LEGION

by William Altimari

  The brazier in his bedroom was warm, and three lamps welcomed him with their glow. He unfastened his dagger belt and tossed it aside and removed his sandals. He noticed one of the hobnails was missing from the left sole and made a mental note to have it repaired. He pulled off his tunic and underwear and then stretched until he could almost reach Olympus. He moaned with pleasure, relishing the freedom of his nakedness.

  A glint of something on his pillow caught his eye. He stepped closer. A bronze torque lay in the center. He lifted it as delicately as if it would break and sat on the edge of the bed and examined it in the lamplight. She must have placed it there when he went to get his horse to take her home.

  She seemed suddenly present again. He pulled a blanket across his naked lap. Without thought, he held the torque to his nose, but no scent could cling to the metal. Sized to fit below one of her biceps, the bronze armlet could easily fit a man’s wrist. Onto his left wrist he slipped the coil.

  He threw aside the blanket, extinguished the lamps, and slid into bed. He stared into the blackness and prayed to Victoria that she grant him not only primacy in war, but victory in the dangerous realm of the human heart. And the wisdom to use every victory with honor.

  29 THE GERMANS HAVE NO TASTE FOR PEACE.

  Tacitus

  ______

  Wailing women screamed for blood. Hundreds of them swarmed Barovistus and demanded Roman heads.

  From a distant ridge, Orgestes watched the frenzy in the village below.

  “They have no idea. Their husbands or sons without a hand are better than no husbands or sons at all.”

  Beside him sat the young warrior who, by some inexplicable fate, had been returned whole.

  “I don’t understand,” the boy said. “Why did the Roman do what he did? He must have known he’d just enrage us.”

  The old chief gazed at him with fatherly patience. “Of course he knew that.”

  “Then why?”

  “First, for vengeance. To retaliate for what our men did to the Sequani. Second, because he knew it would enrage us. He did it to show his contempt for our rage.”

  The boy looked at him in silence.

  “Suebi flesh is feeding the worms of Gaul to show that he scoffs at our fury. This is a terrible man we’ll face in battle. He’ll give no quarter.”

  “Then why did he spare me?”

  “Who can ever hope to understand these Romans?”

  Sabinus walked the training ground outside the fort where soldiers assaulted the wooden stakes. The parade ground, too, was filled with men sweating through the most intense weapons drill of their lives.

  He turned at the sound of an approaching horse. The majestic figure of Adiatorix rode up, dwarfing the roan between his legs.

  “Hail, Sabinus,” he said, the first time those words had ever come from the Gallic warrior.

  “Hail, Chief.”

  Adiatorix dismounted and led his horse by the reins.

  “We grieve for the loss of your fallen brothers,” Sabinus said, referring to the slaughtered Gallic cavalry.

  “And we honor the Romans who stood by them to the last. Carbo is with the gods.”

  Sabinus smiled. “That would amuse him greatly.”

  “Will you walk with me now?”

  They began to trace the edge of the training ground, the horse walking behind them.

  “How will you fight the Suebi without cavalry?” Adiatorix asked.

  “We do have some. We’ll make do.”

  “Their task is to patrol and scout. I mean horse fighters.”

  “We’ll fight on foot.”

  Adiatorix paused in his walk and stared at Sabinus. “That is no answer.”

  “It’s the only one I have.”

  Adiatorix looked away, absently pulling at the drooping ends of his moustache.

  “Give me one moon,” he said. “I’ll have here five hundred of the finest horsemen in Gaul.”

  “You’re a loyal ally, Chief. But we cannot wait. If we do, more Sequani will die.”

  Sabinus pointed to a bench from which centurions could observe the weapons drills. The two men sat, while the roan grazed nearby.

  “Chief, who is Flavia?”

  The big Celt gazed down at the smaller Roman. “A woman from our village.”

  “I heard a rumor she was in the fort last night.”

  Adiatorix smiled but said nothing.

  “Do you know why that would be?” Sabinus asked.

  “We heard a story that Rufio and his century had been killed. She probably came to find out for herself. That’s Flavia’s way.”

  “I don’t understand. Does she know Rufio?”

  “For many years.”

  “No. He just arrived.”

  “Twenty years ago they met.”

  “You speak in riddles,” Sabinus said, laughing. “She cannot be more than twenty herself.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is she his daughter?” he asked in surprise.

  Now Adiatorix laughed. “Flavia’s feelings are not those of a daughter.”

  “You know her well then?”

  “She’s my sister—not by blood, but by love. She has no other family.”

  “I’m as confused as a drunken mime. What can Rufio be to her?”

  “The ghost of yesterday. And the longing of today.”

  “But she’s only half his age.”

  “Surely the Legate of Caesar is wise enough to know that the human heart moves not according to the sun and moon. It moves by the mysterious spirit that lives within it.” He placed a hand on Sabinus’s right shoulder. “I haven’t thanked you for allowing the slaves to return to their homes.”

  “It was a greater power than I who took a hand.”

  “Varacinda believes it was Mars.”

  “Perhaps it was.”

  Adiatorix took an enormous breath and let it out slowly. “I owe you a great debt. I’ll repay it now. I’ll tell you how Flavia came to be. And how her every waking moment is now filled with thoughts of a man who once haunted her dreams.”

  30 PEACE IS THE BEST THING THAT MEN MAY KNOW. PEACE IS BETTER THAN A THOUSAND TRIUMPHS.

  Silius Italicus

  ______

  The clang of swords had awakened Rufio. The recruits were training just outside the barracks. The entire fort rattled with drilling soldiers and space was scarce.

  Washed and refreshed, Rufio stood back and watched Valerius raise a sweat on the new men. Gone were the wooden weapons. Real swords tipped with leather flashed in the morning sun.

  Valerius saw Rufio and came over.

  “Thank you,” Rufio said. “I haven’t slept this late in ten years.”

  “I saw no reason to wake you.”

  Rufio watched the ten pairs of dueling soldiers. They were clearly as eager to perform well for Valerius as for their centurion.

  “It means a great deal to me to have a weapons officer like you.”

  Valerius smiled.

  “Where’s Metellus?”

  “Out of the fort at the moment.”

  “Where? I approved no leave.”

  “I did. There’s this young lady—”

  “Sweet Venus’s tits! Does he have to drain his balls every day? We’re on the eve of battle and he—”

  “Rufio,” Valerius and held up a calming hand. “This isn’t lust. It’s a pure and special thing. I’ve seen the lady. I understand. You would, too.”

  The impish look in Valerius’s eyes cooled Rufio’s anger. “What are you talking about?”

  “She’s enchanted him. Dazzling blue eyes, red hair, freckles.” He smiled. “About eight years old.”

  Rufio burst out laughing. “The little girl from the village?”

  “A delegation came today to thank Sabinus. The girl’s mother is the sister of the warrior who led them in battle. Her name is Calpurnia.”

  “A Roman name?”

  “Her father was a retired centurion. She came with her brother and daughter.”r />
  “Kalinda.”

  “That’s her. As soon as the little girl saw Metellus, she flew to him. Her hand slid into his and wouldn’t leave it.”

  “That old rake. Who would have thought?”

  “Her mother seemed taken with him, too. And when he spoke to the mother, he was different. Restrained. That child gazed up at him with those adoring eyes—it was like a spell. He wanted to help them rebuild their homes. I told him to be back by sundown.”

  “It’s all right then.”

  “I’ve known Metellus four years and I’ve never seen that expression on his face. He’s melted many women, but today he melted like butter when that little hand touched his again.”

  Rufio turned back to his men. “They look good today.”

  “They’re driven to please you.”

  “Any sign of that German spy?”

  “Not as far as I know.”

  “I’ll go into the settlement to see if he’s been around. I’ll be back by the sixth hour.” He turned away but stopped. “Valerius,” he said, looking back.

  “Yes?”

  “You’re my right hand. And Metellus is my left. Know that.”

  He turned and walked off and heard Valerius thank him above the banging of the swords.

  Rufio sat at a small table outside a food shop along the main street. He finished his second honey cake and watched the women carry their pitchers to the well. Their children played around them, and the cats observed everything, as they always did.

  Occasionally one of these graceful Gallic women would glance his way, and he would smile back with that penetrating and passionate gaze unique to the Italian male. Forgetting her husband and children, she, too, would smile, and for a secret moment they would share a safe and hidden fantasy known only to themselves.

  Hobnails on the paving stones distracted him. Diocles approached his table. He looked exhausted.

  “Rest is a great elixir,” Rufio said. “You should sample it.”

  He sat and rubbed his eyes. “I slept poorly last night.”

  Rufio said nothing.

  “I’m baffled and I need your help. I’ve been wandering about all morning seeking inspiration, and all I’ve gotten is tired.”

  “How may I help?”

  “My writing has hit a wall. I realized last night that I understand nothing.”

  Rufio went into the shop and got a cup of beer. He placed it on the table before Diocles and then sat back down.

  “Refresh yourself and tell me your woe.”

  He took a long sip. “I always assumed the core of my book wouldn’t be a description of battles but the nature of the fighting man. But it’s not to be.”

  “You mean you created a theory before you had facts. And now reality refuses to agree with your prejudices. So you grab a stout hammer to bang the facts into shape to make them fit. Like a true scholar.”

  “You’re not helping me,” Diocles said with a sour look.

  “What can I possibly give you?”

  “Insight. I’m looking for the warrior ethos. The spirit of men in war.”

  “You’ll not find that here, my friend.”

  “But it must be here!”

  “Why?”

  “The empire stretches as far as the reach of Jupiter. It was won by arms.”

  “True.”

  “I’m seeking the warrior spirit but I cannot find it. Last night after the fight with the Germans I expected drinking and celebrating. A bonding of men. But the men were quiet. As subdued as if we’d just come back from road repair. They cleaned their weapons and went to the baths and ate quietly and went to bed.”

  Rufio looked away. A pretty dark-haired woman approached the fountain with two pitchers. A familiar little girl followed behind with an enormous cat draped over one of her small shoulders. She saw Rufio and pulled excitedly at her mother’s sleeve and pointed at him. The woman nodded and smiled, and Rufio smiled back.

  How could he explain that this was what Romans lived for? Not for twisted fantasies of death.

  “Rufio?”

  He looked back at Diocles. “You’re among the wrong people if you’re seeking a warrior ethos.”

  “Why? Everyone knows that Romans are the most warlike people on earth.”

  “What everyone knows is usually false.”

  “No, I’m certain that—”

  “There’s a distinction to be made here and you’re not making it.”

  “What distinction?”

  “You said Romans are warlike. What Romans?”

  Diocles hesitated.

  “If you mean politicians seeking plunder and fame, then you’re right. They all dream of military victories. They hunger for war. Riding to greatness on the backs of my men. Greedy patricians fit your definition. Not Roman soldiers.”

  “But look at the triumphs staged for your great commanders. Parades that last for hours. Celebrations that go on for days.”

  Rufio smiled and helped himself to some of Diocles’ beer. “You’ve proved my point. ‘Staged’ is the right word. If Italians were a warlike people, those revels would be spontaneous. They’re not. You wouldn’t need parades and spectacles and free food and drink to get people into the streets. . . .”

  “Go on.”

  “Italians celebrate victory in war for the same reason other people do—it makes them feel superior. More important for Italians, though, is the fact that then they can relax and enjoy the finest things in life. Their wives and their children. Their mistresses and their friends. Fresh bread and rich wine. Military glory means little to ordinary Italians.” He dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “That’s a myth created by decaying Greek kingdoms beaten on the battlefield.”

  “You’re turning my whole world upside down.”

  “I’m not saying most of our people don’t take pride in our victories and like to brag about them. Of course they do. People always like to share in the triumph of others. War without wounds. But that’s as far as it goes. Why do you think we have a professional army? Because most Italians want nothing to do with war. Why should they?”

  “I don’t understand. I—”

  “What is there to understand? Who wants to be cut up or killed? Who looks forward to chopping men in half? And Roman soldiers are the least belligerent of all—real soldiers, not retired consuls looking for fame. The days when cities were bursting with booty and making soldiers’ mouths water are long over. We want to serve out our enlistment in peace. And to be so great at waging war that no one dares disturb that peace.”

  “But surely you must admire the great warrior peoples.”

  “Where do you think you are? Sparta?”

  “Don’t you admire them?”

  “I admire their valor, but then I’m finished.”

  “I thought they’d be your idols.”

  “The Spartans? Their whole society dripped with war. No Italian would admire that. It’s ridiculous.”

  “But—”

  “Warrior societies are the bleakest on earth. Athens waged war, but she wasn’t a warrior society. And look what she created. And see what we’ve created since them. We’re the light of mankind. The Spartans? They stood fast at Thermopylae and saved us from Xerxes’ savages. We honor them for that. But that’s all.”

  Diocles just stared at him.

  Rufio laid a hand on one of his forearms. “Warriors who treasure peace are far greater than warriors who live for war. And remember this—warrior peoples produce little worth having. And almost nothing worth saving. All they create is ashes.”

  After a long silence, Diocles said, “What happened yesterday?”

  “With the Germans?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t understand your question. You saw what happened.”

  “Did it have to be that way?”

  “No, we could’ve turned around and let the Sequani die.”

  “That’s not what I mean,” he said with a touch of anger.

  “Ah, well, I could
’ve released those barbarians to go home and get more weapons to return and slaughter those people. Or I could’ve killed them all. I chose to do neither.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s just that it’s not what I’d imagined it would be.”

  “War is never what people imagine it to be.”

  Diocles gazed into his eyes as if he were searching for something he feared to find.

  “What is it?” Rufio asked.

  “Last night I went through your books for accounts of other Roman battles. Campaigns from long ago. . . .”

  “And you found them.”

  “Yes . . . and they’re all horrible. Just like yesterday.”

  “What did you expect? Greek myths?”

  “I don’t know. The savagery. Ferocity the average person cannot even imagine. Why?”

  “Do you really want to know? Or do you just want to sit there and try to improve my character?”

  Diocles’ jaws clenched but he said nothing.

  “Well?” Rufio asked.

  “I want to know.”

  “Because that’s how we survive. Do you think those seven little hills on the Tiber are protected by the hand of Jupiter? They’re not. It’s the sword of Mars. Do you need a list of all the invaders who’ve marched up and down the peninsula?”

  “No.”

  “These wars weren’t like your little Greek wars—skirmishes settled by trading a piece of ground or turning over a handful of tribute. Ask Pyrrhus. Ask Hannibal. These were wars of annihilation. These were the wars we survived. Again and again.”

  “But what—”

  “Look what happened after Cannae. We were bled white. Hannibal thought we were a cold corpse. It was time for us to negotiate. He was certain of it. But we did not. Hannibal was baffled. Every power on earth would’ve bent its knee to him then. But we did not. Defeat isn’t defeat if you don’t admit defeat. To us it’s simply a delay on the road to victory. That’s what Cannae was to us. We sucked back the blood in our throats and fought on. And where is Carthage now?”

  “Barely a memory.”

  “These were wars that didn’t mean just a loss of dignity if we were beaten—but slaughter, the end of us as a people. We didn’t fight for land or tribute or some foolish treaty. We fought to crush the enemy’s army in open battle. To demolish it as a threat to Rome. That was the forge we were tempered in. So since those early days we’ve fought every war as ferociously as if it could be our last. And that fury has always brought us victory.”