“It was very kind of him to wish us so,” Claudia observed over dinner.
They had invited Artorius and Diana to dine with them, and all lay on couches around a series of small, ornate tables.
“I never know what he’s going to say anymore,” Pilate said with exasperation. “As much as it pains me to say this, our dear emperor has become a neurotic shell of what he once was.”
“It started when his son died,” Claudia conjectured. “He was never the same after that.”
“You served under his command in Germania,” Artorius observed. “Surely he was not the paranoid, delusional wreck he’s become.”
“In all honesty,” Pilate replied, “I find it difficult to believe that those two entities are the same person. The Tiberius who led us on the Rhine I would have followed into hell itself. You know Augustus once said that despite his differences with his stepson and heir, he felt Tiberius was one of the greatest generals Rome ever had, even better than the divine Julius Caesar, if you can believe that.”
“Well, let us not worry ourselves to death over the emperor’s state of mind,” Diana spoke up. “Saturnalia will be upon us soon, and this is supposed to be the greatest time of celebration. Whatever his gloomy demeanor, perhaps the spirit of Saturnalia has even had an effect on Tiberius, if his last letter is any indication.”
“Tell me,” Claudia said, looking over at Artorius, “Will your friends be joining us again? Their performance last year was a delight!”
“I hope so,” Artorius replied, “Especially for Magnus’ sake. I swear he’s in love with that Syrian archer, Achillia!” This brought a laugh from the assembled friends. As the evening wore on, Diana raised her cup in toast.
“Io, Saturnalia!” she said.
“Io, Saturnalia!”
“Master!” Nathaniel’s voice started them as he quickly rushed into the room and bowed before Artorius’ couch. “Forgive my intrusion, but I have discovered vital news regarding an arms smuggler in Caesarea. He may be the one who provided arms for the men who attacked you.”
“Who is it?” Pilate said, sitting upright quickly.
“His name is Barabbas.”
Chapter XX III: Before the Pain
“Are you sure about this?” Felix asked, peering out from beneath the hood of his cloak. Though it was the middle of the night, the street was alive with activity with numerous torches and oil lamps casting their glow about. The merchant quarter of the city never slept, with supply wagons bearing goods for sale from across the Empire and beyond clattering over the cobblestones. During the daytime the streets were crowded with citizens and patrons, therefore the only time to move massed amounts of cargo was at night. And with Saturnalia but a few days away, preparations for the celebrations went on during both day and night.
“Not even a little bit,” Artorius replied with a dark chuckle. “Still, Nathaniel was certain this would be the time and place of the transfer.”
“And what happens if we’re wrong?” the tesserarius persisted.
“Nothing will happen to you or to any of our men,” Artorius replied. “I, however, will count myself lucky to escape with only a formal reprimand from the procurator, as no doubt this will cause yet another incident between us and our Judean subjects. However, that is a risk I am willing to take. If we are correct, then that wagon is full of stolen Roman arms, meant for the Twelfth Legion in Syria.”
They watched for a couple minutes as a pair of men dismounted from the wagon and spoke quickly with another man who started to swing open the large wooden door of the warehouse. Artorius deduced one of the men from the wagon had to be Barabbas. A third man jumped down from the wagon and guided the pair of mules into the dimly-lit building, the wheels of the cart creaking loudly as they turned on the paving stones.
“Sir, if I may ask,” Felix began. “What would happen to your servant, should this prove to be a ruse? He is a Jew, after all.”
“You cannot throw all Jews into the same lot,” the centurion said. “With all their varying sects, many of them hate each other even more than us. Which is why those damned zealots have not been able to do more than the occasional raid or ambush. But to answer your question, if this is a ruse, then he will be fortunate if he escapes with a mere flogging. And, trust me, he is aware of this.” Artorius may have been rather fond of Nathaniel, but he was a slave nonetheless, and as such, Artorius would not hesitate to use the most severe of punishments at the slightest show of disloyalty.
In less than a minute, the cart was rolled into the warehouse and the door started to swing shut.
“Let’s hope the auxiliaries don’t botch this one for us,” Felix grunted as Artorius rose to his feet and signaled to the squad of legionaries that accompanied him. All had kept themselves hidden in the shadows, their cloaks covering their faces as well as their armor. Helmets and shields would have been too conspicuous, so all each man carried was his gladius.
Artorius bounded across the street, knocking aside several passersby and jumping past a slow-moving wagon. The man closing the warehouse door did not notice him until the centurion’s fist smashed into his face, sending him sprawling back into the warehouse. Artorius and Felix heaved the door open as eight legionaries sprinted past them, throwing off their cloaks and drawing their swords. There were half a dozen men inside the warehouse, all in a state of shock at having their place of business stormed by legionaries. Two of the men rushed for the small door at the back of the warehouse. As the cross brace was pulled aside, the door was kicked in, knocking the man down as several auxiliaries, along with their decurion, spilled into the large room.
“What is the meaning of this?” one of the men yelled, face red with anger. “How dare you barge in and assail us like this!”
Artorius ignored the man as he pulled back his cloak. As he wore his legionary plate armor, minus his decorations harness, the only thing distinguishing him from his men was his brass centurion’s belt, which was devoid of the hanging leather straps seen on legionaries. His demeanor alone told the men that he was in charge, and he shoved the man who shouted at them aside as he strode with purpose over to the cart.
“And what have we here?” he asked, throwing back the large tarp. Underneath was a pile of logs.
“Lumber,” the man replied with a smirk. “We ship lumber in from Galilee. Is this what you assault merchants for in the middle of the night?”
“Which of you is Jesus Barabbas?” Artorius asked, ignoring the man’s tirade.
“Piss on you, Roman!” one of the men who rode in on the cart spat.
Artorius then noted the scar above his left eye that Nathaniel had spoken of. He calmly walked over to the man, who was seething in rage. The centurion noticed, that despite it being a cool evening, the man was sweating profusely. Clearly he was nervous, and not just at the sight of Roman soldiers.
His expression unchanged, Artorius swung his fist and caught the man he knew to be Barabbas behind the ear, dropping him to his knees. He then walked to the wagon and climbed into the back. He glanced over at the first man who had verbally assaulted them and saw him swallow hard. Artorius grabbed the first log and threw it from the cart. The Judeans were startled by his brutal strength as he threw the first few logs which echoed loudly as they crashed into the warehouse floor. He saw the long crates underneath, still bearing the imperial seal. Artorius glared at the men, who were now in a state of abject terror. All except Barabbas, who simply stared at the ground. One of the men panicked and sprinted for the back door, trying to force his way past the auxiliaries. The decurion had his gladius drawn, which he plunged into the man’s stomach. The smuggler’s eyes grew wide in pain and horror, though the only sound he made was a pathetic whimper as he slumped to the ground. The auxilia officer, remembering his training, had angled his sword up and plunged the weapon through his victim’s intestines and into his heart. Deep crimson covered the blade as he withdrew it, allowing the dying man to collapse to the ground, blood spilling from the wound and forming a pool beneath his twitching body.