by Bilinmeyen
“I thank you,” I said. “I’m doing something for Augustus, and there will be danger to men who help me.”
He laughed. “Danger? I was nearly shot by my auxilia last week. It’s a miracle I still breathe.”
“They are looking for us,” I told him. “Just wanted you to know it.”
“A ship came yesterday,” he growled. “They brought your scroll, but also an official warrant for your arrest. They are looking for deserters from the Guard. The way they described you, made it sound like you had molested Augustus’s horse while he was sitting on it.” I looked down, cursing. His eyes opened in astonishment. “You molested a horse? His horse? You Germani—”
“It’s a long story,” I said sullenly. “And, no, I didn’t molest anything.”
His eyes searched the faces of my friends, and he decided not to press the issue. “And you are looking for Sabinus.”
“Sabinus, sort of,” I said evasively. “Remember the fat bastard we hung near the three rivers in the lands of the Cherusci?”
He chortled. “How could I? It’s a fond memory. I still have some of the boys from that time.” He winked at me. “I don’t care if there is danger, Hraban. Father wants me here, and here I am still, while the other boys who began to climb the ladder are now serving in the Senate, fucking plump girls, and growing rich. No, I’m still herding around this party of donkeys. Bring on the danger!” The Parthians and the Syrians, some ninety strong, with wolf-like, lean faces, chain armor jingling, were riding easily behind him. He rubbed his chin. “What was that man’s name?”
“Antius. Gaius Antius Pollio,” I said. “That is the man I want.”
He frowned. “And you say you are doing this for Augustus? Fine. Fine. Perhaps it’s a risk worth taking. The old man might spring me from this Hades, if I help you. As for Sabinus, he has his officia, and there was a party of scribes with Sabinus. One was immense. He sat on a horse, and the beast was trembling. I thought he looked familiar. I cannot remember every man I have hanged, you see, but his face rang a bell.”
“Was?” I asked. “Is he gone, then?”
He nodded towards the citadel. “Lord Varus commands the armies over there in that citadel. He is not half mad, you know. With Archelaus gone, Varus is worried about the land. Samaria, Galilea, Judea; all seething with malcontent. The Jews want a Jewish king, and the Herodeans won’t have it. The Arabs are looking for excuses to raid and pillage, and they hated Herod. Didn’t the King abandon the daughter of the Nabatean king in favor of a Jewish one? They will never forget the insult. They’ll probably fight over the insult thousands of years from now, when they have forgotten all about Herod and the girl. There are lots of Jewish nobles claiming to be the blood of the kings, the religious fanatics claiming this is a time for upheaval, with the birth of some king, or another. Some say Herod died for his many crimes against the Judaic law.” He leaned close. “He died because he was old and fat and loved to feast and fuck. Often at the same time.” He chuckled to himself.
“We need to find Sabinus,” I said.
“Wait, I’m not done yet,” he told us. He guided the group through a gateway, near the citadel, and growled a passphrase to a guard. He then went on. “Sabinus is Augustus’s tax man,” he said thinly. “He’s here to loot Herod’s treasures while the would-be-king is out to find a crown for himself in Rome. Varus told him to keep away from Jerusalem, though. Varus ordered Sabinus to stay here, until the crown is firmly on a new, royal head.”
“But, that means he is here then?” I asked, despairing.
He shook his head, scratching at his neck. “No. The thing is, before Herod died, there were these two Jews, Matthia and Juda, and they incited a riot after this golden Roman eagle was nailed to the Temple gate in Jerusalem. Herod had them, and dozens more, killed after they quite reasonably hacked and pulled down the eagle. Imagine if the Jews moved to the Temple of Jupiter in Rome and shat on our gods, eh? After Herod died, and the Jews gathered in great numbers in Jerusalem, protesting for the deaths of their kin and cursing the King’s crimes. Archelaus, the pup, killed thousands of them. The Temple was a butcher yard, the plains awash with blood.”
“You saw it?” I asked.
He nodded at his troop. “We helped,” he said ferociously. “It was a mistake, though. There is something in the air, like a stench of corpses, like a breath from Hades. Varus and the auxilia just came back from Jerusalem. We paraded all the legions there. Showed them the sword, hacked off some heads, and left. Fretensis Legion is there, holding the palace, the towers, and the forts, but I don’t think the Jews were impressed.”
“Sabinus,” I said slowly. “Where is he?”
He snorted. “He took the opportunity of Varus’s absence to slip to Jerusalem. Hid in a tavern on the way as Varus was coming back. He and his, they are going to cause trouble. As it happens, Varus has taxed me and the boys to ride over and apprehend the man.” He winked. “Today. You got lucky. I would have been gone tomorrow.”
“Today?” I breathed. “That is perfect.”
“We’ll armor and arm you,” he said darkly. “The scouts say there are tens of thousands of Jews travelling to the city. And they don’t carry sticks. Many are armed and disciplined. We ride the night.”
I nodded, and sensed the gods were pushing a wall between me and Antius.
But, I would batter that barrier down, if I had to chew my way through the walls of Jerusalem.
CHAPTER 30
“My gods,” I breathed as we rode through Judea that morning. “Shit.”
Gnaeous grunted. “I like it.”
“There’s green, and seas of flowers, and then suddenly there’s just brown dust and dirt. And the damned hills and gorges? Like the gods decided to both bless and punish the land.” Tudrus said, as he was staring at the trees swaying in the wind, green grass feeding goats, and then huge patches of desert and lifeless stone surrounding the road.
Gnaeous sighed. “In your land, you never die of thirst. It can happen here, especially in the north Judean desert. There are the wadi, and water to be found on bottom of those, but even Herod hated the place. Soldiers are punished by sending them to serve in Masada or Herodium,” he said. “But, here, you won’t die of cold, unless you are naked and out at night. It happened to me once. Unpleasant business. Nearly froze my cock off.”
I decide not to ask him to elaborate on the story. “When will we be—”
“In a few hours,” he said. “Jerusalem is near. We just passed Lydda, and now we just whip these beasts forward. Yeah, all the greenery you see will soon wither when it becomes really horribly hot in this place. Sand will get to your arse, and ears, and it gets uncomfortable, but it’s better than Rome during the floods, or Germania … well, ever. Hated Germania. I hated it. And take offence, if you will.”
Tudrus did, and cursed the man profusely.
Then, in a few hours’ time, when the Sunna was well up in the sky, the walled city of Herod and the holy city of the Jews came to sight. It was red and orange in the light, and the great Temple Mount was shining above the city. Gnaeous was nodding towards it. “Just left it, and here we are again. Shit. Look, the Golgotha, the hillside, and the gate beyond. We enter there. Herod’s palace is due south and past the theater in the Upper City. It’s the West Hill, and full of royals and foppish nobles and merchants. There are palaces left and right, but we will go to the Palace.”
I squinted. There were three tall, beautiful towers, each different on a northern end of a twenty-foot-tall walled platform, thousand yards long, two hundred wide. On top of that, there were delicate marble and stone palaces, glimmering pools, lush gardens and I guessed that would be the home of a king. “Augustus,” I said, “lives in a shepherd’s hovel by comparison.”
Tudrus grunted. “Augustus does not want to look like a king, though.”
Gnaeous agreed and drank water, while staring at some men pulling at a string of camels, all running to the hills. I followed his gaze, and saw there were g
reat many people doing the same. He shook his head, nervous. “Not sure what is going on, but it’s not going to be pleasant.”
His riders, some two turma, one Syrian, one Parthian, were spreading around us, also having smelled trouble.
There were horns blowing in the city, confirming something was happening. “Sabinus has finally pissed them all off,” Gnaeous cursed. “Probably looting everything. Oh, that’s bad.”
There were vast crowds concentrated near the city walls. There were throngs of men by the gates, all the gates, and steel was glinting in the light of Sunna.
“Romans?”
He muttered. “Could be Herod’s troops. He has his guards, and mercenaries. Some are Germani. But, no. There’s supposed to be the Shavu’ot festival, and I think the Jews have brought many more soldiers than celebrants to the city.” He hesitated. “I’ll send men back to Caesarea, but I suppose we should go and have a look.”
I nodded, and adjusted my chain mail. “Let us.”
“So eager to get us killed,” he smiled wolfishly. He removed his red cape. “No need to make an obvious target,” he muttered and led us forward.
The two turma rode forward for an hour, and we began to pass herds of cows and goats, wells guarded by resentful, bearded men with swords and spears. There were bands of dozens of scowling Jews walking the roads, reluctantly giving way to us. The gates were close now, the light Sunna warming the ground and making the air blurry. Orange and brown colored walls were shimmering, and steel was glinting in the groups of men that were near us. The horses were snorting nervously. There were more and more Jews as we got near the gate, and then, one of the warriors, a tall, thin man in leather armor, called out to his friends harshly. They, wielding round shields and swords, took steps forward, muttering amongst themselves, looking at us balefully.
The leader charged a hawk-nosed Parthian, his sword up.
The foe fell with three arrows in his body, gasping.
Gnaeous pulled his sword. “Right. There it is. Kill them boys, and then to the gate.”
The riders scattered. The turmae rode at the aggressive Jews, and arrows pierced the bodies of few, then ten, leaving men rolling in pain in the dust. The riders were skillful archers, and only fired when the enemy was running, confused, or there was no shield guarding them. It took only a minute to route the enemy around us. Men were falling, screaming, crawling away, wounded, many still and dead. One Jew hurled a spear which felled a Syrian’s horse, but the man cursed, cut at his saddle, pulling at a pouch, which was probably loaded with his loot, and jumped on another mount.
Gnaeous and us, we had been riding for the gate all the time in the midst of the butchery.
The gates stood open. A troop of twenty men with spears, swords, and axes stood to stop us. They were a savage looking lot, and I could hear some kind of a scuffle going on in the gatehouse, where men were yelling. Gnaeous smiled. “In the nick of time. Cannot close the gate on us if we rush, eh?”
“Kill them,” I agreed.
In the city, horns blared. They were buccina of the 10th Fretensis Legion, and by the sound of it, they were attacking someone. Distant screams could be heard, echoing over the great city. The fighters at the gate were nervous, backing off as the turmae approached. Many were looking behind towards the west hill, the fortifications, the walls and the towers.
Gnaeous had no time to exchange pleasantries. “Over them,” he screamed.
The Parthians moved first. Dozens of arrows flashed at the packed Jews. Men screamed, fell, and rushed away, dropping their weapons. The Syrians followed, and the wolf-like men charged with hoarse screams. We rode after them, our spears aimed at the shadows of the gateway. A man appeared, and shot an arrow at one Syrian, who fell from the saddle wordlessly. A sling was whirling on the steps up to the gatehouse, and a tunic wearing boy let loose a stone. I dodged instinctively, the stone passed over us and struck the wall with brutal force. An arrow pieced the boy’s chest, and he fell. I nodded at the Syrian who had spotted him, and we clattered on.
“The First Wall is ours,” Gnaeous yelled, as we passed a huge pool, and the massive towers rose above us. One was a thick one at the corner to the wall of the Palace. “Phasael Tower,” Gnaeous shouted, as we rode through the streets. There were high walkways and homes on many levels, and men were running there. “The other side of the gate to the left of the Phasael, there’s the Hippicus Tower, and Mariamne to the left of it. Gates are between them. Now we—”
Arrows, stones, and spears rained down on the troop.
Screams echoed in the city, but our ears were snapping with the ferocious shrieks of dozens of men, boys, and even women above and before us, and the cries of horses and men who tumbled off their saddles. The Syrians and Parthians milled in confusion for a moment, loosing arrows up at the enemy, who fell out of sight just to renew their attack. A stone hit my shield.
Tudrus’s helmet ran with an arrow. “Fuckers,” he yelled, and charged at a man in an alleyway, His sword cleaved the man’s face, and Tudrus retreated, as a sling stone hurled past his face from the shadows.
“Past the gates!” Gnaeous yelled, and screamed, as an arrow hit his thigh. “Move it!” he growled the order.
We surged through the gauntlet. Men fell, horses as well, and I saw Jews drag two wounded Syrians to the buildings, hacking at them with sword pommels and fists. The skillful riders shot back as they rode, but we left twenty men behind. The gate loomed before us, and we surged through.
A glorious, bloody sight greeted us.
A legion was pushing forward. It was a living beast of steel, heaving with sharp claws, armored with chain and hide, and it was after blood. At least two thousand men of the 10th Fretensis, their bull and ship shields flashing red, were hacking into armed mob of thousands. Pila were butchering a determined troop of Jews in a forum before the temple. Sword and axes flashing, the ferocious warriors fell, as the javelins poured into them. Shields, swords, armor flashed as the masses of Roman troops surged forward with a terrible stomping noise. Thousands of the enemy met them, and a vicious pushing and stabbing match ensued at the edge of the forum, quickly moving over the fallen to several streets leading to the great Temple Mount, where the holiest place of the Jews lay.
“Are you going to survive?” I asked Gnaeous, who held the arrow sticking in his thigh.
He waved his hand with a dismissing gesture, staring towards the Temple. “Think they are going all the way?”
“All the way where?” I asked him and indicated to the Temple. “There?”
He nodded, thinking. The Syrians and the Parthians were looking at Gnaeous, greed flashing on their faces. Gnaeous sighed. “We’ll follow them,” he decided. “I bet Sabinus won’t be far, and these dolts want loot. I could use some, myself.”
We rode after them. My eyes were searching the packed army, but I saw no sign of the man called Sabinus. There was no sign of Antius either.
There was only battle.
The legionnaires were working meticulously. The fine stone streets and walls of the buildings were awash with blood. The signiferii were rallying troops forward, towards the mighty and holy mouth of the Temple mount and Centurions were leading the men bravely. One such man was chasing after three Jewish fighters, but slipped on to his back. Several Jews saw that, attacking him. I spurred my horse, and Tudrus and Wandal followed me. I saw men stabbing at the Centurion, who was defending his life grimly, and then we hit the dozen men, scattering them. I killed a man with a stab of my spear, and Wandal jabbed at another, leaving him gurgling and clawing at his throat. Tudrus rode over three men, his spear flashing down repeatedly, and Agetan was fighting a grim warrior. I pulled the horse around the skillful foe and stabbed at the warrior, taking a chunk of flesh of his shoulder. He hollered and ran off, trailing flesh and blood.
A man hacked an ax at my back.
I turned, horrified, thinking I’d be dead, and Wandal pushed his spear though him. I was unhurt, blessed by Woden.
; The enemy was an old, handsome man, a merchant, carrying a sack of his valuables, and the ax. His family cowered under a portico, shaking with horror. Wandal leaned over, picked up the sack, growled at the family, and we rode back to the advancing army.
It was an irresistible charge over the fighters and corpses of the enemy. Arrows killed men on roofs. The cohorts slaughtered the enemy all the way to the gates of the Temple, and passing them, the great, squat temple which seemed to reach for the stars came to sight. Around us were a roads full of cloistered walkways, and on top of those walkways, and before us, blocking the way, shields flashed, and thousands of the enemy screamed.
“Shit,” Gnaeous said.
A torrent of javelins rained down at the cohorts. Stones, spears, and bricks fell, as the Jews fought to kill the defilers. Dozens of the legionnaires fell. The rest pushed doggedly forward, trying to ignore the bastards above, hoping to kill the heavily armed contingent blocking the roads.
And there, in that terrible place, the Jews, weapons bristling, charged down.
The noise was like the hammering of the dverger smiths in Svartalfheim. The swords hacked, men fell, pierced and slashed, and two cohorts of the Roman legions were splintered in a mad melee. A standard fell. The signifier’s dead body was lifted on the arms of the victorious Jews, his throat cut. Centurions were screaming, men were dying front and middle under the hail of the projectiles. The legion took a step back, then another step back. A heroic Centurion, fighting against a Jewish champion, who was armed from head to foot in chain, died. The shower of stones was relentless. An arrow killed a Syrian archer next to me, a stone crushed an aenator of some confused cohort. The milling mass of Romans was being pushed back to the gates.
And, in the midst of them, I saw a toga wearing man of dark complexion.
Next to him, there was Ulrich.
He had lost weight, but he was just as dangerous as he had ever been. He killed a Jew fighter deftly, then another, as some of the enemy surged from a building to cause chaos in the midst of the cohorts. I began to guide my horse that way.