“A wedge, do you think?” Macer asked.
“Ah, the wedge . . .”
“I've often wondered who taught them that. Or if they invented it.”
“Neither, I think,” Rufio said.
“What do you mean?”
“I think it’s an accident. You know that only a few men are truly braver than the rest in any group, no matter how big it is. They’re out front. The less brave fall back. The largest number are the really fearful. They fan out behind and are pulled along by the momentum of the rest. It’s like a pyramid laid on its side and dragged along the ground. I’ve never believed the wedge was a tactic. It’s the face of human nature.”
“Mmmm. I never thought of that.”
“But it’s the horses that bother me. So many cavalrymen. They can overwhelm us.”
“Our men will hold fast. Trust me, I know these men.”
“I believe you. But holding fast might not be enough. Last night I fell asleep thinking about this and I had a strange dream. The Suebi charged us on horses with huge foot-long teeth. Horses like no one has ever seen before. When I woke up, I couldn’t get that image out of my mind. Then I realized the enormous teeth reminded me of tusks.”
“Elephants?”
“Yes. Scipio at Zama had the same problem—being overwhelmed by Hannibal’s elephants. Remember what he did? We’ll take a hair from Scipio’s head.”
“It could work.”
Rufio gazed down and ran a hand back and forth over the soft spring grass.
“What do you think about before a battle?” Macer asked.
“Too many things.” He plucked a blade of grass and stuck it between his teeth.
“You don’t confide in anyone, do you?”
“Should I?”
“Not even in a black-haired Sequani forest spirit?”
“By the gods, is there no privacy in this army?”
“Not in any legion I’ve ever served in.”
“Before a battle, I always feel sad. I look at this grass and I know that tomorrow it’ll be a hideous sponge soaking up the blood of my men.”
He rose and faced east. “Always a wedge first. The stinking pig’s head. Then cavalry on the wings. Every time. No exceptions. Which is why I believe that’s exactly what Barovistus is not going to do.”
Macer stood up and looked at him.
“This German is no amateur,” Rufio said. He tossed away the blade of grass and turned to Macer with a smile. “But then, neither are we.”
42 MAKE HASTE SLOWLY.
Augustus
______
Rufio took the sack hanging from one of the four saddle horns and tossed it down to the men in the trench. They cheered him when they opened it and helped themselves to the hundreds of dried figs.
He rode up to a completed section of the ditch. The “lilies” were already growing. Frightening clumps of jagged branches blossomed from the narrow bottom. Even fiercer tangles of sharpened scraps of iron sprouted among the stakes like toxic flowers.
Rufio rode along the edge of the ditch to where a burly Gaul was bending down and fixing in place more of the obstacles.
“How do you like the battle line?”
Hetorix looked up. He smiled when he saw it was Rufio.
“I’m eager to return to my armory.”
“Aren’t we all? Well done, swordmaker.”
Hetorix nodded in acknowledgement and Rufio rode off.
The stallion made its way among the trees toward the stream. Rufio was pleased to see that the diggers were only about fifty feet from completion.
Crus labored in the trench with them. He climbed out when he saw Rufio approach.
“I’d never have thought this possible.” The tribune gazed with pride at his soldiers.
Rufio dismounted and let his horse get a drink at the stream.
“We should be able to break through to the water in about an hour,” Crus said.
Rufio walked along the edge of the ditch and stared at the stream beyond. He made a fist with his left hand and rubbed his signet ring back and forth against his chin.
“Not yet,” he said.
Crus came up to him. “Why not?”
“If the Germans get a spy through our picket line, let them think the trench will be dry. We’ll flood it at the last moment.”
He went to the edge of the stream and squatted on the bank. The fresh smell of the water invigorated him.
“We’ll make a small dam out of planks and place it at the end of the trench. Then we dig from the stream side outward until there’s only a thin wall of mud being held up by the dam. We’ll attach a rope to it and lash it to a saddle horn. One of our cavalrymen will wait until the Suebi are so close he can smell them. Then he pulls it down and races out of here like Charon is grasping at his heels.”
“But what about the German cavalry? What’ll stop them from riding him down?”
“The swiftness of his horse.”
“Then I suppose I’ll have to borrow your stallion.”
Rufio smiled.
“After all,” Crus said with a grin, “I must have something to tell my grandchildren around my fireside in the Alban Hills.”
43 EVERY SOIL IS FATHERLAND TO A BRAVE MAN.
Ovid
______
“Do you think Rufio has ever been decorated?” Diocles asked.
“For valor?” Valerius scooped some porridge from the cooking pot into his bowl.
“No, for delicacy of manner.”
Metellus started laughing and had a difficult time stopping. Diocles smiled at him and at the little family group around the morning fire. Calpurnia was sitting on the ground beside Metellus. She had a round and cheerful face, with just a hint in the cheekbones of that etched sharpness recalling the legacy of her Italian father. Metellus was holding her hand. This was a shockingly un-Roman thing to do. Men were not supposed to show public affection for their women. However, the imminent arrival of the Suebi inclined one to a different point of view.
At his other side, Kalinda played with the wooden doll he had carved for her.
“What sorts of decorations are there?” Diocles asked.
“Torques, crowns, all kinds of things. Some are reserved for soldiers above a certain rank. Some are open to everybody.”
“What would mean the most to you.”
Valerius set down his bowl and thought for a moment. “The civic crown.” He stared into the fire for a few seconds and then resumed eating.
“What is it?”
“It’s open to all ranks. To me, it’s the greatest honor there is. Something for your heirs to put on your tombstone. It’s the award for saving the life of a citizen of Rome. A crown of oak leaves.”
Diocles was about to speak, but looked away.
“What?” Metellus asked.
“Rufio has four of those. I’ve seen them. They’re old and dry and he keeps them in a box with cedar.”
Metellus nodded, as if in silent affirmation of a judgment he had made long ago.
“Thank the gods he’s with us now,” Valerius said to no one and everyone.
Diocles gazed down the tent line. Clusters of soldiers sat around cooking fires that seemed to stretch to the horizon. Shields and pila in front of the tents leaned against each other in neat triangles with a helmet at each apex.
What a society this was. What strange values. In Diocles’ world, men thirsted for wealth or power or both. Lavish villas and luscious young slaves to warm their beds and the unfaithful wives of other men to sate their cravings. And here? A man’s most cherished wish was for a corona of dead leaves. How foolish that was. And how magnificent. More times than he could count, Diocles had been told in Rome that men enlisted in the army because they were failures in normal life. Perhaps they truly were, to their everlasting glory.
“Hello, pretty little lady.”
Diocles jumped at Rufio’s voice.
The centurion was down on one knee before Kalinda.
“How is my bravest young warrior this morning?” He took her tiny right hand in his.
Calpurnia smiled at them as Kalinda lowered her eyes but sneaked a look up at Rufio and smiled.
He turned to Metellus. “There’s much to do.”
Metellus rose and Calpurnia stood with him.
“We’ll go now,” she said.
All the soldiers nearby were staring at Metellus.
To the signifer they were invisible as he slid his arms around Calpurnia and held her close. Kalinda hurried over and wrapped her small arms around one of his legs.
“You’ll return to us, won’t you?” Calpurnia asked.
“Of course. This silver-haired madman will see to it.”
She turned to Rufio and stared at him for a moment, then reached out for his right hand and pressed it to her lips.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Diocles felt sad for Rufio. As if this man did not have enough burdens, now was added one more. How could he bear them? Of this Diocles was certain, the most difficult job on earth was to be a centurion of Rome. Not long ago, he had not known even one. Now a world without centurions was beyond imagining. And a world without Rufio was too frightening to contemplate.
44 DARE TO BE WISE.
Horace
______
“So now that I’ve seen the battlefield,” Sabinus said, “tell me how we may use it to apply the principles of war.”
Diocles looked up from the map. Sabinus swept into the tent followed by his three favored centurions
Probus laughed and Macer turned away with a smile.
Sabinus looked from one to the other as he pulled off his helmet. “Explain why the commander is such a source of mirth to his men.”
Rufio set his helmet onto the map table. “Because these crude louts don’t know better than to laugh at the Legate of Augustus.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
Sabinus sat on a stool at the table and gestured for his men to sit.
Diocles remained standing.
“Now tell me,” Sabinus said and rested his elbows on the map in front of him.
Rufio deferred to his older comrade.
“Because there are no ‘principles of war’,” Macer answered.
Diocles watched as Sabinus eyed the older centurion and then turned to Rufio.
“Actually, my friend Bruttius exaggerates,” Rufio said. “There are three—but only three. Feed your men, prevent them from being killed, and kill the enemy.”
Sabinus glanced at Probus.
“We’re finished,” Probus said and folded his hands on the table before him.
Two of Sabinus’s slaves came in with bowls of fruit and cheese and placed them onto the map table and withdrew.
“Then I’ve been misled,” Sabinus said.
“Not by us,” Rufio answered. “By old men with too much time and too little to do.”
“Explain.”
“Aging soldiers enjoy sitting around their firesides and expounding on the principles of war as if they were as certain as the principles of mathematics. How could they be? It’s nonsense.”
“Tell me why.”
“Every battle is different. Even the tiniest variation changes the mix. Throws the whole thing askew. Caesar said that in war great events are the result of small causes.” He smiled. “Those dullards don’t know more than Caesar.”
“So the theorizers have nothing to contribute?”
“I didn’t say that. But these old men sit in their chairs with a cup of heated wine and concoct grand theories on the basis of one or two favorite battles and try to apply them everywhere. If they favor cavalry, they recite odes to Alexander at Issus. If they prefer encirclement, they sing of Hannibal at Cannae—always a favorite. If ambush excites them, they bend their knee to Hannibal’s brother Mago at Trebia. It’s ridiculous.”
“I’m not convinced,” Sabinus said. “You told me you yourself are researching history for a book on tactics. Doesn’t that disprove your point?”
“It proves it. If there were only a few principles to apply, I wouldn’t have to strain my eyes long into the night searching for some scrap that might help me some day. Instead, I’d just sit down like a Greek geometer and do the calculations. But it doesn’t work that way. Mars laughs at that.”
“Beware one theory that explains all.” Macer said. “It’ll lead you to your doom.”
“They why do some believe otherwise?” Sabinus asked.
“They’ve forgotten in their dotage that war sneers at theories,” Rufio said. “And, anyway, it’s human nature. Just like the foolish ancestors of our Greek friend here—looking for one great philosophy that explains everything. That’s why no good soldier could ever be a philosopher. He knows too much.”
Sabinus’s eyes narrowed in amusement.
“Keep your sword bright,” Rufio said, “and forget the ‘timeless principles of war’. And besides, if there were only simple principles to apply, what credit would there be in victory?”
He pulled his dagger and thrust it into the map in the center of the battlefield.
45 HAPPY THE MAN, AND HAPPY HE ALONE . . . WHO, SECURE WITHIN, CAN SAY, TOMORROW DO THY WORST, FOR I HAVE LIVED TODAY.
Horace
______
Diocles often felt like sleeping after his midday meal, but today sleep eluded him. He decided to walk through camp to help relieve his tension.
The boiling energy of a legion on the eve of battle had now banked to a simmer. He strolled around the camp. The men of many centuries were seated on the ground before their centurions. Every officer hurled his own style of motivation at his men. Some centurions spoke of the glory of Rome, others of the moral hideousness of the Suebi. Some exhorted with tales of heroes from the past. Others chose a more practical approach and inspired with reassurances of Roman superiority in training and equipment and leadership. One centurion, clearly short on charm, told his men that anyone who turned and ran would have to answer to him, and he would personally cut out the heart of any soldier who returned from battle with a wound in his back.
When Diocles reached the center of the camp, he saw about a dozen centurion tents pitched behind Sabinus’s tent. They formed a large open rectangle with several tables set up inside its perimeter. Piles of undyed woolen blankets lay atop every table, for cold was considered especially dangerous to the wounded. Stacks of linen bandages sat atop the blankets. Next to the dressings lay stout leather straps. They could have but one use, to prevent soldiers from destroying their own teeth as they ground them together in agony.
Diocles entered one of the tents. Long blanket-covered tables filled it. Neatly arranged on a smaller table off to one side lay a large collection of bronze and brass surgical instruments. Probes, forceps, bone chisels, and hooked retractors crowded together. Ten double-ended scalpels lay beneath them. Bronze-handled, the cutting tools had a removable steel blade at one end and a bronze spatulate probe at the other. A Greek doctor came in while Diocles was examining one and pointed out proudly that his blades had been made in Noricum, which he claimed to be the source of the finest scalpel steel in the empire.
Diocles suddenly longed to be back with his century.
He found them milling about in the open area next to Rufio’s tent. When the centurion came out, he signaled for them to sit. They formed a semicircle around him.
Rufio seemed relaxed, just as Neko had said he would be.
“It’s been a remarkable journey,” he began without preliminaries. “Me from Spain to here, and you from everywhere to me. But our journey is only beginning. The Germans have thrust a spear into the side of Gaul, and we must do what we’re trained to do. What we’re fated to do. The Germans are mad dogs—blind to reason and ravenous to the point of insanity. They’re poised to swarm the fields of Gaul and devour or defile everything in their path. But they’re nothing mysterious. They’re simply coarse-haired savages who rarely bathe and who eat bad meat and drink cow’s milk li
ke the barbarians they are.” He paused for a moment, then said, “Behind us lie villages that will vanish if we don’t succeed—including villages where some of your sweethearts live. Think of your own Sequani beauty tomorrow as you fasten your sword belt. Remember the look in her eyes when you saw her last. Her life depends on you now. But most of all, think of the man beside you. His life depends on his courage, but it also depends on yours. Don’t fail him. Make me as proud of you tomorrow as I am of you tonight. And remember, I am with you always—even across the rivers of Hell.”
Rufio stood and his men stood with him. He approached each one and gripped him firmly by the forearms and whispered a word of reassurance.
Diocles waited until the end. He was trembling when Rufio grasped his arms. He looked into the centurion’s gray-blue eyes. They were as serene as those of a holy man. Who could ever hope to understand this Roman?
“I could never have imagined this,” Diocles whispered.
The soldier and his centurion sat on their horses and stared into a black infinity. Campfires beyond counting shimmered to the invisible horizon.
“Varacinda was right,” Rufio said. “Flavia has the eye. Ten thousand at least.”
“I feel so small.” Diocles stared at Rufio in the moonlight.
“Remember this moment. Preserve it for your history. But it won’t matter. Your readers will never believe it.”
Diocles looked back at the fires glittering like thousands of nasty yellow eyes. “How can we have any hope at all?”
“Victoria is not a fickle goddess. She didn’t bring us all the way to these lands to allow us to crumble now. Not before the likes of these.”
He could feel Rufio’s revulsion as fully as if it were a tangible force.
“I want you on the hill tomorrow. You’ll be able to see everything from there. To fix it in your mind forever.”
“I haven’t prayed in many years. I’ll pray tonight.”
A cloud passed over the moon and he could barely make out Rufio as the centurion turned toward him in the darkness.
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