Crus looked away toward the orange disc about to slide into the sea. “This isn’t as simple as I’d hoped.”
“Nothing is as simple as people hope.”
Crus turned back to Rufio. “Go on.”
“The third is as difficult as bending cold steel. If you decide not to move, you have to portray it as an aggressive act. Your enemy must see it as a taunt. Under no circumstances can he be allowed to think it’s timidity or weakness. Even a decision not to move forward must be seen as an act of defiance.”
“I can’t even begin to imagine how to do that.”
“Remember when Barovistus murdered the three Roman traders? The legion refused to give battle over that. He knew we weren’t afraid. Sabinus threw dirt in his face and he had to swallow it.”
“So Barovistus raised the stakes and attacked the Sequani village.”
“Yes. By refusing to act, we defied him. He knew it wasn’t fear. Our inaction was a challenge and it infuriated him. So we drew him out. And then we destroyed him.”
“These get harder as we go. I’m happy there are only five.”
“I told you—there are hundreds. But five will do.”
“Proceed.”
“The fourth is a simple one. Never buy the same vineyard twice.”
Crus frowned and searched Rufio’s eyes for meaning. “Explain.”
“When you’ve smashed your enemy, never pull back. Never let him regroup and retake the field. If you have to spill your men’s blood twice for the same soil, you insult the gods who protect you and betray the men who serve you. Victoria will spurn you and your men will loathe you. Then you have no choice but to fall on your sword.”
“Oh, yes,” Crus said with a sigh. “Such a very simple principle.”
“I’ve saved the most vital for last.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“Even if you forget the first four, remember this one. It’s more important than all the others combined.”
“Tell me.”
“Chisel this into your soul: Authority is never something you’re given—you have to take it.”
Crus gazed in silence at Rufio, who had embodied that principle in his frightening decision to pivot the entire right wing of the legion at the Hill of Scorpions. And with it, annihilate the Suebi horde.
“Thank you,” Crus said and laid his right hand on Rufio’s left shoulder. “I fear I was never meant to be a soldier.”
“None of us can truly know what the gods intend for us.”
“I thank them that you are here.”
Rufio said nothing.
Crus turned away and gazed out to sea. “I just wish I could have your confidence.”
Rufio smiled. “You’re too young for that. It takes many years.”
“Of fighting?”
“Of fighting. And of living.”
“Philosophers talk about everything except what’s important,” Crus said with a touch of annoyance. “Why can’t they talk about that?”
“I don’t understand. About what?”
“About confidence. About where it comes from. Or even what it is.”
“You should never ask a philosopher that.”
“Then whom should I ask?”
“Isn’t it obvious? A soldier.”
He turned back from the sea. “All right, I’m asking.”
“Tribune, confidence is the plainest and calmest thing in the world. And the rarest. . . .”
“And what is it?”
“Confidence is simply knowing that you’re capable of dealing with the unthinkable.”
Crus stared at him in silence for a long time.
“Speak to the men now,“ Rufio said at last.
Crus looked alarmed. “I haven’t prepared anything.”
“That’s the perfect time. Speak from the soul.”
“Our task is simple,” Crus said to the men of the Second Cohort. “Destroy these pirates.”
Awash in moonlight, the soldiers sat in neat ranks and files on the deck.
“If we don’t surrender, they’ll sink this vessel. Romans don’t surrender to thieves. Show them that the reach of Rome is greater than they can comprehend. A single cohort adrift in a ship on the Great Sea is still the arm of Caesar. Flex the muscles of that arm and sweep these vermin from the earth.” Crus looked at Rufio. “Centurion!”
Rufio rose from the first rank and stood before his men, while Crus stepped to the side.
“Expect them tomorrow,” Rufio said. “I know your centurions have explained our tactics to you. Just consider the deck of the enemy ship another battlefield. Fight as you would on land. I’ll lead the first and third centuries across. Tribune Crus will follow with the second and fourth in reserve. The fifth and sixth will guard this vessel. Spare any man who submits, and kill any leaders you see. They’ll be dressed no differently than their men, so cut down anyone who even looks like he might be giving a command. Sleep well and remember that for them it will be their last sleep before they’re swallowed by the waters of Acheron.”
Flavia stood with Rufio by Salario’s deck cabin near the stern.
“Salario offered us the use of his quarters for the night,” Rufio said.
“Do you want to?”
“No.”
She slid her arms around him. “Neither do I. Just hold me.”
He kissed her on top of her head. “I don’t have to tell you to stay on this ship tomorrow, do I? I have enough warriors.”
She nestled her head in the hollow of his shoulder. “Have I ever disobeyed you?”
“Yes.”
He could feel her shake with a soft laugh.
“I promise.”
“Look at me.”
She gazed up at him.
He pressed his lips to each of her eyebrows.
“I love when you do that,” she said dreamily.
He smiled. “I know.”
20
HE WHO SPARES THE WICKED HARMS THE RIGHTEOUS.
PUBLILIUS SYRUS
“Ship!” one of the lookouts shouted.
The first pink light of a misty dawn was just now sliding across the sea.
Already in full armor, Rufio ran to the stern. Beakless was manning the steering oars, and Crus arrived next to them in an instant.
“A bireme,” Rufio said. “I’ll wager it’s one of our wrecks that’s been refitted.”
“Look how fast she moves,” Crus said. “She’ll be on us quickly.”
“It’s time.” Rufio turned and rejoined his men.
Having been up since an hour before dawn, the soldiers of the Second Cohort had already eaten their breakfast of wheat porridge and dried fruits and were now pulling on their mail loricas. The sword and dagger belts followed, and then the bronze helmets.
Rufio took his place at the head of them.
“You know the plan,” he said without preliminaries. “As usual, there are only three things to do. Remember your training, follow your centurions, and look to your comrades. Victory will follow.” He smiled at the men who were now as much a part of him as his own skeleton. “And remember, I am with you always.”
The pride and the loyalty he saw in the eyes fixed on him would have made Caesar weep.
“Ready now,” he said, and then hurried back to the stern.
Flavia and Salario had joined Crus there.
“They’re close enough,” Salario said. “They know we see them. Time to furl.”
He gave the order and the sails were raised.
The naturally sluggish corbita slowed like a dying fish.
Rufio turned to his men. They were lying on their bellies on the deck with their shields beside them. From the smaller and lower pirate ship, the soldiers would be invisible. The high gunwales of the corbita added further to their concealment. The five other centurions posed in full view, as arrogant as statues on plinths. Rufio had positioned them that way not only to taunt but to baffle. Six men defending a corbita seemed an absurdity. Rufio wanted to hear the
pirates laugh.
“It’s him,” Salario said with the cold loathing of a man watching a spectre rise from the ashes.
“Who?” Rufio asked.
“One Eye. Look at the oars. They’re painted silver. Only he does that, the pompous swine.” He turned to the centurion. “I want his head.”
“I’ll ask him for it,” Rufio said and rushed off to Bellator amidships.
“Ready,” the engineer said.
The immense railed plank loomed straight above them. Attached to the mast by a rope and pulley, it awaited its moment to sink its single fang into the spine of the enemy.
Rufio looked astern. The pirate vessel was only about a quarter mile off. Its two banks of rowers propelled it toward them with the speed of a water insect skimming the surface.
“Positions,” Rufio ordered.
His five centurions stood against the gunwale near the raven.
The corbita seemed to be drifting, but Beakless was cleverly steering it so its port side ran parallel to the closing ship.
The pirates approached without caution, as if they had been ordered to be fools.
Salario came up and stood next to Rufio along the port beam.
“There he is,” the master said.
A man of no more than thirty, missing his left eye and his left ear, stood grinning near the bow.
“He doesn’t even have a weapon,” Rufio said.
“He’s accustomed to submission.”
Dozens of pirates lined the rail. A few held a dagger or a sword, but most appeared unarmed. Their vessel slid up slowly beside the corbita. Some of the pirates were pointing at the half-dozen centurions and laughing. A few stared up at the raven in confusion and perhaps even alarm.
“Do you know the most fascinating thing about the Gauls?” Rufio asked.
“Gauls?” Salario stared in surprise at the centurion speaking about people who were hundreds of miles away, and doing so as calmly as if he were discussing a philosophical problem in his study, not facing a ship manned by ruthless killers.
“Yes,” Rufio said. “They’re the toughest fighters in the world, but they always lose in the end. Why is that? Because ferocity—even Gallic ferocity—is never a match for seasoned troops.”
He spun around to Bellator.
“Now!”
Like a bolt from Zeus, the raven’s beak crashed to the deck with the boom of a thunderclap. Three pirates went down beneath it. Two were crushed to nothing. The third, still alive, had been pierced by the iron spike and wriggled hopelessly like a speared fish.
Rufio sprang to the head of the gangway, his two centuries right behind him. Cheered by the priceless advantage of attacking from a greater height, they rolled down Bellator’s bridge with the force of an avalanche.
The pirates scattered and scrambled for weapons.
In what seemed like only seconds, Rufio and his two centuries stood amidships on the pirate vessel. He pivoted to the left toward the bow, and Crus rushed behind with his own centuries and swept toward the stern. Already the pirates had been split in two.
A toothless pirate slashed at Rufio with a rusty blade. The centurion knocked it aside with his shield and thrust his sword deep into the man’s stomach. He deflated like a collapsed bladder, and Rufio kicked him aside.
The front rank drove forward, smashing and stabbing the bewildered pirates. To Rufio’s left, Arrianus took a terrible toll of the sea bandits, and Rufio felt safe in focusing on the killers before him.
Shieldless and with no training worthy of the name, the pirates were lost. The Romans slew them like blind rats trapped in a hole.
A dark-skinned thief slashed at Rufio with a cavalry sword, but the bronze edge of his shield deflected it. Rufio thrust his sword into the gaping armpit. The steel sank as easily as hot metal into soft grease, and the dark man dropped with a thud.
“Rufio!” he heard Metellus shout above the banging and screaming.
He looked to the bow and saw One Eye igniting bundles of rags. Dozens of pirates blocked the way to their leader.
“Get him!” Rufio yelled, but there was no way to reach him.
The pirate chief had already tossed several flaming bundles onto the corbita, and the seamen were trying to put them out.
“That madman is going to burn us all alive,” Arrianus shouted.
Alone at the bow, One Eye readied another fiery bundle. The soldiers struggling to reach him might as well have been a hundred miles away.
An arrow tore into One Eye’s throat and a second ripped through his chest and drove him to the deck.
Rufio spun to the left.
Flavia stood atop the roof of Salario’s cabin and nocked a third arrow and let it fly. Then a fourth and a fifth. One by one she took down her foes. They wailed and fell before the Sequani huntress unleashing the full fury of her savage race.
And now the pirates lost their minds. Battered and slashed and stabbed, and now pierced from above, they climbed over the corpses of their friends and bolted to the rail. They dropped their weapons and jumped over the side in the final madness of the doomed.
Rufio turned toward the stern. Hardly a pirate remained alive. Crus and his men had laid waste without mercy the other half of the pirate crew. The Romans leaned on their shields and paused for breath as the few surviving thieves groaned on the bloody deck before them.
“Rufio! Look!” Valerius yelled and pointed into the water.
Rufio ran to the rail.
The pirates were floundering.
“Most of them can’t even swim,” Valerius said in amazement.
They flopped around, desperately trying to keep themselves afloat. Dozens of them looked up at Rufio with the bulging eyes of terrified children in a nightmare.
Where were the ruthless killers now? Soon they would all be gone.
“Get lines to those men!” Rufio boomed.
The startled soldiers flipped ropes over the side and were soon fishing them out. Several of them threw themselves at Rufio’s feet and hugged his legs, but he stepped away from their obeisance.
“No need,” he said to Arrianus, who had run up with twine to bind them. “They’re now the most loyal subjects of the Empire.” He turned to his centurions. “Secure the ship.”
Crus joined him at the bow, and soon Salario strode the deck of what the previous day had been the terror of the waves.
“On your knees,” Rufio said to the hundred or so wet wretches shivering before him. He turned to Crus. “The men?”
“Not even a wound.”
Rufio smiled and looked back at the pirates. His smile vanished.
“You have one chance. Serve this ship. When we reach Egypt, the master will decide your fate, so serve him well. If even one of you steals so much as a crumb out of a rat’s mouth, all will go over the side that day.” He looked at Crus. “Orders, tribune?”
Without hesitation, Crus seized the authority.
“Strip this vessel of anything of value and distribute it among Salario’s crew. Then burn the ship so it’s not a menace to navigation.” He turned to the soldiers standing in ranks behind him.
Rufio watched him closely. He hoped the tribune would not be effusive. Flattery rarely worked with fighting men.
Crus looked from left to right, and then said, in an almost casual voice, “Well done, but next time could you make it a little bit quicker?”
The soldiers roared with laughter.
Crus turned to Salario. “Have you a word for my men?”
The master stepped forward. “As of this moment, I’m buying the cargo of wine. Today we’ll feast and drink to the health of Caesar!”
The men cheered.
Crus raised a hand and they quieted. “After you’re finished your work, clean your equipment and ready it for inspection. Then offer a prayer to Minerva for guiding your hands this day. And when you’ve made the proper thanksgiving, we’ll gorge together like decadent Greeks!”
The men laughed even more loudly than before and
banged their shields in unison on the deck.
Rufio smiled to himself and then turned back to the corbita. Flavia still stood on the roof of the cabin. He raised the point of his sword to salute her. She jumped down and ran to meet him.
21
I FEAR GREEKS EVEN WHEN THEY ARE BEARING GIFTS.
VIRGIL
Bellator was regaling the Second Cohort with tales from his youth, when Rufio noticed Crus standing alone on the foredeck. The moonlight glinted off the sword belt and dagger that he had not bothered to remove.
Flavia followed Rufio’s gaze. “I’ll bring him some refreshment,” she said and stood up and refilled her cup with wine.
“That’s not it,” Rufio said. He pressed her back down with two fingers on her shoulder. “Stay here.”
Crus must have heard Rufio’s hobnails against the deck, but he continued staring south into the blackness.
“That was a fine act you put on,” Rufio said. “About feasting.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“I know why.”
Crus turned to face him. “Do you?”
“Today was the first day you ever felt another man’s hot blood on your hand.”
He looked away. “Yes.”
“It’s not like reading Homer, is it?”
“No.”
“Good. If you told me it was, I’d know you’d gone mad.”
“How can you ever get accustomed to this?”
“To killing?”
“Yes.”
“ ‘Accustomed’ is the wrong word.”
“Then what’s the right word?”
Rufio hesitated. “I don’t believe there is one.”
“Then how do you endure it.”
“We endure what we must endure.”
“The feelings I have now. . . They’re . . . I can’t even describe them.”
“Do you really believe you need to describe them? To me?”
Crus sighed. “No.”
“Elation. Even euphoria. Then revulsion, then almost a feeling of disbelief. After that, a heavy, nauseated deadness and a desire that this day come to an end. And, finally, a haunting fear that it never will.”
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