Reading sample A Gathering of Eagles

CHAPTER 1: THE FUNERAL

The townspeople shoved smoky torches into the stacked wood, which quickly caught with a snapping crackle. From a safe distance, the spectators watched the fire build, holding their robes about them against the chill fall morning as the grey smoke was torn to tatters by the wind. With a roar, the fire blossomed, fed by the wind, reaching the bundle on top. Smoke began to percolate through the linen-wrapped bundle as it caught. Then the fire concealed its business, reducing that object to a barely perceived dark shape inside a torrent of flames.

Mei grasped Marcus’ hand as he watched the ceremony impassively. A thick cloud of black smoke, dipping and swirling in the wind, indicated the flames were doing their duty, consuming the package. There was the pungent smell of cooking meat in the air.

By late afternoon, it was done, and the pyre began to collapse into itself in a shower of scattering sparks. The townspeople had gradually turned away one by one, to return to their homes and shops, their duty to one of their own completed. Marcus and Mei remained, alone now, with just a few fire tenders remaining to ensure that the flames did not spread out of control on this windy October day.

After a few hours, the embers had cooled enough that Marcus could collect his mother’s ashes, putting them into a vase. How was it that someone so vital, such an important part of his life, could be reduced to a few handfuls of ash and lumps of charred bone? He savored each handful as he put them into the urn to preserve them. What was it they said? Non fui, non sum, non curo … I was not, I am not, I no longer care. No, she had very much existed, and cared, and for him would exist in his life forever. And somewhere, somehow, she still cared.

His hands, now black with ash, and with more than a few blisters from hot coals, scoured up one last handful, then sealed the urn, Vera’s new home.

The fire tenders, assisting him, stood silently around. One of the men put his hand on Marcus’ shoulder, soiling his toga a bit. “She was a good woman,” he said in han-yu.

Marcus nodded. “She was. She will be missed.” He turned abruptly to head home, holding Mei’s hands. Can’t they at least speak Latin at a Roman funeral?

They reached their home after a half-hour’s walk, set back among the pines on a steep hill. They entered in, and Marcus set the urn gently on the table, then took a seat in the rocker, the rocker that had been his father’s, and now was his. The house was strangely silent, brooding, dark. He sat quietly, rocking, thinking. Ave, pater, you two are together again, he said under his breath, hoping his father’s manes spirit might answer, or perhaps his mother’s. But there was just silence.

Mei busied herself quietly about the cooking stove. After a while, she brought herself to ask a question. “Would you like something to eat? Some wine, perhaps?” In han-yu. Mei had never mastered Latin well enough to be comfortable with more than few phrases.

“Some wine, please.”

She brought a ceramic goblet to him, and left him alone, silent in his thoughts in the darkness.

After several hours, Marcus stirred himself from the rocker to set about lighting the fire, as the room had become quite chill. As he did so, Mei came out of the bedroom wrapped in a heavy robe.

“I thought you would never do that,” she said, smiling shyly.

“It was getting cold,” he said, rubbing his hands together as the flames caught, radiating heat into the room. But he did not smile.

“It was good she did not suffer,” said Mei, struggling to engage him in conversation.

“Dying in one’s sleep is good.”

“She lived a full life, and she was full of joy that you were back in her life, and that your sister is well.”

Marcus’ black mood was resisting all efforts by Mei to cheer him. “At least Marcia was, the last we heard. More than a year ago.”

“And we had news of our new niece.”

Marcus’ resistance gave way under Mei’s persistence, and he managed a small smile. “Yes, we did. Little Aena. As close as she could get to Hina in Latin.”

Marcus’ solitary brooding lasted the full nine days of the novendialis mourning period. Mei allowed him his solitary times, bringing him wine and food when asked, politely asking questions as necessary. But she was puzzled. To be sure, Marcus and his mother had been close, but death came almost as a relief after the past few months. She had grown increasingly frail and forgetful, then came the morning when she woke up, unable to move or speak. They had spent the last several weeks tending for her, feeding her, combing her hair… and when the morning came and she no longer needed that, there was a sense of relief. That powerful woman, such a force, such a cause for joy in their lives, was finally at rest. So why was Marcus still mourning so?

At the end of the mourning period, Marcus took down the white banner over the door, and Mei and Marcus, bundled against the chill fall weather, interred the urn in the family grave in the fields outside of town, next to Marcus’ father Marius. They returned to the house, and Mei, released from mourning, felt obligated to determine the reason for her husband’s almost morbid silence. As he reached for the door to enter, she put her hand softly on his. “Let us sit on the porch, I think the snow will start soon.”

Marcus grunted, taking a seat on the hand-hewn wooden bench, half a tree trunk split lengthwise. Mei sat next to him, waiting, hoping he would break his silence. Should she ask? No, he should speak when he is ready.

The first flakes of snow began to fly, the chill wind from the northern steppes swirling the last brown leaves of autumn to mingle with them. “It will be cold tonight,” she said.

“It will.” Then more introspective silence as he studied his hands.

“Si Nuo, enough!” Mei turned toward him, using his Hanaean name, ‘Western Bull’. “The mourning period is over. Or are you to mourn the rest of your life?”

To her great relief, he smiled. “No, Mei, but I am concerned what to do with the rest of my life. To be sure, I will miss my mother, but that was not what occupied my thoughts.”

“And what is that?” She snuggled closer, hoping to draw some warmth from his body, maybe even a physical response.

“Life here is not what I expected ten years ago. I have done my duty, I have cared for my mother. She is gone now, and I am free. But free to do what?”

“You could continue with the school. I thought you wanted to do that.”

“Liqian is not the same as when I grew up. Then, there were still many families that wanted to preserve our romanitas, our language and our customs, to set ourselves apart from our neighbors. There is no interest in that now. There will be no school. And nothing to hold me here.”

“Where would we go?”

“It is chill. Let’s go inside.”

He slammed the door behind him against the cold, and put another log onto the fireplace stoking it until it caught. He then lifted a tile from the floor and drew out a leather bag, black with age. It clinked metallically as he set it on the floor.

“I still have the gift from Ibrahim. We can go where we want.”

“And where is that?” Mei asked, seating herself on the floor next to him.

“I would like to go west, to see Rome again, to find Marcia and Antonius and our nieces and nephews. But it will be a long, hard trip. It was hard the first time, with a large, well-armed group.”

Mei sat in silence, pondering her reply, listening to the hiss of the fire, the patter of the snow outside. It might be a heavy storm, come early.

“Si Nuo, if that is what you want, then we should do it.”

“Your friends are here.”

“You are my best friend. If you wish to go, then let us depart.”

“The house? And all that is in it?” Marcus surprised himself, trying to talk her out of her unexpected agreement.

“Frontinus’ son will be married soon. We could make it a gift to him.”

“We could. And it would keep it in our group of friends. But it will be a hard trip.”

“Never, with you by my side.” She twined her fingers in his, smiling, hoping to elicit a physical response.

She succeeded. Marcus put his hand on the back of her neck and kissed her long and softly. She explored his body, finding the response she sought.

An hour later, their passions sated, they lay in a bundle on their heavy coats which served as a temporary bed by the fire. Marcus caressed her bare shoulder, smiling. “I marvel each time we make love, Mei. That which I thought was taken from me forever, you gave back to me. I thank you each time for making me whole again.”

“You were never not whole, Si Nuo. You are the most complete man I have ever known.” Her fingers explored his scar. “Those did not make you a man.” She smiled, giggled playfully and turned to tap his head. “That is your manhood, silly western bull!”

Marcus turned toward her, kissing her again, his mouth melting onto hers. It might be a long night. Outside, the wind rose. It was indeed going to be an early storm.

CHAPTER 2: THE WEDDING

The wedding feast of Frontinus’ son Bolin with Chunhua, both resplendent in their black silk wedding robes trimmed in red, was a lavish Hanaean affair. The banquet tables, laden with fish, symbolizing plenty, were arrayed outside Bolin’s new home, Marcus’ old one. The spring weather cooperated, a brilliant warm day with flowers exploding all around, the cherry trees in white bloom, nearly all of Liqian in attendance.

Marcus and Frontinus evaded the crowd of well-wishers to chat quietly and drink the red wine that had made Liqian famous.

“Thank you so much for the house, Marcus,” said Frontinus, addressing him in Latin. “A fine old house. Been in the Lucian family for generations.”

“It goes back to the Settlement, when we first arrived here. The original Marcus Lucius built it when he married, so it has been here as long as we have. And will be here a lot longer.”

“Bolin will care for it very well. We will be sorry to see you two go. Are you really going all the way to Rome?”

“Unless something stops us!” smiled Marcus. “I am looking forward to seeing the City again, and hopefully finding Marcia and Antonius. They went to a place called Aquileia, she said, a week’s journey north of Rome. Their letters stopped coming last year, but I wrote her after mater died, to tell her we were coming.”

“Amazing how your letters covered such a vast distance to find their destination. So, more traveling till you get there!” Frontinus refilled Marcus’ cup from a white ceramic bottle. “Liqian may forget its romanitas, but it will never forget how to make good red wine. Drink up! To Bolin and Chunhua, may they give me many grandsons!”

“To your grandsons… and granddaughters, too, Frontinus. A man needs women around him to keep him honest.”

“So, when are you leaving?”

“We wanted to stay for this, but everything else is ready. There is a caravan coming in tomorrow or the day after, some outriders just checked in. We will go with them as far as Turfam, then on from there. I don’t know how to get to what cities, but the caravans all go out of there. Westbound is all I know.”

Mei came up to join them, to stand quietly by Marcus’ side. “So, Mei, Latin was never your favorite language. Are you looking forward to your new home?” asked Frontinus.

“I look forward to the adventure. I must speak better Latin, all Marcus lets me speak now, grammar very confusing me, still.” She smiled shyly. “I have never been away from Liqian in my whole life.”

“Your Latin is much improved, Mei. You speak very well. May Fortuna smile on you both.” Frontinus levered himself onto a mostly empty table and addressed the crowd in a stentorian voice, switching to han-yu. “Guests, we have a second reason to celebrate today! As most of you know, my life-long friend, almost like a brother to me, Si Nuo, is leaving very soon with his wife Mei, for the far west, to return to the land of the Da Qin. Let us toast to the safe journey of Si Nuo and Mei.”

The caravan arrived with a clangor of bells, creaking wagons, shouting men, nickering horses, braying goats, and the silent, implacable, smelly camels, pulling to a halt in the broad field next to the main road, the Hexi corridor from Chang’an running northwest to Turfam. The caravans always stopped overnight at the tiny village of Liqian, to purchase its claim to fame, the most delightful red wine in all of China, the only red wine in China. Four to six amphorae of wine, well-padded in fleece panniers, could be loaded on a single camel, or stacked in boxes in a wagon. And of course, the caravanners could purchase the hand-held sized bottles for quick consumption. The townspeople laid out their local crafts, clothing and tools for trade or barter, in exchange for far-away goods from inner China: bolts of silk, rice wine, artwork, and intricate tools. The arrival was always festive, and the night ended with a huge bonfire with much singing and drinking, some of the caravanners hoping to steal off into the darkness with one of the cute country girls.

Marcus wandered down to the organized chaos, and accosted one of the rough, bearded caravanners. “I am looking for the caravan master,” he asked in han-yu, but got an annoyed, puzzled look in return. He finally located a man with Chinese features, with a long drooping mustache, and repeated his question. The man answered in a Shaanxi dialect. “Sartpaw there. Abmatak his name.” He pointed out a burly man, with a wild black beard and cold blue eyes, wearing brown felt riding gear.

“Thank you. Where are you from?”

“Chang’an.” He smiled. “My first trip.”

“Does Abmatak speak han-yu?”

“A little.”

“Thanks again.” Marcus smiled and turned to seek out the caravan master.

Abmatak was studying some local articles when Marcus came up to him. “You are Abmatak, the sartpaw?”

Abmatak seemed annoyed at being bothered. He nodded, saying nothing.

“My wife and I want to go to Turfam.”

Abmatak grunted, and took a sip of wine from his bottle, then spat, sizing him up. “Long trip, lots of work.”

“Whatever you need.”

“Women always problem.”

“I will take care of her.”

“Rough people on road. You good fighter?”

“Yes,” answered Marcus. He was being a bit deceptive. Before leaving Liqian the first time, he had learned a little swordsmanship from his father. But then came that change in his life, and swords were forbidden to men of his ilk, though they were trained in Hanaean defensive fighting with hands and feet. Ten years ago, he had been trained by Antonius, so at one time he was as good as good can be, without ever having experienced a fight to the death. He had sparred regularly with Frontinus in Liqian over the years, and spent months preparing himself for this trip, practicing sword work on a post in the backyard, a suspended leather sack filled with sand, and an occasional goat or pig carcass. He was fit for his age, so yes, he was as good as he could be, without being an active fighter.

“You may have to be. One silver coin for you, two for the woman.”

“The going rate is one for two people. I will give you two, no more.”

“Two then, and you both work loading and unloading. Bring own food.”

Marcus extended his hand to the surly caravan master to close the unsavory deal. It hung in the air for several seconds in the empty air separating them. Then Abmatak took his hand reluctantly to close the deal. “Load up tomorrow at first light, both. Be ready or we leave, you catch up if you can.”

“We will be there. Thank you.” He spun on his heel and left. I expect trouble on this trip. I am glad I taught Mei the rudiments of knife-fighting. But if we kill one of his men, what then? On the road, he is lord and master.

The rest of the day was hurried preparations at Frontinus’ home where they had been staying, readying the animals, packing goods and food into the small sturdy one-horse wagon. One would drive, the other would ride, two relief horses tethered to the wagon. Frontinus contributed a long iron pry bar, two spare wheels and a clanking canvas bag, filled with iron tools, hammers, chisels and the like. “You may need these if the wagon breaks,” he said, laying the sack, pry bar and wheels into the wagon bed.

“Thanks!” Marcus rearranged the spares in cargo bed. “I don’t much care for the caravan master. I think there might be trouble.”

“So don’t take this one. There will be others in a few weeks, all summer long.”

“No, I don’t want to put this off any longer. The weather won’t be in our favor later, turning hot as an oven.”

“Can you handle any trouble?”

“I don’t have a choice, Frontinus. I intend to try.”

“Be careful, Marcus. Take care of Mei. Can I help with anything else?”

Marcus chuckled. “As a matter of fact, you can!”

The two set to work, packing and re-packing until sunset, then continuing by lamplight until all looked in roadworthy order, secured so heavy items would not shift and upset the balance, things most often needed on top. Mei busied about the kitchen, preparing two months’ worth of non-perishable foods, dried meats and bread, filling leather sacks with water and wine. They then trundled the wagon down to the caravan’s encampment for a few hours’ sleep.

Long before the first shades of dawn’s gray streaked the night sky, the camp began to bustle, with the bells of animals and shouts of men. Mei and Marcus struggled out of their wagon where they had slept, wrapped in a non-descript blanket, and tried to orient themselves, to find Abmatak for their morning instructions.

A group of men loading two camels stopped them. The bigger one growled something that sounded like “Gher ersid.” He motioned to his companion, who tossed two heavy sacks in their direction. Marcus caught his, but Mei stumbled under the unexpected heavy load. ”Gamban kirid!” the man cursed, his breath foul in the morning air. Marcus turned to help Mei, but the big man, obviously in charge of the group, struck him hard across the shoulders. “Gamban kirid!” he repeated, pointing to an unladen camel.

“It is all right, Marcus, I can manage,” she said, wheezing slightly under the load. Marcus glowered back at the overseer, choosing to say nothing. The man would probably not have understood, anyway.

Another man of the group, a stocky bearded man with rotten teeth, picked up the game. As Mei loaded a sack, each the weight of a small child, onto a recumbent camel, he would throw another at her, with increasing force, until one knocked her down. Marcus put his arm firmly on the man’s shoulder and said “No!” in a tone that was sure to cross the language barrier. As Marcus turned his back to help Mei to her feet, the man grabbed Marcus and spun him back around to face him, jabbering in his guttural language.

He is testing me. Well, let us see the test. He appears to be a brawler. Let him brawl with this. Marcus’ left leg flew in a swift arc, catching the man by his side. No sooner had Marcus’ left leg regained its footing, then his right leg scissor-kicked his assailant with considerable force in the gut, knocking him backward onto the ground, to the considerable amusement of the man’s companions, laughing and hooting at him in derision. The man struggled to his feet, red in the face with anger, and rushed Marcus without much thought. Marcus had already shifted his stance to present his side to the man, left arm extended, his right arm cocked by his ear. As the man closed with Marcus, he encountered several light blows, almost slaps, from Marcus’ left hand, distracting him so that he never saw Marcus’ powerful right cross until it exploded onto his nose with a crunch.

Antonius would proud of that one! He is out of the fight, for several minutes at least. Marcus however retained his stance, while the man sat on the ground, groaning and holding his bloody nose, maybe broken, certainly painful.

The noise of the fight, and the hoots and laughs of the men, had attracted the sartpaw, who spoke tersely with the overseer, who pointed in turn to Marcus, Mei and the man on the ground. Abmatak spat angry words at the troublemaker, who struggled to his feet, apparently chastened, now holding a bloody rag to his nose.

Abmatak then approached Marcus. “I see they already put you to work,” he said. “Good! Many camels and wagons left.” In the dim light, Marcus could make out at least ten more camels being led up, and a large wagon trundling in, towed by two oxen. Abmatak left without saying anything more, but Marcus could have sworn there was flicker of a grin on the sartpaw’s face

Marcus turned to Mei. “Are you all right?”

“I am fine,” she answered. “I have worked in fields at harvest time harder than this.” She smiled as she swept a damp strand of black hair out of her face. “Laboremus! Let’s work.”

“Not bad!” said Marcus, returning her smile, as he hefted her another of the heavy bags. “Load the cart, it’s lower than those damned camels.”

The fight seemed to have cleared the air, and they worked without further harassment. Marcus thought the overseer’s name might be Yanak, as whenever someone yelled that word, he would turn to face the man and answer something unintelligible. Yanak eyed him and Mei, but left them alone, as the first streaks of dawn appeared. The troublemaker worked on, his face bound in a rag, but he seemed to have no interest in further confrontation.

By the time the sun was over the horizon, five hundred camels, donkeys and wagons had been loaded. A horn sounded, and the caravan lurched away to the northwest, Marcus and Mei somewhere in the middle in their wagon. Frontinus and a few other townspeople had come down to see them off, and Marcus gave them a final wave. He suddenly did not want to leave Liqian, but it was too late for that.

Breakfast was a little water and bread, something the caravanners called nan, flat, round and durable. They plodded on through the day, eating more nan in midday without stopping. About two hours before dark, the caravan ground to a halt in a sheltered area by the road, circled the wagons, and began the long process of unloading the animals and putting them to forage. Marcus sought out Yanak’s group, as the fight seemed to have established some respect for him with those people. He and Mei turned to, even managing some laughs as they playfully tossed the heavy sacks a bit harder. The man with the rag across his face wasn’t smiling, however.

After the last animal was unloaded, Marcus went up to Yanak, called him by name, and extended his own, “Marcus,” he said, relieved when Yanak returned the grip firmly. “We’ll be here tomorrow morning,” he said in han-yu, knowing that Yanak wouldn’t understand. But Yanak babbled something incomprehensible and smiled, exposing yellow teeth underneath a bushy mustache.

They returned to their wagon for a meal, to find the sartpaw waiting for them. His gut tightened with anxiety. I wonder what is up? Something about the fight?

“You join me by campfire tonight, please,” said Abmatak in his halting han-yu. “You and wife.”

“Certainly … now?”

“Please.”

Abmatak turned without waiting for a reply. They followed him a few dozen yards to his large wagon, covered with a felt shelter over circular rings. Some people were already gathered around a fire, someone cooking a stew in a big iron pot. The caravan leader motioned to a log. “Here, you sit. Wife no cook tonight.” At last, he smiled, and Marcus felt more at ease. They sat, and Abmalak continued. “First day good?”

“Hard work, but yes, good,” answered Marcus.

“Men who work caravan tough men, they like tough men. You tough man. Where you learn to fight like that? Soldier?”

Someone brought them each a bowl of stew, filled with rice and big chunks of meat. Abmatak speared one of the chunks with his dagger and put in his mouth, chewing while eyeing Marcus intently.

“No. Years ago I traveled with the Hanaean government to the west, as I spoke a language they needed. It was a dangerous trip, so they taught me to fight Hanaean style. More traveling later with soldiers, I learned a rougher style.”

“Which you use this morning?” asked Abmatak, his eyes twinkling as he chewed on the meat.

“Both. I am sorry I hurt him. Is he all right?”

Abmatak, laughed, a big rumbling laugh, and dismissed Marcus’ concern with a wave of his hand. “He be fine, just shame. More talk than fight.” He speared another chunk and continued. “You good travelers. Many travelers no want to work. Hard work, many animals, load and unload every day. We test to see who works, who … how you say? … want to sit on ass and watch. In a day or two, they turn around and go back where they come from. You, I think you go all the way to Turfam with us, you and wife. Her name?”

“Mei,” answered Marcus. Mei smiled shyly.

“Why go to Turfam?”

Marcus paused. Should I tell him everything? No… he may think we are worth robbing. “We are going west to find a place to teach … uh…the western languages that I know. Perhaps Kashgar.”

“Hmm.” Abmatak turned his attention to the rest of his stew, and Marcus and Mei began to eat theirs.

“When you get to Turfam, Jamshid runs all our caravans. He get you to Kashgar.”

“That’s good. Thank you! Perhaps we will not fight anyone on the next leg,” Marcus chuckled, and the caravan master smiled.

They had passed their first day’s test.

CHAPTER 3: HOMECOMING SURPRISE

Marcia lolled in the sun by the atrium’s pool, trying to read some poetry, though her Greek was not up to it today. She set aside the scroll to watch her children play. Little Colloscius was playing with a little wooden cart with a horse and rolling wheels. He moved it around the paving stones, occasionally rearing the horse skyward and making horsey sounds. His younger sister playfully tormented their dog, tugging gently at his ears. Somewhere a fly buzzed. Marcia grasped the amulet of Bona Dea, hanging on a leather thong around her neck. You know it's not the Greek, Mother. And you know why I am afraid. Help me.

One of the servants came out carrying a tray of sweetmeats, and tumblers of juice. “Marcia, it is time for lunch. I brought you and the children some.”

“Thank you, Desdemona. It is so beautiful today, I almost forgot about the time.”

“It is time for you to take care of yourself.” She smiled, and went back to the kitchen, through a door under the portico. To the horror of their neighbors, she and her husband insisted that the servants call them by their first names. Her husband Antonius was the only one who called her domina, the lady of the house. Which is as it should be. She also had insisted on nursing her own children, rather than purchasing a wet nurse, and playing with her children, rather than relegating them to servants’ care. Nevertheless, the servants were always eager to entertain the children when Marcia’s duties required her to be elsewhere.

Marcia gathered up her children. “Come, Colloscius, Aena, it’s time for lunch. Look what Desdemona brought us!”

The two children made eager squeals of delight, jumping up and down with glee.

Marcia was smiling inwardly, greatly contented, when there was a commotion outside, a carriage coming to the front door, hails from the servants. Marcia stood to go see what was going on when Antonius burst through the door into the atrium. He crossed the distance between them in the space of one breath, put his arms around her and lifted her up, feet off the ground, to give her a long passionate kiss, his thick black beard tickling her chin.

“I take it you are glad to be home, Antonius,” she said with a flustered smile. “It is a good thing all my lovers decided to stay home today.”

“And I left all mine in Alexandria, domina! But none as beautiful as you.”

Antonius set her gently down among the children clinging to his legs, crying “Papa, Papa!” Antonius bent down to attend to them, fishing out a pouch from under his cloak. “And Papa brought you something from Egypt,” he said, eyes, bright. He fished out a bronze soldier and handed it to Colloscius. “That’s for you, if you have been a good boy and the man of the house while I was gone.”

“Thank you, Papa! Is it like you were?”

“Yes, it is.” He fished in the leather sack again and drew out a cloth doll of an Egyptian princess, with wide eyes and bare midriff. “And this one is for you, Aena.”

Aena fingered the doll. “She boo’ful”

“Like you, princess.” The children, distracted from their returning father by the unexpected presents, fell momentarily silent while they fondled their gifts. Antonius stood to face Marcia.

“How are you? Did all go well while I was gone?”

“Very well. We had three more enroll in the language classes, and they have been coming several times a week. One, I think, would like to be one of my lovers, so I am glad you are back,” she said, delivering a playful punch to his mid-section.

“I am sure you can handle him, domina.”

“Oh, yes, and you left something behind.”

“What was that? Nothing important, I hope?”

“I think rather important. You left it behind the night before you left,” she said, putting her finger to the side of her cheek. “Or was it the night before that?” She smiled shyly and rubbed her ever-so-slightly distended tummy. “The midwife dangled a needle over my belly and she tells me it is a boy. She claims to be right half the time, too.”

Antonius, stepped back, flabbergasted. “Really? Again already, amazing… I don’t know what to say. Are you feeling all right?”

“A little sick in the morning, just an upset stomach. Not as bad as with Aena… with her, I almost couldn’t eat for the first few months without throwing up.”

“I remember… and I was worried I might lose you. Here, sit down,” he said, taking her arm and steering her to a stone bench.

“I am fine, but I will humor you.” She sat down, rearranging her white stola. Neither wanted to remember how very difficult that last delivery had been. After a long pause, she changed the subject. “So how was Alexandria?”

“Beautiful as ever. The people at the Library couldn’t find out enough about our trip. They wanted to know every town, even the distances, the terrain, the weather. What languages they spoke, what clothes they wore, the animals. Everything. I wish I had kept a little journal ... and oh, yes, the Bull and Dove is still there!”

“That dive?”

“Yes, and still a dive. Had to go there to toast Ibrahim’s memory. And they still serve rotgut wine.”

“To be sure, from what you told me.” She turned to the kitchen. “Desdemona!”

“Yes, Marcia?”

“Could you get one of the servants to watch the children, please?”

Desdemona dried her hands on an apron about her waist and gave her a big smile. “Of course, Marcia. Leda, please come and watch little Coloscius and Aena.”

Marcia intertwined her arm about Antonius’ waist and leaned her head on his shoulder. “Come, Antonius. It’s been a long trip and I think you need some time in bed, and I am not so far along that I can’t make it interesting for you.”

In their chambers, they lay in the half light, savoring the aftermath of the intense lovemaking, Antonius’ arm around Marcia, who snuggled into his shoulder. “I wasn’t expecting that today,” she murmured.

“I have been expecting it all week, since we landed in Ostia.” He kissed her gently, then patted her tummy. “Is he…. Is it… moving yet?”

“Not yet. He’s only three months old. And never mind what the old crone says, I knew it was a boy, your son. Don’t ask me how, I know it’s a boy. We need to find some way to force ‘Ibrahim’ into Latin. What do you think of that as a name?”

“Abaramus? I’ll think on that. Too close to ‘we might have’ for a name.” He paused for a long time, then turned to her. “Are you afraid?”

“When I missed my courses after you left, I was terrified. I almost died having Aena, I thought at one time we were both dead. And now I am thirty, getting too old to be having children. But no, not now, I’m not afraid. If I die, I will die happy, knowing I had ten of the best years of my life with the best man in the world.” She grabbed his beard and pulled him to her to kiss him.

“Arrgh, don’t start something yer can’t finish, domina.”

“I can finish it, if you can start it,” she giggled.

CHAPTER 4: THE KILLING SPOTS

Galosga rolled onto his side beside his sleeping wife. He swallowed in the darkness, feeling the tell-tale scratchiness of his throat, and now the heat of fever. It was time.

His movement awakened Hina, who stretched and yawned, her red hair scattered on the pillow. “Mmmh,” she muttered, pulling the blanket about her shoulders. “Are you awake, Galosga?”

“I am.” He nestled spoon-fashioned against her, her buttocks warm against his stomach, and reached his hand across her firm stomach. Should I tell her? He could not withhold it from her any longer. “Huldaji… the sickness is upon me. I must go to the sickness yurts outside the encampment today.”

Hina turned abruptly under the blankets to face him, her full breasts against his hairless bronze chest. “No!” She reached up to touch his forehead, hot with fever. She knew.

He felt her sigh and put arm around her. “I must go before the spots appear. If I wait, then you and the children will have to come with me. And we will all die.”

“No, Galosga, you will not go alone. If you are to die, then I will die with you, in your arms.” She returned his hug, her battle-hardened muscles holding him firmly against her.

“The children… Andanyu and Marasa, little Adhela. No. You must stay for them.”

“Narna will wet-nurse Adhela, as she has in the past. And she and Nedyu will raise them as their own when we die. Or send them to die with us, if the spots come on them also.”

They lay together in the darkness, saying nothing, thinking about the horror that was upon them, her head nestled on his shoulder.

“Galosga, my beloved, the man who fell into my life to heal it, I love you. My sister Marcia told me long ago that love meant being willing to die for the one you loved, and if you are to die, I will be at your side to follow you. There is no other place for me.” She kissed him wetly, pulling him to her. “I want to make love to you, while we still can.” He grasped her body, naked as she usually slept, and pressed into her wetness, feeling her body quiver with pleasure. She hissed in delight as he entered her, the two moving together with increasing intensity, until they both exploded in an ecstasy of pleasure, then lay there, savoring the residual motions of their bodies, Hina watching the low-banked firelight reflecting off the red and blue shangyrak centerpiece covering the smoke-hole in the middle of the roof. Afterward, they slept, as the sun was not yet up.

It was like any other day when they awoke an hour later. They fumbled for their clothes, Galosga adding more dung to the fire and blowing on it stir it into life, Hina going about unwrapping Adhela’s swaddling to change it for fresh wear, waking the twins, and enlisting their help in preparing the morning meals. It was a day like any other that they had spent in this yurt for the past eight years. But it was to be their last.

Hina took the children over to the yurt adjacent to them, scratching on the yurt’s leather door. Narna opened it. “Good morning! I didn’t expect you.”

“I did not expect to be here.” She turned to the twins. “Go find your friends. Momma must talk.” The twins scampered off to join their friends on the far side of the yurt.

“You look very concerned. What is going on?”

Hina shuffled restless little Adhela in her arms. “Galosga has the spotted sickness. He does not yet have the spots, so the children do not have to follow him when he goes today to the sickness yurts. But I am going with him. I cannot let him die alone, and I cannot live without him. I want you to take my children, Narna, and raise them as your own.” She handed Narna a bag of silver coins. “This is for you and for them.”

“Oh.” Narna sat down in a folding chair by the fire. “Oh, the spotted killer. Will it never end?”

“Tengri alone knows that. Thank you.” She handed Narna little Adhela, squealing with delight at the prospect of new hugs. She then called the nine-year-old twins back, a boy and a girl, both copper-skinned and raven-haired like their father. “Mamma and Dada must go away for a while. You stay with Aunt Narna and be good, do what she tells you, do all your chores.”

“Where are you going, Mamma? Why can’t we go?” asked Andanyu.

“A long way off.”

“When are you coming back?”

Hina could not bring herself to say never. She just shook her head from side to side. The children looked disappointed, but brightened when she scooped them up in her arms for hugs and kisses. “Goodbye, Andanyu and Marasa. Momma will be watching you!”

She left the yurt, her eyes burning fiercely with the tears she did not shed freely.

Back in their own yurt, she went about methodically packing, as if for a hunting trip: water, naan bread, cheese, yogurt, cooking gear, kumis fermented mare’s milk, and blankets, into two stout backpacks. They then doused the dung fire for the last time, and set out for the sickness yurts.

Even before they reached the ten or so yurts clustered a mile outside the perimeter of the encampment, they smelled them… a smell of death and human offal. And heard them from fifty yards off, a symphony of moans, hacking coughs and mad rantings. Hina’s heart sank at the thought of entering this foul place. They went from yurt to yurt, each as foul as the last, dead bodies inside amongst the dying, the smell of rotting flesh, excrement and urine. Few had any fires going, despite the freezing weather. Eyes looked hopefully on them, but they moved on. Finally, at near the last of the low cylindrical felt tents, they found a familiar face, huddled in despair at the far end from the door.

“Hadyu!” exclaimed Hina, shifting her pack off her shoulders to the ground. “Not you, too!”

Hadyu struggled to his feet. “It appears that Tengri has called me. I have a fever, but no spots yet.”

“The same,” said Galosga.

“And you, you are sick?”

“Not yet. I came to die with my mate.”

“That is fitting. You were inseparable in life, you know.” He managed a smile.

“But I am not going to die in this filth!” She grabbed the leg of one of the bodies that appeared to have been dead for several days, its mouth gaping open in a soundless scream. “Are you strong enough to help get some of these bodies out of here?”

“I used to be your second-in-command, remember? Of course, I am strong enough.”

The three hauled the five corpses unceremoniously out to a place in the field fifty yards away. “No time for a proper sky burial, but at least they will rest with their eyes on the sky. Hopefully the buzzards will get to them before the wolves. Let’s go tend the living,” said Hina

Back in the yurt, they examined those still alive, giving each a much-needed drink of water, and a bit of the bread that Hina had brought for themselves. Two were raving incoherently, unaware of the three tending to them, their foreheads like a hot stove, pustules yellow and foul-smelling. The three coherent ones were Altan and Bataar, the girl was Gan, spots speckling their faces but not yet gone to pus. “Thank you,” rasped Gan, through parched lips. “It has been days since we had water.” Galosga looked intently at the fouled blankets. Traveling years before, the foreigner Antonius had impressed on him the important of cleanliness in preventing sickness. The residents had been fouling themselves where they lay. “Hadyu, start a fire outside. We need to wash these blankets, and dry them before they get cold enough to freeze.”

Hina started a small dung fire inside, warmed some water, and began washing the private parts of the survivors. She shared their three blankets among the sick, then sat down to wait for the others to dry, hanging on makeshift lines outside, whipped by the strong buran wind from the north.

“Well, it still stinks in here, but it is not as bad,” said Hina. “No wonder so many die out here.”

“Everyone is afraid to tend them. If their pus gets on you, then you get the sickness also.”

“Well, we will make their last days less unpleasant. I wish we could do something with the other yurts,” said Galosga. “There’s just not enough of us, not enough supplies.”

The next day, Galosga and Hadyu showed spots. One of the sicker ones died, carried out join the others in the field, and Altan, Bataar and Gan began to rave. Late on the third day, both Hadyu and Galosga began to rave, their fever like a blacksmith’s forge. Hina held Galosga’s hot body against hers, as he trembled in feverish chills. She heard him call his pet name for her, huldaji, ‘mountain lion’ in his foreign tongue, and a few other words she knew. At last, she could release her tears, crying choking sobs against his powerful chest, now marked with pus-filled spots. “Damn you, Galosga, damn you! You taught me to cry.” She pummeled his chest, but he seemed unaware, just continuing to murmur in his own language. “I haven’t even gotten sick yet. What if you die and I don’t? I can’t live without you!” For the first time in a long time, she felt fear.

Somehow, amid the cacophony of moans and cries, Hina fell asleep. She awoke with a start in the chill predawn to a silent yurt. She was sure Galosga had passed in the night, and she pressed her cheek against his now-cool chest. Then she felt it rise imperceptibly, heard the sibilance of his breath. She turned to Hadyu by his side. He, too, was sleeping, his fever broken. Altan and Gan, too, had survived, though Bataar and the other, whose name she had never known, were stiff and cold. And she was still unaffected.

After several days, the shamans came out to inspect the sickness yurts. They brought with them a pockmarked boy who had survived the disease, leaving him permanently scarred, his face cratered with ‘the Mark of Tengri.’ The shamans stood off at a safe distance, while the boy inspected each of the yurts. The five survivors sat on logs in the meager sunlight before their yurt, their pustules now scabbing over. Hina, unscarred, stood up to challenge the shamans. “Are you afraid to come in here to see the work of your hands? Get in here before I come to drag you in.”

Hina was big woman, nearly as tall as most men, with arms powerful from years with sword and bow. The shamans, unused to anything but deferential respect, walked in cautiously. “Perhaps if you did not force these poor souls to live their last days in filth, more might live. Out of eight in this yurt, five live, four with the Mark of Tengri. Had we come earlier, perhaps the other three might have lived,” she said.

“It is better that a few die, rather than the many,” said one of the shamans defensively.

“You are not doing a very good job of protecting the many.” She tossed her reddish-brown hair, her eyes flaring green. “The newly-sick are arriving faster than we can carry out the corpses of the dead, so with your tender mercy, the Huyan clan will be no more very soon.” Hands on her hips, she glared at the shamans. “Here is what you are to do.”

Hina was no stranger to giving orders to men, for she had commanded her own zuun of a hundred warriors before motherhood intervened, and she had remained a valuable advisor to the shanyu Bei. “I have about forty people to care for. You will bring out skins of water, food, naan, goat, butter, cheese and yogurt, clean blankets, cooking pots, everything that forty healthy people would need for a week. Send them out with those who have the Mark of Tengri on them, for they do not get the disease again. And bring wood poles for proper sky burial platforms for the dead, about fifty so far. They deserve better than to be left to the steppe wolves. Those with the Mark will remain here to help us tend the sick. We will remain here until the dying stops. Now go, carry out your tasks!” She turned peremptorily for her yurt, leaving the shamans, unused to getting orders, discussing her tasks amongst themselves.

The dying abated, but the last to be touched was the household of the shanyu. Hina, having heard of this, went into the encampment unbidden, to see the stricken ruler. As she walked through the encampment, people gave way before her in awe, for the story of her work in the sickness yurts, and her bold orders to the shaman that no one dared to question, had spread from yurt to yurt. For the first time in a year, people began to hope that the spotted killer might leave them. She came to the shanyu’s tents, nodded to his guards armed with pikes, who snapped erect at her approach, and she entered into the luxurious yurt. Shan-yu Bei, although spotted, continued to sit on his throne of power, wrapped in furs against the chill that always accompanied the fever. He coughed that hacking cough that marked the final stage of the disease.

“Welcome, Hina. Once again, you have done what few have ever done, you avoided the spotted killer, though you lived among its victims. You are one of Tengri’s special children.”

“You honor me, sir, but I have done nothing to deserve this honor.”

“You have saved the Huyan clan from certain death. Though perhaps not me.” He turned his head as choking coughs wracked his body. Catching his breath as they faded away, he resumed. “My entire household, wives, children, servants, all have the disease. For the safety of the Huyan clan, I must remove myself to the sickness encampments. I fear the disease lingers in my yurt, so it too must go with me.”

“I will send the Marked Ones over to assist you in moving to the sick encampment. Can I do anything else for you?”

“Continuing doing what you are doing. And…” he stopped to cough harshly again, bringing up something nasty into a rag he held. “Go to the Han. They are our hated enemies, but among them are many wise shamans, who can cure many things. Perhaps one knows how to drive out the spotted killer.”

“Yes, sir.” She paused, not used to offering praise or gratitude to those in power. “I thank you for being a wise and courageous shanyu to our clan. And I thank you for accepting me into your clan as a homeless waif, for allowing me to become one of your warriors.”

“You have repaid my decision a hundredfold, Your mentor Mayu would be proud of you. Now let us do what we have to do.” He lapsed back into coughing.

Despite all efforts, the shanyu and all his heirs died not long after moving into the sickness encampment, leaving no clear line of succession. Civil war seemed likely if the factions vying for leadership did not find an agreeable candidate. Some factions wanted to return east to their ancestral homeland north of the Yellow River, others to go further west onto the grassy plains beyond the Dzungarian Gates, still others to attack the clans that had put this spell upon them.

It was a noisy clan meeting, with angry voices, and on several occasions, drawn swords, thus far quickly restrained. Hina raised her voice above the roar, her battleground tenor silencing the contentious yurt. “Enough! You have but two enemies here, only two! One is the sickness that is killing us. The other is your ambition, all of you, that will kill the rest of us. We need to confer, quietly, to agree on a leader who will unite us.”

The dung fire in the pit in the center of the yurt hissed. After several seconds, “How about you, Hina?” asked Hadyu. “You have commanded a zuun of a hundred men, something no other woman has done. You could unite us. You, alone of all of us, you have not stepped forward the fill Bei’s place.”

Hina believed there were evil spirits, spirits that put temptation before humans, temptations so strong that if seized upon would destroy them. Everything she had done had led to this moment, to be shanyu, to be the leader of the clan. She had the strength, she had the ability. But that was her temptation, her own ambition for ultimate power. She knew she could resist it now, but later she might not, and that temptation would destroy her and the Huyan clan. She saw it as clearly as if Tengri had shown her a vision. “I decline,” she said at last. The gathering audibly gasped. “I will carry out my last charge from the shanyu, his dying wish, that I go to Turfam and seek out an Hanaean cure for the sickness. Pick a candidate amongst yourselves.” She turned abruptly and left the yurt, listening to the turmoil resume behind her. What have I done? Why?

Two weeks later, a small party of Xiongnu reached the area around Urumqi, a man, a woman, two children and an infant, riding on horseback leading a camel laden with their folded yurt, framing poles lashed alongside, and three spare horses laden with baggage. Galosga was the first to notice something amiss, reining his mare to a halt and raising his hand. “Wait. Silence.” Hina, the infant Adhela asleep in his carrier across her breast, and Andanyu and Marasa, halted theirs, waiting in disciplined silence for Galosga to explain. “I heard something, riders, coming hard behind, I think. The wind is up now, I can’t hear it.” The buran wind picked up, moaning along the dusty arid plain between the snowy mountain peaks.

Hina listened, turning her horse to look behind. “There! A cloud of dust a mile back. You have good ears, Galosga.”

She unslung the infant from around her neck. “Marasa! Come, take your brother.” She handed the girl the carrier with the sleeping baby inside, drew the bow from the shield behind her back and strung it in the saddle, pulling a handful of arrows from the quiver slung on the saddle’s pommel. Galosga did likewise.

Galosga motioned to his son. “Andanyu, protect your brother and sister. Take them and our animals into that draw over there, the other side of the tree. Stay out of sight.” The seven-year-old strung his bow, then drew a short sword from a sheath on the saddle. “If it comes to fighting, you two remember all that we taught you. Marasa, shelter Adhela out of sight before you engage if you must fight. But until then, stay out of sight, the best fight is the one not fought.” He then wheeled his mount to follow Hina, who was looking for a concealed spot to survey the interlopers.

Side by side, they watched the riders coming on. Bandits? Some hostile clan? But as the riders got closer, they recognized the distinctive hawk feather standard of the Huyan clan. Still, this might not be friendly. Fighting had already broken out between the factions when they left, leaving many dead.

Another few hundred yards, and they could make out the now-pocked face of Hadyu. He raised his hand, and the riders pulled to stop, their horses snorting and blowing in a cloud of dust. He turned in their direction. “Hina, Galosga! Can you hear me?”

She nodded her acquiescence, and Galosga rode up over the rise to expose himself. “Hadyu! That is some hard riding.”

“We have been tracking you for days, we hoped it was you.”

“Do you bring news?”

“Yes, can I join you?”

Hina urged her mount over the rise, beckoning to him to come on. He did so, the other riders behind him, and pulled up alongside the two.

“So why are you trying so hard to catch us? Is there news of the clan, a new shanyu, perhaps?” asked Hina, putting her arrows back in the quiver.

“There is news, but not good. The sickness broke out with a vengeance after you left, and the competing factions all blamed each other. The civil war killed those the sickness did not take. There are just a handful of survivors. The Huyan clan… it is no more.” He looked down, to hide the tears in his eyes.

“When you offered to make me shanyu, in a brief flash, it was what Tengri showed me, that the clan’s time was up. Narna and Nedyu? Their children?”

Hadyu shook his head.

Her eyes now also burned with tears. Another clan, gone, lost forever, just as the clan of her birth had disappeared in a cloud of black smoke, torn by the wind over the grasslands of the steppes so many thousands of miles away. Memories of her mother and father, her brothers, memories she thought she had forgotten, merged with memories of Narna and Nedyu, who had taught her the skills of being a mother, her long-dead lover Mayu ... and the friends, now dead, that she had held so long at a distance. “Where are you going?”

“We are going to try to go back to our old homeland. Can we ride with you to Turfam?”

“We would be honored.”