The Eagle and the Dragon, a Novel of Rome and China

THE PAST IS PROLOGUE: CARRHAE, 53BC

Marcus Lucius, centurion of III Cohort, Legio III Crassiana, stood at attention, bareheaded in the blazing sun, hands bound behind his back. His mind struggled to find a way out, his men waiting their turn to die before a jeering mob of Parthian soldiers. No, not today. But how?

Marcus’ heart swelled with pride for the doomed remnants of the shattered III Cras, formed up on the sands of Carrhae. Unable to wrest victory from the Parthians, they had chosen to show them how Roman soldiers die, with dignity and courage. To a man, the five hundred who had survived the battle had chosen last night to march to their execution, formed up in ranks with gaps marking the places where men and whole centuries no longer existed… all that remained of Marcus’ cohort was less than fifty men, out of five hundred.

“Gods take the incompetent Marcus Licinius Crassus – he led us into this disaster,” muttered the soldier behind him.

“Be still! This is not yet the end,” Marcus hissed over his shoulder.

He heard the centurion of the last century of II Cohort, outwardly stoic, give a hoarse, choked order, the last he would ever give, and the crunch of feet on sand as his century marched forward, someone softly calling cadence. They halted, then went to their deaths eight at a time with barely a sob or a groan, presenting their necks on the gory chopping blocks to face their untimely end… no one begged for mercy. The heavy, coppery stench of blood clogged Marcus’ nostrils as it pooled in front of the blocks, slowly soaking into the sand. The swish and thunk of the scimitars, the drone of flies gathering for the feast, and the mocking laughter of the Parthian soldiers filled his ears. He would soon have to give the men of III Cohort behind him their final order, to march forward and die.

He had no plan, but he was never very good at accepting inevitable fate. He considered his options as he toyed with the ropes binding his hands, to the sound of the butchery to his left. I will not go like a lamb to the slaughter!

When Marcus was a child, his father, a carpenter, had made him increasingly difficult puzzles where he had to free a key from a wooden block, or untangle rings that could not be disentangled. There wasn’t a puzzle that Marcus hadn’t been able to solve. They all began with one starting point somewhere, like the knot behind his back, and there wasn’t a knot he couldn’t untie. Even behind his back. The next move would then present itself. Like one of those puzzle boxes his father had made for him so long ago, the first piece fell into place as the knot loosened.

Marcus shivered from the horror, despite the sweat running down inside his baking leather corselet, drawn out by the merciless Syrian sun. His mind raced, the beads of sweat running down his back, as he worried the knots binding his wrists. In the distance behind the Parthian soldiers, he could see the gold and blue canopy shading King Orodes from the sun as he observed the executions, accompanied by his senior officers and some foreign ones in unfamiliar battle gear.

One of the foreign soldiers stepped out from the canopy, the crowd of Parthians parting before him, his bright yellow cloak swirling in the hot wind. An obviously senior individual, a commander of some status. He came up to another foreign soldier on Marcus’ left, by the Parthian officer observing the execution. By age and carriage, Marcus determined that one to be something of a short and stocky centurion like himself, clad in blue, thickly quilted battle gear, wearing a black conical helmet. As the senior officer approached, the man presented his fists together stiffly before his face, and bowed his head low, holding it until the senior acknowledged him. A salute of sorts. Respectful, not subservient. His next move began to form.

Watching the foreign soldiers from the corner of his eye, he gave no hint as he worked the rope free from his wrists and dropped it to the ground. The soldier behind him subtly swept it away with his foot, not knowing Marcus’ intentions. Indeed, Marcus himself wasn’t sure. But as crazy as the half-made plan seemed, he couldn’t remember a time when one of his plans had failed. He kept his head front, wrists still behind him.

The bearded Parthian officer strutted up to face Marcus Lucius, flanked by the two foreign soldiers, peculiar looking men with unfamiliar features: thin narrow eyelids perforated by dark eyes set in a bronze-colored skin. The senior man’s yellow cloak had a fine sheen to it, unfamiliar to Marcus, with finely-detailed dragons embroidered on it.

It’s time. Heart thudding, Marcus turned to the two foreigners and slammed his unbound hands together in front of him, as he had seen them do, and bowed deeply to the senior.

The Parthian officer gasped and took a step back in surprise, reaching for his sword, but the foreigner restrained the man’s hand firmly and barked something unintelligible. The Parthian relented, glaring at Marcus. The foreign officer waited a moment, then acknowledged him with a grunt. Marcus straightened up, returning the man’s intense narrow-eyed gaze. The man said something in his own language, and Marcus said the first thing that came to his mind in return: “Morituri te salutamus!” We, who are about to die, salute you. The gladiators’ salute. One of the soldiers behind him gave a choked laugh, which brought a smile to Marcus’ lips, unbidden, his piercing blue eyes twinkling.

The foreign commander chuckled also, giving him a wry smile in turn, nodding his head several times in approval. He stepped back a few paces, summoning the Parthian and his subordinate to join him. They conversed intensely for several minutes while the executioners to Marcus’ left lolled on their bloody swords, confused by the delay.

After a few minutes, the Parthian officer came back. Marcus was so focused on controlling his emotions that he missed the first few strongly-accented Latin words the Parthian officer spoke. “…yer Roman barstids! Look today yer lucky. Friends from east think yer worth more to them alive than dead. You and remaining soldiers march with them. Pack fer long walk!” He paused and looked into Marcus’ eyes, almost smiling. “Crazy Roman barstid. Crazy brave Roman barstid!”

The paradigm had shifted, the executioners were dismissed and the remaining men were roughly unbound by grumbling Parthian soldiers. They marched themselves back to their encampment to eat and sleep for the first time in days. The next day, Marcus negotiated with the Parthians to retrieve their battle gear along with their cohort and century standards. He then ordered the remnants of III Cras to form up and march out of the death camp, re-equipped with a motley collection of damaged swords and ill-fitting blood-stained helmets, carrying their wounded on litters, led by a squadron of the foreign soldiers on horseback. They were heading somewhere east, he judged by the sun, not west and home to Rome, but they were alive and going as soldiers. Someone picked up their marching song, and the whole troop joined in:

Sive sequimur aquilas, sive progredimur ad cornices soli,

Nostra superbia est in legione

Et pugnans peditatus est domus genusque.

Whether we follow the eagles, or we go to the ravens alone,

Our pride is in the legion,

And the infantry is our family and home!

The verses quickly deteriorated to unofficial lyrics dealing with their officers, wine and women, amidst the rude gestures of the Parthian soldiers sending them off.

CHAPTER 1: ROME, 98AD

The sun shone through windows set high in the Senate’s Curial House, creating shafts of sunlight in the dusty air. The sunlight reflected off the four-tiered blue-veined marble benches lining each side of the long walls, on which about a hundred senators sat, their chalk-whitened togas emblazoned with the wide purple laticlavian stripe of their rank.

On the top row sat Senator Aulus Aemilius Galba. Sweat dampened his tunic underneath the woolen toga in the July heat as he waited for the arrival of the Princeps and the diplomatic party, his mouth dry in anticipation. A large fly buzzed noisily near his head, trying but failing to distract him from his concerns. This could be the day I lose my flagship and all that I have. He thought of the clean lines of the Aeneas, her pleasant way on the waters. But she was in far-away Alexandria, mortgaged to the masthead to rent shipyard space a year in advance to construct her sister ships on the Red Sea, the note due in months. And if this doesn’t happen today, I can’t pay it. Tens of millions of sesterces… I bet it all on this one deal. Bankrupt, I could lose my seat in the Senate, even our home.

He thought of his new wife Livia. Would she stay with me? Young and beautiful, she could do better than a bankrupt balding senator. She says she would stay… but maybe I should make it easy for her. Divorce her, return her dowry, let her start over with a better prospect.

The Princeps should propose the funding today, and the mortgage will be paid. Should! His staff assures me that he is enthusiastic about the plan, but none will make a commitment for him.

Aulus sighed. This is not the first time that I have bet everything on one throw of the dice. Everything that can be done has been done, deals made, bribes paid. If he proposes it, the Senate will pass it. The Fates will now determine the outcome.

In the front wall, massive latticework doors stood partly open, admitting a view of the Forum Romanum below. Outside, trumpets blared to announce the Princeps’ arrival. Aulus rose with the rest of the Senators to greet him as he entered, wearing a solid purple toga and accompanied by an administrative assistant in a white tunic, followed by twenty-four Praetorian Guardsmen acting as lictors. He took a seat on an ivory curule chair on a small dais, and the administrative assistant took his place by a basket of scrolls next to him. The Guardsmen took their places behind the dais, remaining at attention.

Aulus eyed the fifteen-foot marble statue of the Goddess of Victory, painted in life-like colors rising over the dais, holding aloft the olive branch crown in one hand and a sword in the other. Wish me luck, my Lady Victory!

Nine men and one woman, with eastern visages seldom seen in Rome, then entered, inexplicably wearing Roman garb, the men in plain white togas, the woman in a yellow stola ankle-length gown. They came to stand beside the Princeps on the dais.

Twenty other men from the Distant East, clad in multi-colored silk robes, hair bound up in black intricate buns, entered and smoothly rearranged themselves in two rows facing the Princeps Trajan. One man stepped forward and approached the dais. He brought his hands, concealed by the broad sleeves of his cloak, forcefully together in front of his deeply bowed head in a salute, and held that pose stoically until Trajan acknowledged with a slight nod. The man dropped his hands, head still bowed, and backed away. The group then seated themselves fluidly on the floor, cross-legged, their expressionless eyes respectfully focused downwards.

The Princeps stood straight as a lance, his slender face leathery from years in the field as a military commander.

“Conscript Fathers and the people of Rome! A century and a half ago, three of our valiant legions suffered a great tragedy at Carrhae, stricken from our military rolls after defeat by the Parthians, and believed wiped out to a man. But not all were wiped out. Some were taken to the land of the Han as mercenaries, to guard their far-flung borders. Those survivors took wives, and raised their children as Romans, however far from home they were. And their children, in turn, preserved among themselves their Romanitas, our language and our customs.

“Today, the Hanaean Emperor has honored us by sending our children back to us, as translators for his delegation seeking diplomatic association. Standing before you are the sons and daughters of Carrhae, accompanied by the representatives of their emperor. They have brought us a great gift!”

A military trumpet blew shrilly and drums began to beat as a contingent of Praetorian Guards marched stiffly into the Senate Curia, carrying four battered cohort standards on eight-foot poles, their phalerae battle awards long faded by time. The Guards halted in front of the dais and did an about-face, grounding the standards with a solid thud.

“I give you the standards of the lost cohorts of Carrhae, coming home with the descendants of the survivors who bore them!” The Senators applauded enthusiastically amid cries of “Hear, hear!”

As the tumult subsided, the emperor continued, turning to address the Roman-clad Hanaeans to his right. His administrative assistant turned to pick up eleven scrolls from the scroll basket by his side.

“Our administrators have researched your ancestors. They found each of them recorded in the rosters of the legion, all citizens of Rome. You are the descendants of those valiant soldiers, to the fifth and sixth generation. As the offspring of a citizen is a citizen by birth, I present to you official proof of citizenship, as cives Romani.”

His administrative aid opened and read the inscription. “To all, be it known that the above named person is a citizen of Rome, with all privileges and responsibilities thereto, given this day, Princeps Senatus Caesar Nerva Trajan, son of the Divine Nerva, the August and Most Capable Ruler.” As the aide called out their names and ancestor, each of the toga-clad Orientals came forward to receive a scroll, with a handshake and an embrace from the most powerful man in Europe. The last man called was Marcus Lucius Quintus, then finally the woman, Marcia Lucia, both descendants of Marcus Lucius, Centurion of III Cohort. At the conclusion, the Senators again applauded enthusiastically.

The last scroll was for Gan Ying, the lead member of the Hanaean delegation, who rose, walked to the center of the hall to stand stiffly, eyes expressionless, mouth downturned, head slightly bowed. The scroll was read, certifying that Gan Ying and his party were representatives of the Hanaean emperor and under the personal protection of the Senate and the People of Rome. One of the togate Hanaeans on the dais translated the reading into the peculiar sing-song language of the Hanaeans. Gan Ying then stepped forward and approached the dais. He once again saluted with his hands before him, head bowed, until the Princeps nodded again in acknowledgment. Gan Ying stood upright and stepped onto the dais to accept his scroll. He then stepped off and backed away, to resume his place on the floor at the head of the delegation.

Trajan continued: “Please be seated.” There was a rustling of clothing as the Senators rearranged their bulky togas to take their seats. “As you all know, a member of our august body has been actively seeking to expand our Indian Ocean trade with a new class of merchant ships that will carry more goods faster and farther than any ship has done before. He has been seeking the backing of the Treasury of Rome for this venture.”

This is it! It is happening!

“Senator Aulus Aemilius Galba, could your ships, if built, make the passage directly to the Hanaean lands?”

Aulus leaped back to his feet. “The gods willing, yes!”

“The sons and daughters of Rome have come a long way to us to represent their mothers’ country. Would you be willing to carry them back, to represent in turn their fathers’ country?”

“Yes!”

“Then let it be proposed before the Senate, that funding should be provided to launch this effort!” For the third time, the senators applauded amid cries of “Hail, Trajan!” The motion passed and Galba exhaled deeply.

The Fates had been kind today.

CHAPTER 2: THE JOURNEY BEGINS, 100AD

Gaius Lucullus, prefect of the First Cohort, entered the headquarters tent to meet with the legatus commander. He was unsure why he had been summoned, but he hoped that it would deal with a proposed meeting of the eastern legions in Byzantium. Such meetings were rare due to the great distances and long absences. As senior tribune of the Legio XII Fulminata, he was certain to accompany legatus Lucius Julius Maximus, or even represent him alone. The trip would take him halfway to Italia, and he could certainly argue for another month or so to visit his wife and family in Neapolis.

The guards saluted crisply, right hand across the chest, and his eyes adjusted slowly from the noonday brilliance of the desert to the dim lamp-lit interior. The headquarters tent was spartan, even ascetic. A curtained partition separated the consul's living quarters from the main body of the tent that served as office and command center. The legatus sat in a simple canvas campaign chair behind a desk of rough-cut wood, a wax tablet in his hands, clad in a plain white tunic with the broad purple stripe of a senator.

"Your Excellency," Gaius said, softly interrupting the legatus from his reading.

"My good Gaius, do come in, come in. I am pleased to have your company this morning,” he said, putting down the wax tablet. The legatus rose, welcoming him with a warm handshake and ushering him to one of two chairs facing the desk. Having seen Gaius to his seat, the legatus seated himself, legs crossed, arms across his chest, an air of informality.