“They won’t take us so easily this time, Mama. Remember, I am the second-best fighting woman in the encampment.”
They broke out the wine, took a case from the wagon, and gave the rest to shanyu Bei to distribute among the camp. “Watch that stuff, Bei, it’s much stronger than that horse piss you drink. I don’t want your men to get too high and wide too soon, all right?” cautioned Antonius.
Marcia picked where they left off. “So… Mother, what do you think of my choice of a husband? Do you approve?”
“I do, but when and where are you going to be married?”
“We were thinking of Rome, but now, the situation has changed. How about as soon as we can arrange it? Here with you! Besides, all of my friends are here, and they will be scattered to the four winds when we get to Rome. Antonius?”
“The sooner the better, domina,” he said, in Latin, with a big grin. And turning to Ibrahim, “Security for the wedding? Looks like it may have gotten simpler. Anyone who wants to come can come, it looks like. Camp, town, everybody.”
Aulus offered to officiate. He opened a flask of wine and started filling cups to toast the bride and groom.
Ibrahim smiled and nodded. Then he turned to Yakov, pulled out a pouch full of jingling coins and said in Aramaic, “Son, returnest thou to the winery and procurest all that they have. Methinks they will need much wine. Make as many trips as thou deem necessary.”
CHAPTER 65: NIGHTMARE’S CONCLUSION
The upcoming wedding, so quickly announced, set the whole village and encampment abuzz, everyone wanting to take part in the momentous event. Liqian was marrying off one their own to a real Roman, a centurion at that, officiated by a Roman Senator. The Xiongnu were sharing the joy of the band of strange traveling companions they had come to know and love. Mama was, of course, ecstatic, though uncertain about Marcia’s developing warrior skills under the tutelage of Hina, truly the most fearsome woman she had ever met, though also the most charming. She endeared herself to Vera by also calling her ‘Mama,’ because, after all, she was Marcia’s ‘sister.’ And sisters played an important role in Xiongnu weddings.
It was going to be a Roman wedding, of course, but there were going to be a lot of other undercurrents. Galosga went hunting for deer, since among his people, the groom was supposed to provide venison. Ibrahim was setting up a makeshift Arabic sewan tent to roast goat for his part of the wedding feast. And of course, there was going to be good Liqian wine, lots of good Liqian wine. Yakov and Shmuel were trundling back and forth to town bringing it in by the cartload, as well as various items from the Lucian household.
Included in the lot were four togas, Marcus’ old one, their father’s, and two others on loan from his friends. Aulus had disposed of his and Marcus’ clothes, and Gaius’ and Antonius’ military gear, outside of Luoyang. They set about finding some chalk to whiten them.
Mama contributed her own wedding dress, stored away thirty years, a cream tunica recta tied with the Knot of Hercules, with a flame-colored veil.
Marcia had her own duties to perform, to dedicate her childhood toys and locket to the lares, gods of the household. Her mother assured her that her toys were in her room, exactly where she had left them ten years ago. As this was going to be her first visit to the town and home where she grew up, she wanted to go alone to savor the memories.
It was a warm November afternoon, warm enough to dispense with the heavy jacket. She removed her weapons, but then reconsidered, fitting her dagger down her back on a throat lanyard. She wasn’t comfortable completely unarmed now, though perhaps that was just pride.
She rode her horse into town, trotting slowly through familiar streets. She needed no guide, as she had burned the memory of home into her mind years ago. Here on this street along the southern edge, yes, that was Sulpicius’ house, her Latin teacher. If she closed her eyes, she could hear the laughter of children running down the hill to master the complexity of Latin grammar. She smiled as she remembered the time she had struggled with the difference between the objective and dative cases until he hit her on the back of the head, saying “dative, dative, dative!”, trying to ram the difference between the two into her mind.
Her home was along the same road that ran east and west along the edge of town, until it turned north to ascend a small hill. And there it was, seated far back amongst the tall familiar pine trees, away from the other houses. She tethered her pony at the bottom of the hill.
She followed the steep stone walkway that curved up and around bushes, once carefully tended, by a tree that bore the initials ML that she had carved when she was child, still there, welcoming her home. She put her fingers on the letters. “Thanks for waiting,” she whispered.
She reached the wide, steep set of stairs that led to the wraparound porch, the deck well above her head as she started up the steps. She caught familiar scents she had not smelled in years, the smell of her mother’s cooking, and that unmistakable scent that is home, made up of all the things a family uses in their own unique mix. She inhaled deeply, feeling at peace at last. She went inside to the common area, overlaid with an intricate Hanaean rug. A large table made of heavy wood planks sat in the middle, surrounded by stools… so many meals had she taken off these planks, so many stories. Here in the corner was a rocking chair where she would snuggle into her father’s lap. And here in a scroll basket beside it, waiting for her, was his copy of Ennius’ history that he would read to her, always reminding her at the end, ‘Memento, tu es Romana,’… Remember, you are a Roman girl. She touched the chair, setting it to rocking.
Hello, Papa, I am sorry I missed you. I have so much to tell you. I’m getting married.
I heard, Marcia. Congratulations. He is a good man.
Her room was on the back, off to the right. Mama had not changed a thing since Marcia was taken. There at the foot of the bed was her toy box. She opened it, finding on top her wax notebook, and she leafed through the wooden pages. These were her last Latin lesson notes! And here was a set of bamboo strips, inscribed with an Hanaean poem. Mama gave her that for her twelfth birthday, just before they came for her.
She was rummaging through her chest of memories when she heard footsteps on the porch. Who? Mama? Marcus?
“Si Huar!” Stand up when I come in.” That voice and that name she never wanted to hear again. Take a deep breath to control panic, Hina had said. She remained sitting, facing away from the voice, staring, deliberately unresponsive, into her toy box.
“Si Huar is dead, Wang,” she answered, deliberately insulting him by using his surname. “That girl died in a prison cell in Luoyang. You may call me Marcia.” She composed herself, quietly closed the lid, and gave a quick shrug of her shoulders to make sure the dagger was handy. Glad I decided to bring that. She put her hands on her thighs, stood up, still facing away, then slowly turned around.
She had been with very masculine, weather-beaten men for the past six months. She was surprised how effeminate Wang Ming now looked, with smooth skin, soft hands, an expensive blue robe with a black outer cloak, his hair done up in a black headpiece run through with pins. He used makeup, and he stank of perfume.
“Is that your whore name, now? I will call you by your civilized name, Si Huar, and beat you until you remember…” He had started forward, his hand raised to strike her, but in one fluid motion she recovered her dagger from its back scabbard and it gleamed in her right hand, pointing at his midsection. He stopped abruptly, his hand still raised.
Never fight with a man unless you are willing to kill him.
“No, Wang, not today, not ever again. Those times are over. Go home to Luoyang and leave us in peace here.”
There is a golden moment, when a man will not take a woman seriously in a fight. If you kill him then, it will save you a lot of trouble later.
Wang Ming dropped his upraised hands to draw his own dagger. Marcia got into her fighting crouch, sidestepping around him, trying to keep him off balance, her dagger weaving back and forth. He follo
wed her movements carefully.
His eyes, never take your eyes off his, they will tell where he will strike.
A sidewise shift of his eyes betrayed him. Marcia blocked it with her left forearm, pivoted and slashed at his silk robe, ripping the fabric but not striking meat.
He attempted another lunge, but again she evaded him, this time raking his left arm, drawing blood where the shorn silk had fallen away. The fight was on now. He was better, much better than she had expected. She had thought that once she showed her teeth, he would slink off in fear, but this was going to be her first real fight, and it could only end one way, with one of them dead on the floor. Her confidence waivered. This was not a training bout.
Suddenly he slashed fiercely across her upper chest, deliberately aiming for her breasts. His knife hit meat on the upper slope of her left breast. The pain and burning was intense. For a moment, she thought sure she was going to die here in her childhood home.
Let the pain ignite your anger, and let your reason focus that anger to white hot fury.
Her cat persona took her spirit. She hissed, which turned into a deep-throated growl, and she slashed back wildly left to right across his stomach. This one cut through more silk, which fell away to expose a deep bleeding cut. She thrust the dagger up toward his face, aiming for his eyes. A lucky turn of the head saved his eye, but she laid his face open in a deep cut from cheek to jowl, which began to pour blood.
Her fighting rage was upon her now and she remembered nothing of the rest of the fight, thrust, parry, dodge, pivot, it was a carefully-rehearsed choreography that she had done thousands of times with Hina, and it was working.
Wang Ming sought to end the fight early and rushed her, arms outspread.
A man will always seek to embrace you, to immobilize you, arms against your sides.
It was a stupid move and Marcia executed its counter. Wang Ming’s rush was clumsy, leaving his midsection exposed, and Marcia’s nine-inch dagger sank its full length into his gut.
A gut wound is fatal, but not quickly so. Do as much damage to him as you can while the knife is inside.
Marcia cut sideways, meanwhile working the knife blade up and down inside him as she cut. She heard the zipping of skin and muscle giving away against her blade. Wang’s eyes got very big, and he shuddered under the pain. She stepped back and withdrew her knife, watching a small loop of green intestine pop out through the gash. Wang saw it also, fumbling with it with both hands, trying to push it back in. He groaned, bent over, then glared at her. “You bitch!” he cursed. Then his legs folded up under him, and he sat down with a thud on his haunches, still holding his midsection. A trickle of blood flowed out the right corner of his mouth, mingling with the blood of his tattered left cheek.
Marcia wiped her knife, but remained on guard. There may be fight left in him, or he may have friends coming to his aid. She looked down at her own breast, bleeding profusely. She put her hand over it, applying pressure to staunch the flow. Then she knelt down beside him, as he shuddered convulsively. “I am sorry, Ming, I didn’t want to do this. I wish…”
“Go fuck your barbarians, whore!” he cursed at her again, then fell back. His breathing became more ragged and rattled as his lungs filled, then with a final spasm he was still, his unblinking eyes staring at the ceiling. Marcia reached over and closed them, “Be at peace now, you poor, troubled man.” She was surprised how long it had taken him to die.
She sat there, not moving, for a long time. Somewhere far away, a dog barked, birds sang. She held onto her wounded breast, feeling the warm blood ooze through her fingers. The pain was intense now, throbbing. She thought of all the stupid mistakes she had made, all the things that Hina had taught her that she had forgotten.
She was beginning to feel sleepy, light-headed, perhaps she should just lay down and stretch out, when there were footfalls on the porch. Wang’s friends, she thought, as she struggled to her feet, wobbling, almost unable to stand, but at least she would die on her feet, fighting to the end. Antonius and Hina burst in. “Marcia, what the hell…” said Antonius, then he saw the prone body of Wang Ming on the floor. “Hina, get some water and some clean rags. Hurry!”
He lay Marcia down and lifted up her shirt to expose her injury. The knife had sliced a gash about an inch deep and five inches long through the top of her breast. Well-supplied with blood, it bled heavily, but there did not appear to be any penetration of her chest. “Any other wounds?” he asked.
“Some scratches, just that one,” she said sleepily.
“Good. That is an ugly cut, but not serious. You’ll heal, and the breast will be fine. I’ll see to that. Remember we are getting married this week.” She smiled wanly, but she was woozy, in shock, pale and clammy. He put a box under her feet, and bandaged her injury.
“Who is that man?” asked Hina.
“That’s the man who used to beat her. Looks like he won’t be doing that anymore.”
“How did he find her here?
“He was with that bunch of Hanaean troops yesterday. Looks like he thought to take her back. She will tell us about it later.”
They wrapped her in a blanket and helped her down the stairs to the horses. Antonius was hoping this had not attracted attention, because a death involving someone from the court would stir up a lot of trouble. Ibrahim could deal with the cleanup. Fortunately, it seemed half the town was out in the Xiongnu encampment, meaning fewer witnesses, but perhaps too many when they arrived in the camp. Antonius put her up on Hina’s horse, Hina behind her holding the bandage over Marcia’s damaged breast.
As luck would have it, there was a rowdy game of buzkashi ‘snatch the dead goat’ going on outside the encampment that had attracted the attention of the Xiongnu and the most of the curious villagers of Liqian, leaving the encampment almost deserted. They got her into the yurt unseen, where Mama and Marcus were sitting with Demosthenes, Shmuel, Yakov and Ibrahim.
Mama cried out, “Marcia, Marcia, what happened?” She flustered over her bloody daughter. Marcus hovered solicitously and helped lay her out on the floor.
Antonius said, “An accident, Mama. I need to take care of her. Hina, tell her what happened, and swear her to secrecy. Ibrahim, we have a dead body at the Lucian house that needs to go away, details from Hina. Demosthenes, my capsula, clean linen, and vinegar.”
Antonius scrubbed the injury thoroughly, opening it up to examine it for bits of cloth or thread. Marcia was conscious but silent throughout, flinching a bit as he washed the gaping cut with vinegar. Then he sutured up the wound with horsehair thread. She bit her lip with each suture prick, but bit by bit, the wound was closed. “All right, Marcia, good as new, looks like the wedding is still on,” Antonius said, bandaging the wound.
Demosthenes had prepared a glass of wine and poppy juice for pain and to help her sleep. The wound would be painful, but it would heal nicely, and probably not even leave much of a scar… if it did not get feverish. Would it still work as a breast, producing milk for future children? Antonius didn’t know, he had never dealt with this kind of injury.
Yakov and Shmuel had already made several trips to the Lucian household that day, so one more did not attract attention. They rolled Wang Ming up in the blood-stained carpet, and cleaned up the mess that remained on the floor and furniture. They carried the carpet out, the lifeless Wang Ming inside, and dumped it in the back of their cart, taking his non-descript Mongolian pony in tow.
They drove out of town heading west. When they came back, the carpet, with Wang Ming inside, was not in the cart. Unless someone saw them, Wang Ming was unlikely to ever be found.
CHAPTER 66: A MAGNIFICENT WEDDING
The next morning, Marcia awoke about sunrise, groggy and sore, having slept about twelve hours. She touched her bandaged breast and recoiled in horror, remembering the ugly wound Wang had inflicted on her. She felt carefully around the sore mound, feeling its familiar shape and softness under the wrapping… still attached, that gave her some relief. She remem
bered Antonius treating her, like in a dream. Antonius was lying beside her, but not too close, not wanting to jostle her in the night. “Good morning!” he announced cheerfully, and got up to get her some water to rinse her mouth.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, handing her the water and a brush.
“Like my horse threw me, and then walked all over me.”
He knelt down beside her while she nursed her bowl of water. “I’m going to lift up your shirt. I want to inspect the badge of honor you got yesterday.”
She lay back down and he exposed her breast to undo the bandage. He gently palpitated it. The breast felt normal, warm but not hot, firm but not hard. The sutured wound along the top was black with dried blood along the sealing lips of the wound, but nothing fresh, no oozing moisture or pus. The little black horsehair sutures stood up like little insects marching across her breast, twenty of them. He washed down the wound with some vinegar, noticing that the chill fluid made her nipple crinkle. Good sign, looks like she has sensation there. Then he re-bandaged her wound and pulled her shirt down.
“Looks like yer healin’ fine, domina,” he said. “Let me get you some breakfast, an’ yer can tell me all about it.”
Everyone was awake now, and Demosthenes and Hina came over and sat beside her, so Antonius switched back to their mutual han-yu. “What would you like to eat?”
“Just some bread, that would be fine.”
He got up, fetched a slice of barley bread and brought it over with more water. She ate just a little, but slurped down the water thirstily. She handed the water mug back. “Some more, please?”
He refilled the mug from the water sack. She asked for help getting into a sitting position, and Antonius piled some pillows behind her. “So it looks like you gave better than you got, Marcia,” he said, arranging the covers around her. It was chill and they had not yet started the dung fire to warm the yurt; Yakov and Shmuel were working on that.
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