Legionary on the March

The Following sneak peak is the first chapter from my upcoming novel, "Soldier of Rome: Judea." Look for it in the spring of 2012.

“My master will be arriving at the gates of Jerusalem tomorrow morning,” Judas said. Barabbas grinned and turned to his assembled leaders.

“Tomorrow will be time for us to take Judea back for the Judeans!” he shouted, bringing a cheer from his men. He looked back at Judas. “A pity your master will not join us. His influence with the people could be quite useful.”

“He is a man of peace,” Judas protested.

“And a Roman sympathizer!” a man spat. Barabbas then grabbed Judas gently by the shoulder.

“Can he not see?” he asked. “His people are here, not in Rome! One word would be all he’d have to say; freedom! He could rally the entire Jewish nation against the hated occupiers.” Judas shook his head gently.

“No, I’ve tried to explain it to him, but he will not listen. He goes on about how we should love not just our neighbor, but also our enemies.”

“Bah!” another man shouted. “He would have us befriend those who enslave us!”

“Enough,” Barabbas said with a raise of his hand. He then assessed Judas and could see the vexation on his face. “I’m sorry Judas, but after tomorrow Jesus of Nazareth will have to make a decision. His influence with the people is too powerful for him to sit as an idle observer. Once the Antonia Fortress falls and we drive the Romans out of Jerusalem, then he will have no choice but to join us. And if not, then he can go skulking back to the Roman dogs in Caesarea!”

As Judas slumped into a chair in the far corner, Barabbas gathered his men around a crudely drawn map of the Antonia Fortress.

“Once inside,” he explained, “I will take a small group of our best climbers and scale the tall tower. The rest of you will seal off the exits and make sure no one escapes. We will then do a floor by floor search until we locate the procurator. He is our chief objective and he must be taken alive.”

“More satisfying to slit his throat,” one man grumbled. Barabbas slammed his hand down onto the table.

“No!” he barked. “Pilate is of no use to us if he’s dead. He is the only potential hostage worth anything.”

“And what if the Emperor will not negotiate for his release?” another man asked. “They are hardly on the friendliest of terms, so I cannot imagine Tiberius would give a damn what we do with Pilate.”

“If the Emperor will not negotiate, then yes we will execute him,” Barabbas conceded. “But by then we will have rallied the entire city, as well as much of the nation to our cause. We’ll simply fortify Jerusalem and dare the Romans to attack us!”
“What about the women?” one man asked. “Pilate’s wife and the others?”

“She’d fetch a fair price, I’m sure,” another added.

“That she would,” Barabbas agreed, “but she is not our objective. If Claudia Procula can be taken alive, so be it. She will make for good negotiating should Pilate escape. However, if she dies tomorrow, then she dies. I care not.

“Mark well, brothers; the only reason the Romans can pacify Judea with such a paltry force is that our people are too divided to unite against them. We spend our days squabbling and fighting amongst each other, when we should be fighting them! That all ends tomorrow. Tomorrow we will rally the entire nation to our cause and cast off the shackles of Rome forever!”

Artorius paced the rampart in anticipation. Praxus and two squads from his century were manning the wall in order to make it look like everything was normal. This put the men in a precarious position, as doubtless the rebels would try and overrun the gate to prevent it from being shut. There was also the risk of being trapped between the rebels outside the wall and those in the main courtyard. It was because of these hazards that Praxus had elected to lead the men himself. The centurion had removed the crest from his helmet and medal harnesses from his armor. Artorius, who had removed his helmet before climbing the rampart, pointed this out to him. As he was wearing his segmented plate armor he looked no different from his legionaries.

“A Centurion patrolling the rampart will look suspicious,” his friend explained. “Don’t want to spook them into not showing up. With nothing but my hamata chain mail, at a distance they might mistake me for an auxiliary.”

“A sound plan, old friend,” Artorius concurred.

“Think they’ll come?” Praxus asked.

“I have no reason to doubt Nathaniel,” Artorius replied. “The question now is whether or not the word got out that we know they are coming. Abenader’s scouts reported seeing the Nazarene a few miles outside the city; riding a donkey no less!” Praxus grinned and shook his head.

“Not exactly the dignified approach of a divine prophet,” the Centurion remarked.

“Well if he is divine, at least he’s harmless,” Artorius conjectured. “He tells the people to respect authority and pay their taxes. And now he just might unwittingly lead an entire horde of zealots into our hands. He preaches peace yet helps us make war. Ironic.”

“Did the scouts say how many people thronged the roads?” Praxus asked.

“They couldn’t say for certain, but that it was without a doubt in the thousands.”

“And of those left here, I wonder how many wish to spill our blood,” Praxus said as he watched the chaos of city below them. Though many had gone to see the Nazarene’s arrival, still many more went about their business.

“This has always been an uneasy peace,” Artorius answered.

“I’ll be disappointed if those zealot bastards stand us up,” a nearby legionary remarked.

“So will I,” Artorius replied, giving the soldier a friendly smack on the shoulder before descending the wall. He then walked across the vast courtyard and ascended the short flight of steps to where a large barricade had been hastily erected. Hidden behind them were Sergeant Cicero and six scorpion crews.

“How are your men doing, Sergeant?” Artorius asked as he knelt down beside his armorer.

“Cooking in this fucking heat, sir,” the Decanus replied. “I wish those bastards would make up their minds already.” Artorius checked with each of the crews, who expressed similar displeasure about the rebels needing to hurry up and attack already, before returning to his own position.

“Alright,” Artorius said, “check your weapons; make sure they are loaded and ready to fire. Then pull your men into the foyer and out of the heat.”

“Right away!” The scorpion crews were not going to argue about getting into the shade. Praxus and his men on the front wall would have to make do.

There was a long landing at the top of the steps, with openings leading into the fortress on either side. In the right hand entryway was his First Century and half of Magnus’ Second Century. The rest of the Nordic Centurion’s men, along with Cornelius’ Fifth Century were staged in the far entranceway. Justus had his men, along with the rest of Praxus’ on the upper level, ready to defend the walls and the gate.

“I hate daytime guard duty,” a Decanus complained with a loud yawn. Praxus snorted in reply, though with the heat bearing down on them, he agreed with the squad leader’s assessment. Before the Centurion could answer, a man with a curved short sword jumped onto an ox cart below.

“Long live Judea!” he screamed at the top of his lungs. The call was echoed by numerous men in the crowd. Most of them threw off their cloaks, revealing short swords, meat cleavers, and hand axes. Others were wielding scythes and farm tools. Praxus could hear a loud cry of lamentation from some of the women in the crowd; perhaps the wives and mothers of these men. They were terrified at what their loved ones were about to do; they also knew the terrible retributions the Romans would exact should the rebels fail.

“I think we have our answer,” he said with a deadpan smile.

Artorius had heard the shouts as well and he looked over to Cicero and his men, who all looked like they were asleep while lounging in the shade of the foyer weapons. The cries of the Judeans outside the gate immediately roused them from their heat-induced slumber.

“About fucking time,” one of the gunners grunted as he rushed to the steps and sat behind his weapon.

“Alright lads, do not fire until the word is given,” Cicero reiterated. Two of his men knelt behind either end of the barricade. Their sole purpose was to shove the wall over and allow the crews to engage the rebels. For now they all sat hidden and waited anxiously.

In the archway, Artorius donned his helmet drew his gladius. The men of the Sixth Century were armed with bows and immediately moved out and knelt behind the line of scorpions. Scavenging enough bows had been a challenge. Legionaries were only modest shots with the bow; most of the Roman Army’s archers came from Syrian auxiliaries, whose marksmanship was legendary. Artorius was unconcerned. The total distance from the steps to the outer wall was only about a hundred and fifty feet. The archers would be engaging rebels at close range in order to provide room for the infantry to form up for their assault.

“Stand ready lads,” Artorius called over his shoulder. His voice was calm, despite the clamor that echoed beyond the main gate.

“I want to slaughter these bastards just for making us kit up in the middle of the blasted day,” a legionary behind him grunted.

“Looks like you’re about to get your chance,” the man’s Decanus said as they watched dozens of zealots pour into the courtyard.

Up on the wall Praxus tried to gauge just how many rebels were attacking the fortress. He reckoned their numbers to be in the hundreds. All were lightly armed with melee weapons. Perhaps they figured they would take the fortress quickly and would not need slings or other missiles.

“Brave amateurs,” he said quietly as he drew his gladius. A pair of ox carts was rolled by a number of men towards the gate as makeshift battering rams. Since they had left the gate opened, the first cart rolled right through, the second losing control and catching one of its wheels on the outside of the gatehouse. A man stood on top and was shouting orders. A legionary on the wall threw his javelin, which slammed hard into the man’s chest, sending him flying from the cart, pinning his twitching corpse to the ground.

“They’re trying to take the walls, sir!” a legionary shouted from the far end as a series of grappling hooks came over the side. A group of four men climbed over the left side, but instead of engaging the legionaries, they made for the nearest tower, which they threw a second grappling hook up. As they started their ascent, Justus and his legionaries ran along the rampart towards the gate, weapons drawn.

Barabbas looked over his shoulder as he climbed the tower, his eyes growing wide at the sight of dozens of legionaries gathering on the rampart over the main gate.

“Where did they come from?” Yaakov asked, fear rising in his voice. Barabbas started to climb quickly. He and his small group had intended to infiltrate the fortress and take out Pilate himself. The fortress should have only had minimal protection! A sense of dread came over him as he heard the scream of one of his men being knocked off the rampart below, falling to his death.

The ox cart that made it through the gate was shoved aside as zealots flooded the courtyard, oblivious to the large numbers of legionaries that were repelling their companions from the front rampart. Massed shoulder to shoulder in the wake of their numbers, they pressed towards the step as a makeshift rampart was knocked down, revealing a number of scorpions, as well as a full century of archers.

“Fire!” Cicero shouted. The heavy blades shot from his scorpions ripped through the oncoming crowd like a scythe through a shock of wheat. Each bladed bolt sliced through torsos and severed limbs, leaving a trail of death in their wake.

“Archers up!” Centurion Colabella and his men quickly rose. Without waiting for subsequent commands, the archers drew back and unleashed a volley into the stunned ranks of the zealot horde. Each man quickly notched another arrow and started shooting at rebels closest to the steps, driving the survivors back in disorder. Cicero’s scorpions unleashed another wave of death, tearing through the masses as the courtyard became saturated in the spurting blood from the fearful wounds wrought.

“Infantry advance!” Artorius called to his assembled legionaries. A Cornicen sounded the notes into his horn, both as an audio signal to those across the way, as well as a dire warning to the zealots of their impending doom.

The space in front of the steps was already littered with corpses and gravely wounded men as Colabella’s archers continued to pick off those who got too close. Artorius then signaled to Cornelius, who immediately led his men to the stairs along the right-hand wall, where they would replace Praxus and Justus on the front gate.

“Archers are advancing!” Praxus called over his shoulder to Justus. He then ordered his men, “close that bloody gate already!” The portcullis came crashing down, impaling one hapless rebel as it sealed the fate of those still inside. Praxus’ and Justus’ legionaries severed the ropes on the grappling hooks, leaving dozens of rebels clustered outside the gate.

“Fall back!” Justus ordered his men, who filed along the left-hand wall, followed by Praxus’ men as the archers took their place. Praxus lingered on the corner, watching in morbid fascination as Colabella ordered his legionaries to fire a volley into the massed rebels below.

Legionaries from both ends of the steps swarmed the field below. Artorius and the other Centurions took their place on the extreme right, their Options on the left. The mass of zealots had grown silent. They kept their distance, unsure of what to do in the face of this wall of men and metal. The soldiers stood ready, shields close together, javelins at the ready to throw.

Jotham was filled with abject terror. He had heard those in the back yelling that the Romans had closed the gate behind them. They were completely unprepared for what they now faced. The zealots had been told that the Roman forces would be preoccupied outside the city, with only a small force of Pilate’s personal bodyguards manning the fortress. Where had these legionaries come from? There were hundreds of them and Jotham knew that he and his fellows were at their mercy. Their paltry weapons could do nothing against the Romans’ shield wall or their protective armor. He looked into the faces of individual soldiers. A number of them were young, some perhaps no older than he was. Yet when he met their gaze, he saw that their age was the only thing they had in common. While he viewed himself and his fellow zealots as men who only fought to free their people, those who faced him were not even human; their entire existence centered on killing.

“What are they waiting for?” he asked quietly.

“Barabbas will come for us, won’t he?” a nearby lad asked.

“Barabbas,” Jotham scoffed. “He’s probably already dead. And what could he possibly do against that?” He pointed his weapon at the Roman line. He then saw in the background behind the wall of legionaries as the hated procurator himself stood atop the steps. Like a coward, he too was wearing body armor. Jotham tried to take a step backwards, when his foot slipped out from under him. He looked down briefly and was horrified to see that he had stepped right into the splayed guts of one of his friends. As he looked up, Pilate addressed the mass.

“Rebellious scum!” he called down to them. Jotham scowled at being addressed as such. “You have violated the peace of this city, during one of your people’s most holy of celebrations! Have we not coexisted in relative peace and goodwill? Has Rome not brought order and prosperity to your cities? And this is how you repay our charity!”

“Charity?” one zealot screamed. “You would have us be your slaves!” Pilate grinned at the outburst and continued.

 By standing before me, armed as you are, you have sentenced yourselves to oblivion! May your kinsmen learn well what happens to those who violate the peace of Rome!” He then turned to the Centurion in the front rank, who was looking up at him, waiting for the order. Pilate simply nodded and walked away. Jotham closed his eyes and accepted his fate.

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