“And?”
“They are few in number, but they have a man who is promising them Roman weapons,” Amir stated. “I think he is someone you are familiar with.”
“Barabbas,” Justus growled as he crept along the low ditch next to the small wheat field.
It was almost midnight, and even from a distance he could clearly see the renegade’s face as the door was opened to the small, one-room stucco farmhouse.
“I followed him after his release,” Amir explained quietly. “It would seem time in your prisons only made him even more brazen. He’s found a few local contacts in this area, including the owner of this paltry farm.”
“Alright.” Justus signaled to his nearest decanus, who passed it down the line. As silently as they were able, his entire century encircled the house, creeping along, with the occasional bleating of a goat startling them for a moment.
“Weapons!” a voice said from within, as Justus leaned against the wall near an open window. “We need weapons! Your men attacked the Antonia Fortress without proper arms, and they were slaughtered because of it.”
“I can get your arms,” Barabbas replied. “We’ll make our own if necessary.”
Hearing all he needed to, Justus waved to one of his men, who smashed in the door with his foot. Legionaries on the far side of the house kicked in the other entrance as well.
“What is the meaning of this?” the old man, whose house it was, demanded.
“Weapons?” Justus asked, his eyes cold with rage. He eyed the table, which held a number of Jewish holy books. “You claim to be devout people of peace, yet you speak of sedition and murder.” He then looked over at Barabbas and grinned sinisterly. “Hello, Barabbas. We meet again.”
The trial of the seditionists had been brief and expedient. The old man’s farmhouse and plot of land were confiscated, while he and the others were sentenced to death by crucifixion. Pilate considered commuting their sentences to prison time, but reasoned that as soon as they were released they would simply find another zealot group to join and would be plotting to take up arms against Rome once more. By handing down the most severe punishment available, the intent was to deter others. There was one man, however, that would not be going to the cross.
“Jesus bar Abbas,” Pilate said as he paced in front of the wretched man. He’d been beaten severely by Justus and his soldiers, though per Pilate’s directive, they made certain there was no lasting damage. “You have been found guilty once again of plotting to sell weapons to insurrectionists, a capital crime. However, because you have previously received the emperor’s pardon, you cannot be given the death penalty.”
“Piss on you, Roman,” Barabbas slurred through his swollen and bloodied lips.
Artorius stepped over quickly and slammed his fist into the renegade’s stomach, doubling him over and dropping him to his knees. He began coughing violently and spewing up bile.
“As I was saying,” Pilate continued. “I cannot nail you to the cross. However, I can give you a sentence that will make you wish I had. Centurion Artorius, where did you say we should send this vile excuse of a man?”
“Mauretania,” the centurion replied. “Let him live out his days in the sulfur mines.”
“Yes,” Pilate said, grinning as Barabbas looked up at him, eyes wide. “Once you go down into the dark, you will gaze upon the sun no more. The sulfur will burn your skin, your mouth, your tongue; it will blind you within months. Within a year, provided you still live, you will have been driven completely mad. You are the vilest of scum, Barabbas! The teacher, Jesus of Nazareth, was a righteous man who had done no wrong. He died in your place, and this was how you repaid him!”
For the first time, a look of understanding crossed Barabbas face, and his eyes became wet with sorrow; not for his sentence, but for what he had done. In perhaps the only instance in his life, as the soldiers drug him away, he shed tears of remorse.
Chapter XXX I: Days of Rage
Caesarea, Judea
November, 36 A.D.
An unusual period of relative peace came to pass over the province, following the summer of strange sightings of the deceased Nazarene and the dispatching of Barabbas to the mines of Mauretania. Caiaphas and the Sanhedrin, while still a constant irritant, had quieted their openly hostile rhetoric towards Pontius Pilate and the Roman government. Indeed, almost three years passed before another crisis emerged.
“Another bloody prophet,” the procurator swore under his breath.
“Only this one’s armed,” Taurus replied.
Pilate shook his head and walked over to the table, slamming his fist down hard. “He calls himself Taheb, which means ‘restorer’. Many Samaritans are calling him their Messiah.”
“Your entire cavalry regiment is made up of Samaritans,” Artorius observed.
“That is true,” Taurus admitted. “However, my men are loyal to their oaths. Almost all have heard this Taheb’s words, yet they remain firm in their allegiance.”
“Jove damn them!” Pilate snapped. “That’s all we need is thousands of armed Samaritans causing a fucking riot!”
“Or worse, starting an insurrection,” Justus added.
“How many men do we have available?” Pilate asked his assembled military leaders.
“I have two cohorts of infantry available,” Abenader replied.
Knowing he would need reinforcements, Pilate had sent for the commander of the Jerusalem garrison to bring what forces he could spare.
“My regiment has been reinforced and is totaling about four hundred and fifty cavalry,” Taurus added.
“The First Legionary Cohort is battle ready,” Artorius asserted.
“Give or take the strength of the Auxilia cohorts, that gives us a total fighting strength of about eighteen hundred men,” Pilate said after a short pause. “There is just one problem that I see.” He then turned to Abenader, whose face bore a look of puzzlement.
“Sir, if you are questioning the loyalty of my men…”
“They have shown great improvement in discipline and training,” Artorius interrupted in a rare defense of Abenader. “That being said, this whole region is so bloody tribal that can we be assured they will turn their weapons on their own people?”
“My men know where their loyalties lie,” Abenader asserted. “You do not question Centurion Taurus’ cavalry, so I’d expect you not to question those under my command.” He was indignant that after all this time the quality of his soldiers was still being called into question.
“Let us hope it does not come to that,” Pilate added. “I do not want another bloodbath on our hands like we had at the Antonia Fortress. Still, we cannot allow an armed mob to run rampant. These people know the law, and it is up to us to remind them of it.”
“And these people carry not just butchers cleavers and farming tools,” Taurus added. “They are armed with proper weapons to be sure.”
“A pity then, that the arms dealers we struck down three years ago did not sway others from doing the same,” Pilate lamented.
“We may have an armed insurrection brewing,” Artorius said. “The Governor of Egypt warned us last year that there was growing anti-Roman sentiment in the region. Should we then inform the Legate of Syria, in case we need reinforcements?”
“I do not wish to have my first meeting with Vitellius involve me crawling on my knees, begging for help,” Pilate retorted.
Flaccus had returned to Rome after his initial three-year tour was complete and had elected not to extend his time in the east. His replacement was Lucius Vitellius, who had served as consul just two years before. His power and influence was vast, and the last thing Pilate needed was appearing weak before the man who could most positively or adversely affect his career since Sejanus.
“Well, if this goes bad, you won’t need to go begging to Vitellius on your knees,” Artorius mused, “You’re head will probably be on a Samaritan spear.”