Traveller Manifesto
48. Judaea - 1st Century

Judaea – 1st Century.

Anderson watched the feed from security cameras that had been unobtrusively secured to the walls of the wadi. There he watched the approach of a real Roman army.

“They look terrifying,” commented Professor Cowen nervously.

Anderson nodded and replied absently, “They smell bad too.”

The vision was so clear they could identify the details of each soldier. Clad in armour that was a complex arrangement of hardened steel bands over the torso, each carried two spears or pila and were armed with their famous sword; the 22inch gladius, and their Scutum, the Roman legionnaire’s rectangular shield. It was as if they watched an old Cecil B DeMille movie, except these men looked much tougher than any movie extra ever could. There was something about them; their hard eyes and look of arrogant assurance that would not be lost on Special Forces troops in the field. To make matters worse, many were blood-spattered and filthy. More than one was roughly bandaged.

“It looks as if they’ve seen some action,” commented Anderson. “Maybe they decided to pay the Zealot camp a visit.”

“They… they killed them?” asked Professor Cowen with a gasp of horror.

“They were the equivalent of our modern terrorists, Professor,” corrected Anderson. “We’ve done similar. When there’s a nest of terrorists or hostile forces, we’re the ones who are normally sent to clean them out.”

“Good God!” exclaimed the academic quietly. “What of the young lad you caught?”

Anderson ignored the question. “These other troops,” he observed. “These mounted ones,” he indicated to one of the large screens. “What are they, auxiliaries?”

Professor Cowen frowned. “They could be Jews, probably from Herod Antipas.”

Anderson turned to ask, “What, the same Herod from our Christmas stories?”

“No, that was his father, known as King Herod the Great,” corrected the academic. He seemed grateful for the distraction from the violence of soldiers. “Technically he’s a tetrarch, which is one of four governors under Rome. He isn’t a King in the truest sense, but is a client ruler under Roman rule.”

“So, he has forces obliged to assist Romans as required,” continued Anderson.

“Correct,” nodded the academic.

Rapidly deployed UAVs hovered as they monitored the army’s approach, while the American and Israeli soldiers prepared for their arrival. Despite the risk of conflict, the sight of them gave Anderson a rare thrill of excitement. Here was a force the like of which he could only dream about, the first truly professional army the world had ever seen.

After the success of the Mississippi mission, the camps for Israel Traveller had followed what was considered a successful design. After all, if it works, why change it? Each included the new version of the Samsung Tower Hawk defence systems. There were other defence options, of course, but with the publicity of the Mississippi mission, the Department of Defence wanted to remain with their corporate sponsors. Anderson certainly didn’t think they would need the systems to protect their base but, at five metres tall, they certainly looked impressive. The only reason the equipment was there was to test the new system in field conditions. Of course, even without the highly skilled and heavily-armed US and Israeli troops, they would be perfect for defence against potentially hostile locals.

Including a Roman army.

Colonel Lieberman had ordered the towers to remain under manual control. It would not do for them to begin firing their merciless .50cal rounds into the advancing press of humanity unless it was absolutely necessary. While many of the team on location were in administrative or UAV reconnaissance roles, the combat troops on hand were enough to cause a massacre. That must be avoided at all costs. Besides, his troops were reluctant to shoot Roman legionnaires as there was a consensus that they shared a common soldiers’ bond. Each of the Traveller troops knew what it was like to be a professional soldier in hostile territory.

But if it came to a decision between his own people and an attacking Roman army …

His troops were deployed and ready. Some were hidden, others in plain view, but they were kept well back.

The Roman army, though small by the standards of the day, was crammed into the confines of the wadi and there was only room for three horses abreast before it flared to ten times that width in the dead end where their camp was located. It was a terrible place to launch an attack. Every Roman would know of the tale of Horiatius at the bridge. A lone Roman, Publius Horatius Cocles held a narrow bridge against the overwhelming army of Clusium while his forces safely retreated and then destroyed the bridge behind him.

Though thoroughly romanticised, it stressed the importance of an open field of conflict. Even a junior officer was aware of the perilous position where the potential attackers found themselves, where a tiny force could contain many.

Anderson knew what he had to do to avoid a bloodbath. While he never feared for the safety of his team members, he had a genuine fear for the lives of the Romans. It would be so easy to kill them all. The Travellers had enough firepower and, with a combination of their camp defence system, heavy machine guns, personal arms, and the few snipers arrayed in strategic positions along the wadi, they could make sure that no Roman or ally would ever escape that dusty trap.

Were the Romans really so arrogantly certain of their superiority?

“Stop at about 150 yards,” confirmed Colonel Lieberman through his radio headset. Anderson walked without his helmet. His only personal protection was his sidearm, which would be useless if things went wrong.

“Roger that. That puts me about twenty yards from them?” confirmed Anderson.

“It will,” replied Lieberman. “Our defence perimeter is eighty yards. Anything unauthorised within the perimeter is toast.”

“Roger.”

“Good luck!”

Thanks,” replied Anderson.

He stood alone about thirty yards from where the wadi widened, which was 150 yards from the front of the camp. He knew he would be safe, but standing alone to confront an invading army was still daunting.

The steady tramp of the disciplined march rang clearly, accompanied as it was by the heavy tread of the cavalry. They saw him immediately. The lead horsemen stopped to look at each other, then carefully walked their mounts forward until the passage widened.

It was only when the legionnaires emerged from the narrow defile when Anderson tilted his head back and bellowed, “Vorenus!”

The army shuddered to a halt, as if surprised both at the lone man standing in harm’s way and that he would bellow out the name of one of their sesquiplicarii, one of their soldier’s ranks.

“Vorenus!” he bellowed again.

A centurion, with his plume that ran across the helmet, stood at the front of the army with an officer, whose plume ran front to back in the manner the modern world normally associated with Roman legionnaires. They looked magnificent! The rest of the Romans had no plumes, while the Jewish auxiliaries wore shining, bronze helmets that reared up and ended in a curl, like the famed Phrygian cap. All watched in surprise, as if one man could stop them. Anderson was relieved he at least had that fleeting measure of respect.

The centurion cursed and gave a call as he slapped a short rod into his other hand. Vorenus then stepped forward and the officer asked him a question. Vorenus shook his head and then handed his shield to the Centurion before he fearlessly strode forward.

As soon as he was in easy earshot, Anderson spoke loudly, for he knew all could hear him. “What in hades is this? You cunnus! We help you with the zealots and is this how you thank us?”

“I didn’t say we were friends, Anders. Never have and never will,” Vorenus growled angrily. He looked embarrassed. Good, thought Anderson. They may get out of this yet.

“I didn’t want you to suck my dick Vorenus, but I did expect some courtesy,” he continued roughly. As hoped, his direct soldier-style talk seemed to take the Roman by surprise and looked to gain a measure of reluctant respect. From the Roman ranks there were a few grunts of amusement. A few seemed to replace the interaction surprisingly funny and took delight that their hard-bitten comrade was placed into such a compromising position.

“Your mother is a whore!” yelled Vorenus automatically. He momentarily forgot he was talking with an erstwhile enemy and replied as he would to another soldier.

“Who worked with your dear mama!” replied Anderson.

There was open chuckles among the ranks and the Centurion screamed out, “Vorenus. What in Hades are you doing? Get back here! Let’s do this!”

“Don’t do it!” called Anderson. “We are friends. You will die for nothing.”

Vorenus turned angrily, his face beet-red in embarrassment. As he stalked back to the ranks he faced incredulous looks from the Officer and the Centurion and open amusement from some of his comrades.

“Go home my friends!” called Anderson. “We only wish for peace. If you continue, it will be a waste of your men.”

The Centurion spat into the dust and gave a nod, which had the horsemen immediately dash forward. Their strategy was obvious. Have the cavalry advance down the widening end of the wadi and attack the camp from two sides while the Roman footmen would advance from the centre. It was a simple manoeuvre, but appropriate. Anderson would have done the same.

By the look on the face of the Centurion, he was going to take delight in using his razor-sharp Gladius to spit Anderson himself.

As the cavalry ran past Anderson with a thunder of hooves, the Roman horns sounded the attack. The Centurion opened his mouth to call out his command, but his voice was drowned out by an awful thunder.

The horses. My God, those poor horses! thought Anderson with a jolt of regret. He was a horse-lover and owned a few beautiful mounts at his father’s ranch in Texas. One day, if he lived, the ranch would be his. Some of the mounts ridden by the cavalry were pleasant looking beasts and well cared for at that. But to stop a carnage, a price had to be paid.

His orders had been very specific.

The camp’s automated defence system fired the heavy .50cal rounds with deadly efficiency while his soldiers were some of the best shots the American and Israeli military had to offer. The noise, in that narrow defile, was deafening and at the sound more than a few reserve horses rear in panic, tossing their riders to the ground while some of the Romans dropped to their knees, hands over their ears.

Ominously, the deafening roar was over all too soon and the few horsemen not involved in the charge struggled to control their mounts and looked terrified. One pony lashed out in panic and knocked over a few cursing legionnaires. Others stood, mouths open in horror. Hands clasped amulets while not so silent prayers were murmured.

Anderson didn’t take his eyes off the Centurion. He was the one in real command. The slaughter would be awful. The American realised it was part of his own incongruity. While he could abide the sight of dead men, especially combatants, he would have to steel himself for the sight of butchered horses.

Behind him a horse roared in agony, to be mercifully cut short by a brief three shot burst of fire. A few voices called out weakly in the anguish of the mortally wounded.

“I warned you!” roared Anderson as he pointed at Vorenus in fury. “Their blood is on your hands! We will slaughter ever last member of your army if you continue! Do you want to die for nothing?” He took a breath. “I repeat, we seek to be friends.” He paused for effect. Some stood, uncomprehending of the slaughter while others began to look furious.

For they were Romans! Nobody, but nobody, stopped Roman Legionnaires!

A Jewish horseman furiously grasped his recurve bow and nocked an arrow. As he went to draw, most likely to take aim at Anderson, a sharp crack indicated a sniper had identified the threat. The Jewish soldier simply tumbled from his horse, which skittered and then ran. It stopped at the smell of the dead men and horses and then whirled in panic. As it dashed close to Anderson, he expertly grasped the reigns and held the skittish beast where he quietly crooned to it. He watched the Centurion as the horse reared and then stopped to chew its bridle, its flesh twitching in panic. He slowly led the horse forward and let go of the reigns. The mount trotted skittishly to one of the few remaining cavalrymen who expertly grasped the reigns to lead it back into the formation.

“If you attack, we’ll kill you! If you try to shoot us with arrows, we’ll kill you!” he roared and, while he did, was reminded of similar lines from the English movie, ‘Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels.’ In Welbeck, when training for Saxon Traveller, it had become a favourite. There was a temptation to continue with, “In fact, you’re going to have to work very hard to stay alive, Nick!”

“Centurion,” he called, “Is there a chance you and your officer can step forward to have a word?”

The Centurion and the Tribune looked at each other in almost comical astonishment.