Traveller Manifesto
50. Judaea - 1st Century

Judaea – 1st Century.

The Romans stared at Anderson as if he had lost his mind.

“Why should we talk to you?” yelled the centurion with a voice like broken rock. He looked as tough as nails and glared at Anderson so hatefully it radiated from his scarred visage. He cast a reluctant glance at the carnage behind the American, a carnage Anderson was grateful he could not yet see.

Despite their refusal to show emotions, they were scared.

Good.

“It will save all of your lives!” he yelled back. “We have no desire to have you like these,” he gestured to the bodies behind him.

The centurion snorted, but then again looked thoughtfully beyond Anderson. The officer bent forward to speak and a discussion ensued. There was head shaking and again they then paused to look ahead. After some moments they both nodded and cautiously stepped forward. Anderson gave a nod of relief, though was cautious of any duplicity. A sword might not penetrate his armour, but it would complicate matters if he was injured. To have the Roman command killed would help no one. “Tribune, Centurion, I am Anderson and you are my guests. Our aim is to make peace. Would you like to join me for refreshment?”

There was a growl as Vorenus called after them, “Oi! What in hades?”

The Tribune turned to Anderson and raised his nose as if addressing scum. “I am Tribune Marcus Valerius Flaccus and this is Centurion Titis Crispus 10th Legion, 4th Cohort.”

“Yes,” nodded Anderson, “Legio X Fretensis - the ’Tenth Legion of the Straight. My men admire you greatly. You are famous to us.”

“Quid?” asked the Centurion, but he was distracted as Anderson gestured to Sergeant Rahmer who ran forward. Rahmer was to be their escort.

As he turned to gaze across the field to the camp, Anderson gritted his teeth. The carnage was as predicted. Dead horses and men lay everywhere, made all the more horrific because of the limited space. Bodies were littered with splashes of blood and strings of entrails, for the horses were gutted when shot by the .50 calibre weapons at such close range.

By them a horse snorted weakly, gave a quiet scream, and struggled to stand.

Anderson nodded to Rahmer. “Put it down,” he ordered in Latin as he gestured to the mortally wounded creature.

The Israeli shrugged and stepped forward, aimed, and fired a three shot cluster into the horse’s forehead.

The sound was thumping loud and the Romans jumped, despite themselves. The horse simply collapsed and lay still. Rahmer nodded, satisfied, then nonchalantly wandered back to Anderson’s side. The creature’s shattered skull was plainly visible. “Please excuse me gentlemen,” Anderson explained solicitously. “I detest waste. I also like horses. My father raises horses on our family farm and, if I live, I hope to take over the farm one day.”

The message was clear. Their weapons were as deadly as they were noisy, and Anderson was, like them, merely a man. S~ᴇaʀᴄh the FindNøvᴇl.nᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

At his signal, Medics rushed from the tent and, ignoring the Romans, checked the bodies of those who had been gunned down. The real dilemma was if they found anyone alive. How would their team treat a mortally injured enemy soldier? He could not be sent to a hospital, nor could he be returned to the primitive medical care of the Roman army doctors. It appeared to be a moot point and Anderson quietly sighed in relief, for none were found alive.

Tribune Flaccus stared at the ground, as if dismayed, while Centurion Crispus turned and gestured to the awaiting army that all was well. Anderson noted the old soldier held himself ramrod straight and the look in his eye indicated a determination to show no weakness.

They drew closer to the camp. One of the gun turrets whined as it moved to target the strangers.

“Check that turret is deactivated!” growled Anderson into his headset.

To his relief, the turret remained silent.

From the cover of the command tent, Colonel Lieberman strode forward. Soldiers had scattered everywhere after the brief battle. Some stalked with weapons ready, looking for more hostiles. There was the thunder of more shots as other horses were put down. At the sound, the Tribune flinched. A couple of the troops were women. Anderson ordered that they not wear their helmets, that their sex be obvious to the visitors. One, a blonde-haired American, knelt by a disembowelled horse which cried piteously, its front legs shattered. She sadly pulled out her pistol and cradled the horse’s head on her lap as she placed the barrel onto the broad forehead. After the sharp crack, she angrily stared up at the Romans, daring them to violence, before she stood and, slinging her automatic weapon to her chest, moved on.

There were introductions to Colonel Lieberman as the commanding officer of their expedition. Chairs were produced so all could sit in view of Vorenus and the Roman troops. Though the Tribune removed his helmet and took a seat, Crispus stood, his face fierce and his helmet with the impressive transverse plume of dyed horsehair still in place. He impatiently slapped his carved olivewood baton of rank into his left hand.

As a sign of their own confidence, Anderson had purposely not disarmed them. But he was not fooled. He made sure they were at a safe distance opposite a table upon which breads, olives and wine were placed. Four helmeted Special Forces guards stood ready. Large screens flickered as they received images from the UAV’s, close-ups of the awaiting army exhibiting how they could see everything. Controllers sat uncomfortably as they stared at their visitors. At a sharp word from Colonel Lieberman, they turned back to their tasks.

Professor Cowen watched silently. He was not to be introduced, for he was a person of value. Besides, this was now a military matter. The Centurion stared at the academic a moment, for he was dressed differently to the rest of the team. While they were all in military fatigues or armour, he sat in jeans and t-shirt.

Anderson coughed gently, for he was to act as the spokesman.

The patrician features of the Tribune looked down his nose at all, ever determined to remain undaunted.

Yes, this would be challenging.

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