Emperor of Rome

by Robert Fabbri

  Vespasian looked around at the shadowy forms of legionaries quietly making their way, in centuries, out of the camp to form up beyond the gates. ‘So you do; I can only hope that you’ve had time to do the latter as it’s now the former of those two activities that we have to concentrate on. Although, considering your advanced years and the fact that you are a civilian, I give you full permission to sit this out and observe from a safe distance whilst having a nice cup of warmed wine and some freshly baked bread.’

  Magnus grinned. ‘That’s very kind of you; I shall make notes of the action for your benefit.’

  Vespasian waved away the suggestion as he walked off towards his horse held by a slave. ‘You can’t write.’

  ‘Mental ones, then,’ Magnus called after him, tugging his dogs away up the hill.

  ‘What are they doing?’ Vespasian asked, aghast, as the first rays of the sun hit high, slow-moving cloud and the town walls began to emerge from the gloom and solidify into their daylight form.

  ‘Waiting for us,’ Titus replied, his face as surprised as his father’s as they sat together on their mounts at the command post of the XV Apollinaris; thin-stripe tribunes, legionary cavalry messengers and a cornicern waited to relay their legate’s and their general’s orders. ‘They heard us coming and they won’t yield the walls unfought. I can see that Yosef is a cannier general than we have given him credit for; he’s not going to be content just to sit behind his defences and point his hairy arse at us.’

  Vespasian surveyed the silhouetted ranks of rebels lined up before the gates of Jotapata, just over half a mile away, with each flank secured by a sharp drop. ‘There must be a good three thousand of them and they’re armed and armoured with our captured equipment.’

  ‘But they don’t know how to fight like us, Father,’ Titus said, watching two men and a woman, all manacled, being hauled out of the Jewish line. ‘Hardly any Jews have signed up to serve in the auxiliaries because they refused to sacrifice to the Emperor.’

  Vespasian watched as the prisoners were thrown to the ground; he turned to Titus who was shaking his head with regret. ‘Are they who I think they are?’

  ‘I’m afraid so; with those three dead there is no one left in the town who will get reliable information out.’

  A semi-circle of a couple of dozen men formed around the condemned who knelt calling out to their god. The first stone hit the woman on the side of the jaw, crumpling her down; even at this distance, Vespasian clearly heard the impact. Her scream drowned out the cracking of the men’s skulls as a barrage of rocks crashed into them; the executioners carried on hurling stones at the recumbent bodies long after they ceased to move.

  ‘We’re blind, now,’ Titus said as the bodies were dragged away. ‘I’ll have the two double agents killed next time they make contact as they’re of no use to me any more; and it will make me feel better.’

  ‘Do that,’ Vespasian said, studying the Jewish disposition. ‘With the way they’ve positioned themselves numbers don’t matter, as we can’t outflank them. They’re five or six deep so all they need to do is hold their line in a shoving match, but I won’t give them one. Let’s see how good their shield discipline is.’

  ‘Release!’

  The dull thuds of wooden arms thumping into padded, restraining uprights and the faint whistling of speeding projectiles ran down the line of the XV Apollinaris’ field artillery; they were screened from the enemy by three cohorts, two centuries deep, in line and well out of bowshot from Jotapata. As the order was repeated from piece to piece, scores of stones and bolts accelerated away, rising over the heads of the legionaries and then dipping in an arc towards the Jewish position.

  Shields were raised, but raggedly so, throughout the Jewish formation; the front rank went down on one knee as the second rankers made a roof over their heads that was added to by the rear ranks. But this was more guesswork than the result of months of repetitive training and Vespasian felt a surge of satisfaction as stone and bolt ripped through the rebel Jews, skittling away files in explosions of blood and shrieks of agony as the gaps in the shield wall made the construction porous.

  But Yosef was not a general of little or no experience and, as the last bolt left its housing and hurtled towards the defenders of Jotapata, a roar rose from the rebels and they leapt forward up the hill in an impetuous charge of the desperate.

  ‘Lower the trajectory!’ Vespasian yelled at the tribune commanding the artillery line before looking apologetically at his son. ‘Sorry, I won’t interfere with your legion again.’

  ‘I was just about to give the same order, Father.’

  The legionaries working the catapults and ballistae sweated as, with rolling shoulders, they wound the ratchets to pull the torsioned arms of their machines back as the captains of each piece hammered out the wedges to lower the aim.

  But many quickening heartbeats passed while the lengthy business of reloading took place. Vespasian could see that his opposite number had timed his charge well and his men, despite the hill, were gaining quickly on the Roman position.

  ‘Prepare to receive!’ Titus shouted down to his cornicern.

  A rumble of four differing notes caused centurions to bellow commands and standards to dip and sway in the three cohorts forming the XV Apollinaris front. As one, the men of each of the front rank cohorts stamped forward their left legs, holding their shields firm before them whilst slinging back their right arms, javelin-like pila gripped in fists. A silence fell over them as they waited for the next order, oblivious to the hatred being howled by the host hurtling towards them.

  And then the torsioned arms flung forward again; a hail of missiles shot over the Roman line and on towards the incoming storm. But the Jews had judged their charge with almost perfection and it was but a couple of the more sluggish of the rebels, struggling to keep up with their fellows at the back, whose heads disappeared in sprays of gore, their decapitated bodies running on a couple of paces before collapsing to bleed out in the dust.

  On they came, underneath the artillery volley, screaming their rejection of the hated invaders of the land, strangely arrayed with captured Roman chainmail and lorica segmentata over their calf-length tunics or long robes, some with legionary or auxiliary helmets, shields and swords. None were attired exactly the same and all were bearded, giving the impression of a Roman cohort long isolated in some remote outpost and gone to seed.

  It was with pride that Vespasian watched his eldest son, fist in the air, judge the pace of the charge; many times as a legionary legate he had been in the same position and he could appreciate the finesse that it took to get it absolutely right so that the maximum amount of damage could be inflicted. Down went Titus’ arm and the cornu rumbled a command. With a delay of a couple of heartbeats as the centurions reacted to the sound, the pila volley was launched like a black mist rising from the regimented ranks of Rome to fall and enswathe the incoming charge. Down they went in their scores, pierced, broken and screaming, teeth bared and arms flailing, punched back by the weighted weapons raining down upon them with all the fury of a sudden hailstorm. But the Romans did not pause to admire their handiwork as they pushed their weight back onto their right legs, whipping their short stabbing swords from their sheaths on their right hips and bracing their left arms for the shocking impacts on their shields. With the precision that could only come from mindless repetition over years, the entire front rank pushed forward onto their left legs an instant before the charge hit home. Shield rims cracked up under chins and bosses thudded into midriffs as the legionaries of the leading centuries rammed their shoulders behind the boards to help absorb the collision; comrades behind pushed up against them and the shock rippled down the files. The line undulated and heaved, but it held.

  It was with little delay that the teeth of Rome’s legions began to rip and tear; flashing from between, above or below shields, the wicked points of gladii thrust into groin, belly and throat opening them to spill their contents over sandalled feet. Relentle
ss was the work-pace of the blades as the Jewish charge compressed their own ranks so that their leading men did not have room to wield their weapons. Their roars of hatred rising from their battle cries turned into bellowed anguish as iron bit flesh and tore through muscle and sinew leaving gushing wounds and, for many, certain death. But still they pressed on, the rear ranks unaware of the carnage being visited upon their comrades ahead of them. Such was the fanaticism with which they prosecuted the charge and such was the desperation they felt, to a man, that it was inconceivable for them to withdraw so soon after contact; and so the teeth of Rome bit on and the blood of the Jews drained into their native soil, providing it with the first moisture that it had seen for a month. Slowly the stench of death ate its way back through the Jewish ranks and soon, for many, its reality became apparent in the slack limbs and lolling heads of corpses held upright by the press from both before and behind. Gradually the defenders of Jotapata realised that to stay was to die and to die that day would leave their wives and children open to the brutal treatment that was to be expected from the victors of a siege. With almost a common consent they turned and ran, pell-mell, back towards the gates that had stayed open to receive them.

  It was with difficulty that the centurions bawled their men back into line to prevent them from an ill-disciplined and disordered chase of their retreating foe, but order did prevail and a strange silence fell over the Roman formation as weary soldiers tried to catch their breaths and marvel that they were still in one piece. The wounded were pulled from the ground and carried to the rear as the three front rank cohorts withdrew through the open files of the next line to present fresh, unbloodied troops to the enemy.

  Titus shouted over to the tribune commanding the legion’s artillery. ‘Aim at the top of the walls! Keep it constant as we advance with each piece shooting as fast as it can, so that the defenders don’t get a chance to read the rhythm and shoot back in the gaps between volleys.’

  The tribune acknowledged the order as Vespasian called over a cavalry messenger. ‘My compliments to Prefect Petro of the fourth Syrian auxiliary cohort. Ask him to bring his cohort to form a screen for the Fifteenth as they advance. He’s to keep the walls clear of archers and slingers as he did at Gabara. He’s to act upon the orders of the legate of the Fifteenth for the duration of the assault. Understand?’

  The rider saluted. ‘Yes, general!’

  Vespasian squinted, trying, but failing, to make out the cohort insignia in the XV Apollinaris’ front line. ‘Who have you chosen?’

  ‘The pioneer century of the first cohort,’ Titus replied, ‘because Primus Pilus Urbicus wouldn’t have it any other way, and then the fifth and sixth cohorts who both have two pioneer centuries each. The pioneers will lead the escalade; ten ladders a century so fifty ladders in total. One for every fifteen paces of wall.’

  ‘That should give them something to think about. If Petro and the artillery can keep the walls clear until the ladders are up, then this may go smoothly.’ Vespasian clutched his thumb in his fist and spat to ward off the evil-eye, having said something that was so tempting to the baser sense of humour of some of the gods. ‘Here comes Petro now.’

  Father and son watched in silence as the bearded archers, mainly in eastern-style scale armour and conical helmets, double-timed in two dust-raising files across the frontage, left to right, of the fifth, first and then sixth cohorts of Titus’ legion, each with their pioneer centuries, ladders aloft on shoulders, to the fore.

  Once the skirmish cohort was in position, two ranks deep across the legion’s frontage, Vespasian leant over and slapped his son on the shoulder. ‘I’ll leave you in peace to get on with this, Titus. Don’t do anything silly like trying to be the first over the walls; leave that sort of heroics for Primus Pilus Urbicus.’

  Titus retied the leather chinstraps of his high-plumed helmet, checking that it was thoroughly secure. ‘Don’t worry, Father; I’ve learnt that, for the smooth running of the legion, it doesn’t do to upset a primus pilus by killing the enemy before he’s had a chance to.’ He flicked his red cloak back to reveal bronze breast- and backplates and then kicked his horse forward to lead the assault.

  The sun was gaining in strength and Vespasian felt driblets of sweat run from beneath his helmet to catch in his russet linen neckerchief as he pushed his horse on up the hill to get a better overall view of the attack; his staff followed him. Below, the horns of the XV Apollinaris rumbled through the air as the legion’s first line began to advance with its screen of auxiliary archers out in front. As Vespasian turned his mount about, a volley of bolts and rounded stones rose from the artillery; he followed their flight and grunted with approval as they slammed into the top of the wall or flew just over it, taking more than a few of the tiny figures lining the defences to a bloody and broken death at its feet.

  Shading his eyes against the strengthening glare he could make out Titus, still mounted, riding at the extreme right of the first cohort next to its primus pilus centurion with his transverse plume marking his position. Vespasian sucked the air through his teeth and inwardly cursed his son for making himself so conspicuous but at the same time felt a surge of pride for Titus’ bravery. He knew that had he been in the same situation he would be doing the same; indeed, he had done so on numerous occasions, so that the men under his command would follow more readily. But the thought did not stop him from feeling more concern for the fate of the legate of the XV Apollinaris than he would have had he been just another privileged Roman clawing his way up the Cursus Honorum. He chided himself for allowing such feelings to circulate around his head and swore that he would be more dispassionate in future; Titus must be allowed to win renown and the respect of his men and that was not going to be done sitting in a tent well behind the rear ranks of his legion.

  In vocal silence the assault marched forward; no cries, no horns, just regular, military hobnailed footsteps, over two thousand of them, accompanied by the chinking of as many sets of equipment. Another volley whistled towards the walls, this time more ragged as the artillery pieces vied with each other to release first. The second line of the legion, the four cohorts as yet uncommitted, formed up in square blocks, stood their ground so that the gap between them and their advancing comrades widened. Behind them the three cohorts already blooded that morning waited, at ease, supping from their canteens and watching their brethren’s advance as the rest of the army, drawn up outside the camp, higher up the hill, looked on with relish at the spectacle now unfolding.

  A single horn rumbled long and low and eight hundred bows were raised; but the Syrian archers did not break step. Two hundred paces out, their volley erupted from them, clattering into the walls and beyond, clearing the last of the visible defenders, shortly followed by a second and then a third and then more, all released on the march so that there would be no loss of momentum in the assault. On the cohorts pressed, raising dust so that soon the air about them became opaque and the individual legionaries were lost in the blur of their unit’s formation. However, Titus remained discernible and Vespasian tried to stop his eye continually seeking him out.

  One hundred paces to go and the artillery and archers kept up a relentless barrage of projectiles; if any shots were returned, Vespasian did not notice them, nor were any casualties left lying in the wake of the cohorts whose shields were now up.

  Fifty paces out and a few heads began to bob up from behind the walls, slings whirling above them; some managed a release, others were punched back never to reappear, but the damage they inflicted was negligible on the archers and non-existent on the cohorts.

  Twenty paces to go and, at the rumble of many cornua, the auxiliaries turned and swarmed back through the legionaries’ formation. Gaps opened between the centuries in each cohort to ensure that this was not a disordering process. The artillery continued to pepper the summit of the wall but, with the sustained influx of arrows now gone, more defenders braved the chance of releasing a slingshot, arrow or javelin at the enemy now arrivi
ng at the base of their defences.

  Up and over in arcs swept the ladders of the pioneers as their comrades hurled their pila aloft at the many faces now raining down projectiles and abuse upon them. The tops of the ladders crashed against the wall and the artillery was forced to cease for fear of hitting their own. Vespasian held his breath as he saw the transverse plumed helmet of the senior centurion of the legion rise first, his legs powering him up; to either side the first cohort’s pioneers flowed up their ladders, shields and swords in hand, adding much difficulty to the ascent, as they braved the missiles now pouring down on them with growing ferocity. Conspicuous to all, Titus, his horse rearing, held his sword on high, waving it in circles and bellowing his men up the ladders. On they went, the pioneers of the XV Apollinaris, one straight after the other, swarming upwards as all fifty ladders hit the walls; and it was but a few heartbeats thumping in Vespasian’s ears before Urbicus’ transverse plume crested the battlements. Vespasian’s breath released in a long sigh as the primus pilus’ ladder was flung back, pushed by a pole; the centurion and those following him jumped clear, landing Vespasian knew not where, but what could be certain was that their falls would have been broken by comrades below. The chaos mounted as more and more ladders were pushed back, the tops of walls being now infested with the defenders able to operate with relative impunity as there were very few supporting projectiles to threaten them, other than a few pila from those below who had not yet hurled theirs.

  Vespasian’s heart pounded faster as, to the left, three or four of the fifth cohort’s ladders stayed in place long enough for more than a dozen men to scale the walls. Immediately they attracted a swarm of defenders coming at them from both sides, like flies to an exposed wound. The fight was obscured by the press of bodies around the centurion leading the party but more and more pioneers managed to scale the ladders as it progressed. Vespasian found himself digging his fingernails into the palms of his hands as he willed on the centurion and his men and then almost let out a wail as, one by one, the ladders were dislodged, leaving the Romans, already up there, stranded and easy prey for the defenders.