YOUR GLORY AND FAME WILL ENDURE FOREVER.
VIRGIL
Rufio smiled as he watched Flavia stare in wonder. Rare is the moment in any man’s life when he can gaze at someone truly awestruck.
“Now you know,” he said to his Sequani huntress, “why all call Rome the Head of the World.”
The marble buildings of the Forum loomed before them and seemed to roll out eastward to the edge of the earth.
Flavia stood with parted lips and in silence.
To their right towered the Basilica Julia.
“What is that?” Flavia asked.
“Law courts,” Rufio said above the noise of the hundreds of people who swarmed throughout the Forum.
Over a dozen columns rose from the north side of the building to support the enormous roof.
Flavia drifted to the marble steps.
“Why are all those people there?” She pointed to the young men lounging around outside the basilica.
“Some are clients waiting for their patrons conducting business inside. Some are just layabouts looking for vice.”
At several places along the hundreds of feet of steps, round depressions had been carved directly into the marble in regular patterns. At each set of markings, two players were pushing pebbles around the different spots. Flavia pointed to them and looked questioningly at Rufio.
“Game boards they chiseled there to pass the time. It’s called latrunculi. A strategy game.”
“Do you mean war?”
“In a sense.”
“Do you play it?”
“Better than these wastrels.”
Flavia smiled and looked to the opposite side of the Forum.
“The Curia,” Rufio said. “Where the Senate meets.”
“Those doors are big enough to admit the gods.”
“The senators wouldn’t disagree.”
“And that?” She gestured to the right of the Curia.
“The Basilica Aemilia.”
She wandered down toward the elegant shops on the ground floor of the basilica.
Rufio hoisted to his right shoulder the sack holding their change of clothes and followed her. So enraptured was she that she never noticed the commotion she was causing. This forest creature with the well filled out green tunic and the black leather trousers was drawing the attention of hundreds of pairs of eyes.
Rufio bought some dried figs from a fruit seller, and Flavia chewed on them absently as she took in the wonders about her.
“This way,” he said, and they approached a magnificent marble temple in the center of the Forum. A semi-circular alcove had been fashioned into the base of it at ground level. A white marble altar filled the niche. “Look back that way.”
She turned and faced the direction from which they had come.
“That’s the rostra,” he said, pointing to a raised stone platform decorated with the prows of old ships sticking out of it. “Antonius gave his eulogy there over the body of Caesar. The people were so overcome with grief they seized Caesar’s body and cremated him right in the Forum.” He turned around and pointed to the altar. “Here.”
She stepped back as if she feared to stand on sacred ground.
“It was here,” he said, “that Caesar rose to the heavens.”
“From this altar?”
“Oh, no. There was no altar then. No temple. Augustus built them later to Caesar’s memory. People tore off parts of their clothes here to feed the pyre. They went mad with anguish over the fallen man.”
Flavia stared at the altar and then reached out and took Rufio’s left hand and squeezed it.
“You are his heir, my love. No, don’t say anything.” She turned and looked back toward the basilicas. A warm afternoon breeze blew down between the buildings and fluttered the hair hanging halfway down her back. “This is all because of you. You and Valerius and Metellus and thousands of others.”
Rufio remained silent.
“All the freedoms these people have. All the pleasures. Even those lying about on the steps over there and looking for young boys to fondle. Yes, I know the type—don’t be shocked. All are free because of you. And here you are in their midst and they don’t even know it. Well, I know it, and I don’t care what any of these blind men think. After all, I’m only a barbarian.”
She slid her right arm around his neck and kissed him as passionately as if they were alone in their bed.
Several boys nearby whooped when they saw it, and dozens of older men stared in disbelief.
Flavia smiled her devastating smile. “Let them burst with envy.”
Rufio took a moment to catch his breath. “All right, my untamed one, give me your dagger now. We don’t want to be sporting any weapons where we’re going.”
She removed the sheath and dagger from her belt and handed it to him.
He tucked it into the clothes sack. “This way.”
They went around the clusters of people and past the south side of Caesar’s temple and through the arch of Augustus.
“Why is that one so small?” Flavia pointed to a circular temple just beyond the arch.
“Yes, it’s small but none is more important. That’s the temple of Vesta. She’s the goddess of the hearth. Her flame burns there continually. It’s the fire of Rome itself. The virgins vowed to her service live there. They must never allow the flame to go out.”
“There’s something I don’t understand. Where are all the soldiers?”
“What soldiers?”
“The legionaries.”
“There aren’t any legionaries in Rome. Not on duty anyway. It’s illegal for a commander to lead his troops within the city limits.”
“But what about Augustus?”
“What about him?”
“Who protects him?”
“He has some praetorian guards.”
“That’s enough?”
“Yes.” He pointed past the temple of Vesta. “That hill is the Palatinum. He lives there. We’re going to climb it.”
“To see Augustus?” she asked in amazement.
Rufio laughed. “No, I think he’s too busy to chat with us today. The south summit of the hill is a great vantage point. Come on. I’m going to show you something you’ll remember for the rest of your life.”
12
HOWEVER BRIEF LIFE IS, IT IS LONG ENOUGH FOR LIVING WELL.
CICERO
The trusting squirrel sat on Bellator’s left knee and took a piece of apple from his fingers. Her swollen nipples showed that she had little ones waiting, but the milk maker needed nourishment. Every day she looked for her friend here in the cool woods. With the guilelessness of animals everywhere, she always expected he would be here. And he always was.
Bellator smiled at her. With her hanging teats, she represented more than motherhood. She symbolized tomorrow. She embodied hope.
Sated now, she lay splayed on his leg and rested her chin on his knee.
“All right, mother, they’re waiting.” He reached down and she let him scratch behind her head. Then she was scurrying off toward a tall pine known only to her, where her babies huddled in a hollow and waited impatiently.
“You’re losing your edge, centurion,” said a voice from behind him. “Letting someone come up on you unaware.”
“No, I’m not,” Bellator answered without turning around. “I heard you. But whatever you’re doing isn’t as important as what I’m doing.” He looked around. “And you are?”
“Metellus. Second Cohort, Twenty-five Rapax.”
Bellator pointed to the bed of dead pine needles all around him. “Have a seat in my throne room.”
Metellus sat opposite him and folded his forearms across his knees.
“Well?” Bellator said. “Did you come here to stare?”
“You don’t look like you’re drunk. But from the way you’re shaking, I’d say your body is screaming for the grape.”
“So?”
“You’re trying to give it up, aren’t you?”
&nbs
p; “The only thing I’ve ever given up is life.”
“A minute ago you sat here nurturing it.”
Bellator said nothing.
“Let’s talk about the man I follow in battle. Will you do that?”
“Talk.”
“He isn’t just some officer. You know that. He’s a leader like no other I’ve ever known. And what I owe him is beyond comprehension. I owe him my life and the life of the woman I love and the little girl I’m rearing as my own. It’s important you understand that.”
“All right.”
“Sometimes he’s like a father to me. Sometimes a tyrannical older brother. In rare moments, even like a mother. I don’t pretend to understand him completely. Or even half. But I’d rip my heart out of my chest and give it to him if he asked me for it.”
“Real leadership has a mystical power that defies understanding. Now you’ve learned that.”
Metellus laughed. “Now you’ve learned that. That’s a line Rufio uses.”
“I know.”
“Will you join us?”
“Why is it important to you?”
“It’s important to him. He values your abilities.”
“He doesn’t need them. I’ve never seen a problem Rufio couldn’t bite in half and swallow. He’s the most intuitive soldier alive. I don’t know where he gets it. Whether it’s a natural talent or an acquired skill. Or simply a gift from Mars.”
“I doubt if even he knows.”
“But you must have seen it. If you or I walk onto a patch of ground, we see a patch of ground. Rufio sees a battlefield. Instantly. Without thought. We see grass and hills. He sees the clash of armies—battle lines and anchoring points and ballista positions. It’s like a child staring at the clouds and suddenly seeing a horse or a butterfly. Rufio glances at a swath of turf and immediately sees places to charge from or pivot or turn a flank. Trust me, signifer, he doesn’t need Bellator.”
“Then do it for friendship. I’m asking you to reach back and find within yourself the strength to give him what he’s asking for.”
Bellator smiled. “The love of one soldier for another is something no civilian can ever comprehend.”
Metellus remained quiet.
“Have you ever been to northern Italy, soldier? There’s a town there named Julia Augusta. Before that it was just called Julia, after Caesar’s clan. He named it that to honor the soldiers from there who helped him conquer Gaul. Originally it was called Parmula. It’s in the hills.” He stretched out and leaned back on one elbow and stared off into the woods. “The farmers produce a special kind of ham there. Unique in all the Empire. They feed the hogs whey left over from cheese making. They mix in grains, too, but it’s mostly the whey. It produces the sweetest ham on earth. The farmers don’t slaughter the hogs until they’re the biggest they can get. That’s when the meat is densest and the most flavorful. But they don’t cook the hams or smoke them. They salt them and air cure them. They hang them in their farmhouses with the windows open and they wait. They swear the special sweet air in that region is responsible for the flavor of their hams. Maybe they’re right.” Bellator brought his gaze back to Metellus. “Are you hungry yet?”
“Are you joking? I’m already tasting those hams.”
“No you’re not. You have no idea. The farmers let the hams hang for over a year. They check them continually. And when they’re ready, it’s as if Jupiter has brought forth a new creation.” Bellator paused, then said, “The hams of Parmula are the favorite food of Quintus Flavius Rufio. When we went off to Syria together, we brought two dozen with us. Can you imagine that?”
Metellus smiled. “Go on.”
“They don’t spoil, so they’re perfect for the desert. We doled out slices to our friends like slabs of gold. But we didn’t have any wine good enough to set off a Parmula ham. Have you ever drunk Syrian wine? Sheep piss. Then we heard of a centurion from another cohort who had his own private wine stock. He’d brought it all the way from Etruria. Even stored it in a cave to keep it cool. Now we had our plan.” He laughed. “We were young and had the arrogance of young men. We didn’t try to buy some of his wine—we seduced him with the ham! Syrian lamb was no competition. After you’ve been in the East a while, the allure of lamb runs its course. Soon just the smell of it makes you want to vomit. We knew the centurion could never resist the Italian hog. So now we had all the good wine we could drink.” Bellator sat up, but he stared beyond Metellus at a distant memory.
“Tell me the rest,” Metellus said.
“One spring evening, Quintus and I were lying on the edge of a dry wash outside the fort. We were eating ham and drinking Etrurian wine and gazing at the stars. Except for my times with my wife, there was no other moment in my life like that night. Two friends quiet and happy in a perfect world. I’ve been thinking about that night often lately—and long before you and your arrogant tribune rose like serpents from a hole to annoy me. Rufio will tell you he hates the desert. He does not. The only people who hate the desert are those who have never seen it. He yearns for it still. Do you know that?”
“Why?”
“For its precision and its purity. So when he was posted elsewhere and had to leave it, he left it like a rejected lover. But he never hated it, no matter what he says now. He hated only its absence. The loss of its cutting beauty. And I’m as certain as I can be that he thinks as often as I do of that night along the wash. Ham and wine and a soft breeze and two good comrades under the desert stars.”
Bellator stood up slowly and stretched his aging joints. “Come to my home, Metellus of Twenty-five Rapax, and let me feed you now.”
13
A WOMAN IS ALWAYS FICKLE AND CHANGEABLE.
VIRGIL
The huge ellipse of the Circus Maximus shook with a titanic roar when the chariots burst from the starting gates. The entire Palatinum vibrated beneath Flavia’s feet in the fury of the crowd’s excitement. At the summit of the hill, she gazed down in stupefaction at a spectacle incomprehensible to someone reared in a hut in the wilderness of Gaul.
A dozen four-horse chariots thundered along the track. Tens of thousands of fans waved ribbons of red or white to match the tunic colors of their favorites. Out of the gate, each charioteer stayed in his own chalk-lined lane. The drivers were tearing through the sand toward a perpendicular white stripe that cut across the arena at the beginning of the central barrier. When the first three drivers reached it, they seemed to explode out of the pack. Now they could abandon their lanes and bolt toward the inner edge, the shortest route around the track.
“Oh!” Flavia shrieked and grabbed Rufio’s arm when the four dozen horses dashed across the break-line and converged on the prized inner lane. By a mixture of magic and skill, none of them crashed.
“Look at the horses!” Flavia shouted. “They’re magnificent!”
Two whites and a red had pulled from the pack by the time they approached the three enormous cones at the end of the central barrier. Cut from volcanic stone and decorated with sheets of bronze, the triple posts marked the far turn.
“No!” Flavia screamed. “They’re going to crash!”
All three chariots sailed into the turn at impossible speeds. In what was nothing more than a controlled skid, each chariot swung wildly around the pivot point and seemed headed for the mouth of Hell. The red hit a bump in the track and the feather-light leather and wooden vehicle left the ground. It smashed back down hard. The driver lost control of the reins, but the four straps had been looped and knotted around his waist, and he soon regained command.
“I can’t watch,” Flavia said and jerked her head away.
Rufio smiled. “Have you ever seen such horses as these?”
She could not resist and turned back.
The three in the lead had widened the distance from the other nine. They raced to the near turn and the end of the first lap.
“How many times around?” Flavia shouted.
“Seven.”
“I can’t bear it
,” she said but could not pull her eyes away.
The red and the two whites swept around the three towering cones at the near turn and roared into the second lap.
Flavia dug her fingers into Rufio’s right arm and was still gripping him by the time the charioteers had made five more circuits.
Flavia’s chest was heaving now, as if she were running with the horses.
“Look!” she yelled when the red driver and his four stunning black steeds broke from the two whites and tore toward the finish. The horses glistened in the sunlight and every shiny muscle seemed to crackle with lightning.
“Go!” she shouted when the red raced to victory.
The cheers of his fans shook the walls of the entire valley.
Flavia leaned against Rufio. She was as limp as if she had run the seven courses herself.
“There’s some talk of increasing the number of color teams,” Rufio said. “Adding greens and blues. But it hasn’t happened yet.”
“What is that channel for?” she asked when she had regained her breath. She pointed to the ten-foot wide water canal running around the edge of the track.
“To keep wild animals from jumping into the seats. Sometimes beast hunts are staged here.”
“Are there more races today?”
“Oh, yes. A full tablet is about two dozen. When we come back from Judaea, I’m going to give the men a month’s leave. You and I will stay in Rome. We’ll come to the races so often even the horses will recognize us.”
Flavia smiled. “You know how much I love them.”
“We’ll see them close, touch them and smell them. And we’ll walk the track and even meet some of the charioteers.”
“Could we do that? Are they famous?”
“Very famous. Most of them are slaves, and many are rich. They’ll buy their freedom someday. I know the driver who won today. He’s a German. He belongs to the household of a senator I know. The senator’s son served as a military tribune with me in Spain.” He turned and pointed across the circus to the hill opposite. “That’s where we’re going now. The Aventinus.”
Horses on the Storm Page 6
