“Murderer!” the first man shouted.
Felix grabbed him by the hair and yanked his head down, slamming his knee into the man’s face. A crowd of onlookers was starting to form outside the still-open warehouse door, all talking quickly in whispered voiced. Artorius snapped and pointed his fingers towards the gathering crowd. The decurion nodded and shouted some orders out the back door. More than twenty auxiliaries, who had been waiting behind the building to catch any smugglers attempting to escape, quickly converged on the front the building, forcing the curious onlookers back. The first man was now on his knees, spewing curses in Hebrew at the Romans. Felix stomped him hard on the back of the head, his hobnailed sandals tearing open a nasty gash.
“Open the crates,” Artorius ordered the auxiliaries, who immediately scrambled onto the wagon.
It took two to three of them to throw off each log, whereas the maddeningly strong centurion had been able to handle them alone. Felix and the legionaries started to bind the hands of the smugglers and the warehouse owner behind their backs. The man whose building it was now wept openly as Felix pulled him to his feet. There was a loud crashing as auxiliaries smashed open one of the crates.
“Sir,” one of the men said, holding aloft a Roman gladius and scabbard, which he tossed to the centurion.
“Roman weapons,” Artorius observed as he flipped the gladius over in his hand, “Made for Roman soldiers.”
“Please,” the warehouse owner pleaded, “I did not know. I swear, they said they were transporting lumber! I did not know…”
“Shut up!” Felix snapped, cuffing the man across the gash on his head, where blood was starting to coagulate in his hair.
One of the smugglers began to scream uncontrollably, thrashing about in the grip of his legionary handlers. A soldier then proceeded to smash the pommel of his gladius repeatedly into the screaming man’s face and head, tearing numerous gashes and breaking the man’s nose until he was finally knocked senseless.
All the while, the man Artorius knew to be Barabbas stood quietly, his hands bound behind his back. His gaze was fixed on the floor, unwilling to look at the Roman centurion who now stood before him, holding the scabbarded weapon accusingly.
“Someone must be offering you a hefty price, if you are willing to risk death to steal military weapons,” Artorius accused. “Or are they for your own usage?”
Barabbas finally looked up at him, his face twisted in defiance. His head tilted back slightly, as he made ready to spit in the centurion’s face. Before he could do so, Artorius drove his knee into Barabbas’ groin, dropping him to the floor. His eyes were wide, and he broke into a coughing fit as he lay on his side. Artorius drew the gladius from its scabbard and placed the point on his neck.
“Who are you selling to, Barabbas?”
“Kill me and be done!” he spat in between gasps. This elicited a hard kick to the stomach from the centurion.
“No,” Artorius replied calmly. “I have something better in mind for you.”
“Despite the rather vehement protestations of Caiaphas and the Sanhedrin, I have elected to have the men tried in Roman court,” Pilate explained when Artorius made his report the next morning. “As you recall, after the incident with the prostitute, I had to revoke the authority of the Judean local governments from trying capital cases.”
“The theft and selling of Roman military arms most certainly falls within this category,” Artorius noted. As he answered directly to the procurator, he almost forgot at times the number of bureaucrats and various administrators that populated Pilate’s staff. Several of the men served as judiciaries, along with the procurator, whenever a case came before Roman jurisdiction.
“Had they gotten all the way to Jerusalem, I don’t think we ever would have found them,” Pilate observed. “Your men are to be commended.”
“It certainly would have created a far more harrowing scene in Jerusalem,” Artorius added. “As Caesarea is the commercial hub of this region, I doubt that even half the crowd that witnessed the raid were Jews.”
“And those that were could have cared less what happened to one of their competition,” Pilate added. “Right now all they care about is making certain nothing goes wrong with the upcoming Saturnalia celebrations.”
“So what will you do with them?” Artorius asked. “Clearly they are guilty; the trial is little more than a formality.”
“Barabbas will be put to death,” Pilate answered. “We’ve tried to ascertain who the arms were meant for, but that bastard is stubborn. Either the torturers I have are rank amateurs, or perhaps he’s telling the truth when he said they were not meant for any particular buyer.”
“That is plausible,” Artorius added. “There are many factions of zealots and various militant groups in the region. Lucky for us, they are usually too busy fighting each other. Barabbas would have made a fortune off the sale of those arms. And, perhaps, they were meant for himself and whoever his followers are.”
“But instead he’s bought himself the crucifix,” Pilate replied with a sinister grin. “How many weapons did you say you confiscated?”
“One hundred and fifty gladii,” the centurion answered. “And the same number of pilum. Given what zealots would pay for Roman-quality arms, Barabbas could have lived like a king for the rest of his life. What of the others?”
“If I execute Barabbas, I can show at least some clemency towards the others,” the Procurator replied. “The other smugglers will each get ten years. A decade in one of our prisons will break them of any desire to steal arms from Rome ever again. The only real trial will be that of the warehouse owner.”
“How so?”
“I have had several reputable persons within the community come forward to vouch for him,” Pilate replied. “While his proclaimed ignorance may have been the natural reaction in the face of being mauled by Roman soldiers, I have to ascertain if there is in fact some truth to his statement. If he is clearly guilty, then he will be given the same sentence as the others, as well as having his warehouse and all its goods confiscated. If, on the other hand, there is some truth to his words, or at least enough to give a general perception thereof, then I will have something to ponder.”
Artorius elected to take his entire First Century with him on the mission to deliver the stolen arms to the Twelfth Legion. Pilate had already sent word back to Flaccus, the new Syrian governor, as well as the legion’s chief tribune, so Artorius was not about to risk losing these weapons again. It was early morning, and his men were gathering around the wagon, where they would escort it to the docks and then onto the ship bound for Syria.
“Taking the entire First Century, eh?” Justus Longinus observed as he joined Artorius, who was emerging from his house.
“Pilate has told pretty much everyone of importance in the entire empire of our little raid,” Artorius replied. “I’ll be damned if I’m going to lose these weapons now, especially since it was detailed in the procurator’s quarterly report to the emperor.”
“Our friend, Pilate, has been on edge ever since the fall of Sejanus,” Justus noted. “He grasps at any opportunity to draw praise from either Tiberius or the senate.”
“His reports used to go through Sejanus,” Artorius remarked. “Now he has had to correspond with the emperor directly. You know, Sejanus’ downfall came over a year and a half ago, and yet despite Pilate being his deputy within the praetorians, as well as his protégé, nothing was ever said. Tiberius never even mentioned Sejanus in any of his subsequent correspondence; which aside from the usual berating for the constant complaints from the Jewish hierarchy, any communications from the emperor have been mostly routine.”