Free The Tortoise in Asia by Tony Grey

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