Scourge of Rome

XXXVII

‘Go!’ Valerius dug his heels into Lunaris’s ribs and the gelding surged away in a cloud of dust as Serpentius struggled to keep up. They galloped across the stony ground roaring to alert their comrades to the unseen enemy. Valerius knew anyone who saw or heard them would probably think of them as either a pair of madmen or a threat, but they had to try. He was thankful for the helmet which identified him as a Roman. At least it lessened the likelihood of their being greeted by a volley of pila. His eyes darted between the Judaeans, who were all but invisible now, screened by the curve of the wall, and the attacking cohort from the Fifth.

A hundred paces to go, but it would only be moments before the Judaeans – upwards of a thousand, at least – were in position to make their final charge. ‘Form line!’ he screamed at the startled men in the rear of the closest cohort’s ranks. ‘Form line, right!’

But why should they respond to a maniac bearing down on them at the gallop when they could see no threat?

At last the siege tower loomed over Valerius. He reined in beside the vast wooden structure and threw himself from the saddle to grab the nearest man. ‘Rebels,’ he rasped. ‘Form line, right. Where is your centurion?’

‘Centurion Glico?’ The legionary frowned. ‘He’s directing operations in the tower, sir.’

‘Then forget him. Form a defensive line on the right flank, and be ready to-’

But it was already too late. The man’s mouth gaped as he looked beyond Valerius’s shoulder and a long ululating scream from a thousand throats announced the Judaean attack. Valerius turned to see a wall of spear-wielding men rushing towards them less than sixty paces away.

‘Form line!’ Valerius pushed the young legionary forward and grabbed the man next to him. ‘Lock shields and prepare to receive attack.’ To his right Serpentius was doing the same, pushing and pulling the legionaries into a rough line on the same axis. By now men were screaming at their comrades to join them and the inbred discipline of the legion quickly produced a rank of fifty or sixty men. It wasn’t enough, but it was all they had. ‘Draw swords,’ he shouted to anyone, belatedly remembering that he hadn’t drawn his own. He pulled the gladius free from its scabbard and gabbled a prayer to every god he could think of. And looked up.

As they struck.

The line was like the sand wall a child builds on a beach to hold back the incoming tide, and the attack the wave that overwhelms it. The sheer momentum of the Judaean assault carried them through the weakest points in the shields. Screaming warriors hurled themselves where the edges of scuta failed to touch. Spearmen instinctively sensed where a nervous hand held a sword. They poured round the flanks in their hundreds into the pocket of confusion behind, where Valerius was trying desperately to create a second rank. In moments he found himself at the centre of a maelstrom of men fighting for their lives. A gleaming spear point darted at his eyes and he twisted to allow it to slide past his right cheek, instinctively taking the step that carried him into sword range. He could smell the man’s rancid breath and saw the eyes widen almost before he realized he’d rammed the point of the gladius forward. A twist of the wrist and the blade broke the suction of the reluctant flesh. The Judaean dropped the spear and folded at the middle with his hands scrabbling to return the slippery coils of his intestines to their natural home.

‘Your right!’ Serpentius’s shouted warning allowed Valerius a heartbeat to parry the unseen thrust from the flank. His blade slipped down the spear shaft and a second Judaean rammed his point into the Roman’s chest. If the thrust had been perfect it would have pierced the breastplate’s layers of thrice-tanned bullhide, split ribs and pinned Valerius’s heart. Instead, the point struck at an angle and skidded off the leather to score a groove across the flesh of his right shoulder. He screamed as a white-hot bolt of agony ripped through him and he was driven backwards and down by the weight of his enemy. As he flailed uselessly with his sword two snarling rebels jostled for the right to ram a spear into his throat. Their rivalry saved his life. A whirlwind of glistening iron appeared from nowhere and in an unreal moment one of the bearded heads parted company from its owner in a spray of scarlet. Before the second Judaean could react Serpentius smashed him backwards with a shield he’d somehow fallen heir to and kicked his spear aside to stab him in the throat.

They found themselves in a strange pocket of calm in the midst of the battle. Valerius cried out as the Spaniard hauled him to his feet by the injured arm. Serpentius flicked back Valerius’s cloak to expose his bloodstained shoulder. He inspected the wound. ‘It looks worse than it is, but it’s just a scratch. Try to use your arm normally or it will stiffen up.’

Valerius nodded and stood on shaking legs as he studied their position. Men continued to fight for their lives all around them, but the bulk of the Judaeans had bypassed the knot of defenders at the southern siege tower to attack their real target. Dozens of rebels in the rear ranks of the Judaean assault ran in pairs and carried pots of liquid fire suspended from wooden rods.

‘They’re going to try to burn it from the ground up.’ Despite the efforts of the ram’s defenders, flames were already licking at the base of the tower where the wooden frame wasn’t protected by dampened hides.

‘Nothing we can do about it now,’ the Spaniard said. Valerius saw he was right. Their services would make no difference to the outcome of the savage little skirmish. The legionary cohort from the northern siege tower had belatedly formed ranks and was marching to the rescue of the ram. At the same time the thunder of hooves from the direction of the Roman siege line announced the arrival of a reinforced wing of auxiliary cavalry.

The commander of the Judaean attack must have taken the sensible decision to withdraw, or his warriors made it for him. Suddenly hundreds of men in the distinctive Judaean robes were streaming past Valerius and Serpentius on their way back to the hidden portals. The only thought on their minds was to return to the safety of the city. They posed little danger, but one man came too close and Serpentius stepped out from behind the shield and clubbed him to the ground with the hilt of his sword.

Whooping auxiliaries pursued the fleeing Judaeans, mercilessly cutting down the slowest and the injured. The legionaries concentrated their efforts on dousing the flames, which had caused only superficial damage to the ram tower. Serpentius dragged his terrified prisoner to his feet and prodded him ahead with his sword point towards a little group of cavalry officers observing the aftermath of the attack. Valerius was surprised to see that Titus himself had commanded the rescue effort.

The general frowned as he recognized the two men with the prisoner, taking in the recently used swords and the blood dripping from Valerius’s wooden fist. ‘Even when I order you to stay safe you cannot keep out of trouble,’ he smiled. ‘But it seems I am in your debt once more.’

‘We were out for a ride and took a wrong turning.’ Valerius’s face split into a weary grin. ‘Serpentius has brought you a gift.’ The Spaniard pushed the captive forward until he stumbled at Titus’s feet. Black-bearded and stocky, he cut a ragged, miserable figure, cringing in the dust.

‘Put him with the rest,’ Titus ordered. ‘I will see them in a moment. Ten prisoners out of so many hundreds,’ he said to Valerius. ‘They have a fondness for sacrifice, your Judaeans.’ He gave the order for the ram to resume its work as soon as the structure had been checked. The attack would continue. ‘Now, let us get this unpleasantness over.’

The ten captives sat in a huddle under the watchful eye of legionary guards. One or two appeared terrified, including Serpentius’s man, but most stared defiantly at the splendidly dressed soldier who rode up to inspect them from his saddle.

‘I congratulate you,’ Titus called to them. ‘You almost caused me a setback. Who was your leader?’

One of the prisoners stood, a tall heavyset man in a striped robe tight-wrapped at the waist in the fashion Josephus had used in the tunnel. ‘Our general was John, an Idumaean commander. He lies next to the tower with an arrow in his throat. You will know him by the eye patch he wears, for he only has one – or should I say had.’

Titus nodded thoughtfully. ‘You fought well, Judaean, and with courage, but now I fear you must summon more. There is a price to pay for your audacity. I cannot let the defenders who man your walls believe they can sneak out and attack our lines with impunity. To be truthful, I do not have the wood to spare, but you will be crucified in full view of the Tower of Psephinus, and your bodies left to rot, so all can witness the cost of defiance.’

One or two men groaned at the terrible end they faced, and one cried out, but their spokesman bristled defiance. ‘You can crucify us by the hundred, but Jerusalem will never surrender,’ he said, and spat towards Titus’s horse. One of the guards moved to strike him with a club, but the general raised a hand to stop him.

‘We will see how eloquent you are after a few hours hanging in the sun. Take them away.’

‘No! Please, no.’ The man Serpentius had struck pushed forward and dropped to his knees in front of Titus. ‘I am no rebel. My name is Benyamin of Ephraim, and they made me join them. My son is dead in the fighting. I have a wife and three other children who will starve without me. Have mercy, in God’s name, I beg you. I am but a simple carpenter.’

‘A carpenter?’ Titus studied him as if a snake or a lizard had spoken. ‘All the better. You may have the privilege of fashioning your own cross.’ He turned to the guards. ‘Make sure he is scourged until it is perfect.’

‘You may kill ten of us, Titus Flavius Vespasian,’ the tall Judaean cried out, ‘a thousand, or even a hundred thousand, but Judaea will rise again and Rome, the Whore of Babylon, will fall. It is written. As is your end. You may wear the purple when your dog of a father is in his grave, but not for long.’

Valerius saw his friend’s eyes harden. ‘My end may be written,’ Titus’s voice was little more than a whisper, ‘but one thing is certain, you will not be there to witness it.’ He nodded to the guard commander. ‘When he is on the cross break his arms and legs so he knows the true meaning of punishment, and the price of insulting the Emperor.’