A Thousand Fallen Petals

Wood *

Alerio sat beside Markus, warming his hands on a flask of warm mulsum. It tasted strange, because they'd obtained the wine from the village market and the wine was not Roman wine. They'd mixed it with honey from the last precious jar they'd carried from Rome.

He took a sip of the mulsum, pulling his furs closer, when he thought he saw the girl's hauntingly beautiful face looming at him from within the liquid. He remembered her fingers, soft, and touching his cuts so lightly, and his body tightened. By the gods, was he going mad? It wasn't simple desire—Alerio had desired plenty of women along his journey and had even quenched his desire in exchange for coin. But this was something more.

Li Rong.

Perhaps that was her name. Perhaps he could find her. It was a dangerous thought, and his ribs still ached from where the villagers had kicked him, but he couldn't let this go—not until he could see her. Just one more time. He would be careful. He exhaled, watching his breath as it misted in the light of the fire they were gathered around. The camp they'd set up was a little distance away from the village and Markus had made sure that the peasants saw their weapons.

In case they think to rob us, his adoptive father had said darkly.

I'd rather rob them, Mikaelus had said, unsheathing his pugio and spinning the small blade from one hand to another. Peasants are easy to subdue. And we would not have to trade. We can just take.

Alerio had kept his silence, allowing Markus to chastise Mikaelus. And that the old man did. We're not pillagers, Mikaelus, he said sternly. We are emissaries. If word reaches the emperor that we have stolen from their people, our cause would be lost. We could even lose our heads.

Mikaelus hadn't dared speak back to their superior, but when Markus turned his back, he'd muttered his complaints to Alerio. What does a few dead peasants matter? We're never allowed any fun because Markus is too proper.

Alerio had stared at him. They were roughly the same age, raised on the same ship by the same man, but Alerio often thought his friend would do much better in the army. Mikaelus had a bloodthirst that was unsuitable for the position of an emissary. I don't enjoy killing, he'd replied, and Mikaelus had rolled his eyes at him. You're boring, Alerio. Straight as a javelin.

Before Alerio could answer, Markus had returned, holding the bucket that had been given to him by the girl. What did you trade for this? He'd asked, ever meticulous.

Nothing, it was given to me, Alerio said. Unconsciously, his hand reached to brush the part of his cheek where the girl had touched him and Markus's eyes followed the movement.

What happened to your face? He'd asked.

Alerio waved away his concern. A small scuffle.

Did you steal from them? Mikaelus sneered but Alerio didn't rise to the bait.

No. It was a misunderstanding. Like I said, a small scuffle. It matters not.

Markus frowned at Alerio's bruises but he let the matter drop. Did you learn anything interesting?

Alerio had learned plenty of things. He drew a rough outline of the village on the soil, marking the well with an X. We can find water here. And they don't speak anything like Latin. It's just like in Rinan—we'll have to learn from the traders.

Markus grunted and Alerio knew he was weary. He didn't share Cato's passion for learning or for strange-sounding tongues. When they'd set sail, Alerio had been young enough that his home became the ships that they boarded, the horses that they rode and the campfire around which they slept. But Markus's only home was Rome. If it hadn't been for his wife's unfortunate death, he'd never have sailed.

Tell me the rest tomorrow. We'd better be sleeping now, his surrogate father said.

Alerio settled down, lying back but soon found that he was unable to do as Markus said. It was the girl. As he brushed the thought of her aside yet again, the way he had dozens of times in the past few hours, he was sure that he was going mad. Mad with what, he was afraid to say aloud. As her beautiful face returned once more to nestle in a soft-edged corner of his mind, his heart raced, his stomach brimming with butteflies

"Amor a primo conspectu?" he asked the starry skies softly. Love at first sight. Was it love, what he was feeling?

He'd never believe in it before, but it seemed as though the gods conspired to prove him wrong. He gazed at the moon, reaching for the single memorabilia of home he carried.

He fingered the delicate, finely-spun gloves that his mother had given him before he'd left, seven years ago. They glowed dimly in the moonlight.

It was her beauty, he decided, as he turned over on his animal-skin rug. Her beauty was bewitching. He finally fell asleep, his dreams filled with captivating eyes and bell-like laughter.

***

It was early dawn, barely five, and the birds had just begun their chirping. But Li Rong was already up. She donned her Hanfu, tying the sash around her waist.

Her mother was in a dark mood as she stirred the porridge, not speaking, and Li Rong knew why.

Old lady Xiu's visit yesterday.

To Li Rong's mother, the elder was nosy and relentless. She'd been trying in all manner of ways to convince her mother to send her to Luoyang, the capital, for the concubine selection.

Li Rong hadn't been home during her visit, but she knew exactly what old lady Xiu would've said, because she'd been saying the same thing every year since Li Rong had turned fourteen.

It would give her a better future. She would live a pampered life in the palace and all the better if she catches the eye of the emperor.

What a waste of her beauty – rotting away in this poor village, working on farms and whatnot!

If her father were still alive, he would've sent her. Can you even afford to marry her off? You hardly have any money for her dowry. You really should've considered remarrying. I heard farmer Zhang is looking for a second wife...

Her mother slammed the bowls onto the table.

Li Rong guessed that old lady Xiu must've pressured her all the more this year, because Li Rong's sixteenth birthday was next week. Once she turned seventeen, she would no longer be an eligible candidate.

Her mother picked up her chopsticks, and then scowled at Li Rong's yet untouched bowl. "Ni bu xiang chi ya?" she snapped.

Li Rong hastily reached for her own chopsticks.

Old lady Xiu meant well. She truly thought she was helping Li Rong and her mother. For the last sixteen years since her father had died, Li Rong's mother spun silk fabric day and night, ploughing on their little farm and tirelessly working to put food on the table. No man wanted to care for a child that wasn't his own—especially not a girl child—and so her mother had been unable to remarry.

Li Rong quietly ate the watered-down porridge, watching the tired lines on her mother's face, and the weathered skin of her hands.

Perhaps old lady Xiu did have a point. Perhaps she'd lessen the burden on her mother if she went to the capital.

"Ye xu wo ke yi..." she began, but her mother rose suddenly, and Li Rong stopped speaking.

Her mother's eyes were filled with pain, sorrow and indecision. She pushed her half-eaten bowl towards her daughter."Chi," she said, ordering her to eat. She placed the plate of pickled vegetables nearer to Li Rong and left the house, making her way to the back to spin more silk.

Li Rong's eyes became glassy as she looked at the amount of porridge her mother had left for her. Despite her mother's short temper and harsh words, her love was unquestionable. Working herself half to death was one of her ways of showing it. Food was another. How many women would bother with a female infant after its father's death? Even with living husbands, she knew enough mothers who'd smothered their own daughters, not wanting another mouth to feed.

She finished her food quietly and rose to fetch water from the well.

Perhaps her mother was worrying too much.

The chances of her being chosen as a concubine were slim, with thousands and thousands of girls competing for the position. It was odd, how sure her mother and old lady Xiu seemed to be of her winning a spot.

She opened the door, feeling the cool breeze against her face as she reached the well. That was when she heard footsteps echoed behind her.

"Salve," she heard a familiar voice greet.

It was the traveller from yesterday. He still had her bucket and she stepped back, letting him draw water first—a common courtesy towards guests. He smiled at her unexpectedly, a small smile that touched his eyes.

In the early rays of the morning, she saw his eyes properly for the first time. Jade-green and brilliant, they shone like jewels in his face. She'd seen lighter shades of brown before, and once even blue on a northern Chinese boy, but green was a new colour.

She realised she was staring at him and lowered her lashes bashfully.

There was a creak as he twisted the handle, drawing water. Then a pair of boots stopped before her.

Li Rong looked up in surprise.

He was there, the bucket of water in his hands. He lifted it up, and looked at her, jerking his head towards the pathway. "Xie xie," he thanked her, his words heavily-accented and almost incomprehensible. But she understood, and the attempt made her smile.

"Bu yong xie," she replied.

She began to move towards the well, but he lifted the bucket up again and gestured at the pathway. He pointed at the bucket he was holding, and then at her.

"Ni de," he said, and this time she understood. Yours. He wanted to help her carry the water.

She shook her head, reaching for the bucket but he shook his head too, insistent on helping her.

"Xie xie," he repeated, using the only other word he seemed to know. Thank you. He wanted to repay her for yesterday.

Li Rong bit her lip. Being seen with an outsider—a man no less—would do little for her reputation. But he looked so earnest and she didn't know how to say no without seeming rude. Besides, it was early and only a few weary men and women were up and about. Against her better judgement, she nodded.

His eyes lit up and she couldn't help but stare into them—noticing the exotic hues of green and gold in their depths before her gaze was drawn to the bronze of his hair, the way it glinted red in the morning sun.

The colourful man fell into step beside her, wordless, the bucket swinging gently in one hand. A bow and some arrows were strapped to his back. Was he a warrior?

No, he couldn't be. Warriors were brutal. They didn't come to villages like hers asking for water—they killed, pillaged and r***d.

There were a million questions she wanted to ask him—if only she could.

He didn't seem to mind her staring. In fact, he was doing the same. She turned as red as his hair and was glad they'd reached their destination. She took the bucket from him, bowing slightly to show her gratitude.

Alerio couldn't believe it. It was as if Fortuna herself were showing him the way. He'd wandered to the well, thinking of her, thinking of her, and thinking of her when the goddess of fate seemed to have raised a hand and declared here she is.

Alerio couldn't help himself from staring.

The peasant girl's hair was loose. Like in Rome, peasant women here seemed much less restricted by propriety than the nobles. Alerio was transfixed by the way her loose hair gleamed like black silk, its colour rich, its texture lustrous. It was though he were seeing the Seres for the first time all over again. When she'd turned, he'd found himself stunned once more, somehow managing to convince her to let him follow by mumbling the meagre words he'd learned in the market.

Now, Alerio paused unsurely at her doorway. Markus had declared they were resting for a day to restock, complete a map of this unchartered area, and learn the local customs before making their way to the capital. He'd been assigned to observe the latter.

And what better way to learn than from one of the villagers themselves?

Alerio scratched his head, unsure how to ask if she needed help. She seemed to have already forgotten about him as she carried the water towards a stone basin, and began scrubbing some plates.

Hesitantly, he picked up a plate and dipped it into the water.

She froze, astonishment in her eyes, and this time, Alerio knew why. Even in Rome, domestic chores were left to the women or slaves. Doing such tasks was considered effeminate and Alerio began to feel foolish. The girl laughed suddenly, bright laughter that accentuated her already stunning beauty. It was bell-like, and goosebumps rose on Alerio' skin as he realised it sounded exactly like her laughter in his dreams.

His embarrassment quickly forgotten, Alerio thought he would wash a thousand more plates if he could just sit beside her and listen to her laugh.

Li Rong didn't know why he wanted to help, but he was determined. She took the plate away, sparing the poor man the shame of doing a woman's task, and led him to the farm instead, showing him how to use the cast-iron plough. He brightened considerably.

She wanted to ask him if he didn't have better things to do. She wanted to ask him if men in his lands shared the chores of women. She wanted to ask him so much but he would understand none of her speech, so she simply allowed him to help, wary at first. But the strange young man was a hard worker and his intentions seemed pure, and after a few hours, Li Rong relaxed. With his help, the work was done twice as fast, leaving them with a free evening.

Li Rong sat on the side of the field, glancing at him. What was his name?

As though reading her mind, he put a hand to his chest. "Alerio," he said.

She didn't catch it. "Shen me?"

"Alerio," he repeated, his language strange, his tongue forming sounds her own could not.

"Al-le-li-you," she struggled.

"Alerrrrio," he emphasised, making that peculiar sound again.

"A-lerl-li-you," she repeated helplessly, and he laughed, saying something she couldn't understand. His amusement was clear.

She gave his shoulder a playful push, and pointed at herself. "Li Rong."

It was his turn to stumble.

"Li Rrrrong," he tried, and she shook her head vigorously.

"Li," she gestured downwards, showing the sinking tone of the first word. "Rong." She gestured upwards, showing the rising tone of the second word. She emphasized the lightness of the 'r' in her language, so unlike the one in his.

"Li Rrrong," he butchered her name again.

She mimed banging her head against the tree trunk and he laughed. He patted her arm. "Callista," he said. It was a name in his homeland with roots in splendour, a name befitting her.

She didn't catch his meaning.

"Rong," she said patiently, pointing at her lips. He watched the way her tongue curved at the back of her mouth.

"Rrleng," he failed so miserably that she couldn't help her laughter. She clutched her sides, tears in her eyes. When she caught her breath enough to look at him, he was standing with his arms crossed, smiling good-humouredly, but clearly in no mood to try again.

"Alerrrio," he motioned instead at his mouth, showing how the tip of his own tongue vibrated behind his teeth.

She just shook her head unwillingly and they both laughed.

"Callista," he repeated, motioning at her. "Pulchra es. Callista."

She shrugged.

"Cal-lis-ta," he said slowly, gesturing at her. He touched his face and gestured at hers. "Hao." He said the Serican word for good.

Li Rong thought she understood. Like so many others, he was trying to tell her she was beautiful.

"Callista?" she asked.

"Callista," he agreed.

"Mei li," she tried to teach him the correct word. "Callista—mei li."

"Mei li," he repeated. The tones were wrong, but it was close enough. She nodded, staring into his mesmerising eyes.

The vivid green was striking.

"Mei li," she said, and boldly, she reached to touch his eyelid.

Alerio saw that it meant nothing to her—a gesture of friendship, perhaps, but she was so lovely, and he hungered for female company—something he'd sorely lacked during his long years at sea. There had been the occasional woman who'd been willing to bed him for coin, but Alerio found little satisfaction with them.

Without thinking, he rested an arm around her waist, pulling her slender body close to his. Surprise flitted across her eyes and he realised his mistake.

"Ignosce mihi," he apologised, releasing her immediately. Hot embarrassment flooded through him. His father had been a man of high rank, and here he was, acting like a brute to a peasant girl.

To his surprise, she only laughed, breaking the tension easily, and seemed distracted by something in the horizon. The sun was beginning to set, sending bursts of reds and oranges across the sky.

She walked towards her home, and when she reemerged, she had a bowl of steaming rice and some vegetables. She gave it to him together with two thin sticks of equal length—kuai zi. Alerio had seen people in the market eat with them, but he'd been unable to. He realised that she had no bowl for herself.

He offered to share but she shook her head, smiling.

He frowned. She had to be hungry after the work they'd done. He took her by the hand and led her towards the trees, at the edges of the forest. When he reached for his bow and arrows, fear flashed in her eyes.

He gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile, pointing at several birds in the red evening sky. Then he docked his smallest arrow, took aim and released it. It cut through the air, swift and deadly. The bird fell out of the sky, and they made a fine meal of it.

She seemed mystified by his inability to use the kuai zi and tried several times to teach him. But the sticks rebelled, criss-crossing over his fingers as though they were mocking him. When he reached for the rice with his fingers, she swatted his hand away.

She disappeared once again into the house, bringing out a wide, oddly-shaped spoon which had a short, thick handle that bottomed into a deep, flat head. A soup spoon? At that point, he'd use anything but the miserable sticks and decided to take what he could get.

"Callista," he said, leaning against her door, after their emptied bowls had been washed. Li Rong suddenly realised it was a name. A name he'd given her because he couldn't pronounce hers! She felt her lips curling upwards in amusement.

She could give him a name too. "Wei," she said teasingly.

"Wei?" he questioned.

"Wei," she decided, patting his shoulder. The name meant strength and she thought it apt for his skills with the arrow.

"Alerio—Wei?" He seemed overly-pleased with the name.

She laughed. "Shi de." Yes.

"Ita," he told her. "Ita—shi de."

"Ita," she repeated, and he nodded. Yes.

The conversation was tapering off. He had no more reason to stay, but neither of them seemed willing to move. She stood unsurely at the door.

"Callista," he said softly.

Her heart beat with both nervousness and anticipation. They'd been toeing the line between propriety and cordiality all day.

He was just a passing traveller. She had her mother to worry about. She had the selection in Luoyang to worry about. She had food to worry about.

He was sweet, but she had no future with him.

She started to close the door when he reached out unexpectedly, taking her hand in his warm one.

Alerio's heart hammered, but he'd gone through his decision several times over the last few hours. Yesterday, her beauty had captured his eyes, and today her soul had captured his heart. He didn't know if it was right, but he'd never felt that way about a woman before. He was going to trust his heart and give it a chance.

"Omnium rerum principia parva sunt," he murmured, repeating what Cato had once told him as a boy and then he reached for the delicate material in his pocket.

His mother's gloves were made of sea-silk, and were extremely rare and valuable. In the past, chlamys, the cloaks spun from this very same material were allowed to be worn only by the emperor and high-ranking officials. The silky filaments, byssus, were released by pen shells. These gloves had been treated with lemon juice and shone gold—a shine that had yet to fade in the long years he'd been at sea and on foot.

"Me exspecta, quaeso," he murmured, pressing the sea-silk gloves into her hands. Please wait for me.

He touched her cheek. I will come back for you.

Of course she didn't understand him, but she was a young girl from a small village. The odds of her still being there when he returned were high.

With that, he leaned in, pressing a chaste kiss to her cheek, and left.