The Realms of God--A Novel of the Roman Empire (The Shards of Heaven, Book 3)

by Michael Livingston

“You said it was a near thing between you,” Thrasyllus said.

  “It was. But Simon was far more than a slave in the shadows during his many years in Herod’s palace. He was listening. He heard the Romans and Herod alike discuss strategy, discuss plots. It’s quite impressive, really. He knows he doesn’t have enough men with him yet to hold the Temple against the Roman reinforcements that are apparently coming down from Syria. Despite all his talk of being a Messiah, in the end I think he knows that battles are won or lost with blades and blood. He trusts more in that than in the possibility that the heavens will open up with an army of angels to fight behind him.”

  Juba allowed himself to smile a little at that. It was bewildering to him how convinced these people were that God was fully capable of saving them at any time, but that He was just waiting for some future moment to do it, allowing them to suffer whatever horrors in the meantime. It was a cruel and, he thought, arbitrary vision of a deity. “Any word on that Roman army? Do we know where they are?”

  The Roman reinforcements marching down into the land of the Jews were much on the mind of Simon and his men. In Jericho, they’d heard the rumor that at least one legion was marching south, intent on hunting Simon down.

  “They expect scouts to come back soon. But in the meantime Simon plans to ride south himself, to take the King’s Highway ahead of them and nip at the borders of Nabataea. It won’t get us to Petra, but it’ll get us most of the way there.”

  “Good,” Juba said. “You did well.”

  “I’ve tried.”

  For several minutes the three men looked out at the stars and the land stretching west toward the flickering fires of Jericho and beyond.

  Juba, for the first time in a long while, was feeling something like real hope. They were going to ride south. They’d get closer to Petra. To Selene and Lapis and the Ark. Closer to defeating Tiberius, defeating the demons.

  At times it could seem so impossible, but he had to hope.

  “You know,” Didymus abruptly said, “the Jews say this is the mountain upon which Moses was allowed to see the land that God promised to them.”

  “The Moses the Jews believe led them out of Egypt and brought them the Ark?” Thrasyllus asked. He hadn’t studied the Jewish histories as thoroughly as Juba and Didymus had, but he was passingly familiar with them.

  “The very same,” Didymus said.

  “Their God didn’t allow him to actually enter it?”

  “Not in the stories,” Didymus answered. “He’d done something God didn’t like along the way. I can’t recall what.”

  Juba shook his head, once again astonished by the odd faith of these people. He was also, truth be told, a little astonished to hear the scholar admit that he couldn’t remember something.

  Didymus gestured to the little shrine on the summit. “Apparently many Jews think he’s buried here on the mountain.”

  “Why are we camped here, then?” Thrasyllus asked.

  “Because our friend John is not among those who think he’s here,” Didymus said, smiling. “He favors another spot, and he seems to like the idea that camping here shows just how wrong the others are.”

  “That and it’s a good vantage point,” Juba said. “Hard to be surprised by anything up here.”

  Didymus nodded. “As you say.”

  “Seems every hill and valley in this country has some sacred history to it,” Thrasyllus said. “It’s strange.”

  Didymus shrugged. “Well, they’ve been here a long time.”

  For a moment Juba had a longing for a home he could only remember in fleeting glimpses. What histories were lost when Rome conquered his native Numidia? Were there sacred hills among his own people that he’d never learn?

  “There are also stories, I’m told, that some of the Jews believe the Ark of the Covenant is hidden here on Mount Nebo.” Didymus laughed a little to himself. “Strange how close we can be to the truth sometimes and not know it.”

  Juba sighed. “Any other news?” he asked.

  “Only that John has proclaimed a new vision from the archangel Gabriel. They’re already calling it Gabriel’s Revelation.”

  “Anything interesting?” Thrasyllus asked.

  “My Hebrew is rather rudimentary,” Didymus admitted. “There’s a reason I’ve done most of my talking with them in Greek. But I’m fairly certain I caught one bit. John says that Gabriel has decreed that a great war is coming.”

  “That’s nothing new,” Juba said.

  “True enough,” Didymus admitted, “but he says that the archangel speaks of the coming of blood to Jerusalem—from the north, I think—and a great leader will come, backed by the archangel Michael, and that if he dies then three days later he will rise again, a prince of princes. Something to that effect.”

  “Must be reassuring for Simon,” Juba said.

  “Who’s Michael?” Thrasyllus asked.

  “Another of their great archangels, like Gabriel, the one John claims is speaking through him. Michael is second in power only to God Himself. His name, if I have my Hebrew correctly, means ‘He who is like God.’ John clearly thinks the end-times are upon the world.”

  “A war to end all wars,” Juba whispered.

  Didymus sighed. “I think they say that of all wars.”

  “I don’t think this war will end well for these men,” Thrasyllus said.

  “Perhaps not,” Didymus said, “but I’m doing what I can to teach them about the need for some basic field tactics. And Simon is a quick learner.”

  Juba laughed a little. “A librarian turned field commander?”

  The old man smiled even as he tried to look offended. “As Plato said, ‘Necessity is the mother of invention.’ We need this band to get us as close to Petra as we can. And I’ve read my Caesar and my Hannibal. I know a few things.”

  “Just don’t get ahead of yourself,” Juba said. “What’s written in books and what’s done on the field can be two very different things.”

  Thrasyllus nodded in agreement. “It was Plato’s master, Socrates, who said that ‘The only true wisdom is in knowing you know nothing.’ Sound advice.”

  “True enough,” Didymus said, holding up his hands in mock defense as his long white hair bobbed in the moonlight. “And that’s exactly why I in my wisdom advised them to turn to you, Juba, for the real fight.”

  Juba blinked in surprise. “What?”

  “Oh, yes, indeed,” Didymus said, clearly pleased with himself. “I told them the truth: that you’re a prince descended from a line of great princes. An heir, one might say, to Hannibal himself. They were tremendously pleased to hear it.”

  As Juba gaped, another man came trotting down to them out of the darkness. He held a small scrap of paper that he handed to Didymus. Then, seeing Juba, he turned and made a clumsy kind of salute before retreating back toward the summit.

  “Hannibal?” Juba said when the man was gone.

  Didymus nodded, his eyes still scanning the note. “His name carries far,” he said. He finally finished reading and looked up. “And it seems a fitting choice in light of the news. Simon’s scouts report that Gratus has sent a sizable force of Romans after us. We’ll be moving within the hour. Good news, as it goes, since the Romans will encourage Simon to move south with all possible speed.”

  It was true. Speed meant a chance to get to Petra—to get to Selene—sooner rather than later. But even so, Juba couldn’t believe what the librarian had done. It seemed plain enough from the reaction of the messenger. “Gods, are they expecting me to take command?”

  “Of the cavalry, yes. They’ve no elephants at hand, but we’re also not crossing the Alps. Horses will have to do.”

  The idea of being in battle revolted him. It brought up memories of Actium and Vellica, of death and deeds he would regret for the rest of his life. “I’m not a leader, Didymus.”

  “You’re more than either of us are,” the scholar replied. “I only know my books, as you yourself said. And you’re more than any of t
hese men are likely to be. You’re a king.”

  “A king is not the same thing as a commander.”

  “Didymus is right, though,” Thrasyllus said. “And anything that helps us get south faster is a good thing.”

  Juba took a deep breath. They were right, though the prospect turned his stomach. “South,” he said.

  Didymus nodded. “They’ll want us in the command tent, Juba.”

  As Juba looked up at the stars and sighed loudly, Thrasyllus took his arm. “For Selene and Lapis,” the astrologer said. “For our loves. There’s still time.”

  “Do the stars tell you that?” Juba asked.

  “Just my heart,” Thrasyllus said.

  22

  DEATH OF A MESSIAH

  KARAK, 4 BCE

  Vorenus found Pantera on the northern wall of the ancient fortress of Karak. The sun was high and hot upon the deserts around them, and the dust of the approaching army had been easy to follow as it made its way south along the King’s Highway.

  The archer glanced back at his approach, saw who it was, and smiled. “Do we know who they are?” he asked.

  Vorenus took a position alongside the younger man and joined him in staring out at the cloud rising among the horses and men. “Rebels,” he said. “Organized under the direction of a man who claims to be the Messiah.”

  “Seems to be a lot of Messiahs these days.”

  Vorenus nodded. He understood only too well the desire for such a leader. One who brought victory and strength and pride. One who seemed to be favored by God Himself. He’d known Caesar, after all. The first and true Caesar, a man he would have followed to the ends of the earth, as men once had Alexander the Great.

  A man, in the end, who was murdered by his own people.

  The same would be the end for most Messiahs, he figured. Though this one—Simon was his name—would probably not get that far. Rome would see to that.

  “The legion will march out soon,” Vorenus said, relaying what he’d learned in the war council inside the fortress.

  Pantera frowned a little. “But he can’t touch us in here.”

  It was true. Karak was built on a sharply rising hill, surrounded by valleys on three sides. The ancient walls were thick and strong. They had water. They had supplies. It would take a massive army indeed, with time and engines of siege, to dislodge them. But this wasn’t about the legion.

  “He can’t strike us, but he can strike the city below, and more besides. A lot of innocent people would die. We want to meet Simon head-on before he gets that chance.”

  The young Roman looked down at the buildings jumbled around the hill. His cheeks reddened slightly. “Of course.”

  Vorenus knew that look of shame. And he knew, too, the shortsightedness of inexperience. “All’s well,” he said. He clasped a strong hand on the youth’s shoulder. “A lot of men will die today. Let’s just keep our minds on making sure it isn’t us.”

  “Us?”

  “They made the decision that the Nabataeans would hold the fortress here as a reserve. So it seems I’m dressing up to go out.”

  Pantera nodded, looked up, and was clearly surprised as he at last took notice that Vorenus had shed his travel garments and was wearing the uniform of a Roman legionnaire. “You’re coming with us.”

  Vorenus stretched his neck and pulled at the leather armor. “It’s a bit tighter than it once was, but it still fits.”

  “You really were a legionnaire?”

  “A centurion, once upon a time. A long time ago.”

  “You’re doing this because you don’t think I’m good enough.” Pantera’s voice betrayed his wounded pride.

  “No,” Vorenus corrected. “I’m doing it because I made a promise to Miriam. I intend to keep it. That’s the only reason.”

  From within the fortress a horn blew, then another, calling the legionnaires into muster. He’d not heard it in decades, but the sound struck a familiar chord in Vorenus’ heart. Much though he’d grown to fear Rome, the call to arms thrilled something deep inside of him. “Actually,” he said, turning away from the wall, “I suppose that’s not the only reason.”

  Romans were hurrying from the walls down into the courtyard of the fortress. Nabataeans were moving in the other direction. Pantera took a deep, long breath that made Vorenus wonder if the young man had ever been in a real battle before. “What other reason then?”

  Vorenus looked up at the sky, cracking his neck and hoping for new strength in his old body. “Truth be told,” he said, thinking of how Pullo would laugh at him for admitting it, “sometimes I think I like it.”

  * * *

  This was not how it was supposed to go.

  The Romans had arrayed in heavy lines across the King’s Highway on the edge of a rise just north of Karak. Not only did they outnumber Simon’s force, but they had better arms, better training, and were better rested. It was, they were sure, the prelude to a slaughter. Superior tactics made up for many deficiencies, though. Vorenus had seen it at Actium. And now he was seeing it again.

  The rebels fought with a fervent glee, a combination of bloodthirstiness and piety that was unnerving. More than that, though, they also fought with a shocking amount of organization. Vorenus had reluctantly positioned himself closer to the back of the Roman lines—farther from the fighting but better situated to keep an eye on Pantera’s unit of archers—so he’d only seen the initial enemy formation in glimpses. But it had been enough to surprise him. Most ragtag forces displayed only local cohesion—one unit within the whole force might operate with practiced orchestration, but the units to either side of it might do little more than engage in barbaric chaos.

  Not so Simon’s little army. They’d formed proper ranks at the outset: thinning out to match the breadth of the Roman lines, if not the depth. And they’d even interlocked themselves as best they could within those lines.

  More impressive still, they’d not thrown themselves into battle with the kind of wild abandon that was typical of rebels. They’d just formed ranks and waited for the Romans to make the first move.

  The Romans, fully confident in their superiority, had been happy to oblige. The horns had blown. The legionnaires had stepped as one. The first volley of arrows had been sent up in a buzzing swarm.

  Vorenus had seen armies turn and run at the sight of Roman precision, but the rebels had confidently held their ground. Arrows had taken some, but their thin lines were harder to hit. They’d raised what shields they had, but otherwise they’d simply waited.

  Only when the first Roman ranks were within the range of slings had they moved: they’d loosed a volley of their own—sending rocks that found ready targets among the massed Romans—and then they’d taken a step backward.

  The front lines of the Romans had cheered and marched on. The line of the rebels had continued to give ground.

  Vorenus, near the center of the mass of men, saw what was happening as the fighting began in earnest upon the Roman right and left. The rebels hadn’t been retreating. Their line was giving ground, but it was doing so from the center out: as the Romans pressed forward, the line of the rebels wasn’t falling back, it was bending away. The rebel wings had held position, and they began to rip savagely into the legionnaires there, which only encouraged the Romans to close their ranks even further as they funneled, tighter and tighter, into the space ahead of them.

  The dust was choking, the dead were piling up, and the worst was still to come.

  Vorenus looked down his line to where the centurion in charge of his company was still ordering the press forward. Standard Roman tactics. Vorenus had done it a hundred times or more. But now a measured march to death.

  “We’ve got to stop!” Vorenus shouted over the noise. “We’ve got to pull back and regroup!”

  The centurion was a fresh-faced young man. Vorenus wondered if he’d ever seemed so young himself. He looked over at Vorenus with stern reproach. “Forward!” he shouted.

  Vorenus, still being carried onward, cu
rsed not having Pullo at his side. In addition to their love of each other, the big man was like a tree on the field—he could always tell Vorenus what was happening.

  Without him, Vorenus resorted to jumping as best he could to see over the crowd, using the shoulders of some of the men around him to get higher. Some of the men yelled at him, others just looked confused or annoyed at his antics, but more than a few of the younger and far less experienced ones started to watch him with signs of worry on their faces.

  At last he saw it: a cloud of dust moving fast around the left wing of the rebels. Vorenus saw it and knew it for what it was, for the inescapable fact of what was happening. Like Hannibal’s Numidian cavalry at Cannae, the rebel horses were swinging round to lock them in like a gate on a slaughter pen.

  “Cannae!” he shouted at the nearby centurion. He pointed through the melee at the dust of the driving steeds. “Turn to the rear!”

  The centurion was caught between the confused tumult and his anger at this old legionnaire once more daring to give orders. He raised his vine-wood rod of office as if he intended to strike Vorenus with it.

  Ignoring him, Vorenus began shoving his way through the legionnaires around him, pushing toward Pantera’s unit, which was still sending arrows toward the rebel lines—shafts that were mostly falling, he was sure, behind the enemy’s thin ranks.

  Men were jostling against each other now. The rebel wings were holding well enough that the Romans were being pinned closer and closer together as they pushed forward, as they marched step by step into encirclement. Few of them seemed to have figured out what was happening. But more and more would. There’d be panic then, as the trap tightened. Panic and death.

  Time was running out.

  “Pantera!” he shouted, trying to find the boy in the increasing chaos.

  The thrum of bows sounded to his left, toward the very back of the lines, and Vorenus angled there, hoping it was the right unit.

  Pushing his way through the crowds he saw the rebel horsemen coming clear of the Roman flank. He saw them begin to swing around into the Roman rear.

  He saw, too, at last, Pantera’s unit. The archer’s commander was nowhere to be seen, and it seemed Pantera had taken control of the men. He’d turned them about to face the new threat and was already yelling at them to target the horses.