by James Mace
Late in the morning of the second day of their journey, the cohort halted at a crossroads near a rather large fish market. Metellus, sensing an opportunity to supplement their rations, addressed his optio, “Sir, is there time to peruse the fish market?”
The optio surveyed the scene before answering. “Go ahead. Decanii only! We don’t need several hundred legionaries descending upon their market.”
Metellus grinned and spoke with the men in his squad, gathering a few coins from those who wanted some fresh fish with their supper. He then left the formation, walking down a short section of the sandy beach to the nearest stall. It was more of a shabby tent with all the walls rolled up, and a rickety table with numerous baskets of freshly caught fish behind a small group of men, who regarded the approaching Romans with great apprehension. One of the decanii accompanying Metellus was originally from Damascus and was, therefore, fluent in most of the local languages. He spoke to the men, who started talking rapidly and pointing to them, their fish baskets, as well as waving about at nothing.
“What are they saying?” Metellus asked.
“They say if we take all their fish, there won’t be enough for the people,” the decanus replied.
“Piss on that!” Metellus snapped. “It’s not as if we’re stealing from them. We’re paying for what we take!”
“In Roman coin,” one of the men sneered with a heavy accent.
Metellus glared at him. “Roman coin is the only currency of value here. You should count yourselves fortunate that we don’t just take what we wish.”
“Take it easy,” his fellow squad leader said quietly. “That is how they are. They will try and provoke us and find any reason to say we abuse them. It’s just how they are.” He then proceeded to further haggle with the men in their own tongue.
The argument went on for several minutes. Metellus was becoming exasperated when he saw another man approaching them from down by the water. Dressed in similarly shabby garb, Metellus gathered he was not a fisherman. He was well built, and the decanus could tell from the size of his forearm muscles and calloused hands that he’d done much physical labor in his life. The fishermen ceased in their arguing and immediately looked down, as if embarrassed. Though the man did not stand out from the others in dress or appearance, Metellus surmised he was somebody of importance to them. When he spoke to the men, his voice was calm and almost serene.
“What’s he saying?” Metellus asked.
“He’s telling them to sell us what we wish and to be thankful for the coins we give them.”
The decanus was grinning in triumph.
“A Jew with a touch of sense,” Metellus muttered as he produced a handful of silver denarii. “I wonder what his motives are.”
“One needs no other motives than to do the right thing,” the man answered back in Latin.
It surprised Metellus that he’d been heard at all, given how quietly he’d spoken. He was further perplexed that, although this man was undoubtedly Judean, there was no trace of a foreign accent when he spoke. Metellus hefted his basket of fish while the Jewish men greedily took his coins, even though they scowled the entire time.
“You look more like a carpenter or stone mason than a fisherman,” he said to the man who’d intervened for them.
The man simply smiled. “Think of me as a fisher of men.”
“What?” Metellus asked, but he was grabbed by the shoulder by his fellow decanus.
“Come on,” the sergeant said. “We need to wrap these up and get the lads to stow them. No doubt everyone’s packs will stink by the time we halt for the night, but it will still make quite the feast! A fish pie is sounding awfully good right about now.”
“Strange fellow,” Metellus persisted as they walked back to the cohort, which was making ready to start marching again.
“Eh, you see their type all over the place,” the other decanus said with a shrug, as they started handing bundles of fish to their men.
“Perhaps, but did you notice when he spoke in our tongue, there was no accent?”
“Well, there are plenty of Jews who are Roman educated. Although, I admit he appeared to be a bit too shabbily dressed to have been tutored in Rome. Most of the Jews who come to us to be educated are from wealthy families, and like you said, that fellow looks like he’s done mostly hard labor during his life. But who knows? You meet all sorts of eccentric people in this corner of the world.”
The final leg of their journey proved uneventful enough, though many of the men were now complaining that their packs now stunk of fish. They turned east early on the morning of the third day, and by late afternoon the city of Jerusalem came into sight.
“Impressive,” Magnus said as he rode up alongside Artorius and Pilate. “Looks like a gigantic wall surrounds the entire city.”
“More like three giant walls,” Pilate corrected. “The place we are going is the Antonia Fortress. It lies in the northeastern portion of the city, along the eastern edge of the second wall. Nearby are the Temple Mount and the Pool of Bethesda, which many superstitious people think has healing properties.”
The dusty road leading to the east gate was full of people and carts, though like everywhere else the legionaries marched, they quickly stepped out of their path, either averting their eyes or glaring at them contemptuously. The walls were gigantic, far larger than anything Artorius had ever seen. He quietly thought to himself that should the Jews unite and cast the Roman garrison out, it would be a fearful task of retaking it. As they entered the city, the streets became congested beyond their ability to simply walk through, and sensing their march was about to grind to a halt, Artorius turned to Valens.
“Send twenty men forward and have them clear a path for us!”
“Right away!” The soldiers selected handed their packs to their mates, and with the prodding of javelins, thumping of shield bosses, and more than a few profane shouts, they started to clear a path for the procession to continue its march.
Artorius noticed the massive temple complex well before he saw the Antonia Fortress. It was surrounded by a large wall and looked more like a military stronghold than a place of worship. The temple itself jutted skyward. Off of the northeast corner stood the fortress. Although from a distance it looked to be part of temple complex, there was a definite separation of about six hundred feet between them. The fortress itself was very tall, with a large square tower on each of the corners.
“There it is, lads,” Pilate said. “Built fifty years ago by Herod the Great, and named after his patron, Marc Antony. I’ve ordered the auxiliaries to clear out and utilize other barracks space within the city, so there is plenty of room for your legionaries. We also use a portion of the bottom floor as storage space for the high priests’ vestments.”
“We store the priests’ vestments?” Artorius asked.
“It is a rather strange rapport we have with them, but yes,” Pilate explained. “The high priest, although Jewish and the overall spiritual leader of the people, is directly appointed by Rome. He is also an insufferable pain in my backside. I’ll explain more later.”
There was a long slope that led up to the gate of the fortress, where a pair of auxiliaries stood guard. They passed through the portcullis and into the large drill field. Permanently fixed training stakes lined either side of the field with deep balconies overlooking from the numerous floors of the main complex and corner towers. Groomsmen took their horses and while legionaries dispersed to find their quarters, a Roman bureaucrat and well-dressed Jewish man approached Pilate. Artorius surmised that he was likely the high priest or one of his top aides. The three men immediately began to argue something about construction on an aqueduct, costs, and who was paying for them. Artorius decided that such topics were not his concern, and so he joined his fellow centurions in finding where they were housed.
“Well, it could be worse,” Valens said as he looked over Artorius’ shoulder into the small living space. “I don’t even have a desk in my room.”
&nb
sp; “It’ll do,” the centurion replied. He set his helmet onto the desk and then turned to his optio. “Here, help me out of this.”
“All these years, I’ll bet you’ve been wanting to ask me to undress you,” Valens replied, breaking into a fit of laughter.
“Quit being a smartass,” Artorius retorted. “You know I can’t reach the buckle on this damn harness.”
Valens complied and unhooked the harness that Artorius wore his phalerae and other decorations, though he would not stop giggling.
“Normally, Nathaniel would help me out of my kit, but he’s gods only know where between here and Massilia. And since Diana stayed in Caesarea, she’s not available at the moment.”
“All the lads pair up and help each other,” Valens observed. “Doesn’t make it any less amusing for me.”
“Valens, everything is amusing to you,” Artorius grumbled as he tossed the harness onto his bunk. He pulled off his hamata chain mail and laid it out on the bed before putting his centurion’s belt back on. “My battle armor is with the baggage train, so I hope we don’t have anything serious happen before then.”
“You’re one of the only centurions I know of in the entire army that still wears a legionary’s segmentata,” Valens observed.
“It provides better protection.” Artorius pointed to his side in emphasis, where Valens remembered he had a fearful scar from where his hamata had failed to withstand the repeated blows of an enemy swordsman. He then gave the optio his orders for the remainder of the day. “Have the men bathe, clean and inspect their weapons and kit, and let them know there will be a full inspection in the morning. Centurions and options will be doing most of the actual scrutiny of the auxiliaries, so we need the other principal officers and decanii to step up and oversee the daily drill and training of our men.”
Artorius spent most of the following morning sifting through the records for the Jerusalem garrison. Despite his humble quarters, there was a sizeable administrative area for him to work in at the end of the floor. The large desk he sat at was piled with documents with many more strewn about the tiled floor. When he summoned his centurions and options he was not in the fairest of tempers. Whatever their personal feelings, the truth was they needed the auxiliaries and, therefore, the task now fell upon them to restore discipline into their ranks.
“The condition of the garrison is deplorable,” Artorius stated. “Numerous disciplinary problems and I suspect that what is documented is only a fraction of what actually goes on. There are frequent complaints, as well, from the civilian populace regarding excessive use of force, to include the last incident where several dozen unarmed protestors were killed when the auxiliaries disobeyed Pilate’s expressed orders and fell upon them with their swords instead of clubs.”
“The issue here is not just that the auxiliaries lack discipline,” Cornelius explained. “Since Jews view it damned near sacrilegious to work for the Roman government, we have been unable to find sufficient volunteers to fill the ranks. Therefore, most of the auxiliaries we get are Samaritans.”
“What provokes the issue is Samaritans and Jews hate each other,” Julius added. “There is bad blood between them that goes back centuries. Honestly, no one knows where it all started, but that hatred is ingrained into both races as soon as they are born. The Jews resent that Rome enlists Samaritans to lord over them, yet they will not volunteer to fill the ranks themselves. And let’s be honest, the Samaritans love us about as much as they love the Jews.”
“This is true,” Cornelius concurred. “The Samaritans who enlist into the auxilia are not the brightest prospects from their people. In fact, I would hazard that they are the scum of society who often join the ranks in order to avoid going to prison for various petty crimes.”
“You’re more right than you know,” Artorius said, tossing a scroll across the table. “Petty theft is one of the most common offenses in the disciplinary reports. These bastards are constantly stealing from each other when not extorting from the locals.”
“What bothers me,” Magnus remarked as he looked over the report, “Is that a legionary can be strangled or bludgeoned to death if he steals from his comrades. Auxiliaries fall under the same laws as our men, yet their crimes go mostly unpunished.”
“Then it is time the laws were enforced once more,” Artorius emphasized as he stood from the table. “We have a daunting task ahead of us. We must immediately restore good order and discipline in a place where it has probably never existed. We must be harsh but fair in our dealings with these Samaritans. And above all, we must set the proper example. Make certain our legionaries know that their conduct will be under the sharpest scrutiny. In fact, as long as we’re in Jerusalem I want them to confine most of their leisure activities to the area around the fortress. They can cavort again after we return to Caesarea, but for the time being I need their highest discipline on display. Understand that there will be those amongst the auxiliaries that will not conform, no matter how much we try and instill order into them. These we will have to break and dispose of. I would rather have a dozen well-trained soldiers than a thousand mindless brigands.”
“What are you proposing we do?” Valens asked, showing his rare serious demeanor. Though the optio spent most of his time living a life that was debauched even by Roman standards, he was still a solid officer and one of the most reliable soldiers Artorius had ever served with.
“For the rest of this week we will inspect two cohorts each day,” Artorius answered. “Each centurion and optio will inspect a century of auxiliaries. Tesserarii will accompany centurions and serve as their scribes; signifiers will go with the options. Split your centuries with half the men going with each group. They will assist as a visual example of what professional soldiers are expected to look like. Plus they can serve as enforcers should these Samaritans get a bit indignant with our establishing of standards. Make certain decanii do a full kit inspection on their men. They don’t have to have to be polished to parade standard, however, I want there to be no doubt that they and their equipment are battle ready.”
“Yes, sir,” his officers all replied in unison.
After dismissing them, Artorius took some of the scrolls he’d been making notes on and left the room. As he walked along the open air corridor that ran along the drill field, he heard Abenader calling out to him.
“Centurion Artorius!”
He slowed his pace, although he did not stop or look back. He allowed Abenader to catch up to him before responding.
“You’re late,” Artorius retorted.
“If this is about the inspections my officers will be performing, I don’t want to hear about it.” Abenader grabbed him by the shoulder and Artorius turned to face him, forcibly smacking the auxilia centurion’s hand away.
“Keep your hands off me!”
“Pilate may have brought you here,” Abenader barked, “but I don’t need your ‘help’!” It was clear that the man who commanded the Jerusalem garrison severely resented being undermined by an officer from the legions.
Artorius surmised that Abenader was at least a dozen years older than him and viewed him as a young upstart. It was clear he’d been harboring his bitter feelings since long before Artorius and the Italic Cohort arrived in Judea, and he wasn’t about to relinquish control of his realm without a fight. It was a fight Artorius had hoped to put off until after he’d gotten a thorough inspection of the auxilia cohorts, but he knew he had no choice but to put his rival in his place. It was not turning into what he’d hoped for in a first meeting.
“You think I want to be here?” he growled, his face inches from Abenader’s. “You may have more years under arms than me, but do not take me for some rookie upstart. I’d bet a year’s wages that I have far more time on a battle line than you!”
“I don’t give a vat of piss if you’ve fought in a hundred battles and been awarded the grass crown by the emperor himself!” Abenader snapped back. “Jerusalem is my garrison!”
“You forget yoursel
f,” he said, suddenly calm. “Legionary officers are rated above auxiliaries, which makes me senior to you. Both of us answer to the procurator, so I cannot order you directly. That being said, your auxiliaries are little more than a reckless mob, and I am here to restore order and discipline. If you have any issues with that, take them up with Pilate.”
As he turned to walk away, Abenader grabbed him by the shoulder. Before the auxilia centurion could react further, Artorius spun around and grabbed him by the neck, slamming him into the wall. Though Abenader was a few inches taller, Artorius was infinitely stronger, his gigantic forearm pulsing as he clutched the man’s throat.
“You lay a hand on me again, I’ll snap your fucking neck!” he growled into Abenader’s ear. He then promptly released his grip and Abenader gasped as his breath was restored.
He then took a more conciliatory tone.
“Look,” he said, “We may not like each other, but know that I am not here to take command of the Jerusalem garrison. The sooner your auxiliaries start acting like professional soldiers, the sooner I will be gone.”
As Abenader stormed out, Artorius was left in an awkward position. His first meeting with the man who was his peer within the auxiliaries, and therefore his best hope for making the garrison into a reliable fighting force, had instead ended in a physical confrontation. He knew he had to take some of the blame for escalating the conflict. However, he was already so exasperated by what he saw he could not understand how any officer worthy of his position could allow such deplorable conditions to exist. And since there was no one they could replace Abenader with, he realized that whether he liked it or not, they would have to learn to work together. Pilate was buried under the arduous responsibilities of managing the province and had left the restoration of order within the Jerusalem garrison to him.