"It came here from Artaxata," he went on. "From the court of Artavasdos in Armenia."
Arsaces whistled. "How many of their beasts did they kill?" he muttered to himself. "What news from the wedding?"
The Romans stared at the slight, dark auxiliary, who laughed softly at them. "Oh, aye, there was sure to be a wedding. As soon as Artavasdos and the ... most worthy proconsul parted company, those of us born in this land knew there would be a new alliance."
"As long as Rome was strong, Artavasdos, like a dockside..."
Quintus raised a hand, cutting off Lucilius as his voice rose in a kind of vicious anger. Gravitas was a virtue, one—of many—that Lucilius lost sight of all too frequently. And if he lost control now, how could they expect the men he—or someone—must command to keep it? They would become a rabble of slaves, not veterans who had managed to survive. And they would die in the desert, names and souls as lost as their bodies.
"You heard the tribune," Rufus growled.
Quintus flicked a glance at Lucilius. Like a bowstring stressed near to snapping, he was no good for his proper job until the tension was removed. Well enough, he thought. The men will need time to think of me as their leader.
The idea was presumptuous, impossible, probably even treasonous, but who remained to say so? Crassus, who nailed traitors to crosses, was dead, and Quintus had all but died in trying to defend him. He did not want command, any more than he had wanted to take the Legions' brand or leave his farm or lose his father. What decisions he had made before, he had made to survive. Quite simply, he trusted his judgment before he trusted Lucilius's—and he trusted Rufus's judgment before he trusted his own. If Rufus had decided to follow him—a case of the strong serving the weak, if ever was—he must assume that the wily old man would get him through this, too.
"Armenia could choose its allies. The King of Kings, for so they style themselves in Armenia, chose Rome." Even muffled by wrappings, Arsaces's voice held all the scorn of the Persian for an upstart king.
"Once the most excellent proconsul decided to travel directly across Syria, rather than the safer upland route, Artavasdos realized that he had chosen wrong."
Again the muttering. Lucilius had concurred with that decision to cross Syria, Quintus recalled. When he himself had expressed doubt, he had gotten the lash of the other man's tongue. He said as much, and was gratified to hear a murmur of approval run round the Romans' fire.
"Will you let me speak?" Arsaces demanded. "The King of Kings Artavasdos has a sister. And the King of Parthia, Orodes, has a son, Pacorus. Not always the most faithful man, Prince Pacorus, but I would swear by the Light that Orodes would prefer him as his heir to, say, The Surena. Would not you?"
Lucilius made a warding-off gesture.
"We should have known that this one would pick up all the scandal, working with the grooms," Rufus said. He lumbered to his feet, holding out a hand to Quintus.
Quintus looked at Arsaces, then at the noble. "Is that the entire story?" he asked.
To his shock, Lucilius hung his head. Shame—on him? "Come," he said. "Hear it. I would tell you, but my tongue would wither in my mouth."
Quintus braced himself and took the centurion's hand up. Once on his feet, he found himself able to walk, however slowly.
"It is beautiful, Artaxata, with its ramparts overlooking the Araxes, which flows swiftly, even in the summer. And Artavasdos is a man of some culture, even if he is not Persian."
Rufus snorted. "Don't play off your airs, horseman. You're a plain soldier like the rest of..."
"Artavasdos knows Greek," Lucilius said. "Knows it well enough to write in it. He wrote an ode, they're saying down at the fire. They sang it at the wedding."
"You can translate it for us, if you will," Quintus said. A neat touch that, turning patrician and officer into mere interpreter. Nothing wrong with his head, even if he had been struck on it by the Eagle. (Best not think of that. Best not think of their Eagle, captured and packed away, perhaps along with the arms they had been relieved of.) Instead, salve the wound to Lucilius's pride. "Your Greek has always been much better than mine."
Which was close to nonexistent, but don't let on about that.
They walked toward the center of the camp. Quintus's eyes were still quite sensitive from the blow; he found himself able to see quite well in the darkness. One or two of the men scuffled their feet.
"Do you fear serpents, that you walk so clumsily, you who pride yourselves on always marching?" Arsaces jibed. "Now, if you wore proper..."
A hiss silenced him, though it came from man, not serpent.
The shouts of the camp grew louder as the firelight brightened. Quintus found himself struggling to set each foot down without testing his footing: Lucilius's nightmare recollection of Trachonitis reminded him that he had strayed far from the lands most Romans knew into lands such as only men like Xenophon or Alexander had seen. You would probably die in them; but the last thing you might see was a creature out of legend, as it reared up out of the sand or plunged from the sky to kill you.
What rose up to block their way, though, was no monster out of the desert, but two long, very deadly spears held by two very determined Ch'in warriors.
The warrior shouted. The moment it took to understand the guard's disastrously accented Parthian was almost their last.
A Ch'in guard's spear pricked at Quintus's throat.
6
Luciilus had come this way with barely a check, Quintus thought. Was this betrayal?
A second fear struck him.
Was this betrayal again?
Behind him, though, he could hear how the other Romans' boots scraped still, the rasp of nervous breathing. Carefully, he raised his jaw. The spearpoint pressed fractionally closer. Though the desert wind was cool, a warm trickle ran down his neck.
Arsaces, standing next to him, started to protest and took a blow from the butt of a spear. He went down and stayed down, with more prudence than Quintus would have credited him with.
The noise of the camp seemed to drop away from his consciousness. Even Lucilius's news seemed of far less importance than the tiniest noise that a Ch'in guard might make shifting position, or the faint twitch of muscles or gaze that might herald life or death. The wind scooped up coarse sand and flung it in a sort of serpentine swirl, to land with a hiss. Quintus shuddered. Even one serpent, crawling, slithering around their feet—he did not think he could stand unmoved, nor could he expect that from any of the men.
The hissing grew. He shut his eyes. He told himself that serpents were as often sacred as accursed. A serpent hallowed the shrine at Delphi. Farmers needed serpents if their land was to thrive. Snakes killed rats. But cold sweat trickled down his sides, nevertheless. If there were serpents, someone was bound to break, and then they would all be dead. He could hear his men's breathing grow harsh, rapid.
It might be crawling among them even now. Who knew if his next step ... if he would have a next step.... He met the Ch'in guard's eyes. They too held fear, but the hands on his spear never wavered. He was all the more dangerous for being afraid.
Quintus forced his breath to steady and to subside even as fear of the serpents he could only imagine threatened to choke him. Someone must get them past the guards. He must try.
Again, the wind blew. This time it didn't stop. Sand rustled and hissed around them, rising in coils as the wind rose. It was at their knees now; it was wreathing them about.... It was getting harder to breathe. A cloud seemed to cover the moon, like a face hidden beneath a cloak.