“I’m completely adrift.”
“Odd that he knew of you personally. The private details.”
“That’s not really a mystery. Flavia talks a lot. But the rest—the Parthian archers, Phraates’ plan. Where did he get that?”
“Do you think he’s a Parthian traitor? Someone at court?”
“It’s possible. And I’d like to know how he got the watchword for the day. He had an odd accent that I couldn’t place.”
“Maybe an Idumaean?”
“Oh, no. He was too positive and direct. No fatalism or doubts.”
“And you couldn’t identify his clothes or his horse? A Nisaean charger or a Turanian mount?”
“I saw only his face. And that was as clear as a shadow behind a cloud.”
Crus smiled. “You’re beginning to speak like Haritat.”
“And what’s this tale about doing all this to protect the life of a single man? Who? Why? We’re talking about the struggle of empires here. What kind of nonsense is this?”
“Do you think he was lying?
“No, and that’s the lunacy of it. It’s too ridiculous not to be true. And besides, if he was lying, we should just assume he lied about everything. And we can go back to our beds now and forget about all of it.”
“But there’s no forgetting in this land, is there?” Crus said, turning and gazing out the open door into the darkness. “Everything is chiseled in desert rock forever.”
“No one forgets anything in Judaea.”
Crus looked back at Rufio. “It’s Bellator, isn’t it?”
“It has to be. He’s the only one besides me who has spent any time out here.”
“But if this stranger is an old comrade of his, you’d think he’d want to come in and see his friend.”
“Unless that friend is Bellator. You know him—ornery as a toothless old dog. And like a crippled hound, he creates a strange kind of loyalty. You don’t want to be around him—but you don’t want to see him beaten to death, either.”
“All right,” Crus said. “In the morning, we’ll speak of Parthians. Cancel weapons drills. Give the men an easy day. Have them dote on their horses. At the third hour we’ll meet with all the centurions. And Matthias. Agreed?”
“You don’t need to ask me for confirmation.”
Crus tried to suppress a smile. “Good.” He downed the rest of his wine. “This won’t be easy, will it?”
“Very difficult. The Parthians are a lethal foe.”
“Fair enough.” Crus stood up. “So are we.”
Rufio closed the door behind his tribune and turned to see Flavia coming out of their quarters in the back.
“Is everything all right?” she asked.
“Flavia, you simply cannot dress that way here.”
She stood there naked, sleepily brushing the hair away from her eyes.
“I’m sorry. Will you come to bed now?”
Rufio just smiled at her. Sometimes he forgot how childlike she was, how utterly without guile and without shame.
Rufio put out the lamp and they went into the bedroom. Small but adequate, it had a bed with a new mattress made of homespun and stuffed with fresh medica by Neko.
Rufio undressed and slid in beside Flavia. She nestled her head in the hollow of his shoulder.
“My love . . . .” she said.
“Mmmm?”
“I don’t mean to talk so much. I don’t mean to annoy you.”
“Annoy me? What—oh. Did you hear our whole conversation?”
“I woke up when the tribune came in.”
“You don’t annoy me,” he said and kissed her on the bridge of her nose. “You could never annoy me.”
She breathed deeply with contentment.
“Will you tell Bellator about this stranger?”
“I haven’t decided. Maybe later. When we’re aboard ship on the way back to Italy.”
“But wouldn’t he want to know about his friend? Wouldn’t it make him happy?”
“Not Bellator. It would make him feel like this whole venture now depended on him. It certainly wouldn’t bring him peace. He has an odd streak of melancholy in him. Sometimes he’s more like a Judaean than a Roman.”
Flavia said no more.
Rufio was on the edge of falling asleep when he felt one of Flavia’s fingers sliding back and forth across his chest to get his attention. He squeezed her hip to show her he was listening.
“My love, I’ve never spoken to anyone about Rosa. Or Marcellus. Ever.”
When Rufio finally drifted off, it was into a night of uneasy dreams.
40
IN DIFFICULT AND TENUOUS CIRCUMSTANCES, THE BOLDEST PLANS ARE SAFEST.
LIVIUS
“We’re being watched,” Rufio said, and I looked around, but it seemed that there was nothing alive on the entire earth. Bellator, Rufio, and I had ridden out of the fort just before sunrise. Now we sat on our horses in the high Judaean hills as the sun turned them to mounds of gold. The long shadows made it difficult to distinguish objects on the ground. I saw no men or mounts anywhere. “You’re looking for the wrong thing,” Rufio said, reading what was in my mind. “Over there.” He pointed with his chin. About two hundred feet to the south, in the shadow of an escarpment, I saw some slight movement, like two small objects caught in the wind. But there was not the slightest breeze. Suddenly I realized that they were two little cats playing together in the shade. And they had spots, something I had never seen on cats. A third quick movement caught their attention, and they lunged at it together. Now what had seemed to be just a mixture of sunlight and shadow against the rock sharpened into a creature I had never seen before. A giant cat, spotted like the two kittens, lay there swishing her tail, and they leaped at its fluffy end as if they were capturing a mouse. In a seemingly lifeless abyss, this was the most beautiful sight one could ever hope to see. Yet she would have been beautiful anywhere. The breeze had begun, but we were upwind, and the horses, who were looking elsewhere, as yet knew nothing of her. The young cats stalked and killed her tail again and again, but the great mother never took her eyes from us. She was the queen of this cruel land, and we remained here unchallenged in her realm only with her permission. I looked at Rufio. “The Jews call her the nemar. That’s the Aramaic word. We call her the leopard.” I asked him if she would harm us. “Not unless we threaten her cubs. She prefers antelope. And the Dog of the Canaanites is her special delight. Let’s leave her now.”
But Rufio did not move. Instead he continued gazing at her with a look of such gentleness that even I was startled. I, who know him better than anyone does. It was as if he were watching Paki staring up at him from his desk. Yet I think there might have been something else as well, a reason beyond the pleasing sight of a big kitten lolling in the shade. Here in this land of nothingness, a creature of incomparable majesty thrived. Flourished in an almost casual way, where people, for all their cleverness, could barely cling to life. And she did so while embodying a beauty that was almost incomprehensible.
I am not sure, but I think Rufio’s eyes were misty as he turned away. Perhaps it was just from the cutting gust of wind that suddenly blew by.
We rode off toward a shaded mountain pass. In the distance I could see a haze beyond the end of the gorge. The hills began to lose their smoothness and jagged peaks the color of tarnished bronze rose on either side of us. When we came out the other end I must have made a strange sound, because Bellator looked at me and laughed. About two hundred feet below us lay an enormous quiet sea. The gorgeous color was what the Romans sometimes call aqua marina. It made no sense to me that Bellator had spoken so harshly of this place. But in a few minutes, I realized why. The silence. No fish broke the water. No birds flew low over the surface. And the surrounding terrain was as bleak as any place untouched by a divine hand. This was a land long abandoned by indifferent gods. Along some of the shoreline, and even out into the shallows as well, what looked like great mounds of snow rose several feet. But they brought n
o coolness here. Rufio said these were giant crusts of salt. He called them “the bones of the sea.”
“One thing more,” Rufio said, and we turned into a nearby ravine and rode south. We headed downhill, and by the time we came out of the pass we were at least a hundred feet lower than we had been not long before. “Etch that in your mind and never forget it,” Rufio said and pointed to a mountain about five miles away. I saw nothing exceptional about it. We were surrounded by magnificent peaks that were much more impressive. The only distinctive thing was that it was flat on the top. I hardly considered that to be special. I looked back at Rufio. “Your young eyes can see more than they think they see,” he said.
I examined it again, and then I realized what I was looking at. “Are those buildings?” I asked, not really believing what I was seeing.
“Herod is the master builder,” Rufio said. “Not even traitors can ever take that title from him.”
I looked back at the mountain. “But up there? How? Why?”
“To keep enemies at bay,” Bellator said. “And to prove he can do anything. It’s called Masada.”
“He’d be safe up there, wouldn’t he?” I said.
Bellator smiled but said nothing.
“Well, wouldn’t he?” I asked him. “No army could ever get him there.”
Bellator turned to Rufio.
“Look to the right,” Rufio said to me. “See that spur of land against the western wall? It would be simple to build a siege ramp there, push a ram up, and knock down the wall.” He turned to Bellator. “Two months?”
“At the most,” Bellator said. “Six weeks with enough manpower.” He turned to me. “Of course, no one could do it but us. So as long as Herod doesn’t fight the Romans, he’s safe.” He laughed good-naturedly. “And the Jews would never be foolish enough to fight us, would they, Quintus?”
I laughed, too, and then something happened that unsettled me for the rest of the day. I expected Rufio to laugh with us at the absurdity of Judaea waging war against the Romans, but he suddenly became serious.
“I don’t know,” he said, and he seemed very troubled. “I don’t know.”
He turned his horse around and we followed him, and he did not say another word all the way back to the fort.
“Within one month, the Parthians will be on the move,” Crus said. “Our information on this is beyond question.”
Crus knew he was exaggerating his own certainty, but this was no time for half measures.
A plate of dried fruits and cups of cool spring water had been set out for the eight men seated around his desk. Early morning sunshine angled in through the open doorway of the Principia.
“We should expect as many as a thousand,” Crus went on, “although there might be less. They’ll be mounted bowmen. Feared by all.” He smiled. “Except by us. Presumably they’ll sweep up from around the south edge of the Salt Sea. Villages will fall and this kingdom will rattle. Or so Phraates hopes.” Crus took a sip of water. “We’re here to stop him.”
“Tribune,” Bellator said.
“Decurion.”
“No heavy cavalry? Can you be sure?”
“Well, as a man I admire once said to me, only fools are sure. But that’s my belief.”
Crus looked around at the soldiers in front of him. These centurions had the relaxed self-assurance of men who had confronted most things, but also the wise caution of those who knew that no one had seen everything.
He glanced at Matthias. The Judaean seemed uncertain. Not fearful, perhaps, but at sea among these storm-tossed professionals. Crus knew it was unwise for him to feel left out.
“Questions, Matthias? After all, this is your land.”
Clearly startled to be asked his views, Matthias hesitated. Then he said, “These are ruthless men, tribune. Skilled men. How will we meet them?”
“With Jewish faith and Roman steel.”
Matthias was visibly touched. A few of the centurions laughed, and one slapped the Judaean on the shoulder.
“Not bad, eh?” the centurion said. “We’ll get it done.”
Matthias smiled. “We’ll do our part.”
“I know that,” Crus said. “Now the question is how do we get it done. We have no one to match them as horse archers. Infantry is useless, since the Parthian bowmen will stay hundreds of feet away from a sword thrust. Therefore, we listen to the advice of Mallius and smash them with cavalry.”
“But where do we get those?” one of the centurions asked.
“We don’t get them,” Crus said. “We become them.”
The seasoned soldiers stared silently at Crus.
“Rufio. . . .” the tribune said.
“Are you going to tell me,” Rufio asked his officers, “that you tender souls cannot manage a brawl on horseback?”
They all laughed.
“Well,” one of them said, “now that you phrase it so sweetly.”
Rufio laughed with them. “We can do this. I’ll explain why.” He paused for a moment. “The Parthian archers are not warriors.” He let that dangle.
“All right,” another of the centurions finally said, “tell us why that is.”
“Because they never fight. They stand off and launch arrows into helpless throngs and then flee. They’re not fighters. They’re butchers. They’re not soldiers any more than someone who pisses on a pile of grapes is a winemaker.”
“You should be speaking in the Curia,” Bellator said, laughing. “Your eloquence is wasted here.”
Rufio smiled and went on. “Few things are more dangerous than a swarm of Parthian archers. But they’re like locusts—they’re dangerous only in a swarm. Get in close and you’ve got them.”
A scarred older centurion, with whom Rufio had served beside the great horsemen of Spain, looked concerned.
“What is it, Decius?”
“I thank Mars that you trained all of our century on horses last year, but fighting from horseback . . . that’s much more.”
“It is. But remember that we’re not up against Hannibal’s cavalry. We’re facing riders who fear the blade. When we close with them, we thrust as if we’re standing on our own feet. And the horse’s four hard feet are more stable than our own two feeble ones.”
“Our swords are short for cavalry,” Decius said.
“We have what we have.”
“Very well.”
Decius said no more.
“Today the men can rest,” Rufio said. “The next day they begin. Bellator will work with the men, one century at a time. I’ll deal with the horses. We have some of the best mounts on earth. Match them with the finest soldiers, and the Parthians will have something to write about in their histories. Those who can write. And those who survive.”
Rufio walked by the horse pens and watched his men grooming their mounts and picking their feet and establishing a bond unique in all the world. With Arabian horses that was not easy, insolent half-mad beasts that they were. With an Arab steed, you never issued a command. You made a firm request delicately cloaked with the hint of force. Then you waited an instant—no longer—and allowed him to conclude that your wish was not just truly wise but was really his own idea all along. Then he was yours.
Rufio heard someone running, and he turned to see Arrianus hurrying toward him.
“Mallius is dead.”
“From what?” Rufio asked in the blank tone of someone who had seen hundreds fall.
“His horse put its foot wrong and stumbled. Mallius went off. Broke his neck. Gone like a puff of smoke. I was in the village buying some cloth.”
“Where’s the little girl?”
“I brought her here. She’s with Flavia.”
“Take someone to Hezrail to get Mallius’s body.”
“The Jews already put him in the ground.”
Rufio nodded. “I forgot they buried the dead. Just as well. No need for that child to smell her father’s burning corpse. Get a few from our century and collect Mallius’s belongings and horses and brin
g them here. You pick the men.”
“They’re already on their way to Hezrail.”
“Thank you. Well done.” Rufio shook his head. “Twenty years in the legions and he goes like that.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly as he turned and gazed at the horses. “Tomorrow we begin training. You’re already a horseman, so I want you to help Bellator. Steady the men. I don’t want them too eager. You cannot rush things with horses.”
“Yes, centurion. I know that.”
“Yes, I suppose you do. And don’t be formal with me.”
“Thank you, Rufio.”
“I think that barley put some weight on you. In all the right places.”
“Best meal I ever ate.”
Rufio stepped past Arrianus and headed back to his quarters.
Neko was seated at Rufio’s desk and reading a scroll, no doubt an account of Parthian warfare. He stood up when Rufio entered and he gestured toward the bedroom.
Rufio went in. Morlana and Flavia were sitting on the edge of the bed. Flavia was holding one of Morlana’s hands. The front of Flavia’s green tunic was soaked.
Morlana’s face was the color of goat’s milk.
Rufio dropped to one knee in front of her at the side of the bed.
The rims of Morlana’s eyes were as red as raw meat. Her lower lip trembled as she looked at him, but she seemed all cried out.
Rufio opened his arms and she reached for him and he pulled her close.
Then the tears came again, and she wept to exhaustion and finally slumped against him.
“I don’t know where my daddy is,” she struggled to say through her sobs.
“But you do. All Roman soldiers live forever in Paradise. Someday you’ll be with him again.”
“Are you sure?” she said, her face still flat against his chest.
“Yes.”
She squeezed him more tightly. “I’m so afraid. I’m all alone.”
“Oh, Morlana,” Flavia said. “You’ll never be alone.”
Morlana turned to Flavia.
“Don’t be afraid,” Flavia said. “We’re with you.”
Horses on the Storm Page 24
