“No foot soldier I know has the feel for horses you do. And I know no other callus-footed infantryman who has his own copy of Xenophon’s treatise on horses. That Numidian stud of yours—what’s his name?—he’d dance on a knife edge at your wish.”
“Cormagnus.”
“If Big Heart can do it, then I see no reason why these horses cannot. All are already saddle mounts. They know the commands.”
“But they aren’t warhorses.”
“That’s why they have to breathe in the martial vapors of a man of war. So they don’t die a hideous death in these baking sands.”
The tribune’s tent was larger and more elaborate than Crus would have wanted, but Rufio had advised that it was necessary not simply to be the commander but to look like the commander.
All six centurions sat on one side of the table along with Bellator. The tribune sat alone on the other side.
“And you’re certain this can be done?” Crus asked.
“As certain as anyone can be when dealing with animals and men,” Bellator said. “Rufio tells me his soldiers are able horsemen, though maybe a bit out of practice. If I had to train mounted archers, we wouldn’t have time. It’s too complex. But becoming a cavalryman isn’t as complicated. That doesn’t mean it’s easy, but the maneuvers are few and fairly simple. It’s courage and stamina on horseback that will rule this battlefield.”
“And the mounts?” Crus said to Rufio.
“These are very fine horses. The problem is that they’re Arabians—and Arabians always think they’re smarter than men. The trick is to bend their will without poisoning their spirit.”
Crus smiled at his favorite centurion. “You sound almost mystical.”
“Well, no one who works with animals should ever be considered normal. And horse trainers are out on the fringe even there.”
Crus laughed. “And you can do this?”
“In Egypt I trained many Numidians. For my own pleasure.’
“Are they like Arabians?”
“Very similar. And all my centurions are skilled riders. Some of my other officers, too. And Flavia is half horse herself. We can master this task.”
“Excellent. Let it be the will of Caesar.”
Crus held Bellator and Rufio back after the other centurions had filed out.
“Why do I think you two had decided this before you ever entered my tent?” His voice was as cold as chilled steel.
Caught off guard, both men waited for him to continue.
“Decisions are made by the tribune, not by centurions. Nor—may the gods help us—by an engineer.” He glared at Bellator. “You’re more experienced than I, but never think—not for an instant—that you’re any smarter. Now get on with it.”
“Tribune!” Bellator said and left the tent.
Crus turned toward Rufio, but his expression eased into the hint of a smile. “Lesson learned. Dismissed.”
30
IT IS A BAD PLAN THAT CANNOT BE CHANGED.
PUBLILIUS SYRUS
The late morning sun bleached an expanse of empty land beyond the Roman camp.
“What do you think?” Rufio asked.
Bellator dropped to one knee and examined the ground. “Possibly. It looks flat enough and not too hard.” He pounded the earth with his right hand and then sifted some soil through his fingers. “If it were harder, the horses would get aching shoulders and sore tendons. Any softer and they’d get muscle strains. This is as good as we’re likely to find.”
“And these horses are already accustomed to this.”
“That helps.” Bellator stood up. “We’ll need a gyrus. About a hundred feet or so in diameter. I want solid fencing to keep out distractions.”
“What about the parade ground? I’m assuming about two hectares.”
Bellator smiled. “See? You do know more about this than you let on. Two hectares should be fine. Have the men comb the ground as fanatically as if they were looking for lice. I want as many stones as possible cleared off. Horses with torn tendons are just leopard meat.”
“How many animals do you think we can train at the outset?”
“Fifty is plenty to work with right now, even with several good men—and a good woman. Do you think you’ll need more?”
“You know the answer to that,” Rufio said. “Soldiers always need more. We’ll try to get seventy ready. Charges, sudden stops, back-ups, pivots on the hindquarter. Four or five maneuvers are all we can hope for. There’s no time for anything more.”
Dressed in a white caftan and holding a small water flask, Morlana stood by herself at the edge of the rope horse pen.
“Why are you out here alone?”
She spun around.
Rufio smiled as she ran toward him. But she stopped abruptly, as though unsure what to do next.
“I need a strator.”
She looked confused.
“You.”
Her lips parted, but she just stared at him.
“Well?”
“How can I take care of your horses? I’m just a girl.”
“It isn’t age, it’s character. I never misread a woman’s eyes.”
She seemed overwhelmed and gazed at him in wonder.
“How long have you been riding?”
“I’ve always ridden.”
Probably she could scarcely remember a time when she had not.
“That’s what I mean.”
“My mother taught me.”
“The Suebi are natural riders. You could glide out among that herd with more confidence than any of my men. And no doubt with more skill, too.”
She giggled.
You’re still too young and trusting to be afraid, he thought. And he adored her for it.
“Do you want the job?”
“Yes!”
He extended his right arm and she slipped her hand into the grip of his callused fingers. He had forgotten how delicate a little girl’s hand was, how fragile.
“I haven’t seen you around the camp today,” he said.
“I don’t want to be a pest.” Her blue eyes looked up at him in the desperate hope that she was not.
“Oh, Morlana.” He slipped his left arm around her shoulders and pulled her in for a hug.
“Rufio?”
“Yes?”
“I love Flavia. Is that all right?”
He leaned back a bit and looked into her questioning eyes. “Of course it’s all right. Why would you ask that?”
“Because she belongs to you.”
He laughed. “Flavia belongs only to herself. But she shares herself with those she loves.”
Morlana pressed her head against Rufio’s ribs. Her silent tears wet his blue tunic.
“Why are you crying?”
“Because I’m silly.”
“Sit.”
She dropped down to the ground, and he pulled his scabbard out of the way and sat across from her.
“I’m going to tell you a very special secret.”
Her eyes focused intently and her lips pressed together.
“The day we first met was not a good one for me,” he said. “That night, in my tent, I felt a terrible pain.”
She seemed troubled by this incomprehensible revelation.
“I knew I’d never have a daughter like the little girl I’d just met. And I couldn’t bear it.”
Her lower lip fluttered, and her eyes moistened again and reddened in an instant. She reached out and he took her thin fingers in his.
“Please stay with us in Judaea,” she said.
He rested his thumb as delicately as a butterfly against the back of her hand. “I know only this—the gods didn’t bring me thousands of miles only to dash a gray-haired man’s heart against the rocks.”
Her eyes searched his as she yearned to understand.
“The gods have their ways,” he said. “And even they have their longings and their dreams.”
Footsteps behind caused him to look over his shoulder.
“T
his seems serious,” Mallius said as he approached.
Morlana pulled her hand from Rufio’s.
“I just hired a strator.”
“They come no better,” Mallius said and sat beside his daughter. “So tell me—why are you going to build a fort at Hezrail?”
“Who says we are?”
“Morlana.”
“I guess military secrets died with the conquest of Gaul,” Rufio said, trying to conceal his annoyance. “I cannot discuss it.”
“You misunderstand. I’m not asking about the fort. I mean why at Hezrail. There’s already a fort there.”
“What?!”
“About a mile southeast of the village. Pompeius’s men built it years ago. There was some disturbance in the south and he sent a vexillation to flash some Roman steel. They’d barely finished the fort when he pulled them. The unrest had evaporated as fast as a desert rain, and he had pressing matters elsewhere.”
“Mallius, if you were prettier, I’d kiss you. This saves us much time—time to work with the horses and the men.”
“You’ll just have to sweep it out. It’s stone and looks as good as the year it was built. There’s probably only a rat’s nest here and there. And maybe a leopard dozing in the shadows. But that’s it.”
“Thank you for clarifying this,” Rufio said to Morlana in a tone no different than if she were one of his own officers. “This helps us very much.”
She glowed.
Mallius reached across and placed her right hand back into Rufio’s. “It’s all right,” he said with a smile and got up and walked out among the horses.
“Welcome to the Roman army,” Rufio said.
She grinned and squeezed his fingers as tightly as she could.
31
LOVE IS THE SAME IN ALL.
VIRGIL
This day I learned, more forcefully than ever, the hideous weight of command. And the crushing effect it can have even on the most extraordinary of men. I have never seen Rufio so angry at me as today. Occasionally I have annoyed him with womanly whims, but today he glared at me in fury. I was very frightened. I know he would never hurt me, but I was terrified by the fire of his rage. No woman likes to be seared by that—or be the cause of it in the man she loves.
He refused to speak until we were out of the hearing of everyone. He led me to a low hill overlooking the field where the horses were penned. When he turned and faced me, my mouth became as dry as the soil under my feet.
“Have you never heard of military secrets?!” he almost shouted.
I could not speak.
“We’re not some roving band of Gallic barbarians flushing out game. We’re a Roman cohort.”
“I don’t understand,” I said, and I could hear my voice cracking.
“The fort! You talk about that with people as if you’re discussing the weather?”
“But I –.”
“And with a ten year old girl?!”
My tongue refused to work.
“Anything you learn stays locked in you. I have over four hundred men to keep alive. And they have parents and sisters and brothers and sweethearts. Will you write the letters if they’re cut down in an ambush because of a careless remark?”
Now I was furious—at myself. I knew he was right. But I was far too proud to admit it. So we just stared at each other in blind anger. Finally he expelled a breath in disgust and walked away.
“Centurion!”
I had never called him that. He spun toward me. Now I was frightened again, but not for the same reason. His anger had vanished. I thought I saw pain in his eyes. My addressing him in such a way cut him. That a man so tough could be hurt by the single cold word of a young woman seemed incredible. At that instant I saw, I think for the first time, the terrible loneliness of his life. And its brutal burdens. He has only three solaces—the ferocious valor and loyalty of Valerius and Metellus, the love and wisdom of Neko, and me.
“You’re as taut as a bowstring,” I said. “Even the greatest archer knows that sometimes he must unstring his bow.”
“A luxury denied to a centurion.”
He said the last word as coldly as I had hurled it at him.
“If an ignorant Sequani woman may say so to the great Roman soldier, it’s an indulgence he cannot afford to deny himself.”
“Finally we agree. ‘Ignorant’ is the proper term.”
I wanted to slap his face. I spat my words at him. “Maybe the centurion can find sweeter release in the arms of those women who write letters to him. The ones who are so eager to describe the width of their thighs.”
It was an awful thing to say, and I immediately hated myself.
“Perhaps,” he said with an exhaustion that scared me. It seemed as if it was the last word he would ever speak in this life. Then he turned and walked away.
“My love.” My voice sounded like a croak, and my eyes were already hot and wet.
He looked back over his shoulder, and I was on him in an instant.
“Don’t ever turn from me.” I felt the tears running down my cheeks and hugged him so hard I hurt my own muscles.
Then I could have sung to the stars, because he gave me his eye smile. “I suppose I’m a poor imitation of Atlas.”
“Who is that?”
“The god who holds up the world.”
“You hold up your men every day.”
He leaned forward and kissed me on both of my eyebrows. Then he slid the side of his face against mine.
“By the gods, I love your scent,” he whispered.
“I’ll hold you up forever.”
Never would Crus have thought that the sight of a fortified camp would thrill him. In Rome, wealthy men began wheezing and folding in on themselves as they were sapped by the very pleasures they sought to stave off their own spiritual depletion. The army was a contrary world. Here the simplest undertakings conferred the sweetest delight. This small camp—orderly and sanitary and patrolled by determined and audacious men—offered him more joy than all the salacious alleys of the Suburra.
Crus strolled down the streets of the camp and chatted with the men. Asked them about the food, the taste of the water, about any health problems. Encouraged them to share their concerns—and even jokes about their officers. They were all at ease in the relaxed informality between officers and men that Caesar had enshrined in his legions a generation earlier. They clearly enjoyed the interplay with their tribune. He had become like them, leaner, darker from the sun, a bit more wrinkled. When Crus took his proper place in the Senate in a few years, these men knew he would be no flaccid place holder, overfed on sweet cakes and flattery. He would be a toned soldier who would cross the Forum to the Curia with a confidence few men ever have. More importantly, Crus knew this, too. A year ago, he had been just a strip of raw doeskin. But since then he had been through life’s tannery. He was becoming as taut as the belt supporting the dagger on his hip. And he relished every bit of torment that had done this. Most of all, he relished these men. Within their flesh they carried, sometimes with a sigh and a groan, the wisdom of the battlefield. In this school, wiser than the Greek Stoa, Crus had learned a primal truth. Suffering, even anguish, and the silent endurance of both were among life’s greatest goods. He knew many in Rome who said they could not believe in the gods because even cruel gods would never allow so much agony. The fools. Pain was one of the gods’ finest gifts, for it made men men. And he knew that it had lashed him into becoming far more than he could ever have hoped to be. To these soldiers, he was the leader, but to him they were his teachers. As he stood at the edge of the camp, he smiled and thanked the gods for these rough tutors—smart and maddening and vulgar and magnificent.
“Metellus!”
The signifer emerging from his tent hurried forward at the tribune’s command.
“Find Rufio and tell him to assemble the other centurions. Bellator as well. We’ll meet in my tent immediately.”
“Yes, tribune.” And Metellus was off.
Whe
n the centurions and Bellator took their places at the long table in the tent, Crus saw that some were still sweaty from conducting weapons drills. All the centurions in Rufio’s cohort kept an eye on the skills of their men by wielding blades at their sides a few times a week, rather than always delegating it to their optios.
“We’ll tempt the Fates,” Crus said, when all had sat down. “We’ll move south now. The men seem to have gotten accustomed to the climate very quickly. We’ll exploit that. Since we have to train the men, we’ll train them where they’ll fight—not near damp ocean breezes. We—.”
A frowning centurion raised a hand, apparently to object.
“I know you agree with me,” Crus said, cutting him off. “No need to make public affirmation.” His eyes swept the table. “Two days. Questions?”
There was silence.
“Prepare.”
Rufio remained when the others had left.
“You know you’re pushing these men. . . .” Rufio’s tone was neutral.
“Yes. It’s good for them.”
“I agree.”
“What’s our greatest concern?” Crus asked.
“Water, especially for the horses. And forage.”
“Suggestions?”
“I’ve already plotted our route with Mallius. He knows every spring and oasis and blade of grass. He had to in order to get his horses here.”
“And the Judaean soldiers? Will they be ready?”
“They’re always happiest to put distance between themselves and Herod. When they’re not scheming to overthrow him. They’d be ready in an hour if you told them to.”
“Your concerns?”
Rufio smiled. “Only one. That Diocles isn’t with us to write it all down. I think this desert adventure would make quite a tale.”
32
THE NOBLE ANIMAL . . . WHAT A SPIRIT AND WHAT METTLE. HOW PROUDLY HE BEARS HIMSELF. A JOY AT ONCE—AND YET WHAT A TERROR TO BEHOLD.
XENOPHON
Horses on the Storm Page 17
