Traveller Manifesto

Judaea – 1st Century.

It was a rout and, Vorenus had to admit, a hugely satisfying one.

They attacked in the pre-dawn, as soon as it was light enough not to kill each other by mistake. The zealot camp was little more than rough shacks assembled around the outside of caves in which most of them hid.

The eighty mounted auxiliaries under the command of Corvus led the assault and swept through the camp with a vengeance. The local troops were easy to identify as they looked so different to the Romans. Darkly bearded with black, curly hair, tall, hexagonal shields, scale armour and silly, curled helmets, they were out to prove that they were as merciless as any Roman. Half were archers and half used lances.

Hot on their heels charged the legionnaires, undoubtedly the superior military force. Vorenus gloried in the sweet thrill of battle. As they swept into the caves, he and a couple of his men were the first. They caught Zealots running out and Vorenus had thrust his razor sharp gladius into one skinny Jew’s chest. The surprise and panic on his stupid face was precious!

With the rest of the legionnaires, Vorenus was not sure why they had ever worried about this mob of fools. The Zealots were of little substance. They believed in themselves as God’s chosen, as mighty warriors and liberators, but their gods didn’t help them. Few wore any armour or even knew how to fight. Most were clad in pale robes typical to most Jews, all emblazoned with the stripes of Judah. When one wore little more than sandals, cloth, and the odd scrap of leather armour, when facing the might of heavily armoured, highly disciplined Roman legionnaires, the results were all too predictable.

The legionnaires had been thrilled to finally engage in a decent fight. Fit and hard, they fought with their usual stab, withdraw, bash with your shield, stab, and so on. On a couple of occasions the Zealots had literally bounced off the shields and went down screaming. Before long the caves were a mass of dead or bawling Zealots and grunting legionnaires.

It was over all too soon.

As his fellow legionnaires searched the bodies for anything useful, Vorenus joined Centurion Crispus and Tribune Flaccus. Caelius, as tesserarius or senior NCO of the Century, was also there. By them stood their signifier, the Century’s standard-bearer. Vorenus knew the Tribune wanted to lead the largest military force they could manage. They had left only a skeleton crew of their mates to protect the fort and those left behind had rightly been furious to miss out on the fun. They had only one chance at this and Flaccus was determined to do it right. None of the Zealots escaped. Some of the Jewish auxiliaries had dismounted to finish off the enemy wounded. When it was all over, the Tribune was in a jubilant mood. “Good work men! Very good!” he nodded happily as the soldiers wandered and looted. Occasionally there was a scream as a hiding zealot was found, but in general it was the typical aftermath of a successful battle. “No problems Centurion?”

Crispus gave a hard grin. Part of his armour was soaked and splattered with blood and the old soldier nodded in satisfaction, which made his red crest bob. Unlike the helmet of Flaccus, his crest ran from ear to ear, signifying his Centurion command status. Most other soldiers, including Vorenus, simply wore a helmet without crest. “It was lovely, Tribune. Lovely! All dead!”

The standard bearer gave a laugh of delight. With the Zealot camp wiped out, it would mean they would soon re-join the main body of the Legion in Syria. Vorenus nodded to the standard bearer and then looked up to the sacred bronze panel framed with red cloth that was their standard. Though not with the golden eagle of the legion, the moulded panel that included the bull, ship, dolphin and boar of Legion X Fretensis filled him with savage pride.

“Caelius, just see to it that the men place any loot into the cart,” ordered Flaccus. “I can’t see there being too much, but we might be surprised.”

They watched as weapons and valuables began to be loaded onto a small cart. But for one of the bulky silver candle sticks, the menorah, that the Jews seemed to favour, there didn’t seem to be anything of real value. Flaccus nodded again in satisfaction. Loot barely mattered. They had accomplished their mission. They were on a winning-streak and the men were dangerous and ready for any fight he could throw at them.

“Well Vorenus,” he growled, his mouth downturned and cruel. “Let’s see if we can find that other enemy you told me about.