by David Blixt
Cerialis was Vespasian's son-in-law, husband to Titus' late sister. What in Jupiter's name does he think he can do here?
Paetus frowned as Cerialis entered, all in a rush. Thirty-six years of age, he was day to Paetus' night: a man of no meat whatsoever, just skin stretched across bone, giving him a grayish tinge. But like all redheaded men, he was quick to colour, hence the name Rufus.
The red flush to his cheeks spoke of a frantic ride from Athens. “Titus Flavius, you must let me come with you!”
Titus shared a look of frustration with Vespasian. Did the rash fool not know enough to keep his head down? “Your duty is to your little girl, my granddaughter. Watch over her, and see that Domitian is properly raised as well.”
Privately, Titus thought that the best solution to his brother Domitian was drowning. Or the sharp end of a knife.
But Cerialis looked hurt and confused. “They have tutors and relations enough. My daughter will hardly miss me. Besides, with you in command, we'll all be back before she reaches her tenth birthday!”
The glance Titus and Vespasian shared was one of pure confusion. “What? I – command?” said Vespasian, while Titus said sharply, “What command?”
The glow suffusing Cerialis' cheeks drained away, leaving his face splotchy with anger. He rounded on Paetus. “You haven't told him?”
Still in his seat, Paetus flicked imaginary lint from his sleeve. “I was coming to it. One ought not hurry grand news. It must be savoured.”
There was little doubt what Paetus had been savouring. His sport forced to an early end, he rose, straightened his spine, and delivered his commission. “Titus Flavius Sabinus Vespasianus Major, I bear the greetings of Nero Claudius Caesar Drusus Augustus Germanicus, Princeps Senatus and Imperator Invictus. You are hereby ordered by the Senate and People of Rome to take command of the available legions in the region of Judea and put down the revolt there with all due haste. Do not fail, on peril of your life. Long live Rome!”
A warming glow spread through Titus. Thank you, Mars, Bellona, and all you gods of war! The death Nero desires is not my father's.
Instead, we are to bring death to the Judeans.
♦ ◊ ♦
UNSURPRISINGLY, PAETUS DECLINED to remain for dinner. He was unrepentant for his little game, which told Titus the script had been written by Nero himself. Though he was granted this marvelous war, Vespasian's offense was not forgotten.
It was a small dinner, with the three men laying on couches, and Antonia Caenis sitting upright on a chair across from Vespasian. She remained silent, as was proper. But Titus knew the moment the dinner was finished, she and father would retire and have the real conversation.
Unlike his little brother, Titus did not resent the lady Caenis. He could certainly see the attraction. She was a beauty, despite her years. Perhaps there were lines at her eyes and mouth, but she had darkly silver hair and wide purple eyes that always seemed to laugh knowingly. Added to that was a grace learned from her years at Caesar's court. More, she was the one person who could make his father laugh outright.
Himself a widower, Titus had taken to discussing family matters with Caenis before mentioning them to his father – she always knew how best to move the old mule. For two weeks they had mutually fretted, fearing Nero's reprisals. Then Caenis had disappeared for a day, returning just this morning. “Visiting old friends,” she had said smoothly. In the wake of the great news, Titus had his suspicions.
Naturally, Cerialis was the evening's guest of honour. Famished after his hard ride, he busily tucked in as he was pressed with questions.
“First the war, Quintus Petillius. We only heard there was a revolt, nothing more. Tell us everything.”
Between mouthfuls of bread, Cerialis grinned. “Only if I may join you.”
“You earned that right when you put Paetus in his place. Answer me now and I'll give you your choice of legions.”
The old general clearly regretted the words as soon as they escaped his teeth. It was not just the ginger tint of his hair that earned Cerialis the cognomen Rufus. Thirty-seven years old, Titus' brother-in-law was given to rash acts of boldness and daring, few of which paid off. Like Paetus, Quintus Petillius Cerialis was in military disrepute. Six years earlier he had lost nearly half the Ninth Legion in Britannia. The city of Camulodenum had been under siege by the Briton queen Boudicca, and Cerialis had rushed to their aid. Valuing speed over sense, he took only his first cohort and a detachment of cavalry, and still he arrived too late. Rather than wave off, he attacked and was mauled, retreating as fast as he had come.
The rout cost him. When the Ninth won the war, credit had gone to other commanders, while blame clung to Cerialis like stink to excrement. He had continually failed to achieve the consulship. A man who did not know when to be adventurous and when to be prudent.
Now he clearly hoped to retrieve his wounded reputation. Beaming, Cerialis ran a hand through his thick red hair and launched into the news from Judea. “We don't know all the details yet. Lots of conflicting reports. But you know the current Prefect of Judea, Gessius Florus? The squat knight Poppaea used to fawn over?”
Vespasian said nothing, but Titus saw Caenis' lips press tighter. Nero's late wife Poppaea was the reason Vespasian had stayed out of public life for ten years. That vengeful bitch had hated him.
“Well, if there were an Olympic trial for how swiftly a man may gain the enmity of an entire people, the victor would be Florus. He openly despised the Judeans. In one case, some Jews sued the local Greeks for a religious insult. Florus accepted a massive sponsio – eight talents of gold, if you please. Then, after hearing the case, he dismissed the Greeks, imprisoned the Hebrews who had brought the case, and kept all eight talents for himself! Ha!”
Vespasian's natural frown deepened. “You find this atrocious business amusing?”
Cerialis shrugged. “I appreciate such monumental cupidity.”
“It is funny, father,” agreed Titus, grinning. “If only because it's so blatantly villainous.”
“You're idiots, both of you. But I shouldn't complain – it's given me a war. Go on, Quintus.”
“The men of Jerusalem chose to find it funny, too. They mocked his greed, passing baskets about, begging for alms for poor Florus, who was in such desperate need of money.”
“A fairly measured response,” observed Vespasian approvingly. “Humiliate the fool. I expected them to riot.”
“The riots came when Florus flogged and crucified the leaders of this little protest. Despite their being Roman citizens. Seems he was unamused.”
Titus was aghast. It was one of the cornerstones of Roman Law that no citizen could be struck with a lash, nor could he be put to death in any manner that denied him his dignity. The core of the rights Romulus had laid down was dignitas, the sum of a man's reputation and social standing. To a Roman man, nothing mattered more. To die a slave's death was an insult worse than mere execution. It was a damnatio memoriae – a declaration that the dead man owned no dignitas in life, and was not worth remembering. “What happened next?”
“The Jews outright refused to pay taxes or make the weekly offering on Nero's behalf to their god. When Florus tried to force them to offer a prayer for Nero – or possibly to him, that's unclear – the city rose up and sacked the garrison. A whole cohort, wiped out. Except for their commander who, I understand, was forced to make himself a Jew.” Cerialis inclined his head significantly towards his groin and made a scissor-motion with his fingers. Then he inclined his head to Caenis. “Forgive my crudeness.”
Having been addressed, Caenis smiled. “I have been acquainted with many Jews in my time. Including the current king's father. Their rites are familiar to me. As well as their peculiar sacrifice.”
Knowing the rumours about the wild years at court, Titus wondered how well she had known the Hebrew king's father. Vespasian laughed at the look of consternation on his son's face.
Equally flustered, Cerialis continued his story. “Ah, yes, s
o – in a right panic, Florus called upon Cestius Gallus to bring a Syrian legion up to restore order. Gallus took the Twelfth, with vexillations from the Third, Fourth, and Sixth.”
“The Fulminata, Gallica, Scythica, and Feratta,” said Titus. Vespasian nodded proudly.
“Yes. So Gallus arrives at Jerusalem, and there's confusion as to what exactly happened next. We know Gallus began a siege, then retreated. The Judeans gave chase. Without shields or armour, armed with sticks and slings, they destroyed the legion. It was a disaster.” Cerialis' brow darkened. “The Twelfth lost its eagle.”
At these words Titus felt his blood freeze in his veins. The Aquila was the very essence of a Roman legion. Better every man should fall than let their eagle be taken. Any passing sympathy for the Judeans vanished. They had taken an eagle. Time to grind them into dust.
The only one who seemed unsurprised was the lady Caenis. Meaning she had already heard this news. Feeling Titus' gaze on her, she exclaimed, “How terrible!” with just the right intonation of horror and grief.
Vespasian reached across the table to pat her hand. “Terrible? These blessed, blessed Jews have resurrected my career!”
“Pity you have to repay them by killing them all,” observed Titus wryly.
“Oh, not all, surely,” said Caenis.
Cerialis quickly finished his tale. “Florus and Gallus have both been stripped of their commands. You'll be pleased, father – you have the highest imperium of any man in Judea.” He leaned back in satisfaction, having married into the right family after all.
“Which brings me to my next question,” said Vespasian, his frown deepening. “How in the name of Mars and Bellona was my name even floated?”
“No one knows! Nero Caesar accepted names, and several senators offered their services. Then, out of nowhere, Nero said, 'What about Vespasian?' It was like a thunderbolt from above. But the moment he mentioned you, several people spoke in your favour, including Paetus, of all people. I think he's trying to win back some of his reputation after that disaster with the Armenians. Since he's no general, he's angling to be the chooser of generals.”
Titus was again looking at Caenis, but she was gazing adoringly at her lover. Vespasian continued to frown. “But why did Nero even suggest me? I'm fifty-six years old! And I'm hardly in his good graces.”
Caenis said, “It's because he knows you're the best man for it, of course.”
“Thank you, meum mel. But I doubt that was the reason.”
Watching Caenis, Titus felt certain he knew the answer. “Someone probably reminded Nero Caesar that he needed to nominate a general who was not a threat to him. That perhaps he should get a name in before the nominations got around to the more popular generals, like Corbulo. That his choice should be someone already in Greece, not back in Rome. And maybe, just maybe, that unknown someone then reminded him of your service in Britannia, and that you allowed Claudius Caesar to take all the credit for that war.”
Caenis' expression was neutral, but his father's natural frown added an extra crease. “So I'm given command of this war, not for my own merits, but to keep it out of the hands of someone who might actually eclipse Nero?”
“It helps if he believes you owe him,” teased Caenis, poking her lover in the ribs across the table. “How hard is it to stay awake, Titus Flavius? Imagine it as a musical siege!”
At her touch, Vespasian rumbled with laughter. “Is it my fault that my Achilles' heel is lyre music? Like the savage beast, I'm helpless!”
“Nero did say he pities your lack of understanding of the finer things,” said Cerialis with mock-gravity.
“I appreciate the form his pity takes. Now tell me, how many men have the Judeans mustered? Is it only Jerusalem, or are other cities rising as well? Who is the over-all leader? Which sects of Hebrews are the troublesome ones? Where are they now?”
All of which Cerialis answered with ignorance. It was not that he did not care. No one knew.
“So,” said Vespasian, “I could be entering a war against two thousand men, or two hundred thousand.”
He was not in the least put out. In fact, Vespasian looked more pleased than his son had ever seen him. The same could be said for Caenis, who appeared completely satisfied.
Titus himself was glowing with happiness. A great war. A once-in-a-lifetime war. And he would be there, right in the thick of it.
Time to start earning those scars.
V
JERUSALEM
FIVE WEEKS after Beth Horon, Judah was hard at work in his father's yard. In his hands he held a great two-headed hammer, heaving it up and shattering stone with thunderous blows. Crack! His handsome face set a fierce grimace, glory and joy all but forgotten. Crack! This was not an age of heroes. Crack! Men achieved greatness through birth, not deeds. Crack! Having played his part, Judah was expected to return to his role as the humble mason. Crack!
And bachelor.
Crack!!
He was striking with far more force than was needed. He imagined the rocks bore the faces of Phannius and Euodias, Deborah's mother, as he smashed them into grit and shards. Damn! Damn! Damn!
He'd waited a whole week after his father's funeral, then gone to the house of Samuel the Mason. Samuel was long dead, as were Phannius' elder siblings. But Phannius' mother was alive and well, the old bitch. Crusty, bitter, bent by a hard life, Euodias was a survivor. One of eleven children, she was the last standing. Sometimes Judah thought that there was not actually blood in her veins, but bile. She thrived on anger and resentment, and all other human emotions were foreign to her. She was as proud of her loutish son as she was jealous of her beautiful daughter.
She'd certainly been in rare form that day. Dressed in his best clothes, washed and with newly pared nails and hair, Judah had arrived with a basket of gifts in his arms. Bread, wine, cheese, salt, and a gift he'd received from the priests – a fine goblet made of crystal, of Syrian design. His sole official reward for his great deed.
But that didn't matter. Deborah was all the reward he needed.
Entering their yard, he'd noted at once it was not as neat as his father's. Saws were left untended, and some bore broken teeth. Chisels lay disregarded. There was such wealth here that they could be careless of their tools. Phannius had seven apprentices working for him, making the House of Samuel far more productive than the House of Matthais. It didn't matter that they turned out less quality stone, or that the joins didn't quite fit. All that mattered was that one drop of noble blood.
To become a priest, one had to prove he could trace his male lineage back to Aaron, brother of Mosheh the Lawgiver, who was the first Kohen Gadol. If a man could do that, he had a leg up on the rest of the Hebrew world. If he chose not to be a priest – there were several thousand priests in Jerusalem alone, tending all sorts of business for the state – a man could carry that advantage into life, no matter his trade or profession. Hence the difference between Phannius and Judah.
Phannius had greeted him coolly. He couldn't be hostile, not after the eagle – and not after the death of Judah's father. But he knew all too well why Judah was here, and clearly didn't approve.
After they embraced, Judah offered his gifts. Phannius was bemused. “Offer them to mother, not me.”
Judah frowned. Phannius was the man of the house. If he was passing the responsibility of accepting the gifts to his mother, it was a bad sign.
But Judah kept a confident smile on his face. He'd talked with Deborah at the funeral, and they had agreed that there was no way he could be refused this time. So when he entered the house and saw the widow Euodias sitting on her hard stool, hunched and crabbed as always, he made an effusive greeting and presented her with the gifts. He kept his eyes firmly off Deborah, seated beside her mother.
The woman could hardly be more than fifty-five. But she looked so old, like a grape that had soured early. Old even when she was young, an age of the soul.
Euodias examined his gifts, not noticing anything but the crystal go
blet. That she ran her fingers over a few times, looking for flaws. Finding none, she set it aside. “So, boy. You're a hero, now, are you?” Euodias looked over Judah from heel to head. “They don't make heroes the way they used to.”
Judah couldn't be wounded by the widow's venom, not today. “I came, lady, to ask—”
The woman cut him off with a click of her tongue. “Tch. I know why you came. Like a dog to vomit, you're here to lap up your prize. Well, we can't deny you now, can we? You're a hero!”
Judah didn't know how to handle her sarcasm. “I don't claim to be a hero.”
“Nor should you!” Her voice had the dark edge of a blood-stained knife. “My son told me all about it! How you left him to defend himself while you leapt after the eagle! How he kept the Romans off your back as you stole the eagle, then raced to safety. A pity you were too stingy to share any of the credit with those good men who kept you alive. They're the real heroes!”
Judah turned to stare at Phannius. The lout didn't even have the good grace to look embarrassed by his lie. They both knew he'd been nowhere near the eagle when Judah took it. It had been Levi who had protected Judah's back. But Phannius' face was set in a mulish expression, as if daring Judah to make him look bad in front of his mother.
Judah blew air out his nose like an animal, but knew the truth wouldn't help his cause. Carefully, he said, “Lady Euodias, no one has asked me for an account of the events. I agree that the man who defended my back should have all the honour due him. And I would be happy to share the credit with your son, or whomever you please.”
“Oh? Magnanimous, isn't he? Already trying to act better than his place. As if he wasn't some jumped up son of a labourer. Just like his brother, ideas above his station—”
“Mother…” said Deborah softly, her lips pinched tight.
“Quiet, girl! I suppose you think that we should pity him, having lost his brother and father. I could have told you that the brother would come to no good. As for Matthais – imagine, being felled by the loss of a son. Tch. I've lost three, including the best of them, and I'm still upright. But men are made of weaker stuff…”
