Metellus gazed off toward the window. “I never thought of myself as fighting for a timeless ideal.”
“You are. And, of course, a man also fights for the men at his side. He fights well because he fears if he doesn’t, the men on either side of him will be struck down. Or because he fears being seen as weak or cowardly in their eyes. Only when a man’s concern for the lives of his friends and his fear at the loss of their respect are greater than his fear of the enemy—only then will he be a soldier.” Rufio smiled. “Warriors are everywhere. But soldiers?” He tapped the desk with his knuckles. “Only here.”
“You left out one thing. He also fights if he fears the scorn of the leader he admires. If he fears the loss of the praise of the officer he respects. Isn’t that so?”
“Yes,” he said with the wisdom of a dozen battlefields.
A long silence followed.
“Did you know Bassus was one of Crus’s spies?” Metellus asked.
Rufio gave a disgusted laugh. “I shouldn’t be surprised. Crus leans against the hollow strong man. What about Diocles?”
“Bassus pounded him into the ground, then stole his dagger and tore his clothes from him.”
“Bassus was always an expert at making a man feel like a worm. I’m surprised he didn’t beat him worse.”
“That’s the final flourish—a young Gallic woman stepped in and stopped it. Sliced Bassus’s cheek with an arrow. Then she brought Diocles back. She was just leaving the fort as I was coming in. A wild beauty from the forests of Gaul. Diocles said her name is Flavia, of all things.”
“Of all things,” he said and looked away.
“Do you know her?”
“When she was very young. But she doesn’t know me. Take Diocles to the hospital and have the doctor poke at him.”
Metellus pushed the stool against the wall and turned to the door.
“The Greek doctor,” Rufio shouted after him. “I don’t trust that Roman meat cutter.”
The afternoon sun balanced for a moment on the horizon. As a final beneficence, it shot an orange sheet of painless flame along the wide street. Rufio squinted and sat on the edge of the stone fountain and played with the cats that had gathered. Some meowed and jumped into his lap when he produced chunks of dried fish from a little sack. Other cats sat at his feet and waited their turn with that serenity that mystifies dogs.
The children were fascinated. A small knot of them stood watching a few feet away. The boys seemed puzzled. Several of them were ten or twelve years old—the age when they would just as happily have tortured a cat or tied a rock around its neck and tossed it into a river. That this man, obviously a soldier, would take his dagger and cut small slivers of fish for the fuzzy kittens at his feet seemed very strange indeed.
“Make a friend of a cat and you make a friend for life,” Rufio said and he motioned for the children to come closer. He smiled at them and one or two dared to smile back. A few of them looked half-Italian, children of retired soldiers who had been held to Gaul by a Gallic smile.
“But they won’t care about you once they’re full,” one of the older boys said. “Will they?”
“What do you think?” Rufio asked with a raised eyebrow and he glanced among the children.
In silent answer, a large gray cat that had eaten his fill jumped into Rufio’s lap. He reared up and placed a paw on each of Rufio’s shoulders and licked his face. After a while Rufio had to push the cat away as his skin began to hurt from the rasping tongue. The cat settled down on his lap and purred in contentment as his eyelids drooped.
Rufio passed out pieces of fish to the children, and even the older boys could not resist the pleasure that comes from an animal’s trust. Soon they had all picked out a cat as their own.
A little girl of about five, more timid than the rest, stood playing with her fingers at the edge of the group. Rufio gestured to her. Slowly she came up to him. He sat her on his knee next to the gray cat and handed her a piece of fish. It seemed huge in her little hand. She held it out about an inch away and the big cat stretched his neck and took it gently from her fingers. She laughed and looked up at Rufio with a smile that could have touched a tyrant.
He slid her from his knee. “Here,” he said. “Open your arms.”
She held them wide and he draped the upper body of the cat over her shoulder. Then he wrapped her arms around the cat’s middle.
“He told me he wants to be your friend,” he said with a smile.
She turned away, carrying the cat that was almost as long as she was. She walked off down the street and giggled as the gentle old mouser licked her ear.
“You have a tender hand with children,” an accented voice said from behind him.
“Even the iron men of Rome were babies once,” he answered and turned around.
Flavia stood before him. Behind her, a gray horse stood at the end of the slack reins in her hand. Flavia’s hair fell to the shoulders of her short-sleeved red tunic and matched the color of her trousers. Her hair was just as black as the day decades before when Rufio had first seen it. She wore a black leather archer’s bracer on her left forearm and a bronze torque on each biceps.
“You’re Rufio, aren’t you?”
“And how do you know that?” he said in Celtic and tried to conceal his unease.
“The man in blue with the silver hair—you’re the soldier who saved the son of Hetorix.”
“I simply stopped a Greek from being a fool.”
“Modesty from a Roman. . . .” She smiled a smile that wrapped around him with its warmth.
Pride stained with guilt seared him with an almost pleasing agony as he searched for the little girl he had swept from the abyss.
When she turned away, he found his voice.
“I’m told you helped one of my men today.”
“The Greek?”
“Yes.”
“He’s not a very good fighter,” she said with a sigh. “But he’s a very nice man.”
Suddenly her expression tightened as though hit by a chill air.
Rufio turned. Outside the tavern up the street, Bassus and a few others were laughing over something.
“I must go,” he said as he slid off the fountain. “Bassus and I have a matter to discuss.”
“Be careful with him.”
“Thank you,” he said, and it was extremely pleasant to say these simple words to her.
“It’s just that”—she hesitated—“Adiatorix and Varacinda told me you were a noble man.”
“Go home now, Flavia.” He turned away. Halfway up the street, he paused and looked back. She was still staring after him. She seemed as tall as a willow, the low sun throwing her into sharp relief. Finally she turned and mounted her horse and was gone.
With the end of the sun came the end of the day and all the shops along the street were closing. Yet the tavern was still crowded with Gauls and off-duty soldiers as Rufio stepped up to the wide doorway. Inside, the big figure of Bassus could be seen in the half-light. The tavern owner had lit an oil lamp, and Rufio could also make out another man with him, apparently a German. A pair of willing women hung over the two men. Though occasionally pushed away, these aging nymphs would swoop back and cling as tenaciously as a couple of birds digging their talons into a windy escarpment.
“What do you want?” Bassus said as Rufio stood before them.
“You have something that belongs to one of my men.” He held out his hand. “I’ll take that dagger now.”
Bassus’s eyes widened. He stood up and pushed the woman aside. “I didn’t recognize you. Your hair has changed.”
“The cares of war.”
“Trogus,” Bassus said to the German. “Don’t interfere.”
Rufio glanced at him. The German’s eyes shone with all the cunning of his savage race.
“Fools and I have nothing in common,” Trogus said.
Bassus stepped around the table. “Rufio despises me—do you know that, Trogus? Said I was too brutal with my me
n. Too eager with the vinestick. He doesn’t know that tyros are like unripe women. You beat them until you break them—then you can bend them any way you want.”
“You’ll never change,” Rufio said with contempt. “Did you think you could curse the sun? Did you believe I wouldn’t demand a reckoning?”
“For a Greek?”
“For my soldier, you rank maggot.”
Bassus pulled Diocles’ dagger from his belt and advanced on Rufio. “This will be as sweet as sin.”
Rufio slid his dagger from its scabbard. With a snap of his wrist he flung it into a nearby tabletop.
“I’ve never touched Roman steel with Roman blood,” he said. “I won’t do it now.”
He reached down and grabbed a stool. With a crash he smashed it into the table. Pieces of wood flew everywhere. A few more blows against the table and all he had left in his hand was a short stout leg.
The soldiers and the Gauls stepped back, and the two women and the tavern keeper scurried to the rear of the room. Trogus stayed where he was, his eyes eager and excited.
Unlike most bullies, Bassus was no coward. He looked disappointed. The younger and smaller centurion seemed badly overmatched.
“Slide that blade between my ribs,” Rufio said. “Do what you’ve always dreamed of doing.”
Bassus lunged for Rufio’s heart.
Rufio glided to the side and Bassus pierced the air.
With a short stab, Rufio thrust the end of the stool leg straight at the centurion’s mouth. Bassus grunted as the jagged wood shredded his lips like steel raked across dough. Blood streamed down his chin.
“Not as bad as having your balls crushed, is it, Bassus?”
The big man charged again.
Rufio ducked beneath the blade and slashed upward with the stool leg. Bassus’s cheek shattered. He howled in rage and lunged once more. His other cheek collapsed beneath a second savage blow. Weak in the legs, he staggered back for breath. Tears of pain mixed with blood on a face that was suddenly unrecognizable.
With hair still unmessed, Rufio stood before him. “Do you think stealing a man’s pride is nothing? Do you think a man’s honor is to be kicked aside like a turd?” His eyes glittered with a ferocity that would have frightened his own mother. “Now you yourself will know,” he said and glared at the face crushed by wounds no surgeon could ever heal.
Bassus groaned in despair and stabbed at his enemy’s chest.
Rufio struck at the lunging wrist. The bones shattered like nutshells and the dagger clattered to the floor. Beyond reason now, Bassus grasped at Rufio with his other hand. That, too, splintered and cracked beneath the stool leg.
Mindlessly, Bassus sought to envelop him with his useless arms. Rufio sprang to the side. With the force of a Celtic swordsman, Rufio slashed down behind the centurion’s ear. Though only wood, the leg rang with a metallic twang as it hit the bone. A groan poured from his mouth and his legs buckled and he hit the floor with his face.
But Rufio had long ago mastered the arts of death. He knew that Bassus lived, and that was as it should be. Lessons are lost on the dead.
“Let the word go out,” he said, only a few beads of sweat on his forehead betraying his exertions. “The men of my century are inviolable.”
He plucked his dagger from the table plank and picked up Diocles’ weapon as well. Then he turned his back with insolent supremacy and walked off into the deepening night.
23 THE SUN SHINES FOR EVERYONE.
Roman saying
______
The dawn gave way to one of those spring mornings when it is impossible to believe that all the gods are not sweet and wise.
The First Century was assembled on the parade ground, and all were crisp and alert. Word of the events of the previous evening had spread through the legion like fire through straw. No member of the century believed that Rufio had done what he had done solely for one man. He had made a stand for all of them.
Rufio dismissed the veterans for their morning weapons drill. All soldiers, regardless of their length of service, drilled at least once a day. Like every centurion in every legion, Rufio believed the Roman aphorism that by doing nothing men learn to act wickedly.
Valerius went off with the veterans to supervise them at the oaken stakes, while Metellus had the century accounts to attend to. Rufio now had the recruits to himself. He knew that without the buffer of the junior officers the new men would feel even greater unease under the gaze of the omnipotent centurion.
“Relax,” he said and led an old mare by the reins to a spot in front of them. The horse wore the four-horned Celtic saddle the Romans favored.
“I’m excusing you from morning weapons drill—though you’ll sweat this afternoon. Today you’ll learn how to mount a horse cleanly. Most of you will never have to ride in battle, but one never knows. Every soldier must be competent to handle an animal in an emergency. First you’ll learn to mount slowly, then swiftly. After a few days of this, we’ll start over again slowly, but with full armor and weapons. Within a week you’ll be able to leap into a saddle as easily as if it were your bed.”
The new men did not seem intimidated by the horse. This was always the case with recruits, and this innocence amused Rufio. He knew from experience that no aspect of training blessed the feeble body of man with more bruising and battering than basic horse training.
“This old trooper is a very docile beast. Relax and watch.”
He held the reins in his left hand and gripped the horse’s mane and seemed to float into the brown leather saddle. “As you can see, man and horse were made for each other.” Then he gracefully slid from his mount.
The recruits seemed more at ease than ever.
“Diocles,” Rufio said. “Show us how it’s done. For now, I’ll hold the reins. Mount slowly.”
Rufio knew that Diocles had experience hunting from horseback, though the other men probably were unaware of it. So the ease with which he could mount would give them added confidence. When dealing with animals, confidence was everything.
Diocles smiled and nodded. He sprinted toward the horse and sailed into the saddle. Startlingly, he kept sailing. Right over the top he flew and slammed into the ground on the other side, hitting his shoulder hard.
“See how easy?” Rufio said.
Stunned, Diocles pushed himself up from the dirt and rubbed his shoulder.
Then the old horse swung her head around and gazed at Diocles with eyes heavy with equine despair. The men roared.
“Now,” Rufio said. “Who’s the next young Perseus to tame this savage steed?”
The Italian custom of the early afternoon nap had taken hold even at Aquabona. As the seventh hour of the day ended, the legion belched from its midday meal and retired to its bunk to refresh itself. Of course, guards and lookouts were always on duty to maintain that relentless watchfulness that so often thwarted the enemies of Rome.
Rufio strolled up the Via Praetoria. A soft breeze blew across the drowsing fort. He often thought that his willingness to endure decades as a soldier—and there was always much to endure—was due to his ability to take pleasure in every aspect of the soldier’s life. He loved the pulsing complexity of a legionary fort, with its vast energy and power brought under reasoned control. Yet he also enjoyed these gentle moments. To him the fort at rest was a lovely thing. The clean streets unmarred by traffic. The quiet of a spring afternoon. Even the most raucous soldiers asleep now, as innocent as children.
For this life, he knew he had been born. What could he possibly hope to achieve by leaving it?
He crossed the Via Principalis and entered the Praetorium. He greeted the duty officer and the soldiers on guard in the forehall and passed to the metalled courtyard beyond. He crossed it to the hall at the opposite side and went through to Sabinus’s office. Ulpius Crus was bending over the Legate’s desk and making a heated point. Sextus Carbo stood off to the right.
“Reporting as ordered, commander,” Rufio said.
Sabinus was angry and clearly in no mood to try to conceal it.
“I’ve been informed that you attacked and nearly killed a former soldier of this legion. Someone who now provides us with information about German activity beyond the river.”
Rufio said nothing.
“Well?” Sabinus said.
“Commander?” Rufio asked.
“Is it true?”
“The commander has been misinformed.” Rufio glanced at Carbo, but the Chief Centurion’s face was a wooden mask.
“You deny this?” Crus said.
“Most definitely, tribune.”
“Explain,” Sabinus said and flicked a finger at Crus for silence.
“The former centurion named Bassus attacked one of my men and beat him and stole his dagger. I confronted him and demanded he return the weapon. He tried to place it in my liver.”
Sabinus looked at Crus.
“Then you don’t deny you tried to kill him,” Crus said.
“Of course I deny it. He’s still alive.” Rufio looked at Sabinus. “Does the commander believe that Bassus would still live if I’d wished otherwise?”
“The Legate of Augustus doesn’t know what to believe.”
“Commander, if I wanted to slay Bassus, I’d merely have to brush him aside like a flour grub to do it.”
Sabinus turned to Carbo. “And what have you learned of this?”
“I spoke to some of the Gauls and soldiers who were there and I went to the village to see the Gallic woman who rescued the soldier. Everything Rufio has said is the same as what they told me.”
Crus looked like he were about to be consumed by his own acid.
“Rufio, why do problems forever swirl around you?” Sabinus rubbed his forehead as if it pained him. “I’d think a seasoned soldier of your standing would content himself with the easy road. Why these continual skirmishes and wars?”
“They choose me, commander. I don’t choose them.”
It was clear from the expression in Sabinus’s eyes that he liked talking with Rufio and despised it at the same time. “Is it the Fates, then?” he asked in exasperation. “Is that your view?”
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