She looked back at Rufio.
“Flavia is right,” he said. “You’re not alone when you’re with the Romans. I need you here. I need my strator.”
She seemed shocked. “Do you still want me?”
“Of course I do. These Italian foot soldiers don’t know anything about horses. The way to comb out a mane or pick a horse’s feet. I need a Suebian horsewoman to show them how.”
Tears and a smile flowed across her face together.
Rufio noticed that her right hand was clenched. He stretched out her thin fingers to relax her, and something fell into his hand.
“What’s this?”
It was a tiny horse carved from tamarisk, stained dark now from her sweat. She must have been gripping it for hours.
“Your present,” she said. “Remember? I was holding it when I saw my father fall.”
“I’ll keep it forever.”
She rested her head back against his chest.
“Flavia is going to take you to the bath house now to get you freshened up. Then we have some work to do this afternoon. I want the horses glowing like Pegasus. I need you to show my men the way.”
She looked up, the most fragile and vulnerable creature he had seen since a terrible day over twenty years ago.
“And remember,” he said, stroking her hair, “no girl need fear anything when she’s in the arms of Rufio.”
41
HALF IS DONE WHEN THE BEGINNING IS DONE.
HORACE
The horses had been fed and watered long before sunrise. Now Crus and Bellator watched the men groom their mounts in their pens in the early half-light.
“Give a good soldier a dozen tasks,” Bellator said, “and he’ll do them well. But he’ll complain. Then give him one that involves an animal and he’ll change. Soften. I’ve seen it a hundred times.”
Crus continued looking at his men as they went over their animals.
“See how gently they wipe around their horses’ eyes?” Bellator said. “How carefully they pick their feet?”
“Rufio says Romans are brutal toward horses.”
“That’s because he’s a sentimentalist about animals. Look at that cat. The Queen of Gaul. And that Numidian stud Cormagnus. He eats better than I do. No soldier can live up to Rufio’s standard.”
“Even Rufio,” Crus said.
“What do you mean?”
“Just a stray thought. Never mind.”
“Rufio says that the sound of horses grazing in the night is the sweetest sound there is. He’d rather hear that than a woman’s moans.”
“Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” Crus said with a smile. “I’ve known Flavia too long to believe that.”
“All right, maybe I’ve stumbled out of the arena, but you know what I mean.”
Crus gazed back at his soldiers. “They do look like they’re enjoying themselves.”
“Give a man a beast and you make a better man. He has to look outside himself. Outside of everything he’s ever known. And he has to step inside a mind that he realizes he’ll never fully understand. And when that mind fires an animal as excitable and mysterious and powerful as a horse—and as spirit-driven as an Arabian horse—then you’ve forged a man like no other.”
“And you say that Rufio is a sentimentalist.”
“He is. I’m a realist.”
“Oh. My error.”
Objects in the distance beyond Bellator caught Crus’s eye. Bellator turned, and they both examined the black figures coming from the east.
“Riders,” Bellator said as the men were outlined against the barely lit gray-blue sky.
“I’ve never seen horses so tall.”
“No, you haven’t. They’re camels.”
Crus looked at Bellator and smiled. “Who do you think it is?”
“Haritat. Come back to help us train. As he promised.”
Seven riders approached in a “V” with Haritat leading. The camels came on with that uniquely swaying gait that somehow seemed both ungainly and graceful at the same time. The black robes of the riders fluttered majestically in the early morning breeze.
“By Jupiter,” Crus said softly, “They’re grand. And they know it. I wonder, though, if Haritat is really as fearsome as his legend. . . .”
Bellator began walking toward them. “Let’s meet them part of the way. Out of respect.”
The two Romans approached with forceful but measured steps, empty of both fawning and insolence.
“I don’t understand why they wear such dark clothes in the desert,” Crus said.
“It baffles me. But they say it keeps them cooler.”
The Romans stopped as the riders came abreast. The three on each side of Haritat swung to the front until all seven stood in a single rank.
The camels dropped to their knees, and the men dismounted.
Haritat stepped forward.
“As I promised,” the desert chieftain said.
Crus smiled. “As you did. Thank you.”
“These are a few of my sons.”
“Rome is honored,” Crus said. “And Rome is grateful.”
Haritat jerked on his camel’s lead and his sons did likewise, and the animals rose with that hideous guttural protest that could easily convince someone that they were being beaten with iron rods.
“Mallius is dead,” Crus said as they walked back toward the fort. “He fell off his horse and snapped his neck.”
Haritat’s face was as emotional as rock. “And the little one?”
“She’s with Flavia.”
“Wise. I’ll speak with her. The comfort of Dushara is a river to the innocent.”
As they approached the north wall of the fort, Haritat told his sons to unload the camels. Thick off-white blankets atop the wooden saddles big enough to hold two men softened the journey for the rider. Under the saddles, larger blankets protected the camels. A stunning leopard pelt lay atop the blanket on Haritat’s animal. From the front of the frame of everyone’s saddle hung a long sheathed sword, and from the back a hornbow in a case and a quiver of arrows.
“The horses look restless today,” Crus said.
“It’s the camels,” Bellator answered. “Horses hate the smell of camels.” He turned to Haritat. “I’m surprised you brought them.”
“That is precisely why I brought them. The Parthians sometimes use camels to transport their supplies. Our horses must stay accustomed to their scent.” To Crus he said, “I would speak with the centurion. With your permission and in your presence.”
“I have six centurions.”
“The silver one.”
“We’ll go to the Principia and have some refreshment while the decurion gets Rufio.”
“May we perhaps wait until my sons have erected our tents? Sitting in chairs is little more than a taste of Hell. And there is much Hell about—and more coming, do you not agree?”
Rufio and Arrianus walked about the arena among several dozen horses enjoying the freedom of the big enclosure.
“What do you think?” Rufio asked.
“They’re ready.”
“You’re talking about their condition.”
“Yes.”
“I mean mentally.”
Arrianus hesitated. “Well, they’re Arabians, so they’re all slightly insane. Some more than slightly.”
“I want you to cull any you think might be a problem to control.”
“I’ve done that.”
“Good. And you’re convinced our men are skilled enough? Or will be? Be harsh in your judgment if you have to. I need to know now.”
“I’m convinced.” Arrianus smiled. “The horses might need a little more persuasion, but that’ll come. Haritat has done an amazing amount of work.”
Rufio saw Bellator coming toward the arena.
“The Arab and his sons are—.”
“Never call him that,” Rufio said.
Startled, Bellator stopped short. “They’re here.”
“I need Valerius and Mete
llus,” Rufio said to Arrianus. “Find them and have them report to the Principia. Then go—.”
“The tents are being pitched near the horse pens,” Bellator said.
“All right. Then go to Matthias and request his presence with us.”
After Arrianus hurried off, Rufio turned to Bellator. “Arab? You know better than that.”
“Sorry. It’s been a tortoise’s lifetime since I’ve been back out here.”
On a sudden impulse, Rufio said, “Do you still have any friends here?”
“In Judaea?”
“Yes.”
“No. I suppose I never really did. The Jews are too strange. I’m a man of action. The Jews spend too much time thinking and praying.”
“That they do.”
“And not eating good food. Is there such a thing as Jewish food?”
Rufio smiled. “Not that I’ve noticed.”
“What about you? Any old friends in the land of prophets?”
“Just up in Syria.”
“Why did you ask anyway?”
“Just wondering.”
Valerius and Metellus came running up as Rufio and Bellator reached the large black tent.
“Arrianus is still looking for Matthias,” Valerius said.
Metellus, the most fastidious of men, was a bit disheveled, and his tunic was muddy.
“Did you dress for the occasion?” Rufio asked.
“Busy morning,” the signifer answered with uncharacteristic brevity.
The four of them went inside.
Crus was already seated on a rug across from Haritat.
“Welcome.” Haritat said.”
“My officers, Valerius and Metellus.”
“Officers?” Haritat asked.
“This and this,” Rufio answered, raising his right hand and then his left.
“I understand. Welcome all.”
Cups and pitchers of water had been set out.
“I already told our guest that we’re happy at his return,” Crus began.
“We’re honored,” Rufio said.
Haritat poured water into everyone’s cup and filled his own last.
“My sons are wise in the ways of horses and schooled in the manners of men. They know that if not for a valiant woman, their father would be gone. They will nourish your men with their knowledge.”
“Rome is grateful,” Crus said.
“Treat them with forbearance. Tell your men that whenever they are in doubt about a matter, pause for a moment to see if an answer is forthcoming. If not, they may inquire with respect.”
“I’ll do so,” Crus said.
“In the desert, there are fleeting structures of stone. But there are lasting structures of respect. When the greatest carved rock is a fallen ruin, respect remains.”
“Very well,” Crus answered.
“Tribune?” Rufio said.
Crus nodded.
“My men come from a land called Italy,” Rufio said, looking at Haritat. “In that land, people talk without ceasing. They talk until they collapse—or you do. Silence is incomprehensible to them. But when Germans panic, when Greeks falter, when Persians flee, Italians stand fast before the savages of the world. Treat that with honor and respect as well.”
The creases at the corners of Haritat’s eyes deepened in what might have been a smile. “Wisely spoken. An oath of honor, then, among men.”
“Agreed,” Crus said. “Let’s begin.”
42
THE GODS HAVE BESTOWED ON MAN THE GIFT OF TEACHING HIS FELLOW MAN BY WORD OF MOUTH WHAT HE SHOULD DO, BUT IT IS OBVIOUS THAT BY WORD OF MOUTH YOU CAN TEACH A HORSE NOTHING.
XENOPHON
Twitchy is what Arrianus calls Morlana, and she smiles or giggles every time he says it. He has been working her at the horse pens as hard as one can work a ten-year-old. He is trying to distract her from her grief. That is always the tough man’s way. Naturally he is failing. Sorrow cannot be worked away or wished away. It can only be lived away. I know. I have lost many I have cared for in battles beyond counting.
Better, though, than toil for Morlana are the little gestures of these rough men. The small gifts they give her, the unexpected treats. When I was a girl, I learned that the toughest men have the tenderest hearts, for they alone can afford the risk of having them.
And the most kindly of all is Arrianus. When he is training the men, he has Morlana always at his side on horseback, as if she is his assistant. It makes her glow. This morning he was working with soldiers of the Sixth Century on ways to acquire better balance in the saddle. He had them ride with their reins draped over their horses’ necks and their arms extended straight out to their sides. I was amazed at how well they cantered this way. Yet they had no time to congratulate themselves. Arrianus ordered them to stop, and he told Morlana to ride over and place a coin on the back of each man’s extended right hand. Then he commanded them to trot. Many riders quickly lost their coins, and it was Morlana’s job to retrieve them before they were lost in the dirt. She did this with speed and diligence.
To protect her fair skin from this terrible sun, she was wearing the blue cloak that matched Rufio’s tunic. Under it, I knew she had at her waist the dagger that Haritat had grandly given her. She sleeps with it under her pillow every night.
Although I am sure the soldiers were quietly cursing Arrianus during his maddening exercises, I know they got much from them. By the time they were finished, most were able to retain the coin on the backs of their hands while trotting, and some even while they cantered.
Yet Morlana benefited, too, but in a different way. How small a thing it was for this soldier to have a little girl gather up dusty coins. And how thoughtful and caring. When at the end she handed him the sack with the collected coins, she did so with the untainted pride only a child can know. I suspect that Arrianus has a younger sister or two back in Italy. But even if not, he now has one here.
Yet if Arrianus is a brother to Morlana, there is another who is a deity. It unsettles him, I am sure of it, but even gods have their uncertain moments.
Rufio had Neko make another mattress and fit out an empty storeroom as sleeping quarters for him. Morlana sleeps with me, usually with Paki, Rufio’s cat, lying curled against her feet. Sometimes I hear Morlana crying softly in the night. Other times I wake up and feel her slumped against me for safety in the dark, and I listen to the soft breathing of her sleep. Once I was startled to see someone staring at us from the shadows in the doorway. Then I realized it was Rufio. He said nothing, so neither did I. In the darkness, he could not see me smile. I wish I could explain to Morlana how truly safe she is. How in the lonely watches of the night the terror of Germania gives up his most precious hours to rise and reassure himself of the comfort of a little German girl. And how her gentle breathing and quiet rest, I think, bring rest to him at last.
“Your horse is not your best friend!” Bellator boomed to the troops arrayed before him. He sat astride a chestnut gelding in the center of the big arena. Sixteen soldiers from two tent groups of the Sixth Century sat on their horses facing him in a single rank about ten horse lengths away. Bellator had excused them from wearing their mail armor, but he had insisted on helmets because of questions of balance. It was foolish to get accustomed to riding without one and then have to start all over again with one. By now the men’s heads would already be baking inside the bronze.
The remainder of the century sat on the ground outside the arena.
“Do you know who your horses’ best friends are?” Bellator went on. “All these other horses.” He swept an arm across the arena. “Certainly not you. You’re just someone who comes into your horse’s life occasionally. As far as he knows, you’re just some bum scrounging around the stable. He recognizes no ownership. Maybe you feed and water and groom him, but don’t expect him to be grateful. It isn’t built into him. He’s not a dog. He might learn to respect you and even trust you, but don’t consider yourself entitled to that. In some cases—maybe one out of ten—he
might even come to like you, to bond with you. If that happens, be grateful. If not, stroke his forehead and thank him anyway for all he has given you.”
Bellator clicked to his horse, and they began to make a wide circle in the center, as if Bellator were attempting to collect his thoughts, rather than giving a harangue he had tossed off a thousand times.
“Which brings me to another point,” the old horseman said as he came back to the middle and faced his men again. “Even though your horse will never be your best friend, you have to be his. No herd mate will care about your animal the way you do. When the whole herd panics and bolts, you remain. You tend his wounds, reassure him in doubt, caress him as he dies.”
Bellator wiped away the sweat that was running down into his eyes. “All right, relax and take a drink. When you’ve had enough, take three more swallows.”
The men untied the flasks from their belts and did as he ordered.
“One more thing before we get started,” Bellator said. “I never want to hear anyone say that his horse made a mistake. Ever. Horses don’t make mistakes. Riders do. Who are you to say a horse is wrong? According to what? Your needs? Every horse knows that he’s a meal on four legs, and the only power he has is the power to flee. To a horse, everything is a matter of life and death. A horse does what’s best for him—always. If you want him to do something else, it’s up to you to show him the wisdom of it. I don’t want to hear anyone whining about his animal. Riders make excuses. Horsemen make tracks. Understood?”
“Understood!” one of the soldiers shouted, and the others joined in.
“A horse is never wrong,” Bellator said. “What on earth could he be wrong about? About being human? What does he care? Never forget that you’re the one who leaped onto his back. He didn’t leap onto yours.”
Bellator pointed to one side of the arena. “Fall into line along the rail into one file. Knot your reins. You don’t want to lose them in battle. Keep the knot loose, though, and always have your dagger to be able to cut your horse free.”
Horses on the Storm Page 25
