“I know. I could see it in your eyes.”
A harsh laugh slipped out. “I used to be better at masking my feelings.”
Crus said nothing.
“It isn’t necessary to hate a man to make war on him—but it is necessary to hate at least what he stands for.” Rufio shook his head helplessly. “Durena stands for valor and he stands for honor.”
“He might stand for those things, but he fights for Phraates.”
“That’s the horror of it. And that’s why I have to kill him. But it’s an ugly killing all the same.”
“He leads a thousand half-mercenaries who want to kick this kingdom off a cliff.”
Rufio said nothing.
“And we’re not going to let them,” Crus said.
“I know. We definitely are not. I’ve told the other centurions to order their troops to look for the rider with the red cap and strike him down as fast as possible. Those archers won’t fight without a leader. Maybe we can end this thing quickly.”
53
MANHOOD IS TESTED BY ADVERSITY, AND VALOR CLIMBS UNAFRAID THE ROCKY PATH AND DIFFICULT ASCENT THAT LEADS TO GLORY.
SILIUS ITALICUS
Rufio awoke two hours before dawn and made a point of sharing porridge with some of his troops. By the time he returned to his quarters, Morlana had already gone with Arrianus to the pens to feed the horses, and Flavia was practicing with her bow behind the barracks.
“Barbarian!” he called to her.
She turned and smiled and hurried to him.
He pointed to the ground and they both sat.
“I hope you don’t have any thoughts about fighting in this battle. . . .”
“No,” she said. “I know that war is for men.”
“Good. I have a task for you. I want you to ride to Hezrail and find Simon and tell him to prepare his people to come to the fort early tomorrow. Stay at Morlana’s house in Hezrail overnight and ride back with them in the morning. Take Morlana with you. If any of the children are afraid, she can calm them.”
Flavia looked hesitant.
“What’s wrong?”
“The Judaeans don’t deal much with women, do they?”
“No, but I cannot spare a solider to send.”
“But how do you know Simon will do what I say? If he’ll trust me?”
“It’s his choice. I’ve already spoken with him about it. I don’t know if he can read, but I’ll also get Matthias to write a note. There’s only so much we can do. But don’t worry—they’ll come.”
“Shall we go now?”
“As soon as you can.”
“All of you will be gone by the time we get back tomorrow, won’t you?”
“Yes.”
She turned away and said nothing.
“Don’t worry.”
She looked back at him. “I won’t. At least as not much as I did last year. I know that Victoria watches over you. . . . But this time . . . I don’t know. . . . Even she might not be enough.”
Rufio smiled. “We have to trust.”
“I’ll try. I know Morlana does.”
“How do you know that?” he asked, laughing.
“She’s not worried about you at all—to her, you already are a god.”
Flavia took his right hand and gestured for him to stand.
“Hold me one more time,” she said, slipping her arms around him. “And tell me that you’ll hold me again when the battle is done.”
Pulling her tightly to him, he pressed his cheek to the side of her face and inhaled her scent and promised that they would be bound together forever. And he hoped that Victoria would forgive him for making a pledge that she alone had the power to fulfill.
By one hour after sunrise, most of the gyrus had been dismantled, and two hours later the first water troughs were ready to be filled and carted away. Rufio praised the Romans and Judaeans working side by side and then rode off.
Nimbus was especially responsive this day. The man and the animal were becoming one. There was still much to be done, but Rufio knew that once the gate had been opened, and only the horse himself could open it, success was certain.
Rufio rode to each of the barracks and checked again on the health of the men. All the centurions assured him that their troops were at their peak.
From beyond the walls toward the parade ground, Rufio could hear hideous sounds only a Celt could love, practice blasts from the big bronze boar’s head of the carnyx. Bellator was no Sequani, but at least he had powerful lungs.
As Rufio rode down the Via Praetoria, he realized how much he was going to miss this little fort. Though slight in comparison with the great timber citadel at Aquabona, this gleaming and indestructible stone stronghold in the desert seemed to swagger with a pride of permanence denied to even the vastest structure built from wood.
Rufio noticed that there were few Judaeans about, which was odd since they were supposed to have a day of rest. On an impulse, he rode out to the archery field. There they were, toiling with their bows.
Rufio dismounted and walked over to Matthias at the edge of the field.
“They’re doing well,” Rufio said.
“I’m proud of them. And they’re proud of themselves.”
Rufio folded his arms and watched as they unleashed a few more practice flights. “Parthians beware.”
Matthias smiled.
“May I offer a suggestion?” Rufio asked.
At one time, that question would have made Matthias look anxious. Now he took it well.
“Yes.”
“Give them the day off. They’ve earned it. And they need one. It’s possible to train a soldier too much.”
“I don’t understand.”
“To take him to his peak but then work him harder until he slips over the top and starts sliding down the other side.”
“I see. Thank you. We’ll rest today.”
“And make sure you rest, too.”
Matthias pointed to the ground, and they both sat in the shadow of Nimbus. “Thank you for all you’ve done.”
“I did it for Rome.”
“Thank you anyway,” Matthias said. “I’ve learned so much.”
“Soldiering isn’t very difficult. Harder to learn men.”
“That’s what I meant.” He smiled. “You don’t take gratitude very well, do you?”
“I do if I’m worthy of it.”
“Don’t you deserve it from me?”
“I deserve it from Rome.”
“And will you get it?”
“I believe so. In an oblique way.”
“Oblique?”
“From an angle.”
Matthias turned to his men and shouted to them that it was time to stop for the day. Then he just stared at the ground near Nimbus’s hoofs.
“I have much to do,” Rufio said and rose.
Matthias looked up. “You’ll be leaving soon.”
“In one way or another. If we’re beaten, I’ll be dead. If we’re victorious, our task will be complete and you’ll be taking command. Don’t worry. You’re ready.”
Matthias stood. “I’ll pray to Elah for you.”
Rufio gripped Nimbus’s mane and leaped into the saddle and then smiled at Matthias. “I’ve heard he wields a big sword. So I’ll take it.”
Rufio rode out to the horse pens and was surprised to see Crus and Arrianus in what looked like an intense discussion.
Rufio dismounted.
“Join us, centurion,” Crus said.
Rufio walked over to where the two men were standing in the shade of a stack of medica. He let Nimbus help himself to the hay.
“Your little strator has been hurt,” Crus said in annoyance.
“Morlana?”
“No, I said the little one.”
“The tribune is a cruel man,” Rufio said.
“Show him,” Crus ordered.
Arrianus held out his bruised and swollen right wrist.
“Were you bucked off?” Rufio asked.
He looked embarrassed. “The horse shied and I slid off.”
“Is it broken?”
“No,” Crus said, “but he can’t wield a sword. He was concealing this until I saw him trying to work with only one hand.”
“You know better than to hide something like this from me,” Rufio said.
“I can’t let down my friends.”
“Trying to fight with an arm like that is letting them down,” Crus said.
“Is there a solution?” Rufio asked.
Crus stared at Arrianus. “Is there?”
Arrianus hesitated. “No, tribune.”
“That’s why you’re a soldier and I’m a tribune. Of course there is. I need a rider with me on the ridge if I have to send messages. You’re with me until the last Parthian flees or dies.”
Arrianus seemed stunned.
“Your grandchildren can thank me when you tell them of this fight,” Crus said. “Now get back to your charges.”
Arrianus looked at Rufio and smiled.
“Yes, tribune,” he said, turning back to Crus. “Thank you.”
Crus could not help laughing once Arrianus was out of earshot. “That wild little ferret. There aren’t ten senators combined who could make even half of him.”
Hoofbeats caused both men to turn and look toward the four horsemen riding in from the desert.
“Decius has gone out with the morning patrol every day,” Crus said.
“Well, I certainly didn’t order that. He’s a good man.”
“You fought together in Spain?”
“We served in the same legion but never shared a battlefield.”
Decius trotted over on his horse while his soldiers rode into the fort for rest and refreshment. He dismounted as gracefully as a boulder tumbling off a cliff.
“Tribune,” Decius said, removing his helmet.
Crus smiled. “You saw something. . . .”
“They’re here.”
“How far?” Rufio asked.
“We stopped at the rise above the riverbed from Hell and saw their dust on the plain beyond it. About six or seven miles off.”
“Did you see any scouts?”
“Three.”
“Did they notice you?”
“Oh, yes.”
Rufio was surprised by Decius’s smile. “And . . . ?”
“We made sure they saw us. We behaved as if we didn’t notice them and rode down into the riverbed. I told my men to dismount and to act as if they were measuring out a site for a marching camp. The Parthians are riding back to Durena right now to tell him that the ignorant Romans and the pathetic Judaean doves will be fluttering around in that nest tomorrow.”
Rufio laughed. “And helpless before the Parthian hawks that’ll come swooping onto us.”
“At least that was the idea,” Decius said. “They should be waiting for us at the top of the grade and then come charging down into the gorge.”
“Excellent.” Rufio turned to Crus. “What our clever centurion has done here is use an old stratagem that’s always fresh. He’s enticing the enemy to do what we want by giving them information that they think is secret and that they believe they’ve gotten on their own. There’s no more effective seduction.”
“And because of that they’ll do what we need them to do?” Crus asked. “Confront us on the riverbed?”
“This is war, so nothing is certain,” Rufio said. “But this is close. They think they’re going to trap us. They’re not.”
“Well done,” Crus said to Decius. “If we survive to make it back to Gaul, I’ll speak with Sabinus about the appropriate honor.”
“Tribune, the only honor I’d like is the privilege of never having to sit in a saddle again.”
“Go get some food and drink,” Crus said, laughing.
As Decius led his horse back toward the gate, Rufio stared after him. “Where does Augustus find such men?”
“Don’t you know?” Crus said. “In the Twenty-fifth Legion, all he has to do is throw a stone and he’ll hit one.
Rufio asked me to go to Hezrail to tell Simon that it was time for his people to seek the safety of the fort. I was worried that Simon would not deal with a woman, but he was courteous and kind. He had already prepared the villagers for their short journey, and food and water were quickly gathered. Rufio was right that some of the children were afraid. At least that was true of the girls. The boys considered it all a great adventure. Morlana tried to soothe the girls, but they drew back from her. Though she has spent much of her life here, she is still an outsider, a golden-haired oddity the Judaeans cannot comprehend. Or, at least, that is what they pretend. Mallius made a mistake long ago in bringing his sensitive daughter to this place.
After everything was arranged for the trip back the following morning, we went to Morlana’s house, where I made sure she was settled in for the rest of the day. Then I told her something that I had decided during the ride to Hezrail. I explained to her that she had to go back tomorrow with the villagers without me because there was something I had to do. I told her that there was no time for me to give her the details and that she just had to trust me. She gazed at me with that mixture of innocence and intensity that I find so endearing and that makes me love her so. I was surprised that she had no questions but just reached out and kissed me on the cheek and then squeezed me to her. I was happy that she did not question me, because I would have found it difficult to explain to her that I had been riding in the wrong direction.
54
IN NOTHING ARE MEN MORE LIKE GODS THAN IN COMING TO THE RESCUE OF THEIR FELLOW MEN.
CICERO
Two hours before dawn Rufio awoke and cleaned his teeth and washed. While he dressed, Neko prepared a breakfast of wheat porridge and fruit. Then Rufio stood by his desk and ate in silence.
“What do you think, old friend?” Rufio said at last.
Neko set down Rufio’s sword and dagger belts and water flask. “I believe Victoria will need to be active this day.”
Rufio washed down the porridge with some cool water. “I agree.”
“It’s unfortunate that Diocles isn’t here to record it.”
“No, it’s just as well that he’s not. His literary flourishes need more scope. The Hill of Scorpions was sweeping and grand”—he smiled—“or at least Diocles made it seem that way. This place is sharp and harsh and corrosive. War is different out here. In the grit and the salt. A pitiless land spawns pitiless people.”
“But aren’t the Suebi pitiless, too?”
“There’s a savagery to these eastern barbarians that I’ve never seen in anyone else. Killing a German is like striking down a lion. Fighting these Asiatics is like battering a thousand mad weasels. There’s no glory here.”
“But glory never exists among outside things but only within the hearts of the glorious.” Neko smiled his knowing smile. “Is that not so?”
Rufio smiled back. “Armor.”
Rufio remained quiet as Neko helped him put on his subarmalis and mail lorica. He omitted his greaves to avoid irritating his horse’s sides.
Rufio held the heavy chain armor up at the waist as Neko fastened the swordbelt, and then Rufio let the small flap drop over the belt so the weight of the mail would now be carried partly by his hips. While Neko fastened the dagger belt around him, Rufio absently slid his right hand around Flavia’s torque on his left wrist.
Neko waited for a moment and then handed him his cloak and left the room.
Rufio walked over to his little table. He pulled the cloak up from behind him and draped it over his head. Then he dropped to one knee before the red porphyry statue of Victoria.
Never did he ask anything for himself, regardless of what others might have thought. Only of his men did he speak. Today he knelt longer than he usually did, and he prayed that Victoria’s wings would embrace his men as tenderly as they had always enveloped him.
When he was done, he stood and set his cloak aside. He noticed that Neko had returned and was standin
g by the door with his helmet.
“I’ll see you before the sun sets,” Rufio said, taking the helmet.
Neko nodded, and Rufio stepped outside.
Nimbus was waiting for him. Rufio held the reins and rubbed him on the forehead. He pushed the red fly fringe out of the way and pressed his lips to the side of Nimbus’s face just below his left eye and gently held them there affectionately. Nimbus lowered his head and sighed softly. Rufio caressed him again and then tied his helmet to the saddle and mounted.
The aroma of cooking food wafted along the street outside of the barracks block. The moon was still up and many of his men were already in full armor and leading their horses back from the pens. No soldier in any army likes getting up early, but Rufio had trained his troops well. Long ago, when his hair was black, he had heard an old centurion in Egypt tell an optio, “Always make your men rise in the dark. Soon they won’t know how not to.”
That lesson had stuck. Rufio saw, after only about a month of steady routine, that the clock inside a man became more accurate than any absurd water clock anyone had yet devised. His men would get up early without being ordered simply because their bodies commanded that they do.
He rode along and spoke quietly with them or shared a joke. They smiled or teased him back. Rufio was continually amused at how people unfamiliar with fighting men always had the most bizarre notions about them. The patricians in Rome regarded them as barely sentient and pathetically crude, especially because so many of the soldiers hailed from rural areas. It ministered to the sense of their soulless self-importance for senators to speak of them, when they referred to them at all, as if one needed to cleanse one’s mouth afterward. One surely risked defiling his tongue with a recitation of their vulgarities. Yet, as Rufio knew, soldiers were among the most courteous and polite of men. Living a daily life of hierarchical discipline and prudent speech, these quiet warriors, justly feared along the rivers of Hell, were more confidently soft-spoken and serene than nine out of ten people babbling in the streets of Rome.
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