Prudence argued that he should return to camp right now. He knew perfectly well what Rufus would object to—and as for his grandfather, he was certain that the old man would say that to go a step further would be to betray Rome and the lares and penates of their old, tarnished line.
I have not survived this far by being prudent, Quintus retorted in his own mind. Besides, perhaps that blow on the head he had taken long ago had spilled his wits; and everything that happened since was a madman’s fantasies.
If so, these were the fairest dreams yet.
He pressed forward across the wet rock and into the rocky chamber. It stretched out far beyond what he had expected, turning into a sort of tunnel that led from the falls to a natural enclosure, almost like a theatre. Poplars swayed near high cliffs, surrounding a circular pool that was almost a miniature of the lake as he had first gazed upon it. In the center of the pool, jutting out from the rocky corridor itself, was what might have formed the stage.
Torches flickered at its comers, and tiny lights floated in metal bowls upon the water, dancing in the ripples. The rock was as richly carpeted as any Persian prince or magus could have desired, rug tossed over rug in a wealth of patterns and textures. Sweet smoke trailed up from braziers pierced in intricate patterns: Quintus scented cinnamon and the deeper odors of sandalwood and myrrh. Huge cushions of amber, russet, and deep reds lay upon the carpets. And reclining against a mound of the richest cushions, a figure robed and veiled in saffron…
“Hold!”
The command came in Latin. That, as much as the word itself, halted the tribune. His hand flashed to his swordhilt. If he set his back against the rock, at least no enemies could come upon him from behind.
“Who are you to stop me?” Quintus demanded, his back safely against the stone. “And how do you know my tongue?”
Lights seemed to pool about him, and he saw an old man, his skin burned dark from the sun, his thin hair whitened, a red mark gleaming like a dark jewel above the meeting of his brows. At his feet lay a huge shell, a lotus, a discus, an axe, and a tumbled scroll—but no sword. Arrogant old fool, Quintus thought. But even old fools dared arrogance if they had warriors to back them.
“I know all tongues. And I know a beggar when I see one. No beggars here. Go away!” In the worst days of waiting in noble patrons’ anterooms, Quintus had never imagined that type of contempt. The old man looked down his long nose. The light caught him in profile, distorting it in a shadow cast on the rock wall. For an instant, Quintus thought he saw the image of a beast like those massive terrors Hannibal had brought across the mountains into Latium and nearly marched on Rome; in the old man’s command, he heard the arrogant trumpeting of an elephant.
“I am not a beggar, but a Roman.” Let the saffron-veiled figure turn its head, let it look upon him, so that he might know whether it was his dream made real … or if all of this was an illusion. A Roman, yes, who owes his life to strangers and must now even depend on them for a sword.
“Ragtag and sword for hire,” scoffed the old man. “A thief, perhaps. I may have been born today, but I know a thief when I see one.”
“A Roman,” Quintus repeated, low-voiced. “Now, will you let me pass?” Bad enough to be challenged and jeered at; the presence of the woman in her silken veils made it intolerable. He might be her servant: best pay him courtesy.
“Be on your way, whoever, whatever you are. I will be accosted by no more appeals.”
“Then I shall not,” Quintus snapped.
In the instant, his sword showed bright. What am I doing? he demanded of himself and checked that swing. The blow went wild, and the sword rang instead against the rock. Sparks shot from the stone. Much to his humiliation, the blade shattered.
Bad enough: Worse yet was the sudden vision he had of the old man’s neck gushing blood and the head, its thinning hair smeared and its eyes wide and glazing, rolling across the rock to splash into the water. For a moment, the light flickered and he even imagined an elephant’s head taking the place of the old man’s on the plump, rounded shoulders.
Jupiter Optimus Maximus, thought Quintus. What have I done? The lights danced in the water like torches in the hands of a dancing bronze figurine.
1O
Laughter like a chime of sweet bells rang out from the woman reclining on cushions and carpets. The old man himself joined in her amusement.
“Another mistake?” she called.
To the end of his life, Quintus thought, he would never know if she spoke Latin or not: Her voice was like her skin—dark honey. And what mattered were not the words she spoke, but that she spoke at all.
“Ah no, Draupadi,” the old man cried. “I could not be wrong about this one. Not that I have not been wrong before—as I was the first day of my life.”
He turned to Quintus, who had retrieved his broken blade, wondering how he would find, among the stores, one that would suit him—or any sword at all. At the worst, he must go to Ssu-ma Chao and beg for arms. The old man must be some sort of soothsayer, then, to call him beggar. Ruefully, he sheathed the metal fragments.
“You do better than a god, young sir. In truth, you outdo my father Shiva, who slew me the day of my birth. I was born full-grown, and my mother Parvati bade me guard the door, that no one disturb her while she was bathing. My father approached and would enter, but in my inexperience I sent him away. Angry, he cut off my head and threw it far beyond the Roof of the World.”
Quintus shook his own head, almost testing its security on his own shoulders at the old man’s ravings.
“My mother appeared, weeping. The Lord of All the Worlds, to heal her grief, took up the first head he saw— which happened to be that of an elephant.
“Placing it on my shoulders, he restored me to life. And since then, I have sought only understanding.”
He picked up his scroll. “Welcome to your part in this tale, young lord.”
Again, the woman seated beyond him laughed. Delicate shell bracelets tinkled on her wrists. “You do not explain enough, Ganesha. Is this how our champion must be left—confused? That is not how Arjuna looked the day he won me and brought me home.”
“Let me explain the tale,” said the creature—man, god, gods-only-knew-what—called Ganesha. “Whoever hears this tale and understands a small bit of it escapes the chains forged by deeds of good or evil. Success he finds, for the tale holds the power of victory! The man who tells it to eager listeners gives them as a gift the Earth with her belt of seas. Stay with me and tell me…”
He broke off and shook his head.
“That is not right. It is my turn to tell, not to record, is that so?”
Quintus blinked, not expecting to be addressed. A moment more and he would either laugh or flee.
Ganesha clapped his hands. “Well, follow me.” He led the way onto that cushioned platform floating upon the glowing lake and gestured to a pile of cushions only slightly less ample than those Draupadi reclined upon. She bent and, from a golden pitcher richly encrusted with red and green stones, poured a fragrant drink into a matching cup.
The old man threw a wreath of flowers and a white scarf about Quintus’s neck.
“We do that for honor,” the woman told him.
“Well, why do you tarry?” the scribe demanded. “Sit, sit, sit! And I shall begin.”
Quintus laid the cup aside. How was he going to explain the breaking of his short sword?
Draupadi laughed in delight. “We offer him incense, we offer him stories, we offer him even amrita, the very nectar of heaven, and, see, he grieves for a weapon. Truly, he is the warrior we seek.”
But are you the one I seek? Her eyes, elongated by the kohl, challenged him. The fragrance of sandalwood rose from her hair, and a line of red gleamed where she had parted it and dressed it with gems. A wreath of flowers lay beside her, and the odors rising from the cup at his side were very sweet.
If he drank that, what would he be transformed into? Would he, like old Ganesha, bear an elephant’s head? More likely the head of an ass, he thought. For leaving my camp; for listening to these lunatics, even for a moment. In the stories, Circe had transformed Ulysses’s men into swine, and the Greek hero had menaced her with his sword. But his sword had shattered on the rock.