‘What do you mean?’
‘Burning that house. Crucifying that brigand.’ Macro raised his eyebrows. ‘It’s just that, now I think about it, there’s little more he could have done to deliberately provoke the people of that village, and at the same time lose the chance to get some good intelligence from the prisoner.’
‘I see.’ Cato nodded. ‘In that light it certainly seems to back up Narcissus’ suspicions about what’s going on here.’
‘And if he’s right about Scrofa, and that adjutant of his, Postumus, then we’re going to have to tread carefully, and watch our backs all the time. I don’t fancy going the way of Scrofa’s predecessor.’
The next morning, at first light, the survivors of the cavalry escort set off on the return journey to Jerusalem. Scrofa had appointed one of his junior officers to temporary command of the squadron and ordered Symeon to guide them safely to Jerusalem by a different route from the one they had taken to reach the fort. The veteran carried a message from Macro for delivery to the procurator at Caesarea requesting urgent confirmation of his appointment as commander of the Second Illyrian. Given the distances involved it would take at least several days for a reply to reach them. Until then, the two centurions would be regarded as supernumeraries – free of duties and free to come and go around the fort. Macro and Cato, mindful of the true purpose behind their presence there, joined the other officers for the prefect’s morning briefing immediately after breakfast in the mess.
The centurions and the junior officers of the cohort crowded the benches in the hall of the headquarters building, and as they talked idly while waiting for Scrofa and his adjutant to appear Cato scrutinised them surreptitiously. The officers seemed somehow distracted and edgy and spoke in subdued tones. Occasionally one of them would glance in the direction of the new arrivals, but no one came over to introduce himself. It was as if they were suspicious, Cato decided. But suspicious of what? They could not know that Macro and Cato were working for Narcissus. The appointment of Scrofa had been temporary so they would be expecting a permanent commander to replace him. There should be nothing untoward about the arrival of Macro and Cato and yet Cato sensed that something was amiss.
His speculations were interrupted as Centurion Postumus marched through the door and barked out, ‘Commanding officer present!’
With a scraping of benches the assembled officers rose to their feet and stood stiffly at attention while Scrofa entered the hall and made his way to the desk at the end and sat down.
‘Be seated, gentlemen.’
The officers relaxed and sat back down on their benches. When all was still, Scrofa cleared his throat and began the briefing.
‘First, let me formally introduce you to Centurions Macro and Cato.’ He gestured to them and the new arrivals briefly rose to their feet in acknowledgement as Scrofa continued. ‘Now, I’m aware that there have been a few rumours doing the rounds about the reason for their presence at Bushir. For the record, Centurions Macro and Cato claim to have been sent out from Rome to replace myself and Centurion Postumus. Unfortunately, in the rush to escape his pursuers yesterday, Centurion Macro was obliged to drop his baggage, which contained his orders from the palace.’
There was a ripple of light laughter and amused expressions amongst the officers and Macro flushed with embarrassment and anger. Scrofa smiled as he continued.
‘So, until his appointment is confirmed we welcome them as honoured guests to Fort Bushir. You gentlemen might want to take the chance to make yourself known to the commander designate in the coming days, if you wish to thrive under his command, as you have under mine. Centurion Macro will need to learn how we do things here, if he is to enjoy your confidence in the months ahead …’
The prefect glanced through the notes on the waxed slate in front of him and went on. ‘We’ve had word that two caravans bound for the Decapolis are due to pass through our area in the next few days. The first belongs to Silas of Antioch. We’ll be sending out our usual welcoming committee and should have no trouble getting their agreement to escort the caravan as far as Gerasa. The second belongs to one of the Arab cartels that’s just started up in Aelana. Since they’re new to the game, Centurion Postumus will lead a strong force out to greet them and explain the procedure. Then they’ll see them safely up the trail as far as Philadelphia before returning to the fort … On to more onerous tasks. There’s been a band raiding the borders of the Decapolis from somewhere out in the desert. Decurion Proximus will take a patrol to Azrakh, and offer their headman a bounty for tracking down and eliminating these raiders.’ Scrofa paused and glanced round the room before he spotted Proximus. ‘Make sure you agree a good deal. No point in cutting too deeply into our profit margins.’
The decurion grinned and nodded.
‘Good man. That’s the last of our commerce excursions. Any questions?’
One of the older centurions raised his arm and Scrofa regarded the man with a weary expression as he responded. ‘Yes, Parmenion?’
‘What about that business yesterday, sir? Are we going after Bannus and his gang? It’s time we settled the score with them.’
Scrofa glanced at his adjutant and Postumus leaned closer. The two men conferred quietly for a moment before Scrofa turned back to the questioner. ‘You are right, of course. We cannot tolerate such attacks on Roman forces. The Judaeans need to be taught a lesson. To that end I’m sending you out with a squadron of horse and an infantry century to make a circuit of the local settlements. If you find any evidence that their people have been offering any assistance to the brigands then you are to burn a few houses to the ground. If there’s no evidence then I want you to flog a few of the locals to give them a taste of what’s to come if they ever feel tempted to aid men like Bannus. Make sure they get the message.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Parmenion replied. ‘But wouldn’t it make more sense to try to track down the brigands themselves? Rather than another punitive expedition?’
‘There’s no point in exposing our men to the danger of an armed clash with these brigands,’ Scrofa responded uneasily. His adjutant stepped forward and interceded.
‘The brigands can only survive by drawing on support from the villagers. If we can persuade the locals to stop supporting Bannus, then his men will starve and disband and the problem is over.’ Postumus smiled. ‘Satisfied?’
Centurion Parmenion gave the adjutant a withering stare for a moment before he tilted his head and glanced past Postumus towards the prefect. ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but we’ve been going in hard on the locals for months now. And we’re no closer to finishing Bannus off. In fact, I think our actions have only strengthened the man. Every time we punish the villagers, we drive some of them into joining Bannus. Every time he ambushes one of our patrols and kills a few of our men, the villagers celebrate.’ Parmenion paused, and shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, sir. But I just don’t believe your policy is having the right effect. We should be trying to win these people over, not punishing them for the actions carried out by brigands.’
Centurion Postumus stabbed his finger at Parmenion. ‘Thank you, Centurion Parmenion. I am aware of your long experience in this province, but that will be all for now. You have your orders. All you have to do is carry them out. Trust me, when the locals understand that Rome will brook absolutely no hint of defiance, then we will have order in this area. Besides, according to my sources, the number of Bannus’ men has been exaggerated. They’re poorly armed, and equipped with little more than the rags they stand up in. They’re nothing more than a handful of wretched robbers.’
‘Sir, I’m not sure how far we can rely on those sources of yours. They’ve not been much help so far, and anyway, men who are paid to inform tend to say what they think their paymaster wants to hear.’
‘I trust them,’ Scrofa said firmly. ‘The threat from Bannus is minimal.’
Parmenion shrugged and nodded towards Macro. ‘They seemed to give the centurion’s escort a pretty good hiding.’
&
nbsp; Postumus smiled. ‘Let’s just say, the centurion’s escort must have had an inflated sense of any danger they might have been in.’
Parmenion turned to Macro. ‘What do you think, sir? You were ambushed by them. How much danger do you think Bannus poses to us?’
Macro pursed his lips a moment before he replied. ‘It was a well-worked trap. He caught us on a narrow track, and must have had three, maybe four hundred men with him. Yes, they were poorly armed, and only a small proportion had mounts. But if that’s how many men he can call on for a simple ambush, then I should imagine his entire force is something to be reckoned with. Or will be, if he can ever train and equip them adequately. As it was, we only managed to break through because they weren’t expecting us to charge them.’
As his friend spoke, Cato felt a chill run down his spine. What was it that Bannus had said as he stood outside Miriam’s house? Something about friends who were about to help them. And that soon he would have an army behind him. But was it mere bluster? The vain boasts of a desperate man condemned to spending the rest of his days as an outlaw and fugitive? Yet Prefect Scrofa seemed content to let the brigand remain at large while he attacked what he perceived to be his supporters. And with Scrofa’s current approach to the problem, if they weren’t already supporters of Bannus they soon would be.
Centurion Postumus again responded on behalf of his commander. He nodded his head, as if in agreement with Macro, and then smiled faintly. ‘Of course, in your haste to escape it is possible that you might have overestimated the danger.’
Macro stared hard at the adjutant. ‘Are you calling me a liar?’
‘Of course not, sir. I’m just saying that in the heat of, er, shall we say battle, it must be hard to know exactly how many men you were facing.’
‘I see.’ Macro’s expression darkened. ‘If you don’t believe me, then ask Centurion Cato here how many men he thought we were facing.’
‘What would be the point, sir? He was in the same predicament as yourself. Why should his judgement be any less clouded? Besides, he had a head injury. He could easily have been mistaken about the size of the force you encountered. I assure you, we have perfectly good intelligence that the threat from Bannus is minimal.’
Cato leaned forward. ‘Then why go to the trouble of all these punitive raids on local villages?’
‘Because we need to dissuade them from any further support for Bannus. If we go easy on them it can only make us look weak. Bannus will be able to claim that, given enough men, he can guarantee to deliver the people of Judaea from Roman rule.’
‘Surely, if you treat the Judaeans harshly, you’ll only drive them into his arms, as Centurion Parmenion pointed out. Perhaps we should be trying to win these people over.’
‘No point,’ Scrofa interrupted. ‘It’s clear that they hate our guts. We’ll never win them over as long as they cling to their faith. In which case we can only hold them in line through fear.’
Macro leaned back and crossed his arms. ‘Let them hate, as long as they fear, eh?’
The prefect shrugged. ‘The dictum seems to work well enough.’
Cato felt his heart sink. Scrofa’s was a short-sighted and dangerous approach, particularly in the present situation where Bannus offered its victims a chance to fight back. Every village that the Romans made an example of would become a recruiting ground for Bannus and swell his ranks with men who had a fanatical hatred of Rome and all those they perceived as serving Roman interests.
‘Anyway,’ the prefect concluded, ‘I’ve made my decision. The orders stand and will be carried out. The briefing is over. Centurion Postumus will have written orders prepared for the relevant officers. Good day, gentlemen.’
The benches scraped over the flagstones as the officers rose and stood to attention. Scrofa collected up his slates and left the room. Once he was gone Postumus called out, ‘At ease!’ and the officers relaxed again.
Cato nudged his friend. ‘I think we should have a word with Centurion Parmenion.’
Macro nodded, then glanced round at the other officers, slowly dispersing to carry out the day’s duties. ‘Yes, but not in front of the rest. Perhaps we should ask him to show us round the fort. No harm in that. Only natural that new arrivals should want to look over the place.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Fort Bushir, like nearly all Roman forts, followed a roughly standard design. The commander’s house, the headquarters, hospital and stores all occupied a central position and lined the two main thoroughfares that ran through the fort at right angles to each other. On either side stretched the long, low roofs of the barrack blocks where the cohort’s men were accommodated eight to a room in the buildings allocated to each century or cavalry squadron. The stables took up one corner of the fort and the smell of the animals permeated the hot air that hung over everything like a stifling blanket. As Centurion Parmenion gave them a detailed tour Cato noted examples of a slackness that would not be tolerated in most other auxiliary cohorts, let alone the huge fortresses of the legions he was more familiar with. There were broken doors and shutters, food slops left in the street and several items of poorly maintained equipment, most notably the dried-out wood on the bolt-throwers mounted in each of the towers. They were quite useless; sure to split the moment the arms were placed under any strain if the weapons should ever be made ready to shoot. There was also a discernible listlessness amongst the rankers of the cohort and Cato wondered if it might be more than just the natural reaction to years spent in such a desolate posting.
As the three centurions climbed the ladder to the watchtower built over the main gates Macro decided it was time to speak directly.
‘Have you always served with the auxiliaries, Centurion Parmenion?’
‘No chance. I’m a proper soldier. Spent seventeen years with the Third Gallica up near Damascus, the last as an optio. Then I took a transfer into the Second Illyrian with promotion to centurion. Been here ever since. Should be demobbed within the next year or two.’
‘I see.’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘With someone of your background here, I was just wondering how the place came to be in such a state.’
Parmenion did not respond until all three of them were standing on the small platform of the watchtower, in the shade of the palm thatch roof. Around them the desert unravelled to the horizon, shimmering in the glare of the sun. But Parmenion’s gaze was fixed on Macro. ‘There’s nothing wrong with the cohort, Centurion Macro. Not the rankers at least,’ he said guardedly.
‘And the officers?’
Parmenion stared back at Macro, and glanced at Cato. ‘Why are you asking me that? What are you after?’
‘Nothing,’ Macro replied easily. ‘It’s just that I should be assuming command of the cohort soon, and I’ll want to make a few changes … a few improvements. I was just curious about how the cohort came to be in the state that it is. In my experience, a unit is only as good as its officers.’
Parmenion seemed satisfied by the explanation and he tilted his head slightly. ‘Most of ’em are sound enough. Or were, until Centurion Postumus turned up. That was under the previous commander.’
‘What difference did Postumus make?’ asked Cato.
‘None, at first. The previous adjutant had died after a long illness. Postumus was sent down to us from Damascus as a replacement. Like Scrofa after him. He did his duties conscientiously enough. Then he started volunteering for command of the patrols into the desert. You can imagine that made him very popular amongst those of us who had no great desire to spend days riding around in the sun and the dust. Anyway, that was the situation until the previous commander received a visit from the representative of one of the caravan cartels. Seems that he accused Postumus of operating some kind of protection scam on his caravans. The prefect wanted some hard evidence and went on the next patrol with Postumus. And didn’t come back.’
Cato raised his eyebrows. ‘That might be seen as quite convenient for Centurion Postum
us, from a cynical point of view.’
‘Quite.’ Parmenion smiled. ‘Anyway, Scrofa turned up and nothing has been done about the accusations since then.’
There was a pause before Cato asked, ‘Are you saying that the prefect has been cut in on the deal? What about the other officers?’
Parmenion shook his head. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘About what?’ Cato persisted.
Macro interrupted impatiently. ‘Something is going on here. The officers appear divided and the men don’t seem to care about their duties. Any fool can see it.’
‘If any fool can see it then you don’t need me to inform on my fellow officers.’
‘No one is asking you to be an informer,’ Cato replied gently. ‘But a veteran like you must know what is going on. Why didn’t you complain to the prefect, or someone higher up the chain of command?’
‘I did. I had a word with Scrofa. Told him standards were slipping amongst the men. He seemed a little bemused by my complaint. Anyway, I haven’t been assigned any desert patrols since then. He’s kept me well away from the caravan routes. And now he wants me to go in heavy on the local villages.’ Parmenion sniffed derisively. ‘What good’s it going to do sticking it to a bunch of farmers scraping a living in this wasteland? We should be going after Bannus.’
‘Yes,’ Macro replied thoughtfully. ‘We should.’
Parmenion turned to face him. ‘Is that what you plan to do, sir? When word comes of your appointment?’
‘Seems the logical way to proceed.’
Parmenion nodded with satisfaction. ‘Be good to get the officers back to proper soldiering. Do the men good as well.’
‘True. But there’s nothing I can do about it right now.’ Macro scratched his chin and turned to stare out into the desert. ‘I think it’s time I had a look at some of the territory the Second Illyrian is supposed to be covering.’
Cato looked at him with narrowed eyes. ‘What’s on your mind?’
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