The Tortoise in Asia (30 page)

The Road takes the home comers through the wild steppe again. For a while the direction is southward but then turns east. The potential boredom of the trek dissolves into the task of learning the difficult language and discovering more about the culture imbedded in it. Conversations with Kang, and sometimes with Gan, shed the layers, one by one, of preconceived notions about people outside the Roman imperium. It's not a comfortable process for one with strong prejudices, but evidence is a powerful opinion changer. Anyway, there's no doubt that his fate will be played out among these people. Better get used to it – become competent to live with it. That means effort, starting with the language.

Despite the challenge, it's a relief to come upon a civilized society – even such an unusual one. It generates energy for the task of making a life in it – maybe also tackling the art of happiness, which appears so remote now. Socrates seems to make the attainment of it a moral imperative, distinctly possible if it's worked at. The inference is that life is only unhappy because of moral failure. Unhappiness can therefore be a badge of shame; he's wearing it. Perhaps that's a bit harsh. The defeat at Carrhae was enough to make anyone unhappy. Even Socrates would allow for overwhelmingly adverse circumstances to have a determining effect. But in this case those circumstances have imbedded in them his failure of moral courage and that muddies the waters.

The battle is in the past; so is the slavery. There's an opportunity now to reassess life, see it in a more positive light. The wheel of fortune continues to revolve for him, sometimes into negative space, sometimes positive. The wise Solon was right to advise no one can be judged happy until their death – so ironic to think about it, for he gave the advice to King Croesus, the richest man in the world at the time, a man who, like Crassus, had a prosperous life but a dismal end at the hand of a military commander from the same country as Surena's.

What he can't get out of his mind is his moral lapse in the tent, can't separate it from the defeat no matter how much his reason tells him it would probably not have had anything more than a trivial effect. It magnifies the other times he failed to stand up for what was right. Even little cases come to mind, of minimal importance singly, but they add up. The Eumenides only visit him at night, but an underlying impression of their presence stays with him in the day, almost every day. It makes laughing seem awkward, even at jokes, for laughing is a release from guilt, something he's not entitled to.

The army marches towards the great mountain chain that Kang says has separated the Han nation from the rest of the world since before time. It's a barrier that all attempt with apprehension, and many fail to cross.

As the desiccated land yields to grass, puffy white shapes appear on the blue horizon. Soon they emerge as mountains, their peaks so high they host permanent snow. Marcus has only heard about the Alps, never seen them. Are they equally majestic or as dangerous? As the Road approaches the grassy lower slopes leading to the pass they must cross, he steels himself for the deprivations that Hannibal's troops had to suffer.

T
he weather is clear and warm as the troops wind through the dense forest that hugs the lower slope. As they ascend, the trees grow at steeper and steeper angles, and conifers start to appear. It's really a walk at first but after several hours it becomes a climb, though not requiring skill. The temperature is noticeably dropping. They're coming close to the clouds which glide over the peaks in white and grey shapes, like ships. They tease the eye, covering everything then opening up patches of empyreal blue. A rainbow from a recent shower shines in the distance.

Little white flowers peek out of the underbrush. And large blossoms in clusters of brilliant reds, mauves and pinks on trees with twisted branches paint blocks of colour on the mountainside and in the valleys below. Monkeys sit in the taller trees and gossip about the strange intruders who have no right to come into their abode.

It's a relief from the grimness of the steppe. Here everything has a green presence, green in all shades and textures, moist and luxuriant green. It's hard; it's soft, sometimes threatening in its impenetrable mass, other times seductive and mysterious. Like siblings, its forms compete with each other for attention. At altitude, dwarf bamboo plants in pale green appear and eventually give way to the darkness of conifers. Meadows like lawns are revealed without warning, so smooth they could have been scythed by human hand. Sometimes they surround tumbling streams which carve the host rock as if with a white knife and crash in misting cascades. Often they're flat like balconies in the sky. On one of these the Romans spend their first night.

Next day's climb shatters any complacency that might have tempted a few during the journey so far. In three hours Marcus is above the snow line, bracing against icy winds that knife through his clothing into his bones and slap hard against his forehead. Within minutes it starts to ache furiously. He has to put his hand up to protect it; so does everybody else. The Road disintegrates into a miserly track, as if it has lost interest in the climbers, content to let them struggle along in lonely single file.

Little clouds, more like patches of mist, dart around at eye level like incoherent thoughts. An eagle glides among them, eyes on the lookout, its moving head a contrast with its wings. He looks into its eyes, so cold and menacing they seem like spear points. It sails on by and fades from sight around a peak, then reappears and disappears again. For a moment he thinks of the army standards and the times as a boy he and his friends climbed the hills of Rome looking for nests of the noble bird but not finding any. Then an image of the Eumenides emerges out of the cold air and he bends his head further against the wind.

Further up, the troupe enters the world of full cloud. It's not dense, but shifting in intensity, transforming the landscape into a magical state, where objects appear and dissolve as they're observed. Mysterious forces and strange happenings are possible here, even a passage to Hades for the unwary. Stark dead trees, like shape monsters, scratch at the vaporous air and disappear. Large shaggy brown creatures emerge out of the mist, vanish and suddenly reappear in different positions on the slope as if in a magician's trick. He's told their tails are used as tassels for the dreaded banners of the Hsiung-nu.

The Road has become part of the mountain's form, its rocky track here fully integrated with the peril of the heights. It winds tortuously up the face and stares across the lethal void to snow capped peaks that look like serpents' teeth. At this altitude the path shrinks to a precarious shelf, cut into the cliff. The Road is challenging the climbers to go into the jaws of doom, just as the Alps dared Hannibal's troops. He and his comrades have no choice but to take it up without flinching for they must impress their new employers. Nothing is as important as that.

Snow is blowing in the wind and covering the path in a slippery film. The temperature has dropped to a skin-shrinking low. Not a man is without fear of falling into the void that waits in silence like a giant predator. The soft falling snow blends with cloud to wrap a blindfold around the men, reducing visibility to fuzzy shapes. They're ordered to hold hands and move cautiously, small step by small step. Each expects a sudden pull from his neighbour at any time. There's just enough width for the wagons and chariots, but only just. Sometimes they have to be eased around sharp bends with ropes.

Marcus' breath starts to come in short gasps, driving shards of pain into his lungs. A strange headache breaks out, different from what's caused by the wind, and much worse. The pain wracks his entire skull. It's difficult to hold concentration, avoid the pull of the void that calls to him like Sirens on the shore. Several of his comrades are vomiting, doubled over in pain. So are many of the Han. He's never experienced anything like this before. However, the fear of the unknown at least is relieved when one of the Han says it's just mountain sickness that'll go away once they descend.

Suddenly, a horrifying shriek breaks out behind him. It's followed by others and an ugly crashing sound. He turns to see the outlines of a wagon and three Han soldiers bumping down the face. The cries of the doomed men echo down the slopes and into the valley, diminish and fold into the wind. The spirit of the mountain has claimed its due. And the Road is complicit.

Everyone stops. They're immediately risk averse, brave men terrified. The deaths are starker than usual, more foreboding in this other-worldly environment. It's as if they shouldn't be there, as if they're being punished for being out of place by a malevolent force that's protecting its forbidden domain. But in a minute or so, officers bark orders and the trek starts up again. Painful hours pass as the struggle with the mountain pushes the limits of endurance further than he thought possible.

As he climbs higher, the visibility opens up. The snow belt thickens into deep powder, stretching smooth and pure up the mountain slope, its contours shaped in clean curves by subtle shadows. Sheets of bright sunlight bounce off its crystals like the silk at Carrhae forcing him to look down where the snow is broken. It's harder to walk now as his feet sink in up to his knees. It's worse for the men ahead who have to walk in virgin powder up to their waists. If the climb weren't so arduous, if the venture into the unknown weren't so disquieting, he would have marvelled at the beautiful whiteness which wraps the mountain like a wedding dress. The fresh snow creates its own universe, a place of purity and innocence, but lurking within it unseen, is the constant threat of a sudden avalanche or a fall through a corniche.

Soon the clouds close in again and visibility drops to nil. At the front of his cohort he reaches the top of the pass but has to be told it's not just another ledge; the cloud masks everything. It's a huge relief to get there without Roman casualties – a few close calls but not even a minor injury. Now he and his comrades can start the descent. However it proves more difficult than the climb in many ways, although thinking of the finish line is a consolation. The withering headache fades with the lower altitude, but his thighs and knees are on fire and the cold is still wracking. Finally he and the others reach the warm grass of the lower slopes. On the flats, the first of the Han troops are marshalling, commands and regimental banners filling the air. It's pleasant there; the warmth brings his cold – shrunken skin back to normal. The passage now is just a memory of challenge, justifying a sense of pride and repeated telling with embellishment.

Once all the men have reached the flats and have rested a while, Colonel Chen orders the march to start up. After an hour or so, Marcus catches up with Kang who says,

“That was a very successful crossing. Too bad about the wagon accident, but we had minimal casualties really given the risks. You might be interested to know we call that range the Roof of the World. People go up there for a spiritual experience. Its remoteness allows the mind to roam free from the strictures of everyday living. In our land we have many mountains and they're the inspiration of poetry and calligraphy, our greatest art form.”

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The Road soon loses its green mantle to the grip of the desert. Marcus is used to it now, able to see more in it. If he bends down to look at the sand closely he can see that it's made up of tiny stones, a splendid array of individual shapes in various colours – reds, blues, magentas, yellows, whites. They're like jewellery in microcosm, secretly beautiful in their own right. It just takes patience to see them, something most people aren't willing to muster. Little lizards dash around in the sun, camouflaged against the stony sand which appears beige even from a short distance.

In a few days they reach an oasis where the Road changes into a parkland of poplar trees, their leaves scintillating in the breeze like silver coins. Marcus asks Kang about the town built here.

“It's called Kashi, famous for its weekly markets, where thousands of people from all around come to shop. It's the furthest west we've extended our power. Although we go on punitive expeditions, we have no permanent interest on the other side of the mountains. The locals are a branch of the Hsiung-nu although some are Sogdians. A few, mixed. They're in a tributary alliance with us. Not an easy one though; it's always at a breaking point. As you can imagine we don't get on terribly well”.

Townsfolk line the thoroughfare as the army marches past, staring at the Romans as if they're watching a freak show. It's mid day and the sweet spicy smell of roasting meat is in the air. But sight of the bizarre cooking on the side of the road squelches the appetite of even the hungriest Roman. Sheep heads are bubbling in murky water, thick wet steam rising from the pot. A sweaty cook pulls one out, tosses it on a wooden block and hacks it two with a small axe. One thwack and the two halves fall outwards. He throws one on a metal plate; it lands with a splash of fluid. The customer takes it over to a rickety wooden table and eagerly demolishes its steaming eyes, brains and cheeks.

Past the sheep heads, vendors are selling small birds in cages. They're singing so loudly they can be heard above the clatter of the soldiers and the babble of the locals. Perhaps it's a song of protest, or maybe they've transcended their condition. Anyway the Romans no longer have to think of themselves as captives.

“That's the song of the nightingale,” Kang says. “Its sweet voice has captivated the Han people since before time, especially emperors. The contrast between the beauty of its sound and the plainness of its brown body is a common theme in poetry.”

Nearby a scruffy man with one eye is selling dogs, strange little animals Marcus has never seen before. They're beige with wrinkly black faces squashed flat, unlike the long snouted variety in Rome. Their eyes are striking – large, black, and bulging, giving them a trusting air. All are animated, jumping up in their cages and wagging their tails which are curled in a tight spiral. He asks Kang about them.