The Zealot

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘You can’t leave them here. The Romans patrol the land round Heshaba. If they find them we’ll be punished.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Miriam. I just want their wounds cleaned and bound and we’ll be on our way. They’ll never know we were here.’

  ‘No. You have to leave. Now!’

  As Cato and Symeon watched through the slit, they saw the brigand chief draw his sword and raise it towards her. Miriam did not flinch and just stared back defiantly. For a moment there was a silent confrontation, then Bannus laughed and waved the sword at her.

  ‘This is what makes things possible, Miriam. Not prayers and teaching.’

  ‘Really?’ She cocked her head to one side. ‘And what have you achieved? Did you win the little fight that caused these men to be injured? No? I didn’t think so.’

  Symeon whispered, ‘Careful, Miriam.’

  ‘The situation is changing, Miriam.’ Bannus spoke in a soft, menacing tone. ‘We have friends who are about to help us. Soon I will have an army at my back. Then we’ll see precisely what can be achieved.’ Bannus sheathed his sword, turned to his men and called out, ‘Bring the wounded into the house.’

  Miriam stood her ground. ‘You will not bring them into my house.’

  Bannus turned back to her. ‘Miriam, you are a healer. My men need your skills. You will treat them, or I will start providing you with patients from amongst your own people, starting with … young Yusef over there. Boy! Come here. Now!’

  The floorboard above Cato squeaked as Yusef stepped outside and hesitantly approached the brigand leader. Bannus took him by the shoulders and looked down at him with a smile. ‘Such a fine boy. His father would be proud of him. Prouder still, if he joined with me and fought to liberate our lands from Rome.’

  ‘He will not join you,’ said Miriam. ‘That is not his path.’

  ‘Not today. One day, when he is old enough to choose for himself, maybe he will join me and make Jehoshua’s vision become a reality. One day. But for now, Miriam, you must choose. Treat my men, or I will cut one of the boy’s fingers off.’

  Miriam glared at him, and then her shoulders sagged and she nodded. ‘Bring them to my door. I will treat them there.’

  ‘No, inside. They would welcome the shade.’ Without waiting for her to answer Bannus thrust Yusef to one side and shouted orders. As Cato watched, the brigands dismounted and started helping several men into the house. Above him the floorboards creaked under the weight, and dislodged dust and grit fell on top of Cato and Symeon. A door squeaked on its hinges and with a start Cato realised that someone was entering the room where he had lain on the bedroll.

  ‘Oh, shit,’ he whispered.

  Symeon looked at him in alarm and raised a finger to his lips.

  ‘My sword,’ Cato said as softly as he could. ‘It’s behind the bedroll.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I took it from the scabbard and hid it there.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I wasn’t sure about Miriam, and the boy. She told me the Romans killed his father.’

  Symeon frowned at him. ‘You’re in no danger from Miriam and her people.’

  ‘Shit.’ Cato stared at him, then his eyes turned to the hatch beneath the mattress and he looked at it in horror. Any moment now one of the brigands might spot the sword, and know that a Roman had been there. Or worse, they would fling back the mattress to reveal the hatch. There was nothing he could do about it, so he and Symeon sat as still as they could and waited. He felt his heart pounding, and the splitting headache and sickness returned so he had to concentrate his will on fighting off the pain and the urge to groan or cry out.

  ‘Put him on the bedroll,’ Miriam said. ‘Get me some water.’

  This was it, Cato thought. Any moment now, the injured man would feel the hardness of the sword handle through the bedding.

  Footsteps thudded overhead, and they heard Bannus speak. ‘Don’t talk in Greek, Miriam. Some of my men are simple peasants. They only know the dialect of the valley.’

  They continued speaking a form of Aramaic and Cato glanced at Symeon. ‘What?’

  Symeon raised his hand to quiet the Roman and cocked a ear towards the ceiling as he strained to hear what was being said. They were many voices talking now, and feet moving overhead as the men’s wounds were treated. Time seemed to slow to a crawl, so that Cato was aware of every instant that passed as his ears filled with the sounds from the room above his head. He willed Miriam to treat them as swiftly as she could, to get them out of her house, and out of the village.

  As the light outside began to grow dim there was a shout from the street and immediately a commotion in Miriam’s house as the men piled outside and Bannus bellowed a series of orders. Symeon nudged Cato. ‘They’ve spotted a column of Roman cavalry heading for the village.’

  ‘Macro. It has to be.’

  Symeon shrugged. ‘I sincerely hope so.’

  Bannus’ men began to carry the wounded out towards the horses. Then, as they helped them into the saddles, there was a cry from the man on the bedroll. His wounds had made him weak and he paused for breath before he gasped a few more words.

  ‘He’s found your sword!’ Symeon hissed. ‘When they come back for him they’ll see it.’

  Cato thought quickly, and then winced as he knew what had to be done. He crept over to his equipment, fumbled for his dagger handle and drew the blade. The hatch was old and weathered, and brittle, and Cato summoned up all his energy, grasped the dagger with both hands and punched it up through the hatch, tearing through the wool padding of the bedroll and into the back of the injured man. He heard a faint explosive gasp and his blade was tugged as the man twisted for a few moments before slumping back. Cato sensed no further movement through the handle. He twisted it slightly and wrenched the blade free. Then he crouched down and waited. Shortly afterwards someone padded lightly into the room and paused an instant before moving over to the man on the bedroll.

  ‘Saul!’ Bannus shouted from outside. ‘Get the last man. In the back room.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Footsteps thudded overhead and then they heard Miriam say, ‘It’s too late. He’s dead. You’d better take him with you.’

  ‘Bannus! He’s dead,’ the man shouted. ‘Should I bring his body?’

  ‘Leave it. We have to go. Now!’

  Out in the street the brigands wheeled their horses about and began to ride past the house on their way out of the village. More dust obscured the view, and Cato and Symeon could feel the vibrations of the pounding hooves through the earth beneath them. The sounds quickly receded. There was quiet for a moment, and then Miriam grunted with effort as she shifted the body off the mattress. The hatch was slid to one side and she peered into the hole.

  ‘You can come out now. The Romans will be here any moment.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  Macro was fuming. Centurion Postumus had him over a barrel. Without written authorisation from the imperial palace he had no power to oust the temporary commander of the Second Illyrian. So when the officers began to turn up, as Macro had instructed, he had to sit in embarrassed silence while Scrofa sent them away again. Not for the first time that day, he cursed Bannus and his brigands with the most heinously dire and painful torments imaginable. Because of the ambush, his letter of appointment was lying out there somewhere in the desert. Worse still, it might have fallen into the hands of Bannus’ men as they rifled through the baggage that Macro, Cato and the cavalry squadron had been obliged to abandon. Macro cringed with shame at the thought, even though there had been no alternative in the circumstances. They had barely escaped with their lives on unladen mounts as it was. Indeed, Cato was not yet out of danger. Thought of his friend spurred Macro on and he stood up and approached Prefect Scrofa’s desk.

  ‘Sir?’ he said as respectfully as he could. ‘I accept that I cannot produce my orders, and that means you are entitled to hold on to your command. But you must send men out to search for Centurion Cato. Before Ba
nnus finds him.’

  ‘Must I?’ Scrofa smiled coolly. ‘As you so rightly pointed out, I am still in command. I don’t have to do a thing that you say.’

  Macro clasped his hands behind his back and forced himself to nod gently as he fought back his anger and frustration. Anger would only make this man obdurate. ‘I know that, sir. But I’m thinking about how this will look back in Rome when word gets out that the commander of the Second Illyrian sat and did nothing while a comrade was hunted down and put to death by a bunch of brigands. It would tarnish the cohort’s image for ever, and perhaps the reputation of the commander as well.’

  Prefect Scrofa stared up at him in silence for a moment and then nodded. ‘You’re right … That would be most unfair to my men.’ Then Scrofa’s eyes narrowed a fraction as he sat back and stared blankly at the opposite wall. ‘It’s bloody unfair. I served my time as a tribune on the Rhine. I’ve worked my way up through the junior civil appointments, and spent good time and money cultivating the right contacts at the palace.’ He looked at Macro suddenly, his eyes flashing with bitterness. ‘Do you know how much I paid to have sturgeon’s eggs served at a dinner I gave for Narcissus? Well do you?’

  Macro shrugged.

  ‘A bloody fortune, that’s how much. And that bastard Narcissus pushes them aside and complains that they’re too salty.’ Scrofa was silent for a moment, wrapped up in the past, before he continued in a resigned tone. ‘So I decide to try my hand at winning a little glory on the field of battle. That should add lustre to the name of Scrofa, I thought. You know, my great grandfather fought with Mark Antony at Actium? Martial blood runs in my family’s veins. So my father pulled a few strings to get me appointed as a centurion of auxiliaries. I thought I’d carve out a reputation on the battlefields of Britannia. That was my request. And what happens? They send me to Syria. Garrison duty. Can you imagine? A complete waste of my potential. A whole year stuck in a wretched hole on the border with Palmyra. Then I get this appointment. Another bloody frontier fort. But the only enemy I have to deal with is Bannus and his little gang of thieves. Where’s the glory in that?’ Scrofa sniffed. ‘Police work. Might as well have got a posting to the urban cohorts in Rome. At least I’d be out of this damned oven!’ He gestured irritably towards the slave holding the fan. ‘Faster, damn you …’ He slumped back in his chair.

  Macro’s shoulders heaved with relief that the tirade was over, and he tried to steer the cohort commander back on to the subject of sending out a force to find Cato and Symeon. ‘You’re right. No one should be out in this heat. Especially not an injured Roman officer.’

  Scrofa looked at Macro sharply and frowned for an instant. Then he flapped his hand towards the door. ‘Very well, Macro! We’ll take all four cavalry squadrons. We’ll find your friend and bring him back here as quickly as possible.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Macro turned to the door, but he had not reached it before Scrofa spoke again.

  ‘But we’re not taking any risks with my men, you understand?’

  Macro paused and looked back over his shoulder and stifled the urge to sneer. Risk was what soldiers got paid for. He had the measure of Scrofa now. The man was simply playing at soldiers. The last thing he wanted was any more injured men cluttering up his fort on the farthest-flung fringe of the Empire.

  ‘I understand, sir.’

  ‘Good. You can organise the men. I’ve some records that need seeing to. I’ll join you when the column’s ready to leave.’

  ‘Very well, sir.’

  For a man who prided himself on the military blood that coursed through his veins, Prefect Scrofa was a very poor horseman, Macro reflected, as he watched the cohort commander being hoisted up into the saddle by his Celtic slave. Scrofa flung a leg across the animal’s back and wriggled into position, then adjusted his helmet, which had slid forward since it had not been tied securely enough. He was little better than the raw recruits Macro had broken in back in the legions. If the man had been a common soldier Macro would have been all over him, bellowing into his face and applying his vine cane in retribution for such slovenliness. As it was, thanks to the imperial policy of directly appointing minor aristocrats to the office of centurion, alongside those who had won the rank on merit, Scrofa was in command of the Second Illyrian. Macro shook his head gently. What was Cassius Longinus thinking of when he picked Scrofa for this post? Surely he had better men backing his cause? Or was he so short of men of quality amongst his plotters that he had been forced to call on the services of Scrofa?

  Prefect Scrofa took up his reins and flicked them casually as he tapped his heels into the flanks of his horse. ‘Let’s be off.’

  Behind him the decurions commanding the four mounted squadrons chosen for the task relayed the order in more formal tones and the column clopped out of the fort and on to the track that stretched across the stone-strewn desert to the west. Scrofa led the way at a steady walk and once again Macro found himself simmering with frustration and rage as the column ambled along. A light wind blew in from the deep desert, and the dust kicked up from the track swirled round the men in a choking, blinding cloud. The officers at the head of the column were spared the worst of the dust and occasionally Macro could see the distant shapes of horsemen along the track ahead. Bannus was keeping them under observation, Macro realised. Even though the brigand scouts kept far beyond the reach of the Roman column, Macro had no doubt that the lightly armoured men on their small, swift horses would easily evade any sudden rush by Scrofa and his men. Not that Scrofa showed any signs of being interested in chasing the enemy down.

  At length, as the sun began to sink towards the western horizon, Macro could no longer tolerate the pace and urged his horse forward until he was alongside the cohort commander.

  ‘Sir, at this rate we’ll not be able to return to the fort before nightfall. Let me take half the men and go on ahead.’

  ‘Divide my command?’ Scrofa frowned and glanced at Macro with a disappointed expression. ‘Really, I’m surprised at you. I’d have thought you would be conversant with such basic principles of military campaigning.’

  ‘This isn’t a campaign, sir. It’s a simple rescue mission. I can ride ahead, scout the lie of the land and search for signs of Centurion Cato and the guide. If I see any sizeable enemy forces I’ll fall back and join you.’

  Scrofa considered this for a moment and then nodded reluctantly. ‘Very well. You’re right. It would not be prudent to push on into what could easily be an ambush. Take two of the squadrons up ahead. Make sure you keep me informed of developments, understand?’

  Macro nodded.

  ‘And take Centurion Postumus with you.’

  ‘Postumus? Why?’

  ‘I trust him. He’s reliable. He’ll make sure the men are looked after.’

  Macro stared at the cohort commander. Clearly Scrofa did not trust him with his auxiliaries and he seethed as he forced himself to nod his acquiescence. He turned and looked round for Postumus and beckoned to him. The younger officer, his helmet still bedecked with a flowing crest, trotted up and Macro quickly briefed him. Shortly afterwards Scrofa stood aside as the two leading squadrons cantered ahead down the track. When they had drawn some distance away Scrofa waved the rest of the column forward and they continued at the same steady pace as before.

  * * *

  Macro did not look back as he rode along the track. Ahead of him he could see Bannus’ scouts wheel their mounts about and gallop away, keeping a safe margin between themselves and the Romans. Macro drove his men on, mile after mile, until they reached the junction where he had parted with Symeon and Cato. He plunged off the main route and followed the track until it descended into a long narrow wadi. There, a short distance ahead, lay the village that Symeon had mentioned, and Macro felt his heart quicken at the sight of scores of horses and men filling the open space in the heart of the settlement.

  Macro reined his horse in and thrust his arm up to halt the two squadrons of mounted auxiliaries behind him.

/>   ‘Decurions! On me!’

  The squadron commanders trotted up as Macro pointed towards the village. ‘That’s where we’re headed. The guide said he’d shelter there with Centurion Cato. Those brigand bastards are already there. So we go in fast and drive ’em out before we start searching for our men. You – Quintatus, wasn’t it?’

  The decurion nodded.

  ‘Right. I’ll wager they’ll run for it the moment they see us. Take your squadron right through the village and keep chasing them until they’re well clear of the place. Then fall back and rejoin us. Who knows? By then, the prefect might even have caught up with us.’

  The decurions grinned, and Macro kicked his heels in, urging his mount on towards the village. ‘Let’s go!’

  As soon as the two squadrons launched themselves down the slope the brigands burst into desperate activity. Men spilled out of the houses where they had been sheltering from the sun and scrambled on to their horses. Others limped out, supported by their comrades, and were helped into the saddle, to hang on as best they could as Bannus and his men fled from the village.

  A few figures stood still, watching the men leave the village, some turning to stare at the approaching Romans. Macro guessed they must be the inhabitants, bewildered and afraid of the violent pursuit their small settlement had been abruptly caught up in. And somewhere, in among the scattered dwellings, Cato and Symeon were hopefully still alive and in hiding. The thought spurred Macro on and he crouched over his horse and urged it forward with harsh cries of encouragement as the hooves pounded over the hard ground that sloped down towards the nearest houses. To one side he saw a woman scream and rush to scoop up a small child before she hurried into her house and slammed the door. Then Macro was in amongst the buildings, and there was only a narrow open street before him. He could no longer see the brigands, but the anxious cries of the last of their stragglers carried across the dun-coloured roofs.

  The street turned a corner and directly ahead lay the heart of the village. Macro snatched out his sword, his senses tingling now that he was almost on his enemies. Just as he emerged from the end of the street, a horse suddenly bolted across in front of him. There was an instant as Macro’s eyes met the terrified ink-dark stare of the other rider, then the centurion’s horse slammed into the flank of the other beast. Macro was hurled forward, out of the saddle, straight into the brigand, and both tumbled into the open space in the centre of the village. Macro slammed into the ground, driving the breath from his body, but he rolled over into a crouch and, gasping for air, looked round at his enemy. The other man was still lying on the ground, dazed by the impact and shaking his head. He turned his head and saw Macro, before his gaze dropped to the centurion’s sword on the ground in front of him. Macro saw it too, and lurched forward. Too late. The brigand snatched up the blade and quickly clambered into a low crouch, eyes fixed on Macro as he held the sword out and grinned.