From high above, Diana held Claudia’s hand as they watched from the balcony that overlooked the main courtyard. Her younger sister winced as individual screams of pain permeated the din of the ongoing brawl. The rebels were slowly being backed towards the gate; the bodies of the slain littering the ground as the legionaries stepped on and over them. The killing continued unabated. Diana heard Pilate tell Artorius that no quarter was to be given.
“Those bastards haven’t a chance,” Diana growled with a sinister grin. Her free hand gripped the pommel of her gladius.
Were any of the rebels able to escape the wrath of Artorius and his legionaries, they would not take her without a fight!
“As strange as this may sound, I pity them,” Claudia replied as the shriek of another zealot caused her face to twitch. Down below she could make out the screaming man, who was pinned against the wall, a legionary grinding the blade of his gladius into his groin.
Her older sister gazed at her sternly. “You know that every last one of those brutes would not hesitate to rape you and cut your throat!” Diana admonished. “They are getting what they deserve! Do not show them pity, dear sister, for they would show you none.”
Claudia looked down. “I know,” she replied. “In many ways I guess I’m still a naïve little girl who still sees the best in people. I’m sorry, Diana, but I have not had to deal with men at their worst like you have.”
“And for that I’m thankful,” Diana replied, clutching her sister’s hand. “I would rather you stayed the way you are.” Out of the corner of her eye she then saw the four men scaling the tallest tower. “Wait here,” she said.
The advancing legionaries stumbled as the ground filled with dying rebels. The men in the subsequent ranks could scarcely take a step without tripping over a bloodied corpse. The formation was tightly compressed and Artorius knew that executing a passage-of-lines would be impractical. His sword arm was starting to fatigue and he could not count how many men he had slain, if indeed they could be called men. Sheep or cattle would have made a better show of themselves! At last they reached the front gate, where up above Julius and his men were sending arrows raining down upon the rebels still clambering outside the portcullis. One last rebel stood with his back against the wall, hands held up in surrender. Pilate had ordered all to be killed, and Artorius was not feeling merciful. He smashed the boss of his shield into the zealot’s face, sending him sprawling to the dirt. As he tried to stand, Artorius brought his shield down, repeatedly smashing the man’s skull until it shattered under his relentless onslaught. In a final insult, he spat on the twitching corpse.
Outside, civilians now swarmed the gate. Wives, mothers, and daughters trying desperately to drag away their men, who wailed in despair at leaving their companions to their fate. Despite the mass of women and other civilians amongst the rebels, the archers on the wall continued to fire without pity. Praxus winced as one young woman, who was trying to forcibly coax her husband away from the wall, took an arrow clean through her upper arm. She fell to the ground, her high pitched screams of pain reverberating throughout. Her husband screamed oaths of rage and started to throw rocks up at the men on the wall. One bounced off the helm of a legionary, who turned his bow on the man and with malicious glee shot him through the guts.
Though the Romans were not deliberately shooting civilians, the chaotic swarm below made it impossible not to, and several other women were badly injured or killed by stray arrows. Julius sensed the inherent danger of continuing to engage civilians.
“Cease fire!” he shouted.
“What gives?” his optio asked. “There are still gods know how many of those bastards down there!”
“If we keep this up, we’ll kill an equal number of civilians,” the centurion explained. “We do that and we’ll have the entire city clamoring for our heads.” Though Rome ruled Judea, he understood that several hundred legionaries, no matter how well fortified, could not withstand the uprising of an entire city.
Artorius had heard the order to cease fire given on top the rampart, and he knew the battle was now over. He looked to his left and saw his men were doing anything but celebrating. Even the pirates they had butchered two years before had at least attempted to fight back. These men were nothing but cowards who thought they could walk into a Roman fortress and kill or abduct the procurator. He then turned to his fellow centurions.
“Cornelius, have your men check the bodies and see if any of these worthless scum are still alive,” he ordered. “Round up a few of the less badly injured, and we’ll crucify them after sundown.”
“Yes, sir,” Cornelius replied as his men went about their task.
“Magnus,” Artorius said to his friend. “Have your men gather up as much of the crowd from outside as you can. Make them drag these piles of shit out of our courtyard!”
“Right away,” the Norseman responded.
“What do you want us to do?” Optio Valens asked as he walked over from the far end of the line.
The men of the First Century were drenched in sweat and completely exhausted from their ordeal, having done the vast majority of the fighting.
“Get the men inside,” Artorius directed. “Take some time and make sure they get plenty of water and cool off. We’ll have some work to do tonight, provided Cornelius finds any of these sorry bastards worth crucifying.”
“Yes, sir.” Valens replied. He then shouted down the line, “First Century, with me!”
Artorius walked over to the left-hand wall and ascended the steps. Though Praxus had released his men, he remained, leaning with his back against the rampart. Artorius removed his helmet and joined his friend.
“They never learn,” Praxus said as the gate was opened and Magnus’ men started forcibly grabbing protesting civilians and dragging them into the courtyard to clear away the dead. Praxus’ eyes were closed, his face tilted up into the sun.
“We taught them a harsh lesson today,” Artorius replied. “Hopefully making the people clean up this mess, not to mention crucifying the few survivors, will drive the point home.”
“I doubt it,” his fellow centurion replied. “If anything, I think we’ve only stoked the fires of hate even more so.”
“Well, what else could we have done?” Artorius retorted, exacerbated at the situation. The heat bearing down on them did little to soften his temper.
“Nothing,” Praxus replied, opening his eyes and looking over at his friend. “These weren’t even true insurrectionists. They were merely a band of thugs who saw an opportunity to murder or capture Pilate, and for that we should be thankful. An actual rebellion would have seen this place assaulted by thousands who were well-organized and equipped, not a reckless mob of a few hundred.”
“Perhaps they were hoping that by taking the Antonia, they could incite such a mass rebellion,” Artorius mused.
“Perhaps,” Praxus agreed. “I think there will come a time when this gods’ forsaken place explodes. I just hope it does not happen on our watch.”
Yaakov’s arms felt like they were going to fall off as he made his way slowly up the tower, unable to ascertain from the cries and sounds of battle below how it fared. Sweat dripped from every pour and his hands felt slippery on the rope. He could hear his three companions breathing heavily, the terror of falling the only thing allowing them to keep a grip on the rope, despite the pain in their hands and forearms.