“Not good. But I’ve never fought a battle where we weren’t outnumbered.” He smiled. “You seem surprised.”
“I am.”
“The most important lesson you can learn is that to defeat an enemy it isn’t necessary to destroy his ability to fight. It’s necessary to destroy his will to fight. Crush his men and he can raise more men. Crush his will and he’s finished.”
Diocles searched his eyes, but they were unreadable.
“If Flavia is right—and I’m sure she is—there are at least ten thousand Suebi. We’ll face them with nine cohorts. That’s about two to one against us. So the most important thing we have to do is choose the battleground. We cannot let the Suebi do it.”
“But I don’t understand how we can avoid being flanked. There are so many of them.”
“That’s why we cannot give battle except at a site of our own choosing. If the terrain is against us, we have to withdraw. Even if it means that village is slaughtered.”
“That’s not acceptable.”
“You sound like a Roman.”
“I am a Roman. What can we do?”
“Anchor our line.”
He slid aside the waxed tablets on his desk and put the plate of food at one edge and his glass goblet at the other. He took some olives and set them in three lines between the cup and dish.
“Three ranks,” Rufio said. “But this time there has to be some natural obstacle on each flank”—he pointed to the plate and the goblet—“or else the German horsemen will turn our lines and devour us. Without Gallic cavalry on the wings to protect our infantry, we have to wedge ourselves in. It’s our only chance.”
“Excellent! But can we find such a place?”
“We must. The way Scipio Asiagenes anchored his left wing on a river at Magnesia against Antiochus.”
Diocles stared at the three ranks of olives. “Why don’t we fight every battle that way? The line looks impregnable.”
“No line is impregnable. And there’s a major weakness. How do we exploit a break or a collapse in any part of the German line? We’d have to leave our little haven. Move forward and risk our flanks. What if we do it too soon? Or what if they close the breach in their line and then turn our flanks?”
Rufio cupped his hands and curled both ends of the Roman lines inward. Though they were only olives, now they seemed like a circular mass of helpless men.
Rufio looked up at him, and Diocles gazed into his penetrating eyes. There was no fear. Neither was there optimism nor pessimism. Just a ruthless recognition of a terrible reality.
At that moment, for the first time, Diocles began to comprehend the profundity of Neko’s love. Truly, what manner of man was this?
“What is it?” Rufio asked.
Diocles looked down at the desk so Rufio could not see his face. He pretended to study the battleground as he attempted to conceal the despair he felt at one day having to return to a life among ordinary men.
“Relax.” Rufio pushed a goblet of wine toward him. “I haven’t even told you all of it.”
“Why three ranks? According to your books, the Greeks fought in massive formations. Eight ranks or more. It seems much safer.”
“It is safer. The best thing is that it prevents men from running away. They’re packed in that solid mass and can barely move. More men are killed fleeing the battlefield than are ever killed facing the enemy. A huge formation prevents that. And it’s much easier for a deep and narrow group like that to stay together when advancing, at least on level ground.”
“Then why don’t we do the same thing?”
“A big phalanx has no flexibility. It cannot pivot. If you get to its side or completely around to its rear, it’s as helpless as a turtle with its legs cut off. Like the Macedonians who faced us at Cynoscephalae. All the turtle can do is die.”
“Then why did they use it?”
“They had no choice. Except for the Spartans, the Greeks were poorly trained. Have you ever seen one of those old Greek helmets? Tiny eye holes. They didn’t have to see much. Just push forward shoulder to shoulder with their long spears. Some of those spears were twenty feet long. And the helmets had no ear holes. There were no commands to listen to. And that made sense because they were undisciplined. They wouldn’t have obeyed anyway. Except for the Spartans, the men in those old phalanxes fought in near-terror and were often half-drunk. Show me a deep formation and I’ll show you a commander unsure of his troops. Antiochus at Magnesia fielded formations thirty-two ranks deep. Can you imagine that? The poorer the training, the deeper the ranks. Show me three or four ranks advancing smoothly in open files”—he spread his hands over the desk—“and I’ll show you men to fear.”
“Tell me more about anchoring our line.”
“Now you begin to understand the dangers of immobility. If we have to fight between two barriers, we cannot charge the Germans. We must wait for them to hit us. That’s an enormous disadvantage. The momentum of a charge is terrific. And to stand there and wait for it is more demoralizing than you can possibly imagine.”
“You don’t think we can withstand a charge while standing still?”
“Impossible to predict.”
“Aren’t there any examples of it in your histories?”
“I know of only one involving a Roman army—Pompeius at Pharsalus. And he was crushed. When I was a young soldier in Syria, I met a retired centurion named Gallus who’d served with Pompeius in the civil war. He told me their army was huge—it certainly outnumbered Caesar’s. But their morale was poor. And many of Pompeius’s troops were very green. It’s always dangerous to charge with inexperienced troops—they cannot hold formation. Pompeius knew this. So instead of charging, he formed his men ten deep and waited for Caesar’s charge. The distance between the armies was greater than usual and he believed Caesar’s line would break up and get ragged before it reached his wall of men.” Rufio smiled. “But it did not.”
“Don’t stop now. What happened?”
“Caesar halted the charge in mid-attack, ordered his men to dress ranks, then ordered them to charge again.”
“Just as you did halfway between the Sequani village and Racovir’s men.”
“Yes. When Caesar’s men hit Pompeius’s line, it was devastating. Of course, the battle was much more complex than that, but—”
“But Pompeius never recovered the initiative.”
“Exactly. He was routed.” Rufio looked away toward some distant memory. “Gallus had served with Caesar here in Gaul. Yet after Caesar crossed the Rubicon, Gallus sided with the Senate and Pompeius. He was wounded at Pharsalus—in the leg, I believe. He was left on the battlefield. After the fight, he saw a group of men picking their way among the dead. He tried to push himself up to face them. It was Caesar and some of his officers. Caesar was searching for old comrades. Gallus thrust the tip of his sword into the ground and managed to push himself to his feet. Caesar approached him as he tried to steady himself. Caesar knew every one of his centurions by name. He came up to him with that incredible smile and placed a hand on his shoulder and said, ‘Welcome back, my old friend.’” Rufio turned in his chair and looked over at Diocles. “Gallus wept as he told me this.”
Diocles smiled, more to himself than to Rufio. Perhaps that bust of Caesar was not so heavy after all.
“Is Gallus gone now?”
“Oh yes. He died in Antioch about three years after I first met him. We had many long nights together. I spoke with his daughter at the end. She told me he died whispering Caesar’s name.”
Rufio stood up. “We march in two days.” Then he turned and strode from the room.
36 HE CONQUERS TWICE WHO CONQUERS HIMSELF IN VICTORY.
Publilius Syrus
______
Rufio has an endless list of tasks to perform before we march, so I was surprised to see him sitting behind his desk and patiently listening to the lament of a soldier. I stood in the doorway and watched.
Arrianus from our century had brought a friend from the Fourt
h Cohort. It seems the hapless lad had fallen asleep after dallying with a Gallic woman in the settlement and someone had made off with his sword. He was terrified of returning to his barracks and facing his centurion. Arrianus asked Rufio if his friend might borrow one of our swords until he could get some of his money to buy another.
“You want me to conspire with this careless soldier to deceive his centurion?”
Arrianus did not know how to answer that.
“You were lax,” Rufio said to the soldier.
“Yes,” he answered in an unsteady voice.
“The vinestick awaits you.”
“I know,” he said, trying to sound brave.
“Rufio,” Arrianus went on, “if we—”
“Dismissed.”
Arrianus, as tough and combative as a badger with his fellow legionaries, shut his mouth instantly and turned away.
“Not you,” Rufio said to the other soldier as he started to leave.
Rufio stared at him for a moment, then said “Neko” so softly I could barely hear it at the back of the room.
Miraculously, Neko appeared from somewhere behind me and slipped past me through the doorway.
Rufio whispered to him and Neko left and quickly came back with a small sack and gave it to his master. He handed Neko some coins from it, and I heard him say the name Hetorix. Neko hurried off and returned in a few minutes with an excellent sword and scabbard.
Rufio nodded and Neko handed it to the soldier. The boy was speechless. Finally he managed to blurt his gratitude and how he would pay double what it was worth. But Rufio stopped him with a raised hand.
“You owe me nothing except a promise to march with valor for Rome. Return to your century.”
Rufio folded his hands on the desk and gazed down at the papers in front of him.
After the lad hurried off, I approached the desk, and Rufio looked up at me. He was struggling to hold back a smile, but suddenly he gave up and exploded in laughter. I could not hold back either and we laughed together at this boy who probably had never had a woman before he had left home to join the army. Then his moment of delight had spawned a catastrophe, only to be magically transformed by this iron-faced centurion. Never had I expected to see tears of laughter in Rufio’s eyes, but there they were, and mixed with compassion, too, as he no doubt recalled the days of his own adventurous and perhaps wayward youth. I have seen Rufio with many expressions and in many roles—or guises, for I have never been quite sure—but that was the one that will stay with me forever. That is the way I will always remember him.
Rufio sat outside the tavern and watched the children play at the fountain. He had exhausted his stock of sweets for them and had retreated to a small table in the shade of an overhang.
A cup of beer was set down by his hand. He looked up at a thickset man in his mid-thirties. He was wearing a spattered leather apron.
“To refresh you,” the Gaul said with a smile.
He was evidently the owner.
“Thank you.”
Rufio noticed a woman standing in the shadows behind the man. She was the dark-haired woman he had seen at the fountain with her little girl and her cat.
“We thank you for what you are about to do,” the man said.
“We all have our tasks.”
The tavern owner seemed not to know what to say next. His wife stepped up by his side.
No Sequani chieftain here, no golden-haired Varacinda, but tough, handsome people. The spine of Gaul.
The man seemed uncomfortable and turned and went back into his shop.
His wife remained.
Rufio stood to face her.
Lines of care at the corners of her eyes and around her mouth graced her with a mature elegance.
“We fear the Suebi,” she said. “But you fear nothing.”
“Everyone fears something. But don’t fear the Germans. We stand between them and Gaul.”
“I know that,” she answered with a smile, the lines around her mouth deepening.
“Your daughter is safe. She’ll grow up proud and beautiful. Like her mother.”
She seemed to peer into his soul. “May the woman you love carry your spirit within her heart until you return.”
She turned away but Rufio touched her arm.
“And why do you think there’s a woman I love?”
“You have an edge, centurion. But you have a gentleness, too. No man can acquire that alone. He gets it only when he allows a woman’s spirit to enter his heart.”
Rufio’s eyes smiled at her. “What makes you so wise?”
“I’m a woman.” She smiled back. “And I’m Sequani.”
The most beautiful mixture on earth, Rufio thought.
“Keep safe, centurion, and return to the woman you love.”
She turned and walked off into the shadows.
Flavia appeared at the edge of the firelight. The campfire sputtered and crackled, and flecks of glowing wood floated into the night air. She entered the small clearing, awash now in golden light.
Rufio stood next to the fire. On the grass near his feet lay an Oriental carpet, a basket of cheese and fruit, and a jug of wine.
“Do you enjoy sending mysterious messages to unmarried women?” she said with a smile.
She strode toward him out of the darkness with those long and powerful legs and seemed again to be the graceful woodland goddess emerging from the forest.
She stood before him now with that confident smile.
“I wanted to see you once more before I left for battle,” he said.
She glanced down at the rug and the meal he had brought.
“I understand.”
She took the bow from her shoulder and pulled the quiver from her back and set them on the ground next to his sword and scabbard. Then she sat in the middle of the carpet.
“I’m here,” she said and extended her right hand.
He took it in his and sat beside her.
He stared into her eyes for a long time. The warmth of the fire ignited the smell of blossoms in her hair and her own sweet scent. He felt as if he were inhaling an exotic drug.
“I chose this place for privacy,” he said, fearing she might misunderstand. “To be able to pretend for one night that there was no one else on earth.”
“Do you think I don’t trust you?” she said, smiling. “I know you didn’t summon me here to seduce me. Other men have tried that. But you don’t need firelight and stars.” She brought his right hand to her lips and kissed his fingers.
He hooked an arm around her shoulders and pulled her in, pressing her head against the side of his face.
“I’m so proud of whom you have become,” he said. “But I don’t deserve you in my arms.”
“None of us deserves another person’s love. But that doesn’t matter.” She kissed his hand again.
“I saw you once, not far from here. At the swimming cove.”
“Yes, I know,” she said softly and rested her head on his shoulder and stared into the fire. “Vara told me.”
“When I saw you—when I felt you—it was as if Victoria suddenly reached down and pulled the dagger out of my chest. It had been embedded there for twenty years.”
“Oh, Rufio, I’m just a woman.”
“No, I’ve known women, I’ve had women—all over the empire. They seem like shadows now.”
He touched his lips to the top of her head and pressed his face against her hair.
She reached up behind her and curled her fingers around the back of his neck.
“I could stay here forever,” she said.
He felt his control slipping away and he eased off.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, turning half way around.
“Everything is perfect.”
She gave him a knowing half-smile. “You said you were proud of me. Do you know how that makes me feel? I grow taller every time I think of it.”
He gazed into the staggering beauty of her eyes, and suddenly he felt very ol
d.
“And it’s not difficult being taller than an Italian,” she said with a teasing laugh, and she tapped a finger against the end of his nose.
He grabbed her hand and held it.
“You’re the wisest man I know, but there’s something you’ve forgotten.” She leaned so close to him that some of her long black hairs tickled his cheek. “Your pride is precious to me”—her voice was barely above a whisper—“but you’re not my father.”
Her lips engulfed his as she locked her hands behind his head. She slid her tongue between his lips and sought out his.
He growled from the depths of his hunger and buried his hands in her hair and tried to devour her.
Soon they were both gasping. She pulled away.
“I’ve never had a man before. I want you to be the only man I’ll ever have.”
She stood over him and undressed in the flickering light.
Rufio felt as if he could hardly breathe.
She now wore only the black leather bracer on her left wrist and the bronze torque on her right biceps.
“Come to me.” She held out her hands.
He stood and removed his clothes. Her longing seemed to envelop him. He slipped into her arms and slid his hands around her hips and onto the cheeks of her bottom. As his full body pressed against her, she moaned.
“I want you within me, my dearest love. So deeply you’ll touch my heart.”
As they descended to the carpet, they entwined as tightly as if they were a single being.
Rufio struggled to control his passion. He kissed her gently and slid his hands over her breasts and along her legs.
“I won’t shatter,” she said with an adoring smile.
Yet he knew his own desperate need and he fought to bring it under his command. He slid over her and opened her as delicately as if she were a flower.
She cried out in awe and wonder, the cry a woman can make only once in her life.
She stared disbelieving into his eyes. “More of you,” she whispered. “Rufio . . . .”
She grunted as he obeyed. Then a husky guttural burst from her throat, and her groan of pleasure ignited Rufio and he cried out with her.
LEGION Page 25
