“He lives. He has a head wound, but he’ll survive. We won’t surrender him.”
“I don’t expect that. Never do we want to see a German face again. Only German backs. Cross the water again and die. Go.”
54 IT IS BEST TO ENDURE WHAT YOU CANNOT PUT RIGHT.
Seneca
______
We have rested for several days now. Sabinus will not break camp until we can move with no risk to our wounded. Our dead have been cremated, and now our doctors are trying to ensure there will be no more for the flames to consume.
I have spent much time in the hospital tents. The remedies of the doctors are numerous and probably of varying effectiveness. Yet I have seen none of the medical chicanery one encounters so frequently in civilian life.
The favorite styptic of the army doctors is frankincense, and our supply has been exhausted. After the wounds are about a day old, the doctors apply other preparations to speed the closing of the flesh. The dressing they prefer is ivy that has been simmered in wine. To avoid excessive inflammation, they replace this later with poultices of shredded raw celery or Achilles’ woundwort. The latter is especially favored by our Greek doctor. For those in the greatest pain, there are ominous decoctions of poppy and mandrake and henbane. However, the doctors are reluctant to administer these except in cases of extreme agony. The slightest error in dosage and the patient slips into a sleep from which he does not arise.
The willingness of our men to bear pain in silence is astounding. I can almost laugh when I think of some of my friends in Rome who whine when they are nicked while being shaved. Here in these tents, where men lie cut or punctured, one rarely hears a moan. The men are especially quiet when their centurions are nearby, which seems like always. The officers are constantly checking on their soldiers and on the doctors as well. The centurions are as protective as she-wolves. They freely berate the doctors for not doing enough for their men or for interfering too much.
Rufio seems to live in these tents. I am fascinated to see how he deals differently with different men. Yet there is one constant, and that is that he never speaks about their wounds or the battle. I am certain this is not because of any concern about disturbing them, but that it grows out of that ferocious Roman pragmatism that would consider such discussion pointless.
With the older men, he jokes about the drunken brawls they have been in and the ones they are missing now that they are flat on their backs. He teases them about having limp branches from too many dalliances with Gallic women who drain them dry until they can no longer move.
With the younger men he is like an older brother, gentle and understanding. The boys are eager to talk about their homes and farms and especially about their mothers. He sits with them quietly as they suck back the pain of their injuries. When the doctors are busy elsewhere, he sops up the pus from their wounds until his hands reek from the rank exudate, and then he changes their dressings.
As I watch him, I realize my earlier judgment was correct. Rufio truly would be a failure in normal life. Where else but among the fierce rigors of a legion could his qualities burn so brightly?
Sabinus’s tent seemed different now, as tired and spent as the rest of the legion. A couple of slaves were cleaning up the clutter, but Sabinus dismissed them. He pointed to a stool in front of the table where the battle had been planned, and Rufio sat. Sabinus joined him on the same side of the table.
“What we owe you—what Rome owes you—cannot be measured,” Sabinus said.
“Never exaggerate the importance of one centurion.”
“It’s impossible to exaggerate the importance of one centurion,” he answered with an ironic smile.
“If I’d not been here, Probus would have led the right wing just as well.”
“Probus would be the first to disagree with you. But I’m not talking about the mechanics of battle.”
Rufio remained silent.
“Rome owes more to her soldiers than can ever be comprehended by her stupid politicians—of whom I am one.”
“I’ve never expected much from politicians.”
“They see you as simple functionaries. Road builders paving the path to their dreams. What those fools don’t realize is that you, Rufio—you and your men—you are the dream itself. The dream of Rome.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“It gives me pleasure to tell you. And it’s important you realize your value to the empire you serve.” He stood up. “Go and rest now. We break camp tomorrow.”
A late-morning breeze caressed Rufio’s face as he stood beside the hill of Scorpions and stared eastward across the churned up earth. He thought again, as he had so many times, that there was nothing emptier than an empty battlefield.
But the horses were still there, bloated and grotesque. And some Suebi weapons and shields lay scattered about, though they would soon be collected by the Sequani. Yet the Suebi bodies had been hauled off, and soon the land would heal itself. The wounded skin would begin to close, the short memory of man would shame the dead, and the Terror of the Germans would seem as remote as the dark forests they forever prowled.
Rufio turned toward footsteps behind him.
Crus approached.
“Take a day to relax, centurion,” he said good-naturedly.
“How did you know where I was?”
“You weren’t with the wounded, so I thought you might be here.”
“Do you know me that well?”
“I’ve learned a little,” he said with a smile.
“Does Sabinus want me?”
“I do.”
Rufio waited for him to continue.
“Have you decided to retire now? I’ve heard a rumor.”
Rufio pulled his scabbard forward and sat on the ground. Crus sat opposite him.
“Diocles wants me to return to Rome with him and help him write his history.”
“I understand. It’s a noble task.”
Rufio’s eyes narrowed. “You could say it with a bit more sincerity.”
“Could I?”
“I haven’t seen my sister in almost three years.”
Crus suddenly had an odd look on his face, but he said nothing.
“What?” Rufio asked.
“I’ve never though of you as having a family. Strange, isn’t it?”
“Where did you think I came from?” Rufio said in annoyance.
“I thought you’d sprung fully formed from the brow of Mars.”
“Too many have thought that. It’s a burden that wearies me.”
“A sister, you say?” Crus asked in a soothing tone.
“Until recently, my sister and my mother were the only women I’d ever loved.”
“Until recently?”
“Yes.”
“Sabinus wants you to stay, but he respects you too much to try to influence you.”
“But you don’t respect me?”
“ ‘Mark this day with a black stone, centurion’,” he said, quoting himself. “See? I’ve never respected you.” Then he could hold back no longer and exploded in laughter.
Rufio laughed with him.
“Consider it,” Crus said. “That’s all I ask.”
55 TIME REVEALS ALL THINGS.
Roman saying
______
The story of the battle had sped like a falcon back to Aquabona. It seemed as if every Sequani from the village had hurried out to greet us. Theirs was not simply a celebration of victory. Our triumph over the Suebi was the promise of Sequani survival. Magnificently appropriate was it that Adiatorix and his men had swept in at the crucial moment to help us turn the tide.
Though I had struck no blows, I felt as proud as my fellow soldiers when the Sequani cheered. As we marched up the road toward the fort, I looked at Rufio. He seemed too worn out to smile. Never have I seen him so drained. Of course, he is no youth, but I suspect his exhaustion is not simply a weariness of the flesh. He gives so much of his spirit to everything he does—a fact that not all of his comrades comprehe
nd—that the depth of his depletion is almost frightening. He will be fine in a few days, but in the meantime I yearn to allow him to lean on me. It is an offer I know he would decline.
Yet once I did see his eyes revive. A cloaked woman astride a gray horse waited on a hilltop overlooking the road. It could only have been Flavia. Even at this distance from her, his blue tunic would have stood out. They seemed to see each other simultaneously, and then she turned and raced down toward the fort.
How odd that this vibrant Celtic spirit could soothe the soul of this incomprehensible man.
I feel guilty now for asking him to return with me to Rome.
“The civic crown?” Metellus said with a skeptical smile and sat down on the edge of his bunk. “Are you sure Sabinus has the correct Valerius?”
“I think it’s Gaius Valerius in the Second Century,” Diocles said. “Excellent soldier.”
But their teasing was lost on Valerius.
“What’s wrong?” Metellus asked as the optio stared in silence out the window in the back of the barracks room.
“How can I receive an award like that? The same award Rufio has won four times?”
“It’s the one you wanted,” Diocles said.
“That doesn’t mean I deserve it.”
“Of course you do,” Metellus said.
“An award for valor isn’t just a decoration, it’s a responsibility,” Valerius said. “One you must always live up to. Forever. I’ve never done that before.”
“Then you must learn how,” Metellus said and leaned back with that bemused look of his.
“I hear we’re being invited to a Sequani celebration tomorrow,” Diocles said.
“We?” Valerius asked. “Who?”
“Our century.”
“You may drink my share of the beer,” Metellus said. “I’m going to ask Rufio if I may go back to spend tomorrow with Calpurnia and Kalinda. Do you know where he is now?”
Valerius shook his head and again stared out the window. “I haven’t seen him all afternoon.”
Diocles did not answer. He never liked to lie, especially to his friends. A half-hour earlier he had seen Rufio drive a wagon out of the fort. In the back, he saw a basket of food and a jug of wine and a rolled up carpet.
This was one night Rufio deserved for himself.
56 A FRIEND IS ANOTHER SELF.
Roman proverb
______
“The First Century declines,” Rufio said.
The commander looked up from his desk with the same exasperation he had shown the first day they had met.
“Why?”
“I don’t believe in selecting units for individual distinction. Mine or anyone else’s. There are precedents for it, but I reject them.”
“Tell me, Rufio, do you think sometime you and I will be able to concur on all matters for three consecutive days?”
“The auspices aren’t good.”
“I agree,” he said with a sigh. “Fortunately, I have the power to enforce my will. Adiatorix’s village wishes to show its gratitude to this legion. It’s too small to feed the entire legion or even a full cohort. So he’s chosen the century that led the right wing.”
Rufio remained silent.
“You’ll eat well, keep drunkenness to a minimum, and gratefully accept whatever pleasures the beautiful women of Gaul choose to share with the cheerful young soldiers of the First Century of the Second Cohort.” Sabinus’s eyes narrowed. “Or, for that matter, even with you.”
For once, Rufio kept his sharp tongue in its sheath.
“Any questions?”
“Shall we wear full armor so we look the part?” he said with a touch of sarcasm.
He regretted the words as soon as he spoke them. It was clear from Sabinus’s expression that he had not considered it until Rufio gave him the thought.
“No. Helmets and swords should be enough. I mean that. Dismissed.”
Diocles was bent over his writing table in the room next to Rufio’s sleeping quarters. He must have heard Rufio come in, but he did not turn around. Paki was curled up and sleeping on a stack of papyrus sheets beside his left elbow.
It was unusual for him to be writing so early in the day.
“I want to get this down while it’s still fresh,” he said in answer to Rufio’s unspoken question. “I’ll be leaving soon.”
When Rufio did not reply, he set down his pen and looked around at his centurion.
Rufio was surprised to see that his face looked haggard.
“I’ll write better in Rome without all these distractions.”
“I understand.”
“I cannot imagine now what that will be like.” His voice was unsteady.
“Easier than the life of a soldier.”
“The aroma of warm porridge and the clean morning air.” He kept his eyes averted. “The crispness of the Gallic countryside as the sun comes up. The snap of our hobnails on the stone roadway.”
Rufio smiled and leaned against the doorway. “Odd how the small things are always the most important.”
“And the men,” he said and looked up for the first time. He seemed suddenly plaintive. “I’ll never see them again.”
“You’ll see Sabinus again. And Crus, too, probably.”
“No, our men. This century.”
Rufio said nothing.
“Valerius and I marched together on my first day. I liked him instantly. Just as you did, though you pretended not to. I cannot think of not seeing him every morning. And Metellus . . .” His voice was quaking now. “That look of superiority he always gives me. That teasing smile. I think I’ll miss him most of all. I think . . .” His voice cracked again. “More than anyone . . .” His chin quivered as he struggled to bring his words under control. “Him most of all . . . no, I’m lying.” His eyes were desperate. “It’s you. You . . .” His breathing came in quick short gasps and then he spun around and burst out crying.
He wept uncaringly onto the sheets in front of him. Paki licked his ear as he shook.
“What you’ve taught me,” he managed to say through his sobs.
Rufio walked across and wrapped an arm around his shoulders in silence.
“About honor,” Diocles said. “About courage. About life.”
“I know.”
“This is a school like no other.” He straightened up and cleared his throat, the tears still streaking his face. “These are men like no other. And who understands them? The politicians? The rabble? They treat you with indifference or contempt—when they think of you at all. And you accept it as the normal course of life. You go off and cut your roads and build your towns and battle the enemies of Rome.”
“We have our own codes.”
“They’re far nobler than any I’ve ever had.”
“Perhaps now you’ve acquired ours.”
Hope shone for the first time in his eyes. “Do you think that’s possible? At my age?”
“In the century of Rufio, anything is possible.”
“Promise me . . .” He hesitated and wiped his eyes. “I know this sounds childish, but promise me that if I need you, I can reach out in the dark and find you.”
“Of course you can. I’m your friend.”
Diocles stood and gripped both of Rufio’s forearms. “I swear by my ancestors, if you ever need me I’ll be there by you. Even across the rivers of Hell.”
57 BELIEVE EVERY DAY TO HAVE DAWNED TO BE YOUR LAST.
Horace
______
“Adiatorix feasting with the Romans,” Valerius said with a grin. “Never did I think I’d see this day.”
Rufio smiled but said nothing.
The Sequani women laid out food on a great semi-circle of tables in an open area next to the village.
Rufio’s eyes were on Flavia as she set down a bowl of meat and cheese on one of the tables. She was wearing her dark green tunic that came to mid-thigh and was belted at the waist. Her bronze torque encircled her right biceps and the black leather brace
r covered her left forearm. She had tucked a red flower in the hair behind her right ear.
“The gods favor you,” Valerius said.
“More than I deserve.”
“The favor of the gods is like the civic crown. A responsibility you must live up to.”
Rufio turned to him with a smile. “I see you’ve thought about this.”
“You compel me to.”
The tavern owner from town drove up in a wagon carrying large pots of beer. His wife rode with him, and on her lap sat her little girl carrying her cat.
“This is a feast, not a military parade. Let the men put their helmets and sword belts on the tables. They can keep their dagger belts on.”
Valerius went to tell them.
Rufio turned back toward Flavia, but soon he felt the pressure of someone else’s gaze. He looked around.
The mother of the little girl was standing about twenty feet away and staring at him with a bemused look worthy of Metellus.
Rufio nodded. She smiled and hurried after her daughter, who was chasing the cat as it bounded playfully toward the woods.
“Sometimes we forget how precious life is,” Adiatorix said as he came up to Rufio. He took a deep breath of the balmy afternoon air.
“Indeed we do, chief.
“Where’s Metellus?”
“He should be along later.”
“I’m happy your men are enjoying themselves.” He pointed toward the soldiers relaxing on the grass with their food and drink.
Only fifty-one men of the First Century were able to share the meal. Five had been killed and eighteen wounded seriously enough to be unable to leave the fort.
Varacinda and Larinda came over, and Adiatorix smiled and walked away.
“My sister would like to speak with you,” Varacinda said.
Larinda approached with eyes lowered.
“No need for that,” Rufio said and raised her chin with a forefinger.
“I honor you, centurion,” she said in the soft voice he had first heard that night in the stable.
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