Bad enough: Worse yet was the sudden vision he had of the old man's neck gushing blood and the head, its thinning hair smeared and its eyes wide and glazing, rolling across the rock to splash into the water. For a moment, the light flickered and he even imagined an elephant's head taking the place of the old man's on the plump, rounded shoulders.
Jupiter Optimus Maximus, thought Quintus. What have I done? The lights danced in the water like torches in the hands of a dancing bronze figurine.
10
Laughter like a chime of sweet bells rang out from the woman reclining on cushions and carpets. The old man himself joined in her amusement.
"Another mistake?" she called.
To the end of his life, Quintus thought, he would never know if she spoke Latin or not: Her voice was like her skin—dark honey. And what mattered were not the words she spoke, but that she spoke at all.
"Ah no, Draupadi," the old man cried. "I could not be wrong about this one. Not that I have not been wrong before—as I was the first day of my life."
He turned to Quintus, who had retrieved his broken blade, wondering how he would find, among the stores, one that would suit him—or any sword at all. At the worst, he must go to Ssu-ma Chao and beg for arms. The old man must be some sort of soothsayer, then, to call him beggar. Ruefully, he sheathed the metal fragments.
"You do better than a god, young sir. In truth, you outdo my father Shiva, who slew me the day of my birth. I was born full-grown, and my mother Parvati bade me guard the door, that no one disturb her while she was bathing. My father approached and would enter, but in my inexperience I sent him away. Angry, he cut off my head and threw it far beyond the Roof of the World."
Quintus shook his own head, almost testing its security on his own shoulders at the old man's ravings.
"My mother appeared, weeping. The Lord of All the Worlds, to heal her grief, took up the first head he saw— which happened to be that of an elephant.
"Placing it on my shoulders, he restored me to life. And since then, I have sought only understanding."
He picked up his scroll. "Welcome to your part in this tale, young lord."
Again, the woman seated beyond him laughed. Delicate shell bracelets tinkled on her wrists. "You do not explain enough, Ganesha. Is this how our champion must be left—confused? That is not how Arjuna looked the day he won me and brought me home."
"Let me explain the tale," said the creature—man, god, gods-only-knew-what—called Ganesha. "Whoever hears this tale and understands a small bit of it escapes the chains forged by deeds of good or evil. Success he finds, for the tale holds the power of victory! The man who tells it to eager listeners gives them as a gift the Earth with her belt of seas. Stay with me and tell me..."
He broke off and shook his head.
"That is not right. It is my turn to tell, not to record, is that so?"
Quintus blinked, not expecting to be addressed. A moment more and he would either laugh or flee.
Ganesha clapped his hands. "Well, follow me." He led the way onto that cushioned platform floating upon the glowing lake and gestured to a pile of cushions only slightly less ample than those Draupadi reclined upon. She bent and, from a golden pitcher richly encrusted with red and green stones, poured a fragrant drink into a matching cup.
The old man threw a wreath of flowers and a white scarf about Quintus's neck.
"We do that for honor," the woman told him.
"Well, why do you tarry?" the scribe demanded. "Sit, sit, sit! And I shall begin."
Quintus laid the cup aside. How was he going to explain the breaking of his short sword?
Draupadi laughed in delight. "We offer him incense, we offer him stories, we offer him even amrita, the very nectar of heaven, and, see, he grieves for a weapon. Truly, he is the warrior we seek."
But are you the one I seek? Her eyes, elongated by the kohl, challenged him. The fragrance of sandalwood rose from her hair, and a line of red gleamed where she had parted it and dressed it with gems. A wreath of flowers lay beside her, and the odors rising from the cup at his side were very sweet.
If he drank that, what would he be transformed into? Would he, like old Ganesha, bear an elephant's head? More likely the head of an ass, he thought. For leaving my camp; for listening to these lunatics, even for a moment. In the stories, Circe had transformed Ulysses's men into swine, and the Greek hero had menaced her with his sword. But his sword had shattered on the rock.
Once again, he met the woman's eyes. Deep as the Mediterranean, they caught the fires that encircled them. Shapes formed in the fires: his brothers the Pandavas, the eldest, his king with golden eyes, who lost Draupadi in a game of dice and plunged them into war; his enemy, who possessed arms that made him invincible—unless he ... Arjuna ... could find weapons to set them at naught.
"This wreath is twin to the one I brought my husband. That was Arjuna, under a vow to share all he won with his brothers. And so, I married five brothers. You are..." She paused as if drawing the name from his thoughts, "... named Quintus. That is five, is it not? Take the wreath!"
She had it in her slender hands. In an instant, she would have it about his neck, and he would be as bound, he knew, as if he slipped his head beneath a conqueror's yoke. The wreath brushed his hair.
He pushed up onto his feet so fast that his bronze statue of the dancer fell onto the carpets.
"Krishna!" the scribe cried. "You and he have been great friends since ... tell me you remember...."
"The tree..." Quintus shook his head. Again, memories not his own overlay his thoughts. An ironic, enigmatic figure whose gentle humor hid a mind as vast as all heaven. A being who was devoted to ... to him? Not to him, certainly. To Arjuna, this hero out of some wild collection of Hind stories.
He had been offered a choice—armies or simply Krishna to serve as his charioteer—and he had chosen Krishna. He. Arjuna. He shook his head, trying to separate his thoughts from the spell of these other stories.
He did not want Arjuna's memories. But the tiny dancer was precious to him, and he scooped it up. Mocking flute music rang in his ears.
"This is magic!" he accused them. "All illusion. Even, I would wager, my sword breaking."
He reached to the leather and brass sheath and drew. The blade shone in the firelight, then shimmered ... the metal length drawing out, blue patterns quivering along it. Even the hilt felt strange. He glanced down: It was decorated with frogs.
"Arjuna's own blade," Ganesha told him. He made a meticulous note in his scroll.
Then the blade shifted form again. Roman issue, the finest in the world. Or so he had always thought.
"Illusions," he whispered. "Is it all illusion?" Abruptly, he was chill with fear. "Is this a dream, too?" Would he wake screaming and find himself bleeding to death from a Yueh-chih arrow? Or would he wake too parched to rave, his tongue swollen in his head as he died of thirst, having led his men to ultimate defeat?
"Illusion?" Draupadi caught up his words.
"You know illusion," she told him. "Do you remember? Maya, god of illusion, made namaste, touching your brother's feet. He proclaimed himself a great artist, eager to create. And you asked him for a palace that no one could imitate."
Ganesha unrolled his scroll. "Yes! He found on a mountain slope flat posts shining like a god's face, bordered with gold and set with golden flowers gleaming with jewels. Ages ago, Krishna had set them on the northern slope of the Mother of the World."