Web
and Book design image, Copyright, Kellscraft Studio 1999-2005 (Return to Web Text-ures) |
Click
here to return to Last of the Legion Content Page Return to the Previous Chapter |
(HOME) |
XIII
THE CENTURION [Being
the fragment of a letter from Sulpicius Balbus, Legate of the
Tenth Legion, to his uncle, Lucius Piso, in his villa near Baiæ, dated
The Kalends
of the month of Augustus in the year 824 of Rome.]
I PROMISED
you, my dear uncle, that I would tell you anything of interest
concerning the
siege of Jerusalem; but, indeed, these people whom we imagined to be
unwarlike have
kept us so busy that there has been little time for letter-writing. We
came to
Judæa thinking that a mere blowing of trumpets and a shout would finish
the
affair, and picturing a splendid triumph in the via sacra to
follow, with all the girls in Rome throwing flowers and
kisses to us. Well, we may get our triumph, and possibly the kisses
also, but
I can assure you that not even you who have seen such hard service on
the Rhine
can ever have experienced a more severe campaign than this has been. We
have
now won the town, and to-day their temple is burning, and the smoke
sets me
coughing as I sit writing in my tent. Put it has been a terrible
business, and
I am sure none of us wish to see Judæa again. In fighting the Gauls, or
the Germans, you are against brave men, animated by the love of their
country.
This passion acts more, however, upon some than others, so that the
whole army
is not equally inflamed by it. These Jews, however, besides their love
of
country, which is very strong, have a desperate religious fervour,
which gives
them a fury in battle such as none of us have ever seen. They throw
themselves
with a shriek of joy upon our swords and lances, as if death were all
that they
desired. If one gets past your guard
may Jove protect you, for their knives are deadly, and if it comes to a
hand-to-hand grapple they are as dangerous as wild beasts, who would
claw out
your eyes or your throat. You know that our fellows of the Tenth
Legion have
been, ever since Cæsar's time, as rough soldiers as any with the
Eagles, but I
can assure you that I have seen them positively cowed by the fury of
these
fanatics. As a matter of fact we have had least to bear, for it has
been our
task from the beginning to guard the base of the peninsula upon which
this
extraordinary town is built. It has steep precipices upon all the other
sides,
so that it is only on this one northern base that fugitives could
escape or a
rescue come. Meanwhile, the fifth, fifteenth, and the twelfth or
Syrian
legions have done the work, together with the auxiliaries. Poor devils!
we have
often pitied them, and there have been times when it was difficult to
say
whether we were attacking the town or the town was attacking us. They
broke
down our tortoises with their stones, burned our turrets with their
fire, and
dashed right through our whole camp to destroy the supplies in the
rear. If
any man says a Jew is not a good soldier, you may be sure that he has
never
been in Judæa. However, all this has
nothing to do with what I took up my stylus to tell you. No doubt it is
the
common gossip of the forum and of the baths how our army, excellently
handled
by the princely Titus, carried one line of wall after the other until we had only
the temple before us. This, however, is — or was, for I see it burning
even as
I write — a very strong fortress. Romans have no idea of the
magnificence of
this place. The temple of which I speak is a far finer building than
any we
have in Rome, and so is the Palace, built by Herod or Agrippa,
I really
forget
which. This temple is two hundred paces each way, with stones so fitted
that
the blade of a knife will not go between, and the soldiers say there
is gold
enough within to fill the pockets of the whole army. This idea puts
some fury
into the attack, as you can believe, but with these flames I fear a
great deal
of the plunder will be lost. There was a great fight at
the temple, and it was rumoured that it would be carried by storm
to-night, so
I went out on to the rising ground whence one sees the city best. I
wonder,
uncle, if in your many campaigns you have ever smelt the smell of a
large
beleaguered town. The wind was south to-night, and this terrible smell
of death
came straight to our nostrils. There were half a million people there,
and
every form of disease, starvation, decomposition, filth and horror, all
pent in
within a narrow compass. You know how the lion sheds smell behind the
Circus Maximus,
acid and foul. It is like that, but there is a low, deadly, subtle
odour which
lies beneath it and makes your very heart sink within you. Such was the
smell
which came up from the city to-night. As I stood in the darkness,
wrapped in my scarlet chlamys — for the evenings here are chill — I was
suddenly aware that I was not alone. A tall, silent figure was near me,
looking
down at the town even as I was. I could see in the moonlight that he
was clad
as an officer, and as I approached him I recognized that it was
Longinus, third
tribune of my own legion, and a soldier of great age and experience. He
is a
strange, silent man, who is respected by all, but understood by none,
for he
keeps his own council and thinks rather than talks. As I approached him
the
first flames burst from the temple, a high column of fire, which cast a
glow
upon our faces and gleamed upon our armour. In this red light I saw
that the
gaunt face of my companion was set like iron. "At last!" said
he. "At last!" He was speaking to himself
rather than to me, for he started and seemed confused when I asked him
what he
meant. "I have long thought
that evil would come to the place," said he. "Now I see that it has
come, and so I said 'At last!'" "For that matter,"
I answered, "we have all seen that evil would come to the place, since
it
has again and again defied the authority of the Cæsars." He looked keenly at me with a
question in his eyes. Then he said: "I have heard, sir,
that you are one who has a ftill sympathy in the matter of the gods,
believing
that every man should worship according to his own conscience and
belief." I answered that I was a
Stoic of the school of Seneca, who held that this world is a small
matter and
that we should care little for its fortunes, but develop within
ourselves a contempt
for all but the highest. He smiled in grim fashion at
this. "I have heard,"
said he, "that Seneca died the richest man in all Nero's Empire, so he
made the best of this world in spite of his philosophy." "What are your own
beliefs?" I asked. "Are you, perhaps, one who has fathomed the
mysteries
of Isis, or been admitted to the Society of Mythra?" "Have you ever heard,"
he asked, "of the Christians?" "Yes," said I.
"There were some slaves and wandering men in Rome who called themselves
such. They worshipped, so far as I could gather, some man who died over
here in
Judæa. He was put to death, I believe, in the time of Tiberius." "That is so," he
answered. "It was at the time when Pilate was procurator — Pontius
Pilate,
the brother of old Lucius Pilate, who had Egypt in the time of
Augustus. Pilate
was of two minds in the matter, but the mob was as wild and savage as
these
very men that we have been contending with. Pilate tried to put them
off with a
criminal, hoping that so long as they had blood they would be
satisfied. But
they chose the other, and he was not strong enough to withstand them. Ah! it was a pity — a sad
pity!" "You seem to know a
good deal about it," said I. "I was there,"
said the man simply, and became silent, while we both looked down at
the huge
column of flame from the burning temple. As it flared up we could see
the white
tents of the army and all the country round. There was a low hill just
outside
the city, and my companion pointed to it. "That was where it
happened," said he. "I forget the name of the place, but in those
days — it was more than thirty years ago — they put their criminals to
death
there. But He was no criminal. It is always His eyes that I think of —
the look
in His eyes." "What about the eyes,
then?" "They have haunted me
ever since. I see them now. All the sorrow of earth seemed mirrored in
them.
Sad, sad, and yet such a deep, tender pity! One would have said that it
was He
who needed pity had you seen His poor battered, disfigured face. But He
had no
thought for Himself — it was the great world pity that looked out of
His gentle
eyes. There was a noble maniple of the legion there, and not a man
among them
who did not wish to charge the howling crowd who were dragging such a
man to
His death." "What were you doing
there?" "I was junior
Centurion, with the gold vine-rod fresh on my shoulders. I was on duty
on the
hill, and never had a job that I liked less. But discipline has to be
observed, and Pilate had given the order. But I thought at the time —
and I was
not the only one — that this man's name and work would not be
forgotten, and
that there would be a curse on the place that had done such a deed.
There was
an old woman there, His mother, with her grey hair down her back. I
remember
how she shrieked when one of our fellows with his lance put Him out of
his
pain. And a few others, women and men, poor and ragged, stood by Him.
But, you
see, it has turned out as I thought. Even in Rome, as you have
observed, His
followers have appeared." "I rather fancy,"
said I, "that I am speaking to one of them." "At least, I have not
forgotten," said he. "I have been in the wars ever since with little
time far study. But my pension is overdue, and when I have changed the
sagum for
the toga, and the tent for some little farm up Como way, then I shall
look more
deeply into these things, if, perchance, I can find some one to
instruct
me." And so I left him. I only
tell you all this because I remember that you took an interest in the
man, Paulus,
who was put to death for preaching this religion. You told me that it
had
reached Cæsar's palace, and I can tell you now that it has reached
Cæsar's soldiers
as well. But apart from this matter I wish to tell you some of the
adventures
which we have had recently in raiding for food among the hills, which
stretch
as far south as the river Jordan. The other day. . . . |