by James Mace
Artorius elected to take his entire First Century with him on the mission to deliver the stolen arms to the Twelfth Legion. Pilate had already sent word back to Flaccus, the new Syrian governor, as well as the legion’s chief tribune, so Artorius was not about to risk losing these weapons again. It was early morning, and his men were gathering around the wagon, where they would escort it to the docks and then onto the ship bound for Syria.
“Taking the entire First Century, eh?” Justus Longinus observed as he joined Artorius, who was emerging from his house.
“Pilate has told pretty much everyone of importance in the entire empire of our little raid,” Artorius replied. “I’ll be damned if I’m going to lose these weapons now, especially since it was detailed in the procurator’s quarterly report to the emperor.”
“Our friend, Pilate, has been on edge ever since the fall of Sejanus,” Justus noted. “He grasps at any opportunity to draw praise from either Tiberius or the senate.”
“His reports used to go through Sejanus,” Artorius remarked. “Now he has had to correspond with the emperor directly. You know, Sejanus’ downfall came over a year and a half ago, and yet despite Pilate being his deputy within the praetorians, as well as his protégé, nothing was ever said. Tiberius never even mentioned Sejanus in any of his subsequent correspondence; which aside from the usual berating for the constant complaints from the Jewish hierarchy, any communications from the emperor have been mostly routine.”
“Tiberius is fickle,” Justus observed, “but he is no fool. There was enough upheaval in Rome after the usurper-in-waiting was deposed. He could hardly make Pilate a victim of his vengeance without risking further disruption in the east.”
“Still harboring hate towards Sejanus,” Artorius stated. “Don’t try and hide it, old friend. I could sense it in your voice. Whatever his crimes, he has paid for.”
“We will never know how many fell victim to his lust for power,” Justus grumbled. “How many so-called traitors were simply political opponents that needed to be disposed of? Sejanus may be dead, but I hope that if there is an afterlife, then maybe those who he unjustly destroyed can exact their revenge as well.”
Artorius immediately regretted broaching the subject. Justus’ hatred for the man had scarcely diminished since hearing of his enemy’s fall from power and execution. Upon hearing the news, he had delved into an excessive drunken display of celebration. Artorius had been forced to formally admonish him for his conduct. Though he apologized for conducting his festivities so publicly, he never showed any remorse for having celebrated the destruction of Sejanus and the death of most of his immediate family.
As Justus seemed content to accompany him on the ten-minute walk to the barracks, Artorius was restless to change the conversation. Though the cohort commander was in full military garb, he remarked that Justus was wearing a plain civilian tunic and cloak.
“Oh, this,” his fellow centurion shrugged. “I, too, have a mission this day. My sources tell me that the Nazarene teacher Pilate wants watched is spending the next day or so in a small fishing village not far from here. I have an assortment of civilian clothing that makes me not so conspicuous. I may not be able to completely hide my being a Roman from the careful observer, though by avoiding wearing legionary red I can make my presence less obvious.”
“I know Pilate gave you this assignment because of your experience in this part of the world,” Artorius added. “Still, you be careful, especially if you’re going out alone.”
“This is not my first time checking on the locals,” Justus reassured him with a wink. He then lightly pounded his fist against the side of his cloak, and Artorius could hear the rattling of his gladius scabbard. “Remember, I also speak fluent Aramaic and passable Hebrew. Besides, the more hostile zealot types avoid this Jesus of Nazareth. His talk of peace and reconciliation is not to their liking, and there are a host of other teachers and prophets for them to latch on to.”
Presently they arrived at the barracks. In front of the line of stucco buildings, Valens had formed the century into two columns on either side of the wagon. Artorius’ servant, Nathaniel, sat on the wagon bench, holding the reins. Artorius turned and clasped his friend’s hand.
“Safe travels,” Justus said.
“We should only be gone a week,” Artorius observed. “A day, maybe two by sea to Tripolis, then a couple more by road to Raphaneae. And, as you already know, in my absence you are in command.”
“Of course,” Justus replied. “And I’ve already spoken with Centurion Magnus. Depending on how long it takes me to find this Nazarene, which should not prove difficult, and however long he gives me useful information, I may not get any time as cohort commander.”
Both men chuckled at this observation. Justus then gave a nod before heading towards the stables, where a groomsman was waiting with his horse.
“The century is formed and ready to march, sir,” Valens said with a salute as Artorius walked over to his men.
Artorius returned the salute and took his place next to his signifier at the head of the column. Though both he and Valens were authorized to travel by horseback, they knew that space on the small ship would be cramped between the cargo wagon and eighty legionaries taking up almost all available space on the top deck. He thought back to the last time they had traveled by ship during their arduous voyage to Judea and was grateful that this journey would be much shorter.
Chapter XXIV: Render Unto Caesar
***
Like most of his missions of this nature, Justus had elected to go without armor or helmet. The heat was stifling as it was, plus he did not want to draw any more attention to himself than he had to. If this Nazarene prophet knew that he was being watched by a centurion of the legionary cohort, he might hold his tongue and not give away his true intentions. Justus’ gladius could still give him away, though he kept it well hidden beneath his cloak, which was a light summer variant with the hood up to keep the sun out of his face. Justus understood the dangers that were far more prevalent than in the western part of the empire.
His informers had been busy. Having a paid network of spies was a habit he had picked up during his early years with the Sixth Legion. A man from a political party known as the Herodians had informed him as to where he could find the Nazarene on this day. Near an open crossroads towards the outskirts of town was a well that merchants used to bring up water for their draught animals. It was here that Justus saw a crowd gathered. As he approached, he noticed that they were mostly well-dressed men, likely members of either the Sanhedrin or other ruling parties, such as the Pharisees. He noticed his contact from the Herodians, though they did not so much as make eye contact.
Seated on the edge of the well was a man that Justus guessed was Jesus of Nazareth. He did not look any more conspicuous than the other Jewish men. His hair was kept long, but well groomed, as was his trimmed beard. Though his robes were worn and threadbare, they were clean and unsoiled. His hands and his muscular forearms told of a man who had done much work in his lifetime. The word Justus had gotten was he had been either a carpenter or stone mason.
As Justus walked towards the front of the crowd, it appeared that Jesus was in an argument with a handful of Herodians and Pharisees. Though there was agitation in the voices of the Herodians, their tone was civil enough.
“Teacher,” one of the men said, “you will not take a stand one way or the other regarding the Roman occupation of our lands. But what say you about the taxes demanded by them? Is it lawful as Jews for us to pay tribute to Caesar?”
“Why must you tempt me, you hypocrites?” the Nazarene answered calmly. He then stepped off from the well and walked over to the men, holding out his hand. “Give me a coin. One like that which we pay in tribute.”
The Herodian glanced at his friends, one of whom elbowed him in the ribs.
“Give it to him,” he friend chastised quietly.
The Herodian pulled out a denarius, which he handed to Jesus. All the while Jus
tus furrowed his brow in contemplation. The Nazarene turned the coin over in his hand.
“Tell me,” he said, “On a Judean coin, whose image would we bestow upon it?”
“None!” the Herodian snapped. “Putting a person’s likeness on a coin would be idolatry!”
“But we do not have Judean coin,” his friend said quickly, noting the face on the coin that Jesus was gazing upon. “All our coin are Roman…” He cut himself off as Jesus looked at him and smiled knowingly. Justus found himself matching the Nazarene’s grin. There was an inaudible murmur from those in the crowd.
“Exactly,” Jesus replied after a brief pause. “So tell me then, whose image is on this coin that we are expected to pay in tribute.”
The Herodian who gave him the coin swallowed hard.
“The Emperor Tiberius Caesar,” he relented.
“Well, then,” Jesus said, handing him back the coin. “Render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s; and render unto God the things that are God’s.”
Justus had to stifle a chuckle at the flabbergasted looks upon the faces of the Herodians and Sanhedrin. Most of the people, though, nodded and muttered approvingly amongst themselves. There were other lessons given, with the crowd growing even as the disgruntled Sanhedrin dispersed. One of the men who remained asked the teacher about a passage in one of their holy books that spoke of loving one’s neighbor.
“It is true,” the Nazarene replied. “One must love their neighbor. But I tell you this; love not just your neighbors, but also your enemies.”
While these words certainly caught many people by surprise, they were all Justus needed to hear, and he quietly left the scene.
Tripolis was a much smaller port than Caesarea, and Artorius was glad that he’d forgone bringing his horse or allowing the men anything but the barest essentials. Just getting off the ship proved to be a nightmare, as it seemed there were crew, passengers, and cargo from a dozen vessels all trying to use one narrow pier. His men had been compelled to forcibly make their way through the crowds, violently shoving people aside with their large shields as they made room for the cart bearing the weapons for the Twelfth Legion. It was late afternoon by the time they made their way out of the dockyards.
“We’ll camp just outside the town,” Artorius told Valens and his principle officers. “Raphaneae is perhaps another full day’s march from here.”
“Understood,” Valens replied before barking out a series of orders for the Decanii.
As Tripolis fell within the Roman province of Syria, and given its proximity to Raphaneae and the fortress of the Twelfth Legion, they were more used to seeing legionaries than the citizens of Judea. The capitol of Antioch was several days’ march further north though, thankfully, there was no need for them to go that far. As Artorius led his men through the streets of the city, there was less cause for alarm or the terrified stare. They also noticed the statues of Roman deities that lined the main town forum, as well as great statues of both Tiberius and Augustus that adorned the center.
“At least the Syrians know who their masters are,” Valens muttered as he walked next to his centurion.
Artorius’ servant, Nathaniel, could clearly hear him, though he remained silent. Having been a slave his entire life, he was used to the veiled and not-so-veiled insults against his people.
Nathaniel had proven useful to Artorius since they arrived in Judea. His knowledge of local languages and customs had made the daily interactions of his master with the populace far less painful. As a reward for discovering the arms smugglers, Artorius had offered to buy his slave a wife, though he had respectfully declined, stating that if he were to ever marry it needed to be out of love rather than obligation. Instead, Artorius purchased for him one of the Jewish holy books that Nathanial had long wished for.
On the outskirts of the city, the century made ready to camp for the night. Given the brevity of their journey, they had kept their baggage to a minimum, electing to sleep under the stars and only bringing a handful of pack mules with cooking supplies and rations. The nights were cool during the late winter and early spring, and those legionaries not on sentry duty huddled beneath their cloaks around a series of campfires.
The next day they arrived at the fortress of Legio XII Fulminata, also called The Thundering Legion. The absentee legate, Lamia, had at last been replaced after having governed for ten years without so much as leaving Rome. The new legion commander, as well as governor of Syria, was a man named Lucius Pomponius Flaccus. Despite the similar name, he was unrelated to the retired optio that served with Artorius during the early years of his career in Legio XX. However, as he governed from Antioch, it was not he, but rather his very young chief tribune, who greeted the detachment from Judea. Instead of armor or uniform, he wore a civilian toga, with emphasis on the broad purple stripe that denoted his status as a member of the senatorial class.
“Detachment from the First Italic Cohort, reporting” Artorius said, saluting.
The tribune returned it rather lazily. “Hmm, I see you have our weapons that were stolen by those beastly renegades.”
“Yes, sir. One hundred and fifty gladii, with the same number of pilum. Almost enough to equip two centuries.”
“And yet no word on the men who perpetuated this crime,” the tribune noted. “It would seem Pilate is still lacking as always when it comes to garnering information from prisoners. No doubt he’s already crucified this Jesus Barabbas before he could be persuaded to spill his guts to us.”
The tribune’s insulting behavior grated on the centurion, and as such he elected to keep quiet about Barabbas, who was still very much alive. He was sentenced to die, certainly. However, Pilate’s best interrogators were still working to get any useful information about who at the depot was stealing arms to sell on the underground markets.
“At any rate, we’ll take those weapons off your hands,” the tribune said, snapping his fingers.
A dozen legionaries who’d accompanied him surrounded the wagon and started to guide it into the fortress. He appeared surprised that Artorius still stood before him. “You are relieved, centurion.”
“I had hoped my men could rest here for the night,” Artorius remarked. “It is late in the day, and we traveled light, with only minimal provisions and no tents.”
“That’s not my problem, is it?” the tribune scoffed. “You’ve finished your mission and are no longer needed. And you can tell that incompetent fool, Pilate, that though he may have survived the aftermath of his precious patron, Sejanus’, fall, we still remember him as nothing more than that praetorian’s lackey. Now off with you!”
“What is it, Justus?” Pilate asked a few days later as he read through the weekly pile of decrees, tax notices, public works projects, and the never-ending complaints from the Sanhedrin.
“It’s about the Nazarene,” the centurion replied.
“Which Nazarene?” Pilate asked, still reading the latest note from Caiaphas that had him irritated at the moment.
“The so-called prophet, Jesus of Nazareth. You tasked us with following him for a week and then reporting back.”
“Oh, that Nazarene,” Pilate said, letting out a loud yawn. “Well, what did he say; anything seditious that you had to cut his heart out for?”
“Actually, no,” Justus replied with a chuckle. “He…he told the people to pay their taxes!”
Pilate was signing a document when Justus’ words made him scrawl the quill across the parchment.
“Come again?” he asked, looking up at him for the first time. “These bloody Jews never talk about paying taxes unless they are complaining! Hell, I couldn’t even get them to pay for their own damned aqueduct from the fat coffers of their precious temple without causing a riot!”
“I know,” Justus continued. “It was truly the strangest thing.” Justus then went on to explain to Pilate about the conversation that ended with Jesus telling the people to ‘Render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s’.
“And the people
didn’t lynch him on the spot?”
“No sir, they love him,” Justus answered. “I don’t doubt that his comment will garner him few friends within the Pharisees or the Sanhedrin, but the common people adore him. He said something else, too. He told the people that they should love not just their neighbors, but also their enemies.”
“A Jewish prophet who tells the people to pay their taxes, and that they should love their enemies, meaning us.” Pilate sat in thought for a minute before addressing the centurion once more. “Well done, Justus. Continue to observe this man. If he is, indeed, loved by the people, he may prove useful to us.”
It was as they were finishing their conversation that the doors were opened once more. Artorius strode in, looking rather filthy and disheveled, still in full armor with his helmet tucked under his arm.
“By Juno,” Justus said, “Could you not have bathed and shaved first?”
“I would have bathed in Raphaneae, had we not been told to piss off as soon as we delivered the weapons,” Artorius protested. He then spoke to Pilate, “We were forced to march straight back to Tripolis, without so much as being allowed inside the fortress. It would seem you have some enemies in the Fulminata Legion.”
“So I have,” Pilate acknowledged. “They did not appreciate my coming down hard on their rankers for lapses of discipline. But after all, that was why I was sent there in the first place. They are a good legion, mind you, though I think my patronage with Sejanus caused some ill feelings.”
“Yes, that was made very clear to me,” Artorius added. “Still, the weapons have been returned. Any word yet from that creature, Barabbas?”
“Not yet,” Pilate replied. “We’ve avoided outright torture for the moment, as the information is usually unreliable if applied too soon. We did get him to confess to a number of other crimes, though.”