False God of Rome

CHAPTER VII

The sun had burst over the horizon and there was now enough light to be able to see any ambushes that may be lurking up the narrow alleys to the left and the right of the barricaded road. Looking ahead to the barricade of overturned carts, barrels and broken-up furniture, Vespasian could see a mass of men behind it; a few heads peered over, back towards the Romans. The houses beyond them were more dilapidated than in the rest of the city, attesting to the poverty of the Jewish Quarter.

‘Order the advance, Festus,’ he called to the auxiliary prefect standing next to him at the head of the first century, formed up eight abreast.

Magnus handed him an oval auxiliary shield. ‘I can’t believe that they’re going to be stupid enough to resist us.’

‘They’re desperate — since the silphium started to fail they’ve been getting poorer and poorer. Now they believe this liar who tells them that if they kill two children then all their woes will disappear as their god will restore the crop.’

A cornu blared out four, deep, rumbling notes, and the signiferi of each century dipped their standards; the attack began.

‘Shields up!’ Festus shouted.

Fifty paces from the barricade Vespasian heard the tell-tale hiss of a volley of arrows.

Vespasian tightened his grip on his shield and hunched down behind it so that he could just see over its curved rim; he felt the auxiliary behind him raise his shield over his head and prayed that the man was experienced enough to hold it firm. An instant later came the staccato hammering of many iron-tipped arrows thumping into the leather-covered wooden roof above the century’s heads. A few screams from within the ranks confirmed the lesser effectiveness of the oval shields in forming a perfect cover and the inexperience of some of the auxiliaries holding them.

The pounding of the soldiers’ hobnailed sandals striking the paving stones in step reverberated off the brick walls to either side and around the makeshift wooden box encasing them.

‘The fucking racing factions never shot arrows at us,’ Magnus grumbled loudly beside him as two barbs from a second volley slammed into his shield with a sudden, double, vibrating report.

Vespasian felt the wind of a shot passing between the curved rims of his and Magnus’ shields; with a gurgled cry the auxiliary behind him collapsed to the ground, his shield striking Vespasian’s helmet with a ringing blow as he fell. He shook his head to clear it; a moment later he sensed another shield being thrust over him as the file behind closed up to seal the gap.

With twenty paces to go a third volley buffeted the century.

‘Javelins ready; aim over the barricade,’ Festus shouted as the last shots pounded into them. ‘Shields down!’

The auxiliaries hefted their javelins overarm, ready to throw.

‘Release!’

Seventy or so sleek missiles soared away from the advancing century, most clearing the top of the barricade, to rain down upon the unshielded defenders as they reloaded. Although not as heavy as a legionary pilum, the auxiliaries’ javelins crunched through unprotected chests and skulls and skewered arms and legs, hurling men to the ground with bursts of blood and howls of pain.

A ragged volley of arrows followed without doing any damage to the advancing Romans.

‘Charge!’ Festus yelled over the screams of the wounded.

Drawing their swords, the auxiliaries broke into a trot, hunched behind their shields held firm before them.

Vespasian closed his eyes with the shock of impact as his shield crashed into the barricade; the auxiliary behind thrust his shield into his back pushing him forward as the weight of successive men down the file was added to the momentum. With a rasping of wood grating roughly over stone, the barricade shifted back a few feet, and then suddenly splintered apart as the century behind added their impetus to the heaving scrum. Gasping for breath, Vespasian was hurled forward among the flying debris of the disintegrating obstacle; his feet became entangled with a plank, sending him sprawling forward. He just managed to duck under the wild sword thrust of a bellowing defender and rammed the raised plume of his helmet into the man’s groin. Clattering to the ground, Vespasian felt the auxiliary behind him thrust his sword into the exposed chest of his screaming adversary as he stepped past to fill the gap that his fall had created.

All around him Roman legs surged forward as he tried to regain his feet in among the chaos of the breakthrough. The yelling auxiliaries did not notice him in their eagerness to close with the poorly armed defenders, and his arms and legs suffered kicks and stampings before he was finally able to heave himself up and then move on to rejoin the surge.

Clearing the shattered barricade, he kept moving forward and realised that the enemy must have fled under the onslaught. His thought was confirmed a moment later by the low boom of a cornu sounding ‘halt’.

He pushed through the panting auxiliaries, up to the front of the first century where he found Festus looking at a dozen or so prisoners kneeling fearfully on the ground amid the bloody litter of their dead comrades.

‘Ah, quaestor, there you are,’ the prefect said, looking relieved to see him, ‘what do you want me to do with these? I was just about to have them executed.’

‘No, leave them alive, prefect; if the Jews see that we’re taking prisoners they might think it sensible to give up this ridiculous affair. Detail one of the less steady centuries to guard them and then let’s fan the other ones out through the quarter and get this over with. Let all the centurions know that from now on I want as little killing as possible, and no women or children are to be harmed under any circumstances.’

As the first century moved deeper into the Jewish Quarter the scale of the killing became increasingly apparent; bodies lay everywhere either in groups marking the position of a fight or singly as if cut down in an attempt to escape. Most of them were male of varying ages but Vespasian saw a few women and children; however, none looked to him like the ones who had accompanied Shimon.

Working their way methodically down the main street, with the other centuries taking parallel routes, they had managed to break up a few skirmishes and relieve some houses under siege, sending the beleaguered occupants to safety, taking scores of prisoners and killing the more persistent rioters of either side. As the morning wore on the combined efforts of the cohort were forcing the violence into a smaller and smaller area.

‘These Jews must fucking hate this new cult,’ Magnus said, kicking a hairy, severed forearm towards the body that had evidently once owned it. ‘I can’t understand it. Just think of the chaos we’d have if we spent our time fighting among ourselves about whether Mars should have a black bull sacrificed to him and Jupiter should have a white one or the other way round; we’d never get anything done.’

Vespasian stepped to his left to avoid treading in the spilled intestines of a gutted youth. ‘And there would be a lot fewer of us. No one can take offence because they feel that their favoured god receives less respect than someone else’s when we give every god equal credence. And thank the gods, in equal measure, of course, that we do.’

‘Which leaves us free to conquer the world,’ Magnus chuckled as raucous shouting started to emanate from somewhere close by.

‘We’ve had our own share of civil wars, don’t forget; but they at least were political and I would suppose that it’s far easier to bridge a political divide than a religious one. According to Sabinus the Jews spend all their time squabbling with each other about religious doctrine, which is probably one reason why they never had an empire, thank the gods; imagine living in a world with this sort of religious intolerance? It would be…’

‘Intolerable?’

‘Precisely,’ Vespasian agreed, grinning as the main street turned a sharp corner and then opened out into the small agora that was at the heart of the Jewish Quarter.

‘Shit!’ Festus spat as the source of the shouting became obvious. ‘Centurion Regulus, have the century form line here and send a couple of runners to get the nearest two centuries to come and support us at the double.’

‘Sir!’ the primus pilus of the cohort barked, saluting smartly before turning to carry out his orders.

Before them, just fifty paces away, was a crowd of at least four hundred rioters concentrating their attention on three houses at the far end of the agora, one of which had already started to burn. Black smoke swirled around the mob.

The first century streamed in from the main street and formed up, with a clatter of hobnails, two deep across its entrance as the first of the rioters became aware of their presence. With a roar the rear elements of the crowd began to peel off and move towards the thin auxiliary line, brandishing swords, clubs and bows.

Loud shouts from either side of him drew Vespasian’s attention; a century emerged from each of the two parallel streets and quickly formed up on either flank of the first century.

The lead rioters stopped in their tracks, not wanting to engage with over two hundred armed and shielded soldiers, while those at the back pressed on, compacting the crowd as more and more of the men at the front refused to move forward.

At a shouted order from Festus, a cornu sounded; with a resounding clash of swords on shields, the auxiliaries of the three centuries stamped their left legs forward, thrust their shields in front of them and pulled their blades back, to their right hips, angled slightly up, ready to do their deadly work.

‘They seem to be getting the hang of it,’ Magnus commented from behind his shield, surprised by the near unison of the manoeuvre.

‘Their blood’s up,’ Vespasian said, watching a short man push his way out of the crowd. ‘That looks like the agitator that Menahem described; he’s got a nerve showing himself.’

‘Who commands here?’ the man shouted at the Romans.

‘I do,’ Vespasian called back, stepping forward from the line but keeping his guard up.

‘Meet me in the centre,’ the man ordered, moving forward on his bow legs.

‘Why should I parley with you, Jew?’ Vespasian asked, disliking intensely the presumption of the man. ‘Tell your men to put down their weapons and then we’ll talk.’

‘Are you Titus Flavius Vespasianus, quaestor of this province?’

‘I am,’ Vespasian replied in surprise.

‘Well, quaestor, I suggest you talk to me,’ the man said flatly, stopping midway between the two sides.

With the choice between meeting the Jew or fighting immediately, Vespasian walked forward, wondering what this little man with his imperious attitude could possibly have to say to quell the riots. ‘My name is Gaius Julius Paulus, a citizen of Rome,’ Paulus said. He pulled a scroll out of a bag hanging from his belt, with a self-important sneer. ‘I hold a commission from the High Priest in Jerusalem, ratified in the name of the Emperor by Pilatus, the prefect of Judaea, and Flaccus, prefect of Egypt. It was also countersigned by your direct superior, Severus Severianus, the Governor of this province, when I visited him in Gortyna last month to ask permission to do my work in this province. Now will you parley?’

Vespasian looked at the odiously smug little man; half his right ear was missing, confirming that he had been the agitator who had started the riot. ‘I don’t give a fuck who’s signed your little piece of papyrus, Jew,’ he snarled back, unable to control his aversion to him, ‘you’ve started three days of rioting and caused many deaths; I can’t imagine that anyone has given you authority to do that.’

‘I am charged to do everything necessary to stamp out the heresy promoted by Yeshua, which his followers call “The Way”. I am further charged with ensuring that all large communities of Jews understand that this new cult is unacceptable and will be the cause of misery for God’s people.’

‘Like the rubbish that you spread about it being responsible for the silphium failing?’

Paulus looked at him slyly. ‘A lie becomes the truth if it gets the result that God wants.’

‘Show me that warrant.’

Paulus thrust the scroll at Vespasian, who sheathed his sword and took it.

‘“I, Caiaphas, High Priest of the Jews,”’ Vespasian read aloud, ‘“loyal subject of the Emperor Tiberius, do authorise Gaius Julius Paulus to use whatever means necessary to eradicate the teachings of Yeshua bar Yosef which threaten the Emperor’s peace, both here in Judaea and in the Jewish communities around his dominions.”’ He glanced at the seals and signatures: Caiaphas, Pilatus, Flaccus and Severianus. He handed the scroll back.

Paulus smiled complacently. ‘So you see, quaestor, I’m a very important man with powerful patrons. I’ve been successful in Caesarea and Alexandria and now I’m nearly done in Cyrene; when I’ve finished here I shall go back East.’

‘This does not give you the right to commit murder.’

‘This is not murder, it’s execution,’ Paulus replied, ‘and it’s a purely internal Jewish matter. I’ve already put the preacher, Shimon of Cyrene, to death and now in one of those houses behind me are Yeshua’s wife and his children; while they live they will carry on spreading his lies. So, quaestor, allow me to finish God’s will and then I’ll not trouble you any more, for I have work to do in Damascus where this abhorrent sect has also taken root.’

‘I have seen children executed before because they bore their father’s name and I will not see it done again.’

‘You haven’t got the power to stop me.’

Vespasian grabbed Paulus by the arm and twisted him around; slamming his shield arm across his throat, he drew his pugio and stuck the point next to his kidneys. ‘I may not have the power, but I do have the will. One false move, you nasty little shit, and it’ll be your last. Festus! Eight men here to arrest this agitator.’

A roar of protest went up from the crowd, but they did not move to intervene; the threat of the auxiliaries held them back.

‘You can’t arrest me,’ Paulus shrieked, ‘I have a warrant.’

Vespasian pushed his pugio into Paulus’ skin, drawing blood. ‘Then you had better tear it up because if I can’t arrest you my dagger might just slip.’ He pulled his blade across Paulus’ flesh, slicing it.

Paulus cried out in pain, squirming unsuccessfully to release himself. He took the scroll and slowly ripped it down the middle, then across and dropped the pieces. ‘You are as arrogant as your brother whom I had the misfortune to meet in Judaea,’ he declared contemptuously.

‘Your opinion means nothing to me, you’re irrelevant now.’

‘I am a man of great potential, quaestor, held back by the petty ambitions of people like you; I will be very relevant to you one day, I assure you.’

Vespasian shoved Paulus into the arms of the waiting auxiliaries. ‘Take him down to the port and have him put aboard the next ship heading for Judaea.’

Paulus glared at him with loathing and spat at his feet.

Vespasian turned his back on him and addressed the crowd. ‘Your leader has torn up his authority and is on his way back to Judaea. All those who throw down their weapons now will live; those who don’t will die. Those already in custody will be sent to the Governor for trial with the recommendation of death and I will not negotiate on that point. My soldiers stand ready; what’s it to be?’

Almost instantaneously the rioters started throwing their weapons to the ground.

‘Prefect, round them up and put them all to work dousing the fires and clearing up the damage; if anyone refuses they can join the prisoners being sent to Creta. And bring the woman and her children to me at the Governor’s Residence, and Yosef as well.’

‘How can I thank you, quaestor?’ Yeshua’s woman sobbed with relief as Quintillius showed her and Yosef into Vespasian’s study. She fell to her knees and kissed his feet; her two children stood shyly behind her next to Yosef.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked, bending down from his chair and lifting her chin.

‘Mariam, quaestor.’

‘Well, Mariam, what would you have me do with you?’

‘Allow me to take my children to safety.’

‘To Gaul?’

‘To Carthage first then in the spring I’ll make the crossing to Gaul.’

‘Why Gaul?’

‘There are very few Jews there, I won’t be recognised.’

‘Why do the Jewish priests want you dead?’

‘I can answer that, quaestor,’ Yosef offered. ‘On the third day after Yeshua died she and some of his disciples went to his tomb in order to take his body back to Galilee; they found it empty.’

‘Someone else took the body?’

‘We don’t know. Caiaphas the High Priest wanted it buried in an unmarked grave so perhaps the Temple Guards took it secretly after we had placed it in the tomb. They were waiting for it but your brother gave it to me. But perhaps he still lives. There have been a number of people who claim to have seen and spoken with him; some say that he has gone into the East.’

‘But that’s ridiculous, the man was crucified; even if he did survive somehow he would be a cripple.’

‘I know.’ Yosef spread his hands, hunching his shoulders. ‘But nevertheless his body wasn’t in the tomb and he has been seen. Perhaps he didn’t die, perhaps he was resurrected as those who have seen him claim, or perhaps it’s just someone impersonating him. It doesn’t matter, the priests are hunting down everyone who can bear witness to the empty tomb or to Yeshua still being alive.’

‘Believe whatever nonsense you like.’ Vespasian’s mind started to turn to thoughts of Flavia. ‘You are both free to go but how and where is up to you; your ship turned back eastwards a couple of days ago according to the port aedile’s records.’

‘God will provide,’ Mariam said as she got to her feet.

‘I am again in your debt; God be with you, quaestor,’ Yosef said, walking towards the door.

‘I prefer to have more than one god looking after me.’

Quintillius opened the door and let them out.

‘Quaestor,’ the clerk said once they were alone, ‘we found the house where Flavia Domitilla was staying.’

‘Excellent. Did she accept the invitation to dinner?’

‘She wasn’t there.’

‘Then go and wait until she comes back.’

‘I’m afraid that would prove fruitless. The landlord told us that the day after the fighting started Flavia Domitilla boarded a Judaean trading ship heading east.’