“Your eyes are sharper than mine. What is it?”
“Five swordsmen in the first rank, five archers in the second, then five more swordsmen, five more archers—all the way down each column. What is this?”
At that instant Rufio knew that he had made a disastrous mistake. Allowing Yahlavi to carry back tales of heavy Roman cavalry would have intimidated any rational leader of lightly armed bowmen, but now he realized that Durena was not even halfway sane but, rather, half-mad in his brilliance. Men who were not trained in the sword were about to use swords to screen their comrades against seasoned Roman swordsmen. And for what purpose, to what end? For petty booty? To earn the tentative benevolence of a petulant tyrant? None of this was remotely comprehensible to an arrogant race ever eager to boast that it had been suckled by a wolf. Rufio’s intuitive self-assurance had been its own undoing. There was no sense to this, and that was the brilliance of it. Who could have foreseen it? These men with little skill would crudely hack to death Romans and Jews and in the course of it would die in the hundreds in the appalling suicidal fatalism of the East.
Another shriek of a Parthian trumpet rocked the walls of the abyss, and the four columns of Asiatic horsemen charged across the white riverbed. Rufio raised a hand, Bellator’s carnyx blew twice, and the Romans dashed straight at them.
The Arabian horses were brilliant, and Bellator’s training of the men held true. The Romans neatly avoided the scattered acacias, and the files kept their formation on this hideous field meant for nothing but the despairing wails of the doomed.
When the Parthian column facing the First Century saw that the Romans seemed about to crash into them, the Parthians stopped suddenly, and the entire column bunched up.
Rufio fronted the attack, and the first Roman horsemen tore into the Parthian first rank. A black-bearded Parthian flailed his sword at Rufio with mindless bravery, but the Roman pivoted out of the way. The Parthian swords were as short as the Roman blades, and each man struggled to reach his foe. At last in desperation the Parthian charged directly at Rufio’s horse. The two great mounts crashed together at their chests. In his fury, Nimbus whipped his head around and pinned his ears and bit savagely at the Turanian horse’s face. The animal squealed horribly as Nimbus’s teeth tore into his upper lip. The Turanian pulled back, but Nimbus bit all the more deeply. With no choice left, the anguished horse finally bucked in his despair. The rider flew out of the saddle straight into Rufio. The Parthian landed across Nimbus’s neck right in front of Rufio’s saddle, with his eyes only inches from the Roman’s. Rufio smashed the ebony pommel of his sword into the Parthian’s face. Teeth and bones splintered and Rufio slammed him again in the forehead. The Parthian’s fingers clawed at Rufio’s mail, but he slipped to the ground while still managing to hold onto his sword.
The Parthian stabbed upward at Nimbus’s belly, but Rufio kicked the Parthian’s wrist and diverted the thrust. The unhorsed warrior struggled to one knee, and Rufio sliced down at an angle and caught the edge his jaw. His chin flew off like the chopped end of a loaf of hard bread. The Parthian dropped his sword and reached up to feel for the part of his face that was no longer there, and Rufio’s blade came down into the side of his neck and finished the agony.
The four Romans to Rufio’s left were slicing into the Parthians in front them, but during the fighting the Parthian archers directly behind had the chance to unleash their arrows at the Judaeans.
In just a few moments, three of the five Parthians before Rufio’s men were dead on the ground and their horses scattered. Yet even before Rufio had time to order his first four men to roll back, the two surviving Parthians in the front had already begun to peel off and the first archers along with them. Five fresh Parthian horsemen armed with swords charged the Roman front rank.
The black stallion before Rufio was braver than the last, and his rider’s eyes flashed with the confidence of his wild race. With ears pinned, his horse bolted straight at Nimbus. Rufio reined to his left and slashed down into the animal’s skull and the shiny black head split like a rotted log. The horse’s front legs buckled and Rufio cut upward at the face of the Parthian tumbling forward in a downward arc, and man and rider were dead in an instant.
“Metellus!” Rufio shouted.
The signifer galloped over from the right, his sword already bloodied.
“Ride across the field and tell the other centurions to stay with the first rank. Not to roll back with their men. We need them at the front.”
Metellus nodded and was off.
“And watch your rear, soldier!” Rufio yelled, but the signifer was already gone.
56
WE ARE IN THE POWER OF NOTHING WHEN ONCE WE HAVE DEATH IN OUR OWN POWER.
SENECA
Crus stared in confusion at the chaos. Bellator was down on one knee and studying the battlefield like a master latrunculi player planning his moves.
“Everything looks wrong,” Crus said. “What’s happening down there?”
“Nothing that we expected. I’d never have thought Durena would chance that. Risk so many of his men by having them attack with swords. That man is audacity in the flesh.”
“But look how many men he’s already lost.”
“Dozens in just a few minutes, but he’s managed to shield his archers from the toughest cohort in Gaul and allow his bowmen to rip into the Judaeans.”
“How can we help from here?”
Bellator seemed not hear. “The Judaeans are too close. They don’t need that short range. They’re shooting arrows at men without armor. They need to pull back to protect themselves better. To make the Parthian arrow shots weaker. And they can still take down those archers. Arrianus! Mount up! And make sure you carry your shield.”
Arrianus was instantly in the saddle.
“Ride down to Rufio and tell him that the Jews should withdraw at least another two hundred feet. They’re bleeding there for no reason. He’ll have you to take the order to Matthias. After that, ride across the field and tell Decius on the left flank what’s about to happen. Go!”
Arrianus dashed off.
Still down on one knee, Bellator leaned forward with his forearms folded against his other thigh and continued analyzing the battleground. “Is it a surprise that Crassus died in the sands? Or that Antonius crawled home in shame?”
Crus said nothing.
“It probably seems like confusion to you, but it isn’t,” Bellator said. “Forget that you’re looking at men and horses and examine the pattern. Two columns on the right coming down and swirling to their left and the two on the other side of the field riding down and sweeping to the right. Durena knows how vulnerable his archers are, so instead of the usual Parthian tactic of staying out of range—which he knows he can’t do because of the Judaean archers—he’s keeping them moving all the time. Then he came up with this idea of screening his own bowmen with swordsmen.”
“But those men haven’t been trained to fight with swords on horseback—have they?”
“No, but that’s no good fortune for us.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Ask a Greek wrestler if he’d rather face another wrestler or a brute from the streets. He’ll choose the wrestler every time. The wrestler is predictable. You can counter him. A criminal who jumps out of an alley does things that are so ridiculous they succeed because no one expects them. It’s the same here. Seasoned soldiers fighting these half-trained swordsmen is like philosophers trying to debate lunatics.”
“But haven’t our centurions fought men like this before?”
Again Bellator appeared not to hear. “Look at that.” He shook his head. “I haven’t seen anything like it in years. In northern Spain there are fighting horsemen who have a maneuver that’s overwhelming. The attackers ride in a circle and hit a massed enemy with javelins and then spin immediately away. We call it the Cantabrian gallop. It’s not identical with this but this is close and just as brutal. By the blood of Mars, these Parthians were born for wa
r!”
Crus stepped away and took hold of his horse’s reins and mane and sprang into the saddle.
“I’ve had enough leading from the rear,” he said and raced off.
He galloped along the riverbed and dashed into the wide chasm where Hell had found its home. Held in tightly by the walls of the gorge, the wails of wounded horses were horrifying. At that instant, and for no reason that he could grasp, he had the most absurd vision, that of self-satisfied senators dining in their summer homes in the Alban hills. How could he ever explain this to them? How could he even try?
The First and Second Centuries had already pulled back to rest at the end of the columns on the right and left, with the Fifth and Sixth taking their places in the front line. Crus saw Arrianus finish speaking to Rufio at the back of the column and then sprint off across the field toward the Judaeans.
“I’ll deal with them!” Crus shouted to Arrianus, who signaled that he had heard and galloped off to speak with Decius on the left flank.
When Crus reached the Judaean ranks, for the first time he felt pity for these quarrelsome Jews. They had endured a terrible beating. The fallen were everywhere, scattered like a flock of birds blasted dead by a storm. Soldiers stumbled over the corpses in their attempts to maintain their three ranks.
“Get those bodies out of there!” Crus shouted. He jumped from his horse and helped some of the men drag the dead out of the way. “Maintain your formation! Give yourself space!”
He looked around for Matthias. “Spread out!” Crus yelled.
“Tribune.”
Crus turned to see Matthias coming toward him. His drawn face was the color of pale mold on a slab of old cheese. A glancing arrow had opened up his left cheek. It was still seeping.
“Pull your men back at least two hundred feet,” Crus said. “You’re too close here. Leave the dead. Can you do that?”
“I can.”
Crus smiled at him. “Your men will be fine. Just get back. And pick up as many Parthian arrows as you can when you go.”
Crus leaped back into the saddle and galloped over to the right flank.
“Describe the situation,” he said to Rufio at the end of the column.
“They’re sacrificing their men to wear us down,” Rufio answered, watching the mounted swordsmen hacking at the Romans in front of them. “The Parthians are exhausting us with their own blood. This makes the Germans look sane.”
Crus stared at the circling archers. “Some of them seem to be out of arrows.”
“Some are, but they’re holding formation.”
“Are they waiting for the camels?”
Three blows from the carnyx boomed a signal down from Bellator.
“There’s the answer,” Rufio said.
On the high plain east of the riverbed dust from the camels betrayed their approach.
“Arrows and water,” Rufio said in exasperation. “But we’re not finished yet.” He looked for Valerius at the end of the column. “You’re in command!” he shouted to his optio. “Order the men to dismount and check their girths.” He made a kissing sound to Nimbus and they raced off toward the Roman left flank.
57
ENERGETIC MEN AVAIL A PEOPLE FAR MORE THAN THE WITTY AND THE SLY.
PLAUTUS
“I got the message from Arrianus,” Decius said, wiping the sweat that was dripping from his face onto his horse’s neck.
“New message,” Rufio said as Nimbus stopped at the edge of the Second Century. “Did you see the camels?”
“I can see the dust.”
“Before their columns withdraw for water and arrows we’re going to attack again. I have no idea if this will work, but we have to try to break their will. I want—.”
“Will is what they have plenty of,” Decius said with a harsh smile.
“Let’s try to knock some of it away. Get your century to the middle of the field right in front of the Judaeans. My century will be next to you. We—.”
“Do you want to flank them?”
“Not in this place. We could try it, but I don’t want to risk it. It’s too tight. Before they break off for supplies, the First and Second Centuries are going to shoot straight up the middle between both pairs of their columns. They’ll never expect it, and there’s enough space for us. We’ll ride in twos instead of fours. We’ll fly up there like fire through straw. We’ll hit them from the inside out. They’ll try to swing toward us, but they can do it only one man at a time. They won’t be able to pivot entire groups of five. There’s no space for that. They can’t defy geometry. Tell your men to ignore the archers and take down the swordsmen.”
Before Decius could answer, Rufio galloped back across the field. He could hear Decius’s century following. He passed Crus, who was on foot and encouraging the Judaeans and helping them maintain their formation. Matthias was leaning against a shield and not looking well.
“All ready?” Rufio asked when he reached his men.
“Ready,” Valerius said.
“Metellus, next to me.” Rufio ordered. “A column of twos.”
The entire century swung out of the line and cantered behind him to the center of the field. Decius and the Second Century were already there.
“They’re starting to pull back.” Decius gestured toward the Parthian riders lowering their swords and bows.
“Then let’s move,” Rufio said and looked over his shoulder toward his men. “Straight up the space in the middle like a blade through pig fat.” He turned again to the front and unsheathed his sword and raised it. “Now!” he shouted.
Both centuries erupted to life and streaked eastward once more into the heart of the battlefield.
The other centuries were still hammering all four columns from the front, and so the First and the Second flew by before the Parthians realized it. When Rufio and Metellus reached the end of the Parthian column, the First Century swung to the right in a double file and attacked instantly. Stunned, the horsemen recoiled from this second onslaught. Rufio and Metellus sliced into the swordsmen between two ranks of archers. The Parthians flailed their blades wildly as they struggled to turn the entire rank in the tight space, but the Romans cut them down. Horses fell on top of one another, squealing in terror and pain. Yet Rufio heard nothing as he chopped and stabbed more deeply into the row of warriors. Soon he lost sight and even awareness of the men to his right and left. At that instant, only one man at a time could he see, an embodiment of the fevered dreams of an Asiatic despot. And there he tumbled beneath Rufio’s blade to the sand of Judaea.
As though echoing from the edge of the earth, a trumpet wailed, shocking Rufio out of his smothering silence. Suddenly he was engulfed by the clanging and shrieking of a world gone mad. He looked to right and left and witnessed something he could never have dared imagine. In what seemed like a single motion, every man in the Parthian column swung to the rear without even brushing the horseman beside him. Each rank stayed perfectly in place, but every rider swiveled like an arrowhead spun on its point. Three more trumpet blasts rang out and then the riders bolted to the east before the Romans could even inhale. Rufio pivoted Nimbus and saw that the columns Decius had been battling had done likewise.
The two Roman centuries were left standing alone on the battleground.
Rufio paused to catch his breath and sheath his sword.
Decius rode up beside him. “Has any man ever heard of anything like that?”
Rufio shook his head. “It’s one of the most incredible things I’ve seen in my life.”
“They can’t outfight us, but they can outride us. And they still have enough men to wear us down to nothing.”
Rufio remained silent.
“Old friend . . . ?”
Rufio looked at Decius.
“Share your thoughts.”
Rufio turned and gazed at the Parthians riding off to their camel train for more water and arrows. “They have skills we can barely even dream of. But they’re missing something. And that one thing is more imp
ortant than everything else.” He looked back at Decius. “Did you see the terror in their eyes when we hit them from the flank?”
Decius hesitated, and then said, “I did.”
“They don’t have what every good centurion has had since the wars with Carthage.” He smiled, and yet not with arrogance but with his own distinctive tranquility. “They lack the flexibility to improvise.”
After making sure that none of his men had been wounded, he led his century back across the battlefield, with Decius and his men close behind. The other four centurions had already ordered their troops out of the line to the rear. All knew that they were in the lull before the final gale.
Rufio stopped in front of the Judaeans and dismounted. Color had returned to Matthias’s face, and he seemed to have recovered some of his strength. He and Crus were tending the wounded Judaeans. All the centurions now gathered around, and Bellator and Arrianus came riding in from the high plain to the west.
“It’ll take hours for the Parthians to water their horses,” Rufio said to his officers. “I want to rotate one century at a time back to the troughs to water our animals and to bring some wagons up to cart away the wounded.” He looked at Decius. “We’ll start with the Second Century and finish with mine.” Rufio turned to Crus for confirmation.
“Do it,” the tribune said to the centurions, and they went off to organize the watering of their mounts. “Let’s rest.” He pulled off his helmet, and he and Rufio and Bellator and Arrianus sat on the ground in the shadows of their horses. “Matthias, please join us. Decius, stay for a bit.”
The big centurion dropped to the ground next to his horse, and Matthias sat beside Crus.
Rufio took a drink from his flask and remained quiet for a while. “We’ve learned a few things,” he said finally. “We struck them with converging columns and killed many of them, but they endured it. Then we split their columns and tried to cut them from the inside out and they evaded it.” He looked at Decius. “Thoughts?”
Horses on the Storm Page 38
