The Zealot

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Tomorrow?’ Macro repeated in surprise.

  ‘We should leave at first light. Try to put as much distance between us and Jerusalem as we can before nightfall.’

  ‘Very well,’ Florianus nodded. ‘I’ll get hold of Symeon and organise a mounted escort for you. A squadron of horse from the garrison should be enough to guarantee you reach Bushir safely.’

  ‘Is that really necessary?’ Macro asked. ‘We can move faster on our own.’

  ‘Believe me, if you left here without an escort, the bandits would track you down and kill you before the day was out. This is a Roman province in name only. Outside the city walls there is no law, no order, just a wasteland ruled by the local thieves, murderers and the odd religious cult. It’s no place for Romans.’

  ‘Don’t worry. The lad and I can look after ourselves. We’ve been in worse places.’

  ‘Really?’ Florianus looked doubtful. ‘Anyway, keep me informed of the situation at Bushir, and I’ll pass the reports on to Narcissus.’

  Cato nodded. ‘Then it’s all settled. We leave in the morning.’

  ‘Yes. One last thing,’ Florianus said quietly. ‘A word of advice. When you reach Bushir watch your backs. Seriously. The commander before Scrofa was killed by a single sword blow, from behind.’

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The small column prepared to leave the city just after the sun had risen, bathing the walls of the Antonia fortress in a warm rosy glow. The air was cool and after the heat of the previous night Macro relished its refreshing embrace as he ensured that his bags were securely tied to his saddle horns. Like every man in the legions he had been taught to ride after a fashion, but still distrusted and disliked horses. He had been trained as an infantryman, and from long experience he preferred the company of ‘Marius’ Mules’, as the footsloggers were known the length and breadth of the empire. Still, he was respectful enough of the fierce heat that blasted the rocky landscape of Judaea to know that it would be far more exhausting to reach Bushir on foot. So by horse it would be.

  He glanced round at the cavalry squadron detailed to accompany the two centurions to the fort. These men were Greek auxiliaries, recruited from the population in Caesarea. There were no native units in the province now that Rome had taken Judaea under direct control. The army of Herod Agrippa, largely composed of Gentile mercenaries, had been disarmed and dispersed after his death two years ago. With all the inter-faction fighting that had plagued the kingdom of Judaea the authorities in Rome had decided that it would be foolhardy in the extreme to make any attempt to raise local forces and provide them with weapons. Besides, the peculiar requirements of the local religion, with all the fasting and days of abstaining from any labour, did not sit well with the routines of the Roman military system.

  Macro cast an experienced eye over the cavalrymen. They seemed competent enough, and their kit was well maintained and their mounts well groomed and healthy-looking. If there was any trouble on the road then he and Cato could count on these men to put up a good enough fight to beat off an ambush. A quick charge and any band of robbers would bolt like rabbits, Macro decided. He turned to look for Cato.

  His young friend was talking earnestly to the guide, and Macro’s eyes narrowed slightly. Centurion Florianus had brought the man to them as Cato and Macro were packing their saddlebags by the wan light of oil lamps in the last hour before dawn. Symeon was a tall, broad-shouldered man in his forties. He wore a clean but plain tunic, sandals and a simple keffiyeh held in place by an ornate headband that was the only outward sign of opulence. Indeed, he carried little on his horse apart from a small bundle of spare clothes, a thin curved sword, and a compound short bow and a quiver of arrows. He had a pleasant, round face and spoke Greek fluently. More than fluently, Macro realised. Macro’s grasp of the language was limited, no more than the basics learned from Cato on the voyage from Ravenna. With the diversity of languages at this end of the Empire, the common second language was Greek and Macro had to be able to make himself understood. The guide’s accent was flawless. The effect was so unexpected that Macro was instinctively suspicious of the man. Yet he seemed friendly enough and had clasped forearms in a firm and frank manner when he had been introduced. Cato was smiling at some comment the guide had made, and then he turned away and strolled over to join Macro.

  ‘Symeon has been telling me about the route to the fort.’ Cato’s eyes glinted with excitement. ‘We go east to Qumran, on the shore of the Dead Sea, then cross the River Jordan and climb the hills on the far side up on to the escarpment. That’s where the desert begins, and that’s where the fort is.’

  ‘Oh joy,’ Macro replied tonelessly. ‘A desert. Can’t wait to discover what they do for entertainment out that way. Finally, after all these years, I make it out to the eastern provinces. Do I get to see the fleshpots of Syria? I do not. Instead I spend the time in some far-flung fort in the middle of a bloody desert where I’ll be lucky if the sun doesn’t fry my brain to a crisp every day. No. I’m sorry, Cato, but I just can’t seem to share your obvious pleasure at the prospect. Sorry.’

  Cato punched him on the shoulder. ‘We’re going to spend tonight by the Dead Sea, you idiot. Surely you want to see that?’

  Macro stared at him. ‘Dead Sea? Does that sound like a nice place to you?’

  ‘Oh, come on.’ Cato grinned. ‘You must have heard of it.’

  ‘Why?’

  Cato looked stunned. ‘It’s a natural wonder. I read about it back in Rome when I was a boy.’

  ‘Ah, well. You see, while you were busy reading about natural wonders, I was busy learning how to be a soldier and sticking it to those barbarians up on the Rhine. So excuse me for not being up to speed on sightseeing attractions at the arse end of the Empire.’

  Cato grinned. ‘All right then, misery-guts. But just you wait until you see it tonight.’

  ‘Cato,’ Macro began wearily. ‘Once you’ve seen one sea, you’ve seen ’em all. There’s nothing special or even nice about the sea. After all, fish fuck in it and shit in it. That’s as magic as a sea gets.’

  Before Cato could respond the decurion in command of the squadron bellowed the order for his men to mount and the courtyard of the fortress was filled with the sounds of horses stirring and scraping their hooves across the paving stones as their riders swung themselves up on to their saddles. The leather seats gave under the weight of the riders and the saddle horns squeezed slightly inwards, giving the cavalrymen a steady position on top of their mounts. The two centurions abandoned their conversation and climbed on to their horses in a somewhat ungainly manner, and then steered their beasts over to the middle of the column. Florianus had suggested that this would be safest for them until they were outside the walls of Jerusalem, when they could join Symeon and the decurion at the head of the column. Macro was not entirely happy about the precaution.

  ‘I don’t like being nursemaided,’ he grumbled.

  ‘Better than being assassinated,’ Cato replied.

  ‘Let ’em try.’

  The decurion glanced round at his squadron, saw that all was ready, and raised his arm.

  ‘Column! Advance.’ His arm swept down towards the gate and the sentries stood aside under the great arch as the column clopped forward, out into the street that ran down from the Antonia, alongside the north-facing mass of the temple complex towards the Kidron gate. As they emerged from the shadows of the gateway Cato blinked at the sunlight shining directly into his eyes. This was a mistake, he suddenly realised. The sun would blind them to any ambush the sicarians might attempt along the street and he squinted painfully as he scanned the buildings crowding in on each side. But there was little sign of life. A few early risers were abroad, some beggars were taking up their pitches for the day and a mangy dog trotted from one pile of refuse to the next, sniffing for morsels of food. The handful of people on the street gave way as the column approached and stared expressionlessly at the mounted soldiers as they passed by. Ahead of them, Cato saw the watchmen on t
he city gate draw back the locking bar and begin to ease back the heavy slabs of timber that protected the city. A short while later, without incident, the squadron rode out of the city and began to descend the steep track leading down into the valley of Kidron. Cato breathed a sigh of relief.

  ‘Glad we’re out of there.’

  Macro shrugged. ‘It’d take more than a few fools who fancy themselves with a blade to worry me.’

  ‘That’s a comfort to know.’ The dust from the mounts ahead of them was already filling the air and Cato pressed his knees into the flank of his horse and twitched the reins to the side. ‘Come on, let’s get to the front.’

  By the time the column had crossed the valley and climbed the Mount of Olives on the far side, the sun had risen far enough into the sky for its heat to begin to be felt. Macro, far more used to the climate of the northern provinces, started to dread the prospect of spending the rest of the day swaying in the saddle under the direct blaze of the sun. His helmet hung from the saddle frame and like the rest of the soldiers he wore a straw hat over his felt helmet liner. Even so his sweat soon made the liner feel hot and prickly and he silently cursed Narcissus for landing them with this job. As the horses picked their way along the track that led towards the River Jordan where it fed into the Dead Sea, they soon left behind the large estates of the wealthier Judaeans. Most of the great houses were closed up, their owners no longer daring to live under the threat of a brigand’s knife. Instead they had retreated to their houses in Jerusalem where they could stay more safely. The land steadily became more sparsely populated and the villages they rode through comprised huddles of mudbrick hovels surrounded by small strips of cultivated land.

  ‘This is crazy,’ Macro commented. ‘No one could live off these scraps of dirt. Hey, guide!’

  Symeon turned in his saddle and smiled. ‘Yes, my friend?’

  Macro stared at him. ‘You’re not my friend. Not yet. You’re just a guide, so watch your lip.’

  ‘As you wish, Roman. What did you want of me?’

  Macro indicated the intricate patchwork of fields around the village they were passing. ‘What’s going on here? Why are their plots so small?’

  ‘It’s the Judaean way. When a man dies his land is divided between his sons. When they die in turn it is divided between their sons. So, every generation the farms get smaller and smaller.’

  ‘That can’t go on for ever.’

  ‘No, indeed, Centurion. That is one of the problems that blights this land. When a man can no longer support his family, he is forced to take a loan against his property.’ Symeon shrugged. ‘If there’s a bad harvest, or if the market is glutted, he can’t pay the loan off and his land is forfeit. Many drift to Jerusalem looking for work, the rest go into the hills and become brigands, preying on travellers and terrorising some of the smaller villages.’

  Macro pursed his lips. ‘That’s not much of a life.’

  ‘Still less of a life, now that the people have to pay Roman taxes.’

  Macro looked at him sharply, but the guide just shrugged. ‘I mean no offence, Centurion, but that’s how it is. If Rome wants peace here, then she must look to the needs of the poor, before she adds the spoils of Judaea to her coffers.’

  ‘The Empire’s not a bloody charity.’ Macro sniffed. ‘It has an army to run, borders to maintain, roads to build, aqueducts, and … well, other things. Doesn’t come cheap. Someone has to pay. And without us, who would protect these people, eh? Answer me that.’

  ‘Protect these people?’ Symeon smiled thinly. ‘Who from? They would scarcely be any worse off under the heel of another empire.’

  ‘I was referring to people like Bannus and his brigands. Rome will protect them from Bannus.’

  ‘The people don’t see him that way. Many are inclined to see Bannus as some kind of hero. You won’t defeat Bannus unless Rome governs Judaea with a lighter hand, or garrisons these lands from top to bottom. I don’t see that happening in my lifetime.’

  ‘So what would you do then, Symeon? How would you improve the lot of these Judaeans?’

  ‘Me?’ The guide paused for a moment before he answered. ‘I would rid them of their burden of Roman tax for a start.’

  ‘Then there’d be no point in having Judaea as a province. Is that what you want for your people?’

  ‘My people?’ Symeon shrugged. ‘They’re not really my people any more.’

  ‘Aren’t you a Judaean?’

  ‘I am. They are my people, but I am no longer so sure that I share their beliefs. I have not been living in the province for many years.’

  ‘So how did you end up as a guide?’

  ‘I had to leave Judaea in a hurry over ten years ago.’ Symeon glanced at Macro. ‘Before you ask, I had my reasons, and I won’t go into them.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘Anyway, I went south, to Nabataea, where no one would come looking for me. I joined one of the companies of men who guard the caravans. That’s how I learned to use weapons properly. I’ll never forget my first caravan. Twenty days across deserts and through mountains. I’d never seen lands like it before. Truly, Centurion, there are certain places at this end of the world where the hand of God can be seen.’

  ‘I think I’ve seen enough already,’ Macro grumbled. ‘Give me Campania or Umbria any day. Sod all this desert and rock.’

  ‘It’s not always like this, Centurion. In spring, it’s cool and there’s rain and the hills are covered with flowers. Even the desert across the Jordan blooms. And there’s a kind of majesty in the desert. To the south there’s a wadi where the sand is bright red and great cliffs of coloured rock rise up to the skies. At night the heavens are filled with stars and travellers gather round fires and tell tales that echo back off the cliffs.’ He paused and smiled self-consciously. ‘Perhaps one day you’ll see for yourself, and understand.’

  He clicked his tongue and urged his horse forward, until he was a short distance ahead of the column. Macro stared at him for a moment and spoke quietly to Cato. ‘Well, what do you make of him?’

  ‘I’m not sure. If he knows the area as well as he says, then I can see why Florianus uses him. But there’s something about him that doesn’t seem right.’

  ‘What is it?’

  Cato shook his head. ‘I’m not quite sure. I just can’t believe a man turns his back on his family and friends for such a long time so easily. He’s interesting.’

  ‘Interesting?’ Macro shook his head. ‘Mad more like. Maybe he’s just had a little too much of the desert sun.’

  The column of horsemen reached the small Essene community of Qumran as the sun dipped down behind them, casting long distorted shadows before the riders. Qumran was a small settlement made up of simple houses that lined dusty narrow streets. The people warily acknowledged the greetings offered to them by Symeon as he led the column through the village towards the small fort built on a slight rise a mile beyond Qumran. Beyond the fort lay the Dead Sea, stretching out towards the mountains that rose up, fiery coloured and forbidding, in the red glow of the sun settling in the west. The fort was little more than a fortified signal station and a thin trail of smoke wafted from the brazier in the main tower that was kept alight at all times. It was defended by a half-century of Thracian auxiliaries under an ageing optio who greeted them warmly as the column rode in through the gateway.

  ‘Glad to see some new faces, sir.’ He smiled as Macro dismounted and returned the optio’s salute. ‘Haven’t seen any Romans for over a month now.’

  Macro yawned and stretched his back before giving his buttocks a firm rub to restore some of the circulation lost after a day in the saddle. He ached, stank of sweat and was covered in dust.

  ‘I need a bath. I don’t suppose there’s a bath-house here.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘What about back there, in Qumran?’

  ‘There is, sir. But we’re not allowed to use their baths.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ Macro said irritably. ‘I
’ll pay ’em good money.’

  ‘They’re Essenes, sir. Friendly enough but they won’t share any food or facilities with us, in case we contaminate them.’

  ‘What is wrong with this fucking land?’ Macro exploded. ‘Has the sun boiled everyone’s brains? What are Essenes? No another bloody sect, surely.’

  ‘Sorry, sir.’ The optio shrugged. ‘That’s how it is. My men are under strict orders not to cause the Essenes any offence.’

  ‘Oh, very well then. Just find quarters for our men and then feed ’em. I’m going for a swim.’

  ‘A swim, sir?’

  ‘Yes. In the sea.’

  Macro noticed the surprised look on the optio’s face and continued irritably, ‘Don’t tell me our Essene friends are going to take exception to sharing a whole bloody sea with me?’

  ‘No, sir. It’s not that, it’s just—’

  Macro cut him off. ‘See to the men and their mounts.’ He turned to Cato. ‘Coming?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Cato smiled. ‘I wouldn’t miss this experience.’

  From the corner of his eye Macro saw Cato exchange a knowing look with Symeon and turned on them suddenly. ‘What?’

  Cato feigned innocence. ‘It’s nothing. Let’s go and swim.’

  The two officers stripped down to their tunics and boots and descended the stony slope to the shore. They picked their way a short distance along until they found a stretch of pebbled beach and undressed, leaving their clothes, belts and daggers on top of a rock. Macro trod warily down to the edge of the water and began to wade out, under the amused gaze of his young friend. When he was up to his wist Macro raised a hand and rubbed his fingers together.

  ‘Odd … Feels kind of oily.’ He raised his fingers and sniffed them for a moment before dabbing them with his tongue. At once his face tightened into a grimace. ‘Ugh!’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘The water. It tastes awful. Far too salty.’