I squatted under the earth wall outside the west gate of Qiuci City and watched the last westbound caravan slowly walk out of the city gate.
The jingling of camel bells, mixed with the shouts in Persian, the bargaining sounds in Sogdian, and those incomprehensible Tocharian languages, cooked into a pot of chowder in the hot afternoon air. The hot wind blew sand on my face. I squinted my eyes and looked at the silk rolls tied tightly on the camels' backs. In Chang'an, one such Yueluo was worth ten guan; here, it was tripled; when I arrived in Samarkand, I heard that it could be exchanged for the same weight of silver.
