Yaakov looked over his shoulder as he climbed the tower, his eyes growing wide at the sight of dozens of legionaries gathering on the rampart over the main gate.
“Where did they come from?” one of his men asked, fear rising in his voice.
Yaakov started to climb quickly. He and his small group had intended to infiltrate the fortress and capture Pilate while the rest overwhelmed the garrison. With soldiers observing the crowds greeting the Nazarene’s approach, the fortress should have only had minimal protection! A sense of dread came over him as he heard the scream of one of his men being knocked off the rampart below, falling to his death.
The ox cart that made it through the gate was shoved aside as zealots flooded the courtyard, oblivious to the large numbers of legionaries that were repelling their companions from the walls of the front rampart. Massed shoulder to shoulder in the wake of their numbers, they pressed towards the steps that led into the main atrium. Towards the top, a makeshift wooden barrier was knocked down, revealing a number of scorpions, as well as a full century of archers.
“Fire!” Cicero shouted.
The heavy blades shot from his scorpions ripped through the oncoming crowd like a scythe through a shock of wheat. Each bladed bolt sliced through torsos and severed limbs, leaving a trail of death in their wake.
“That is beautiful,” the decanus remarked with dark humor.
“Archers up!” Centurion Julius and his men quickly rose.
Without waiting for subsequent commands, the archers drew back and unleashed a volley into the stunned ranks of the zealot horde. Each man quickly nocked another arrow and started shooting at rebels closest to the steps, driving the survivors back in disorder. Cicero’s scorpions unleashed another wave of death, tearing through the masses as the courtyard became saturated in the spurting blood from the fearful wounds wrought.
“Infantry advance!” Artorius called to his assembled legionaries.
A cornicen sounded the notes into his horn, both as an audio signal to those across the way, as well as a dire warning to the zealots of their impending doom.
The space in front of the steps was already littered with corpses and gravely wounded men as Julius’ archers continued to pick off those who got too close, creating a gap for the infantry to form up in. Artorius then signaled to Julius, who immediately led his men to the stairs along the right-hand wall, where they would replace Praxus and Justus on the front gate.
“The archers are advancing!” Praxus called over his shoulder to Justus. He then ordered his men, “Close that bloody gate!”
The portcullis came crashing down, impaling one hapless rebel as it sealed the fate of those still inside. Praxus’ and Justus’ legionaries severed the ropes on the grappling hooks, leaving dozens of rebels clustered outside the gate.
“Fall back!” Justus ordered his men, who filed along the left-hand wall, followed by Praxus’ men as the archers took their place.
Praxus lingered on the corner, watching as Julius ordered his legionaries to fire a volley into the massed rebels outside the gate. Those within would be finished by Artorius and the infantry.
Legionaries from both ends of the steps swarmed the field below. Artorius and the other centurions took their place on the extreme right, their options on the left. The mass of zealots had grown silent. They kept their distance, unsure of what to do in the face of this wall of men and metal. The soldiers stood ready, shields close together, javelins at the ready to throw.
A young man in the crowd was filled with abject terror. He had heard those in the back yelling that the Romans had closed the gate behind them. They were completely unprepared for what they now faced. The zealots had been told the Roman forces would be preoccupied outside the city with only a small force of Pilate’s personal bodyguards manning the fortress. Where had these legionaries come from? There were hundreds of them, and he knew that he and his companions were at their mercy. Their paltry weapons could do nothing against the Romans’ shield wall or their protective armor. If only they had gotten those weapons Barabbas had promised them!
He looked into the faces of individual soldiers. A number of them were young, some perhaps no older than he was. Yet when he met their gaze, he saw that their age was the only thing they shared. While he viewed himself and his fellow zealots as men who only fought to free their people, those who faced him were not even human; their entire existence centered on killing.
“What are they waiting for?” he asked quietly.
“Barabbas will come for us, won’t he?” a nearby lad asked.
“Barabbas,” the young man scoffed. “He’s probably already dead. The Romans likely cut his throat as soon as they saw us coming for him. And what could he possibly do against that?” He pointed his weapon at the Roman line. He saw in the background behind the wall of legionaries the hated procurator, himself, standing atop the steps. Like a coward, he, too, was wearing armor. The young man tried to take a step backwards when his foot slipped out from under him. He looked down briefly and was horrified to see that he had stepped right into the splayed guts of one of his friends. As he looked up, Pilate addressed the mass.
“Rebellious scum!” he called down to them. “You have violated the peace of this city, during one of your people’s most holy of celebrations! Have we not coexisted in relative peace and goodwill? Has Rome not brought order and prosperity to your cities? And this is how you repay our charity!”
“Charity?” one zealot screamed. “You would have us be your slaves!”
Pilate grinned at the outburst and continued. “By standing before me, armed as you are, you have sentenced yourselves to oblivion! May your kinsmen learn well what happens to those who violate the peace of Rome!” He then turned to the centurion in the front rank, who was looking up at him, waiting for the order. Pilate simply nodded and walked away. The young man closed his eyes and accepted his fate.
“Front rank…throw!” Artorius shouted.
The rebels’ indecision only hastened their destruction. Centurions in each rank echoed the order and storms of javelins ripped into their enemy. The silent pause was broken by fresh screams of anguish as blood and gore sprayed forth from the terrible wounds wrought by the heavy javelins. The rest of the mob gave a unified scream of rage and charged.
“Second rank…throw!”
“Third rank…throw!”
The young rebel winced as the man next to him was skewered through the heart by a javelin. He cried out in pain as another tore through his shoulder and stuck in the rebel behind him. He fell to the ground, clutching his shoulder and crying in pain along with the other wounded that had been denied a mercifully quick death. Men trampled him as they rushed forward in a desperate bid to go down fighting against the Romans.
“Gladius…draw!” Artorius shouted.
“Rah!”
“Advance!”
The zealots made an attempt to fight back as Artorius and his legionaries slowly marched forward. Men threw themselves against the shield wall, but it was in vain. One came at him with a garden tool in a hard slash, which he easily blocked. He then smashed the rebel in the shin with the bottom of his shield, snapping the bone in two. The line was advancing quickly, and he stepped over the crippled man, allowing Magnus to finish him with a stab to the vitals.
His men fell upon their foe and killed them with contemptuous ease. This rabble was not even a worthy enemy who could readily defend themselves, and Artorius’ disdain for them fueled his anger. One man threw his curved short sword at him, which was deflected by Artorius’ shield. His face was contorted in rage; the rebel’s eyes were wide with mad scorn. The centurion walked up to him and plunged his gladius into the man’s bowels. It would have been just as easy to stab him in the heart or the throat, yet he was so filled with scorn that he did not view this scum as deserving of a quick death.