer storm forming up. Held for a while in unnatural stillness, the wind is waiting to leap into sudden fury armed with explosive rain as soon as the tension bursts.

Leaning forward on the map table with two hands, Crassus breaks the silence.

“Gaius Cassius, our scouts have been out there for days without seeing the enemy. The footprints they noticed that time pointed in the opposite direction. That signifies retreat. How could it mean anything else?

The sign’s obvious; the Parthians are afraid of us. The logic’s clear. We should go after them. Give them no time to rest. Hunt them down. Show them a touch of Roman spirit. Like Terentius said, Fortes fortuna adiuvat – fortune favours the bold.”

Cassius’ left eye twitches. In a tenor voice, nasal and rasping, he says,

“Marcus Licinius, it’s always possible to lose a battle”

“But if we’re bold we won’t lose.”

“Not the point. There’s a right time for action and it’s not now. Need more preparation. First, billet the men in the garrison towns along the river”.

“What’s the point of that? It’ll just waste time.”

“No it won’t. We’ll get intelligence. Don’t know much about the Parthian army – a cavalry force, that’s all. Got to find out more – their weapons, tactics, strength. Besides, the men need rest – regain condition. Battles are won by preparation, by knowing the enemy.

After that, march south to Babylon and Seleucia. Those people hate Parthians – were just in a civil war. Recruit them. Then bring the enemy to battle”.

He shuffles the maps to find the one that shows southern Mesopotamia, pointing vigorously to the cities. “I don’t agree”, says Crassus, standing up stiffly, his voice gaining force, round and full, produced from the diaphragm like the best orators. Its volume expands like a boat’s sail filling with wind.

“We must attack them without delay. Our troops aren’t exhausted; they can still march and fight. By Jupiter, they can beat any enemy, certainly the Parthians. We know enough about them already. You’re too timid. We’ll have no trouble. You can be sure of that.”

It’s a curious argument, a case of role reversal. Cassius is a young man not much older than Marcus, his rotund commanding officer well over sixty and looking old for his age, grey hair receding into baldness, and sometimes clumsy. At the last rite of sacrifice, when the priest gave him the entrails they slipped out of his hand. One would think the impatience would belong to the younger man, caution to the older.

“Commander, our troops are slack. No time for exercise because you had them confiscating wealth. Lost time in Hierapolis weighing treasure. Wasted more robbing the Jewish temple. All this instead of keeping our troops sharp. Got to correct that now.”

“How dare you imply I haven’t maintained the discipline of our troops! There’s no reason why they couldn’t be deployed for a little time to extract treasure and still fight. I must remind you, Gaius Cassius, you, as well as the others, will benefit.”

“You’re a better business man than a military commander.”

“That slur’s completely unfounded. I led the army which defeated Spartacus when the slaves rebelled and the whole of Rome was terrified. I had six thousand of them crucified. Remember, their crosses lined the road from Capua to the gates of Rome. “

“That victory was only against slaves.”

Marcus knows the story. Pompey had a full Triumph for his exploits in the East – that was the one he was in, but Crassus received only an Ovatio. He was so jealous that he could scarcely be civil to Pompey even while sharing power in the Triumvirate.

After a pause that has the whole tent expecting an explosion, Cassius drops his voice, now worried he’s pushed his Commander in Chief too far.

“Marcus Licinius, if you insist on attacking now, don’t do it across open country. Stay close to the river. It’ll protect us against being surrounded. If you don’t like that, engage through Armenia. The terrain’s rugged there.”

Marcus senses that the astute Cassius is probably right. What he advocates is standard military doctrine, even more important to apply in unfamiliar territory. He’s correct to insist on avoiding open country which suits horses. The Romans have only four thousand cavalry, sufficient for tactical moves, but not enough to protect foot soldiers from the Parthians’ numerous horse archers. They need the help of terrain. Crassus is being rash, impatient because of the time spent gathering plunder.

Things are getting intolerable. The two commanders are leading members of the senatorial class; they sit on an exalted platform. Instinctively Marcus edges himself behind a tent pole, as though imagining it can make him disappear. It’s not just embarrassing; he’s dreading the time when Crassus will ask for his advice, forcing him to take sides.

As Cassius’ diplomatic gambit is having a mollifying effect on the Commander in Chief, one of the centurions pulls back the tent flap. He announces an Arab chieftain, Ariamnes. For some time the Arab’s been lobbying Crassus for a chance to serve the Romans. Crassus has invited him today to give details. Perhaps in order to cool the heat of the debate, perhaps because he’s running out of reasons, Crassus motions to let him in straight away.

Crouching with pendulous robes hiding his well fed frame, he minces forward. He stops at a respectful distance from Crassus, muttering poetical flattery. He reminds the assembly that he’s been a friend of Rome for a long time, and his reliability has been recognised by the great Pompey.

An incipient sneer crawls across the narrow face of Cassius who’s noted for scepticism at the most neutral of times. His superior is opaque.

“Imperator”, the Arab says, using the Roman title of a commander in chief who has won a great victory. He knows Crassus longs for his men to call him that for his defeat of Spartacus. So far no one’s obliged.

“Why is it that, with the most feared army in the world, you’re not hastening to the attack? It’s well known that the Parthian leaders have made plans to flee north to the wastelands of Scythia with their goods and families if the only alternative is to fight you. Not only are they afraid, but there’s confusion in the realm. The rebellion in southern Mesopotamia’s just been put down. Now’s the time to strike, while the Parthian forces are regrouping. Besides, they’ll gain confidence as they perceive your hesitation and become worthier opponents. I speak this as a friend of Rome who wishes you well.”

Crassus says nothing, but waves him to continue.

“I’m willing to lead you by the most direct route to where the Parthians are skulking. You can corner them there, forcing a battle which you’re sure to win. I know the country well. You can trust me; I’ve always been loyal to Rome. There can be no better reference than Pompey to prove that.”

The Arab opens his arms in an expansive gesture to underline his sincerity and waits for a reply. An awkward silence follows. No one says a word. Cassius has no interest in asking questions or making comments and Crassus has nothing to add. Giving an embarrassed cough, Ariamnes mutters something about it being time to leave and goes out of the tent.

After the Arab departs, Crassus announces it’s time to decide. He summarises the opposing positions, pointing out that he’s verified Ariamnes’ friendship with Pompey.

“Although I’m critical of Pompey on a number of counts, I’m well aware of his shrewdness. Any foreign friend of his would have to go through rigorous scrutiny. I’m satisfied Ariamnes can be trusted.”

Turning to Marcus, he says, “Marcus Velinius you’ve heard the analysis. Before I make my decision, I’d appreciate your advice. Speak.”

A quandary he dreaded, it’s obvious the Commander in Chief wants to take up the Arab’s offer, even though it may mean crossing open country. Cassius’ approach is better. In business dealings Crassus is known for being decisive and brooking no opposition once he’s made up his mind. He’s usually right. Whether his sense of judgement can be transferred to the military sphere is being tested to the full today.

Marcus has heard of men who think if they’re successful in one domain they’ll succeed in another so long as it’s similar, even if they have little or no experience in it. He’s aware that in the transition the subtleties of the craft often elude them. Requirements in commerce are similar to those in the military, but they’re not the same. What the High Command is facing now, with the annoying flies buzzing around, is a decision that could determine the campaign’s outcome. And Crassus has probably got it wrong.

It’s clear that the shrewd quaestor is not impressed by the Arab or his offer. His face is as hard as a skull. Nothing has changed his opinion. But he’s finished speaking; he’s delivered his advice, can say no more without being redundant, or offensive. He’s like a judge who’s given his findings; he’s functus, any further statement being of no purport. It’s now up to the young advisor.

His heart is pounding. The hot and muggy tent has so many eyes and they’re all on him. He’s alone, no one to tell him what to do, no time to think of consequences. The leadership of the Roman army is looking at him, staring even – worst of all the Commander in Chief. They’re ready to convict him of folly if he founders and sentence him without mercy. A junior officer is dispensable. He feels his face go red and burst with sweat. His brain seizes up. He can’t say anything; the others wait. The silence must end; he must get his tongue moving, the tongue that’s sticking to the roof of his mouth; there’s no way out. Tightening his stomach muscles into a knot, he pushes himself into speech.

“Sir, the arguments put forward by Gaius Cassius Longinus are cogent and persuasive, and could lead to a favorable outcome. However, in this situation which is not clear cut, their prudence needs to be weighed against the imperative of aggressive action – what has always served our army well. I think on balance we should march straight for the Parthians, with Ariamnes as our guide. Pompey’s reference is persuasive. The open country can be dealt with. Our tactical skills should be enough to overcome the enemy’s cavalry. We win our battles with the infantry anyway.”

How could he have said that? He doesn’t believe a word. It feels like he was speaking as if apart from himself, the words coming from some outside source, only seemingly internal, as in a cave of echoes. But in reality, that was not the case. The ultimate source was deep within, the words involuntary, an atavistic response to the call of self-survival, of ambition. They emanated from a morally neutral place where instincts reign unchecked by thought. But as they hit the wall of consciousness their baseness is exposed. However, it’s too late to take them back; they’ve been released.

On the battle field the tyranny of self preservation never rules him like this; he can discharge his duty whatever the cost or risk. His comrades think him brave – acer in ferro – sharp in iron. It’s a different process there, however, less complicated, moderated by excitement, tradition, and training. It’s certainly clearer; shirking would be instantly seen, unshielded by the cover of ambiguity or dissimulation. That’s the merit of physical combat close to comrades; behaviour stands out like thunder in the silence.

“Marcus Velinius, as always your advice is sound”, Crassus says, a warm smile swelling his full-cheeked face. “It accords with my own instincts. I appreciate your forthrightness. We march tomorrow, due east with Ariamnes as our guide. We’ll force that furtive Surena to taste the medicine of a Roman attack.”

Would it have made any difference if he had given honest advice? Crassus seems to have made his decision and only wishes to go through the motions. But perhaps, speaking out forcefully might have stirred up Cassius to re-enter the fray, the two of them prevailing.

At least the decision is not certain to lead to disaster. It most probably won’t. The fighting qualities of the Roman soldier should compensate for the poorer choice, despite the cost of additional casualties. But that cannot salve the wound to his conscience for it’s beside the point. He’s disobeyed the cardinal imperative of Stoic philosophy – make the right moral choice without regard to the consequences. Where would there be support for what he’s just done? Not in the books he reads.

The conference is over. He and Cassius leave the praetorium without speaking. As the general is turning to go to his tent, Marcus moves to say something. If only he can open up the possibility of going back, this time arguing on the same side. Perhaps they can promote Cassius’ compromise in attacking virtually immediately, with just a short delay so as to avoid open terrain. But no sound comes out; the hard lines on Cassius’ face prevent it. He’s offended the second in command. At least he can take comfort in the fact that it relates to the view he expressed, not the reason behind it. That, at least, hasn’t been disclosed and never needs to be.

The portentous decision’s been made – alea iacta est – the die is cast. It’s observed by the Three Sisters who weave the fate of mortals. They alone can foretell who of the tens of thousands of Romans and Parthians soon to be embraced in battle will pass by Lethe’s doomfull spring and forget their former lives.

Next day, in the early morning as the water birds come to drink, shouts of command shatter the peace along the banks of the river of civilization. Centurions put into action the decision to march east along the Road to find the elusive enemy, with Ariamnes navigating. The Romans would have left it if its Commander in Chief had followed Cassius’ advice.

The Road is honoured that it’s been chosen to carry the grand army into battle – better than being left out of the drama; perhaps it foresees that what it’s to facilitate will lead to one of the most curious developments in its long life.