Rocks and grits of sand crunched under his feet as they scrambled up the short slope. As Artorius suspected, the zealots were unleashing a final volley and starting to make a run for it. It was then the centurion noticed the glint of metal coming from behind the zealot’s hiding position. Rushing towards them were Optio Valens and his men. The zealot leader saw them and quickly shouted orders to his men, who started to flee. Though they were too fleet-footed for the pursuing legionaries, a storm of javelins from Valens’ men fell upon them. One man screamed in pain as the heavy pilum smashed into his thigh, sending him tumbling to the ground. Another was run through the back, the heavy javelin bursting out of his chest in a spray of blood and bone.
As the rebel leader gave a loud cry and they began to flee, columns of dust kicked up from behind the small grove of trees they ran towards. Their eyes grew wide in panic as several dozen Roman cavalrymen emerged from the woods. At their head was Centurion Taurus, wielding a long spatha sword. He shouted a series of orders, his men lowering their lances and emitting a loud battle cry as they charged. Armed only with their slings and the occasional short sword, the rebels were quickly overwhelmed, skewered by lances, with one hapless fellow having his skull split by a vicious smash of Taurus’ sword.
“Here!” Artorius shouted, as he and his men rushed towards the fray. “I need some of them alive!”
A trooper plunged his lance into the throat of one last assailant as Taurus repeated the orders in the Samaritans’ native tongue. There were at least a dozen zealots that had been unable to escape. Their companions were being pursued by Taurus’ cavalry, and they cringed each time they heard one of their fellows scream in pain as he was cut down.
“Bind their hands,” Artorius directed his men. He then looked up at Taurus, his face sweaty, he was breathing heavy from exertion. “Well done. Can your men escort the prisoners back to Caesarea? I’d rather not have to take them all to Tiberias and then back again.”
“We can,” Taurus replied. “We’ll make sure at least some of them live long enough to be crucified. I can have about twenty men remain as your screen force as well. Shouldn’t be any further issues between here and Tiberias, and I doubt another band will be so brazen to try this again so quickly.”
It was dusk by the time the contingent reached Tiberias. Many were still on edge after the events of the day, though some of the legionaries lamented that aside from the first javelin storm, none of them had been able to actually engage their enemy at all.
“All we did was hide behind our shields while those bastards beat on us with rocks,” one soldier grumbled.
“And had we not done so, you’d have your face smashed in,” his decanus chastised.
“What we did was hold them in place to allow the rest of our men to flank them,” Sergeant Cicero added. “You forget.; We do not fight any battle alone. All of us have a part to play in every engagement. The reason why the Roman army is the most feared fighting force in the world is because of our ability to work together. Always remember that!”
The palace of the Judean client king, Herod Antipas, stood out in stark contrast against the skyline. Most buildings clustered along the coastline of the Sea of Galilee; which at thirteen miles from end to end, and a width of eight miles at its widest point, it was, in actuality, more of a large lake than a sea.
“There it is, lads,” Artorius said from atop his horse, “The city named in honor of our emperor, and home to the King of the Jews.”
“Not much of a city, is it?” Valens asked as he rode up beside his centurion.
“It’s only eleven years old,” Artorius noted. “I asked Nathaniel about it before we left. He said it was built on the site of an old village called Rakkat, that’s mentioned in their holy books.”
Large palms and evergreens lined the roads, as well as many of the houses. The streets were far cleaner than Jerusalem with flowering gardens accenting most of the buildings. The people were also better dressed, mostly in bright colors, and appeared to bathe far more regularly. Valens made note of this.
“One thing this area is most known for is its hot springs,” Artorius explained. “The legends are that the waters have healing effects.”
“Regular bathing does keep one healthy,” the optio noted with a trace of sarcasm in his voice. “So many of our nasty provincials might live to be older than thirty if they’d simply bother to have a wash from time to time.”
As they continued up the high street towards the palace, they noticed a different air about the people. Even though the populace was overwhelmingly Jewish, they did not appear to have the inborn hatred for Rome like their countrymen in Jerusalem. Some even smiled and greeted the column as it marched past.
As they reached the open gates leading into the palace grounds, a well-dressed man stepped through to greet them. Though clearly Jewish, he wore a resplendent Roman style toga, kept his naturally curly hair cut short, and was clean shaven. When he spoke, his Latin was perfect, and like the man with the fishermen Metellus had seen, there was no trace of a foreign accent in his voice.
“Welcome, most noble warriors!” he said with much enthusiasm.
“You must be Herod Agrippa,” Artorius replied as he dismounted his horse.
“That is what most know me by,” the man said with a short bow, “Although my actual name is Marcus Julius Agrippa. It was my grandfather who named me after the great Roman admiral who defeated Marc Antony and later sent me to be raised and educated in the imperial household in Rome.”
“Your name precedes you,” Artorius replied, placing his fist over his chest and giving a nod of respect.
“And I was sent by my uncle to greet our noble visitors.”
“I don’t know if you could call any of us ‘noble’,” Valens remarked as he dismounted and joined them.
“This is Optio Tiberius Valens,” Artorius said in way of introduction. “And I am Centurion Titus Artorius Justus. I bring gifts for your uncle, the king, as well as a message of friendship from our noble Procurator Pontius Pilate.”
“And for that, my uncle bids you welcome,” Agrippa emphasized. “Come, we have a quarters arranged for your men. You and your officers will be my personal guests at the palace. Will you and your optio dine with me this evening?”
“We would be delighted,” Artorius replied. He was puzzled that a nobleman with the status of Herod Agrippa, one who was more Roman than Jew and who’d been best friends with the emperor’s son, would wish to share his dinner with a mere centurion from the ranks. Still, he knew better than to refuse his hospitality, tired though he was.
It was well into the night by the time the legionaries were settled in and Artorius and Valens joined Herod Agrippa in his personal dining room in one of the wings. The room was fairly small and the design was grand, though less so than in Roman palaces. The columns were stone, painted a dark red on the lower half, and a dirty white on the upper. The flooring was mostly earth-tone tile. What Artorius noticed immediately was that in the living suites for Agrippa, the décor was mostly Roman. Despite Jewish laws against idolatry, there were a number of statues depicting Roman noblemen and women, as well as a larger-than-life, full bodied statue of the emperor standing in full armor, a laurel crown upon his head and right arm extended in a salute.