“Tested in battle?”
“If ten thousand Germans can test.”
The wrinkles deepened at the corners of Herod’s eyes. “Well said.”
“We offer our skills at locking the bolt on Judaea’s southern gate.”
“The people of Judaea accept with gratitude. We will grant all the assistance you require.”
“Caesar has always praised the generosity of the King of Judaea.”
“Caesar’s tribune is wise in the ways of men,” Herod said. “He will sprint like a gazelle through the halls of power.”
Crus inclined his head forward in a small bow.
“And this man?” Herod’s gaze slid past Crus’s right shoulder.
“The commander of Caesar’s cohort,” Crus said. “Quintus Flavius Rufio.”
“Approach.”
Rufio stepped beside Crus.
Herod nodded to the tribune, and he returned to where he had stood before.
“You are the true soldier,” Herod said with satisfaction. “The centurion.” His voice was so low only Rufio could hear.
“One of many whose cause is the will of Caesar.”
Herod examined Rufio’s face as searchingly as one poring over the map to a secret city.
“You have been to Judaea before?”
“Only as a traveler, my lord. I was posted to one of the Syrian legions. But that was long ago.”
“And how few centuries there are to make up a man’s life.”
Unsure of the king’s meaning, Rufio remained silent.
“Our friend Matthias tells the king that the Second Cohort are picked men. The pride of a Gallic legion. You may wonder how so young a man can know that, but he is not the fool so many of my soldiers are.”
“Matthias is generous in his judgment.”
“He is fair.”
“May I ask the king a question?”
“You may.”
“Matthias is fair, and yet he is searched. Is that customary?”
“Everyone is searched,” Herod said with what appeared to be genuine sadness. He seemed weary now and lapsed into the singular pronoun. “If I could, I would search even the people in my dreams.”
Rufio knew he might never feel it again, but at this moment he felt a great sorrow for the aging tyrant.
“Leadership is a terrible trial,” Rufio said. “Few know that.”
The camaraderie of shared pain shot energy back into Herod’s eyes. “There are those who envy a king.” He roared the most ferocious laugh Rufio had ever heard. “It is like envying being burned alive.”
Almost imperceptibly, the king relaxed a bit in his cedar chair. He seemed oddly at ease with this foreign warrior.
“And how does Caesar’s centurion command the loyalty of his fine troops?”
Herod seemed genuinely to want to know.
“I have never done that, my lord. Their loyalty is not commanded. It is freely given.”
“Ah, that is a sacred thing. A treasure even a king can envy.”
“My men are my life.”
For the first and only time, Herod’s gaze softened. Almost affectionately, he smiled at the younger man. Yet it was also the expression of one who clearly saw the end of the road ahead. Then he stood up.
“At our age, we must nap in the middle of the day. How sad that is. Have you ever slept with a dagger on your pillow?”
“I have, my lord.”
“Then you know that is not sleep at all. I will pray to Elah to bring me rest, but I fear He stopped hearing me long ago.”
Herod seemed reluctant to leave, but he turned away. A few feet from the throne, he paused and looked back. He stared at Rufio even more deeply.
“Have you ever hunted lions, centurion?”
“No, my lord.”
“Not even once? In Syria?”
“No, my lord.”
Herod nodded in acceptance of that and went off to the horrible sleep that could not refresh.
27
IT IS A COMMON MISTAKE IN GOING TO WAR TO BEGIN AT THE WRONG END, TO ACT FIRST AND WAIT FOR DISASTERS TO DISCUSS THE MATTER.
THUCYDIDES
The blue seas and the white towers and the ships from all nations splashed a stunning vision before the three officers.
“This is a marvelous place,” Crus said, sitting down at the stone table outside the tavern at the edge of the dock. He looked around for Mallius.
“I prefer a popina in Ostia,” Rufio said. He turned and held his cup of wine toward Matthias. “What pig’s bladder did they squeeze this out of?”
“It’s Syrian,” he said.
“No, I’ve had Syrian swill. This is some Judaean poisoner’s elixir.”
“Well, wine aside, Caesarea is magnificent,” Crus said.
“Herod has many talents,” Rufio said, “and none greater than his genius for building. Yet the Jews hate him.” He looked at Matthias. “Don’t you?”
“Like poison.”
“Why?” Crus asked.
“Reasons beyond counting,” Matthias answered.
“A child’s reply,” Rufio said with a dismissive wave of his hand.
“He’s a cruel man,” Matthias said.
Rufio laughed. “Name a single Jewish king who was not.”
“David was a man of God. He—.”
“David? Didn’t he win his bride by presenting the old king with a bushel of Philistine foreskins?”
Matthias hesitated. “It wasn’t a bushel.”
“Ah,” Rufio said. “My mistake.”
“Herod is obsessed with plots. He’s half-mad with them.”
“And he isn’t justified in that, is he?” Rufio said. “Surrounded by jackals and sucked dry by leeches—odd that he should search the shadows for traitors. Especially since his father was murdered by one. Odder still that he should find them.”
“You don’t understand.”
“I understand more than you think. You hate the king because Judaeans have always hated their kings—no exceptions.”
Matthias turned away and gazed out toward the water.
Rufio looked at Crus, and the tribune smiled.
“They hate him,” Rufio went on, “because he treats them with arrogance and contempt.”
Matthias looked back at Rufio. “Yes.”
“And why?” Rufio asked. “Because he’s restored your greatness, made you a power again, built grand cities all across this land. And he’s asked for only a single thing in return. Just one—gratitude. And you’ve never given it.”
“We’d be better if we were rid of him.”
“So you don’t deny ingratitude?” Crus said.
“No,” Rufio answered for Matthias. “Do you know why? Because Judaeans never show gratitude to anybody.”
“How can you say that?” Matthias asked.
“I’ve read some of your holy writings. How many times have you abandoned your god? He’s been very generous to you, but you always turn away.”
Rufio waited for a response, but Matthias said nothing.
“How often has your god had to lash you back into line? He’s used many scourges—Egyptians, Assyrians, Babylonians. Now it’s us. I give you my word, Matthias, if the Judaeans revolt against Herod or one of his sons, they’ll see Hell before they’ll see light again. If Judaea causes chaos out here, we’ll smash it down into the sand so hard it won’t draw a breath again for a thousand years.”
“Three fine soldiers!” Bellator boomed. “A sight to make the Parthians tremble.”
“Did you recommend this place?” Rufio asked, holding up his cup.
“I must have my little joke,” Bellator said, laughing as he approached. Mallius was by his side.
After the proper introductions, the five men sat together at the stone table but avoided the wine.
“Thank you for the fair dealing,” Crus said to Mallius. “You’ve eased our burden.”
“It’s my special pride to serve the legions once more.”
“Bellator
says you want to enlighten us,” Crus said.
“About the foe you might face,” Mallius said.
“And who hides among the sands?” Crus asked.
“Fear no Nabataeans. Their blades have no thirst for Roman blood. They are peaceful men.”
“Very well.”
“It’s the Parthians who rattle the hinges on the door.”
“Are you certain?” Rufio asked.
“Beyond question.”
“Tell us why,” Crus said.
“Phraates is full of hate.”
“Their king.” Crus said.
“Yes. The peace he made with Augustus a few years ago settled nothing. When Phraates agreed to return the standards taken from the legions slaughtered at Carrhae, Augustus celebrated it. Gloated over it even. Had it put on coins. That ate a hole in Phraates’ stomach.”
“And . . . ?” Bellator said.
“He wants the Romans out. He knows he cannot do that directly, so he’ll try to humiliate them by upending the Judaean kingdom. And he’ll happily pick up any pieces that tumble his way.”
Rufio looked Matthias in the eye and then turned to Mallius. “How?”
“Get the Jews fighting among themselves—they do that naturally anyway. Cause chaos and upheaval. He wants to make the Romans’ experience in the East so sour that just the smell of hummus will make them vomit for centuries.”
“Do you mean an invasion?” Matthias asked.
“Oh, no. Phraates fears the Syrian legions. But successful attacks on villages in the south could cause a revolt. You don’t love Herod and he knows it.”
“How can you be sure of this?” Matthias asked.
“I’ve seen some of the raiders the Judaeans have killed. They’re Parthians.”
“Maybe they were bandits,” Matthias said.
“True, there are Parthian cast-offs who’ve become bandits, but these were soldiers.”
“And what of Phraates himself?” Crus asked.
“Cunning and brutal. He murdered his father and his brothers and seized the throne.”
“What about his troops?” Rufio asked, impatient to get to the battleground.
“I’ve seen only horse archers. And they’re very difficult to defeat. They ride Turanian horses. You can never get Parthians by the throat. They’re slippery as snakes in a bucket of slime.”
“Tell me about the horses,” Rufio said.
“Turanians are slightly taller and longer than the Arab. Thinner, too. They’re very lean. They’re just as fast as Arabians and about as hardy. They can walk for hours without tiring, just like the Arab. They don’t have the beautiful mane the Arab has, but some of them have an amazing sheen to their coats. Not every Turanian has it, but the ones that do are stunning.”
“Are they as intelligent as Arabians?” Rufio asked.
“That I don’t know.” He smiled. “But what horse is?”
“What about the heavy cavalry with the ten-foot lances?” Bellator asked. “They helped smash Crassus.”
“They did, but there are very few of them. The heavy horsemen are strictly the nobles. They’re the only ones who can afford the armor and weapons. The Parthians don’t have a standing army in the Roman sense. If Phraates wants to field a large force, he has to petition the nobles for their troops.”
“Have you seen any of these cavalry?” Rufio asked.
“No, and I doubt you will either. Phraates would never be able to entice his nobles into a Judaean adventure. They’d stand up to him. The mounted archers are another matter. They come from the less wealthy classes and they’ll fight for plunder.”
“Would they dare attack Romans?” Bellator asked.
“They have before,” Mallius said.
“How many can we expect?” Crus asked.
“Probably not many. Phraates wouldn’t risk a full-scale war. But all in the East fear the Parthian bowmen.”
“No troops are unbeatable,” Rufio said with annoyance. “You’ve been too long away from Romans.”
“Perhaps,” Mallius said. “But you’ve dressed enough wounds to know that confidence is not always a virtue.”
“And you’re old enough to know that the lack of confidence is always a vice.”
“I didn’t come here to argue,” Mallius said. “Only to inform.”
“Then inform us how best to face the Parthians,” Crus said.
Mallius looked at Rufio.
“Seize the bit,” Rufio said with an expansive gesture. “Don’t be inhibited by me.”
“Infantry won’t beat them,” Mallius said. “The Parthian horsemen will simply stay out of reach. If you had mounted archers, they could inflict pain on them if they’re as good as the Parthian riders, but they never are. So you have a dilemma. Foot soldiers can hurt them but they cannot catch them, and horse archers can catch them but most aren’t skilled enough to hurt them.”
“You’re not helping me here,” Crus said with impatience.
Mallius looked at Rufio. “There’s only one option left.”
“Heavy cavalry,” the centurion said. “Caesar learned from Crassus’s mistake of not having enough cavalry. He planned a very different campaign than the one Crassus devised. My father told me that if Caesar hadn’t been murdered, he would have moved East with ten thousand cavalry.”
“Yes,” Mallius said. “That the archers truly fear. Men who can race them down and strike them down. Provided there aren’t any of their own heavy cavalry to protect them.”
“We have our own cavalry,” Crus said. “Matthias and his—.”
“Us?” Matthias said.
“Aren’t you?” Rufio asked.
“We’re bowmen.”
“Jewish horse archers?” Rufio said. “Whoever heard of such a thing?”
“We do have some. We have a colony up in Batanea. It’s called Bathyra. We have about five hundred horse archers there. Good ones. Herod found them so impressive that he decided to create more.”
“You and your men?”
“Yes.” He looked embarrassed. “Except we haven’t been trained yet.”
Rufio looked at Bellator in frustration.
“These are deep waters,” Bellator said.
Rufio turned away. “And how I hate the sea.”
Rufio strolled along the dock and watched boatmen of many lands haul their cargoes ashore. He heard the cadence of a strong stride behind him and recognized Crus’s gait.
“Centurion!”
Rufio turned around.
The tribune came up to him. “What’s wrong?”
“What isn’t? You heard Mallius. We don’t—.”
“No, not that. Why are you so irritable today?”
“Am I?”
“Don’t sneer at my good sense.”
Rufio turned and squinted out toward the horizon. “I ache.”
Crus was quiet.
“Is that enough?” Rufio asked.
“Yes.”
Rufio laughed wearily. “No it isn’t. You want more. I was thinking about a little girl.”
Crus stared at him in confusion.
“I baffle you, don’t I?”
“Endlessly.”
“Let’s head back to camp.”
The shadows lengthening across the dock made a tired man even slower.
“I wish we’d thought to bring horses,” Crus said. “I feel like I have lead in my legs.”
Rufio gestured with his chin past Crus’s shoulder.
The tribune turned around. In the distance he saw Valerius on horseback leading two more Arabian mounts.
“I knew we wouldn’t want to walk back.”
Crus laughed. “I have to learn to think three steps ahead. Like my centurions.”
“It’s just habit.”
“Speaking of which . . . .”
“Yes?”
“Mallius’s dilemma. Can we find a solution? You were very quiet after he left.”
“There’s a potential solution.”
“It must
be well hidden, because I don’t see a trace of one.”
“It rests with Bellator. Let’s bathe and eat and rest and meet in my tent in a few hours.”
Valerius came up with the horses.
“Don’t I have the best optio in all the legions?” Rufio said with a smile.
“Sorry it took me so long. I tried to cut through the small forum east of here but I couldn’t get through. There was a huge crowd.”
“A bit late in the day for that,” Rufio said.
“Everybody wanted to see what was happening. These desert women are insane. Somebody in the mob told me that a woman had just cut off a man’s ear. Right there in the middle of the forum.”
“What?” Rufio said.
“That’s what he claimed.”
Rufio sprang toward his horse.
“What’s wrong?” Crus said.
“It’s Flavia!” Rufio shouted and gripped the horse’s mane and sailed into the saddle.
“How do you know that?”
“Who else would it be?” he yelled and galloped away.
28
NECESSITY KNOWS NOTHING ELSE BUT VICTORY.
PUBLILIUS SYRUS
An hour earlier, Flavia had stood with parted lips at the edge of The Field of Beasts.
“What kind of creature can that be? Is it crippled?”
Morlana giggled. “It’s supposed to be that way.”
“No, it must have some disease. Look at that twisted spine.”
“That’s fat,” Morlana said, still laughing.
“For what?”
“There isn’t much food and water where it lives. It’s called a camel.”
“It’s going to give me nightmares. Why is it spitting at that man?”
“Camels are mean.”
“I could never have dreamed of an animal like that.” She looked at Morlana and laughed. “And I’ve had some scary dreams!”
Morlana smiled back and slid a hand into Flavia’s. The little girl seemed so hungry for affection.
“Your laugh reminds me of my mother’s,” Morlana said.
“If you look like her, she must be a beautiful woman.”
Morlana’s smile melted. “She died last year. She was bitten by a viper.”
Flavia squeezed her hand.
“But I have her eyes and hair,” Morlana said.
Horses on the Storm Page 15
