“Three days ago.”
“Inspect it now.”
It seemed an odd order at this moment. Rufio searched his face for meaning, but it was blank. “Yes, tribune.”
Rufio walked to the fort. The ditches had been completed, and awnings had been erected over the guard towers to shield the soldiers from the sun.
He went through the gateway. Stunned, he shook his head and laughed.
The interior of the fort glittered. Judaean soldiers were everywhere along with the Romans, cleaning and repairing.
Rufio made his way down the Via Praetoria. He heard the water from the fountain before he saw it. Yet the most astounding sight was the mud brick bathhouse with the exterior already half up. Matthias stood there directing the construction. He clutched what appeared to be a set of drawings, probably from Bellator.
Hoofbeats behind Rufio caused him to turn. Crus rode up grinning.
“So what do you make of that?” the tribune said and slid from his horse.
“A good man leading other good men. I told you—you underestimated him.”
“I did.” Crus said. “What do you think moved them to do this?”
“What always moves Judaeans? Shame. We should go into Hezrail and find Simon and kiss him on both cheeks. That dried up old stick embarrassed these men into this.”
Crus laughed. “Maybe we should get him to sneer at a few more of our requests. Even throw a rock or two at us.”
Rufio looked at Matthias pouring sweat. “I’ve seen many satisfying things throughout this Empire, but nothing quite like that.” He folded his arms and smiled. “For once, I’m watching a proud young Jew bury Pompeius’s horse.”
Bellator made his way outside the fort along the north wall. The shade pens for the horses were almost completed. Beyond them lay a fenced arena that could hold at least fifty horses at a time and was big enough to allow them to run and roll and simply be happy being horses.
Arrianus saw Bellator approaching and signaled to his men to take a rest in the shade.
“Fine work,” Bellator said.
“We’ll have the horses off the picket lines and in here by tomorrow.”
“How are they after the journey?”
“Lean but in good condition.”
“How many feedings a day?”
“Three.”
“Excellent. Waterings?”
“Three.”
Bellator walked down the line and inspected the pens and their homespun awnings. He liked what he saw.
Arrianus came up behind. “Do you think Rufio would let us bring some of the horses back with us?”
“To Gaul?” Bellator said in surprise.
“There’s space enough on the ship for some of them.”
“Well, that would improve the breed up there!” Bellator said, laughing. “I’ll speak with the centurion.”
“Thank you.”
“Pull up a rock,” Bellator said when they had reached a shady corner at the end.
Arrianus moved his sword out of the way and sat on a flat stone.
Bellator sat on the round.
“When I was in Syria long ago, I noticed that the horses in one of the other turmae looked better than mine. I’ve always doted on my horses, so that bothered me. Their decurion was a good man, but no better than I, and—.”
“Who could be better than Bellator?”
He gave Arrianus a mock, narrow-eyed glare. “I should be wary of you.”
“Just a simple soldier.”
“Where have I heard that before? In any case, I was concerned about my horses. After a long ride or a hard patrol, they never recovered as fast as the horses in that other turma. Yet all the horses were getting the same feed twice a day. It didn’t make sense. Almost as an afterthought, I asked the other decurion how many waterings he did. Two. I was watering three times a day because of the heat. And I was proud of it, too, because it took more time and work.” He paused.
“And that was the only difference? Less water for the other horses?”
“Yes.”
“And they did better? In a desert? That’s not possible.”
“That’s what I said. So I divided my horses into two groups. Two waterings for one, three for the other. What do you think I found?”
“I’m not . . .”
“The horses that were watered twice improved. The ones watered three times a day couldn’t compare in terms of their condition.”
“How can that be? What did you do?”
“I decided to act like a Greek and do an experiment. I kept them in two groups and measured the water I gave them, and then every night I measured what was left. A horse needs about ten congii of water even when it’s doing nothing. If it’s working hard or the climate is hot and dry, it can need up to fifteen congii. And when I measured the water, I found out that I’d been right all along.”
Arrianus searched Bellator’s eyes for meaning. “I don’t understand.”
“The horses that drank the most water did best.”
“But you said—.” Suddenly he burst out laughing.
“Do you see it?”
“The horses watered twice a day actually drank more.”
“Much more. I should have seen it from the start but didn’t. It happens to soldiers out here all the time. They collapse because they don’t drink enough water. Are they stupid?”
“I hope not.”
“Of course they’re not. People aren’t desert animals. They don’t know how much they need to drink. Same with horses. They’re grassland animals. Casual drinkers, like people. In the desert, you have to force yourself to drink more than you think you need. Have you ever watched camels at a well? You can see them swell like wineskins. Those miserable bastards know how to drink.”
“So the trick with horses in the desert is to make sure they’re really thirsty?”
“It’s the only way to get them to drink enough to stay healthy out here.” Bellator stood up and smiled. “So skip the midday watering. The one exception is when you work them hard in the morning. Then a light watering at midday. Otherwise only two.”
“I’ll do that. Has anyone ever figured out how long they can survive with no water at all?”
Bellator turned and gazed at the horses like a loving father. “No one has to figure it. Too many of us have seen it. After one day, they’re suffering very much. By the second day, they’re in agony. They don’t have much longer to live. Some horses have actually survived over three days without water, but that’s very rare. Usually by the middle of the third day, they just lie down and wait for the end. Seeing that is like watching a helpless child looking you in the eye as it gives up all hope and dies. In a world of heartbreak, it’s the saddest sight of all.”
39
CONCEDE NOT TO EVILS BUT FACE THEM BOLDLY WITH THAT WHICH FORTUNE ALLOWS YOU.
VIRGIL
Rufio was happy to be out from under leather. No soldier enjoys sleeping in a tent when he can have a roof.
He stepped out of his new quarters in the fort and into the cool midnight air and savored his favorite time of the day. Desert blossoms scented the breeze, although the coming heat would soon burn them away for another season.
He walked down the Via Principalis and was surprised to see Matthias speaking with the guards at the gate.
“I couldn’t sleep,” Matthias said half-apologetically to Rufio. “I decided to check on the horses.”
“Let’s walk together.”
“You couldn’t sleep either?” Matthias asked as they strolled toward the horse pens.
Rufio smiled. “I could sleep on a knife edge. But it’s such a squandering of time. The night refreshes me.”
“Truly?”
“When I was young . . . well, let’s say my youth had many trials. Many pains. My only comfort was to stay up later than everyone else and go out and draw peace and strength from the quiet and the darkness.”
Matthias turned toward him. “I envy that.”
“If you work at it, it’ll come.”
Their sandals made little sound as they approached the paddocks. Yet when they were still at least a hundred feet away, a soldier snapped, “Augustus!”
“Sleeps well,” Rufio answered.
The soldier had been resting on a small camp chair but now stood as straight as a pilum stuck into the ground.
“Report.”
“All quiet, centurion.”
“Good. Sit.”
Rufio and Matthias moved on.
“I’ve never seen that before,” Matthias said.
“What?”
“A seated guard.”
“Two out of three are seated. The others patrol on foot.”
“Aren’t you afraid they’ll fall asleep?”
“An officer is always afraid his men will fall asleep.”
They came upon more sitting guards and three on foot patrol. Rufio spoke with each of them. None of them appeared to feel that Rufio was checking up on them. He simply seemed concerned about their welfare.
Rufio walked along the rows of pens. Several horses came over, and he stroked their faces affectionately.
“When I was a young soldier in Gaul long ago, we were out one night in a marching camp. We were moving on the next day, so that night we let the horses roam the camp at will. I woke up in the middle of the night, and just outside our tent I could hear a horse softly cropping the grass. It was the sweetest and most innocent and most soothing sound I’d ever heard in my life.”
Matthias smiled. “Why didn’t you become a cavalryman?”
Rufio used his fingers to brush the forelock of a light gray mare who had come over to greet him. “My talents lie elsewhere.” He massaged her behind the ears. “I envy these Nabataeans. They live for the horse.”
“I suppose I envy them a little, too.”
“I’ve never heard a Judaean say that before.”
“We’re so practical. The Nabataeans are mystical—especially with the horse.”
“Maybe you could teach each other.”
“Do you think that’s possible?”
“Like Roman engineers teaching Greek philosophers. Something for both.”
“I’m not that optimistic.”
“We’re in Judaea. No one is optimistic.”
Matthias failed to suppress a bitter laugh. “I know.”
“Yet optimism is the only sensible course. Pessimists die a hundred times a day.”
“Well, I don’t think I’d ever have the optimism to let guards on duty sit down in the middle of the night.”
“That’s not optimism, that’s wisdom.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Guard duty is a soldier’s most boring job. And the most exhausting. You know that.”
“I do.”
“And what’s more painful than standing in one place for hours?”
“Nothing.”
“So if you demand that, soldiers are always looking for a chance to get around it. To sneak a rest. What good are guards like that?”
“Not good at all.”
“But you cannot just have patrolling guards either, because then there are weak spots in your perimeter. A thief or a spy just has to wait for the guard to move on. So instead, you have both fixed sentries and moving ones.”
“But aren’t the sitting soldiers likely to fall asleep?”
“They could. So you have them alternate with the moving sentries every hour. That way, both groups stay as fresh as possible.”
“You make it sound simple.”
“Sensible leadership is usually simple.”
“But then—.”
“I didn’t say it was easy. That’s different. But it is simple. Now you’ve learned that. The problem is that there are too many men in command who aren’t simple. They’re just simple-minded.”
Matthias turned away and absently stroked the Arab mare. “There’s so much to learn.”
“You have time. And one thing more—the penalty for falling asleep in the field is death.”
“Always?” Matthias said, searching Rufio’s face in the moonlight.
“My option.”
“Have you done that? Executed someone for sleeping?”
“Go get some rest and let me be alone with the night.”
Only those who have lived in the desert know how small a sliver of moon is needed for one to be able to see in the darkness. Rufio easily made his way out toward the gyrus. He walked slowly and just bathed in the cool night air.
The gate of the gyrus was open. He went inside and examined his men’s handiwork. How strange this thing must have seemed to the simple villagers here—a Greek invention built by Romans to train Arabian horses in a Judaean desert. He smiled with pride. Who but the men of the Tiber had ever had such audacity?
Hoofbeats were the last thing he expected. Softly they came on, in a gentle trot. The weight of his weapons on his hips reminded him where he was. He looked toward the section of wall opposite the gate. The horseman sounded as if he were approaching from there. Even though the gyrus wall was taller than a horse, a man on horseback could see over it.
Rufio heard the horseman ride up to the wall. His horse could not be seen at all, but the man’s head rose above the edge of the gyrus. The moon had slipped below the horizon, so there was nothing to see by but starlight. Rufio could make out nothing of the man’s face.
“Should I assume you don’t know the watchword?” Rufio asked.
“Augustus,” came the reply in a timber rich and deep.
“Sleeps well,” Rufio answered, trying to conceal his surprise. “And you are?”
“A friend.”
“Romans have no friends in Judaea.”
“Prudent. But false. I know you well.”
“Show me.”
“You are Quintus Flavius Rufio, brother of Rosa, uncle of Marcellus, lover of Flavia, and newfound hero to a lonely little girl.”
Rufio felt a chill up his arms and across his neck.
“And now?” the man said.
“Why are you here?”
“To see that your cohort lives to return to Gaul.”
“Are you a Roman?”
“Alas, no.”
“Then why?”
“Is it not true that so practical a man as Rufio rarely asks why? He asks how.”
Rufio felt the chill again.
“Is that not your nature?” the man asked.
“Yes.”
“The Parthians will come.”
Rufio strained to see his features but it was hopeless. “How do you know?”
“I have rivers of knowledge far beyond the dried up creeks of your ignorance.”
He spoke with the mellifluous confidence of a philosopher—or a madman.
“How many?”
“That is yet to be seen. Expect no less than five hundred. Prepare for a drafsh.”
“Horse archers?”
“Yes.”
“Heavy cavalry?”
“No.”
“How can you be certain?”
The man just gazed at him over the wall.
“Yes, yes, I know about the cracked streambeds of my folly,” Rufio said, “but I have to be sure. If there are heavy cavalry—men with armor and lances—we have to withdraw.”
“The nobles will not fight for Phraates’ scheme.”
“And that scheme is what?”
“To unsettle this kingdom. To rob Augustus of his sleep so that the Princeps has too many worries in this land. Too many to bother with campaigns against Parthia.”
“What campaigns?”
“The men of the East have a memory as long as time. They loathe the legions of Rome.”
“The Parthians threaten our eastern edge.”
“They threaten nothing but your dreams. Phraates knows that your belief in that is enough—enough to threaten his sleep, his dreams.”
“Crassus and Antonius are dead.”
“Phraates’ memory is not. He was a
young man on the throne when Antonius tried to stab Parthia through the heart.”
“You sound as if you sympathize with them.”
“I do. The Romans have tormented them for decades. Twice Rome attacked Parthia without cause and without honor.”
“Then why help us?”
“One of your people is my friend.”
Now it was Rufio’s turn to stare blindly into the darkness. Finally he said, “You’d do all this to save one person?”
“I would. And I am.”
Suddenly Rufio felt certain the stranger was about to ride off, and he was desperate to keep him there.
“Have we met?” Rufio asked. “You and I? In Rome? Somewhere in the provinces?”
“We have not. Expect the Parthians in no less than a month and in no more than two.”
And then he rode away.
A lamp burned on the rough desk at which a now long-forgotten centurion had once sat. Neko had set out pitchers of wine and water and a cup.
Rufio took off his sword belt and set it aside and then sat down at the desk and stared at nothing. He stood up abruptly to summon Neko, but the Egyptian was already coming in.
“You look chilled,” Neko said, ever sensitive to disquiet in his master.
“Yes.”
Neko poured some wine and then added some water and handed him the cup.
“How many soldiers in a drafsh?”
“One thousand.”
“Go to the Praetorium,” Rufio said. “Ask the guard to wake the tribune and to ask him if he’ll join me for wine. Put on a cloak. It’s a cool night.”
Neko left and was gone only a few minutes. The tribune was not far behind.
Crus stood in the doorway. “Has there been an eclipse?”
Rufio gave him a puzzled look.
“Otherwise,” Crus said, “it’s a strangely dark time for a gathering of the wise.”
Rufio smiled. “Will you join me?”
Neko got another cup and poured the tribune some wine and mixed in some water.
“Now back to Morpheus,” Rufio commanded, and Neko withdrew.
Without preliminaries, Rufio told Crus about the warning from the stranger at the gyrus.
The tribune remained silent for a long time. “Well, what do you make of it?” he said at last.
Horses on the Storm Page 23
