“I’ll get it.” Salario went into the tavern and came back with a clay pitcher and two cups.
“That’s better,” Rufio said after a sip.
“Now what about this delicate tendril?”
Rufio leaned back against the cool stone wall of the tavern.
“Most civilians have no idea what makes a soldier—or a legion. They think it’s training or courage or toughness. Those things are important but not important enough. They’re like armor. They protect the soldier, but they don’t make the soldier. More than any single thing, it’s honor that thickens the blood of the legion. The problem is that even most centurions don’t comprehend this. Don’t blame yourself if you don’t understand it either.”
A smile creased the sailor’s face. “I’m not sure if you’re being kind to me or harsh.”
“I’m being honest.”
“Go on.”
“We spend endless hours trying to instill loyalty in our soldiers. Tales of heroism from ages past. Sacred oaths. The glories of Rome. All these things work, but only partly. Most centurions are not Homer. They shouldn’t pretend to be. The secret—and it isn’t really a secret if you just think about it—is that honor and loyalty move on two ladders.”
Rufio paused to allow that to penetrate.
“Continue.”
“Most centurions are obsessed with training their troops to be loyal to them. To the legion, to Rome. Many of them forget that they have to be loyal to their men.”
“You’re losing me. Come about. One of us is off course.”
“It’s you, Salty. What the best centurions know is that loyalty has to run up the ladder but also down the ladder. Even a dog in the street doesn’t expect a kick for no reason and needs a pat on the head. Rare is the centurion who remembers this. Rarer still is the one who practices it.”
“So you’re talking about rewards?”
“Tear your mind away from silver for a minute.”
Salario looked irritated. “I apologize for being so mercenary.”
“It’s not your fault. It’s your business. What I’m talking about is more vital than money or privileges. What do you think is the most difficult thing for new troops to endure?”
“The physical training, I’d guess. The pain. The exhaustion.”
Rufio smiled. “Everyone thinks that, but it’s wrong. Homesickness and loneliness are the biggest threats to the cohesion of the century. Certain recruits deal with that better than others, but some soldiers it just crushes. Too many centurions are indifferent to it. They’re too concerned about showing obedience to the tribunes or licking a legate’s ass.”
“And you’re not?”
“Ask my commander. Those centurions forget about loyalty to the men below them. The officers above you change all the time. And often they’re more concerned about their political careers than with the woes of their cohorts. And even if they stay at their post for a while, they can change their attitude toward you. But your men are always your men. That never changes. There’s nothing more important for a soldier to know than that when he’s at his saddest and loneliest he can reach out in the dark and his centurion will be there.”
“But you’re just talking about recruits. That doesn’t apply to veterans.”
“It does. But I have to approach them differently. My men must be sure that I’ll stand like Hector between them and any danger. It doesn’t matter if it’s a vicious tribune or a screaming German. My toughest men rest their heads on their pillows at night in the absolute certainty that I’ll hold my ground before them—even if a Suebi splits me open and my intestines are spilling out onto the ground.”
Salario laid a hand on Rufio’s right forearm. “Whatever Caesar pays you, I doubt that it’s enough.”
“It’s more than I have time to spend.”
“I cannot imagine being so popular with my men.”
“I’m not. Not in the way you mean. There are times during training when some of my soldiers would like to pick up a rock and crush my face with it. I accept that. Secretly yearning to smash your centurion’s face is a time honored privilege. But I’m certain beyond doubt that if I asked them to, every one of them would plunge into the rivers of Hell for me.”
Salario smiled and held up his cup of water. “To Rome.”
“To Rome.”
Both men stared out at the twin harbors busy with boats large and small.
“I love Egypt,” Rufio said. “It’s like being present at the creation of man. A great civilization glowed here when Romans were scrambling like animals for scraps on the bank of the Tiber. It was a sad day when the Macedonians overran this land.”
“And Judaea?”
“It’s a cauldron.”
“Where to you want me to take you?”
“Caesarea. My men need a treat. I want them to see Herod’s masterpiece. They deserve that much.”
“You sound troubled.”
“Centurions are always troubled.”
“Why?”
Rufio laughed. “In general or now?”
“Now.”
“Soldiers like to control as many things as possible in a hostile land. Their survival pivots on it. In Judaea we’ll control almost nothing. We have vague orders. A brutal climate. Ugly terrain. Uncertain supplies. A half-barbarian king who doesn’t want us there and would rather hear that we drowned enroute. And the surliest people on earth.”
“I suppose I should be grateful I’ve had few dealings with them.”
“Thank whatever gods you pray to.”
“Surely your natural charm will seduce them.”
Rufio narrowed his eyes in mock anger.
“Ah, the centurion’s glare. I had better keep my hand on my dagger.”
“Spend a month with Judaeans and you’ll weep for deliverance. They’re the most backward looking people on earth.”
Salario frowned. “What do you mean?”
“They don’t simply live in the past—that would be stupid enough. They relive the past with every breath. The problem with people like that is they never forget a slight. Wounds stay open and fester forever.”
“But what does that matter? I don’t see how that can pitch your vessel into the waves.”
“When Pompeius conquered Judaea because it was a weak and unstable mess, he didn’t use the lightest touch. Pompeius was a great commander, but he was blind to tact. He pranced into Jerusalem and rode his horse right up the steps of their temple and into the sanctuary itself. He profaned their holiest shrine. That was decades ago. To the Judaeans, it happened this morning just after breakfast.” He shook his head in disgust. “A thousand years from now, they’ll still be wailing about Pompeius’s horse.”
Salario laughed until he almost fell off the bench. “All this makes being a ship’s master seem like a child’s game. What happens when we arrive in Caesarea and the Judaeans see your men disembarking? Won’t they think they’re being invaded again?”
“Herod is supposed to have soldiers there to meet us.” Rufio stood up and stretched. “Fine troops, no doubt,” he said sarcastically. “I’m sure they’ll be the burnished blade of Judaean manhood.”
I was standing near Salario’s cabin and watching the crew load supplies when I overheard Salario arguing in the cabin with Rufio. Salario was furious. Rufio was not. I could tell by his voice. He sounded amused.
Salario said, “All of it? You gave them all the money I returned to you?”
“Every sestertius.”
“Why?”
“They deserve it. They’re a good crew. A gift from Rome.”
“Now I know why Beakless was grinning and why twenty-three of those drowning pirates begged me to take them on as crewmen.”
“You should thank me.”
“But it was my money! You could never have given it to them if I hadn’t returned it.”
“You’re a generous ship’s master.”
“But you get all the credit!”
“Rome is generous.
” I could hear the smile in Rufio’s voice when he said, “And Rome is also wise.”
23
HE WORKS SO ENERGETICALLY THAT HE ACCOMPLISHES MANY THINGS.
ROMAN SAYING
“That’s incredible!” Valerius said, taking in the sweep of the gleaming harbor.
Rufio smiled and leaned against the gunwale of the ship. “Welcome to Caesarea.”
“Desert barbarians built this?” Metellus asked in disbelief.
“Oh, no. This is far beyond them. It isn’t even a Jewish city, though there’s a small outpost of them on the northern edge.”
“Who built it—Herod?” Metellus asked.
“He’s one of the great builders of the world,” Rufio said. “Take a big sip of this sweet drink. You won’t taste its like again in this sour land.”
With no natural bay to help him, the Judaean king had flung a massive artificial harbor a half-mile out from shore to sea. Bright stone breakwaters topped with at least a dozen towers enclosed entering ships in a great protective rectangle. Outside the opening at the northwestern corner, twin pylons flanked the entrance. A trio of columns on each supported colossal statues.
“Who are they?” Valerius asked, pointing to the sculptures.
“Neko!” Rufio shouted.
As always, the Egyptian appeared with the speed and silence of a mist.
“Those bronzes,” Rufio said.
“Augustus’s family,” Neko answered.
“And another Pharos,” Valerius said as he gazed at the looming lighthouse to the right of the harbor’s entrance.
“Never dare to call it that,” Neko said. “Herod has named it the Drusion, after Augustus’s stepson. The entire harbor is named Sebastos, which is what the Greeks call Augustus.”
“Is that a Roman temple beyond the harbor?” Metellus asked.
“To Augustus himself,” Neko said.
“Remember one thing about Herod,” Rufio said. “He always knows which way the dice roll.”
“Are the breakwaters limestone?” Metellus asked. “It doesn’t seem possible.”
“It isn’t,” Rufio answered. “Only the facings are limestone. The cores are concrete. Herod imported Italian materials and Roman engineers. They built titanic forms and hauled them out to the water and poured the concrete there.”
“That’s amazing,” Valerius said. “Who set the forms onto the sea bed?”
“Divers from Capri specially trained for it. The soldiers call them ‘Urinators’ because of all the pissing they do after being up and down in the water so much.”
“The city doesn’t look finished,” Metellus said as he stared off at the bright half-moon of buildings nestled against the edge of the water.
“Not yet,” Neko answered. “A few more years. But the storehouses are full.” He gestured to several dozen large buildings with orange tile vaults at the southwestern edge of the city abutting the sea. “And Herod knows how to please his subjects when it suits him. Look there.”
To the south of the city an enormous theater glistened in the morning sun.
“And there.”
A half-built amphitheater for combats and games was rising to the northeast.
Metellus laughed. “He has Roman tastes.”
“Herod has long found it difficult to be a Jew,” Neko said. “And even more agonizing to be the king of the Jews. But, then, ruling Jews has always been a universal torment.”
“It’s time to get the men ready to disembark,” Rufio said. “I want all weapons except daggers packed away. All armor, too. I don’t want there to be the slightest chance of giving offense to these people.”
Neko smiled and turned away.
“What our Egyptian scholar means by that look is that it’s impossible to deal with Jews and not give offense. But they’re a minority here. We’ll do our best to keep below the ridgeline. No need to flaunt our power by throwing a Roman silhouette against the sun.”
“I haven’t seen the tribune this morning,” Valerius said.
“He’s already ashore smoothing our way,” Rufio answered.
“Alone?” Metellus asked.
“Such was his wish, but I advised him to take Bellator with him.”
“And our plan now?” Valerius asked. “Can you share that?”
“Let’s eat.”
Rufio joined his troops camped on the deck and sat with them. Breakfast was being prepared, and Arrianus handed him a bowl of steaming porridge and dried fruits. Most soldiers tightened like twisted twine when approached by their centurion. Rufio’s men always relaxed. Subtle it was, this easing of the spirit. Only the most astute observer, or the most experienced, could have noticed it. Yet it was as vital to their wellbeing as the daggers on their hips. Rufio relished the effect his silent reassurance had on his men. It was one of his greatest gifts to them.
“I want our men to enjoy the pleasures of the city,” Rufio said to his two officers. “But I don’t want to billet them there. That’s like grinding a stone against a stone. Too much friction. We’ll camp outside the town.”
“We’re not going south immediately?” Metellus asked.
“We have to wait for Herod’s escort,” Valerius said.
“Whether they’re here yet or not doesn’t matter,” Rufio said. “Men who’ve been posted along the Rhenus cannot just march off toward the Judaean wasteland. Troops who’ve been caressed by Gallic breezes need to get accustomed to this furnace. Why are you grinning?”
Valerius tried to stifle his smile. “In Gaul, I’ve been caressed by more than breezes.”
“He’s not talking about your own hand,” Metellus said.
“Nor am I, you dead stoat,” Valerius shot back. “I mean that out here I’m going to miss those delicate Sequani fingers with the softest touch.”
Rufio looked up and beyond Valerius.
The optio turned on his haunches.
Flavia stood behind him with a cup of water for Rufio.
Valerius flushed as red as a Roman cloak.
Flavia leaned forward and handed the cup to Rufio. As she did, her face was only a few inches from the optio’s.
“You are a fortunate man,” she said to him. The blue fire in her eyes could have melted metal. Then with the hint of a smile and an eyebrow arched toward Rufio, she whispered, “But not nearly as fortunate as he.”
She straightened up and strode away from the gathering of men.
“By the gods!” Metellus said with a laugh.
Valerius suddenly found a reason to examine his fingernails.
“Now about the climate . . .” Metellus said, plucking his friend off the hot rock.
“Ideally we’d need about six weeks,” Rufio said. “We don’t have that much time, so I’ll give the men three.”
“Will the Judaean commander know our destination?” Valerius asked.
“He’d better,” Rufio said. “My guess is that it’ll be somewhere southeast of Jerusalem. According to the senator, Parthian bands have swung up around the bottom of the Salt Sea. Probing actions.”
“To what purpose?” Metellus asked.
“Probably to cause unrest and give encouragement to Herod’s enemies. Judaean enemies I mean. In his court. Even in his own family. Herod sees plots in every corner. Some of them might even be real.”
“And an internal upheaval will weaken the kingdom,” Valerius said.
“Like an earthquake. Parthian horsemen are always most lethal when riding among shifting sands.”
The six centurions sat in a circle on the foredeck with Crus and Bellator.
“We’re set,” Crus said. “The Judaean troops are here, so there should be no trouble with the populace. Two hundred and fifty cavalrymen. They should . . . centurion?”
Rufio’s smile had startled the tribune.
“A comment?” Crus said.
“Two hundred fifty? Are they escorting us, or are we escorting them?”
“Don’t worry,” Bellator said. “They’re picked men. The commande
r is a seasoned soldier. Hard as Roman pavement.”
“We’ll camp here for three weeks,” Crus went on. “Then we’ll move south. Instruct your men that while we’re in Caesarea, we have to be as pure as Vestals. A watchful eye glowers on us all.” He looked at Rufio. “The king is here.”
“Herod here to bless the soldiers of Rome?” Rufio said. “A rare treat awaits. The desert lion himself.”
“I doubt a blessing is what he’s pondering,” Crus said.
Rufio smiled but said nothing.
“One thing more,” Crus said to his centurions. “Never was I prouder to be your tribune than at the Hill of Scorpions. And then in the fight with the pirates. But this is something special. A hideous land, no friends, no real allies. A ruthless enemy. No other army would even consider doing what we’re about to do. And no other cohort on earth would dare attempt it.” Crus stood up. “Each of you is a pillar supporting the power of Rome—and its honor. Minerva stands by our side with her unsheathed sword. May she protect us all.”
The tribune turned and walked away.
Rufio smiled. Crus was learning that if confidence was the blade of command, brevity was its whetstone.
After the centurions dispersed, Rufio joined his century. Metellus was down on one knee and packing his gear when Rufio touched him on a shoulder.
The signifer turned and stood up.
“A delicate task for you,” Rufio said. “I cannot overrule the tribune, so I need your discretion.”
Metellus gave him that ironic look. “I’m as discreet as a virgin surrounded by four walls.”
“Circulate among the centurions and let them know that the men won’t be troubled by me if they acquaint themselves with the local beauties. But quietly—no typical Italian flourishes.”
“I understand.”
“And there’s one exception—no Jewish women. Their men will crush the women’s heads with stones for even the suspicion of dishonor. We’re Romans, not barbarians. We don’t need any dead girls on our conscience.”
“A voyage to remember,” Salario said, staring out to sea with his back to Rufio.
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