Stone and Steel

by David Blixt

  “By all means, show him in.” When the man entered, Vespasian employed his rather rustic Koine, the Greek patios known to every civilized man. “Well, fellow? Out with it. My time is valuable.”

  The tent's lamps showed a Greek with the air of a man making a bargain. “I have information that may be of use to you. In return, I wish my freedom, and the assurance of my lands after the war.”

  “Both depend on the strength of your information. If I deem it useful, I'll give you those things and more.”

  The Greek deserter considered, then nodded. “The commander of Galilee has arrived. His army follows. He means to make a prolonged stand at Jotapata.”

  Vespasian's engraved frown softened. “If you've told me the truth, you will have your freedom, your lands, and the goodwill of Rome.” He nodded dismissal, then raised his hand. “Wait. This commander – what's his name?”

  The deserter blinked. “Yosef.”

  Vespasian had difficulty with Hebrew names, and had taken to creating Latin equivalencies. “Josephus. And his father's name?”

  “Matityahu. He is of noble blood, a priest of the Sanhedrin. His father is the Amarkalin.”

  “Very well. Ebutius, this fellow is to be well-handled.” As the deserter was escorted out, Vespasian spoke to his sentry. “Summon Tribune Nicanor from Agrippa's legion.” He then crossed to the table that bore his maps and began poring over them. “Placidus, do you feel in need of a bit of vengeance?”

  The bald tribune bolted upright. “I do indeed, sir!”

  “Good. Take a thousand horsemen – Roman horse, not auxiliaries – and ring Jotapata round. Use Ebutius as your lead decurion, he's earned it. This Josephus has made a colossal blunder. We must ensure he cannot correct it. No escape. Is that clear, Gnaeus Turtullus?”

  “Perfectly clear, general.”

  Vespasian allowed himself a slight smile. “Gentlemen, we knew it would be a summer spent in siege warfare. But to put all his forces into a single place – well, that's the mistake of an amateur. He's placed himself in a prison. However, we must assume the leaders in Jerusalem would not appoint a fool to such a post. Therefore we must capitalize on his mistake and take Jotapata quickly.” He looked at Cerialis. “What are you grinning about?”

  Cerialis shook his head. “I just don't want to be the one who tells the engineers we're going to Jotapata now.”

  Everyone laughed, and Vespasian made an appeal skyward. “I'm surrounded by imbeciles.” The tent flap opened. “Ah! Here is a serious man who can aid us. Nicanor, Titus tells me you're from a priestly family. The Galilean general is a priest of Jerusalem. His name is Josephus, son of–damn, what was it?”

  “Matityahu,” supplied Trajan.

  “Yes. Do you know him?”

  Nicanor gave a start of surprise. “Yosef? I know him well! We studied together at the Temple.”

  Vespasian smiled at the others. “Sometimes it's better to be lucky than good. He's young, then?”

  “Perhaps thirty years. No more.”

  “Excellent!” Vespasian rubbed his hands together. “What kind of man is he?”

  Nicanor considered. “There is no lion or eagle in him, but a great deal of fox. Some wolf. Perhaps some cat.”

  “No rabbit?” asked Placidus with a dark grin.

  “None. He is a man of great intelligence and cunning. Maybe even daring. Certainly he admires daring. A few years ago he wrote a book recounting the life of the Judean hero Judah Makkabi. His teacher is a favourite of the High Priest Ananus.”

  “If we need to treat with him,” said Vespasian, “would you be willing to speak on our behalf?”

  Nicanor bowed. “Of course, general.”

  “Excellent. You are now posted to my personal staff. Fetch your kit and report back here for billeting.” Vespasian paused. “He wrote a book, you say?”

  “Yes, general.”

  “Find me a copy.”

  Nicanor saluted and departed. Vespasian turned to his Roman commanders, brows aloft. “Well?”

  “A priest,” said Trajan happily.

  “A noble priest,” corrected Sextus Cerialis.

  “Favoured by the High Priest of Jerusalem,” said Cerialis Rufus.

  Vespasian was contemplative. “Gentlemen, I think we must capture this Josephus. Whatever else happens at Jotapata, I want him taken alive. No martyrdom, you understand. I want the living man. For the rest…” he pressed his thumb down on the place of the map marked Jotapata.

  The legates and tribunes shared a celebratory drink, then filed out. Vespasian yawned, scrubbed his palms over his face, and shifted his gouty foot. It was only then that he noticed his son lingering. “What?”

  Titus bowed his head. “General, I have prayed at the legions' shrines, begging the pardon of Mars, Bellona, Hercules Invictus, and Jupiter Stator. I sacrificed to them and have expiated my sin. It should no longer weigh on you.”

  Vespasian actually smiled. “Clearly your penitence has been sufficient. The gods of war have led the Judeans to make a grave error. It is now up to us to take the best advantage of it. Well done, mi filius.”

  Titus sighed in relief. “O, thank the gods! I wish you had told me about Corbulo. I could have kept a sensible tongue in my head.” He paused. “The men aren't pleased, you know. All our legions fought under Corbulo at one time or other. They're angry and sore about it, naturally. But you were never under him. It's not as though you were friends, or even comrades in arms. Why does his passing haunt you?”

  “Isn't the death of a good man cause enough to mourn?” asked Vespasian rhetorically. Then he relented. “You are correct, son. There is more to it. Gnaeus Domitius and I are senators and generals in service to Rome. That creates a kinship as close as it is exclusive. There are a handful of men in all Rome who might command a campaign as significant as this. Corbulo. Galba. Paulinus. Me. That is all. In time, Trajan may turn into something. I hear good things of young Agricola from Gaul.”

  “I will be one of those men,” said Titus.

  “Then you should mourn as well, son. I'm reminded of the race of the October Horse, but transformed into some hideous farce. If Rome continues to sacrifice its best and brightest to serve the egos of smaller men – even if those smaller men be called Caesar – Rome shall cease to exist.”

  “Rome is eternal,” objected Titus.

  “The physical place, perhaps. But the nation we have built, from Romulus to Brutus to the Caesars – that is only as lasting as pleases the gods. They love excellence, the gods. When we cease to excel, we'll cease to please the gods, and they will look elsewhere. Then we will be in such straits as the Judeans find themselves. They have put all their faith in their One God. If He abandons them, they will cease to be.”

  “I never knew you espoused religion, father.”

  Vespasian poured himself a cup of wine, then gazed at it, considering. Drinking often inflamed his gout. “I don't. A man makes his fate.” Quaffing off his drink at one pull, he set it aside. “But only a fool ignores the gods.”

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  JUDAH AND ASHER marched with Zamaris and the rest of their century into Jotapata. To look at, the city itself was unimpressive – a high wall encompassing thirteen acres. It was the geography that made their jaws drop.

  The city stood upon an isolated hill in the center of a bowl, an island surrounded by lush and verdant flowers and scrubby green grass. Prickly green trees dotted the brown earth of the bowl, and goats capered carelessly up and down the slopes where men would be fools to go. The only entrance to the bowl was from the north, the other sides all too high for soldiers to pass and too far away from the city for the Romans to use their siege engines.

  Marching closer to the city, Judah saw that the north-facing wall was made casemate. A dozen parallel walls running north and south stood like open gates, all connected by a single solid wall behind. The effect was that of giant crooked teeth, snarling. Like a desert dog.

  Sadly, the casemate design didn't extend aroun
d the whole city. Still, the fortifications did not look at all bad. There was an older wall and a newer pair of towers, one huge, one smaller. The casemate wall was the newest, barely sixty years old, and its smooth sides extended down the plain to the south of the city to encompass some of the plain.

  The march wasn't very orderly – certainly no smart Roman stamp and crash – and there was a bottleneck at the large gate in the center of the north wall. As they waited, Judah reached out and brushed the stones with his fingertips, feeling the joins. “Good walls. No mortar, properly shaped. Not coming down anytime soon.”

  Asher nodded. “Whoever raised them made them strong. This might not be so bad an idea.”

  Their welcome went further to allay Asher's fears. The citizens cheered them as they entered, throwing their caps into the air and blowing great horns of joy and welcome. Asher couldn't help noting the young women admiring both him and his brother. He smiled and kept himself from waving back – something the rest of the army didn't bother to do.

  Judah had less eye for the people than the city itself. Asher had survived Alexandria partly because he knew the place. Judah was determined to learn every inch of this city, know it better than the natives. Once they found their billet and stowed their kit, Judah dragged Asher by the arm. “Come on. We're going exploring.”

  They were gone several hours, milling through the streets and alleys, under awnings dyed with simple stripes of colour. They followed children, always the best at finding the secret paths and the shortest routes. There seemed no rhyme or reason to the layout of the streets, but there were three major plazas that all streets fed into. All centered on enormous wells, and one also held a dais for speakers.

  This was where Yosef was making his headquarters, for they saw the impressive form of Levi standing with his arms folded, his sword loosened in its scabbard. Asher and Judah greeted him warmly, and they passed a few minutes with observations of the city.

  “It's a fine place,” said Levi, his eyes never straying from the crowd. “But for one thing. There's no water.”

  Judah glanced over to the large central well. “There seems to be plenty.”

  “Those are cisterns. They collect rainwater. There's no spring, no deep well. If we run out of what the cisterns contain, we'll be drinking air and dust.”

  “That's almost poetic,” said Asher.

  “Perhaps I should embark on another career.”

  “You should have thought of that yesterday,” laughed Judah.

  The twins said their farewells and continued exploring. It was after sunset when they found their way back to their billet, which was in the yard of some dyer – possibly the same man who had made the colours for the awnings all over the city. There were large copper vats that smelled of cat urine.

  Hardly had they entered the yard when Gareb called out to them. “You have a visitor.” The lean face proclaimed that whoever it was, he wasn't welcome.

  “Who?”

  “Big fellow. City lad, like you. A complete arse. Seems angry.”

  No, it can't be. What would he be…

  Judah felt a hand clamp down on the back of his neck. “Where is she!”

  Twisting, Judah flung one arm up to break the hold, shoving the bigger man back. It was like shoving a wall. “Get off! What on Earth are you doing here?”

  Phannius ben Samuel snarled and raised a fist, but Asher threw himself on his bicep. Gareb and Peuthel grabbed his other side while Philip and Netir drew swords. Across the yard Atlas climbed to his feet, frowning.

  It was a heartening moment. They might not have warmed to Judah and Asher to start, but when threatened, their tent-mates came to the twins' aid.

  Phannius didn't care about Judah's companions, nor Asher, nor even the threat of swords all around. He strained to be free, veins bulging in his neck as he shouted, “Where is she! Where is she!?!”

  A frisson of panic raced through Judah. “What?”

  “Deborah! You fool, you've not only disgraced her, you've risked her life! You call that love? I'll murder you!”

  “What are you talking about? Where is she?”

  “That's what I'm asking you, lecher! Where is she?”

  Straining against Phannius' bicep, Asher said, “She didn't come with us! She's not here!”

  It took several minutes for Phannius to calm down enough to realize Asher was speaking the truth. Judah's insistent demands to know what had happened helped to convince him.

  “She left a month ago. Right after getting a letter from you,” he added accusingly. “She didn't show anyone the letter, so mother – we all assumed you'd told her to come to you.”

  “Never. I just told her about training, and – well, that I missed her.” Judah felt numb. Was Deborah out there somewhere? Had she gone to the training camp to look for him? Where could she be? He looked to Phannius, ashen-faced. “We have to find her.”

  “You're not going anywhere,” said Zamaris, part of the crowd that had gathered for this scene. In the army, entertainment was where you found it. “You've mustered up. We need you – even a cock-sure brawler like yourself, hero. Besides, the general has closed the gates. The Romans will know soon enough where we are, and they'll be all over us like flies on shit.”

  Judah argued, Phannius protested that he hadn't joined any army, Asher tried to calm them both down while the rest of the century looked on in amusement. The end result was never in doubt. The gates had closed, the fortifications had begun. No one was leaving, least of all three masons who were good in a fight.

  “I don't give a fat man's fart for your personal problems, boys. Like it or not, we've all come to Jotapata to stay until the Romans are beaten back, or the walls are taken. So best make sure they're not taken, eh? Now, get to work!”

  Judah was ready to go over the walls that night, but Zamaris had him watched. Phannius too. Strong arms like those couldn't go to waste. They were watched the next night as well. On the third night they thought to try escaping.

  But that was the day the Romans arrived.

  Part Three

  The Siege

  XXIV

  JOTAPATA, GALILEE

  4 JUNE, 67 AD – FIRST DAY OF SIEGE

  “MITHRAS, give us some real fighting,” muttered centurion Barbarus as his cohort crested the rise. “Not more—” he saw their destination and sighed, “—walls.”

  “Balls,” echoed his optio Thorius. “Balls balls balls!”

  Riding just ahead of them was the tribunus augusticlavus – a stiff-rumped young knight who did not know his military arse from his military elbow. Hearing the optio's mild oath, he turned in his saddle to issue a rebuke. Barbarus beat him to it. “Enough of that cant!”

  Thwarted, the tribune instead issued the order to turn. Barbarus dutifully wheeled his cohort about to face the walls of Jotapata. Unlike Garis or Gadara, these casemate walls were not some slap-dash affair they could be over before lunch. This would take effort.

  The tribune was looking at the walls, too, and this caused him to neglect his duties. “We're in position, tribunus,” prompted Barbarus.

  “What? Oh, very well. Halt!”

  Barbarus halted his men and, without waiting for the order, had the column turn to create a double line. Here they would stand, inviting the enemy to come out from behind their walls and engage. Not that they would.

  “Line's in order, sir,” reported Gnaeus Thorius.

  Barbarus grunted acknowledgement as he studied the city with a practiced eye. The Jotapatans had ringed themselves with a wall five times the height of a man, plastered over with clay and mortar to remove handholds. The city had two properly spaced towers, and bristled with men.

  Worse, word had filtered down that the hill was not solid, but a warren of caves and cisterns. Barbarus had hoped this meant there was a secret entrance. But because these caves were used to gather water, none opened to the bottom of the hill. So once the walls were breached, the Romans would have to hunt through every one of those caves to
smoke the defenders out.

  All told, Jotapata looked half a nightmare. Barbarus expressed his feelings in a single word. “Cacat.”

  His tribune turned. “What's that, centurion?”

  “I coughed, tribunus.”

  The tribune eyed him, then jerked his head at the fortified city. “What do you think of her?”

  “I think she's a right bitch.” Barbarus spoke loudly for the benefit of his men. “But we're the Fifteenth Apollinaris! No bitch can keep us out. In the end we'll get into her, and when we do, we'll fuck those cunni all the harder for making us wait. Sir,” he added.

  The men cheered and the prudish tribune turned away. Another sign of his unsoldierly nature. Real commanders appreciated salty talk. Well, he did ask for my opinion!

  The cheer brought the Fifteenth's new commander over. “Did your men see something?”

  “No, Titus Flavius.” The tribune turned and pointed at Barbarus. “He spoke his vulgar mind and broke the men's order.”

  Titus frowned. It was a bad officer that blamed the men under his command. “Barbarus, isn't it? What was it you said?”

  Barbarus did not clean it up, repeating his statement verbatim. Titus nodded thoughtfully. “I don't doubt you'll fuck them raw, centurion. After all, the men of the Fifteenth are the biggest mentulae in the world.”

  The legion roared with approval, the tribune flushed, and Titus departed with a happy wave.

  “Now that's a proper commander,” whispered legionary Curtus, just loud enough for the humiliated tribune to hear.

  That was a step too far. “Then we should be proper soldiers for him,” snarled Barbarus. “So tace! Shut your mouth, and pray they come out to fight.”

  “They won't,” said Curtus. “Filthy Jews.”

  “Tace, inepte!”

  ♦ ◊ ♦

  YOSEF STOOD UPON the larger of the two towers and watched the Roman advance. This is it. The great moment. A moment for historians and poets. This will dwarf any other siege in modern times. I just need to keep my people's spirits up and we will survive this. We must survive this. Not just for the war. For my career. I've gambled everything on one throw. Just like the great Julius Caesar. Well, the dice are in the air. Let them fall where they may!