The Zealot

by Simon Scarrow

  Such cohorts were usually commanded by centurions who had transferred from the legions, a process regarded as a promotion for those who were judged ready to hold independent commands. Despite his earlier reservations, Macro realised that Scrofa had to have shown some promise to be selected for this command. He did not fool himself that he too must be a cut above the rest. His own command of the cohort was to be a temporary affair; little more than a cover until the present crisis had been resolved.

  Once the last man had passed through the gates, Centurion Postumus ordered them closed and the locking bar replaced in its sockets. Macro indicated the survivors of the cavalry squadron, leading their exhausted mounts away from the gateway. ‘You had better organise some stabling and quarters for the men.’

  ‘Yes, sir. After I’ve shown you to the prefect.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘In his quarters, sir.’

  ‘Right, I can find him. You see to these men, all right?’

  ‘Very well, sir,’ Postumus responded reluctantly. ‘I’ll join you as soon as they have been taken care of.’

  Macro entered the prefect’s house, which was guarded by two well-turned-out men in full equipment. Even though they stood under a sun shelter, they were sweating profusely in the heat. They snapped to attention at Macro’s approach and as he passed between them he noticed, with wry amusement, a bead of sweat suspended on the tip of one man’s nose. Inside he paused momentarily to adjust to the shaded environment. An orderly was sweeping the hall and Macro turned to him.

  ‘You there!’

  ‘Yes, sir?’ The man stiffened his back at once and saluted.

  ‘Show me to Prefect Scrofa’s office.’

  ‘Certainly, sir,’ the orderly responded with a deferential bow of his head, and led Macro through the hall to a staircase at the rear. They climbed to the next floor where the rooms were spacious and designed to allow any available breeze to be channelled through them by well-placed windows.

  ‘This way, sir.’ The orderly indicated an open door at the end of the landing. Macro strode past him and entered the commander’s office, and paused in surprise at the luxurious appointments. The walls were richly painted with mythic scenes of a heroic nature. The furniture was well crafted and finished with neat decorative flourishes, and there was a couch to one side covered in comfortable cushions. A glass bowl stood on a small side table, filled with dates and figs. Prefect Scrofa, wearing a light tunic, sat behind a large wooden desk. To one side of him stood a huge red-haired slave, steadily directing air at his master with a fan. Scrofa was a wiry man in his early thirties with pale skin and dark hair that had receded on either side of his central fringe. On his left hand he wore the ring signifying that he came from the equestrian social class. He looked up irritably as Macro marched into the room, covered in dust and stained with the decurion’s blood.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’

  ‘Centurion Macro. Sent from Rome to assume command of the Second Illyrian. You are hereby relieved, Prefect Scrofa. Please send for your senior officers at once, so they can be told of my appointment.’

  Scrofa’s mouth sagged open. The slave continued fanning without any change in his expression.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘You’re relieved.’ Macro leaned back and popped his head round the door frame. The clerk was heading back to the top of the stairs. ‘Hey!’

  The clerk turned round and stared at Macro for a moment, then glanced past him towards Scrofa with a questioning expression. ‘Sir?

  ‘Centurion Scrofa is no longer in command.’ Macro stepped between them and continued, ‘I want to see all the centurions and decurions in here straight away.’

  ‘Even the duty officers, sir?’

  Macro paused. With Bannus and his men still in the area, that would not be wise. ‘No. Not them. I’ll meet them later. Now go!’

  When he turned back into the office Scrofa had recovered some composure and was sitting back in his chair. He looked at Macro with an angry frown. ‘Explain yourself. What in Hades is going on here?’

  Macro, conscious of his pressing need to collect a strong force of men and go in search of Cato and Symeon, strode across the room and stood in front of the table. ‘It’s simple. Your appointment was temporary. I have been given orders by the imperial staff to take command of the Second Illyrian. There’s no time for any changeover ceremony, Scrofa. I need the mounted contingent ready for action immediately.’

  Scrofa shook his head. ‘Impossible! Cassius Longinus assured me that he would send to Rome to have my appointment made permanent.’

  ‘Look,’ Macro said in a gentler tone, desperate to take command as soon as possible, ‘I don’t know anything about that. All I know is that I was sent to Bushir with orders to take command.’

  The sound of footsteps came from the landing and a moment later Centurion Postumus strode into the room. Scrofa raised an arm and pointed at Macro. ‘This man says he has been sent from Rome to take command of the cohort.’

  Postumus shrugged. ‘He was with the auxiliary cavalry being pursued to the fort, sir.’

  ‘There is another officer, and a guide, still out there, hiding,’ Macro said urgently. ‘I must take some men out to find them.’

  ‘I’ll deal with that in a moment,’ said Scrofa. ‘Once we’ve sorted the situation out.’

  ‘There’s nothing to sort out!’ Macro shouted, his temper finally snapping. ‘I’m in command! You have been replaced. Now stand aside. I’m meeting the cohort’s officers in here. Take your slave and return to your quarters.’

  ‘I’ll do no such thing! How dare you come in here and treat me like this? Who sent you from Rome?’

  ‘I told you. I’m acting on the orders of the imperial office.’

  Centurion Postumus coughed loudly and stepped up to the table to confront Macro. ‘Excuse me, sir. If you’re acting on orders, might we see them?’

  ‘What?’ Macro stared at him.

  ‘Your orders, sir. The confirmation of your appointment.’

  ‘Bloody hell! All right then. I’ll get them. They’re in my saddlebag … ’

  Abruptly, Macro’s lips froze as his mind flashed back to the morning ride up towards the plateau, the sudden appearance of Bannus and his brigands, and then the dumping of all the baggage as the cavalry squadron desperately prepared to fight its way through to the fort.

  Macro’s lips moved again. ‘Oh, shit.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Once again Cato faced the druid, but this time his foe was far taller than Cato, dwarfing him so that he felt like a child. The druid’s eyes were jet black and his teeth were needle sharp, as if they had been filed. In his hand he held the scythe, and as Cato’s eyes fixed on the glinting edge the druid raised it high. For an instant the blade glittered as it caught the moon’s silvery rays. Then it slashed down, slicing towards Cato’s throat.

  He woke with a cry, and jerked up on to his elbows. His eyes were wide open, darting from side to side as he took in his surroundings. A small, darkened room, unfurnished apart from the bedroll he was lying on. He made to move, but there was a sudden pounding in his skull as if a heavy mallet was rhythmically beating the side of his head. Nausea welled up from the pit of his stomach and he quickly turned on one side and retched. The door opened, and light flowed into the small room.

  ‘Lie down, Roman.’ A woman spoke softly in Greek. She crouched beside the bedroll and gently pressed Cato back so that his head was resting on the bolster again. ‘You’re still suffering from the effects of that blow to your head. It will pass, but you must lie still and rest.’

  As his eyes grew used to the light Cato glanced up at the woman. Her face and voice were familiar, and memories flashed into his mind of the ambush, the flight from the brigands and his arrival in a village where he had glimpsed this woman between blackouts.

  ‘Where am I?’

  ‘Safe.’ She smiled. ‘For the moment.’

  ‘This place. What wa
s it called?’

  ‘Heshaba. You are in my house, Roman.’

  Cato remembered another detail. ‘Symeon … where is he?’

  ‘He’s taken the horses further into the wadi to hide them. He’ll be back soon.’

  She shuffled round behind the bolster and Cato heard the swill of water. A moment later she placed a damp cloth over his head and squeezed gently so that a dribble of water trickled down over his temples.

  ‘That feels good. Smells good too. What is that? Lemon?’

  ‘I squeezed some into the water. It’ll refresh your skin, and ease the sick feeling.’

  Cato made his body relax, working the tension out of his muscles until his limbs felt loose, and the pounding in his head subsided. Then he rolled his head to the side to better see the woman.

  ‘I can’t remember your name.’

  ‘Miriam.’

  ‘Yes.’ He nodded faintly. ‘You and Symeon know each other.’

  ‘He’s a friend. Not as good a friend as he used to be.’

  ‘Miriam, why are you helping me? I’m a Roman. I thought everyone in Judaea hated us.’

  She smiled. ‘Most people do. But this community is different. We try not to let our lives be ruled by hate. Now lie still.’

  She reached a hand up to his head and he felt her fingers stroke lightly through his hair, until they grazed the point on his skull that seemed to be the centre of the pain. He winced, gritting his teeth.

  ‘It’s a bit swollen there. But you seem coherent enough. I don’t think the injury is too serious. You should be back on your feet in a few days, Roman.’

  Cato waited until the pain had passed before he unclenched his eyelids and looked at her again. Despite her obvious age, Miriam had striking features. Not conventionally beautiful, but she looked wise and had an air of calm authority. He reached his hand up, took hers and gave it a light squeeze.

  ‘Thank you, Miriam. I owe you my life.’

  ‘You owe me nothing. All are welcome here, Roman.’

  ‘My name is Cato.’

  ‘Cato … Well then, Cato, if you want to repay me, please be quiet and rest.’

  ‘Miriam,’ a child’s voice called from somewhere else in the house.

  She turned to the door and spoke in Aramaic. ‘In here.’

  A moment later a boy stood on the threshold. He was perhaps thirteen or fourteen, with a shock of dark hair. He wore a tunic of coarse material and was barefoot. He stared at Cato for a moment before he turned his gaze back towards Miriam. ‘Is he a soldier? One of the Romans?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Must he stay here?’

  ‘Yes, Yusef. He is injured. He needs our help.’

  ‘But he is an enemy. An enemy of our people.’

  ‘We have no enemies. Remember? That is not our way.’

  The boy did not look convinced and Miriam sighed wearily as she stood up and took his hand. ‘I know this is not easy for you, Yusef, but we must care for him, until he is well enough to leave. Now be a good boy, and finish the threshing. There’s bread to be made for this evening, and I haven’t even done the grinding yet.’

  ‘Yes, Miriam.’ He nodded, cast a last glance at Cato and turned away. As the bare feet pattered off Cato smiled.

  ‘I take it that’s one of the Judaeans who still hates Rome.’

  ‘He has his reasons,’ Miriam replied, watching the boy from the doorway. ‘His father was executed by the Romans.’

  Cato’s smile faded. He felt awkward. ‘I’m sorry. It must be terrible for him.’

  ‘He takes it too hard.’ Miriam shook her head. ‘He never knew his father. He wasn’t born until after his death. Still, he feels a sense of loss, or lack, and he has filled the void with anger. For a long time his life centred round hatred of Rome and Romans. Until his mother abandoned him and he came to live with me.’ She turned towards Cato and he saw the look of sadness in her eyes. ‘I was all that he had left in the world. And he was all that I had left.’ Cato did not understand and she smiled at his confused expression. ‘Yusef is my grandson.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Then Cato felt the sudden chill of realisation as his eyes met Miriam’s.

  ‘His father was my son. My son was executed by Rome.’ Miriam nodded sadly, then slowly turned away. She left the room and gently closed the door behind her.

  For what seemed like a long time Cato lay still in the dark room. When he tried to move the pain in his head returned with a vengeance and pounded away so that he felt sick. With what Miriam had told him he knew he must get away from this house, these people, before they turned on him. Despite Miriam’s claims about the forbearance of the villagers, Cato knew human nature well enough to know that old wounds never heal. As long as he stayed in Miriam’s house, he was in mortal danger. But he could not move without being racked with agony. As he lay still, straining his ears to pick up the sounds of the people in the house and the village beyond, he cursed Symeon for leaving him here. Leaving him alone. If he was just concealing the horses, then why in Hades had he not returned long ago? Cato had no idea how long he had been lying there in the dark. He knew that it was light outside, but was it the day of the ambush? Or the next day? How long had he been unconscious? He should have asked Miriam whilst she was there. As his anxiety swelled he rolled his head to the side and glanced round the room. A short distance away, bundled against the wall, lay his armour, his harness, his boots and his sword belt. He gritted his teeth and shifted himself over, reaching out with his fingers. They groped for the sword belt, grasped it; tugged until the pommel came free of the scale armour. His fingers closed round the hilt, and as quietly as he could he drew the sword. It rasped faintly in the scabbard and he winced. Then the blade was free and he lifted the weapon across his body and wedged it between the bedroll and the wall, out of sight, but to hand if he needed it. The effort had made his arm muscles tremble and Cato had just enough energy to reach over and push the empty scabbard back under his mail vest before he collapsed back on to the bolster, fighting the waves of pain that pounded against the inside of his skull. He shut his eyes, breathing deeply, and slowly the pain subsided, his body relaxed and he fell asleep.

  When he woke again the door was open and from the wan glow of the light shining through the opening he could tell that it must be late in the afternoon. He heard voices outside the room. Miriam and Symeon. They spoke in Greek, in low familiar tones, and Cato strained his ears to catch their words.

  ‘Why did you not come back to us?’ Miriam was asking. ‘We needed you. You’re a good man.’

  ‘But not good enough, it seemed. Not for you at least.’

  ‘Symeon, I’m sorry. I loved you – I still do, but … I couldn’t, and still can’t, love you as you want to be loved. I must be strong for these people. They look to me for guidance. They look to me for love. If I took you as my man I would betray them. I will not do it.’

  ‘Fine!’ Symeon snorted. ‘Then you will die alone, if that’s what you want.’

  ‘Perhaps … If that is my fate.’

  ‘But you don’t have to. You could have me.’

  ‘No,’ she said bitterly. ‘You think of nobody but yourself. You renounced the rest of us, because we refused to follow your path. You and Bannus were so convinced that your way was the only way. That’s your trouble. That’s why you could never be a part of what we are trying to create here.’

  ‘What do you think you can achieve? You are taking on an empire, Miriam. Armed with what – faith? I know who I’d place my money on.’

  ‘Now you sound just like Bannus.’

  Symeon took a sharp breath, then continued in a cold rage. ‘You dare to compare me to him …’

  Before Miriam could reply there was a shout from the street and footsteps pattered into the house.

  ‘Miriam!’ Yusef was excited. ‘Horsemen are coming.’

  ‘Whose?’ Symeon asked.

  ‘I – I don’t know. But they’re riding fast. They’ll be here any minute.’


  ‘Damn! Miriam, we must hide.’

  ‘I’m not hiding. Not any more.’

  ‘Not you! Me and the Roman.’

  ‘Oh! All right. Quickly, come this way.’ She hurried into the room and pointed to Cato. ‘Get him up.’

  Symeon squeezed past her, and thrusting his arms under Cato’s shoulders he hauled him up and supported him on his feet. Miriam rolled the end of the mattress back to reveal a small wooden hatch. She lifted it by a metal ring and slid it to one side.

  ‘In there! Both of you, quickly.’

  Symeon dragged Cato over to the opening and dropped him down. Cato fell four or five feet beneath the floor and landed heavily. He had just enough strength to roll to one side as Symeon lowered his feet and followed him in. A moment later Symeon cursed as Cato’s kit dropped on his head. Then Miriam replaced the hatch and rolled the bedding back. A thin slit over by the front of the house let in a shaft of light and the two men crawled cautiously towards it. The space was narrow and as Cato’s eyes adjusted to the gloom he saw that it stretched from the front to the rear of the house. It was empty, apart from a small, plain casket towards the back. They heard the sound of horses approaching and shuffled the last few feet to the slit. It was no wider than a finger and sparse tufts of grass grew in front of it, and since it was just below the level of the floorboards Cato had to tilt his head to one side to see out of the slit.

  He was staring up the street towards the track that led to the junction. A party of horsemen was riding into the village, and Cato’s heart sank as he recognised Bannus at the head of his brigands. Bannus slewed his horse to a halt just in front of Miriam’s house, kicking up a small cloud of dust that momentarily obscured the view. They heard a crunch as his booted feet landed on the hard earth.

  ‘What do you want?’ Miriam stepped out into the street. ‘You’re not welcome here.’

  Bannus laughed. ‘I know. That can’t be helped. I have wounded men who need treatment.’