“You’ve succeeded with this one.”
“Do you know how you can be sure your horse has bonded with you? Not when he nickers to you or nuzzles you. That matters, but there’s much more. You know you’ve reached his heart when you do something stupid and he doesn’t panic. When, despite your idiocy, he trusts.”
Crus gave him a bemused look. “Is this personal testimony?”
“When I was young and serving in Gaul for the first time, I had a wonderful red bay. He was from Spain and smart as Socrates, which caused its share of problems because he was always getting into mischief. I called him Mirus because he was amazing. And he had a sweet soul.”
“And how did he show his trust?”
“I’m not the tallest man in the world, so mounting a horse has always been work for me. Sometimes I’d slip back down. Nobody likes to embarrass himself like that. One day when I was tired and sore, I decided to give it an extra effort to make sure I landed squarely in the saddle and didn’t look like a fool. I pulled myself up so hard I sailed over the saddle and found myself hanging from the other side. I scrambled to get back up, but I was too far over and just kept flailing. All I could think of was that if my horse bolted, I’d fly off while he was running and break my back. Yet he stood there still as bronze. Here was this imbecile flapping around his off side—behavior that would terrify just about any horse and something he’d probably never experienced before—and yet he never moved. That’s a bond. That’s trust.”
“And did the imbecile climb back on?”
“He fell to the ground like a dropped stone. In the fall, he forgot to let go of the right rein. It pulled the horse backward without warning. That did scare Mirus. Fortunately the rein snapped. As I was on the ground, I could see his feet moving backward next to my face and I realized there was nothing I could do to stop a hoof from slamming down onto my head. But it never did. Mirus was that careful not to step on me. He backed up a few steps and then stopped. Never reared or bolted like so many horses would have. He just stood there by me. Trust again. I got to my knees and looked back at him, and I swear his eyes said, ‘Surely we can do better than that.’”
Crus burst out laughing.
“How I loved that horse.” Rufio turned back and caressed the lips of the gray Arab. “I see much of those days here again.” He rubbed the horse’s forehead. “I call him Nimbus, because his coat looks like a storm on the horizon.”
The creak of a wagon caused both men to turn around.
Neko drove up with Yahlavi sitting beside him. The Parthian looked clean now but fearful, like a young snake with a newly shed skin but with its head caught under a heel. Neko stopped the wagon beside Rufio and Crus.
“Down,” Neko said, and the Parthian jumped off.
Neko threw Yahlavi’s weapons onto the ground and handed him a sack. “There’s a ham in there and the water flask is full.”
Yahlavi stared at him in confusion.
From the opposite end of the row of pens, Morlana came up leading Yahlavi’s horse. The Turanian looked magnificent.
She handed Yahlavi the reins. He quickly draped them across the horse’s neck and put on his swordbelt and attached his bow and quiver and food sack to the saddle.
Just behind Morlana, Arrianus came from around the end of the pens and led two other horses, with a man walking beside each.
Yahlavi spun toward Rufio in disbelief and then laughed and ran and embraced his two friends.
“I guess I didn’t drive the nails deeply enough,” the centurion said. “Mount up!”
Without a word, they did.
“Leave Judaea,” Rufio said. “Never come back.” He turned to Neko. “Go with them to the gate so the guards will let them leave.”
Yahlavi just stared at Rufio and then said finally, “You are a man of honor.”
“Go!”
Rufio turned away as they rode off, and he began scratching Nimbus behind the ears.
Crus leaned against the rail.
Rufio could feel his gaze. “Tribune?” he said without turning away from his horse.
“Crucified? Hmmm.”
Rufio dismissed it with the wave of a hand. “I’m in a mellow mood.”
“And those three?”
“Just three young fools. They still have time. I decided to give it to them.” He lightly rubbed Nimbus’s lips. “The other two were a different matter. They needed killing.”
48
I DESPISED HIS HORSES, I DID NOT CAST A GLANCE AT THE MULTITUDE OF HIS MAIL-CLAD WARRIORS. . . . I PLUNGED INTO HIS MIDST LIKE A FRIGHTFUL JAVELIN. . . . I MADE THEIR BLOOD RUN DOWN THE RAVINES AND PRECIPICES LIKE A RIVER, DYEING THE PLAIN, COUNTRYSIDE AND HIGHLANDS RED LIKE A ROYAL ROBE.
SARGON II
Crus rode into the arena and up to the rank of horseman assembled in front of Bellator and Decius, their centurion. Two tent groups stood mounted there, while the remainder of the century waited outside the arena. Crus was about to ride to the end of the line when a couple of soldiers made space for him in about the middle of the rank. Crus was holding his wooden sword, as were all the other men.
“The concept is simple,” Bellator said. Then he smiled. “Perhaps the execution is less so. We’ll see.”
Since Decius probably knew little more about fighting from horseback than his men did, Crus suspected that Decius was on his mount beside Bellator as a courtesy to the centurion. The old decurion was very sensitive to the privileges of rank.
“There’s one thought I want you to remember,” Bellator went on. “Lock this phrase in your mind—‘X’ on the horizon. If you remember that, what you learn today will stay with you forever.”
Crus noticed Bellator wince a little bit as he shifted his weight in the saddle.
“There are seven cuts to learn. I won’t say ‘master’ because there’s little time, but you’ll do fine. First, sit as tall in the saddle as you can. That’s not just to give you more height but also more power as you drive the blade down.” He raised his training sword. “Upper left to lower right, and then lower right to upper left.” He showed them. “That’s one side of the ‘X’. Now upper right to lower left, and then lower left back to upper right. That’s the other side. Simple?”
“A child could do it,” Crus said, and the men laughed.
Crus could see Bellator smothering a smile.
“Our tribune honors us today,” the decurion said. “Now before you learn what to do with the sword, you have to learn two things you should never do with your horse. These are as important as anything you’ll learn from me this day. The first is that you absolutely must not jerk the reins and tighten them at the moment you bring your sword into play. Believe me, you will. Everyone does. You’ll do it without thinking. You’ll pull those reins tight. Be aware of it and stop it. There are two reasons this is bad. The first is that you’ll hurt your horse’s mouth, and the second is that you’ll slow him or even stop him at the critical moment when you need his forward movement the most. Is that clear?”
“Clear,” Crus said.
“No horseman wants to hurt his horse, but there’s also a practical reason that this is bad. All of you have enough experience with horses now to know that a horse usually learns good things slowly but bad things fast. Pain is a cruel teacher and a quick one. If you hurt him every time you’re about to use your sword, he’ll learn that fact after just a few instances of it. Then every time he feels you shift your weight as you’re about to cut, he’ll slow down or stop to avoid the mouth pain that he’s learned will follow. So don’t do it.”
Bellator paused for effect.
“And the second thing, decurion?” Crus said, impatient to get on with the training.
“I appreciate the tribune’s prompting,” Bellator said without a trace of sincerity. “The second thing to know is that when you close with your enemy and slash with your sword, very often your horse will veer toward the opposite side, away from the point of contact and what he sees as a possible collision. And sometimes
he’ll change his gait, too. You’ve already learned that your horse is much more likely to break his gait on a turn than when running straight. At your moment of greatest danger, the last things you want are your horse changing direction out of your control and also dropping from a canter to a trot. You’ve gone from a swift and focused mount to a swerving and slowing one. If you don’t correct that behavior, your comrades will soon be entombing your urn on the Via Appia.”
Bellator looked at Crus.
“Thank you, decurion,” the tribune said.
Bellator smiled. “All right, now let me see everyone do both sides of the ‘X’—left side, then right. And easy on the reins!”
The soldiers, including their tribune, obeyed.
“Slowly,” Bellator said. “Speed will come with practice. Again.”
They repeated the cuts.
“Very good. Now we’ll slice across the horizon.” He held his sword out straight. “Blade level with the ground, cut from left to right with your palm down, and then from right to left with your palm up.” He paused. “Excellent! What I could have done with you sad foot-sloggers twenty-five years ago!”
With mock respect, one of the soldiers said to the older man, “But, decurion, some of us were still sucking on a tit twenty-five years ago.”
The men laughed at their brazen comrade.
“And a good thing that is, soldier,” Bellator said seriously. “Because with a face like yours, it’s the only tit you’ll ever get to suck.”
The soldiers roared, and even the victim could not help laughing.
“Seventh cut,” Bellator said. “Straight down from top to bottom. Do it cleanly and make me proud.”
They did, and Crus could see that he was proud.
“Fine. You’ll be quicker next time. Questions?”
“Decurion,” Crus said, “why not an eighth cut straight up? Why skip that?”
Bellator glared at the men. “Why couldn’t one of you dirt kickers think to ask me that? It’s a very good question. Does anyone know the answer?”
No one dared reply.
“Because,” Bellator said, “it’s too weak. Upward cuts are challenging enough at an angle, but cuts straight up are even more awkward and difficult for the human arm. So we avoid it.”
“Thank you, decurion,” Crus said.
“One thing that all of you have noticed is that you’re told never to slash on foot but to thrust instead, and yet I just gave you seven different ways to slash on horseback. Do you have any idea why I did that?”
“Because the decurion is confused?” Crus said.
The man exploded in laughter.
Bellator tried to give Crus a stern look, but a smile was seeping through.
“A fair answer,” Bellator said. “A better one is that you can thrust on horseback, but it’s difficult. Especially with a small infantry sword. Also, a slash from atop a horse always has more power than a thrust. You’re able to put the most weight behind it because you’re coming down rather than trying to push forward.” He looked directly at Crus. “Does that make sense, tribune?”
“Like the geometry of Euclid,” Crus answered.
“But there’s an important difference in executing the thrust. Instead of sitting as tall as you can, I want you to crouch a little bit in the saddle and bend toward the front at the waist. That’ll help you drive your blade forward with the most power and accuracy.” He turned to Decius. “Centurion.”
“All right,” Decius said to his men. “Thrust!”
They did, and the phantom Parthians died.
Crus was certain that the real ones would not be so obliging.
“The Parthian bowmen carry no shields,” Bellator said. “So they’re completely vulnerable to your blades. But you have to hit them fast. It’s the middle distance that’s the most dangerous for you, because at that range their bows are powerful enough to drive arrows through your mail. But once you close with them, their bows are useless. And always go for the man. Slash his head or pierce his stomach or cut off any limbs within reach. His horse is only a secondary goal. Don’t be tempted by the animal’s size. If you’re unhorsed yourself, go for the rider’s legs. Stab the horse in the belly if you have to, but that’s your final target, not your first.”
Bellator paused while the men absorbed that.
“Decurion . . .” Crus said.
“Tribune.”
“What do you do if your enemy is on your left but you’re right-handed?”
“Very good question. I forgot to discuss that. If the enemy is on the side opposite your weapon hand, do not reach across your horse and try to strike him on that flank. A slash over your horse’s neck would be too weak and a thrust would be too short. Unless you’re competent fighting with either hand and can switch your weapon to the opposite side—and who is?—bring your sword into play by circling in front of your enemy. If you’re right-handed and your enemy is on your left, circle to the left and confront your enemy from your own right. Left-handed soldiers do likewise but from the left.”
Crus nodded. “Thank you.”
“One thing more,” Bellator said. “Success isn’t going to hinge on your skill with your blade or on your strength or even your courage. Victory will be driven by the speed and valor of your mount. And we have the finest and bravest horses on earth. They’re ready to ride the storm.”
“Is food sacred in Italy?” Haritat asked as he gazed at the table of cured meats and dried fruits that Neko had laid out in Rufio’s office.
Rufio smiled and pointed to a chair.
Crus was already seated behind Rufio’s desk, and now Bellator, Matthias, and the Nabataean formed a casual half circle on camp chairs in front of it. Rufio sat by the end of the desk to Crus’s left.
Neko poured wine for everyone and passed around the food before he withdrew to the shadows.
Ordinarily, Rufio left his front door open, but a hot and wild wind was blowing through the darkness. Desert gales were always ominous. Their erosive effect on men’s souls had driven more than one man mad. Rufio pointed to the door, and Neko went over and closed it against the Judaean howl.
“Did the tribune enjoy the training today?” Rufio asked.
Crus looked at him in surprise.
“There are no secrets in a fort,” Rufio said.
“I enjoyed it for the first half-hour. After that, my arm seemed to die. But Bellator kept everyone charging and slashing at Decius for about an hour and a half. I’m not sure why, because everyone was accomplishing it fairly well long before that.”
“He wasn’t doing it for the men,” Rufio said. “He was training the horses. Getting them accustomed to the maneuvers and the flailing blades.”
“Ah, I hadn’t thought of that.”
“All right, my friend,” Rufio said, turning to Haritat and taking a sip of wine. “Tell us about the camels.”
“I’d like to hear that, too,” Bellator said. “They’re unsettling my horses.”
“But not as much as last week, is that not so?” Haritat said. “And even less so as the weeks pass. However, the centurion, I believe, speaks not of the three I brought but of the hundred crossing the desert toward us as we are speaking.”
“Yes,” Rufio said.
“The camels are the truest arrow in the Parthian quiver,” Haritat said.
“Please tell us why,” Crus said.
“Fighting in the desert is like fighting on the sea. Everything you need you must carry with you. There is no foraging for supplies or water or food. All must be born on the back and be ready to hand. The Parthians know this. Your failed generals did not.”
“Crassus,” Crus said.
“And Antonius,” Haritat answered. “But at least he survived. Countless hordes have fallen.”
“Because of camels?” Bellator asked.
“Do not sneer at our irritable friend,” Haritat said. “The Parthians will hide provisions at various points in these wastes in preparation for approaching conflict. No
matter the ferocity of the battle, the Parthians will never have to disengage because of lack of arrows or water. They will send a few riders back to these secret caches, where fellow warriors will load whatever they need upon camels and ride them forward. They can do this many times before their supplies are gone. Long before that, their waterless and weaponless enemies will be maggots shriveled on a hot rock.”
“Would they do something so elaborate even for a small foray like this?” Crus asked.
“They would do it without even thinking. They would do it in their sleep.”
“Is a hundred enough for them?” Rufio asked.
“Fifty would be enough for them,” Haritat answered.
“And if you were in our place,” Rufio said, “how would you counter them?
One of Haritat’s rare smiles brightened the room with its cold light. “If I were in your place, I would pray for a swift and painless death. The only way to deal with them is to encircle them and prevent riders from leaving to retrieve the camels. Or, if that fails, to stop the camel riders from returning and replenishing their troops. But you have not enough men to encircle, is that not so?”
“It is so,” Crus said. “So what can you advise us that we haven’t thought of?”
“Prayers to Dushara.”
“Chief,” Bellator said, “you really have to learn to speak your mind instead of always cuddling us with lamb’s wool.”
Everyone laughed and it broke the tension.
“I brought some camels because your horses need to get accustomed to them.”
“Because the Parthian camels will get through?” Rufio asked.
“The Parthian camels will get through.”
For several minutes the groaning wind outside was the only sound.
“Then it’s time to discuss how we move forward,” Crus said at last and looked at Rufio.
“Tribune,” Haritat said.
Crus turned toward him.
“I agreed to help train your men to ride. I did this not as a favor to the tribune nor as a favor to the centurion. Least of all, did I do it as a favor to Rome. I toil in the sun to repay my debt to the woman who saved my life and allowed me to continue to be a leader to my people. Some time ago I told the centurion that I am not at war with the Parthians and that I will not go to war with the Parthians on Herod’s behalf.” He stood. “I will be part of no discussion of war plans.”
Horses on the Storm Page 31
