Soldier of Rome: Journey to Judea (The Artorian Chronicles) (3 page)

“I still don’t agree with you only taking two squads with you,” the
optio remarked as he signaled for decanii to have their men make ready.

Most of the century would fan out in either direction in order to envelope the raiders and prevent them from escaping. With another squad still on picket duty and providing their blocking force, that left Artorius with only sixteen men.

“When I’m a bloodied corpse, you can say you were right,” the centurion retorted. “Now move!” It was rare for him to give such a biting rebuke to his second-in-command, who was also a close friend. However, he was facing an enemy of unknown strength, with many of his own men having never seen combat. This was not the time for indecisiveness.

The raiding force proved to be far larger than Artorius had anticipated. At first all he could see was a handful of shadows moving amongst the homesteads
, some heading for the kraal, the rest for the grain silo. He took a deep breath and squeezed the upper arm of the soldier lying to his left. This noiseless signal was passed down the line and everyone stood with shields and javelins ready.

As his men quickly stepped off and advanced towards the settlement they heard the sounds of doors being smashed and screams coming from within. There were now numerous shadows rushing about and the flash of torches was glaring in the blackness.

“Impudent bastards,” Artorius growled. He had hoped to get as close as possible to the enemy before making his presence known, but now he had no choice but to distract the raiders, lest they wipe out the settlement.
“Advance!”

Though his shouted order would alert his men moving to flank the enemy that the situation now called for speed, it also let the enemy know he was coming. Shouts in a foreign tongue echoed in the night
, and it was only when those bearing torches came into view that the light cast on the field let Artorius know just how badly he was outnumbered. There was nothing for it. As a horde of what he figured were at least a hundred men bore down on them, he quickened his step and shouted his next order.
“Javelins…throw!”

His men unleashed their heavy javelins, which tore into the bodies of the oncoming raiders.
Some managed to block the incoming missiles, though their shields were rendered useless as a result. Others fell with their guts ran through, tumbling to the ground in overwhelming agony. There was no time for further orders and without waiting for the centurion’s command, every legionary quickly drew his gladius.

“Orb formation!”
Artorius shouted.

With only sixteen men
, he knew he had no chance of holding a battle line against the mass of barbarians whose clubs and spears were already slamming into the wall of legionary shields. His men quickly formed a circle, keeping their shields together as they suddenly found themselves in a fight for their lives. In the flashes of torchlight, he could see the looks of glee on the faces of the barbarians as they hoped to add nearly a score of legionaries, not mention a centurion, to their trophies of plunder.

One man swung a club w
hich banged repeatedly off Artorius’ shield. The barbarian’s one eye was clouded and white, the other red as he howled in a berserker rage. The centurion tilted his shield and hammered the raider in the gut with the bottom edge, causing him to double over. Before he could finish the man, a spear caught him in the cheek guard of his helmet, knocking him back. Artorius regained his footing and brought his shield up as the spearman thrust his weapon at his face once more. With only brief glimmers of torchlight it was difficult for him to see anything. He thrust his gladius randomly in the direction that the enemy blows were coming from. He heard a shriek as the point of his sword impacted what he guessed was the man’s forearm.

As his men battled against the onslaught, panicked cries echoed from amongst the barbarian warriors. They soon fled in all directions as legionaries from Artorius’ century bore down on their flanks. They had elected not to employ their javelins, lest they risk hitting their own men. The darkness worked to their advantage, as the raiders were unaware that they had the Romans outnumbered.

Artorius and his men breathed a collective sigh of relief as the enemy fled towards the river. More than a dozen lay dead and another six had been captured. As he scanned the scene, his heart leapt into his throat. Lying on the ground in a pool of blood was one of his legionaries. The man had been stabbed in the throat; one of the few places their armor could not protect them.

“
Damn it all,” the centurion swore under his breath. A pair of legionaries were kneeling next to the dead man. Artorius knelt down to get a look at the soldier’s face. He recognized him as one of the newest recruits who had just completed training the month prior. Artorius looked down and shook his head. Regardless of whether it was a new recruit or veteran soldier he had known for years, he always took the loss of one of his men hard.

“At least he got one of the bastards before they took him,” one of the legionaries said, picking up the dead man’s gladius which was soaked in blood.

“Send a runner back to the fort,” Artorius ordered a nearby decanus. “Inform Centurion Dominus of the raid.”

“Yes
, sir.”

Artorius then placed a hand briefly on the slain legionary’s shoulder before rising. The man’s companions were already making a litter, using fallen
branches, as well as his cloak, to carry the body back to the fortress, where he would be given proper honors by his fellow legionaries.

“Artorius!”

The centurion looked over to see it was Praxus, shouting for him. His old friend was waving to him from over at one of the farm houses. “You’d better take a look at this.”

Artorius let out a sigh and feared the worst as he followed Praxus into the house. Inside
, a farmer, his wife, and teenage son lay dead. Farm tools lay next to the bodies, showing that they had fought in vain to defend their home. The cry of a baby forewarned Artorius. Next to the bed in the back room was a crib. Praxus held the torch over, letting the light cast its glow on the sobbing infant.

“Can’t be more than a week old,” the
optio observed. “I’ll have the lads check the other houses, see if there are any relations living in the settlement that can care for it.” Praxus handed his torch to a legionary and picked the child up, consoling it as best he could. Artorius was no good with children and was glad his optio took the initiative with the now-orphaned baby.

The
centurion walked outside to see the half dozen prisoners on their knees as the farmers slowly emerged from their homes. One gave a loud cry as he ran over to where Praxus emerged, holding the now quiet child. He looked at the optio, who quietly shook his head. The farmer’s eyes filled with tears as he rushed into the house, quickly emitting a howl of sorrow as his wife took the baby from Praxus. The other families gathered around, holding each other close in the eerie scene that played out under the torchlight.

“Only one house was bre
ached, sir,” Sergeant Felix reported. Artorius nodded in reply. He looked over as the sobbing farmer emerged from the house and noted that the man now carried a short scythe in his hand.

“Bastards killed my sister!” he cried as his wife embraced him while still carrying the infant. The man then looked over at Artorius accusingly. “The legions were supposed to protect us from this!”

The centurion did not reply, though he kept his gaze fixed on the man.

The enraged farmer then pushed his wife aside and with his eyes locked on Artorius he started to walk very quickly towards where the
centurion stood behind the prisoners, who were on their knees with their hands bound behind their backs. A legionary made to step between them, but was stayed by Artorius’ hand.

“Let him have this,” he said quietly. He then nodded to the farmer, whose red face twisted into a snarl of pure hatred.

The man stood over one of the prisoners, whose hands were bound behind his back. The raider defiantly spat on his feet, uttering dark words in a tongue the centurion could not understand. With a scream of both sorrow and rage the farmer swung his scythe in a hard swing which severed the prisoner’s arm above the elbow. The raider’s scream pierced through the night as his severed limb hung off his side, the twitching hand still tied to its mate. Gouts of blood spurted forth as the farmer went into a frenzy, slashing away at the stricken man. His scythe tore into the raider’s torso, smashed his face as the blade cleaved through the bone, and finally, with a series of blows he severed the man’s head.

As the mutilated body of the raider lay thrashing in a growing pool of blood and bodily fluids, the farmer stood trembling with tears streaming down his face. Artorius signaled to a pair of legionaries, who quickly took the scythe from him and guided the man away. He then looked back at the corpses of their slain enemies.

“Hang the bodies from trees on the far side of the river,” he ordered. “Let them serve as a warning to those who would threaten the peace of Rome.”

While two dozen men carried out the macabre task, the rest of the century began the task of collecting their equipment and making ready for the march back to Cologne.
Artorius always donned the lorica segmentata plate armor worn by legionaries, as opposed to the more traditional hamata chain or squamata scale worn by his fellow centurions, only the transverse crest on his helmet called attention to his rank. His belt was also devoid of the hanging leather strips covered in small metal discs that his men wore. As he dug through his leather pack, he pulled out a harness bearing all of his phalerae, the embossed decorations that denoted his campaign medals and other awards. Though campaign decorations were awarded to all soldiers who fought, only centurions and, in some cases, options were allowed to wear them over their armor. Artorius found them to be an unnecessary encumbrance, never wearing them in battle. As it was, he felt he should look the part of a proper centurion for the march back to the fortress. His superiors harried him enough as it was for wearing a common ranker’s armor, despite Artorius’ assertion that it provided better protection.

“Soldier!” the voice of the vi
llage chief alerted him as he cinched up the straps on his phalerae harness. The man’s face was one of sadness, but also of understanding.

“We did what we could,” Artorius said as he put on his helmet. “I am sorry for the loss your people suffered.”

“They are very bitter,” the chief acknowledged. “They say that Rome has failed to protect us.”

“Did they not see the body of my slain legionary?” Artorius snapped. “He gave his life protecting them! And rest assured, Rome does not allow such incursions to remain unpunished.”

Chapter II: Unrest in the East

Governor’s Palace, Caesarea, Judea

***

Pontius
Pilate quickly read over the letter he had dictated to his freedman clerk before signing his name to it. He then handed it back to the man, who rolled it up before dripping candle wax onto the overlap, which Pilate then pressed the seal on his ring into. He then took the scroll and handed it to a waiting imperial messenger, who saluted and abruptly left. Pilate then dismissed the clerk and sat behind his desk. All the while, the commander of the Jerusalem garrison, an auxilia centurion named Abenader, stood silent.

Though Jerusalem was the capital of the
province, like previous procurators, Pontius Pilate had elected to rule from the coastal city of Caesarea. In the five years of his governorship, he had scarcely been able to so much as set foot in Jerusalem without offending the entire populace. Images of the Emperor Tiberius, which his troops had paraded through the streets, had caused gross offence, as it violated the Jewish customs regarding idolatry. What surprised Pilate was that the emperor had sided with the Jews in the matter, rather than his appointed procurator, ordering him not to parade his images through the cities again. At least in Caesarea there was a sense of what Pilate viewed as civilization. As a major costal trading port, it was full of persons from the whole of the Empire, with a population of more Alexandrian Greeks than Jews.

As Pilate mostly visited the Judean capitol only during the Passover week in spring, he had left the day-to-day running of the city to the Jewish city council, the Roman-appointed high priest, as well as the auxiliary garrison.
He had summoned his garrison commander in part to reprimand him for lapses of discipline within his men, but also to seek his input on the message he had just sent to Sejanus.

“You disapprove of my requesting legionary support,” Pilate observed after allowing for an awkward silence.

“If I may be blunt, sir,” the auxilia centurion began, “my men are able to control the streets of Jerusalem. I fail to see why we must be usurped by the legions.”

“Your men can scarcely police themselves,” Pilate replied coldly. “They are undisciplined, cannot follow simple instructions, and have damn near provoked rebellion on numerous occasions.”

“The Jews are a hard people to control,” Abenader persisted. “Sometimes unorthodox methods are necessary.”

“I’m not arguing that,” Pilate said. “However,
they disobeyed a direct order to not use lethal force against an unruly crowd, only to fall upon them with their swords. Were they threatened or if the people had turned exceedingly violent, I would not have faulted them for their actions. As it was, there was no escalation of force at all; they simply drew their gladii and started killing! It was also not the first time such gross lapses in discipline have occurred and it is inexcusable.”

Though he would not say so openly, Pilate sympathized with Abenader. He had served for over twenty-five years and was by no means incompetent as an officer. However, the procurator also knew the quality of men that the auxilia
centurion had to deal with. Were they citizens, they would have been rejected for service in the legions. Discipline was practically nonexistent, and while Abenader may have been a capable officer, his subordinate leaders were just as unruly as their men. The problem was that there was little he could do in terms of discipline. Even if he were to remove one from his leadership position, there were few viable candidates to replace him. No Jew would consent to serve in the ranks of the Roman army in any capacity. Conversely, the Samaritans, with whom the Jews shared a mutual antipathy, were all too eager to enlist.

“The stability of this province is constantly on the edge of a knife,” Pilate continued. “The Jews, Samaritans, and other races of this region are in a constant state of tension.”

“Tensions could be eased if the emperor would simply crack down on Jewish monotheism,” Abenader lamented. Though a Roman citizen, he was ethnically a Samaritan and carried the same inborn bias and racism. “Seventy-million in the empire from every nation, ethnicity, and culture in the known world, and yet this one insignificant sect is alone given an exemption when it comes to paying homage to the Roman pantheon.”

“You forget, Tiberius
is a close personal friend of the Jewish king’s nephew, Herod Agrippa,” Pilate explained. “Agrippa was raised in the imperial household and was like a brother to the emperor’s son, Drusus Caesar. Even with Drusus gone, Tiberius still views Agrippa like a son. It would not surprise me if he is eventually installed as a client king of the entire province.”

“And because of Agrippa, Tiberius feels compelled to allow the Jews to openly worship their lone deity,” the
centurion observed. “What should have been viewed as a show of clemency has instead given rise to sedition and arrogance amongst the Jews.”

“I’m not arguing the volatility of the Jewish people,” Pilate said. “However, neither you nor I can convince the
emperor to alter his policy towards them. It is already too late. Most peoples within the empire are able to contentedly worship their own gods and pay respect to those of Rome simultaneously. Not the Jews. They are truly monotheistic, and if Tiberius were to make any attempt at forcing the statues of our gods upon them now, there would be open rebellion. Let us not forget that he would not even allow me to carry his own image through the streets, as it offended the people.”

“They should be exterminated like we did to Carthage,” Abenader growled.

Pilate’s face twitched at the thought. Carthage was Rome’s arch nemesis for hundreds of years before its final destruction. That had been two-hundred years prior, when the Roman Republic was still going through its expansion and quest for supremacy in the Mediterranean.

“
Hardly a fitting comparison,” he retorted, “comparing a tiny province of zealous theocrats to the most powerful nation Rome ever faced. Whatever your personal feelings are towards the Jews, we have an obligation to extend the rule of Rome, enforcing justice through stern temperance. Your auxiliaries are the first line of that enforcement within the most populous city of the entire region, and in the concept of order and justice they have failed. They need the influence of professional soldiers who will lead by their example. It is time Judea was placed under the discipline of the legions.”

Pilate sat and brooded after he dismissed Abenader.
Despite all the research and preparations he’d made before even coming to Judea, the province had proven far more difficult to govern than he’d imagined. A previous governor named Rufus, who’d held the posting a decade prior to Pilate, had warned him that he’d be understaffed, underfunded, and that the quality of the troops under his command would be deplorable even under ideal conditions. In all of these Rufus had proven correct. The number of clerks, administrators, and other officials needed to effectively run the province was substantially greater than the allotment given to him to fund these positions. Pilate’s own salary was quite substantial, perhaps as a means of pacifying him. And while he’d hoped to fill his coffers even further during his tenure, he had wisely elected to use some of his own funds to shore up some of his critical staffing shortages. He had also taken on numerous tasks himself that would normally be delegated to subordinates. As such, the stress of governance took its toll on him far more than if he’d been given one of the far larger provinces such as Gaul or Hispania. However, given that he was an equite, there were very few postings he could take; the large, well-funded provisional governorships reserved for those of the senatorial class.

What had been particularly maddening was the lack of staff personnel who had experience within Judea. It was impossible for Pilate to learn all there was to know about the people he was to govern within the few months between whe
n he was notified of his assignment until he arrived to relieve his predecessor, Valerius Gratus. Though Pilate had spent time in Syria with the Twelfth Legion, he had never been to neighboring Judea and, in fact, had never dealt with the Jews at all during his previous time in the east. Most of the experienced bureaucrats had departed with Gratus, leaving his successor with an untrained staff ignorant of the customs and intricacies of the Jews.

During his eleven
-year prefecture, Gratus had kept the Jewish opposition disorganized by making frequent changes as to who held the high priesthood. It was an unusual cultural crossover, with the most influential man within the Judaic hierarchy appointed by the pagan Roman magistrate. As such, those within the Sanhedrin were forced to placate both their people as well as their hated Roman overlords if they wished to advance politically. No less than five men had held the posting during Gratus’ tenure; the last, a man named Joseph Caiaphas, being the only one to last more than a year. Pilate’s rapport with Caiaphas was tenuous at best. Over the past five years the two had quarreled more often than not, yet Pilate did not dare replace him, as any viable candidates within the Sanhedrin were even more volatile than Caiaphas. Pilate made a mental note to himself that the next time the two met, he needed to make certain his Jewish high priest was reminded as to who really controlled the province.

The flames of the funeral pyre bit into the damp wood, causing billowing clouds of black smoke. Artorius had made certain that proper respects were made for his fallen soldier, though he lamented that given the extremely short tenure the young ma
n had served in the ranks, most would scarcely remember his name. The body was slowly being fully consumed by the now roaring flames, the stench of burning flesh nearly causing Artorius to retch. Those who spoke of the nobility of a valiant man’s funeral pyre had never dealt with the pungent smell of a burning corpse. The oratory had been conducted prior to the burning, with Artorius calling the slain legionary’s name three times, in a tradition that went back further than any could recall. Satisfied that all had been done to honor the fallen, he turned to face his men, who were stoically standing in a large column, decanii on their right, the signifier in front, and Optio Praxus in the back.

“Century!”
he shouted.
“Dismissed!”
As he removed his helmet and ran his fingers through his thick, black hair, he saw a young legionary approaching him. Though he did not know the soldier’s name, he knew he was from Dominus’ century, and surmised that he was acting as the cohort commander’s aide that week.

“Sir
,” the legionary said with a sharp salute. “Centurion Dominus sends for you.”

Artorius did not bother returning to the barracks to remove his armor, instead making his way a few buildings over to where the Third Cohort’s First Century was billeted. Daily operations were often conducted by the optio and principal officers, as the centurion was also in command of the entire cohort. Artorius removed his helmet and stepped into the outer office, the signifier, who was doing administrative tasks at his desk, standing as he came in.

“Sir,” the man said with a nod. There was little he could say.

All knew about the Second Century’s skirmish with the raiders, and the smell of smoke from the funeral pyre clung to the centurion. Artorius returned the nod, gave a single knock on the door to Dominus’ office and let himself in.

Centurion Pilus Prior Dominus was a
n able enough cohort commander, even though he did not hold the same level of respect that his legendary predecessor, Marcus Vitruvius had. Vitruvius, who had long been Artorius’ mentor, was killed at the Battle of Braduhenna three years prior while attempting to break through the lines of the enemy force that had them surrounded. Before his death, he’d never been so much as scratched in battle.

“Artorius,” he said as his fellow
centurion closed the door behind him. “I am sorry for your loss, but know that the information you gathered from the raid will prove invaluable.”

“I agree,” Artorius replied. “I’ve had the prisoners taken to the stockade to await interrogation.
I expect the torture experts will verify what we already suspect.”

“Yes,” Dominus said while looking over a scroll he held. He then looked up once more at his
centurion. “Well, I have no doubt that the legate will order a punitive expedition across the Rhine. Pity that you will not be with us.” Before Artorius could question him further, Dominus handed him the scroll that bore the imperial seal.