Stone and Steel

by David Blixt

Asher piped up with suspicious cheer. “I wish we could just pick two champions and let them decide the war, like in the old days.”

  “An excellent idea,” agreed Judah.

  “Achilles and Hector,” said Asher.

  Judah pulled a face. “David and Goliath, please.”

  Levi smiled and shook his head. “It never worked that way, you know. Not really. Even in the old days.”

  “I know,” replied Judah with a crooked smile. “But wouldn't it be grand? Two men deciding the fate of the world!”

  “Pfah! You're all mad!” growled Phannius.

  Grunt.

  IX

  ALEXANDRIA, AEGYPT

  AT THE SAME moment Phannius was insisting they would not come, the Romans were moving with a speed only they possessed. Couriers were riding or sailing all over the eastern end of the Mare Nostrum with orders, requests, and requisitions. Vespasian had set off from Greece to Syria at once, stopping only to collect soldiers along the route.

  There was another cache of Roman soldiers that had to be collected, one mustered for a wholly different war. Nero Caesar had been planning an invasion of Aetheopia, and had quietly gathered three legions in Aegypt. The adventure was not exactly secret, but neither had it been announced publicly. Therefore, turning those legions around to quash the rebellious fires was acceptable.

  These three legions had to be collected. Vespasian entrusted that task to his eldest son.

  Debarking at the docks of Alexandria, Titus was exultant. At twenty-seven years of age, this was not his first war. He'd served in both Germania and Britannia (though not in his father's famous campaign there). The difference was that now he was a senior legate, in command of his choice of legions. His fingers positively itched with excitement, and his smiling features reflected his inner glow.

  Stretching his stocky legs on the quay in the Royal Harbour, Titus noted a structure on an isolated spit of land – Mark Antony's famous Timonium. Like the misanthrope Timon of Athens, Antony had sulked inside a shack until he could bear to face his defeat at Actium.

  Titus had often been told he resembled the great Antony – not necessarily a compliment. Handsome, yes, but Titus also owned Antony's hulking frame, with a face too small for his body. Or rather, a neck so wide it made his head seem small.

  It never occurred to Titus that the resemblance was also spiritual. Antony was famous for his cheerful disposition, quick temper, strength, petulance, and love of excess. Most of all, he was famous for his end, here in this very city.

  Mark Antony, Julius Caesar, Crassus, Cato, Achilles, Hector – why are so many great men best remembered for the way they died? Certainly I won't be! The legacy I leave behind starts here, today! With that steely thought, Titus marched ahead of his bodyguards into the Royal Palace to be introduced to the Prefect of Aegypt, Tiberius Julius Alexander.

  “Greetings, Tiberius Julius,” Titus said, kissing his host on the mouth.

  “Welcome, Titus Flavius,” replied the elderly prefect.

  “Just Titus will do.” His name stemmed from the Titans, divine forerunners of Jupiter and the rest, and it amused Titus to being likened to a god. He cut right to the point. “I've come to collect the Fifteenth Legion and send them north to my father. Then I'm jumping on the fastest horse you have to find the Fifth and Tenth.”

  This was news, yet Tiberius evidenced no surprise. He had been around a long time, and must have expected the repurposing of these armies. “Excellent, Titus Flavius. Though I would advise against the horse. A camel-train, perhaps. Or why not row up the Nile? Much faster, and more relaxing – for you, if not the rowers.”

  Titus knew good sense when he heard it. “Gratias, Tiberius Julius. That sounds splendid.”

  “As for the Fifteenth, would you like to review them now?”

  Having dreaded hours of chit-chat, music, and dining, Titus leapt at the offer. In minutes they were riding out the Sun Gate to the Fifteenth's winter quarters.

  Confident on horseback, Titus talked freely as they rode. “How ready are they? When was their last action?”

  “September,” answered Tiberius, equally at ease. “They had to quell an unfortunate uprising between the natives, the Greeks, and the Jews.”

  “Tell me.”

  Tiberius pulled a wry face. “The Alexandrians held a meeting to discuss an embassage to Caesar. After the sacking of the Jerusalem garrison, they intended to show their loyalty by offering to betray the Hebrews here. The fools were surprised when the Jews showed up to the meeting.”

  “The meeting wasn't a secret?” said Titus, chuckling.

  “I know! You'd think Greeks and Aegyptians would be more skilled at backstabbing. Anyhow, they accused the Jews of spying. Three were caught and burned alive. When more Jews stormed the theatre to rescue them, I asked them to return to the Delta and leave the matter in Rome's hands.” Tiberius held his hands wide for a moment before re-gripping his reins. “They threw my sensible request in my face. I had to unleash the legions upon the rioters in the Hebrew quarter. So much for my supposed calming effect on Jews!”

  “How many?”

  “One hundred fifty thousand men, women, and children. I regret it, naturally. But I can't be lenient with them, thanks to the infelicitous nature of my birth.”

  Titus studied his companion. “Jew-born? You don't look it.”

  Tiberius smiled thinly. “Thank you. Yes, despite my excellent-sounding name, I was born to an Alexandrian Jew. My father gained the Roman citizenship under Tiberius Caesar.”

  “Hence Tiberius Julius,” mused Titus, parsing his companion's name. “Is Alexander for the city?”

  “And for my father,” explained Tiberius. “He served both King Agrippa and Antonia, mother of Claudius Caesar. My uncle was the philosopher Philo.”

  “Sorry, not much of a philosopher, myself.” Truthfully, having no great ancestors of his own, Titus did not much care for those of other men.

  “Perhaps this will matter more. Before his death, my elder brother Marcus was married to Queen Berenice of Judea.”

  That earned Titus' attention. “Oh-ho! Lucky fellow. I hear she's a beauty.”

  “A temptress,” said Tiberius coldly. “A wanton. And an incestuous one, if rumours are to be believed.”

  “They never are. Still, I should like to meet the Judean queen. She sounds – interesting. But tell me more about you! Did you give up the Hebrew god?”

  Tiberius nodded. “I did. As a young man I renounced Yahweh in favour of the Roman pantheon, and have prospered for it. I'll never be a senator, but I've held two of the most coveted offices a knight can – first Procurator of Judea, and now Prefect of Aegypt.”

  “Procurator of Judea? So you know the people. Tell me about the rebellion. How did it start?” He'd heard only what Cerialis had said. Surely Tiberius would have better information.

  Sighing, the elderly Tiberius took on a teaching tone. “What is a governor's duty?”

  “To preserve order,” said Titus at once. “To maintain soldiers and build roads.”

  Smiling, Tiberius shook his head ruefully. “Alas, no. Our chief concern is to farm taxes. And Judea is a wonderful province for taxes – as I well know! But I didn't squeeze them the way Florus has. And so blatantly! From the moment he arrived, he favoured Romans and Greeks over the Jews.”

  “Are there many Greeks in Judea?”

  “Oh, yes! There's so much intermingling between Helens and Hebrews that no one thinks twice of a Greek named David, or a Jew named Apollo. But nevertheless there are tensions and rivalries. For example, a few Greek wits sacrificed some birds in front of a Hebrew school in Caesarea. Akin to a dog entering Jupiter's temple. Made the place—”

  “—unclean.” Titus shivered. To Romans, dogs were nasty creatures, useful for hunting but religiously odious. “Was that the religious lawsuit?”

  “Oh, you've heard? Yes. Florus shamed the Jews badly by taking their gold and imprisoning them. Salt in the sores.”

  “I tak
e it Florus didn't stop there?”

  “Stop? The man went on a rampage. He taxed the living daylights out of the Judeans. He demanded precious pieces of art and literature. Finally, when every golden nail, marble table, or bronze lamp had gone, he followed the example of the greediest man in Rome's long history, Marcus Licinius Crassus.”

  Titus had heard that part. “He looted their Temple.”

  “Seventeen talents in all,” confirmed Tiberius. “Gold, not silver. Imagine it.”

  “But is the man mad? The place is cursed! Pompey did no more than peek into their Temple and he ended up beheaded. Crassus actually stole from it, and he died suffocating on molten gold!” While he was not particularly religious, Titus was a Roman, with a Roman's naturally superstitious nature. He regarded omens and curses with particular awe. No wonder the legion lost their eagle! The fool angered the Hebrew god! “Where is Florus now?”

  “Hiding until the war is won, I imagine. Ah, here we are.”

  Approaching the camp gates, Titus was greeted with a familiar sight. From the farthest mists of Britannia to the wildest sandstorms of Aegypt, from quick marching camp to permanent quarters, every Roman military camp was built along the same plan. Longer than it was wide, its two major avenues neatly quartered the space inside. Smaller streets held barracks, camp hospital, baths, forge, stables, granary, and workshops.

  They rode up the via Praetoria, leading from the main gate to the praetorium, where lodged the legion's commander. But Titus wanted to see the men before they got wind he was among them, so he pulled his horse left and trotted instead down a narrow avenue of barracks.

  Legionaries lived eight to a room. This was a permanent camp, so the stone houses had proper roofs and chimneys. Titus was pleased to note how clean each barrack was. Then he noticed that the men were making a show of honing their weapons and polishing their armour, and sighed. So much for a surprise inspection. Nowhere was gossip spread so effectively as in the ranks.

  Halfway down one of these side 'streets', Titus noticed a stone plinth nestled between two barracks. On it was an ornately carved wood block depicting a man in Eastern garb wrestling with a fierce and enormous bull. Over the block stood a makeshift cavern, so that sunlight would not fall directly upon the image. “What's that?”

  Tiberius reined in beside Titus, his face tight with displeasure. “That is Mithras. A Parthian god of the Sun and War.”

  “So that's what he looks like.” Titus had heard of this god from his father.

  Tiberius turned to the staff trailing after them. “Who barracks here?”

  “The Second Cohort, Prefect,” replied the senior military tribune, a tall man called Titus Frigius.

  “Inform their lead centurion that the whole cohort is on report. Roman soldiers worship Roman gods. Take that wretched thing down and have it destroyed.”

  Titus had enough experience to know that soldiers drew confidence from odd places. If this shrine made the men fight better, then Mithras served Rome, whether the god wanted to or no. Idly flicking his reins, he said, “Come now, Tiberius Julius. Where's the harm? So long as they pay homage to Jupiter Best and Greatest, he won't mind them praying to a foreign god. Especially as they are fighting in foreign lands.”

  Tiberius inclined his head. “It's your legion now.” As they rode on, he added, “In this current climate, religion is a subject to which I, of all men, must strictly adhere.”

  “I completely understand.” No adherent like a convert. The former Hebrew could not be seen condoning any un-Roman god.

  The tour finished at the Principa, the headquarters at the camp's center. All the centurions and military tribunes were summoned to witness the transfer of command. Tiberius presented the legion's eagle to the aquilifer, who intoned the ritual prayers and presented the eagle in turn to Titus, who gripped the standard and spoke his own formal prayers.

  The instant he finished, a gust of air came in from outside, flickering the flames in all the lamps. Illumination reflected off the golden wings of the eagle, dazzling every man present.

  The soldiers, veterans all, were awed. Excited murmurs and admiring looks greeted the young commander, and it took all Titus' self-control not to fall to his knees in exultation. A truly magnificent omen!

  After the ceremonies and usual busywork, Tiberius departed and Titus retired. But his mind was so full of the omen that he couldn't rest. So just after dusk he slipped out of his quarters and ventured alone into the camp, disguising his features under a heavy, hooded sagum cloak.

  He had been warned that the desert was brutally cold at night. It was no lie. He passed several fires, around which roared lively games of knuckle-bones, rude dice constructed from the joints of pigs. There were also storytellers and a few gifted singers. Best of all was a boxing club, with the men testing their skills in a rough pit of sand. Face muffled, he stood and cheered with the rankers for a while.

  Eventually he arrived again at the shrine to Mithras. There was a bowl of blood before the shrine, which had not been there before. Seated nearby was a lone centurion. Titus had noted him during the ceremony. The day's stubble gave his strong chin a darkish cast, and his Italian nose and thick lips made him look primitive, primal. But his tunic was neat and clean, his armour shone, and clearly his weapons were sharp. A true vir militaris, a military man through and through.

  Unfooled by Titus' heavy cloak, the centurion leapt smartly to attention. “At ease, centurion. Your name?”

  “Gaius Sacidius Barbarus, sir.” The fellow resumed honing the edge of his dagger with a stone.

  “See you don't make it too thin,” Titus advised. “It's liable to break when you need it most.”

  “No, sir. Thank you, sir.” The centurion managed to convey that he had been honing this blade's edge for as long as Titus had been wearing an adult's toga.

  Smiling, Titus jerked his thumb at the shrine of Mithras. “Will he bring victory over the Judeans, do you think?”

  Barbarus squinted at the shrine as though he had never seen it before. “Looks like a right good scrapper. Can't be an easy thing, wrestling with bulls. Those Greeks on Crete used to jump out of their way, didn't they? Saw pictures of that once.”

  Titus chuckled. “I think they were jumping over the bulls.”

  “Better than under them, sir.”

  “True.” It was dark now. Their breath fogged the air. “Gets cold quick!”

  “That it does, sir. Would you like a blanket? You could warm yourself at our fire.”

  The last thing Titus wanted was a reputation as a commander that needed coddling. “I'm fine. Just noting my new environs.” He pointed to the bowl of blood. “That isn't human blood, I hope.”

  Barbarus smiled. “Doubtful, sir.”

  “So long as it's not. No human sacrifices. It's un-Roman. Except,” he added with a grin, “the blood of our enemies. That we offer up in battle to Jupiter Best and Greatest. And any other god who might be handy.”

  “Might those enemies be the Jews, sir?”

  Titus shook his head. “Not the Jews. The Judeans. Let's leave religion to the priests, and politics to the politicians.”

  “Very good, legatus,” said Barbarus, testing his dagger's point against a finger. It drew blood at once. “Then they can leave the soldiering to us.”

  X

  JERUSALEM

  TWO DAYS AFTER hosting the Shabbat dinner, Judah was working a large stone, the last of an old commission, while Asher loaded a bag with awls, files, stonesaws, chisels and such, preparing for the morrow's trek to the Upper City and the first look at the work ahead of them at Apollion's house.

  Suddenly the door to the yard swung wide and Phannius ducked through. Judah stopped working to stare coldly. Asher fingered an awl. Even the apprentices were grim.

  Upright, face pinched, Phannius said stiffly, “Judah ben Matthias, I apologize. I truly regret my offensive words and hope that you can find some level of forgiveness.”

  Shocked, Judah managed not to bark
out an acerbic reply. Clearly this was Deborah's doing. Swallowing his impulse to shove the apology down the lout's throat, Judah offered his hand. “It's forgotten.”

  It was fortunate that Phannius was also a mason. Any other man might have shied away from the dusty, sweaty grip Judah was offering. But they clasped arms, neither one playing grip games.

  Phannius eyed the large stone that Judah was molding. “Need a hand with that?”

  “Why not?” He didn't, but the lout was making an effort. And, to be fair, he was a competent mason. They soon had the uneven slab squared and ready for polishing. Thus the work of a day was done by noon.

  It turned out that Phannius had an ulterior motive. When they were finished, he said, “Judah, I know you prize your independence—”

  “Isn't that what we're fighting for?” piped Asher.

  Phannius ignored him. “—but I'd like you to come to the Blue Hall this afternoon. Just hear what they have to say. They ask about you all the time. At least give them a chance to applaud your deed.”

  “Don't you mean our deed?”

  Phannius had the good grace to look abashed. “You know my mother…”

  Judah felt churlish. Yes, he knew Euodias. If he was honest, Judah doubted if he could cope with such a force, either.

  He shot a glance over to his brother, working among the brick-molds. Asher shrugged. After such a handsome apology and the free aid in the yard, what choice did they have?

  “Very well,” Judah said. “We'll come.”

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  The Blue Hall was in the Upper City, not far from the Temple Complex. As this marked Asher's first climb into the Upper City, Judah and Phannius helped him, ascending the hill with Asher supported between them. “I'm not a child,” he protested.

  “You whine like one,” answered Judah.

  “Remind me why Levi saved your life?”

  “He didn't know Judah yet,” suggested Phannius.

  “Nice talk! And I was going to give you credit for the eagle when we got there.” Phannius flushed and they continued to climb.