Scourge of Rome

by Douglas Jackson

  ‘I told you you needed a bodyguard,’ Zacharias muttered. ‘Why couldn’t you at least have brought Isaac? All any one of them has to do is pull out a knife and it’s finished. How do you know John’s men aren’t just waiting out there somewhere?’

  ‘Why would I need a bodyguard among my own people?’ Simon walked all the taller. ‘You were the one who said they loved me. In any case,’ his voice turned solemn, ‘God is looking over my shoulder, is he not?’

  Zacharias emitted a sound that reminded Simon of an exasperated camel. ‘Then at least lend God your aid by keeping your eyes open for a threat. You are like a child in a sweet merchant’s.’

  ‘A man must appreciate life while he can, Zacharias. Do you know who taught me that?’

  His companion shook his head and pushed his way through another group of admirers.

  ‘Mariam.’ Zacharias grimaced as Simon failed to take the hint. ‘Do you know I once thought of making myself king, like that fool John? She said she would rather see me shovelling dung in the lowest farmyard than on the throne of the greatest city in Judaea. Help your people and come back to me, she said. Plant the corn and harvest it. Grind the grain and bake the bread. And she was right.’ His voice turned wistful. ‘But she was also wrong.’ Simon met Zacharias’s eyes. ‘Because a man cannot turn back time, can he, Zacharias? All he can do is follow his own destiny. Will I ever return, do you think?’

  Zacharias held his friend’s gaze for a moment, because to turn away would be a betrayal. ‘That is a question I cannot answer, Simon. It is God’s will.’

  The two men emerged into an open space between the second and outer walls filled with sheepskin tents. Around them sat or lay hundreds of warriors. They looked exhausted, and many tended the wounds of their comrades. The bulk were flesh wounds and scrapes caused by their rushed descent of the gully during the retreat, but Simon could see some would not live the night. He searched the throng until he found the man he was looking for, a tall, fierce-looking soldier with wild, bushy hair and a dark beard.

  James of Rehoboth, the Idumaean commander, looked up as they approached. ‘That will do,’ he told the man bandaging his injured arm. ‘We would have had them,’ he told Simon. ‘They hadn’t put out any guards and ran like rabbits when we charged from the gully. One or two of their officers made the difference. They rallied their men into a defensive circle and we couldn’t break it. When their reinforcements arrived it was we who did the running.’

  ‘A wise tactical retreat.’ James’s head came up and his eyes glittered with menace. He was a proud man and he would not be mocked. Fortunately, the look on Simon’s face told him otherwise. ‘We have to strike them when they least expect it,’ the Judaean continued. ‘Or fight them from behind these walls. Make them bleed for every foot of ground until they decide they have bled enough. How many did you lose?’

  ‘Two hundred. Some of my best. You know how it is, the bravest are always at the front. Still, it was worth it if we gave the others time to ransack the baggage train. Supplies, weapons, we are short of everything.’ Even as he said the words James sensed a stillness in the two men. ‘They did not succeed?’

  ‘They did not leave the city.’ Zacharias couldn’t meet his eyes.

  James studied his arm where the blood was already seeping through the cotton bandage. ‘I will kill him,’ he said, the words ingrained with chilling certainty.

  ‘You will have to take your place among a line of willing executioners.’ Simon couldn’t conceal the bitterness in his voice. ‘How long will it take your men to recover?’

  ‘We will be ready when you need us. We came here to fight, and to die if necessary. Some of us are true to our word.’

  Simon and Zacharias made their way back through the second wall and into the city. There was no point in delay. Simon led the way along the Street of Solomon, one of the city’s broadest thoroughfares. Like every open space in Jerusalem it was part filled with pens of skinny cattle and plaintively bleating goats that had been driven into the city before the Romans arrived. Tents, awnings and other makeshift shelters took up most of the rest, each of them occupied by a family of pilgrims. It was the same in the normally less populous Bezetha, the New City, between the second and third walls. They’d managed to keep the sanitary arrangements for the refugees at a tolerable level, but Simon knew it wouldn’t last. With the Romans here there would be limited access to the pits at Gehenna. One more reason to get them out of the city.

  He stopped in front of a tent where a woman with dark, soulful eyes suckled an infant. Two other children, a boy and a girl, blank-faced and dirty, looked on. ‘Where is your husband, mother?’ Simon tried to appear as kindly as one of his stature could manage. ‘He should be here to keep you safe.’

  She looked up and he noticed that the breast she offered the child had been sucked near dry. ‘Benyamin has gone to try to buy food,’ she replied. ‘But there is little to spare.’ Her eyelids drooped and though she tried to disguise it her voice was heavy with exhaustion and despair.

  Simon nodded to Zacharias and the aide surreptitiously slipped a loaf of flat unleavened bread from the sack he carried. He split the loaf in two, then divided it again, handing the quarters to the older children before giving the intact half to the woman. With immense restraint she took a small bite before placing the grey semicircle behind her where it couldn’t be seen.

  ‘Have you come far, …?’

  ‘I am Judith,’ she answered his unspoken question with lowered eyes, ‘and I thank you for your kindness, though I did not ask for it. We travelled from Ephraim six days ago. It was a long journey, and hard, but by God’s grace we reached Jerusalem in time to celebrate the festival in his temple.’

  Simon knew of the place, a small town in the rugged hills two days to the north. A hard journey indeed. ‘That was very brave,’ he said. ‘These are dangerous times. The Romans …’

  ‘Benyamin says God will strike the Romans down as he brought down the ten plagues upon Egypt and the children of Israel will prevail.’

  Her voice contained not an ounce of doubt and Simon wished he had a fraction of her faith. He allowed himself a smile that acknowledged the possibility. ‘It is not unknown for armies on the march to be afflicted by such maladies. I pray daily for God’s aid, but I fear sacrifice and courage will also be required.’

  Judith stiffened as a shadow fell over the little shelter. ‘My husband Benyamin.’ There was a hint of fear in her eyes at the appearance of a heavyset man with a black beard. He wore a brown smock with a carpenter’s belt at the waist. A thin boy of about thirteen stood just behind him. ‘And my son Moses. I thank you again for your kindness.’

  ‘You will be leaving soon?’ Simon addressed the words to the husband.

  ‘Not till we have completed our devotions.’ Truculence hardened the man’s words, as if he regarded every stranger as a threat to his world. ‘Moses wants to stay and fight God’s enemies, but there is the harvest to bring in.’

  ‘I will pray for your safe return.’ With a heavy heart Simon bowed his head and turned away. These people would face starvation and slaughter unless he did something about it. The animals that provided meat and milk seemed plentiful, but that was an illusion. He’d been horrified when his quartermasters had pointed out how quickly a population could consume its own weight in supplies. And that had been before the grain stores had burned. The memory stoked the fire growing inside him and he increased his pace so that Zacharias struggled to keep up. They crossed through an ancient gate in the first wall and beneath the bridge over the Tyropoeon valley. Now they were in the district known as the Lower City, in ancient times the city of David. A few minutes later Simon turned into the gateway to a substantial tower. He marched past a pair of guards, ignoring their protests and before Zacharias could stop him he disappeared up a narrow stairway, taking the stairs two by two. A group of hard-eyed men lounged near the top of the steps sharpening their swords.

  ‘Your business?’ The voi
ce of the speaker held no welcome and Simon heard Zacharias growl as he caught up.

  ‘You know my business very well, Aaron son of Arinus, whose father would hardly have countenanced your delaying me, since he fought at my side at Masada.’ His voice softened. ‘He was a good man, and I mourn him.’

  The young man’s head dropped, but only for a moment. ‘He was, but still I must ask you.’

  ‘I would talk to John of Gischala, unless he means to fight the Romans alone.’

  Aaron frowned. ‘Very well.’ He hesitated. ‘You have no weapons.’

  ‘Do I need any?’

  Aaron swivelled and looked back up the stairs behind him. When he turned back to face Simon his eyes contained a warning. ‘That must be for you to decide.’

  Simon bar Giora acknowledged his thanks with a brisk nod. He stepped past the reclining men and continued up the steps till he emerged into the fading light on the battlements overlooking the Cedron gorge.

  Someone had set up what looked like a throne so John of Gischala could watch the afternoon’s battle in comfort. Now he sat with his hands folded, his pale eyes contemplating his visitor and an amused half-smile on his thin lips. The Galilean commander had a high forehead and a long, narrow nose. He wore a fine robe of scarlet and gold and across his knees lay an iron sword, the blade polished to a gleaming finish. The two men stared at each other for what seemed an eternity before John spoke. ‘You should have sent word of your coming and I would have received you in a state worthy of your rank and fame.’ The smile broadened, but Simon knew it was as authentic as a hyena’s laughter and in any case he hadn’t come here to exchange pleasantries.

  ‘Why did you not attack as we agreed?’

  ‘Did we agree? I understood I was to act on my own judgement.’

  ‘As to the timing, yes, but not whether to attack at all.’

  ‘It was clear to me the Idumaeans must fail.’ The other man gave a careless shrug that sent another wave of almost untamable anger through Simon. ‘Why should I sacrifice my men to save the lives of a few desert savages?’

  Simon took a step forward and the guards on either side of the throne tensed. Zacharias laid a hand on his arm, but he ignored it. ‘Not to save the lives of a few desert savages – though may I remind you they are your allies and the finest warriors in the city – but to strip the Roman baggage train of supplies, to replace those you burned.’

  John of Gischala’s face reddened and the smile disappeared. ‘A people fight all the better for being hungry.’

  ‘A hand that wields a sword will not do so for long if its owner is starving.’

  ‘What is done cannot be undone.’ The man on the throne raised a placating hand. ‘We should not bicker, you and I. As you have told me so often, we have enough enemies beyond the walls without creating more inside them. Will you break bread with me?’

  Simon hesitated. For all his fine words John of Gischala had never held to a bargain in his life. To refuse another’s hospitality would be ill-mannered, but he couldn’t bring himself to sit down with the man. ‘I must return to my family,’ he lied, ‘a special meal. The Romans have us surrounded now and there will be no more. They will attack soon.’

  ‘Yes?’ John’s tone was guarded.

  ‘You are prepared as we discussed?’

  ‘Of course.’ He called a large bearded warrior across. ‘Tell him.’

  ‘We defend the eastern wall. If they attack they will be forced to mass in the gorge and on the slope beyond. We have catapults and siege engines ranged on the likely places and every tower and every inch of parapet will be filled with warriors. The rough ground at the base of the walls means they will have to build ramps if they are to get their siege engines close. We will slaughter them before they are completed.’

  ‘Good enough,’ Simon nodded. He might not be able to trust John, but this man knew his business. Something else came to him. This was an opportunity and he couldn’t let pride stand in the way. ‘There is one more thing. Do I have your support to ask the priests to send the Passover pilgrims home? Once the attack begins it will be difficult and dangerous for them to leave, even with Titus’s authority.’

  ‘You have it, for all the good it will do you. Phannias, that fool of a stonemason Eleazar has declared High Priest, is telling them their souls will be forfeit if they do not complete their devotions. It is only another three days.’

  ‘Nevertheless, three days with a swarm of locusts consuming our supplies, so we must try. I will draft an appeal to Titus asking him to provide free passage. They are innocents, harmless families with children, and this is not their war. He may be a Roman, but if our foe is an honourable man he cannot refuse.’

  XXVI

  ‘No.’

  Valerius and the officers gathered in Titus’s command pavilion for the council of war that would decide the fate of Jerusalem struggled to hide their reactions to his unexpected decision. Sumptuous wall hangings of red, gold and purple insulated the tent for both heat and sound. The single other decoration was a bust of the Emperor looking grim and square-jawed, with more hair than Valerius remembered from their last meeting. ‘There are no innocents in war. Draft a message informing the commander of Jerusalem that no one may leave the city before its formal surrender, which he is perfectly at liberty to offer.’

  ‘I agree there are no innocents in war.’ The speaker was Marcus Clemens, the new commander of the Twelfth and a long-time friend of Titus’s family. Of them all he was closest enough to his commander to offer a contrary opinion. ‘But surely there are practical reasons for allowing them to leave. We are told they are mostly peasant families?’ Josephus, who stood at the back of the tent, nodded in agreement. ‘Then they pose little danger to us outside the city. But keep them penned inside and for every family you have a protector who will fight to the death for them.’

  The suggestion provoked a murmur of agreement. Titus had invited all four of his legionary commanders to gather round a map of Jerusalem. Valerius knew Clemens by sight and Lepidus of the Tenth well. The others were Titus Phrygius, a grim-faced senator who commanded the Fifteenth, and Sextus Cerealis, veteran legate of the Fifth, one of Corbulo’s legions during the conquest of Armenia. Tiberius Alexander, the army’s chief of staff, stood slightly apart alongside Marcus Antonius, Judaea’s procurator. The only surprising absentee was Alexander’s deputy, Paternus, but that could be explained by his recent arrival. Valerius had no formal role at the conference and he determined to keep his face as closed as his mouth. Nevertheless, his presence was a mark of Titus’s favour and he was grateful for it.

  Clemens concluded his argument. ‘By refusing this offer you almost certainly double the number of men facing us and make it more difficult to fight our way through the town when the walls are breached.’

  Titus nodded thoughtfully, but he was conceding the point, not the argument. ‘You are right, Marcus, but this is not a military decision, it is a practical one. I believe it may save us much time and thousands of my soldiers’ lives. They are short of supplies you say, Josephus?’

  ‘Yes,’ the Judaean agreed. ‘They had gathered enough grain to feed the city for two years, but John of Gischala stole what he could for his own men and burned the rest. The fire happened after the last harvest and you have invested the place before the next. It couldn’t have been worse timed for them. I doubt they have enough to hold out for six months.’

  ‘Six months.’ Titus’s blue eyes searched the tent for any contrary opinion. ‘But I do not have six months. My father will return to Rome in three and I intend to present him with Jerusalem as a gift for his homecoming. Six months’ supply for a city of a hundred thousand people is a month’s supply for six times that number.’

  ‘You plan to starve them out?’

  ‘That will be part of my strategy, yes, Lepidus. The sight of starving children will ever be a recommendation to surrender. When fathers see the flesh falling from the faces of their sons, the milk drying up in the mothers’ brea
sts, they will be quick to make their views known.’

  Valerius wondered whether Titus was again guilty of underestimating his enemy. He remembered the fatalism of the Judaeans who had leapt to their deaths at Gamala. They too had been peasants, but they’d been prepared to die rather than surrender. Would a man who’d watched his child die be any more likely to give up? But he knew his view was coloured by another consideration. He’d seen what happened when besieged cities fell. If Titus was wrong and Jerusalem had to be assaulted, all those thousands of women and children would be trapped. The screams and the scent of roasting flesh at Cremona returned to him and his stomach soured at the memory. When he looked up he found Titus staring at him.

  ‘We are agreed then. They stay unless the tactical situation warrants otherwise. Now, to the city itself …’

  They talked over the various possibilities, the most favourable assault points, the difficulties presented by three separate walls, the siting of artillery. The detail of any attack would be dictated by the legates, but the principle was agreed. Three legions, the Fifth, Twelfth and Fifteenth, would invest the west of the city, while the Tenth maintained its position on the Mount of Olives to divide the attention of the defenders.

  ‘You say this valley would provide a site capable of accommodating us, Josephus?’

  ‘Not the valley itself, lord, the terrain is too rugged. But deploy on the plateaus to the north and south and you will have the freedom to attack the walls on either side, while ensuring the defenders must man both.’

  ‘Very well. The final decision will be mine, but that can wait.’