Rufio went up to the wagon. A bronze helmet lay on the seat beside Metellus.
“A gift for you,” Metellus said. “I was told to deliver it myself.”
Rufio hefted it, a battered relic from a dozen campaigns. He smiled as he ran his fingers over it. “See this?” He pointed to a deep dent across the left brow. “A smelly Syrian bandit did that. His blade would have cut through the bronze had it not been for a black-haired young optio who partially blocked it. And then spilled the Syrian’s entrails onto the desert sand.”
“He said that maybe it would protect you the way you had protected him that day.”
“What’s all that?” Rufio pointed to the back of the wagon.
“More gifts.” Metellus whipped off the cloth covering.
“I don’t believe it!” Rufio said with the smile of vanished youth.
The wagon was filled with Parmula hams.
“He said you’ll have to supply your own Etrurian wine.”
Rufio touched one of the hams encased in netting, and then without another word turned and walked off toward the edge of the dock. He sat back down on the rope coil and smiled to himself as years of his past life rolled across his mind.
Metellus came over and sat on the stone dock beside him.
“I tried,” the signifer said.
“I know.”
“I’m certain he wanted to come. I’m just as sure he didn’t want you to see him as a lesser man.”
“A drunken soldier is better than most of the civilians I’ve known. And a half-broken Bellator is better than all of them.”
“He’s ashamed.”
“He always trusted me before. I wish he could do it again.”
“I think he does. He doesn’t trust himself.”
Rufio looked back toward the land as the cool air caressed his face. “The onshore breeze is starting. This is my favorite time of day.”
He stood up and walked away with a stride that told Metellus not to follow.
15
HE WHO AIMS TO REACH THE GOAL FIRST BEARS AND DOES MANY THINGS.
HORACE
“One hundred and eighty feet,” Salario said in answer to the tribune’s question about the length of the ship. “Almost fifty at the beam.”
Crus gazed forward from the stern. Most of the men of the Second Cohort were aboard now and claiming deck space. The hold was usually given over entirely to cargo, so all the sailors and passengers slept on deck. The single deck cabin near the stern was shared by Salario and his sailing master. From the farthest part of the rear deck rose a great gilded goose head.
Crus strolled forward. The huge square mainsail loomed above him at mid-deck. Furled now, it would soon be dropped to gather in the winds that would carry them to the East. Above it rose a triangular topsail for snatching any helpful wayward breezes high up. A small squaresail at the bow helped to maneuver the sea-going monster.
“Careful with that!” boomed a voice from amidships.
Crus saw Bellator standing on deck and directing a half-dozen sailors struggling with amphoras.
“Wine is the blood of Jupiter,” he shouted at them. “Spill it and die.”
“Now isn’t that a sight?” Rufio said, coming up behind Crus.
Bellator hefted his gear onto his shoulder and approached the tribune and centurion.
“I have a few months to waste,” he said and dropped his equipment at his feet.
Crus turned to Rufio. The centurion’s face was as hard as a baked tile.
“Do you expect a trumpet blast in welcome?” he said to the engineer. “Find some deck space and see me when I’m not busy.”
Rufio brushed past him and called out to Valerius on the crowded foredeck.
“That’s what I’ve always yearned for in him,” Bellator said. “His tenderness.”
“Welcome,” Crus said.
“Rome called. I’m here.”
“And the tavern incident?”
“Don’t apologize.”
“I have no intention of doing so.”
“Good. It’s unworthy of a patrician. Let’s move on.”
“We’ve moved.”
Bellator turned to the sun dropping toward its nightly dip in the sea. “I like embarking on the evening tide. The cool night wind always brings adventure.”
“Find a place. We’ll talk later.”
Crus joined Rufio forward.
The soldiers had set out their equipment and other belongings as neatly as if the deck were the ground of a marching camp.
“I was going to pitch the tents,” Rufio said. “It’s not uncommon for passengers to do that—but Salario doesn’t want all those holes in his deck. We’ll pray for fair weather.”
Crus noticed that several of the men already looked pale just from the gentle pitching of the ship at anchor.
“Time to bring out the wormwood wine?”
“Yes,” Rufio said, looking at the pasty faces. “It won’t settle every stomach, but it’ll help.”
“What’s your measure of Salario?”
“He seems as honest as any of these water rats.”
“But as a sailor?”
“It won’t matter much. His gubernator is the real sailing master. He’ll tuck us in the arms of the Etesians if he’s any good. That’s him over there.”
A tall man, as lean as leather, shouted orders and curses from amidships.
“The sailors look like they want to kill him,” Crus said.
“Maybe they will someday. Seamen are a sour lot. I wouldn’t trust them to carry a dead dog.”
Crus smiled. “I noticed we’re riding low in the water. Didn’t Salario say he had no cargo?”
“He found some at the last minute. The crew of the ship that was supposed to take it rioted over something. The idiots almost burned down their own vessel. The traders were happy to find Salario.”
“I’m sure he squeezed every coin out of them.”
“Until they yelped. We’re standing above nine thousand amphoras of olive oil and wine.”
“Well, we won’t go dry,” Crus said with a smile.
“Salario gets double payment—our passage and the cost of shipping the cargo. I think he can spare a cup or two for the fighting men of Rome.”
Salario seems like a nice man. He is not an Italian but a Greek freedman who works for a rich man in Neapolis. He offered me his cabin for the entire voyage, but I sleep only next to my Rufio. I am writing this before the sun goes down on the evening we are leaving. Some of the soldiers are already seasick even though we are still at anchor. I am not surprised. The smell of wet wood and musty cloth gags me. The swaying of the ship makes me feel as if my meal wants to jump out of my belly. The sun is very low and I am having difficulty seeing well enough to write. Salario is about to sacrifice a chicken to ensure that the portents are good. I am certain he hopes they are. He is eager to sail.
“It’s good to be at sea again,” Bellator said as the corbita plowed through the darkness. “Nothing more purifying than the salt air.”
“Mmmmm,” Rufio murmured.
“You don’t agree?”
“You know I don’t agree. I’d rather have dirt under my feet.”
“Even the sand of Judaea?”
Rufio laughed. “Even Judaea.”
The two men stood alone at the bow and let the onrushing night wind buffet their faces.
“Why did you change your mind?”
“Metellus. He made my self-pity seem so vile I couldn’t stand the sight of myself. I thought a sea breeze and a desert baking could scour me clean.”
Rufio leaned sideways against the rail. “He’s one of my best officers.”
“The smartest, too, I’ll wager.”
“In some ways, in others not. He’s keen to the follies of men.”
“And on the battlefield?”
“As brave as Scipio. But so is Valerius. And my optio is sharper in the ways of soldiering. He can size up terrain or whip together a battle line with har
dly a thought. So they complement each other.”
“Fortunate for you.”
“Fortuna had nothing to do with it.”
“Victoria?”
“Of course.”
“We’re going to need all the help she wants to give us.”
Rufio turned and stared ahead into the blackness. “I know.” He sighed. “Judaea. Jupiter’s joke on the human race.”
16
EQUALS MOST EASILY CONGREGATE WITH EQUALS.
CICERO
Life aboard this ship is strange. The sailors are hard men, but it is not the hardness of soldiers. They seem to be castoffs of the most frightful kind. Many are runaway slaves who have been caught and branded on the face, only to escape again. They know and resent the fact that they have no standing among people of the land. The work here is brutal and dangerous and only the desperate would choose it. They hate the soldiers, who are paid better and eat better. Salario provides us no food, only water, so we have brought our own. The seamen eat their morsels and scowl at us. The soldiers do not notice. To them the sailors are as invisible as fleas on a dog.
The crew are harsh to each other. They rarely use real names. They call each other by cruel nicknames that point to some physical deformity. I have heard crewmen called Limper, Blinky, and Stump. There is one boy of about eighteen who has had a terrible infection in his face. It left a deep hole. Other sailors callously call him Pus. There is even one who is called One Ball, though how anyone can vouch for that I cannot guess.
“So that’s it,” Crus said, finishing up a summary of the few crumbs of information provided by Bulla.
The five other centurions of the Second Cohort had joined Rufio and Valerius and Bellator. They sat in a small circle on the foredeck.
“Agrippa didn’t even hint where he wanted the fort built?” Bellator asked.
“In the south,” Crus said.
“That’s like saying, ‘Somewhere on earth.’ ”
“There’s been bandit activity south of a place called Hebron. In some town near the edge of the wilderness. Agrippa thinks the bandits might actually be Parthians probing.”
“Is it near that stinking toxic sea?” Bellator asked, turning to Rufio.
“Not too far from it,” the centurion said.
Bellator squinted into the afternoon sun as if he suddenly resented its rays. “The armpit of the world.”
“It has its own beauty,” Rufio said.
“Can we build a fort there?” Crus asked.
“If we can find water and materials,” Bellator said. “We’ll have to scout the area.”
“We’ll need Herod’s blessing in any case,” Rufio said. “We’ll stop in Jerusalem and ask him for his suggestions.”
“The king himself?” Valerius asked in surprise.
“Certainly,” Rufio said. “He’s from the area south of there called Idumaea.”
“That should be entertaining,” Bellator said. “Annoy the old bastard right in his own lair.”
“Why not?” Rufio smiled. “He’s going to resent us anyway. Let’s give him reason.”
After the meeting ended, Rufio watched Bellator drift away by himself. Rufio gave him a few minutes of privacy and then joined him amidships. Bellator had the look Rufio had not seen in years. The engineer leaned against the rail and stared toward the setting sun, but Rufio knew his mind was focused inward. Bellator was always happiest when taunted by a challenge. Now he was invigorated. He even looked younger, though the wet air had aggravated an old injury and his limp had returned.
“What do you think?” Rufio asked.
“It’s a problem with a hundred mysteries. The terrain, the enemy, water, materials.”
“And Herod.”
“Oh, yes. That old wolf isn’t going to want us there.”
“But he won’t defy Rome.”
Bellator smiled. “It’ll be nice to watch him have to swallow sand for once.”
“Herod is supposed to supply us with troops.”
“Why?”
“If a major Parthian force sweeps out of the desert, we’ll need cavalry.”
“I have no confidence in Judaeans.”
“They’re very tough. You know that.”
“They fight like Gauls. They ignore their commanders all the time. Even in battle.”
“If they desert, they’ll do so only once.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because if they challenge the authority of Rome, I’ll hunt them down and kill them.”
Bellator nodded and turned back to the sea. “Tell me about Crus.”
“He fought with valor along the Rhenus.”
“So did thousands of others. Tell me more.”
Rufio smiled. He loved Bellator’s cranky persistence. When he wanted to know something, he was as relentless as an insect boring through wood.
“He has potential he doesn’t even know he has.”
“Brave?”
“Without question.”
“Honorable?”
“As you.”
“Well, I don’t know I’d consider that a sweetener.”
“True enough, you bitter weed.”
Bellator burst out laughing. “Oh, Quintus, where have all the years gone?”
“To the service of Rome.”
“Amazing that we should be sailing together again. A pair of old dock rats escaping the rancid shore.”
“The gods have their ways.”
“I think not. They abandoned me long ago.”
“Don’t even consider that possibility,” Rufio said.
“We cannot relive our youth.”
“We should never even try.”
“Do you regret anything?” Bellator asked.
“Only folly.”
Bellator gazed at the water. Suddenly he lost the energy he had just a moment before. His eyes looked weary and forlorn. “When I was young, I had hoped to do great things. Now?” He seemed to sag a bit inside his own flesh. “Now, I’ll be happy simply to die without dishonor.”
Few human experiences are more soothing than a peaceful evening on a peaceful sea. Flavia stood at the bow and let the cool breeze caress her. She turned and saw Neko straightening up Rufio's gear in the area on the deck where he slept. She waved to get his attention and then gestured for him to come to her.
Neko joined her at the front of the ship.
“Be with me for a while?” she asked.
The Egyptian bowed slightly. “Your desire is my desire.”
She pointed to a spot on the deck. He dropped down and she sat opposite.
“Can you tell me about Spain?”
“I don’t understand your question.”
“What Rufio suffered there.”
“Many trials. Many sufferings.”
“I mean a suffering of the heart.”
“Ah, yes.”
“There was a woman. I know that.”
“Yes.”
“And she died.”
“Yes.”
“Did he love her?”
“No.”
Flavia gazed into the dark-skinned face that seemed incapable of deceit.
“No,” Neko said again. “As far as I know, he has never loved any woman but you.”
“Then why did he suffer so?”
“He was at the edge of love. The way a sailor stands on the shore of the sea before embarking on a sunny day. And then a terrible storm erupts and lightning flashes and his ship capsizes and all are drowned.”
“Oh, Neko . . . Tell me.”
“She was a Cantabri woman. A widow with a baby boy. A spark had flashed between Rufio and her. And that spark has flashed rarely in Rufio’s life. But a fever struck her down. The baby, too. He died first, though she did not know it. When she was burning up on her deathbed, she asked Rufio about her boy. Rufio lied and said he was well. She asked Rufio to rear him to manhood. He promised he would. She smiled and died in his arms. Shortly after that, he volunteered for a dangerous journe
y and was ambushed and almost died.”
Flavia could feel the tears in her eyes and turned away.
“I have never seen Flavia weep. Do not weep now. Rufio would not want it.”
She sniffed and ran her hands across her eyebrows and looked back at Neko. “Thank you for telling me.”
But Neko did not move. “May I help you now?”
She stared at him uncertainly.
“You may tell me.”
She moistened her lips. “I want so much to give him a son.”
“Perhaps one day you shall.”
“I don’t think I can. We have been together many times. But nothing.”
Neko remained silent.
“I feel so empty sometimes because of it.”
Neko extended his right hand in invitation to her.
She slipped her fingers into his.
“Do not weep for that,” he said with a gentleness that could have stilled the sea.
“Why?”
“Rufio does not need a son. I doubt that he would want one. He is unlike other men. He does not desire to live another life through his offspring, as most men do. He has fought and laughed and struggled through far too full a life to want to live another through a son. And think of the boy. Growing up in the shadow of Rufio?” Neko shook his head. “Do not weep for that.”
Still holding his right hand, she laid her left hand on both of theirs.
“Thank you, my dear friend,” she whispered. “Stay with us always.”
“I have no other life. Nor do I want one.”
17
WE ARE BETTER ABLE TO WIN WITH PLANNING THAN WITH ANGER.
PUBLILIUS SYRUS
Rufio smiled at Paki. Like all cats, she was impervious to seasickness. When not prowling the hold below for mice, she could often be seen prancing about the deck or curled up with his gear and taking one of the thirty or forty naps she managed to squeeze into a day. At other times, she gazed curiously at the numerous soldiers ejecting their most recent meal over the side of the ship. Now she lay languidly on the centurion’s red cloak and was trying to see how long she could make herself with an enormous stretch.
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