Winter Quarters
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Contents
Alfred Duggan 1903–1964
Epigraph
Prologue
1. The Hills of Pyrene
2. The Army of Gaul
3. Rome
4. Greece
5. Syria
6. The Desert Road
7. The Parthians
Alfred Duggan
Winter Quarters
Alfred Duggan
1903–1964
‘There have been few historical imaginations better informed or more gifted than Alfred Duggan’s’ (The New Criterion).
Historian, archaeologist and novelist Alfred Duggan wrote historical fiction and non-fiction about a wide range of subjects, in places and times as diverse as Julius Caesar’s Rome and the Medieval Europe of Thomas Becket.
Although he was born in Argentina, Duggan grew up in England, and was educated at Eton and Balliol College, Oxford. After Oxford, he travelled extensively through Greece and Turkey, visiting almost all the sites later mentioned in his books. In 1935 he helped excavate Constantine’s palace in Istanbul.
Duggan came to writing fiction quite late in his life: his first novel about the First Crusade, Knight in Armour, was published in 1950, after which he published at least a book every year until his death in 1964. His fictional works were bestselling page-turners, but thoroughly grounded in meticulous research informed by Duggan’s experience as an archaeologist and historian.
Duggan has been favourably compared to Bernard Cornwell as well as being praised in his own right as ‘an extremely gifted writer who can move into an unknown period and give it life and immediacy’ (New York Times).
Epigraph
Prologue
We came back two days ago from the last patrol of the year, and now we face four months of stagnation in winter quarters. I enjoy patrolling the Sea of Grass, though we hardly ever meet the Red Riders; even though our horses go unshod, and we muffle their bits with pieces of rag, the raiders nearly always hear us coming and avoid us. They are not interested in honourable fighting; all they want is to snap up unprotected travellers and pillage outlying farms. Sometimes we stumble on their waggons, and then a few knocks yield us good plunder.
The best thing about a patrol is that it gets us out of Margu, an unpleasant place. The district is densely inhabited, but no one lives here of his own free will. The farmers are serfs; and the garrison is made up of people like me, slaves or fugitives from the outer world, who must ride for the Great King or be drafted to toil in his copper-mines. Even the Parthian nobles who command us are exiles, posted to this edge of the Empire in honourable disgrace. We have all drifted here because this is the extreme limit of the world.
What is odd is that Margu lies on the limit of more than one world. During that last patrol we were reminded of this once again. We had been riding all night, slithering over the frozen tussocks of the Sea of Grass; our horses could hardly keep their feet, and we all knew that henceforth we must keep them stabled until the spring thaw. As the sun rose over the limitless plain, climbing above a clear-cut horizon that really does look like the open sea, our Parthian commander halted us with a wave of his hand, calling: ‘Now we return to Margu.’
I suppose he saw the boredom on our faces. We had all hoped for one brush with the Red Riders before we settled down for the winter. He tried to encourage us with a well-worn catchphrase: ‘Yes, back to Margu. Where is Margu? You tell me.’
This was our cue to bellow in unison: ‘Margu is the navel of the universe.’ It is the refrain of a long poem the peasants chant as they follow the plough, a poem which tells of Margu as the most ancient city in the world and the best. Certainly it is a very old place. Here Alexander founded a city, naming it Antiocheia Margiana after one of his generals; but after they had founded the city Alexander and his general Antiochus got away as quick as they could.
I looked out over the Sea of Grass, and thought what a queer setting it is for the navel of the universe. The Sea of Grass looks its best at sunrise, or rather it then looks least repellent. The horizontal light picks out little hollows, and for a few moments there is the illusion of hills and shade; the sky is bright blue before the midday haze has turned it yellow; birds sing; and you may see a gazelle, surprised by daylight, scuttling off to the lair in the long grass where he will lie hidden until nightfall. Perhaps it is not such a bad landscape in itself, it is the knowledge that if you rode for a month to the north, east, or west you would see the same scene repeated, and that the dusty, waterless plain stretches far beyond the knowledge of man, that weighs on the soul.
Our chorus, that Margu is the navel of the universe, had been introduced into the regiment to stop arguments as to where it lay. For though we had all come a long way to get here, we had come from different directions. I lead a section of a dozen troopers, and naturally I know something of their earlier lives (though I never ask indiscreet questions). Of this dozen one is a Black Cloak Scythian from the far north, who thinks Margu the hottest place in the world (as it is, in summer); three are fugitives from the wrath of an Indian king, and they think Margu the coldest and most northerly city in the world (in winter one might agree with them); six, including myself, come from the lands which obey Rome, and we of course think of Margu as lying almost east of the sunrise; and two are beardless Huns. These two tell a most fascinating story; and they stick to it, drunk or sober, until they have persuaded me that it is the truth.
They say that a very long way to the east, six months’riding for Huns (which means about a year for other men), there is a boundary to the Sea of Grass. A great wall girdles the whole earth, and on the other side of it lies the Land of Silk, with cultivated fields and stone cities, and all the works of civilised men that we know by the Mediterranean. When the Huns have finished fighting their cousins they plan to storm this wall, and sack the cities on the other side.
Thus you might truly say that Margu is the navel of the universe. The Sea of Grass divides the worlds of men: the Land of Silk to the east, India to the south, the true and important world to the west; and Margu lies in the midst, a fertile plain guarded by men who have travelled incredibly far from every direction to reach it.
When the sun was fully up our commander called a halt, for no one hopes to catch Red Riders by daylight. We dismounted, loosening our girths and giving the horses a mouthful of water from canvas bags we carried on the saddle. Then we drank a very little ourselves, while our commander watched us.
We stood by our horses, stretching our legs and munching biscuit. Presently the Black Cloak drew his sword and stuck it in the ground; he stood before it with his head bowed, and the Huns came up to stand beside him. I knew they were praying, to the North Wind and the naked sword. These are the only gods worshipped by true Scythians, though Huns also reverence demons. Ten years ago I myself would have prayed at sunrise, to Lugh of the sky and Epona of the horses; but the gods of my kin are far away and it seems useless to call on them. A man feels lonely without helpers, and I decided that when we got back I would ask the Black Cloak to teach me his prayer; though of course he was not seeking help, he was begging his gods to spare him until next time. If the North Wind does not get a Scythian the sword will.
The Indians did not pray, for their gods cannot be worshipped away from home. One of the Romans began muttering a hymn to Isis, and I drew away. I dislike goddesses, or rather I dislike the Goddess. She can go anywhere, but so far she has not troubled us in Margu, and I hope this lonely worshipper does not call her down to him.
Soon the sun went in and a north wind, with flurries of snow, set us hastening southward to the farmlands. I rode alone at the head of my section. The only troopers I could chat with easily were my fellow-captives from the Roman army; but the Parthians are understandably suspicious if we seem to cling together, and it would be bad policy for me to ride with them in the presence of a Parthian officer.
In the afternoon we began to skirt the swamp which is the end of the River of Margu. The hot sun drinks up this river, and it never reaches the sea; that is one reason why unguided strangers cannot cross the Sea of Grass. We emptied our water-bags and at once filled them again, and as dusk was falling came to the first cultivated fields.
In very hot weather the woods and hedges of Margu, and the glint of water from the irrigation ditches, have a certain charm. At the end of autumn, when ice is beginning to seal the swamp, the whole place looks desolate and dreary. The fields lay fallow, sere and frost-bitten; the shaggy cattle cowered back to wind, and the handsome horses were all indoors for the winter. There were few peasants about, and they, muffled in thick felt, looked pinched and miserable; they are a people who can endure fierce heat, but they have never learned how to cope with the biting cold that plagues them every winter.
The horrid little village where we halted was as uninviting as ever.
The only houses are one-storey cabins of mud, and they lie scattered among the fields, not concentrated in a community. Someone once laid out a village green, but the only buildings facing it are our barracks and a big rambling inn, with much more accommodation for animals than for men. There is, of course, a city of Margu, where if you look hard you can see traces of the Greek columns of Antiochus; but it lies forty miles south of this margin of the cultivated land, and we seldom have the leisure and the energy to visit it. No trooper can leave his quarters for more than half a day unless he arranges that a comrade will look after his horse.
The whole place is as flat as the palm of your hand; there is nothing to be seen but scattered groves of trees, and the irrigation ditches make it impossible to ride off the main road. When I first came here, more than eight years ago, I had a good look at the whole settlement; since then I have never bothered to travel more than a mile from my parade-ground, except on duty.
We were dismissed at our barracks, and told that we might rest for three days as a reward for our arduous patrol; though of course there would be the usual morning and evening stables, to make sure we looked after our horses. When I had rubbed down and bedded my horse I walked over to my own cabin. As a section-leader I draw double pay, and our commander lets me sleep out so long as he knows where I am. I have a little cabin behind the barracks, with a woman to keep house for me.
Alitta is a good girl. She is careful with money, and cooks no worse than her neighbours; though I must still summon up my courage to face her suppers, even after eight years in Margu. I picked her up two years ago, when we caught some waggons of the Red Riders; but she was born in another Scythian tribe. They had stolen her to sell, which was why they had left her a virgin. Now we have a boy nearly a year old, and another child on the way. I can’t understand very much of her language, but we get along well enough.
One thing about her pleases me; she has no special female religion of her own, or if she has I have never noticed it. When she met me at the door of the cabin she bowed to my sword, and whenever it blows she bows to the North Wind; I have never caught her worshipping the Goddess.
Of course, since she is a true Scythian of the Sea of Grass, she had known for hours that the patrol was coming home. Scythians know where every horse in the world is at every moment of the day. There was a hot stew waiting for me, and in our bed a copper warming-pan. But when I had eaten and was getting ready for sleep she made me understand that there were interesting travellers at the inn. A man from the sunset, who could talk my native language, was what she said; though of course there is no one within a thousand miles who talks my native language, and Alitta has never heard me speak it.
I put on my best trousers and a white felt cloak, to walk over to the inn. The ostler told me that a merchant from the Tigris, some kind of half-Greek, was buying cotton in the district. He had meant to return that night to Margu City, but the weather had made him change his mind and he was stopping until tomorrow. At present he was eating, but he had promised that in half an hour he would tell his news in the main room.
That is the custom of Margu, as it is the custom of my homeland. We exiles hunger for news of the outer world; a traveller would have no peace if he allowed every chance comer to question him, so it has been laid down that travellers must be left unmolested if they promise to tell all they know at a definite time.
The main room was full of Romans, sitting frugally before untasted cups of wine; but the other troopers were not interested in a traveller from the Tigris, and the place was not too crowded. I joined another section-leader, Marcus Sempronius, a genuine citizen of Rome who had once been a legionary. He was the only full citizen in our barracks, and a very lonely man; but he was always glad to see me because my Latin, though incorrect, is fluent. Together we bought a jug of wine to reward the teller of news, and that gave us the right to sit by him and ask questions.
The traveller, when he appeared, was a seedy little man, fat and pompous and evidently saddle-sore. But he knew the customs of Parthian travel, and that the sooner he told all the sooner he would get to bed. I was disappointed to find I could not understand his Greek, which he pronounced oddly; but Sempronius, who was more or less bilingual, translated swiftly into Latin.
First the traveller spoke a rolling period about the peace and prosperity of Parthia; that was for the benefit of the police spies listening in a corner, and we were too tactful to ask questions about the civil war between rival sons of the Great King which is said to be raging in the mountains of the south. Then he boasted that he had left the Tigris only three months ago, and that a friend in Syria had sent him a message just before he set out. ‘There is still war between Parthia and Rome,’ Sempronius translated, ‘but this winter there will be no campaign. The Roman army on the edge of the desert has dispersed. The Romans are about to fight among themselves, because their king has been murdered in full council, stabbed in the back by his leading councillors. Do you hear that, Camillus? Whom do you think this bag of lard would call the King of Rome?’
A few questions settled the point. It was Caesar himself who had been murdered, last March, in the Senate House. Sempronius and I did not wait for more. We went out to walk together on the moonlit parade-ground, where we could not be overheard.
‘What shall we do now, my Gallic barbarian?’ asked Sempronius softly. ‘You advised us to accept our fate, serving our new masters loyally; because Caesar would come to rescue us in the end. Now Caesar has gone the way of his colleagues. In Rome they will be too busy to remember a few prisoners on the rim of the world. Will you come with me if I take a chance on the hospitality of the Red Riders?’
‘You have seen what the Red Riders do to their prisoners,’ I answered. ‘Last month you helped me to clear up that mess by their camp-fire. Is there anyone else who can defeat the Parthians and force them to release us? I know there is no other Roman who could lead an army from the Euphrates to Margu.’
‘If Crassus couldn’t beat the Parthians no one can. But you were always a staunch Caesarian. Very well, the Romans won’t fight to free us until they have finished this round of the civil war. Either we escape unaided, or we stay here for the rest of our lives.’
‘My dear Marcus, we have argued this before. Unless we go due west by the guarded road we must plunge into the Sea of Grass. We have horses and arms, and if we choose our time we may not be missed for a day or two. But in the Sea of Grass we will die of thirst unless the Red Riders catch us; and no one can travel the guarded road without a pass. You know as well as I do that we are here, armed, in Margu, because this unwalled district is the strongest prison in Parthia. Perhaps we might persuade our comrades to mutiny all together, and so cut a way by force through the Red Riders.’
‘We might, if we could agree on where to go. Can you see Huns and Indians riding west? Or would you yourself like to ride east to the Land of Silk? Anyway, some trooper would betray us for the price of a pot of wine. Then we would end in the copper-mines.’
‘What do you suggest?’ I said in exasperation. I was still shaken by the news of my old leader’s death.
‘Don’t talk to me. I must think,’ answered Sempronius, and walked on in silence.
Then he turned to me with a resolute air. ‘Camillus, my old comrade, didn’t you once pass for a citizen? Come and meet my wife.’
‘In Rome I was known as Licinius Camillus, but that was quite irregular, as I have told you before. I am a Gaul, not a Roman. As for your girl, I’ve seen her often enough. Do you want me to take her off your hands?’
He frowned in silence, then caught my arm and hurried me to his cabin.
His girl came out to greet us, surprised that he should have brought home a guest. In this exile one of our few amusements is to steal one another’s concubines, and a wise man does not introduce his comrades to the woman of his house. She was a mountaineer from the south, with eyes as blue as a German’s and a fairly pleasing complexion, ruined by rancid butter which she smeared on her cheeks to protect them from the wind.