Horses on the Storm

by William Altimari

  “Did you correct him?”

  “He corrected himself. I found some little infraction of his and punished him severely. Some might say unjustly.” Rufio smiled. “That was enough. He had a more realistic view of life after that. And of me.”

  “Was he a good solider?”

  “Oh, yes. He died in Syria of a snake bite. He was twenty-two.”

  Matthias leaned forward and rested his forearms across his legs and stared at the fountain. “I need to learn more about dealing with my men. That’s why I watch you so much.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s not easy, is it?”

  “Commanding men? It’s the most difficult thing of all. It should’ve been the thirteenth labor of Hercules.”

  “Haritat is very different from you with the troops. They don’t seem at ease with him.”

  “They’re not, but that’s a problem they have to deal with. I’m not going to hold their hands.”

  “But you do it differently. I’m not sure exactly how. I’m still trying to figure it out.”

  “Do you want some help?”

  Matthias took his gaze off the fountain and looked at Rufio. “Yes.”

  “What Haritat does is to find a man’s flaws and work on them constantly. To cut them out like pustules under a rusty blade. Most centurions do the same thing. Eventually Haritat gets what he wants, but the surgery has been brutal. His way can be effective, but it works best with inexperienced troops. Men who aren’t seasoned enough to resent an insult. With veterans like mine, it causes suppurating sores that take a long time to heal. And it’s hard to sit in a saddle on a sore ass.”

  “But you just said you’re willing to criticize a soldier if it’s needed.”

  “Criticizing soldiers isn’t the same as chewing on their imperfections. The difference between the two is the difference between a horse and a horsefly. One is powerful and majestic. The other is just a biting bug. . . .”

  “Go on.”

  “If you want to correct a soldier’s flaws, don’t gnaw at the flaws. Instead, cultivate their opposite. Don’t chew on his vices like a rodent. Feed and nourish the contrary quality. That can be slower but the result lasts. Once he’s developed that virtue, it’ll endure forever. And the vice just withers and dies like a vine without water.”

  “You make it sound simple.”

  Rufio smiled. “I make everything sound simple. Of course, that doesn’t mean it is.”

  “Can you give an example that even a poor slave of Herod can understand?”

  Rufio thought for a moment. “When I was in Africa, one of my men wanted to learn how to ride. He was actually afraid of horses and wanted to conquer that. He liked horses very much—from a distance. But they intimidated him. He asked one of the decurions to teach him to ride. The decurion was a good horseman, but no philosopher when it came to instruction. My soldier was bucked off during his first ride. Now he was really scared. The decurion ordered him back into the saddle and naturally the horse felt the fear in my soldier’s legs. The next ride was a disaster. But the decurion wouldn’t relent. He kept telling him not to be afraid, that it was stupid to be afraid, that it was weak to be afraid. Do you think that was effective?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Of course not. You cannot teach a man to be a horseman by throwing him at a horse. It’s like telling a man he can learn to be an armorer by stabbing him with a sword.”

  “Did he ever learn to ride?”

  “Not from that fool. I taught him.”

  Matthias smiled. “Can you tell me how?”

  “I got him a calmer horse—mine, in fact—and the first thing I told him wasn’t that if he fell off he had to get back on. I told him that as soon as he came out of the saddle we were done for the day. Now all he could think about was his balance. He didn’t want the lesson to end. He desperately wanted to learn. He forgot about all that muscle and bone and impulsive power between his legs. And that was fine because I knew Cormagnus would take care of him. The first lesson lasted over an hour and I taught him how to correct his position the whole time. When we’d finished, he had a fair seat. I praised him like he’d never been praised before. Always end at a moment of success—as you do with horses. In fact, his hands had been terrible. He’d jerked the reins all over the place. But that wasn’t the point this day. He’d started out afraid, but I never mentioned fear. I let him overcome his dread by keeping his mind on something else and by helping him cultivate the physical skill that would increase his confidence and drain his fear. I did it by praising the tiniest bit of success. Just as you would with a colt. The issue with the reins could wait.”

  “Did he learn in the end?”

  “Like Perseus on Pegasus.”

  Matthias smiled. “Where is he now?”

  “Spain. Where he awes them. If you can impress the Spaniards with your riding, you can impress the gods.”

  “Still, it was more difficult than you’re making it sound, wasn’t it?”

  “I’m simplifying the story for one of Herod’s slaves.”

  Matthias laughed.

  “First instruct your men, then correct, then exalt—when you’ve mastered that, you’ll know how to train. And to lead.”

  “Exalt? I don’t know that word.”

  “Toss a hosanna their way now and then.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  Rufio remained silent for a long time and then turned and saw that Matthias had been staring at him.

  “What is it?” Rufio asked.

  “I was just wondering what you’d have been if you hadn’t become a soldier.”

  Rufio swatted that away like a fly. “Don’t waste your time with that.” He hiked a foot up onto the bench and leaned forward on his knee. “If there’s one thing you should learn from all this it’s that there are two kinds of leaders in the world—and only two. The first is common, the second as rare as a viper’s pity. The first is the cattleman. If he needs to move a herd of oxen, what does he do? He mounts a horse—an animal the oxen fear—and rides behind them and drives them forward. The other type of leader is the horseman. If he wants to move a herd of horses, he mounts a horse like the cattleman does, but this time it’s so the other horses don’t fear him but are comfortable with him. Then he rides to the front of the herd, faces forward and moves off. You drive cattle, but you lead horses. Now you’ve learned that. Always be a horseman to your men. And never forget—never—that to lead your men you always have to trust them enough to turn your back to them, face front, and ride off.”

  “I won’t forget.”

  “For every man who’s a true leader, there are a hundred who couldn’t lead hogs to slop.” Rufio looked away and absently pressed a finger to the little tamarisk horse that hung against his chest beneath his tunic. “Teach men as you would horses. And remember that if you want to train your horse to ride through a storm, always begin on a quiet day. The lightning will come soon enough. And thunder will follow.”

  49

  EXPECTATION ARISING OUT OF HOPE HAS OFTEN DISAPPOINTED THE BRAVE.

  LUCIUS ACCIUS

  Haritat has to leave. One of his many sons rode to the fort late yesterday to tell him that foreign soldiers have been seen near his village and might have discovered one of the Nabataeans’ hidden water cisterns in the desert. Rufio believes they are probably Parthian scouts. Haritat must now return to his village in case the strangers are hostile. To Haritat, the wellbeing of his people is everything.

  I am going to miss him enormously. In a sense, one cannot be safer than with a Roman cohort, even in a brutal land and with enemy troops riding toward us as I am writing this. Yet Haritat somehow offers a special comfort. I lack the ability to describe it, but by some mysterious magic his presence is a dark protective shade blocking a merciless sun. Now that shield will be gone. I am certain that others will experience his absence as I do.

  But there is another loss that I feel, one that I am half afraid to think about. In a soothi
ng way, he is like a father to me, and yet he is not, for there is no blood bond. And that is what scares me. Perhaps no passionate woman deeply in love with her man should have a friend like Haritat, a being of such towering and frightening maleness. There is no barrier of kinship to ensure my honor, no horror at an unthinkable act to make my affection safe, to make it pure. I fear the painful longing that I might feel when he has gone. Not the pain do I fear, but the longing. And my appalling dread that it might somehow be impure. And I tremble at this thought even though I know I will never see him again, for without doubt he will never truly be gone. He will live in my heart forever.

  Wearing his mail lorica, Rufio carried one of the Roman shields across the archery field, along with Flavia’s hornbow and six bronze-tipped arrows. He propped the shield with a piece of plank about four feet in front of Morlana’s practice hay bale and then walked off about twenty-five feet.

  He laid down his weapons and stretched his arms and upper body and shook them lightly to loosen them. Then he picked up the bow and one arrow and positioned his feet as he gazed downrange. He had not shot a bow since the previous year, when, before a flickering campfire, he had demonstrated the lethality of Roman rage to three slave traders on the last night of their lives.

  He nocked an arrow. Then he drew the bow and aimed it straight with no arc and, like all fine archers, shot without hesitation.

  He examined the shield from a distance and did not like what he saw, which was nothing. The two-and-a-half-foot arrow was gone. Shooting two more, he got the same result. He walked down to the shield and looked behind it. All three arrows had pierced the laminated shield completely and lodged in the bale behind it. So much for the vaunted Roman craftsmen.

  He walked back a distance of about fifty feet this time and shot the last three arrows. He peered downrange and was gratified that at least he could still see the fletching on the arrows. He went back to the shield and saw that each missile had penetrated all three layers for about ten inches of the shaft length, more than enough to strike a body part taking shelter behind it. He decided that Roman woodworkers needed a lesson in humility.

  He removed the three arrows and set the shield aside. Then he took off his mail lorica and subarmalis. Filled with a middle layer of wool and then quilted to keep the stuffing in place, the linen undergarment was now packed by Rufio with hay to create a makeshift dummy. Then he fitted his mail lorica over it and set it atop a bale.

  He repeated his six shots, three at each distance, and returned to examine the damage. From twenty-five feet, the arrows had breached the mail fully but the padding only slightly. Rufio decided that this Roman would have bled but probably survived, at least if infection did not set in. From fifty feet, the results were better. Although the arrows still succeeded in driving through the mail, they had not fully pierced the wadding. They would have caused painful bruises but probably little else. The lesson from all this was clear. For the Romans and Judaeans to survive the Parthian bowmen, distance was as critical as steel.

  When he had been younger, an extra heavy tunic had been all that Rufio had used to cushion his body from the mail, but those days were over. He now gave his men the option of using a padded subarmalis if they wanted one, and most of them chose to do so. If they decided against it, he removed the choice and, with simple centurion simplicity, commanded them and got what he had intended in the first place. Today’s experiments confirmed the wisdom of that. Rufio was certain now that if Macer had been wearing a heavy subarmalis beneath his lorica at Scorpion Hill, he might still be alive.

  Rufio rode up to the arena where Bellator was working on some turning maneuvers with Decius’s sweating century. Rufio gestured to the centurion, and Decius trotted his horse over to the rail.

  Many soldiers had remarked throughout the years on Rufio’s skill at concealing his emotions, but sometimes even he had to admit how difficult it was for him to suppress a laugh. Decius mounted on an Arabian looked like nothing so much as a bear riding a squirrel.

  “It was an unfortunate day when you decided to be an infantryman,” Rufio said. “The cavalry should have been your choice.”

  Decius looked wary. “And why is that, centurion?”

  “Our army would never have had to fight a single battle. Or even draw a weapon. The enemies of Rome would simply have collapsed in laughter.”

  Decius’s face creased in a half-grin. “You’re a cruel man, Rufio.”

  “I need two favors, old friend. I want two patrols eastward every day from now on. One in early morning, one in late afternoon. I’d like your century to handle this.”

  “It’ll be done.”

  “Four men on each patrol. And no splitting up.”

  “I understand. And so will they. They’re good men.”

  “I know. The second favor is that I want you to take command if I’m cut down. I’ve already told the tribune.”

  “Very well,” he said but looked troubled.

  “What’s wrong? You have more than enough experience to command this cohort.”

  “It’s not that. . . .”

  “Well?”

  “I’ve never known you to be a doubter before.”

  Rufio took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’m not, but I have to admit I feel my optimism running off into the sand. And don’t repeat that.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Even I have my bad moments.” Rufio folded his hands across his saddle and stared off toward the east. “It looks like the Parthians have found a water supply. We can no longer rely on their breaking off the battle if they run low. And they have a hundred camels to carry that fresh water forward. One of our greatest strengths was that we had unlimited water and they did not. Now that’s changed.”

  Decius shook his head wearily. “It’s always about water out here.”

  “Always.”

  “Well, there’s no need for you to worry. If you skin a toe, Decius will ride into battle and knock those barbarians out of their saddles with giggling fits.”

  Rufio could not help laughing. “Thank you.”

  “Even if they don’t use up their water, it’s possible they could run out of arrows.”

  “True, but I doubt it. The camels will be carrying those, too.” Rufio looked toward the arena. “Tell your men to take a break and take drink. Leave them in Bellator’s delicate hands and join us at the parade ground as soon as you can.” He touched a heel to Nimbus’s side, and the horse pivoted as if on wheels and cantered off.

  Rufio’s century and the four other centurions were waiting for him at the parade ground. All men wore helmets and full armor and swords and daggers. On the left arm of each soldier was a small cavalry shield borrowed from some of Matthias’s men. Because there were about twice as many Romans as Judaeans, only about half of the Romans would have shields in battle. Rufio had instructed the centurions to decide on a way to apportion the shields fairly. As matters turned out, the troops solved the problem themselves. The soldiers with the greatest number of years of service had volunteered to forego their claim on shields in favor of their less experienced comrades.

  Rufio rode to the front and asked the centurions to take their place on either side of him.

  “All right, centaurs,” Rufio said to his men. “Four files and twenty ranks.”

  They formed a perfect column in just a few moments. Rufio was glad that last year he had taken so much time with their horse training. Some had grumbled at the time about its pointlessness, but Rufio knew that on the frontiers of the Empire nothing was irrelevant.

  “Keep your swords in your scabbards. This is strictly horsemanship today. I assume you know how to kill.” He nudged Nimbus a few steps forward. “There will be two columns hitting the wings of the Parthian line, with four columns in reserve. On the command, each attacking column will move forward at a canter. A hundred feet from the Parthian line the entire column will slow to a trot except for the first rank. That rank will hit them hard. The soldier on the fa
r right of the rank is in command of the four. I don’t care who he is—you’re all experienced enough to command a rank. You’ll maintain contact with your enemy for no longer than it takes a man to count to fifty. Draw as much blood as you can. If one of you is injured or comes off his horse, the man next to him is not to go to his aid. I don’t want any holes opening up in the line. The man behind him in the next rank will ride forward to help him. After a count of fifty or sixty, the soldier in command on the right will evaluate the situation on the line. If everyone is well and ready to ride, he’ll order a rollback—one word, “Roll!” The two soldiers on the left will roll to the left and the two on the right roll to the right. Canter straight to the back of the column and rest. The instant the next rank in line hears the command to roll, it starts cantering forward immediately and takes the previous rank’s place and thrusts into the enemy. Questions?”

  There were none.

  “Since you’re not accustomed to fighting from horseback, you’re going to get arm weary. With the tactic you’re learning today you’ll spend more time resting than fighting. The Parthians will get no rest. And remember, once you close with them their bows are useless. They have swords, but they’re not swordsmen. If they draw their blades against us, they’re just pleading for death.” He turned toward his centurions. “You’re not going to like this, but I don’t want you fighting after the first rollback unless you have to. And I mean really have to. Otherwise I want all of you on the right of your century about three ranks back and organizing your men and keeping the files in order. And rushing help to the front rank if it needs it. And making sure the Parthians don’t try to flank. I doubt they’ll try it because our columns will be too long and too swift, but one never knows. If they try it, pivot as many ranks in that direction as you think you need to and hit them fast and hard. But turn only the minimum number of ranks, and reassemble the column as quickly as you can. Keep your optio at the rear as usual to watch over everything and your signifer with you in case you have to send a message to me or to one of the other centurions.”