So many had tried to escape that one of the engineers on Aspasia’s Shadow’s staff estimated there were over a hundred thousand unburied corpses in the valley, in some places piled more than six or seven bodies deep. Aspasia’s Shadow knew the threat of disease grew with each day the corpses lay unburied, but the predominant wind was usually away from his position toward the city and he wanted the Judeans inside to smell their dead.
“More perfume,” Aspasia’s Shadow snapped, and a slave hurriedly filled the small bowls that surrounded his chair. The smell was cloying but better than the stench of death.
A rider galloped up. Aspasia’s Shadow recognized the short marble scepter the man held — a courier from Titus. The officer went to one knee before the chair and held out the scepter to Aspasia’s Shadow, who took it and unscrewed one end, sliding out the latest set of orders from the Emperor’s son. In reality, although Titus’s signature was indeed at the bottom of the page, the orders were written by General Tiberius Julius Alexander, the second-in-command of the army, a former governor of Judea and a man who knew how to fight these Jews: ruthlessly.
Aspasia’s Shadow read the plan and sighed. As expected, the orders dictated he build siege towers and catapults. It was only April and it promised to be a long spring and hot summer.
Aspasia’s Shadow turned to his logistics officer. “We will need much more perfume.” He glanced down at the thick rows of crucifixes. “And more nails. Many more nails. Make sure they get the thick ones, the ones that hold.”
Donnchadh and Gwalcmai walked the streets of the capital city of the empire they had been hearing about ever since leaving their ship at Stonehenge. Romewas indeed magnificent — at least compared to what they had seen on Earth since the destruction of Atlantis. They spent a week there, listening and learning. It was very, very different from Egypt. It took Donnchadh a while to put her finger on it, then one day, watching a group of slaves building an aqueduct from one of the seven hills of Rome toward another, over two miles away, she realized what was different.
“They’re moving forward,” she said, grabbing Gwalcmai’s arm. His attention had been on a metalsmith’s shop and the blades that glittered in the sunlight.
“To where?” Gwalcmai asked, not quite sure about whom she spoke.
“These people. Think about it. This city, this empire, according to all we’ve heard, has only been in existence for about five hundred years. Egypt existed for over five thousand years. But nothing changed there. Not really. We visited Egypt several times over the course of millennia and it was always pretty much the same.”
“They built the Great Pyramid,” Gwalcmai noted to Donnchadh’s irritation.
“Yes, yes, they did do that, but only because they had the plans handed down from Rostau. They didn’t even know what they were building and it almost doomed them.” She spread her hands. “This place — there is no Airlia influence. This is solely the work of humans. Of the human mind and spirit.”
“Still not the best of metal for a blade,” Gwalcmai complained.
Donnchadh punched him.
Gwalcmai smiled and relented. “All right, all right. So, tell me, what is the big difference? What do you mean they’re moving forward?”
“In Egypt life was cyclical,” Donnchadh said. “Birth, life, death, then birth. Time was circular. Here, time is linear. Look at them—” She pointed at the slaves working on the aqueduct. “How long do you think it will take to complete that?”
Gwalcmai shrugged. “Fifty years or so to get across this valley.”
“Which is more than the average life span of these people,” Donnchadh said. “Which means they see beyond their own lives. That time is linear here. They are finally progressing on their own.”
Gwalcmai nodded. “So soon they will have good steel?”
Donnchadh turned to him in mock anger and he held his hands up and smiled. “This is good. I agree. It will take much more time, but if the Airlia stay in their deep sleep and do not interfere, then there will come a day when we can help these people destroy the aliens.”
Donnchadh frowned. “But while the Airlia might be sleeping, their minions aren’t.”
“Aspasia’s Shadow,” Gwalcmai said succinctly.
“You have heard the same stories?”
“That the Romans began the practice of crucifying prisoners over a hundred years ago,” Gwalcmai said. “A practice picked up in the province of Judea. That there is a commander of a legion there whom all fear. Called by the Roman name Tacitus — but to the Syrians and Arabs in his command, he is known as Al-Iblis, the evil one.”
“So we have heard the same stories,” Donnchadh said. The two of them spent most of their evenings apart, frequenting different places, gathering more information separately than they could together.
“I think we have another journey to make,” Gwalcmai said.
“I know of a ship heading for Judea,” Donnchadh said.
The siege towers were higher than the outer walls of the city, a great engineering feat on the part of the Romans. Even Aspasia’s Shadow had to grant these men credit — they knew how to make machines of war. With the height advantage, Roman archers and catapults were able to scour the top of the defensive wall, wiping it clean of defenders. Which consequently cleared the way for rams to be brought forward on the ground up to the wall and put into motion, pounding away at the stone.
The steady thud of the battering rams irritated Aspasia’s Shadow and there was no perfume that could wash away the sound. Hundreds of prisoners had been brought before Aspasia’s Shadow and subjected to torture by the men to whom he had taught the fine art. Yet not a soul had uttered a word indicating any knowledge of the Grail. That could actually be a good thing, Aspasia’s Shadow knew, as it meant the Grail most likely was still safe in the chamber he had designed for it deep inside the Temple.
A shout arose from the lines and Aspasia’s Shadow stirred enough to walk out of his command tent to the edge of the hill and look across toward Jerusalem. He immediately saw the cause of the excitement. A hole had been breached in the outer wall. Legionnaires were pouring into the opening. The end had begun.
Aspasia’s Shadow called out for his personal assistant to bring his armor.
The people of the city had withstood the siege as best they could for as long as they could. But fear is a horrible disease that chips away at even the strongest of spirits. The Jews inside Jerusalem prayed day and night to their God for succor, but so far the prayers had only seemed to bring more Romans and less food.
Joseph of Arimathea knew what was coming as he heard the screams of terror coming from the outer wall and the hoarse cries of the Roman soldiers as they entered the city. He was an old man, a very old man, and he was not certain his body was up to the task that was before him. He was currently sitting on a collapsed pillar, deep inside a chamber inside Solomon’s Temple.
He had been in Jerusalem for many years. Too many. There were whispers about him — that his extreme age was unnatural. No one knew exactly how many years he had seen, but there were few in the city who had been born before him and none in better health for the years.
Joseph knew his age. He was seventy-four, although he looked in his mid forties. His age and health were unnatural, that he knew also, although the science behind it was unknown to him. He had partaken of the Grail — not in the sense that it was designed for, with the stones and the Airlia technology built into it.
No, Joseph had drunk from the Grail so many years ago on a very fateful night. And he had drunk not wine, but a tiny sip of blood from the man many were now beginning to worship as a God.