Rufio sat astride his dapple gray gelding and surveyed the arid expanse below.
This was different than the lush river valleys he knew from Italy. Here the brown land spread out like lumpy dough, made so by the dry washes that cut through it at every angle and in no particular pattern. Countless patches of deep green shrubs and a delicate embroidery of yellow and purple flowers showed that the spring sun had not yet unleashed its fury. A few clouds threw grayish blue shadows across the landscape. To the right, low brown hills rose gently, while to the left a high and jagged escarpment scraped the sky on the eastern horizon.
Haritat rode up on his black mare. “This is it. The land is changing.”
“I know. I’ve been here before. Not this valley, but this region.”
“There is a village beyond that southern prominence. Mostly shepherds and wool weavers.”
“Good. Many of our saddle blankets are already worn. We need more.”
The two men gazed in silence for a while.
“That fascinates me,” Haritat said after several minutes.
On a flat patch, the Second Cohort was trenching the perimeter of its field camp in the mid-afternoon sun.
“Why?”
“That you take the trouble to do that every day.”
“It pays us back.”
To save time watering the horses, the men had dismounted, and Mallius and Bellator had led the horses to a spring-fed pool at the southwest edge of the valley. Haritat’s sons, eagerly helped by Morlana, rode herd and kept them together.
“I’ve never seen so many beautiful horses at one time in my life,” Rufio said.
Haritat maintained his usual silence until required to break it.
“Romans are harsh to their animals,” Rufio said with a hint of bitterness.
“Why?”
“I don’t know. But if you said that to a Roman, he wouldn’t understand you. It would be like telling him he’s being cruel to a cart or a shovel.”
“Romans see animals as objects then.”
“Yes,” Rufio said.
“But not you.”
“I’m a Roman, too.”
“But not every bird in the flock sings the same song.”
It was Rufio’s turn to remain silent.
“That cat of yours,” Haritat said. “She lives like a queen.”
Rufio refused to acknowledge any gentleness in himself, but he unconsciously stroked the withers of his horse. “We could learn much from the Nabataeans.”
“Our horses are a gift from Dushara. Our brothers who fly with us on the edge of the wind.”
“I envy you—and you won’t hear a Roman say that very often.”
“Perhaps we can learn something, each from the other.”
Rufio turned away from the valley and looked at the hawk-like face next to him. “Perhaps we can.” A slow smile softened his eyes.
“Why did you refuse to return to Mallius the horses you found unsuitable?” Haritat asked.
“How do you know that?”
“Bellator.”
“I didn’t want them sold to some ignorant Caesareans to be beasts of burden. No Arabians deserve that. Not the worst of them. Not even the killers.”
Now Haritat smiled, and it was always startling on that lean and forbidding face.
“Speaking of the horses. . . .”
“Yes?” Haritat said.
“I pulled a few at random from the herd and put them through some maneuvers. They seemed already trained.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Certainly all cannot be trained so well.”
“Not all, but most. Those we sell them to usually have neither the patience nor the skill. And I don’t want my horses to be beaten by fools. So my sons and I train them first.”
“But that takes so much time. The three of you must be training constantly.”
“I have nineteen sons.”
“Oh,” Rufio said with a laugh. “My mistake.”
“Of course, you might use them for battle, so they will require further work.”
“We’re fortunate there. Bellator was a decurion in his younger days.”
“What is that?”
“A centurion who smells like horse shit.”
“Ah,” Haritat said, smiling. “What kind of battle do you foresee?”
“If it’s only bandits, then skirmishes. If it’s fire-hardened Parthians, then this is a serious roll of the dice.”
Haritat turned away and looked off toward the valley.
“Do you have an opinion?” Rufio asked.
“I do.”
“Will you share it?”
“Bandits there are. That’s certain. They’ve been locusts on the grain throughout Herod's reign. Mostly in the north, but some in the south as well.”
“And the Parthians?”
“Unpredictable as a mare in season.”
“Predict anyway.”
“Rome is an affront to the Parthians.”
“What do you think their intentions are?”
“Who can unravel their barbarous minds?”
“Try.”
“Possibly to cause enough desert storms to topple Herod. Perhaps just to distract Rome from designs on Parthia itself. Let us be as true as steel here. Twice Rome has marched on Parthia and failed. Out here, if Rome is known for anything, it’s relentlessness. The Parthians are like a stallion that has been lashed but not subdued—they never forget their tormentor.”
“And their numbers?”
“Whether there are many or few, it matters not. You will die like soft petals in the first hot wind.”
Rufio laughed without arrogance.
No corresponding smile came from Haritat. “The Parthians have the cleverness of Greeks and the souls of jackals. Their king is a chattering savage in a gilded robe.”
“Rome appreciates your concern,” Rufio said.
“You asked for my opinion. . . .”
“I did.”
“It is this—go home. Leave these Judaeans to their fate. To fight among themselves until the end of time.”
“The tribune has a charge to fulfill.”
“Go anyway. Sebastos is merciful.”
“My conscience is not.”
“There is no glory here.”
“There’s little glory anywhere.”
“Then?” Haritat asked.
“It’s already decided. I don’t command this cohort. Nor does Crus. Honor commands. It’s an order that cannot be revoked.”
“Very well,” Haritat said, satisfied. “That I understand.”
“We’ll extend the hand of Rome and dare the Parthians to strike it. If they do, their howls will echo in the streets of Hell and ripple the water of the Euphrates itself. And their chattering king will tremble in his robes.”
For the first time, a full throated laugh exploded from Haritat. “You speak like a Nabataean!”
“Must be the bad diet.”
At least the Judaeans were trying. They had abandoned their haphazard camping arrangements after being shamed by the Second Cohort’s example. Their tent lines were not as straight as the rows of Roman goatskins, but they were a reasonable effort.
The purple twilight cooled the land, and Crus relished the onset of evening. He strolled down the row of tents and saw Matthias giving an order to one of his men. As always, the Judaean soldiers nearby lowered their voices as the Roman passed. Matthias noticed the hushed tones and turned and saw Crus approaching. He offered the tribune a camp stool.
“Thank you,” Crus said.
The two of them sat in front of Matthias’s tent.
“What do you need?” Crus asked.
“Need?” Matthias looked confused.
“Why did you invite me here? I wore this new red tunic just for the occasion.”
Matthias smiled and seemed relieved. “Simply to thank you. For respecting our Sabbath and not demanding we move on our day of rest.”
“It’s a small matter.
And my men need a day off, too.”
“No, it’s a large matter and we’re grateful.”
“I assume I’ll need the favor of many gods before these days are done. And Rufio tells me that yours has been known to wield a big sword when the mood moves him.”
“It’s just that I didn’t expect it.”
Crus was amused. Matthias was attempting to compliment him without risking insulting him at the same time.
“We’re not as harsh as our enemies delight in making us out to be,” Crus said. “And as for me . . . well, I gave up murdering babies in their beds and devouring the hearts of young virgins years ago.”
Matthias laughed and reached for a nearby wineskin. They had no cups, so Crus squirted some of the Judaean poison into his mouth, in the interests of diplomacy.
“When we reach Hezrail, your troops will be in the van,” Crus said. “Even though we’ll avoid the town for now and go straight out to the fort, I want your men riding in front like Judaean princes.”
“That’s very kind of you.”
“Practical. I don’t want my men to go prancing by there like a conquering army.”
“I understand.”
“Tell me about your skills.” Crus handed back the wineskin.
“What do you mean?”
“Fighting skills. I’ve seen your men training with ours.”
“Our skills are not great.”
“How many of your men have tasted battle.”
Matthias hesitated. “None.”
“Have you ever seen the body of a man who had been deliberately killed by another man?”
“No.”
“What about training with a bow?”
“We were taught the rudiments. I wouldn’t be confident that my men could hit a target beyond thirty feet. Maybe twenty.”
“Riding skills?”
“My men are fair riders.”
Matthias looked uncomfortable. It was clear to Crus that he was holding something back.
Crus turned away and stared at the escarpment turning violet in the distance. He took a deep breath of the cool air.
“I love the sweetness of the desert blossoms at sundown.”
He looked back at Matthias. Though not much older than the Judaean, Crus had aged years in an afternoon on a Gallic battlefield. Now he gazed at Matthias with the gentle reassurance of an older brother.
“Tell me,” Crus said.
Matthias licked his lips. “We’re archers and we’re mounted . . . but we’re not mounted archers.”
Crus squinted in puzzlement.
“We’ve had no training on shooting from horseback.”
Crus took another deep breath and tried not to show his exasperation.
“We’ve shot on foot at stationary objects.”
At that moment, Crus knew that these tyros would be far more useful as an enemy than as an ally.
“Well, your god must truly be great,” Crus said. “It’s only through his generosity that this kingdom still stands.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Why? It’s not your fault. Anyway we have someone who can teach you to shoot better than you do. Do you want to learn?”
“Yes! You would do that?”
“Of course.”
“Who will teach us? Rufio?”
“Flavia.”
Matthias stared at him in revulsion.
“You look like you swallowed a scorpion. She’s already begun teaching Morlana the bow.”
“A child?”
“Why not? She’s a German. They’re a race of warriors.”
“No Judaean soldiers would ever be taught by a woman.”
“Then the Judaean soldiers can be killed by men.”
“It doesn’t matter. Even if I commanded it, they wouldn’t obey.”
Crus sighed and stood up. “Then your god had better get a bigger sword. He’s going to need it.”
36
DO NOT ASK WHAT IS GOING TO HAPPEN TOMORROW.
HORACE
“Bandits?”
“Five,” Arrianus said to his centurion.
Rufio gestured to a spot on the ground near him by the campfire.
“Why were you in the village?”
Arrianus sat down close to the warmth of the crackling brush. “Valerius sent me to buy blankets for the horses. A graybeard told me it happened two days ago.”
“Anyone killed?”
“Two on the road outside the village.”
“Where is your sword?”
Arrianus looked uncomfortable. “In the tent.”
“Did you have it with you when you went into the village?”
“No, centurion.”
“Do I have to remind you about that?”
“Never again, centurion.”
Rufio saw Crus and Matthias passing by in the shadows beyond the firelight.
“Tribune!”
When they came over, Rufio nodded to Arrianus, and the soldier told them what had happened.
“The odd thing is they entered the village, too,” Arrianus said. “Attacked some women and hauled off whatever goods they could carry.”
“These are serious men,” Rufio said. “Bandits almost never leave the rural roads.”
“What does it mean?” Crus asked.
“That they’re savages!” Matthias said. “We have to get them.”
Rufio laid a calming hand on the Judaean’s forearm. “It means they believe they have nothing to fear. And they don’t. These villagers are helpless out here. They have no weapons. No troops to protect them. No—.”
“But we’re here,” Matthias said.
Rufio’s eyes drilled the Judaean. “Don’t interrupt me again.”
“Can we run them to ground?” Crus asked.
“Two days is a huge lead in the desert,” Rufio said. “And it was windy yesterday. In this loose soil the trail will be gone. Almost no chance.”
“We cannot just abandon these people here,” Matthias said.
“They’re safe now,” Rufio said. “The bird has already been plucked. The bandits are off to hunt fresh game.”
“Any idea where?” Crus asked.
“Well, if they’re going south, we might eventually make their acquaintance. The fact that they’re willing to enter towns means they’re very dangerous men.”
Crus threw a few scraps of brush onto the fire and stared into the flames. “Nothing is ever simple about a military undertaking, is it? Nothing ever follows a plan.”
“Never,” Rufio said. “But it’s that kind of excitement that appeals to the best of us. It’s why very good men like this join the army.” He slapped Arrianus on the shoulder. “Isn’t that so?”
“Yes, centurion,” Arrianus answered with a grin.
“So we do nothing?” Matthias said.
“There’s nothing we can do at the moment,” Crus answered.
“Then the Roman army isn’t what I thought it was,” Matthias said.
“What did you expect?” Arrianus asked. “Do you think we’re gods?”
“You act like it.”
“Easy, soldier,” Rufio said.
“I have to see to my men.” Matthias got up and walked off into the darkness.
“I think we disillusioned him,” Crus said.
“That’s all right,” Rufio answered. “The young thrive on disillusionment.” He turned to Arrianus. “Have you secured the blankets?”
“Not yet.”
“Do it now.”
“Yes, centurion.”
Rufio’s eyes smiled at him as he hurried off.
“That little badger is one of your favorites, isn’t he?” Crus asked.
“I have no favorites.”
“Oh, yes you do.”
“He’s one of the reasons Augustus can sleep soundly at night.”
“He’s one of the reasons I can sleep at all,” Crus said.
“Regretting your desert adventure already?”
“Oh, no. I wouldn’t trade it for
all the sin in the Suburra.”
“Then what’s troubling you? Other than bandits.”
Neko came out of Rufio’s tent with two large cups of heated wine.
“A man’s wealth is measured in the loyalty of his servants,” Crus said with a smile and took one of the cups.
The Egyptian nodded.
“Go to bed now,” Rufio said.
“I sleep when you sleep. I’ll light a lamp for you in case you want to read a bit.”
“Take some wine for yourself.”
“Thank you.” Then he returned to the tent.
“So what is it?” Rufio asked his tribune.
Crus took a long pull at the wine. “It’s these Judaeans. I’ll never understand them.”
“Nobody understands them.”
Crus told of his offer to have Flavia teach them the bow.
“Nothing surprising in that,” Rufio said. “Here women are meaningless. Outside the house, they’re invisible.”
“But it goes beyond that,” Crus said, refusing to be put off. “The soldiers themselves don’t seem to have any more drive than a crippled dog. They go through the motions, but there isn’t much spirit to it.”
“Matthias got them to drill with us. Believe me, that’s a major feat.”
“But why is it major? That’s my point.”
“You want them to be Romans. They’ll never be that.”
“You lived in the East before. Explain it to me. How can you stop from wanting to strangle them?”
Rufio laughed. “I’m no expert on them. Nobody comprehends Judaeans except Judaeans. And I’m not sure even about that.”
“I never knew it got so cold in the desert,” Crus said and pulled his red cloak more tightly around his shoulders and took a sip of the warm wine. “Give me what you can.”
“You have to understand that none of the Jewish kingdoms has ever been powerful. Not the way you and I understand power. The few times they’ve been strong it’s only been because the surrounding kingdoms have been in decline.”
“And?”
“So their focus here is on smaller things. Their villages and their families. What little power they have lives there. You and I would probably call it status rather than power.”
Horses on the Storm Page 20
