His voice carried easily across the still field, reaching each of his men. “I am Jason Visibullis. I have spent six years in Rome. Some of you have lived there most of your lives, others among you have never seen it.” He walked a few paces to his right, stopped again. “The one of you who has been here the longest has seen ten years in Jerusalem. I was born and raised here. Some of you may think that will make me weak in my duties, when those involve putting a heavy hand on this land. I will put that thought to rest now, and if you are still not convinced, then my performance will prove it as well.
“I was born to a mother who taught me the way of the Jews. But I am a Roman! I have studied many texts, books, and discourses. But I am a soldier! I was born in this country, raised in this dust. But Rome is the fatherland! Rome is the heart that beats in my chest. Rome is the force that guides me. And the one that wills me to guide you. I tell you now what I expect of you. Loyalty. Honor. Obedience. Bravery. Devotion. We may not be at war, but we are warriors still. And as the best of our kind before us, we will be ready for any rising that may come. You will not question who you are or who you serve, just as I will not, and by working together cohesively we will live up to the name that the great Caesar has given this legion. Our standards will fly high before us, wherever we may go.”
He paused, surveyed the ranks yet again. “I will assume perfection. I will assume you capable of anything. And I forbid you to prove me wrong. Drill!”
They had been waiting for the command. The neat lines broke into perfect formations, the uniformly outfitted legs falling in uniformly sized strides and taking their men in motions that were, by now, second nature. Going through the exercises that kept their reflexes sharp and their skills at their maximum, each soldier ceased to be a man and became simply a part of the machine. Each one a member, none a whole on his own.
Jason watched them in pride. These were his men, now, his responsibility. His to command, his to lead, his to help in trouble, and his to punish in failings. Over the past years, he had on occasion wondered silently whether he had what it would take to control of the lives of a hundred men. But he had stopped asking that. Eventually, he had come to realize that he was no less fit than any of the others studying and working for their commissions. Better than most. His father had raised him well for this calling, and it had become a song in his ears.
This was what he had been born for.
Chapter Seven
Ester spent the day lounging with a painstakingly copied text of Aristotle, daydreaming more than she was actually reading anything about his version of Ethics. Cleopas was always encouraging her to read more and diverse things, and he had said he wished the Great Library at Alexandria had survived a few more years so that he could take her there. She smiled at the impossible dream. Abigail, too, would have loved to go, she knew.
Although, if Abigail married soon, even had it been possible that decision would not be hers to make. The thought caused Ester pause. She had, of course, realized that giving her maidservant in marriage to a good citizen would mean that she would no longer be at hand. But had she really stopped to realize that the new husband could chose to move away, taking Abigail with him? Or that he would not approve of his wife socializing often with her former mistress?
Ester sighed, turned a leaf absently. There was the other option, of course. She knew it would probably suit them all best. And she knew, too, that Cleopas would expect an answer from her soon. But she hesitated, for some reason, to agree. Perhaps it was just that she feared she would be making the decision for herself, and not for Abigail. Perhaps she thought it entirely too perfect to be perfect.
Perhaps she should simply raise the question to Abigail sometime and see what the young woman thought. It was, after all, her life. And since Cleopas had left the choice up to her, she was free to present it to her friend if she wished.
But she did not wish, not really. Abigail got so uncomfortable whenever her future marriage was brought up. It would not be a conversation. It would be a conformation of Abigail’s will to Ester’s. So before she brought anything up, Ester would have to know what her own will was.
And Cleopas would not keep her to his demand of one month, she knew. Not if she were truly struggling with the decision. He was a patient man. And he had, at the moment, more pressing concerns. His son.