“Somebody explain to me why this bloody hill is so important,” Valens vented as the cohort marched towards Mount Gerizim.
Taurus and his cavalry were screening their front and sending out reconnaissance patrols. It was the largest combined force assembled together since Pilate’s arrival in Judea more than ten years before.
The procurator was in full armor and in command of the taskforce. It had been many years since Pilate had taken to the field, and though most of his time was spent as an artillery officer, he had lost none of his ability to lead and coordinate large numbers of soldiers. In reality, there were only three men he had to give orders to directly; Artorius, Abenader, and Taurus.
“According to Samaritan tradition, it is the one place not swallowed up in the Great Flood,” Cornelius explained.
All centurions and options rode together, along with Pilate, at the head of the long column of legionaries. Abenader also rode with them; his first cohort marching ahead of the legionaries, the other behind.
“It’s not even that big of a hill,” Magnus observed. “And what great flood exactly are they talking about?”
“Many cultures in the region speak of it in their mythology,” Cornelius continued. “The Jews, Samaritans, Babylonians; all have stories of when God flooded the earth in a rage and wiped out most of mankind.”
“Well, that’s certainly cheerful,” Pilate remarked dryly. “And no disrespect to Centurion Taurus, but all of his cavalry are Samaritans!”
“About half of the auxiliary infantry are as well,” Artorius added.
There was a noticeable tension in the air.
“In other words,” Magnus replied, “if the auxiliaries elect not to turn on their brethren, we’re pretty much fucked.”
“That sums it up,” Pilate said with a macabre grin. He then looked over at his auxilia centurion. “No disrespect to you, Abenader. But even if they don’t openly turn on us, should the auxiliaries refuse to fight, one cohort of legionaries cannot possibly withstand the onslaught of four thousand men when caught out in the open.”
“You realize we’ve gone this entire time without a single fatality within the cohort,” Magnus observed. “It would be a shame if all of us die today or tomorrow.”
Mount Gerizim lay just thirty miles from Caesarea, along the main road between Judea and Galilee. Pilate’s forces had left in the afternoon two days before the expected ascent of Gerizim by the armed force of pilgrims. As they approached the mountain the night before the climb, they were met by Centurion Taurus and members of his cavalry.
“Taheb and his men are all encamped in the village of Tirathana, not far from here,” he said as he rode up to Pilate and saluted. “I sent scouts under cover into the village, and they are all there, celebrating the liberation of their sacred mountain.”
“And are they armed?” Pilate asked.
“They are,” Taurus confirmed. “They have mostly spears, smaller curved swords, with bucklers for shields. A few of the leaders even have hamata chain armor.”
“It’s as we suspected,” Artorius said.
Pilate gave a nod.
“To our advantage,” Taurus continued, “they do not know of our approach. They may have seen some of my cavalrymen, but as they are fellow Samaritans who frequently patrol this road, they likely paid them no mind. From what we gathered, they have no knowledge of your force’s approach.”
“We best not try to blockade the village,” Artorius spoke up. “It is too large to encircle with the small force we have, plus then we would not be able to mass our numbers.”
“Agreed,” Pilate replied. “We’ll bivouac on the far side of the mountain under the cover of darkness. That means no cooking fires tonight. All of us will have to eat our rations cold. In the morning we will be waiting for them.”
The next morning Artorius had his legionaries formed up in the center behind Pilate. Each century was operating independently with their soldiers four ranks deep. He had placed his First Century in the very center of the formation. Abenader’s Auxilia infantry were on the flanks, with Taurus’ cavalry covering the wings approximately one hundred meters off to each side. The slope was steep enough that it would give legionary javelins greater reach, as well as allowing for momentum should they need to attack. The ever-present sun shone down on them, the reflection off their armor glared into the faces of the advancing Samaritans.
The horde of ‘pilgrims’ radiated pure hostility and contempt for the Romans. Those closest to their leader brandished their weapons. Most carried short, Arabian curved swords, with small wicker shields. There could be no doubt that this was a mob ready for battle. There were many chants and prayers emanating from the throng, in a language that Artorius could not understand. Yet even if they were calls for peace, their tone was sinister and threatening.
Pontius Pilate stood well in front of his assembled soldiers, Artorius and Abenader on each side, a step behind him. He wore his tribune’s armor of gleaming muscled cuirass breastplate with white leather straps hanging off the shoulders. His gleaming helmet bore its tall feathered crest that ran front-to-back. It was the same armor he’d worn all those years ago, when he and Artorius first served together on the Rhine. Though polished and well maintained, the scouring told of countless battles the procurator had seen long before he stepped into politics.
“Halt!” he shouted, raising his hand.
“You defile our mountain with the presence of your soldiers,” a man they guessed to be Taheb said as he stepped forward, a handful of bodyguards at his sides.
“It is you who defiles this place,” Pilate retorted calmly.
On either end, the cavalry slowly started to advance, making their way towards the flanks of the Samaritan force. “This is supposed to be a holy pilgrimage, which are more than welcome in these lands. But no other force of wayfarers comes armed such as yourselves. This is an army, and an illegal one at that. If you wish to continue on your excursion, then lay down your arms immediately!”
“Ha!” Taheb retorted. “And why should we? If we lay down our weapons, your men will attack us!”
There were mutterings of consent from the assembled mass, coupled with jeers and insults shouted towards Pilate.
“I promise no harm will come to you,” the procurator emphasized. “But I cannot allow any armed force to pass!”
“You would have us enslaved like our brethren who wear your cursed uniforms!” one of the men next to Taheb shouted.
The so-called Samaritan Messiah decided in an instant to end the discussion. “I’ll save our people, even if I have to martyr myself!” he screamed as he drew his sword and lunged towards Pilate.
The procurator quickly drew his gladius and stepped back. His foe’s sword slashed against the cheek guard of his helmet.
“Shit!” Artorius swore as he and Abenader drew their gladii.
Each stepped forward to protect Pilate, driving their weapons into the vitals of the men on either side of Taheb, who had stumbled forward from the momentum of his attack. Pilate sprang forward and stabbed him through the throat. The prophet’s eyes grew wide in disbelief as he fell to his knees. He choked up gouts of blood, which also gushed from his ruptured neck. Pilate spat on him as he and his centurions quickly backed away. The mob of Samaritans was momentarily stunned at the sudden slaying of their savior.
“Javelins…volley by ranks!” Artorius shouted. He did not know if the enemy’s shock would turn to rage and was not going to give them any chance of seizing the initiative. He also knew he had to smash them quickly, in case the auxiliaries wavered. And even if they held their ground, the horde still had them substantially outnumbered.
“Front rank…throw!” Valens shouted.
A storm of javelins sailed over the top of Pilate and the centurions, who sprinted up the hill. Artorius immediately took his place on the extreme right of his century; Abenader and Pilate to his left. The auxilia centurion stayed close to the procurator, acting as a personal bodyguard. Decanii within the century gave subsequent orders and several more volleys of javelins rained down upon the Samaritans. On either side, the rest of the cohort was raining down its own storm of death on their hapless foe. Artorius turned around just in time to see a mob gathering around their dead prophet, wailing in sorrow and rage, cut down by the wave of death that descended upon them. Javelins tore into their flesh, their wicker shields proving all but useless against the storm of death. In his peripherals, Artorius saw the other centuries unleashing their remaining salvos of javelins.