Soldier of Rome: Journey to Judea (The Artorian Chronicles) (16 page)

“Slower than I expected,” Stoppello replied as he sat down to eat. “I spoke with the admiral who oversees the eastern seas. He happened to be in port before he heads to Cyprus, where he is headquartered. I’ve been ordered to remain in Caesarea until my ship is not only repaired, but fully refitted as a proper warship. As my vessel is one of the larger ships in the region, I think he wants to keep me in the east as long as possible. So, whereas I figured we would spend a week in port, we’ll now be here at least a month. The ballistae and catapults have to be built, armor plating added, as well as barricades for archers, who we will need to enlist.”

It was past late afternoon and rolling into evening when Sukhbataar arrived at the ship to collect his new slaves. There were a dozen wheeled cages, each drawn by an ox. The cage at the end of the line was covered with a black tarp. Guiding them was a number of men who looked very similar in appearance to Sukhbataar
, narrow-eyed and dressed in red with gold embroidery. There were others who carried fearsome pikes that Magnus surmised were the entertainer’s personal bodyguard. Achillia was with them as well. She wore a hooded cloak with a veil covering her face, with the exception of her eyes.

“About bloody time,” Hansi grumbled as he leaned over the rail of the ship. He then turned and nodded to his brother, who had brought with him a squad of legionaries.

“Get them up!” Magnus directed.

The prisoners were all chained together, seated near the main mast. The sadistic
decanus was there with his whip, which he cracked hard against the deck.

“You heard the man!” he barked.
“On your feet, scum!”

He slapped the whip once more as legionaries kicked and prodded the hapless former pirates to their feet. They clambered down the gangplank, with Sukhbataar counting them as they stumbled past him morosely.

“You’re missing two,” he noted.

“They bought it,” Hansi explained as he and Magnus walked down the plank and joined him. “So that’s twelve denarii lost.”

“Selfish bastards had to die on us,” Magnus chuckled with dark humor.

As Achillia watched the prisoners being shoved into cages, one of them sidled up as close to her as he could. Though he was a big man, who reeked of filth and excrement, the Syrian woman did not move.

“And what have we here, then?” the pirate said with a mad, black-toothed grin. “Care to spare the damned with a taste of your supple flesh, then?” When she said nothing, he cackled and spat in her face. She closed her eyes but did not move. There was a sickening slap of whip tearing into flesh, accompanied by the howl of pain as the offender fell to his knees.

“Vile bastard, I’ll teach you!” the
decanus with the whip growled. He quickly walked up behind the man, who was still on his knees, and wrapped the whip around his neck. He twisted the end in knots, causing it to cinch down on the man’s throat. His tongue protruded grotesquely, and his face turned purple.

“Easy,
sergeant,” Magnus said, placing a hand on his shoulder. “We don’t get paid if he’s dead.”

“I have better plans for him,” Achillia added as she wiped her cloak across her face. She turned and nodded to one of their escorts, who pulled back the tarp on the rear cart. With surprising strength, she grabbed the prisoner, who was coughing and trying to catch his breath, by the hair and manacles, and dragged him along the length of carts. Another escort opened the door, and though no one could see inside the cart, Hansi and Magnus knew what it contained.

“I think Sargon is hungry,” Achillia said with a sinister gleam in her eye.

“Who is Sargon?” a legionary asked as they watched the spectacle unfold.

“A pet,” Magnus replied with a grin, folding his arms across his chest.

At the final cart, the prisoner was still reeling from the shock of being lashed and lightheaded from being nearly strangled. Achillia effortlessly shoved him into the cart, and the cage door was closed behind him with the tarp
secured back in place.

“Kŕmenie!”
Achillia spoke towards the cage.

Upon the word, from an unknown language to the others, a loud growling came from within. This was followed by an animalistic roar, accompanied by screams of terror. The assembled legionaries were wide-eyed, yet
Sukhbataar, Achillia, and their escorts seemed unconcerned, even as the cries turned to pain while the cage rocked as the hapless victim was devoured.

“Jerusalem, two weeks’ time,”
Sukhbataar stated.

“Don’t be late,”
Achillia said with a wink as they left with the long line of cages in tow. Screams still came from the covered cart, which left several trails of blood in its wake.

Chapter XV:
Strange Traditions

Caesarea

May, 31 A.D.

***

“You missed all the excitement from Passover,” Justus said as he, Artorius, and the other
centurions met over breakfast.

“Always a potentially volatile time in this region,” another
centurion named Julius added. He had been with the Twelfth Legion and had been assigned to the cohort on Pilate’s personal recommendation. “Pilgrims come from all over the region, and the population of Jerusalem swells to well over a million persons during this time.”

“What exactly is
Passover
?” Magnus asked as he bit into a chunk of bread, which he washed down with watery wine.

“Jewish holiday,” Julius explained.
“According to their traditions, when a prophet named Moses was attempting to free his people from bondage in Egypt, God inflicted ten plagues upon their masters. The last of these was the death of the firstborn in every household. The Jews were ordered to paint the doors of their houses with the blood of a ram, I think. This way the angel of death knew to pass over their house.”

“It was after this that the pharaoh relented and let the Israelites go,” Justus added.
“Oh, and the night of the passing over they were also told to eat unleavened bread.”

There was a lengthy pause as the Roman officers attempted to make sense of the story.

“So,” Cornelius began, pausing before continuing. “Which god of theirs did this?”

“The only one they have,” Julius replied.

“Such a bother, being monotheistic,” Praxus observed. “I don’t know why they don’t just borrow some of our gods. You know, a lot of people do.”

“Well
, that story’s just dumb!” Magnus retorted. “Eat crappy bread and paint your door with blood and you’ll be set free. I mean, what sense does any of that make?”

“Oh
, come now,” Artorius replied. “It’s no more twisted than any of our sacrifices or customs. After all, how much sense does it make gleaning omens from a swallow’s entrails? And Magnus, don’t even get me started on the twisted traditions of your people!”

“So with the Passover now finished, I suppose this is a better time for us to beat some discipline into the Jerusalem garrison,” Praxus thought aloud as the men continued to eat.

“As good a time as any,” Justus said. “Though to be honest, it is never a good time for us in Jerusalem. At least most of the damned pilgrims should be gone by the time we arrive.”

“When do we leave?” Cornelius asked.

“In two days,” Artorius answered. “Pilate is coming with us. There are a number of unfinished issues left over that arose during Passover.”

“What sort of issues?” Magnus asked.

“Not our concern,” Artorius answered. “Politicians take care of political matters. We are simply an extension of that. The main road taking us to Jerusalem takes us south along the coast for most of the way, then turns east for the last stretch. All told, it’s about a three-day march.”

The following day, Cornelius’ century held its own formation on the drill field between the barracks and the cohort’s headquarters building. The men were all in full armor, ready for inspection. Artorius was present, though he remained in the shadows of the nearest barracks, not wishing to intrude upon Centurion Cornelius. However, the reason for the formation had special meaning for him. The century’s optio, who would normally stand behind the formation, instead stood by his centurion in the front, carrying a small scroll.

“Legionary Metellus Artorius Posthumous…post!”
Cornelius shouted. The soldier stepped from his place in the formation and quickly jogged over to his centurion. Cornelius then nodded to his optio, who read from the scroll.

“As a testament of your tenacity, valor, and superior leadership, you are hereby promoted to the rank of Decanus / Sergeant of Legionaries!”

Metellus accepted the scroll, clasped his centurion’s and optio’s hands, saluted, and the returned to his place in the formation.

Artorius turned and left as Cornelius continued to brief his men on their upcoming trek to Jerusalem. He then realized that his son had just turned twenty-two and was
, therefore, the same age he was when he received his promotion to decanus. Artorius knew that Metellus would go through many of the same trials that he did, compounded by holding his position at such a young age. While it was not unheard of for a squad leader to be in his early twenties, it certainly was not the norm. An issue that Artorius had had to quickly overcome was having an entire squad of legionaries who were older. Although, in his case, they had all been friends who’d served together over the previous five years. Metellus was now leading men he’d never even met before they arrived in Judea.

“Well, he’s made it this far already,” Artorius said quietly to himself. Something he referred to was Metellus being awarded the
civic crown
for extreme valor, and for saving his life, during the Battle of Braduhenna. While Artorius had many decorations, the civic crown had eluded him. It actually did not bother him and, in fact, he was very proud of his son for what he’d already accomplished in the legions.

“Artorius!” The call of Pontius Pilate
notified him.

H
e turned to face the procurator, snapping off a sharp salute.

“I take it your men are ready for their journey?”

“They will be,” Artorius asserted. “The men are used to marching, and they’ve only been in Caesarea for about three weeks, so their legs have not gone soft on them yet.”

“Not that you would ever allow that,” Pilate chuckled. “I will be glad to have legionaries with me when I return to Jerusalem. I intend to keep you there a month, two at the most. After that, provided you’ve beaten some discipline into the garrison, the only times you should need to travel there will be whenever I visit the city during Passover
, as well as the occasional inspection. Infernal mess that it makes the city, it still gives me a chance to make Roman presence known to as many Judeans as possible in one fell swoop. There are many days when the masses forget they are our subjects.”

The two men started to walk together. Pilate was hosting a dinner party that evening, with Artorius and Diana among the honored guests. Secretly, the
centurion hoped in vain that it would not run late, nor that he would be suffering too badly from a pending hangover.

Chapter XVI: To Jerusalem

***

It was an hour before dawn as the First Italic Cohort assembled outside the gate of its barracks. A single squad from each century would s
tay behind to watch the garrison. They were also still short the twenty legionaries who were escorting the baggage train on its extended journey. Still, it was an impressive sight as the armored soldiers formed four columns on the cobblestone road. As Romans were known for their displays of power, Pilate had directed Artorius to have his men leave the leather covers off their shields and their helmets on until they were out of the city.

As the soldiers
all came from different legions, their shields were painted with different colors and patterns. Though various shades of red were most common, there were some whose legion colors were blue, black, or even green. The designs also varied considerably, between eagles’ wings, lightning bolts, with scorpions for the African legionaries, and winged horses on the shields of those that came from the east. With all the more pressing matters of making the cohort ready, Artorius had yet to authorize a new shield pattern for his men.

“Quite the colorful plethora we have there,” he said dryly as Pilate rode up on his horse. Artorius, along with all
centurions and options, was also mounted. The Judean procurator had donned his military tribune’s armor, consisting of a muscled cuirass with leather trappings, a deep red cloak, and an ornate brass helmet with black accents, topped by a black crest that ran front to back.

“The old armor still fits,” Pilate said with a chuckle as he tapped his fist against the chest plate. “As for your men’s shield
s…eh, the civilians don’t know any better. Reminds me of the early days of the Roman Kingdom, when our soldiers resembled Greek hoplites and every soldier had his own personally designed shield. And if you look at their faces, the skin color of our legionaries is as varied as their shields.”

Artorius looked back at his assembled cohort and nodded. Theirs was truly an amalgamation of the various racial aspects of the
empire. The skin of his men varied from pale white of those who came from Belgica and Gaul, to the deepest black of some of the Africans. And yet, because of the Roman policy of assimilation, all were of one culture and one mind. Artorius felt that all should pay homage to their ancestry, while acknowledging that they were Romans first.

“Cohort!”
he shouted over his shoulder.

“Century!”
his centurions sounded over their own.

“Forward…march!”

As one, the men of the First Italic Cohort stepped off and began the long march to Jerusalem. If it were just Artorius, Pilate, and a mounted escort, they could readily make the trip in little over a day, less if they rode their horses hard. As it was seventy-five miles to Jerusalem, it would take the marching legionaries three days to make the trek. There was a sizeable gap between each century, as the centurion and optio of each rode in front of their men. They marched four abreast, taking up a sizeable portion of the road, although pedestrians and civilian carts were quick to avoid them. At a mile past the southernmost outskirts of Caesarea, Artorius halted the formation, had his men place the leather covers on their shields, and gave them the option of removing their helmets.

“Any particular threats we should know about between here and Jerusalem?” Artorius asked
, as he rode up beside Pilate.

“Not for us,” the
procurator replied. “Bandits and raiders tend to avoid this road simply because of the high volume of traffic. And those that are brazen enough won’t dare try anything with us. They go after easy prey, not four hundred men armed to the teeth.”

“And what of the zealots I’ve heard about?”

“They’re out there,” Pilate conceded. “We, sadly, do not have the resources necessary to hunt them down and exterminate them, even if we did have a full legion at our disposal. Thankfully, they are scattered and leaderless. They spend most of their time fighting each other, though given enough time, I suspect they will attempt to make a show of force against your legionaries.”

The late spring days were quite pleasant with a gentle breeze blowing in off the sea. Though thick tree groves were rare, there was still a variety of evergreen, palm, and various leafed trees dott
ing the landscape and lining the roads. In the distance, off to the west, they could see numerous fishing boats; the sea providing much of the staple for the region. The further away from Caesarea they traveled, the more decidedly ‘Jewish’ the people appeared. The men were mostly bearded with shoulder length hair, though they did not appear unkempt like so many of the barbaric peoples Artorius had encountered over the years. Their dress was mostly robes of plain, earthly colors, though the wealthier would don resplendent red, green, and gold. Indeed, some of the more well-off merchants they passed, who were riding in litters borne by slaves, were clean shaven with a manner of attire that was a mixture of both Jewish and Roman. Women tended to wear a greater variety of colors than men, and most wore colored head scarves with their hair pulled back.

Late in the morning of the second day of their journey, the cohort halted at a crossroads near a rather large fish market. Metellus, sensing an opportunity to supplement their rations, addressed his optio, “Sir, is there time to peruse the fish market?”

The
optio surveyed the scene before answering. “Go ahead. Decanii only! We don’t need several hundred legionaries descending upon their market.”

Metellus grinned and spoke with the men in his
squad, gathering a few coins from those who wanted some fresh fish with their supper. He then left the formation, walking down a short section of the sandy beach to the nearest stall. It was more of a shabby tent with all the walls rolled up, and a rickety table with numerous baskets of freshly caught fish behind a small group of men, who regarded the approaching Romans with great apprehension. One of the decanii accompanying Metellus was originally from Damascus and was, therefore, fluent in most of the local languages. He spoke to the men, who started talking rapidly and pointing to them, their fish baskets, as well as waving about at nothing.

“What are they saying?” Metellus asked.

“They say if we take all their fish, there won’t be enough for the people,” the decanus replied.

“Piss on that!” Metellus snapped. “It’s not as if we’re stealing from them
. We’re paying for what we take!”

“In Roman coin,” one of the men sneered
with a heavy accent.

Metellus glared at him. “Roman coin is the only currency of value here. You should count yourselves fortunate that we don’t just take what we wish.”

“Take it easy,” his fellow squad leader said quietly. “That is how they are. They will try and provoke us and find any reason to say we abuse them. It’s just how they are.” He then proceeded to further haggle with the men in their own tongue.

The argument went on for several minutes.
Metellus was becoming exasperated when he saw another man approaching them from down by the water. Dressed in similarly shabby garb, Metellus gathered he was not a fisherman.  He was well built, and the decanus could tell from the size of his forearm muscles and calloused hands that he’d done much physical labor in his life. The fishermen ceased in their arguing and immediately looked down, as if embarrassed. Though the man did not stand out from the others in dress or appearance, Metellus surmised he was somebody of importance to them. When he spoke to the men, his voice was calm and almost serene.

“What’s he saying?” Metellus asked.

“He’s telling them to sell us what we wish and to be thankful for the coins we give them.”

The
decanus was grinning in triumph.

“A Jew with a touch of sense,” Metellus muttered as he produced a handful of silver denarii. “I wonder what his motives are.”

“One needs no other motives than to do the right thing,” the man answered back in Latin.

It surprised Metellus that he’d been heard
at all, given how quietly he’d spoken. He was further perplexed that, although this man was undoubtedly Judean, there was no trace of a foreign accent when he spoke. Metellus hefted his basket of fish while the Jewish men greedily took his coins, even though they scowled the entire time.

“You look more like a carpenter or stone mason than a fisherman,” he said to the man who’d intervened for them.

The man simply smiled. “Think of me as a fisher
of
men.”

“What?” Metellus asked, but he was grabbed by the shoulder by his fellow decanus.

“Come on,” the
sergeant said. “We need to wrap these up and get the lads to stow them. No doubt everyone’s packs will stink by the time we halt for the night, but it will still make quite the feast! A fish pie is sounding awfully good right about now.”

“Strange fellow,” Metellus persisted as they walked back to the cohort, which was making ready to start marching again.

“Eh, you see their type all over the place,” the other decanus said with a shrug, as they started handing bundles of fish to their men.

“Perhaps, but did you notice when he spoke in our tongue, there was no accent
?”

“Well
, there are plenty of Jews who are Roman educated. Although, I admit he appeared to be a bit too shabbily dressed to have been tutored in Rome. Most of the Jews who come to us to be educated are from wealthy families, and like you said, that fellow looks like he’s done mostly hard labor during his life. But who knows? You meet all sorts of eccentric people in this corner of the world.”

The final leg of their journey proved uneventful enough, though many of the men were now complaining that their packs now stunk of fish. They turned east early on the morning of the third day, and by late afternoon the city of Jerusalem came into sight.

“Impressive,” Magnus said as he rode up alongside Artorius and Pilate. “Looks like a gigantic wall surrounds the entire city.”

“More like three giant walls,” Pilate corrected. “The place we are going is the Antonia Fortress. It lies in the northeastern portion of the city, along the eastern edge of the second wall. Nearby are the Temple Mount and the Pool of Bethesda, which many superstitious people think has healing properties.”

The dusty road leading to the east gate was full of people and carts, though like everywhere else the legionaries marched, they quickly stepped out of their path, either averting their eyes or glaring at them contemptuously. The walls were gigantic
, far larger than anything Artorius had ever seen. He quietly thought to himself that should the Jews unite and cast the Roman garrison out, it would be a fearful task of retaking it. As they entered the city, the streets became congested beyond their ability to simply walk through, and sensing their march was about to grind to a halt, Artorius turned to Valens.

“Send twenty men forward and have them clear a path for us!”

“Right away!” The soldiers selected handed their packs to their mates, and with the prodding of javelins, thumping of shield bosses, and more than a few profane shouts, they started to clear a path for the procession to continue its march.

Artorius noticed the massive temple complex well before he saw the Antonia Fortress. It was surrounded by a large wall and looked more like a military stronghold than a place of worship.
The temple itself jutted skyward. Off of the northeast corner stood the fortress. Although from a distance it looked to be part of temple complex, there was a definite separation of about six hundred feet between them. The fortress itself was very tall, with a large square tower on each of the corners.

“There it is, lads,” Pilate said. “Built fifty years ago by Herod the Great, and named after his patron, Marc Antony. I’ve ordered the auxiliaries to clear out and utilize other barracks space within the city, so there is plenty of room for your legionaries. We also use a portion of the bottom floor as storage space for the high priests’ vestments.”

“We store the priests’ vestments?” Artorius asked.

“It is a rather strange rapport we have with them, but yes,” Pilate explained. “The high priest, although Jewish and the overall spiritual leader of the people, is directly appointed by Rome. He is also an insufferable pain in my backside. I’ll explain more later.”

There was a long slope that led up to the gate of the fortress, where a pair of auxiliaries stood guard. They passed through the portcullis and into the large drill field. Permanently fixed training stakes lined either side of the field with deep balconies overlooking from the numerous floors of the main complex and corner towers. Groomsmen took their horses and while legionaries dispersed to find their quarters, a Roman bureaucrat and well-dressed Jewish man approached Pilate. Artorius surmised that he was likely the high priest or one of his top aides. The three men immediately began to argue something about construction on an aqueduct, costs, and who was paying for them. Artorius decided that such topics were not his concern, and so he joined his fellow centurions in finding where they were housed.

“Well, it could be worse,” Valens said as he looked over Artorius’ shoulder into the small living space. “I don’t even have a desk in my room.”