by James Mace
Praxus and his men on the front wall would simply have to make do.
There was a long landing at the top of the steps, with openings leading into the fortress on either side. In the right hand entryway was his First Century and half of Magnus’ century. The rest of the Nordic centurion’s men, along with Cornelius’ century were staged in the far entranceway. Justus had his men, along with the rest of Praxus’, on the upper level, ready to defend the walls and the gate. Julius and his men were all armed with bows, as the Jerusalem garrison was lacking in archers. All that was left was the maddening wait.
“I hate daytime guard duty,” a decanus complained with a loud yawn.
Praxus snorted in reply, with the heat bearing down on them he agreed with the squad leader’s assessment. Before the centurion could answer, a man with a curved short sword jumped onto an ox cart below.
“Long live Judea!” he screamed at the top of his lungs.
The call was echoed by numerous men in the crowd. Most of them threw off their cloaks, revealing short swords, meat cleavers, and hand axes. Others were wielding scythes and farm tools. Had it not been for the raid on the arms smugglers that led to Barabbas’ capture, many would have been armed with Roman gladii and pilum. Praxus could hear a loud cry of lamentation from some of the women in the crowd; perhaps the wives and mothers of these men. They were terrified at what their loved ones were about to do. They also knew the terrible retributions the Romans would exact should the rebels fail.
“I think we have our answer,” he said with a deadpan smile.
Artorius heard the shouts as well, and he looked over to Cicero and his men who all looked like they were asleep while lounging in the shade of the foyer. The cries of the Judeans outside the gate immediately roused them from their heat-induced slumber.
“About time,” one of the gunners grunted as he rushed to the steps and sat behind his weapon.
“Alright lads, do not fire until the word is given,” Cicero reiterated.
Two of his men knelt behind either end of the barricade. Their sole purpose was to shove the wall over and allow the crews to engage the rebels. For now they all sat hidden and waited anxiously.
In the archway, Artorius donned his helmet and drew his gladius. The men of the Julius’ century, armed with bows, immediately ran onto the upper step and knelt behind the line of scorpions, the barricade tall enough that it masked their presence as well. Scavenging enough bows had been a challenge. Legionaries were only modest shots with the bow. Most of the Roman Army’s archers came from Syrian auxiliaries, whose marksmanship was legendary.
“If only Achillia were here with us,” Magnus chuckled. “Certainly this would be excellent sport for her.”
Artorius was unconcerned. The total distance from the steps to the outer wall was only about a hundred and fifty feet. The archers would be engaging rebels at close range in order to provide room for the infantry to form up for their assault.
“Stand ready, lads,” Artorius called over his shoulder. His voice was calm, despite the clamor that echoed beyond the main gate.
“I want to slaughter these bastards just for making us kit up in the middle of the blasted day,” a legionary behind him grunted.
“Looks like you’re about to get your chance,” the man’s decanus said as they watched dozens of maddened zealots pour into the courtyard.
Up on the wall Praxus tried to gauge just how many rebels were attacking the fortress. He reckoned their numbers to be in the hundreds. All were lightly armed with melee weapons. Perhaps they figured they would take the fortress quickly and would not need slings or other missiles.
“Brave amateurs,” he said quietly as he drew his gladius.
A pair of ox carts was rolled by a number of men towards the gate as makeshift battering rams. Since they left the gate opened, the first cart rolled right through, the second losing control and catching one of its wheels on the outside of the gatehouse. A man stood on top and was shouting orders. A legionary on the wall threw his javelin, which slammed hard into the man’s chest, sending him flying from the cart, pinning his twitching corpse to the ground. This was followed by a woman’s scream as more javelins flew from the walls, impaling many who had yet to breach the gate.
“They’re trying to take the walls, sir!” a legionary shouted from the far end as a series of grappling hooks came over the side.
A group of four men climbed over the left side, but instead of engaging the legionaries, they made for the nearest tower, which they threw a second grappling hook up. As they started their ascent, Justus and his legionaries ran along the rampart towards the gate, weapons drawn.
Yaakov looked over his shoulder as he climbed the tower, his eyes growing wide at the sight of dozens of legionaries gathering on the rampart over the main gate.
“Where did they come from?” one of his men asked, fear rising in his voice.
Yaakov started to climb quickly. He and his small group had intended to infiltrate the fortress and capture Pilate while the rest overwhelmed the garrison. With soldiers observing the crowds greeting the Nazarene’s approach, the fortress should have only had minimal protection! A sense of dread came over him as he heard the scream of one of his men being knocked off the rampart below, falling to his death.
The ox cart that made it through the gate was shoved aside as zealots flooded the courtyard, oblivious to the large numbers of legionaries that were repelling their companions from the walls of the front rampart. Massed shoulder to shoulder in the wake of their numbers, they pressed towards the steps that led into the main atrium. Towards the top, a makeshift wooden barrier was knocked down, revealing a number of scorpions, as well as a full century of archers.
“Fire!” Cicero shouted.
The heavy blades shot from his scorpions ripped through the oncoming crowd like a scythe through a shock of wheat. Each bladed bolt sliced through torsos and severed limbs, leaving a trail of death in their wake.
“That is beautiful,” the decanus remarked with dark humor.
“Archers up!” Centurion Julius and his men quickly rose.
Without waiting for subsequent commands, the archers drew back and unleashed a volley into the stunned ranks of the zealot horde. Each man quickly nocked another arrow and started shooting at rebels closest to the steps, driving the survivors back in disorder. Cicero’s scorpions unleashed another wave of death, tearing through the masses as the courtyard became saturated in the spurting blood from the fearful wounds wrought.
“Infantry advance!” Artorius called to his assembled legionaries.
A cornicen sounded the notes into his horn, both as an audio signal to those across the way, as well as a dire warning to the zealots of their impending doom.
The space in front of the steps was already littered with corpses and gravely wounded men as Julius’ archers continued to pick off those who got too close, creating a gap for the infantry to form up in. Artorius then signaled to Julius, who immediately led his men to the stairs along the right-hand wall, where they would replace Praxus and Justus on the front gate.
“The archers are advancing!” Praxus called over his shoulder to Justus. He then ordered his men, “Close that bloody gate!”
The portcullis came crashing down, impaling one hapless rebel as it sealed the fate of those still inside. Praxus’ and Justus’ legionaries severed the ropes on the grappling hooks, leaving dozens of rebels clustered outside the gate.
“Fall back!” Justus ordered his men, who filed along the left-hand wall, followed by Praxus’ men as the archers took their place.
Praxus lingered on the corner, watching as Julius ordered his legionaries to fire a volley into the massed rebels outside the gate. Those within would be finished by Artorius and the infantry.
Legionaries from both ends of the steps swarmed the field below. Artorius and the other centurions took their place on the extreme right, their options on the left. The mass of zealots had grown silent. They kept their distance, unsure of wha
t to do in the face of this wall of men and metal. The soldiers stood ready, shields close together, javelins at the ready to throw.
A young man in the crowd was filled with abject terror. He had heard those in the back yelling that the Romans had closed the gate behind them. They were completely unprepared for what they now faced. The zealots had been told the Roman forces would be preoccupied outside the city with only a small force of Pilate’s personal bodyguards manning the fortress. Where had these legionaries come from? There were hundreds of them, and he knew that he and his companions were at their mercy. Their paltry weapons could do nothing against the Romans’ shield wall or their protective armor. If only they had gotten those weapons Barabbas had promised them!
He looked into the faces of individual soldiers. A number of them were young, some perhaps no older than he was. Yet when he met their gaze, he saw that their age was the only thing they shared. While he viewed himself and his fellow zealots as men who only fought to free their people, those who faced him were not even human; their entire existence centered on killing.
“What are they waiting for?” he asked quietly.
“Barabbas will come for us, won’t he?” a nearby lad asked.
“Barabbas,” the young man scoffed. “He’s probably already dead. The Romans likely cut his throat as soon as they saw us coming for him. And what could he possibly do against that?” He pointed his weapon at the Roman line. He saw in the background behind the wall of legionaries the hated procurator, himself, standing atop the steps. Like a coward, he, too, was wearing armor. The young man tried to take a step backwards when his foot slipped out from under him. He looked down briefly and was horrified to see that he had stepped right into the splayed guts of one of his friends. As he looked up, Pilate addressed the mass.
“Rebellious scum!” he called down to them. “You have violated the peace of this city, during one of your people’s most holy of celebrations! Have we not coexisted in relative peace and goodwill? Has Rome not brought order and prosperity to your cities? And this is how you repay our charity!”
“Charity?” one zealot screamed. “You would have us be your slaves!”
Pilate grinned at the outburst and continued. “By standing before me, armed as you are, you have sentenced yourselves to oblivion! May your kinsmen learn well what happens to those who violate the peace of Rome!” He then turned to the centurion in the front rank, who was looking up at him, waiting for the order. Pilate simply nodded and walked away. The young man closed his eyes and accepted his fate.
“Front rank…throw!” Artorius shouted.
The rebels’ indecision only hastened their destruction. Centurions in each rank echoed the order and storms of javelins ripped into their enemy. The silent pause was broken by fresh screams of anguish as blood and gore sprayed forth from the terrible wounds wrought by the heavy javelins. The rest of the mob gave a unified scream of rage and charged.
“Second rank…throw!”
“Third rank…throw!”
The young rebel winced as the man next to him was skewered through the heart by a javelin. He cried out in pain as another tore through his shoulder and stuck in the rebel behind him. He fell to the ground, clutching his shoulder and crying in pain along with the other wounded that had been denied a mercifully quick death. Men trampled him as they rushed forward in a desperate bid to go down fighting against the Romans.
“Gladius…draw!” Artorius shouted.
“Rah!”
“Advance!”
The zealots made an attempt to fight back as Artorius and his legionaries slowly marched forward. Men threw themselves against the shield wall, but it was in vain. One came at him with a garden tool in a hard slash, which he easily blocked. He then smashed the rebel in the shin with the bottom of his shield, snapping the bone in two. The line was advancing quickly, and he stepped over the crippled man, allowing Magnus to finish him with a stab to the vitals.
His men fell upon their foe and killed them with contemptuous ease. This rabble was not even a worthy enemy who could readily defend themselves, and Artorius’ disdain for them fueled his anger. One man threw his curved short sword at him, which was deflected by Artorius’ shield. His face was contorted in rage; the rebel’s eyes were wide with mad scorn. The centurion walked up to him and plunged his gladius into the man’s bowels. It would have been just as easy to stab him in the heart or the throat, yet he was so filled with scorn that he did not view this scum as deserving of a quick death.
From high above, Diana held Claudia’s hand as they watched from the balcony that overlooked the main courtyard. Her younger sister winced as individual screams of pain permeated the din of the ongoing brawl. The rebels were slowly being backed towards the gate; the bodies of the slain littering the ground as the legionaries stepped on and over them. The killing continued unabated. Diana heard Pilate tell Artorius that no quarter was to be given.
“Those bastards haven’t a chance,” Diana growled with a sinister grin. Her free hand gripped the pommel of her gladius.
Were any of the rebels able to escape the wrath of Artorius and his legionaries, they would not take her without a fight!
“As strange as this may sound, I pity them,” Claudia replied as the shriek of another zealot caused her face to twitch. Down below she could make out the screaming man, who was pinned against the wall, a legionary grinding the blade of his gladius into his groin.
Her older sister gazed at her sternly. “You know that every last one of those brutes would not hesitate to rape you and cut your throat!” Diana admonished. “They are getting what they deserve! Do not show them pity, dear sister, for they would show you none.”
Claudia looked down. “I know,” she replied. “In many ways I guess I’m still a naïve little girl who still sees the best in people. I’m sorry, Diana, but I have not had to deal with men at their worst like you have.”
“And for that I’m thankful,” Diana replied, clutching her sister’s hand. “I would rather you stayed the way you are.” Out of the corner of her eye she then saw the four men scaling the tallest tower. “Wait here,” she said.
The advancing legionaries stumbled as the ground filled with dying rebels. The men in the subsequent ranks could scarcely take a step without tripping over a bloodied corpse. The formation was tightly compressed and Artorius knew that executing a passage-of-lines would be impractical. His sword arm was starting to fatigue and he could not count how many men he had slain, if indeed they could be called men. Sheep or cattle would have made a better show of themselves! At last they reached the front gate, where up above Julius and his men were sending arrows raining down upon the rebels still clambering outside the portcullis. One last rebel stood with his back against the wall, hands held up in surrender. Pilate had ordered all to be killed, and Artorius was not feeling merciful. He smashed the boss of his shield into the zealot’s face, sending him sprawling to the dirt. As he tried to stand, Artorius brought his shield down, repeatedly smashing the man’s skull until it shattered under his relentless onslaught. In a final insult, he spat on the twitching corpse.
Outside, civilians now swarmed the gate. Wives, mothers, and daughters trying desperately to drag away their men, who wailed in despair at leaving their companions to their fate. Despite the mass of women and other civilians amongst the rebels, the archers on the wall continued to fire without pity. Praxus winced as one young woman, who was trying to forcibly coax her husband away from the wall, took an arrow clean through her upper arm. She fell to the ground, her high pitched screams of pain reverberating throughout. Her husband screamed oaths of rage and started to throw rocks up at the men on the wall. One bounced off the helm of a legionary, who turned his bow on the man and with malicious glee shot him through the guts.
Though the Romans were not deliberately shooting civilians, the chaotic swarm below made it impossible not to, and several other women were badly injured or killed by stray arrows. Julius sensed the inherent danger of continuing to eng
age civilians.
“Cease fire!” he shouted.
“What gives?” his optio asked. “There are still gods know how many of those bastards down there!”
“If we keep this up, we’ll kill an equal number of civilians,” the centurion explained. “We do that and we’ll have the entire city clamoring for our heads.” Though Rome ruled Judea, he understood that several hundred legionaries, no matter how well fortified, could not withstand the uprising of an entire city.
Artorius had heard the order to cease fire given on top the rampart, and he knew the battle was now over. He looked to his left and saw his men were doing anything but celebrating. Even the pirates they had butchered two years before had at least attempted to fight back. These men were nothing but cowards who thought they could walk into a Roman fortress and kill or abduct the procurator. He then turned to his fellow centurions.
“Cornelius, have your men check the bodies and see if any of these worthless scum are still alive,” he ordered. “Round up a few of the less badly injured, and we’ll crucify them after sundown.”
“Yes, sir,” Cornelius replied as his men went about their task.
“Magnus,” Artorius said to his friend. “Have your men gather up as much of the crowd from outside as you can. Make them drag these piles of shit out of our courtyard!”
“Right away,” the Norseman responded.
“What do you want us to do?” Optio Valens asked as he walked over from the far end of the line.
The men of the First Century were drenched in sweat and completely exhausted from their ordeal, having done the vast majority of the fighting.
“Get the men inside,” Artorius directed. “Take some time and make sure they get plenty of water and cool off. We’ll have some work to do tonight, provided Cornelius finds any of these sorry bastards worth crucifying.”