Scourge of Rome

by Douglas Jackson

  Valerius yelled at a trumpeter standing nearby, hypnotized by approaching death. ‘Sound the alarm!’

  Before they had time to react the guards posted on the lower slopes were either slaughtered or had turned and run. Valerius saw in a single glance that unless someone made a stand the whole camp was about to be overwhelmed.

  Serpentius made a movement in the direction of the attackers, but Valerius grabbed his arm. ‘I need you alive with me, not a dead hero,’ he said.

  The Spaniard glared at him, but obeyed, automatically moving to Valerius’s right side. As the strident calls of the alarm rang out across the hillside, the first instinct of the unprotected and totally surprised diggers was to reach for their weapons. Like Serpentius, all they had were swords and daggers. Their armour, shields and pila javelins were all neatly stacked much too far away in the centre of what would become the fort. From somewhere above Valerius heard cries of consternation and shouted orders which he hoped meant that Lepidus and his officers were already organizing a defensive position. That was all well and good, but these men would never reach them alive. There was only one chance.

  ‘Form orbis on me.’ He sprinted up the rising ground to a cleared area where it flattened out. Serpentius took up the cry as he matched Valerius’s pace and soon hundreds of men were converging on them. Centurions hustled them into the defensive positions they’d practised a thousand times, instinctively creating the circular formation Valerius had ordered. A few dozen more arrived from the rear, led by Albinus, and Valerius saw with relief that they were all carrying shields. He ordered them forward to create a solid barrier in the front rank facing the bulk of the attackers. The veteran centurion came to his side in the centre of what was now more an extended oval than a circle, but would have to do.

  ‘Not quite so much fun as Gamala.’ Albinus spat the words through gritted teeth, plainly furious that his cohort had been surprised in the open. The last survivors clawed their way into the formation and turned to face the enemy with their swords, but behind them the slow and a few brave men who’d offered their lives to delay the attackers died under Judaean knives. Their agonized cries reached the orbis and a growl went up from the legionaries.

  ‘Hold your ground, you bastards,’ Albinus snarled, ‘unless you want to join them.’

  Valerius guessed a thousand men must be packed into the ring around him, but the Judaeans converging on the orbis numbered at least twice that. With no thought for their own lives the bravest immediately threw themselves against the outer ring, where Rome’s finest rewarded anyone who came too close with a sword in his gullet or a mattock across his skull. More dangerous were the spearmen, who could outrange the legionary’s short sword, but few were willing to hurl their weapons into the circle and leave themselves defenceless. The majority faced up to the outer rank, snarling threats and insults. Valerius allowed himself to relax a little. Although the perimeter rippled under an occasional foray he knew it was never likely to buckle unless under full-scale attack. The orbis was a classic defensive position where every man could support the next, but he prayed help would arrive soon. His only concern was that lack of armour and shields, and exposure to spears and slingshot pellets, guaranteed a steady stream of casualties. Apart from affecting morale, it increased the possibility that some blood-maddened section of legionaries would charge out of position and weaken the structure.

  But help was close at hand.

  In the centre of the crush it was difficult to see what happened. Valerius had a sense of the pressure fading, the growls of the legionaries turning to cheers and men sagging with relief as they realized they’d survived. Now it was the turn of the Judaeans to cry out in consternation and he saw the brandished swords and shields begin to waver, to draw back, and eventually to vanish as the men wielding them turned and ran. He risked a glance back up the hill and felt a surge of relief. Above the heads of his men he could see the signum standards of seven or eight cohorts bobbing down the hill towards the beleaguered legionaries of the First, the units they represented marching in compact squares across the rough ground.

  From somewhere to Valerius’s left came the shrill blast of a trumpet – not a cornu, which the infantry signallers used, but a lituus, the lighter horn carried by auxiliary cavalry – and then five hundred horsemen appeared on the crest overlooking the Judaean attackers. In an instant the retreat became a rout. The rebels sprinted over the cleared ground and half-finished ditch in an attempt to reach the sanctuary of the gully.

  ‘What are you waiting for?’ Albinus shouted. ‘Finish the bastards.’

  With a roar, the men of the First cohort unleashed all the pent-up anger and frustration of the last few minutes and charged down the slope. As they clawed at the fleeing Judaeans, a cohort of Thracian mounted spearmen smashed into the enemy flank, pinning the running men with seven-foot lances. The slowest were quickly overtaken and the air turned red as the legionaries struck at them with axes and mattocks or hacked at exposed backs with the gladius.

  Valerius took no part in the butchery. He allowed the soldiers to stream past him while Serpentius remained dutifully at his side, twitching and growling like a chained hunting dog that scents blood. They watched as the last of the rebels tumbled into the gully, where their pursuers were happy to allow them to join the hundreds already streaming back into the city. Lepidus appeared at Valerius’s side, his square patrician features pink with anger and frustration, but his first words expressed his relief.

  ‘I thought we’d lost you there,’ he said. ‘Thank the gods we managed to salvage something from this disaster. I should have—’ Something caught his eye amongst the cavalry and he groaned as a section of men broke away and trotted up the slope towards them. ‘Merda,’ he hissed. ‘He’ll have my command for this, and maybe my head too.’

  Valerius followed his gaze to where a tall figure in a gilded breastplate spurred his horse towards them at the head of his staff. Titus Flavius Vespasian drew up a few paces short of the three men. Lepidus’s fist smashed into his armoured chest in salute. Valerius followed suit, reflecting that the gesture didn’t have quite the same effect in a duststained tunic. An aide took Titus’s reins and the general of the Army of the East dismounted and removed his helmet, wiping his handsome face with his neck cloth. His focus had been on Lepidus, but a narrowing of the eyes signalled recognition as he took in the wooden fist of the man at his side. Valerius could feel the hard-eyed stares of the staff officers, including Paternus, who wore a sardonic half-smile on the untouched part of his heat-scarred features.

  Lepidus awaited the inevitable storm with the look of a man on the way to his execution, but Titus turned away. He studied the little clusters of dead and dying rebels and the legionaries returning up the slope carrying their casualties or supporting the wounded.

  ‘I must apologize, general. I should have …’ Lepidus swallowed, struggling to continue. ‘A dereliction of duty, sir, for which I am willing to pay in full.’

  Titus raised a hand for silence, his lips pursed thoughtfully as he continued to stare over the battlefield towards the city. Eventually he nodded to himself, and when he turned to face the legate of the Tenth his tone was surprisingly conciliatory. ‘My father always says that a lesson learned seldom comes without a cost, dear Lepidus. Let us just say that you have had an insight into the true nature of our enemies. These rats are not content to stay in their holes.’ His features twisted into a wry smile. ‘Why, they almost had me this morning, didn’t they, Tiberius?’ Valerius belatedly recognized the dark eastern features of Tiberius Alexander among the aides. His expression warned that here was a man who didn’t take his general’s brush with danger quite so lightly. Titus ignored the stony frown and continued his story. ‘We were taking a look at the north walls, near what they call the Women’s Gate, and they made a sortie and surrounded us. They dragged poor Didius out of his saddle and fairly hacked him to pieces.’

  ‘They might have done the same to you if the cavalry hadn’
t arrived,’ Alexander growled. ‘Yet you insisted on getting involved in this skirmish and risking your life again. What would your father say about that?’

  Titus’s hand went up to stroke his ear and Valerius almost smiled at the familiar, almost boyish gesture. ‘My father would say that an officer must always put himself in the position of best advantage, no matter how much danger he places himself in. Isn’t that right, Valerius?’

  ‘With respect,’ Valerius’s throat seemed to be full of gravel and he coughed and spat in the dust, ‘an army commander is not any officer, as I’m sure the Emperor would acknowledge.’ He heard Alexander’s mutter of approval turn to outrage as he continued: ‘But it does the men good to know that their general is as willing to risk his life for them as they are for him.’

  ‘Well said.’ Titus laughed and clapped Valerius on the shoulder. He leaned forward and spoke quietly into the other man’s ear. ‘I am glad you are with us, old friend, even though your arrival is not without its complications. We will discuss it later.’ He turned away with a smile. ‘Now, gentlemen, let us get back to the deliberations which were so rudely interrupted by these barbarians, safe in the knowledge that dear Lepidus has learned his lesson. More guards, I think, legate; a good watch on that gate down there, and in those gullies. The Judaeans use the ground like snakes.’

  He remounted, and as the party rode off towards the crest Lepidus let out a long breath. ‘Lesson learned? I would rather fall on my sword than go through that again.’ He shook his head and turned away. ‘Albinus? Where in the name of the gods is my primus pilus? And post some guards on that gully in case the bastards come back.’

  ‘It’s good to know he hasn’t changed.’ Serpentius spoke for the first time since the skirmish had begun.

  But Valerius had noticed lines around his old friend’s eyes and on his brow that had nothing to do with the year since they last met. ‘I’m not so sure. Alexander was right. What he did today was reckless. The old Titus was always brave, but never reckless.’

  The Spaniard nodded slowly as a line of men staggered past them carrying Roman dead for burial. ‘I was thinking …’

  ‘What?’

  ‘We’ve been here less than one afternoon and we’ve lost a hundred men. How long do you think it will take?’

  Valerius looked across to where Jerusalem’s walls had filled with thousands of jeering men and women. ‘How long is a lifetime?’

  XXV

  ‘Our valiant Idumaean allies have given the new arrivals something to think about,’ suggested the shorter of the two men watching from the Antonia fortress as the attackers withdrew down the gully on the other side of the valley. The great fort where they stood was sited at the north-west corner of the Temple of Herod the Great, the tower so high they could clearly see the slope where the Romans had sited their camp. Zacharias had a beard of flaming red, an open, honest face pocked by the ravages of disease, and a mind capable of simultaneously juggling a hundred unsolvable problems. He was indispensable to the man by his side.

  ‘They would have done more if John had sent his men from the Water Gate against that legion’s baggage train.’ Simon bar Giora knew he sounded irritated, but how could a man not be irritated when it took two days of discussion to decide on a change of guard? ‘Do we know which legion it is yet?’

  ‘The Tenth, we think, newly arrived from Jericho, but we’ll know for certain when James and his Idumaeans report back. I specifically asked for any unit symbols. You can’t be surprised that John wouldn’t support them. It’s not six months since his men and James’s were cutting each other’s throats. They still would be if we weren’t able to keep them apart. Thank God for the truce.’

  Simon scratched his thick beard. It wasn’t lice that made him tear at it until it hurt, but frustration and anger. If the Romans knew they were still killing each other they’d just sit back and watch. John of Gischala was as trustworthy as a cornered cobra. The truce with Simon’s Zealots had allowed him to rest his forces until they were strong enough to take on Eleazar, whose faction still held the great temple behind them. It was only because of the truce they were able to stand here, because the Antonia was held by John’s men and he would not give it up. Six months since he’d fought the newly arrived Idumaeans. Barely a month ago the slimy Galilean had used the catapults which were meant to be killing Romans to slaughter Eleazar’s supporters as they prayed at the temple. Not content, he’d tried to raid the stores Simon had gathered and ended up burning most of the two-year supply he’d built up. The thought made Simon smash his fist against the parapet and his companion gave him a look of alarm. He was a giant of a man, with broad shoulders and meaty, shovel hands that had earned him the name he bore – Simon the Strong. Though usually calm and thoughtful he could be quick to anger if people or events pushed him too far.

  ‘We must make them bleed,’ Simon insisted, as much to himself as the other man. ‘And be prepared to bleed in our turn.’

  ‘Joshua believes it may have been Titus himself at the Women’s Gate this morning,’ his companion ventured. ‘If—’

  ‘If God had willed it he would be ours, I know. But God did not will it.’ He shook his great lion’s head. ‘I sometimes wonder if God has abandoned his chosen people.’

  ‘Do not say that, Simon. If anyone heard you!’

  Simon gave a great bellow of laughter that started in his substantial belly and grew into his chest. ‘You think he will strike me down before John or Eleazar? Come, walk with me, Zacharias. We will see what effect the Idumaean attack has had on your fellow citizens.’

  They walked down the broad sandstone steps of the tower into the courtyard. No part of the city was better placed for defence, but Simon prayed it would never be needed, for if the Romans ever reached this far Jerusalem was lost. The thought made him shudder. He’d vowed the city would never be taken.

  Four years earlier Simon bar Giora had halted the first Roman advance from the north. His forces attacked the legions from the rear when they least expected it and carried off their baggage train and the heavy weapons. Added to those taken from the Twelfth legion with their eagle, he hoped the ballistae would give the defenders something like parity in artillery.

  His victory should have won him a place in the highest councils of his people, but he didn’t bargain for the priests’ distrust of a common farmer’s son. Instead, that success, and the necessity for his followers to live off the land afterwards, caused the authorities in Jerusalem to brand him a bandit. As the Romans grew stronger it seemed certain they’d destroy Simon’s force. Instead he’d fooled them by backtracking, and using the Sicarii, the shock troops of his army, to surprise and overthrow the great fortress of Masada. There he stayed, impregnable and feared, until he heard of the death of his arch-enemy Ananus, High Priest of Judaea. With Ananus out of the way he gathered support in the countryside from the disaffected who were as happy to follow a peasant as a priest. Forty thousand men came to him. Forty thousand. Despite his melancholy he smiled at the memory. The immensity of it all had given him the notion of calling himself ‘king’. His wife Mariam had laughed and dressed the children as little golden princes and princesses and made him understand how foolish he’d appear. Had it only been a year ago? It felt as if that had been the last time he’d been happy.

  It had been the high point. In the months that followed, Rome’s legions had hounded and herded Simon’s forces back towards Jerusalem, and John of Gischala had become so obsessed with power he’d declared himself king and set about butchering his rivals. He was so loathed and feared that the very men who had laughed at the thought of Simon bar Giora’s leading them had opened their gates to him in the hope that he would overthrow their tormentor.

  Now Simon was responsible for the welfare of more than a hundred thousand people while simultaneously fighting an enemy of overwhelming strength amid a murderous three-way power struggle. Worse, this was the fourth day of the festival of Passover and the city was crammed with worshippers.
He guessed several hundred thousand were camped in the city’s streets: men, women and children from every corner of Judaea, and even as far as the distant Euphrates. Every one an innocent, but they were an encumbrance and he wanted them gone.

  And always in the background the feral scent of Joseph Ben Mahtityahu. Bad enough that he had gone crawling on his belly to the oppressors and perhaps natural he should take such an interest in happenings in Jerusalem. But there was something else, and Simon thought he understood its nature, if not the reasoning behind it. He had acted to close off one threat. He’d hoped to hear word of the success of Shimon’s mission before now, but there could be many reasons why he had not … He shook his head and Zacharias turned to look at him. ‘It’s nothing,’ he said with a bleak smile. ‘I was just thinking I should have stayed on the farm.’

  Zacharias stopped in mid-stride and took him by the arm. ‘Never say that, Simon,’ he said fervently. ‘I do not believe God has abandoned us. I believe he sent you to us. The people of Jerusalem know they can depend on Simon bar Giora, if no other. You are our protector and I pray that with God’s help you will be our saviour.’

  Simon hung his head so his friend could not see the dampness in his eyes. When he lifted it again they contained new strength. ‘Come then.’ He smiled. ‘Let us show our people we are with them.’

  In the familiar, stifling confines of the narrow streets between the fort and the lower city the tangy scents of the evening meal’s preparation fought for supremacy with the all-pervading stink of the night soil containers, the dried sweat of their owners, and the ubiquitous piss pots of the dyers and leather workers. Zacharias had been born here and had known nothing else. Simon, though more used to the clean air of the mountainous south, had discovered that the very closeness of his surroundings gave an illusion of sanctuary he found comforting. As they walked, he felt people’s eyes turning towards him and he could hear the murmur of voices that followed his passage. Soon the crowd following the two men was so numerous that the sound of their progress preceded them. Heads appeared from the windows ahead, wondering what the excitement was about.