A Man at Arms

by Steven Pressfield

In contrast, the populace of Syria, immediately to the north of Judea, had accommodated itself readily to the ways of the conquerors. The Syrians traded, they collaborated, they blended in. The Hebrews resisted. Their necks would not bend to the Roman yoke. The Jews rejected every initiative of inclusion and spurned all offers of comity and assimilation.

The Romans possessed might beyond measure. They held wealth and skill and knowledge of science and the arts. But before all these they owned order.

By what means, one might inquire, had this city on the Tiber brought the wide world into subjection? Here is how: A Roman is given orders and he obeys them.

But the most revolutionary reordering was neither hewn from stone nor enforced by the sword. It was this: Mail. The daily post. Before the Romans came, the Israelite in Bethlehem or the Syrian in Palmyra lived out his days dissevered from, and in fact in ignorance of, the wider world. His universe ended at the town gate or the communal well. Could he trade? Study? Venture abroad? How, when he could know no more of the world than he could see from his doorstep or make plans for the morrow no farther than the distance he could tramp today? Rome brought the mail, and the mail brought the world.

“You see, my friends,” Severus continued, “this man holds himself above such conceits as love of the emperor or bonds of comradeship with those who serve him. Isn’t that right, peregrine? To call oneself a Roman would be in your view . . . what? Philosophically deficient? Wanting in self-autonomy? What is that passage from your credo? ‘Only fools fight for a flag or a cause.’ Yes, that’s it. I remember. He is a philosopher, this fellow. That which other, simpler souls call ‘honor,’ this man styles ‘delusion.’ Nay, ‘self-delusion.’ Do I cite your code aright, prisoner?” “Close enough,” replied Telamon.

“Why can’t you Jews accept Roman order and Roman prosperity? What more can we do for you than build roads and bring fresh water and make your merchants and traders rich? Yet you slit the throats of our sons in the street. Do we proscribe the practice of your religion? Does Rome insist that you worship her gods, or even pay notice of them? No! Your temple is the greatest in all the East. Your scholars and priests secure fortunes via the commerce mandated and monopolized under your laws and our arms and protection. By heaven, I command the imperial garrison of Jerusalem, yet I cannot make a decision, so much as where to dispose of my cavalry mounts’ shit, without seeking permission of the high priests and the Sanhedrin, may hell take them all. This banquet of blessings Rome sets before you, asking nothing except peace, yet still you hate us!”

Yet how could he blame his father? David thought. What abuse has he worked upon me and my brothers that the God of our fathers has not visited a hundredfold on the children of Israel, century upon century, and which continues to this day? King of the universe? Then drive these bastard Romans out! Rout them as the Five Books say You did the Hittites and the Canaanities, Jebusites and Amorites. Where is our Joshua? Where may we find Saul or David and Jonathan? Where is Judah Maccabee?

The youth’s conversion took less than an instant. At once, and to the core of his being, David knew that this was what he wanted, this was who he wished to be. Here, the youth thought, stands a man whose feet are planted in the real world, not the sphere of dreams or delusion. Here is a man who fears death, as all do, and perhaps due to his vast experience of war reckons even more keenly the mysteries of fate and chance and destiny, yet who faces these down every day and bears the scars to prove it. This man seeks not some sphere beyond the mortal or the mundane but instead dwells in this world of dust and strife, without illusion or self-delusion.

This man-at-arms had a religion too. It was not a faith of the lamp or of the blessed by-and-by. It was not a soldier’s code or a code of honor. It was sterner and more solitary, a doctrine shorn of pity even for oneself but which touched somehow, David sensed, upon a truth as immutable as death and as primal as creation. David resolved that he would give all he had, and all he ever would have, to acquire that which this man-at-arms possessed—this wisdom, this understanding, the knowledge of these mysteries. He would die to be and to become, himself, like this man.

though the freight their beasts bore was of extremely modest dimensions (only five camels, with panniers that lay almost flat against their flanks), yet the detachment was protected by no fewer than a dozen riders—black-hooded, with their faces masked—all Jews of the orthodox sect of Sadducees, identified by their balloon trousers and nine-foot lances, mounted on the swift, hardy runt ponies of the peninsula, and all armed to the teeth.

“And can it be, my lad, that you own no trepidation about venturing into this cruelest of wildernesses, populated by the half mad and the wholly iniquitous?” “I follow my master,” David declared. “And, reverencing heaven, seek no further surety.”

“Why must we pitch camp twice each day? I thought we were in haste pursuing the Nazarene Michael. And why won’t you let us ride these beasts? Don’t we wish to make speed? Why didn’t we take horses? Why must we tarry at the pace of these glue-footed creatures? And why not at least let them bear our personal kit? You make us carry all our gear ourselves. All these animals pack is water and fodder for themselves and a few spear shafts that we’ll never use and a couple of pots and a hand mill. And why must we pitch camp so far up these stupid slopes? It takes us two hours of trekking to get to these sites. What for? We only descend again in the morning, wasting even more time! I thought the reason for Roman training was so the legions could cover long distances fast. Yet we amble and dawdle, making camp in the middle of the afternoon letting hours of daylight go to waste, only to pack up and make camp again!” Telamon said nothing. “And why do you never answer my questions? How will I learn to be a warrior if you will not teach me?”

“We never cross a valley or any stretch of open ground by a road or trail,” the mercenary said, “but always from ambush site to ambush site. This is called highlining.” He indicated the stony trace beneath their feet. “This track is called the talus line. You have been a shepherd. What do you see now before you? A trail made by wild goats and harts and mountain asses. These shy animals will be our guides. From this trail we can see any enemy crossing the pan below, yet he cannot see us unless we choose to show ourselves. If we were a legion, indeed we would cross by the valley floor. We’d have no choice, trekking with a baggage train and camp followers as numerous as our soldiery. But we are only two. Upon this ground we are the equal of a legion.”

“We travel with mules because horses’ legs will break in these mountains. A mule descending a slope in darkness will never step false. In extremity a mule will lead us to water, while a horse will wander in circles and die. We can sell these beasts if we need cash, or trade them, or eat them should we become desperate. And they’re good company. See how attached these two have become to us already? You lead yours by its halter no longer, nor do I. We have stopped hobbling them at night. They will not abandon us, believe me, even under fire.”