by David Blixt
Asher was restless. Judah noticed how his brother's hand kept touching the side of his breastplate, almost religiously. The same spot where he had been stabbed. “Stay on my right,” whispered Judah. He meant that anyone meaning to stab Asher would have to go through Judah first.
But Asher shook his head. “I still don't understand what we're doing here.”
Judah resisted the urge to sigh. “When the general attacks the city, the Romans will pour out of this camp to help, and we'll take their flank.” Judah eyed the fort as an eagle does a mouse.
“I understand the plan,” said Asher testily. “What I don't understand is why Yosef has us attacking at all. Fabian strategy says—”
“Stuff Fabian and his strategy. Hush now!” For an hour now his twin had prattled on about Roman commentaries on the Punic War, and how the Roman dictator Quintus Fabius Maximus had defeated Hannibal. “In Fabian-style war, you don't engage the enemy in battle. Instead you melt away, stretching the enemy supply lines and miring them deeper and deeper in your own territory. In short, it's a war of attrition, the very best way to deal with invasions.”
That had been general Yosef's plan. Not daring, but tried and true. Suddenly now Yosef was on the offensive. Though puzzling to Asher, it suited Judah fine. This cavalry camp had been causing all kinds of havoc in the region, raiding inland to burn, pillage, and plunder. Time to pay them back.
But something had Asher's hackles up. “This isn't right.”
“You see a sentry?”
“No, I mean the whole plan. Yosef was dead set against attacking the Romans. So why is he ordering an attack he doesn't believe in?”
“Maybe someone loaned him a pair of balls,” grunted Judah.
“Quiet,” hissed Netir. As always, they were grouped with their tent-mates.
Still Asher fretted, muttering, “Yosef is a thinker, a planner. Once a plan is set, he'd find it insulting to deviate. Yet here he is, abandoning Fabian tactics before the war is even engaged. Did the trouble in Galilee upset him that much..?” Asher trailed off.
In spite of himself, Judah asked, “What?”
“There it is. This attack isn't about the Romans at all! It's…”
Whatever Asher's realization, it came too late. Suddenly the night was full of trumpets and cries. A mile away the bulk of the Judean army was running screaming towards the city walls – the perfect distraction.
“Here we go!” Zamaris leapt to his feet and began to run. His entire force followed suit.
“Stay close,” hissed Judah as he rose and dashed towards the darkened camp. His feet made divots in the soft earth, creating little puffs of sand behind him.
He was a swift runner, as he'd proven at Beth Horon. But the giant Atlas was somehow faster. The great mountain lumbered forward in a headlong charge, his crashing footfalls threatening to betray their approach. Judah and Asher came next, followed by the other pair of brothers, Philip and Netir. Short Pethuel was pumping his stocky legs to keep up, lean Gareb was loping lazily behind, and the silent Deuel brought up the rear.
Frustratingly, it was the men in the rear who carried the planks to use as bridges over the trenches, forcing the leaders to wait – there was no question of jumping the gap, as one slip would send a man down among the spikes and goads surrounding the camp. There was a single road leading to the camp, and they had eschewed it, hoping to maintain the element of surprise. While every eye was on the city, they would take this camp and raze it.
Judah crossed the first of these makeshift bridges and ducked low at the next trench. Still the Romans remained inside their fort. Asher knelt by his side. “Why aren't they coming out?”
Now Judah shared his brother's unease. “They should have sounded trumpets at least.” He glanced north, where Yosef's army was meeting fierce resistance as they tried to scale the walls they had helped build. There were torches along the city wall. Asher was gazing in that direction, and he plucked on his brother's arm. “Judah, the Romans!”
“What about them?”
“They're not here! They're in the city!”
Judah looked to where Asher was pointing. In the torchlight, he saw the plumed helms of Roman officers on the city walls.
Zamaris had seen them as well, but there was no altering the plan. Crossing the next ditch, the centurion shouted, “Atlas, get those gates open!”
The plan had been to fall on the Roman horses as they spilled out of the camp. But that wasn't happening, so the giant put his mountainous shoulder to the swinging Roman gate and heaved it wide – unnervingly, the gate was unbarred.
Breaching the gates, the men of Zamaris' century saw for themselves that their intelligence had been wrong. The structure was empty. This wasn't the Roman camp, merely a large stable for cavalry. With the cavalry away, the fort was left unmanned. There was nothing to protect.
The whole lead century entered, then stopped impotently. “Orders, sir?” asked the stocky Pethuel.
Their leader, a legate called Nev, said nothing, instead grinding his teeth in frustration. Zamaris quickly bawled out an order. “Torch it! Torch everything!”
While the command was carried out, Judah and Asher climbed the abandoned walls to see what was happening in Sepphoris. Yosef's army was drawing off, having been repelled by the single legion within the walls. The jeering Romans mocked this pitiful Judean attempt to take back the traitorous city.
“They'll see the fire,” observed Asher neutrally.
“We should wait for them,” laughed Judah bitterly. “What a waste.”
Zamaris led his men away, having lost half a dozen to the goads and traps that surrounded the empty fort. They left it burning behind them, a hollow act of pique.
♦ ◊ ♦
Paphos, Cyprus
THAT SAME EVENING, Gaius Gessius Florus had gone to bed secure in the knowledge he had escaped. The former governor of Judea was living in a remote island palace with a massive personal guard. His plan was to wait until the war was over, then slowly reintroduce himself to Rome. With Nero's mercurial moods, it would be best to arrive after the war spoils reached Rome.
Not that Florus was worried. He was a Roman knight of the Eighteen, he wore a toga and owned a public horse. He would be reprimanded, perhaps even forced to pay a fine. But since no one could say how much he had stolen, there was no way for anyone to take back more than a tithe of his fortune. So long as he did not incur Nero's anger, he would survive.
He was a heavy sleeper, and tonight he was aided by the copious amount of wine he'd imbibed. The singer had been good, too, lulling him into a stupor even before his head hit his feather pillow. So when the hand clamped over his mouth, he didn't register it, just tried to roll over. Only when a second hand pinched his nose and he couldn't breathe did his eyes pop open.
Strangers, in his bedchamber? The Jews! They've found me!
Beside him, his wife's screams were muffled by another man. And there were more, many more, in the room. Eyes bulging with fear, Florus felt a hot release along his thighs and knew he had shamed himself.
“Cacat. He's pissed all over.”
“That's the knights, isn't it. No stomach and weak bladders.” There was laughter.
“Tace!” The man holding Florus released his nose, but kept his other hand clamped over his mouth. “Hush, now. Your guards are dead or captured. Come quietly and we won't harm you.”
Florus sucked in air, his eyes closed in relief. A Roman voice! He then felt an inner tremble. Nero. He would have to dance for his life. But he had the whole trip to Greece to compose himself, decide what to say. There was still life in it.
Surprisingly, both he and Cleopatra were bound. That was unusual. Marched out to a wagon, he saw his local guards had been over-awed by a detachment of troops from a real Roman legion – the Fifteenth. The Fifteenth? Weren't they fighting in Galilee? He had kept abreast of all the war news, of course.
Perhaps it's Vespasian! That brought a smile. The old, plodding mule of a general would nev
er execute a Roman knight, not just for a little cupidity. Especially one as famously poor as Vespasian. The man raised mules! He began clinking sesterces in his mind, counting out how much a proconsular general cost.
Florus endured in silence as he and Cleopatra were shipped across the water back to the land he so despised. He expected an interview upon landing, and was surprised to find himself placed in a solid carriage and driven overland instead. “Is Vespasian already in the field?” he asked his guards, but was given no answer.
As the journey grew longer and longer Cleopatra began to babble, and he had to kick her to keep her quiet. He needed his wits about him.
They stopped briefly. He couldn't see out of the covered carriage – there were heavy curtains on the windows, leaving them in near darkness within – but he could hear a changing of the guard. After that they rode awhile longer, uncomfortable now with neither food nor water, and one overflowing chamber pot on the carriage floor.
Fear gave way to indignation. Someone will pay for this. I am a Roman knight, Procurator of Judea and friend of Caesar. I am not some slave to be bound and transported to market!
Cleopatra was weeping tears of fury when they finally came to a halt. The carriage door opened and a rough hand laid hold of the scruff of Florus' tunic. Florus was unceremoniously dragged blinking into a marvelously ornate palace. Odd. He'd heard Vespasian didn't care about lavish frills.
“Greetings, Gaius Gessius. My dear Cleopatra. How very good to see you again.”
Despite the heat, Florus felt his blood turn to snow. The last time he'd heard that voice, a bald woman in sackcloth had been prostrated before him, weeping and begging to save a few wretched Jews. Now he saw the same face painted in Eastern-style make-up, framed by curling black hair. Cleopatra whimpered.
Squaring his shoulders, Florus drew himself to his full height and demanded in a clear voice, “Where is the general?”
“In Syria, preparing to win the war you started. He's sent you to my care.”
A frightening statement, but Florus did not back down. “I didn't start this war. You Jews did.”
Queen Berenice bowed her head, acknowledging the correction. “Instigated, then. Incited. Do you find it amusing to think that so many Romans and Jews will die to salve your greed?”
“This war was inevitable,” asserted Florus with conviction.
Berenice laughed. “I imagine you are correct.”
That surprised Florus. “You admit I was only a spark, not the flame. Then you have no cause to be angry with me!”
“Oh, you're not here to answer for the war,” answered the queen airily. “You are here to redress a most personal grievance. You insulted me, a queen, the last princess of the House of Herod.”
Clutching Florus' arm, Cleopatra said, “What do you mean to do to us?”
Berenice smiled, her bared teeth brighter than the diamonds she wore. “Why, I mean to show you the full range of Judean hospitality. It's the least I can do.”
Cleopatra whimpered. Florus had no doubt he would soon be joining her.
♦ ◊ ♦
DAWN SAW YOSEF'S ARMY safely ensconced behind the walls of Garis, the next major city inland from Sepphoris. Disappointed and frustrated, his men pitched their tents and, exhausted, fell to sleep.
All save Asher. He lingered around the general's tent until he was certain Yosef was alone. Then he asked Levi to admit him.
Dressed in a priest's robe, Yosef was relaxing upon a chair, a smile playing on his lips. “Asher ben Matthais, welcome. Some water? It's cold.”
“No, thank you. So tell me, general, was your plan a success?”
The question made Yosef frown. “We did not take the city, nor did we hurt the Romans.”
“But that wasn't the aim, was it?”
Yosef arched an eyebrow. “No? Pray tell me what the aim was, then.”
“To provoke the Romans.”
“Provoke the Romans? Why would I do that?”
“To end the bickering, the infighting, the constant squabbling and backbiting.” Asher was sounding angrier than he intended. He took a breath. “No one in Galilee was taking the Roman threat seriously. But the moment the Romans start burning their towns, Galilee will unify to repel the invaders.”
Yosef's thin smile was back. “That's asking a lot of the Galileans.”
“Still, that was your plan.”
Yosef was silent for a time. At last he began to laugh. “O, Asher ben Matthais, I'm so glad you decided to come! But you are wasted as a mere soldier! I need you here. There are no other minds.” He rose and poured himself some water. “The thing you have to understand about Rome, they like legalities. Vespasian has been waiting for some excuse, some pretext to launch his attack.”
“Beth Horon wasn't enough?”
“Beth Horon was far south of here. Until this moment, no Galilean had raised a hand against a Roman. The revolt could have been merely regional, confined to Jerusalem. But now that our army has attacked a Roman camp, the war is fully engaged. The Romans will come.” His smile turned downwards, became bitter. “They, at least, can be counted on. A sad state of affairs when one can rely more on the constancy of one's enemies than one's friends. As you once observed, destruction comes from within. If we don't stop fighting amongst ourselves, the Romans won't need to fight at all!” Yosef quaffed his water and patted Asher on the arm. “I must go. There's a great deal to prepare.”
Returning to his tent, Asher wondered if it was good to have so clever a general.
XXI
GARIS, GALILEE
2 JUNE, 67 AD
INFORMED THAT FLORUS had been safely delivered, Titus arrived at the main Roman camp to find his father on the move.
“The Judeans have attacked,” exclaimed Cerialis, “so we're off!”
Cerialis' excitement was tempered by his role in the coming war. Vespasian had made him liaison to the foreign levies. In effect, Cerialis would be a quaestor, relaying orders to the foreign leaders. It was an honour, but one that removed him from direct command of any troops.
Most staff appointments were political, favours to friends whose sons or grandsons needed military experience. But a few posts required real soldiers. Thankfully Titus was just that, and had his pick of the legions. With Cerialis in charge of the foreigners, that left three other important commands – the other two legions, and the cavalry forces.
The cavalry went to a tribune called Gnaeus Tertullus Placidus. Broad-shouldered, droop-eyed, and bald as an egg, he was called Placidus out of irony. His fiery temper would keep the horsemen in line.
Marcus Ulpius Trajanus, in contrast, was the very model of cool efficiency. The Spanish-born Roman had not been on Vespasian's roster until a letter came from the disgraced general Corbulo, which he shared with his son:
To Titus Flavius Sabinus Vespasianus, senator, consular, and general,
I congratulate you on your command. There is no man better suited to the siege-warfare that lies ahead of you. I wish you all success.
To that end, I request a favour, one Military Man to another. Would you consider taking Marcus Ulpius Trajanus for a minor command? He distinguished himself in my service, but is in danger of being thought of as Corbulo's Man, a fate I would not wish on my worst enemy. He's a hungry fellow with something to prove, yet with no desire to usurp command – an ideal junior legate.
Please send my regards to the Judean king Agrippa and his sister, Queen Berenice. You may tell them you have my full confidence for the successful resolution of this war.
Long live Rome!
Gnaeus Domitius Corbulo, privatus
Despite Corbulo's insultingly patronizing tone, backhanded compliments, and intense self-pity (imagine the great general and consular calling himself a private citizen!), Vespasian dutifully summoned young Trajanus for an interview. Five minutes in Trajan's company and Vespasian understood Corbulo's recommendation. Here was the real-life citizen-soldier that was so much a part of the Roman ideal. He excelled
both at combat and the more mundane side of war. If his birth had been less, he would have made an excellent clerk. But despite being born in Hispania, he was heir to a properly Roman family, and had married a patrician woman whose ancestors included one of Rome's ancient kings. His only faults, if they could be so called, were that he was not distinguished to look at, and his Spanish-tinged Latin was painful to hear. Recognizing a man who would someday matter to Rome, Vespasian drafted him on the spot to command the Tenth Legion.
The Fifth Legion's commander galled Titus' brother-in-law, as it went to another man with the cognomen Cerialis – Sextus Vettulenus Cerialis. There was no relation between the men; rather, they both came from farming families whose ancestors worshipped Ceres, goddess of growing plants. Sextus was the only legionary legate kept in place by Vespasian. He was well liked by his men and, like Trajan, had learned his craft under Corbulo.
Given his pick, Titus had chosen the Fifteenth. Created by the Divine Augustus to defeat Pompey's son, its history did not sway Titus so much as the little shrine and the bowl of blood, and the gust of wind when he touched the Fifteenth's eagle. Even a dunderhead could see that Fortuna – or Apollo, or Mithras, or all of them together – wanted Titus commanding the Fifteenth. Full of properly-Roman superstition, Titus deferred to the gods.
The bulk of the Fifteenth was already on the march with his father, and Titus rode with Cerialis to catch them up. The three legions were just deploying outside a city called Garis when he arrived. Vespasian had paraded his whole army before the walls, a time-honoured invitation to battle. So far, the Judeans had not stirred.
“They won't fight.” From his saddle, Sextus Cerialis spit into the dirt.
