Authors: Mark Henrikson
“
We need to
do something,” Tonwen told Gallono as they stuck to the shadows and followed the mob leading Jesus to the high Priest’s palace.
“What is there to do?” Gallono snarled. It was at least the twentieth time Tonwen had spoken those words, and the answer never wavered. “There are hundreds of them, and now they are within Caiaphas’ fortress that masquerades as his palace.”
“You defeated twenty trained gladiators in the arena. Surely these peasants with knives do not pose nearly so stiff a challenge.”
Gallono sighed in frustration.
“It’s not the same thing. There’s an etiquette in the arena, an honor system between combatants. All it takes is one of them to throw a knife at my back while I am grappling with another and the battle would be over.”
T
onwen exhaled his frustrations because Gallono was right. “What do you suggest then? Because doing nothing is not an option. His arrest is ultimately my doing.”
The two men came out of the shadows finally and passed under the palace gates
to enter a large courtyard. A dozen palace guards took possession of Jesus. They punched, kicked, and spat on him as they ushered Jesus through a set of doors.
Gallono saw Tonwen’s body tense at the sight of the beating
his friend sustained and the need for action. He grabbed Tonwen by both shoulders from behind and whispered into his ear. “We need to remain close and hope there is a momentary lapse in security that allows us to free him. Blend in, and stay alert.”
Even through the adrenaline clouded haze lingering over Tonwen’s thoughts, he knew this was a good plan. The two of them couldn’t take on hundreds, but if they ever left Jesus alone with just a few guards they could act.
Blending in would not be a problem that night. The palace courtyard was filled with at least a hundred people standing along the walls, or huddled around one of four fire pits blazing to provide warmth for the guards.
Tonwen found an empty spot along the wall and put his back against it and then lost himself in thought. If they couldn’t free Jesus, what would be
his next move? The miracle medicines he used to create Jesus’ legendary healing abilities were now empty. Even if he had more, that path had already been walked down. The response from the people would be ‘been there, seen that.’ The next round of miracles performed by the next man he finagled into going about the countryside preaching would have to be all the more impressive. Tonwen didn’t know if he could do it. He feared he was about to fail in his mission in every aspect of the word.
“You,” a young female voice said from Tonwen’s right. He turned and saw a serving girl no older than ten staring at him. “You are one of his disciples aren’t you?
”
A knot tightened around Tonwen’s stomach, until he realized the girl’s question was phrased in the negative. She wasn’t sure, and deep down she wanted the answer to be no, and Tonwen obliged.
“No, I am not,” he stated softly, and the girl seemed to accept his answer and moved on.
With the serving girl out of sight, Tonwen’s adrenaline rush faded and left him feeling cold. He moved away from the
chilly stone wall toward the closest fire pit which blazed hot with five large logs as fuel. The light from the flames crept across his face as he drew near and the warmth sent tingles down his spine.
The night hours passed, and many more logs were added and consumed by the fire while Tonwen carried on a mental debate with himself. Why, oh why had Jesus strayed from the plan? He went completely off script and made such a scene
in the temple. This current predicament was his own doing he concluded.
Tonwen let the world around him back in. He listened in
to several nearby conversations, and they all pertained to the arrest of Jesus and the two disciples who were with him.
“You are one of his disciples,” a familiar female voice said. “I see your face now by the fire and I am certain of it. You were there with him in the garden.”
What good would it have done to tell the truth? He was surrounded by enemies on all sides and his reason for being there was to try and free Jesus if the opportunity arose. No good would come from it, so Tonwen denied the accusation.
“Young girl,” Tonwen said in a stern, level tone. “I told you before and I am telling you now, I do not know the man.”
Tonwen could see that he was not fitting in. The light of the fire was only causing problems for him, so he moved away and tried to blend in with the rest of the world. He found another spot along the wall that was only a few feet away from the door Jesus had been forced through several hours earlier.
The young serving girl
was apparently not dissuaded. She came toward Tonwen with a cluster of people this time and they cornered him against the wall.
“This is the one. He is one of his disciples, I’m sure of it,” the girl declared.
Before Tonwen could open his mouth to chastise the girl for pressing the question to him a third time, a formidable man stepped in behind her. Even with only half the man’s face lit by the nearby fire, Tonwen recognized him, and that recognition sent Tonwen’s heart and stomach into a tailspin. It was the brother of the man whose ear he cut off earlier. This man would know him, there was no doubt about it.
The man took a long, hard look before he spoke. “This is the one I told you abou
t. He cut off my brother’s ear. I saw it with my own eyes and I will never forget the man’s face who did the deed!”
“Ladies and gentlemen please,” Tonwen offered with his voice and hands pressing down upon the air to try and subdue the rising tempers.
“Your accent betrays you,” the man challenged. “You are a Galilean, you’re one of them.”
The angry crowd was pressing in and they wanted blood. If they didn’t get it from Jesus, they were going to get it from him. Tonwen didn’t have time to consider his response.
“I give you my word, and if I am lying may God strike me dead and send me to burn in hell for all eternity,” Tonwen declared. “I do not know the man!”
The moment the last word left his mouth, Tonwen saw the first ray of sunlight come across the sky and a rooster greeted it with a mighty crow. Every ounce of blood drained from his face when he recalled the words Jesus said to him on the way to the garden, ‘This very night, before the rooster crows, you will deny me three times.’
Moments later, the nearby door burst open and a man beaten within an inch of his life was dragged out. As he passed by Tonwen, the blood soaked blindfold covering the captive’s face fell away. The eyes of Jesus met his and Tonwen’s rigid world of logic and science came crashing down around him.
Even through the severity of his wounds, Jesus instantly recognized Tonwen and the look from his eyes was all consuming. It was not a look of anger at Tonwen’s failure. It wasn’t a look of disgust at his inability to speak the truth. Nor was it a look of disappointment in that he could not even admit that he knew Jesus. Instead, it was a look of
love that pierced Tonwen’s heart. He knew Tonwen would fail and yet Jesus reached out to him in unconditional love to a man who was now truly broken. Tonwen realized he wasn’t strong enough to stand for Jesus on his own strength.
Tonwen immediately averted his eyes, buried his face in his hands and ran away from the court yard weeping bitterly; his mission to save
the life of Jesus completely abandoned.
Hastelloy looked down
at his lunch plate as a man facing a beheading might stare at a chopping block. He was not facing death if he ate the meal, but the dining experience on his stomach and taste buds promised to be quite traumatic.
Finally, he summoned the will to pick up the last piece of bread which was hard as a rock. To prevent his teeth from breaking on the hardtack, Hastelloy placed the bread in his bowl of sea food stew. While he waited for moisture to penetrate and loosen the bread, Hastelloy picked up his spoon and shoveled some of the stew into his mouth. He swallowed immediately, eager to avoid the taste, and then grabbed hold of the table’s edge to aid in the struggle against his gag reflex. At best the nasty brew was three parts dirt, and one part rotten fish. At worst it was something taken directly out of the latrine.
Before his taste buds had time to reset, Hastelloy quickly downed the slightly softened hardtack and chased it with the last drops of water in his cup. “Dear god, if our swords don’t kill the enemy, allowing them to take this camp and eat our rations will do the job for sure.”
“I wish you’d allow me to prepare a separate meal for you,” a frail white haired orderly said as he hobbled under the canopy to remove the dishes. “You lead this army, there is no reason to dine below your station.”
“Nonsense,” Hastelloy countered. “How can I ask my men to put up with conditions I myself am not willing to endure? To do otherwise would cause me to lose touch with the soldiers I lead.”
Hastelloy ducked his head and stepped out from under the canopy, and into the late morning sun. He pointed to the east where the Mediterranean Sea was littered with supply and warships under his command. “In this case, I fully understand the urgency of getting our new provisions off the ships and to the men.”
“You’re a better man than I,” the orderly said as he slipped away carrying the dirty dishes. “I would eat nothing but fresh ripened fruit and the finest cuts of beef.”
Hastelloy paid the old man little mind as his astute gaze passed over the camp. His fortifications stood on top of a fairly steep hillside. There was
absolutely no threat of attack from the north as it was protected by impossibly steep cliffs.
Hastelloy looked to the south. A second encampment rested at the bottom of the hill and bordered a marshland infested with bugs large enough to carry away small children, snakes thick enough to crush a grown man, and sludge ridden water that stood waist high. A skilled engineer could possibly find a way to get an assault through by constructing a
series of platforms or bridges, but the threat of attack from the south was minimal.
This left the western side of the camp as the only viable direction for an attack to come. With this in mind, Hastelloy’s army dug ditches and constructed ramparts to severely impede any attack from the west.
Hastelloy took comfort in the fact that his army was well protected, and enjoyed secure supply lines. Meanwhile, his enemy had to march across Greek lands his men already stripped bare of supplies. Even though the attackers had greater numbers and better training, the uphill assault they faced against a well dug in army evened the odds. The grounds were perfectly suited for Hastelloy’s needs; the only way he could lose was on purpose.
His concentration was interrupted by the approach of two riders from the southern camp. One horse carried a boy far too young to carry a weapon, so he served as a messenger. The other was a philosopher and historian named Volumnius, who requested to join Hastelloy’s army as an impartial observer of history.
“General,” the messenger exclaimed. “We’re hearing some activity coming from the marshlands. Two expedition parties were sent to investigate but we lost all contact with them both about two hours ago.”
“It feels like an ambush,” Volumnius added.
“Ambush implies an element of surprise is involved,” Hastelloy said while calmly eyeing the historian. “A man who strives to be unpredictable in everything he does can often be the most predictable man of all.”
Volumnius looked confused, but Hastelloy didn’t have time to explain.
Instead he shifted his gaze over to the messenger boy. “Return and tell General Cracus to pull his cohort and archers into the fortifications and make ready to give them hell.”
“What of the veterans?” the boy asked.
“They will remain in place, I have something special in mind for them,” Hastelloy said and then waived the kid off to carry out his orders. Volumnius made ready to follow the boy, but Hastelloy quickly grabbed the reins of his mount.
“If you want to record history for others to hear, you’ll want to remain on this hilltop,” Hastelloy said. Volumnius complied, but again looked hopelessly confused.
“I’m a bit shocked you aren’t taking charge of the southern front yourself,” Volumnius prodded. “A surprise flanking attack is nothing to take lightly.”
“There you go again with that word - surprise” Hastelloy said with the certainty of a gambling man who knew he held the winning hand. “I know my enemy. Mark Antony is a brilliant engineer with the stones to attempt a risky maneuver anyone else wouldn’t even consider. The trick was leaving my southern flank vulnerable enough to goad him into attempting the attack. A fortification defended by only a thousand men and archers was just too tempting a target for Antony to pass up.”
“You intend to hand your southern fortifications over to the enemy?” Volumnius asked with alarm. “You’ve gone mad. If they successfully establish a foothold, the core of your army will come under attack from two sides. Are you trying to lose this battle?”
Hastelloy cracked a broad smile, “Determining the genius or madness of a plan takes place after a battle by historians like you. Promise me, at day’s end you’ll let me know which you think applies.”
“You have my word,” Volumnius said as he stared toward the south in dismay.
Hastelloy looked that direction as well. Two miles down hill he saw the last of his men barricading themselves inside the circular fortification that measured a thousand feet across. Archers manned the walls, while the legionnaires formed into four tight phalanx formations.
The marshlands started twenty feet away from the fortress walls and extended a hundred yards back until a dense canopy of tree cover obscured the view. Hastelloy thought he saw a fiery glow coming from the tree line. Intrigued, he took out his monoscope and held the long tube up to his eye and benefited from the ten times magnification effect the device produced.
He was able to see men moving among the trees in waist deep water. They appeared
to be stacking wood on top of a raft. He looked up and down the tree line and confirmed this same activity was taking place along the entire front.
“Hmm, that’s quite clever.” Hastelloy said just loud enough for Volumnius to hear.
“What is it, what do you see,” Volumnius asked.
Hastelloy handed Volumnius the monoscope and directed him to look along the base of the tree line. As he did, all at once the piles of wood were set on fire and began moving toward Hastelloy’s southern fortification. Smoke billowed up from the floating fires and blocked out any hope Hastelloy’s archers had at shooting accurately at the approaching army.
“That wall of smoke will make it impossible to determine how large of an attack force you’re dealing with,” Valumnius said. “It could be his entire army, or just the fires hoping to draw your forces out of position. Do you still think Mark Antony is predictable?”
Hastelloy paid
no attention to the question. More smoke began to rise from the separate western flank which pulled his attention away from the swamp assault. He snatched the monoscope from Valumnius and used it to get a better look. As he suspected, hundreds of flaming wagons producing a screen of solid black smoke began rolling up the western hillside. He was unable to determine how large a force approached from that direction either.
“This just got interesting,” Hastelloy said under his breath. He reached back and pulled a yellow flag out and began waving it back and forth over his head. Immediately a hundred horsemen set off down the western hillside to gain a first hand count of the force approaching from that direction.
Then Hastelloy turned back to the southern assault in time to see the flaming rafts come ashore. A wall of arrows greeted the first attackers who stepped out from behind the veil of black smoke. Devastating as the volley was, thousands more were right behind the fallen and charged the fortress walls at a full sprint.
“The southern assault
looks like the real thing to me,” Volumnius said with an undertone that screamed ‘do something.’
“Yes
, it does,” Hastelloy confirmed. “And it looks like I’m behind the curve to get reinforcements there in time. They’re going to storm the fortress with everything they have.”
Hastelloy pulled a red flag from behind his saddle and waved it back and forth over his head while facing south. Within seconds, he saw a chain of eight flag men
stretching down the hillside use the same gesture. Moments later four legions of his most veteran soldiers rose out of the tall grass and begin marching towards the fortress so critical to maintaining Hastelloy’s southern flank.
It took the veteran legions less than ten minutes to
traverse the mile distance to their destination, but it was already too late. The attacking force numbering well over 20,000 soldiers had already pushed its way into the fortification and was busy finishing off the defenders inside. They were even in the process of reconstructing the demolished walls in an effort to defend their prize from the legions now closing in on them.
Hastelloy and Volumnius looked on as the veteran legions circled the now well defended fortification. Some sporadic archery fire was exchanged back and forth, but mostly the tw
o forces stared each other down and dared the other to make the first move. Suddenly Hastelloy’s men obliged the request.
Hundreds of men among the veteran ranks set torches ablaze and then ran along the outskirts of the fortress. Within seconds, the entire structure went up in
an all consuming inferno, aided by the highly flammable pitch Hastelloy’s men coated the fortress logs and soil with during construction.
The cir
cle of fire eagerly consumed all oxygen around the outskirts of the fort. Flames rose twenty feet into the air while thick black smoke billowed high into the sky and the chimney effect pulled the circle of fire in on itself. The inferno raced toward the center of the fortress grounds scorching everything in its path.
Blood curdling shrieks and wails for divine intervention floated across the gentle breeze that moved in stark contrast to the sounds of carnage it carried. Hastelloy glanced over at Volumnius in time to see the historian
vomit off to the side of his saddle.
“My gods,” Volumnius cried
out. “I can smell the burning flesh of those men.”
“Poor bastards,” Hastelloy said softly. “The only thing they did wrong was fight for the wrong man.” Hastelloy then gave Volumnius a reassuring pat on the back as the historian wiped the last pieces of
bile from the side of his mouth. “It helps if you only breathe through your mouth.”
“What about your men left defending that fortress,” Volumnius insisted. “How can you do that to your own soldiers? How could you so casually look that young messenger boy in the eyes and send him on his way to carry out orders that would unquestionably result in his death.”
“I could because I knew the loss of a thousand men would result in 20,000 of our enemy dying,” Hastelloy stated without a hint of remorse. “It was for the greater good, and that’s all there is to it. Command decisions are always about the greater good of the army, not what’s best for the individual man. Anyone concerning themselves with the wellbeing of individuals belongs with the clergy, not the military.”
Hastelloy brought the conversation to a sudden halt when he pulled a green flag from his saddle bag and again waved it over head. Within minutes, three of the four veteran legions were on the march again heading up the hillside to help defend again
st the western assault rapidly approaching.
**********
Tomal stood in the middle of a ten foot square raft made of hastily strapped together logs. Next to him General Coranus stood with the look of a man who just watched the gates of Hades open up and swallow his army whole. Both men had sweat pouring down their soot covered faces as a result of the smokescreen they employed during the failed assault.
On each side of the flimsy water vessel four men with poles pushed the raft toward the shoreline
. Behind them a few dozen other rafts drifted toward the shore, returning a miniscule fraction of the 20,000 soldiers who originally set out on the sneak attack voyage.
The losses sustained were devastating, but all was not lost just yet. T
he combined forces of Valnor and the co-consuls still outnumbered Hastelloy two to one and nearly all of their numbers were well experienced veterans. The advantage was still theirs. This conclusion allowed him to fight back the emerging sense of panic clawing its way to the surface of his psyche.
Tomal turned to General Coranus as they stepped off the raft. “Assemble the survivors and make ready to march and join the reserves of the Consular
army.”