by Beth Shriver
Chapter Six
Briefing the commanders, Marcus pointed to a map on the stone wall showing the vast hill country and the three villages they would need to encompass with their troops. “The three villages are Lamed, Zayin, and Alef. Zayin will be the most difficult to penetrate due to its high position on the foothills of the Atlas Mountains.” He pointed to the village which sat between the other two. “Although these villages are small, the people will fight with heart for their homes and families. The hill country area is a vulnerable place to send our men. The size is overwhelming, and the positioning is difficult to flank. The villages are two days’ ride from the one in the center, making the entire length at a minimum, four days.”
Maximus sat at the head of the large oak table, full of wine from the night’s festivities. Marcus motioned for a servant to refill his goblet as the archery commander posed a question.
“Does this make Zayin the most obvious target?”
“No, Zayin is the one village Josiah was not seen in by the scouts.” Marcus faced his commanders and officers. “Here is our challenge. All three villages are deep within the hills. There are two ways to travel to this area. We go north to the mountains and split into two forces, one going around the north flank of the hills the other around to the south side. We will capture the villages on either end, then work our way to the village of Zayin if necessary.” Marcus watched each commander’s face. He knew his plan but wanted the input of his men to see which were like-minded.
“The other route would be to go northwest into the village of Zayin, ransacking the town and then splitting to the other two remaining.”
The foot soldier commander spoke first. “Going west would be the quickest and best guarantee we arrive before their scouts warn them.”
Maximus, having been advised of Marcus’s plan before the meeting, scoffed. “What could three small villages do against us, Commander? And do you not think they already know, due to our scouts patrolling the areas?”
The commander nodded to Maximus.
Then another commander dared to offer his opinion as Maximus’s eyes bored into him. “We should not separate. We will stay together as one over the hills, then separate after Zayin.”
“Think as though you were our adversary.” Maximus slurred as he mocked the man’s answer. The commander lowered his head to Maximus and then immediately moved his eyes toward Marcus.
Maximus stood and slapped his hand on the table, steadying himself with the other. “Do not look away from me, Commander. Not until my eyes have left yours.” The commander glanced at Marcus, who nodded. The commander bowed his head to Maximus, who sat back down and took a long drink, but kept his eyes on the commander. “Look at your Ruler.” He enunciated the last word and narrowed his eyes at the man.
“Yes, my lord.” He met Maximus’s gaze and kept it until Maximus looked away to Marcus and with a wave of his hand motioned for him to continue.
Responding last gave Anthony, cavalry commander, the advantage of giving Marcus the answer he hoped was correct. “We will divide and conquer by splitting before we cross over the mountains.”
Marcus had hoped to have them all feel part of the planning. What he had not expected was Maximus’s comments. But Marcus smiled to himself as he saw his weeks of manipulation against Maximus producing fruit.
At this point in time, having the men’s allegiance to him was more important than their camaraderie being bruised. He could heal that problem much easier than the other. Marcus slapped Anthony on the back. “Yes, we will do the opposite of what they expect. Their scouts know the land better than ours. They will be waiting on the mountainside to give warning as we reach the split in the river on our second night where we will set up a circular encampment. Before daylight, we will separate the legion and take the designated village. With these numbers and our forces attacking at daybreak and separately, we should quickly obtain Josiah to deter any chances of his escape.”
Maximus nodded with an upturned lip, showing Marcus he was not amused with the lack of attention. The men nodded to Marcus with hearty comments of agreement.
Marcus gave the foot soldier commander an inquisitive gaze. “Have all your soldiers been equipped with the rawhide armor?”
“We may be short by almost a hundred, General.”
Marcus placed his arms behind his back and laced his fingers together. “The unarmored men will take the back of the formation.”
The archery commander shifted in his high-backed chair. “You have requested four-spoke instead of six-spoke. I fear this will cause instability.”
Marcus both admired his questioning and resented it. Bright of him to notice, but dangerous of him to second guess his general. “Yes, it could, but we need archers on the battlefield, not just in formations on the hills. The four wheels are quicker. That is why I requested them.”
“The commanders’ chariots will remain unchanged, if that is what worries you, Commander.” A smile slid onto one corner of Maximus’s lips as a low roll of laughter flowed throughout the room.
Octavius laughed off the offense.
Briefing Maximus in advance had worked beautifully to Marcus’s advantage. Showing Maximus’s inadequacies in battle techniques made him appear pretentious; every man in the room knew his father and Marcus were his sole source of battle knowledge.
With that out of the way, Marcus returned his attention to Octavius. “Are your men ready to carry out the tactic I requested?”
“Yes. We have improved, now up to three formations deep at three hundred feet from target.”
Marcus nodded and then commented to Anthony. “I hope your men excel in horsemanship and swordsmanship, Commander. You are the strength of our army.”
Marcus could see the eagerness and pride of his commanders as they all nodded and gave grunts and praises of agreement.
“Have your men and horses rested. We leave at daylight.” They were ready to start out with the next sunrise and went to prepare the men for the long journey.
****
Marcus had one last chore to tend to. Patting his belt pouch, he climbed the stairs to Claudius’s chambers and unlocked the door.
The old woman recoiled against the cold, stone wall. She trembled with every step he took. Marcus had confidence she would do as he asked. She was a medicine woman taken from her tribe at a young age when servant-hunters realized her potential. Her abilities had grown, and with them, demand for her.
“Did you administer the medicine?” He bent over Claudius to smell his breath and noticed a few of the finely-cut green herbs on his chapped, lower lip.
She nodded and sank down into the chair.
He entered the closet and searched through the bottles of her concoctions. Meadow sweet, elderberry, basil, and thyme—all used for treating illness.
Finally finding the one he needed, he approached her, removing the cork. She let out a small scream as he cupped his hand over her mouth. He removed his hand, pushed her head back, and shoved the glass bottle into her mouth, letting the liquid slide down her throat. She gagged on the gray liquid and sputtered, kicking and pushing him. Her eyes wide, she grasped Marcus’s arm, squeezing as she breathed her last.
Marcus stared at the old woman’s coarse, pepper-colored hair and large lifeless eyes. Because she had struggled, the veins were still puffed in her bony wrists and hands. Her mouth hung open, and her tongue slid to the side.
He had killed many in battle, men, women and children but never with poison. He thought it a coward’s way to kill. He tilted his head to look into her frozen eyes, wondering how many she had killed with a similar poison.
With her gone, he would need to check on Claudius himself and could not have a rotting corpse in the room. Not that Claudius would notice; he was half dead, himself.
Marcus covered her with a blanket and carried her down the stairs. Most of the palace occupants were drunk, asleep, or preparing for battle. He hoped no one had seen him, but even if they had, no one would have th
e gall to confront him.
Someone smart enough might figure out the nurse had been poisoned, but he doubted anyone would take the time or make the effort. She had lived in the palace since Maximus was a young boy, and no one had ever come to visit her, so there was little chance anyone would care that she had died. He was sure of that.
He walked down the hall and another flight of stairs. Now in the servants’ quarters, he did not worry about being seen. Not knowing which room belonged to the nurse, he stopped a young woman to ask, and she directed him to the very last door, staring at the bundle in his arms.
“She has become ill and needs rest. No one should bother her. Do you understand?” She nodded and watched him fumble with the door and push his way into the room. He looked back at her and motioned with his head for her to leave.
Laying the old woman on the bed, he removed her scarf and shoes, and then pulled the cover over her. He turned her on her side facing the wall and shoved her belongings under the bed. Scanning the room, he found her medicines, some for healing—white willow and five-finger balm, holly, and yarrow. He also examined some strange jarred items—bitter dock tea, slips of yew tree, and bane berries, all toxic.
Finding the one he needed, he tucked it into his pouch and continued his search of her quarters. He found some letters that did not seem significant, and as he left, he threw a handful of them back. All but one landed with a slap. That one floated and drifted slowly to the floor.
Marcus knew what his next step would be. He grinned at the thought of how his plan would disgrace Maximus. He entered the mayhem of the festivities, noticing Anthony and Felicia together briefly caught his attention. Maximus’s jealousy would be one more piece in the game against the ruler. Claudius knew Maximus’s fondness for Felicia and did not approve. Encouraging Anthony’s interest in her would mean more turmoil for Maximus and put Claudius’s mind to rest.
Marcus found a servant and gave him orders not to be disturbed. This caused Maximus to stare, but Marcus did not acknowledge it. Marcus left the room, feeling Maximus’s eyes follow him. Passing the hall to his own bed chambers, he walked to the end of the great hall to Maximus’s room. As he opened the tall golden doors, a rush of wind flowed through them causing the purple, silk canopy surrounding the huge bed to move softly back and forth.
A beautiful, dark-haired young woman sat up in Maximus’s bed, still in her sheer blue dancing dress. Her eyes widened when she looked at Marcus. He grinned, enjoying her surprise, and closed the doors, then locked them. When he was finished with her, Marcus left the soiled harem dancer for his ruler.
Chapter Seven
Standing beside Enan, Dustan aimed his arrow, taking an extra few seconds to make sure he would not miss his mark. His palms began to sweat as he let go, the tail of the arrow whizzing through the air. The sharp tip hit deep into the center of its target.
Enan moved quickly to face him. “Good shot, brother.” He grabbed Dustan on the back of his neck and pulled him close to ruffle his hair, and then took a step back. Dustan shook his long black hair back into place, beaming at Enan.
“That is six feet farther than the last time you saw me hit the eye.” He walked toward the target, gazing at his accomplishment.
Enan followed and pulled the arrow, then placed it in his brother’s hand, still holding the other end. With Dustan’s extra load of chores in Enan’s absence and his schooling, Enan knew he could not have improved so much without the aid of someone who knew the arrow well. “I see you’ve been practicing while I have been away. Who’s been instructing you?”
Dustan kicked the ground. “How did you know?”
“Some improvement I expected. But you have improved a great deal.”
“Nethan came almost every day after you first left.”
Enan was moved that Nethan would spend so much time with his younger brother and took it as a sign of their long friendship. “So he makes time every day to teach you?”
“Not anymore.” Dustan’s face went blank. He pulled on the arrow and turned away. Enan tightened his grip and pulled on the arrow to bring Dustan’s attention back to him.
“His commitments elsewhere may have increased.” It unsettled Enan that he could not catch his brother’s eye.
“Nothing changed, except he started teaching Tirzah.” Dustan pulled on the arrow, catching Enan in his thoughts. Enan winced as the tail cut into his palm and held his fingers to the cut. Dustan’s face fell when he saw the blood quickly rise to the surface.
“Enan, I’m sorry. I’ll get something to stop the bleeding.” Dustan ran into the house, puffs of dirt flying at his heels. His mother returned holding a cold damp cloth and placed it on his wound. She inspected him from top to bottom and smiled.
“You are gone for weeks without a scratch, and home for a night and are injured.” She sat on a large wooden stump Enan’s father had smoothed into a sitting stool and stared out over the hills. The wind was still, and a morning chill hung in the air.
She pulled a faded blue wrap over her petite shoulders and drew a scarf over her gray hair to ward off the coolness then crossed her legs at the ankle. “How are you, son?”
Meeting her rich brown eyes, he waited through her scrutiny, knowing she was making her own assessments of him. “I am fine, Mother. You have missed me,” he teased. He didn’t want conversations of what was to come. Not with his mother. Her worry was evident in the way her dark eyes bored into his. Her type of concern made him concerned, which did not make for good fighting in a warrior.
“Yes, I prayed for you every night and thought of you each day, wondering where you were and what you were doing.”
Enan made himself chuckle. “I must tell Father to give you more work. You have too much time to think.” He stood with his arms folded over his chest as if to guard himself from the emotions her words brought, seeping into his soul. He had always known he held a special place in her heart.
“I was ready to give up your older brother. Gil was always an old soul. His choice to marry young and raise his own crop suited him. Your choice to become a warrior suits you as well but is much harder for a mother to bear.”
Sitting beside her, he pulled the fallen wrap around her shoulders, and then put his arm around her to keep it in place and to draw close to her. “I am not the only one that will leave you to train with the bow.” He looked ahead, toward Dustan. She glanced at the handsome profile of her younger son. “Yes, I am aware of Dustan’s fondness and his talent for the bow. Nathan’s teaching has only made the situation worse.”
Enan faced her in amusement. “Worse? He has improved immensely.”
She smiled at his banter. “How is your hand?” He had forgotten about the cut. He lifted the cloth to find the bleeding had stopped. “Better. Did you sneak some salve onto the cloth?”
She nodded and removed the cloth to examine the cut. “It is a clean cut and will heal quickly.”
“I am sure it will, Mother.” He smiled to himself wondering what her reaction would be if he really did become injured. She would have him shipped home and nursed before he knew what had wounded him. He hoped that day would never come.
“Where is Father?” Enan pulled his hand away as he glanced over to the animal courtyard and found him preparing the horses for the day’s work.
“You go to him, and I will bake my bread.” Her warm words and pat to his hand melted Enan’s heart. She was one of the reasons he was willing to fight. He walked to the enclosed area that held the livestock. The sturdy wall was made of stone brushed down with sand to make it smooth. Just as he opened the gate, one of the horses spooked and headed for the exit. His father walked up slowly to the herd, and Enan did the same on the other side, gathering all but the one. Slowly lifting his hands, Enan calmed the horse and reached for the lead rope. The horse snorted and pawed. Enan stroked his neck, speaking in a low, calming voice and blowing softly into the horse’s nostrils. Enan led the horse to the field equipment and began to tack him up.
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bsp; His father followed behind. “You have always had a way with horses, son.” His smile showed his pride as he clasped Enan’s shoulder. They finished with the horses, and then Enan sat on a milking stool, his gaze on his father.
Hanging a whip on a long, rusty nail, Joel studied him. “What is on your mind?” His weathered face and deep brown eyes invited Enan to share the depths of his soul and find the source of his unrest. Enan fidgeted and twiddled his thumbs, something he had not done since he was a boy. Joel sat across from his middle son, put an arm on the work table, and waited.
Enan glanced at his father, and then averted his eyes. “I want to ask Tirzah to marry me.” A slight smile appeared on his father’s face as he kept his gaze on Enan until their eyes met. He nodded for him to continue.
“But the time is ripe for conflict with Claudius. I feel God’s blessing in this, but I can’t bring myself to proceed until the dust settles, and we are at peace.”
“So you are asking your father to give you the answer?” Joel asked.
“Isn’t that what fathers are supposed to do?” Enan half asked, half told, his father.
“I have never seen you question or be unable to decide what’s right for you. You’ve always had a vision and been clear-headed on how to achieve what you set out to do.” Joel’s calm demeanor when giving his son direction commanded respect. He spoke slowly and confidently but with empathy for his son. “But love and war can change a man, and make us all act out of character.”
Enan let out a sigh of relief. “I feel a struggle between my own desires and the duty I’ve been called to. Most warriors wait until their duty is fulfilled.”
Enan bent over, laid his elbows on his knees, and thought about the weeks that had gone by since he had last seen Tirzah. The time spent away brought out an urgency in him, but was it for the right reasons? Not for lust, or to strengthen their fidelity. It was a prompting from God telling him to act, to make a commitment before anything came between them.
Joel stared into his son’s eyes and gave him a gentle pat on his knee. He was silent for a long while, gazing up at the billowing clouds in the blue sky. “Do you remember last year’s festival?”