“Tribune Crus was here to see you,” Neko said as he glided in from one of the other rooms. “He seemed happy and bewildered—if one can be both at the same time.”
Rufio removed his dagger belt and hung it over a chair. “I’ll see him later. Now I need a nap.”
Ah, Flavia, were the words written all over Neko’s face, though he uttered not a sound.
Rufio gave him a mock-angry glare and then went off to the blessed peace of his bed.
Darkness had already fallen by the time Rufio made his way to the Praetorium. Without a cloak and wearing his usual bright blue tunic, well wrinkled from the day’s toil, he did not appear to be the guest of a distinguished senator. He carried several papyrus sheets with him.
“I’m sorry, commander,” he said as he entered Sabinus’s dining room. He set the papers onto the table.
“I understand,” Sabinus said. “Neko told us you would be late. Please greet—.”
“Are we low on your list of priorities, soldier?” The chubby senator lay on the dining couch and reached for a sweet cake. “Supper is finished.”
“I just left the hospital, senator. One of my men ate in the wrong popina in the settlement. He’s been returning his meal to me for the last hour.” Rufio pointed to the bottom edge of his tunic. “Would the senator like to examine this stain more closely?”
“Centurion Rufio is very solicitous of his men,” Crus said quickly from his couch at the opposite side of the table.
“Centurion, meet Senator Vibius Spurius Bulla,” Sabinus said, but the senator ignored the introduction and reached for his wine.
“Please join us, Rufio,” Crus said and gestured beside him.
Rufio settled onto a couch covered with wine-colored drapery. He noticed Sabinus shoot him a look that told him to use restraint.
Rufio’s eyes smiled back, but Sabinus was clearly not reassured. Rufio’s tongue was like an unbroken horse. One was never quite sure where it might go.
A half-dozen Sequani servants flitted about, and Rufio asked one for some spiced wine.
“My nephew tells me you’ll accompany him to Judaea.”
About fifty-five, the senator had indulged himself far too long. The fat in his florid face squeezed his eyes into a pair of puffy slits that he seemed to struggle to keep open.
“I told him I’d consider it,” Rufio said with perhaps a hint of tact. “There are many details that need discussing.”
“Proceed,” Bulla said.
“We’re not in the senate now,” Rufio said. “A place where they shave the truth like a carpenter with a plane.”
Bulla’s rheumy eyes narrowed even further. “What are you implying?”
“Nothing. I’m stating outright that you dishonor your nephew by lying to him. And I’ll have nothing to do with this venture until I’m given the truth.”
Out of the corner of an eye, Rufio saw Sabinus wriggle like a hatchling that had just tumbled out of its nest onto a pile of thorns.
A servant presented Rufio with his cup of wine and hurried away.
Bulla’s thick lips threatened to twist into a sneer, but he seemed to be fighting it.
Rufio set down his cup. “It’s well known that Agrippa visited Herod last year. They’re friends, and like any wise man Augustus likes to use friends as emissaries. Not to mention his top soldier. But Agrippa never came away from that scorpion’s nest with a request from Herod for Roman troops. Herod would never ask that.”
“Why not?” Sabinus said.
“Because the old fox knows that if Roman soldiers march in, they might not march out. Ask us to come? Never. We’ll see Minerva shit pearls before we’ll see that day.”
Polluted by the lies and pomposity of the senate, Bulla was clearly unaccustomed to knife-edge talk.
“Uncle?” Crus asked.
“Evidently our centurion here pretends to have a greater knowledge about these matters than the senators in Rome.”
“I pretend nothing,” Rufio said, cool as marble.
“Then where do you get this profound insight?” Bulla asked.
“I’ve met Herod. When I was with the Sixth Legion in Syria, he paid an official visit. He came with some of his wives and his bodyguards and his sycophants. A whole baggage train of leeches. He reviewed one of the cohorts and selected ten soldiers for the honor of hunting lions with him. I was one of them.” Rufio sipped his wine and stared calmly back at Bulla. “Have you ever hunted lions with Herod, senator?”
The silence of the tomb shrouded the room and seemed to last a week.
“Uncle,” Crus said at last in a conciliatory tone, “tell us everything we need to know and we’ll go to Judaea and build a fort for Caesar.”
Surprisingly, Bulla seemed relieved the artifice was over. “Augustus has always liked Herod, even though Herod sided with Antonius years ago. But these days he’s disgusted with the Idumaean. When he isn’t threatening to crush the Nabataeans, he’s running around looking under every bed for conspirators, even among his own family. . . .”
“Is he justified in that?” Crus asked.
“Probably. His sons are a nest of vipers. In the past when he’s felt threatened, he’s killed members of his family as casually as if they were rats in the gutter. He even executed his beautiful wife Mariamme. According to Agrippa, he regretted that and has never recovered from it. Some say he still calls out for her in despair in the middle of the night. . . .”
“Are any of the sons conspiring against him now?” Crus asked.
“I don’t know, but if he suspects them, their time is short. The Judaeans, you know, don’t eat pork, and Augustus once remarked that it was safer being Herod’s pig than Herod’s son.”
“And Augustus wants a Roman presence there to put a bridle on all this?” Rufio asked.
“Yes. To calm these dynastic squabbles and to stop the Nabataean bandits from embarrassing Herod at his southern gate.”
“But it goes beyond that, does it not?” Rufio said.
For the first time, the senator smiled at the centurion. “I see you do know the East. The Parthians are out there, like wolves beyond the door. Instability in Judaea is raw meat to them.”
“I don’t understand,” Crus said. “Why don’t we just smash the Parthians?”
Rufio smiled but remained silent.
“Because, tribune, it’s not so simple,” Bulla said. “Crassus tried and he and his men were slaughtered. His head was presented to the Parthian king. Caesar planned a campaign to settle accounts, but he was killed three days before he was to take the field. Antonius tried, too, and his army was shattered. The remnants crawled back.”
“I see,” Crus said quietly.
“Tribune,” Rufio said, “Parthia is the greatest empire in the world—not including Rome. And their troops are the greatest defensive warriors that exist. Because they’re mostly cavalry, they can stay out of reach of infantry and just wear them down to nothing. Offensively, they’re less formidable. But that’s true of most cavalry armies, although not all.”
“I understand,” Crus said.
“The Judaeans are always fighting among themselves,” Rufio said. “That makes them easier prey. During the last upheaval, about twenty-five years ago, the Parthian horse archers swarmed into Judaea and sacked Jerusalem. They cut off the ears of the High Priest, among other entertainments.”
“Precisely,” Bulla said. “Augustus wants no repeat of that. We need stability at our eastern door. Herod is the key. Many of his own people hate him, but at least he can control them. Augustus respects that. You almost have to be a magician to control ten Judaeans, let alone a whole country of them.”
“What exactly does Agrippa want?” Crus asked.
“A small fort. Just enough for a cohort. A Roman presence there to deter the Nabataeans and to send a message to the Parthians.”
Rufio nodded. “That’s what I assumed. But you have to understand, senator, that if the Parthians choose to ignore the message, we’re doomed o
ut there. We’ll all be killed or enslaved.”
“You don’t believe we can deter them?” Bulla asked.
“Simply by our presence, no matter how small that is? The Parthians are proud and brave. Collapsing before a bluff—I wouldn’t bet Judaea on that.”
“I won’t ask these men to commit suicide, senator,” Crus said.
“Nor would I,” Bulla answered.
“If it’s just a small Parthian action,” Rufio said, “a probe to test the rank waters of Judaea . . . well, who knows? But a major horse army? Then we’re finished. We won’t come back.”
“Are you saying you fear them?” Bulla asked in surprise.
“Senator, only fools don’t fear them. And all the fools are dead.”
Silence followed for several minutes.
“Who’ll garrison the fort?” Sabinus finally asked.
“Mostly Herod’s own troops. But it’ll be a Roman-built fort with Roman officers there for a while. That should be enough of a statement.”
“Who pays?” Rufio asked.
“Herod.”
“Well, that should endear us to him,” Rufio said. “What about the labor?”
Bulla hesitated. “I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about it.”
“This isn’t like building a thatched hut,” Rufio said. “This is a complex undertaking. Unless someone detaches some cohorts from one of the Syrian legions—and they’re not the best soldiers in the Roman army—we’ll need to hire hundreds of skilled Judaeans to do the job.”
“Is that possible?” Crus asked.
“Anything is possible,” Rufio said. “But that doesn’t mean it’s simple.” He slid his cup out of the way and picked up the papers he had brought. “When I was with the Second Legion in Spain, we had to build a fort from the ground up. I kept notes.” He looked down at one of the sheets. “The fort was about twenty hectares. About the same as this one. It took almost three thousand men a little over a hundred days. We usually worked between eight and nine hours a day. We lived under leather for quite a while.”
“I had no idea of the size of this task,” Bulla said in the first respectful tone he had used all evening.
“I’ve done a few calculations.” Rufio flipped to another sheet. “To house a cohort we’ll need a fort of at least two hectares. That would include all the buildings necessary for it to function as an independent unit. If we're generous to ourselves and allow four months of construction time, we’ll need between four and five hundred men working eight to nine hour days, six days a week. And, in fact, these numbers are an underestimate because they’re based on timber.”
“I don’t understand,” Bulla said.
“I suppose you’ve never been to Judaea, senator. There’s little wood where we’re going. A fair bit of tamarisk but not much else. This fort will have to be stone. Fortunately, the Judaeans are excellent masons.”
Bulla turned away, clearly sobered by all this.
Sabinus motioned to two of the servants. They went into the kitchen and each returned with a large pan of tyropatina, a delicious honey-sweetened egg custard sprinkled lightly with black pepper.
“We deserve a treat,” Sabinus said.
“I’ll accept your advice,” Bulla said to Rufio. “Tell me what message I should carry back to Agrippa.”
“Tell him that Marcus Aemilius Sabinus, Legate of the Twenty-fifth Legion, has graciously agreed to cull the finest stallions from his herd and send them to Judaea for the greater glory of Rome. And that tribune Ulpius Crus will lead them there with honor.”
Crus smiled but said nothing.
“And you?” Bulla said. “Shall I tell Agrippa of you?”
“My name will be lost, but the glory of Rome will not. Nothing else matters.”
6
THE ARMY IS SCRUPULOUS IN CHOOSING THOSE IT ADMITS TO TOIL AND DANGER, BUT A NOBLE MIND IS FREE TO ALL.
SENECA
Flavia released the bow string and it snapped forward, the arrow slicing the air to the cloth on the center of the hay bale. She allowed no time to gloat but drew another from her quiver, nocked it, and sent it to join the first. Five more in quick succession she launched at the fist-sized red rag a hundred feet away. All seven clustered there, silent witnesses to her frightening skill.
For a few moments she stared fiercely at the target, so powerful was the concentration that infused her once her fingers closed around her bow. Finally, taking a few deep breaths, she regained her calmer self.
With her black tunic and brown wool trousers, she warmed quickly in the morning sun. The snow soaked through her soft leather shoes, but she ignored it. She walked across the muddy space behind her new home and retrieved her arrows. Then she resumed her place and began again.
For an hour without a break she practiced, her toned young muscles never tiring. Arrow after arrow she unleashed at the red scrap, soon as tattered as a windswept spider web.
She knew not what dangers they might face in that far off desert land, but of one thing she was certain—any enemies who dared to threaten her man did so at their peril.
“May I make a suggestion?” Crus took the bronze stylus from Flavia’s hand.
He reversed the tool and, bending over the table, used the flat back end to smooth away a word inscribed on the wax tablet. Then he rewrote it.
“There. Pull the letters in closer together. You’re making the words too difficult to read by spreading the letters out so much.”
“Thank you.”
“May I read it?”
She handed him the tablet.
When he had finished, he stared down into those guileless eyes.
“All of this is yours?”
“Yes.”
“This is very eloquent.”
“I’ve been speaking Latin since I was a girl, but now Rufio is teaching me to write it. I can speak Greek, too.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Soldiers taught me when I was a little girl. Men who had fought in the East. One of them had even served with the great Pompeius.”
“Why did they teach you?”
“I was a quick learner.”
“But why did they even begin?”
“I was different than the other girls. I liked the things boys liked. Riding and swimming and hunting. The soldiers were amazed at that. One of them even called me Artemis. She’s the Greek goddess of the hunt.”
“Yes, I know.”
“They competed with each other about who could teach me the most. Some of them knew several languages. I absorbed everything like a dry cloth in the rain.”
“You’ve been very fortunate.”
“And when I began to . . . change . . . physically . . . they were my protectors. If a boy looked at me improperly, a vinestick lashed out. Those men might have been lusty with their women, but they were gentle guardians to me.”
“I’ve learned that honor can be found in the most unlikely places. And among the most unlikely men.”
“I miss them very much. Most of them are retired now. Some are dead. I adored them.” She lowered her eyes, and suddenly she looked even younger than her two decades. “I loved those gray-haired men in the special way that only a young girl can.”
“May I sit?”
“Is it proper for a noble Roman to be alone with another man’s woman?”
“Definitely not proper. Which is why I’m safe—Rufio would never expect it.”
The corners of her eyes narrowed in a smile. “You may be seated.”
The comfortable sitting room was decorated more in Flavia’s style than in Neko’s eastern tastes. Colorful Sequani blankets hung from the walls, and a large deer pelt covered the center of the floor.
“I won’t interrupt you for long. I have a question and then I’ll go. Rufio and I are going to be spending much time together. I need to understand him better, and I suspect no one comprehends him better than you.”
“Yes?”
“There’s one thing that’ll tell me more about
him than anything else. What does he value most in life? Other than you, I mean.”
“His honor,” she said without hesitation.
A smile warmed Crus’s face, and he stared away toward the open window behind Flavia. “The answer I’d hoped for.” He looked back at her, a dark silhouette in front of the blue sky beyond. “Thank you.”
“One thing more,” she said, as he was about to rise. “After his honor, the thing he cherishes most is the greatness of Rome. It fills him until he overflows with it. He’d walk through a sheet of flame to protect the spirit of Rome.”
“I understand.”
“I couldn’t grasp this at first. There’s no word in Sequani for patriotism. The idea doesn’t exist. We’re loyal to our chieftains. No one or nothing beyond that. But when I met Rufio, I had to learn a new word. Love of a city—or of an ideal that gave rise to that city. I’m still trying to understand it. Rufio is helping me. I honor my people with all my spirit, but I know that Rufio’s love for the fire of Rome gives him a greatness no Sequani has ever had.”
“Flavia the Beautiful, you’re the luckiest woman in the world.”
“Yes.”
He stood up. “May the gods keep you safe.” He paused as his gaze fell on the tablet before her on the table. “Why don’t you begin an ephemeris?”
“What’s that?”
“A daily commentary. A record of events and thoughts and feelings. I’m going to keep one.”
“I’ve never heard of that kind of thing.”
“It would be good practice, good for your writing.” He lowered his voice. “And when you choose not to speak to anyone else, you can whisper to it in the dark and it will always listen.”
“I can always confide in my Rufio.”
Crus smiled. “Of course. But even goddesses occasionally hug a silent secret to their breasts.”
7
GRAVER DANGERS AWAIT.
VIRGIL
“I’ve never seen you yawn so early in the evening,” Valerius said when Metellus covered his mouth with a hand.
Horses on the Storm Page 3
