“What’s your name?”
“Larinda.”
He leaned closer. “Have you been to the latrine?”
She shook her head no.
“Would you like me to take you?”
“No,” she whispered and pointed with embarrassment to the drain in the floor. The flagstones around it were still wet.
He pushed back the hair from her face. She was about eighteen years old. Very different from her sister in appearance, she was captivating in a smooth and yielding way, with soft features that seemed about to melt.
“I spoke with Varacinda today,” he said. “She asked me to tell you that she loves you very much.”
The girl’s green eyes filled with tears and her lips quivered, but she refused to weep. “Tell her I love her, too.” Suddenly she gripped his forearms. “I’m so afraid. I fear some man will buy me for his pleasure. I’ve never had a man before. What will happen? Will he ravish me?”
It was an obscene remark to come from so innocent a mouth. Rufio curled a finger beneath her chin and brushed her cheek with his thumb. “Perhaps the gods of Rome are not so cruel.”
Priscus was still outside, sitting on a water trough, when Rufio came out.
“Six thousand sestertii,” Rufio said. “You’d be wise to accept.”
“She’s not for sale. I told you that.”
“Would you rather have Longus kill her?”
“You exaggerate. There never yet was a field that wouldn’t accept a plow.”
“Soldier!” Rufio said.
“Yes, centurion.”
“No one except Priscus is allowed in with the slaves.”
Then he turned and walked away.
“We’ll create no disturbance here, centurion. We’re not so foolish.”
Rufio paused and looked back over his shoulder. “How foolish you are remains to be seen. You’d be wise to remember that many of us are fated to become the food of Acheron.”
With that reference to one of the rivers of Hell, he turned and walked off into the dying light.
Neko led Diocles through the centurion’s sleeping quarters to a room beyond.
“Centurion Rufio says you may use this room for your writing.” Neko lit a bronze oil lamp and set it down on the desk.
The room was about eight feet by ten and apparently had been built as a storeroom. Now it housed a writing desk, a wicker chair, and a bronze brazier. Some shelves had been set up along two walls to hold papyrus scrolls.
Diocles picked up a scroll that lay open on the desk. He realized with amazement that it was Lucretius’s masterwork of Epicureanism, On the Nature of Things. The exuberant foe of the grim Stoics, Lucretius had attacked with vigor the mystery of Nature. Whether or not he had succeeded was still being debated. Yet none could deny the brilliance and originality with which he had grappled with the riddle of life.
“Will there be anything else?” Neko asked.
“How long have you been with Rufio?”
“Many years. I was a teacher once, before that, long ago.”
“He puzzles me.”
Neko’s full lips widened in a grin. “He puzzles himself.”
“Has he always been a soldier?”
“Can you imagine him as anything else?”
“Tonight my powers of imagining have vanished.”
“Then let me tell you. He is a great soldier and he is a great man.”
Diocles pulled out the wicker chair and sat down. “Why?”
“He is a great soldier because he is strong and wise. And he is strong because he is wise. His strength grows out of that wisdom.”
Neko paused, but Diocles said nothing and waited for him to continue.
“And he is a great man because he is truly brave. I don’t mean the bravery of thrusting swords—I mean the courage to face within himself that which is unfaceable. He has done that. That is his greatness and his tragedy.”
Diocles stared at him in confusion.
“You see,” Neko went on, “Rufio is not just a man who reads Lucretius. He is also a man of war capable of things you dare not even imagine. Rufio is two different beings fused into one. He is like a centaur—he thinks and speaks with the reason of man, and yet he is forever on the verge of raging and lusting and trampling. He struggles with these two beings within himself every day of his life. Out of that terrible war comes the extraordinary creature I know as Rufio. He is the greatest man I will ever know.”
Diocles gazed at Neko for a long time after he had finished. The love in the man’s eyes ruled out the possibility that Neko was leading him on. Yet it all did seem rather overstated. Like their temples and monuments, the words of Egyptians always seemed a bit outsized.
“Thank you, Neko. That will be all.”
The Egyptian withdrew.
Diocles rolled up the scroll. Beneath it were several sheets of papyrus with what looked like fresh writing. It contained a collection of military anecdotes, each one revealing some stratagem used to thwart an enemy at the moment of crisis. They were not uniquely Roman, nor were they drawn from any particular period of history. Rather, the incidents apparently had been selected solely for their instructive value.
Diocles smiled. It was another example, if one were needed, of the relentless Roman pragmatism.
“I recommend the story of Gracchus and the Lusitanians. Few tales of war are more telling than that.”
Diocles jumped at the sound of Rufio’s voice, though he was not sure why.
“I thought you might like to have a quiet area where you could write at night.”
“Thank you. Won’t I disturb you here?”
“I sleep only three or four hours.”
He came over to the desk and picked up a waxed tablet.
“Rufio . . .”
“M-m-m?”
“Are you writing a book?”
“Compiling one, you could say. Though I’m throwing in a few stories of my own.”
“A book on war?”
“War is my life,” he answered, his eyes as cold as slate. Then he turned and walked away.
Diocles felt uncomfortable. Rufio seemed irritable tonight.
“How did you like the feats of strength?” Diocles asked.
“Very impressive,” he answered from the other room. “If you like freaks.”
Diocles went to the doorway. “Have you ever seen anything like Longus?”
“Friend, no one has ever seen anything like Longus.”
Rufio went into the small alcove where his bed was and sat on the edge and glanced down the tablet.
“I’d hate to be the receptacle for that one,” Diocles said. “I saw a rhinoceros once in Rome—”
“Talkative tonight, aren’t you?” Rufio said in annoyance. He breathed on his signet ring to warm the stone, then pressed it into the wax and set the tablet aside. “The fact is that the Sequani girl is going to be the receptacle for that monstrosity. If she survives it. I tried to buy her but the dealer wouldn’t deal.”
Diocles sighed and looked away.
“She’s a slender and delicate flower the gods should never have grown,” Rufio said. “Beauty is the cause of much ugliness in the world.”
“Perhaps I can get Sabinus to buy her. He can offer more money than you could.”
“Money wasn’t the issue. Besides, it no longer matters. They left at sundown. And good riddance.” He lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.
Diocles turned away and went back to the small room. The night was a warm one and the place seemed airless. When he sat at the desk, he realized he was far too tired to produce anything useful. Yet Rufio expected him to, so perhaps he should try.
Paki sprang up onto the desk from out of the shadows. She sprawled on the papyrus sheets and gazed at him with that profound skepticism with which cats have always tormented the human race.
He scratched her under the chin, and she began purring. Then he turned to look again at Rufio.
The room beyond was almost
dark now. Only a single oil lamp was burning. Rufio sat on the edge of the bed in the flickering yellow light. He was slumped forward, his arms folded across his knees and his forehead resting against them. He seemed overwhelmed by some vast and insurmountable exhaustion.
Diocles turned back to his work. He picked up Paki and set her to one side of the desk. She ignored the indignity.
He dipped his pen into the small bronze inkpot and held the point above the paper, but no thoughts would come. He heard Rufio get up and walk toward him.
“Can you swim?”
“Like a sturgeon.”
“Tomorrow any recruits that cannot swim will be taught. I want you to be one of the instructors. I won’t have men in my century who fear fighting near water. We never know where we might have to make a stand for Rome. And their—”
“I taught the son of Sabinus to swim in one day.”
“Good. The feet of the new men could use a rest, too. The cool water of the lake will soothe them. Teach them quickly. I want to begin weapons training as soon as possible, now that war with the Germans is imminent.” He turned back toward his room.
“Imminent?” Diocles said in surprise. “I thought it was uncertain.”
“No longer. Priscus the slave dealer told us so—though he didn’t realize it.”
Diocles gave him a puzzled look.
“Priscus would never have come this great distance for those few pathetic Gauls.”
“There are more then?”
“There must be more to make it worth his expense. He must have made an arrangement with the Germans to dispose of their captives after the battle. The Suebi don’t care to keep slaves.”
“This is incredible. But surely you don’t mean Roman captives.”
“Oh no. The Gallic cavalry at the other fort. And any Gauls from this village who fight by our side and are taken in battle.”
“Did you tell this to Sabinus?”
“No, but Carbo will have figured it out. If it were up to me, I’d have laid the head of a hot pilum across Priscus’s balls until he told us everything.”
Diocles looked away and stroked the cat as he absorbed all this.
“It’s warm in here tonight,” Rufio said. “I need air.”
Diocles listened to his fading footsteps and thought of the barbarian race beyond the river. He stopped petting Paki, and she reached out and began licking his hand.
He smiled to himself as he gazed at the cat. Every man, no matter how clever or sophisticated, feels a childlike pride when an animal takes to him without reason. No one is immune. Diocles was wise enough to know that everyone longs for love without conditions. All seek it in their mates, their friends, their comrades in battle. So few find it. Perhaps Rufio had forsaken the quest among men and had found it here at last with this gentle beast.
Suddenly he felt agonizingly weary. He placed his forearm on the desk and laid his head down on it next to the cat. He fell asleep in an instant.
A hand on Diocles’ shoulder roused him from his slumber. He looked up and saw Rufio standing over him. There was something different about him. His hair was not as neat as it usually was, and it seemed damp with sweat.
Diocles had no idea how long he had been sleeping, though somehow it seemed very late. When he sat up, he felt as if liquid lead were rolling around inside his head.
“Time to go to bed, soldier,” Rufio said pleasantly.
Yet Rufio’s face did not seem pleasant in the uncertain light. The expression was taut, and the eyes . . .
Diocles’ memory shot back to a moment in his youth. He and his father were returning at night from a hunting excursion. They were carrying torches along a trail in the woods when his father pointed out something that Diocles thought he saw again at this instant—the fierce and ominous eyeshine of a wolf.
15 DEAD MEN DO NOT BITE.
Roman saying
______
It is difficult to believe than any man could be so tired. I am exhausted always. Every part of my body cries out with weariness. Formerly it took time to fall asleep. Now just the sight of my bunk causes my body to slump. Some of the recruits are even worse than I. The veterans, though, seem impervious to effort. All are in fiercely sound condition. I have never seen such a gathering of fine physiques, all capable of limitless endurance.
Hunger, too, is my constant companion. I could eat the sandals off my feet if I dipped them in fish sauce. Yet we eat much and well, at least as well as the Gauls—perhaps better. But the endless drilling keeps me permanently hungry. Valerius says that nothing a commander does is more important than providing his men with plentiful and wholesome food. Obviously Sabinus concurs. Soldiers will complain about anything, and yet I have never heard a single word against our food. We eat better than any ordinary inhabitant of Rome. Never in my life have I consumed so much meat. We have our own herds and flocks, and there is a limitless supply of animal flesh. Pork is a favorite, along with poultry, and we also relish beef and mutton and veal. We eagerly pull sturgeon and pike from the stream nearby. We have a smokehouse and a salting room within the fort to enable the stockpiling of provisions in case of some emergency or disaster.
Of course, our wheat stores are also vast. “The rock road on which we walk” is how Valerius refers to the humble grain. We have as much bread as we can eat—wholemeal only, at the insistence of the senior centurions who, I am told, maintain that it prevents constipation. I can verify that.
Each tent group prepares its own meals, and I am becoming quite adept with the quern-stone and roasting pot. Since we have an unending supply of milk from our herds, I have also learned to be a cheese-squeezer of no small talent.
These seemingly menial chores—which in Rome would of course be performed by slaves or women—the soldiers undertake with vigor. I could not understand this at first. However, I have since learned that among Roman soldiers one should cultivate thinking in a manner precisely opposite to the way one normally does. These men would feel demeaned only if they lacked the skills for these tasks. In all of their abilities they take enormous silent pride. Never have I known a society of men who so embodied this consummate manly completeness.
The predawn light had barely begun seeping into the barracks by the time all the men were up and dressed. They washed, rubbed their teeth clean with burnt nitrum, and then visited one of the latrines near the edge of the fort. By the time they returned, the two men assigned cooking duty for the day had the big pot at the hearth bubbling with porridge. They made some wheat pancakes as well and covered them with sliced apples and honey.
Now they relaxed over their meal, stretching and belching and breaking wind with indifference, like any group of men freed of embarrassment by the absence of women.
“Nothing like the first fart of the day,” Metellus said with a laugh after one of the men almost tore a hole in his tunic with an especially devastating roar. “Sorry, Greek,” Metellus added to Diocles, eating his breakfast on the bunk next to him.
“You should be,” Diocles said. “We Greeks do not fart. Occasionally we do pass overheated air, but not until we’ve discussed it for three days and then put it to a vote. And, of course, after we’ve determined that no one will take us to court over it. Then we gracefully raise a cheek and smoothly vent our woe.”
Everyone laughed, a few men choking on their porridge as they did so.
“And I suppose Greek farts don’t stink,” Metellus shot back.
“Air as sweet as an Arcadian breeze.”
“I knew having a Greek around would raise our level of culture,” Valerius said as he came through the doorway.
Diocles lowered his eyes. “I accept your judgment with humble pride.”
“Humble pride?” Metellus said. “What does that mean?”
“Another Greek sophistry,” Valerius answered.
“Sophistry?” Diocles said. “Where did you learn that word? I must have scratched it on the latrine wall.”
“That must be why I associate it
in my mind with squeezing out a turd.”
“Your mind squeezes out turds?”
“To make a proper place for your wisdom.”
“As if it could fit!”
“Certainly it will. I keep it stuffed in there with that other tiny collection—Tales of Spartan Lovers.”
Metellus spit out an apple laughing at that.
“Enough philosophy for today,” Valerius said. “Metellus, have the century assemble next to the barracks in a half-hour. Diocles, come with me. Bring your cloak.”
Diocles gulped down the rest of his porridge and followed him out. Valerius paused in the storage room and pulled two javelins from a rack on the wall.
“Take this.” He handed one to Diocles. Then he took his sword belt from one of the bins and buckled it on. “We’re riding down to the lake.”
They left the fort and passed through the gate guarding the bridge at the outer ditch.
“The men have already accepted you.”
“Have they?” Diocles tried to conceal his pride. “Why?”
“Most Romans envy Greeks for one reason or another. But one thing we hate about them is the way they complain so much. Greeks are always whining about something. But not you. Your feet look like rats have been chewing on them—but not a word. You bear pain like a Roman.”
As a learned and sophisticated Greek, Diocles knew he should not have been moved by this, but he now felt as if he were growing inches by the moment.
“Thank you.”
“You could’ve thrown gold at them and they would’ve been unmoved. But those bleeding blisters have bought you much.”
Diocles smiled and gazed at the road ahead. “Why are we going to the lake before everyone else?”
“To find a safe spot for the new swimmers.”
The sun was rising over the water by the time they reached the bank of the lake. The pink disc spread its light across one of those hazy spring mornings that could shoot life into a dying man. The cool air made the skin tighten and almost quiver, and the birds filled the ears with songs that seemed to have no purpose other than to delight the soul of man. On such a day as this, sin could not exist on earth.
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