7
Nazareth, AD 16
The march from the sea was the most arduous portion of the military action. Even though it was more leisurely than the soldiers were accustomed to, since the prefect insisted on accompanying the legion. His litter and baggage train slowed them to a crawl, and there were frequent rests. Even so, it was cruelly hot, and they sweltered under their armor.
At the end of their march the Twenty-third Legion Judaea reached the town of Nazareth under their own banner, a rearing bronze stallion even though they were strictly a foot unit. They marched down a hill road through a sadly parched fig orchard and into the bowl in which the miserable collection of hovels sat. Orders were relayed, and they formed up in a square within sight of the crumbling wall that enclosed the village.
As was their custom, they immediately set about with mattock and spade to erect an earthwork square to fortify their camp. It was hard work after the dusty march, but they were accustomed to it, and each man dug and lifted to clear his own area of sand as long and wide as he was tall. Some of the old horses made the tired joke that they were digging a grave for two—one for the man they were and one for the man they would never be.
Decimus Munatius Purpurio, tribune of the Twenty-third, saw personally to the construction of the prefect’s tent. He stood with his cloak about him to keep dust from his polished goatskin armor as he directed the men to speed. The armor was his finest dress outfit, kid leather lightened with lye and trimmed in silver. It was magnificent but showed every spot of dust like blood on a virgin’s gown. The prefect’s tent was an expansive contraption of colorfully striped cloth in comparison to the rough canvas tents the soldiers billeted in when, that is, they did not sleep in the open beneath groundsheets. Valerius Gratus himself remained within the draped interior of his litter to escape the sun and the dust.
The prefect was appearing and behaving differently from when Purpurio last saw him. The man was ever an odious pervert, but now he took on the aspect of a dying man. He was lean to the point of emaciation with sallow skin and eyes that twitched like a rabbit’s at bay. And Gratus’s mental disposition was troubling as well. The tribune had questioned the need and purpose for this current campaign and was shouted to silence by an angry Gratus. Purpurio considered sending a letter to the legate in Antioch detailing his doubts about the prefect’s fitness for the post. He decided against what could turn out to be a rash move that might jeopardize his career. If these mad plans of the prefect’s went to shit, Purpurio would remain unsullied. He was only following the orders of his superior as any good soldier was supposed to, was he not?
The town was not much to see. It was one of the purely Jewish towns, simply packed to the guard walls with the foul creatures. The houses were close to one another and all in need of a fresh coat of wash. The place stank as well. The smell of rancid piss reached the Roman camp from the tanneries at the far end of the place. There was either carpentry work or fresh construction going on within the walls as the sounds of saws and hammers could be heard even before they were within sight of Nazareth.
One of the temples dominated the center of the town and was the only well-kept structure in sight. The burnished bronze dome atop its roof gleamed red in the setting sun. They’d enter the town tomorrow, and Purpurio only wished he’d brought a horse so he would not have to soil his boots by trudging through their filthy streets. He considered for a moment being carried within the gate on a litter of his own but rejected that idea. In his current state, Prefect Gratus might react poorly to such a display of hubris.
The tent was erected and the stumbling prefect helped within by a gaggle of his pretty boys. Purpurio walked the earthworks to make certain they were up to form. It was night before the camp was complete and a heavily salted soup served to the hungry men. The tribune satisfied himself with cold lamb strips, dried apples, and a cup of wine before retiring to his own tent.
Tomorrow promised to be a long and tedious day.
The town smelt even worse within the walls. Tribune Purpurio kept a cloth soaked in vinegar handy to hold before his nose to take the stink from his nostrils and taste from his tongue. A greasy clinging smoke from cook fires created a fog in the narrow lane leading from the main gate. The odor of feces and urine, from goats and Jews, rose out of every alley and all was overhung by the dense stench from the tanneries.
With an aquilifer holding the legion banner aloft, he led the bulk of the Twenty-third to the dusty open square that lay before the temple. A token force was left behind to protect the encampment and as a personal guard for the prefect who remained asleep in his tent despite the late morning hour.
Such precautions were mere gestures in Purpurio’s opinion. There would be no trouble from these peasants who lined the streets watching the passage of the soldiers with the idle interest of sheep. The tribune wondered how these could be the same people who millennia before came screaming out of the hills to the north to build an empire of their own in these lands. They were crushed into submission after years of occupation by the Syrians, then the Greeks, and now the might of Rome. They were not sheep, he decided upon fresh appraisal, they were whipped dogs.
The soldiers, urged on by
