by James Mace
“Justus!” Artorius said, walking over and placing a hand on his shoulder.
“How was I to know?” was all his friend would say.
Chapter XXX: Live for the King
***
The Passover season had mercifully ended, and Pontius Pilate returned to Caesarea, along with the First Italic Cohort. That a number of the Nazarene’s followers had rolled away the boulder in front of his tomb and spirited away his body did not matter; or at least it would not have, were there not numerous supposed sightings of him.
Several months had passed since the crucifixion, and it was well into summer. The numerous detections of him walking the earth, alive and well, were having an effect on many within the populace. Pilate was determined to put the issue to rest once and for all.
“If the Nazarene lives,” he stated, “Then let him come before me. Let me see the scars on his flesh, the holes in his hands and feet, and the wound to his side. If, indeed, he walks amongst us, I daresay the whole of the empire will bow before him and acknowledge him as a god among men!”
Many took the procurator’s remarks as condescending; a dare to this newest Jewish sect to produce their Messiah in the flesh before him. Those closest to him, particularly his family, knew that deep down he was afraid. What if Jesus, whose followers called the Christ, was indeed divine; a god who could not be killed by the weapons of men? Justus Longinus seemed to think he was, though he had mostly kept quiet about his feelings.
Still, he and his family were associating less with their Roman peers, and he spent more time with locals who had known Jesus of Nazareth intimately. As Justus had spent most of his career in the east, many of his friends and fellow soldiers dismissed his actions as simply those of one who was more familiar with eastern culture than with his own. And as his informant network was still very active in rooting out insurrectionists and those guilty of sedition, he kept himself immersed in these matters.
Centurion Cornelius was doing the same, although some dismissed this out of hand, due to his ongoing intimate relationship with the Judean woman, Rebekkah. That Roman soldiers had executed her brother did not appear to sway her feelings for the centurion.
Artorius rightly had his own suspicions, though he kept his thoughts to himself. In fact, he had yet to tell anyone of his own assessment of the Christ following the crucifixion. Instead of answers or assertion, all he could feel was confusion. He surmised that there were some things in this world that he simply would never understand, and he had to accept them as such. It was because of this that he avoided the subject altogether, even with Diana. And yet, it was because of the surreal nature of the Nazarene’s death and the aftermath that Artorius decided it was finally time to confide in his wife something he had never shared with anyone, and that evening he would take her on a walk along the sea.
That day Cornelius and Justus were dispatched to patrolling the area around Jamnia to the south. This was at the request of the local allied king, who was permitted control over the tiny sliver of land along the sea, much the same as Herod Antipas. Magnus and Praxus were conducting a joint maneuver exercise with Centurion Taurus’ cavalry, Julius’ men were on city patrol in Caesarea, and Artorius’ own century had the task of palace guard for the next month.
“We have enough men that we can run three shifts,” Valens noted as he went through the century’s roster. “Three squads on each shift can cover the entire palace easily enough, and that means we stand one squad down each day.”
“Make it happen,” Artorius said as he went through some other documents. “Insurrectionists keep mostly to the hills with the occasional raid on the smaller settlements, though Pilate is concerned they might become brazen enough to try and hit us here.”
“I would have thought smashing those bastards who tried to take down the Antonia Fortress would have taught them a lesson,” Valens mused.
“That will never happen,” Artorius grumbled. “These people learn what it means to defy Roman rule about as well as the Germanic barbarians we fought all those years ago.”
Once evening came, Artorius walked hand-in-hand with his wife, watching the waves glide over the sand. Diana knew what was troubling her husband, and that he had difficulty in expressing it.
“These last few months have been surreal,” she said, trying to coax him to finally open up to her.
“According to the newest sect of Judaism,” Artorius replied, “we crucified the Son of God, yet he still lives. I cannot say for certain that I believe this, but I have witnessed some things that can never be explained.”
“Such as?” Diana only persisted because she knew Artorius longed to tell her what had lain dormant within him for many years, since before they’d even met.
“It was after the Triumph of Germanicus,” Artorius explained, already feeling a great weight coming off his chest, though he could not fathom how his wife would react to his story. “Eight years had passed since the death of my brother, and yet I saw him.”
He went on to tell her about how after the Triumphal parade, while walking along a hill path alone, he’d met another legionary and spoken to him at length. The man was not just a Roman soldier, but the soul of his long-departed brother. He spoke very quickly, and as soon as he finished he felt like he was out of breath. Diana remained silent for some time, trying to comprehend her husband’s tale.
“I have never spoken of this to anyone,” Artorius emphasized, “Lest they think I’m mad. I daresay, you probably think I’ve lost my mind.”
“No,” Diana replied, slowly shaking her head and giving his hand a squeeze of reassurance. “Given the fantastic turn of events we’ve witnessed, my mind does not know what to think. My heart, however, believes you. And that is enough for me, my love.”
It was a routine patrol, stopping all who passed along the stretch of road leading from Jamnia to Joppa, and searching them for weapons and other contraband. After the release of Barabbas, Pilate was anxious to keep what remained of the rebels from reorganizing.
Both centuries encamped on the side of a hill that overlooked the main road. Despite its relatively flat appearance, the terrain was so rough that the only feasible way for carts to travel was on the dirt road that had been used for a thousand years already. A squad of legionaries waited at either end of the road with merchants and travelers reluctantly having their cargo and persons searched.
“Not exactly endearing ourselves to the populace,” Cornelius noted as he and Justus watched some of their soldiers searching the caravan wagon of a well-dressed merchant.
“Sedition and rebellion are rife in this province,” Justus replied. “And with every new sect that arises, more crazy zealots find yet another reason to take up arms against Rome.”
“At least the Nazarene’s sect taught peace and understanding,” Cornelius noted.
“That he did,” Justus replied. “Some of his followers I am not so sure about, though. The same arrogance that permeates much of the Jewish religious hierarchy infests them as well. I can’t help but wonder if the message will eventually be lost altogether.”
It was easier for Justus to speak with Cornelius about these matters. Whatever Artorius may have said at the crucifixion itself, he was not willing to discuss the matter further. For Justus Longinus, the centurion who had blasphemed against all gods after the death of his son, it was a type of awakening for him. Cornelius understood this, as he had heard the Nazarene speak on numerous occasions and was moved by his words.
“Rebekkah calls herself one of his followers,” he said at length.
“And do you?” Justus asked.
Before Cornelius could answer, they were interrupted by one of the legionaries from the checkpoint.
“Beg your pardon, sirs. A man has just ridden up who says he’s one of Centurion Justus’ informants.”
“Bring him up,” Justus ordered as he and Cornelius retired into his oversized tent.
The two centurions sat around a small table as legionaries escorted the Judean
in. He was a middle-aged man with a scar running down the left side of his face, past a sightless eye. He was clean shaven, though his hair was long and pulled back. He wore a traditional head scarf, which he unwrapped from around his face.
“My Lord Centurion,” he said with a bow.
“Amir,” Justus acknowledged. He knew it was not the man’s real name, but then he did not care what his informants were called, only that they did the job he paid them to do, discreetly and effectively.
“I have the information regarding a secret anti-Roman society lurking in Joppa.”
“And?”
“They are few in number, but they have a man who is promising them Roman weapons,” Amir stated. “I think he is someone you are familiar with.”
“Barabbas,” Justus growled as he crept along the low ditch next to the small wheat field.
It was almost midnight, and even from a distance he could clearly see the renegade’s face as the door was opened to the small, one-room stucco farmhouse.
“I followed him after his release,” Amir explained quietly. “It would seem time in your prisons only made him even more brazen. He’s found a few local contacts in this area, including the owner of this paltry farm.”
“Alright.” Justus signaled to his nearest decanus, who passed it down the line. As silently as they were able, his entire century encircled the house, creeping along, with the occasional bleating of a goat startling them for a moment.
“Weapons!” a voice said from within, as Justus leaned against the wall near an open window. “We need weapons! Your men attacked the Antonia Fortress without proper arms, and they were slaughtered because of it.”
“I can get your arms,” Barabbas replied. “We’ll make our own if necessary.”
Hearing all he needed to, Justus waved to one of his men, who smashed in the door with his foot. Legionaries on the far side of the house kicked in the other entrance as well.
“What is the meaning of this?” the old man, whose house it was, demanded.
“Weapons?” Justus asked, his eyes cold with rage. He eyed the table, which held a number of Jewish holy books. “You claim to be devout people of peace, yet you speak of sedition and murder.” He then looked over at Barabbas and grinned sinisterly. “Hello, Barabbas. We meet again.”
The trial of the seditionists had been brief and expedient. The old man’s farmhouse and plot of land were confiscated, while he and the others were sentenced to death by crucifixion. Pilate considered commuting their sentences to prison time, but reasoned that as soon as they were released they would simply find another zealot group to join and would be plotting to take up arms against Rome once more. By handing down the most severe punishment available, the intent was to deter others. There was one man, however, that would not be going to the cross.
“Jesus bar Abbas,” Pilate said as he paced in front of the wretched man. He’d been beaten severely by Justus and his soldiers, though per Pilate’s directive, they made certain there was no lasting damage. “You have been found guilty once again of plotting to sell weapons to insurrectionists, a capital crime. However, because you have previously received the emperor’s pardon, you cannot be given the death penalty.”
“Piss on you, Roman,” Barabbas slurred through his swollen and bloodied lips.
Artorius stepped over quickly and slammed his fist into the renegade’s stomach, doubling him over and dropping him to his knees. He began coughing violently and spewing up bile.
“As I was saying,” Pilate continued. “I cannot nail you to the cross. However, I can give you a sentence that will make you wish I had. Centurion Artorius, where did you say we should send this vile excuse of a man?”
“Mauretania,” the centurion replied. “Let him live out his days in the sulfur mines.”
“Yes,” Pilate said, grinning as Barabbas looked up at him, eyes wide. “Once you go down into the dark, you will gaze upon the sun no more. The sulfur will burn your skin, your mouth, your tongue; it will blind you within months. Within a year, provided you still live, you will have been driven completely mad. You are the vilest of scum, Barabbas! The teacher, Jesus of Nazareth, was a righteous man who had done no wrong. He died in your place, and this was how you repaid him!”
For the first time, a look of understanding crossed Barabbas face, and his eyes became wet with sorrow; not for his sentence, but for what he had done. In perhaps the only instance in his life, as the soldiers drug him away, he shed tears of remorse.
Chapter XXXI: Days of Rage
Caesarea, Judea
November, 36 A.D.
***
An unusual period of relative peace came to pass over the province, following the summer of strange sightings of the deceased Nazarene and the dispatching of Barabbas to the mines of Mauretania. Caiaphas and the Sanhedrin, while still a constant irritant, had quieted their openly hostile rhetoric towards Pontius Pilate and the Roman government. Indeed, almost three years passed before another crisis emerged.
“Another bloody prophet,” the procurator swore under his breath.
“Only this one’s armed,” Taurus replied.
Pilate shook his head and walked over to the table, slamming his fist down hard. “He calls himself Taheb, which means ‘restorer’. Many Samaritans are calling him their Messiah.”
“Your entire cavalry regiment is made up of Samaritans,” Artorius observed.
“That is true,” Taurus admitted. “However, my men are loyal to their oaths. Almost all have heard this Taheb’s words, yet they remain firm in their allegiance.”
“Jove damn them!” Pilate snapped. “That’s all we need is thousands of armed Samaritans causing a fucking riot!”
“Or worse, starting an insurrection,” Justus added.
“How many men do we have available?” Pilate asked his assembled military leaders.
“I have two cohorts of infantry available,” Abenader replied.
Knowing he would need reinforcements, Pilate had sent for the commander of the Jerusalem garrison to bring what forces he could spare.
“My regiment has been reinforced and is totaling about four hundred and fifty cavalry,” Taurus added.
“The First Legionary Cohort is battle ready,” Artorius asserted.
“Give or take the strength of the Auxilia cohorts, that gives us a total fighting strength of about eighteen hundred men,” Pilate said after a short pause. “There is just one problem that I see.” He then turned to Abenader, whose face bore a look of puzzlement.
“Sir, if you are questioning the loyalty of my men…”
“They have shown great improvement in discipline and training,” Artorius interrupted in a rare defense of Abenader. “That being said, this whole region is so bloody tribal that can we be assured they will turn their weapons on their own people?”
“My men know where their loyalties lie,” Abenader asserted. “You do not question Centurion Taurus’ cavalry, so I’d expect you not to question those under my command.” He was indignant that after all this time the quality of his soldiers was still being called into question.
“Let us hope it does not come to that,” Pilate added. “I do not want another bloodbath on our hands like we had at the Antonia Fortress. Still, we cannot allow an armed mob to run rampant. These people know the law, and it is up to us to remind them of it.”
“And these people carry not just butchers cleavers and farming tools,” Taurus added. “They are armed with proper weapons to be sure.”
“A pity then, that the arms dealers we struck down three years ago did not sway others from doing the same,” Pilate lamented.
“We may have an armed insurrection brewing,” Artorius said. “The Governor of Egypt warned us last year that there was growing anti-Roman sentiment in the region. Should we then inform the Legate of Syria, in case we need reinforcements?”
“I do not wish to have my first meeting with Vitellius involve me crawling on my knees, begging for help,” Pilate retorted.
&n
bsp; Flaccus had returned to Rome after his initial three-year tour was complete and had elected not to extend his time in the east. His replacement was Lucius Vitellius, who had served as consul just two years before. His power and influence was vast, and the last thing Pilate needed was appearing weak before the man who could most positively or adversely affect his career since Sejanus.
“Well, if this goes bad, you won’t need to go begging to Vitellius on your knees,” Artorius mused, “You’re head will probably be on a Samaritan spear.”
“Somebody explain to me why this bloody hill is so important,” Valens vented as the cohort marched towards Mount Gerizim.
Taurus and his cavalry were screening their front and sending out reconnaissance patrols. It was the largest combined force assembled together since Pilate’s arrival in Judea more than ten years before.
The procurator was in full armor and in command of the taskforce. It had been many years since Pilate had taken to the field, and though most of his time was spent as an artillery officer, he had lost none of his ability to lead and coordinate large numbers of soldiers. In reality, there were only three men he had to give orders to directly; Artorius, Abenader, and Taurus.
“According to Samaritan tradition, it is the one place not swallowed up in the Great Flood,” Cornelius explained.
All centurions and options rode together, along with Pilate, at the head of the long column of legionaries. Abenader also rode with them; his first cohort marching ahead of the legionaries, the other behind.
“It’s not even that big of a hill,” Magnus observed. “And what great flood exactly are they talking about?”