Najara did not come back until long past nightfall. Gabrielle returned to the healers' tent, with Caesar at her heels, and spent the rest of the day working, tending to the wounded, fulfilling the healers' instructions. By sunset, she was so tired she could barely stand, and Caesar had long since left her side to sit down on an upturned crate, where he sat rubbing his twisted lower legs absently, not looking at her or anything.
Jett had stayed behind, to manage the camp in Najara's absence; when Gabrielle approached him about quarters for herself and Caesar, he immediately showed her to Najara's own command tent—a huge structure divided into internal sections by woven partitions within.
"Putting us in her command tent?" Caesar muttered. "Does she trust us that much, or that little?"
He had spoken mostly to himself, but Jett heard him anyway. "It's Najara's custom to extend to all guests the hospitality of her own tent," he said sternly. "Both to do them honor and so that she can see to their comfort." He paused. "Najara trusts everyone. At least, until they have proven themselves untrustworthy." Staring pointedly at Caesar, he said, "Some of us fall regrettably short of Najara's faith in people's intrinsic goodness. Keep it in mind." He glanced at Gabrielle. "Good night, Gabrielle," he said with more warmth. So saying, he turned and exited through the curtained hanging.
The section they had been given was small, not much bigger than Gabrielle's room at the Bardic Academy; Jett had told them that Najara's own sleeping chamber itself was no bigger. Two folding cots stood, one against either wall, both piled high with colorful striped blankets, and a single lamp swung from the ceiling. Gabrielle moved to take the cot closest to the door.
Caesar looked around, unimpressed. "Her own tent," he said again, speaking more to himself than to her. "Xena would never have done that."
"Shut up," Gabrielle said, glaring at him. He looked in her direction, startled, then dropped his eyes. She had to admit, his new passivity made him a lot easier to get along with. She wondered how long it would last.
He slowly sank down on the opposite cot, as Gabrielle sorted through the blankets; many of them were woven with brightly colored, elaborate patterns. These are gorgeous, she thought, feeling the soft textures. I wonder where they're from… She was absorbed in examining the blankets when her companion spoke again.
"You saved my life. You killed to save me."
Gabrielle looked around at him, surprised. He was watching her, his brows drawn together in a frown. She couldn't decipher his expression. "When? You mean…Licinus?" Her voice hitched a little there; it was still painful to speak of him.
A hint of irritation showed in his dark eyes; this, she understood. "Back at the tavern."
"At the…" Then the memory came back to her, of putting the axe into the man's back. A shiver ran down her spine at the realization that she had forgotten again. "I guess I did," she said slowly.
He was silent for a while, watching her with that strange look. "What is it?" she demanded at last.
His frown deepened. "You said you weren't going to kill again."
You said you— His words rang in her mind. Gabrielle felt herself tense, her hands closing into fists at her sides, as dozens of responses flickered rapidly through her mind. If it hadn't been for you, I wouldn't have, or I saved your life, don't you have any gratitude, or You've got a lot of nerve taunting me about this… She finally settled for, "What's your point?"
"Why did you do that?"
"Aren't you grateful?" she asked, pulling a blanket around her shoulders.
Caesar was silent again, watching her. Gabrielle decided she was getting very tired of that look. "Are you going to sit there staring at me all night?" she demanded with open hostility.
He looked away. "You shouldn't have done it," he said. "It wasn't any of your business."
Wasn't any of my— Gabrielle stared at him, wondering if he were joking and if not, if she should laugh anyway. She bit back her first two or three responses with difficulty. "Well, I'll keep that in mind for next time," she finally settled on.
Caesar must have heard the irony in her voice, because he looked back at her. "Couldn't you just have left me alone?" His voice held that querulous tone she had heard him use with Najara; it was so different from what she had been accustomed to hearing from him that she stared at him, wondering. "Why did you have to interfere?" he demanded, with more heat this time. There was something in his eyes she hadn't seen before—though maybe she had seen a hint of it the night he had gotten drunk—a strange glitter that she didn't know how to interpret. "Why couldn't you just have stayed out of it? Why?"
It was Gabrielle's turn to frown. She wasn't entirely sure he was still talking about the tavern. "What do you—"
"Why?" he demanded again. There was anger in his voice, but that wasn't all; there was pain too, and it surprised her to hear it. "If you had just let me—if you had never—" He cut himself off with an effort, looking down at his hands; Gabrielle was surprised to see that they were trembling slightly. He clenched his fists, and she actually saw him swallow.
"I guess it should be harder than that to let someone die," she said after a long moment. She said it to him, but she was thinking of Stallonus, whom she had promised to save, and of Licinus, and the man she had killed at the tavern—Artis, she recalled with a start. He had a name. The man Jett killed said, You killed Artis.
"Should be." Caesar shook his head, as if unable to believe such naivete, but he didn't look at her. "Next time, don't bother."
"I'll keep that in mind," she said again, as cold as he had ever been to her.
A distant thunder of hoofbeats interrupted their conversation at that point, and the light hanging from the tent ceiling began to sway. Gabrielle immediately guessed what it was, and got to her feet. She's back. Najara's back.
She pushed through the hanging curtains that blocked off their little compartment, into the outer room of the command tent, and went to the door. Caesar followed her a moment later; it took him a moment to get up. Gabrielle had to wait for her eyes to adjust to the darkness of the night beyond, lit by flaring torches and a roaring bonfire; when they did, she ran her gaze over the scene before her, looking for Najara.
Horses and men were milling around in the center square of camp, before the line of Zagreas's men that had been drawn up yesterday. Gabrielle recognized none of them. More prisoners were being fastened into the line as she watched, their forms indistinct in the light cast by the fire under the dark sky. Some of them were cursing furiously the men of Najara's camp who chained them so; but Najara's men did their work resolutely, without angry responses, fastening the men into line efficiently but not with cruelty. Now Gabrielle noticed a platform standing in front of the lines of men; she wondered at it. Caesar had lurched forward behind her and was looking over her shoulder; she turned to glance at him. "Do you see her?" He shook his head. She wondered what he was looking for.
"I'm looking for Bonacar, but I don't see her either," Gabrielle continued. "Do you—"
Her words broke off. Najara ascended the platform.
Gabrielle's eyes instantly went to the Crusader. The roiling commotion in the square quieted to stillness before the force of her presence; even the cursing and swearing of Zagreas's men stopped, as She of the Djinn drew their attention. She must have been tired, Gabrielle thought, having been active for most of the day and long into the night, but it didn't show; her tall, slim form was straight and unbowed as she mounted the steps to the platform, removed her helmet, and paced to the edge of the wooden stage, facing the prisoners. The grandeur that surrounded her as she looked down on the prisoners before her took Gabrielle's breath; Najara regarded them with as magisterial a mien as if she were a judge about to pass sentence. Quickly, Gabrielle glanced at the prisoners, to see what their reactions were; it was hard to make out their expressions in the darkness of the night, but an awed hush seemed to hang over the dual lines of men, as they waited under her regard. Najara paused a moment, ran her pale blue eyes over the assembled throng. The camp quieted to stillness before her. She regarded them a moment longer, then drew a breath and began to speak.
"All of you gathered here before me have done wrong under the Light." She did not speak loudly, but her words carried in the stillness; Gabrielle thought distantly that she wished she knew that trick. There was no anger in her words, no hostility, no accusation; she spoke as if she were simply laying out facts. "You are evildoers all, as I am sure you know. Your crimes against the Light are manifold and self-evident, and each and every one of you deserve death for your crimes, often several times over." She paused, running her eyes over the prisoners before her. There was not a word spoken in the hush; the force of her presence forbade it. Gabrielle realized she had forgotten to breathe.
"I hold your lives in my hands," Najara continued, regarding them all. Again, she spoke without triumph, without pride, without pleasure; she was merely stating an obvious truth. "I, the Crusader and Chosen of the Djinn. Unworthy as I am, it has pleased the Light to make me its arbiter, and to deliver you all into my mercy and keeping. I could kill you at this moment, should I so choose it; I have only to give the order and it will be done. There is not a one of you who has not earned this punishment for your deeds. How do I know this?" she asked. "Because I know only too well that my own unworthiness is more than enough to merit me a similar fate—and so, then, how much worse must yours be?"
She paused again, regarding them all. Gabrielle stared at Najara's stern, unbending form. She had never heard anything like this before. The prisoners seemed stunned by her presence.
"I could kill you all at this moment and name it justice," Najara was going on. The very lack of heat in her voice made her words all the more riveting. "There would be very few who would gainsay me, and the Light itself would approve of your deaths. Understand this very clearly, for the Light is justice, as I am its arbiter. The Light is justice….but it is also more. It is also mercy. No one may walk so long in darkness that he cannot come again to the Light. So for this reason, though my sword is at your throats, I stay my hand. Instead, I come before you now to offer you a choice."
She paused again, giving time to let the words sink in. Her words rang in the night air; even the crackling of the fire could not dim the impact of her speech. Gabrielle's eyes picked Jett out of the crowd, standing to the side of the dais; he was watching Najara fixedly. She wondered if he were reliving his earlier moment of conversion.
"Come to the Light. Renounce your evil ways. I know the pain you are in. I feel it as if it were my own. The lives you have led are lives full of suffering, for to inflict suffering is to incur it yourself. You do not have to stay on this path. There is an end to the lives of pain you are living, and forgiveness waiting for all who wish to seek it. The Light will welcome and protect you, no matter what you have done—so long as you accept it and permit it into your life. Forswear your former life of cruelty and evil deeds. Devote your life to amending your ways—to bettering the lot of your fellow sufferers. Come to the Light and your life will be cleansed of the evil you have done. You will be able to start anew, as pure as the driven snow. You will at last be able to find peace. Accept the offer I have laid out for you, and be saved. It is the mercy of the Light that is being offered to you. If you refuse this mercy, this opportunity—then I will be forced to act as the Light has appointed me, and carry out your execution.
"This is your choice. Accept the Light, or be released to the darkness. And be forewarned: Once you swear to the Light, you must keep to its ways; or else I will know that you swore falsely, and will carry out the sentence. You will have three days to decide. I hope," she said with quiet sincerity, "that you all choose to come to the Light."
Najara finished, and stepped down. She had not spoken with force or fire, but none was needed. The strength of her presence gave her words a weight which mere bombastic posturing could never have done. As she descended the stairs from the dais, the prisoners were silent, except for a low murmuring as soft as the wind in the trees; Gabrielle knew that if she had been one in that bunch, she would have been instantly swayed. She glanced at Caesar to check his reaction, but could not tell anything from his face; his expression was closed and watchful.
Najara paused a moment by the stage, speaking with Jett in a low voice that did not carry, and then came toward them. When she drew closer, Gabrielle could see that she was tired; the Crusader was walking slowly and stiffly; her head was bowed as if in contemplation, and there was a set to her shoulders that spoke of fatigue. Nevertheless her back was straight and she moved with a regal bearing, as if her spine had been made of iron. There was that about She of the Djinn which would neither bend nor break; even contemplating the possibility that the Crusader might be bent or broken seemed wrong, a self-evident absurdity. Gabrielle had sensed nothing of this in either Xena or Callisto, though she sensed nothing of either Xena's raw savagery or Callisto's manic intensity in Najara.
Najara caught sight of the two of them in the shadow of the tent, and halted. "Gabrielle," she said slowly. "Caesar." It took her a moment to continue; she paused, gathering herself. "Welcome. I'm pleased you decided to lodge in the camp," she said courteously. "I regret that I was not here earlier to see to your accommodations myself; I hope they're acceptable?"
"Oh, they're fine!" Gabrielle said, impressed; as tired as she was, clearly Najara was prepared to do whatever was necessary to see first to the comfort of her guests. "They're fine, everything's great—we're just glad you made it back safely—" She didn't bother to glance over at Caesar to see his reaction to this white lie.
The Crusader smiled. "I'm glad to hear it. Is there anything more you require?"
"No, everything's great," Gabrielle said emphatically. "Thanks for your hospitality—"
"You're welcome." Najara paused again, gathering her strength. "I apologize that I cannot spend time speaking with you tonight, but—"
"No, no, it's okay!" Gabrielle briefly considered bringing up Stallonus, but changed her mind; Najara was clearly exhausted, almost asleep on her feet, and Gabrielle could tell this would not be the best time for it. Tomorrow, she promised herself.
"Tomorrow then." Najara moved past Gabrielle and into the depths of the tent. Gabrielle followed her, and Caesar followed Gabrielle, just like ducklings on a string; the Crusader withdrew through the curtain that Jett had pointed out as her own chamber, in the wall to the right of the door that Gabrielle's and Caesar's room lay through. Gabrielle glanced at her companion.
"What did you think?" she asked in a low voice.
Caesar glanced at her. He looked away, shaking his head. "She's crazy," he muttered. "Xena was never crazy."
Gabrielle frowned at him. She started to reply, but he had dropped his gaze, appearing to be closely examining an irregularity in the wood of his staff. With a sigh, she let it go, and pushed past him into their sleeping chamber. Caesar followed without saying a word.
A while later, Gabrielle opened her eyes in the darkness.
Disorientation clutched at her, and for a moment, she could not remember where she was. Was she back in her bed in Potedaia? Was she in her room at the bardic academy? The tavern they had stayed at earlier? These locations flickered through her mind as she felt the soft blankets over her, the hard bed frame under her, and it took her a moment to remember: She was in the command tent of the Crusader Najara, She of the Djinn.
She lay still for a moment, trying to figure out what had woken her. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness of the interior, she scanned the dim outlines of the room. Against the far wall, Caesar lay shrouded in shadow on the opposite bed; at first, his long, slow breathing was the only sound she could hear. She listened harder, trying to hear anything else. Then, her ears caught it, and once they caught it, she could not unhear it.
It was the sound of a voice, rising and falling in the cadences of speech. Najara's voice, she thought, and wondered if something was wrong. Silently, she slid out of bed and crossed the floor to her companion.
"Wake up," she whispered, shaking him. "Do you hear that? Wake up."
In the darkness, she saw him flinch back from her touch; his head jerked up, and he found her with his eyes. It seemed to take him a moment to recognize her and orient himself. "What?" he asked, in a voice as low as her own, when he had done so.
"Do you hear that? It sounds like Najara. I think something might be wrong…."
He seemed almost to shrink in on himself at the mention of the Crusader. Gabrielle frowned, puzzled, then dismissed it, assuming she was wrong. "Is there anyone else?" he asked her softly.
Gabrielle listened. "I can't hear anyone," she breathed. "What's she saying? Can you make it out?"
"I…." He stopped, and bowed his head; it was hard to see in the darkness of the interior, but Gabrielle thought he might be frowning. "I don't know," he said at last.
"Move over." Gabrielle pushed at Caesar roughly, shoving him aside. He made no protest, but let himself be so pushed; she spared another moment to wonder at this newfound passivity of his. She clambered up on the frame bed beside him and ran her fingers along the cloth tent wall, searching for a gap in the partition. She found one—a tiny rip in the fabric—and put her eye to it, looking through to the other side.
The space on the other side of the partition was lit by moonlight, a shaft falling from an open tent flap. It looked almost identical to their compartment, except that there was only one bed instead of two, and that a carved foot locker stood at the end of the bed; the room was simple, spartan, the room of one not interested in things of this world. The shaft of moonlight slanted onto the floor, lending a pale radiance to the scene before Gabrielle's eyes.
In the center of the fall of light, right in the middle of the tiny room, Najara knelt on a small rug. Her hands were clasped in front of her, her sword staked in the ground before her. The moonlight turned her blonde hair to silver, and lent her features an unearthly, almost marble cast; she looked like a statue. Her head was bowed, her eyes closed. She was completely alone.
"Do you see her?" Caesar whispered. The uneasiness she had noticed earlier was in his voice; he sounded as if he were asking about the behavior of a dangerous animal. Gabrielle turned her head to look at him.
"She's….praying," Gabrielle responded slowly.
Even in the darkness, she could see Caesar's surprise. He started to say something. "Shhh…." Gabrielle waved a hand at him and put her eye to the small tear again. She strained, trying to tune her ears to Najara's voice.
Once she had, she realized what had woken her. Najara was not praying. She was begging.
"I know that I am your chosen," she was saying. "I know that I have been chosen to be the arbiter of the Light on earth. But when I look into the depths of my soul, I see there such unworthiness—such imperfection—that I cannot help but doubt. And even this doubt is another imperfection," she was saying, her voice actually trembling, "because it is your will I doubt and you are perfect in all things. I know my flaws to the last stain on my soul, and knowing myself as I do, I can only wonder that you would ever choose an instrument as imperfect as I am to carry out your will. I know that my path has been laid out for me, and that my reward will not come to me in this life. And it is enough; I accept it and I am content. But sometimes….sometimes I fear that I have not the strength to walk the path, to do what must be done. I fear that I will fail you. I see that I fail you every day, in more ways than I can even begin to count. I know that you are mercy in all things, that you know my weaknesses and my failings and have forgiven me for them, that you will not grant me burdens for which I do not have the strength. I can only ask," she continued, her voice shaking, "that you forgive me my lack of courage as well, and help me to know that I am strong enough to bear that which you ask me to bear."
The Crusader was actually weeping, Gabrielle saw; the moonlight reflected from shining tracks of silver down her cheeks. Gabrielle drew back from the sight, amazed, and turned away from the small opening. Does she actually think that? she wondered, stunned, as her eyes adjusted to the darkened interior of her own room. The idea that this indomitable woman could see herself so was almost incomprehensible to her. She felt herself flush; she knew that she had seen something she was not meant to see.
She glanced over at Caesar. It was dark in the interior of their chamber but she could see enough to dimly make out his expression. She could tell he had heard what Najara was saying too. Neither of them said anything; there was nothing to say. It was the first time in all their weeks together that she had ever felt any sort of commonality with Caesar, but she could see in that moment that she and he were thinking the exact same thing.
Troubled, Gabrielle returned to her own bed. It took her a long while to sleep.
When they awoke in the morning, Najara had already gone. She had apparently offered an address to the captives at sunrise, as was her custom, and then taken off with a small band in search of more stragglers, or other villages that might need her help, so they were told by Jett.
Caesar was glad she was gone. He didn't want to deal with her. Something about her frightened him, on a gut level. He hated to admit it, but it was true. She was too much. Too overwhelming, and he had no defenses left against her. Just the thought of She of the Djinn was enough to make him want to cower, to make him feel helpless, pleading, weak. He would have despised himself for it, if he'd had enough of himself left to despise.
What he had seen the night before only increased his apprehension. He didn't understand it. He had never seen anything like it from Xena, could not imagine her pleading in that fashion. Xena had been overwhelming too, perhaps even more so in her way than Najara, but at least he had understood her….Thought he had understood her, anyway.
Najara thought she'd failed. What did she know about failure, he thought bitterly. She hadn't the first idea what it meant to really fail. He'd failed in every way possible. He'd even failed to die. He knew more of failure than she ever would.
Caesar had not wanted to get up. What did he have to wake up for? But that stupid girl had tugged at him and refused to let him be. She had dragged him out of bed and over to the healers' tent, where they had spent most of the day before. The other one was there, the dark-haired girl whose name he hadn't caught earlier, and she and Gabrielle had spoken together briefly; he had paid no heed, looking into the distance and thinking about Rome and Xena, and what he had heard Najara saying last night—about how she'd failed. Eventually she had concluded her conversation and left, walking down the lines of cots where the wounded lay. He followed her, though his legs ached. It was something to do. From time to time she would speak to him, or hand him things and give him instructions—orders, really. He took them and did with them as she told him. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore. Everything seemed very distant from him. His mind kept returning to the central question that had worn a rut through his thoughts in the past few days. It was like a wound he was compelled to pick at, over and over again. The question of Rome.
She wouldn't have spared Rome.
He stared down at his hands, seeing them only vaguely. He was holding a bowl, he saw—a chipped clay bowl full of water, in which bloody bandages were soaking. Strangely he couldn't remember taking it from her. Not that it mattered. The scars on his wrists seemed to stand out, under the filtered light that made it through the tent flaps
She might have. You know that she might have. You could have at least taken the chance.
He could have taken the chance. She might have spared his city….except that for her to do so would have gone against everything he knew of her. Everything he had learned in the last five years, chained to the base of that hideous dragon throne of hers, lying wrapped in her sleeping furs at night, traveling in her baggage train with the rest of her possessions and trophies. He knew her. He knew her, in all her moods, better than anyone, and could not conceive of a circumstance in which the Destroyer of Nations would have let Rome stand. It was not a case of wishful thinking. The Xena he knew so well would never have spared his city. He was sure of it.
As sure as you were of your destiny?
The bowl was gone. Now he was holding sponges. He couldn't remember taking those either. The sponges were also bloody, dripping over his hands onto the dirt floor of the tent. It was strange, watching them drip, watching the lines of liquid running over the backs of his hands. Were those even his hands? The blood was dark in the dim light. Everything felt wrong, somehow, as if he weren't really there at all. His legs throbbed at him.
As sure as he had been of his destiny. He'd been wrong about that. Maybe he was wrong about this. He hadn't known it then. Maybe he had been wrong then. Maybe then she would have.
The sponges were gone now. His hands were still bloody. They moved, seemingly of their own accord, smearing the blood trails. He hadn't done that. Had he? He didn't think so. It was hard to breathe. If she had spared Rome, he would have had something to come back to.
Something struck his shoulder. Xena had sometimes done that, to command his attention. Harder than this, though. He'd barely felt it.
Another blow. Slowly, he raised his head. It wasn't Xena. It was that blonde girl—Gabrielle—standing in front of him. She seemed very remote, as if he were seeing her from a far distance. She was talking, he became aware slowly; he listened, and her words came to him. She was upset with him for something. Something to do with the sponges?
"…and I asked you for them back, where did you put them?" she was saying. Her voice echoed strangely in his ears. "Come on, this is the third time today you've misplaced something I handed you. Can't you pay attention to what you're doing? I really need those, and you—"
She was upbraiding him because he had done something wrong, he realized vaguely. He couldn't tell just what it was. Her voice drilled at him. He wished she would stop talking and leave him alone. No, he realized. That's not right. He wished she had left him alone. If she had just left him alone to start with….
"I'm sorry," he said. It was something to say, to make her be quiet. It worked. She broke off mid-rant and stared at him. He couldn't tell what her expression was. He looked back down at his hands. The blood had dried on them, to a strange brown color. Maybe Xena would have spared Rome, he thought dimly. Maybe she would have. He'd never thought he could have been wrong back then, but he'd been wrong. Wrong about a lot of things. He could have been wrong about that.
Gabrielle had started talking again. "Well, that's all right," she was saying slowly. "If you can just remember where you—"
It was too much. Suddenly he couldn't do it, couldn't sit there and listen to her a moment longer. His chest felt like it was being crushed with lead. None of it seemed real, not the tent, not the wounded, not the stupid sponges she was hectoring him about, not even Gabrielle herself. It was all remote from him. As she spoke, he reached out and took the staff she had found for him from the pile of boxes where it had been lying. Leaning on his staff, he simply turned his back on her and lurched out of the tent, moving like the slow, crippled thing he was. She might have called after him; but he paid her no heed.
The sunlight was hot outside. A large boulder lay at the front of the tent, under a spreading beech tree, and he made his way over to it. The boulder was warm with the heat of the sun. He sat down and placed his staff between his feet. Then leaned forward and braced his head on his hands, closing his eyes.
Xena wouldn't have spared Rome. Well, maybe she would have. Really, what did he know, anyway? He'd been wrong about everything else. Probably he was also wrong about this. Probably she would have. She would have. Which meant that he had no one but himself to blame for the loss of his city.
That stupid bard. Why did she have to rescue him? Why did she have to get involved? Why? Had he ever wanted her to? If she had just left him alone—if she had never come along—then what? He'd still be chained to the base of Xena's throne. Or dead. He'd rather be dead. Or chained. At least then…at least then…. Damn her, anyway. If she had just stayed out of it...
Footsteps approached. He didn't have the strength to raise his head, but he directed his gaze up to see Jett, the assassin, coming toward him.
"Why aren't you helping Gabrielle?"
It took him a moment to respond. When he looked up at Jett, it was almost as if some of her presence lingered around him, as if some of the overwhelming power that Najara carried was reflected off onto the assassin. This was not something Caesar had sensed when he had met the assassin before. Not until he had met her. He looked down at his hands and saw they were shaking at just the thought of her; he clasped them together quickly.
At least he'd understood Xena, he thought again. Of course, maybe he hadn't. Maybe he'd been wrong about that too.
Speaking was a physical effort, leaving him as weak as if the words were boulders he were pushing uphill. "Najara."
Jett frowned. "What about her?" He looked confused. Caesar realized distantly that what he had said didn't follow from what Jett had said. It didn't matter. What Jett had said didn't seem to have anything to do with him.
"You….if you…." It was too much effort. The words were too heavy. He didn't know what he wanted to say anyway.
"If I what?" Jett was looking more confused. He seemed as remote from Caesar as Gabrielle had earlier.
"If she…" He closed his eyes for a moment. He drew a breath, gathering his strength. His insides felt hollow, as if his heart had been cut out of his body. "If she—had an offer. From Xena. To sacrifice herself for her army. Would she?" He didn't know why he was asking Jett this. Jett looked utterly surprised. He seemed as far away as if he stood across a gulf.
"Why? Did Xena think about making her that offer?"
"Just. Would she?"
Jett shrugged. "You should ask her. But I think it would depend…I think she would unless the djinn told her not to—where are you going?"
With what seemed like a titanic effort, Caesar had raised himself to his feet. The wood of the staff felt strangely rough under his hands. His ruined legs throbbed under him. Even the pain seemed distant. The presence of that assassin suddenly was every bit as unendurable as Gabrielle's had been earlier. He wasn't interested in the rest of what Jett had to say either. The command tent was beyond the healing tent. Caesar went back to it. Jett called after him. He didn't answer.
The tent was deserted. When he reached it, he went to the area he and Gabrielle had slept in the night before. He lay down on the cot Najara had provided them and pulled the striped blankets over himself. He slept.
That afternoon, he felt a little better.
Najara returned at the end of the day, giving orders for the supply train to head north; there were two more villages up there suffering a terrible drought and facing famine. Her return was greeted gladly by the healers; the head healers let the apprentice healers go for the day when the news came that she was back. "Are you going to go to circle tonight?" Tara asked her, as the two of them took off their long aprons side-by-side and washed their hands.
"What's that?"
"Every night if Najara's around, we do circle," Tara explained. "In the main army, we do circle whether or not she's around—we circle in our companies, cause there are too many of us to circle all together. With this small detachment, though, we've only been circling if she's here. Basically we all get together at the end of the day and talk. Sometimes we tell stories and sing songs. Sometimes Najara tells us about the Light. Tonight I'm going to dance," she said, smiling at Gabrielle. "I would like it if you could be there," she added hesitantly. "I'm always kind of nervous before I dance."
"Oh, do you dance?" Gabrielle asked. At Tara's nod, she said, "That's great. I'm a bard…maybe I could perform at circle sometime too."
"If you stay with us," Tara assured her warmly. "I'm sure Najara would love for you to perform."
"Well, just let me finish up with a few things here and get my companion, and I'd be happy to watch you. I bet you're a really good dancer," Gabrielle told her reassuringly. "Don't be nervous. You'll do fine."
"Okay. I have to go get ready. I hope you can be there," Tara told her, and hurried out of the tent.
Caesar did not want to come; Gabrielle found him lying in bed, his face turned to the wall. It took her physically pulling on his arm, as well as all the scolding skills she possessed, to get him out of it. "Come on!" she told him angrily. "You can't just lie in bed all day. Everybody else in the whole camp is going. Don't you want to see Tara dance?" No, he didn't want to see Tara dance. He met her eyes briefly, then dropped his gaze. Once she got him up and moving, she thought he looked somewhat better than he had that morning; then, he had looked like death warmed over. At least now his face had some color to it. His eyes still were deeply shadowed and fled from hers, but at least he seemed capable of responsiveness on some level. It had been sort of creepy that morning, the way he had seemed so absent, giving her the impression that he was nothing more than a lifeless shell. For the first time in a while, she wondered if he was still sane.
By the time Gabrielle had dragged Caesar out of bed, helped him to stand up, put his staff in his hands, and more or less shoved him out the door of the tent, she could already hear drums beating to the north of camp. The main body of the encampment had emptied out; there were guards standing over the prisoners, but no people walking through the avenues of the camp. The pounding of the drums intensified as Gabrielle and Caesar drew closer to the crowd of people gathered just outside of the northern encampment.
The crowd was drawn up in a large, rough ring around a patch of ground about the full size of the command tent. They were seated, talking quietly with each other or watching the dance. Some had brought chairs or rugs to sit on. Men and women smiled and nodded at them as they drew close. Gabrielle smiled back, surprised at how friendly they were. She caught the eye of Najara herself sitting on the edge of the ring, right down in the dirt with the rest of them. Jett was at her side; he spoke to Najara and gestured in their direction. The Crusader looked over at them, caught Gabrielle's eye, and gave a friendly inviting nod at the two of them.
"Come on," Gabrielle said. She gripped Caesar's arm. He pulled away from her in protest, but Gabrielle glared at him. "Come on. We're going to talk to her anyway tonight. Move." She dragged him over to take her place by the Crusader, settling to the ground. Najara and Jett welcomed her with warm smiles.
"I'm glad you decided to join us for circle, Gabrielle, Caesar," Najara said courteously, nodding toward Gabrielle's companion. Caesar had taken a seat on the opposite side of Gabrielle from Najara and was watching her warily. "Tara's performances are always worth seeing. Will we see you later for dinner as well? I'm still interested in hearing about Xena's last moments."
"Wouldn't miss it," Gabrielle responded, smiling. Caesar looked ill at the thought, but Gabrielle told herself she'd drag him if he wouldn't come on his own. Najara and Jett nodded their assents, and then turned their attention to the open space before them.
Off to the side, Gabrielle could see a couple of male drummers sitting, striking drums shaped like hourglasses with their hands. Another man sat behind them, whistling on a flute. In the center of the ring Tara was dancing.
Gabrielle was impressed by what she saw. The dark-haired healer had laid off her drab apprentice's clothing, switching it for a long, voluminous skirt of many colors that swirled with her movements and a bright blue top that revealed her midsection and cleavage. Draped over the skirt was either a shawl or a belt festooned with hundreds of silver coins, jingling and shimmering with her every movement. More coins were woven into her long dark hair and adorned bangles clinging to her bare upper arms. As she whirled and leapt, her skirt flared out around her and Gabrielle could see that there were still more coins attached to bracelets around her ankles, above bare feet. The bright, sharp jingling of the coins punctuated her movements and added counterpoint to the pounding of the drums and the whistling of the flute. She raised her hands over her head and began to strike her thumbs and middle fingers together rapidly in time to the beat, and Gabrielle heard a clear ringing sound above the drums, flute and coins.
Zils, Gabrielle thought. Finger cymbals. She recognized the style of dancing from her days at the Bardic Academy; it was a style common to the region of Africa and Arabia, practiced mainly by women. Even though her knowledge of this style of dance was limited, Gabrielle knew enough to tell that Tara had had some serious training; she danced even better than some of the instructors at the academy. Interesting. I wonder where she learned that…
But training couldn't account for the wild enthusiasm she saw in Tara's sparkling black eyes, the grin of sheer delight on her face as she leapt and gyrated in time to the pounding of the drums, or made the zils ring out above her head, clear and bright. The healer was clearly doing something she loved, and that brought her joy—doing it with an exuberance and ease that spoke of a profound inborn talent. The rest of the camp was urging her on, taking up the pulsing beat of the drums and clapping it out, men and women cheering her on, calling and responding to each other across the ring. Good-natured shouts of "Go, Tara!" and "You go, girl!" rang out above the beat; the audience was having as much fun watching Tara having fun as she herself was. Even Najara and Jett were clapping. The drums and Tara's clear enjoyment of what she was doing were infectious; Gabrielle could feel her feet twitching in time to the rhythm. That surprised her; she hadn't been much of a dancer at the Academy. Now, however….
Just as she was thinking that, Tara came whirling across the dirt clearing toward her end of the ring, her long braids swinging out behind her with the speed of her movements, and her eyes found Gabrielle. Her eyes lit further, and she came swaying toward Gabrielle, a bright smile of invitation on her face. She spread her arms wide and held her hands out to Gabrielle.
"Tara, no, I can't—" Gabrielle started to demur.
"Come on!" Tara appealed, taking Gabrielle's hands and pulling on her pleadingly. Gabrielle shot an apprehensive glance over at Najara, wondering what She of the Djinn would think. Najara gave a slight nod, smiling warmly. What the hell, Gabrielle thought with a shrug, and gave in; she let Tara pull her to her feet.
Tara drew her to the center of the ring, swaying in time to the music, and Gabrielle followed as best she could. Cheers erupted as she and Tara took the center stage, and the two of them stood facing each other for a moment, smiling. Tara waved to the drummers, and they struck up a new beat.
Gabrielle had received some training in dance at the academy; it was in a style of dancing very different from Tara's, but she had always enjoyed her lessons. As Tara swayed and whirled and spun, Gabrielle planted her hands on her hips and began to step quickly, rapidly and with a decided emphasis, heel to toe. If she had been wearing the correct shoes, she would have made her own rhythm to dance to, but her steps were lost on the dirt underneath her. It didn't matter; the beat of her movements quickly became apparent. The watchers began to clap in time to the music of the drummers and the flutes as she and Tara danced, a sharp electric rhythm that lent Gabrielle energy. She was surprised at how easily it all came back to her, and how much sheer fun she was having, dancing like this; Tara's bright look showed that she was having just as much fun.
The two of them started out dancing separately, but after a few moments, she and Tara circled back to face each other, improvising, working with each other, finding each other's styles, and weaving them together, imitating each other's moves in turn. The challenge of playing off of Tara's smooth undulations exhilarated her; she could tell from the calls of approval that the audience was thoroughly enjoying the performance. She and Tara reached out and clasped hands, circling around the space between them; Tara's wide eyes sparkled with the same exhilaration that Gabrielle herself was feeling.
Hands joined, the two of them promenaded around the perimeter of the ring once, twice and a third time. Gabrielle could hear Tara giggling, and she was laughing as well; she couldn't remember when she'd enjoyed herself so much. Surely not since before Xena conquered Athens…. As they drew near to the place where Najara sat for the third time, Tara looked over at Gabrielle. Their eyes met, and Gabrielle could see that they shared their thoughts.
"You want to?"
"You think we should?"
"Let's!" Tara said, grinning, and dropped Gabrielle's hands. Together, the two of them approached the Crusader. Tara's bright smile did not dim, as together they reached out and took She of the Djinn by either arm.
Najara's eyes widened in surprise at their approach, and Gabrielle could see that her tanned face flushed to a deeper bronze. If Tara hadn't been with her, she would never have dared to approach the formidable Crusader in this way; but between her partner and the excitement of the dance, it left her emboldened. So did the cheering. Though the cheers had been loud for her and Tara, the audience erupted into an enthusiastic roar as they tugged at Najara's arms.
Embarrassed, Najara tried to demur. "No, really, I—" she protested, pulling back from them and ducking her head. The sight of the awe-inspiring Crusader behaving so bashfully tickled Gabrielle, and she resumed her attempts to draw her up.
Gabrielle glanced at Tara and the two of them smiled at each other. "Come on!" Tara pleaded, and, emboldened by the young healer's courage, Gabrielle added, "Yeah, come on!"
"No, really. Really, I can't—"
The assembled watchers had left off cheering and begun to chant now. "Na-ja-ra! Na-ja-ra! Na-ja-ra! Na-ja-ra!"
"You hear?" Tara pleaded. "They're calling for you! You can't let them down!"
"Please?" Gabrielle added, surprised at her daring.
"Well—" Najara glanced over at Jett, beside her. Jett nodded, smiling slightly. "All right," she acquiesced at last. She let herself be pulled to her feet, shook off Tara's and Gabrielle's grip, and walked to the center of the ring. Tara and Gabrielle dropped down to the ground in the space she had just vacated, watching her eagerly.
"Tara, you dance wonderfully," Gabrielle told the apprentice healer as Najara spoke briefly to the drummers. "Where did you learn to dance like that?"
The healer's face shadowed. She dropped her gaze. "I used to hate dancing," she said quietly. Something in her manner forbade further questioning. Gabrielle bit her lip.
Najara had finished speaking to the drummers, and now stepped to the center of the ring. Her presence was such that all conversation ceased, all motion stilled, all eyes went to her as she did so. She immediately commanded the attention. The tall blonde warrior closed her eyes and lowered her head. She drew a long breath, then in one motion drew her sword from its sheath. She stood, as still as a marble statue, in the center of the silence.
Then—simultaneously with the drummers' first strikes on their hide drums—the Crusader moved.
She moved slowly at first, stepping to the four directions, north, south, east and west, placing each foot deliberately and with care, without opening her eyes. She crossed her tracks, tracing and retracing her steps, always somehow stepping in the exact same footprints she had laid down earlier. Gabrielle recognized the pattern as a tribal sword-dance pattern performed by some of the clans in Syria; some of the bards who had journeyed there had demonstrated this dance when they returned to the academy. It wasn't a dance, Gabrielle remembered them saying, so much as a training exercise for young warriors. Najara laid the entire pattern down without once opening her eyes.
The Crusader picked up speed, stepping faster and faster, beginning to swing her sword in her hand, a flashing arc of gleaming steel that sent bright darts of light back at the audience around her. Faster she moved, faster, and now she was leaping from one part of the pattern to the next, her sword whirling in a blinding arc over her head, to her left, to her right, under her feet as she jumped. Even though her eyes were closed, she never faltered or hesitated. Several times the watching audience gasped as it looked certain that she would harm herself, but always the deadly, gleaming arc of blade sheered just shy of skin and flesh. Faster and faster the blade swung, until it was nothing more than a blurring disc of metal; Gabrielle could hear the air sing as the sword cut through it. Najara's leaps became higher, wilder, faster, yet still powered by the throbbing beat of the drums, still not straying so much as a hairsbreadth outside the pattern. As she leapt, Gabrielle began to sense a wildness, even a fury in the movements, that was nevertheless ruthlessly contained and crushed by the strict and rigid pattern She of the Djinn had laid down for herself; no hint of this violence—if it were even there and not simply a product of Gabrielle's imagination—showed on her smooth face, as serene as that of a graven image. The assembled crowd was clapping sharply along with the drums, cheering the Crusader on so loudly that Gabrielle feared she would be distracted and stumble fatally, yet despite the frenzy of the dance, She of the Djinn never faltered. Gabrielle's heart was in her throat. She had forgotten to breathe, forgotten Tara and Jett and Caesar beside her, forgotten her surroundings, forgotten everything. It seemed as if any moment, Najara would stumble, must stumble, and then that brilliant blade would be red with blood—and yet at the same time, how could she? Yet surely, not even she could keep this up….
It ended simply. Najara's leaps grew higher and wilder until in a bound, she pushed off from the very center of the pattern into a leap so high she seemed almost to soar above the crowd. Hanging at the apogee of her jump, her head came up. Her eyes opened, and as she started her descent, she hurled her sword the length of the open space. Gabrielle gasped and flinched back as the sword thwacked point-first into the dirt less than three yards from her. As the Crusader struck the ground again, she immediately leapt forward into a double-somersault that carried her the length of the ring, and vaulted over the sword. Snatching it out of the ground while she was actually in the air, she struck the ground again, and in the same movement raised the sword high over her head, flashing the sun brilliantly off the gleaming blade. For a long moment, Najara held that posture, her pale blue eyes fixed on the sky overhead—from this angle, she would have been looking directly into the sun, and almost blinded, but she did not so much as blink. The drummers had concluded with her final vault, and an almost unearthly silence hung over the clearing; no one so much as breathed, so awed were they by what they had just seen….
Then Najara sheathed her sword. The applause that followed was deafening. Gabrielle had never heard anything like it. She was applauding too, striking her hands together so hard that they stung, cheering at the top of her lungs. "Isn't she great?" Tara cried, her black eyes wide and sparkling. "She's incredible!" Najara only bowed her head humbly underneath the accolades of the cheering crowd, standing with her spine as straight and upright as if she were a marble column.
Against the backdrop of cheering, Gabrielle glanced over at Caesar. His jaw was clenched, his shoulders stiff and rigid, and he was staring at Najara with that same strange, almost fearful look. "Are you all right?" Gabrielle asked him.
He turned that wide-eyed look on her. It seemed to take him a moment to figure out what she had said. "Xena could have done that too."