by David Blixt
“Any word from Placidus?” asked Trajan. With no use for horsemen, Vespasian had sent Placidus ahead to raze the countryside.
“Not since his last,” replied Vespasian shortly. Placidus had sent word that he meant to take the great city of Jotapata by surprise. It was too late to do anything but wait for the result.
“I rather hope he fails.” Titus was full of a good cheer he had discovered at King Agrippa's court – or rather, in Queen Berenice's company. He rubbed his hands together. “Don't want this war to be too easy!”
Vespasian wheeled about so sharply that Titus thought the old man had been bitten by a snake. “May your tongue shrivel up and wither away inside your mouth! How dare you tempt the gods so!”
Shocked by his father's sudden fury, Titus shrunk back. “Pater, I –”
“Not even a battle fought, and you're already riding through the streets wearing laurels! I should tear out your offending tongue by the roots! Tcha!” Vespasian turned back to continue his survey of the walls, leaving Titus breathless and the junior legates staring at the sky.
A rider approached with a message for the general. Vespasian took it, broke the seal, and held it to the light. Fifty-seven last November, he was beginning to complain of his eyes. Nor did it help that Latin was written in one unending squiggle of letters, with no markings to show where one word ended and another began.
The instant the general finished deciphering the message, he crumpled it and pointed an accusing finger at Titus. “See! See what divine wrath such statements incur? And so swiftly! As though Mercury was sitting at your shoulder, and darted off to whisper your foolish wish in Mars' ear!”
“What's happened?”
Vespasian pitched the offensive message at his legate-son. Catching it, Titus read:
Jotapata is well fortified and brimming with Judean soldiers. I tried to surprise them, but they were ware of me and came out in their numbers. My cavalry fought a creditable engagement, and withdrew having lost only seven men, these having died from Judean slings and arrows. The cowardly enemy prefers fighting at a distance.
We are on our way to you. May I suggest we make a full assault on Jotapata? Such resistance should be quashed as soon as possible.
– Gnaeus Tertullus Placidus, Tribunus
Titus looked up. “It's not at all bad! Seven men!”
“The butcher's bill isn't the problem!” roared Vespasian. “The rebels have now won an engagement. Placidus has just given the Judeans a reason to celebrate, where they had none before. Pfah!” Vespasian cantered away, leaving Titus genuinely at a loss to understand his father's rage, out of all proportion to the moment.
“Placidus owes you a debt,” observed Trajan. “Otherwise all the general's spleen would have been for him alone.”
Titus shook his head. “What's the matter? Doesn't he believe we'll win?”
“Ah, that's right. You're just back from the king – you haven't heard.”
“Heard what?”
“General Corbulo is dead.”
The news rocked Titus back in his saddle. “Corbulo! How?”
“Nero's jealousy finally got the better of him.” Grim and downcast, Trajan rode off in the general's wake.
Titus turned to Cerialis, who filled him in. “Nero summoned Corbulo to Greece, with both his brothers. All three were met on the docks by Caesar's chief praetorian, who ordered them to commit suicide on the spot.”
Titus was aghast. “Did Corbulo fight?”
“No. He was the dutiful Roman to the last. He said only one word. Axios.”
It took a moment for Titus to appreciate the irony. A Greek word, it meant He is worthy. Such acclaim for Nero might once have been genuine. But as Corbulo's last utterance before he took his own life, it was as succinct an exclamation of contempt as could be imagined. If Nero had indeed been worthy of such loyalty, he would not have demanded such an act.
This explained why Trajan was red-eyed and sullen. Corbulo's final act had been to salvage young Trajan's career.
“Your father is understandably jumpy,” added Cerialis. “Any mistake on his part and he'll be the next to receive a friendly invitation to Greece.”
“Then, brother-in-law, we had best see that if such a summons comes, the army refuses to let him go without them.”
The two shared a significant look. Cerialis nodded. A pact was made.
♦ ◊ ♦
THE JUDEANS DID NOT make a stand at Garis. Instead they retreated in good order to the next city east. Rather than follow, the Romans marched north to the town of Gadara and, despite its new walls, seized it in a single day. This, after a ten mile dawn march from Garis, which they left in flames.
Titus led his men himself, riding at the head of the First Cohort. But it was his Second Cohort that faced the most organized resistance – locals with swords, shields, and the numbers to clog the streets. Women and children were raining missiles and abuse down upon Roman heads.
Legions were made of cohorts, cohorts of centuries. The first centurion of the Second Cohort was Gaius Sacidius Barbarus, the man Titus had met before the shrine of Mithras. Shield low, he led his men in, fighting in the Roman way. Engineers at heart, the Romans had long ago applied their skills to war, using the construction of the human form to best advantage. Muscles weakened and tired, joints did not. So while other armies exhausted themselves wielding long, heavy blades, the Romans used the gladius. Short, straight, and wickedly sharp, it performed best as a stabbing weapon. Stab, twist, pull. Stab, twist, pull. “At them, boys! At the bastards!”
“We're missing the loot!” groused the optio Gnaeus Thorius, second-in-command.
“The other lads'll share,” barked centurion Barbarus. “But they're missing the fighting, and that we won't share. Will we, boys?” His men answered with a push that staggered the enemy backwards.
Amid the crackle of flame and screams of wounded, Barbarus heard trumpets commanding an orderly withdrawal. “Cacat!” He hated leaving fights half-fought.
Thorius grinned as he killed another Judean. “I didn't hear a bugle, did you?”
But a Roman soldier obeyed orders. “Century, prepare to withdraw!” The bugler blew the notes.
One over-eager legionary, Appius Curtus, leapt out of line to press the attack. Barbarus yanked the fool roughly back. “Curtus, you're on report! Alrighty, lads. One big push, then three steps back! Ready. Push!”
The Judeans were bashed back, allowing the Romans to retreat three paces. The Judeans charged, and the century's front line pushed again, then another three-step retreat while maintaining the integrity of the shield wall.
Most rioters stopping rushing the line. But one brave soul shrieked his defiance and ran right at Barbarus. The centurion didn't bother with his sword. Stepping out of line, he drove the wicked nails on the sole of his boot into the man's belly.
“Smarts, don't it?” Barbarus withdrew the hobnails from his attacker's flesh. “Better to toe the line, neh?” Kicking the man aside, Barbarus stepped forward and threw his arms wide in an invitation to single combat. No one accepted his challenge. To Judean eyes, this hairy-armed, broad-chested, grinning Roman was like something risen from She'ol, a creature from among the dead.
Barbarus knew his looks were fearsome, and he used it often to frighten foes, which was how he'd earned his third name. The word barbarian originally meant only uncultured foreigner, mocking the way their language sounded – “Bar bar bar.” But as Rome had warred with the bar-bar-ians over the centuries, the word had developed a kind of rough respect. Uncultured, certainly, but fierce, raw, and strong. A name this Barbarus carried proudly.
Grinning, Barbarus led his century backwards. Joined by the other half of their maniple (centuries often fought in pairs), the soldiers waited to receive orders.
As his men pulled back, a disgusted Barbarus watched as local Greeks waded eagerly in to finish the slaughter of the Hebrews. Well, he thought, civilians ain't soldiers. But there's no glory in kicking a beaten ma
n.
Legionary Curtus held a different opinion. “Filthy Jews.”
Barbarus frowned. He rather liked the Jews. Good fighters, not at all shy. If Curtus had a personal dislike for them, that was his problem.
XXII
ROMAN TREATMENT of Gadara was brutal. The males were put to the sword, the females insulted and enslaved, the city razed. Rome didn't lose a single soldier.
Damn! thought Yosef when he heard the news. It was not just the quick fall of the city. Yosef had hoped that by retreating and retreating, he could lure the Romans deep into Galilee and mire them there. But Vespasian was too canny to give chase.
I am not a natural military man. But surely education and cleverness can come to a solution. Something daring, yet sensible. Yosef racked his brain trying to imagine what a great commander would do. He thought of Julius Caesar, of Scipio Aemelianus, of Fabius. It was not lost on him that his examples were Roman, not Hebrew. But the strategies mentioned in the Scriptures were either vague, or relied upon the Lord.
But how do you know if it is the Lord moving you? Back when I lived the hermit's life with Bannus I thought I heard the voice of the Lord. Now I hear too many voices, all of them shouting. Did David have doubts? Did Joshua? Gideon, Samson, Omri, Ahab, Judah Makkabi? They must have. They were men, like me. They must have laid plans. They could not have simply thrown themselves to the winds and trusted the Lord to scatter their foes.
Yosef thought of another military tale steeped in religion. Troy. The most famous military engagement in history. The heroes and the gods of Troy were equally legendary. There was room in both victory and defeat for valour, honour, and fame.
A battle lasted a mere day, if that – Pharsalus had lasted an hour. A siege, on the other hand, was a prolonged affair. A siege was more monumental than a mere battle. A siege was the stuff of legends.
What's more, the siege of Troy lasted ten years. He only had to delay the Romans for a summer, just three short months. Then the Sanhedrin could negotiate a peace and Yosef would be the hero who saved his country.
Blood started racing in his temples and palms. Yes– a defended siege. Make a stand in a single place and force the Romans to stay there, anchored to the spot, until the campaigning season is done.
Swelling with excitement, his mind clamped down, telling him he needed to reason through this plan, poke it for flaws. But he did not trust his lesser commanders, all men of Galilee. This was too important an issue to be left to the 'am ha-arez, these country bumpkins with their rude talk and half-savage ways. Their emotions.
“Levi. Bring me Asher ben Matthais.”
♦ ◊ ♦
ARRIVING WARILY AT the general's commandeered palace, Asher was led to a comfortable cushion and asked to partake of the juice of pomegranates. “No wine today,” said Yosef, smiling. “I need your head clear. You must play Aristotle to my Socrates.”
Asher savoured his drink while Yosef outlined his idea. Halfway through, though, Asher set down his cup, his jaw hanging open in dismay. He had no trouble stepping into the role that Yosef had given him. “Why risk everything on a single city? It means being trapped.”
“Trapped with my army is better than free and that army disheartened.”
“But your original strategy was sound. Fabian tactics. Sting the Romans and run, harass them, give up land for time.”
Yosef shook his head. “They're taking cities too swiftly. Much too swiftly. Besides, it was always my intent to delay the Romans with sieges.”
“But with our army on the outside, harassing the Romans, cutting off their supplies, whittling away at their numbers.”
“That was before we discovered the Romans could breach our walls so easily. But with an army inside one of our cities, they would find no easy entrance. And they couldn't leave without us attacking their rear. It won't be our army that's trapped, it will be the Romans! An anchor around their necks, holding them in place.”
“You forget, general – anchors are the first to sink.”
“Yes, because that's what they were forged to do. Think of Troy.”
“Troy fell.”
“After ten years!”
“No, after a single summer. The first nine years the Greeks spent ravaging the rest of the country. They only settled on fighting in the final year. And Troy had walls lain by their gods, or so we're told. Maybe Jerusalem could hold out the way the Trojans did. But where are you going to find a properly fortified city in Galilee?”
“Somewhere with heart, strong walls, and lots of resources.”
Asher saw that the general was set on this plan. He had a bad feeling about it, but had to admit it might serve. Certainly it was better than a pitched battle, though not near as sound as Fabian tactics.
But if he couldn't dissuade the general, at least he could give good advice. “A city on Lake Genessar. With water to drink and a whole coast to escape to should things turn sour.”
“The only options would be Tariachae or Tiberias. I've flogged, imprisoned, and sacked their citizens, and not for love. They've rebelled too often. We can't be fighting a war within our walls and hope to keep the Romans out. No, it must be somewhere else.”
A glance at the map provided his answer. Only one city had not rebelled against Yosef, and that same city had won the only victory so far over the enemy. It was located in a natural bowl, meaning the Romans could only attack from one side. Best of all, it was rumoured there were caves beneath the city. If the Romans managed to breach the walls, Yosef's army could disappear, only to rise up again like figures from the Roman underworld.
“Yes, there's the place.” As Yosef pressed his finger down upon the map, Asher heard the musical sound of confidence returned. “Jotapata.”
♦ ◊ ♦
JUDAH WAS STUBBORNLY ASLEEP. Someone was making it hard, but he refused to wake. It had been a long week, retreating from the Roman advance. The whole army was dispirited. They'd come to fight, but their holy priest of a general kept pulling them back and back.
But sooner or later they'd run out of room to run, and then they'd have to fight. With that warm thought in mind, and knowing he'd need his rest, Judah slept.
Or tried to. Someone was pacing beside his head, letting his boots scrape the earth. But Judah slept on. The fool cleared his throat. Still Judah refused to open his eyes. Not even when he heard a sword scrape from its scabbard.
Finally a guilty voice whispered, “Judah. Judah, are you awake?”
“If that's a Roman, kill me and be done. If it's my brother, get lost. I was having a tremendous dream.”
“Can't sleep,” said Asher.
“I wasn't having that problem.” Groaning, Judah sat up and rubbed the sleep from his face. Seeing Asher, his expression hardened. “What's wrong?”
Asher briefly outlined Yosef's plan. Judah sat impassively. When Asher was done, he said, “You don't approve?”
“I don't know. I just – I don't know.” Asher took a lingering breath. “I don't know if my objections are real, or if it's that I just don't want to be trapped in another city when the Romans storm it.”
Judah was suddenly wide awake. They were into it now. Judah waited, hoping Asher would broach the topic himself. When he didn't, Judah said softly, “Asher, how did you get your wound?”
“Not the way you think.” Asher touched his side, three fingers resting on the scar under the tunic. “Everyone believes I got this from a gladius. I let them think that. Much more glamorous than what actually happened.” He looked away, holding a breath for several seconds. “You know why I haven't told you about Alexandria?”
“Because it was awful, I imagine.”
“It was. But that's not why.” Looking up into the night sky, Asher spoke with bitterness. “Shame. I ran away. I ran away. Old men, children, women – they fought and died. I ran and lived.”
“You were injured.”
Asher shook his head. “Not by the Romans. I tried to – it was stupid. There was this girl…”
> “Edith.” In answer to Asher's shock, Judah shrugged. “You say her name in your sleep.”
“I dream of her every single night. I couldn't even save her. She was just a child.”
Finally – finally! – Judah could ask the question burning in him for six long months. “What happened?”
And, finally, Asher told him.
♦ ◊ ♦
“IT WAS THE ELEVENTH day of Elul, the same month the Romans named after Augustus Caesar. Father's letter arrived around midday. As you can imagine, I was upset. So I left the Delta and headed to my favourite place in the city, the Panieum. I mentioned it before. It reminds me a little of the Mount of Olives. It has lots of names – the Hill of Pan, Pan's Finger, Pan's Cock, the Phallacy of Pan, witty titles like that. The city's absolutely flat, you see. There are tall buildings, but they're all palaces built for the Ptolmeys, now owned by Romans. The only public place where you can look down at the city is Pan's Finger.
“The whole hill is man-made, shaped like the crooked finger of Pan, very like the Tower of Babel. A false creation more moving than truth. Crafted by generations of architects and gardeners, it has these trickling streams that merge to create thunderous waterfalls. Perfect rows of flowers. My favourite spot was this one short palm tree, right at a ledge. From there you can see the Moon Gate, the Sun Gate, the Palace, the Akron, and the Lighthouse all at once.
“I didn't know it at the time, but it was in the Akron that the trouble was starting. I remember noticing that the amphitheatre was full of bodies, and I had a vague recollection that the Alexandrians were meeting to discuss sending a deputation to Nero. My neighbours planned to attend. But I was too absorbed in my own troubles to bother.
“Father's letter. It was the first time he even hinted I should come back. Until then, I didn't think he wanted me to come back, ever. Which was fine with me – really! At that moment I couldn't imagine leaving. I know, but I really couldn't. Alexandria had been this marvelous, beautiful, intellectual beacon – my own Lighthouse.
“This is important, Judah. You have to understand why I wanted to stay. Everyone calls the Lighthouse a Wonder of the World, but the wonder of my world was just below my little palm tree. Across from the massive mausoleum to Alexander there's a huge temple faced in marble with statues of the nine Muses all around it. I know we're not supposed to worship graven images, but I tell you, Judah, these were beautiful. Not as women. As ideal depictions of humanity's best endeavors. I loved them all, but my favourites were Calliope, Clio, and Melpemone – Epic Poetry, History, and Tragedy. They call the temple the Museaeum. Inside it rests the fabled Library of Alexandria, with more texts than any other library in the world. Contrary to legend, only a fraction was lost during the fire caused by Caesar's ships, and Mark Antony repaired any deficiency by looting all the texts from Pergamum's library as a gift for Cleopatra. There are endless shelves holding scrolls and book-buckets, collecting nearly a thousand years of man's ideas, hopes, and dreams.