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 was 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?