Neko bowed.
“Warm some wine for our guest.”
Rufio’s living quarters welcomed them as they entered. The lamps and tapestries and heat from the brazier enveloped them with a warm embrace.
Yet Flavia did not sit but stood in the center of the Oriental rug and stared at him.
“How did you get into the fort at this time of night?” He looked straight across into her eyes, for she was as tall as he was.
“Across the ditches and over the wall.”
He gazed at her in amazement, though he tried not to show it. Perhaps she truly was a forest goddess.
“Flavia, the soldiers on duty could be flogged if their centurion learned of this.”
That startled her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know that.”
“And you could’ve been killed if you were seen. Especially with that bow and quiver.”
For the first time she smiled, as if she knew better than anyone what an unusual person she was and took much pleasure in it.
Neko came in with spiced wine.
“Now to bed,” Rufio said.
“When you sleep, I sleep,” Neko said. “Not until then.”
And he melted into the shadows.
Flavia set her weapons aside and sat on the edge of a couch.
“Stretch out and drink in comfort.” He handed her the cup of wine.
She seemed not to hear him. “A story went through our village that you and your men had been killed. When Adiatorix heard it, he looked like he’d been hit by an axe. He said nothing but just stared off toward the forests. Toward the Suebi.” She took a sip of wine.
He placed a wicker chair in front of her and sat down.
“And Varacinda and Larinda couldn’t be consoled. They held each other’s hands and wept. But very quietly—as if your spirit might hear them and not understand why they care for you so.”
“I don’t understand. Why risk your life to come here to tell me this?”
“No, not to tell you.” She set down her wine. “To see for myself if you lived. I didn’t believe the rumor. I couldn’t believe you’d died. I had to know.”
“Why?”
With startling ferocity, she glared at him. “Don’t you think I know who you are?”
“Who am I?”
“The man who’s haunted me for twenty years. But I knew you’d return. I knew the gods wouldn’t let me live my whole life without ever looking into your eyes.”
She seemed uncertain. Fearful.
“What do you see?”
“Thousands of times I cursed you. I hated you from the depth of my spirit.”
The words were astonishing coming from this striking woman. Her flashing blue eyes and the black river of hair running down her back. The green tunic and black trousers that hid what Rufio had once secretly seen. The black leather archer’s bracer on her left forearm. The bronze torques, one on each upper arm, that glittered when she gestured toward him.
“What is there for me to say?” he asked. “Do you think there’s been one night in the last twenty years when a wailing baby hasn’t tortured my dreams?”
She moistened her lips. She was trembling now. “I cursed you so much. And then you saved Vara’s cousin, and Adiatorix told me who you were. Then by a miracle, Larinda was restored to us like a gift from the gods. But she wasn’t a gift from the gods but a gift from you. Then I knew I’d committed a great evil in my heart.”
Tears in the eyes of this forest spirit seemed more profoundly painful than the open weeping of a lesser woman.
Rufio sat next to her on the couch and reached for her right hand. She slid it into his.
“And then I saw you with those children and the cats. I had to speak with you. I felt so guilty for the demon I’d created in my mind.”
“Enough, Flavia,” he said and placed the tip of a forefinger against her lips.
“But I was afraid,” she said and pulled his hand away. “And then you went to face down Bassus and I stood there staring after you. Certain you’d be killed with my terrible curse still on your spirit.”
Her tightly bound tears cut their bonds and slid down her cheeks.
“But you lived. It seemed as if nothing could strike you down. I had another chance. Then today I heard you’d been slain by the Suebi and I couldn’t bear it. I still had this ugly thing in my heart. The gods couldn’t be so cruel. I had to know if you lived.”
“But Neko must have told you.”
“I had to see.” She squeezed his hand.
“Flavia, Flavia” he said gently.
She leaned forward and rested her head against his chest. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered and placed the palm of her left hand against his breast.
He curled an arm around her shoulders and pressed the side of his face against her hair. The last time he had touched her head it had been a tiny thing, wet and bloody. Now her hair was fragrant with cedar oil and fresh blossoms.
She was young enough to be his daughter, but he felt no fatherly feelings now. Yet an incestuous shame threatened this moment. He had created her almost as much as her parents had. What right did he have to draw such feelings from her touch? But he could not deny himself. He slid a hand along her throat, and the simple throbbing of her pulse beneath his fingers flooded him with a pleasure more sublime than the touch of any other woman ever had.
She reached up and wrapped a hand around his fingers. When she felt his ring, she pushed back a bit and took his hand in hers.
“Who’s this?” She placed a fingertip on the winged figure incised on the cornelian.
“The goddess Victoria.”
She smiled into his eyes. “She’s brought me victory tonight.”
He could have stared at her forever.
“You won’t leave here again?” she asked.
“Leave where?”
“Gaul.”
She seemed so vulnerable now. Not at all the arrow shooting woodland warrior others saw.
“I must obey the will of Caesar.”
“But is Caesar not like a god? And the gods have willed your return.” She sat up straight, her blue eyes inches from his. “It could have been no accident. It’s destiny.”
He brushed her cheek with his thumb and smiled.
“You cannot leave me again,” she said, half-commanding, half-pleading.
Was this a daughter speaking to a father, or was it something else?
“It’s time to go,” he said. When they stood, she kept her hands in his. “I’ll take you home now.”
“I feel so safe here.”
In this fort? Is that what she meant? Or in his hands? He did not dare to ask.
28 WORSE THAN WAR IS THE VERY FEAR OF WAR.
Seneca
______
Sabinus’s office was much changed. Comfortable chairs and couches had been brought in, and oil lamps had been hung from stands or set on tables around the room. Despite the late hour, trays of fruit and still-warm bread had been placed on the seat cushions, and the two glowing braziers cut the Gallic chill.
Rufio had been in the offices of many commanders, and they had always seemed to revel in Spartan fantasies of self-denial. The taste of Sabinus was much more to his liking.
All six tribunes were present, but Crus and Titinius were the only ones Rufio knew. Sabinus was bending over a table and staring at a map.
Diocles came running up behind Rufio as he went through the doorway.
“I don’t know how I’ll rise in time for drill tomorrow,” Diocles said.
“You’re excused from drill.” Rufio pointed to a small table off to the side with papyrus and pen and ink. “Your true task is here. Observe, record, and be silent.”
“Rufio,” Sabinus said. “Join us.”
He stepped up to the table with a look that betrayed his opinion.
“What is it?” Sabinus asked.
“Our maps are poor. Don’t rely on them. Crus, what about your spy?”
“Trogus should be here by tomorrow.”
Bruttius Macer, the senior surviving centurion from the First Cohort, came in. Illness had spared him from the fateful trip that had destroyed Carbo and his men.
“You and the rest of the First Cohort will remain in the fort,” Sabinus said. “Rufio will help me plan this campaign.”
Disbelief and anger twisted Macer’s face. “Commander, my illness is almost gone. I—”
Sabinus held up his hand.
“Who is he?” Macer asked. A scar-faced old warrior, he clearly resented the favored newcomer. “My seniority—”
“Doesn’t interest me,” Sabinus said. “This decision is to preserve your health and your life. Dispute me again and tomorrow you will be an optio in the Eighth Cohort. Dismissed.”
The tribunes were stunned as the veteran left the Praetorium, but Rufio appreciated what had happened. Sabinus had just shown that he grasped the most elemental fact of command: Authority is never something you are given—you must take it.
“I dislike standing,” Sabinus said. He pulled a chair up to the table. “Now, Rufio, sit and tell me what you believe the Germans will do.”
Rufio slid a chair over to the table and sat down.
“Their plan is clear,” he said. “They’re raping the Gauls in the outlying areas to provoke us. They know we’ll take the field to protect our allies. There the Suebi hope to destroy us.”
“I know you’ve fought the Germans before. What are our choices?”
“No choice. We meet them in battle.”
“There’s a legion at a fort about a hundred and fifty miles west of here. And they have a unit of Numidian archers. Should we summon them now or wait?”
“Don’t summon them at all. Not enough time. My guess is that the Suebi will stop their outrages for about two weeks. Barovistus won’t want to risk any more injuries to his warriors if it isn’t necessary. But if we don’t take the field within that time, he’ll begin again. If the Gauls are battered enough, they might change sides. It’s happened before.”
“But the Suebi betrayed them before.”
“The Celtic memory is short.”
“Crus?” Sabinus turned to his senior tribune.
“Rufio is right. If the Gauls defect and the Germans flood across the river, all Gaul lies before them.”
Sabinus folded his hands on the table and stared at Rufio. “So perhaps this is a historic moment.”
“Yes,” Rufio said.
“And how many cohorts can we risk?”
“We should leave one here. What remains of the First. The rest march on the Suebi.”
A slave came in with a pitcher of Celtic beer, and all but Rufio and Sabinus sampled some of the brew.
“But what if nine cohorts aren’t enough?” Sabinus asked.
“They must be enough,” Rufio said. “There’s no choice.”
“All right,” Sabinus said. “What now?”
“Summon the senior centurion from each cohort.”
“Titinius,” Sabinus said with a jerk of his head.
Rufio touched the tribune’s sleeve as he went by. “Including Macer.”
Titinius turned to Sabinus.
“Do it,” the commander ordered, and Titinius was off like Mercury.
Accustomed to the unexpected, the centurions soon assembled. Sabinus had them relax on the chairs or couches in a semicircle around the table and a few sat on the floor.
Macer was clearly surprised to be back. “At Rufio’s insistence,” Sabinus told him and he gazed at the new man in a different light.
Several slaves came in and passed around the bread and fruit and drink.
Sabinus gestured to Rufio to take a place beside him at the table.
“Now, centurion, tell us how to make history.”
Rufio gave him an ironic smile, then turned to one of the slaves. “Spiced wine.”
When the slave returned, Rufio took a small sip and set the cup on the table.
“How many of you have fought Suebi?” he asked.
Only Probus and Macer gestured back.
“Well, we have a bit of work ahead of us.” He looked to Sabinus. “Do we know anything about a war chief named Barovistus?”
Sabinus turned to Crus.
“A respected fighter,” the tribune said. “Trogus tells me he served in an auxiliary unit.”
“Thank you, Crus,” Rufio said and nodded in appreciation.
The tribune smiled back uncertainly.
Rufio wet his lips with the wine. “Barovistus probably thinks his experience with us gives him an advantage. It doesn’t. I’ll explain why in a moment. But first we have to consider what the Germans are likely to do on the battlefield. Their tactics are simple. If they meet us in the open field, they’ll amass as many men as possible and crash into the center of our line. If they have cavalry, they’ll try to turn our flanks at the same time. Crus, make sure you find out from Trogus how many horsemen they can field.”
“I will.”
“And our own cavalry?”
Crus looked at a sheet on the table in front of him. “One hundred eleven.”
“That’s nothing. We’d better pray that Mars is on our side.” Rufio took another sip of wine. “The Suebi know if they fail in this first attack, they’re doomed. That’s why they’ll do everything they can to avoid meeting us in the open. They’ll try to maneuver us into an area next to some woods and attack us from there. They know how difficult it is for us to form an effective line in the forest. We cannot allow that to happen.”
“Then what if they refuse to give battle?” Sabinus asked.
“We refuse to take the bait. They’re desperate for war. They won’t allow us to retire from the field and simply walk away. Their hunger for blood and glory is their greatest weakness. And one of our best weapons.”
“What about their weapons?” Diocles asked.
Several of the centurions turned toward the Greek upstart.
“A good question from our scholar,” Rufio said. “They’ll have swords and armor from our own dead soldiers and from the slaughtered Gauls. But most will have neither. Just fire-hardened spears. No helmets. Maybe a few shields. They fear pila most of all because they have no protection. So they’ll try to close with us before we can throw and cut them down from a distance.”
“And if they do close with us?” Sabinus asked.
“They’ll come at us with their spears. Most of the Suebi won’t risk throwing them because they have no other weapons. I’ve seen Germans in battle without spears have to resort to throwing rocks.”
“Our own shields and armor?” one of the military tribunes asked.
“Good protection against their spears, so they’ll go for our faces and throats and legs.”
“You haven’t told us how they behave on the battlefield,” Titinius said. “I've never even met a German except for Trogus.”
Rufio smiled as he chewed on a piece of crusty bread and washed it down with wine. “Romans have been underestimating the Germans since before Marius. The Germans fight like demons. They’re powerful and ferocious. But their size works against them. They tire quickly and they do poorly in the heat. A screaming and charging Suebi soon becomes a whipped dog on a hot day.”
“Where will Barovistus be?” Sabinus asked.
“At the head of the charge. I said that his experience with us won’t matter. There are two reasons. The first is that our tactics are as flexible as a Numidian bow. He has no idea what we’ll do on any given day. And it’s not possible that he’s familiar with all our tactics anyway. The other reason is that once the battle begins, he’ll have as much control over his men as he would over a pack of mad dogs. The Germans do what they want on the battlefield. They’ll never look to him for guidance. They just pick out enemies opposite them and charge like madmen.”
Silence hung over the room for a moment, then Crus said, “Are you sure we have two weeks?”
“Only fools are sure,” Rufio said. “But that’s been my experience. We should train hard for
another week, then march. As soon as we leave the fort, Barovistus will know. He certainly has spies in the civilian settlement. He’ll be waiting for us.”
For another hour the discussion went on, the other centurions questioning Rufio further on German attitudes and tactics. When the meeting finally broke up, he was drained. It had been one of his most exhausting days in many years.
“I hate war councils,” he said to Sabinus after the other centurions and the five military tribunes had left. “The timid always infect the daring.”
Sabinus leaned back in his chair and took a sip of wine. “Rather than the daring emboldening the timid?”
“It’s odd, but it never happens that way. That’s why Caesar rarely held war councils. Timidity spreads like foul humors until everyone is vomiting fear. A single drop poisons the well.”
“Be we had none of that tonight,” Crus said.
“No, these are good men.” Rufio looked at Sabinus. “You’re a fortunate commander.”
“I know that. Tomorrow I want a full report about what happened today between your century and the Germans. Now go to bed.”
“Thank you, Rufio,” Crus said with the newly discovered delight of a young man beginning to find his way at last. “Get some rest now.”
“Tribune, sleep has never been my friend. I doubt he’ll be one tonight.”
It was a few hours after midnight when Rufio crossed the fort grounds to his barracks. The seventh and eight hours of night were among his favorite times. He inhaled deeply the damp air, and the darkness softened by moonlight made the world seem a far more serene place than it would ever really be.
The chatter of insects and the soft rush of water rolling through the drainage channels created an oddly soothing mix. Guards on the ramparts stared into the distance, alert to the phantoms of the night. Rufio’s footsteps caused some of them to turn and look down. He waved to them at their lonely posts. Even hardened soldiers, cloaked now by darkness, took boyish delight in being acknowledged, and they waved back.
Only a single lamp burned in Rufio’s sitting room. Neko, ever faithful, had nonetheless lost his battle with Morpheus and lay curled in a small chair.
Rufio took a blanket from his bedroom and draped it over his old friend and then extinguished the lamp.
LEGION Page 21
