Highlander - Donna Lettow [37]
Masada, Province of Judaea: 10 Avrilis in the fourth year of the reign of Imperator Caesar Vespasianus Augustus (A.D. 73)
“The men are ready, sir,” Gaius Marius, the First Centurion, announced to Governor Silva’s aide, Constantine. Constantine and Marius, the Primus Pilus of the legion X Fretensis, stood to the side on the staging platform in the dim light inside the massive siege tower. With the battering ram removed, the wooden platform accommodated nearly the en-tire First Cohort, nearly 360 men, all ready and eager to put an end to the year they’d spent camped in the miserable desert, waiting for the traitorous Jews of Masada to surrender.
Constantine was more than ready for it to end, as well. More than ready to brush the dust of Judaea from his heels and regain the brilliant military career he’d once given up. Thirteen years prior, while a general quelling a different rebellion, that one in Britannia, he had chanced upon one of his own, newly Immortal, amid the bodies of the recalcitrant Britons on the blood-soaked field of battle. He’d always disliked taking students. Like wives or children, they were a drain on his resources, both in terms of money and time. But above all things, Marcus Constantine was an honorable man, and honor dictated he initiate the Briton female into the Game. He had known it would be a challenge to civilize the blue-painted hellion called Ceirdwyn, but almost more than life itself, Constantine relished a good challenge.
He had resigned his military commission and retired to Rome, where he became both teacher and lover to Ceirdwyn, but never master—she made that abundantly clear. She was, indeed, a challenge. They were happy together, or so he thought, but slowly he realized that Rome was killing them both. Ceirdwyn pined for the untamed freedom of her native land as much as he longed to return to the order and discipline of the military life. With many regrets, they finally parted.
Constantine began to rebuild his military career. He had had to remake himself, a Marcus Constantine from a new generation, and work his way back up, if not from the bottom—a few forged records of meritorious service in Germania took care of that—then at least from the middle. It would be years before he could be General Marcus Constantine once again.
Or maybe longer, if this posting was any indication: aide-de-camp to Provincial Governor Flavius Silva, a mediocre general with a few family connections, in the absolute armpit of the Empire, Judaea. One might as well be exiled to a deserted island, for all the good service in Judaea did for a military record. The gala celebration of Vespasian and Titus’s heroic triumph over the Jews was three years past, the citizenry of Rome totally unaware of this last holdout of cursed Jewish stubbornness on a barren spit of rock in the middle of nowhere. When Masada finally fell, there would be no triumphant procession through the streets of Rome for the legion of Flavius Silva. In the camps, the men of the X Fretensis joked about the bitter irony of receiving their pay in coins proclaiming “Judaea Capra,” when far above them the allegedly conquered Jews sang and feasted and openly mocked them. They, like Constantine, were more than ready to take the hilltop and be done with Masada.
Constantine raised his arm, signaling the engineers to break through the final fire-damaged barricade to the summit. Flanking each engineer were two legionnaires, with shield and pilum at the ready, prepared to use the thrusting spears to protect the engineers if necessary from the onslaught of the armed rebels waiting within the fortress. The charred wood was brittle and gave way easily. Constantine raised his other arm, and, with a huge cry, the First Cohort thundered through the debris and into Masada. The