“My general! The Son of Heaven’s town. What will become of them?” Ssu-ma Chao demanded.
Smoke swirled in the water that held the images of an embattled garrison. As they watched, a volley of arrows whined out and men, chariots, and carts retreated. Arrows and smoke from the tower persisted some while longer. Then, when the arrows ceased, the smoke billowed, covering the entire scene. It cleared and the tower lay in waste, thin smoke trailing up forlornly into the desert sky.
“And how do we know this is true?” Lucilius demanded, an instant behind Ssu-ma Chao.
“Draupadi,” Ganesha asked. “Are you able?”
She held out a hand. For the first time, Quintus noticed the sweat on her brow, the deep circles—wider than made by any kohl—beneath her dark eyes.
The water shifted once again. When it cleared, it revealed an officer garbed similarly, but much more richly, to Ssu-ma Chao. But his cloak was torn. Padding gaped from his quilted tunic, and his scale armor was smeared. The tiny figure looked so real that when he shouted, Ch’in soldiers and Romans alike started, surprised that no sound emerged from his squared mouth.
“Not just anger,” muttered Ssu-ma Chao. “If this one did not know better…”
“He has seen the face of a new kind of battle,” Ganesha mused. “And he fears it. With reason.”
Behind the Ch’in general rode his guard, with soldiers marching as fast as they could or driving the lumbering carts.
“Arjuna, I can hold no longer!” Draupadi cried. The illusion in the water vanished as her hands shook. She rose, almost falling.
Before he knew what he was doing, Quintus caught her and steadied her against his own body. For a moment, she relaxed into his hold. Her hair smelled of sandalwood, and the tribune was abruptly dizzy.
“What did she call him?” Ssu-ma Chao grimaced. Arsaces shook his head.
“Nice bit of work there,” Lucilius observed. “What will you do when she finds out you’re not this whoever-he-is?”
“He is! He was!” Draupadi insisted.
“She has overspent her strength,” Ganesha said. “A wise man, Vyasa, told me she was born of the very fire of Shiva, whose third eye will consume heaven and earth.”
She was—what? Quintus thought. Now, she was shivering, and he drew her closer.
Her hands, with their gleaming nails, went up to clutch his armor. One lay over his heart, and he felt himself breathe as if he had been running.
“Arjuna, I tell you, you must do as you did before when you fought the hundred Kaurovas. Bow you have and sword, but you will need weapons of greater power. Claim them from all your lives—the Eagle in this one, Pasupata in your last!”
“She raves,” Lucilius said. “Someone should restrain her—not as our good tribune is doing, though. Enjoying yourself, Quintus?”
“She is of Hind,” Arsaces dared to contradict. “They say there that all men are reborn until, by doing good deeds, they escape the Wheel of Life.”
“She’s holy.” Rufus pushed between Quintus and the other Romans. The two guards, Gaius and Decimus, nodded. “Like the sybils or pythonesses in the old stories.”
Then, surprisingly, he blushed the color of roof tiles back in Italy.
“We must reinforce our general!” Ssu-ma Chao ordered. “Draw water, ready the carts, and let us be on our way!” He eyed Quintus.
“You know what we seek,” he said.
“That is the prize of the Son of Heaven,” the Ch’in officer said. “This one would promise it to you but you would know that for a … I do not want to lie to you, Roman. We have fought well together. This one gives you his word that he will plead your case. When we arrive.”
“You’ll be safe enough here,” Quintus found himself murmuring into Draupadi’s ear.
“No! You will not leave me!”
“She won’t, you know,” Ganesha put in: “They know where we are now. And there are enough of them that we must no longer count on luck and illusions to defend ourselves.
“We go with you.”
12
“Surely that’s the Alai Valley.” The sage who called himself Ganesha pointed at the land that lay far below the rocky point on which they stood, bracing themselves against the wind. He spoke as if he remembered.
“You remember too.” Draupadi breathed. “You must remember how you came to the hills, searching for weapons. Searching for Pasupata.”
That name struck the tribune’s ear like the blast of a horn in battle. The sword—now that was a weapon that Quintus understood. And he had his sword, or he had the blade that, long ago, had been borne by this Arjuna whom Draupadi claimed as one of her five husbands. Arjuna, that very Mars of Hind, had visited the hills as a Greek might go to Delphi, in search of weapons to aid his family in a war that threatened to engulf the world.
Hard to believe that that Draupadi of legend was the same woman who stood here, amber robes concealed beneath heavy sheepskins, sandalwood fragrances obscured by smoke and the womanscent that made him wake at night and station one of the older Legionaries near where she slept. But it was hard to believe that that woman was mad.
If Draupadi spoke truth and not the illusions that were her great skill, Quintus too might face such a war. He had Arjuna’s sword. But Arjuna had been a master of the bow; and bows Quintus knew chiefly as a weapon of the Parthians that had already cost him more than he had to give. But, again, if Draupadi and Ganesha spoke truth, the Parthians were no longer his problem, save as the Black Naacals might use them—or any other people—as pawns.
And meanwhile, the rocks themselves could prove enemy enough.
Quintus took a deep breath of the mountain air. Still cold, still sharp; but the knives that had seemed to stab at his chest during the highest part of the climb had long been sheathed. They had made the crossing—up from the stone and water sanctuary to which they had fled in the belly of a sandstorm and into the high hills Arsaces called bam i dunya, the Roof of the World. If, as he said, this route took them merely over the foothills, Quintus had no desire to see the true mountains.
He could never quite remember at what point the narrow path leveled out. At one moment, it seemed as if he had always been climbing, edging precariously past bundles and packs that had been torn away from the drying bones of beasts and men who had fallen behind their caravans and lacked the strength or will to go on.
For worse hills there were—mountains whose very names referred to their peril. There were the Killers of Hindus, named for the countless lives of those they had frozen or cast down or starved when men who looked enough like Draupadi to be her close kin tried to cross them from Hind. Those fortunate enough to survive that crossing ventured then across the desert into what even Romans had heard of as Serica, the lands of silk. And then there were the Heavenly Mountains, which people roundabout called the Onion Mountains. Harmless things, onions—a part of any Legionary’s or any farmer’s diet as long as fresh supplies came—except that the onions in this part of the world were commonly held to poison travelers. How else to explain the giddiness, the shortness of breath, the suddenness with which some men collapsed and died even below the peaks? Hannibal and his beasts, Quintus thought, would never have dared these heights.
None of Ssu-ma Chao’s men had died in the hills and very few had faltered; but then they had made this climb before, when they had come west to Parthia—An’Hsi as they called it—from their own lands. The Romans, well, Marius’s mules had trudged along. There had been a small revolt when they had sought to lighten their packs by loading the heaviest items on the beasts. For the worst climbs, Quintus had weighed the breach in discipline with the possibility that more lightly burdened men had a better chance of life—and had chosen for life.
But he still mourned the loss of three Romans. One soldier simply failed to wake up in the pallid mountain dawn. Another fell to his knees in a high pass, then cooled before he could even clasp a friend’s hand in farewell. His heart burst, Ganesha said. And one had been dragged off a cliff when the pack animal he was leading panicked, thrashed until he was caught in its harness, and fell before he could cut himself free. A brave man, he had refused to scream as he fell. Even the Ch’in had mourned him.
Of course, Lucilius had thrived. Quintus hated himself for the unworthiness of that thought. The patrician’s lips had cracked from the cold. His hands had turned white, then healed and hardened without the blackening and sloughing off of rotten flesh that could kill as surely as a rockfall in these heights. The ladies of the Palatine Hill would never recognize in this wiry, weary man, wrapped in every warm garment he owned or could dice for, the aristocrat in his white toga with the broad purple stripe. Just as well. They were unlikely to see one another, ever again. In a way that was just, as the lady Draupadi had taught him to look upon the just—hadn’t Lucilius wanted to journey to the land of silk? He was making the trip—if not in the manner or the company he expected.