CHAPTER 1:
THE FUNERAL
Liqian, China: October 111AD
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
Liqian, China: April 112AD
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 70 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.
