He laid down the torque. His eyes answered for him.
“And did you have black hair then and did you ride a golden horse on that terrible day?”
“Yes.”
A horrified recognition filled the chieftain’s eyes.
Rufio simply looked at him.
“We are all here now. . . .” Adiatorix said.
“All? What do you mean?”
“All the survivors. We joined with this village after that awful day.”
“Surely not all can be here.”
“Many of the old have died since then—but we who were young are all here.”
Rufio turned away, leaning one hand against the table. “I never thought . . . ”
“Is it bad or is it good?”
“It’s beyond belief. After all this time.”
“It must be the will of greater powers than you or I,” Adiatorix said, then turned and was gone.
Rufio stared after him with a face as ravaged as though it had been laid open with a sword.
6 A WORD IS ENOUGH FOR A WISE MAN.
Roman proverb
______
Like the outer side of the fort wall, the inner rampart was constructed of a sloping bank of earthen turves. Here on the inside, stairways of logs ascended the rampart to the walkway above. Up one of these stairs Diocles climbed with the tribune Titinius.
“We have everything here,” Titinius said and swept his arm out toward the expanse below. “Our own workshops, bath houses, hospital, even our own veterinarium for our horses. We have granaries that can store enough provisions for over a year. A spring inside the fort supplies more sweet water than even thirsty soldiers can use. We’re a self-contained town.”
For the exuberant Titinius, his position as tribune was clearly not just another step in a political career. He reveled in his office here. His dark eyes were always alight and he was continually pushing back the hair shaken onto his forehead by his jerky movements.
Diocles gazed out over the fort and pondered a strange reality. No one who had not seen it could hope to comprehend, but now Diocles had seen, and he felt as if he were taking his first faltering steps toward grasping. This vast yet orderly array of buildings pointed to something unique in the world. Other peoples might spawn fine fighters, but what had that to do with this? Even the vaunted army of Alexander—could it be revived—would seem an agglomeration of oafs compared to . . . to what? Compared to some immaterial essence implied by these silent structures. This fort was not a mere legionary camp. Here in the midst of a people who not so long ago might have worn shaggy skins or smeared themselves with mud—here had been projected a visible manifestation of a uniquely Roman thought.
And from whence had that thought come? Diocles placed a hand on the railing and studied the men below. Even in those resolute faces there was no answer. Nor did there seem to be any precedents for an inquirer to study, any gradations to measure. Somehow, out of their own half-barbarous past, a people had made a momentous leap of mind and will that defied intellect. No wonder Romans often behaved as if they believed they had sprung full-grown from the brow of Jupiter.
“You seem lost in thought,” Titinius said.
“Lost indeed,” he answered with a half-smile. “What’s the range of commands here? Explain the hierarchy to me.”
“It’s simple. The Legate is at the top, of course. Under him is the laticlavian tribune. He has the broad purple stripe on his tunic.”
“So he’s a senator?”
“He will be soon. Beneath him is the Camp Praefect. He’s a former Chief Centurion who’s spent his whole adult life in the army. We’re without one at the moment. Ours retired and hasn’t been replaced yet. Then the five angusticlavian tribunes”—he made a mock bow and touched the narrow purple stripe on his tunic—“come after him.”
“But the tribunes aren’t professional soldiers?”
“Oh, we’re soldiers—of a sort—but we’re destined for greater things at Rome. Here in the outlands we get our muscles toned. Sometimes we command auxiliary units.”
Diocles nodded.
“Then comes the Chief Centurion. He’s the centurion for the First Century of the First Cohort. Except for the Praefect, he’s senior man in terms of service.”
“What of the other centurions?”
“One for each of the sixty centuries. They can be a hard lot.”
“In disciplining their men?”
“Among other things. Many are brutal, some less so. But theirs is no easy task. They must hold the line in the face of screaming Gauls or Germans. And they have to pick up soldiers who are squirting soft turds and get them to stand fast.”
“Your point is what?”
“The centurions lash out often, but they also absorb much for the sake of the legion. When the blood of battle flows, it’s centurion blood that runs most thickly.”
“So when Probus told me the century is the focus of the legion, he wasn’t exaggerating.”
“Ask any common soldier—centurions rule the world. And they often die for it.”
Diocles leaned against the parapet and gazed past the ditches and the open field toward the forest beyond.
“Are you ever uneasy out here in this wilderness?”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s something terribly lonely here. This fort is an island in the midst of a dark sea. Who knows what monsters might spring forth?”
“You sound more like a Gaul than a Greek,” Titinius said with a smile.
“It must be the air. These fields and woods could never soothe. They only threaten.”
The tribune’s expression showed he was still groping for the Greek’s meaning.
“Oh, I know, I know, you’re a self-contained world, but it’s a dark land beyond this fringe of culture. How can anyone ever be at ease?”
Titinius didn’t answer.
“I’m sorry. It must sound as if I’m trying to spoil everything for you.”
Titinius laughed in his easy way.
“Go back to your duties, tribune,” he said in a lighter tone. “I’ve kept you long enough from your proper work.”
“Sabinus told me to watch over you until you learn to feel more comfortable here.”
“Fear not. I’m about to trust my downy skin to one of those tender-hearted centurions who are so admired and abhorred.”
“Yes, I know. Which one?”
“It hasn’t been settled yet,” he said and gazed across the streets below, busy as always with the movement of men and animals. “Perhaps I’m looking at him now. I hope the gods are looking at me—with favor.”
“I thought all Greeks believed they were the favorites of the gods.”
“What are those buildings up there?” He pointed to a cluster north of the fort.
“A civilian settlement. Roman traders and merchants. Gallic ones, too. And families of soldiers. Unofficial ones, of course.”
“Unofficial?”
“Yes, since soldiers aren’t allowed to marry. Didn’t you know that?”
“No.”
“But one cannot deny nature. So they form their own unions. Rome averts its eyes, and when the soldier retires he’ll make a legal marriage.”
“What’s the term of enlistment?”
“Twenty years.”
Diocles tilted his head forward as if he hadn’t understood him.
“Twenty years,” Titinius said.
“No, no, I heard you. I just . . .”
“These men aren’t boys, no matter how young some might be. War is a serious business and these are serious men.”
“But twenty years?”
“The Chief Centurion in this legion has been in the army for thirty-six years. It’s a pitiless world beyond the marble of Rome. No army of farmers could crush a quarter million raging Gauls, as Caesar once did in a single battle. The day of the amateur spearman is ended.”
Soldiers came and went up the stairs and along the rampart walkway as the two men
spoke. Diocles now observed their manner and carriage with a new awareness.
“Hello, Probus,” Titinius said past Diocles’ left shoulder.
The centurion came up behind him.
“It doesn’t take you long to get to know people, does it?” Diocles said to Probus.
“The tribunes seek me out for my wise counsel. Can you fault them?”
Diocles smiled.
“I’ll relieve you of this burden,” Probus said to Titinius. “Come, son of Zeus, we have things to discuss.”
Probus led the way back along the rampart and up the ladder to one of the gate towers.
“Get yourself some refreshment,” he said to the soldier on duty.
After he had left, Probus pointed to the single stool. “This is the most private place in the fort.”
Diocles sat.
“I’ve spoken to a centurion who’s agreed to allow you to live with his century if Sabinus approves.”
“Thank you. I—”
He held up his hand. “You may curse me later. It won’t be easy for you.”
“I didn’t expect it to be.”
“He’s doing it as a favor to me. We’ve been through many battles together. We’ve seen terrible things.” He paused. “There’s another reason, too. He said it might be amusing because you were the first Greek he ever met who didn’t know his own name.”
Diocles’ face went slack.
“Ah, I touched the sore with the needle that time.”
Diocles stood and paced the planks of the tower like a nervous animal. “How can I live with someone who just slew that slave?”
“Quintus Rufio never even raised a hand to a slave in my presence. And I’ve known him half his life.”
“Oh, I don’t say he did it himself. I—”
“The slave is on his way to Rome as happy as a meadowlark.”
Diocles sneered.
“Don’t call me a liar, Greek—even in your mind. Do it and I’ll break your neck. Now sit and listen.”
Diocles lowered himself to the stool.
“There are some things you should know about Rufio before you breathe his air. He’s not a man for casual chatter. He chooses his words as carefully as he selects a weapon. I know information is what you want, but be tactful asking for it.”
“I will.”
“Avoid discussions about his early years in the legions. Don’t press him too much on the wars of his youth or his battle scars.”
“Most soldiers enjoy discussing those things. You did on the journey from Rome.”
“I’m not Rufio.”
“How long have you served with him?” Diocles asked in a tone respectful enough to imply penance for his earlier impertinence.
“Many years,” Probus answered and sat on the floor.
Diocles rose from the stool and sat next to him on the hard boards. “Go on.”
“We were together in the Sixteenth Legion when we were so young we could barely coax our rods to weep.” He laughed. “But Rufio was always more skillful than I in finding a soft meadow for his lonely branch.”
Diocles smiled but remained silent.
“Eventually we were transferred to different legions. Rufio served in Egypt and in Syria, too, I believe. Sometimes over the years we would intersect with one another. The last time was with II Augusta in Spain.” He rubbed the back of his neck as if the memory of Spain made his muscles ache. “Those Cantabri are some of the toughest people I’ve ever fought. Caesar himself had a Spanish bodyguard. Did you know that? If he hadn’t dismissed them, he’d never have been struck down on the Ides. Anyway, there was a rebellion up in the mountain country. After a show of Roman force, the Cantabri asked for a parley. It’s not unusual to send a centurion as an emissary in these situations. Rufio volunteered. He always liked the Spaniards—in, fact he’s always had a special way with people he helped conquer. Especially the Gauls, but the Spaniards, too.” He nodded to himself, as if in confirmation of his own cynicism. “The next morning we found him in a mountain valley with a spear in his side.”
Probus stood and stared off beyond the fort toward the distant forest.
“Then what?”
“How he lived I don’t know. It was a hideous wound. He got a bad infection and was sick for a long time. He still doesn’t look right to me.”
“He seemed to be in pain when he climbed those hay bales to stare down the slave.”
“Did he? I’m not surprised. And now he tells me he’s going to retire.”
“Perhaps he should.”
“No, it’s not wounds or sickness. The betrayal by the Cantabri cut something out of him. I don’t know if it can ever be replaced.” He dropped to one knee and looked at Diocles. “He was lying on his stomach in the fort hospital and was so sick he could barely open his eyes, but he forced himself to speak. He said, ‘Probus, why must the honor of man always be a phantom? Is life no better than lies?’” Probus stood up. “From Rufio, life has drained far more than blood.”
7 MAN IS A WOLF TO MAN.
Plautus
______
I am beginning to get my bearings in this place. Probus was right—it did not take long. The organization of the fort is so logical anyone could learn it with ease. Yet, if it is logical, why has no other army done this? There is a fine library here with a collection of military writings, which I have begun to read. I can find no parallel to these Romans. All other armies, even Alexander’s, seem semi-barbarous and inchoate. No other fighting men I can find in my research approach the business of living in a military outpost with such relentless orderliness. What fascinates me most is that they implement their innovative approach to these matters in an off-hand way. The physical components of this fort and their arrangement are, as far as I can determine, unique. Yet these men appear not to revel in their uniqueness. They seem to accept it—even expect it—as a natural quality of themselves. Is this arrogance? Hubris? I do not yet know them well enough to give an answer. Perhaps they are like an eagle, which takes no pride in its ability to fly, for, after all, it is an eagle.
The Suebi prized pastureland. Their lean cattle were ever hungry, and the animals now gorged in the meadow east of the river. No Roman would have gazed at these beasts with any thought of dining. The stringy muscles of the German cattle looked as succulent as the torsion sinews on a catapult. Yet the carnivorous Germans had strong teeth.
Barovistus stood with one foot up on the barrel of a dead tree at the edge of the woods. Before him on the ground sat the Assembly of Warriors. There was no war chief of the tribe, for there was no war. The Council of Elders would allow no man to hold such a powerful charge in time of peace. Yet not long before, in the bloody conflict with the Cherusci, Barovistus had shown himself to be the most audacious war chief in memory. And the memory of the Germans was long.
“So what do the Romans do for us?” Barovistus said. “They give silver cups to our elders and call them Friends of Rome. Friends!” He had the ability to laugh and sneer simultaneously. "Dupes are what they are!”
“Why?” shot a voice from among the warriors.
He stepped away from the rotted tree, as though it represented the dead past. “Because they get soft on Roman bribes while we hunger for the glory of men. Why must we keep miles of land this side of the river uninhabited and empty of cattle? Because the Romans say so. Why can we cross the river only at certain points? Because the Romans say so. Why can we not cross at night? Why must we cross unarmed?” He glared at the warriors.
“Because the Romans say so!” the assembly shouted in unison.
“And why do the Italian dwarfs say so?” Barovistus roared back. “Because they fear us!”
A growl of approval rumbled through the assembly.
“Why should we halt at a strip of water. Do Suebi fear getting wet?’ He sniffed loudly. “Well, maybe a few of you do,” he said with a smile. “But that’s a personal matter.”
The warriors laughed and the tension eased.
�
�So why do the Romans draw a line before us as if they pointed with the finger of a god? Because beyond that line lie green fields and hard Celtic steel and ripe Celtic women. And the Romans forbid us to take them.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Who are the Romans to forbid us anything?”
A cry exploded from the assembly.
“They come from their far-off land and point their steel at us and tell us to stay where we are. Are they gods?”
“No,” said a voice from the crowd. A veteran warrior stood and took in the assembly with a glance. “They are Romans. If any of you don’t know, be assured that it’s the next closest thing.”
The assembly was suddenly quiet, for the words of a former war chief were always worthy of respect.
The man limped to the front of the group and Barovistus stepped to the side, but not too far.
“Orgestes will speak,” Barovistus said to the assembly.
Orgestes paused as he gazed across the turbulent sea of warriors. “Do you think the Romans rule Gaul because of bribes? Do you think silver cups have brought them to our frontier? Are the Celts such fools to barter land for bright metal? The Helvetii and the Averni and the Nervii and so many others? Are you such dull calves that you can believe that?”
“They are here because of their good swords!” shouted one of the warriors and he shook his own spear with its simple fire-hardened wooden tip.
“Their swords?” Orgestes smiled as he ran a hand across his bald skull. “Spanish designs and Celtic steel. Do you think they’re here because of the temper of their metal? They face us across the Rhenus because they fight like no others fight in all the world.”
“We sympathize with Orgestes and his terrible wounds at Roman hands,” Barovistus said.
“My wounds are nothing compared to the death of a people. My father and all his brothers eagerly attacked the legions of Caesar, and all were slain by the great Roman. All cheered and shouted as you do today. All spilled their entrails onto the soil of Gaul.”
“Caesar is dead!” a warrior yelled.
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