Haritat rode back and stopped in front of the rank. “It sounds complex. It is not. First rider.”
The exercise was not a success. When the horseman pivoted, he jerked the reins too hard. Then as he tried to correct, he overcompensated and the horse took the wrong lead. Fifteen more riders failed with equal skill.
“Haritat lied,” the chieftain said. “This cannot be so easy. That is what you are thinking.”
The men remained silent.
Haritat gestured to Morlana.
She looked to Rufio.
“Of course,” he said.
She rode to the center of the parade ground and stopped beside Haritat. He leaned over and said something in her ear.
She trotted to a place at one end of the rank.
Haritat nodded.
Morlana made a kissing sound to her horse and they cantered away. In little more than a breath, they reached the mark in the sand. The horse stopped and they pivoted with the elegance of dancers and dashed away as though they were racing on air. Her hood blew off and her yellow mane whipped in the wind as she flew back to where she had begun.
Haritat nodded in approval, and Morlana grinned and stroked her horse’s neck.
“If the Golden One can do this, why not the men of the Tiber? Shall I have her do it again with her eyes closed? Or shall I get a blind Nabataean and a three-legged horse to show you how men can ride?”
45
THERE IS A GOD INSIDE US.
OVID
Sleep has always been my friend, but last night it taunted me. Morlana was lying beside me at peace, and Paki was sleeping against her. It was very late, but I just stared into the darkness. My mind seemed to be roaring like water falling over a cliff. I rolled onto my side and saw a faint glow coming from the outer room. This was late to be awake even for Rufio. I got out of bed and dressed and went out for the comfort he always gives.
I was startled to see Neko sitting alone at Rufio’s desk. I was even more surprised to see the cup of wine beside his hand. He usually reserves wine only for special moments. An arrow lay on the desk in front of him. When he saw me, he immediately stood and found another cup and poured some wine and water for me. After I took it, I told him to sit back down and I got a camp chair and slid it beside the desk.
I love spending time with Neko. I admire his knowledge, but that is a little thing compared to the reassurance I draw from his wisdom. The subtlety of his understanding is always a warm fire on a cold night. And, as Rufio says, Egyptians are the subtlest people in all the East.
“Is something wrong?” I asked him.
Neko smiled, and when he smiles I always feel relieved. “No, something is mystically right.”
I smiled back. He enjoys baffling me with his indirect way of speaking.
“Can you share it with me?” I asked.
“I fear you may not yet be prepared,” he said.
“Then it’s the task of my wise friend to prepare me.”
He picked up the arrow from the desk and held it out almost with reverence, and I set down my cup and took it.
“Do you recognize it?” he asked.
“Is this the arrow Rufio pulled out of the thief?”
“It is. Please examine it.”
I studied it carefully. The arrowhead had not been cast or hammered from bronze but had been fashioned somehow from a black and shiny material I had never seen before. The edges were extremely sharp and must have sliced through the robber’s neck as if they had been passing through nothing stouter than the fleece of a lamb.
“The head baffles you,” Neko said. “It is a substance called obsidianus. It is a sturdy glass formed inside the heart of a volcano.”
“What is that?” I asked.
“A great mountain that shoots fire.”
“I didn’t know there were mountains like that.”
“Here there are not.”
I did not know what to say.
“But the shaft,” Neko said. “There lies its secret.”
I inspected it and ran my fingers along the surface but found nothing strange about it.
“Ah, my mistress looks and touches but does not see.”
“But what is there to see?” I asked.
“The wood.”
I still did not understand.
“The shaft is maple,” Neko said. “There are no maple trees here. There are no maple trees within hundreds of miles of here.”
“Then the man who shot this came from far off?”
“Farther than any man has ever come.”
“You’re confusing me,” I said. “Where do maple trees grow?”
“They flourish in many localities. In many lands. One of the places they grow is in Greece. In Thessaly.” Neko’s gaze frightened me. “On the slopes of Mount Pelion.”
I stared back at him until I realized my hands were trembling. I set the arrow down as though it might burn my fingers.
“No, you must keep it,” Neko said. “That lethal dart is not here because of killers and thieves. It is here because of you.”
“Another cool evening in the desert,” Rufio said and handed Matthias a cup of heated wine.
Neko was looking over some scrolls on Rufio’s desk, so the two soldiers went to the small table toward the back of the room. The pair of rough chairs had been softened by rugs Neko had bought in Hezrail. Rufio pointed to a chair and lit the oil lamp next to the red porphyry statue of Victoria and then sat down.
“How are your men?” Rufio asked in a casual tone.
“Well. Their diet has never been so good. Some are putting on weight.”
“Many of them were too thin. We fix things like that.”
“Italians know how to eat,” Matthias said with a smile.
“It’s our alternate religion.”
Matthias laughed. “Then you’re all very pious.”
Rufio sipped his wine. “I have a military problem I’d like you to help me solve.”
“Centurion, how could I ever do that?”
“You have ability. And call me Rufio.”
“I will.”
“You have a quality I noticed at the very beginning . . . .”
“You mean my vast knowledge of tactics?” he said in self-mockery.
“Knowledge?” Rufio said with a snort of contempt. “Knowledge is never something to admire. It’s simply an acquisition. Like clothing or horses or weapons. Even fools have knowledge.”
“But what can I give you?”
“The best soldiers aren't Aristotle in armor. They don’t wrestle with deeper thoughts or subtle ways. The finest warriors don’t think more, but they do pay attention more.”
Matthias remained quiet.
“You, my friend, pay attention. I’ve seen it every day since I’ve known you.”
Matthias took a sip of wine and stared off in silence. Finally he said, “I never noticed that in myself.”
“It’s because you pay attention to everything except yourself. Which is good.”
“You flatter me.”
“I don’t flatter anyone.”
“What’s the problem you want to solve?”
Rufio glanced at Neko, who was rubbing his eyes.
“Go to bed, weary scholar.”
“Yes,” he said and began rolling up a scroll.
“Leave it. Time for rest.”
“Thank you,” Neko said. “May I get you more wine?”
“Sleep.”
He bowed gently and went off to bed.
Rufio gazed dreamily at the flame flickering in the clay lamp next to Victoria.
After a long silence, Matthias said, “Rufio . . . .”
“I was just thinking, not dozing. These people out here are so vulnerable. Overripe fruit ready to be knocked off the tree. They have nothing—and yet everybody wants it.”
“They can’t afford weapons to defend themselves.”
“I don’t mean that. Their drive is gone. Whatever happened to the spirit of Solomon?”
/> “You know about Solomon?”
“I read too much.”
“Herod outlawed spirit and drive. He’s gelded his people to make himself feel safe. But he never feels safe.”
“It’s one of the saddest things I’ve ever seen.”
“But you’re here to protect them.”
“No we’re not. We’re here to shore up the weak flank of an uncertain kingdom. Any protection these people get is just an accident.”
“Rufio, you’ll never be able to convince me that you ever do anything by accident.”
He could not help smiling. “Well, perhaps. Now as to this problem, there’s a group of soldiers who can ride but have never tasted battle on or even near horses. They carry swords, but they’re not really infantry. They can shoot bows, but they have only the most basic skills.” Rufio’s eyes nailed Matthias to the chair. “What on earth am I to do with them?”
“Allow them to fight with honor.”
“How?”
“By using their best skill.”
“Which is what?”
“The bow.”
“They need more work. Daily practice.”
“They’ll give it.”
“How do I ask for it? These aren’t Romans. They’re a desert race. Touchy as vipers.”
“Let their commander demand it of them for you.”
“Will he?”
“I’m certain of it.”
Rufio finished his wine. “See what I meant? You’ve solved it.”
Matthias smiled and then ended it with a sigh.
“Tired?”
“Rufio, their commander is worried. I know him well.”
“What worries him?”
“He fears . . . he fears showing fear.”
“He won’t.”
“How do you know that?”
“Trust me.”
“I do. . . .”
“But?”
Matthias smiled. “That’s not what I thought you’d say.”
“What did you expect?”
“I assumed you’d say that everyone is afraid in battle.”
“I’d never say that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s ridiculous.”
Matthias searched Rufio’s eyes. “I don’t understand.”
“Not every warrior is fearful in battle.”
“How can that be true?”
“There are some soldiers who never fear the battlefield. Never.”
Rufio went across the room to the brazier, its fire banked now, and took the pitcher of warmed wine next to it. He got the pitcher of water from his desk and mixed the two drinks in his cup and poured some more wine for Matthias as well.
“There are two types of soldiers who are never afraid,” Rufio said, sitting back down. “They’re rare, but scarcity doesn’t mean they don’t exist. Any thoughts on who they might be?”
“I’m lost.”
“That’s all right. You’re young. There’s still much to learn.” He set his cup onto the table. “The first type of soldier who’s fearless is the one who believes that, no matter what happens, he won’t be killed. And also that he’ll survive unhurt.”
Matthias looked skeptical. “How can there be anyone like that?”
“Those soldiers are uncommon, but not as uncommon as you think.”
“You’ve known men like that?”
“I have.”
“Were any of them ever killed anyway? Despite what they believed?”
“Yes.”
“So they were wrong.”
“They were wrong—but that doesn’t mean all of them were wrong.”
Matthias looked off into the shadows. “I can’t comprehend that.”
“You will.”
He looked back at Rufio. “What’s the other type?”
“The rarest of all. And the opposite of the first. It’s the soldier who believes that, regardless of what he does, he’s doomed. He’s certain he’ll be killed in battle. And—.”
“But that’s not rare at all. There are many—.”
“You didn’t let me finish. The rare part is that he’s resigned himself to it. He’s accepted it. So worry and fear are gone. He’s calm now and at peace—and so he fights with a serenity denied to normal men. It makes him the most lethal creature on earth. This is a very strange and a very frightening man.”
“Men like that exist?”
“They do.”
“Have you ever known any?”
“Only four.”
“And were they killed as they believed they would be?”
“All four lived to retire. Two have since died. One of the others lives in Spain and one in Rome.”
“So they were wrong, too. I mean about being killed.”
“They were wrong.”
“So you’re saying that the bravery of the two bravest kinds of men was based on ignorance.”
“I’m not saying that at all. In the first group, some were right.”
“The ones who lived.”
“Yes.”
“But what if it was just chance that they survived?”
“It was not.”
“How can anyone be sure?”
“I know.” The intensity in Rufio’s voice caused Matthias to pull back slightly into his chair.
“I understand,” he said softly.
Rufio finished his wine. “We both need sleep.”
Matthias stood up.
“Thank you for your help with my problem,” Rufio said, standing. “May I make a suggestion?”
“You may.”
“Flavia has set up an area to teach Morlana to shoot her bow.” He smiled. “It’s big enough to share.”
“Thank you.”
Matthias almost tripped over Flavia, who was sitting on the ground in the darkness outside the entrance.
“I thought you’d gone to bed,” Rufio said as she came in and closed the door.
“I was looking at the stars.”
She sat in one of the chairs by the little table. “Morlana went to sleep and I stayed with her for a while. But I wasn’t tired, so I went outside.”
Rufio sat back down.
“Are you going to bed?” Flavia asked.
“Soon.”
“Will you stay up with me a little longer?”
“Oh, Flavia, not tonight. . . .”
Her eyelids lowered in a telling look. “Do I tire you, centurion?”
“You’d tire Hercules.”
“That’s not what I meant,” she said, laughing. “I was just teasing.”
“I thank Venus for her mercy.”
“I heard what you were saying to Matthias and I want to ask you about it.”
“It’s good you’re not a Parthian spy. I should post a sentry by my door.”
“Your voice carries like a Sequani spirit.”
“What do you want to talk about?”
“You.”
“Why?”
“I want to know something.”
“Something or everything?”
She reached across and slid her right hand into his. “I want to know all your secrets.”
“You already do.”
“No, just some. Not all.”
“Well, my sentries are napping. What do you need to know?”
“Are you one of those two types of soldiers you described?”
He smiled. “What do you think?”
“Please tell me you’re not the second kind. The one who believes he’s going to be killed.”
“Of course I’m not. How could I be? I could never—what’s wrong?”
“I don’t know,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I just couldn’t bear the idea that you felt that way.”
“I thought you already knew—I’m the first kind.”
“You are?”
“That’s why I’m not nearly as brave as you think I am.”
“You’ll never convince me of that.”
“I told you before—I’m going to
die in my bed.”
“You’re certain?”
“I’d never lie to you.”
“My love, I would so like to be sure.”
“You can be,” he said and lowered his head toward the red statue on the table beside them.
“Victoria?”
“Yes.”
“But how do you know she’ll protect you forever?”
“I have faith in her.”
Flavia sighed and eased back into her chair. “I wish I could share that feeling.”
“Belief isn’t a feeling. It’s a decision.”
Her eyes showed her confusion.
“Faith in something isn’t some sort of yearning,” he said. “It’s not like hunger or thirst—something that just comes. Belief in something is a choice.”
“That’s all?”
“All? It’s much.”
“Then how do you do it? How do you believe?”
“You decide to. It’s not like mathematics, where you can be sure of the answer. Belief is a risk. It takes courage and it takes will. Believers are brave. It’s the skeptics who are cowards.”
“Can you teach me?”
“I’m not sure it can be taught.”
Rufio draped the rug from his chair across her lap against the chill.
She kissed his hand, and he smiled with his eyes.
“Can you tell me how you began? How you first started to have belief in Victoria?”
He went across the room and put more wood into the brazier and then sat back down with her.
“My mother died when I was very young. I don’t think I ever told you that. When she died, my father gave me that statue. It looks as new as last week, but it’s very old. He’d carried it everywhere. To battlefields at the edge of the earth. When he handed it to me, he told me to look to Victoria now as my mother. And I have.”
“Do you ever doubt?”
“Doubt what? That she’s really there?”
“Yes.”
“No, I don’t. There have been times, though, that I’ve doubted she was still protecting me. Times on the battlefield that I was certain I was about to be killed. It happened once last year. But that’s just human weakness.”
“Do you think she was angry at you?”
“For doubting?”
“Yes.”
“No,” he said, laughing. “Mothers—especially adoptive mothers—are very lenient with their wayward sons. Besides, she’s a goddess. She’s wise enough to know that belief doesn’t mean there’s never any doubt. Belief is simply what makes doubt bearable.”
Horses on the Storm Page 28
