“Our men fought like titans, but it isn’t enough. We know now that fine swordsmen who are new riders are no match for mediocre swordsmen who are brilliant riders.”
Rufio turned to Matthias. “How many men have you lost?”
“At least eighty wounded and about thirty-five killed.”
Rufio was surprised. “That’s a brutal tally.” He paused, and then said, “With almost half the Judaeans out of the battle, we have to guard the rest. This isn’t a struggle for Rome but a fight for the existence of Judaea. For the survival of the eastern gate. If the Judaeans are slaughtered, we’ve lost, no matter how many Romans live to return to Gaul.”
“Are you thinking we should pull the troops out?” Crus asked.
“No, tribune,” Rufio said. “Matthias, you know how to form the turtle. When the final action starts, that’s what I want to see. Pure tactical defense. There’s no dishonor in that. You’ve bled enough. If you use the turtle at this range with our shields, you’re invulnerable to their arrows. I’ve tested them. Let the Parthians waste their arrows on you. We need you to do that.”
“Then we will,” he said with recovering strength.
“As for us . . .” Rufio laughed and it lightened the mood. “I have no idea.” He turned to Bellator. “What do you think, you old stud?”
Bellator seemed grimmer than he usually did, even on bad days. “I have some unhappy information for you. The camel train that’s replenishing them right now—it’s only about fifty camels. Arrianus counted them.”
“I’m certain,” Arrianus said.
Rufio turned away toward the battlefield.
After a long silence, Crus said, “I’m missing the meaning of this. Why is it bad that they have fewer camels than Yahlavi told us?”
“Tribune, they don’t have fewer,” Decius said.
Crus turned to Rufio. “Centurion . . . ?”
“We’re in serious danger now,” Rufio answered, still staring at the wasteland in front of him. “Their tactics are as clear at this moment as if I could see inside Durena’s mind.” He turned back to his tribune. “By the time they’re done resupplying their troops in a few hours, the other fifty camels are already going to be riding here with more water and arrows. Durena is cycling them back and forth. If it’s true that they’ve tapped into one of the cisterns of the Nabataeans—and we cannot risk believing that it isn’t true—they can do this forever. At least with regard to water. They’ll run out of arrows eventually, but not until they’ve worn us down.”
“Since they outnumber us by so much,” Bellator said, “my guess is that Durena will field only half his troops at one time, too. He’ll rotate them. He knows we don’t have the numbers to do that. All of our men have to fight all the time to hold them off. The Parthians will grind us down to exhaustion and collapse.”
“And then what?” Matthias asked.
Rufio turned with a look of sadness toward his Judaean comrade. “We’d have to withdraw.”
Matthias stared at him for a long time. “And then the Parthians have won.”
“If we retire from the field,” Rufio said, “the entire East will know that the security promised by Rome is hollow. This kingdom will shake—and the old lion may fall from his throne. And the Parthians will have won.”
“Rufio,” Crus said.
Rufio turned toward him.
“We cannot win, can we?” Crus asked.
Rufio tried to find some moisture in his mouth to wet his lips as he turned and looked once more out onto the battleground. “We cannot win.”
Minutes passed in silence.
“Silver Hair.”
Rufio turned back to Bellator. “Yes?”
“We don’t have to win.”
Everyone looked at Bellator.
“Explain what you mean,” Crus said.
“We just have to break their will.” He smiled at Rufio. “How many times have you told me that? Have you forgotten?”
“Apparently I have.”
“I want details,” Crus said.
“It’s so obvious that no one is even thinking of it,” Bellator said. “We have to kill or cripple as many of them as possible before the next camel train arrives. Make them use up their arrows now. And we continue pummeling their swordsmen without letup and fight them to a draw. That’ll be enough. Rufio is giving Durena too much credit. They’re not Romans—they’re not accustomed to fighting with swords. We drain them dry so that even if they rotate their men in and out we wear them down. Exhaust them. With no energy and no arrows left they’ll have to retire. Is that impossible for us to do? No, it’s not impossible.”
“But it’s not likely either,” Decius said.
Bellator scowled. “How likely is it that a bloated monstrosity like you would die on a sweating horse in a Judaean wilderness? Who would ever have thought that possible? Likely? What has likely to do with life?”
Decius laughed. “Golden-tongued as always.”
“What do you think?” Crus said to Rufio.
Rufio smiled at Bellator. “I think the old stable rat is a wise man. Or a madman.” He took a long deep breath and let it out slowly. “There’s only one way even to attempt what he’s suggesting—hold nothing in reserve. And I’ve never done that in my life. We’d have to strike them with everything at once. Then . . . then it’s conceivable. But it’s a desperate act. Our men will have to fight as if they’re convinced they can never be killed—or as if they’re certain that nothing can save them. Then it’s possible—just possible.”
Crus stood up. “Let’s water and rest our troops and our horses and prepare for the final throw of the dice.”
He turned away and walked alone out onto the battlefield.
After Bellator and Arrianus went off to water their mounts and Decius rode back to rejoin his century, Rufio touched Matthias on the arm.
“A few words,” Rufio said, and the two of them led their horses by the reins and walked off together.
“There’s one thing I want you to realize,” Rufio said. “The Second Cohort has been honored to share this battleground with you and your brave troops.”
Matthias gazed at him in disbelief and then quickly looked away.
“If my friend Diocles back in Rome decides to write an account of this, it won’t simply be about a pack of grumbling Romans with blistered lips and grit between their teeth defending the eastern gate”—he gestured all around him—“here, in the rectum of the world. It’ll be about the pride of Judaea making a stand.”
Matthias turned back, tears rolling down his face.
“As far away as the Tiber, people will know of Judaean valor,” Rufio said. His voice was soft, caring. “On that I swear a sacred oath—soldier to soldier.” His eyes smiled at Matthias. “Friend to friend.”
He grabbed Nimbus by the mane and swung into the saddle.
“One more thing,” Rufio said, smiling down on the Judaean. “Ask Elah if he’ll consider giving us one last push so we can bring this day to an end.”
Matthias grinned through his tears. “It’ll be done.”
58
BETWEEN THE DOG AND THE WOLF.
ROMAN SAYING
Rufio and Crus sat on their horses and gazed east at the gathering Parthian troops.
“Durena should never have taken so long to water his animals,” Rufio said. “Now the sun is in his eyes.”
“What do these Asiatics know about organization?” Crus said.
Rufio smiled. “The tribune rides with us?”
“Do you think I’m going to go home and tell Lucia that my men bled while I watched from far away?”
“Knot your reins. You don’t want to lose them in the field. And stay to my right. Near my sword hand. If you die, I’m the one who’ll have to go to Rome and explain to that poor maiden that I let the tribune expire beneath Parthian blades—when really it’ll probably be because he slipped off his horse and broke his neck.”
Crus smiled and looked back toward the enemy.
“It seems like a different formation this time.”
“Bellator was right. I think that I might have overestimated Durena. I hate when Bellator is right. . . .”
“I can’t make out what they’re doing.”
“He’s abandoning his version of the Cantabrian gallop. That’s the first mistake he’s made today. Our charge up the middle that didn’t bring down a single Parthian might decide this battle. And it was just a quick improvisation that I thought up at that moment to salvage a failing situation. But it scared him. Scared him into folly. Look. . . .”
Instead of forming the multiple columns from the previous assault, the Parthian mounted swordsmen assembled now into a single mass in front of the archers.
“He’s giving us exactly the fat target I expected the first time,” Rufio said. “He should have kept the two moving Spanish circles and just fielded a straight column of fives between them to seal the hole. That would have been hard for us to split. But he’s worried now. Worried because of a desperate Roman’s half-thought-out attempt to deal with the unthinkable.”
Crus looked at Rufio. “You should have been a cavalryman. You’re intuitive on horseback. There’s still time.”
“No, I love my men too—.” He stopped suddenly and said no more.
Crus smiled. “That’s all right. I know you do.”
Rufio pivoted Nimbus on the hindquarter, and Crus turned his horse as well.
Mounted before them in columns of four files of twenty ranks each stood all six centuries of the Second Cohort. Watered and rested, they presented the fierce confidence, tinged with just the proper amount of positive tension, that was the stamp of all triumphant armies.
“This is the final strike,” Rufio said to his troops. “Six columns—six blades into the belly of the enemy.” He folded his hands across the front of his saddle. “Behind you is a village where the people feel little but fear and longing and despair. We’re Romans, so we can never share those sentiments, but we can understand them. We won’t desert these people. As one of my fine officers said, if we can abandon a child, we might as well roll up the Empire right now.” With a low voice, he said, “Tribune,” and backed Nimbus four steps to leave Crus in the lead before him.
“One thing only,” Crus said. “As I told you earlier, that performance on the deck of the ship was sluggish. In a few weeks’ time I have a dinner engagement in Caesarea—so be quick about it!”
The men laughed, and Crus backed his horse until it was even with Nimbus.
Rufio raised a hand to Matthias, whose three ranks stood holding their big shields about a hundred feet behind the Romans. Matthias signaled back.
Rufio checked to see that all the optios were in position at the rear of each column, and then he and Crus took their places at the head of the First Century on the right of the line.
“Stay with me,” Rufio said to Metellus.
“Always,” Metellus answered in a serious tone that was rare for him.
“Tribune,” Rufio said, “we’re ready.”
“Let’s finish it!” Crus sliced his hand through the air, and the cohort moved off.
The six centuries began crossing the bleak arena at an easy trot. Rufio caught a burst of movement among the Parthians. Evidently Durena had expected, for some inexplicable reason, that the Romans would wait until he was ready, and now his troops were scrambling for position. The mounted archers raced to their places at least two hundred feet to the rear of the other troops for maximum protection, but this would greatly weaken the force of the arrows shot at the Judaeans. At that range, their arrows would never penetrate even chain mail, let alone laminated Roman shields. Rufio was certain Durena knew this, but the Parthian commander must have felt, after the initial contacts and the quick retreat of his bowmen, that they were far too vulnerable to the Romans to be risked at a closer range.
“Bellator was wrong,” Rufio said to Crus. “Look.”
Durena had decided not to hold any of his swordsmen in reserve. All of them rapidly formed up in ranks before the archers.
“That’s a mistake,” Rufio said. “We can risk not having reserves because we have the fort behind us. Durena has nothing. And besides that, he’s putting too many horsemen into too small a space. They won’t be able to maneuver the way they did before.”
“How many does it look like to you?” Crus asked.
“About four hundred. Maybe a few less. I figured we killed at least a hundred.”
“And five hundred archers behind them,” Crus said. “And they have swords, too.”
“It’s never easy for Romans. Never.”
When the cohort came at a trot to within about a hundred and fifty feet of the Parthians, Rufio raised his hand.
“Now!” he shouted.
The carnyx blew from the high plain behind them, and the first rank of each century erupted and dashed across the riverbed and into the face of the enemy.
Surprised by the sudden furious surge, the Parthians charged, but the momentum was all with the Romans.
The young Parthian before Rufio seemed stunned that the Roman had leaped upon him so quickly. The Parthian’s weak thrust did nothing but cause Rufio a fleeting flash of pity before Rufio cut him down.
He turned to his right. Crus was battling a brawny rider who looked strong enough to chop a tree with his sword. Crus eluded a sweep of his blade and then slashed upward in a backhand “X” from left to right, and his sword sliced through the Parthian’s cheek and cropped the end of his nose. Blood spurted from the center of the Parthian’s face onto his horse, and the warrior exploded with a bestial sound and thrust his sword at the tribune.
Already off balance and slipping from his saddle to the right, Crus tried to pull away, but his horse panicked at his rider dangling from the side. Crus struggled to right himself on the terrified animal, and now the Parthian veered around to the flailing tribune’s defenseless left. The Parthian’s sword came shearing down at Crus’s left thigh when Rufio’s blade split the warrior’s skull from the crown to the chin. The corpse slid from the horse and was trampled underfoot, and his mount galloped off to the west.
Rufio dropped his reins across Nimbus’s neck and swept around to the right of the tribune’s horse and pulled him up into the saddle.
“Are you cut?” Rufio shouted.
“No! Go to the men!”
Rufio grabbed his reins and swung around the flank of Crus’s horse and raced back into his position on line.
Maimed horses and butchered Asians cluttered the ground before the Romans.
“Roll!” Rufio shouted, and the first rank peeled to right or left as if they had been born to do it.
Rufio looked across the battlefield, and the forward ranks of the other centuries were rolling as well. He turned back to the west. Arrows sailed overhead toward the Judaeans, formed up now with their shields over their heads and all around them. Some of the missiles never reached their targets, while the rest clattered uselessly against the heavy Roman shields.
Rufio knew that Durena would be desperate to shorten the distance.
The second rank of Romans galloped into line.
“Hit them!” Rufio shouted as if he were conducting a training drill, and the soldiers sliced into the Parthians with a controlled intensity as overwhelming as it was terrifying.
Behind the Parthians, Rufio could see a flash of red as Durena dashed about to shore up his attack. His troops pushed onward to shorten the distance to the Judaeans, but now the Parthian commander was getting a lesson that the Macedonians had learned long ago at the point of Roman blades. The only troops in the line who mattered were those in contact with the enemy. The rest were just an encumbrance. Whether they were on foot or horse counted for nothing. Like a horde of befuddled hoplites, the Parthian horsemen had become victims of their own sluggish mass. The troops in the first rank absorbed all the punishment, while those packed in the rear had no access to the front and could do nothing but inadvertently shove their comrades forward to ex
haustion and death.
“Metellus!” Rufio shouted, but the signifer was already beside him. “Ride to the other centurions. Tell them to look for Durena to open up his lines. He’s going to try to get his fresh troops up here. Tell the centurions to use their own judgment—not to wait for orders from me.”
Metellus galloped off across the field.
“Roll!” one of Rufio’s troopers shouted, and the first rank peeled off as smoothly as dancers and cantered back to the end of the column, while the next four horsemen galloped into line against the Parthians.
“Look at that,” Crus said.
Most of the archers had stopped shooting at the Judaeans.
“They’re running out of arrows,” Rufio said. “And they know it’s useless at that range anyway. Get ready.”
“Ready for what?”
Rufio waited and it came quickly.
The useless Parthian horsemen at the rear suddenly spread out and opened up irregular slots between the files. Immediately the battered fighters at the front swung around.
“Now!” Rufio roared.
The moment the worn out Parthian swordsmen retired to allow their comrades to replace them, the Romans shot forth like the Assyrians of old. Straight down the makeshift alleys they flew, the six centuries surging through the startled Parthian ranks like javelins piercing putrid flesh.
Rufio and Crus dived with the First Century far into the Parthian body. Recovering from their surprise, some of the Parthian veterans charged the Romans with a courage that could have ennobled the damned.
A gray-bearded warrior, creased and scarred, raced toward them.
Rufio pivoted to the left to bring his right hand into play, but Nimbus stumbled in the sand, and Rufio slammed forward into his neck. Pushing himself back to regain his seat, he snapped his head around and glimpsed just a few feet away a battle-worn face marred with the fury of hereditary hate. Rufio clearly saw the point of the Parthian’s sword, and sun glinted off the blade. Nimbus pinned his ears and lashed out to bite as the sword came down toward the center of the horse’s skull. Suddenly Rufio’s vision was blocked as Crus’s mount sprang in front of them. Rufio heard the Parthian’s weapon bang against the tribune’s helmet, but Crus stayed in the saddle. A seemingly endless groan of anguish and despair rose above the clamor, and the Parthian fell at Nimbus’s feet with Crus’s sword still buried in his chest.
Horses on the Storm Page 39
