by Andre Norton
His men could do nothing without arms, and it was he who must arm them. Mindful of his footing on this treacherous ground, Quintus could not carry enough, and if he fell, he could well become a torch himself.
"Torches! Get torches!" he shouted.
The hissing rose. "Serpents! Dis take them, snakes!" A man screamed in panic, then fell silent. Quintus hoped he had not died, either by snakebite or as a bad example. Briefly, he envied the Persian horseman his boots. Then, he had staggered within reach of the pitifully small Roman square and pressed torches into the hands of the men in the front ranks.
Hard to fight without the Eagles gleaming overhead, a reflection of a Legion's honor. But Rufus was at his shoulder, the aristocratic tribune nearby.
"Let's make a break for it!" Quintus heard one of them urging. They were prisoners; they were Romans, bred to war, in the midst of clients and barbarians. In the confusion that was battle, how difficult would it be to overpower a merchant train, compelling wagons and beasts to take them where they wanted to go?
And where was that? Without a guide, into a painful death by thirst in the waste. And without their Legion's Eagle, having no honor to return with, they might as well be dead. Assuming they survived the earth tremors, the snakes that even now men were screaming about, and whatever bandits who now attacked Ssu-ma Chao and his men.
"Don't be an ass!" By all the gods, Lucilius, talking of courage for once. "All these damned merchants have guards, anyhow."
Quintus had not forgotten that either. Ssu-ma Chao's curiosity had saved their lives... with such honor as might be in these queer lands. He gestured Rufus to order the men forward.
When the order came for a testudo, he had to choke back laughter that threatened to unman him. How could men lacking shields form that tortoise that so often let Romans advance under a hail of sword strokes and arrows?
"Use your torches! One man guards, one picks up swords or shields, one passes them on!"
It was some slight hope. If the men used the torch as they might use the gladius, then they might even have some slight chance to take an enemy's weapons.
So Rufus too must be counting on the high winds to discourage archers. No archers? Quintus could not see past the blowing sand. The laughter that rode it haunted him. In the instant it cleared, would he see again the sight that robbed them of hope at Carrhae? Thousands upon thousands of riders, and The Surena himself, his face like a mask of Pluto with its too-large dark eyes? With every hiss of the wind, every beat of the drums or peal of bells, he thought of the death of Legions and fought despair.
In front of him, shields were going up—of no design he was familiar with, but shields nonetheless. Bearing almost the first of them, a Legionary stepped before him, guarding him. Now they were marching over twisted bodies.
Blood seeping from the dead men's wounds should have turned the sand into slippery muck. But no blood had flowed. And after their first, initial panic, no Romans screamed of snakes, even though the sounds of hissing and huge, thick bodies cutting through the sand made each waking thought a victory against horror.
Sand and sound enveloped them. This was like fighting in a fog—like the foul mist in the swamp they'd hidden in after the massacre. Quintus's throat was dry from fear and from screaming orders, constant shouting so his men would know he still lived.
Again, the ground shook. A rumbling and a sort of pouring sound reminded Quintus of stories he had heard of the mountains beyond Gallia Transalpina, how snow slid in vast waves down their slopes, breaking and burying men and towns unfortunate enough to be engulfed. This would be a dry death, burial by sand—though burial it was.
A crack formed in the earth, and he jerked one of his men back before he stumbled into that dark crevasse. If this kept on, the earth itself might snap them up. On they moved with the purpose that long discipline had fixed in them, ready to fight with what arms they could pick up from those bodies on the ground. Mysteriously dead; or were they? After all, a man could die of fear.
His grandfather would have scoffed at that. But the old man would have scoffed too at the dreams Quintus had had, dreams that had proven to aid him. And he certainly would have made Quintus throw away as a folly the little Etruscan dancer that had already saved his life so many times.
He bit back a cry. The tiny bronze had heated once again.
Once more, the earth shuddered. This time many of the men toppled, shouting their anger and fear against ground that could not keep still. The haze of sand and sweat in which they moved seemed to thicken—to darken, in one part, as if something swept past them. The screams from the Ch'in fighting somewhere ahead of them grew louder, taking on an edge of despair.
There was always that moment when you expected relief or at least nothing worse to happen; then you saw thousands of Parthians coming up, reinforcements for the ones that were already butchering you; and you knew everything was lost. The Ch'in general must feel like that now. What good would his high birth do him if he never returned home to the family and servants and clients who would bow before him?
Quintus could let these easterners die. But then whatever enemy they faced might turn on the Romans. And so they would all go down... and the Eagle would be lost. Quintus could not allow that, if there were any way of stopping it. And he needed Ssu-ma Chao to get to the Eagle. Standing straight, he brandished his torch. Overhead, as if in response, a streak of light shone in the night sky flying to the East. It looked like an eagle. The thought heartened him.
Do you see us? Do we do Well? We who are about to die... He hoped they had more honor than that.
"Get ready! Hold your square!" he shouted, obedient to his talisman's warning. He stooped, just as a spear whined overhead.
Abruptly, a blade met his torch. It was a clumsy blow; he parried it almost as if he met a staff, rather than a sword. Then, he thrust forward with the flame, straight into his enemy's face. The man fell, screaming out of a charred mouth. Quintus grabbed up what weapons he could. Around him, his men were doing the same. Even Lucilius was fighting with a persistent viciousness that won Quintus's unwilling respect.
They did have live adversaries, with swords and shields and faces that grimaced as the bodies beneath them took their death wounds. As if to atone for the humiliation of Carrhae, the Romans fought hard. Those who fell died with a groan of protest at being balked of their quarry. The wind and sand cloaked their enemies, though—those fought in grim silence, not crying out even when mortally wounded.
Slowly, the wind's force died, then was gone. Above, abruptly, the night sky was very clear, framing a shimmering mirror of a moon. Now Quintus could see where Ssu-ma Chao and his men struggled. The men they fought against were darkly clad; only hands and faces showed—and the gleam of weapons where blood had not hidden the bright metal.
Bandits would have arrows, Quintus thought. And with the wind dying, soon those arrows would fly.
"Testudo!" he screamed the order. Shields went up overhead.
"March!"
Their ranks might be diminished, but their precision was not. And they were protected as they marched toward the embattled Ch'in, trapping the men they fought against between two armed and desperate forces.
The Romans spread out into their battle lines, allowing the Ch'in to retreat behind them, then return as reinforcements.
Why do I permit this? Quintus wondered. The answer came as quickly as parry and thrust (and another man crumpled onto the thirsty sand!): Whatever they faced had not scrupled to use horror as a weapon; all men must band against an enemy who did that. Superstition, perhaps. Well then, reassure yourself, Quintus my lad. These Ch'in have your Eagle, and you cannot go home without it. Assuming you can get home at all.
He cried out, not at a wound that scored his arm red, but at the way his bronze talisman heated. In that instant, he whirled and saw the Ch'in general at bay, one facing two of the strangers, and no place to retreat.
He was a farmer, not a fighter, Quintus thought, but Fortune wa
s proving that wrong. Now it seemed his feet hardly touched ground as he leapt into action. He brandished sword and torch, shouting a raw-throated challenge. At this breathless moment, it seemed familiar and right for him to stand champion to the others.
Quintus struck and strode onward. This was more dream than battle. Four men out of memory marched, drove, or rode at his side—a king, the twins, saintly and silent, and a huge, simple man, famous as a Titan for his strength.
His brothers.
But I have no brothers! Quintus thought. He shook his head, aimed a vicious blow at one of the desert shadows who sought to stab the man who had run out ahead of the battle line.
The tiny talisman he bore kindled once again. Krishna, Draupadi had called the dancer: his long-time ally, the strange one who danced while mourning.
Quintus whirled the torch to kindle its flame and send it higher. This should have been a stronger, a greater weapon. Such did exist, the thought flickered in his consciousness. It might be given to such as he to find them as he once had done.
These are not my thoughts! The desert night was cold, but a greater chill wrapped him in an instant. He needed weapons, he and his...
No! Whatever it was that sought to speak to him, it seemed as alien to him as the men who died, soundlessly, under his blade. The short sword was the weapon of Rome. It would be enough, or he would die here, he vowed.
"Sir... sir! Hold!" Quintus realized that Rufus was shouting, had caught at him in restraint. Quintus plunged another step forward and would have fallen, were it not for the centurion's grip. He looked down. He had tripped over the bodies of three men, all clad in black. Near them, Ssu-ma Chao struggled up from his knees onto unsteady feet, watching the Roman as if he had suddenly begun to breathe fire.
Abruptly, as the strength that had driven Quintus melted from his limbs, he sagged. He leaned on his shield, half bent over, breathing in gasps while his heart felt as if it would wrench itself asunder. Ssu-ma Chao gasped, gagged, then brought himself under control.
But they were all veterans. After Carrhae, even Lucilius was no part-time warrior.
The Ch'in leader gestured and spoke. Quintus shook his head, unable to follow the man's accented Parthian.
"He asks you if you know what manner of men you fought?"
Amazingly, Arsaces had insinuated himself between the tribune and the Ch'in general. Good to see the twisty little Persian horseman still lived.
Quintus squinted groundward. All around were bodies. Some Ch'in; a few—but still too many—Roman. Some were even merchants who had found courage enough to join men whose trade it was to fight. Then the tribune stared at their enemies. Parthians rode in silks and rich metals. These men were robed in black. Not Parthians, then. And not bandits, by and large an undisciplined rabble, dying badly and noisily when overwhelmed.
These men's faces were set, impassive despite wounds that meant death in agony. They were not weathered like the other strangers Quintus had seen, the men whose features and coloring were an evil mirror of his Draupadi's. Fairer, these fighters, pale under the huge moon. Pale and incredibly ancient.
Even as he looked, that flesh turned ashen, tightened over the bones, turning speedily to grotesque skulls with flaking skin still stretched over them.
Against Quintus, his talisman cooled now. Yet a wave of reassurance spread from it and flowed into his body.
He turned from those life-in-death enemies. Ssu-ma Chao stood watching him. Catching Quintus's eyes, the easterner bowed deeply, as if to a man of his own rank.
"He also asks what manner of man you are, that you can look on the work of sorcery and not shudder," the Persian said.
A tired one, Quintus thought, an answer that would hardly satisfy the Ch'in.
"Tell him, 'A Roman.'"
"He says," Arsaces went on, "that this miserable one would willingly reward you for your aid."
Well enough. Give us the Eagle and send us home.
"He adds, however, that he is desolate that he cannot reward you as you would most wish. He is pledged to bring you back to Ch'in, and his head will answer for the deed."
And the Eagle has not been seen here in any case.
The Ch'in general gestured imperatively, and three men raced off, even though each of them dripped blood from some wound or other.
"He suggests that perhaps this will serve as an expression of his gratitude even as he lives to obey and serve the Son of Heaven."
The men he dispatched returned, heavily laden. Breathing in gasps, they dropped their burdens at Ssu-ma Chao's feet.
Scuta and gladi; helms, short swords, daggers, and shields. The weapons of Rome, passed from the Parthians to the Ch'in, and now returned to the Romans—why?
As a bribe, a reward? For good behavior?
"It is this miserable one's hope," Arsaces continued, "that you men of Ta-Chin will assist us as we journey into the deepest desert. And that you will beg whatever. spirits that you—sir, I think he probably is calling us barbarians, but doesn't realize that it gives insult—bow to keep us safe, not only from bandits, but from the demons and their storms that haunt the Takla Makan."
The Ch'in general approached Quintus. Lucilius, the other surviving tribune—who came from a noble family—must stand aside. It was to Quintus that Ssu-ma Chao bowed.
"Tribune!"
Rufus' voice went hollow. Astonishing: Not even the cracking earth or hissing as of giant serpents frightened him. As one man, Quintus and Ssu-ma Chao pivoted to look where the centurion was staring.
They had a glimpse of yellow-white bone, as the bodies dissolved before their eyes, then those bones themselves became dust, to mingle with the grit.
Even Quintus found his fingers moving in a gesture that the countryfolk along Tiber bank used against demon ills.
The evil laughter had died away along with the clangor of drums, bells, and gongs. No serpents writhed through their minds. Only a slight wind blew, scattering the dust that had been their mysterious enemy.
Quintus rested a hand on the centurion's shoulder. It twitched once, then firmed as Rufus regained his calm.
"Saves us the trouble of burying them. Or burning them." The centurion might never have cried out in alarm. He turned away, as if the entire matter were of little interest to him.
Quintus, following him and Ssu-ma Chao, spared a glance back. Etched into the sand were the shapes of their enemies. Then the wind hissed over them, and even that trace of them disappeared into the desert.
8
"Do YOU SEE anything new from that perch of yours?" Lucilius shouted up at Quintus.
He shook his head, then realized that the patrician couldn't see the gesture.
Desert. Always desert. And to think he had found Syria dry. He had never imagined how many shades of gray and dirty yellow a desert might hold. The Takla Makan was so dry that he couldn't even test out if Lucilius had been right in comparing it to Trachonitis, where birds fell dead when a serpent crossed their shadows. There were no birds. Here even carrion eaters could not beat the desert sun and sand to their prey.
From his perch on Ssu-ma Chao's chariot, with its high wheels that made it impressive, if foolish, for desert travel, its built-up body, and its crow's nest of a tower that let a battle commander observe beyond the fog of grit and dust that accompanied battle or the passage of its spoked wheels, all Quintus could see was desert. Dunes coiled like the skeletons of sea-serpents preserved beneath the immense, distant bowl of the cloudless sky. One day, you saw another one writhing on the horizon. An hour, a day's march, you thought, and you would pass it by. Three days later, camels, carts, horses, and weary men trudged by it, antlike against its immensity. And if it chose, at that moment, to fall...
To drown in sand. Best not to think of it; such ideas dried the mouth, and it was not yet time to drink.
By all the gods, even the scummiest puddle left in a Tiberside backwash would taste like wine. And the most priceless of the drivers' hopes was the least likely: that somewher
e in the midst of the Takla Makan, in the deepest, most cruel heart of the waste lay an oasis in which a crystal spring bubbled forever. Visions were not for Romans, of course; but Quintus would not need to be a soothsayer to think of men dying in the sand, dragging themselves forward in the hope of reaching such a place or calling for it with their last breath.
It would be easy, in that monotony, to drift away from the caravan, away from the path that must be seared into the eldest drivers' memories. It would be easy, in a wilderness in which all sounds were strange and it was impossible to tell what was near from what was afar, to miss the onset of bandits from behind some dune and to leave one's bones along the line of march beside those other sand-etched skeletons of heedless men and their beasts. They had already passed too many such.
The Ch'in general's chariot might be an old-fashioned, cumbrous thing, but its tower provided a vantage point from which a canny leader might spot raiders and save his men's lives... until the next peril.
