Avenging Angels (Bad Times Book 3)

shouts from their centurions and echoed by optios, entered the area before the temple and formed in ranks four deep and twenty across in a hollow square of men and steel filling the center of the rutted square. Children followed along after the Romans until they were shooed away, urged to speed with taps from spear butts.
Purpurio strode through the settling cloud of dust raised by the hobnailed passage of his men toward the temple doors. His aquilifer, sweating beneath a wolf’s head cowl, trotted after. His prime centurion, a gruff old lifer named Bachus, met him at the foot of the temple steps.
Bachus climbed the steps, drawing his sword. He beat upon the doors with the butt of his sword. The waiting Romans were rewarded a moment later by the creak of hinges. A bent old Jew shambled blinking into the sunlight. He wore a simple robe and a ludicrous cap balanced on his head. He was heavily bearded and appeared to Purpurio to be peeping from within a snowy hedge. He shared this thought in Latin with his aquilifer, who chuckled. Following the old man was a younger man with dark hair worn long under a skullcap of white cloth. This one had eyes as alive as the old man’s were dim. The elder was the high priest and de facto headman of this town, but the tribune suspected that it would be this younger man with the eyes of a hungry wolf that he would be speaking to.
“Greetings from Emperor Tiberius and the people and senate of Rome,” Purpurio said by rote. He was already tired of this farce.
“What brings the armies of the emperor to our city?” the younger man said. The old man remained mute.
“City?” Purpurio scoffed. “We are here on the order of Valerius Gratus, the prefect of Judea, to see to the collection of all men within this city between the ages of fourteen and twenty years.”
“Collection?” The young man spoke passable Latin for a native Jew. “To what purpose? You know that Jews are exempt from military conscription under edict from Herod Antipas.”
The centurion snorted at that.
“Conscription?” Purpurio sneered. “As if I would pollute my ranks with your kind.”
“Herod Antipas—” the young man began. “Enough with your Herod,” the tribune shouted.
The Jews despised this Herod and his brothers as traitors to their faith yet invoked their names whenever they felt they were wronged. And they were perpetually wronged in their own eyes and never failed to be vocal about it. Purpurio always found Greeks the most argumentative people, until, gods help us, he met his first Jew.
“You will call the men of ages fourteen to twenty years as though to prayers,” the tribune said. “You keep rolls of your followers along with their ages accurately demarked. I know this. I want those rolls presented to me. I shall check your numbers against the total of the men we count.”
“Will we not be told of the reasons for this?” the young priest said.
“How old are you, lad?” Purpurio said, smiling.
“I am twenty-two in years,” the young priest said, his dark eyes flashing.
“I hope you can prove that,” the tribune said, turning away.
A ram’s horn was blown from the roof of the temple, and the people of the town came to the temple square to gather at the steps. It was a mob of several hundred men, women, and children. They shifted uneasily under the gaze of the surrounding soldiers leaning on heavy shields all about. The sight of a cloaked Roman officer standing atop the steps by their rebbe and his young student did nothing to calm them. The student held a book open in his hands that all recognized as the town ledger of Nazareth. This was all looking more ominous with each passing moment. A shouted order from behind the ranks of soldiers and the armored men took one step forward to further hem the crowd in.
The tribune stood on the highest step and looked over the mob pressed before him. He took a rough mental tally. He barked at the young man who called for silence in their language. When they had hushed, the tribune barked again, and the young student called out again telling all women and children beneath the age of fourteen to return to their homes and school. When the square was occupied by men only, a Roman with a high-crested helmet called out an order and the surrounding troops, as one man, took another step forward. Those that remained were pressed closer in upon one another.
The young man echoed another order from the Roman atop the steps that sent all men over the age of twenty back to their homes or mills or tanning. The crowd shrank by a third, leaving perhaps near a hundred men standing in a loose collection. The centurion called once again, and the troops stepped three paces closer, forming a seamless hedge about the men.
“These rest go with us,” tribune Purpurio stated flatly and descended the steps.
The young man stood silent.
“Tell them!” Purpurio growled.
The young man left the old priest and walked down into the square and shouldered through the encircling soldiers. He joined the men and boys waiting there. He spoke to them in their own tongue. They would go with the Romans without protest or attempts to flee. Any trouble to their Roman masters would result in reprisals against their families.
The soldiers formed up in two columns before and behind the crowd of men and, following a series of bayed orders, marched to the town gate with their charges between them.
The dark-haired student priest stepped along with the Nazoreans, offering prayers and comforting words. He walked with the village ledger beneath his arm.
The prisoners were brought into the Roman camp. The tents had been struck to create an open space. The men and boys were gathered at the center with soldiers standing at ease about them. A table was brought from the prefect’s tent and set up