The soldiers took their places along the rail.
“I want three horse lengths between each rider. Start walking, take five strides, then move up into a trot.”
After a few moments, most had begun trotting, but a few lagged and the file began to bunch up.”
“Is move too hard a word?” Bellator shouted. “It means go! Move!”
The lagging riders clicked to their mounts and then kicked, and suddenly the Arabs recovered their memories on how to trot.
“Don’t stop until I tell you.”
Arrianus rode up to the gate and came in and closed it without dismounting, a simple task to all who have never tried it.
“What do you think?” Bellator asked as Arrianus took his place beside him.
He studied the riders for a moment. “Too much mouth contact. I’d never give an Arab slack, but all that pulling is going to make hard mouths. Those horses might not stop when they want them to.”
“Why are they gripping like that?”
“They’re nervous, so they’re holding on with their hands instead of their legs.”
Bellator smiled. “You have a good eye.” He turned back to the riders. “Stop and rest,” he shouted.
They obeyed, a little bit sloppily.
“Do you have a suggestion?” Bellator asked his Secondarius.
Arrianus smiled and folded his hands across his saddle between the two front corner pommels.
Bellator returned the smile. “They’re going to hate us by the end of the day.”
“But they’ll love us in their old age.”
“You sound like your centurion,” Bellator said with a laugh.
“Don’t tell him that.”
“Attention!” Bellator said to the riders. “Lay your reins down across your horse’s neck. Place one hand over the other on your saddle between the horns and move off at a trot. The first soldier who grabs his reins cleans out his whole century’s horse pens for a week.”
The horses trotted off, and within a few moments three riders were down in the dirt.
“Keep moving!” Bellator said to the soldiers still on their horses. “Forget those men on the ground.”
The three riderless horses kept their positions in the file. Without hesitation, the soldiers who had fallen ran to their horses, gripped their manes, and flew up into their saddles.
Bellator snapped around toward Arrianus. “Did Rufio teach them how to mount on the move?”
“He did.”
Bellator shook his head. “That silver-haired bastard is wasted in the infantry.”
The riders continued trotting.
“What do you think?” Bellator asked.
“Nice balance. Mostly.”
“Attention! No, don’t look at me. Just listen. When I give you the signal, canter. And no reins!” He paused. “Ready. Go!”
The horses obeyed beautifully, and six riders failed to make it even halfway around the arena before they tumbled.
“That’s all right,” Bellator said. “No one is hurt. Don’t try to remount.”
He waited until the remaining riders had cantered twice around the arena and then said, “Drop down to a trot and then stop.” He waited a moment. “Good. Drink.” He turned to Arrianus. “You, too.”
Arrianus took a sip from his flask.
“The desert is a damnable place,” Bellator said softly, gazing into the distance at the bleak hills. “You never have only one enemy. You always fight the desert, too.”
Arrianus stared off into the Judaean wasteland. “I could never have imagined a place like this.”
“Who could? Someone who’s never been here could have no idea what the desert is like.” He glared off at the vast emptiness around them. “A fierce and terrible thing plotting against your life and your sanity. And here we are—fighting over it.”
“Maybe we won’t have to.”
“Oh, yes we will. Battles are always fought in the most horrible places on earth.”
“Then we’ll win,” Arrianus said with the confidence of a young man on a good horse.
“And do you know what decides it? Not training or valor. Water. Out here it’s always about water. We have it and the Parthians won’t. Oh, they might locate a spring or a well, but that won’t be enough. There are too many men and horses. They don’t dare linger out there. They win fast or else they lose.”
“Then we just have to hold.”
“Just?” Bellator said with a smile. “Yes, just.” He gazed back at the lifeless wilderness. “Always . . . it’s always about water.”
After a short silence, Arrianus said, “Why don’t you give your hip a rest? I’ll take over.”
“Tired of listening to a cynical old man?”
“No,” he said sincerely.
“For the next few days, we’ll concentrate on teaching them to get and hold a secure seat. Later in the week we’ll work on other things.”
“Understood.”
“I’ll be back in a while. Let’s try to get through the whole century today.”
“We will.”
“By the end of the week, I want this cohort to be able to ride without hands and without fear.” He looked back at his troops. “I’ll stay longer. Let’s run them around in the opposite direction.”
“Your hip?”
“What does it matter? I have two.”
Rufio had ordered that every century take a three-day turn at manning the bath house. The primary tasks were to keep it clean, a job that was second nature to a Roman, and to make sure the furnace was stoked for the caldarium. Paradoxically for the desert, a bit of suffering time in the hot room was somehow the most refreshing.
Rufio lay on the stone table as Neko finished giving him a massage. Rufio had been eating dust in the gyrus all day while running the horses. He needed to see every horse trot and canter at least a few minutes in both directions. He wanted no unsound animals carrying his men into battle. With the help of Haritat and his sons, he had spent a grueling ten hours working his way through about a third of the Roman mounts, and he was happy with what he had seen. Now he needed Neko’s ministrations to reinvigorate his body to match his spirits.
Wearing a fresh white tunic, he left the bathhouse and stepped out into the late afternoon sun. He was startled to see some of the people from Hezrail walking up the Via Principalis and escorted by soldiers. They carried baskets or pots, and some were leading goats.
Rufio followed them to the intersection with the Via Praetoria. Then he stood there stunned.
At least a hundred villagers crowded around the front of the Principia. At their head was Simon talking with Crus. Matthias stood slightly to one side and appeared to be mediating.
Rufio managed to get around the noisy knot of people and to reach the front. Crus smiled when he saw him coming and greeted him with an expression of happy bewilderment.
“Tribune?” Rufio said.
“They’ve brought us gifts,” Crus said. “Food, animals. Elah is indeed great.”
Rufio looked to Matthias.
“A little girl fell into a well in Hezrail. One of your men lowered himself down and rescued her before she drowned. They want to express their gratitude.”
“Who was it?”
“Simon doesn’t know,” Matthias said.
Rufio gazed out at what he had thought a moment ago was just a mob. Now he saw a grateful gathering of some of the poorest people on earth. They seemed to be carrying all they owned. Rufio knew that he could live a hundred years and still never again be offered half of what there was, let alone all.
“Tribune,” Rufio said, “these people eat dog vomit to survive. We should be feeding them.”
Crus turned to the Judaeans and raised a hand until they got quiet, or at least as quiet as Judaeans could ever get.
“In one hour’s time, we’ll all feast together at the table of Caesar. Rome will provide the food, because Elah has provided the miracle!”
Stunned at first, the villagers suddenly fo
und their voices, a hundred of them.
“And remember,” Rufio shouted to Crus above the crowd, “no ham.”
Rufio happened to glance at Matthias. The young soldier was looking at him with the admiration a boy reserves for an older brother.
Rufio winked at him, and Matthias grinned in return.
Rufio returned to the barracks block and went to the quarters shared by Valerius and Metellus. Valerius was off somewhere, but Metellus was seated at a tiny table and working on the century accounts. He stood up when he saw Rufio enter.
Rufio gestured him back down and took a wobbly chair and sat across from him.
“Why was your tunic muddy this morning?”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t have time to change it.”
“That’s not what I asked you.”
“There was an incident in Hezrail that I got involved in.”
“An accident?”
“It was a small matter.”
“Tell me about it.”
“I was in the village to buy a few things and saw some boys playing around a well. A little girl ran over—I think one of the boys was her brother—and then she climbed up onto the rock barrier around the well. I was about to tell her to get down when she slipped and fell in. The boys panicked and started screaming. I ran over and cut the well rope and tied it to a rock on the wall and lowered myself down. I scooped her up and had her hold onto my neck and I climbed out. It was all over in a minute or two. I think she got a little bit of water into her lungs, but she’s fine. She reminded me so much of my little Kalinda back in Gaul. Sorry about the tunic.”
“Forget about the tunic.”
“Rufio, why are you asking me about this? It was a small thing.”
“Not to the child—or her family.”
“Well, if a Roman soldier has to think twice about saving a little girl who’s drowning, we might as well roll up the Empire now and be done with it.”
Rufio smiled at his signifer. “I should have you posted to the Palatinum to advise the Princeps on dealing with foreign potentates.”
Metellus looked baffled.
“Take a walk over to the Principia. Simon wants to see you.”
“Simon?”
“The graybeard.”
“I have these accounts to—.”
“Venus’s tits! Forget the accounts.” Rufio stood up. “If we send another emissary to Parthia, I think it’ll be you.”
On the way out, Rufio met Valerius coming in.
“Why didn’t you tell me what happened in the village?” Rufio asked.
“What happened in the village?”
“The child in the well.”
“It didn’t occur to me to tell you. Why would it?”
Rufio just shook his head. “There are about a hundred villagers in the fort. They’re going to eat with us. Afterward, I want you to take the First Century and walk with these people to Hezrail. I don’t want them to be alone in the dark. Take your horses so you can ride back.”
“It’ll be done. Why are they all here?”
Rufio smiled and laid a hand on Valerius’s shoulder. “To show that it’s not time to roll up the Empire just yet.”
43
AND THE HOOFS OF THE HORSES AS THEY RUN SHAKE THE CRUMBLING FIELD.
VIRGIL
“What is that?” Flavia said, pointing to the southeast at a line of camels heading northwest.
Morlana set down an armful of bridles near one of the horse pens and came over. “It’s called a caravan. Those are Nabataean merchants. They’re probably going all the way to Gaza.”
“Why did they pass by us? Wouldn’t they want to sell things to the soldiers?”
“They probably don’t know we’re here.”
“What are they carrying? Do you know?”
“Different things. Incense. Gems sometimes. Cloth, too, sometimes.”
Flavia watched as the camels moved slowly northward. “Would they have silk strings? The kind for my bow?”
“They might. They usually stop near Hezrail. The people in the village come out to trade. They don’t have any money, so they trade food for goods.”
Flavia smiled at Morlana. “Would you like to go and see?”
“To the caravan?” she asked in surprise.
“It’ll be fun. I have Caesar’s silver. Maybe we can find some nice things.”
Morlana stared off at the caravan. “I’d like to, but I have work.”
“I’ll help you with it when we get back. Come on!”
Morlana grinned. “I’ll tack up the horses!”
The morning sun was still low when they set off. About a mile outside the fort Flavia saw the black silhouette of a man standing to the north. He was staring off into the distance.
“It’s Haritat,” Morlana said.
“Where’s his horse?”
“He likes to walk out alone sometimes.”
Flavia wondered if the great isolate turned inward so often because so much of the time he had to gaze outward, to be ever attentive to the welfare of his family and his people. Today he was dressed in black as usual and wore a dark red head-cloth that flowed to his shoulders. Regardless of what others thought, Flavia was certain that this sage of the desert could never be as fierce as they often feared.
Haritat did not turn around, so they rode on.
Some villagers from Hezrail had already arrived at the caravan by the time Flavia and Morlana got there. Many had brought lambs and goats for trade. The merchants had set up their tents and spread out colorful blankets with their wares.
Camels were resting here and there on their bellies, with their legs tucked beneath them in a quiet serenity they rarely showed at other times.
Flavia and Morlana dismounted and led their horses by the reins. Flavia was glad that Haritat had accustomed their animals to the camels so they could walk about without causing a disturbance.
She already knew that she and Morlana were creating enough of a commotion on their own. Unescorted females of any kind were as rare among the Judaeans as were a lovely blonde-haired girl and a beautiful blue-eyed woman riding about in the desert near the Salt Sea. Yet the Nabataean merchants, ever gracious and polite, were careful to say nothing and they gently averted their gaze.
Flavia stopped before a blanket covered with jewelry. She spotted a small silver ring set with a deep blue stone.
“May I?” she asked the handsome middle-aged merchant.
He inclined his head slightly. “With honor.”
She picked it up. A galloping horse had been exquisitely carved into the opaque blue gem.
“Does this stone have a name?”
“The Persians call it lazhward.”
Flavia looked around. “Morlana.”
She came over leading the two horses.
Flavia smiled. “See if this fits you.”
Morlana took the ring and stared at it as if she were holding a fallen star.
“Slide it on,” Flavia said.
It fit her left forefinger.
“Good,” Flavia said. “Your other fingers can grow into it.”
Morlana dropped the reins and threw her arms around Flavia and squeezed so tightly Flavia could barely breathe.
Flavia opened the little sack on her belt and pulled out a denarius.
“No, Flavia,” Morlana said. “That’s too much.”
But the Sequani barbarian believed bargaining to be beneath her dignity, and she handed the silver coin to the merchant. Then she smiled. “With honor.”
The merchant gazed at her as though she were a divine being. “May Dushara cast his glow upon you.”
Yelling among the merchants and villagers startled everyone, including the camels.
“Stay here,” Flavia said to Morlana and then ran from out of the circle of tents.
A horseman was riding down from the north toward the caravan. Reflexively, Flavia spun to her left and saw two riders galloping in from the west. She turned south and, in a space between the tent
s and the camels, she saw one more horseman coming hard. The east looked clear.
“Robbers!” someone shouted.
Flavia ran back to Morlana. “Up!” she said, and Morlana grabbed her horse’s mane and leaped into the saddle. “Back to the fort! Bring the soldiers!”
Without a word, Morlana turned and raced off.
Flavia grabbed her bow and quiver from her saddle.
“No!” the merchant yelled. “Don’t fight back! They’ll kill us all!”
Then Flavia saw the last thing on earth she wanted to see. The rider from the north had veered east and was now pursuing Morlana before she could bring help, although he probably had no idea that anything as lethal as a Roman cohort lay beyond the ridge. But Morlana’s young black gelding was fleeter than the bandit’s depleted desert nag, and Flavia was certain she could outrace him.
Flavia ran back toward Artemis, but the merchant hit her on the side of the jaw to stop her fighting the robbers. She dropped like a stunned bird. Still conscious, she tried to clear her vision, while the merchant hurried off with her horse and bow.
She pushed herself to her feet and saw people everywhere standing as still as dead desert trees. They awaited their fate with the hideous fatalism that so infected this land.
Three bandits rode up to the center of the camp. They wore black robes and head-cloths and had swords hanging from their saddles. Flavia suspected they were Judaeans or Idumaeans.
One of the three robbers gave orders calmly, as if he had done this on a hundred occasions. The merchants brought goods forward and spread them out on a blanket before him, like tribute from a fallen kingdom. Doubtless they, too, had done this many times before.
The bandit leader, a burly scar-faced pirate of about fifty seated on a gray mare, smiled with the relaxed magnanimity he could easily afford.
Hoofbeats from the east drew everyone’s attention.
Flavia turned and saw the most horrible sight she had ever seen in her life. Suddenly she wished that she could simply die.
The bandit who had chased Morlana was returning, and in place of his own worn out horse he was riding Morlana’s black Arabian.
Flavia felt as if she were about to vomit. She sucked back hard, but that could not stop the tears from burning her eyes at the thought of the beautiful young life that she had helped to destroy.
Horses on the Storm Page 26
