James Mace - Soldier of Rome - Journey to Judea

Praxus grinned and shook his head.

“Not exactly the dignified approach of a divine prophet,” the centurion remarked.

“Well, if he is divine, at least he’s harmless,” Artorius conjectured. “He tells the people to respect authority and show kindness to each other. And now he just might unwittingly lead an entire horde of zealots into our hands. He preaches peace yet helps us make war. Ironic.”

“Did the scouts say how many people thronged the roads?” Praxus asked.

“They couldn’t say for certain, but it was, without a doubt, in the thousands.”

“And of those left here, I wonder how many wish to spill our blood,” Praxus said as he watched the chaos of city below them.

Though many had gone to see the Nazarene’s arrival, still many more went about their business.

“This has always been an uneasy peace,” Artorius answered.

“I’ll be disappointed if those zealot bastards stand us up,” a nearby legionary remarked.

“So will I,” Artorius replied, giving the soldier a friendly smack on the shoulder before descending the wall. He then walked across the vast courtyard and ascended the short flight of steps to where a large barricade had been hastily erected.

Hidden behind them were Sergeant Cicero and six scorpion crews.

“How are your men doing, sergeant?” Artorius asked as he knelt down beside his armorer.

“Cooking in this damned heat, sir,” the decanus replied. “I wish those brigands would make up their minds already.”

Artorius checked with each of the crews, who expressed similar displeasure about the rebels needing to hurry up and attack already, before returning to his own position.

“Alright,” Artorius said, “check your weapons, make sure they are loaded and ready to fire. Then pull your men into the foyer and out of the heat.”

“Right away!” The scorpion crews were not going to argue about getting into the shade.

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.