The other issue at hand is the very troops Pilate has at his disposal. As the Judeans are an extremely arrogant people who, as a whole, would never stoop to working for the Roman government, the few who have volunteered are from the lowest dregs of society; hate-filled men whose loyalty is measured in coin and drink. He has, therefore, had to rely heavily on Samaritan auxiliaries. As you are well aware, the animosity between Jew and Samaritan goes back millennia. The only people the Judeans hate more than us are the Samaritans, and the feeling is reciprocated. The auxiliaries are unorganized, undisciplined, and have ruled through brutality and terror.
Their officers are little better and have, on more than one occasion, outright ignored Pilate’s orders. Their commander, an auxilia Centurion named Abenader, means well enough, but he is largely ineffective at keeping his subordinates in line. Case in point, the protests that began after Pilate used temple funds for the new aqueduct. Pilate specifically ordered his men to use clubs only to disperse the crowd. As noted in the complaint sent from the Sanhedrin, the auxiliaries used their swords to scatter the crowd, killing dozens. Yet with the shortage of suitable men to serve as officers, Pilate could do little but verbally chastise those responsible. I am confident that had his men been legionaries they could have handled the mob efficiently and without needless bloodshed.
Therefore, in the interest of maintaining good order in the province, as well as empowering the procurator to better enforce our will, I recommend we grant Pilate a legion. I understand this is technically illegal in that as an equite Pilate is ineligible to command a legion; therefore, I suggest we place the legion under Legate Lamia and operationally attach it to Judea under Pilate. This should clear up any legal ramifications.
Your humble colleague,
Lucius Aelius Sejanus
It was no small irony that as an equite himself, Sejanus’ appointment as joint consul with Tiberius was also technically illegal. He was of the lesser nobility, commander of the praetorian guard, and now sharing in power with the emperor himself. Had the senate showed any stomach and stood up to Tiberius when he made the appointment, he would have withdrawn it. As it was, the senate was mostly spineless old men who were more afraid of gaining the emperor’s displeasure than they were of enforcing Roman law. There were exceptions; an up and coming legate named Vitellius being one. Tiberius tried to make certain that those whose appointments to governorships he approved were not only capable of independent rule, but also courageous enough to let the emperor know when they felt he was wrong. Though Vitellius had not gone as far as to oppose Sejanus’ appointment as consul; doubtless he would be outraged to have an equite in command of a legion.
“Mmm, so what will you tell Sejanus?” The voice of Gaius Caligula startled the emperor.
“I told you never to read over my shoulder like that!” Tiberius snapped, causing Caligula to bow low.
“Apologies, uncle,” he replied. “Merely concerned over the welfare of our dear eastern provinces.”
“Yes,” Tiberius snorted. “I forgot you spent a lot of time there in your youth.”
“Oh yes,” his great-nephew replied with a grin. “Delicious place, the east; I was practically raised there. Such a fitting jewel in the crown of our beloved empire.”
Tiberius was at times uncertain as to why he kept Gaius Caligula so close to him on Capri. Personally, he found him to be utterly repulsive; nothing at all like his revered father, the late Germanicus Caesar. His two older brothers had been convicted of plotting against the emperor, as was their mother, Agrippina. Along with Gaius, only his sisters, Julia Drusilla and Julia Livilla, remained unscathed by the family scandals. All three were kept on Capri, and in many circles viewed as little more than prisoners of the emperor.
That Tiberius may be planning on grooming Caligula as a potential heir scarcely entered anyone’s minds. Tiberius was, after all, only Rome’s second emperor, and there was little precedent when it came to naming a successor. If the empire had, in fact, evolved into a type of hereditary monarchy, then the only viable candidates were Tiberius’ twelve-year old grandson, Gemellus, and Gaius Caligula. There were factions who pressed for the recognizing of Tiberius’ nephew, Claudius, as a potential heir. Though the brother of Germanicus, the fact that he was a stuttering invalid made Tiberius dismiss him completely.
“So tell me, uncle,” Caligula persisted, “What will you tell Sejanus about lovely Judea?”
“I’ll not place a legion under the command of an equite,” Tiberius replied.
“Well, that’s odd, given that you made one consul!” Caligula retorted.
The emperor gritted his teeth but refrained from lashing out at the young man. It was clear that Caligula was attempting to get a reaction from Tiberius, and he was not about to take the bait. As much as it grated on him, he knew the vile young man was correct. That he would make Sejanus consul and yet deny Pontius Pilate authority over a single legion was, indeed, hypocritical.
“I do not have a spare legion just lying around, doing nothing,” Tiberius remarked, keeping his composure despite Caligula’s impudence. “Still, I think we can reach a compromise that will preserve the balance between the senate and equites, while giving Sejanus and Pilate the support they requested.”
Chapter IV: Seasons End
Spring was always a time of reflection for Artorius, especially with the news he’d just received from Dominus. This winter marked sixteen years since he ascended into the ranks. On days when he thought back on the time spent in the legions, his mind sometimes turned to friends from his youth; those who had not gone off to war on the frontier. Many days he pitied their dull and sedentary lives. He had seen more in his first year in the Twentieth Legion than all of them would ever see in their combined existence. His profession gave him stability, a guaranteed source of income, as well as security. Many who he grew up with were barely surviving. Others fared better, but were in vocations that left them stale and devoid of life. Yet for all that the legions had given him, it came at a terrible price.
The first time he had drawn his sword in anger, Artorius had learned the painful lesson that war was nothing like the historians and philosophers described. Every time he took the life of another human being, it felt as if a part of him died with them. His very soul would break whenever a friend and fellow legionary fell. It was no small wonder that men who spent too much time on the battle lines often became shells of what they once were, expressions dull and lifeless. Such was the toll for those who kept the empire’s borders safe. The coming summer would mark three years since the Battle of Braduhenna; by far the most savage clash he ever engaged in. Though the battle had been won, nearly half his men had either perished or were so badly injured that they would never fight again. Those two days still haunted him, and on nights where he woke up trembling in a cold sweat, his wife, Diana, would do her best to console him. He had spent the last three years trying to rebuild his century into some semblance of the fighting force they had once been.
The skirmish in the outlying village had given his newest recruits a taste of battle and they had performed admirably enough. His plan had been rather brazen and it left him temporarily exposed. However, it did allow Praxus to envelope the raiders with the rest of the century.
As he brooded over the events from the previous evening, he had hoped to take part in the pending expedition that the commanding legates of both legions were planning. It would by no means be a full-scale invasion; that would require approval of both the emperor and Senate. Along the empire’s ever-hostile borders, it was not uncommon for preemptive raids and punitive expeditions to cross beyond the frontier and teach a brutal lesson to Rome’s many enemies.