The Fixer

By Marc Charles

Pontius Pilate has been replaced by Prefect Marcellus who is ill suited for handling the intrigues and outright perils in the Jewish fortress city of Jerusalem. His wife appeals to her brother-in-law, Emperor Tiberius, for assistance. Marcus Magnus, a Praetorian Guard Centurion and once First Spear to two legions, now elevated to the position of "Fixer" to the throne, is dispatched. Marcus is a twenty-year veteran of the legions and is aided in his assignments throughout the empire by a Nubian warrior princess and a deadly Greek bowman. Working for the Prefect becomes dangerous when beset by 60 bandits holding the strategic city of Petra hostage. More life threatening are the powerful priests of the Jewish Sanhedrin who believe Marcus a threat to their religion. Their soldiers outnumber the Roman Legionnaires in the country. They also have Bedu assassins to call upon. His biggest surprise comes from finding he cannot trust the Roman legionnaires assigned to the Prefect. Add a traitorous military attaché and his wanton conniving high born wife who wishes to overthrow the government, and Marcus realizes he may be in over his head. What starts out as a peaceful last assignment before retirement now morphs into a struggle to stay alive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marc Charles
• Release date: Oct 24, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393431268

Marc Charles

Author Marc Charles graduated from Boot Camp at 19 as a Private First Class. Twenty-four years later he retired as a Lieutenant Colonel of Marines. He's traveled the world spending much time in the Middle East and Asia. His passions are martial arts, history, writing and keeping his wife Sako happy. He has written articles for the Marine Corps Gazette, The Ensign, and published three previous novels on ancient Japan with Ross House Press. He currently resides in Encinitas, CA.

Book preview

1―The Beginning

This is your Century and you were a first spear, it is your problem, General Drusus said. If I do not have it returned by tomorrow morning, I will decimate your command. Then he stormed out of my tent.

I had grown up in the legions of Rome. I enlisted at sixteen. I took to the harsh discipline and butchery like a fish to water. I had been lucky. Strategy and tactics interested me, and I could handle men. I had become a centurion in less than three years. That changed me from worrying about myself to being responsible for the care, feeding and lethal deployment of one hundred men. It changes you.

I had been promoted to primus pilus (first spear) at the age of twenty in the 1st Legion in the snow-covered forests of Germania. Then I had one thousand men to deploy effectively. I still feel the ache in my bones from the cold.

In the 4th Legion in Syria, the loss of three first spears before me netted me a second first spear promotion. That posting always reminded me of fear. The scar on my left cheek attested to the prowess of Parthian swordsmen.

Now I was in the 3rd Legion in lower Egypt. I was no longer a first spear, the senior centurion in a Legion elected by all other centurions for his battle savvy and leadership skills. General Drusus did not like the way I protected my men. He overruled the normal process and kept me in charge of one hundred legionnaires instead of one thousand.

It was mid-day. I could tell by the oppressive heat. It was bad enough if you lay on a wooden bed to sleep. But standing up as I was, the sun beat down on the calfskin contubernium and radiated heat like an oven. The tent was of the same name as the ten men it usually housed. With rank came privileges, so I had my own contubernium. I called for my optio who had been standing outside listening to everything. As my second-in-command of the century, he was the man I depended upon. He saluted with the customary fist over his left breast.

You heard? I asked.

The optio nodded in the affirmative.

What are your thoughts? I asked.

He grasped his shiny, metal helmet by the plume of short, black horsehair running from the back of his head forward, took it off and took the seat I offered. This is crazy. How can we find one riding crop among 80 legionnaires and 20 support personnel? I think I should have declined the offer to be your optio.

Too late, I thought. He became my optio five months ago.

None of the Roman soldiers under our command would be stupid enough to steal the general’s property. But we are going to have to subject the whole camp to a search, I said. Gather the leaders of all ten contubernia. Make sure the decani know the gravity of the situation.

The general would not really decimate us would he? the optio asked.

I had to smile. You have been a legionnaire almost as long as I. We are not fighting anyone presently. The general has time on his hands to think of stupid things. How many times have you seen our leaders do stupid things? I asked.

The optio stood, placed the helmet on his head and saluted again. Too many times, First Spear. It appears it is once again your job to keep us safe from our leaders.

Everyone still called me First Spear out of respect I guess. Only the general called me centurion. Like I said, he did not much care for me.

Shortly, I had all ten decani before me. My tent was too hot. So were any of the buildings in the surrounding mud huts of Thebes. I had decided to gather under the shade of a contubernium opened on all sides. The four poles with the overhead calfskin provided shade but not much else. The breeze off the Nile provided some relief but, it was quickly replaced with the furnace-like heat off the desert to the east.

The ten looked at me expecting trouble. The berating I had received from the legatus legionis, who we refer to as General Drusus, had made its rounds throughout the camp.

We are being threatened with decimation, I said. General Drusus is missing a riding crop.

Decimation, that is punishment for cowardice, one leader said. We are not even fighting.

Most of these men knew me well and trusted me. No man was elevated to decanus rank and put in charge of nine other men unless he had some battle scars.

You are correct, I said. But he is the general. I imagine I will be exempt from the decimation based on my former positions of primus pilus. But I do not want to see good men killed over a riding crop.

A riding crop? another stammered. The general is going to kill every tenth man over a missing riding crop? They were as incredulous as I.

Another decanus spoke. When did it go missing?

I had asked the same question during the general’s tongue lashing. He had it last night, I said. It was missing this morning.

Should not the general be yelling at his servants? another leader asked.

You are all contubernium leaders. You were elected by the nine men you lead. You hold the rank of decanus. I want each of you to go back and search everywhere for the crop. Leave no stone unturned.

Another leader spoke up. You assume we took it? He was new. I did not know him well. But before I could answer, my optio spoke.

No, you idiot. The first spear is ruling out possibilities. While we are screening our men in the century, he will be doing the same with the general’s staff.

I did not usually smile. I did then. Sometimes it was good to have a favorable reputation.

The optio is correct. I need you to get the results of your search to the optio at the next guard change, I said. That is in two hours. That will allow you to search the guards coming off watch.

The men understood the urgency. I turned to my optio. Send me Hector. I will need someone who shoots the bow well. Search him first and send him to me armed with his bow and a quiver of arrows.

My optio and the decani departed. I put on my shiny cassis helmet with its sideways horsehair crest that identified me as a centurion and departed for the general’s praetorium.

It was not much as generals’ headquarters go. As is often the case when the legion arrives, the largest building in the city or town was requisitioned as headquarters. This was a large, single-story whitewashed, mud building with a dirt floor. It had many rooms and a bare garden area. Nothing grew here unless you watered it. So far, the general had not discovered that.

The open square holes for windows were shuttered from the inside during sandstorms but normally covered with cloth curtains. The floors were covered with rugs imported from somewhere. They usually covered the ubiquitous scorpions. No legionnaire went anywhere without clavatas. The hob-nailed sandals ensured traction and protection from stepping on scorpions. But even the caligae footwear worn by centurions and above gave little protection against snakes. Sand vipers could kill a man.

The first person I met upon entering headquarters was a young tribune full of himself. I knew him to be petty and a troublemaker. I did not salute.

Your rude ways will cease when you lose one squad tomorrow, he said.

I wanted to thrust my gladius into his mouth and out the other side of his neck. It is a difficult move but one I was confident I could carry out in his case. My hatred for his elitist attitude and complete ignorance of all things military made me grasp my gladius on my right side in the thumb down position all legionnaires learn in the first week.

The tribune was too ignorant to notice the danger. The next tribune into the mud building was not.

Release your grip, First Spear, the senior of all six tribunes in the Fourth Legion demanded.

I complied.

The senior tribune looked at the junior tribune and shook his head. Nicabar, go find someone’s ass to kiss. Real soldiers want nothing to do with you.

The young tribune looked surprised and then angry.

You cannot speak to me that way, he complained. Especially in front of one as low as him. I assumed he was talking about me.

The senior tribune laughed, took off his helmet and gladius and plopped down on a wooden bench. Get out, Nicabar, before I kill you myself. You are not worthy to lick the dust from the First Spear’s sandals.

The young tribune glared at his senior then turned his hateful stare on me. Then he stormed out of the room.

Would you have killed him, First Spear? the senior tribune asked.

I stared at the tribune then answered. I would like to think not, but his impudence and ignorance are very trying.

So they are, the senior tribune said. But I am one of them.

No, Tribune, I said. I have seen you fight. You are one of us.

The senior tribune smiled. High praise from a man of your experience in battle. What brings you away from your beloved century? he asked.

I felt a presence behind me and grasped my gladius again. I turned my head to see my little Greek bowman behind me. I motioned for him to stay there. I turned back to the senior tribune.

I’m looking for that damn riding crop, I said. I have my optio and all ten decani searching our area. I need to speak with all soldiers, servants and slaves that had access to the general’s quarters last night.

The senior tribune nodded his head. Good idea, I will do the same with all the tribunes. They will not like it, but it is only fair.

Within an hour all guards, servants and slaves were gathered in a large open area we jokingly referred to as the general’s garden. I motioned for the bowman to come closer.

Hector, I said.

Yes, Primus Pilus, he answered.

I looked at the gathered and gave Hector these instructions in a loud voice. No one talks to anyone else. If they do or if they run, I want you to put an arrow into them. Do you understand?

Hector’s answer was one I expected from a man of my century: He strung his bow and nocked an arrow. Then he tested the draw with the arrow nocked.

Good, I said. Then I directed my attention to the gathered headquarters staff. Each one of you will come to me and answer my questions. Do not discuss your answers or my questions with anyone.

For the next two hours I question everyone, and Hector watched as I expected a legionnaire in my century to do. I establish many things. The general had no one to his quarters after sundown. The guards noticed no intruders. The general had not visited the brothels yesterday. Today was his day.

When the senior tribune reported he had found nothing in the other tribune’s quarters, I waited to hear from my optio. He soon reported his search had turned up no riding crop. I did not expect it would. We were infantry not cavalry. Of course, infantrymen will steal trinkets or things to make their life easier in camp. But they all knew that stealing an officer’s property was punishable by death. No one went looking for trouble. Life was hard enough anyway.

I have one more place to search, I told the senior tribune. I need your help.

The senior tribune smiled. You want me to search the general’s quarters don’t you? he asked.

I nodded. Is he here?

No, he is visiting his favorite woman in Thebes. I do not expect him back tonight.

Then help me, I said as I moved to the large room that quartered our leader.

The first thing I did was move all the cloth from the window to let in as much light as possible. Then I threw the mosquito netting on top of the wooden beams above his sleeping pallet. I found the riding crop behind the head of the pallet and under a cushion.

I wonder why the general takes a riding crop to bed? I asked.

I have no idea, First Spear, the senior tribune sighed. But both you and I have seen stranger things.

I tossed the crop to the senior tribune. You tell him you found it, I said.

That got the senior tribune’s attention. Why? he asked.

Because if I found it, he will be embarrassed and take out his embarrassment on everyone, I said.

And if I tell him I found it? he asked.

I thought for a moment. He may still be embarrassed, but he is of the senatorial class. You are just one rung down as an equestrian. If you find, it he will get over his embarrassment and probably act like nothing happened, I said.

Then another reality sunk into the senior tribune’s consciousness. This will elevate my status with the general, he said.

I nodded. I thought about planting it in Tribune Nicabar’s room, but I would rather kill him in battle.

Would it be so easy to kill a tribune? he asked his eyes wide.

I whistled for Hector. He came running. Hector, dismiss everyone.

Hector turned to go. Before you leave, let me examine your quiver, I said.

Hector looked hesitant, but eventually turned it over for my examination. I waved him off to carry out my order.

I pulled the twenty arrows from the quiver. I separated them into two stacks on the general’s map table.

Notice the fifteen legion standard arrows, I said to the senior tribune. These other five consist of two Nubian and three arrows I have never seen before. What are the five used for do you think?

I suppose they were found on the battlefield and will be used to fight the enemy, the senior tribune said.

Maybe, I opined. Maybe they are for Tribune Nicabar. If you find him dead with a foreign arrow sticking in his chest, what would you assume?

The senior tribune went a little white. These things happen? he asked.

I nodded in the affirmative. But they are a rarity. Do not worry, I said. I know all the tricks. Nicabar is safe as long as you keep him away from me and my century.

You are a dangerous man, First Spear. I am glad you hold me in high regard. I have learned many things today, not the least of which is you have an uncanny ability to get to the bottom of a mystery. You my friend, have a future as a fixer, the senior tribune said.

I have been in the legion for fifteen years, I said. But I have never heard of a fixer. What is it?

The senior tribune looked me up and down. A fixer is someone who helps solve problems that escape most men. Powerful men need fixers. Senators and even the emperor himself have fixers. You may end up on some powerful man’s team with your capabilities, he said.

I thought the senior tribune was having sport with me. He was not. I also thought I would escape General Drusus’ wrath by letting the senior tribune find the riding crop. I was wrong again. My reward for letting the tribune find the crop was a reassignment from Thebes to caravan duty. This meant my century would move south to the city of Syene at the first cataract on the Nile right on the border with Kush. From there we would patrol the overland routes east to Myos Hormus on the Red Sea or southeast to Berenike.

****

The trip to Myos Hormus took four days. The trip to Berenike took twenty-one. That was in good weather. If there were sandstorms or if the dunes shifted, the cairns that marked each day’s travel would totally disappear. Then you had no idea where you were. Luckily, the caravan leaders knew how to navigate by the stars. I made sure I learned. The navigation lessons and the new names for the stars came hard to me, but I did it. Why? Because I trusted no one and to be lost out here without direction was death.

Myos Hormus and Berenike were two extremely important seaports for the Roman Empire. Exotics such as wood, spices, incense, metals, gems, and animals were imported from countries far over the horizon that I would never see. Sailors that I met in the ports said they sailed with the monsoon winds west from November through February from India. In April through September the winds reversed. The main Roman export from what I could tell was gold.

The caravans traveled for a day and made camp. Augustus, the first emperor, established way stations to support the caravans with grain, food, and water. Some of these way stations were garrisoned by soldiers. Now they all belonged to me. With only 80 fighting men, I patrolled thousands of miles of desert against hostile soldiers and the only thing more common than scorpions, bandits. At least I did not have buffoon tribunes and generals to deal with.

What I did have was one hundred men stretched across miles of desert—a situation fraught with challenges. Not only did we have to protect caravans, worry about resupplying scattered soldiers, and drive off bandits; I had to deal with the constant complaints from harbor masters, government brokers and every caravan leader with a camel. I learned to curse General Drusus’ name and longed for a post with a cooler climate.

As much as I complained in my mind about the heat and sand, the Kush was lucky for me. I had Hector. We were stretched so thin that I initially kept him near me because of his bow. But Hector’s talents ran deep. He was a natural leader and as cunning as me. He could analyze a problem and come up with a viable solution in seconds. Add that to his fighting ability and I used him as a second optio. I could never be in the same place as my real optio, so Hector became my shadow.

****

In the third year as part of the 3rd Legion and my second year being burnt black by the Nubian sun, Hector and I were traveling toward Berenike making our rounds with the garrisons. One evening we had started to unload the pack horses when we saw smoke off to the west. It was close. It is hard to judge distance in the desert. But I was sure the smoke was within walking distance.

It could have been coming from anyone’s camp. It might have been coming from a caravan a little off the beaten route. Most likely, though, it was from the camp of a group of bandits. Hector and I did not have the strength to take on a bandit clan. But it was my job to learn as much as I could about their operations and then extinguish them. So, we hobbled the horses and made our way around dunes until we found a concealed observation spot in the dark.

The bandits had no security. They were drunk on wine and entertaining themselves by gang raping one of two young, naked Nubian girls staked spread-eagle on blankets. We counted seven bandits. My blood boiled. Sometimes the blood lust takes over.

Hector took a position on one knee with his quiver in front of him in the sand. I moved around to the other side of the camp so I could charge out of the dark. The bandits were through with the weeping girl and moving to the second when Hector started sending arrows into bodies.

I rushed into the camp slashing down into a head with my gladius and thrusting into the belly of a second. The third raised his sword high. I deflected it with my gladius and plunged my pugio into his heart.

I had expected more, but four bandits lay dead around the raped girl. I moved back to the taller Nubian and whipped my red Roman cloak over her nude body. Then I cut her bonds. I handed her my pugio. She wrapped the cloak about her and ran to the first girl we were too late to help.

I pulled a cloak from a dead body and handed it to the girl in my cloak. She placed it on the raped girl and set her free. The girl in my cloak cradled the raped girl and tried to comfort her. There was no comfort to be had. Her sobs were loud and long. Eventually, my blood lust subsided.

Hector and I stripped the bodies of valuables and useful weapons. Hector found the girls’ clothes and returned them. We got no thanks. The youngest one was still in shock. The older one wearing my cloak did not seem shocked. She seemed wary.

Hector and I gathered the bandits horses and supplies while the girls dressed. When we came back into the camp, the girl who had been in my cloak returned it. She was now clothed in black robes.

I placed the weapons at her feet and indicated she could take her pick.

I do speak your language, she said.

I am sorry, I said.

Why are you sorry I speak your tongue? she asked.

No, I said. I am sorry we were too late to save your sister from that horror.

She is my cousin, the girl said. She is only fifteen years old.

Again, I am sorry, I said.

Who are you, Roman? she asked. You are in the middle of nowhere and Romans usually roam in packs.

I am Centurion Marcus Magnus, I said. We were on our way to Berenike.

You are both great warriors. Two men defeating seven is an undertaking worthy of song, she said. I am in your debt. I am Adongo, Princess of the Kush.

****

I did not make it to Berenike on the Red Sea that month. I did not make it there until six months later. Hector and I escorted the ladies back to the Kush capital of Meroe on the upper Nile. It was a trip fraught with danger. We were Romans and the Nubians were not usually friendly to us. Before my time, Rome had fought a war with the Nubians and lost to their female-led armies.

By the time we reached Meroe, I was impressed by Adongo’s abilities with a bow and spear. I think Hector was better with the bow, but no one was her equal with a spear. I also realized both cousins were interested in me. I felt no pull toward the younger one. But the older, Adongo, with her beautiful face and perfect proportions was a different story. It took all my discipline not to bed her. Unlike most legionnaires, I lived by a set of rules I had made for myself. If you attacked me, I would kill you. If you were the enemy, I would crush you until you offered no more threat. If you were an innocent, I would protect you.

Taking advantage of a young princess who was enamored because of a misplaced sense of hero worship would be violating my rules. Strangely, it attracted her to me more.

2―Caesarea

Five years later things were much different. Three years after meeting Adongo, I had been transferred to Rome as a member of the Praetorian Guard. General Drusus recommended me as fixer to Emperor Tiberius. I was not sure if he saw it as more punishment for the riding crop incident or if the reduced bandit activity on the caravan routes elevated me in his eyes.

Either way, I had spent two years in Rome but traveled throughout the empire on the emperor’s direction fixing things. Sometimes I found lost items. Sometimes I found lost persons. Sometimes I made sure a person got lost. The work was varied. Now I was off to Judea.

The voyage was uneventful. My official orders from Emperor Tiberius himself smoothed the way. It ensured we had no trouble boarding the ship, getting the best accommodations, and breezing through the official inspection at the port of Caesarea.

The Jewish port on the Mediterranean was now used to resupply the Jerusalem garrison and to export goods from the territories of Judea, Sumaria, Galilee, Decropolis and Perea. If someone asked me what the exports consisted of, I would have to guess fish, mutton, wine, grains, olives, and slaves. Rome was ever expanding its empire. It took bodies, most of them unwilling, to keep the wheels of progress greased.

The ship we traveled on was large and made to sail throughout the Mediterranean. We had come from Rome, so I had been anxious to get back on dry land. The constant rocking for the first week was more than enough to keep my stomach empty. By the second week, I had become accustomed to the movement of the great sea on the ship’s hull and could eat and drink again, but I still wanted off as quickly as possible.

The port itself was man made. I had read somewhere in preparation for this assignment that the Jews had a king name Herod the Great. He was supposedly great because he built things. Caesarea was one of those things. We were at anchor for a long time because the port was small. It had three harbors: outer, middle, and inner. But we had waited outside of the outside harbor because all three harbors were crowded with ships.

Herod the Great had built the port as an homage to his Roman overlords. I had to admit, the buildings were amazing. The port was in an almost closed circle with only one opening through which ships entered. The ships would wait at anchor just outside the outer harbor. When tow boats were available, the ships would be towed into the harbor and eventually docked at the quay, which encircled the harbor. White stone buildings two stories high stood just off the quay.

At the southern entry to the harbor stood a tall tower with a bright fire burning at its highest point. If a sailor had trouble seeing the light during the day, the black smoke resultant from gallons of animal fat burning would see him to safe harbor.

Just three hundred paces south of the harbor stood the jewel in the crown of the city. It was the original palace and home of the city builder, Herod. Most recently it had housed the prefect of Judea, Pontius Pilate. Now it was almost vacant. My inquiries from the restaurant and inn in which I was currently sitting indicated Pontius Pilate’s recent replacement governed from Jerusalem, unlike his predecessor. 

If I jumped down from the great rocks at the light house base, I could tread across a large white sand beach and come to the large palace perched out into the sea. Just above the beach I could see an arena for chariot racing. Above and behind where the charioteers raced was a large Colosseum. It appeared Herod had attempted to build a mini Rome.

Herod’s builders had flattened a huge area to create the city they wanted. The promontory that accommodated the huge, two-story, white alabaster, stone palace jutted into the sea.  The palace appeared mostly rectangular with the seaside forming a semi-circle open-air patio. My legionnaire eyes calculated the palace to be vulnerable to attack from the sea and a stairway that provided the only visible entrance.

Because the palace was situated above the surrounding ground, there was a narrow stairway leading to the northeast corner.  The rest of the palace was protected by the steep, jagged volcanic rock that rose to meet smooth stone walls with no windows or doors. Anyone assaulting the palace would have to run around the steep sides to gain access to the patio next to the sea or the one entrance by the stairs. It would be a nightmare for somebody, but not for me. I had a much different set of orders.

The inn owner saw me staring at the palace and told me there was a huge freshwater pool in the center of the rectangle. That would explain the aqueduct coming into town from the east. I asked him if he had ever seen the pool, he said he had only heard about it from important travelers. They used to stay in his inn despite the palace having two stories of rooms on three sides of the white building. But he had not heard much since the current prefect and his family stayed in Jerusalem.

I assumed these might be the only stone buildings we would see for a while. This appeared to be rough country. The inn was like many along the quay that surrounded the harbor. It was a combination inn, eatery, and bar. I imagine if one were so inclined, female companionship could be arranged for the night, but I’d seen no woman beyond the one sitting at my table.

I stared at Pontius Pilate’s old home and wondered what it would be like to live so luxuriously. Pilate had tried to govern from here. But he had been called back to Rome by Tiberius. Something about running afoul of the legion commanders in Syria and being charged with cruelty. What a laugh. Life was cruel. If he was charged with cruelty, you can believe he had done something much worse. It did not matter now. The empty house on the promontory now belonged to the new prefect. That is why I was transferred.

But the new prefect did not use the palace. From the look of it only the servants and the sea birds were taking advantage of the building. The new prefect must be quartering himself in the praetorium on the northeast corner of the walled city of Jerusalem south and east of here, a two-or-three-day’s walk.

I could understand the new prefect living in Jerusalem. I even condoned it, speaking as a leader. Caesarea may be the best port in Judea, but the heart and soul of the five Roman provinces that now made up Idumea was Jerusalem. Historically, culturally, and politically, Jerusalem was where the power gathered. It was where the most Roman soldiers quartered. It is where trouble usually lurked. It is where the prefect should be.

Pilate was a fool, or so it seemed to me. But I was no expert on Judea. Only the Romans called the territories Idumea. Everyone else called the five provinces by the old name of Judea. But I had been posted to enough god-forsaken places to gather as much intelligence as possible on a new county prior to departure.

I was toying with my wine cup, trying to decide if it was time to turn in. It was dark outside. The heat of the day had subsided somewhat and hopefully our rooms on the second level of the inn would catch a little of the sea breeze. I looked at my two friends across the table. I had eaten and not spoken a word. Silence and patience was something you learned in the legion. I was good at both. There were many other things I had learned as a soldier of Rome. My unique ability to get things done when others could not had landed me here eating supper off a wooden bench in a whitewashed stone traveler’s inn not fifteen steps from the sea in the port of Caesarea.

July in Judea is hot. I had been in hotter places. The ruins of Carthage in North Africa had been hotter. The ancient city of Meroe in Kush was amazingly hot. Fighting the Parthians on the eastern fringes of the empire had been hot as well. But I had been originally posted in Germania. Fighting the hordes at the northern limits of the empire had its own challenges. Heat was not one of them. There, a legionnaire could freeze if he were not careful. It was a wet cold in those forests that bit to the bone. For eight years I shivered and seldom felt warm. I often cursed the weather and the luck at being assigned to the First Legion. Now I was adjusting to the heat again. I had decided if I could get water to drink, I could handle the heat. I never wanted to be cold again.

There were other travelers populating the remaining six tables. Some of our fellow travelers in the inn were enjoying themselves by imbibing in too much wine. Like the six at the table next to the door. They wore the robes favored in Judea but could belong to any group from farmers to goat herders. But staying at the inn meant this group was wealthy enough to travel and pay for wine and lodging. They were not soldiers. One soldier can always spot another. It has to do with bearing and confidence. Others ate their food in relative silence. My little trio was an unlikely mix who drew covert glances often. We looked like what we were―dangerous.

I stood 192 pedes (six feet) and weighed 3½ talents (almost 200 pounds). I was the largest of the three. My dark beard and black curly hair against my dark olive skin could make me the Spaniard that I am or anyone else from Tarsus in the north to Egypt in the south. My face was marred by the weather and the horrors of 20 years in the legions. The knife scar down my left cheek did not help my appearance. It seemed to broker more fear than the gladius I wore on my right side. I wore it like I did in the legion, slung over my left shoulder by a leather strap and held in place by a large leather belt buckled in front. On my left side was my trusty pugio. This dagger hung from the same leather belt. Both the sword on my right and a dagger on my left would normally be hidden by my long, gray, sleeveless outer coat. Now I just wore a dirty white tunic and laced sandals. It was too hot for anything else.

My little Greek companion eating with me on the left carried a gladius and wore it like mine. A jewel encrusted dagger with a black scabbard was thrust into his leather belt at the small of his back.

The person who got the most glances was my female companion on my right. She wore modest clothing and the expected loose head scarf, but she was dark and incredibly beautiful. Nubians could be found in Judea occasionally. Rome made slaves out of many peoples throughout the empire and Caesarea was the terminus for goods, taxes and slaves exported throughout much of the eastern empire. But few Nubians could be seen with such perfect features. Most thought she was my slave or lover. She was neither. She was far more important than that. 

We had all left our outer garments in our rooms. It was too hot. I was not concerned about those staying in the inn. I should have been.

They knew we were Roman. The swords gave us away. But the wine hastened their undoing. In the end, it provided the courage common sense should have tempered.

The beautiful black lady on my right glanced at me. It was all it took. I glanced in the direction of her gaze and acknowledged the confrontation to come. The Greek on my left was oblivious and continued to eat.

When they come, do not kill anyone unless you have to, I said.

That got my Greek friend’s attention. His head came up immediately. He looked around the room but spotted no threat. The black girl pointed at the rowdy group near the door with her chin. He gazed that way then shook his head dismissing them as boisterous but not deadly. He went back to eating. The black girl shrugged. Sometimes the Greek could be clueless.

The Greek’s name was Hector. His mother had been enamored by the tales of the Trojan hero. When asked why she had not named him after Achilles who bested Hector, he would smile and say she thought the Trojan more beautiful. Whatever he was as a child had changed.

Hector was smaller than most legionnaires, but his wiry and powerful body made him a worthy adversary to anyone on the battlefield. What made him invaluable to me was his quick thinking and instinct for war. In the legions we had served in, I used him as a scout and skirmisher usually in the van.

The men in skirmishers were looked down upon by the rank and file Roman soldiers at their own peril. The skirmishers were deployed away from the main body most of the time. The very nature of their jobs made them somewhat independent. Whether in the front, sides, or the rear, the skirmishers were my eyes and ears. I made sure they ate together, slept together, and trained together. They saw themselves as elite. That made the unseasoned soldiers jealous. Attitudes usually changed when the skirmishers exposed an ambush or relayed vital information that saved lives.

The skirmishers elected their own leader. Hector was a unanimous choice. His outgoing nature and his uncanny ability to survive made him a favorite of the elite men that worked ahead of our lines. To set themselves apart further, Hector had his ten men carry the round shields of the Parthian cavalryman and relegated the tall and bulky Roman shield to our baggage train. He had the head of a wolf painted on their shields and called themselves The Wolf Squad.

That is not the only change Hector made. To move quickly, helmets and pilums were eschewed and replaced with cloth scarfs and the Greek bows made from yew trees. Hector could kill at 100 paces with ease. But I have seen him pierce a bandit’s armor