LEGION

by William Altimari

  Demetrius flinched at this typical Italian frankness.

  Rufio turned and stared across the lake. An occasional bird swooped low over the peaceful water, rippled here and there by the movement of a fish near the surface. Insects buzzed nearby, and brightly colored butterflies flew out from the arbor to alight on the swaying heads of sweet-smelling flowers. The breeze fluttered his silver hair as he gazed off into the beauty of a Gallic spring.

  “It’s far too gentle a day to kill a man.” Rufio turned to Demetrius. “My sister is newly widowed with a young son. I want him to learn the Latin writers in addition to the Greek. You will teach him.”

  Disbelief and gratitude ran over one another on the Greek’s face until they formed a preposterous expression.

  “I don’t understand,” he said, apparently fearful of some new torment. “I threatened to kill you. How could you send me to your sister’s house?”

  Rufio smiled at a distant memory. “Flavia knows how make a fist. She’s the most beautiful woman in Rome—she needs to know how to defend herself.”

  “Rome?”

  “One thing more. Don’t think for a moment I was impressed by your farce with the Gaul. That was a shabby thing.”

  Demetrius lowered his eyes.

  “There was no courage in that,” Rufio went on. “You humiliated that poor lad. But it was a useless act and that’s how I know your story is true. Only a man without hope would act so hopelessly.”

  Demetrius dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around the centurion’s bare legs.

  “Up!”

  He stood. “When will we go to Rome?”

  “You’ll make your own way. I’ll provide you a horse and silver. You held that bow well, so I know—”

  “Alone? You’d trust me to go alone?”

  “Trust . . .” Rufio said and turned away at the taste of that as if it were a harsh condiment. “The word always threatens to inflame my liver.”

  “Then how do you know I won’t run away? Shall I take an oath?”

  “Oath? I’ve never known a Greek who understood the sanctity of oaths. Greeks are a conniving race from birth. But”—he raised a finger at Demetrius—“I’ve never known a Greek who didn’t pay what he owed. And you owe me everything.”

  “Yes. But I still might flee. You cannot be sure.”

  “Then you’ll have betrayed me.”

  A horseman rode out from the fort and approached the bower. Rufio, alone now, leaned with an outstretched arm against the trunk of an oak and watched the rider come.

  The soldier was still several hundred feet away when Rufio recognized him. He smiled and sat on the hillock.

  The rider reined up and stared down with a grin. “I knew it was you. The last time I saw you, you were bandaged and bleeding in Spain, but when I heard what happened today I knew it could only be you.”

  “Hello, Probus.” Rufio stood up.

  Probus slipped from his mount, and the two men smiled into each other’s eyes.

  Probus pointed to Rufio’s belt. “I remember a time when you threatened to lay your vine-stick across the back of any soldier who left the fort without his sword.”

  “I’m growing lax in my dotage.”

  Probus grunted as they sat together on the grass.

  “Why are you here and not with the Second Legion in Spain?” Probus asked.

  “I wanted to see the land of my youthful adventures one more time.”

  He scowled. “I don’t like the smell of that. You cannot be thinking about retiring. . . .”

  “Very soon.”

  Probus rested his forearms across his knees and stared across the lake.

  Rufio knew Probus’s disapproval always took the form of silence.

  “Cheer up,” Rufio said. “We’re among the gallant Gauls again. What could be better?”

  “The army cannot afford to lose soldiers like you. Savages are out there eager to sink their fangs into the throat of Rome.”

  Rufio said nothing.

  “Do you know who first said that to me? You.”

  Rufio squinted at the sun reflecting off the water.

  “Don’t let what happened in Spain bleed you forever,” Probus said.

  “You know better.”

  “I don’t know better.”

  Rufio’s slate-blue eyes regained their easy smile. “Do you know anything at all, then?”

  “I know women, I know war, and I know Quintus Flavius Rufio.”

  “In that order?”

  “In order of importance,” he answered, struggling but failing to hold back a laugh.

  “You bull-necked Philistine,” Rufio said, laughing with him. “How long have you been here?”

  “A few hours. I brought twenty recruits with me. A pack of scarecrows.”

  “What cohort are you with?”

  “Third. First Century. And you?”

  “Second. I haven’t met my men yet. The journey from Spain put me back in the hospital. I escaped this morning.”

  “How’s your back?”

  “It’s a slow process. What’s the matter?”

  “Second Cohort you said.” He bared a sadistic smile. “With your seniority it must be the First Century.”

  Rufio stared back warily. “Why?”

  Probus continued grinning.

  “Oh no . . . the recruits. How many?”

  “All of them.”

  “What? How can that be?”

  “Every wretch goes to Second Cohort, First Century. I heard there was some catastrophe that bled it white. Probably stubbed their toes and died.”

  Rufio stood up and walked to the edge of the trees near the lake. The sunlight pressed onto his face like a sheet of warm metal.

  “I’m too tired to train new warriors.”

  “Tired from what? What are you forty? Forty-two?”

  “A hundred.”

  “A few days with those pathetic stick-men should restore your vitality.”

  “And I suppose your century is all veterans.”

  “Iron men.”

  “You’re a foul swine.”

  Probus joined him at the edge of the trees. “Has there been any excitement along here?”

  “When I was in the hospital I was told there were a few raids from across the river. Mostly against the Gauls.”

  “You know the Germans—they’re always thumbing the edge of their knives.”

  “I’m not sure it’s just that this time. I think they might be testing. Opening a vein to see how quick we are to close it.”

  Probus folded his arms and nodded. “Is there talk of a campaign this summer?”

  “I don’t know. But I do know this is not the best time to be nursing twenty babies.”

  5 YOU FALL INTO SCYLLA IN TRYING TO AVOID CHARYBDIS.

  Roman saying

  ______

  I like Probus. I enjoy his company very much. He is a rough man and would not dare show a tender spot, if he has any. Perhaps I am not so sensitive after all. He is precisely what I expect of a centurion. I doubt he would hesitate to flog a negligent soldier. Yet I suspect he would be just as willing to listen to a reasonable excuse. He is as open and straightforward as the head of an axe.

  Yet he is not the only kind of centurion here. The one who doomed the Greek slave disturbs me. His appearance seems designed to deceive. No bluff openness reassures. It is as though a silk hanging concealed an uncertain shape. One pulls it aside to see a spear stained with blood. I have never been a man tricked by appearances. Poison is never so loathsome as when contained in the ornatest of vials.

  Diocles sat on the ground at the edge of the Praetorium portico. With his back against a column and his knees drawn up, he played with a white flower. He might have been a lovesick suitor hopeful of placing the petals one day soon in the hair of his beloved.

  Footsteps roused him. Probus was striding across the courtyard.

  “Romans work and Greeks dream,” Probus said.

  “Life isn’t that
easy, centurion,” he answered and tossed away the flower.

  “I’m on my way to see the commander. I was told he likes to get to know his centurions personally. I like that.”

  “A rare treat awaits him.”

  “I smell the manure of sarcasm.”

  “Can you spare a moment?” Diocles touched the ground next to him.

  Probus pulled his scabbard forward out of the way and sat down.

  “I have a problem. Perhaps you can give me advice on how to solve it. Sabinus wants me to write a history of life in the legions. He believes it’s a story that deserves to be preserved. He says you’re all remarkable men.”

  Probus gazed toward the commander’s office. “Does he?”

  “So how do I go about it? You’re the only one I know to ask.”

  Probus pulled a hand down across his lips as he thought for a moment. “Well, the spine of the legion is its cohorts, and the soul of the cohort is the century. It’s there you’ll find the essence of the army of Rome.”

  “There are a hundred men in a century?”

  “Eighty. Things have been reorganized over the years.”

  “And the cohort?”

  “Ten cohorts to a legion. Each cohort has six centuries. There’s been some talk of reducing the number of centuries in the First Cohort to five and doubling their size, but nothing has come of it yet. The centurions of the First Cohort are the most senior in the legion.”

  Diocles leaned his head back against the column and thought for awhile. The buzzing of flies was the only sound in the sunny courtyard.

  “Suppose I get permission from Sabinus to live with a century. Would that be the way to do it?”

  “The perfect way—but the centurion won’t like it. That I can promise. The soldiers either.”

  “And what about you? Could you learn to like it—or at least tolerate it?”

  “Devious Greek! You soften me up for the sword thrust. In fact, I’d enjoy it. But it’s not a good idea. My men are mostly veterans. You cannot learn how to cook by staring at hard bread. You must watch the kneading of fresh dough.”

  “But I know no one else here.”

  “I do,” he said, and in his eyes lurked something Diocles found unnerving.

  The office of the Legate in the Praetorium was sparsely furnished. Stools were pushed against the right and left walls. Above the seats hung swords and javelins, relics bequeathed by old warriors from forgotten campaigns. Near the wall opposite the door was a desk covered with papyrus sheets and waxed writing tablets. In the far right corner a bust of Augustus reigned from a wooden plinth. Sabinus sat on a stool behind the desk.

  “And you spared him nonetheless?” Sabinus asked.

  “Yes, commander,” Rufio said.

  “And do you think that was wise?”

  “It’s not fitting for me to comment on my own wisdom.”

  “Centurion Probus told me you’re a man of much experience. Today you appear to be wearing it rather lightly.”

  “I wouldn’t disagree, commander.”

  “Centurion, just explain your thinking in letting the slave live.”

  “Everyone deserves the luxury of a mistake—especially if he’s young. The Greek wasn’t raising revolt. He feared brutal Romans with Greek tastes, so he grabbed a bow like a drowning man grabs air.”

  “Can you be sure of all that?”

  “No, commander. Greeks are notorious liars.”

  Sabinus threw up his hands. “You hurt you own case. You agree, then, that there could have been great danger?”

  “Commander, danger is my profession.”

  “Probus tells me you were badly injured in Spain.”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you fully recovered?”

  “I’m ready to resume my duties.”

  “That wasn’t the question.”

  “There’s still some pain.”

  “And why have you transferred here?”

  “I served in Gaul years ago with the Sixteenth Legion. I’m more at home here than in Spain—or in Rome.”

  “Does it concern you to serve under a commander younger than you with little experience of war?”

  “If it does, I’m serving in the wrong army.”

  “By the gods! Is it your special prerogative never to answer a question directly?”

  “No, commander. It’s the privilege of twenty-one years and seventeen wounds in the service of Rome.”

  Sabinus hesitated.

  “Commander, the day may come when you need my experience. Then I’ll show you how to use it without feeling diminished by the need.”

  Sabinus smiled. “A fair bargain. Now I have something to discuss with you about another Greek, but first you have visitors. The local chieftain wants to see you.” He rose from his stool. “He even brought his wife. That’s unusual. The sight of her would stretch any man’s bow string.”

  “Are you sure they have the right man? I know no chieftains here.”

  “ ‘The Roman who speaks like a Sequani’ is what he said. And one thing more—” Sabinus paused at the door and looked back—“If they have any questions for you, give them a treat—give them an answer.”

  Rufio took two stools from the side of the room and placed them in the center before the desk. When the visitors came in, the sun was behind them in the doorway and he could make out only silhouettes. They entered with the arrogant stride unique to the Gauls.

  “Welcome,” Rufio said.

  “I am Adiatorix. This is my wife.”

  Both appeared to be in their early thirties.

  “Please sit.”

  Adiatorix was the man to have at your side in a strange forest at midnight. At least six feet tall, he had shoulders as wide as an ox cart and hands that could have powdered marble. Auburn hair flowed to his shoulders, and a heavy moustache drooped past his chin. He wore a yellow and blue striped tunic with a leather thong at the waist, deep blue linen trousers tied at the ankles, and soft leather shoes.

  “We’ve come to thank you for what you did,” the chieftain said in serviceable Latin.

  Rufio was trying to focus on Adiatorix, but the man’s wife presented an enormous distraction.

  “And you are . . . ?” Rufio asked.

  “Varacinda.”

  She filled out a short-sleeved blue and red checked tunic. Over it she wore a brown leather jerkin, and her trousers, too, were leather.

  “I appreciate your gratitude. What have I done to earn it?”

  “You saved the life of my cousin,” the woman said. “My uncle says you are the bravest Roman in Gaul.”

  Varacinda’s hair had the sheen of gold coins held in the palm at sunset. Long and dense, it was swept over and back as though she were perpetually caught in the wind.

  “The armorers,” Rufio said.

  “My uncle told me you spoke to him in a way that touched his heart and then you faced that desperate slave unarmed.”

  Rufio leaned back against the edge of the desk and folded his arms across his chest. He idly thumbed the ring on his left forefinger. “No Roman soldier is ever unarmed. Even naked, he still has his training and his experience.”

  “That doesn’t diminish our gratitude,” she answered, scorning the Roman’s lessening of his deed.

  A slave entered with a bowl full of dates and cut apples. Rufio gestured at the Gauls, and the slave offered them the fruit.

  Rufio watched the woman’s lips as they changed shape around a slice of apple.

  Adiatorix stood up. “Please accept this small token of our gratitude and friendship.”

  The chieftain removed a gold torque from his neck and gave it to Rufio.

  “Thank you.”

  “I know Romans don’t wear these things as we do, but keep it as a symbol.”

  Rufio looked to the woman. “And thank you also.”

  She gazed at him in supreme self-assurance, like a horse half-broken but never really tamed. Her high cheekbones gave her a fierce beauty, sharp and cutti
ng.

  Rufio looked back to Adiatorix. “Please don’t be offended if I tell you that the whole business was for me a small matter.”

  “No,” the woman said. “It was not. You couldn’t know how much it meant.” She paused, shaken by some emotion she struggled to control. “Last year I lost my sister Larinda. My uncle and cousin and my one dear friend are all I have now, besides my noble husband.”

  “My wife’s sister was visiting a village down the river when the Suebi raided it. She was carried off with several others.”

  Rufio laid the torque on the table and walked across the room as he stared at the floor.

  “Was there retaliation?” he asked at last.

  “No,” Adiatorix said. “The legion had a different commander then. He seemed more concerned with his political career than with matters of honor. He feared angering Rome by rousing the Suebi to war. He did nothing.”

  “And you?”

  “He wouldn’t allow us to take to the field in pursuit.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Then Adiatorix seemed to see Rufio for the first time, or at least to see him in a new way. “You look familiar to me. Have you been in Gaul many years?”

  “What is time in this peaceful wilderness?”

  “But your mastery of our language . . . That couldn’t have come quickly.”

  “Language is a tool, like a sword. A soldier needs all the tools in the forge.”

  Adiatorix smiled. “Sabinus warned me that answers from you are as rare as the tears of a wolf.” He turned to his wife. “Come.”

  She took her place next to him.

  “Again we thank you.” Adiatorix led the way out the door.

  The woman paused and turned. “And your name?”

  “Rufio.”

  “I am Varacinda,” she said unnecessarily and then stepped into the sunlight.

  He gazed after her for a long time, then picked up the torque from the table. Heavy, yet elegantly wrought, the gold ring sported a snake head at each end, one facing the other. Footsteps in the doorway caused him to look up.

  Adiatorix was back in the room.

  “When I was a boy there was a rebellion by our tribe against the Romans. We lived upriver in a smaller village. Is it possible you fought against my people then?”