He could understand how the others, the foreigners, could be sure they were in the right. But he could not forget that Valerian, his emperor, had lost his freedom and his life because he had trusted his adversary, because he had felt that any risk could be faced to attain and uphold peace in every corner of the known world, from the shores of the Atlantic to the mouth of the Indus.
Absorbed in these thoughts, he marched in silence under the burning sun.
12
THERE NO PARTICULAR obstacles to set them back during their journey. Towards dusk a small group of armed men who may have been brigands appeared, but the sight of the impressive display of Roman weaponry dissuaded them from taking the offensive, had that been their intention. They rode off on their dromedaries, disappearing behind a rise in the terrain.
The port appeared the evening of the next day. It was a dusty city, tucked into a bend of the river, surrounded by palm trees of every kind and by thickets of red and white oleanders. A small wharf made of fired bricks sheltered the bend and allowed the mooring of a good number of vessels.
Daruma advised Metellus and his men to cover their faces with the cloth they wore swathed around their heads. He was almost sure that there would be Persian soldiers in the port, or spies lying in wait to snare their game.
‘Scatter,’ he said, ‘but don’t lose sight of one another.’ He showed them a green flag. ‘When you see this hanging from the yard of one of the boats, that means it’s ours. You can board it as soon as night falls, but get on a few at a time, not all at once. Keep your weapons hidden under your cloaks and don’t pick a quarrel with anyone. Don’t speak among yourselves, because if a spy hears half a word in Latin you’re dead. Communicate using gestures and only when you’re sure no one’s looking. Remember that this is the last obstacle standing between you and your freedom. If you get through today, your imprisonment will be a distant memory. If you make a false step, it could cost you everything you’ve accomplished until now. The last moments will be the most dangerous. The slightest thing could tip them off: a glance or an expression, a word that slips out at the wrong moment, or in the wrong place. Remember, if you are caught, I don’t know you. I’ve never seen you. Is that clear? And I’ll never be able to do anything for you, ever.’
‘You’ve already done so much, Daruma,’ replied Metellus, ‘and we don’t want you risking your life for us. We can take care of ourselves. I’ll instruct my men.’
‘Fine. We’ll separate now, then.’
Metellus and his men decided not to enter the taverns that lined the wharf and not even to buy food from the stalls so as not to attract attention. They ate stale bread and drank water from their flasks as they walked down the crowded streets of the little town with an indifferent air.
The merchants’ stands offered a great assortment of wares: dates, unleavened bread baked in brick ovens, dried salted fish as well as the day’s catch from the river. There were deliciouslooking peaches, along with squashes, melons and little wild pears that looked very hard. There were plenty of animal vendors as well, selling snakes, monkeys, brightly feathered birds of a kind they’d never seen before. The men were fascinated by that spectacle, by the odours of the roasted meats, the exotic condiments and the spices and even the perfumes contained in jars of coloured glass and alabaster.
It was difficult to understand the prices, but it was clear that the perfumes were only for the wealthy; merchants with purses full of silver haggled loudly in every language and then made their deals, buyer and seller both convinced they’d struck a good bargain.
It was the first time that Metellus was travelling as a free man outside the confines of the empire. He had thought many times of making such a journey, but the empire was so vast that by the time you were near the border, you realized it was time to turn back.
He felt out of place, but excited at the same time; the situation gave him a new sensation, a kind of dizziness brought on by the immensity of it all, the lack of confines and limits. He realized that Asia had dimensions that were immeasurable and that a virtual infinity of peoples inhabited it. He thought of those unvarying expanses they had traversed, the deserted plains, the unchanging white of the cloudless skies. He recalled stories of fabulous animals and peoples that he had read in the pages of Pliny and the De Mirabilibus and he realized that those monstrous forms of nature only existed in men’s imaginations. As exploration and knowledge achieved the upper hand over fantasy, the monsters had to be relegated to ever more remote regions. Or perhaps the ancient heroes – Hercules, Theseus, Odysseus – had already destroyed all the monsters long ago. Even Alexander must have been disappointed when he got to India and found neither hippogriffs nor chimeras nor mining ants that dug gold out of the bowels of the earth.
Metellus was accompanied by Uxal, who knew the local language and was inconspicuous in the crowd; the Roman listened intently to what was being said, trying to guess at the meaning. At a merchant’s stand, his attention was drawn to a toy, a little elephant carved of painted acacia wood with a jointed trunk that swung back and forth. He whispered into Uxal’s ear: ‘Can you buy that for me? For my little boy, that is.’
Uxal, who was in charge of the group’s coffers, entered into long and animated bargaining until he managed to get what he thought was a good price. He paid with a few coins and took the toy. ‘You’re counting on getting home soon,’ he observed when they were out of earshot.
‘Why?’
‘Because children grow up quickly. He might no longer like the toys you choose.’
Metellus sighed. ‘You’re right. Time stopped for me when I was taken prisoner. I’ll always think of my son as the little boy I left that morning, even if I stay away a thousand years.’
‘You know,’ Uxal started, ‘I think I remember a story like yours in an old poem I heard once. It talks about a man, a sailor, I think, who returns to his island after many years away, and finds that his son has become a man.’
‘The Odyssey,’ replied Metellus. ‘The poem is called The Odyssey, from the name of its protagonist, Odysseus. He leaves his son a newborn and when he sees him again he’s twenty: Telemachus is his name.’
‘Right, that’s the one I’m thinking of. I hope you see your boy long before he turns twenty.’
‘So do I, Uxal,’ replied Metellus. ‘So do I . . .’
They walked on for a little while in silence as darkness began to fall on the less congested streets and the white terraces of the town. Metellus glanced towards the port and nudged Uxal. ‘The green flag,’ he said. ‘Daruma has found a boat.’
THEY WERE THE LAST to board, after they’d watched their comrades, one by one, cross the wood-and-reed gangway that connected the boat to the mainland.
Daruma had lanterns lit fore and aft and posted two men on guard: one of his Indians, a man called Saraganda, and one of Metellus’s men, Antoninus. He had dinner distributed: a variety of foods bought on shore, all very spicy and peppery – salted goat’s meat, roasted fish seasoned with thyme and malva, savoury unleavened bread baked in brick ovens and palm wine.
Rowdy laughter could be heard from the other moored boats, where the crews were relaxing after their day’s work, noisily carousing and enjoying themselves with girls hired at the port. But the tension was still too high among the Romans, nor did they feel at ease yet with the rest of the crew, about whom they knew nothing. They ate and drank in silence, keeping a wary eye on the shore.
Metellus approached Daruma. ‘Who are the men in your crew?’
‘They’re from Taprobane. There’s no danger of them talking – no one here can understand them anyway. And they don’t know anyone because they’ve only been here a few days. But they’ve been working for me for years and I’ve always paid them well. You can rest easy.’
Metellus nodded. ‘It’s just that everything is going so smoothly, it feels too good to be true.’
‘Going smoothly?’ retorted Daruma. ‘That raid in the middle of the night at the oasis seemed normal
to you? If the man trying to escape on horseback was the person I was waiting for, he may already be dead by now.’
‘You’re right,’ replied Metellus. ‘When you’ve suffered so long, you become egotistical and think only of yourself.’
Daruma nodded. ‘If you want to know what I think, we’re not out of danger yet. There are boats sailing downriver with the king’s soldiers on board, this port is surely crawling with spies and there are squads of archers on horseback all up and down the river, in small garrisons. You seem to be very important to them, if I’ve understood correctly. If you want us to continue this voyage together, you’d better tell me the whole truth.’
‘What truth?’
‘Why there were ten of you at Aus Daiwa. And how you escaped. It’s said to be impossible.’
‘If I tell you, do you swear you’ll never repeat it to anyone?’
Daruma smiled. ‘You’d trust the word of a merchant?’
‘If you wanted to turn us in, you would have done so already.’
‘True. Well, then?’
‘Do I have your word?’
‘For what it’s worth, yes, you have my word.’
Metellus hesitated, then thought that Daruma did have the right to know what risks he was running by offering them hospitality. ‘I was the commander of the guard of Licinius Valerianus Augustus, the last emperor of the Romans, who died in prison at Aus Daiwa after being betrayed and taken captive by Shapur at Edessa. After his death, we escaped thanks to the help of Uxal, who brought us to the oasis at Khaboras. You know the rest.’
‘Great Trimurti!’
‘What did you say?’
‘I invoked our supreme Triad, like the one you venerate at your Capitol in Rome.’
‘Have you been to Rome?’
‘No, although I know someone who has been. But don’t change the subject. You are in a fine mess and so am I. You could have told me right away.’
‘Would you have taken us with you if I had?’
‘No.’
‘See.’
‘How long ago did you escape?’
‘I haven’t kept count, but I’d say about a month and a half, or more.’
Daruma sighed. ‘A great deal I’ve made. If they find us they’ll skin us alive, to say the least.’
‘I know.’
‘On the other hand, they haven’t caught up with you yet. How did you manage it, without horses, in this barren terrain?’
‘We stayed hidden for many days in a place they consider sacred and forbidden: the gully where they throw their dead.’
‘A stroke of genius. And then?’
‘When we had the impression that they had stopped looking for us there, we started to move out. At night, travelling on the bottom of the gully, until we found water. We followed the stream until we reached the confluence with the Khaboras.’
‘I take back what I said about you Romans being stupid. But we must be careful not to ruin it all on this last part of your journey.’
‘Will we have to stay here long?’
‘At least three days. That was the pact and I’ve added one day for good measure. I don’t want you ever going ashore for the entire time. If you need something, I’ll get it for you.’
‘All right.’ Metellus nodded. ‘But there’s a problem.’
‘What is it?’
‘We have a deal with you. You are paying us to escort and guard your convoy. If we can’t show our faces off this boat, how are we to do our job?’
‘You’ll have your chance, I can assure you.’
‘But where? And when?’
‘You’ll know when the moment comes. Now try to lie low for as long as necessary.’
THEY SPENT THREE DAYS in a state of suspended apathy. The heat in the hours around midday was unbearable. Metellus and his men would sprawl between the rigging, in the shade of the sail that had been stretched out like a canopy to shelter them from the sun, sweating in the oppressive heat instead of taking a dip in the river, which had been strictly forbidden by their host. Only towards evening did a slight breeze bring some relief. Just sitting down to dinner became an important event.
Daruma spent most of his time ashore with two or three of his men, evidently trying to make contact with the person they were expecting. They would return towards dark with straw baskets full of food for the crew. Metellus never asked about the man they were looking for, but he could tell that Daruma was quite worried. Every passing day increased the risk that their presence on board would be discovered, while it diminished the probability that this long-awaited guest might turn up.
On the evening of the fourth day, Daruma made a decision. ‘We’ll leave tomorrow,’ he said. ‘If the man you saw on horseback at the oasis of Khaboras was him, he should have been here at least two days ago, seeing that we travelled at the pace of our camels and asses. I can’t wait any longer. The last opportunity we’ll have to find him will be at the Ocean port.’
‘As you like,’ replied Metellus. ‘I’m sorry that this person has failed to meet up with you. We are ready whenever you are.’
They weighed anchor the next morning just before dawn. The sailors pushed the boat to the centre of the current by sticking their poles into the river bottom, then used the stern rudders only when necessary to maintain their route. Their speed was moderate but constant and the countryside passed before them in a pleasant variety of natural settings. At times they’d see groups of tiny gazelles raise their black snouts from the water in alarm as the boat went by, although they did not run off, accustomed to river traffic as they obviously were. Every now and then they would even see clusters of pink flamingos probing the edge of the bank with their curved beaks in search of food.
Antoninus, Publius, Rufus and the others watched in delight, and even Metellus enjoyed the view that became more varied and spectacular at every bend and every promontory: the ochre and yellow shades in the rock, the tall, lush palms, the fishing and farming villages that multiplied on the river’s banks.
‘This reminds me of certain areas in southern Egypt . . .’ began Metellus, but he was interrupted by the shout of a sailor perched on the yardarm. The man, dark-skinned and gleaming with sweat, was pointing to a spot on the shore.
‘By all the gods!’ exclaimed Publius. ‘It’s him!’
The horseman with the black cloth wrapped around his head was descending a hill towards the river at a gallop. His pursuers soon became visible as well: twenty or so Persian soldiers chasing after him at full tilt. They must have just caught up with him, because their pace was too fast to be maintained for any length of time without exhausting the horses.
Daruma rushed to the railing and shouted, ‘It’s him! Draw up alongside the shore!’
The helmsman didn’t wait to be told twice. He lunged at the bar that connected the stern rudders and thrust it to the right, causing the boat to veer sharply left. At that point the banks were low but steeply angled and the horseman was heading at full speed towards a bend where the foliage had created a vast, dense thicket. Perhaps he was hoping to hide there, but from what they could see his fate seemed sealed.
‘Bows and javelins, men!’ shouted Metellus, and they rushed to the portside rail, ready to let fly.
The helmsman had shifted the bar to the centre to correct his course and the boat was racing along parallel to the bank now, at a distance of about twenty feet. The horseman seemed to notice their manoeuvring and got as close to the bank as he could, without reducing his speed. The Persians behind him had begun to loose their arrows, which rained around the fugitive with increasingly threatening precision, though they never struck him. It was almost as if he knew what direction they would arrive from and could dodge them at the last moment. Metellus ordered his men to take aim, and two of their arrows hit their marks, felling a couple of the enemy and slowing down the onward rush of the others.
Daruma shouted again, ‘To shore!’ but the helmsman yelled something back and stayed on course. He was afraid of running
aground on the shoals. With unsuspected energy, Daruma grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and dashed him to the planks. He gripped the bar himself and urged the boat ever nearer to the shore. Twice he heard the keel scraping the bottom but the hull held fast and he remained at a distance of eight to ten feet from the bank.
Daruma yelled again, even louder this time. A single word, with a curt, sharp tone, an order, perhaps, or an exhortation in another language.
The horseman reacted to the word, and under the unbelieving eyes of the soldiers and crew he pulled himself to his feet on the horse’s back and sprang into an acrobatic leap. He vaulted through the air as if weightless and landed on the boat’s deck with a dull thud, his feet and hands wide apart and his knees flexed, stopping in an absolutely static position, as if he were nailed to the planks on the deck.
Daruma immediately turned the boat towards the centre of the river and, as the Persians showered them with a barrage of arrows, Metellus and his men raised the wicker mats as if they were shields, to fend off the worst of the attack. As soon as they were out of range, Daruma turned towards the middle of the deck as if to convince himself he had not been dreaming. The mysterious person was still there, as motionless as a statue, as the crewmen and the Romans circled around him to get a closer look at the prodigy.
Metellus turned to Daruma in amazement and said, ‘Is it him?’
Daruma nodded.
‘What did you yell out to him?’
‘Jump!’
‘In what language?’
Daruma gestured as if to say, ‘I’ll tell you later,’ then he drew close to the man who had rained down from the sky. At that moment, Metellus had the distinct sensation of having already seen those eyes. So strange, so long and slanted. And he realized that the stranger was feeling exactly the same sensation. The Roman’s mind flashed back to Edessa, to the harrowing moment when Valerian was compelled to kneel before Shapur, and then he stared once more into those incredibly black, sparkling eyes.
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