“Every voyage is, don’t you think?” Rufio said.
The men of the Second Cohort had assembled on deck and were waiting for the small boats to ferry them ashore. They joked among themselves but stood as orderly as if they were about to march toward the Rhenus.
Salario turned around. “It was a fateful day when we met in that shipping office. A Greek sailor and a Roman soldier.”
Rufio smiled. “Who would have dreamed it?”
“The gods have their ways I suppose.”
“I’ve often questioned their wisdom,” Rufio said, “but never their sense of humor.”
“When will you return?”
“To Ostia?”
“Yes.”
“Toward the end of summer. Our labors should be finished by then. If not, it will take better men than we are.”
“There are no better men than you.”
Rufio remained silent.
“How will you return?” Salario asked.
“Not really a concern at the moment.”
“Nor will it be. I’ll be here then to take your cohort home.”
Rufio’s surprise always took the form of a frown. Now the grooves in his brow looked like they had been cut with a knife.
“And I’ll do it on my silver,” Salario said.
Again Rufio was stunned. “Rome is grateful.”
“Wherever the men of Rufio’s legion need to venture, the ships of Salario will be there to take them. On my honor.”
“Thank you, Salty.”
For a moment, the old sailor’s eyes softened. “Now go teach these Judaeans about the nature of strength. And about the power of Rome.” He turned and stared back again out to sea. “Farewell, my friend. I will miss you.”
24
THE NATION THAT MAKES A GREAT DISTINCTION BETWEEN ITS SCHOLARS AND ITS WARRIORS WILL HAVE ITS THINKING DONE BY COWARDS AND ITS FIGHTING DONE BY FOOLS.
THUCYDIDES
I must have eight or nine hours of sleep every night to be refreshed, but Rufio needs far less. Yet never does he let me go to bed alone. There are times, though, when I wake up in the dark and he is gone. A lamp burns in another room, and I go to see and peer from the doorway. He is digging deeply into a book. It might be a history by a Greek or an obscure traveler’s tale about some far-off and mysterious land. He is voracious about the methods of war of other peoples and relentless pursuing the ways of living of other men. Often Neko will be there. He has an even greater knowledge of Rufio’s library than Rufio does. He is at hand to point out some forgotten text, or to prepare a warm drink for his master on a cold night.
Some centurions from other cohorts make jokes about Rufio among themselves. They are always careful to be out of hearing range when they do, but I have overheard them in the village. They call him “The Philosopher” because of his appetite for books. One evening at supper in his quarters at the fort, I was startled to hear him mention it in passing. I had no idea he was aware of this. I was even more shocked when he laughed about it. He took a sip of wine and said that those who ridicule learning in soldiers merely display their ignorance and their envy. He told me that no one can confront others in battle unless he knows what drives them—their hungers and needs and, most of all, their fears. He said that unless one knows what lusts inflame the centaur, and what horrors terrify his soul, one can never face his charge. The student of war, he told me, must first of all be a student of men. All wisdom flows from that. Then he said something that affected me so deeply I chiseled it into my memory forever. He smiled at me in that protective way he sometimes does and said, “So I allow other centurions to have their private laugh and gamble their pay away and roll and sweat with dishonored women. Meanwhile, Neko warms me a cup of wine and sleepy Flavia peeks at me from the shadows while I seek the knowledge that will ensure the survival of my men. And because of that, I’ll die not on some muddy field but in my bed. When I close my eyes for the final time, I’ll smile because I’ll know the borders of Rome are secure, and those I love are safe at last.”
In a move so outrageous that even Rufio had to laugh to himself at his own audacity, the Second Cohort marched inland and built a fortified camp in a field about a mile southeast of the theater. With the speed of the hand of Caesar, the Romans went to work, and ditch and mound and caltrops appeared as if they had condensed out of the morning mist. Rufio knew from experience that people from hot climates were always slow off the mark, when they chose to respond at all. Before most inhabitants were aware of the Roman ship in the harbor, neat rows of goatskin tents arose within a fortified perimeter on the soil of the kingdom of Herod.
As with every other place Rufio had been, the children were the first to notice. The Romans watched the clumps of boys forming outside the camp. Rufio knew that their looks of wonder were due at least in part to the efficiency and speed of what they were seeing. Very different indeed from the behavior of desultory troops of uncertain loyalty to a half-mad king.
The centurions inspected the perimeter inside and out, posted sentries, and checked the gateway. The tesserarii distributed the watchword, and the Rhenus soldiers, cloaked now against the sun, awaited the Judaean commander.
Rufio and Neko were sorting some scrolls on a table dominated by Paki in the centurion’s tent when Crus entered with a Judaean soldier.
Already this was a bad sign. The commander was snubbing them. The soldier he had sent in his place, though impressively outfitted with a white tunic and Roman equipment, was younger than Valerius.
“Centurion Quintus Flavius Rufio,” Crus said. “Matthias bar Jacob, soldier in command.”
Rufio looked at Crus in surprise, and then made a mental note to ram a foot between Bellator’s butt cheeks.
Obviously reading his thoughts, Crus tried to suppress a smile.
“Commander,” Rufio said. “How may I address you?”
“Matthias.”
“I am Rufio. Thank you for offering escort to my men.”
“My duty to my king.” Matthias’s Latin was excellent, but the half-heartedness of his tone was not reassuring. Worse, Rufio wondered how a battle cry could be raised by a man who could barely raise a beard.
“We have a labor ahead of us,” Rufio said. “Let’s lead your men and mine in a way that makes it a memorable one.”
Matthias smiled but, it seemed to Rufio, not just in pleasure but in relief. With the lightest touch, the Roman had swept aside political concerns and ethnic rivalries. Now there were just two groups of men sworn to the brotherhood of arms.
“The king commands your presence tomorrow morning,” Matthias said.
“All of us?” Crus asked.
“Just the tribune and his senior centurion. Herod is uncomfortable near armed men unsworn to him.”
“Will you accompany us?” Crus asked.
“I have not been commanded.”
“I insist,” Crus said. “The three of us will go together.”
“At your command, tribune.”
Rufio enjoyed the look of satisfaction on Crus’s face. The tribune was learning quickly. He had not waited for authority—he had taken it.
“Neko,” Rufio said.
The Egyptian came forward and gestured to a table at the far side of the tent. Bowls of dried fruits, plates of salted meats, and a new wineskin covered the table.
To the Romans, this was a modest outlay, but the Judaean stared at it in surprise. It was clear that Herod was not overfeeding his men.
“I must rejoin my troops,” Matthias said. “I’ll return early in the morning and we’ll see Herod together.”
“Until tomorrow then,” Crus said.
Rufio nodded, and the Judaean was gone.
“Read the entrails for me,” Crus said, pointing to the doorway of the tent.
The two men went outside and strolled around the camp.
“I see some of my young self in him. Proud, a bit uncertain, green as new pine, and swamped by an almost boundless ignorance.”
Crus l
aughed.
“But tender shoots can be toughened,” Rufio said. “And ignorance is easily cured.”
“Battle worthy?”
“I doubt he ever drew blood, except when shaving. Probably why he stopped trying.”
“It must be a terrible strain trying to produce that stubble.”
As they walked along, Rufio laid a hand on Arrianus’s shoulder as he was down on one knee and tossing stones from the area in front of his tent.
The soldier smiled as the two officers moved on.
“Matthias seemed surprised that we were cordial,” Crus said.
“Caesarea might look like a Greek city, but Herod doesn’t want his people corrupted by idiotic ideas of freedom.”
“You think the Judaeans were told to stand clear of us?”
“I’m certain of it.”
“Tomorrow should be interesting. Do you think Herod will remember you?”
“No chance of that. May I give you some advice?”
“Of course.”
“Honor him as if he were your own king. But if he tries any nonsense, stand fast. Augustus admires the way the old rogue can control these Judaeans. Who else on earth could? But if he ever insulted a tribune of Rome, Augustus would crush him like a bug.”
“You lying dog! Hard as Roman pavement!”
Bellator burst out laughing as he came out of his tent. He threw a small sack to Rufio.
“Let’s walk,” Bellator said.
They left the camp, and Rufio pulled several slices of Parmula ham from the sack and handed the remainder to Bellator.
The sun was low and the onshore breeze had picked up. They wandered toward the northeast where the Judaeans had pitched their camp against a low hill.
“It’s a blessing from Fortuna that the winter rains are done,” Bellator said, taking in the tents thrown up haphazardly along the bottom of the rise. “But a spring storm will flood them out in ten minutes.”
“These aren’t the legions of Hannibal.”
“What’s next?” Bellator asked.
“Train lightly and get accustomed to the climate. Have you spoken to the Judaean commander?”
“Crus did the talking.”
“He was so uneasy when we met that he forgot to tell me where we’re headed.”
“Does it matter? Soldiers are never sent where it’s pleasant.”
“Unless they’re posted to Gaul,” Rufio said.
“Well, of course,” Bellator said with a laugh. “Land of warriors and wild women. And air so sweet it’s as if it’s been washed with blossoms and honey.”
“You’re quite the poet. Perhaps you’d like to drink again of the Gallic dew.”
“Oh, no. Don’t even try.”
“Sabinus doesn’t need another engineer, but he’ll always find space for an experienced decurion.”
“I don’t ride horses anymore. You know that.”
“I know that Titus Bellator is an important enough man to be allowed the privilege of changing his mind.”
“It was long ago. My hip hurts too much for me to ride. Horses and I have parted ways.”
“No, no, I know better. When you bleed, it smells like hay.”
Hoofbeats distracted them.
“We have a visitor,” Bellator said as he peered through the half-light at a rider approaching from the north. “I can’t make him out.”
“Hannibal.”
Matthias pulled up in front of them. “There’s something I forgot to tell you earlier. You should know it before we see the king tomorrow. Herod has spread the story that you’re here at his request, not by your demand.”
“And how do you know we’re not?” Rufio asked.
Matthias smiled. “I know Herod well enough to know the truth.”
“I see. We’ll keep his story intact. Our task is not to shame the King of Judaea.”
Matthias seemed surprised at this delicate touch from the veteran Roman soldier.
“But thank you for warning me,” Rufio went on. “May I give you a bit of advice?”
“Yes . . . .”
“Never address a senior officer from horseback. Always approach him on level ground.”
Stunned by this gentle rebuke, Matthias seemed embarrassed—and angry at his embarrassment.
“Yes, centurion,” he said crisply.
“I’ll see you in the morning.”
The Judaean reined about and rode back to his men.
Bellator handed back the sack of ham, and Rufio saw that he was grinning.
“What is it?” Rufio said.
“You like that boy, don’t you?”
“He has potential.”
“If he has too much, Herod will kill him before he’s thirty.”
“This is a savage land,” Rufio said in an exasperated tone that acknowledged the wisdom of his friend.
25
WE OWE THE GREATEST RESPECT TO A CHILD.
ROMAN SAYING
A lush dawn on the edge of the sea drowned the senses like nothing else on earth. Crus relished every breath. The cool wet air tinged with brine could wash clean, at least for a moment, all the iniquities of man.
Though light had barely begun seeping over the horizon, the men of the Second Cohort were already dressed and fed and performing routine checks of their equipment. Crus saw Rufio. He was wearing a new bright blue tunic and standing near his tent at the end of the line of tents of the First Century.
“Centurion!” Crus said and walked toward him.
“Tribune.”
“I’ve made a decision. Herod will wait. We’ll see him tomorrow, not today.”
Rufio gave him a puzzled look but said nothing.
“I decided last night,” Crus went on. “‘Herod commands our presence’ is not an expression that pleases me. The King of the Judaeans can bite on marble. Herod commands nothing. Herod awaits the pleasure of Rome.”
Rufio smiled like a father whose son had just won his first fistfight. “I’ll tell Matthias.”
“No, I will. You take the day off. I also want two centuries to have leave to go into the city. You pick which ones. Every fourth day I want two centuries to have leave. Four centuries will stay in camp at all times.”
Valerius had come up behind Rufio and stood there quietly.
“Valerius, I want you to tell the other optios that I hold them responsible for the behavior of their men.”
“Yes, tribune.”
“Any breakdown in discipline and I’ll have their balls on a pilum.”
“Even though they’re being as pure as Vestals?”
“Don’t be silly.”
Valerius smiled.
“Go now.”
Valerius turned and was gone.
“Questions?” Crus asked.
“None,” Rufio said.
“I’ll stay in camp. You go into the city. I assume Herod built some baths. Relax there. Or take a plunge in the surf. There’s nothing better than salt water to scrape away the dead skin of the soul.”
“My soul is too scarred for that.”
“You surprise me. I thought you were somebody who could recover from anything.”
“Oh, yes, that’s Rufio. The iron man.”
“You take too much on yourself. The sun rises whether you will it to or not.”
“I had an idea last night. . . .”
“Go on,” Crus said, annoyed once again at making no advance against Rufio’s perimeter.
“There’s no reason the men should walk all those miles south. We have enough silver to buy horses. All my men are horse trained. Even the worst of them are adequate, and the best are excellent.”
“Sounds sensible. Can we get horses here?”
“There might be a Nabataean horse trader or two in the area. And I do have the day off.”
“That was for you to relax.”
“I’m never as relaxed as when I’m tending to the needs of my men.”
“Rufio, do you always have to be the perfect officer? Isn’t
it possible for you just once to be a fool?”
Crus regretted that as soon as he said it. He had meant to annoy Rufio, but now his centurion simply looked sad.
“If you . . .” Rufio stopped. “May I go?”
“The day is yours.”
Rufio was about ten feet away when he paused and turned around.
“If you knew how often I’ve been a fool. . .”
Stunned, Crus remained silent.
“What you see—what my men see—it’s only what I want you to see.”
Suddenly Rufio seemed older and more tired than Crus had ever seen him.
“Every man has a tomb of his own dead dreams within him. But mine isn’t some little ossuary—it’s a necropolis. I walk its dank streets every night of my life.”
Crust just stared at him.
“And that Sequani huntress grabbed my hand and pulled me back. Just as I was about to slip away into the underworld of dead men’s bones.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t—.”
“And if I seem arrogant to you, it’s because I have a belief in my own powers. But it isn’t arrogance. It isn’t even pride. It’s just simple recognition. And if I act like I’m perfect, it’s an illusion I nurture to encourage my men and confound my enemies. But don’t think for an instant that the sheen of my armor is the essence of my soul.”
Crus was about to speak to comfort his friend, but Rufio held up a hand.
“Think twice before you peer down the dark alleys of the city of the dead.”
Then he turned and walked away.
At last Crus had penetrated the perimeter. And now he felt like a criminal.
Though born in Rome, Rufio was not a city man. His sister had always teased him about it. Noise, above all, annoyed him like a dry summer wind. So he ignored the fleshpots of Caesarea and skirted the city.
The roads to Herod’s showpiece were clogged with traders of every race in the East. Most rode wagons, and an occasional string of camels went by. Rufio stopped a craggy-faced rug merchant atop an oxcart groaning under the weight of his wares.
“Any horse traders about?” Rufio asked.
Horses on the Storm Page 13
