The Tortoise in Asia Read Free Page A

and he’s in a position where he’s capable of helping or destroying careers, certainly his own. The man’s an affable fellow, friendly to everyone, even says hello to people of low status, often calling them by name. It’s difficult to imagine him in an evil role.
    The clanking beast of war lumbers out of the Syrian plain into rough country framed by low lying mountains of smoky grey. A long shaky line, drawn like a child might, separates earth and sky. Heat smacks his face like the palm of an unseen hand.
    Half focussed, he sees a man on the right hand edge of the Road in front of him walking in the same direction as the army – not beside it but on it. Dressed in simple Syrian clothing, he’s bent over like an old man. A pole with a hanging bundle is on his shoulder. He wouldn’t ordinarily notice except for the fact the soldiers ahead make way for him as they pass. They veer around him. He does himself. Later he asks why they all did that. No one knows why. They just did it, as if in response to some instinct.
    A rise in the Road appears, a feature more common now. But this one’s different. It looks down to a mighty river, wider than the Tiber, writhing over the landscape like a pregnant brown snake, fat and fertile. A Syrian scout says in perfect Latin,
“The Euphrates – border with Parthia. It’s dangerous these days. The currents are usually lazy but they’re livelier now, what with the snow melt from the Armenian highlands.”
    This is it. The invasion’s ready to begin. On the other side of the famous river, the march will take on a different character – more dangerous, more exciting. Discipline will tighten as they start to move through hostile territory. He looks down at the Road, almost feels like patting its stones for it’ll take him to his destiny as if it were a beast of burden. He feels a certain affinity with the trusty track he’s been on so long; it’s like an ally, for once the water barrier is crossed it’ll lead him and his comrades to a victory which promises to be Olympian. The Road will share in it, become more than an ally – a partner. An ideal one too, for he’ll not have to share the spoils with it.
    The army takes up rest positions under the trees by the bank. A human ribbon forms along the meander as the troops jostle to get close to the water. The air’s sticky and clouded with blow flies. Since it’s a sign of weakness to slap them off, they keep irritating at will; only reflex action prevents them from entering the men’s eyes. His uniform tossed aside like the others, he wades into the water stripped down to his loin cloth. Thousands of chaotic white shapes spray onto the brown water, staying close to the shallow edge. The water’s too cold for more than a quick dip, the current too fast for a proper swim, not that he has the skill anyway.
    He lies down on his side, propped up on his elbow, letting the air cool him as he’s drying. His childhood friend Gaius, who grew up in the same neighbourhood, comes over and sits on the grass, also stripped to his loin cloth; they all are. He’s a crag of a man, big, blunt and square-faced. Unlike Marcus who is quite handsome, Gaius is too rough to be attractive to women, but he could lift a tree trunk heavy enough for three men, or smash into enemy soldiers like a battering ram breaching a fortress wall. He’s the Ajax of the Roman army.
“What d’you think of this Gaius? Isn’t it great – far cry from the marching huh? That dip sure beats the heat.”
“Yeah it’s all right. Nothing wrong with a break. But the men’ve slackened off – not good. Been like that for a while. Slipped off their peak. The Commander doesn’t keep discipline up. Pompey would never allow it – no godamn ever.”
“What are you worried about? They’re still the best in the world.”
“No argument, but I