Other Romans took a view opposite from that of the desiccated elite. Instead they believed that soldiers, especially before battle, were roiling with martial passion and a sensual craving for the profane delights of the battlefield. Such fantasists would have been stunned to learn that fighting men rarely spoke of fighting and almost never did so beforehand. They preferred quiet moments checking their gear or praying to their gods or simply relishing the small pleasure of tossing a few scraps to a hungry dog in the street.
When Rufio had finished chatting with the soldiers of his century, he rode along the barracks toward where Decius had dismounted to help straighten the lorica of one of his newer men. Although a bit embarrassing, small gestures like that also meant a great deal to an uncertain soldier.
When the trooper left, Rufio said, “Would you help me with mine?”
Decius mounted his horse and laughed, but not with his usual energy.
Rufio bent down and asked for a few figs from a soldier standing by his horse nearby and then handed one to Decius.
“Is everything all right?” Rufio asked.
“In this cauldron?”
Rufio had learned long ago that when Decius chose not to answer a question he just tossed out another question to deflect it.
“The centurion,” Rufio said. “The king of those who bring comfort. But who consoles the consolers? Allow Silver Hair to help polish your corroded bronze.”
This time Decius’s laugh was genuine. He made a gesture, and the two old friends rode along the barracks block together.
“How well do you sleep before battle?” Decius asked.
“Soundly.”
“I do, too. Except for last night. I kept thinking about Gaul.”
“Nothing strange in that.”
“But it was the oddest thing. . . .” Decius shook his head. “A few months ago in Gaul, I scooped up a little sparrow drowning in a barrel. I dried him and warmed him and fed him. Then I let him go. But he wouldn’t go. Not far anyway. . . .”
Rufio smiled. “Like a centurion. If he gets thrown out of the fort, where on earth can he fly to?”
Decius turned and looked at Rufio with a serious expression. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“I was just joking.”
“Ever since then, I’ve fed him. Every day. He comes to the window ledge mornings and late afternoons and jumps on my wrist and takes seeds from the back of my hand. I asked Corbulus from the Third Cohort to feed him for me while we’re gone.”
Rufio remained quiet.
“I have a woman in Aquabona,” Decius said. “A wonderful Sequani woman. . . .”
“Yes, I know.”
“But last night all I could think of was that delicate little bird waiting there. Trusting. Waiting for me to come home and feed him. And how much I want to get back there to do that.”
Rufio smiled in the darkness. “Such a small thing. . . .”
Decius looked at him. “I guess that’s always true, isn’t it?”
“The smallest things are always the greatest things.”
“I don’t know why I never realized that before. Not until I rode into to this desolation.”
“You had to come a long way to find it, though, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” he said with a smile. “But it was worth the trip.”
The other four centurions could be seen riding toward the Principia up the street. The tribune and Bellator were seated on their horses just in front of it.
“I’ll be there,” Rufio said as he saw Matthias coming.
Decius went on ahead.
“Let’s go together,” Rufio said as the Judaean rode up. “All is well?”
“I hope it is,” he said as they rode toward the Principia. “I don’t want to be a fool. And a disaster to my men.”
“Disaster? What do you mean?”
“On the battlefield a few hours from now.”
“Don’t worry about that. Your men are looking very fine. And they have trust in you. So does the tribune.”
“You’re not just being polite?”
“Have I ever been?”
Matthias laughed. “You were very harsh when you first arrived here. Where did that go?”
“Harsh? Toward the sons of David? You sound like Bellator.”
“You’ve changed. Toward us I mean. Softened.”
“Changed?” he said with a laugh. “Ask anyone—Rufio’s flaws are carved in marble.”
“Perhaps. But Elah has been known to write deeply even on tablets of stone.”
That remark startled him, and touched him as well. “My friend, we’ll do what we can together to keep the barbarians at bay.”
Rufio and Matthias joined the other centurions in front of the Principia. Bellator left Crus’s side and brought his horse into line with the centurions.
“Comrades,” Crus said. “Anything to report?”
“The cohort is ready,” Rufio answered quietly.
“I want to take the field in one hour.”
“Tribune, the cohort can depart in half that,” Rufio said.
“Excellent.” Crus looked at Matthias. “On the march, I want our Judaean soldiers in the center.”
“It’ll be done, tribune,” Matthias said.
“The First and Second centuries take the van, Fifth and Sixth the flanks, Third and Fourth the rear.” Crus let his gaze glide over his officers. “I want to thank all of you for everything you’ve done for Rome. And for your tribune. The journey, the training, and above all your patience in a land that tries all men’s patience.” He paused and then said, “I’d planned to say to you today that we don’t have to win, just keep those hard-riding savages off the throats of the Judaeans—that if we simply fight to a draw, we triumph.” He grinned. “But whom am I talking to? Let’s send their blistered asses all the way back to the Euphrates!”
The centurions roared with laughter.
“All right,” Crus said. “Let’s ride!”
55
MEN ARE LEAST SAFE FROM WHAT SUCCESS INDUCES THEM NOT TO FEAR.
LIVIUS
Faint light was spreading on the eastern horizon as the Roman and Judaean formation descended into the dry riverbed. Enormous chalky cliffs of perfectly flat horizontal layers towered on both sides of the troops as they moved on. The horses had been watered so well that few of them were tempted to try to veer off to the full wooden troughs that they passed.
From the van, Crus turned and inspected the soldiers behind him. No one knew how to hold formation like Romans. The Judaeans in the center looked a bit ragged, but still much better than they had just a month earlier.
Riding beside Crus, Bellator said, “Now that it’s bright enough, it’s time to spread out.”
The old decurion signaled and the two centuries in front fanned into a wide and thin screen. The centuries on the flanks and at the rear did likewise.
Crus looked to Bellator for an explanation.
“In the dark, we have to ride a tight formation so some of the troops don’t drift away and get lost, but when the sun comes up that’s not necessary.”
“But why spread out so much?”
“When saving space isn’t important, a broad screen is best. Your troops can scan more terrain as they move and so the formation has less chance of being surprised.” He turned to Arrianus, who was riding next to him. “Go on ahead, all the way to the widest part of the riverbed. Let us know if you see any movement or scouts.”
Without a word, he cantered away down the big wash.
Crus continued to survey the surrounding cliffs. He wanted to remember every detail for the grandchildren who would sit with him someday around a fireside in the Alban Hills, the future home that Rufio had imagined for him on an uneasy day before the battle at Scorpion Hill. As the sun rose higher, the golden color of the walls and bluffs lightened, and he found himself squinting at the fierce brightness that seemed to challenge the fragile eyes of men. Occasionally the flat layers would give way to eerie swirl
s in the cliff faces, as if some bored god or idle titan had taken a finger and dreamily sketched on a superhuman scale. The entire expanse dazzled him with an utterly ferocious beauty that would have been incomprehensible to him just a few months before.
After about another quarter hour, Crus called a rest halt. The Romans dismounted and checked tack and tightened saddle girths. Then all of them sat in the shade of their horses and drank. The Judaeans had no choice but to sit in the sun.
Crus stayed mounted and rode about among his troops. They were taut, as they should have been, but confident, and they teased him to relieve their tension. About ten minutes later, he ordered them to remount, and they did so with a fluidity and grace that made him proud to be one of them, let alone their commander.
Dust from far down the riverbed showed that Arrianus was returning. Crus trotted back to his position at the head of the column.
Arrianus galloped up. “They’re waiting for us,” he said, breathing heavily.
“Relax,” Bellator said. He offered Arrianus his own water flask.
“Thank you. I still have mine.” He looked at Crus. “They’re on the flat just above the grade leading down into this riverbed. They’re dismounted and they have their horses lying down beside them.”
“How could you see them from here?” Crus asked.
“I couldn’t. I wanted to get a look at the whole area, so I rode to the raised spot from where the tribune and the decurion are going to watch the battle. From there they were obvious, like flies on a corpse.”
“Well done. Tell the other centurions what you’ve seen.” Crus turned and signaled to the troops behind him, and they moved off as smoothly as a wave rolling down a stream.
The eastern sun was slicing their eyes by the time that Crus and Bellator and Arrianus reached the little dry wash draining off to the left. The formation moved on while the three of them turned away and climbed to the flat plain from which they would see the battlefield below.
When they reached the top, Crus gazed across the gorge to the flatland beyond. Shimmering warm waves rippled skyward from the surface. The Parthians and their mounts lying on the ground were easily visible, but the upsurges of heat deformed them into seemingly grotesque creatures, poised now to pillage without purpose a meaningless and lifeless netherworld.
The three men dismounted. Below them and to the north they could see their troops entering the gorge. The two centuries in the van pulled off to the flanks and allowed the broad front of the three Judaean ranks to be completely exposed. The First Century and Fifth Century formed two columns of four riders in a rank on the right, while the Second Century and Sixth Century assembled into parallel files on the Judaean left. The Third Century dropped back into reserve on the right flank, and the Fourth Century did likewise on the left.
“Tribune.” Arrianus pointed across the gorge.
The Parthians were getting their horses on their feet. Even that small amount of activity started stirring up dust.
“Do you think the centurions can see that?” Crus asked Bellator.
“They see it. Arrianus, your eyes are better than mine. Can you make out any horns?”
Arrianus studied the gathering mass. “No.”
Bellator nodded. “The Parthians like to blow horns to unnerve their enemies, but I don’t think they’ll do it today. They want surprise. They’ll charge down that grade without warning.”
Suddenly Crus felt so afraid for his men that he started quivering. He took two steps backward behind Arrianus’s line of vision.
Bellator laid a soothing hand on Crus’s shoulder.
“It’s all right, tribune,” Arrianus said without turning around. “All of us shake.”
The Parthians began mounting.
“Soon,” Bellator said.
Crus looked at the Judaeans below. Their bows hung from their shoulders and were invisible because of the Roman infantry shields they held in front of them. Crus wondered how they could stand so still. Were they that brave? Or that terrified?
He looked back at the high plain. The Parthians were all mounted now. At this distance and with the dust, no red-capped rider could be seen.
Bellator took a sip from his flask to wet his lips. “Hold onto your animals.”
Crus and Arrianus gripped their horses’ reins, and Bellator raised the bronze boar-headed horn to the heavens.
Rufio’s tension conveyed itself to his horse, and Nimbus was nervous and stiff between his rider’s legs. Rufio pulled one rein gently back and then the other to flex his neck and soften him, and then they peeled off from the front of the formation to the flank.
The First Century took the far right, with the Fifth Century to Rufio’s left and the Third to the rear. Metellus was riding to the right of the entire double column. All the horses were twitchy and alert, ears constantly moving and nostrils snorting out salt and sand stirred up from the surface of the gorge.
“You’re not nearly as impressive without your wolf skin,” Rufio said to his signifer as they rode on.
“Calpurnia claims I’d be handsome covered even in rags and ashes.”
“How is your Gallic princess? And the little one?”
“Very well. Of course, Calpurnia would have liked to come with the cohort, but not all are so blessed with the favor of the centurion.”
“Flavia is my archery teacher.”
“I’d forgotten. And all in the First Century are certain that no one is as skilled as Flavia at the delicate mysteries of unstringing the centurion’s bowstring.”
Rufio bit down hard to stop from laughing and gave Metellus the imitation of a glare. “You’re on the edge, signifer.”
“I know,” he answered with mock weariness, “but isn’t that the fate of all who toil in the cause of Caesar?”
Not as adept with blade or brawl as some, the sandy-haired signifer, ironically so un-Roman in appearance, was nonetheless one of Rufio’s greatest treasures. He was among the most quick-thinking soldiers Rufio had ever known, and yet he concealed it with an offhand air that many misunderstood. Having him here on the flank of the column was to Rufio a source of comfort that Metellus would never have imagined. His unself-conscious valor by Rufio’s side in the mud of Gaul had shown the spine of Rome to all who had been privileged to see. And, to Metellus, jumping down a well to save a child was no more an act of bravery than brushing out the mane of his horse. After all, the signifer would have argued, would any true Roman not have done the same?
“What is it?” Metellus asked as Rufio looked at him.
“I was just thinking about the little girl in the well.”
Metellus smiled, and it was not a mocking smile this time. “That’s interesting, because I was, too.”
Rufio studied the three long Judaean ranks to his left. They stood as still as pillars with their shields before them. Matthias commanded from the far right of the first rank. Rufio had advised him otherwise, but he had insisted. Beyond them, Rufio could make out Decius at the front rank of the Second Century on the Judaeans’ left flank.
“Rufio,” Metellus said and pointed forward.
Parthian bowmen, now mounted, could be seen readying themselves at the top of the grade above the riverbed. Through the heat waves and the dust, Rufio saw a rider raise his right hand.
A hideous blast on Bellator’s carnyx shattered the air when the Parthian lowered his arm and the alien army swept down to its destiny.
Muffled by the soft surface, the hoofbeats of the Turanian horses seemed eerily distant, echoes heard only at the moment of waking on the edge of a dream. White dust enveloped all except the horsemen in front, but on they all came with the terrifying confidence of the courageous or the mad.
As the first riders cleared the grade and raced into the chasm, Rufio could hear Matthias shout a command. The Judaeans dropped their shields and gripped they bows. Each man nocked an arrow but held his weapon relaxed before him.
No more than five hundred feet distant were the Parthian horsemen
when the front rank of Judaeans unleashed their first torrent. Wails of pain from the horses mixed with the cries of men as the wounded and the dead tumbled into the powder of the abyss. The second Judaean rank now launched its own shower of missiles in a great arc toward the hated foe. More screams and crippling and death filled the gorge, but now the Parthian bowmen could at last see through the dust. On a trumpet command, they halted in a single orderly mass, and their first storm of arrows tore into the Judaeans. Young men fell with arrows slicing through their faces or splintering their legs. The third rank ignored or failed to hear Matthias’s command to shoot, and the Judaeans scrambled for the big Roman shields to protect themselves.
Rufio turned toward the high plain behind him and signaled to Bellator, and the old warrior blew two long blasts from the carnyx.
“Now!” Rufio shouted, unsheathing his sword, and the First and Fifth Centuries began their canter toward the invaders, as did the Second and Sixth on the opposite side of the field.
A trumpet sounded again from deep within the Parthian throng, and the entire horde of horseman suddenly whirled and galloped off.
Startled at this early use of the false retreat, Rufio raised his hand for a halt, and Metellus shouted the command down the columns. Across the field, the other centuries stopped as well.
About three hundred feet away, the inchoate swarm of Parthian riders began reassembling. What had seemed moments earlier like nothing more organized than chaotic streams of oil swirling across a plate now began to take sensible shape.
“What on earth is that?” Metellus said.
The Parthian horsemen started forming files of their own, four massive columns five ranks across. A flash of red could be seen flitting among the gathering riders.
Two volleys of Judaean arrows swished overhead and tore into the Parthians, but they never broke ranks and they seemed to absorb it almost as their due.
“They’re better drilled than we thought,” Rufio said to himself as much as to Metellus.
“Look how they’re positioning,” Metellus said, peering through the dust.
Horses on the Storm Page 37
