Make ready with those catapults,’ commanded Domitian: a tall, angular centurion dressed in Roman splendour. ‘Archers of Syria, make good your eye for the God of Fortuna will grant you sound fortune on this great day of reckoning. Fortuna will guide your arrows of revenge. Hear my words, I say unto you. I have spoken.’
Listening to Domitian’s words, easing a quiver to his side, Hussein prepared his bow. Hussein had no tender fingers to ease the clay; no soft fingers to make a pot and shape the curve of an urn; no nimble fingers to turn the scriptures and leaf the pages: he was a warrior. Smaller than the centurion; his hair was black and flowing. His skin was a deep olive colour: smooth in its texture; perhaps a touch swarthy in its pigment. Hussein was just a simple Syrian peasant: a nobody simpleton from a nobody town. But he was an archer and his eyes were the dark brown eagle eyes of an assassin.
The first heavy chariot of destruction trundled sluggishly by. A dozen numeri: half-savage tribesmen from an auxiliary army, shouldered their weight against a mobile catapult under the watchful eye of Domitian: a legendary soldier who was famed in battle. Domitian stood tall for a centurion measuring five feet eight inches, perhaps nine, and his face bore no stubble from the long hot siege. His blade was sharp. His back was erect, his shoulders broad, a commander in battle. An ugly scar ran down his face from the high cheekbone near his left ear to the side of his throat.
Another heavy catapult rolled by. Two unfortunate mules pulled the ponderous machine as it gradually clambered up a rocky incline. Eight sweating tribesmen laboriously pushed, steadied and guided the wobbly apparatus as it neared the mighty gates of Masada.
Following the first catapult, and fanning out as the mouth of Masada beckoned, ranged an overwhelming array of Syrian archers. Hussein, the simple peasant from the banks of the Euphrates, led them. The loose brown robes of his Syrian archers ran to their knees and were covered by dark cloaks knotted on their chests. Each archer carried a gladius: a two-foot long sword, sheathed at the waist. Leather quivers hung over their shoulders as they marched with their bows held low in readiness.
Behind Hussein’s archers followed the rest of the Roman artillery. There were catapults, large and small. The catapult was no match for the mediocre defenders who had no fight in their belly; no weapon at their arm.
The cornuas sounded.
Increasing their tempo the archers gradually massed in front of the fortress as Hussein mustered his men and carefully withdrew an arrow from his quiver. Grains of sand gathered, rose, and clouded into the atmosphere as row upon row of marching Syrians broke into a gentle jog.
‘Make haste,’ ordered Domitian; his voice booming across the hordes. ‘Exalt the Gods for your strength. Jupiter and Mars watch over you, my warriors of revenge. Feel not fear in your heart. Heed your leader well.’
Another signal trumpeted across the sands as the Legions vacated their campsites and marched towards Masada. Blades of retribution sparkled in the desert sun as the loose brown robes of Syria hung in terrifying waiting.