A small bit of fiction--what do you think?
“The Sciarii also strove with these men, which should be guilty of the greatest madness; for they, vile wretches as they were, cut the throats of the high priests, that so no part of a religious regard to God might be preserved; they thence proceeded to destroy utterly the last remains of a political government, and introduced the most complete scene of iniquity in all instances that were practicable; under which scene, that sort of people that were called Zealots grew up, and who indeed corresponded to the name; for they imitated every wicked work; nor if history suggested any evil thing that had formerly been done, did they avoid zealously to pursue the same; and although they gave themselves that name from their zeal for what was good, yet was it an ironical description of the evil deeds done by them in their brutal nature, or because they thought the greatest mischiefs to be the greatest good.”
Josephus, The Jewish Wars
The Past
Sunset,
March 22nd, 73 AD
Judea
“Fire!” Antonius Sempronius commanded sharply, lowering his hand.
With a thunderous cascade, the ballistae roared in drilled precision, sending over a dozen flaming bolts of iron soaring into the bloody sky of the desert sunset, arcing sulfurous trails of smoke as they crashed into the mountain walls in the distance yet again with clouds of dust and rock shattering upon their impact. Already the crews were re-winding their machines, turing the large cranks while two other men carried a fresh bolt to be loaded into place. It was a simple but tedious task, and one they had carried on for over three months, night after night, and still the Jews withheld.
Masada, they called it.
The name itself meant “citadel” in the Hebrew tongue. A sheer cliff some thousand feet high from the desert floor, it was a mighty plateau overlooking the Dead Sea and ringed by valleys whose bottoms the eye could not discern from the summit, with only one jagged spur running to the west that led half-way up the mountainside, a winding, treacherous trail upon it called the Serpent’s Way. Woe to the soldiers who would have to climb that trail, Antonius mused, the plummet on either side was enough to quell the courage of the stoutest of heroes, suffice to say Roman infantrymen far from home.
His short cloak billowed in the wind. Raising hand to his eyes to shield them from the glare of the setting sun, he looked out upon the desert to the west, where thick, dark clouds were forming, piling upon each other in great columns of coppery red. Already dust was blowing through the air, he could feel it softly hitting his face as he looked westward. The sky was red, the color of flame.
The Roman encampment surrounded Masada on all sides but the east, where the burning sands of the Dead Sea, what they had come to call The Lake of Asphalt, stretched out for miles into the desolation of Jordan. Thin trails of smoke rose from the campfires of the Roman tents where men ate wearily their evening meal, and the sunlight gleamed on the spear-tips of the soldiers posting guard on the palisade and watchtowers. On the walls of Masada high on its summit though, there was no movement, no defenders on the walls, no arrows or stones raining down on their attackers, for the first time in weeks.
There was an ill feeling about the camp, and the soldiers of the X Legio Fretensis were growing superstitious and troublesome. In the darkness of night, strange lights were seen about the peak of Masada, and sounds rose from within the mountain like nothing the men had heard before, rumblings of the earth and murmurs of the underworld, some said with a grin, others with a cautious grimace. The legionaries had been fighting a brutal guerilla war against the Jews for seven years, and even now, three years after the destruction of their capital, the Zealots carried on their struggle though their cause was broken. The various factions that had come to be known as the Zealots were many and varied in their beliefs. Many leaders before had claimed to be kings, “Messiahs” that would lead their people into full rebellion and victory over Rome. Most were fundamentalist in their faith, fanatical in their beliefs, but of all these, one stood out. Those led by Eleazar. Whispered to partake in strange ceremonies and sacrifices, they were an obscure cult of zealots led by this madman who had formerly been High Priest of Jerusalem, and claimed esoteric knowledge of the Jewish god. He had been involved in the previous uprisings and had butchered a claimant to be the Messiah in the temple at Jerusalem in years prior. His group, which had risen to over 900 followers, had fled to Masada in the winter last year. Masada was miles away from anywhere, it was literally a rock in the midst of a great desert. Merely sending patrols through the nearest towns would dissuade the rebels from raiding them and eventually they would surrender or settle elsewhere.But Antonius Silva, governor of Judea, was adamant. He would possess this rock within the month, he swore.
Tenth Fretensis, “The Legion of the Sea-Straits”, was founded by Augustus himself, but had a troubled past recently and Silva had gifted them with the capture of Masada, Herod the Great’s mountain fastness, as as way to regain their honor after the loss of an eagle standard nearly ten years ago. The governor of Judea had sent them all across the desert searching after Zealot rebels, especially the Sciarii. Last summer they had destroyed a monastery near this place, a place rumored to be full of Zealot scriptures and artifacts. They had found none, much to Silva’s dismay and frustration, but razed the compound nontheless, crucificying the holy men who had made it their home.
“Centurion!” yelled the horseman trotting up the pathway. His horse, a dapple grey mare, nearly stumbled as it crested the ridge where the artillery had been emplaced, and the soldier pulled the reins back to turn the beast around as it scampered near him energetically.
“Report,” Antonius said.
Raising his hand to salute, the soldier replied. “Sir, the Praefectus wishes to see you immediately.”
“I will be there shortly,” Antonius nodded. “Give him my regards.”
As the rider galloped off again down the hillside, the centurion turned to his second. “Barrage in tandem, you know the routine, Hortensis.” Clapping the man on the shoulder, he grabbed his helmet from the field table and began walking down the dusty pathway, and heard the roar of the ballistae firing again as he walked.
Lucius Flavius Silva sat at a carved wooden desk within the spacious command tent located at the center of the Roman encampment. Oil lamps hanging from the support pillars flickered in the desert breeze that wafted through it, casting long shadows across the floor. Antonius could hear raised voices from within as he approached through the curtains separating the chambers of the tent.
“Tonight, I understand,” Silva said with finality.
“Good. The Master will be pleased. With luck I will be in Puglia by summer’s end with our prize.” Said the man whose voice Antonius did not recognize. The accent was one he did not recognize, although he had traveled far and wide in his service to the Emperor.
“Make sure you remember that. Ours.”
“Of course. And you remember your debt to us. The Book is--“
Antonius coughed uncomfortably, announcing his presence.
“Ah, Centurion Antonius. Good.” Silva stood. He wore the full regalia of an Imperial Prefect, and as such was the direct representative of the Emperor himself. His cloak looked blood-red in the torchlight, and his helmet, polished to a gleam, sat on the desk nearby. He did not see the other man he had heard speaking just moments before, though he might have been concealed behind the curtains.
“Sir,” Antonius saluted. “You summoned me?”
“I did.” He motioned to an empty couch nearby. “Please, recline, I wish to discuss the operation tonight.”
“The operation sir?”
“A full out assault on the fortress. With your century in the van.” Silva took a goblet and sipped a drink, letting Antonius weigh the thought.
The centurion nodded finally. “An honor, sir. You do me a favor.” Antonius knew that an assault on the gates of Masada was madness, their ramp was narrow and high and not conducive to Roman formations. It would be madness up the thing, men would plummet to their deaths. That coupled with the arrows, oil, stones, and darts the defenders would be flinging at them, it would be wholesale slaughter. But to deny the ‘honor’ would be the end of his rise on the cursus honorum, he knew, and so did Silva.
“Think nothing of it, Antonius. You have done well these past months, and in Jerusalem before. Your peculiar religious views aside, you are a fine officer, and will do well once you transfer out of the tenth.”
There it was, Antonius knew. So Silva had heard. He felt the tiny bronze necklace about his neck weigh heavily. It was a fish, the symbol of a sect of Jews who followed a man called Jesus who had been executed in Jerusalem decades ago. Silva was punishing him. The cult of Jesus was an embarrassment to the Empire, yet its followers had spread across Judea despite the death of its founder.
“Thank you, sir.” He swallowed hard. “Is that all?”
“Yes. When the moon rises, have your men prepared at the fortifications behind the ramp. Tell your ballistae crews to have volleys ready to support you, you’ll likely need it.”
“Yes, sir.” Antonius rose and saluted again, then turned sharply to leave, looking back once before stepping out the tent flap.
*****
Masada rose grim and resolute against the backdrop of the moon, which bore a dark glimmer of bronze that night. The sandstorm had intensified, and soldiers had wrapped portions of their cloaks over their faces to shield them from the whipping bits of grit. The wind howled like a living thing, and the tension was palpable as the IV Century readied its weapons and helmets for the final assault on this mountain, the last stronghold of the Jews.
“He knows, then?” Hortensis asked as Antonius approached, clutching his helmet in one hand and his scabbarded gladius in the other, a concerned expression on his haggard face.
“He knows about me, but gave no indication of you, old friend.” Antoinus clapped the man on the shoulder. “Do not worry.”
Hortensis had been leading the small group of them in prayers for nearly a year now, and so he had a right to be fearful, in all honesty. Silva had made it a personal vendetta to exterminate the cult from within the ranks of the 10th Legion. Antonius buckled on his helmet and adjusted it to fit properly on his head. His sword belt hung low as he wrapped it around his waist, and he loosened it in the sheath before turning to look over his assembled men. There were coughs and murmurs in the crowed, cloaks billowing in the wind. He glanced up the narrow ramp and even farther up to the peak of the mountain and the walls of the fortress. Stark, raving madness. But then, this night seemed well suited for insanity.
“Assault formation!” He shouted. Men took up their heavy scutum and began interlocking with precision into the tight formation known as the tortise. Each concave shield would overlap with another on all sides and above, giving the century some degree of protection from stones and arrows, at least. Once the last legionary was in position, he nodded.
He knew he should have said something, some words of encouragement. Instead, he drew his gladius and pointed at the ramp.
“Century, forward!” he commanded.
The tension rose to a crescendo as the men of the IV century marched slowly up the long earthen dike that led to the ramp. Dust whipped about their cloaks and was kicked up from their hob-nailed sandals, the red clouds on the night sky rose in ominous stormfronts behind the citadel while the moon laughed silently from above. Their march was in good order, their rhythm well practiced. They made it half-way up, followed at length by soldiers from the III and VI centuries. Drums beat and horns blared announcing their approach, yet no answer from the walls came. Some men shuddered as they passed the white-painted rocks on the ramp which marked the entry into missle range of the walls, but nothing happened.
“Double-time, march!” Antonius shouted, eager now and wanting to close as much distance to the gate as possible while the enemy dawdled inside and wasted time. They broke into a shuffled run, armor and weapons jingling heavily.
The gates of Masada were looming ahead, tall double doors of burnished brzone and re-inforced timber. The gatehouse was flanked by towers and had a wide killing zone with arrow slits and murder-holes for dropping stones. Yet still, no sign of the defenders.
Antonius, who by know was out ahead of the century in his eagerness, slowed to a trot and then a walk in amazement now that they had cleared the ramp and reached the gates with no issue. He breathed heavily to catch his breath from the run, and then slid his sword back into its sheath. It was as still and silent as the grave. He craned his head upwards at the tall gates and scanned the crenels of the walls and the openings of the towers for movement. There was nothing, no light, no sound.
He approached the doors cautiously, fearing some trick and held a hand up to halt his men who were now advancing toward him. The wood was warm to the touch, and when he touched it, it moved slightly. The gates were open.
Too amazed to cheer, the men of the IV century looked about in confusion at one another as their commander simply leaned on the heavy door to push it open, and with surprise found it swung open easily, with an ominous groan, revealing a darkened courtyard within. He looked down the ramp and across the vast, empty desert that he could see for miles from this height. The only movement were the hundreds of torches carried by the men of the legion following them up the ramp, like ants below them.
“Follow me,” Antonius said, breaking the silence. His hand rested on the worn hilt of his gladius for reassurance.
Just then there was a great rumbling from the earth, a roaring sound of rocks and boulders and a tremendous shaking of the ground that threw some men from their feet. Antonius managed to keep his balance and clutched at an awning for support. One man on the ramp stumbled as the earth lurched and was flung from it, screaming all the way as he fell the thousand feet into the ravine below. Great clouds of dust began to rise from the valley floor as the shaking continued, and cracks split the wall adjacent to the gatehouse with a sheering roar. One of the towers erupted into a cloud of brick and rock-dust and collapsed into the courtyard on itself. And then, just as quickly as it had begun, the tremors halted, and all was once again silent.
“What the devil—“ Hortensis started, but the look the centurion shot at him caused him to stop in mid-sentence.
Dust motes settled slowly, and men picked themselves up off the ground. Masada had been captured, it seemed. Spreading out in small groups the men began to search the courtyard. They discovered nothing in save for empty casks and storerooms, a pen of pigs that had been slaughtered—strange, for the Jews to keep them, Antonius noted, and little else. The citadel itself was devoid of life. Or so it seemed at first.
Shouts erupted from a darkened armory that had been stripped of all its wares. A soldier rushed out, clutching at his arm which was red with blood.
“What goes on?” Antonius shouted.
“Damn bitch, she cut me sir,” the legionary said, “In there,” he cursed, jerking a thumb in the direction of the chamber he had emerged from.
The soldier had pulled a slab of stone from the floor, revealing a dark passage that led down into the mountain. The woman who had been hiding there was gone now, but Antonius felt air on his face when he knelt at the lip of the tunnel, and it was clear where she had gone, her bloody knife had been dropped on the floor of the tunnel near the exit.
“Get in there,” Antonius commanded to the men near him.
Tunnel work was not something a Roman legionary was well suited for, especially in full kit and armor. It took a good fifteen minutes for a selected group of soldiers to remove their segmented mail and helmets, leaving only their gauntlets and greaves to protect them. Discarding their baltae scales and sword-belts that went with them, each took only their broad-bladed daggers in hand and climbed down into the tunnel. Antonius joined them, stepping down last, his hair matted down from where he had worn his horse-haired helmet for so long and his back soaked in sweat from the heavy armor now removed. The first man bore a torch that smoked oily in the darkness.
“Easily now, Julius,” the centurion whispered to the lead man. “Be wary.”
The tunnel led straightaway and down into the mountainside at a grade. The floor and ceiling were dry, dust-covered sandstone, while the sides had been cut into a façade of mortared stone. After some distance, they came across a gloomy intersection, where the tunnel split off in two directions. One led up, the other further down into darkness. There were scratches in the wall revealed by the torchilight, seemingly carved by someone’s hand.
“What in the…” the lead man asked, his question trailing off.
“What is it?” Antonius asked, pushing ahead to see. His question went unanswered as he saw for himself. Lying in the darkened hallway leading down was a corpse, the woman who had attacked the soldier at the tunnel entrance. She had been a dark haired beauty, but now her neck had been opened in a crimson smile that still leaked blood, yet she had died with a smile on her face.
“Jupiter and Mars,” one man breathed.
“Had nothing to do with this,” the centurion said, kneeling beside the slain woman. “How did she manage to do this?”
“Someone else is in these tunnels, sir,” Julius said. “What’s this?” he asked, motioning to the scratches in the wall.
“It’s a name. The characters are Aramaic. “רמשנאל” it says. “Azrael?” It doesn’t matter. Let’s see where this tunnel goes.” Antonius had learned a smattering of the ancient language from Hortensis, and wished the older soldier was present now. He had heard the name before somewhere, and thought it may have been one of the Jews’s prophets—God knows they had so many of them.
After some time, they came to an archway at the end of the sloping tunnel. There was a humming sound coming from the chamber beyond, and a crack of light could be seen from under the stone door which had been set into the arch. Antonius held a finger to his lips and motioned for the men to ready their weapons.
“Centurion?” One asked, a curious expression on his face.
“What is it?” he whispered angrily. The soldier motioned and then it was that he felt blood dripping from his nose. Antonius clasped his hand to his nostrils and pulled it away bloody, and saw others were suffering from the same ailment. Wiping his hand on his sleeve he motioned to the door.
When they were set, two legionaries heaved upon the slab to push it open, and within they saw a large cavern, filled with a great crowd of people, standing still and centered around a great slab of dark stone on which a small group stood exhorting them. They were murmuring quietly, hundreds of them. The room reeked with the smell of blood and offal, and Antonius almost gagged when the first waft of air hit his face. The floor was crunchy with dried viscera, and the air was warm and damp.
“Kill them,” the voice was that of the Praefectus. Marcus Silva had joined them, and stood with a new group of legionaries behind them in the tunnel, holding flaming torches.
“Sir?” Antonius balked, looking back at the man and the crazed expression on his face. “There’s hundreds, we must retreat.”
“They pose no threat now, trust me. Kill them, centurion. I command you.” Silva’s eyes gleamed in the torchlight. The mass of Jews in the room seemed to have not even notice the commotion, so enwrapped in their meditation they were. They continued to mumble and chant, swaying slightly from side to side.
“I will not.” Antonius put his dagger back in the sheath.
“Arrest him,” Silva commanded to the men near him. “Then kill the Zealots.”
Two men came at Antonius, who shoved one off with force and then grappled with the other, trying to keep his balance. When the third came he was fiercly jerked against the wall and his arms pulled behind him. Seven praetorian soldiers rushed past him then, cloaked in dark shrouds of purple that marked them as the governor’s personal guards. Torchlight gleamed on steel as short blades were drawn, and seconds later the first stabbing sounds came from within the grand chamber.
It was gruesome work, and Antonius was made to watch. As he said, the Zealots posed no resistance, and in truth, did not even seem to pay any heed as they were butchered slowly. The floor grew wet with blood that seeped into the rock and the foulest of smells hung heavily in the enclosed cavern. Seven men killed something like three hundreds in that place, but even as he watched Antonius wondered what could have happened to the other four hundred that had taken refuge in Masada—the women and children, for all these were men. When he thought of the smell of blood in the room even before the killings began, he shuddered.
When the last man received a blade in his belly and collapsed to the blood-stained ground, their work was finished. The governor of Judea approached the middle of the room and took a deep breath of air.
The central slab in the room was crossed by grooves that ran parallel to the stone, and seemed to be some altar. Upon it was a bronzed chest which contained scrolls of fine vellum which Silva gingerly took in his hands and examined.
“The Book of Watchers,” he said to himself and grinned, placing the scroll-cases into a finely stitched satchel that hung at his side. He sniffed, then rubbed at his nostrils which too, now were dripping with blood.
“Time to get out of here,” he announced. “Quintis,” he turned to one of the praetorians. “Seal this chamber off. I want it mortared over with brick. No one hears of this place.”
“What about the centurion?” he asked, casting an eye at Antonius who remained held by two soldiers.
“Seal him in with the people he tried to save. Alive.”
“Your command.”
“Silva, no,” Antonius gasped, knowing the governor was completely serious. “Please, I beg you!”
“Only cowards beg. Go to your pathetic Jewish god, Antonius.”
Antonius’ screamed for help but there was no one who could assist him. He was repeatedly thrown back into the room as the soldiers bean to pull the stone slab shut, and his poundings on the door could be heard for the hour it took to get the team down into the tunnel to seal the archway closed. After that, it stopped abruptly.
Lucius Flavius Silva climbed out of the tunnel and into the light of a pale, red dawn. The sun was a blurry fire in the east cresting the horizon, and the legion had moved into Masada with force. Roman standards flew from the towers and soldiers were resting in the courtyard, eating flatbread and drinking from their flasks.
He wiped at his nose again, which would not stop dripping blood. He was sweating profusely as well, and suddenly did not feel good at all. Staggering against the wall, he tried to shake the cobwebs that were encroaching in his mind and croaked at a nearby soldier for some water. Or at least that is what he tried to say, but it came out as an unintelligible gasp as he felt bile in his throat and collapsed to the sandy ground. Suddenly he was vomiting blood, and the praetorians that had accompanied him as well were in various stages of sickness on the ground writhing. His stomach felt as if a hundred daggers were twisting inside it, and when he managed to look up through blurry eyes he saw his mysterious friend standing over him.
“Feeling ill, Governor?” Serventis asked in that unplacable accent of his.
“What---did…” he managed to sqeak.
“I will take this, now,” Serventis said pleasantly. Kneeling, he removed the scrolls of the Book of Watchers from the Roman’s bag and placed them into his own. “You are not worthy of it.”
None of his men had taken notice, and Silva did fear he would die. He tried screaming again and again, but only couged up more blood. The praetorians who had went into the tunnels with him were already still.
Serventis smiled and turned to walk away, passing by inattentive Roman soldiers and making his way toward the citadel’s gates. Today was an excellent day, he reflected. Enoch’s scriptures were his, his rival was slain, and all of the Zealots had been massacred.
Vendramus would be pleased.
Reply With Quote
Bookmarks