To the Death (15 page)

First Ananias then Hezekiah, arms bound to a cross bar, were hoisted into the air, where they were manoeuvred to sit on the pointed stakes. Ropes tied to the cross bar were secured to the parapet. They were unable to move, not even to throw themselves off the posts on which on they had been sat, for the posts had a three inch diameter and had been roughly pointed. Thus penetration wasn't too deep. Over the next few days it would slowly become deeper as Menahem ordered weights to be fixed to the suffering men's legs. The final torment would be the flaying of their bodies to attract insects.

When the two men begged for water, their guards gave them as much as they wanted to prolong their suffering. When eventually they begged for death they jeered at them. Before he went blind, Ananias saw Eleazar and the Zealots attacking the fortress of the Antonia from three sides. Day and night battle was waged, the Zealots throwing endless reserves of men against its walls. Hundreds of scaling ladders and assault towers, using a design copied from the Romans, were used in these attacks. The Zealots and their citizen army died in their thousands. The Antonia was truly impregnable but its defenders needed to sleep. Their enemy, already several hundred times their superior in numbers, could rest their men without halting the attack.

On the sixth day of the battle, the sun blackened, eyeless, fly-blown corpses of Ananias and Hezekiah stared blindly at the besieged fortress, their crow pecked faces ravaged by birds and insects. On the twentieth day the bloody battle paused when the Romans hoisted a flag of truce.

Metilius, its commander, wanted parlay. In return for safe conduct for him and his men to Caesarea, he would surrender the Antonia. However, he and his men were to retain their standards and their weapons. They were to be allowed to march out of the Antonia under escort with a solemn and binding oath of free passage. Menahem rejected the terms and tendered his own.

Their lives would be spared. Under oath, they would be given the right of free passage to Caesarea and would be provided with a well-armed escort to protect them. But they would not be allowed to retain their weapons. They would be allowed to retain their eagle and their standards, but they must not be displayed during the march to Caesarea.

While Metilius was discussing these terms with his senior officers, Menahem was discussing with Eleazar the best place to conceal enough men to attack the Romans once they had laid down their weapons. Neither of the two nationalists had forgotten how the Romans had slaughtered the unarmed Jewish citizens who had gone out to welcome the arriving
cohorts
from Syria. The Jews who assembled for the ambush of the Antonia's soldiers had lost fathers, brothers, cousins, mothers, sisters, sweethearts, children, to Roman treachery.

There was also the fact that the Roman legionaries manning the Antonia were not in fact Roman nationals, but Syrians who had volunteered to join the Roman army. It had been Arab Syrian conscripts who had betrayed them and massacred the Jews sent to welcome them.

They needed no reminding of the law of Abraham and Moses - eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand and foot for foot.

13

M
etilius,
wrapped in his cloak, stood on the Antonia's walls and stared into space. His senior officers who had accompanied him remained silent. Even in the poor light the reality of the last few days' carnage was painfully obvious.

“Gentlemen, we have to consider our position and determine what to do about it”. None of Metilius' officers volunteered an opinion; their position was hopeless and every man knew it.

“We are not just surrounded, we are drowning in a sea of Jews”, Metilius continued. “There are so many of them, if they choose to they can not only mount a continuous round the clock assault, they can do so from a dozen different points. Even this impregnable fortress must eventually fall under that kind of pressure. I fear it will be sooner rather than later”.

In the half-light the cloak wrapped figures, had avoided each other's eyes. Would Nero come to their aid? Would he be as loyal to them, as they had been to him? To think not was dangerous; to say so was treason.

There had been a general clearing of throats but nobody spoke. Instead, they had stared out across a city they hated, at a people they despised.

“We can at least die well”, said Crassus. As Metilius' adjutant he was the youngest officer present.

“Dying is easy to say, but a bloody sight harder in the doing”, answered Metilius bitterly.

“Would you have us surrender,” snapped Crassus, “and spend the rest of our lives as slaves?”

Before anybody could reply, Metilius cut in “I have asked for terms”. A gasp went up, but the Roman commander wasn't to be put off. “If we stay here we will die and in dying make no significant contribution to the final outcome. We will die for nothing. If we negotiate terms we will live to fight another day. We will return with Caesar's legions and take our revenge”.

The gleam of light from the rising sun gilded the men's sombre faces. Gaticus, his second-in-command, voiced the thoughts they all held. “Caesar may find fault in our surrender. We don't know if either the procurator or the
Legate
will attempt an assault on the city”.

“Festus will stay in Caesarea with his gold” snapped Metilius. “As for Cestius, he will wait in Antioch for reinforcements before he leaves the safety of his Syrian base. No, if we are to be saved, we must save ourselves”.

Crassus couldn't stand the shame of what his commanding officer was proposing. To give up a well found fortified position, without a fight, was an act of extreme cowardice. If they survived every man would be tainted with it until the day he died.

“Sir, even if the Jews grant us terms, we will have to face our peers in Rome. The Antonia's strength is legendary; to give it up without a fight will brand us as cowards”.

“Cowardice”, Metilius screamed, his eyes bulging. “You dare accuse your commanding officer of cowardice?”

“No Sir”, stammered Crassus, “I am simply saying what we do may be misconstrued by others. Possibly with malice if they were to profit by it”.

But Metilius wouldn't be mollified. Glaring at the young centurion he roared “You are under arrest. The charge is treason”. A murmur of consternation arose, but nobody dared to intervene. “Gaticus, take his sword. This officer is confined to his quarters until his court martial”.

Metilius chewed his bottom lip. He couldn't meet the eyes of his officers. “Dismissed gentlemen. We shall reconvene when the so-called nationalists reply. In the meantime go about your duties and make sure this place is as unassailable as we believe it to be”.

When Eleazar learnt that Metilius wanted to negotiate the terms offered, he was with his most trusted men, priests who had backed him against his father.

The man who was the go-between was a Greek, a scribe employed by the garrison commander. “Where”, asked Eleazar, “would such a meeting take place?”

“The fortress”, answered the Greek “in a chamber at street level. It opens next to the Court of the Gentiles. This allows both sides to have a discussion without either having to enter the other's territory”.

Eleazar pursed his lips. “We will need to exchange hostages.”

The Greek bridled, “You have the word of a Roman
Tribune
”.

“You forget Greek”, Eleazar spat, “we are used to having the word of the festering hyena Cestius Florus, appointed by Rome to shaft us as hard and as often as possible while telling us it won't happen again - until the next time”.

The Greek bowed his head. “Very well Sir I will see what we can do”.

“I don't give a fuck what you do. Tell those turds in the tower, there will be an exchange of hostages at midday tomorrow followed by an immediate parlay - or not at all”.

The Greek shrugged. “Very well sir, I will give the commander your answer”. The Greek turned to go.

“Wait” said Eleazar. “What happens to you in all of this? The Romans send you out to save their skins. What of you - are you the dog that licks the fingers of its master?”

“I am a slave”, the Greek said softly, “in the service of a Roman
Tribune
in the middle of a civil war. If I were a dog I would be free to choose sides, or not as the case may be”.

Eleazar heaved himself off the bench and strode across the room to stand within inches of the scribe, staring him closely in the face. “What value do you place on freedom Greek?”

The scribe remained silent, his face devoid of emotion. Getting no reply Eleazar continued, “As a go-between in this matter you can influence the outcome. Metilius must be shitting himself to have asked for safe passage”. Eleazar paused. “He will ask your opinion on how you found us. Your opinion will influence how he behaves”. The Greek held Eleazar's gaze. “You could be free”.

The Greek laughed dryly. “A free man. Without a country, without family, without friends, without money, without a home. A beggar standing in the middle of a bloody war, where Jews are not only killing Romans, they are killing each other”.

“Wrong” said Eleazar. “You could be a free man, with the position of scribe to the Zealots' revolutionary council. When we have swept the Roman lice from our land, you would have a place in the city's foreign administration”.

The Greek remained silent for a moment, thinking. He had been deeply shocked at the Roman commander's decision to ask for terms. If terms were agreed what would happen to him? Would Metilius march out of Jerusalem with his slaves and household servants? Where was he planning to go? Would he abandon his slaves and servants and simply march his legionaries away, leaving the garrison's civilians to fend for themselves?

“I accept your offer”, the scribe replied stiffly.

“Good man, you have made the right decision. Come, take some wine with us before you go. Let us part as comrades”. As he spoke Eleazar drew the Greek to the table, one of the Zealots poured out a cup of wine and handed it to him. Eleazar grabbed his own goblet and raised it. “The toast, gentlemen, is freedom”. Wine cups were swept aloft and bumped together with a cheer.

When he reported back to Metilius he was careful to keep his voice neutral of expression, but long skilled in the use of language he was careful to choose positive phrases. When the question finally came, as he knew it would, he was ready. “Scribe, what kind of man is this terrorist leader?”

“He is the son of a high priest Excellency, a man of learning. A man who is used to politics, to making decisions. He will listen carefully to whatever you propose. He will respond rationally”.

Metilius was astounded to learn Eleazar was the leader of the Zealots. He knew the man well. He also knew about Amal and wondered what had happened to her during the fighting.

Suddenly he thought of Ananias. “He has turned on his own father.” The scribe was stunned to hear this - it had simply escaped his memory.

He remained silent. The Roman commander didn't regard his scribe as a confidante. If he asked his scribe questions from time to time it was often rhetorical, simply a matter of clearing his mind. “Where is Menahem in all of this?” He turned to the Greek. “Was he at the meeting?”

“No sir. From what I overheard, he has gone to Masada to collect more weapons from the fortress' armoury.” The scribe knew the value of this piece of intelligence. He also knew the impact it would have on Roman morale. The armoury at Masada was enough to arm ten thousand men. The Greek had chosen his moment well.

That did it for Metilius. The idea of an even better armed citizens' army to support the nationalists terrified him. “Arrange a meeting for tomorrow”, he snapped and left the room.

The scribe smiled to himself as he opened his writing case. The Roman garrison commander had panicked, making a rushed decision without consulting his officers.

The dream the Greek kept in the deepest, most secret crevices of his heart, stirred. He felt its movement. It took him a moment or two to recognise it. It was hope.

The meeting was marked by extreme suspicion on both sides, though Eleazar was at pains to appear calm and reasonable. After an hour of discussion, Eleazar made his final offer to the Romans. “You will leave the Antonia with your personal possessions. You will also be allowed supplies and baggage animals for your march to the port of Caesarea. You will come under the protection there of the procurator. He will provide you with a ship to Rome or you can join your forces with his and re-enter the battle”.

“Weapons. We demand that we be allowed to retain our weapons and standards”. Metilius was sweating; the stress of the negotiation had given him a headache. At his previous attempts to persuade the Jews that his men be allowed to retain their weapons, he had failed. “Without weapons, we will never make it to Caesarea. If we are to die we will at least die fighting and have”, he ended savagely, “the pleasure of taking a great many of you with us to Hades”.

Eleazar shook his head. “No weapons. We will provide you with an armed escort”.

Metilius pressed his fingers against his aching temples. The officers who had joined him in the discussion had been persuaded to agree to surrender, but at least half of them would not yield on the question of weapons.