9
NOW I KNOW WHAT LOVE COULD BE.
VIRGIL
I have performed brave deeds. I am not a silly little girl who would try to impress men by pretending I am weak. But there is one thing I do fear, and that is the displeasure of the man I love. So before beginning this thing called an ephemeris, I told him. At that moment I felt like a blushing child, rather than the woman who ignites him. I feared he would think I was keeping secrets. Oh, how much I have to learn. He smiled at me with pride and got me all the writing materials I need. Papyrus sheets are rare outside the fort. He gave me more than I could carry. And pens and ink. I told my dearest Vara and she was stunned. She said that no Sequani man would approve of this private chamber of the spirit. Even her beloved Adiatorix would scowl at such a notion. I am very young and I have not known many men, but I am old enough to know that Rufio is like none of them. So many are just jealous boys. Rufio's trust in me is so great it overwhelms me. And my love for him makes me feel I am about to burst.
“Dead?” Rufio said in surprise.
“Yes, centurion. Last spring.”
The look of loss in the servant’s eyes revealed the effect the departed woman still had in this stricken house.
“Please come in for refreshment,” the young man said.
“Why won’t you tell me where your master is? Do I have to search all of Ostia?”
“I truly don’t know. You may try the popina near the temple of Diana.”
“This early in the morning? Is he drinking too much again?”
The servant was silent.
“Tell him I’ll be back.” Rufio handed him a sestertius. “You’re a loyal servant. Bellator is a fortunate man.”
Rufio turned and walked away from the door.
The villa of Titus Manlius Bellator spread out from a small rise overlooking the sea. Behind the house, a pine woodland would grace the villa with the sweetest of scents when the onshore breeze began blowing in the evening. Rufio smiled at the memory of his old friend. For all his gruffness, Bellator had always had a softness for animals. The woods offered shelter to the deer and squirrels and rabbits he would surely sneak out to feed early in the morning.
Rufio turned toward the coast and sucked in the luscious smell of the sea. He knew if there was one way he was a typical Roman it was that he cared little for traveling by sea but loved gazing at it and inhaling its essence.
Bellator had a spot here to be envied by an Asiatic monarch, but now Aurelia was dead, and his aromatic villa had become a reeking necropolis.
Rufio walked down the road toward the center of town. For the first time in more than three years, his feet became dusty with Italian soil. He thought he had not missed Italy. Now he knew he had been wrong. And of the dozens of raucous ports he had sampled in his career, none did he enjoy more than Ostia. He inhaled deeply again and strolled out onto the Decumanus, the east-west road that traversed the city. From here he entered the core of the great pulsing organ that pumped food into the body of Rome.
Carts and wagons heavy with Egyptian wheat creaked along the massive basalt cobblestones of the Decumanus. Unlike Rome, where most wheeled traffic was forbidden during daylight to reduce congestion, Ostia exulted in its daytime commerce. The gray cobbles bore deep grooves ground into them by the relentless roll of iron-rimmed wheels. Foot travelers darted in and out of the flow with the nimbleness of butterflies fluttering among flowers. Faces of merchants and sailors from countless lands challenged even the cosmopolitan Rufio to identify their place of birth. It was as if Neptune had cupped a hand and swept it across the sea and dropped them here to give Ostia a vibrancy and texture unique in all of Italy.
Rufio bought two salted fish from a boy selling them out of a sack on his back and then made his way east. Women of several races lolled in the shade of balconies jutting from apartment buildings. Unlike most ports he had known, Ostia sported relatively few prostitutes, but these doubtful maidens gave him looks that needed no translation.
He turned left off the Decumanus and walked past a field recently cleared and where a foundation was now being laid, possibly for a theater, from the shape of it. He continued north and stepped into the welcome shade of a vine-covered portico fronting an open square of offices. In the center of the square rose a temple to Ceres, the goddess to whom the grain merchants headquartered here made special obeisance.
An intricate mosaic formed the pavement in front of one of the offices. Two black tile ships contrasted with the white background. A gangplank linked the vessels, and a man was passing from one ship to the other with an amphora hoisted to one shoulder. Rufio had found what he was seeking, and he went inside.
He was quickly disappointed.
“They all left on last night’s tide,” said the harried clerk to Rufio from behind the counter where he seemed to be conducting four conversations simultaneously with four impatient customers. “There aren’t any ships the size you need.”
“What size would that be?” said a voice from behind Rufio.
He turned to see a man looking at him from the doorway.
“How big a ship do you have?”
“You didn’t answer my question, soldier.”
Rufio smiled. He was wearing his usual bright blue tunic with a simple belt and no weapon, but this seaman saw beyond that.
“A full cohort.”
The gray-haired sailor scratched a cheek beneath a beard of silver wire. “And are you a generous man?”
“I trade in Caesar’s silver.”
“Ceres smiles on both of us. Let’s talk and eat.”
Fortunatus evidently felt that humility had no place in the world of the purveyor of fine food and wine. The pavement in front of his tiny tavern advertised his name in bold black and white mosaic, along with a figure of a cup and an invitation to come in and have a drink.
The soldier and the seaman sat at a small table inside and shared some spring water and some cool white wine from the Alban Hills. At other tables, Neptune’s slice of the human race carried on around them.
“Call me Salario.”
“You’re joking,” Rufio said with a laugh.
“No.”
“All right, Salty. Quintus Rufio. Twenty-fifth Legion.”
“Where are you headed?”
“Judaea.”
Salario winced. “Why?”
“The will of Caesar.”
“Rufio . . . ? Haven’t I heard of you?”
“How big a ship do you have?”
“A corbita.”
“Full size?” he asked in surprise. “Here?”
“Anchored far out. I can carry a thousand men.”
“I don’t understand. I’ve never seen one at Ostia before.”
“I just purchased it here from one of the shipping companies. We leave soon to buy Egyptian grain to feed the hungry mouths of Rome. You can help defray the cost of the voyage. We can catch the Etesians and go straight to Alexandria.”
“Originally I thought I’d have to get a corbita at Puteoli.”
“Now you can skip that. I can be ready in five days.”
“I need a week.”
“Done.”
“We haven’t talked about a price yet.”
“No landsman has ever been clever enough to cheat a seaman. And besides”—a grin creased the wind-seared face that was as leathery as dried venison—“I know honest eyes.”
Rufio smiled.
“I’ve never been swindled by a soldier. I don’t expect to be shorted now by the man who led the right wing at Scorpion Hill.”
Rufio sighed but said nothing.
Salario sipped his wine. “Do you know why I like Ostia so much?”
“I think you’re going to tell me whether I ask you to or not.”
“The exotic women. Gauls and Africans and Spaniards. They pass through here from all over the empire.” He was gazing past Rufio’s left shoulder. “That might be the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen in my life.”
Rufio turned and looked at the woman coming through the doorway.
“Don’t you agree?” Salario asked.
“How do I know? I don’t know how many women you’ve seen.”
“It doesn’t matter. Look at her. I’d like to perch her on my rod until it weeps no more.”
“Before you do, caress the cute little leaf-shaped mole behind her right knee.”
Salario squinted at him as if he were speaking a foreign tongue.
“Try it,” Rufio said. “It always makes her giggle like a child tickled with a feather.”
Suddenly Salario looked like someone had flung scalding water into his face.
“I’m so sorry.” Even his brown skin could not conceal the blush burning through. “I feel like a fool with three heads. Please forgive me.”
Flavia saw Rufio and smiled and rushed over, followed by Neko.
She wore a black tunic ending at mid-thigh and bunched at the waist by a belt holding a Roman soldier’s dagger at her right hip. The black leather bracer on her left wrist and the bronze torque around her right biceps finished off the outfit with the flourish of some mysterious outland. She strode into the room with those long and powerful legs, and every male present suddenly looked as if now he could die a happy man.
“One week from today at the shipping office,” Salario said to Rufio and rose from the stool and hurried toward the back door.
“What happened?” Flavia asked when she reached Rufio. She brushed some windblown hairs away from her eyes and stared after the retreating seaman. “That’s the first time a man has ever run from the sight of me.”
“He embarrassed himself with an impure thought.”
“I see.” A slow smile, wise beyond its years, warmed her eyes as she watched him go.
“Do you know you’re irresistible when you smile like that?”
She looked down at him, her smile deepening. “Yes.”
Rufio gestured and she and Neko sat down. He pushed the pitcher of wine toward them and gave Flavia his cup and handed Salario’s to Neko.
“Neko has been wonderful,” Flavia said excitedly. “He’s taken me on a tour of the city. The shops and the baths and the markets, and we fed deer in the pine woods and ate smoked fish by the sea”—she was almost breathless now—“and we saw Numidian jugglers and Persian magicians and . . . and just everything.”
Rufio smiled at Neko. “I owe my steward much.”
“Flavia is a student all teachers would envy.”
“What pine woods?” Rufio asked Neko. “Near Bellator’s?”
“Yes. A vacant villa close by.”
“Aurelia is dead.”
That startled Neko. “The world will mourn her.”
“And Bellator is drinking again.” He turned to Flavia. “My engineer.”
“He needed her,” Neko said. “She was the gentle and correcting hand.”
“Will he not go with us then?” Flavia asked.
“I haven’t found him yet.” He looked at Neko. “We have a ship to take us from here all the way to Alexandria. Buy the provisions and have them ready in a week. Don’t be frugal. Cheeses, cured meats, dried fruits—I want the best for the men. And all the wormwood wine you can find.” He pulled off his bronze and cornelian signet ring. “Use this if anyone questions you.”
A sly smile narrowed Neko’s eyes. “I’ll tell any skeptical trader that the silver is Caesar’s and is backed by the word of Rufio of Scorpion Hill.”
“Stop it. Where’s Paki?”
“Reclining in the cart outside. Serene as a queen.”
“Keep her with you. Flavia and I are going up to Rome.”
10
HE DENIES ANY PORTS ARE OPEN.
LIVIUS
Crus stood on the stone dock and supervised the loading of food. A half-dozen single-sailed boats, each about forty-five feet long, bobbed on the swell and creaked as the goods were transferred to them. The bow or stern of each boat was attached by a line to a mooring ring of carved volcanic rock jutting out from the dock. The tufa rings stopped the boats from smashing sideways into the pier.
Neko sat on a box and used a bigger crate for a desk and tallied everything with fanatical Egyptian precision. An endless line of wagons rattled toward the dock from the east.
“I’ve never seen one of those before,” Metellus said, staring out toward the deeper water where the grain ship was anchored. “It’s a monster.”
“We certainly won’t run out of food when we fill its belly,” Crus said.
“Tribune, why don’t you go up to Rome? I’ll stay here and handle this.”
Crus smiled. “I will when—.”
Hoofbeats interrupted him. Valerius was hurrying down the road toward them on horseback.
“Found him!” the optio shouted and pulled up in front of the dock.
Crus looked back at Metellus. “I’ll go once I’ve done this.”
The popina they were seeking was near the center of the city not far from the temple of Diana. Like many taverns, this one formed the ground floor of an apartment building. Over the entrance, brick arches reinforced by travertine brackets supported a balcony where lodgers could enjoy balmy evening breezes.
Several idlers sat on a pair of stone benches on either side of the doorway. Crus and Valerius passed them and entered the cool interior. To the left, just inside the entrance, squatted a massive chest-high counter faced with gray marble slabs, perhaps reclaimed from some demolished building. From here the tavern keeper doled out his wares. A couple of basins in an arched opening below the counter top were filled with water for washing dishes. Behind this counter were some shelves holding bread and a variety of fruits and vegetables.
Crus and Valerius went further inside. More marble shelving against a freestanding wall in the center held extra loaves and fruits. Above these and barely visible in the dimness hung a painting of grapes and radishes and olives, in case anyone was unsure what other delicacies were for sale.
Crus looked around. Opposite the entrance was another doorway on the south side of the tavern. Beyond this spread a sunny courtyard with mosaic paving and a fountain and stone benches for customers who preferred taking their refreshment outdoors.
“Over there,” Valerius said as he came up beside him.
In the shadows, near a wall separating the central room from what appeared to be a kitchen, a man of about fifty sat alone at a small table. A pitcher and cup were set before him, and he seemed to be staring into eternity.
“Centurion Bellator,” Crus said when he went over to him.
The man looked up. “Yes.”
“I’ll join you.” Crus grabbed a stool and sat opposite him.
Valerius took a position behind his tribune and stood in silence.
“Ulpius Crus. Twenty-fifth Legion.”
“Should I be impressed?”
Crus decided to ignore that. “Your old friend Rufio is looking for you.”
“I know. Why?”
Bellator’s round face was creased by a thousand suns, but the real decay lurked in his eyes, bleary and dull from wine and despair.
“The Second Cohort travels to the East to build a fort in Judaea. You’re an engineer. We need one.”
“I’m a drunkard.”
“I figured that out when I smelled the cheap wine.”
“You’re mistaken. It’s very expensive wine.”
“On the voyage from Massilia, Rufio told me how you once fought back to back outside a brothel in Antioch. How you had to drag two of your drunken men out and how in the moonlight you were attacked by a half-dozen Syrian thieves. And how you stood with your backs to each other and took them on and pounded them down.”
“Eight thieves it was,” Bellator said with the hint of a smile at the ancient memory.
“Your friend needs you again. I need you. And Rome needs you.”
Bellator took a sip from his cup and gazed into it.
“Well?”
“What would you have me say?
The one person who matters to me has escaped this ugly world. I have no fire left.”
Crus took a deep breath to calm his impatience. “Do you know the worst thing about a drunk? Not the drink. Not the stench. It’s the putrid self-pity.”
“Is that so?” he said and took another sip.
“You miserable sot! I cremated hundreds last year.”
“What’s going on there?” the popina owner said and rushed out from behind his counter.
“Stay where you are!” Valerius shouted.
The man stopped so quickly he skidded on the floor tiles.
“Now go about your business.” He looked down at Bellator. “The tribune is right. Self-pity smells like vomit.”
“Tribune?” He looked at Crus. “Wide stripe?”
“Yes.”
“And you?” Bellator asked, looking up. “You’re too young to be a centurion.”
“Optio.”
“You inspire loyalty, tribune. I like that.”
“Your men need you,” Crus said.
“My men? I’m not a soldier anymore.”
“A Roman soldier never stops being one.”
Crus was startled to see tears in the old fighter’s eyes.
Bellator turned away. “I weep too much these days.”
Crus said nothing.
Valerius removed the dagger and scabbard from his belt and laid them on the table next to Bellator’s hands. “A gift for your return.”
“You insulted me. How do you know I won’t stick it in you?”
“I didn’t survive ten thousand Germans by not being able to judge men.”
Crus stood up. “We leave on the Nones on the evening tide. Fortuna will be with us. Will you?”
Bellator looked down at the dagger in his hands. “Don’t tell Quintus you saw me this way. Let me live in his mind as a better memory than this.”
He rose and approached Valerius and handed him back the dagger. Then he touched the optio on the left shoulder and stepped around him and went out of the tavern and away.
11
Horses on the Storm Page 5
