Conflict of HopeBRIAN SMITH

Conflict of Hope is the story of two disparate

young men, Servius, a Roman centurion and

Ephram, a prosperous Jewish trader, nephew

of the infamous Judas Iscariot, set against the

background of the growth of the Roman

Empire, the colonisation of Britain, and the

siege of Masada in the year AD 73.

Despite their national, religious and

political differences, Servius and Ephram

meet and after initial hostility, become firm

friends. However, such a friendship has the

odds stacked against it.

©2012 Brian Smith All rights reservedISBN 978-1-291-13883-2

Cover design: Carol Hyland

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©2012 Brian Smith All rights reserved

Preface I would like to thank my wife, Jean, for her

endless patient proof reading, editing and

constructive criticism. Also, my grateful thanks

to our daughter, Carol Hyland, who designed

the book cover, produced the maps and gave

invaluable technical assistance.

I have used the dating “A.D.” throughout, to

enable the reader to place the story within a

recognisable time frame.

This story is a work of fiction, but the

historical events, including the siege of

Masada and its outcome, did take place and I

have endeavoured to stick as closely as

possible to recorded facts, names and dates.

A glossary of Roman terms is available at the

back of the book.

Brian Smith

 7

Masada, Judea AD 73

t would soon be day and already shadowy outlines of the tents were emerging, although the night had not yet departed and stars were still

visible. Around him and at the next camp in the distance the pinpoints of campfires seemed almost a reflection of the sky. Before long the sparks would be obliterated by the sun and the fires later relit by slaves. There was a slight breeze now, lifting Servius's cloak as he drew it around his breastplate. It also caught the edges of the tents and he could hear the flapping of the thin leather from those nearest to him, although there was not enough noise to waken any of the eight soldiers inside each one. After yesterday's fighting, a raging storm would not wake these men. The night's chill remained. In fact he felt it more now than when he had checked the guard in his century's sector during the night. His armour too felt heavier. At forty-three, just under six foot tall, long campaigning in the Empire had ensured that he was muscular and fit. Servius realised he was lucky to have survived so many battles and even more importantly, to have remained healthy. He took a deep breath and slowly released it. There was nothing wrong with him. It was just tiredness after another long night. He knew very well that he didn’t have to be present at that moment or even make checks during the watch. Many of equal rank did not, but he believed that his men should know him and know also that he was prepared to share their discomforts. This policy had paid off many times before when his soldiers had given him that extra effort which had sometimes turned the tide of battle. He was determined that a proper guard be maintained. Not long to go and the sun would be up. In the middle distance he could see a darker mass. As yet, the outlines were blurred but the hulking shape reached upwards, higher and higher until it appeared to merge with the sky. This was the reason for his being there. Masada, a high outcrop on the edge of the desert to the east of Jerusalem, appeared as an

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island broken away from the main plateau which surrounded it on three sides. On the edge of the plateau the scorpios with their huge arrows, the catapultae and ballistae, each with a heap of rocks had been set up at regular intervals. Some distance behind them were the eight camps. Servius also knew that deep ravines encircled the plateau that held Masada as its focus. To the east, the outcrop dropped down to the desert which lead to the Dead Sea. On top of this rocky promontory stood Herod's palaces, the main building facing the sea. For three years it had been used as a base for rebels. Now they had been joined by the last of the Zealots after their defeat in Jerusalem. They were thorns in the side of the Roman army about to be plucked out. There were four gates out of the fortress leading to paths down the escarpment but each had proved to be impregnable. The only other option had been to starve out the Zealots but informants had brought news that the rebels had plenty of water which collected in cisterns below and to the north of the palaces, and were well stocked with food and arms. They had already withstood attacks for over a year, but now on a saddle ridge, where the Roman was standing, between two deep ravines, a platform had been erected. On the top of that platform a siege tower, containing a steel tipped battering ram, was in place. This ram had been used to smash a breach in the wall. Today, Servius would lead his men through that breach. As the darkness lifted, Servius could see to the top of the hill clearly now, although parts of the massive outcrop were still in shadow. The tents too were visible around him, as was the desert towards his right, a mixture of sand and gravel. In the distance, beyond another camp, an inland sea came into view. A dead sea, a sea too salty, he knew, either to sustain marine life or provide drinking water. Servius stretched his arms and shrugged his shoulder muscles. Tonight Marcus, his Optio, would have the duty, as by then the fortress would be in Roman hands. Yesterday, after the wall on the western side of the hill had been breached, wooden barricades had been erected by the defenders. By the late afternoon these had been burned. Only the approach of night and the prospect of hand to hand fighting in the dark in an unfamiliar place had stopped the advance. No doubt when the attack was resumed today there would be more barricades in place, but he was confident these could not withstand the Roman onslaught. The camp was awakening. He could hear tent leaders arousing their men. The noise of talking and clatter of armour being adjusted increased as the tent openings were tied back. It was dawn. The bucinas sounded their harsh notes, signifying the start of the daily morning and evening ceremony before the Aquila, the Eagle of the Legion on its plinth in front of the Legate's tent. Horses neighed, stamping and snorting, impatient

 9

for food. Slaves would be darting about, stoking the fires or running back and forth to fetch water for their officer masters. Already it was becoming warmer. Inevitably, it was going to be another hot day. Soon the dust would start to rise and with it the millions of flies that plagued any gathering of men in every desert situation. It was time to change the sentries. For Servius Aelius Magnus, the senior Centurion in the 8th Cohort of the 10th Legion of the Roman army of the Province of Galilee, a new day had begun. The Tessararius, the guard commander of his cohort, his helmet and breastplate gleaming and he himself as smart as if meeting the Emperor, was waiting for Servius together with the new guard detail who were standing at ease. The guards were still necessary to prevent the rebels escaping by way of the tower. The commander brought his men to attention and saluted. "All's well sir?" "Yes it was a quiet night. Carry on." The Tessararius again saluted and turning on his heel led the group away to relieve the night guard. Although the attack would commence soon, the guards had to be relieved in order to be fed. Usually a substantial meal was eaten later in the day, but on this day the main assault would begin and it was better the men took advantage of the extra sustenance afforded by a hearty breakfast. Servius watched Marcus Marullinus going about his duties. His would be the guard until the attack. The two of them had become close after his friend Lucius had been murdered in Caesaraea. Servius and Lucius had played as children in Viroconium, one of the northern fortresses in Britain, in the land of the Cornovii on the border of Wales. Almost like twins, when young the two boys could be identified from a distance only by their hair colouring: his was fair, that of Lucius dark. How they had played and wrestled, testing their growing strength. Identical in height, although Servius had been the stronger he had not always won as Lucius was agile and moved faster. Together they had been inducted into the army as decreed for all able-bodied male Roman citizens, serving in Britain before parting in Rome only to meet again in Galilee. As legionaries they had experienced many encounters with the enemies of Rome, and just as many fights off duty in taverns with men from other cohorts and legions. But Lucius was dead. While eight of his men had to share a tent, the Centurion had a slightly larger one to himself, set apart from the others of his century. Servius indicated that Marcus should accompany him, which he did, flinging himself into a low wooden chair and filling a goblet with wine from a nearby flagon.

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A short, dark haired man jumped up as Servius and Marcus entered, greeted them, and set a bowl of water and aromatic oils on a low wooden table. Servius removed his helmet, cloak, the leather jerkin which supported his body armour and his studded boots which his servant, Septimus, carefully placed to one side for cleaning. The Centurion then stepped out of his undergarment and holding it in his hand, looked at it ruefully. Still the rough woollen cloth. In Rome he had seen cloth of a much finer weave, and the Emperor had silk, it was said. Septimus, rubbed the Centurion's taut body with oil and Servius could feel the tiredness slipping away. Then the slight shock of cold water to wash away the dirt. Septimus sponged off the water and dried Servius with a rough cloth before helping him into a clean white toga. At least he could rest for an hour or two. It would be good when he could return to Caesarea and relax in a hot bath. Septimus had been born in Britannia, his mother a slave owned by a chieftain of the Cornovii. The chieftain's daughter had given the slave to Servius' mother who was her friend. His name was unpronounceable to a Roman tongue so Marcus Aelius Magnus, Servius' father, had named him Septimus. As his name suggested, he had been the seventh child in a large family. Fifteen years older than Servius, his short, sinewy stature was totally in contrast to that of the man he served with devotion. He was also an ardent gatherer of gossip, whether it was in the base camp or, as now, in the field. “I’ve been hearing about Christians lately, sir. That some of them are Zealots.” “Well, that’s not surprising Septimus, although from what I’ve heard Christians keep their heads down and try not to attract too much attention, so whatever you’ve heard is second hand.” Marcus realised Servius wanted to rest but he was curious. “I’ve heard that Christians are mostly Jews. You must have had dealings with them, Servius, when you were at the Procurator’s office?” "Yes, I've met many Christians. Some have been very devout, others not so. One in particular I considered a friend. I don’t know where he is now as he took his wife and two sons to Qumran. It’s quite possible they’re inside that fortress. Like any other group of people, Christians can be roused by a good speaker. Their leader, Jesus, the one called Christ was such an orator. As you know, they believe that he was the son of a god and also a god himself. Very strange. I once met one of their leaders, Paul, who told me things I really couldn’t understand, or believe. I've been told that there are even some Romans who’ve become Christians. I’ve also heard they're linked to the Zealots. But you must know all this yourself. It's common knowledge. They could cause

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problems eventually - dangerous ones." "Do you think this Jesus is still alive?" "No, they say he's long dead and that in dying became a god. "I believe you when you say they could be a problem. But dangerous?" "Well, with their links to the Zealots the Christians can approach their objective from two sides. On one hand, military force. We know that can't succeed here. Or on the other hand, creeping servility, preaching a religion, a way of life that could slowly spread throughout the Empire." "Throughout the Empire? Surely not!" "Yes. Perhaps, in some of the provinces, there'd be an uprising of sorts which would be put down. But behind the scenes this creeping movement would go on." "Yes, but surely one more god, one more belief, won't do any harm, Servius?" "You haven't thought it through. They preach equality which is a very attractive idea to a lot of people. This religion’s seductive. Their numbers could gradually increase, their influence grow everywhere. Finally, an Emperor would see that either to survive in power, or indeed because he too accepted their belief, he would need to join the Christians. Then they’d have won and the Empire as we know it would start to crumble. There'd be nothing to hold it together. All men are not and can't be equal "That's true." Then he thought of something else. "I bet you ten sheckels that we're stopped by the Zealots' barricades today." "Roman or Jewish coins?" "Roman, of course." "Done. Are you sure you don't want to make it a gold aureus, Servius?" They both laughed as neither had seen gold since receiving the general tribute when Nero became emperor and, although Vespasian had ascended to the throne, there had been no sign of the money usually paid to the Legions to mark the event. “But enough of this talk about religion. You've got to check the guard, and I must eat before the assault." Marcus saluted and left the tent as Servius sank gratefully into the chair he had vacated. Septimus had managed to buy several small fish from a passing caravan trader and had prepared garum, his master's favourite meal. The Centurion ate with gusto, enjoying the strong

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smelling fish paste, and dumplings made from flour, accompanied by a dish of lettuce and marrow. He mopped up the final juices with the unleavened bread which Septimus had obtained from the camp baker. Servius poured red wine into a goblet, topping it up with water. He didn’t want to fall asleep, although when he had finished his meal he lay down to rest on his camp bed. But Servius' mind was too active to allow him to relax. The assault yesterday had finally breached the fortress walls. He pictured again the barricades erected by the rebels, their burning, the wind blowing the smoke first towards the Romans then in the late afternoon in the direction of the rebels. He heard the shouts of the attacking soldiers as they charged forward and the clashing of steel as the swords met those of the defenders. Then the tuba signal for the legionaries to fall back and secure the breach, the cries of derision from the rebels as the Romans retreated. During his attachment with the Procurator's Office, Servius had been given the task of investigating the Christians and had discovered their intelligence network had spread, even to Rome itself. He had also met and got to know Ephram bar Jacob, the nephew of Judas Escariot, related to Ezekiel bar Jacob a rich and powerful family. His uncle was a member of the Sanhedrin. Ephram's wife Honoria had also attended many of the Procurator's official functions. They too had become more and more involved with the Christians. Were they also in the fortress? Whoever was found there would be taken as slaves. With all thought of rest now gone, Servius rose from his bed and walked the few steps towards the corner of his tent to his personal shrine. His prayer to his own god, Mithras, was that of soldiers everywhere. “O Mithras, help us to be successful today. Don't let me be seriously wounded and if I must die, let it be swift.” After a serious wounding, death was by far the better option. Even though each Legion had a surgeon, usually Greek, Turkish or Egyptian, a seriously wounded man could survive in agony for a long time before finally dying. The best option always was to be killed by a quick sword thrust. Once again Servius thought of the Christians and their worship of the Nazarean. Far better to have a god you know and can trust. Mithras had looked after him well so far. Servius flung himself once more upon his bed and his eyelids drooped. "Master, the Legate is asking for you! He's called a meeting." Septimus was shaking his arm. "And he wants me?" "Yes master."

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Servius rose and, with Sepimus' help, once more donned his armour and boots. Carrying his helmet, he strode out of the tent, quickly making his way to the Principia. Silva, the Legate, was a tough but fair disciplinarian who had been given the task of finishing off the Zealots after Titus, the son of Emperor Vespacian, had conquered and razed Jerusalem. In fact the only part that wasn't destroyed was the area of the Three Towers where, Servius thought wryly, the 10th Legion had camped during the assault. Today would be a day of glory for Silva. Having erected a siege wall around the hill and dykes to the northwest he had originally believed that the Zealots would be starved out. But they had plenty of food, water and arms. They had not only survived but repulsed every attack. Even the catapults on the siege walls had not appeared to affect them. They had simply returned the missiles by dropping them onto the heads of the soldiers below. Masada was surrounded by ravines, which made the attack extremely difficult. It was only when Servius himself had discovered the saddle of white rock between two deep ravines, that the engineers had been able to consider a siege engine. Every legion had its own engineers capable of building roads, bridges and when required, a siege engine. But first a ramp had to be built on the saddle to elevate it by just over a hundred and thirty three feet. On top of that a platform of wood and iron was erected to take it up a further seventy-five feet, on which a siege tower had been built, rising twenty feet above the walls. This had been accomplished under a hail of arrows, spears and rocks from the defenders. With the siege tower in place the engineers could be shielded whilst an iron tipped ram was installed. With that completed, the fortress of Masada was doomed. Servius considered who else would be attending the conference. Silva, the Legate, would be there surrounded by Tribunes and certainly the Primus Pilus, the senior centurion of the First Cohort whose presence would be required for his practical experience. Then one other centurion - himself. Quite a difference in rank. In Britain Servius had reached the rank of Primus Pilus in the 20th Legion before being detached for special duties, escorting rebel British chiefs to Rome. Now in Judea and with a different Legion, he had been forced to accept a lower rank. Although he had done well to be appointed to the 8th Cohort, he had ambitions. With the Legate's eyes upon him he might go further. In every Legion the story was told how Scaeva, a centurion in the 8th Cohort had been promoted to Primus Pilus for his bravery during a battle and had been given a reward of two hundred sesterces. As always, when Servius dwelled on his personal ambitions, he

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thought of his father and felt saddened. How proud Marcus Aelius had been on the day he had taken his son, and his friend Lucius, to be inducted into the Legion. If only he had been at his father's bedside when he died at Viraconium. Servius was still thinking about his father and his mother, Octavia, and wondering how she was faring when he reached the Legate's Headquarters. This was by far the largest tent in the camp containing a large reception area as well as the Legate's sleeping area. A spear-holding sentry saluted him smartly as he entered. He had never been invited into a Legate's meeting before and he looked around with curiosity and more than a little awe. No expense had been spared to make the reception area comfortable. The ground was covered by a colourful carpet, almost certainly from Damascus. The walls, which were much higher than those of a normal tent, were decorated with drapes in which golden threads glinted. Servius paused and surveyed the room. It contained the expected senior officers dressed in their magnificently engraved full armour standing around a table in the centre. Moving forward he placed his helmet on a small side table, noting how richly decorated were the helmets already there compared to his own. Hopefully after this campaign he too would be able to afford expensive plumes. Around the room at intervals slaves held trays of pitchers and drinking cups, although none of the officers was drinking. Four panels of alder wood had been placed together to form one large panel resting on the table. Septimus moved closer. Upon the panel the engineers had drawn the outline of the fortress showing the northern palace, the synagogue, the central palace and the barracks. The Legate sat to one side of this table while the Primus Pilus explained the engineers' drawing and the significance of the buildings. He looked up, beckoned Servius forward and addressed the other officers. "Gentlemen, this is the Centurion who discovered where the siege tower could be erected." Servius felt the eyes of everyone on him. "Centurion come over here .I want you to listen to what we're going to do today." "Yes, sir" Servius glanced at the Primus Pilus, the Senior Centurion from the 1st Cohort who was, after the Tribunes, the most senior person in the tent. Servius knew he had risen through the ranks and had more experience of battles than anyone present. He was the oldest man there. Tough but honest in his dealings with his junior officers and men, Primus Pilus was well liked and respected, and his advice was always acted upon by the Legate and Tribunes. Legate Silva was a younger man of medium height

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with hawk-like features, his heavily lidded eyes adding to the watchful image. The Primus Pilus bent forward again. "Almost certainly, we'll find a barricade of some sort, although so far there's been no report of any." That's ten sheckels from Marcus, thought Servius. Almost as though he knew what Servius was thinking, Silva looked at him sharply. "I think that Centurion Servius should have the honour of leading his men in first." "I agree sir. His century should go straight ahead to the barracks. The main body of Zealots will be there. The next century will swing left towards the North Palace and staterooms. I expect we'll find the women and children there with a protecting force. The third century will turn right and attack the Central Palace, if they don't rush out towards us first." This brought some laughter from the Tribunes and even Silva smiled. "The fourth century," the Senior Centurion continued, "will secure the Western Gate, the Water Gate, the Snake Path Gate and the Cistern Gate. That is to say two tent parties to each gate, with the extra men as back up to ensure no one can escape. The next centuries entering the fortress will reinforce where the fighting is fiercest. I think that's all sir,” turning to the Legate. "One thing only, Primus Pilus. After the initial centuries are deployed, secure the tower but otherwise arrange matters so that the captives can be removed quickly. We don't want a continuous flow of men through the tower when the fighting is over. " "Yes, sir. I'll stay at the top of the tower and when the report that the last target has been taken is received, we'll sound a horn." Silva nodded approvingly and addressed the assembled Tribunes. "Gentlemen. The time has come to wipe out these Zealots. Go to it! And may the gods be with you." Servius followed the Tribunes out of the tent and watched as they dispersed towards their commands. It would be a tough fight. Whilst it was a great honour to lead the attack, his target was the barracks where, being nearest to the breech in the wall, he could expect the best Zealot fighters to be positioned but it would also be the place where the least loot could be scavenged. Looting was part of a soldier's reward. But Servius’s ambition lay elsewhere. Marcus waiting ready with his century, brought them to attention as Servius approached. He turned and saluted the centurion. "Ready, sir!" "Thank you, Optio.”

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The centurion looked at his men who were immaculately turned out. Metal helmets and iron ciurasses had been polished to parade standard. Every spear tip had been burnished and Servius smiled as he remembered the words of his first tent leader when he had complained about this seemingly pointless chore."We want to kill them, not poison them!" "Men, we have been given the honour of leading the assault. We'll be attacking the barracks where we can expect the best of the Zealot fighters. But they will not be your equal! We'll get through quickly and safely. March the men to the tower, Optio!" Marcus saluted, and after commanding his men to turn, they commenced the march to the tower, the other centuries following. It was much warmer now and the flies were gathering in clouds. The weight of Marcus’s breastplate was beginning to make his chest itch and the dust caused by marching feet was rising. Fortunately they were still in the shadow of the massif. Very quickly they arrived at the ramp and the foot of the tower where Servius moved to the front of the column for the climb upwards. Spears and swords clanked as his men followed him to the narrow ladder, past the first level then up the next ladder and into the siege tower itself where the mighty ram had been pulled aside to allow for the passage of the troops. Ahead was the breach in the wall. Because the area beyond contained buildings, Servius knew that the deadly triplex acies, the usual three -spaced double line formation employed in the open, could not be used against the forces facing them. With Servius leading, the men poured through the breach, swords at the ready, their nail studded sandals crashing against the paving stones of the courtyard. There was no sign of opposition. Momentarily Servius paused, fearing trickery. Where was the enemy? The remains of the old barricade were there but nothing else. There were no showers of arrows as expected - nothing other than the noise made by his own men. The centurion ordered the men forward at a fast trot towards the barracks. Upon arrival they deployed to await the signal to attack. The streets leading into the area were deserted, the nearest doors to individual rooms open. Servius signalled to Marcus to take half the men and reconnoitre the nearest street. He would take the other half along the next. There was nothing to be seen or heard. No discarded possessions. It was as though the enemy had disappeared from the barracks completely. Arriving at the end of the street Servius was met by Marcus who reported the same thing. "They aren't here." The barracks were deserted.

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Servius listened intently but he could not hear any sound from the other centuries. Considering the fierce fighting by the rebels yesterday it was unbelievable. Calling the men together, the group marched back to the siege tower where the senior centurion was waiting. Servius made his report. Then the centurion who had been given the task of attacking the Central Palace arrived with his men. "It was empty, sir" Whilst they waited, a messenger from the century which had attacked the Northern Palace ran up to them, breathless and almost speechless. "They're all dead!! We found them sir - men women and children. Dead! The Palace and staterooms are full of dead people! The casement rooms within the walls - there’s nothing there but dead bodies. It's unbelievable! They must have all committed suicide during the night!" Legate Silva had ascended the tower and listened to the report. "What about the synagogue? The baths?" "All deserted sir." "You, Centurion!" Servius stepped forward and saluted. “Yes, sir?” "You were attached to the Procurator's office specifically to find out what these people were up to, weren't you." "Yes, sir." "Go to the Northern Palace and see what’s happened there." Servius saluted and left the Legate. He made his way towards the Northern Palace where he was met by Marcellus Baebius Gracchus a centurion from the 6th Cohort who spoke with shocked disbelief, "The bodies are being arranged for counting. Have you ever heard of anything like this before?" "No, I certainly haven't. They must have realised that there was nowhere they could run to, even if they could escape. But Zealots usually fight to the death." "It looks as though they all committed suicide. Probably to avoid being taken as slaves. " A Legionary approached Marcellus and saluted. "Sir, we've found a group who seem to be important. They could be the leaders." His centurion nodded. "Come with me Servius." Both centurions accompanied the soldier to a room overlooking the top terrace. Lying huddled together was the group the legionary had discovered. Servius recognised one of the men from descriptions he had heard of him. He was undoubtedly Eleazer Ben Jair, the leader of the

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Zealots. His arms embraced a woman, probably his wife. But where was Ephram, and Honoria, Ephram's wife? Where were their two children? Surely they had got away earlier? They were not Zealots. He quickened his search. As he was inspecting another group of bodies, Marcellus rejoined him, his tone changed to one of antagonism. "So Servius, you were in the Procurator's Office?" "Yes, why?" "I just wondered why you attended the Legate's meeting when no other Centurion was there." "Because I had found a way of positioning the siege tower." "Now here you are, in charge of examining the bodies. What will you be up to next? Assisting the Tribunes?" Servius was about to make an angry retort to this sarcasm when he noticed one of the soldiers kick the body of an old man, lying among a group of women and children. "Perhaps, Marcellus, you could make sure your men treat the dead with respect instead of making not very clever remarks." Marcellus rebuked the soldier who had kicked the corps. His action had rolled the dead man onto his side with one arm outstretched. Servius glanced at the body. Then he approached more closely. There was a scar on the forearm just above the wrist. As though, he thought, at some time in the past it had been pierced. He was puzzled. What could have caused a wound like that? A sword thrust? Possibly, but most unlikely, as Roman sword thrusts were usually aimed at the abdomen. Servius raised the man’s other arm and looked at the wrist. There was a similar scar. Then lifting the dead man's robes he exposed the lower limbs. "What's so interesting?" "Look. He's got a scar just above each ankle as well as on each wrist. Tell that soldier to turn the body over, Marcellus." The Legionary did so and Servius pulled up the back of the robe. Both centurions could see the unmistakable, long-healed scars of a severe scourging. Servius drew in his breath sharply and straightened up. “I know who this man is.”