“You’re Haritat, are you not?” she asked. “The horse trader?”
“I am.” The voice rumbled like desert thunder.
“The lying son of a lying race,” Flavia spat at him. “You’ve cheated me before.”
It was clear that his wise eyes saw something amiss, but he knew not what.
Flavia looked up at the three bandits. Each stood to the rear of one of the Nabataeans. The one behind Haritat was obviously the leader. He swaggered while standing still.
“I need a new mount,” Flavia said to him and let her horse’s reins slip from her fingers.
“What can you give us?”
The falling sun highlighted her beautifully muscled arms and the powerful legs below her short green tunic. The bronze torque on her biceps gleamed in the last rays of pink light.
“What you’d like the most.”
“What are your terms?”
Flavia laughed to distract them from the fact that she was sliding her left leg slowly forward and imperceptibly cocking her hips to the right. “Give me three new mounts,” she said in a voice dripping with sin. “And I’ll let each of you mount me three times.”
The leader burst out laughing.
With a lightning arc of her wrist, Flavia plucked an arrow from her quiver and launched it straight through the laughing mouth. It tore through his skull and flew out into the desert beyond, and he collapsed like dust.
The two others, stunned, stood as motionless as rotted trees. In less than a breath, a “twang-ffft, twang-ffft” sliced the air and arrows ripped through each of their throats, and they gurgled and crumpled to the earth.
She sprang like a deer between the Nabataeans. One of the bandits was twitching and moaning. She nocked an arrow and sank it into his chest, and his spasms flickered and went out. The other still lived, gagging on his own blood. She strode over to him. He raised a begging hand in a plea for mercy. She glared down at him and drove a shaft into the center of his forehead.
The amazed Nabataeans pushed themselves to their feet.
Flavia pulled her dagger and cut their bonds.
Haritat looked around for others, but saw no one.
“You are alone?”
“I am Flavia of the Sequani. I ride with the Romans.” She raised a hand to signal. “Romans always ride with reserves.”
Morlana raced down the hill.
“Haritat!” she shouted.
“Golden One?” he said in disbelief.
She slid from her horse and ran over to him. She pulled off her cloak and used it to dab his wounds.
“You work wonders, Flavia of the Sequani,” Haritat said.
Flavia stepped forward, and for the first time in the history of eternity a Sequani huntress and a Suebi child and an Arab chieftain smiled together in the purple desert night.
34
FROM THE CLAWS, INFER THE LION.
ROMAN SAYING
Flavia and Morlana sat on the ground in the black goat-hair tent of Haritat. Multi-colored carpets formed the floor, and lamps flickering from bronze stands cast a lambent glow around the interior. The sheep fat burning in the lamps added its thick feral scent to the exotic ceremonials.
The Nabataean, flanked by his two sons, offered them each the customary bowl of ewe’s milk. Morlana sipped it eagerly, but Flavia struggled to get it down.
Crus and Rufio stood in silence about five paces to the rear, while Mallius waited off to the left.
Rufio absorbed every detail, for he wanted to lock in the memory of this night.
“For the Golden One,” Haritat said and approached Morlana and handed her a curved dagger in a bronze sheath. “For valor in battle.”
She took it reverently.
“You may expose the blade,” he said, bestowing on her a rare honor within the confines of his tent.
Her thin fingers gripped the black horn handle and pulled the blade partly from its metal sheath.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
Haritat nodded and gave her the vaguest hint of a paternal smile. Then he looked at Rufio.
“May I reward your woman?”
“You may.”
Haritat extended his right arm, and the son to his right passed him an exquisite recurved bow.
“For the archer,” Haritat said.
Flavia took it and studied it with the curiosity of a hide merchant examining a rare pelt.
“This is new to you?” Haritat asked.
“Yes,” she said with a hushed respect.
“Along this side, under the leather, is dried gazelle tendon. It resists pulling, so when you draw, you amass great power.” He ran a dark finger down the other side of the wood. “These are plates of buffalo horn. They fight compression, so your draw is producing even more force. Nothing can withstand it.”
“I honor you,” she said, and then slid her fingers along the strange looking red string.
“You have never seen this?” Haritat asked.
“Never.”
“It is a mysterious substance. As tough and magical as if one were able to spin from bronze. It is made from the cocoons of caterpillars in a far off land. It is called silk.”
Haritat flicked a wrist at his other son, and the young man left the tent.
“I have never received such a gift,” she said.
“No,” Haritat answered, and when he smiled, it was as if the earth itself had cracked. “That is not the gift. It is merely a tool for the huntress.”
She looked at him in confusion.
He gazed beyond her. “Here is your gift.”
She turned around.
The son was leading a magnificent Arabian mare into the center of the tent. So bright a gray was she that she was almost white. She seemed to draw in and reflect every particle of starlight shining outside the tent at this moment.
The young man handed the blue and red beaded lead to Flavia.
The mare lowered her head, and Flavia stroked her face. Wide in the forehead, the mare had a large brain lurking behind those dark brown eyes, knowing and serene as a desert queen. Her jaw, too, was deep and wide, but her throat was gracefully curved and slender. Her cheeks were as hard-edged as Haritat’s, but they were dusted with fine hairs as soft as the silken bowstring. Her near-white forelock hung two-thirds of the way down her gently concave face. But again to her eyes Flavia was drawn. The light hairs surrounding them were so tiny and spare that the dark skin showed beneath, reminding Flavia at once of the shadow-eyed beauties of Alexandria. The mare’s muzzle, too, was dark and soft and seemed to have been created solely to invite a woman’s caress.
Flavia turned to Haritat. “Thank you,” she whispered, as a pair of tears slid down her cheeks. “I will call her Artemis.”
“Those cannot be what they seem,” Haritat said. “Not from so valiant a warrior. They must simply be the first drops of the early morning dew.”
He gestured to the men, and they sat up close next to Morlana and Flavia.
“This is a night worth remembering in a life worth remembering,” Haritat said.
Rufio was surprised at how light the Nabataeans traveled. With no slaves at hand to serve, Haritat’s sons offered hard goat cheese, flat bread, and dates mixed with sheep butter.
While everyone ate, Rufio observed his host. Haritat’s lava-dark face was an inverted pyramid with a drooping black moustache streaked with gray. A sharp beard as pointed as a knife tip jutted from his chin. The creases fanning out from his greenish-brown eyes might have been the remains of humorous fireside tales, or the relics of great pain. Both were possible in this harsh land. A black caftan covered his lean body, and he wore a white head-cloth. A curved dagger in a red sash nestled against the left side of his waist.
Haritat invited all to share his tents for the evening, but responsibilities at camp made everyone decline. When it was time to go, Haritat focused his gaze on Rufio.
“I will speak with the centurion, if it is his pleasure.”
Even the sons left th
e tent, but not before bringing in camel saddles and propping pillows against them so the two men could recline at leisure.
“You are the fighting man,” Haritat said, leaning back on one elbow. It was not a question but a statement.
“I am.”
“The tribune is your leader.”
“He is.”
Rufio knew that for Nabataeans the posing of questions to a stranger was a great impoliteness. So they tended to throw out remarks and wait for affirmation or denial.
“He is young enough to be your son.”
“Almost.”
“I do not understand the Roman system.”
“Many have not. They’re all dead now.”
The eye creases tightened. “I sense a rebuke.”
Rufio let that one hang there.
“You have lived in the desert before,” Haritat said in a lighter tone.
“How do you know?”
“Romans have heavy feet and stiff backs. But you tread lightly within my tent so as not to disturb the rugs. And you sit directly upon the earth with ease and grace. These are a desert dweller’s traits.”
“I served in one of the legions in Syria.”
“Ah, the Syrians. A dull race.”
Rufio remained silent.
“May I pose a question to my guest?”
“As many as will please you.”
“Why has Rome come to the land of Herod the Mad?”
“It’s the will of Dushara.”
That startled him. “You know our Holy One?”
“All who walk the East do well to pay homage to the Sun God of the Nabataeans,” Rufio said, slipping seamlessly into Aramaic. “I could not have come all this distance through many dangers in defiance of his will. His care must be upon me.”
Haritat stared at him but there was no rudeness in it. Simply a fierce desire to understand this outlander.
“Many have crashed through these lands,” Haritat said. “Hard feet and minds no more supple than cracked sheepskins. They knew not our tongue or our gods or our passions. They conquered, but they did not vanquish. And they have all fallen away. But you . . . you know our great God and you tell me this in a language as foreign to you as the desert stars.” He took a deep breath and let it out with the settled relief of someone who has satisfied himself at last. “You are a dangerous man.”
Rufio said nothing.
“And always you call us Nabataeans rather than Arabs.”
“I know you prefer it.”
“Arav is a Hebrew word for desert, so that is what they call us, but it has no meaning for us. Arabayah is a Persian word. The Persians are dogs.”
“And the Parthians?” Rufio asked.
“The offspring of Persians mated with vipers.”
“You bear them no love then?”
“As much as I love a scorpion swimming in my cup of milk.”
“We’re here to stop them. Will you fight by them, by us, or by no one?”
“Are they coming?”
“You tell me.”
“I cannot say,” Haritat answered. “There are always rumors.”
“Confirm them or dispel them.”
“Why cannot the Judaeans crush the scorpions?”
“Herod is in decline. His health is failing.”
“Yes, I know.”
“And Augustus has little trust in the ability of his sons.”
“A wise man, Sebastos.”
“A Roman cohort in the south will be like a string of camel bells across the gate,” Rufio said. “The slightest touch and they’ll ring all the way back to Rome.”
“A cohort will not deter them.”
“Not a cohort—the threat of Rome.”
“They sense upheaval in this kingdom. They wait for a sandstorm to disorient their prey.”
“I know that. That’s why we’re here.”
“It is a mad task you have—to threaten with a handful of nothing.”
“A Roman cohort is worth a thousand Parthians.”
For the first time this night, Haritat laughed. “Confidence is hardly a dry well with you.”
“I’m an oasis of arrogance,’ Rufio said, laughing with him.
“Seek no recruits among our people. We have no love for Herod.”
“It was never my intention to do so.”
“We have chosen peaceful commerce instead of the glories of the blade.” His dark eyes gazed out over the twin cliffs of his cheekbones. “Unless we are roused.”
“That is an ornament then?” Rufio pointed to the long straight sword, sheathed in wood and leopard skin, lying by him on the carpet.
“No.”
“Mallius has told me tales about your youth. How you slew Egyptians beyond number in battles on sea and land.”
“Mallius exaggerates.”
“About the number who fell?”
“About my youth.” Haritat rose. “May Dushara guard your rest tonight.”
Rufio stood, and in Latin he said, “And may Victoria enfold you within her wings.”
Haritat smiled. “Ah, yes. You are a very dangerous man.”
35
NOTHING IS GREAT UNLESS IT IS GOOD.
ROMAN SAYING
We have begun moving south. How I wish Diocles were here to record this. Never has there been so odd an army out here. A mounted Roman cohort flanked by Judaean cavalry, along with a retired soldier and his daughter and a family of Nabataean horse traders.
We avoid the towns the way clever ferrets are wary of snare traps. Yet our dust is visible from miles off, and the children often come out to watch. Occasionally the adults do, too. Their look is not pleasant. They are masters of the surly gaze. Many foreigners have ridden through this land, so I suppose people here have much practice displaying a curled lip.
Fortunately, Matthias is skilled at soothing them. He has a calming manner that wafts over them like an evening breeze. He is not a born soldier like Valerius. He has to work hard at that. Matthias is more like a politician. He knows just the right words to smooth the feathers of these angry grouse that come fluttering out of the villages. If ever anyone were capable of encouraging a revolt against Herod, it would be this clever young man.
Haritat is the opposite. He is the great isolate. A peak in the middle of a vast plain. He never speaks unnecessarily. It is as if words are expensive. Or much effort in a land where life itself is an effort. Where every spoken word draws moisture from the body, and only a fool does that without purpose. Yet when he chooses to talk, he is the most vivid speaker I have ever known. When he speaks of himself, it is always as if he is talking about another—a character in some great saga to which he alone can bear witness. He never deals in ideas. He always uses real objects. A courageous man is not brave—he has “the heart of a lion.” A traitor is “a viper’s spawn.” Once when he did not know I was behind him, I heard him say to Rufio that a woman’s scent “was the sweetness of lavender after a rain.”
The Judaean soldiers stay away from him. Yet they love to tell stories about him. Legends swirl around him like a desert whirlwind. One soldier said that he has eleven wives. Another that he has fathered thirty-seven children. One of the older Judaeans told Rufio that in his youth Haritat had sailed against the Egyptians when they were trying to take over the frankincense trade by sea, and that after he had sent forty Egyptians to the bottom he stopped counting.
One evening all of us were sitting by campfires after our meal, when I dozed off beside Bellator as I was leaning on his shoulder. Suddenly, something jolted me out of my sleep, and I sat straight up with my heart pounding. At first, I could not understand what had woken me. Then an astounding voice, singing some great tragic tale, swept in out of the night, and I realized that is what had roused me. Haritat was standing alone at the edge of the darkness and singing a melancholy epic I could understand not in words but in the fullness and richness of its feelings.
With me he is the model of propriety. Somehow I can always sense when he is nearb
y, watching over me. But he is not strictly paternal, at least in his thoughts. He is a man like other men, and my beauty attracts him. However, if his desire is intense, so is the fierceness of his rectitude. He never lets his gaze linger on me but he always turns away. I have learned that strong leaders have strong passions, so the effort for him must be immense.
The most frustrating thing about desert travel is the inability to bathe. Sand gets into everything and clings to everything. Bellator said that I should be grateful, because there are places in Judaea where the sand is like powder and is much worse than this. I told Bellator I have no gratitude. I never feel clean, and there is always grit scraping between my teeth. And there is no escape. I think my teeth will be worn down to stumps by the time I return to Gaul.
After an especially long and dusty day, my face must have betrayed this. We were encamped at an oasis that even Mallius had not known before. Haritat signaled to me, and he took me to a smaller pool some distance away.
“You may bathe here,” he said. He never asked me if that is what I wanted or if I were willing to do so in his presence. He pulled his sword from the scabbard and laid it on the ground at the edge of the pool. Then he turned around and sat with his back to it and to me.
I disrobed and slid into the water and it was bliss. I was so selfish that for a while I forgot about everything else. Then I realized how difficult this must be for Haritat. A swift glance toward me would have gone unnoticed—or, if seen, would have cost me nothing. Yet he was as immobile as black marble.
I finished quickly and dressed.
“I’m done,” I said, but he did not turn around. He reached behind his back for his sword and stood and replaced it in its sheath.
“Let us eat,” he said and started back toward camp.
As caring as a father but tormented like a lover, Haritat knows that fate—or Dushara—has decreed he can never be either to me. Yet he chooses not to draw off. He has decided to endure the pain of longing in order to be able to watch over me and protect me. It is a mindless agony, terrible and pointless. And how I admire him for it. At that moment, my affection for him began to blossom like desert chamomile, and I knew it would bloom forever. And I was certain that the image of the flower was one that he would love.
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