Highlander - Donna Lettow [38]
This day would never have arrived without Constantine. Silva had seemed content to wait the Jews out, counting on time and hunger to bring Masada to its knees. The survivors of the Roman garrison who had occupied the rock prior to their defeat by the insurgents seven years previous told of tremendous storehouses of supplies and weapons and huge cisterns of water, but Silva had discounted their reports. Constantine knew a small army could hole up on Masada for a decade. It was Constantine who had calculated the precise spot for the earthen ramp to we the heights, Constantine who designed the siege engine to batter down the walls, and most importantly, Constantine who convinced the Provincial Governor of Judaea it was all his own idea. Silva would more than likely receive a commendation from the Emperor for his brilliant tactics once the fortress fell, perhaps even the governorship of a much more desirable province. All Constantine wanted was a ticket out of Judaea.
The Second Cohort held at the ready on the staging platform like runners at the starting line eager for the race. All they lacked was a signal from the Primus Pilus of the First Cohort to join the fray.
Suddenly Constantine realized he could hear no fray. Where were the sounds of battle? The clashing of sword against shield? The battle cries? The screams of dying men and the shrieks of their women? He started toward the opening in the wall as Marius returned, signaling to him.
“Sir, I think you need to see this.” Constantine pulled his gladius from its sheath and weighed it in his hand for a moment before following.
The troops parted in waves as Marcus Constantine passed through the rubble of the breach in the Jewish defenses and strode onto the top of the mesa. It was no secret to the men of the X Fretensis who was really in command of the legion. In the brilliant sunlight of the summit, Constantine’s helmet and lorica shone bright, his cloak rippling behind him in the mild breeze, and he carried himself with strength and pride. No matter his rank, he bore himself like a general, a talent the weaselly Silva had yet to learn.
Constantine looked around warily. Masada was silent and still, the only movement that of his own troops as they moved cautiously from building to building. “What’s happened here, Manus?” he asked the First Centurion. “Where have they all gone?”
“They’re dead, sir, all dead,” the Centurion answered, making a sign with his hands to ward off evil. Like the majority of the legion, he was from the provinces and still clung to his primitive superstitions. Constantine had little patience for such nonsense.
Constantine turned a hard look on the Centurion. “You can’t mean all—where are the women? The children?”
“All, sir,” he confirmed, a bit spooked, “the old men, the women, the babies…” He made the symbol again.
“Show me,” Constantine commanded.
The First Centurion indicated three men to accompany them, then led the way to a Roman-style villa just south of the breach. He motioned for two of the legionnaires to enter first, alert for ambush, but none came. Then Constantine and the Centurion entered. The third soldier stationed himself in the doorway to protect their backs.
As they passed through the foyer toward the center courtyard, Constantine could smell death. He gripped his sword tighter and pushed past the soldiers leading the way, impatient. In the villa courtyard he saw for himself that the Centurion was right. Infants and small children silenced by a knife to their throats, cradled protectively by their parents, just as dead. Old men, young women barely past their girlhood, no one was spared. At least forty people in this one yard, dead in the arms of those they’d held dear. And one man, alone, who’d obviously fallen on his sword after he’d helped dispatch the others. From the blood lying in pools around him, Constantine knew it had taken him a long time to die.
“Damn