Blood and circuses… a short story

Mike Scialom
Jul 10, 2017 · 7 min read

From the record of the Legio V Geminae, based at the Antonia Fortress barracks, during the rule of Tiberius Caesar.

Marcus Severus led Legio VII Ferrata in good order from the port of Caesarea following the not-disagreeable journey from Rome, where he had been on leave following extensive service in Gaul.

On the way south, riding with the advance guard, he heard from oncoming travellers of problems along the border with Idumaea, but he had no intention of diverting from the clearly defined road to dispatch a few brigands from their mountain hide-outs. His orders were to restate the dominant culture in this heathen backwater: maintaining order began with discipline and that meant carrying out his orders, nothing more and nothing less.

As they marched on, the tales became more specific. It seemed that several dozen locals in the tribal dress of the Kaftor were in the habit of demanding toll money from travellers going through their patch of land a half-day out of Caesarea. The tribesmen had subsequently taken flight with unseemly haste just before the Roman army rolled through. A group of cavalry was despatched to bring them in for questioning, but the outlaws disappeared behind a walled compound built into the slope of the hillside.

Marcus Severus saw no trace of activity until he spotted a likely-looking fort he decided it presented an ideal opportunity to halt and get some target practice in. This would mean the armourers could deploy their artillery — and being able to set up for battle at short notice could well be useful further down the line. The stop was partly to be sure that the equipment worked, but also to have a rest and let the midday heat pass before continuing the march until nightfall.

The highly tensioned trunks of three giant catapults were cranked slowly back into their firing positions by a dozen of Rome’s strongest auxiliaries. A large stone boulder, obtained from the side of the road, was rolled on to each pod and the artillerymen of Legio VII Ferrata held the cradles taut until, at a barked command, the winches were released and the coils on the axle beneath the trunk whipped the stones over their heads towards the enemy on the hilltop.

They shielded their eyes from the sun as the flying chunks reached the high point of their trajectories. Almost lazily, the missiles began drifting back down: two landed short, shattering on impact with the stony, flat slopes. The third crashed into a wall, sending up a dust cloud, and a second later the sound of the collision between stone and the mud-brick wall boomed back at them. A plume of dust blew idly upwards in the shallow breeze.

“Again!” came the order from the commander, and the process of loading the catapults started over.

For a moment there was no sign of activity from the walls at the top of the compound, until suddenly a shower of arrows flew upwards and away from the walls, sparkly reflections twisting in the apogee of their arc. They dipped and fell incredibly quickly on the unprotected crews before any more boulders could be loaded into the bowls.

“Aaarghh!”

The Macedonian auxiliary clutched his leg as he fell to the ground, screaming abuse at his unseen assailants. His colleagues scrabbled for cover underneath the catapults. After a moment one crawled across the dirt towards the wounded man and dragged him to safety.

The incident was witnessed by Marcus Severus 50 feet away, sitting on his horse on a hillock of hot-to-the-touch earth in the unforgiving desert heat. He raised his hand high, held it aloft, then sliced it downwards. Around 30 legionnaires began moving slowly forwards in two lines. The first row advanced with shields in front of them: the men immediately behind them raised their shields up against the sunlight, protecting against further aerial attack in the time-honoured fashion.

From his vantage point, Severus noticed with a soldier’s pride the closeness of the shields as the legionnaires trotted forward, short swords in their right hands pointing at the ground beside them, to take up position near the foot of the slope that led to the enemy. But just as they were moving forwards a loud wailing pandemonium could be heard from behind the walls of the small fort. The gates were flung open and blazing rags of oil-soaked leather and cloth tied together bobbed, spitting and sizzling, towards the squad.

The legionaries, seeing the threat, crouched as one, intending to halt the fireballs by grouping into the square formation known as the tortoise. The guttering spheres bounced along, picking up momentum, but before they reached their target the still-open gates disgorged a flood of men on horseback who galloped at breakneck speed towards the Roman line. Seeing the horsemen, seeing their weaponry of spears and long, curved swords as they charged with reckless intensity, the legionaries immediately became an even tighter wall of metal.

Suddenly Marcus Severus, who had thought the attack to be a mere diversion, a sport even, on the way to his new posting, was required to focus on how to extricate his professional reputation from the mess his troops were in danger of becoming embroiled in. He harboured no fear of battle: his professionalism ensured that he was able to respond positively to the ebb and flow of engagement, knowing that in the chaos an opportunity would emerge to outwit his enemy. His key contribution was to remain self-restrained enough to be able to take advantage of that moment when it came.

But this was no longer a welcome escapade. Marcus Severus, legatus material though he may be, was now simply the battle-hardened third-in-command of a cohort on the march and his responsibilities did not include losing any men to terrorists. Ordering his archers to take positions against the advancing horsemen, he instructed the standard bearer to regroup his advance guard for an assault on the hilltop.

When the horses were within moments of falling on the unwavering turtle-shaped soldiers in the middle of the plain, he looked at the archers on the road and gave the order. “FIRE!!” The feathered iron-tipped shafts flew out from the first rank: even as they found their target they dropped to their knees to allow the rank behind to take aim.

After the second salvo was fired from the front there were fewer men astride their mounts, but still they came on, astonishing Marcus Severus with their maniacal stupidity. The scything swords flashed, the tortoise formation remained static and the surviving riders, now vastly outnumbered and exhausted by the ride, were facing off with professional soldiers waiting for them. The bearded, enrobed, wild-eyed locals fought valiantly, but the outcome was never in doubt. Those that jumped over the line were taken down by the archers, easily able to pick them off, and if not them then their horses. Wherever the horsemen put their feet on the ground they were surrounded by three or four legionaries: Roman soldiery emerged triumphant, as it always did. As their opponents lay dead or dying, they picked up their kit and rejoined the formation. One man had been crushed by a horse but was merely winded.

“Sir!”

It was his aide, Julius, cutting into Marcus Severus’ thoughts and turning his gaze from the bloodied sand where the slaughter had just been enacted. Why did people such as these bring so much grief upon themselves, he wondered: could they not see that Rome was a benevolent dictatorship, that every territory it controlled had seen incredible improvements during their lifetimes?

Julius was looking to the hill where a trail of dust was being kicked up outside the gates; as Marcus Severus peered closer he saw a group on horseback, fleeing. He pursed his lips. There was now no reason to continue the march up the hill, and Marcus Severus ordered the men to re-join the main group, waiting by the side of the road, on standby. He wished to spend no further time on this skirmish, but was minded to do justice to the situation with one final flourish. Irritated, he dismounted, watched closely by his junior officers.

“Follow me, soldier,” he told the nearest legionary.

“Yessir.”

The man marched out over the dry soil of the flat plain with his commander. The tribesmen and their horses had piled onto each other as the arrows rained down on their fateful charge. Now, there were only the groans of the dying as the surviving creatures stood meekly by.

“Pull him out,” he said to a nearby legionary, pointing at a man with bloodied robes, who clutched feebly at the guts sliding out of his stomach as he was hauled to his feet. Then, suddenly, as Marcus Severus walked up, in a swift and entirely unpredictable movement, the wretched man produced a small knife from his tunic and slashed at the soldier. The Roman staggered back, clutching his neck, and a spray of blood spattered Marcus Severus’ armour.

Drawing back his sword, Severus moved forward, hacking at the hand holding the offending blade and then drawing back his arm for the final thrust. As the metal sank in, the Roman looked into the dying man’s eyes and saw blazing, clear-sighted defiance. And then he heard, for the first time, the words that, then and on every subsequent occasion, added despair to his total incomprehension.

“Hear, O Israel, the Lord our God is one.”

There he fell. Before his body stopped twitching Marcus Severus looked to the hill where the dust cloud was disappearing into the horizon. The time for revenge could wait. He walked across to the fallen legionary. The man was still. The life force had left him. He was the first casualty of the expedition and his death was not merely the responsibility of Marcus Severus, it was also not an entirely necessary casualty. There would be a price to pay for this mishap when his superiors heard about it, he realised as he called over the burial guard.

The words of Juvenal came to him: “Two things only the people anxiously desire — bread and circuses,” the great poet had written. “Bread and circuses” — was this the eternal lot of the Roman? But what happens when the road leads away from Rome, Severus speculated wryly as he got back in the saddle? What will happen when they reached Jerusalem, what then? Blood and circuses? Bread and terror? What’s wrong with bread and circuses anyway?

Mike Scialom

Written by

Journalist, writer; facilitator at Cambridge Open Media

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