Rufio closed from the right. Instead of forming a line to confront their enemy, the thieves bunched together. Fools.
The apparent leader, older than the others, pulled a dagger from a belt sheath and held it against Simon’s side. The bandit was about forty and still had three or four teeth. He seemed surprised that the Romans failed to realize that the old man and the two women were ready captives.
Rufio walked his horse slowly forward to within a few feet of the leader, and Valerius tightened the ring from the other direction.
More villagers rushed out of their homes at the sound of the commotion.
“Cen—.”
“Silence!” Rufio shouted to Simon. “You steal from people as poor as these?” Rufio said to the bandit chief.
“Shall we bargain?” the robber asked with the arrogance of hostage takers everywhere.
Rufio slid his sword from its scabbard. “With what? What do you have that I could possibly want?”
“Aren’t you Romans?”
“We are.”
“Then these people are your allies.”
“You’re not threatening Rome. You’re frightening an old man and two girls.”
“Let us take food and water, and I’ll spare them.”
“Any silver in your bags?”
“I’ll divide what we have. A fair bargain.”
“Simon?” Rufio asked.
The old man looked at the terrified young women. They had wrapped their arms around one another in the only security they could find.
“If they release these girls,” Simon said, “let them take the food. I’ll go as a hostage. Give them what they want.”
“Not what they deserve?” Rufio said.
Rufio thrust his blade into the center of the robber’s face and it split like a festered boil. He crumpled with hardly a sound.
The thief beside the women groped for his dagger, but Valerius’s sword point sank into the side of his neck. Blood shot from an artery and he fell gurgling and flailing and then lay still.
Rufio slid from his horse. “Weapons.”
His voice was gentle and relaxed, and so all the more frightening.
The sword and dagger belts of the three younger men hit the ground.
“You . . .”—Rufio pointed to the bandit wearing the headband—“Go with Valerius and catch the horses. Try to escape and Valerius will ride you down and kill you. The other two of you drag off these creatures and bury them in the desert. Don’t defile the village with this offal.” Rufio wiped his blade on one of the corpses and sheathed his sword.
By now, most of the villagers not tending their flocks had congregated near the well.
“Thank you,” Simon said. He seemed barely able to breathe. “It was good you chose to visit us today.”
“Happenstance,” Rufio answered as he watched the thieves haul off the two bodies.
“I don’t believe in happenstance,” Simon said.
“Simon, how many live here?”
“About two hundred.”
Rufio gazed at the crowd. A young couple had pushed to the front of the group, and the woman held a little girl in her arms. The child had a fresh bruise on her forehead. She smiled at him and he smiled back.
“If our enemies get past us, we cannot defend this village,” Rufio said. “Do your people trust us enough to evacuate to our fort on short notice? We have space, and you’ll be safe there.”
“After what Metellus did for little Miriam, and after today, I believe they would trust you with anything. The centurion is not a typical Roman, if I may say that.”
Rufio glanced again at Miriam and her parents and then looked back at Simon. “Say anything you like, but I’m the most typical Roman you’ve ever known. No, on second thought, you can’t say anything you like. Don’t mention Pompeius’s horse.”
Simon laughed, and it was startling coming from his serious face. “Agreed.”
47
AS LONG AS WE ARE AMONG HUMANS, LET US BE HUMANE.
SENECA
“Your prisoner, centurion,” Crus said and sat behind Rufio’s desk. “Proceed.”
Rufio pointed to one of the two camp chairs in front of the desk, and the prisoner sat. Rufio took the other chair.
“Your name.”
“Yahlavi,” he answered with a tremor in his voice.
“How did you get that?” Rufio gestured to a yellow and purple bruise on his left cheek.
He hesitated. “I fell off my horse.”
“A Parthian fell off his horse? Let’s understand where we are. I’m going to ask you a few questions. Not very many. I want you to answer truthfully. If you do, you’ll be on your way before the sun sets. Your horse is being fed now, and he’ll be watered. Then we’ll give you some provisions and you’ll go. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“But if I suspect even a single lie, the conversation is finished. I’ll have you nailed to a cross next to your two friends outside Hezrail. They’re waiting for you out there in the sun.”
Yahlavi stared at him in horror. “You crucified them?”
“No, the day they became bandits they crucified themselves.”
Neko came in with a pitcher and some cups.
“But it’s a hot day,” Rufio said, taking a sip of cool spring water. “They won’t suffer up there for long. They’ll be dead in two or three hours. If you stand outside the gate, you might be able to hear their moaning on the wind.”
Neko handed a cup of water to Yahlavi.
“Some of my men are hacking a couple of tamarisk limbs for you right now,” Rufio said. “If you decide to be a fool.”
“You’re telling me to betray my country.”
“You’re a deserter,” Crus said with contempt. “You’ve already betrayed your country.”
Rufio pointed again to Yahlavi’s cheek.
“One of my officers struck me.”
“Why?”
“He said I was a poor soldier.”
“And then you proved him right by deserting?”
“Yes,” he answered so faintly that Rufio could barely hear him.
“Were you with the troops who are coming here?”
“I was.”
“Is it a full drafsh?”
“More than nine hundred men.”
“Any heavy cavalry with lances?” Crus asked.
“None.”
“Why not?” Rufio asked.
“The nobles won’t bleed for Phraates. They think he’s mad.”
“And the bowmen?” Rufio said.
“They’ll bleed for silver.”
“When will they reach Judaea?”
“I don’t know.”
Rufio stared at him for a moment and then began to stand.
“I swear! I don’t know!”
Rufio sat back down. “Who is in command?”
“Durena,” he answered, as if that alone were enough.
“Who is that?” Rufio asked.
“One of our finest commanders.”
“On a raid like this?” Rufio said. “Why?”
“He is in disgrace. He hopes to redeem himself”
Rufio looked to his Egyptian scholar standing across the room. Neko nodded.
“Is he the one who struck you?” Rufio asked.
“Never. Durena is a good man. A great man. Aridates hit me.”
“One of his officers?”
“Yes.”
“Why is Durena in disgrace?”
“Because of his greatness. Phraates fears usurpers.”
“So he brought false charges?”
“Yes.”
Rufio shook his head and looked at Crus. “It never ends.”
“Durena will die even if he wins,” Yahlavi said. “Aridates will see to that. We all believe he is Phraates’ spy. And his assassin.”
“And does Durena suspect this?” Rufio asked.
“Durena knows all.”
“And yet he’s coming just the same?”
�
�He’s coming.”
“Come in,” Crus said.
Rufio turned and saw Haritat in the doorway.
“I heard about your captive,” Haritat said and entered the office. “Your men are almost finished with his cross.”
“You gave your word!” Yahlavi said to Rufio.
Haritat turned to Crus. “May I ask him a question?”
“As many as you like.”
Haritat approached the Parthian, and the fear in Yahlavi’s eyes turned to terror under the glare of the desert chieftain.
“How many camels?” Haritat asked.
“At least a hundred,” Yahlavi answered without hesitation.
Haritat turned to Rufio. “May we speak this evening?”
“Join me then.”
After Haritat left, Rufio nodded to Neko and the Egyptian came over and stood before Yahlavi.
“Up,” Rufio said.
Yahlavi stood.
“Go with my servant.”
Yahlavi looked at Crus but saw no mercy there.
“Go,” the tribune said.
Yahlavi stepped uncertainly across the room and through the doorway with Neko behind him.
“I’d say he’s too scared to lie,” Crus said.
“I agree.”
“Where are they going?”
“Neko will give him a meal and then take him to the bathhouse. The people out here simply don’t bathe enough.”
Crus laughed.
“Except for these Jews,” Rufio said. “They’re always purifying themselves. All you have to do is look at them cross-eyed and they hurry off to remove the taint with a quick ablution.”
Crus laughed even harder. “So did you really have some of your men make a cross for this bandit?”
“Oh, yes. You cannot be subtle with these Asiatics. It’s like dealing with petulant children. With a bad temper and shit on their ass.”
“Ah, I see. And does that apply to Haritat?”
Rufio smiled. “Nothing applies to Haritat.”
Crus hesitated and then said, “And what about the other two—the two you had crucified?”
“The centurion doesn’t understand the tribune’s question.”
Crus stared into his eyes for a moment. “Very well. I’ll defer to your judgment.”
“Thank you.”
“Would you like me to join you and Haritat later?”
“I’d be grateful.”
Crus stood up. “Until tonight then.”
North of the gyrus, one of the countless Judaean hills, barren as a baked skull, rose fifty feet above the surrounding terrain and formed an excellent barrier to absorb ill-shot arrows. Matthias had set up his rows of target hay bales here. By a curious turn of fate, Flavia had chosen an area about twenty feet to the right of it to position a bale for Morlana’s archery lesson. Rufio smiled as he stood nearby and watched.
Flavia spoke to Morlana a bit more loudly than necessary, and the still desert air carried each of her wise words of instruction to the Judaean soldiers on her left. Naturally, thought Rufio, they were not listening to this presumptuous female, and a barbarian one at that. Of course, if they happened to overhear her . . . well, that could not be helped.
The Jews were doing well. They had riddled the targets with arrows, and rarely did an arrow fly over a bale and strike the hill beyond. That would be accuracy enough. Matthias’s troops would not need to pick out individual targets among the Parthians. Simply shooting into their mass would be lethal.
On the other hand, Morlana seemed unwilling to settle for so little. At a range of about fifty feet, her arrows repeatedly pierced a red cloth not larger than the spread of a man’s hand. Rufio was unsure that Mallius would have been proud of her for this achievement. Her father had not seemed to notice her much at all. But Rufio felt a pride in her that he knew he had no right feeling, and even more difficulty explaining.
“Rest and take a drink,” Rufio said as he approached her and Flavia.
Morlana grinned as she always did when she saw him. She opened her water flask and offered it to him first.
He took a small sip and handed it back.
“When you’re finished here,” he said to her, “I want you to go and look after three horses. Arrianus will show you which ones. He’s already fed and watered them. Curry them, check their feet, and tack them up.”
She looked to Flavia.
“We’ve had enough for today,” Flavia said. “You’re a strator first, you know.”
Morlana smiled and gestured for Rufio to bend over.
“I love you,” she whispered in his ear, and then she ran back to the fort.
“Even the soft words of a little girl travel in the desert,” Flavia said with a smile.
“How are your students doing?” he said, ignoring her remark.
“Students?”
“The ones to my back.”
“They’re excellent. They learn very quickly.”
“Jews always do. If they had enough discipline to fit on the head a stylus, they could conquer the world.”
“Do you want me to come out here every morning?”
“Yes. Morlana has other duties, but give her at least a half-hour with the bow. She obviously loves it. Do it for her sake.” He snapped his head toward the soldiers behind him. “And for theirs.”
Rufio walked off, being careful not even to glance in the direction of the Judaeans. He knew that everyone, even allies, needed an occasional rest from the searing gaze of Rome.
“Have you retired?” Rufio asked Bellator standing near the horse pens.
“Ah, can there be no rest for the poor old decurion?”
“You’re neither poor nor old,” Rufio said as he approached. “Whether or not you’re a decurion has always been debatable. Who’s with the men?”
“Haritat is working the Second Century in the arena.” Bellator leaned against one the rails. “I’ve never seen them as enthusiastic as they are now.”
“What’s the exercise?”
Bellator smiled. “The Scythian Spin.”
“They’re enjoying that?” Rufio said.
“Ever since this morning.” Bellator grinned, and it was pleasant to see the old cur smile, although Rufio concealed his feelings with his usual metallic glare.
“I’d heard a rumor that the men were unhappy with Haritat,” Rufio said.
“They were.”
“Unhappy with what?”
“You know how he his. Wise but harsh.”
“That’s nothing. They’ve said it about me many times.”
“Oh, no. Never. Wise but hard. Never harsh.”
“Stop feeding me with a fingertip. What happened?”
“I spoke to the old rogue about it before the men got there. He seemed stunned—if I can read him at all—and yet he absorbed it well. When the men formed ranks, he rode out in front of them. As best as I can remember, he said something like, ‘You are learning well the ways of the desert horse. This should be recognized. I will tell all my warriors that the Parthian Pivot and the Scythian Spin have gone the way of the wind. Now, thanks to the men of the Tiber, the Roman Rollback whips us away from our foes.’”
Rufio laughed. “He’s a grand one, isn’t he?”
“For a moment, there was total silence. Then Arrianus shouted, ‘Haritat!’ and the entire century erupted.”
Still laughing, Rufio said, “I’ll miss that hawk-faced bandit.”
“He’s one for the ages.”
“Have you been working with the wooden swords this week?”
“On horseback?”
“No, on tortoise back.”
“I take back what I said. Harsh.”
“Swords. . . .”
“Every day I’ve had the men in the saddle drawing them and moving them around their mounts’ sides and necks. Most of the animals have been very good. I had to pull just a few and replace them.”
“Are you satisfied that the horses are ready for a real drill?”
“I am.”
Rufio looked at the sky. “These high clouds are odd for this time of year. We should take advantage of them. The afternoon will be cooler if this overcast stays.”
“I’m ready to start the men’s sword training.”
“Let’s start today. Tell Decius to issue the wooden swords to his century after their meal. Rest the men and their horses at midday, and then begin.”
After Bellator left, Rufio walked along the row of pens and gave a low whistle. His dapple gray gelding raised his head and ambled over with the leisurely stride that told humans never to get too confident. The horse leaned his head over the rail, and Rufio breathed on the animal’s nostrils and stroked his forehead. The horse’s eyelids drooped a bit, and he let out the soul-soothing sigh unique to his mysterious race.
“Do you want to go home with me?” Rufio said as he slid his right forefinger beneath the animal’s upper lip and rubbed gently back and forth along his gum. “Cormagnus could use a rest. And the grass in Gaul is sweet.”
Already many of his men had grown so attached to their horses that they had asked him if they could take them back.
Rufio held a fist in front of his horse’s mouth, and the animal began to lick it. After a few sweeps with his soft tongue, the horse got more energetic and starting lipping Rufio’s hand, which could be a prelude to a less than pleasant nip.
“You know no biting,” Rufio said.
Instantly, the horse stopped and resumed his licking.
“Have you named him?” said a voice behind Rufio.
He turned around. “Good morning, tribune.”
“You have a way with them,” Crus said and came up and leaned on the rail.
“Perhaps.” He reached back for a thought. “The finest horseman I ever knew was a Spaniard. No one rides as well as the Spaniards, except maybe the Numidians. He was an astounding man. I sometimes thought that he ate human food only as a pretense. That in fact he went out secretly at night and grazed in the moonlight. . . .”
Crus smiled.
“He said to me once that only one in every eight or nine horses ever bonds with its owner. And that no man has ever been able to change that number. One out of eight. Written in the stars.”
“And was he right?”
“I believe he was. I think that’s why we continue to try. To flaunt the will of the gods.”
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