Artorius shook his head. “We’ll do no such thing,” he responded. “If we bar up the fortress every time there is rumor of unrest, the city would cease to function altogether.”
“I hate this fucking place,” Pilate grumbled as he rested his head on his clenched fist. “It’s only during this bloody Passover time that I have to be in Jerusalem.”
Artorius nodded in understanding and then turned to Abenader. “The auxilia will oversee the Nazarene’s arrival and keep the crowds in order.”
“Understood,” the auxilia commander replied, notably refraining from calling Artorius ‘sir’. Though he had a far greater number of men under his command, Abenader still resented that Artorius was nominally his superior. The issue of seniority still continued to rear its ugly head, especially in light of the latest reprimand Abenader had received from Artorius regarding the persistent lackluster discipline of his auxiliaries.
Artorius then turned his attention to his legionary centurions. “We’ll let Barabbas’ followers in to the Antonia fortress. Getting out will prove far more difficult.” He grinned wickedly at his last remark, eliciting some knowing chuckles from his men.
As Artorius left the meeting he was intercepted by Sergeant Cicero. Many of the lads still jested that he must be related to the famous orator of the same name. This was preposterous, as the Cicero whose death even his rival Julius Caesar lamented had come from a very wealthy and noble line. The man who mended breaks in their armor and kept their swords from cracking was a metal smith, as had been his father, and his father’s entire family for as long as could be remembered.
“Centurion Artorius!” Cicero called, waving his cohort commander down.
“I’m a little busy, sergeant,” Artorius replied, walking briskly down the hall. He hoped Abenader’s mounted scouts would get eyes on the Nazarene within the next day or so and give them enough warning as to his pending arrival.
“If it’s about the possible attack on the Antonia Fortress, you may want to see what I have to show you.” The armorer’s words stopped Artorius in his tracks.
“How long until the word spreads to the entire damned city,” Artorius muttered. He shook his head and then addressed Cicero again. “Alright, sergeant, you have my attention.”
“This way, sir.”
The centurions and options gathered in a semicircle around a pair of scorpions at the practice range. Cicero was proudly displaying what looked like a half moon blade on the end of an elongated scorpion bolt.
“The lads and I were trying to find a use for some of the scrap iron that’s been piling up in the smithy,” the decanus explained. “Someone mentioned that the scorpions on the walls of the Antonia Fortress have terrible fields of fire and do us little good. So that’s when we came up with this.” He handed the bolt to Artorius, who turned it over in his hand.
“This is rather heavy for a scorpion round,” Centurion Magnus observed as Artorius handed it to him. “I see you’ve added a counterweight to the back end.”
“Yes, sir,” Cicero conceded. “However, the idea we came up with is for a shock weapon that can be used at close range. We had to lengthen the bolt so that the blade will fit. That, combined with the weight slows down the speed and accuracy at any kind of range. However…”
He nodded to four of his men, who cranked the torsion ropes back on the scorpions. Artorius noticed they had set up straw figures in the shapes of men on the range. They loaded modified bolts into the weapons and fired. The heavy blades sliced through several of the targets before slamming into the far wall. Artorius and the other officers grinned in appreciation.
“Not bad,” Praxus remarked under his breath.
“That’ll ruin somebody’s day,” Valens added with a laugh.
“As you can see,” Cicero continued, his face beaming, “At close range, the bolts still have plenty of velocity and can cut through a mob of bandits with ease. Any attack on our stronghold will doubtless have us at a severe disadvantage in numbers. I say we even the odds a bit.”
“My master will be arriving at the gates of Jerusalem tomorrow morning,” Judas said. Their meeting place was a basement in an abandoned warehouse that was in serious disrepair. Few even acknowledged its existence, and the underground room was well hidden. A rebel called Yaakov grinned and turned to his assembled leaders.
“Tomorrow will be time for us to free our leader and take Judea back for the Judeans!” he shouted, bringing a cheer from his men. He looked back at Judas. “A pity your master will not join us. His influence with the people could be quite useful.”
“He is a man of peace,” Judas protested.
“And a Roman sympathizer!” a man spat.
Yaakov then grabbed Judas gently by the shoulder.
“Can he not see?” he asked. “His people are here, not in Rome! One word would be all he’d have to say. Freedom! He could rally all the tribes of Israel against the hated occupiers. Right now we are divided, leaderless. Barabbas’ hope was that once Jerusalem was in our hands, perhaps the tribes would unite, but we need a real leader. There are many who will not follow Barabbas, but they will follow the Nazarene.”
Judas shook his head. “No, I’ve tried to explain it to him, but he will not listen. He goes on about how we should love not just our neighbor, but also our enemies.”
“Bah!” another man shouted. “He would have us befriend those who enslave us!”
“Enough,” Yaakov said with a raise of his hand. He assessed the disciple and could see the vexation on his face. “I’m sorry, Judas, but after tomorrow Jesus of Nazareth will have to make a decision. His influence with the people is too powerful for him to sit as an idle observer. Once the Antonia Fortress falls and we drive the Romans out of Jerusalem, he will have no choice but to join us. And if not, then he can go skulking back to the imperial dogs in Caesarea!”
The disciple was clearly vexed as he stood and paced for a moment. At last he said, “He will join us. If not, I will see to it that he at least cannot hinder us.” Judas slumped into a chair in the far corner.
Yaakov gathered his men around a crudely drawn map of the Antonia Fortress. “Once inside,” he explained, “I will take a small group of our best climbers and scale the tall tower. The rest of you will seal off the exits and make sure no one escapes. We will then do a floor by floor search until we locate the procurator. Aside from freeing Barabbas, he is our chief objective and must be taken alive.”
“More satisfying to slit his throat,” one man grumbled.
Yaakov slammed his hand down onto the table. “No!” he barked. “Pilate is of no use to us if he’s dead. He is the only potential hostage worth taking. We will then locate the dungeons, free Barabbas, and any others the Romans have imprisoned.”
“And what if the emperor will not negotiate for Pilate’s release?” another man asked. “They are hardly on the friendliest of terms, so I cannot imagine Tiberius would give a damn what we do with Pilate.”
“If the emperor will not negotiate, then, yes, we will execute him,” Yaakov conceded. “But by then we will have rallied the entire city, as well as much of the nation to our cause. With so many people here for Passover, we’ll simply fortify Jerusalem and dare the Romans to attack us!”
“What about the women?” one man asked. “Pilate’s wife and the others?”
“She’d fetch a fair price, I’m sure,” another added.
“That she would,” Yaakov agreed. “But she is not who we seek. If Claudia Procula can be taken alive, so be it. She will make for good negotiating should Pilate escape. However, if she dies tomorrow, then she dies. I care not.
“Mark well, brothers, the only reason the Romans can pacify Judea with such a paltry force is that our people are too divided to unite against them. We spend our days squabbling and fighting amongst each other when we should be fighting them! That ends tomorrow. Tomorrow we will rally the entire nation to our cause and cast off the shackles of Rome forever!”