“Steady there, men,” Rufus growled. “For the Eagle.”
As the sun sank, the light beneath the arch flashed and went out. And then it rekindled, brighter than before, as if struck from the two flames that were the figures of the White Naacals. Their robes grew so brilliant that it hurt to look on them. Then the pain passed, and vision returned. And are we ourselves turned to eagles, Quintus asked himself, that we can stare at the sun and not go blind?
The Eagle he bore was a glory overhead. Now he could make out Draupadi’s and Ganesha’s faces. Under the radiance, they were worn, the eyes deeply circled. Ganesha’s jowls drooped as if he were melting, and Draupadi’s proud straightness seemed to waver.
“Come now.” Only the stillness of the night let him hear her words.
He brought up the Eagle. Rufus gave the command to march. Rome’s pace, Rome’s race. Left, right; left, right. You have marched beneath an arch. This is your triumph. Now, get on with you.
Remember thou art mortal. Thou fool and slave!
Quintus moved to stand beside Draupadi.
“Tell them to hurry.” she gasped. “We cannot hold this forever….”
And then the sun set. They had entered the arch in daylight and emerged in night. The wind blew around the peaks, striking eerie sounds from the rocks it had hollowed over the centuries, like invisible owls.
The ground trembled. Oh gods, this time, it would swallow them all up, and then it would snap shut, and they would be buried alive. Draupadi’s fire would go out, but he would see her gasp for air before they died. Quintus stiffened. He heard a splitting sound. That bubble they stood on—it had expanded to breaking, and now it would burst, spraying them with molten rock, fire all over them. They would see each other burn. Reality whirled, fragments of forgotten nightmares and new horrors.
The Eagle’s light dropped, a flame swallowed by what fed it.
And Quintus remembered. They had stood on the field of battle, and he had unleashed Pasupata. The price had been paid, and he had earned the right to wield it. And they had stood, very quietly, as its deadly danger passed over them to strike their enemies. He had the right. But there was one who could wield it, he thought, even more fully. However, there was another weapon to be used.
“Take the Eagle,” he ordered Draupadi now.
She grasped it, and the standard flared up with the same fierce joy that shone in her eyes. Quintus’s hand went to his breast as if in salute, but instead he found the tiny bronze figure that had been his guard.
“Now,” he told it, “dance for us. Lead us.”
And Krishna danced. Light blossomed on Quintus’s palm, and the tiny figure danced its mourning and its joy. Leaping from his hand, it grew in size, leaping and spinning as it danced away from the arch and toward the ruins on the hill.
“Come, lads,” Quintus said, his voice gentle. “Hand in hand, like we were back on the farm.”
Rufus grasped the tribune’s hand. That grip could crush, had been Quintus’s thought when he had first met the centurion. He had been a boy then, even though permitted to call himself a tribune. Now he met that grasp with a matching strength.
“Don’t look,” he whispered. “Don’t feel. All about you—it’s all lies. Look to the light. Look only to the light.”
“The light,” Rufus whispered hoarsely. And then, with a shout of strength, “I see flame!”
He grabbed the next man’s hand and pulled him along. “See that light, look at it! What are you afraid of? I’ll give you something to be afraid of,” he shouted.
Someone laughed, which should have gotten him at least one blow—but for the present, Quintus and the big centurion were only too happy to hear it. Laughter, like light, pushed back fear and darkness.
Draupadi laughed and joined hands to link a Ch’in armsman to a Legionary. Hand in hand, the Romans and the Ch’in scrambled past the arch and upslope. If the ragged line lacked the dignity of a parade, it was at least on its feet and refusing to despair. It followed the figure of Krishna, no longer trapped in immobile bronze.
“You too, lad!” Rufus reached for Lucilius’s hand. The tribune jerked it away. He had always been distrustful of closeness, but this looked like real revulsion.
They couldn’t let him be lost, though. Quintus grimaced.
Having struck off Rufus’s hand, Lucilius reeled, his eyes rolling up in his head as if driven nigh-mindless by what his mind—or voices within it—told him he saw. Sweat poured down his face, as he started after his fellows. Each footstep—what did he think he was setting feet to? The very idea made Quintus shudder—was a battle won against deadly illusion, but he made it past the barrage.
“Drive the beasts along!” Ssu-ma Chao shouted. Camels and horses, eyes rolling, came along, many blindfolded.
One man suddenly cried out and pulled free of the handholds. Not having Lucilius’s strength—or stubbornness—he screamed. They heard his body hit the ground.
“His fear devoured him,” Draupadi said. “Let us go. Hurry!”
“Go on ahead,” Ganesha wheezed. He leaned against the rock. “I’ll follow you. No, go on. I promised.”
“You heard him!” Quintus told Draupadi. She stared at him with a kind of frantic grief. “Go on!”
He turned to Ganesha. The old adept’s face was gray. “Come on, old man. Take my arm. You may not be able to dance, but you can stagger. And you will!”
The magician sagged, but Quintus bore him up and forced him upslope. The hallucinations weakened and failed, and they found themselves standing in the clean night air with all the other men—except the one who had fallen—and their beasts waiting.
Draupadi knelt to one side, her hand reaching for something that lay on the ground.
“Look,” she said sadly, holding up what had served them so faithfully. The figure of Krishna was a bronze statuette again. But now its arms drooped as if weary after too-long dancing. First one, then the other broke off. It seemed to shrink in upon itself and turn to dust in her palm. “Your talisman has danced its last dance,” she said. She laid down the tiny handful of dust and covered it with a flat stone.
Quintus brought his hand up in a very private salute over his heart, to the spot where the talisman had rested practically since he laid his childhood bulla on the household altar. It was gone, and so was the boy who had found it. But the man that boy had grown into could almost feel the bruises it had given him in warning him the many times it saved his life.
True, he had the Eagle, but the tiny bronze had been his private guard and treasure. He would miss it.
Draupadi at his side was warm and real to his touch. He thought, perhaps, he might not miss the talisman quite so much if they both lived. Her hand clasped his. The touch made him feel the way he did when the Eagle seemed to stir. In the darkness, the standard’s reassuring light glowed, like a fire in the desert glimpsed from far away by a traveler unsure of his path. Roman and Ch’in alike ringed closely around it, basking in the light.
Draupadi shivered. Quintus offered her the Eagle to carry, but she shook her head.
“They are out there. Do you feel them?” she whispered.
“Who?” he asked. Black Naacals? By now they would have attacked, seeking to destroy the remnants of the Romans’ and Ch’ins’ failing strength.
“Not them. Hush. Wait.”
Quintus obeyed. And after awhile, up in the rocks, pinpoints of light winked into tremulous light, strengthened, and resolved themselves into flames that bobbed as if their bearers walked slowly and reluctantly down to the waiting soldiers.
Then the lights stopped. And waited.
28
Metal rasped behind Quintus, and the line of men drew up, curved, and moved out to flank and protect him.
“Archers,” Ssu-ma Chao ordered. Even shooting into the dark, a volley of arrows might take out a number of… of whatever laired in that forbidding tumble of rock up ahead. To that extent, the Ch’in officer’s command made sense.
Arrows whined and buzzed like some ferocious beehive, struck with a spear in midsummer. A man screamed and died, blood running from his mouth. Drona, teacher to warriors and princes, had died thus, Quintus thought—or was it Arjuna, speaking into his memories?
The trouble was, a volley of arrows would kill some but anger and disperse the others. The wisest policy would be to follow them up into the rocks—but not by night.
Quintus shook his head. “Testudo,” he ordered. “Make ready. And make sure that you bring the men of Ch’in into it.” They were not trained for such close combat order, but they were allies: and he could hope that this new enemy had not seen such a defense before.