Away from the camp, on the opposite side of a ridge near a small spring, Rufio worked a dapple gray gelding through some maneuvers. He had learned long ago never to trust a horse trader—even a former soldier—so he had picked a horse at random to test. Like all Arabians, this one crackled with spirit, and Rufio felt waves of barely controlled energy rippling between his legs.
The horse was taut and spry and quick off the mark, so Rufio cantered him in a wide circle to soften him and bank some of his fire. After about ten times around, he rolled the horse back in the opposite direction and was surprised and pleased to feel him change leads on the fly at the rider’s command. A horse leading with the wrong foot in a turn was awkward and uncomfortable to ride and a danger in battle. Ten more circles and then ten the other way, and always the horse glided into the proper lead on Rufio’s leg commands. He took the horse down to a trot to cool him off. A few circles at the trot and Rufio brought him to a halt. He pivoted the horse on the forehand, and the animal rolled as smoothly as if he were on wheels. Yet when Rufio signaled with his heel for the horse to turn on the hindquarter, the animal behaved as if he knew nothing about it. Rufio knew it was common for Arabians to try to outthink their riders and suddenly play the moron to avoid a task they did not like. With two thirds of the weight normally on the front legs, the shifting of some of it to the hindquarter and then the swinging of the front-end bulk was not the most comfortable maneuver for horses and many of them fought it.
Rufio backed him up instantly. Not three feet or ten, but fully thirty feet he pulled him back, making him submit to what he hated. No horse in the wild will ever back up of his own accord, so such an act of dominance told this steed at once that here was an animal even smarter and tougher than an Arabian.
Miraculously, the horse suddenly regained his memory and, at Rufio’s command, turned on the forehand as if he had invented the movement. After five more repetitions, Rufio let him relax, and he spoke to the horse softly and scratched his withers. Then he dismounted and led him to the spring.
“May I get you a cool drink?”
Rufio turned around, and he saw Morlana bounding toward him.
“Where have I heard that before?” he said as she raced up to him and gave him a bone crushing hug.
“You haven’t abandoned your post, have you?” he asked seriously.
“My father is with the horses.”
She took him by the hand and led him to the shade of an acacia, where they sat together and she smiled into his eyes. There seemed to be nothing she wanted or needed, other than to be with him. Again he found it inexplicable, but he thanked the gods for it.
“Why do you wear that blue tunic?” she asked.
“Because my men are less likely to obey me if I give an order naked.”
“No, no,” she said, giggling and blushing as red as Caesar’s robe. “I mean why do you wear blue when your men wear white?”
“So I’ll stand out. A leader should always stand apart from his men. And I like blue.”
“But doesn’t that bother them?”
“Bother?”
“Yes. Making yourself special.”
“It doesn’t matter if it bothers them.”
She seemed puzzled. “Don’t you want to be loved by your soldiers?”
“No centurion is loved.”
“Then how can you lead them?”
Rufio smiled and took her hand. He traced his forefinger along the lines in her palm and out to the tips of her fingers, and then curled them closed and held them.
“We save our love for others,” he said.
She still seemed confused.
“The finest commander is the one who enjoys being liked but doesn’t care if he’s disliked.”
He could see her working to absorb that.
“I give my men what they need to survive. Sometimes they hate it. Sometimes they think they even hate me.” He decided to relent a little to make her feel better. “Someday they’ll care. When they’re old men sitting around their firesides with their grandchildren and I’m long gone. They’ll love me then. That’ll do.”
That seemed to soothe her enough. Her expression eased.
“You look tired,” she said.
“It’s the heat. At my age, it takes longer to get used to it.”
“Why don’t you have a nap?”
“Out here? It isn’t safe to do that. A Roman soldier never sleeps where there’s no sentry.”
“I can guard you.”
The innocence and faith in her eyes could have made an iron ingot weep.
“All right,” he said and pulled his dagger from its sheath and handed it to her hilt first.
“You can rest now,” she said, smiling. “I won’t leave you.”
I have never seen Matthias as happy as he is now. The Judaean soldiers hate and fear their king. They long to be far from him.
Today I was standing by the horse herd and watching Morlana instruct the two boys she hired to help her. It was fun to see this girl take command, something very rare in this land. Matthias came up beside me and offered me some water. I could see he was uncomfortable. Judaean men rarely speak with women in public except to give them an order or a rebuke. He certainly would never have spoken with me if any of his men had been nearby. I think he had come to see the horses but was now uneasy ignoring me. My status baffles him. He does not know how to react to a Sequani woman.
He asked me about Rufio, about his battles and his campaigns. I was stunned to learn that Matthias has been a soldier for only seven months. I was even more surprised that he told me this. Rufio says that I draw out honesty in men. I do not know why.
It is easy to see that Matthias is looking to Rufio as a model. I notice that he watches Rufio’s bearing and gestures, perhaps even listens to the inflection of his voice. He obviously hungers to be a good leader, but he has little to guide him. And Herod has no desire that any of his commanders be too strong or too skilled.
Then Matthias told me a story, and I was shocked at the nakedness with which he expressed himself. One day Rufio was conducting the morning weapons drill. I believe he had given Valerius leave to go into the city for the day. Matthias and all his men were standing nearby and watching. Matthias admitted to me that none of his men had much training with swords, and they were trying to absorb as much as they could by just observing. A poor way of learning any skill. There must have been something in their look that caught Rufio’s eye. Metellus happened to be riding by and Rufio gestured to him. Just a tiny movement, a flick of the wrist, but Metellus is one of the quickest men in the cohort. He rode over and told Matthias to have his men join the group for practice. As they did, Rufio barely acknowledged them, and that is what affected Matthias so deeply. No blaring trumpets, no particular notice at all. As if it were the most natural thing for these poor tyros to take their place on the training ground beside the Roman professionals. I could see by the intensity in Matthias’s eyes that Rufio had cemented his loyalty forever.
Whether or not Rufio realized this, I cannot say. He is so natural at leading that I am not sure if even he is aware of it. Centurions are tough and fair—most of the time anyway. But they are often harsh, like one of those savage four-pronged bits some brutal riders use on their horses. Rufio, though, leads his men like a great horseman rides his stallion—delicate with the reins, subtle with his heels, until the horse and the man seem to be thinking with a single mind.
Of course, Rufio can be just as severe as any other centurion in the legion. One afternoon he gave Valerius such a verbal thrashing in his tent that I expected Mars himself to intervene. The optio had overslept after a night of indulgence in Caesarea and had missed the morning parade. When I saw him come out of Rufio’s tent, he looked like he would rather have been pummeled with a vinestick than have endured what he just had. He was bleeding from invisible wounds.
I have always liked Valerius very much, so I decided to interfere where I had no right interfering. I went into the tent. Rufio was sitting at
his table writing something.
“May I speak with you?” I asked him.
He looked up.
“Sometimes even Valerius doesn’t know when you’re simply playing the role of the heartless centurion.”
“It isn’t important for him to know,” he said with indifference and went back to writing. Then he paused and looked up again and gave me that devastating eye smile. “It’s only important for me to know.”
We laughed together, and I knew the wayward wolf cub had been forgiven the moment he had left the tent.
Afterward, I felt the need for solitude to help me comprehend all that I was learning in this mysterious land. I went riding on my chestnut stallion and stayed out the rest of the day, with no one to intrude on my private spirit. The sun was dropping when we climbed a rocky slope. These Arabian horses are as sure-footed as squirrels in a tree. I stopped for one last look at a day that, like all others, would never return.
Below me, near a spring where his horse was drinking, Rufio was sitting back against an acacia, that strange tree of these dry lands. Morlana was curled up against him, her head resting in the hollow of his shoulder. She was sound asleep. Rufio’s dagger lay on the ground beside her. He was gazing down at her, and on his face was a look of such peace as perhaps he has never had before in this life. This was my Rufio, the authentic and secret Rufio. And he was mine alone. Then I had to smile, for he was more than that. He was this little girl’s, too.
33
CALL IT NATURE, FATE, FORTUNE. ALL THESE ARE THE NAMES OF THE ONE AND SELFSAME GOD.
SENECA
Two dozen heavy wagons had been lined up in the Via Decumana of the camp for the tribune’s inspection.
“I prowled the docks and warehouses all day,” Bellator said. “Matthias helped me. He’s a good man. I don’t trust this barren land to provide us with enough forage, so I plan to bring my own. Mostly I wanted medica. And I—.”
“Medica?” Crus said.
“A type of grass. It was originally grown by the Medes on the plains west of the Tigris. It’s the best available. The Parthians still use it for their great Nisaean chargers. I found a whole shipload destined for the chariot horses of Rome. A generous bribe rectified that folly.”
“Well done,” Crus said with a smile.
“I also laid up a supply of hard feed—horse barley, some wheat, some horse beans. We have to be careful with it, though. With the medica, too, for that matter. These Arabian horses can survive on beetle husks and tree bark, so we cannot give them too rich of a diet. It’ll affect the tissues in their feet and they’ll go lame.”
“I’ll make sure the men are careful.”
“We’ll use this feed just as a supplement when necessary.”
“Thank you for going to all this trouble. It was a sad day for the army when you left it.”
“Well, a man can leave the army, but the army never leaves the man.”
Crus turned away and stared down the long avenue of tents. “I often wonder if it will ever leave me.”
“Why should it?”
“Because I’m not a real soldier.”
“What?!”
“I’m a politician.”
Bellator stepped around Crus and stood in front of him. “A soldier is a man who practices soldiering. What do you think this is? A pleasure trip? We’re not snuggled around a fireside in a cozy inn while the wind howls outside. This is a field camp surrounded by hostile people on the edge of a wasteland. If that isn’t soldiering, then I’m the queen of the Amazons.”
Crus could not help laughing. “The Bellator mold was used only once and then tossed away.”
“Mold? Oh, no. I was carved—chiseled by the gods out of dry horse shit.”
Still laughing, Crus turned as Rufio rode up.
“Has either of you seen Flavia?”
“She’s out riding with Morlana,” Bellator said.
Rufio shook his head helplessly. “It’s too late in the day for rides.”
“Is she armed?” Crus asked.
“Flavia is always armed.”
“Don’t worry,” Bellator said. “Those two females are far more formidable than any nocturnal creatures they’re likely to meet.”
Rufio rode off without another word.
“He was more relaxed before,” Crus said. “Before he had the pains of love.”
“Yes, but it is a sweet ache. The sweetest there is.”
“Will you teach me to shoot soon?” Morlana asked eagerly, pointing to Flavia’s bow.
“Soon, little one. There’s only about a half-hour of light left. We’ll have to start back.”
“Can we see one more sunset? They’re so pretty here.”
Mounted on a sleek black gelding, Morlana presented a dashing figure of a young horsewoman in the gathering twilight. She wore a bright blue cloak similar in color to Rufio’s tunic. Flavia wondered where Morlana’s father had found it. The hood was pushed back now, and the evening breezes fluttered her wild yellow mane out behind her.
Flavia knew they were running out of time, but how could she say no to someone whose affection tumbled out of her eyes as freely as a rolling river?
Flavia looked around. “Let’s climb that hill.”
She urged her stallion toward the eastern slope, and Morlana’s nimble horse hurried along behind.
When Flavia reached the summit, she silently thanked Morlana, for she would remember this moment forever.
Off to the right, the sun was dropping to the horizon. Yellow only at its center, the sun cast a pale pink wash that darkened into lavender as it seeped and deepened across the night sky.
The valley below belonged to a different world than any Flavia had ever known. The bleached out sands of the day had been swept away by an especially creative god. In their place he had strewn soil and rocks of the deepest blue. A vast sand seascape had replaced the entire earth. Thirsty clumps of stunted trees, greenish black in the dying light, sank roots near dry washes, relics of the winter rains. Several trees would never bloom again. With twisted twin trunks, they strained toward the heavens. All was futile. It was as if giant corpses had been entombed beneath the dark sands, the only evidence now these bleak limbs clawing upward like the skeletal arms of dead men.
Across the valley, the ground rose gradually to a sharp ridge at least fifty feet high. Split and chipped like a battered knife edge, the purple blade would soon shield the valley from the last of the failing light.
“Remember this moment,” Flavia whispered to herself. “Remember it always.”
Her stallion’s ears cocked forward, and he was instantly alert.
On the slope below them, a small rise blocked their view of the nearest part of the valley.
Without speaking, Flavia signaled to Morlana to follow her. They descended the bank together, their horses silent in the soft sand. Without pausing at the bottom, they climbed the low ridge and peered into the nearest quarter of the valley.
A herd of several hundred horses grazed on the clusters of tough grasses fighting for life around the edges of the washes. But the humans were now Flavia’s concern.
Three men knelt on the ground with their hands bound behind their backs. Three others armed with daggers stood over them. A fourth lay dead nearby. Even at this distance, Flavia could tell from their tone that they were taunting the doomed men. The bound captive in the middle looked older than the other two. Perhaps he was their father. His robe had been shredded and pulled down, and he was naked to the waist.
“What’s all over that man?” Morlana whispered.
Black streaks marked his upper body, but Flavia knew the color was an illusion of the twilight.
“Blood,” Flavia said. “They’re torturing him.”
“Why?”
“They’re bandits. It looks like he got one of them before they overpowered him. They’re killers. They attacked at dusk because they knew these men would be tired. And it would be difficult to see in the half-light.”
The older man hurled a curse of defiance at his executioners. The words were indistinct, but the tone was clear.
Morlana’s sharp intake of breath startled Flavia.
“What is it?”
“I know him!”
“Who is he?”
“Haritat!”
Morlana said nothing else, as if that alone had been enough.
“Tell me,” Flavia said.
“He’s a great man. A great leader. He raises horses. He’s my father’s partner. He’s my friend.”
“A Nabataean?”
“Yes.”
Flavia looked back across the valley. “Those are the horses for the Romans then?”
“Yes, yes. Oh, Flavia, we have to get help.”
“Those men are about to die.” Flavia’s voice was as calm as an Appian tomb. She looked back at Morlana. “There’s no time to get the soldiers. The gods have cast these dice.” She dismounted. “If I fall, tell Rufio I died with honor.”
Morlana stared at her with horror and awe.
Flavia made sure her arrows were loose in her quiver.
“Are you going to shoot them?”
“I could only get one before the others would use the Nabataeans as shields.”
She took her bow off her shoulder and held it in her left hand. Gripping the reins in her right, she began walking down the slope.
“What goes on here?” she shouted in Greek.
She had no desire to come up on them suddenly. She knew that criminals were always cowards, and startled bandits were especially dangerous.
“A trade,” one of them said with a laugh and in a strange accent.
“May I participate?” She crossed the ground between them.
“What do you have to offer?”
“Much.” She stopped about twenty feet away.
The half-stripped Nabataean gazed up at her. He might have been forty-five or fifty-five. His age was as indeterminate as desert rock, and yet he seemed as old as the memory of time. From his dark face thrust a fierce hooked nose, sharp enough to split granite. Every crease in his skin plunged as deeply as a crevasse.
Horses on the Storm Page 18
