Stone and Steel

by David Blixt

  “I'm here with the Fifth and the Tenth. Is the general in?”

  “He is, and thank Mars you've come to mend his mood.”

  “What's the matter?”

  “The provincials. Your father arrived to find himself the de facto governor of Syria.”

  “Oh?” As slaves fetched Titus a fresh tunic, Cerialis explained how the disgraced governor of Syria, Gaius Cestius Gallus, had waited until Vespasian was near, then emulated old Catulus Caesar – sitting in an airtight chamber, he read the classics while the charcoal braziers burned away the breathable air. “He lost an eagle, so it was the only honourable way out. Saved Rome the trouble of a trial. Vespasian sent the ashes back to Gallus' widow and settled in to govern. But you know your father! He wants to focus on the war, but he's stuck talking to every wronged Latin in the region.”

  Titus groaned and grinned at once. “Have they started pelting him with turnips yet?”

  Cerialis scratched at his ear. “They depart roughly handled, but satisfied. They say he's no politician. An Italian hayseed with no Greek, that's what they call him.”

  An Italian hayseed with no Greek. An old phrase, once used about the great Gaius Marius, it was another reminder that Vespasian owned no important ancestors. Though Vespasian himself had been consul, his career could hardly be said to have ennobled his family. His elder brother had done much better, and most everyone spoke of Vespasian as a dotard.

  That they said so within earshot of his son rankled. So it was with some heat that Titus said, “What do they expect from a career soldier?”

  “I know, I know! But with your legions he'll have an excuse to get down to planning the war – he'll be like a child with a handsome new toy. Come with me, I'll take you to him! He'll be delighted!”

  “I bet you a hundred sesterces, Quintus, that his first words won't be a greeting.” As they walked down the corridor of the newly-made building, Titus suddenly asked, “Tell me, how's my little girl?”

  “The soul of sweetness.” Family finances being what they were, Titus' daughter was being raised in Cerialis' home. “You did well naming her Julia. A true joy.”

  “And your own daughter?” asked Titus dutifully.

  “Flavia? Growing like a weed. And she likes to hit! A few more years and you could sign her up as a cadet.” Cerialis stopped beside a guarded door and rapped loudly.

  “Come!” came a distracted voice from within.

  The guards opened the door and Cerialis strolled in. “General, I have a surprise for you.”

  “Don't much care for surprises,” grunted the bulk behind the desk.

  “I promise this one will please you.” Cerialis stepped aside, and Titus said, “Ave, general.”

  Behind the malachite-topped desk, Vespasian's brow furrowed. “What's gone wrong?”

  Titus winked at Cerialis, having won his wager. “The hopes of the Judeans, that's what.”

  “He's brought the Fifth and Tenth,” reported Cerialis. “Marched them right up the coast.”

  “Ah. Good then.” Vespasian stood to embrace his son. The perpetual strain around his eyes was more pronounced than Titus had ever seen it. “Cerialis, gather up the junior legates, bring the Fifth and Tenth into camp. Tymon, wine here, and some hot water and food. Sit, Titus!” He waved his son towards one of the couches. “Are they in good form?”

  “I've been drilling them the whole way. Life in Aegypt hasn't made them soft.”

  “Good. Now tell me how you're here a month before time.”

  “Fortuna was with me,” said Titus, stretching to relieve his saddle-sore arse. “Once the Fifteenth was embarked, I chased off south – on one of the old royal barges no less. Don't look at me like that, pater! It's the fastest way up the Nilus. I reached the legions in just two weeks.”

  “Just tell me you didn't sail back with them.”

  “You can rest easy, your son didn't ponce it up – no fans, no litters, no lions, not even a crocodile in tow. The legions had done the thing proper, building a road as they went. I simply turned them around and trotted them back up the road they'd just built.”

  “In winter,” said Vespasian.

  His father's slave Tymon returned with the food and drink, and Titus scarfed down some oil-soaked bread as he spoke. “So long as there was kindling for fires at night, there was no danger. We marched north to Lake Amanus, then east to Pelusium. There weren't enough transports, so instead we took a lovely seaside stroll past Gaza. The coast of Judea is almost entirely Greek, and therefore pro-Rome. We did pass within a stone's throw of Jerusalem. I wanted to see it.”

  “You didn't…”

  “Oh, it was tempting! But no. I decided instead to be a different kind of hero and solve all your manpower woes.” He laughed. “Though, by the look of the camp, I needn't have rushed!”

  “Fortuna favours us as well,” agreed Vespasian. “We have vexillations from the Third and the Fourth. With the remaining men of the Twelfth, we have eighteen cohorts. Plus all the mules we could ever need.” This was said with a chuckle. After years of breeding mules for the military, he had just ordered Rome's armies to buy his entire stock. Without even taking the field, this war had turned the family a handsome profit.

  Titus was doing a different kind of math. Eighty men in a century, six centuries in a cohort, ten cohorts in a legion. With three full legions and eighteen additional cohorts, his father now commanded twenty-three thousand, forty men, excluding cavalry and servants. He whistled low. “Impressive.”

  Vespasian's worry lines slackened slightly. “Oh, that's not the extent of the goddess' favour. Rome has just received an offer of five more cohorts from Cesarea, plus five horse troops from the Syrians. What's more, offers are pouring in from the Eastern kings. Agrippa, naturally, but also Antiochus of Commagne and the Armenian king, Sohemus. Each is contributing two thousand more men, half archers and half cavalry. The king of Arabia has sent a thousand horse and five thousand foot, most of whom are archers.”

  Titus was amused. “Do they perchance spy an opportunity to widen their borders at Judea's expense?”

  Vespasian threw up his hands in horror. “What a shocking allegation! Until this second I was convinced they were only honouring their treaties as Friends and Allies of the Roman People.” The old man chuckled to himself.

  Titus quickly totted up the figures. “That's nearly fifty thousand men in all. A third more men than Marius had to defeat the Germans!”

  “Marius' men were all Roman,” reminded Vespasian. “In those terms, our army is about equal to his.”

  “However you count it,” said Titus, slapping his thigh, “we'll eat these rebels!”

  “Let's see that we do. With all these mouths to feed, we'd best have a smashing success in Galilee. Otherwise we'll be eating our own boots come winter.”

  Surprised, Titus sat up. “Galilee? Not Jerusalem?”

  “No. Cities are great movers of money, but not producers of it. It's the fields and quarries where the money comes from. Secure those, and we choke off their ability to make war.”

  Titus was hugely disappointed. Seeing those massive walls shining white under the chill winter sun, he'd hungered to take them. That massive city, so prideful, so aloof. Like the Hebrew god himself, who kept apart from the gods of other lands.

  “Besides,” added Vespasian with a nasty smile, “Jerusalem is the heart of the resistance. If I strike the heart first, the malcontents will scatter in a thousand directions. But if we start in the north, we can sweep them all south until they're in a single place. Then we can quash this rebellious spirit so that it will never flare up again.”

  Titus leaned back, relaxing. The siege of Jerusalem was not denied. Merely delayed. In the meantime, he tried out the new word on his lips. “Galilee.”

  XVI

  GALILEE, JUDEA

  “IF JUDEA SURVIVES this war, it will be due to Divine Providence alone. Certainly the Galileans aren't helping!”

  This oft-heard refrain came from th
e tent of the Galilean general, the handsome and musical-voiced Yosef. His doleful remark was mostly heard by his bodyguards, of whom Judah's friend Levi was one. But often he said it when entirely alone, perhaps pleading with the Lord for intervention.

  The trouble began with simple geography. Galilee was bounded by Tyre and Syria to the north, Samaria to the south, Lake Gennesar to the east, and the narrow strip of Phonecian land bordering the Mediterranean Sea. Galilee contained no great cities nor central power. Instead it boasted a warren of small hamlets and medium-sized towns all in rivalry with each other.

  To make matters worse, there were really two Galilees, Upper and Lower. The distinction was simple – Upper Galilee was mountainous, Lower was flat – or at least, flatter. The people of Upper Galilee were like goats, with legs grown strong from climbing and hearts grown hard from life. Their cities were on winding mountain passes, and they were wary of any stranger, be he Roman or Hebrew.

  Lower Galilee was a land fertile in both crops and discontent. It contained cities like Nazareth, which had birthed countless religious hotheads. Its warlike farmers had a long tradition of defending their lands from covetous neighbours.

  Unfortunately for Yosef, these Galileans were as eager to squabble amongst themselves as with foreigners. Three hundred thousand people, three hundred thousand petty grievances. Arriving at the end of the Roman month January, he found all the cities already quibbling over resources and primacy.

  “The Romans will come for Sepphoris first. We are Galilee's capitol!”

  “So-named by the Romans! No, they will march straight for Garis!”

  “Japha is vital to them, they will come at us!”

  “Tiberias has the greatest wealth! They'll march across the land to raze us!”

  “Only in Tiberian dreams! Tarichaeae is the most dangerous city to them – we'll feel the brunt of their wrath! We need funds and an army!”

  It didn't help that Yosef could barely understand them. In his years away he had forgotten how crude and uncouth the Galilean dialect was. Hiding his instinctive disdain for these 'am ha-arez, he began issuing orders. His first act as general was to levy a huge tax. Thus he succeeded in unifying the Galileans against a common foe – him.

  Next, Yosef took inspiration from Mosheh the Lawgiver and deputized seventy Galilean elders as his council. Then he appointed seven judges in each city to maintain internal order. Seventy and seven, proper numbers that any Hebrew could appreciate. And the seventy elders were kept with him at all times as advisors, and as hostages. Already there were threats of violence against his person.

  “I'm here to save these people!” he lamented to Levi. “Why can't they understand that?”

  “They're fighting for freedom, general. They don't see how they can achieve it if they're not free from outside control.”

  “But that's madness! Only united do we stand a chance to overcome the Roman's fasces. In that the enemy has it right. One stick can be broken, a bundle cannot. Why can't my countrymen see that?”

  He had taken a serious liking to the gaunt, tall bodyguard. Though rough, Levi had picked up a smattering of learning in his thirty-odd years, and was clearly no dunce. More, he had a strongly practical streak that mirrored Yosef's own. He'd heard the story of Levi changing sides when he was cut off from King Agrippa, and rather than being shocked, he applauded the bodyguard's good sense. Here was a kindred spirit.

  Now, as he appealed to Levi, the bodyguard could only shrug. “I understand war. Politics is beyond me.”

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  STRUGGLING AGAINST THIS tide of mistrust, anger, and resentment, Yosef's first relief came the day Levi poked his head into the command tent and said, “General – Asher ben Matthais has come.”

  Leaping to his feet, Yosef abandoned the piles of paper and clicking abacus and marched into the courtyard. He'd forgotten they were twins. It was like having drunk too much wine – he was seeing double. “Which is…?”

  One smiled. The other one stepped forward. “You were prophetic. The Romans followed Agamemnon's example.”

  “They're not fools.” Yosef first clasped arms with Asher, then Judah. “Welcome to Galilee.”

  Judah gripped the priest's arm firmly. “We've come to fight.”

  “You've come to the right place. Though so far all the fighting has been with our own people. But come in, come in! You are more than welcome, both!” Taking Asher's arm, Yosef led the way inside.

  Judah fell into step with Levi. They had already embraced and shared their greetings. “How is it?”

  “As frustrating as he says.”

  Judah jerked his chin at Yosef's back. “How's he doing?”

  Levi slowed his step, allowing Yosef to leave earshot. “Not bad, for an aristocrat. He has a natural arrogance that both helps and hurts him. So far he's made no mistakes, but many enemies. He knows what to do, but leaves no room for other men's pride.”

  Sitting in the tent through dinner, Judah saw exactly what Levi meant. The priest was well intentioned, and certainly smart – the conversation was soon far past Judah's comprehension, delving into foreign tongues and skipping from science and philosophy to poetry and mathematics. He was also a gracious host, funny and open, with a deeply cynical streak that Judah appreciated. But there was something in Yosef that Judah could only call coiled. Not evil like a snake, but with that same hidden and ready quality. Not everything about this Yosef was on display. He remembered the priest lurking in the back of the Blue Hall, cloaking his presence. The man had depths, and Judah wondered what resided in the deepest corners.

  Asher seemed to share some of Judah's uneasiness. Pleased as he was to lob great ideas back and forth, Judah could see his brother holding back. Perhaps he just wanted to put the best parts of himself on display. Certainly both men were trying to impress each other.

  For Yosef's part, he enjoyed himself greatly. Even as he rattled off verbal barrages with Asher, he was mentally ticking off the various uses these twins could provide. They would have to be on his personal staff, not lost among the rabble. Masons both, one was a thinker, the other a famous fighter. He did not warm to Judah the way he did to Asher, which was unfortunate – Yosef thought himself the perfect blend of these two, and it wounded his sense of self to not see the familiarity reflected back from the warrior as it was from the philosopher.

  He complained to them of the local situation, and asked Asher if he had an opinion why the Jews were so intractable.

  “Jews are not known as joiners,” opined Asher. “Too many years of oppression, perhaps. Or maybe it's the nature of our Lord. Exclusivity, independence. That's the Hebrew way.”

  Yosef made a show of nodding. “Then perhaps we need to find some way to use that to our advantage. Meanwhile, my friends, I have devised a task for you both. My plan is to fortify every major city in Galilee. I mean to force Vespasian to waste days, even weeks, taking a single city. Strong walls and vigourous defense will clog the Roman war engine long enough for Ananus to secure mutually agreeable terms.”

  “Priam's plan,” nodded Asher.

  “Exactly. But unlike the Trojan king, we need only survive this one summer. What I want you to do is ride from city to city and examine the various defenses, letting me know where I need to concentrate my builders.”

  Judah pursed his lips. “We can look to see if the fortifications are sound, but we're not experienced in military placements.”

  “You'll do fine! In truth, the reports are secondary to having a war hero as my envoy. That Judah came to fight for me will bolster my credentials among these damned Zelotes.”

  Judah bristled. “I'm here to fight, not be a show-horse.”

  Yosef frowned at having set a foot wrong, but Asher grinned as though this were a good joke. “See? Intractable, independent, and fierce. That's a Jew.”

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  DESPITE JUDAH'S MISGIVINGS, the twins took the work seriously, spending a month riding hither and yon, sending back surprisingly detailed repor
ts in Asher's fine hand. The well chosen words did not, however, make the facts more palatable. The final report only increased Yosef's dismay:

  In short, General, only two cities have embarked on fortifying their defenses. One is Sepphoris, which is fortunate. As a coastal city, they'll be the first to feel Roman might. The other is Gischala, situated on the northern border with Syria. The commander is very energetic – Yohanan ben Levi. He's eager to meet you. Perhaps a little too eager.

  Whatever Asher's warning might mean, if there was someone in this benighted land eager to meet with Yosef, Yosef was eager to meet him. Visiting Gischala in person, Yosef discovered that the youthful Yohanan was a landowner of less-than-noble birth. Despite this, the Gischalan presented himself to Yosef at the head of four hundred ready-trained men.

  “You gathered these men?”

  Handsomely uncouth, Yohanan bowed his head modestly. “Gischala is not rich, but it can furnish its own defenses.”

  “I'm happy to hear it. Do you have sufficient masons?”

  “We do, general. And manpower, as you can see. All we lack is leadership. The men you have put in charge of us are listless fools. Forgive my bluntness, but in such times as these we cannot afford niceties.”

  “No, we certainly cannot,” agreed Yosef. “I charge you, Yohanan, with raising your city's defenses. I hope you are as capable as you are honest!”

  Yohanan answered with a self-deprecating laugh. “O, more so, I hope!”

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  EVERY DAY CAME WORD of some regional fire that required quenching. Yosef rode from town to town, freely dispensing justice and, less freely, gold. His funds were dwindling, and the tax he had levied was maddeningly slow to come in. He'd hoped that patriotism would make the Galileans cough up the necessary funds to defend their lands. But clearly this was not to be. Deploring the idea of employing Roman-style tax collectors, he nonetheless peeled off a strong force of men and appointed them to the unsavoury task.

  Continuing his endless trek from city to city, he arrived in Tiberias just in time to attend a huge rally in the city's agora. Upon a podium, a silken-tongued Galilean called Justus was exhorting the crowd to go attack the enemy.