LEGION

by William Altimari

  Flavia reined about and raced back the way she had come. Past Varacinda she shot like a bolt of lightning straight toward the charging Suebi.

  She had closed within a quarter mile and they were bearing down on her when she suddenly pulled up. She leaped from her horse and slapped its rump to chase it away. Whipping a handful of arrows from her quiver, she thrust them into the dirt beside her. She swept the bow from her shoulder and plucked an arrow from the ground.

  The Germans were screaming now, charging with that hideous Suebian cry that froze their enemies. The young warrior led the charge, his long Celtic sword high in the air. He was a hundred feet away.

  Flavia fitted an arrow. A breeze rippled her green tunic, but her powerful thighs and calves rooted her to the ground. As she drew the string taut, the muscles of her left arm knotted and her right biceps bulged. Her eyes narrowed. She let fly.

  The head sliced straight into the horseman’s throat. He dropped his sword and gurgled and choked. He clawed at the arrow and the shaft snapped in half, and he tore at the stump still in his neck. A second arrow pierced his hand, nailing it to his throat, and he tumbled dead from his horse.

  Down on her rushed the second horseman. His head gleamed in the sun and his screaming mouth looked like some black abyss. He jammed the butt of his spear into his right armpit and braced himself to run her through.

  Flavia nocked another arrow. He was a hundred feet away, but she waited. His horse churned up the turf as she watched him come. Fifty feet and still she did not shoot. She could see the horse’s nostrils stretched wide to suck in air, and the hoofbeats pounded in her ears. Still she held. The warrior’s howling was now vibrating her breastbone. He was close enough for her to see his brown teeth when she let the arrow fly.

  It sheared deep into his chest, ripping through a lung. A scarlet river gushed from his mouth, but still he held his spear. He was almost upon her.

  Flavia snatched another arrow. Strong fingers pulled the bowstring to its limit. Her blue eyes glittering like tempered steel, she shot straight to his terrible core. The iron arrowhead crashed between his eyes and he flew from the saddle and sank deep into the blackness of Acheron.

  Flavia stared at the fallen men. She lowered her head and took several deep breaths to regain her composure. Then she pulled the rest of the arrows from the ground and returned them to her quiver.

  Varacinda ran up. Flavia opened her arms and Varacinda leaped into them. They squeezed each other until they could barely breathe, and Varacinda covered Flavia’s face with kisses. Then the wife of a chieftain of the Sequani wept uncontrollably into the bosom of her friend.

  33 EVEN A GOD FINDS IT HARD TO LOVE AND BE WISE AT THE SAME TIME.

  Publilius Syrus

  ______

  “Ten thousand?” Sabinus asked.

  “Please don’t doubt Flavia,” Varacinda said. “She has the eye.”

  “Sit.”

  “We must go,” Flavia said to him across his desk. “I promised we would be home before sundown.”

  Dusty and sweat stained, they were still the two most striking women in Gaul.

  “You took great risks.”

  “We are Sequani,” Flavia answered.

  “How may I reward you?”

  “Is Centurion Rufio within the fort?” Varacinda asked, and Flavia turned and glared at her.

  “Titinius,” Sabinus said to the tribune sitting at a small table.

  “Commander?”

  “Rufio.”

  When Titinius returned with the centurion, Flavia refused to meet his gaze, but glanced at her torque on his left wrist.

  “What’s happened?” Rufio asked Sabinus.

  “They have a tale to tell you.” Sabinus came out from behind his desk.

  Flavia saw him motion to Titinius and the two of them left the office.

  “There are more than ten thousand Suebi gathering beyond the river,” Flavia told him.

  “How do you know that?”

  “We’ve seen them,” Varacinda answered.

  “We’ve been to Germania,” Flavia said.

  “I would have died in Germania if not for Flavia.”

  Flavia shook her head no at Varacinda, but the wife of the chief refused to be silenced. She told Rufio all that had happened, and then slipped from the room.

  Flavia steeled herself for his disapproval. No man, no Roman—no one—would ever tell her what she could do.

  But no anger came. A look of great sadness clouded his face. The corners of his dark eyebrows turned down in an expression of almost boyish sorrow.

  “Oh Rufio,” she said and rushed to comfort him.

  She slid into his arms. His strong right hand curled behind her ears and she felt his fingers slide along her scalp as he pressed her head to the side of his face. She inhaled deeply of his scent.

  “Don’t you know you mustn’t die?” he whispered. “Then I would die, too. You justify my life.”

  She tilted her head back and gazed into his eyes. “Your honor justifies you.”

  “No. You must live for your people. Live for Gaul.” He held her even more tightly. “Live for me.”

  Without warning, she began crying. She pressed her face into the hollow of his shoulder and wept convulsively as the reaction set in from this terrible day.

  “Never leave me,” she said through choking sobs. “Never abandon me again.”

  She felt his lips press against the top of her head, and she dug her fingers into his tunic, as if she were about to slide down a cliff face and slip forever into a world without him.

  34 YOU WILL FIND IT HARDER TO PERSUADE A GERMAN TO PLOW THE LAND AND TO AWAIT ITS ANNUAL PRODUCE WITH PATIENCE THAN TO CHALLENGE A FOE AND EARN THE PRIZE OF WOUNDS.

  Tacitus

  ______

  Barovistus was sitting on a fallen tree in the forest when the blonde boy approached.

  “Sit.” The war chief pointed to a spot beside him.

  The boy did so.

  “You showed great bravery against the Romans.”

  “Thank you. ” He moved his hands back and forth across his knees as he sat in the presence of the great chief.

  “Even when that Roman threatened to maim you, you refused to beg.”

  “I would’ve traded my hand for one Roman dead.”

  “No, I need you with both hands. You’re a hero and you must help me inspire the other young men.”

  “I don’t feel like a hero, but I’ll try.”

  “That’s why you won’t fight in this battle.”

  “No!” he wailed as if he had just been whipped. “I must do—”

  “Stop.”

  The boy was silent.

  Barovistus stared at him. In the heart of this dark forest, they seemed to be the only two people on earth.

  “I have many young men who are eager to fight. What you saw will move them and what you did will inspire them. I need you for that. There will be many more Romans after these. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Rise. Go now. Speak with them and let them draw from your courage.”

  When the boy passed out of sight, an old woman emerged from the shadows among the trees. She dropped to her knees before the chief and pressed both of his hands to her lips.

  “You’re a very great man,” she whispered and kissed his fingers.

  “Don’t kneel.” He lifted her to her feet.

  Her tired eyes gazed into his for understanding.

  Barovistus smiled. “He will live,” he said and placed an arm around her frail shoulders. “Long and free in these great forests.”

  “May Thincsus protect you.”

  She strained to wrap her arms around his massive torso.

  He hugged her gently. “May he protect us all.”

  After the woman left, he walked alone through the woods. Beyond the edge of the forest, thousands of warriors were gathering, but the chief needed a moment away from it. Soon many of those young men would be carrion. The faces of
weeping mothers haunted the dreams of even a war chief of the Suebi.

  But he was allowed no respite. Hoofbeats caught his attention. He turned and saw Orgestes and another rider racing toward him among the trees.

  They dismounted in front of him.

  “This lad has something for you,” Orgestes said and limped toward Barovistus.

  A young warrior approached the chief. He was holding a small wad of red cloth.

  “Speak,” Barovistus said.

  “I was riding along the river when I saw a mounted Roman soldier on the other side. He signaled me to approach the bridge. Then he rode halfway across and waited on his horse. It was a beautiful animal. He wore a helmet but no armor and had a sword and dagger. He—”

  “Did he give you his name?”

  “No, chief. He was about forty years old. He wore a blue tunic. I noticed he had a Sequani torque on his left wrist. He handed me this.”

  He held out the small red bundle. But then he hesitated.

  “Go on,” Barovistus said.

  “I’m afraid to speak.”

  Barovistus smiled. “No need. Only the Romans need fear me. What did he say?”

  “He told me to give this to Barovistus the child slayer.” The young man lowered his eyes and offered him the ball of cloth.

  With hardening face, the chief took the little bundle and unwrapped it.

  In the center of the cloth lay a human tongue.

  Orgestes looked into the war chief’s eyes. “You know who that is.”

  “Trogus,” he said and stared at the shriveled piece of meat.

  “But where is the rest of him?” the boy asked.

  “In the stomachs of wild dogs,” Orgestes answered and waved the lad away.

  The boy mounted his horse and was gone.

  “This Roman fears you?”

  “He’s a fool.” Barovistus turned away and dropped the tongue to the forest floor.

  “If he was a fool, you’d be laughing. I hear no laugh.”

  Barovistus stared off into the depths of the forest.

  “Well?” the former chief said.

  “He’s a demon, Orgestes. A demon.”

  35 ONE CANNOT BLUNDER TWICE IN WAR.

  Roman saying

  ______

  I fear for these men. Within days they will march off toward a terrible foe. I am relieved I will not be permitted to fight, and I am ashamed that I feel relieved. I should be at their side with a sword and pilum, but they will not allow it. Nor would Sabinus or Rufio. They see my task as something greater. I fear it is vastly less.

  Men are drilling and training in all available space. Seemingly everywhere, I see ranks of soldiers braced against their shields as screaming cavalrymen charge them and veer off at the last moment. The centurions have great respect for the German horsemen, and they are working hard to accustom their men to standing fast before a cavalry charge.

  Equipment is being checked, horses examined, provisions packed. Extra wagons and horses are being leased from the Gauls. The soldiers’ talent for organization would make even an ant colony envious. Yet all roads have ruts and bumps. Valerius told me Rufio was furious when he learned there were only forty-two working Scorpions, instead of sixty, one for each century. Also, there are no cohorts that are not understrength. Our own century is only seventy-four strong instead of the mandated eighty. Few things anger Metellus, but miserly politicians shorting the troops turn him into a snapping Hydra. In his words, they want to ride to glory without feeding the horse. Later, though, he had calmed down, and I saw him sitting and carving a small doll from a piece of wood.

  I need to know more about our tactics before I am called upon to witness and record the days to come. Rufio has been very busy, but he has promised me an evening soon to prepare me for what I will see.

  Neko, though, has been generous with his time. We have grown closer lately, as I have sought the benefit of his insight. When he speaks, it is as if he is calling forth the accumulated wisdom of centuries. His people go back so far they seem almost to touch with their toes the shores of infinity.

  When I remarked to him that Rufio seemed tense, he quickly rebuked me.

  “Tension is an alien emotion to Rufio. What you see is a fierce concentration.”

  I replied that I suspected that even Rufio would have a restless sleep the night before we departed, and again the retort was swift.

  “Do you understand him so little? The afternoon before we leave, he will go into the village. While most soldiers are collecting their gear or settling their affairs, he will sit in some public place—near a fountain, perhaps—and watch the women and children. To remind him of the gentler side of life and the reason why some men must be soldiers. He will dine lightly that evening and will sleep soundly. Only before battle is his sleep serene.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he knows that this is the reason he was born. When he rises, he will be refreshed, and he will pray to his special goddess—Victoria—to lead him through this day, as she has led him through all those that have gone before.”

  “They’ve crossed the river!” Titinius shouted and hurried past Diocles and raced toward the Principia.

  Having just finished at the baths, Diocles broke into a fresh sweat while running back to the barracks.

  The century had already gotten the word. All the men were standing in the dying sunlight and talking in small groups. How human it was, Diocles thought, that in times of crisis—any crisis—people immediately go outdoors and seek others. It seemed to bring both solace and strength. Most of the recruits had gathered around Valerius and were pelting him with questions.

  Diocles went to the end of the building and into Rufio’s quarters, but the centurion was not there. Again he shivered with that strange vulnerability he always felt at Rufio’s absence.

  Paki was curled up on his writing table, and he sat down and stroked her. She purred and pressed her head hard against the side of his hand. Never before had it felt so good to him to caress this gentle creature. He leaned forward and so did Paki, and she rubbed the side of her face against his cheek.

  “If I don’t survive this battle, I want you to take her with you to Rome.”

  Diocles jumped at Rufio’s voice coming from the adjoining room. He rose and went to the doorway.

  Rufio was unbuckling his dagger belt.

  “I don’t accept that you won’t survive,” Diocles said and suddenly realized how much he sounded like Neko.

  “The Fates can be malignant,” he answered and dropped his belt onto the bed.

  “Where are the Germans now?”

  “They crossed about four days march south of the village where we fought Racovir.”

  He turned away and went into his dining area and Diocles followed.

  “What direction are they headed in?”

  “North.”

  Rufio stretched out on a couch, and Neko appeared with a tray of cheese and olives and a pitcher of wine.

  “Toward the village?”

  “Of course,” he answered and pointed to a couch opposite.

  Diocles lay down and reached for a cup of wine that Neko had poured for him.

  “To kill all those people?”

  “What do you think? They know that will draw us out—slay them all and put the village to the torch.”

  “Does Metellus know this?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Calpurnia and Kalinda.”

  “That doesn’t matter.” Rufio reached for some cheese. “We’ll be there before the Suebi.”

  “Can we be sure of that?”

  “What’s the matter with you?” he said with annoyance.

  “It’s just that I care about Metellus.”

  “I care about Gaul,” he said, steel in his voice.

  Diocles stared into his cup and swirled the wine around. “During training everything seems so simple. But this is real. I feel I’m being sucked into a whirlwind. I’m scared for all of you.”

&nbs
p; “A whirlwind is a good description.”

  “Will you tell me how we’ll meet the Suebi?”

  “Now?”

  Rufio sounded impatient.

  “If it’s not inconvenient.”

  “Neko!”

  The Egyptian appeared and Rufio pointed to the food and drink.

  “My office.” He looked back at Diocles. “This room is for peace, not war.”

  He rose from the comfortable couch with its Oriental coverings and went into his office.

  Diocles followed. This was not an evening to keep Rufio waiting.

  Neko lit the lamps and got the brazier going as the spring day fled with its warmth.

  Rufio sat in the wicker chair behind his desk and Diocles sat across from him.

  After arranging the food and drink, Neko slipped away like a phantom.

  Diocles watched in silence as Rufio sipped his wine and stared off at visions only he could see. At last he set down the cup and looked across at him. Diocles was surprised to see a smile in his eyes.

  “I’ve enjoyed our time together,” Rufio said.

  The tone of finality chilled Diocles. It seemed like a summing up.

  “Have you?” Rufio went on when he failed to answer.

  “Very much. If you retire after this battle, will you go with me back to Rome?”

  “We’ll see.”

  “Then that means you must live to retire, doesn’t it?”

  “You’ll write a fine book. I’m certain of it.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Don’t concentrate on me. Shine your torch on the spirit of Rome.”

  You are the spirit of Rome. “I’ll do my best to maintain a balance. And you’ll be there to help me.”

  Rufio reached for an olive but just rolled it around in his fingers.

  “Rufio?”

  He looked up.

  “We’ll succeed, won’t we?”

  “In history? Or on the Rhenus in three days?”

  “In battle.”

  “Rome will succeed. But many will fall.”

  “Tell me about the Germans.”

  He set down the olive. “It’ll be the most difficult battle of my life. No archers, no cavalry. . . .”

  “And the numbers?”