Traveller Probo

The dust never settled and, like soldiers in all times and places, Gaius Vorenus cursed. Kicked up by the legionnaires’ heavy, hob-nailed marching boots; their caligae, dust coated his lips, the lining of his nostrils and irritated his eyes to leave blobs of caked mud at the corners. Having served on the frontier province of Judaea for over seven years, Vorenus had long ago accepted his lot and was determined to make the best of it. Like the rest of his comrades in arms, Vorenus knew it was likely he would spend the rest of his life here, fighting the mindless Jews, who seemed as bereft of reason as they were of their foreskins.

Like many, he had signed to become a professional soldier in Rome’s legions when he was sixteen, as much to avoid a life of crime in the slums of Rome’s Subura than to make his fortune. His greatest wish was now to end up on his own plot of land where he could grow a few olives and a crop of children. Until then, Vorenus accepted that the legions would be his life. He had long ago accepted that he would never see his home or family in Rome again, for he served in the famous 10th Legion – Legio X Fretensis – the Legion of the Straight, originally founded by Augustus and named after the favourite legion of the great man, Gaius Julius Caesar himself.

He was never really bothered by issues such as marriage or his years of service. Most of the men took a local girl or camp follower as an eager companion anyway. Legionnaires were paid in hard currency and occasionally with booty looted from conquest, so many local women saw a soldier of Rome as a worthwhile option. Not that Vorenus’ legion had seen any real action, and booty for that matter, for some years. Judaea was of little real importance to the Roman treasury and wasn’t the place for soldiers to get rich. The strategic strip of Judaea controlled the land and coastal sea routes to Rome’s bread basket, Egypt, and was also a buffer against the potentially worrisome Parthian Empire, so it was vital to the Empire that the Roman peace; the Pax Romana, be maintained in Judaea.

So the legionnaires of this lost little strip of land had settled down to a reasonably predictable life while wishing for some lovely conflict with the Parthians to generate loot. In many cases, the men were content to build homes and raise some children, even if they weren’t Roman.

Which reminded Vorenus again of Sariah.

Sariah. She had been like many of the women who were flatteringly described as camp followers. To the Jews they were shameless whores, sluts, and, at best, women to be cast out of good Jewish society. Yet there never seemed to be a shortage of women who, divorced, widowed, or otherwise unacceptable to common Jews, decided to throw in their lot with the legions. There they found the enthusiastic attentions of the legionnaires who, though rough and lacking in cultural sensitivities or social graces, were often just what many of the women wanted. The professional soldiers brought a relatively secure life with sufficient food and affection to raise a family and, hopefully, enjoy life.

Sariah had been one such woman. Vorenus had heard the tales, that she had been raped by a tax collector, so her farmer husband had been forced to cast her out. She had spent some time begging for a living and, like many desperate, homeless women, soon found herself at the camp. There she at least had a chance of survival.

Vorenus didn’t at all care about her past but the addition of pretty Sariah to the camp followers caused quite a stir amongst the men. To the consternation of the other women, she had been actively courted. Her creamy skin, dark eyebrows and angelic face framed by a shock of black curly hair had her as a firm favourite and Vorenus was smitten. Eventually, one of the other women would carve her face with a knife, so he had cared for Sariah and brought her gifts and food. He had never been so infatuated. The lovely young woman was to be his.

Women! Who could predict them? Despite his generous care and attention, Sariah had opted for the attractively fair Quintus Caelius, Vorenus’ close childhood friend and comrade in arms. Both had volunteered, fought and been promoted together, though Caelius had been noticed favourably and promoted to the higher triplicarius, on triple legionnaires pay, while Vorenus remained at a rank lower. Vorenus knew he was not a woman’s dream, with his shock of unruly red hair, weathered skin and pocked visage but enough was enough. It took just too much of the local vinegar they called wine and Caelius, the cunnus, crowing about his new woman and the inevitable fisticuffs resulted.

Most sober legionnaires could have predicted the outcome. While he could rightly have been beaten for fighting over a woman, Vorenus was instead given a more disciplined punishment. Titis Crispus, their centurion, had seen it all before. The lads were itching to fight an enemy they couldn’t see. They hated to chase at the shadows which were the Zealots, while the Sadducees hated the Pharisees who hated the Essenes. The one thing they agreed on was how they all hated the Zealots.

So the Romans, who none ever thanked for the only peace enjoyed in the region’s turbulent history, were expected to fix the problem. As his punishment, each day for ten days, the normally shared responsibility of leading a patrol of ten legionnaires on the detested hot and dusty duty fell to Vorenus.

The Century and Vorenus thought the punishment tough but fair. That didn’t make the duty less irritating, tiring, nor did it make Vorenus or the men on patrol hate the Zealots any less. All good commanders knew that to make a good soldier they needed to hate the enemy. As the men sweltered in their armour, they hated the Zealots like no enemy had been hated in years.

The sun was at its zenith and the heat unbearable, so the patrol paused at the Well of Ishmael to rest and gather water. There lived a goat herder. He eagerly manhandled the leather buckets of water from the crack in the ground for the waiting soldiers while three stood watch. The soldiers removed their helmets and washed in the chill water to sighs of relief before they sat to rest in the shade of a few scraggly trees. The goat herder was terrified, so he took to milking a recalcitrant goat and offering an old clay bowl of warm fresh milk to each legionnaire in turn, bobbing his head in apology for his poor hospitality. Mollified by his attempts, the soldiers took turns to drain the bowl and chew on their hard bread rations while their hair and faces dried. The goat herder prayed not so silently to his one God for mercy, that they would not kill him or his precious goats. Understandably so, for it wasn’t unusual for an insulted, angered, or even bored legionnaire to kill a man simply for having irritated him.

Rested, the men took to chatting and joking between themselves. The goat-herder was their target, particularly in regard to his suspected sexual proclivities with his charges. One of the men then produced dice and they took in a few games, favourite pastime for all legionnaires’, except of course for drinking and participating in the amorous services the camp followers offered. Or killing Jews of course. They played and laughed together, the sentries distracted by the game as they joined in a rare, light-hearted moment of relative peace.

Vorenus looked up as one of the older sentries, a grizzled veteran of many a campaign, cast him a meaningful glance. He casually wandered across and muttered, “The bush over by the boulder there, by the gully. Careful like!”

Twenty paces from the resting men, Vorenus saw the barest flicker of movement. It could have been one of the filthy old man’s goats but he trusted old Livius and watched quietly from under the rim of his helmet. It would look as if he was watching the game as he relaxed like the other men but he was alert and suspicious. The scrawny goats reclined under bushes closer to the goat herder who sat cross-legged by his decrepit shack, desperately hoping to avoid attention.

There! Another stealthy movement. It would have been invisible if one was not looking for it. A gap between two of the boulders had darkened as someone moved to watch the legionnaires from a safe hiding place. In those hidden shadows, he saw the wide eyed, terrified face of a young man.

He smiled to himself. Perhaps the Zealots had been found, or had found them. Who cared? It looked like they would finally have some fun.

Next to him reclined young Brutus, half watching the game while picking at ants with his dagger. Brutus, whose name meant slow or heavy, was anything but. What must have been his mamma’s chubby little boy was now the fastest runner in the Century.

“Umm, Brutus my lad, are you in the mood for a bit of a run?” Vorenus muttered.

“Why?” asked Brutus, bored but in looking up he slid his dagger, the legionnaires’ deadly pugio, back into its worn scabbard.

“Shh lad. Quietly now but I think we’re not alone. Look yonder to the boulders with the little tree, casual like. Looks to me like we’ve found what we are looking for, hmmm?”

Brutus glanced casually and then hid his face in his hands, feigning weariness while he peeked between his fingers to reduce the harsh midday glare from the dusty ground.

He looked to Vorenus and nodded slightly. Lovely, a bit of action!

Brutus stood casually and walked to some boulders away from the legionnaires as if to relieve himself. The others ignored him as hooting calls indicated a popular win. Vorenus then leaned casually to mutter to the other of the team’s faster runners, the wag Remus, named in a flash of vain parental aspiration after one of the founders of Rome. He must have been a disappointment to his mama, as he was always in for a drink, a fight, or a roll in the hay with any woman he could get his hands on. A whisper, and Remus winked and straightened, stretching luxuriously before he walked in the opposite direction to Brutus, also with the appearance that he was to use the privacy of some bushes near the old man and the goats. The old goatherd looked up in fearful expectation and was patently relieved to be ignored.

From the bushes, Remus glanced casually to Brutus and then to Vorenus. There was a fleeting look of understanding. Brutus finished urinating and without a cry, the men immediately turned and ran at the rocks where the boy hid. Vorenus sharply ordered the men to get themselves together and move out. Two of the soldiers were to carry the shields of the runners, two others their helmets, and another two took their spears. The precious dice were hastily grabbed up in the rush.

Vorenus saw the young lad straighten in panic and run like the very demons were after him, which they were. Remus let out a whoop while Brutus barked out a laugh.

This was it! The race was on.

***

The young man ran like a goat, light footed and agile, for if the legionnaires caught him, his would be a miserable fate. Not likely to be either gentle or merciful, the Romans would extract the location of the Zealot camp one finger at a time. His sandalled feet knew the path, having run there since a child. His bare legs were strong and nimble, so he flew with the swiftness of the pursued. He could hear the soldiers as they laboured under their heavy armour, their swords slapping against their pumping, muscular legs.

He slid for a moment on sand that had blown thinly onto the rocky surface and skinned a knee as he struggled to right himself but hardly paused. He knew that he had a good chance of losing most of the Romans but the closest two seemed particularly fleet of foot, having left their helmets and shields behind. Despite their heavy footwear, they were keeping up. He could hear their feet thumping, the rattle of their armour and their breathing in great gasps. If one of those men caught hold of him, he and the Zealots would be finished.

His terror gave his feet wings but as they ran over rocks and up hidden gullies he felt himself tiring. Eyes wide, he tried to dodge around another rocky outcrop and slipped again, banging the same knee he had skinned earlier, so despite his best efforts he hobbled painfully. Unless there was a miracle, he was finished.

He dared look over his shoulder, a futile act that wasted energy and lost him momentum as, barely ten paces behind, the two Romans ran powerfully, the heavy flanges of the cingulum, their leather armoured skirt, flapping wildly. One of the men, the dark haired one, yelled in delight and the boy struggled onward. He clambered over boulders and jumped into a sheltered ravine where he knew of an ideal hiding place, a small cave hidden by bushes. The Romans were no fools but he had no other alternative but to be like a rabbit, to stop and hide while his pursuers ran past.

Gasping, he ran at full speed straight into the arms of a man who grasped his tattered tunic and, with a firm yank, pulled him off his feet, to have him land onto his back with a thump. He lay, winded, on the pebbly ground.

He gave a cry of terror. The Romans had caught him! But how? They were behind him, he could hear them!

A strange face loomed over him and smiled. He was no Roman but was the strangest man he had ever seen. He wore a helmet but so unlike the Romans, and he wore shields over his eyes. His dress was coloured like the zealots; of the land, of rocks and soil and sand. The hand that held him was clad in a glove and he carried something strange that may be a weapon, the lad couldn’t tell but he cried out again and covered his face with his hands, palm upward, to ward off the expected blows.

He saw a couple of other men, dressed exactly like his captor.

Then the Romans jumped into the ravine.

***

Major Paul Anderson, formerly US Rangers and now seconded to the CIA’s Special Activities Division, looked up at the Romans with surprise. They looked like two deadly, tough looking men who, though winded and red-faced from an obviously difficult pursuit, looked like they could have more than a little fight in them. Their grimy steel armour over dusty, rust-coloured light woollen tunics made them look like metal-clad footballers. Chests heaved as they sucked in their breath, their hands immediately to the hilts of their swords, their famous gladius. Anderson glanced to his men. They had the Romans covered. He shook his head in disbelief.

Of all the damnedest things to happen!

He hoped his rusty Medieval Latin would help get them through this one.