“Calpurnia,” the signifer answered through another yawn. “I’ve met my equal.”
“I always thought Roman soldiers were insatiable,” Crus said.
“Insensible is a better word,” Rufio added and put cups onto the small table he had set up in his office in front of the lamplit bust of Caesar.
Neko came in with a pitcher of wine and filled the cups and then withdrew to the shadows.
“I don’t know any other men with whom I’d rather share the dangers of the decadent East,” Rufio said without preliminaries and sat down. “And if Minerva is with us, we’ll return to see another Gallic snowfall.”
He looked around the table. All were suddenly serious, empty of any illusions about the challenge confronting them.
“We’ll leave in three weeks, on the kalends,” Rufio said. “Train the men like fanatics until then. No letup. I want them as keen as falcons. They can rest during the voyage. We’ll go down to Massilia and board ship there for Ostia. Understood?”
“Yes,” Valerius said. “How much of our own equipment will we take?”
“Everything we’d need for a field camp but not a stick more. Make sure every soldier brings at least one pair of leather bracae. We might be doing some riding. And some wooden swords for drilling. We won’t have an armorer out there, so we cannot afford to damage our blades during practice. And bring a carnyx. One never knows. We’ll buy pack mules here in Aquabona and sell them when we reach Massilia. Impress on the men how important it is to watch over their gear. In the East, theft isn’t a crime, it’s a religion.”
“I know I’m a tyro in all this,” Crus said, “but I don’t understand why we don’t begin as soon as possible.”
“We are starting as soon as possible,” Metellus answered. “The sailing season—the safe sailing season anyway—doesn’t open up until May.”
“We’ll spend about a week in Italy,” Rufio went on. “The men can have leave to go to Rome or stay in Ostia, whatever they want. We’re going to need an engineer, and I know one who retired last year from the Second Legion in Spain. He lives in Ostia.”
“And our centurion’s charms will seduce him back under the yoke?” Metellus said with that look of skeptical bemusement that delighted or infuriated all who knew him.
“He doesn’t save all his spells for Flavia,” Valerius said.
Rufio sighed. “My trials are many with officers like these,” he said to Crus.
The tribune laughed. “I hope my colleagues in the senate someday are as frank with me as your men are with you.”
“No chance of that,” Rufio said and took a sip of wine. “We’ll get passage on some of the coastal boats going from Ostia to Puteoli, where the grain ships dock. Ostia doesn’t have a deep-water harbor, so we won’t find any there. We’ll have to go down to Puteoli to get one or two of the big corbitas to take us to Egypt. A good master will catch the Etesian winds and we should be in Alexandria within two weeks, less if he’s especially good.”
“I had no idea we could get there so quickly,” Crus said.
“At Alexandria, we’ll find a vessel to take us to Herod’s paradise.”
All were quiet with their own thoughts for a while until Crus broke the silence.
“What do you know about these Nabataeans threatening Herod in the south?”
“No Nabataeans are threatening Herod,” Rufio said.
“My uncle was lying?”
“The senator is an ignorant man.”
When Rufio did not continue, Crus said, “Now isn’t the time to be reticent.”
“The Judaeans and the Nabataeans do fight occasionally, that’s true. And there have been a few Nabataean kings who were aggressive. But they pose no threat to Herod’s domain. They’re not a warlike people. One of the most unusual things about them is that they treat their women well. Very few peoples in the East do that. Women have high status. Not up there with Roman women, but very high by the standards out there—if you can call them standards. The Nabataeans’ ruler is a wise and humane king named Obodas.”
“What are they then?” Valerius asked.
“Some raise sheep and camels, but most of their riches come by transporting spices and frankincense up from Qana by camel caravan to Gaza. They’ve acquired staggering wealth just from this. They have a magnificent city with buildings carved out of solid rock. The Greeks call it Petra.”
“I remember some old veterans from Egypt calling the Nabataeans pirates,” Metellus said.
“There’s truth to that,” Rufio answered. “The Egyptians started competing with them by shipping spices and incense up the Red Sea. The Nabataeans were afraid the overland trade would dry up. Their survival depended on that caravan route, so they put to the water to punch a few holes in Egyptians hulls and disrupt the sea trade.”
“Then they do fight if they’re provoked,” Crus said.
“Oh, yes. And they’re very skillful on both horse and camel. Some Romans came back after they saw them on camels and said they had no horses, but that’s nonsense. They have excellent mounts.”
“Are they fighters like the Judaeans?” Valerius asked.
“Herod attacked them about sixteen or seventeen years ago. That was when Cleopatra had her claws into Antonius. She wanted Judaea and Nabataea for herself. She tried to goad Antonius into swallowing up Nabataea, but he resisted her—probably the only time he ever did that. So the Egyptian whore enticed him into getting Herod to attack them under some pretext. She probably hoped the turmoil would cause upheavals in both kingdoms and Antonius would have to step in. But she was no strategist. The Nabataeans shredded Herod’s army in Auranitis. The Judaeans limped away and Herod had to beg for peace. Later, he did defeat the Nabataeans near Philadelphia, but to this day he loathes them for shaming him.”
“Then we shouldn’t underestimate their fighting ability,” Valerius said.
“Absolutely not. Sometimes they’ve resisted us, sometimes not. Occasionally they form alliances with the Parthians, and sometimes they fight them. It depends on circumstances. They’re very clever in judging what’s to their advantage. And they’re a tough people—rugged like the desert they live in. They were nomads once, long ago. They know the drifting sands like you know these barracks. Their skill in crossing that wasteland seems like magic. They’ve dug huge underground cisterns all across the wilderness. They fill them with rain water or spring water that they channel to them in secret aqueducts. The openings of the cisterns are concealed and only they know the locations.”
“Very shrewd,” Crus said.
“Their power goes beyond shrewdness. Besides their own language, they speak Aramaic and usually Greek. Many of them speak Latin, too. And their physical endurance defies any kind of rational reckoning. It makes them masters of that desolation. They’re as dark and hard as volcanic rock. The Greeks and Judaeans call them Arabs.”
Neko came in with a late evening treat.
“By the gods, that smells good,” Crus said.
Neko stepped up to the table with a freshly baked loaf of bread, wrapped in a towel and still steaming.
Valerius broke it open, and they all indulged like carefree bachelors at a late night party, rather than soldiers of Caesar planning a journey to a hostile land.
“Neko, you’re a treasure,” Crus said.
“I have friends among the bakers,” he answered with a smile and refilled their cups and withdrew.
“What about the Judaeans?” Valerius said to Rufio.
“An interesting people but very difficult to deal with. They’ll be one of our biggest problems. Just when you think you’ve reached them on some sensible level, they start appealing to their god and invoking their lunatic prophets, and good sense dies in its cradle.”
“God?” Crus said. “Only one?”
“That’s more than enough,” Rufio answered.
“What is he called?” Crus asked.
Rufio laughed. “He has more names than I do. I’m not sure, but I think his offic
ial name sounds something like Yahweh. But nobody is allowed to use it except priests in their temple. And I’m not certain even they use it anymore. The common people call him Adonai instead. That means Lord. Evidently that doesn’t insult him. But they use that name only when they pray. They say that if they use it outside of prayer, that offends him, too.”
“He’s a petulant sort,” Crus said.
“So their common word for him is HaShem. That means The Name. That’s the one they can use in conversation.”
“So that’s the one we’ll hear?” Crus asked.
“No, because they don’t speak Hebrew anymore except in prayer.”
Crus laughed. “You’re not making all of this up are you?”
“I’m not that clever.”
“Well,” Crus said, “it’s been my experience that people who are always worried about giving offense—whether it’s to a man or to a god—are also the people most likely to take offense.”
Rufio smiled. “Welcome to Judaea.”
“Then what do they call him?” Valerius asked.
“Elah,” Rufio said. “It’s the Aramaic word for The Awesome One.”
“Are we finished now?” Crus said, smiling and shaking his head.”
“You have to understand that the Judaeans don’t practice a religion, they marinate in it. Even a peasant can quote pages of their holy writings. And they’re superstitious to the point of madness. But they can also be as hardheaded as Sicilians. Very practical and sharp when they choose to be. No race on earth values learning more than they do. They use it as cleverly as Hercules uses his lion skin.”
“As protection, you mean?” Metellus asked.
“For protection and wealth. Dump ten people of ten different races onto a couple of bare hectares, and the Judaean will always end up the most prosperous. While the other nine are still trying to figure out how to dig a latrine, the Judaean will already own the land and be selling them a hole to piss in. He’s smart, he knows mathematics like a Greek, and he works as hard as an ox at a millstone. And he still takes one day in seven to rest and worship his god.”
“No wonder they have so many enemies,” Crus said. “Envy is a poisonous cup.”
“They’re some of the strangest people you’ll ever meet—very easy to admire but not always easy to like.”
“If they’re as keen as a dagger,” Valerius said, “why do they do others’ bidding rather than the reverse?”
“Because they have a toxic flaw,” Rufio said. “They battle among themselves. Every time a conquering army has stepped on their throat, it’s because they were already bled white by fratricide. It’s endless. They take a twisted pleasure in arguing about meaningless things. If you ever hear them bickering about some trivial point of politics or philosophy or some idiotic food law, you’ll think you’re in a room full of madmen.”
“Can they fight on the battlefield?” Valerius asked.
“When they’re willing to obey their commanders—which isn’t often. An individual Judaean can be one of the most formidable people you’ll ever know. But if you have thirty Judaeans, you have fifty opinions and a civil war.”
“What about their army?” Crus asked.
“Small by our standards, but still a good size for a little kingdom. About fifteen thousand infantry and maybe four or five thousand cavalry.”
“That’s a high proportion of horsemen,” Crus said in surprise.
“You’ll see that often in the East.”
“Well equipped?” Valerius asked.
“Their weapons and equipment are essentially the same as ours. And they’re fairly skilled at using them.”
“How loyal?” Metellus asked.
“At one time, they were the spine of Herod’s kingdom. They swore a sacramentum directly to him. But things have changed. Now he has Greeks and other foreigners in his army. They’re loyal because they’re paid well, but the Judaeans . . . They still make up the bulk of the army, but they’ve wearied of Herod’s whims and follies. They’re not to be trusted.”
“By Herod or by us?” Crus asked.
“Yes,” Rufio said with a cold smile.
“Yet you admire them nonetheless,” Crus said. “It’s in every inflection of your voice.”
“They’re the most astounding race in an astounding land.”
“But?” Crus asked.
“But they’ll never achieve the greatness they should. Their self-destructiveness dooms them. That’s why Judaea will always be the flagstone under the feet of every marching army in the East.”
The cold wind bit into the flesh of anyone foolish enough to stand against it. Senator Bulla pulled up the hood of his cloak and stared off from the eastern wall parapet into the darkness beyond the ditches.
“Look out there,” Rufio said.
“I cannot see much.”
“You can feel it.” He pointed toward the threatening wilderness shielded by night.
A sliver of moon allowed them to make out only the most ominous shapes.
“The Germans are out there,” Rufio went on. “Always hungry, always ready, never resting. Feel it now, so you can carry it back with you.”
He turned and looked at Bulla in the bleak moonlight.
“Why have you brought me here, centurion?”
“So you can sense what these men sense every day of their lives. So you can know what these men face for the glory of Rome.”
Bulla gazed back into the dark. “I do know—now. I didn’t until I came here. I’m not a foolish fat man, regardless of what you might think.”
“Your nephew is a brave man. I know that because he’s afraid now. You’re wise enough to know that bravery isn’t the absence of fear—it’s the conquest of fear.”
“Yes.”
“He could have chosen other routes to advancement, but he chose this. Remember this cold night when balmy Italian breezes fill your nostrils.”
“This might surprise you, but I will.”
“And don’t forget it when your head touches the pillow. When you close your eyes without worry because these men stand between you and savage races full of envy and hate.”
Bulla peered at him through the gloom. “You’re not what I expected.”
“I’m never what anyone expected.”
“I care about my nephew very much.”
“I know that.”
“Bring him back to me.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
“I know. And I’ll honor you for that.” He smiled. “So tell me, what was it like to hunt lions with the King of Judaea?”
“I don’t know.”
“You lied? No, I don’t believe it.”
“I never said I hunted lions with Herod. I said he asked me to.”
“You turned him down?” Bulla asked, laughing in disbelief.
“I was the last one in line when he moved down the rank. All the other soldiers were almost drooling after the honor. When he put the question to me, I said, ‘My lord, when I kill, it is not for pleasure but for Rome.’ He stared at me with those fearsome eyes—eyes that had felt so much pain and inflicted so much pain. Then I saw what I thought was the ghost of a smile, and he turned and left, followed by his parasites. I never saw him again.”
8
GREAT THINGS ARE NOT ACCOMPLISHED WITHOUT DANGER.
TERENTIUS
“Caesar thanks you for volunteering for this noble task!” Crus boomed from the makeshift wooden tribunal.
The Second Cohort exploded in laughter. The voices of almost five hundred men rolled out from the muddy training ground and across the Gallic countryside.
Crus knew that only one of them had volunteered. The other five centurions and the men of the six centuries would now march with that centurion to the edges of the Empire.
Even more astounding, they would willingly go with Crus. He could hardly believe it. A year earlier, they had sneered at him, when they thought of him at all. Now they would follow him across a wasteland. The greed and h
atred of a dead German barbarian had altered much in the tribune’s world, and he thanked the gods for it.
These men had changed as well. Crus gazed at them with affection and pride. Last year, they were unknown soldiers toiling in a distant outpost. Now they were the heroes of what was being called the battle of Scorpion Hill. An obscure Greek writer had jolted the people of the Tiber. Not just in the Senate, but in the taverns and byways his stunning story of the Twenty-fifth Legion was everyone’s favorite topic. In his ancestors’ tongue, Diocles of Rome had written a searing tale of valor and horror such as no one had read since Polybius. In the basilicas of the Forum, Sabinus, the young commander, was being touted for higher offices, though he seemed indifferent to the acclaim. Recruitment to the legions had jumped. Schoolboys spoke of the gallant Macer, struck down in battle. Of Probus—the Rock they called him—solid as Egyptian granite at the center of the battle line. Most of all, they chattered about a man who had requested that Diocles refer to him simply as “a centurion of the Second Cohort,” but the obstinate Greek had refused. Now in the alleys of Rome and in the fields of Latium, boys competed with each other to play the role of Rufio. The centurion himself received letters from aspiring soldiers and—according to Flavia—shockingly explicit erotic proposals from women eager to share themselves, much to the amazement of Rufio and the amusement of Flavia.
“Judaea is our ally,” Crus shouted to his men. “It guards our eastern gate. Wolves are sniffing there. The men of the Second Cohort hurry east now to prove that when our friend is threatened, we are threatened. And to show the wolves that they are not wolves at all—just toothless dogs when faced with the iron might of Rome.”
The men roared.
“One thing more,” Crus said. “You may have heard that Herod is a savage tyrant. Or half-mad with disease. No matter. We care not for his quirks. Mad beast or not, he’s on a Roman chain, and there he will remain.” Crus paused, and then said, “All right, you gentle souls, now you know where I stand. Tomorrow we face the inferno.”
Horses on the Storm Page 4
