Empire of Dragons (40 page)

‘Archilocus,’ suggested Metellus.

‘Right,’ replied Balbus. He went on: ‘It’s not important that each blow be lethal. Every wound inflicted is an advantage for us because it will disable the enemy, slowing down their movements and their reaction time. It will weaken them and make them more vulnerable. I don’t think we’ll be able to use our bows, but our javelin-throwers will strike whenever the enemy tries to attack from above. Rufus, you’re the best. Every throw must hit its mark.’

Metellus watched them all day from a corner of the room. Towards evening the bronze door opened again and two servants came in with food. He signalled for the training to cease and the men sat down for their meal.

‘Why do you suppose they transferred us from one place to another after narcotizing us, if that’s what actually happened?’ asked Martianus.

‘To prevent anyone from noticing us during the transfer. Our appearance attracts a lot of attention,’ replied Metellus. ‘That makes me think they were afraid that someone might try to free us. Perhaps we haven’t been forgotten. We must not lose hope. And what we’ve been asked to do, men, is what we’ve been training for our whole lives: combat.’

The man in the green tunic appeared later and accompanied them to another room beyond the bronze door, where beds had been prepared for the night.

The men lay down one after another and Metellus listened at length to their subdued conversations. Martianus and Antoninus were very quietly playing
mora
. Quadratus was pacing back and forth along the external wall, his hands folded behind his back, while Balbus ran a whetstone up and down the length of his sword. He wore the stone at his neck, hanging from a little iron chain, as if it were a pendant.

Metellus thought at length about the ups and downs of fortune over the last years: how fate had inflicted defeat and imprisonment upon him, then offered him his freedom, only to cast him into prison again, and demand this final test of him. The last, perhaps. But who could say? He knew that he would go into battle accompanied by the thoughts of those he loved and had loved and that there could be no better
viaticum
. He would face destiny under the protection of his ancestors, the Aquilas, renowned for their virtue and their devotion to what they believed in. It was they whom he asked for assistance and protection, not the gods, to whom he hadn’t prayed since he was very young. There were too many of them, almost as many as there were men, and this meant, for him, that if God had to hide behind so many faces, he didn’t deserve to be sought out. He fell asleep, finally, and slept peacefully until dawn.

A servant brought them breakfast and they all sat on the floor to eat, conversing in a relaxed fashion as if this might not be their last meal.

Metellus stood up first and began to put on his armour, but Antoninus came to his aid and helped him to fasten his shoulder straps and his
lorica
. He slung the baldric over his commander’s shoulder and hooked on the scabbard. Metellus hung the second
gladius
from his belt: the finest of weapons, passed on from father to son for seven generations, made of excellent steel with an oak hilt. It made a hard metallic sound when Metellus slipped it into its sheath. Last of all, he put on his helmet and tied the cheek-pieces under his chin.

The others donned their armour as well, helping each other to do so, and when they had finished they picked up their heavy curved shields. Martianus and Rufus took their javelins and clutched them to their shoulders. They were ready. Septimius kissed the amulet he wore at his neck. Severus, who had once been Christian, made a hurried and almost secretive sign of the cross. Antoninus lay his forehead against the wall, softly murmuring words of ancient magic. Then the bronze door opened and the man in green motioned for them to follow him.

They marched down a long corridor two by two, behind their commander and the centurions. The rhythmic sound of their nailed boots made their courage rise within them. Roman soldiers on the march: who could stop them?

Another door opened suddenly at the end of the corridor and they were momentarily blinded by the sun. Then they came out into a square flooded with light. And full of armed men. There were two rows of soldiers on horseback decked out in full armour, bows slung over their shoulders. Metellus recognized the mercenaries who had escorted them to Luoyang.

As they proceeded down that garrisoned path, they neared a massive gate with three doors through which they could see a blackish blur and hear a loud hum of voices. Many people were still trying to get in, but the arena seemed to be packed. When Metellus arrived at the entrance he felt a shiver run down his spine like the first time he went into battle. It seemed strange but then, as he looked around him, he realized where the sensation was coming from. He locked into two dark, shiny eyes with a penetrating, enigmatic gaze. The same gaze that had moved him at the monastery before they had taken the road to imprisonment: Yun Shan was here!

He exchanged her look with soulful intensity, without understanding what message he was transmitting, without knowing whether her presence represented hope or the final seal. For an instant, he had the feeling that she was trying to get closer, but he soon lost her from sight.

Contrary to what he had expected, they were not led directly into the vast arena that could be seen beyond the triple door, but taken to a side entrance inside a kind of a guardhouse adjoining the big square, from which they could watch what was going on through large windows.

They saw dancers enter in marvellous silk costumes, waving long coloured banners tied to poles that they twirled to create beautiful designs in the air. Cloth dragons then made their appearance, twisting as though they were alive and blowing smoke from their nostrils.

The square seemed huge. It was flanked on either side by tiered seats and closed off at the end by a large stage on which they could make out a figure dressed in black seated under a red canopy. Standing alongside him were more men, dressed in black as well, wearing gowns that came down to their ankles, topped by short, long-sleeved tunics.

Once the swirling of the dancers and dragons had finished, wrestlers were led in. They performed a number of spectacular holds with great flair and skill. This was followed by sword duels between Chinese warriors and barbarians from the north, the notorious Xiong Nu. Almost all of the duels ended with the deaths of the barbarian combatants and Metellus and his men had the chance to closely observe how the Chinese used their swords, how they feinted, how they struck and how they managed to dodge their opponents’ blows.

After the last battle was over, a gigantic Mongolian seized a mallet and forcefully struck a big bronze bell. Upon hearing that sound, which echoed throughout the whole city, the officer who had been guarding Metellus and his men pushed them towards a door that led into the square. Metellus understood that the time had come, and signalled for his men to follow.

Suddenly they found themselves in the immense courtyard of the royal palace, which was crammed with spectators. Metellus looked around in a daze as the buzzing of the crowd died down almost completely, and was replaced by an unnerving, unreal silence.

He started at the sound of Sergius Balbus’s voice. ‘They were waiting for us, Commander,’ said the centurion.

‘I’d say so,’ replied Metellus. ‘And now the party can begin.’

T
HEY ADVANCED TOWARDS
the centre of the large rectangular space, glancing around at the crowd, feeling all eyes upon them. Metellus was in the middle, with Quadratus, Severus, Lucianus and Martianus to his right. To his left were Balbus, Publius, Septimius and Rufus. The two centurions took positions at the sides, as if they were commanding maniples of hundreds of men. They were the flanks of that minuscule army, the anchors of that little prow. Antoninus, the only
optio
and Balbus’s lieutenant, held the centre.

Metellus wore only his two swords; all the others bore their heavy shields in their left hands, holding them close to their shoulders, so that for someone watching from the side, they looked like a single shield, while they were barely visible from the front.

The air was cool, the light clear, the silence so deep it was eerie. They had expected a loud roar from the crowd and were disoriented by that breathless hush. The voice of the announcer sounded quite clearly: ‘Our great benefactor, the most honourable Wei, has the pleasure now of offering you a spectacle that you would never have been able to imagine. An ancient, long-forgotten custom that once served to invoke prosperity in the new year: a ritual in which the Sons of the Heavens did battle against ferocious barbarians, the enemies of the Supreme Order of our land. You have seen the savage Xiong Nu annihilated by the warriors of our imperial guard. Now you will see ten foreign devils, men who have come from the remote land of Taqin Guo, hairy, frightening creatures with round eyes, armed with terrible weapons, so strong that they have subjugated all the nations of the West, pitted against the most valiant of our combatants, the heroes who keep watch over our peace, day and night: the Flying Foxes!’

Metellus turned to seek the eyes of Yun Shan, a
viaticum
for this last journey, but he saw only a disorderly throng. He said to his men, ‘We’ll have the sun in our eyes, but it’s high enough so that it won’t trouble us too much. Stay ready.’

Yun Shan had not lost sight of him for an instant. Her eyes were fixed on the Roman commander’s magnificent breastplate, on the crested helmet that gleamed in the sun and on the drawn features of his face.

A voice very close to her ear startled her: ‘Princess.’

‘Daruma.’

The Indian merchant was behind her. ‘It’s all ready, Princess Yun Shan. Baj Renjie, the commander of the guard, is on our side, fortunately. He has found five horses-that-sweat-blood, the swiftest that exist, and promises to bring your brother to safety. My little beast is ready as well. Afterwards, there will be a boat waiting for the two of you, hidden in a bend of the Luo Ho river, just after the ford. Everyone will be occupied here, watching the fight, at least for a while. But tell your friends we have to move fast. This battle will be over soon.’

Yun Shan couldn’t take her eyes off Metellus. Daruma, at her side now, noticed. ‘Forget him, Princess. He’s a dead man. There’s nothing you can do to save him.’

Yun Shan lowered her head and started to make small gestures near her chest which someone, standing on the other side of the square directly opposite her, was capable of deciphering. A red ribbon waved through the air for a moment and the princess turned towards Daruma. ‘Our men are ready. They will be at the appointed place by the time you arrive. You can go now.’

‘Aren’t you coming?’

‘Later,’ said Yun Shan.

Daruma said nothing else and walked off in the direction of the exit, while Yun Shan pushed her way through the crowd to get as close as possible to the foreign soldiers, who were advancing slowly shoulder to shoulder. A drum began to roll, obsessively, with a thunderous boom, then went silent all at once.

Balbus was dripping with sweat under his helmet. ‘How often I’d go to see the gladiators fighting! I never even wondered what those men might be thinking as they went to their deaths. Now I know.’

‘Oh, really?’ replied Rufus, clenching his teeth. ‘And what were they thinking?’

‘That everything is useless and nothing makes sense.’

‘We’ve looked death in the face many times.’

‘That was different. Then we were fighting to live. Now we’re fighting to die.’

‘Maybe it’s just entertainment for them. Maybe they’ll let us go when it’s over,’ said Septimius.

‘Why should they?’ retorted Publius. ‘Death is the most exciting spectacle, after all, anywhere in the world. And that bastard down there decked out in black doesn’t look all that warm-hearted.’

‘That’s enough,’ said Metellus. ‘If we have to die, we’ll die as soldiers. All we must think of now is how to spend our energies as wisely as possible. No one can say what fate has in store for us. We don’t have many javelins and our swords are too short. All we can do is defend ourselves.’

Lucianus took a sling out of his pocket. ‘I’ve saved this,’ he said. He opened his fist to show some lead shot. ‘And these,’ he added.

‘Better than nothing,’ nodded Metellus.

Publius pulled a couple of knives crafted from two big carpentry nails. ‘These will be good for throwing.’

Smiling, Metellus marvelled at how ingeniously they were hanging on to life. ‘Excellent. Now, get ready to close, at my command.’

Before he could go on, a terrifying shriek emerged from the mouth of one of the bronze dragons under the stage and out jumped a warrior of the Flying Foxes, armed with a sword.

Metellus breathed in deeply and drew both of his
gladii
. The cold hiss of the unsheathed steel cut through the unmoving air.

‘Closed order,’ he barked out, and the men moved their shields to a frontal position, walling themselves off in front and on the sides, with only the tips of their swords protruding. ‘Get ready for the
testudo
if they decide to start flying.’

Another scream burst out and another warrior sprang from the jaws of a second dragon. Then a third, a fourth, a fifth, until the number of combatants was identical: ten against ten.

‘All right. We can get started,’ growled Metellus. ‘An even fight.’

Their adversaries were very close now and brandishing their swords, which whistled through the air so fast they seemed almost invisible. Then one of them suddenly made an incredible leap and, as he was landing, his feet cracked into one of the poles from which the imperial banners flew.

Metellus saw his move and shouted ‘
Testudo!
’ just in time. The pole crashed on to them and would have slaughtered them had not the roof of shields stopped it.

‘Careful!’ shouted Metellus. ‘Their feet and hands are their most formidable weapons. Be ready the next time one of them jumps.’