Crus rose, as did Rufio.
“Rome respects your wishes and Rome thanks you for what you’ve done already,” Crus said.
Rufio smiled and nodded at the Nabataean.
“Now I will return to my tent and ask Dushara to grant you greater wisdom than you have so far shown.”
He turned with a swish of his robes and was gone.
“Well . . .” Bellator said. “I suppose someday we’ll have to teach him to be a bit more to the point.”
“I’m not sure I understand what he meant,” Crus said.
“To some extent, he sympathizes with the Parthians,” Rufio said. “And he thinks we’re fools for fighting for the growling Idumaean and his ill-tempered subjects.” He looked at Matthias. “Isn’t that true?”
The Judaean laughed. “It’s true.”
“But we’re not fighting for Herod,” Crus said. “Surely he—.”
“Tribune, he does know that,” Rufio said. “Part of him anyway. But another part of him considers it folly.” He took a sip of wine and stared at the door. “The desert has a short horizon. Survival is a day-by-day struggle in a land where water is scarcer even than human courage. The people out here care little for the sweep of empires.”
Obviously sensing a long night, Neko lit more oil lamps.
“So how shall we proceed?” Crus said.
“The weapons training is going well,” Bellator answered. “As I expected it to. These men were experienced with their swords long before I met them. All they needed was confidence in the saddle for them to be able to blend riding and cutting.” He looked at Rufio. “But individual skill isn’t the problem, is it?”
“No.” Rufio set down his cup. “Neko, how did our Parthian friend like his tour?”
The Egyptian smiled as he stepped forward. “Impressed, I believe. I walked him around and told him we had a thousand Roman cavalry and five hundred Judaean infantry. The size of the fort helped convince him of that.”
“Why should we care that a failed robber thinks we’re more powerful than we are?” Crus asked.
“Because,” Rufio said, “he’s going to return to Durena and tell him what he’s learned.”
“You think he was a spy?” Crus said in surprise.
“No, I think he’s a loyal Parthian who honors his commander. I think he’ll go back.”
“But how does that help us?” Matthias asked. “Wouldn’t it be better for Durena to underestimate us rather than overestimate us?”
“My thoughts as well,” Crus said.
Rufio looked at Bellator. “What do you think, you old war dog?”
He smiled. “I think I’m going to agree with what you’re about to say.”
Rufio turned to Crus. “Some commanders believe it’s an advantage if your enemy thinks you’re weaker than you are. In that way, you can shock and stun him on the battlefield. There’s merit in that. But merit rides many horses, and there’s more merit in the reverse. There’s an enormous advantage to you if your enemy enters the field uncertain—or even fearful of your strength. You’ve already begun slowly poisoning his resolve.”
“But do you think he’d fear a thousand Romans?”
“Much more than he’d fear only a single cohort. You win the battle not when you’ve killed the enemy’s men but when you’ve killed the enemy’s will. If the commander is ill at ease at the outset, you can be confident that toxin has already started seeping into his troops.”
“I wouldn’t have thought of that,” Crus said.
“When I was your age, or Matthias’s, I wouldn’t have thought of it either.”
“But whether they’re unsure or not, there are more of them than there are of us,” Crus said.
Rufio looked toward Bellator. “Any thoughts?”
“Only that perhaps Haritat is much wiser than we are.”
“Ah, the voice of hope,” Rufio said.
Bellator laughed.
Rufio turned back to his tribune. Suddenly, out of nowhere, the thought of Lucia, Crus’s sweetheart, came to Rufio’s mind. How proud she would be of her man now as he faced an implacable foe in the middle of this godless Hell.
“Rufio?” Crus said.
“Sorry. I was thinking—which is more than this decurion is doing.”
“Prudent silence can be powerful,” Bellator said.
“It can. But so can an empty well if you fall and hit your skull on the bottom.”
Bellator shook his head in mock exasperation. “And I gave up feeding my squirrels for this?”
“All right,” Crus said. “How do we face them?”
“My squirrels?”
Rufio saw Neko smile and then retreat to the shadows.
“Neko,” Crus said, “get a chair and sit by us. We might need your scholarship.” He looked at Rufio. “Take us to the battlefield.”
“The first thing we have to do is admit what we cannot do. We cannot flank them. We don’t have enough troops. We have maneuverability, but no more than the Parthians do. And not nearly enough men. So encircling them is no more possible than capturing the wind.” He looked at Bellator. “Agreed?”
“Yes.”
“We cannot destroy them, either. Cripple them, yes, but not annihilate them. Again, we don’t have enough troops for that.”
“Then what can we do?” Crus asked.
“What we must do is kill enough of them, and do it quickly enough, to cut their arrogance out from under them. More than inflicting blood and death, we have to smash the myth that makes them proud. Only then will they fall.”
Silence followed, and then Bellator said, “But they have enough men to flank us.”
Crus looked at Bellator and then at Rufio.
“The aging horseman has a talent for tripping over old manure,” Rufio said.
“Then let’s ride over it,” Crus said.
“The first thing,” Rufio went on, “is that we have to start the men on maneuvers outside the arena.”
“That was already my plan,” Bellator said. “How broad of a file?”
“Four.”
“No, not ranks. Files.”
“Four—narrow as a knife blade.”
“You want columns?” Bellator said in surprise.
“Ordinary tactics won’t work. You know that. Throwing a wall of horses against them would be madness.”
“You’ll have to explain it to me in more detail than that,” Crus said.
“Challenging the Parthians with a broad front is suicide. It just gives them an ideal target. That was the mistake Crassus made with his legions at Carrhae. If you shoot an arrow at a flock of sheep—even sheep with teeth, like the legions--you don’t miss. If you shoot it at a sword point, you waste an arrow. I want four files and twenty ranks for each century. We’re not going to push them or hammer them. We’re going to stab them.”
“Have you ever done this before?” Crus asked.
“No,” Rufio said. “We’re going to use the tactics that Sharrukin used against the Urartians.”
Crus looked at Bellator, but even the decurion was lost.
“The king of Assyria over seven hundred years ago,” Rufio said. “One of the great conquerors of those times. Savage like all those Assyrian slaughterers, but brilliant with cavalry. He knew how to fight in this land. Our Jewish friends call him Sargon. Those old Hebrews got everything right but the name.”
“He laid waste everywhere he went,” Matthias said.
“Sargon’s army overran the ten northern tribes of Israel,” Rufio went on. “He claimed to have carted off over twenty-seven thousand captives from Samaria alone.”
“And the Urartians?” Crus asked.
“Urartu was a kingdom northeast of Assyria,” Rufio said. “A fairly powerful one, too. And a stone in Assyria’s hoof. Assyria believed that Urartu was threatening its trade routes, as well as the area where Assyria got its horses. Sargon unleashed a major campaign. It was mountainous country and the conditions were brutal on his troops. They were beaten
down by the terrain and the elements. There was even talk of mutiny. When Rusa, the king of Urartu, marched out his troops to give battle, he had every reason to be confident. But he should have known better—he was challenging Assyrians. And Sargon.” Rufio took a sip of wine.
Crus smiled. “You like to pause for that special effect, don’t you?”
Rufio set down his cup. “The Assyrian conqueror decided to shame his troops and inspire them at the same time. He attacked one wing of Rusa’s line on his own with nothing more than his household cavalry. About a thousand men in a single column. Sargon himself led the assault. He—.”
“From horseback?” Bellator asked. “The king himself?”
“Probably from a war chariot. That was customary for royalty in those days. The Urartians were stunned. The wing collapsed and the Assyrian infantry took heart and smashed into the Urartian ranks.” Rufio sipped his wine. “And the kingdom fell. Because of a thousand cavalry.” He cocked an eyebrow at Crus. “Three hundred and fifty years before Alexander was born.”
There was silence for a few moments, and then Rufio turned to Bellator. “Have Haritat work more on the Parthian Pivot. I—.”
“You mean the Roman Rollback,” Bellator said.
Rufio smiled. “Yes. I want that to be perfect. It has to be perfect.”
“It’ll be done.”
“And what of my men?” Matthias asked. “What do we do?”
“We’ll have to think about that some more,” Rufio said. “Keep them practicing at the archery field. They looked very good today.”
“They’re improving,” Matthias said.
“Neko,” Crus said, “what do your researches tell us about the Parthians’ fighting style?”
“Semi-organized,” Neko answered. “Like most cavalry. No groups of horseman are ever as sound as a phalanx or a cohort. But that’s expected. They make up for that with swiftness. And mobility.”
“I see,” Crus said.
“And the numbers aren’t as bad as they appear.” Neko turned to Rufio for permission to continue.
Rufio nodded.
“Romans have been outnumbered much more severely and still prevailed,” Neko said. “Remember the Hill of Scorpions.”
“I do.”
“The most terrible blunder the honorable Crassus made was forming his men into a square,” Neko said. “That was disastrous. It allowed the Parthians to shoot at his troops from all directions. The Romans were cut to rags.”
“And we’re in a better position than Sargon was against Rusa,” Rufio said. “There are only about a thousand troops facing us. Sargon had an entire army against him. Our six centuries will take the field in six columns. One column will hit each wing of the Parthian line, and we’ll hold four columns in reserve. We’ll use converging columns, which Sargon couldn’t do because there weren’t enough troops in his household cavalry to hit both wings at the same time.”
“But how do we stop the Parthians from surrounding us the way they encircled Crassus?” Crus asked.
“We have an advantage Crassus didn’t have. His troops were static in a square. Ours are mounted. Wherever the wings of their line can go, we can go. The chaotic swarm of bees will never outrace the hornets. But we probably won’t have to worry about a flanking attack anyway, because they don’t have heavy cavalry to coddle their delicate heads, as they did at Carrhae. Remember, they have no armor and no shields. Without armored men with lances protecting them, the security of the bowmen lies in their mass and in keeping a safe distance. If their commander is half as clever as Yahlavi said, he won’t risk breaking up his troops by a useless attempt at flanking and closing on multiple mounted columns armed with swords.”
“What we must be wary of, too,” Neko said to the tribune, “is the false retreat. It’s one of their favorite tactics and it’s killed many Romans. The Parthians used it at Carrhae. The Parthians flee and their enemies pursue what they believe to be terrified horsemen, and then the pursuers are cut off, surrounded, and butchered.”
Rufio snapped his head up like a man startled out of a dream. He glanced at Bellator, who had noticed Rufio’s reaction and gave him a questioning look. Rufio turned and gazed at Matthias, whose eyes were on Neko.
“Thoughts, centurion?” Crus said.
“I need quiet and darkness to roll these dice around in my head. Allow me a night to think about this.”
“Well,” Crus said, smiling, “if you can solve this in a single night, I’ll buy you a villa at Ostia.”
Rufio gestured for Matthias to remain when the others left.
“The wind has died down,” Matthias said, staring out into the darkness from the open doorway.
“There’s something hideous about desert winds,” Rufio said as he joined him at the door. “Cold winds hurt, but these hot gales twist the mind.”
Matthias turned and smiled at him. “You Romans are too accustomed to balmy breezes from the sea.”
“No, it’s not that,” Rufio said seriously. “On nights like this, I’ve seen quiet young men start fights over nothing at all. And tough old centurions weep at some sad song. And drunken soldiers—good men—having competitions about biting the stingers off living scorpions. I hate desert winds.”
“Did you volunteer to come out here?”
“This time?”
“Yes.”
“I did.”
“May I ask why?”
“For a friend.”
“Augustus?”
Rufio laughed. “No, not Augustus.”
“The tribune then?”
“The tribune.”
“He’s a fortunate man.”
“Well, when he boards ship in Caesarea on his way home—that’s when someone can say he’s fortunate.” Rufio stepped past Matthias and went outside. “Let’s walk.”
They went slowly in the darkness toward the Via Praetoria. Rufio waved to soldiers at various guard posts as they walked by.
“I know your Sabbath began at sundown,” Rufio said. “So I appreciate your attending the meeting.”
“Our God is more understanding than many people think.”
“Certainly more than ours are.”
“Truly? Don’t you pray to any of your gods?”
“Only to one.”
“And does he not—.”
“She.”
Rufio’s tone was sharp enough to end the discussion.
They reached the fountain near the Principia. It was not actually a fountain at all but really just a glorified spring with a tiny stream of cool water dribbling out. Rufio pointed to the stone bench beside it. Matthias sat and Rufio sat down next to him.
“Matthias, I want to use you and your men as bait.”
After a brief hesitation, Matthias said, “So you’ve rolled the dice in your mind already.”
“I’d done that before the tribune left the room, but I wanted to discuss it with you first.”
“How would you do it?”
“I haven’t worked out any details yet. But I want to use the Parthians’ own ruse against them. Draw them in and cut them down. That they’d never expect. Their arrogance is a stone wall—and as blank as their imagination.”
“You want to offer Judaean lambs to the Parthian wolves?”
“I do.”
“And will the Romans be sheep hounds and protect the helpless flock?”
“Yes. Or die in the effort. You have my word. And that of Rome.”
“How will you do it?”
“You and your men will be in the middle of the line—but on foot. Troops on the ground are the most tempting bait there is to Parthian horsemen. You’re free to choose the number of ranks you use, but I wouldn’t make it more than three deep. In their rush to end everything quickly, at least some of the bowmen will overshoot you and waste their arrows. You’ll use our shields, which are bigger and heavier than yours and so a better defense against arrows. Of course, you’ll have to set the shields down to use your bows. But at least you can use
them during advance or withdrawal. Do you know how to form the turtle?”
“With our shields all around us?”
“Yes.”
“We’ve practiced it a few times.”
“You might need it, but let’s hope not. When you shoot your arrows at the slavering Asiatics, they’ll be massed—you won’t miss. But in the beginning, you have to look vulnerable. And you have to trust us to make sure you’re not.”
“Well,” Matthias said with a smile, “if there’s one thing Judaeans understand, it’s how to be vulnerable.”
“The Romans will be the Dogs of the Canaanites on your flanks.”
Matthias turned toward the fountain. The air passing over the running water cooled the space around both men.
“I hate the desert wind, too,” Matthias said. “I’ve always hated it.”
Rufio remained silent.
“The fact that I’m considering agreeing to what you ask says much about you.”
“It says nothing about me. It says everything about you. And about the valor of Judaea.”
Matthias turned back toward Rufio. “Are you flattering me?”
“Is what I said true?”
“About Judaean valor?”
“Yes.”
“It is true.”
“Then how can I be flattering?”
Matthias laughed. “I think you belong in your famous Senate. Not out here in angry winds.”
Rufio went over to the fountain and cupped his hands and helped himself to some spring water. “Respect your commander. But don’t bend your knee to him. That’s the road to ruin.”
“How do you mean?”
Rufio sat back down. “Many years ago I overheard one of my soldiers say to another, ‘What I am in the eyes of Rufio, that’s what I am as a soldier.’ Most centurions would love to hear any of their men say that. But it can be disastrous. A fine soldier becomes a finer soldier if he cares about the opinion of a good commander, but he can’t worship it. If he does, he stops thinking for himself. A Greek in a phalanx can afford not to think for himself. A Roman fighting in an open rank cannot.”
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