164 B.C.: A War of the Jews

© 2016 Peter J.Fast. All rights reserved.

Cover, spine, and back illustration by Jonathan Fast

Cover, spine, and back design by Jonathan Fast

Photo of Zeus statue taken by author at Capitoline Museum, Rome, Italy

Photo of Coin used with permission by Gemini Auctions and www.wildwinds.com

Map illustrations by Peter J. Fast

Map graphic design by Kathy DeGagne

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

This book is based on a factual historical account retold by the author with an interwoven, fictional element. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in it, while many are fiction, remain widely based on historical figures, places, geographical locations, languages, customs, military methods, and religious expression. However, much of the book remains as an element of fiction which is the work of the author’s imagination based on extensive research.

Visit author’s website: www.peterjfast.com

Published by AuthorHouse 06/24/2016

ISBN: 978-1-5246-0659-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-0657-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5246-0658-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016907286

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Part One

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Part Two

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

Chapter XVIII

Chapter XIX

Chapter XX

Chapter XXI

Chapter XXII

Part Three

Chapter XXIII

Chapter XXIV

Chapter XXV

Chapter XXVI

Chapter XXVII

Chapter XXVIII

Chapter XXIX

Chapter XXX

Chapter XXXI

Chapter XXXII

Chapter XXXIII

Part Four

Chapter XXXIV

Chapter XXXV

Chapter XXXVI

Other books by Peter J. Fast

Wars of the Jews Series

164 B.C. A War of the Jews

70 A.D. A War of the Jews

(Upcoming Novel)

135 A.D. A War of the Jews

To my son, Judah, you are a treasure, a joy, and a gift from HaShem. May you possess the righteous spirit and courage of Judah Maccabee and the people of Israel who were dedicated to the Torah and stood for truth in the face of persecution.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I began this special work while living in Israel and concluded it upon my return to Canada. Thus, with its completion, it holds a unique sentimental mood, having been a novel which was finished around the time I began another chapter in my life. Moving back across the world was no small matter. Taking a new job, becoming a father, furthering my education, and settling into a new city which I now call home could not prevent me from seeing this accomplishment come to fruition.

This novel covers the historical account of the Jewish festival of Hanukkah, the Dedication of Lights. Being a festival of personal fond memories from living in Israel, there is still nothing quite like experiencing the glow of hundreds of Hanukkah menorah’s blazing from windows and the doorsteps of homes throughout the Old City of Jerusalem. Like Purim (Feast of Esther), central to the theme of Hanukkah, is the historical reality of the Jews prevailing over their enemies. These dark periods in Jewish history involve more than just those who oppose the Jews, but rather nations or people obsessively dedicated to annihilating the Jews, such as the case with Nazi Germany.

Hanukkah is about divine triumph and human heroism beyond all reckoning. It is about clinging to one’s faith in the God of Israel, the God of the Bible, even when faced with insurmountable odds that beat the drum of death. It is about doing what is right, because it is right, even if one must forfeit his/her life. And it is ultimately about God being sovereign, just, merciful, and faithful to His covenant with Israel. This tremendous reality is enshrined not in the battles won by the Maccabees, but in the miraculous kindling of the menorah and the miracle that it wrought—the flame burning for eight days when there was only enough oil for a single day.

Now for the part where I metaphorically raise my champagne glass to make a toast…

I would like to start off graciously thanking the love of my life, Deanna. Her steadfast devotion, her boundless encouragement, her careful eye in reading through this manuscript, including her guidance and critique is carried throughout the pages of this work. I love you, my dearest. You are a glorious mother to our own little Judah Maccabee.

I also want to extend many thanks to my mate, Andrew, a faithful member of our Writers Guild, a fine English gentleman and special friend, a fellow artist, and one who read through this manuscript with a keen eye, offering up advice which has led to the shaping of this novel. As my mind recalls that one meeting over coffee on Jaffa Street, it was discovered that one does not shear a sheep in the winter. A mistake made at the heights of outpouring imagination. Cheers mate!

I must also pay due respect and honour to the hard work which my brother, Jonathan, poured into the graphic design of the cover, spine, and back of this book. He always brings a detailed eye and an amazing talent in portraying the doorway to this story and the first thing a reader casts their eyes upon. I am indebted to you.

In the same breath, I wish to thank a precious friend of mine and someone whom I personally worked with during my years in Israel, Kathy. Bringing her immaculate, artistic talent to the rescue, Kathy was instrumental in assisting me with the publishing of the maps. Without such maps, and for the sake of light humour, the reader would be rendered a cartological hopeless case. Alas, together, Kathy and I have hopefully prevented this.

Peter J. Fast

April 2016

יח לארשי םע

PART ONE

And out of one of them came a little horn which grew exceedingly great toward the south, toward the east, and toward the Glorious Land. And it grew up to the host of heaven; and it cast down some of the host and some of the stars to the ground, and trampled them. He even exalted himself as high as the Prince of the host; and by him the daily sacrifices were taken away, and the place of His sanctuary was cast down. Book of Daniel 8:9-11

PROLOGUE

Coast of Ptolemaic Egypt

Near Alexandria

Mid winter

168 B.C.

The winter clouds were replaced at noon by rays of sunlight which penetrated the rolling waters crashing upon the coastline, spraying up walls of water against the rocks. The wind howled along the lonely beachhead, stirring up blinding particles of fine sand. The few tall palm trees that dotted the landscape bent, clapping their fronds together as if in acknowledgment of the Roman punt anchored a hundred metres from the shore.

The punt dipped and rose in the swell, its double anchors securing it to the ocean bed. A clap of thunder roared upon the horizon, followed by a peal of unseen lightening. The crew raced to secure the sails in an attempt to deaden the impact of the winds. They cried out, imploring the sea gods Neptune and his wife Neverita to cease quarreling.

The captain stared miserably at the white swan’s head that jutted out majestically from the stern of the punt. Ignoring the discomfort of the crew, he stood next to his cabin, fixing the folds in his weather-beaten cloak. He gazed wearily across the salty waves, keeping his eyes on the distant shape of a longboat dragged upon the shore.

The captain had just delivered the cluster of officials and slaves now gathered on the sand. The party of men bore the gravity of Roman business. The instructions he had received in Rome remained firmly cemented in his mind. There would be no clemency if he failed in his task. He had been told very little prior to departing from Italia. All he knew was that there was business to be conducted across the sea, near the great city of Alexandria. He was to deliver his party for a rendezvous with the Seleucid King Antiochus Epiphanes IV. The Senate had issued very graphic threats to the captain about the consequences of late arrival.

The captain could still remember the frail, white-haired Senator in his white flowing robes edged in crimson, leaning against a cane at the entrance to the Forum chamber. The little Senator shook him by the elbow and pointed a boney finger near his face as he hissed, "Our future hangs in the balance, lad. Miss a chance and the gods will snatch it from us and wave their pricks above our heads. The balls of Helios will be a shameful sight as our enemies will drag our name through the gutter." The words of the Senator and the decree which had followed had echoed in his ears, like a pupil getting a scolding from his school master.

The special person entrusted to the captain for delivery to Egypt was a legate, Gaius Popilius Laenas. The captain had met up with the slaves of Popilius at the northern end of the Forum. He knew that if they reached their destination even an hour too late, he and his crew could face execution. Payment was of course generous. Rome always paid well, so long as her treasury overflowed and the matter was pressing.

The impatient Senate needed the experienced captain to reach the shores of Egypt in exactly seven days. The party consisted of the escort chosen to accompany the legate, along with fifty legionaries, the crew, and two dozen slaves. They had travelled light by horse heading west across the rolling hills of Italia and the flatlands of its wine country. They reached the port of Brundisium and embarked upon a newly-built punt, commissioned by the Senate.

The captain had packed the ship light, to make the voyage swift. They docked for half a day in Crete and then made for the island of Delos to await news from the legions fighting in Macedonia against King Perseus. On Delos the captain commissioned his men to restock vital food stores and had paid a handsome price for the best foods, all to satisfy the eating habits of the legate.

Once word reached the party of the Roman victory at Pydna, they loaded the vessel and pushed south past mystical, enchanted islands. The punt had braved the dark winter seas and dropped its anchor four miles to the east of Alexandria.

The captain’s mind drifted back to the Senatorial orders which bound him, his crew and the vessel. His cargo was precious, irreplaceable. A legate of Rome was one of the most powerful and influential men in the world. Having fulfilled Rome’s orders, the captain now waited with his blood freezing in the wind, watching as Popilius patiently stood upon the beach, ready to fulfill his mission. The legate was freezing, having refused the imploring of his slaves to wear heavy garments of warmth. He was determined that when the Seleucid king appeared, he would see the status of the legate’s robes and understand who had come to see him.

The legate combined a sense of prominence, duty, honour, and fortitude, with a sullen, grumpy ill nature. He honoured the gods of Rome, Jupiter most of all, and yet had a presence about him that would drive men to their knees and demand respect when none would ever be reciprocated. The man was like a double-sided mirror. One side showing absolute dignity and magistrate-material, the other a vehemence so strong it could ferment grape juice. All this shaped the legate chosen by the Senate to represent the Roman Republic.

Throughout the voyage, the legate repeatedly informed the captain that Rome would eventually rule the world. Carthage’s days were numbered, he would say, Spain and the west were firmly planted with eagles, and the days of the east would soon be eclipsed by the legions. Once strong wine touched the lips of the elderly legate, he would chatter all night long about Roman conquest, and swear upon the names of Jupiter, Mars, Juno, Mithras, Venus, Victoria and Bacchus that it would all come to pass.

The captain had been handpicked to escort this dignitary across a world of ocean in order for the legate to deliver to the Seleucid king a clay tablet bearing the Senate’s terms. Now that Popilius was at the rendezvous spot, all the captain could do was stare at the motionless forms upon the shore.

Popilius stood with his chin raised and eyes set to thin, piercing slits. His jaw was tight, and bottom lip scrunched upward into a grimace as he waited. He gave another annoyed glance at the slave behind him and the umbrella was swiftly adjusted. Popilius intended to meet the king with a glare that could freeze flesh. He clenched his fingers into tight fists as he inhaled, feeling the salty air swell his lungs with cold shock.

Should I have your servants set up a shelter for you, Senator? asked Burrus, the Plebian tribune, slicing the silence with his deep voice.

Do so, and the bastard who marches against the Ptolemies will think Rome’s elite are pampered like a poor sod of naked women with prickly udders. Popilius muttered, wasting not even a moment to acknowledge the tribune with his gaze.

Burrus rolled his eyes and let an exasperated sigh escape his lips. He looked at the centurion standing to his left and caught the officer’s expressionless, pale face. We could be here awhile, Senator. That is my reasoning. King Antiochus need not see the shelter. No doubt the king will come marching with his army to the beat of drums and horns. The shelter could come down even before his forward scouts even see such a thing.

Popilius turned his body slightly, without moving his feet, gave a leery, dark stare at the Plebeian man and then shot him a cracked grin. Return to the punt, if today’s gentle breeze is shrinking your prick, Burrus. Popilius wanted to laugh at the startled look upon the tribune’s face. When Burrus gazed out at the longboat, Popilius added, If you go, you row by yourself. My slaves and Centurion Priscus stay with me.

A quick fantasy flashed through Burrus’ mind. He saw himself draw his short pugio and plunge it into the side of the arrogant Senator. His fantasy was interrupted by the sound of a soft, steady beat in the far distance. A drone of trumpets echoed off the dunes. At first, all the men on the beach could hear was the mysterious sound, shrouded within the wind. But minutes later, a cloud of dust began to stain the horizon. The wind suddenly died down as the clamour and din revealed the approaching army, a black mass upon the plateau of the dunes and stretches of sand.

To Popilius, it was as if the sand had birthed the army. They had risen up from the ground bringing the coastline to life. For as far as his aging eyes could see, the thick formations of Seleucid troops filled the expanse. The infantry marched stoically across the sand carrying their five metre pikes as their bronze armour shone brilliantly in the sun that had chased the clouds away. The army still resembled a single mass. Popilius could not yet make out individual soldiers, yet the reflection of their helmets and shields caused him to scrunch up his face. He heard his servant gasp behind him and the umbrella above his head swayed to the left, allowing a bolt of sunlight to irritate his eyes.

You would do well to check the sun from my eyes, or I may consider giving you over to them to appease their catamite soldiers, Popilius grumbled loudly above the advancing army.

Forgive me, master, the slave uttered as he steadied himself and blindly lifted his gaze to the sky to correct the umbrella.

Popilius could now feel tremors beneath his sandals. The rhythmic pounding of feet shook the earth as the Senator watched two large wings of cavalry flank around the infantry’s left and right as it fanned out into a clustered rank, five-deep on either side. Beyond the infantry, Popilius could hear the trumpeting of war elephants. Their shapes only retained the impressions of dark mountains with their turrets of plated armour and wood towering high upon their backs. The host was enormous and vast. It was impressive and awe-inspiring, as intended. Any other man, might easily tremble in fear and flee, yet the stubborn Senator stood his ground. He was right where he belonged, in his element!

It felt as if the Seleucid horde would roll over them as they pressed forward, consuming the earth like a tidal wave of men and beasts. Bands of drummers and men carrying brass horns in the hundreds bellowed the beat of death as they took stride after stride across the sands. The infantry at their rear pounded the ground with raised feet, one after the other, as they began to shake their pikes in the air, while appearing as a wall of large, round shields of bronze before them. The front ranks of troops stared straight ahead under the rims of their steel helmets with faces of stone as if the only life that beat within them was that of a great, soulless machine, understanding only death. There was no doubt that this army, led by Antiochus Epiphanes IV, could consume the city of Alexandria like a demon of the sea ripping apart a ship with fangs of steel and a body strong enough to shatter the hull.

Popilius noticed the rows of war elephants trumpeting their calls. Each elephant was dressed in an armour cladding, draped with heavy cloths, tusks bearing brass, forged points, and battle turrets strapped to their backs equipped with three soldiers. Suddenly, the solid ranks of infantry came to an abrupt halt at the blast of horns and a holler from officers on the ground. Popilius was excited to be there to face down an empire in defiance.

At the blast of a whistle a block of troops in the front, known as the Argysaspides, the Silvershields of the King’s Royal Guard, shifted expertly to the side. A chariot rolled out of the mass of soldiers accompanied by six commanders on horseback. The chariot was pulled by a team of beautiful black Arabian horses, muscular with their hides shining like silk. The manes of each horse had been braided and dyed ostrich feathers rose above their heads secured to glittering bridals of gold. Popilius felt a tinge of envy, wishing that the magnificent horses were his. The chariot demonstrated an ornate splendour of wealth. The wheels’ spokes were encrusted with gold and the waist-high, semicircle guard upon the car was black with gold twisting upon it in the shape of vines and leaves.

The driver of the chariot wore a simple red tunic, a leather breastplate strapped over his chest, a long, dark green cloak falling down upon his back, and an open-faced bronze helmet with two white ostrich feathers protruding from the top. At his side was King Antiochus gripping the chariot’s gold railing with one hand, his scepter of office in the other.

Popilius noticed the king’s rigid stance upon the chariot as the Seleucid ruler drew closer. The Senator refused to move a single muscle as the chariot slowed and Antiochus pointed his scepter to the ground. The mounted officers drew back on their reins and halted their destriers. The chariot rolled forward another ten metres, and then the driver yanked back on the thick, leather reins. The car ground to a halt, some five metres from the Roman party.

Antiochus dismounted and stood upon the sand. He stared at the aged Roman legate with his small party mustered behind him. Antiochus allowed himself a silent chuckle. Rome had sent a single man to stand in his way. Antiochus was son to his father Antiochus III who had re-conquered vast swathes of his empire that had been lost through past years of regress. Much of that shame had been at the hands of the Ptolemies, and now with one of the last cities of the Egyptian Empire within his reach, he would make his ancestors proud as the line of the Seleucids would be extended and never forgotten. Antiochus had come for war. Rome would have to accept that.

Antiochus had assembled a vast army, crushing and defeating his foes with an iron fist. He was ready, and he had dressed the part of the conquering general. A heavy bronze helmet added to his height and dominance. Crafted cheek guards covered part of his face as they were firmly strapped together under his clean shaven chin. The helmet was topped with a rim of iron and a pointed crest of bronze that supported a crimson plume, while long, black feathers rose from above the cheek guards.

Antiochus was accustomed to filling the hearts of men with fear. With the city of Alexandria within his sight, he strode cautiously forward. Popilius stood his ground, saying nothing. He would control the conversation. No king in the world would dictate to him what the will of Rome should or should not be. Popilius was on a mission to present terms to this king. If he should be left bloodied upon the sands of Egypt, the vengeance of the Republic would be swift and deadly.

I have heard you would be here! Antiochus said pleasantly in Koine Greek. He moved forward a step, scowling slightly as the Roman maintained his silence. Three metres in front of the elderly Senator, Antiochus stopped and raised his scepter to publically demonstrate his power before the small party of Romans. I am Antiochus Epiphanes the Fourth, King of the Seleucid Empire, and you are barring the way of my business. Should you linger, to interfere in a matter which is of no significance to the Republic?

Popilius finally allowed himself to grin. His eyes softened. Against whom do you march? the Senator asked ignoring the arrogant king’s query.

Antiochus was taken aback by the direct question. A slight tinge of irritation caused his fingers to clench the handle of the scepter. Who was this man that he should ask such a question? After an awkward moment of silence, Antiochus answered the Roman: I march against my enemy of course, King Ptolemy Philometer the Fourth of Egypt.

Hesitating for a moment, unsure of the Senator’s mood, Antiochus finally took a few steps forward and extended his hand of friendship. Popilius ignored the king’s outstretched hand, and put his own hand behind him to receive a clay tablet from one of his slaves. Instead of grasping the king’s hand, Popilius held out the tablet to Antiochus, saying, This is the edict and official decree of the Senate of the Roman Republic. Read it now.

Antiochus lowered his scepter in astonishment. His eyes burned with aggravation as they fell to the tablet in the boney, wrinkled hand of the Roman. Antiochus paused for a moment. Should he accept the written decree? Deciding that it was too dangerous not to know what was in the document, he angrily snatched it out of the Senator’s hand.

Popilius knew that the words had been inscribed in Koine. It gave him pleasure to watch the change of mood flashing across the face of the King. Popilius felt a sense of victory as Antiochus furled his upper lip, tightened his jaw, narrowed his eyes and began to shake his head. Popilius had the King right where he wanted him. The weight of the Republic’s decision would bore a hole so deep through the Seleucid’s heart that he would have no choice but to crawl back to Antioch with his tail between his legs.

What is this? Antiochus demanded, considering for a moment whether he should crush the tablet into the sand. Fear and uncertainty throbbed within his mind. When Popilius did not answer, Antiochus said, You must give me time to convene council with my commanders.

Popilius snapped his fingers, beckoning for his staff which was swiftly handed to him by one of the slaves. Grasping the smooth piece of olive wood in his hands, Popilius strolled over to the King, met his eyes in a firm gaze of steel, and then plunged the end of his staff into the sand. He then proceeded to draw a circle around the appalled and perplexed King. Antiochus’ lips moved but no words escaped. His throat felt like closing up and sweat began to bead upon his forehead. He turned with the Senator as the old man continued to move slowly around him. When the circle was complete, the Roman stepped out, tossing the staff back to his slave.

Popilius calmly faced the king: Before you step out of the circle give me a reply to lay before the Senate. The King’s body stiffened as his eyes fell to the circle that surrounded him. For a split second, Popilius thought he saw resistance, and he braced himself for explosive anger to spew from the Seleucid King. But the King merely looked up and gave a nod.

I will do what the Senate thinks right.

Popilius returned the nod and stepped forward, finally grasping the king’s wrist. He whispered to Antiochus, I am Legate Gaius Popilius Laenas, and I will take word back to Rome that you have withdrawn your army from these lands and returned to your kingdom. Good day to you, your Majesty.

Antiochus watched the representative of Rome and his party turn and make their way back to the longboat. Antiochus swore under his breath and stared at the distant shape of the one hundred and thirty-eight metre tall lighthouse which stood on Pharos Island in the harbour of Alexandria. He would not march there, at least for now. The Ptolemies would survive for the time being. Antiochus had been beaten by a shrivelled old man with the power of the growing Republic. He understood this better than most, because he had lived in Rome as a hostage for more than a decade as a young man.

It had all started with the shameful defeat at Magnesia during the rule of his father, Antiochus III, and the backlash of the treaty of Apamea that had sealed the deal. Antiochus III had lost the bitter war with Rome, and the heavy iron hand of the Republic was destined to sting. To the aging Seleucid king, it was as if Rome would steal his world. The Republic’s list of penalty was a dagger in the back. Great swathes of Seleucid land had to be renounced, war elephants turned over, the fleet disbanded and given to greedy Roman hands, and thousands of talents in silver and gold to fill Rome’s coffers. However, the greatest cut had been for Antiochus III to pick twenty hostages and hand them over to the Republic to ensure that full accountability and cooperation would continue and that all monies would be paid on time. One of those hostages the king had been forced to give up was his own son, the future Antiochus IV.

Antiochus IV had been treated well. He had been educated on Roman policies and diplomacy, and had been granted the privilege to observe and study Rome’s legionary war machine. Antiochus had been impressed by the incredible ingenuity of the Romans, but he had always kept hidden in his heart one truth, that he would have to defeat Rome one day if he wanted to hold onto his eventual emperorship.

Now that he was king and possessed such astounding power, he knew he had failed. It seemed as if Magnesia was gawking at him from around the corner. Rome had intimidated him. He was no fool. Antiochus knew what the Republic was capable of, and he could not tangle with such a power, not now. Not till he was ready. But he knew that the day was near when he would be able to face them.

Antiochus watched the legate climb awkwardly into the longboat. The Seleucid king cursed loudly and stormed back to his chariot. His plans had been thwarted in a humiliating manner.

His mind racing, Antiochus made a vow that if he could not yet destroy the Ptolemies, he would strengthen his empire so that he could one day challenge the Roman legions. Antiochus had often spoken of this in the past, sounding more and more like Alexander of old. He knew that only by forging his kingdom into a nationalistic pan-Greek empire would he have the strength and unity to stand before legions and trample the Ptolemies.

Antiochus’ plan for national unification was simple. He would convince his subjects to adopt the Greek lifestyle. If they would all worship the same gods, speak the same language, and honour the same pleasures, then his empire would see days that the Seleucid Kingdom had never known. Antiochus’ resolve hardened as he climbed back onto the chariot and growled to the driver. If any of his subjects would refuse such a strategy of becoming Hellenized, he would bring down the full force of his will upon their heads. He had been planning this for a long time. Now he was resolute. Whether his people liked it or not, he would enact his rigid and harsh policies. Woe to anyone who stood in his way.

*     *      *

CHAPTER I

Satrapy of Judea

Jerusalem

Early spring

167 B.C.

General Apollonius dug his heels into the flanks of his horse and cantered down the line of Syrian soldiers who were drawn up into vast square formations. Many called out to him with greetings as they raised their sarissa pikes and beat their bronze shields. They were the veteran soldiers of the Egyptian campaign and had proven themselves tenfold. Each man had been bloodied, yet had risen above their enemies, crushing them under their heels in widespread devastation. The gods had blessed them. Each evening the men poured libations upon the ground in reverence, as their minds recalled the Ptolemaic armies sent their way, only to be skewered by the points of their spears. Apollonius was honoured to be in their company. They were his men. They were the noble veterans of the Chalkaspides or Brazenshields, the Chrysaspides or Goldenshields and the distinguished, feared Argyraspides known as the Silvershields.

The middle aged General glanced to his right at the southern end of the sprawling city of Jerusalem settled high upon the ridge, atop the Hinnom Valley. Apollonius took a moment to scan the city walls and then gazed at the spirals of grey smoke which drifted upward from the ramparts. He stared long and hard at the distant mountain which the Jewish Temple stood upon, nestled safely behind its high walls. Sections of the Temple Mount remained in disrepair, and Apollonius shrugged away a tinge of anxiety that fluttered within his mind. To take the city would not be an impossible obstacle, even if it had been overrun by swarms of armed peasants. His force of professionally trained soldiers, schooled in the art of Macedonian phalanges warfare, would swallow them alive like a great beast. The ranks of his phalangite foot troops would breach the walls and capture the Temple Mount, then punish the city for its betrayal.

Apollonius leaned forward in his saddle and felt the chill in the air bite his thighs as his mount thundered down the endless line of soldiers. When he finally found the king, he drew back upon the reins, stiffened his body, and clenched his teeth as the heavy war horse jolted to a halt while tossing its head.

Antiochus, seated upon the floor of his chariot with his legs dangling over the side, looked up and raised a goblet of wine to acknowledge his experienced general. All that was needed was a glance over his left shoulder and a slave standing nearby poured a second cup of wine, walked over to the general, and waited for him to dismount.

My King, good day, Apollonius called out cheerfully as he dismounted and bowed his head. He noticed Viceroy Lysias and the commander of the cruel Phrygian mercenaries, Philip, standing rigidly behind the king. Both men glowered with cold, harsh stares at the arrival of the competitive and well-known general. The men are ready, sire! Apollonius said as Philip’s face suddenly twitched with irritation. Then turning his scarred cheek away, Apollonius shook his head at the Jewish rebels gathered upon Jerusalem’s walls.

That can wait, Apollonius, the city is going nowhere. Come and drink. Antiochus lifted his gold cup to his lips and drank long and deep before sighing as he nodded, acknowledging the rich, dark taste of the wine.

Apollonius accepted the cup from the slave and strolled over to the king’s chariot. He noticed Lysias and Philip held cups of their own. Apollonius grinned at their aggravation, then toasted the king and swallowed the dark liquid. For Apollonius, the wine was savoury with a spike of honey as it whet his appetite and soothed his tongue. He grunted in favour and took another long drink.

Does your palette tell you where the grapes hail from? Antiochus paused as he watched the general focus again on the strong aftertaste and then he finally surrendered with a shake of his head. Antiochus glanced down into the cup, gently swishing around what remained. The grapes are picked from the vineyards which cover the slopes above Laodiceia. There is a winemaker there who dwells in the valley beyond, near the River Orontes. He is skilled with the touch of Dionysus’ nectar. I do swear the man has entreated the Twelfth Olympian to dare acquire such a skill in making such deliciously fermented wine. He possesses a complex mastery which is impossible to find throughout the realm of my kingdom. Hmm…wine fit for a king no doubt!

Apollonius bowed again in a humble manner. Your tongue knows both the luxury of wine and the lordship of men sire. You are blessed by the gods.

Antiochus chuckled lightly and raising his cup he proclaimed, God-manifest I am. He sighed considering the divine notion and then laughed again with a rumble. You do flatter me with your wit, Apollonius. The king drank some more. "You could take lessons from his mood, Philip. Your face of stone lacks all but cold, flat emotion; you need to bed a whore to see the colour return to your cheeks." The King laughed again, thumping his knee with an open palm and then grunted as he regained his composure. Philip shot Apollonius an awkward glance, and then humbly bowed with a smile to appease his ruler.

Antiochus toasted Philip with pleasure and shook his head with gaiety as if he were floating down the Orontes on his luxury barge enjoying the company of naked women. Yet, his mood quickly changed with an expression of discomfort that flickered with fear and trepidation. Then his face suddenly became flushed with heat, before cooling into an icy, thin glare. Antiochus hissed something under his breath as he continued to stare out at the exposed city while a thick darkness settled about him.

Do you recall when we arrived here a year ago? The people rejoiced. I was their victor over the Egyptian, the King muttered, as if lost in thought. Now, they have revolted thinking I was dead, Apollonius. They believed I, Antiochus Epiphanes, had died! A twisted and mocking gaze filled his face. "They dared to rise up against their king! Their protector! Scouts reported that first they joined the tyrant Jason the Oniad, that returned exile pig from Ammon! Then they defied me further by imprisoning Menelaus the Tobiad, chosen by me as High Priest.

"Once Jason purported himself as High Priest, the people drove him away, locked the city gates, and continue to hold Menelaus hostage. The people are incited against me! Against me! A king and the conqueror of Egypt! I have lain to waste the cities and armies of my enemies only to arrive at the gates of my city to find the doors barred." Antiochus tossed the priceless golden cup upon the ground. He took a deep breath and leaned forward, sitting on the edge of the chariot with his elbows planted upon his knees, his hands clenched into tight fists supporting his chin.

Those were the days, weren’t they, Apollonius? Antiochus shook his head in recollection of some distant thought. We shall return to them what they have desired to give to us. Antiochus stood and a gust of wind rippled the hem of the heavy tiger fur which he wore as a cloak. His full stature was taller then Apollonius and the warrior king crossed his broad arms as his wintered gaze fell to the damp earth beneath his feet.

We will cut out their tongues and feed them to our dogs. Antiochus scratched his hooked nose and grimaced in a seething anger that heated his bones. "Their ears shall become feed for my swine and their heads shall be left to rot on the ends of our pikes. I want the streets running with the blood of thousands. Thousands more shall be taken to serve me in Antioch. Their men shall be destined to live out their miserable, hopeless lives as slaves, shoveling the shit of my pigs. And what of their women? They will become my whores while their girls and boys are turned over as playthings for the troops.

I shall delight from the sound of their screams as my soldier’s rape their filthy bodies! Castrate the boys and feed their balls to the crows. I will make an example of their children and their moans of agony shall be music such as the lyre and tambourine.

The king slowly turned, vexed in anger. Apollonius, their treasuries lay in my fortress holds and their Temple furnishings have been melted down into bricks for coinage and wine goblets, like this one. Antiochus stepped forward and kicked the cup sending it flying through the air as if it meant nothing. He smirked as one of his slaves went running to collect it. Antiochus shrugged. One of their precious seven-branched lamp-stands remains today in a temple to Zeus in Antioch, the other pieces I have sent throughout the kingdom. The Syrians burn them with oil to the Queen of Heaven and Baal Shamin. The Jews will never see them again. They have all been dedicated to gods of blood, wine, power and erotic pleasure.

My King, is it true you entered the sacred chamber of the Jews? Their Holy of Holies? Apollonius asked.

Antiochus nodded. It is a dreary and empty place. No icon, image, nothing! I sometimes wonder who the Jews even pray to at all! It is preposterous and stunts the growth of my empire. The king glanced at Lysias and Philip, and then took a step closer to Apollonius. If this kingdom is to be great and strong again, the Jews must bend their knee to my will. Others have, why not them? Today we will show them the edge of our swords and they will know who rules this land. There is nothing left for them to do. The whims of the past are but the echoes of ghosts, Apollonius. The Jews must obey me!

Many Jews have sworn allegiance to you and your edicts, your Majesty. Remember Menelaus and the others. Many encourage the people to be your faithful servants. They are the elite, the nobles and aristocracy of the city. Those worth saving should be spared, sire. Apollonius gave a wide gesture to the city. Those who stand before you in defiance are but a rabble of Hasidim and peasants. They are farmers, merchants, peddlers, butchers, carpenters and craftsmen. I see no soldiers before you, sire. We are the heirs of Titans.

That is not enough, Apollonius. Today, they must be reminded of this treachery. They shall feel the full weight of my wrath. I will not tolerate this. Antiochus studied the walls of Jerusalem and then cleared his throat. Take four thousand men, smash through their gates and seize the Temple Mount. Kill anyone found in the streets. Restore order! Purge the city of these Hasidim and settle the retired veterans. Populate it as you will.

I will take four thousand of my Brazenshields to attack the city, my King, Apollonius proclaimed.

That should please me.

The general gave a sweeping bow. Jerusalem shall be returned to you within the hour.

Antiochus responded with a trusting nod to his infantry commander. My power of office and royal seal is upon you once I leave these lands. As soon as calm is brought to this city, you shall return to your governorship of Samaria and defend your district. It is left to you. I shall leave Philip in Jerusalem and station General Seron in the far north with a sizeable force. As for Lysias, he will return to Antioch with me as my viceroy. War is certainly looming on the horizon with Parthia, and I have decided that it shall be I who will lead the expedition. I shall entrust the campaign to no other. Our empire needs to be strengthened, and I will be ruthless. Lysias, on the other hand, shall oversee all my territories west of the Euphrates and southern borders with Egypt. But you, Apollonius, shall be the power in this land.

Antiochus held a cold gaze upon Apollonius, searching his eyes for any sign of doubt, then faced Philip and grunted. Give orders to the Syrians that they may build altars to their gods and dedicate them upon the Temple Mount. The Jews need to join us or be destroyed. How else am I to strengthen the southern approach to this kingdom if my own subjects stubbornly reject my mercy and will? Reinstate Menelaus as High Priest and strengthen the garrison. We shall not repeat the days of Sostrates when the Jews attacked my own garrison. This time order will be held, anything short of this will bring death. We must civilize the primitives, my dear generals. A peel of lightening flashed in the distance and the king stared up at the heavens. It appears as if Zeus says yes.

The priests saw an omen this morning, your Majesty, Philip spoke up looking from the king to Apollonius. A falcon screeched overhead, and crossed paths with a raven. The falcon gripped a twig in its talons and the raven swooped low yet did not answer the falcon’s call. The sign has been interpreted: the Jews are the crow and we are the falcon, blessed by Zeus to punish men who would seek to discredit him. Philip saw the gratitude upon the king’s face. The mercenary commander watched another peel of lightening and nodded. Zeus will deliver the city back to you.

A bitter rain began to pummel the earth as a thunder clap shook the ground. The elephant ranks fussed with irritation, trumpeting and colliding with each other as their handlers shouted and whipped the beasts until they were calmed down. Meanwhile, the ranks of troops shifted uncomfortably from the chill, yet they refused to budge under the watchful eyes of their king. The storm rumbled as sheets of rain danced upon the ground, drenching the thousands of soldiers and echoing with a noisy patter as the heavy drops struck their shields and helmets. Still, all remained motionless, their formations intact in the dismal, spring downpour as they cursed silently and witnessed the torrential fury.

It is the racket of Titans and Olympians, your Majesty! Lysias called out with sarcasm above the rain. Antiochus gave a nod, peppered with humour at the suggestion, as he clearly enjoyed Lysias’ comparison. It is as if Gaia and Uranus have sent their sons Oceanus and Cronus to do battle once more with Twelve. Look, the thunderbolt of Zeus may even strike the city and cause her to burn!

A great roll of thunder sounded striking each man’s chest with wonder as many gaped, staring up at the dark sky, truly believing Zeus was about to blast the city in a wake of fire. A murmur of prayers was uttered and then just as suddenly as the rain had arrived, the clouds broke and a ray of sunlight streamed upon the glistening, soaked ground.

Antiochus scowled slightly, gave Lysias a baffled glance and then rubbed his eyes as he wearily turned to Apollonius. You may lead forth your phalanxes on the double. Sweep down the valley and storm their gates. Lysias and Philip will follow.

Apollonius reverently bowed, tossed his empty wine cup to one of the slaves and mounted his warhorse which whinnied with excitement. The city’s resistance will be crushed, my King. Apollonius swung his mount around and galloped hard down the line calling out to the troops.

The drone of horns resounded and then a steady beat of drums upon the stretched hides of calfskins rose into a grueling crescendo. The ranks of soldiers called out in unison as they tidied their clusters, hefted their pikes in the air and formed a solid wall of bronze shields. Standard-bearers on the wings raised flags and icons mounted upon poles to signal the advance. In one surge the front line of troops stepped forward chanting aloud the death they intended to bring.

Apollonius drew his sword and followed patiently behind the four thousand troops as they marched into the Hinnom Valley, consuming the ground beneath their feet. The flanks were stretched so far on either side that the troops seemed to bring the rocky valley to life with a crawling effect as the bristling spears resembled the back of a porcupine. The soldiers kept their square phalanx formations with absolute perfectionism. The rumbling of men’s voices rose with their deafening war cry and the pounding of drums boomed, pacing the troops’ advance with the shrill of trumpets.

Advance to sixty paces of the wall! Apollonius shouted cupping his left hand around his mouth. The order was repeated up and down the line by brute sergeants who marched in the forward ranks and Apollonius could not help but grin at his veterans. The General squinted up at the high walls of the city and smiled at the commotion he could see between the parapets as frantic Jewish fighters pointed at the approaching army, readying spears, clubs and knives. Apollonius spotted a few Jewish rebels hefting swords and smiled when he counted six blades. We don’t face an army, we face a rabble, the General thought to himself. We shall teach them the cruel lesson of Macedonian warfare. Survivors shall tell of this awful day to their children’s children.

Apollonius signaled to his standard-bearer and the man responded immediately, veering his horse over to his commander. Clitus, have the ram brought down. Apollonius pointed at the large gate the army converged upon. Its hinges look overcome by rust and its wood devoured by termites. It should be no difficult task to smash through it. That’s our way in!

Yes, my General! Clitus replied with a nod. Then he galloped back to the main lines.

Slingers, archers, and swords form skirmish ranks! Prepare to engage! Apollonius shouted and a triple trumpet blast resounded above the advancing army as coloured banners were raised.

The rear ranks of men suddenly peeled to the left and right circling around the main bulk of the army as they hurried along, passing the sides of the phalanxes to take up their positions in the front. These troops formed some of the best of the kingdom’s light infantry. The archers and slingers hustled swiftly, their quivers full of arrows and their leather slings readied. The swordsmen, adorned in their wide-brimmed helmets, shouted out jeers at the enemy while hefting their large bronze shields and short swords.

Both archers and slingers were unique, but each had their deadly weapon. The archers wore scaled armour with pointed bronze helmets while the slingers hardly wore any armour at all, yet loaded their weapons with smooth stone bullets and eyed targets upon the high walls.

Finally the call rose up from the Seleucid army and everything came to a sudden halt. The walls of Jerusalem now loomed before them, yet each soldier’s face betrayed not an ounce of fear. They stood rigid and ready. Spears pointing to the heavens as men grimaced upward at their enemy who barred the city gates. The skirmish line stood ten paces in front of the army, swords drawn, slings loaded, and bows notched.

Apollonius turned awkwardly in his saddle at the sound of men’s feet and nodded to his returning standard-bearer who brought with him the large battering ram which was carried down the valley’s slope by fifty men. Soon they would be in the city, and all resistance would be annihilated. He tapped his horse’s flanks with his heels and guided the beast around his army to present terms to the Jewish rebels. The king’s mercy would only be offered once, and even if they complied, it had its limits.

I come bearing the name of King Antiochus Epiphanes the Fourth! Apollonius bellowed in Greek. "This polis of Jerusalem stands in direct violation of his Majesty’s accordance for all cities of his kingdom! Your gates are shut and your walls brim with rebels who have committed high treason! If you do not wish to see this city humbled, and its people slaughtered, you will open the gates at once, lest you provoke the wrath of your king more than it already has been! By royal order, if you do surrender, the city’s populace shall be spared and only the ringleaders punished! What say you?"

Absolute silence was carried along the wall and only a gust of wind was heard. Somewhere in the distance a crow cawed and Apollonius scrunched up his upper lip with annoyance. Do they actually think they can resist any further, he thought. His eyes scanned the ramparts for any sign of weakness or fear, but the clever Hasidim wore face coverings that only revealed their eyes. Apollonius gave a distant nod, as if lost in thought, and glanced to his right as the men carrying the battering ram halted slightly behind the skirmish line. The General took in a deep breath and raised his sword, Your silence is your answer! Jerusalem shall learn of Zeus’ anger this day! Skirmish line, attack!

The first volley was a bloody mess. With so many Jewish rebels clustered upon the walls, the experienced lines of archers and slingers could not miss. The shower of black arrows struck with intensity as men screamed upon the battlements. The shrieking was almost continuous as wave after wave of arrows flickered through the air impaling men and ripping apart the ordered ranks upon the parapets. While the archers made ready for their fourth volley, the slingers began to send stone bullets hissing through the air with an accuracy rarely seen in the Greek world. The carefully shaped stone missiles struck men’s faces, shattering skulls, crushing eyes, splitting noses open, and sending up spurts of blood with sickening cracks as the stones found their targets amidst the mayhem.

Close the gap! Apollonius hollered and the skirmish line ran ten paces forward. He watched as a single spear, hurled from one of the Hasidim, found its target as it pierced the chest of a slinger, sending the man pitching back upon the dust. The slinger was left alone to writhe upon the ground as blood poured from his mouth and soaked into the ground. He struggled to stand but it was to no avail and he cried out to his comrades who ignored him and continued their steady volleys upon the walls. Once Apollonius felt that the Jews upon the wall were sorely beaten, he gave a sharp signal to the men with the battering ram.

They hoisted the heavy beam upon their shoulders and headed for the gate. At the sight of the ram, the swordsmen dashed out with their shields to give them cover. A single moment skirted by as a number of Jews reappeared between the parapets to hurl their spears, yet only succeeded in killing one of the swordsmen. The Seleucid response, however, was quick and lethal. As the spears had been thrown, the accuracy of the slingers at the sudden targets had been instantaneous and had ended with sheets of blood streaked upon the stones and six Jewish corpses entangled upon the ramparts.

To the gates! the swordsmen shouted defiantly as they raised the shields above their heads and encircled the battering ram to protect it. A number of boulders were dropped from above as they crashed and banged off the bronze shields, but every time a Jew would show himself, waves of arrows and stone missiles would pelt the ramparts. The Seleucid response to all resistance upon the walls grew to such intensity that soon the wall became silent and the men with the ram were left to themselves as they smashed the centre of the gate over and over again.

Apollonius scanned the empty parapets with delight. Was that all the Jews could give him? He had no idea how many rebels his men had killed in the vicious exchange, but he imagined it was high. He glanced over at Clitus and scratched his chin. What do you make of this, Clitus?

The rebels are terrified, general. They’re still there, just hiding like dogs that’ve pissed themselves.

Apollonius smiled. I shall send the swordsmen to the ramparts to slay them all. Stick their heads on pikes and attach them to the parapets. This will please the king.

Yes, general. That should send a good message.

Apollonius turned in his saddle and glanced back across the valley at the fluttering flags of Antiochus’ vast army. To Apollonius, there was nothing that could stop such a force. However, he felt a tinge of shame resurface from the exploits in Egypt with the Roman senator. Apollonius still wished his king had sought his opinion of the matter, before he had agreed to the Senate’s terms. He still could not believe the little senator had drawn a circle in the sand and had humbled the mighty king of the Seleucids with a clay tablet. If it had been up to Apollonius, he would have killed the senator and all the other Romans on the beach. Why should they fear Rome?

General, Clitus said as he interrupted Apollonius’ day dream. The gate is in tatters. We will be through any moment now. We should move up the rest of the army to storm the city.

Clitus, you remain a faithful steward. You are the eyes and ears of this army when my mind drifts. Signal to the trumpeters for the army to advance to the wall. Today, Jerusalem will be returned to its rightful owner.

At the blast of the trumpets the army trotted forward, closing the gap and filling in behind the battering ram that had reduced the gate into ribbons of splintered, shattered wood. Apollonius wished he had fetched men with axes, but he shook the thought from his mind. His men would tear the gate apart like wild dogs to get into the city, and then there would be such terror among the people that the mercenaries would slaughter them with ease.

Finally, with one last heave of the ram, the gate split apart tearing the iron hinges from the stone as the weight of the heavy cedar doors crashed to the ground and sent up a cloud of thick dust. The soldiers bellowed a cheer and charged forward following the swordsmen as if it was a competition of who would be in the city first. Their attack was met by a weak Jewish formation which hurled spears, threw rocks, then bolted into the fray with panicked eyes and echoing shouts. The swordsmen outmatched their cry with a sadistic tenacity as they halted the attack with their wide shields and slashed with their swords, spraying blood with every stroke. Limbs were severed, men’s chests cleaved open spilling their inards, and throats were sliced open to the spine as bodies teetered, choking as they died with wheezing gasps. Screams of agony mixed with the thunderous trample of feet and the din of battle as the swordsmen struck down man after man with deadly strokes. Within moments the space around the gate was crawling with bloodied Jewish rebels who moaned, choked on dust, and wept while trapped and entangled under the mutilated corpses thickly strewn about in heaps.

The swordsmen had slaughtered the Jewish formation in seconds, scattering them into the panic-filled streets of the city as they gave chase. The chests of the swordsmen were drenched in blood and sweat while their shields were spattered in crimson. Their gazing eyes were elated with blood-lust as they stared out from under their wide brimmed helmets. A brute swordsman captain at the front rank called his men to the side as the Brazenshields dissolved their phalanxes and flowed by in an earthquake of pounding men and erythematic chanting. All screams from wounded Jews lying about were quickly silenced as Syrian mercenaries walking among the mass of tangled dead impaled anyone who moved or called for mercy. Suddenly, a tumultuous fury of shrieks and shrills began to rise above the homes and fill the air as soldiers broke down doors to rape the women or slaughter whole families.

Trumpets blasted stridently to signal to the Seleucid host waiting on the other side of the valley that the city had fallen, and their cheers rose with a din.

It would be a massacre.

To the ramparts! called the bear-like swordsman captain whose face was speckled in blood. He threw his shield to the side with a cackle of laughter, gripped the hilt of his sword and charged along the wall followed by his men. With a roar like a lion, he reached a stone staircase and ascended rapidly to the ramparts above. A dark grin split across his face as he steadied his balance from slipping upon the sticky blood which stained the steps, running down the side of the wall to the street below. Show no quarter! he called out as he crested the top.

The swordsman gave a wide smile to a few scattered Jewish survivors cowering behind the parapets. His heart pounded with burning excitement as he took notice of the utter fear filling the eyes of the Jewish rebels. Come to me, dogs! Let us play a game! He removed his helmet and cast it from the wall. I am a mortal man about to obtain immortality. I will live forever, quenched by your blood! he boomed gazing wildly at them. The nearest Jew rushed him with a strained scream as he levelled a spear at the swordsman’s chest. You bring a stick? he knocked the barbed tip of the spear away with his sword shattering the ash wood shaft and then grabbed the man by the throat. Your kind disrespected our king! He plunged the full length of his sword through the Jew’s chest and