by James Mace
“Many cultures in the region speak of it in their mythology,” Cornelius continued. “The Jews, Samaritans, Babylonians; all have stories of when God flooded the earth in a rage and wiped out most of mankind.”
“Well, that’s certainly cheerful,” Pilate remarked dryly. “And no disrespect to Centurion Taurus, but all of his cavalry are Samaritans!”
“About half of the auxiliary infantry are as well,” Artorius added.
There was a noticeable tension in the air.
“In other words,” Magnus replied, “if the auxiliaries elect not to turn on their brethren, we’re pretty much fucked.”
“That sums it up,” Pilate said with a macabre grin. He then looked over at his auxilia centurion. “No disrespect to you, Abenader. But even if they don’t openly turn on us, should the auxiliaries refuse to fight, one cohort of legionaries cannot possibly withstand the onslaught of four thousand men when caught out in the open.”
“You realize we’ve gone this entire time without a single fatality within the cohort,” Magnus observed. “It would be a shame if all of us die today or tomorrow.”
Mount Gerizim lay just thirty miles from Caesarea, along the main road between Judea and Galilee. Pilate’s forces had left in the afternoon two days before the expected ascent of Gerizim by the armed force of pilgrims. As they approached the mountain the night before the climb, they were met by Centurion Taurus and members of his cavalry.
“Taheb and his men are all encamped in the village of Tirathana, not far from here,” he said as he rode up to Pilate and saluted. “I sent scouts under cover into the village, and they are all there, celebrating the liberation of their sacred mountain.”
“And are they armed?” Pilate asked.
“They are,” Taurus confirmed. “They have mostly spears, smaller curved swords, with bucklers for shields. A few of the leaders even have hamata chain armor.”
“It’s as we suspected,” Artorius said.
Pilate gave a nod.
“To our advantage,” Taurus continued, “they do not know of our approach. They may have seen some of my cavalrymen, but as they are fellow Samaritans who frequently patrol this road, they likely paid them no mind. From what we gathered, they have no knowledge of your force’s approach.”
“We best not try to blockade the village,” Artorius spoke up. “It is too large to encircle with the small force we have, plus then we would not be able to mass our numbers.”
“Agreed,” Pilate replied. “We’ll bivouac on the far side of the mountain under the cover of darkness. That means no cooking fires tonight. All of us will have to eat our rations cold. In the morning we will be waiting for them.”
The next morning Artorius had his legionaries formed up in the center behind Pilate. Each century was operating independently with their soldiers four ranks deep. He had placed his First Century in the very center of the formation. Abenader’s Auxilia infantry were on the flanks, with Taurus’ cavalry covering the wings approximately one hundred meters off to each side. The slope was steep enough that it would give legionary javelins greater reach, as well as allowing for momentum should they need to attack. The ever-present sun shone down on them, the reflection off their armor glared into the faces of the advancing Samaritans.
The horde of ‘pilgrims’ radiated pure hostility and contempt for the Romans. Those closest to their leader brandished their weapons. Most carried short, Arabian curved swords, with small wicker shields. There could be no doubt that this was a mob ready for battle. There were many chants and prayers emanating from the throng, in a language that Artorius could not understand. Yet even if they were calls for peace, their tone was sinister and threatening.
Pontius Pilate stood well in front of his assembled soldiers, Artorius and Abenader on each side, a step behind him. He wore his tribune’s armor of gleaming muscled cuirass breastplate with white leather straps hanging off the shoulders. His gleaming helmet bore its tall feathered crest that ran front-to-back. It was the same armor he’d worn all those years ago, when he and Artorius first served together on the Rhine. Though polished and well maintained, the scouring told of countless battles the procurator had seen long before he stepped into politics.
“Halt!” he shouted, raising his hand.
“You defile our mountain with the presence of your soldiers,” a man they guessed to be Taheb said as he stepped forward, a handful of bodyguards at his sides.
“It is you who defiles this place,” Pilate retorted calmly.
On either end, the cavalry slowly started to advance, making their way towards the flanks of the Samaritan force. “This is supposed to be a holy pilgrimage, which are more than welcome in these lands. But no other force of wayfarers comes armed such as yourselves. This is an army, and an illegal one at that. If you wish to continue on your excursion, then lay down your arms immediately!”
“Ha!” Taheb retorted. “And why should we? If we lay down our weapons, your men will attack us!”
There were mutterings of consent from the assembled mass, coupled with jeers and insults shouted towards Pilate.
“I promise no harm will come to you,” the procurator emphasized. “But I cannot allow any armed force to pass!”
“You would have us enslaved like our brethren who wear your cursed uniforms!” one of the men next to Taheb shouted.
The so-called Samaritan Messiah decided in an instant to end the discussion. “I’ll save our people, even if I have to martyr myself!” he screamed as he drew his sword and lunged towards Pilate.
The procurator quickly drew his gladius and stepped back. His foe’s sword slashed against the cheek guard of his helmet.
“Shit!” Artorius swore as he and Abenader drew their gladii.
Each stepped forward to protect Pilate, driving their weapons into the vitals of the men on either side of Taheb, who had stumbled forward from the momentum of his attack. Pilate sprang forward and stabbed him through the throat. The prophet’s eyes grew wide in disbelief as he fell to his knees. He choked up gouts of blood, which also gushed from his ruptured neck. Pilate spat on him as he and his centurions quickly backed away. The mob of Samaritans was momentarily stunned at the sudden slaying of their savior.
“Javelins…volley by ranks!” Artorius shouted. He did not know if the enemy’s shock would turn to rage and was not going to give them any chance of seizing the initiative. He also knew he had to smash them quickly, in case the auxiliaries wavered. And even if they held their ground, the horde still had them substantially outnumbered.
“Front rank…throw!” Valens shouted.
A storm of javelins sailed over the top of Pilate and the centurions, who sprinted up the hill. Artorius immediately took his place on the extreme right of his century; Abenader and Pilate to his left. The auxilia centurion stayed close to the procurator, acting as a personal bodyguard. Decanii within the century gave subsequent orders and several more volleys of javelins rained down upon the Samaritans. On either side, the rest of the cohort was raining down its own storm of death on their hapless foe. Artorius turned around just in time to see a mob gathering around their dead prophet, wailing in sorrow and rage, cut down by the wave of death that descended upon them. Javelins tore into their flesh, their wicker shields proving all but useless against the storm of death. In his peripherals, Artorius saw the other centuries unleashing their remaining salvos of javelins.
“Gladius…draw!”
“Rah!”
It had been three years since his men had drawn their blades in anger. The arrogance of these so-called ‘people of God’ enraged them. For a sect that claimed to be one of peace, they were quick to turn to violence.
“Charge!”
The order was followed by a continuous shout as the legionaries stormed down the hill. They smashed into the Samaritan horde, shields bowling those closest to them over. To his right, Artorius could sense the men from Praxus’ Century crashing into their enemy. By this time the Samaritans had recovered from the assault
and began to fight back against the hated Romans.
Still up on the hill, Pilate and Abenader watched the battle unfold. Pilate’s head was bowed slightly. He had come to attempt a peaceful resolution and had failed.
“Sir, look!” As Abenader pointed to his right, Pilate saw the auxiliary cavalry riding parallel to the enemy flank.
At first he wasn’t sure if they were simply abandoning the field, but then they immediately conducted a hard left turn and charged into the Samaritan flank. He looked to his left and saw the cavalry on that wing executing a similar maneuver. The infantry had also attacked and were fighting alongside the legionaries. He then breathed a sigh of relief.
“I told you my men would remain loyal,” the centurion asserted.
“You have my gratitude, Abenader,” Pilate replied.
Below, the enemy horde was breaking. In a matter of minutes it was over. The Samaritans broke and ran. The legionary and auxiliary infantry pursued as far as the bottom of the hill. The cavalry continued and slaughtered many as they tried to flee. Abenader’s face twitched. The horsemen were so anxious to prove themselves to the Romans that they needlessly continued the killing long after the issue was decided. It was the one confounding issue Taurus had always said about his men; they would always fight, but often not know when to stop.
“We’ve taken over five hundred prisoners,” Magnus said as he joined the senior leaders at their camp.
Several oxcarts had been brought on the journey and were now laden with arms taken from the Samaritan dead. The wailing of grieving wives and mothers echoed throughout the landscape. The Romans were camped several miles from the battlefield, and yet the cries of the grief-stricken still permeated their senses.
“Well done,” Pilate replied.
A servant handed the centurion a goblet of wine, and the procurator proposed a toast. “Gentlemen, to the suppression of insurrection before it had a chance to begin.”
The men all drank thirstily and Pilate then addressed Centurion Taurus. “Your men proved their loyalty today, and for that I am grateful.”
“Thank you, sir,” Taurus replied.
“They probably killed a couple hundred more than necessary,” Pilate continued, “But I am not going to lose any sleep over the bodies of rebellious scum.”
“Nor should you!” a voice said boisterously.
The assembled officers were surprised to see it was Caiaphas, along with members of the Sanhedrin. He was grinning broadly, which was something Artorius had never recalled seeing.
“Caiaphas,” Pilate grumbled. “What are you doing here?”
“We received word of the troubles,” the high priest explained. “And once I heard that the rebels were routed, I wished to come congratulate you on your great victory.”
“Given how much your people and the Samaritans hate each other,” Artorius observed, “it is hardly surprising that you would celebrate their slaughter.”
“Please,” Caiaphas replied, raising his hands in resignation. “I know we’ve had our differences and doubtless will continue to. However, I am willing to admit that you have kept the peace over the past three years, and with the destruction of this rebellious army, you have maintained that harmony.”
The continuing cries of mourning loved ones of the slain added a macabre accent to the high priest’s words.
“Then perhaps you will join us for a drink,” Pilate said, signaling a servant to offer the priest a cup of wine.
“So what will you have us do with the prisoners?” Magnus asked.
“We’ll execute the leaders and any who cause further trouble,” Pilate said without hesitation.
“Ah, now that I will drink to,” Caiaphas said with a chuckle as he held his wine cup high.
Chapter XXXII: Bitter Departures
***
Reports of the Battle of Mount Gerizim would take several weeks at minimum to reach Rome, and as Pilate did not foresee any ill consequences to come of it, he elected to take Claudia on a long awaited holiday. If anything, he felt that a commendation from Vitellius, the senate, or perhaps even the emperor would be waiting for him. It was with great shock that he received different news altogether when he returned to Caesarea more than two months later.
The man’s name was Marcellus, and it was known that he was a close friend of Vitellius. He had not traveled alone, but rather brought an entire entourage of bureaucrats, freedmen, and staff. And as Marcellus had expressly forbidden Artorius or any of Pilate’s friends from breaking the news to him, his words completely took the procurator off guard.
“Pontius Pilate,” the man said. “I am here as your replacement, by order of Lucius Vitellius, on the authority of the Emperor Tiberius Caesar.”
“Replacement?” Pilate said aghast. “What is the meaning of this?”
“A number of issues,” Marcellus explained, with a certain trace of arrogance in his voice.
Claudia clutched her husband’s hand as they listened to their entire world come crashing down. “It culminated with the slaughter of the Samaritan pilgrims…”
“Now see here!” Pilate snapped. “Those ‘pilgrims’ were armed for battle. We acted in self-defense and, by doing so, suppressed a potential revolt!”
“Perhaps,” Marcellus said patronizingly. “However, it was not I who ordered your removal. I am simply your successor. And as I was saying, Legate Vitellius was specifically informed by the emperor a number of months ago that after eleven years you were perhaps wearing out your usefulness in the province. There have been numerous complaints by the Sanhedrin over the years, as well as Herod Antipas. Granted, Vitellius took little heed of our client king’s rebukes, knowing his ulterior motives for trying to make himself legitimate king of all Judea. However, this latest slaughter of the Samaritans proved your undoing. The Council of Samaria petitioned Vitellius personally, and it is by his order that you are hereby relieved.”
“But surely…” Pilate protested. “How could he depose me without allowing me to plead my case?”
“As I said,” Marcellus answered with a bored sigh, “The emperor felt your usefulness was played out in the east anyway. It is likely Vitellius would have relieved you even if he had thought your actions appropriate. And since any appeal of his decision would go through the emperor, his directive is if you take umbrage with his decision, then you need to take it up with Tiberius.”
“I understand,” Pilate said quietly, still in shock, the gravity of what had just transpired beginning to sink in. He guided Claudia by the hand and they started to leave the office.
“Oh, and one last thing,” Marcellus said. “Vitellius may not wish to see you, but he has demanded that the commander of the First Italic Cohort report to him at once.”
Artorius had never even met the Legate of Syria, and now he stood before him, awaiting his judgment on his disciplinary case. With Pilate deposed, Vitellius was the only man of sufficient rank to pass judgment on the conduct of Artorius and his legionaries. He had left Caesarea with all possible speed once Pilate had informed him of the legate’s directive. Artorius had traveled alone, knowing that Antioch, where Vitellius governed from, was a week’s ride by horse. As such, he had said his farewells to Pilate and Claudia. Their presence was no longer welcome, and they were hastening their own departure.
The centurion was both angered and nervous. He had not been arrested, so he presumed he was not being criminally charged. By the same token, he was indignant at having to answer before a disciplinary hearing because he made a quick decision that ultimately saved the Governor of Judea’s life. As he had arrived in Antioch in the evening, he took the opportunity to try and catch a night’s rest, while thoroughly bathing and polishing up his armor for his meeting with the legate in the morning.
“Centurion Artorius reporting, sir,” he said with a sharp salute as he stepped into the hall, his helmet tucked under his arm.
There was a long table on a short dais, yet the only person occupying it was Legate Vitellius. There wer
e no tribunes, senior centurions, not even a clerk. While the reason may have been simply a matter of Artorius not falling under their chain-of-command, he would have felt at least partially reassured if the tribunal contained at least one of his fellow centurions. As it was, the legate alone would decide his fate.
“Stand at ease, centurion,” Vitellius replied.
It frustrated Artorius because he could not judge the governor’s demeanor one way or the other. On the one hand, he had dismissed Pilate by simply sending a message with his replacement, yet he had granted Artorius a hearing in person. He knew very little about Vitellius, other than he was a former consul. The legate had only held his posting for two years and had never as much as visited Judea. Therefore Artorius could not begin to surmise where he might stand with him. All he knew was that his fate now rested in the legate’s hands.
“I’ve read the official reports,” Vitellius began, “to include your own detailed description of the action that took place on 16 November. Much to the chagrin of the Samaritan delegation, I can find nothing criminal to prosecute you with. As Pilate was the emperor’s personal appointee, I felt it right that he judge the procurator himself. As a legionary centurion pilus prior, your fate has been left to me.” He paused to let the words sink in. His demeanor still betrayed nothing.
Artorius could not fathom what Vitellius would do. Reduction in rank or dismissal from the army would require a criminal court martial, and the legate already said he had done nothing criminally liable.
“Yes, sir,” was all he elected to say.
He would let Vitellius lay it out before forming any sort of rebuttal.
“You must understand,” Vitellius continued, “that while the equite procurator governs independently, both Syria and Judea are ultimately my responsibility. Pilate was governor, and during Lamia’s tenure he was granted a large amount of autonomy. However, with Syria now under my governorship, it fell upon me as the emperor’s representative to act upon any crises that proved unmanageable for Pilate. Same can be said of his replacement, Marcellus. He, too, will have to answer to me, should he fail to maintain order within Judea. As for the current situation, over a thousand Samaritans lay dead, slaughtered by your men.”