A young soldier with an air of self-importance was demanding the slave come down. The Greek was having none of it.
Diocles spotted the man he had just spoken to outside the Principia. He pushed his way through the clump of soldiers and came up next to him.
“What’s going to happen?”
“The Greek is finished, the fool. There’s no going back now.”
“Is that man a Gaul?”
“Yes. He’s one of the workers in the armory.”
“And the man below?”
“Ulpius Crus. The laticlavian tribune.”
Diocles had no idea what that meant, but it clearly meant something.
“The slave is his,” the man said with the kind of smile that a common soldier reserves only for the agony of his officers. “Crus looks the fool and he cannot see a way out. No matter how this plays, he knows his rocks are in the crusher.”
All the soldiers standing around appeared to be relishing the tribune’s discomfort.
“I’m a Greek,” Diocles said to the soldier. “I’ll try to get him down.”
Though he was younger than Diocles, the soldier gazed at him like an indulgent father. “Save your pain. By tomorrow the Greek will be nailed to a cross. If he’s lucky, they’ll cut his throat after an hour or two.”
The sound of a horse behind them caused the cluster of men to split in two. A black stallion brushed Diocles as it went by.
The horseman approached the tribune. Instantly Diocles sensed something odd about him. He did not seem to be a man on the back of an animal. There was an intuitive communication between the two that created an eerie fusion of disparate spirits. Diocles got the feeling not of tacit cooperation between horse and man, but rather of the taut threatening energy of a centaur.
Diocles was unsure if he was a soldier. Instead of the off-white tunic most soldiers wore, his was a rich bright blue. He had no weapons, but wore at his waist just a leather belt with tinned decorative plates. He was of medium height and build. The sun striking his silver hair made his head seem like it was covered with spun metal. From where Diocles stood, he could not see the man’s face.
The horseman stopped a few feet from the tribune and spoke to him in a soft voice. Eager for advice, Ulpius Crus answered with a tone of humility that seemed forced.
The silver-haired man extended his right leg forward, raising it over the horse’s neck and sliding from the animal as fluidly as a raindrop rolling off a leaf.
Diocles moved closer.
The man in blue approached the bales of hay. Confidence empty of all arrogance graced each stride.
“Tell me Greek,” he said, looking up, “why this idiocy?”
His voice was as hard as burnished steel.
“He wants to sell me to a slave dealer. I’ll not be sold again! Ever!”
“Why not? A slave does what he’s told—just like a soldier.”
“And a slave can be willing to face death, too—just like a soldier.”
The silver-haired man turned around. Diocles was surprised to see he was only about forty. Black eyebrows recalled hints of lost youth, and a pair of marks that might once have been dimples sliced through each cheek in vertical grooves. He still had the traces of a smile in his eyes from the slave’s quick answer, and Diocles was drawn to the attractive face. He wondered if he might be one of a group of traveling actors here to earn some coin by performing for the soldiers. But why he would interpose himself in this crisis Diocles could not imagine.
“You’ll get your wish!” the tribune shrieked. “Death as slow as a night watch!”
“And I’ll take some of you with me. I have five arrows—the last for you.”
“What does this wretched Gaul have to do with it?” the man in blue asked.
“I needed to get your attention—and I have it.”
It was a petty triumph, but all he had left.
The Gaul buried his head in his arms. The crotch of his trousers was wet.
A bearded man burst through the crowd and ran toward the tribune. He babbled in Celtic and gestured toward the Greek and the Gaul. His arms were as hairy as a bear’s but blotched with burn scars. Years at the forge had not prepared him for this. He was trying to hide his fear for the life of his friend behind Gallic bluster.
The man in blue laid a hand on his shoulder and spoke to him in the man’s own language. The gentle voice calmed him.
Perhaps, thought Diocles, he was not an actor but some kind of priest.
“This comedy has played long enough,” the silver-haired man said to Crus. “I can end it, but you must do something for me. . . .”
“What is it?” he asked, desperate for a resolution.
“Give this miserable Greek to me so I can deal with him in my own way.”
“The dog is yours, centurion. But I want to be there when he breathes his last rank breath.”
“Did you hear that, Hercules?” the centurion said. “You’re my toy now.”
“Perhaps I can help,” Diocles said without thought.
“Who are you?” the centurion asked.
Diocles recoiled under the weight of that gaze and for a moment he forgot his own name.
The centurion turned away. “Greek, move that arrow from the Gaul and aim it at me.”
“Why should I do that?”
“Because if you don’t, I’ll come up there and break your spine.”
Diocles watched the two men take each other’s measure. Across some black gulf they eyed one another for centuries.
The young Gaul peered around, but the arrow was still pointed at his head.
The centurion raised a foot onto a bale of hay.
The slave jerked the bow away and aimed the arrow at the Roman.
The burly Gaul on the ground moved forward.
“Stay where you are, you fool!” The centurion looked at the other Gaul and made a sideways gesture. The young man scampered to the side and began to come down.
“We’ll trade hostages,” the Roman said to the Greek. “The Gaul for me.”
Reeking of urine, the young Gaul at last reached the bottom. The older man threw his arms around him and hugged him until he almost crushed him. They turned together to thank the centurion.
“Go!” the Roman ordered without taking his eyes from the Greek.
They moved away but stared back over their shoulders as they went.
The Roman began climbing the hay bales, the arrow aimed at the center of his blue tunic.
Diocles moved closer so he could hear. He noticed the centurion wince in apparent pain as he made the climb.
When the Roman neared the top, the slave gestured to him to keep his distance. The centurion sat on a bale about ten feet away.
He allowed the tension to eat at the Greek.
His arms were shaking from keeping the bow drawn for so long, and he eased the taut gut forward to rest a bit. With a quick pass of his hand he wiped the sweat from his face.
Still the Roman did not speak.
“Shall we stay here until we die of old age?” the slave said.
“At this point, old age is not your worry.” The Roman gestured toward the arrow. “Who is the better for this?” he asked in a weary voice.
“I’m without hope, so what does it matter?”
“No one is without hope.” The centurion stood up.
The Greek drew the bow.
“I’ve looked into the eyes of many killers,” the Roman said, “but yours are not familiar. Will you loose that shaft into my lung and watch the blood spew from my mouth?”
Sweat poured from the slave’s face and his arms trembled.
Almost indifferently, the centurion strode forward and swept the bow and arrow from his hands. He threw them aside as though they had been meaningless, as indeed he had proved they were.
“I never misread eyes,” he said so softly Diocles could barely hear him.
The slave fell to his knees, tears of dread running down his cheeks. He started shaking un
controllably.
“Why cry for tomorrow?” the centurion said with a hard voice. “The sun hasn’t yet set on today.”
3 IT WILL BE PLEASANT TO LOOK BACK ON THINGS PAST.
Roman saying
______
A cheerful tribune, Titinius by name, led Diocles through the vestibule of the Praetorium. Rectangular in plan, the commander’s residence sat behind the Principia. A courtyard opened the center, providing shade and cool air and betraying its origin in a warmer climate than this one. Wooden posts supported the overhanging roofs. The two men crossed the courtyard and entered a range of rooms on the right. Diocles was taken to the commander’s bathhouse, where he was allowed to scrape away the remnants of the journey from Rome.
Afterward he was shown into a room with a long table and several couches. He wore a new white tunic for the occasion and waited by one of the couches.
A pair of slaves came through a doorway to the right, each man bearing a tray of food he placed on the table.
“Diocles!” said a familiar voice from behind him.
He turned as the commander came striding through the other doorway.
“Hail, old friend!” the Legate said and gripped Diocles by both arms.
“Hail, Sabinus!” he answered with a smile and greeted the person whom he loved more than any other, except his own wife.
“Sorry I wasn’t here to meet you. ” Sabinus laid down his bronze helmet and reached for a glass goblet of wine from one of the slaves. “Too strong,” he said after a sip, and he held out the goblet so the slave could add more water. “Do you believe the Gauls drink wine without water? Primitive race.”
Far more handsome at thirty-five than the gods would usually allow, Marcus Aemilius Sabinus gazed at Diocles as he sipped his wine.
“Why are you standing?”
Diocles stretched out on one of the couches.
“I had to meet with the Gallic chieftain this morning,” Sabinus said. “He’s nervous about the Germans. I broke precedent and went to him instead of demanding he come to me. Some of the old centurions didn’t care for that”—he shrugged—“but so be it.”
He signaled to one of the slaves to help him with his armor.
The commander was wearing a bronze muscle breastplate, encircled above the waist by a white sash as a symbol of rank. Beneath this he wore a linen doublet. Leather strips, dyed white and trimmed with yellow fringe, hung from this at the shoulders and waist. The slave removed the doublet, and Sabinus stretched out in his simple red tunic.
“Eat.” He reached for a bowl of mushrooms and olives. “Let’s indulge before we speak of matters of substance.”
Diocles smiled and dipped into a plate of cold pork.
“Sometimes,” Sabinus said, “the Legate of Augustus wearies of substance and hungers just for the pleasure of old friends.”
Finishing with sweet cakes he did not need, Diocles lounged on his side and sipped at a goblet of warmed honey wine.
“So why have I summoned you? That’s what you want to know.”
“And that’s what you delight in not telling me.”
“A fair rebuke, young Greek, but take care—I have five thousand armed men at my elbow.”
“Sabinus, please. . . .”
Suddenly serious, Sabinus leaned forward. “I have a great task for you. I want you to give these men immortality.” He made a gesture that seemed to take in the entire fort.
“Who? What men?”
“The soldiers of Rome.”
“How?”
“I want you to walk in the footsteps of your great countryman Polybius. What he did for the legions of Scipio, you shall do for the army of Augustus.”
Startled, Diocles leaned back on his couch. “I am no Polybius.”
“No one I know writes more beautifully than you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“My friend, I’ve been here four months, and I now know that these men are like no others on earth.” He reached for a honey cake and one of the slaves brushed a fly from it just before it touched his mouth.
“But what—”
“Sometimes I even regret I was born a patrician—that this command is just another step in my political career. In the dark of the night, I envy these scarred centurions and wish I could stay here as long as I please.” He pushed his fingers through his thick black hair. “Of course, they’re not the tenderest of mortals. They’re no Vestal Virgins. But, by Jupiter, they’re the sharpest salt in a world being made soft by sweet cakes and honey wine.”
“What would you have me do?”
“Stay with me this summer. Record for posterity the story of life in the legions. Tell our children’s children what these men have done for Rome—and for the world.”
“This is a sobering task.”
“Would you prefer a childish one?”
“What of my wife?”
“She was in on my plan. No doubt she seemed especially affectionate before you left. She knew you’d be away for some time.” He smiled. “And consider—when you return, she’ll be exquisitely keen.”
“My patron is a rogue—do his soldiers know that? And what of your son? His tutoring is my true task.”
“He’ll profit by a respite from your rhetorical flourishes.”
“You leave me no open door.”
“A free man always has an escape. He can walk away from the request of an old friend who wishes for nothing but to see his words become immortal.”
“And I thought my wife was the cleverest person I know!”
“Cornelia is a Roman. Need any more be said?” He stood up. “Let’s walk off some of this meal.”
They strolled out to the sunny courtyard.
“How am I supposed to do this?”
“That I leave to you. After all, you’re a Greek—where is the vaunted Hellenic ingenuity?”
Diocles scowled in reply.
“Surely, nothing is difficult for the son of a race that divides all mankind into two—Greeks and barbarians.”
They walked in silence. Finally, Sabinus laid a hand on his left arm.
“Old friend, you needn’t stay if you really don’t wish to. I know I wouldn’t care to be away from Cornelia for so long . . . .”
“No, no, I was thinking of something else. Did you hear about the incident today with the slave?”
“No, I was with the Gauls. Tell me.”
He told in detail what had happened.
“This is a very serious matter,” Sabinus said. “Where’s the slave now?”
“With the man who ended the crisis.”
“You say he was a centurion?”
“So he was called by the tribune.”
“He doesn’t sound familiar. He must be new here.”
The commander turned away and walked off by himself.
“Sabinus,” Diocles said, hurrying after him. “Can the man be spared? He’s a Greek and—”
“No. An example must be made. The centurion knows that. I’m sorry, but the Greek is probably already dead.”
4 THOSE WHO CROSS THE SEA CHANGE THE SKY, BUT NOT THEIR SPIRITS.
Horace
______
I have decided to keep a record of my reflections as I undertake the task Sabinus has set before me. My patron does not realize the difficulty of this commission. He is a man to whom everything has always come easily. His appearance, his talents, his connections in Rome—all assure his ease of passage. He sprints like a deer around life’s obstacles. Now he wants a scholar, a man of sedentary ways, to write an account of the fighting men of Rome. The only thing more idiotic than the request is that I have acceded to it. No experience could prepare me for the remoteness I feel among these men. I will have to place my finer sensibilities in a cedar box and hope that prolonged storage does not rot them. I will find no men here eager to argue about literature or philosophy. I will find no one who will know even the meaning of those words. It is fortunate for Sabinus that I love him. If I did not, I wo
uld be on my way back to the fora of Rome. The air there may not be as sweet, but the talk is always heady and wise. I expect the next noble talent I will acquire is how to confront an enemy as I prepare to disembowel him.
Sunlight glancing off the lake lit the soft grass under the trees. A hillock beneath an oak formed a natural seat, and to this the centurion pointed.
The Greek sat. He had stopped shaking. The greatest terror finally brings its own release.
The centurion carried no sword, but his dagger hung at his right hip.
“What’s your name?” he asked and folded his arms across the front of his blue tunic.
“Demetrius.”
“Mine is Rufio. Tell me your tale.”
He moistened his lips. “I was the slave of Senator Publius Claudius Longinus. When the senator died last year, he had many debts unsettled. He was a very generous man. His family disposed of most of his slaves to meet his obligations. Crus bought me and made me his personal attendant. I’m a scholar, not a foot washer. I’d administered the senator’s library. I’d helped him with his speeches. Into the small hours of the morning we would discuss Plautus or Livius and—”
“You’re well-versed in the Roman authors?”
“As well as the Greek.”
“Continue.”
“I was unfit for my new duties. Yet I worked hard to meet these new demands. I—”
“Stop.” Rufio held up his hand. “No scholar would work hard at being a menial. He’d do just enough to get by while he maneuvered for a change of circumstance.”
Demetrius was only in his early twenties, and his days and nights among the scrolls had not equipped him to be a skillful liar.
“Don’t lie to me again.”
“It’s true. I was a poor personal attendant—but I won’t submit to being put on the block again.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m good-looking and I’m Greek. That’s enough reason for some to buy me.” His young eyes searched the centurion’s face for understanding.
“I see. Well, my taste doesn’t run to boys or men, Greek or otherwise. I didn’t acquire you to grease you.”
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