Diocles turned away and stared at nothing. His own sheltered existence in Rome seemed absurd in the face of all this. He felt like an actor mouthing silly lines while the brutal drama of life raced along in these barbarous outlands.
“And the worst thing of all,” Probus said, “is that it should happen to him. If Rufio is capable of love—and I don’t know that he is—it’s these Gauls he loves. Sometimes it’s true that the conqueror does feel much for the conquered. More than anybody, we Romans have that weakness. Sometimes we hide it with arrogance or a show of contempt. But the weak spot is still there.”
“It’s not weakness, my friend, it’s greatness.”
“Rufio’s problem is that he’s always been a solitary person. He’s never been one to confide in others. When an infection like this eats at you and you cannot drain it off by sharing it with someone, it just sickens you forever.”
“You’re a wise man, Gaius Probus.”
“Just a soldier.”
“What I don’t understand is what could have happened to him this week. How do you know it has anything to do with this at all?”
“I’m just guessing. But I don’t know anything else that could have hit him like Jupiter’s bolt.”
“But what exactly?”
“Maybe he met someone from that old village. It’s deserted now—we passed it on the way here. Maybe the people who lived there joined with this one later. They do that sometimes. It could even be that he saw the little girl herself—the woman, I mean. She might still be alive. Twenty years is a long time, but people do live to be twenty.”
“But wouldn’t he be happy to see her?” Diocles asked, desperate to use the magic of logic to abolish Rufio’s pain.
“And how would you feel, my sensitive friend, if you were to gaze into the eyes of the woman whose parents you slew?”
21 THAT MAN IS WISE WHO TALKS LITTLE.
Roman saying
______
“The pilum.” Rufio held the spear aloft. “In a trained hand, a weapon of irresistible power. Today we’ll learn how to break a German charge.”
Diocles watched as Rufio hefted the javelin at its balancing point. Again he felt toward Rufio that eerie fusion of admiration and repellence. He held the deadly tool as naturally as a father coddling his child.
“The Germans rarely have armor. Few even have shields. As with all weapons, the pilum’s power is related to the absence of a defense against it. The Germans know this—they think about battle all the time. More than they think about food or women—which is how we know that Germans and Italians are not related to each other. . . .”
The recruits laughed.
“So what’s their defense against the pilum? Any guesses?”
The recruits arrayed before him on the training ground were reluctant to chance a reply. Like recruits everywhere, they would rather have been silent than risk sounding foolish.
“The answer is simple,” Rufio said in his most easy-going way. “They attack immediately and try to close with us before we loose our pila. Just as the Nervii did along the Sabis against Caesar. The Germans charge wildly not just because they like the roar of battle. They charge because they dare not wait for us to attack. Without armor, they cannot afford to wait for a shower of pila.” He paused, then said, “For they know that many will fall beneath that lethal rain.”
There was silence for a moment, then Diocles said, “Question, centurion.”
Rufio nodded.
“Won’t the Germans throw their javelins at us?”
“Good question. If they do, you have the finest shield in the world to protect you. But they won’t. Few of them have swords, so if they throw their spears they have nothing. I’ve seen German warriors who’ve lost their spears resort to throwing rocks. No, they hold onto their spears as long as they can.”
“Thank you,” Diocles said.
“When the Germans charge, they’ll come at us in a giant wedge. They’ll try to split our line in the first rush. They know it’s their only hope. They’ll try to panic us and scatter us before we can close with our swords. If they have cavalry, they’ll try to flank us at the same time. And be warned—the German cavalry are excellent. Caesar often used them as mercenaries. Our Gallic cavalry will be given the task of countering them. And there’s one thing I want you to remember—and that’s to forget.” He paused for effect. “Forget those childhood stories you heard about the Athenians and Spartans. We’re along the Rhenus—not in the Pelopponesus. We’re not talking about hoplite phalanxes smashing together like a couple of half-blind tortoises. We’re speaking of battles of movement and maneuver and ferocity.”
A pause allowed that to seep in.
“Pass this around.” Rufio threw the pilum sideways to Arrianus in the front rank. “Get the feel of it.”
As the javelin came to him, Diocles examined it. It was about seven feet long and composed of a sleek ash pole and a tanged iron head with a thin neck and a small point. The iron of the neck was a grayish black, but the point glinted with a purplish tinge. The weapon was not heavy for a man of moderate strength. Diocles passed it on to the next man.
“There’s a problem when you face a foe who also knows how to throw a javelin. What happens if you miss the rank bowels of your enemy? What stops him from picking up your javelin and hurling it back in your face?”
“You temper the head but not the neck,” Diocles said, a bit smugly, recalling the disparity in color between the head and the neck. “When it hits the ground or an enemy shield, the neck bends and makes the weapon impossible to throw back.”
Rufio gazed at him with annoyance for stealing the impact of his lesson.
“How fortunate we are to have so practical a man among us. And people say Greeks are such impractical oafs.”
The recruits laughed.
“All of you go to the wagon and get a practice pilum.”
The training weapons were stout seven-foot shafts without heads. Diocles pulled one from the wagon and resumed his place on the training ground. As he balanced the shaft in his hand, he realized it was much heavier than the actual fighting weapon.
“Today we’ll throw from thirty feet,” Rufio said. “When you’ve finished your training, each of you will be able to hurl your pilum at least seventy-five feet with fair accuracy.” He stepped toward Diocles in the front rank. In a low voice he said, “May I borrow your weapon, iron-working Greek?”
Diocles felt as feeble as a sparrow as he gazed into that face.
Rufio’s eyes narrowed at the corners in what may have been the hint of a smile.
Diocles handed him the practice pilum.
The centurion stepped away and turned to face the wooden stakes where the men had earlier practiced with sword and shield. They were about a hundred feet away.
Rufio spread his legs as he shifted the headless spear to find its balancing point. The recruits watched his back and limbs as he brought them into play in silent cohesion.
Diocles, however, watched his eyes. The trace of a smile had faded to vapor. Like a red-hot forging suddenly quenched, his face hardened now in war’s fierce tempering. With a magnificent coordination of muscle and mind, he hurled the javelin in a sweeping arc. A hundred feet away, it struck the stake in its oaken breast and dropped to the ground at its base.
For an instant, Rufio’s eyes glared at their dead enemy. Then they softened and he turned back to his men.
Diocles knew nothing of the Suebi from personal experience—least of all how they made war. But of one thing he was certain. There was here at Aquabona something they ignored only at their peril.
“Crus’s spies.” Metellus pointed with his cup of beer toward the two men seated at the end of the tavern. “The big Roman is a retired centurion named Bassus. He’s a brute. The Gallic women cross to the other side of the road when they see him coming. The German I don’t know.”
Diocles raised his cup to his mouth with his left hand as he stared across the tavern.
“Pilum practice?” Metellus asked with his usual bemused expression and he nodded at the Greek’s inert right arm.
“It feels like it’s turned to stone. Except stone doesn’t ache.” He set down his cup. “Tell me, why are legions entrusted to legates and tribunes who aren’t soldiers?”
“I guess you could say that Augustus wants no power-hungry professional soldiers with troops at their backs and greed in their eyes. On the other hand, it’s a very old system. In the early years of the Republic, the two consuls led the troops into battle. Sometimes they’d exercise command on alternate days. That’s why our wars often began with a catastrophe. At least now the legates concede the wisdom of the senior centurions. Your friend Sabinus seems to be a sensible man.”
“He is, but does that make him a sensible soldier?”
Metellus’s half-smile was forever baffling. “Not necessarily.” He stood up. “Now I must go. A beauty of my acquaintance is craving to have her dough kneaded. Rufio insists we meet the legitimate needs of our Gallic friends.” His smiled in the afternoon light streaming in from the street. “I try to comply as often as possible. I demand of myself nothing less than the severest exertions.”
Diocles laughed as he watched Metellus leave the tavern. He was growing fonder of him by the hour. Valerius was Rufio’s perfect choice to keep the blade of the century keen, but Metellus was just as vital. He was a corrective to too much seriousness, ever the one to hold the follies of life in perspective. Diocles had never believed that wisdom existed solely among the scrolls of Greek sages, yet he had not expected to find it here among such men in these remote Gallic fastnesses. He smiled to himself. He had come a long way for it, but he was now certain it had been worth the trip.
He was startled to hear Rufio’s named mentioned in the tavern.
“Oh yes,” Bassus went on to his German companion. “I know him well. Crus is right—he’s an empty braggart.”
The German, a middle-aged man with yellow-brown hair and beard, smiled.
“A swaggering ass,” Bassus said. “Thinks he’s the spawn of Jupiter.”
With a flash of anger such as he had not felt since childhood, Diocles jumped up and approached Bassus. Yet he had no idea what to do when he reached him.
“What?” Bassus said, looking up at him.
The ex-centurion had an oblong face with features much coarsened with time. Many scars adorned it.
“Quintus Rufio is my friend,” Diocles said with a pride that surprised him.
“Your bad luck.”
“You’re an imbecile.” He turned and walked away.
Strong fingers jerked his tunic back at the neck and an arm shot up between his legs from behind. An iron hand crushed his testicles and the other one lifted him off the ground by the neck. Diocles howled in pain as his vitals were wrenched. Like a broken toy, he was hurled through the air and into the street beyond. His face broke his fall.
He vomited from the horrific pain in his groin. No one dared to help.
Through the dirt and the tears, he saw Bassus approaching. He fumbled for his dagger.
A grunt shot from his lips when Bassus kicked him in the center of the forehead. His head snapped back and the rear of his skull hit the street. His eyes were open but only half-seeing. He gazed uselessly into the afternoon sky as he lay there like a crushed dog.
Bassus laughed as he seized the front of his tunic and sliced it down the center with the dagger. Diocles fought feebly as Bassus cut off his belt and tore his clothes from him and threw them aside in the ultimate childish humiliation. The Greek tried to cover himself, but it was the desperation of a naked man in a nightmare.
“Enough!” shouted a voice that filled the entire street.
The power in that single fearless word shot strength into Diocles’ limbs. He succeeded in pushing himself to one elbow.
A cloaked woman sat astride a gray horse ten feet away. She was glaring at Bassus. She was tall atop the horse, with long hair as black as the rivers of Hell.
Bassus laughed as he tucked Diocles’ dagger into his belt.
With deceptive ease, the woman swept a bow from her shoulder and slid an arrow from a leather quiver hanging down her back.
“Away!” she said and drew the bow.
“Hurt a Roman?” Bassus said, still laughing.
A soft “f-i-i-i-it” from the arrow was the only sound as the iron head sliced the centurion’s face and shot off into the distance beyond.
The blood had not yet streaked his cheek before she had fitted a second shaft and drawn the bowstring. She lowered her aim to his chest.
Bassus stared in disbelief and backed away, dabbing his cut face with the back of his hand. Then, with a hollow laugh, he wheeled about and returned to the tavern.
The woman slid from her mount. She set aside her bow and removed her cloak and draped it over Diocles
“Are you a soldier?” she asked in Latin graced with a Celtic trim.
“A poor one,” he whispered and gazed into her striking face.
“I’ll take you home.” She slipped her arms beneath him and around his back and lifted him as easily as if he were a child.
22 DO NOT SPEAK AGAINST THE SUN.
Roman saying
______
Valerius was spitting fire. “That stinking pus-bloated pig! I’ll carve him like a slab of rotten meat!”
“No.” Diocles slumped on the edge of his bunk. “It’s not your fight.”
Diocles’ tent mates had gathered around. There was no teasing, even though he had been rescued by a woman. In the ranks now there was iron solidarity.
Metellus came up with a cloth soaked in vinegar to disinfect the cut on his forehead.
“Besides,” Diocles went on, “he’s too much for any one man.”
“Then Valerius and I will cut him down together,” Metellus said.
Both the veterans and the new men looked at Metellus. For some of them it was the first time they had ever heard anger in the signifer’s voice. His eyes now seemed miles from their usual smile.
“What’s this?” the voice of Rufio said from the doorway.
Diocles turned his head away when the centurion came into the soldiers’ quarters.
“Bassus!” Valerius shouted. “That sow-sucking swine.”
“Bassus? He still lives here?” Rufio stepped up to Diocles. “You don’t look so bad. I’ve seen Bassus beat tyros into jelly.”
“But his balls might never work again,” one of the new men said with innocent sincerity.
“Harems in the East are always looking for men light in the groin to fill a few select positions,” Rufio said. He swept his gaze across the men like an iron rake. “I want no vengeance here. You’ll maintain discipline.” He glared at Valerius. “Inform the rest of the men.”
“It’s the honor of the century,” Valerius said. “Herennius would have—”
“Are you disputing me, optio?”
“No, centurion.”
Rufio turned and as he left he touched Metellus on the arm.
“So what happened?” Rufio asked when they reached his office.
“I wasn’t there, but I understand that Diocles was defending your honor.”
Rufio stared at him in surprise, then gestured to a stool.
“Thank you.” Metellus sat down. “Apparently, Bassus made some unkind remark about you. Diocles objected.”
Rufio leaned back against the front edge of his desk and folded his arms. “I was the optio in Bassus’s century many years ago. He tried to break me a hundred times. Like most cruel men, he hates a man greater than himself.”
“All the men of the century—even the new ones—were ready to bleed for Diocles’ honor.”
“By the gods, they’re good Romans!” Rufio said, snapping his head to the side with a smile. “They’re becoming a unit now. In a few more months, they’ll be a fighting unit.”
“Your campfire speech must have worked.”
“Metellus . . . .” Rufio g
ave him a penetrating stare. “You don’t think that. No speech by an officer will ever get a man to expose his bowels to the enemy’s steel.”
Metellus gazed at him with his bemused smile. “Then why?”
Rufio sat on the corner of the desk. It was a flattering informality.
“Because in order to win, a man has to know why he’s fighting. You’ve been in the army long enough to know that. And to be victorious, he has to be fighting for something real and immediate and valuable to him personally. And the greatest of those things is freedom. That’s what I was hammering into them. And that’s why a handful of squabbling Greek cities were able to unite for once and crush the Persian horde. Free soldiers always fight better than an army of slaves. What were those pathetic Persians fighting for—to be dogs at the feet of Xerxes? The Greeks were fighting to stay free men.”
“I see.”
“Did you know that the word freedom exists only in Latin and Greek? I mean political freedom—the liberty to speak and argue with praetors and senators and consuls. The freedom to go before courts of law and seek justice. To write or sculpt or sing whatever songs please us. You won’t find that word in Egyptian or Celtic or Syriac. Mention liberty to those people and they won’t even know what you mean. They won’t even be able to guess.”
“I had no idea.”
“And we’re fighting for even more than that—we’re fighting for Rome. Not the wealth of Rome but the ideal of Rome. Civilization instead of barbarism. A greatness that other people cannot even dream of. It’s Vesta’s flame—so sacred it’s almost beyond imagining. Rome is an idea that exists beyond our own short lives. Beyond time itself.”
LEGION Page 15
