“Did you ever see her?” she whispered.
“No, but I’ve felt her hand on my shoulder and touching my heart.”
“How often do you speak to her?”
“I might as well try to count the stars.”
“Every day then?”
“Oh, yes. And I draw strength from her, as I do from you.”
Flavia pulled up the rug from her lap and around her shoulders and wrapped herself in silence.
After several minutes, Rufio said, “What’s wrong, wild woman?”
“I’m just so happy—I don’t want this to end.”
“Life among sand and scorpions?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Who says it has to end?”
“I asked Neko about that once. If he thought we were going to live forever.”
“Of course he believes that. He’s an Egyptian.”
“What about Romans?”
“Depends on the Roman. Plenty of philosophers—.”
“Oh, I’m tired of hearing about philosophers. What do you think? Do you think we have a spirit inside us?”
“I do. There’s a reason our language has a word for it.”
“What do you think will happen?”
“To me? Well, I can tell you what I hope will happen when I die. I want to stand before Mars and see him look down and nod at me in satisfaction and say, ‘Rufio.’ Then he’ll smile and say, ‘I know you well—Victoria has spoken of you.’ And then I’ll know I’m in Paradise.”
Flavia came over and sat on his lap and rested her head on his shoulder. “You have such beautiful thoughts. And no one knows but I.”
He kissed her on the forehead. “Keep them locked away within you.”
46
THE SUN SHINES EVEN ON THE WICKED.
SENECA
I noticed that two or three times a week Rufio meets with every tent group of every century. He does this very casually. He visits with them in their barracks or when they are drilling. He jokes with them or just shares some water with them. I believe he enjoys this more than any of his other tasks. He always comes back smiling. I mentioned this once to Neko, and he said that these visits are not casual at all. He said that this is the way Rufio checks on the health of his men. He realizes that soldiers who are ill might hesitate to complain to their centurion, so he just informally stops by to confirm their condition with his own eyes.
Besides this, Rufio has charged each centurion, as well as Matthias, with providing daily medical reports on the men. So far, eleven of them have been overcome by the heat, but they recovered in a few hours. All were Romans. Matthias’s men are immune to this cooking pot. They are like Celtic steel, indifferent to the hottest tempering. Rufio was very angry at the men overwhelmed by the heat, especially after Matthias told him that once they had been stricken like that they would be more likely to collapse in the future. Rufio laid into his men with a verbal vinestick about not drinking enough. There have also been seventeen scorpion stings. These are very painful, and some of the men, including Judaeans, suffered from terrible muscle cramps for hours afterward. No one has died, and Matthias told Rufio that it is usually children or old people who are killed by stings, although he has known a few young soldiers who have not survived. Fortunately, there have been no viper bites to the men.
Something that has affected both Romans and Judaeans is the eruption of large boils on their skin, especially on their faces. After a while the flesh looks like it is decaying, and the sores take a very long time to heal. No one knows what causes them. They leave terrible scars, and one can see some old pits in the flesh beneath Matthias’s thin beard. The Judaeans refer to these horrible wounds with contempt as “Herod’s badges.”
Arrianus supplies continual information to Rufio on the condition of the horses. They are much tougher than the men, even Judaean men. The horses’ most persistent enemy is the smallest of all. In this arid land, flies are desperate for water, and so they cluster around the horses’ eyes to suck out what moisture they can. This can inflame the rims of the horses’ eyes and make the animals suffer terribly. Morlana is teaching the soldiers how to make fly fringes to prevent this. These are lengths of yarn or simple strips of cloth that attach to the brow band on the horses’ bridles. These fringes allow the horses to see while still keeping the flies off them. The fringes on the horses of the Nabataeans are brightly colored and often have tassels on the ends. Other than some occasional lameness, there has been only one important horse incident. A snake had sought shelter underneath a mound of medica hay in one of the pens, and when a horse came over to eat from the pile the snake struck at him and bit him in the upper lip. In just a few minutes the horse’s face swelled to the point where his nostrils sealed and he suffocated.
“I understand the training was excellent yesterday,” Crus said, approaching the arena in the early morning half-light.
“Yes, tribune.” Arrianus tossed away the stray stones he had picked up in his daily grooming of the surface. “Haritat is a magnificent horseman. He has the mind of a warrior and the heart of a stallion.”
“You’re beginning to speak as he does,” Crus said, laughing.
Arrianus seemed to force a smile.
“If it went so well, though, why were the men so surly last night?”
“You know how soldiers are, tribune.”
“I do know. I fought beside them in Gaul. Now tell me what’s wrong.”
“May we go someplace more private?”
Crus led the way to the gyrus. Arrianus closed the gate behind them and they went over to the plank wall and sat down against it.
“Haritat doesn’t know how to speak to Italians, tribune. He has no humor, or else he hides it. Never even a lewd remark to lighten the tension. He’s wise but he’s harsh—like the land he lives in.”
“Do you think he should pamper them?”
“No, I don’t mean that. But he should show them some respect. Treat them like comrades. Every man here has fought in at least one bloody campaign. Some have fought in several. Beat them with rods if you need to, but don’t speak to them as if they’re backward children. Roman soldiers will accept anything except a sneer.”
“I understand what you’re saying, but those fluffy kittens are going to endure what I order them to endure.”
Arrianus’s face was blank. “Yes, tribune.”
“Did they learn much?”
“They did.”
“Then they’ve done their duty.”
“They’ll do more than that if . . .”
“If we coddle them?”
Arrianus remained silent.
“Do you think Rufio would treat them any more gently?”
“No, tribune. Did you know that on the day Rufio took command of the cohort he almost choked Valerius to death?”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“Any man in the cohort can verify it. And then he promoted him to optio. Just a few months ago, he made me sleep outside the fort in the snow—and he fed me barley like an animal. Now I’m in charge of these horses. I had some experience, but Rufio didn’t know how much. He didn’t care.”
“I see.”
“I wouldn’t have thought that was so smart a year ago, but I do now.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve lived ten years in the last year.”
Crus laughed. “Haven’t we all?”
“Tribune, I admire Haritat very much. He’s obsessed with horses. But Rufio is obsessed with men. If he needs someone for a specific task, he doesn’t write a list of qualifications. He looks into a man’s heart and then makes his decision.”
“Risky behavior for a commander.”
“I know, tribune. Rufio doesn’t choose men who are qualified. He qualifies the men he chooses. I’ve never seen that before. In any centurion. In any man.”
Crus smiled. “I guess we can agree that Rufio is not just any man.” He stood up. “When I walk out that gate, I’m going to forget this disc
ussion ever took place. You’re to do the same.”
“Yes, tribune.”
“And you’re free to tell the men that the tribune said if he suspects any more complaints against Haritat, they won’t be eating barley. They’ll be eating horse shit.”
Crus turned and left the gyrus.
As soon as Rufio washed and dressed every morning, he was out with his horse. Long before his own breakfast, he made sure his gray Arab had been fed and watered.
Rufio knew that skill with horses in a military sense had come late to Italians, which was why the finest Roman cavalry was still comprised of Gauls—and even of some Germans who had been enticed to submit to the terrible yoke of civilized behavior. So Rufio had decided to lead by example and to show his younger men, who someday would be older men instructing their younger men, the proper priorities in the life of a military horseman.
Arrianus and Morlana were always on duty even earlier than Rufio, and he checked with them daily on the conditions of the mounts. Any animals that were sore or somehow off were allowed to rest until they recovered their health and their spirit. Rufio and Arrianus taught each of the men how to treat cuts and abrasions on the animals with the same poultices that Rufio’s favorite Greek doctor in Gaul had concocted for his soldiers.
“Optio!” Rufio said as Valerius came by the pens with an armful of medica.
“Centurion.”
“Let your horse feed for a half-hour and then tack him up. You’re taking a day off and riding with me to Hezrail. Tell Metellus he’s in command of the century.”
Rufio returned to his quarters, where Flavia was filling two water flasks.
“Take four,” Rufio said. “And keep your hoods on at the archery field. It’s going to be hot today.”
“Don’t worry,” Flavia said with a smile. “I won’t let her burn up. I love her as much as you do.”
Rufio said nothing.
Flavia laughed softly to herself and turned away to get two more flasks.
“I’m going to Hezrail,” Rufio said and took his swordbelt off the desk.
“Alone? I mean other than with Victoria.”
“Valerius. And don’t forget,” he said, tapping the top of his head with two fingers. “Hoods.”
The only trail between the fort and Hezrail was the one the troops had made on arrival. Rufio and Valerius eased their horses onto it at a walk. Both men wore white Nabataean head-cloths.
“I think the men were hoping you’d be in the arena with them today,” Valerius said.
“Are they weary?”
“Sore and weary.”
“I want them trained to the fullest. Haritat is a better horseman than I’ll ever be. That dark chieftain nursed at a mare’s tit.”
“And Bellator is merciless.”
“The men of the Second Cohort didn’t join the army to find mercy. When it’s time for blade work, Bellator will train them. He knows far more about fighting from horseback than I’ll ever know. The two old horsemen can train horsemen.”
“Is that the only reason?”
“Should I have another?”
Valerius laughed. “You never do anything for a single reason.”
Rufio stroked his horse’s neck as they walked along. “What’s the most important thing about our wooden training swords?”
That clearly caught Valerius off guard. “Our swords?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose that they’re twice as heavy as our metal swords.”
Rufio smiled. “Bellator and Haritat are my wooden swords. After some time with those two fanatics in the arena, the men will think that facing the Parthians is like lying by the sea at Capri.”
The two horsemen climbed higher in the low rolling hills. The early sun, still deceptively mild, had transformed the Judaean wilderness into a soft and stunning vision of alluring reddish gold.
“I hate the desert,” Rufio said, indifferent to its seductions. “It’s not the heat and the snakes and the scorpions. The desert is a death trap for armies.”
Rufio scanned the distance for any movement, but all was still.
“Crassus learned that—before the Parthians hacked off his head. Fighting in the sands is like battling on the sea. No matter how many troops you field, you can always be flanked. Especially when your enemy is on horseback.”
“But we’re on horseback, too,” Valerius said.
“The Jews are not.”
“What do you mean? Matthias and—.”
“Not him. The people in Hezrail. You and I are going there today to tell Simon something no Roman soldier should ever have to tell another man.”
Valerius said nothing.
“The irony is that our own men are in a better position than they’ve ever been. For once, we can vacate the battlefield if we have to. We’re outnumbered, but if the Parthians turn our flanks or push us back, we can withdraw to the fort. There we’re invulnerable. No cavalry force knows how to lay a siege. Least of all these Parthians. And we have food and water far beyond their means. They’ll dry up and crumble while we laugh at them.”
“But . . . ?”
“But what about the people of Hezrail? There’s never any peace for these Jews. Never.”
“I don’t understand what you mean. There’s peace in Judaea now.”
Rufio’s laugh was harsh. “Walk the streets of Rome. Or Ostia. That’s real peace. This? This isn’t peace. This is just the absence of war.”
“My wise centurion will have to explain his Greek paradox to his humble optio.”
“The Jews’ god put them here. Here, of all places—at the gateway between the two great halves of the world. Their god should have known more about geography. There can never be true peace here. It’s as if two people with equal strength—Augustus and Phraates—are pulling on opposite ends of a rope. Judaea is the midpoint. Perfectly stable, never moving—and taut to the point of agony. Forever.”
Rufio took a drink from his flask to wash away the bitter dust.
“Today, I have to tell Simon that I cannot promise we can do anything but watch him and his people die. If a thousand Parthians overwhelm us, if the invincible Romans need to concede the field to their enemies—if we have to let go of the rope—those savages will sweep around the fort and swoop on his helpless people. They have no weapons, no horses. No hope. They’ll all fall beneath the arrows of barbarian Asiatics.”
“We’ve been outnumbered before.”
“We’re always outnumbered. But this time there are no reserves. If we have to withdraw, all those people die.”
After a long silence, Valerius finally said, “If we weren’t here, they would die anyway.”
“But we are here.”
“Isn’t a commander’s primary responsibility to his men?”
“You’re a good soldier, Valerius,” Rufio said and stopped his horse and looked across at his optio. “But a Roman’s greatest responsibility is to his dignity, to his honor—and to the honor of Rome.”
“But we’re not abandoning that.”
“Don’t lie to yourself. We’re abandoning everything. Everything—if we let the little girl drown in the well.”
They reached the top of the hill, and below lay the mud and stone village of Hezrail. To Rufio, it might as well have been a plucked game bird waiting for the jackals.
“Rufio.” Valerius pointed into the distance beyond the village.
Five horsemen were riding through the valley toward Hezrail.
“Do you think they’re from the group that Haritat killed?” Valerius asked.
“I doubt it. Look how badly they sit their mounts. And they look haggard. These are pathetic.”
“There’s not much for them to take from here,” Valerius said. “Lamb. Some water.”
Rufio gazed at the riders. “Well, my friend, if they’re thirsty, how about if we give them a taste of the Tiber?”
He pointed to a narrow ravine from which they could approach the village unobserved.
“Keep it at a walk,” Rufio said as they began their descent.
One of the bandits had already gotten to the village and was shouting orders. His accent sounded Idumaean.
In the early sun, an outcrop at the end of the ravine cast a shadow across the opening.
Rufio and Valerius pulled up and watched from the blue half-light.
The five robbers had dismounted near the well. Four of them had gathered up some simple goods and a few sheep. Old Simon stood between them and a cluster of villagers. Noise behind them caused them to turn, and they saw the fifth thief pulling along two young women toward the pile of pathetic booty.
Rufio saw that the thieves had posted no guards or sentries and seemed as oblivious as scavengers picking over bones. Amateurs.
“They’re a haggard lot,” Valerius said. “Except for that one.”
The youngest thief wore a white, sun-bleached tunic and green trousers with a belt holding a rather feeble looking sword. His long hair was neatly kept by a leather headband. He stood beside a fine chestnut Turanian mare. A hornbow in a camel hide case hung from the saddle.
“Fortuna can be cruel,” Rufio said.
“To the Jews?”
“Well, sometimes to them. But today to their enemies.” Rufio smiled and looked at Valerius. “Ten-year-old boys are terrible creatures, don’t you think? The way they torment young girls with all sorts of pranks. Scaring them for no good reason. I was always good at that.” Rufio tightened his fingers around the reins. “Now take a deep seat.”
Valerius sank farther down into his saddle and took his reins with both hands.
Without further warning, Rufio let loose a hideous feline shriek that sounded like a cat getting its tail crushed by a wagon wheel. His horse shied sideways, as did Valerius’s mount, but the other five horses bolted in terror and streaked off together into the hills.
The Romans shot from the ravine. Without being told, Valerius swung around to the left and hemmed in the bandits from the opposite side.
Horses on the Storm Page 29
