a second volley slammed into his shield with a sudden, double, vibrating report.
Vespasian felt the wind of a shot passing between the curved rims of his and Magnus’ shields; with a gurgled cry the auxiliary behind him collapsed to the ground, his shield striking Vespasian’s helmet with a ringing blow as he fell. He shook his head to clear it; a moment later he sensed another shield being thrust over him as the file behind closed up to seal the gap.
With twenty paces to go a third volley buffeted the century.
‘Javelins ready; aim over the barricade,’ Festus shouted as the last shots pounded into them. ‘Shields down!’
The auxiliaries hefted their javelins overarm, ready to throw.
‘Release!’
Seventy or so sleek missiles soared away from the advancing century, most clearing the top of the barricade, to rain down upon the unshielded defenders as they reloaded. Although not as heavy as a legionary
A ragged volley of arrows followed without doing any damage to the advancing Romans.
‘Charge!’ Festus yelled over the screams of the wounded.
Drawing their swords, the auxiliaries broke into a trot, hunched behind their shields held firm before them.
Vespasian closed his eyes with the shock of impact as his shield crashed into the barricade; the auxiliary behind thrust his shield into his back pushing him forward as the weight of successive men down the file was added to the momentum. With a rasping of wood grating roughly over stone, the barricade shifted back a few feet, and then suddenly splintered apart as the century behind added their impetus to the heaving scrum. Gasping for breath, Vespasian was hurled forward among the flying debris of the disintegrating obstacle; his feet became entangled with a plank, sending him sprawling forward. He just managed to duck under the wild sword thrust of a bellowing defender and rammed the raised plume of his helmet into the man’s groin. Clattering to the ground, Vespasian felt the auxiliary behind him thrust his sword into the exposed chest of his screaming adversary as he stepped past to fill the gap that his fall had created.
All around him Roman legs surged forward as he tried to regain his feet in among the chaos of the breakthrough. The yelling auxiliaries did not notice him in their eagerness to close with the poorly armed defenders, and his arms and legs suffered kicks and stampings before he was finally able to heave himself up and then move on to rejoin the surge.
Clearing the shattered barricade, he kept moving forward and realised that the enemy must have fled under the onslaught. His thought was confirmed a moment later by the low boom of a cornu sounding ‘halt’.
He pushed through the panting auxiliaries, up to the front of the first century where he found Festus looking at a dozen or so prisoners kneeling fearfully on the ground amid the bloody litter of their dead comrades.
‘Ah, quaestor, there you are,’ the prefect said, looking relieved to see him, ‘what do you want me to do with these? I was just about to have them executed.’
‘No, leave them alive, prefect; if the Jews see that we’re taking prisoners they might think it sensible to give up this ridiculous affair. Detail one of the less steady centuries to guard them and then let’s fan the other ones out through the quarter and get this over with. Let all the centurions know that from now on I want as little killing as possible, and no women or children are to be harmed under any circumstances.’
As the first century moved deeper into the Jewish Quarter the scale of the killing became increasingly apparent; bodies lay everywhere either in groups marking the position of a fight or singly as if cut down in an attempt to escape. Most of them were male of varying ages but Vespasian saw a few women and children; however, none looked to him like the ones who had accompanied Shimon.
Working their way methodically down the main street, with the other centuries taking parallel routes, they had managed to break up a few skirmishes and relieve some houses under siege, sending the beleaguered occupants to safety, taking scores of prisoners and killing the more persistent rioters of either side. As the morning wore on the combined efforts of the cohort were forcing the violence into a smaller and smaller area.
‘These Jews must fucking hate this new cult,’ Magnus said, kicking a hairy, severed forearm towards the body that had evidently once owned it. ‘I can’t understand it. Just think of the chaos we’d have if we spent our time fighting among ourselves about whether Mars should have a black bull sacrificed to him and Jupiter should have a white one or the other way round; we’d never get anything done.’
Vespasian stepped to his left to avoid treading in the spilled intestines of a gutted youth. ‘And there would be a lot fewer of us. No one can take offence because they feel that their favoured god receives less respect than someone else’s when we give every god equal credence. And thank the gods, in equal measure, of course, that we do.’
‘Which leaves us free to conquer the world,’ Magnus chuckled as raucous shouting started to emanate from somewhere close by.
‘We’ve had our own share of civil wars, don’t forget; but they at least were political and I would suppose that it’s far easier to bridge a political divide than a religious one. According to Sabinus the Jews spend all their time squabbling with each other about religious doctrine, which is probably one reason why they never had an empire, thank the gods; imagine living in a world with this sort of religious intolerance? It would be…’
‘Intolerable?’
‘Precisely,’ Vespasian agreed, grinning as the main street turned a sharp corner and then opened out into the small agora that was at the heart of the Jewish Quarter.
‘Shit!’ Festus spat as the source of the shouting became obvious. ‘Centurion Regulus, have the century form line here and send a couple of runners to get the nearest two centuries to come and support us at the double.’
‘Sir!’ the primus pilus of the cohort barked, saluting smartly before turning to carry out his orders.
Before them, just fifty paces away, was a crowd of at least four hundred rioters concentrating their attention on three houses at the far end of the agora, one of which had already started to burn. Black smoke swirled around the mob.
The first century streamed in from the main street and formed up, with a clatter of hobnails, two deep across its entrance as the first of the rioters became aware of their presence. With a roar the rear elements of the crowd began to peel off and move towards the thin auxiliary line, brandishing swords, clubs and bows.
Loud shouts from either side of him drew Vespasian’s attention; a century emerged from each of the two parallel streets and quickly formed up on either flank of the first century.
The lead rioters stopped in their tracks, not wanting to engage with over two hundred armed and shielded soldiers, while those at the back pressed on, compacting the crowd as more and more of the men at the front refused to move forward.
At a shouted order from Festus, a cornu sounded; with a resounding clash of swords on shields, the auxiliaries of the three centuries stamped their left legs forward, thrust their shields in front of them and pulled their blades back, to their right hips, angled slightly up, ready to do their deadly work.
‘They seem to be getting the hang of it,’ Magnus commented from behind his shield, surprised by the near unison of the manoeuvre.
‘Their blood’s up,’ Vespasian said, watching a short man push his way out of the crowd. ‘That looks like the agitator that Menahem described; he’s got a nerve showing himself.’
‘Who commands here?’ the man shouted at the Romans.
‘I do,’ Vespasian called back, stepping forward from the line but keeping his guard up.
‘Meet me in the centre,’ the man ordered, moving forward on his bow legs.
‘Why should I parley with you, Jew?’ Vespasian asked, disliking intensely the presumption of the man. ‘Tell your men to put down their weapons and then we’ll talk.’
‘Are you Titus Flavius Vespasianus, quaestor of this province?’
‘I am,’ Vespasian replied in surprise.
‘Well, quaestor, I suggest you talk to me,’ the man said flatly, stopping midway between the two sides.
With the choice between meeting the Jew or fighting immediately, Vespasian walked forward, wondering what this little man with his imperious attitude could possibly have to say to quell the riots. ‘My name is Gaius Julius Paulus, a citizen of Rome,’ Paulus said. He pulled a scroll out of a bag hanging from his belt, with a self-important sneer. ‘I hold a commission from the High Priest in Jerusalem, ratified in the name of the Emperor by Pilatus, the
