by Andre Norton
"Thank him for correcting that thought, will you?" he asked.
"On my head be it," said the Persian and spoke rapidly.
The officer barked laughter.
His man collapsed to his knees and groveled in the coarse sand. When he raised his head, he looked up. Tiny as his eyes were, Quintus could see how they bulged with terror.
"He says he truly knows not what happened, that he just saw enemies...."
The officer kicked at him and swore.
"Orders are that the prisoners from Ta-Chin are not to be harmed. He is reminding this fellow... Wait, he asks why you do not bow."
Rufus snorted. "Like that cringing fool?"
"We are Romans, tell him," Quintus said. "It is not our custom." He remembered how it had all but killed his grandfather even to bow to a patron he came close to respecting: What the old man would have thought of the scrapings and loutings of the East, he had only too good an idea. He had bowed as a client himself. He swore never to fawn like that again even if it cost him his life. Compared with his honor, what was his life? From Carrhae on, it had been like borrowed money—no telling when the loan might be recalled and at what interest rate.
Lucilius might be willing to live that way, had indeed lived that way and thus made his way from Rome to the desert. Quintus hoped he could show rather more courage. The desert wind hissed derisively at him.
"He says he is Ssu-ma Chao. It is," Arsaces added, "a name known to me. A noble name."
So was Lucilius's. Whatever else happened, at least he had seen the young patrician meet a man who was more than his match for arrogance about his rank.
"Tell him, it is not our nature to abase ourselves before mere men," he added.
The officer barked laughter and spoke rapidly.
"He says, 'You have stiff necks, you Romans, as long as your heads still wag on them.' We have not seen this type of courage before. Others, but not this. Thus, he says, and therefore, you fare east with him. You—and the Eagle."
It would have been easy in that moment to rush upon the officer and die. Too easy. Somewhere in this camp were arms and the Eagle. They must try to find them; then, they would show these people what stuff Romans had in them.
His anger and his intention must have shown on his face as Ssu-ma Chao stared into his eyes. Then, in turn, he looked narrowly at each of the Romans, pausing to slap Lucilius on the arm. What agreement had that one made already? Quintus wondered. No doubt it would come out in the worst possible moment.
Ssu-ma Chao still laughed and waved them past, away from the desert and in toward the fires.
It was beneath Quintus's dignity as a Roman and an officer to glance back, but he could listen, and he did. The Ch'in noble's heavy felted boots crunched behind them. And behind him blew the wind. Listen as Quintus might, he no longer heard the hissing and rustling he had heard before. He might have longed for silence. It did not reassure him. He suspected that for the rest of his life, he would listen always for drums and bronze bells—sounds that had meant death since The Surena's horsemen broke the square at Carrhae.
The centurion's presence at Quintus's shoulder, in case he staggered, was welcome. (He vowed he would not stagger.) For once, he was even grateful for Lucilius, who, typically, knew every man of substance in the caravan and had managed, somehow, to identify the newcomers. For once, that subtlety of Lucilius's was helpful as, imperceptibly, he guided the other Romans toward the men who had come in that night from the king of Armenia's court.
It was a mixed troop, as caravans went. By now, even Quintus could distinguish the dark brows and proudly hooked noses of the Armenians from, say, the sleekness of the Persians, or the quicksilver intensity of the pure Hellenes. Others there were whom he could not identify—they were not Ch'in, nor Saka, or even the Hsiung-nu who were accursed as marauders much further east. And yet they looked familiar.... How?
"We may as well move on," Lucilius muttered. "Asking this lot for anything is like prying bad oysters out of their shells."
So these were the merchants who included women in their numbers? That fined-down look might appeal to a patrician: It made him think of... well, of his grandfather's patrons.
What would he want in a woman? Before his family's lands had been lost, he had dreamed, but of very little beside a country girl, perhaps from one of the nearby families who ranked with his, her thick braids bound in a saffron veil. Saffron... he remembered saffron and incense from his dreams.
Dark hair flowing like silk or oil down slender shoulders. Deep pools of eyes, watching him intently. Draupadi.
Omens of a woman? Such omens are for women. He could all but hear his grandfather growl that at him. And not for any women associated with their family, the old man would probably have added.
There had to be another reason, a rational explanation for why these traders looked so familiar. Somewhere before this, he must have seen faces like those of the woman he had dreamed—impossible; who would allow a woman that beautiful to travel these roads?—perhaps in caravans in which journeyed men from Hind, or perhaps those dreams he had known while his wits wandered.
Draupadi... he remembered her as he remembered the genius loci from his farm. The lithe strength of limb, the sidelong glance of eye, the sleekness of hair and sun-darkened skin all reminded Quintus of her. But Draupadi—at least in his dreams—had eyes that almost melted with warmth. These men kept their eyes hooded, except for quick glances upward. Their eyes were dark, true—but flat, as if not fearing those about them as threat or prey. Draupadi's mouth was generous; these merchants' mouths were tight, betraying nothing except a will to snatch and to keep. The resemblance was as cruel a deception as the shimmering glints on a desert horizon that tricked thirsty men into believing they saw water.
As if alerted by Quintus's thoughts, one of the dusky-skinned merchants turned a little in his direction. His glance flicked out, like a spark shooting from charred wood, from beneath lids darkened with kohl. Threat? No threat? Or perhaps, were they sizing up the Romans as lawful prey?
Quintus held himself in check, though that glance made his fingers crook toward the hilt of the missing sword that a captive could not wear. He had seen more sympathetic looks from vipers.
His nostrils twitched. Over his heart came a familiar jabbing. He would have wagered gold he did not own that, if he pulled out the bronze dancing figure he carried there, the torches that it bore would flicker a warning.
Then, the wind blew, and all he smelled was the fire, redolent of dung.
"...So much for Roman pride? That's a better thing to celebrate than the bedding of the bride!" Quintus could not hear precisely who said that. He suspected it might be one of the men whose nation he could not identify.
A roar of laughter was quickly choked off as some of the men noticed the Romans.
"It's not good," muttered Rufus. "Look at the way the Greeks are slinking back."
Not just the Greeks. The strangers had backed off, leaving the Armenians to answer.
"What do you know about this?" Quintus asked Lucilius in an undertone.
"Let them tell you." The patrician snapped as if he hated them all, Romans and foreigners alike.
"Ask them," Quintus waved Arsaces forward. "Say, 'You are pleased to mention Roma. Now say what you have to say to my face.' "
"Is it that blow on your head or the desert sun that makes you run mad this time?" Lucilius asked.
"You wanted us to learn what we can. Why quarrel, then, with the results you get?" Quintus snapped.
He strode forward. "Tell us," he demanded of the Armenian, pushing close enough to practically rub noses with the other man.
"Great Lords, forgive!" The merchant bowed as if Quintus were the proconsul himself, standing armed with his Legions to back him.
From behind him, out past the camp in the barren lands, came a cry.
"Forgive what?"
The other Romans closed behind Quintus.
"It was the wedding, lords. They were fe
asting and singing. Some sang poems that our Great King wrote. He is very learned. Then the tables were taken away, and Jason was singing..... Do you know the Bacchae of Euripides?"
Quintus furrowed his brow. Something about a king of Thebes, who opposed the cult of Dionysus and was driven mad, to wander in the hills and be torn apart by kinswomen.
"Bloody songs for a bridal celebration," he said, since, clearly, he must say something.
The Armenian merchant shook his head. Now that he realized that the Romans were not going to—could not— strike him down, he grew visibly arrogant, as it is a merchant's custom to be with those who cannot buy his wares.
"He is a fine singer and much applauded. He bowed before the King of Kings and received a rich reward. Then Sillaces entered and prostrated himself. When he was told to rise, he threw what he carried into the company." The merchant paused, aping the skill of the actors he had praised.
"It was the head of your leader, noble lords."
"Gods. Gods," muttered a man behind Quintus.
"Steady there, man," Rufus muttered.
Crassus had been half-crazed, but he had howled defiance as The Surena claimed his Eagles, and Quintus had rushed in to protect him, felt the proconsul's severed hand upon his head a moment before the blow came that all but split his own skull.
If he could bear that memory, he could bear this news like a Roman. His father's son.
"The King of Kings called Sillaces his younger brother and gave him the kiss of kinship. And the men cheered and danced and drank wine. When they fell silent somewhat, Jason came forward. He had found a rod and waved it as a Bacchante in her frenzy would wave a thyrsus."
It was true that the East bred strong haters who would never forget and never forgive. With something close to joy, the merchant leaned forward to deliver his last lines. "He took up the head and sang Agave's lines from the play. 'We've hunted down a mighty chase this day and from the mountain bring the noble prey.' With your master's head!"
Behind him, a man cleared his throat. Quintus's eyes stung. He wanted to shout aloud full-voiced, never forgive, swear by all the gods to build a column of heads towering to the sky. Not to mourn Crassus, but to lament the disgrace of Rome.
He could sense the tension straining in Rufus beside him, ready to fight at his officer's command or to strike with his vinestaff any fool who might have few enough brains to anticipate his leader's order.
The old bore Livy was right. Vae victis. Woe to the conquered.
"Old moneybags's last, best role," came a whisper he knew he must not trace back to its source. Rufus would do that—and did.
Only the memory of Quintus's grandfather, facing the messenger who had come to tell him of his son's death, sustained the younger man. A gesture against despair brought his fingers to the pouch he still wore. By some miracle, there were coins left in it, small ones.
"For your news," he said, tossing the coins to the merchant as he would to a marketplace storyteller. "I will not trouble you for change." His voice came out more calmly than he would have believed possible. Behind him, a Legionary cleared his throat, and Quintus sensed how his hard-held composure steadied them now.
"You show better than your master!" shouted a man standing half in shadow, who wore his cap well pushed down. One of the Persians, Quintus thought, or—no, the man wore Persian garb in somber hues, but he was one of those newcomers that Quintus could not assign tribe or realm to.
"Tell him the rest! Tell him how Orodes promised Sillaces much gold, then how he paid your leader by pouring molten gold into the mouth of that head because, any other way, he never got enough. You could see the burns, Roman! And you could smell him fry!"
With one outthrust hand, Quintus barred a Legionary who had lunged forward. Start a riot? Certainly they could. And just as certainly, Ssu-ma Chao would order their deaths. They would never have the chance to regain their arms, their Eagle, and their honor, even if, in the next moment, they used them only to die in the desert.
"You fool, he wants you to fight. Go ahead, then. If the Ch'in don't kill you, by Dis, I will," he growled. "Stand firm. By all the gods, we'll show them Romans."
If the square had held that strongly at Carrhae, they would not now stand here, facing a jeering crowd of merchants, cameldrivers, and horsemen. They would not be forced to display their mettle, like slaves upon the block, for that sneering Ch'in noble. To Quintus's relief, his men held steady—staring level-eyed at the rabble before them. Gradually, something in their quiet silenced the barbarians baying about them.
There was silence for a long moment as a blood-tinged moon rose higher in the sky. Despite the hiss and moan of wind and sand, the desert itself was very still, as if waiting, listening. Even the bells of the camels' harness—for not all of them had been unloaded yet—ceased their clanging.
"You are here," Quintus said to the Armenian. "And we are here. We must cross this desert together if any of us are to live. Now you see us deprived of our arms, leashed. But do not mistake me: The dog can still bite. Do you understand me?"
The merchant nodded and edged back from the fire, secreting the Roman coins in some hidden fold in his robes.
"Well played!" came the strongly accented voice of Ssu-ma Chao.
Enough laughter, already! Quintus swung around to face the Ch'in officer. But that laughter did not come from the Ch'in officer. It was hard to see his face in the darkness, lit only by flickering torches, and harder yet to read his narrow, slanting eyes. One hand going to his sword—I am unarmed! Quintus regretted once again— Ssu-ma Chao jerked his head about, glaring in a way that betokened ill to any of his men who broke discipline.
Rough-voiced laughter rose again. This time, both Romans and Ch'in faced each other, confused and angry, but not yet ready to attack.
"Keep your hands where they can see them," Quintus heard Rufus pass the order to the remnant of Rome's Legions. "But be ready to grab any weapon you can."
More laughter, from a different direction yet. More wind. A gust blew out half the torches. The remaining ones flickered as men hastened to shield them.
Ssu-ma Chao held out his own hands. It was a gesture of fighting man to fighting man. This servant to an unknown king had had enough respect for the Romans to disarm them, but Quintus believed that for all the other's respect, he was going to take no risks.
You didn't have to be a philosopher to guess the stranger was just as confused as Quintus—and just as worried. For a soldier, the unexpected was as much the enemy as the men he must face.
Gesturing to Arsaces, Quintus started forward. Clearly it was time, and past time, to talk to the commander of this caravan.
Harsh sand stung his cheeks like a contemptuous slap.
The wind rose to a derisive howl. Beneath its jeering laughter, Quintus heard the fatal clamor of bells, drums, and gongs.
7
No SWORD, NO shield! Might as well tie them down and leave them to die in the sand. Quintus, wasted but a bitter, fleeting thought on that, then wheeled his men.
"Form up!" he shouted over the clamor. Other orders rang out—the Ch'in officer, for one, and steady as the hills of Rome, Rufus's trained bellow.
And form they did, a diminished, unarmed square. They showed no fear, and Quintus's heart swelled with pride.
Abruptly, the ground shuddered. Quintus fell, floundering onto his knees. His head spun. Around him, horses screamed, and camels, roused from stolid sleep, bellowed outrage. Not far away, two tents swayed—collapsed, one of the torches propped before them falling onto the crumpled stuff of their walls and setting them ablaze.
"Romans!" Rufus again. "Form up!"
Some of his men must be still standing, fighting fear before whatever enemy out of the desert struck. Quintus found his feet. He had to get to his men. He had to try, even if the earth opened before him and swallowed him in the next instant—or of what use were all his fine thoughts on honor?
From all across the desert, echoing in the vastness of sand
and sky, wild laughter shrieked up. Sand whirled down from the hooded crests of great dunes, hissing like a plague of serpents.
A burning stick rolled clear of the tents. Quintus scooped it up, then grabbed as many other sticks and torches as he could span with two hands. Fire was a weapon, not just against men, but against the dark. Let his men have weapons of fire, and it would not be long before they could win others. Unless there were archers, and he did not think archers could aim true in this wind.
The gongs, drums, and bells made his head ache. Around him, the sky whirled even as the earth rocked under his nailed boots. The never-to-be-forgotten clash of swords on shields, the screams of dying men rose again: The Ch'in were under attack.