Overhead, the Eagle’s light gleamed, a brighter, tinier moon: as above, so below. Quintus thought he could see figures moving down from the heights, their eyes wide, their mouths open, their backs stiff almost as if they forced themselves along. Like the Romans, had they learned to fear newcomers?
“Draupadi, you go to the rear,” Quintus gave the shoulder he held a gentle pressure.
“You will need…” she began.
Ganesha pushed forward past the Legionaries. “Do not fight,” he commanded. “Do not so much as move.” So absolute was the authority in his voice, so impressive was he in his wrinkled Naacal’s robe, that Quintus’s hand fell from his sword. He raised a hand, holding the men in their places before they could raise their shields to form the tortoise defense that would protect them from a flight of arrows.
The old man smoothed out his robe, otherwise untouched by the ever-present hardships and dust of the desert. It bore gold embroidery that shone in the light of moon and Eagle. “Come with me, Draupadi,” he said. “We must welcome them.”
“Are you mad?” Quintus rounded on the old man with a snarl. One moment, Ganesha had leaned gasping against the rocks; at the next, he was likely to throw lives away.
“Are you? We have tracked the Black Naacals to their lair. These—” he gestured at the rocks with their pinpoint torches, steady now, “—have not attacked us as the Black Naacals surely would have done. Therefore, it is not they, perhaps, who are our enemies—”
“They could be spies—” Ssu-ma Chao suggested.
“Or they could be souls in torment!” Draupadi flared. “At the Stone Tower, you know what you saw. You saw what the Dark Ones do. Terror and suffering are their servants, but they have human slaves as well.”
“And what is to stop these men slaying us to please their masters?” Lucilius sneered.
Ganesha shook his head. “What stops any slave from turning on his master? Fear. And what gives a man the strength to turn against the master who abuses him? A greater fear, perhaps; aye, or a vision of courage beyond anything such a man has dared to dream.”
There had been a road and lining the road crosses, each bearing the tortured body of a man, his chest heaving or too still, his legs broken, and his face blackened from lack of air. Gladiators. Had they seen Spartacus as a greater fear or the image of a type of courage that they, fighters though they were, had never aspired to?
Fellow feeling with gladiators and revolted slaves? And you call yourself a Roman? It was un-Roman. It was subversive. It was also, probably, completely accurate. Imagine a man from Thrace or some other barbarous spot, taken as a slave, sold to a lanista to win his life back again and again, or to die, dragged by the heels from the arena. It was a vision of Tartarus to match what he had seen at the Stone Tower.
Narrow of eye, Quintus watched the torches moving so slowly toward the Romans. Slaves, perhaps. Fearful slaves. Jupiter Optimus Maximus, let even some of them have the courage of the gladiators who had followed Spartacus and who had all but marched on Rome. What allies they would make!
He must have looked eager because Ganesha spoke quickly, for his ears alone. “You are a man of war,” he said. “And if I am wrong, you are leader here and must not be tossed away. I shall go and speak to them.”
“And I.” It did not surprise him that Draupadi volunteered.
“If what you say is true, priests enslaved these folk. Would they not fear and hate any priests then?” Quintus asked. “You had far better let me go.”
“Not alone,” growled Rufus. “Not alone.” A gesture from Quintus silenced him.
Draupadi shook her head. Her long black hair whipped about the lustrous cloth of her white robe. “What priests have done that was ill, others must remedy.” She stepped close to him and looked into his face. “But, if you will, follow us at several paces’ distance and light our way.”
Side by side, the way Draupadi and Ganesha had maintained the passage beneath the arch, they walked toward the rocks and the men on them. Quintus followed, holding aloft the Eagle as a standard-bearer might follow his commander. In truth, this was but a paltry thing, this parade of just two priests and one soldier—not all that good at his trade, if it came to that, even after all this time.
The Eagle’s light blazed and expanded around them as if, in truth, it spread out mighty, gleaming wings. The Naacals’ white robes shone in its light, giving Draupadi and Ganesha additional majesty, like gods appearing before mortals: pristine, austere, white-robed. Impossible to imagine them afraid or weeping or even moving through a land that had been as badly violated as this.
True, there were only two White Naacals here. But as they marched imperturbably forward, Quintus saw what a force they must have been in the fullness of their power—thousands of them in procession, chanting, determined to serve what was not only what was just the law, but what was right. Draupadi and Ganesha might be alone in body, but in spirit, they were part of a host. Now they raised their hands and were singing in a language that Quintus had heard them use once or twice before.
Once again, time and place shifted focus. Incense and the brine of the sea on a fine day wreathed him about as he paced behind priests toward an altar adorned with the Flame itself.
Light welled from the standard he bore, spilling out over the ravaged land, up the rocky slope like a benediction. It was not, he saw now, just a jumble of rocks. Some of that hill—perhaps the greatest part—was a ruin, as if some enormous Temple complex had once stood there, but had fallen in on itself when the land had shifted and drunk the sea dry.
The Naacals’ chant took on the aspects of a summons. Tears came to Quintus’s eyes. How he remembered— evenings by the Tiber, when the mists rose and turned the air a gentle blue, when the echoes softened, and it was time for boys like him to go home, to wash rapidly, and stand behind father and grandsire as they sacrificed to the family gods before whatever dinner might be prepared from their own fields and very little coin. Such a simple, such a safe life: No wonder it seemed almost sacred to him now. No wonder the Naacals thought it might entice the men upslope, brutalized and terrorized as they doubtless were, to come forward.
He blessed Ganesha and Draupadi for reminding him, even on the brink of the greatest danger he had ever faced, of all he had been given. He had regained all, now, that he had ever lost and more besides, for now he understood the full value of everything he had ever had. And he was not alone. Rocks clattered and spun down from the hill. The torches upslope wavered, then moved forward more confidently….
…As Quintus watched, the man in the lead threw down the torch he carried. In the next moment, he had cast himself down at Ganesha’s and Draupadi’s feet. His shoulders heaved with the force of his sobs. Their song broke off, and the priests diminished into themselves: an aged man and a lovely woman trying to coax up from his humiliation a man who had already suffered much, who had feared and who still feared, but who had seen in them what might be an end to all fear.
Now, from behind him, crept many more men, wary, but making what must surely be the bravest decision of their whole lives: to risk trusting the white-robed priests who called to them.
Having approached, they saw the armed men behind Ganesha and Draupadi, and they froze where they stood or knelt.
Draupadi murmured sorrowfully. She stepped forward, Ganesha following her. Quintus moved as if to accompany them, but she gestured him to remain in place the way he would command one of his Legionaries.
The men—for all here were men—looked like the hungriest dregs of the Subura, who skulked in abandoned buildings, preying on the old, the sick, and the unwary. Only … only there were old men among them too, and they stared at the Naacals with a desperate hope.
The white robes seemed to shine more brightly. Another of the newcomers hobbled forward. He was an old man, his cheeks sunken, his back bent, and he hobbled, leaning heavily upon a crutch.
“How may we help you, my son?” Ganesha asked.
Quintus blinked. What language was he speaking? It was not Ch’in; his Ch’in was not good enough for him to understand. Nor was it Parthian, not exactly. And it surely was not one of the tongues of Hind. Yet, he understood it as if it were the Latin he had learned as a child.