The Zealot

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘No. We’ve already done enough damage. Let’s just get out of here.’

  Already more villagers were entering the square, hurrying towards the synagogue with anguished expressions that quickly turned to anger as they started shouting at the Roman soldiers.

  ‘Get the men moving!’ Parmenion roared out.

  But it was already too late. The routes into the square began to fill with villagers, men, women and children, rushing in from the alleys. The soldiers closed ranks, and raised their shields as they eyed the growing crowd anxiously. Then the first of them lowered his pack and drew his sword. More followed suit and stood ready to move into action the moment the order was given, or the crowd began to edge too close. There was a blur and Cato turned to see a rock arc over the front of the crowd towards the Roman line. At the last moment one of the auxiliaries ducked and threw his shield up and the rock clattered harmlessly to one side.

  Centurion Parmenion stepped back towards his men and drew his sword. Cato felt a sick feeling turn his guts to ice. The situation was rushing out of control. Unless some kind of order was quickly restored the square would be awash with blood in moments. He saw the priest close by and strode over to him.

  ‘Tell them to disperse!’ He gestured frantically towards the crowd. ‘You have to get them out of the square, or the soldiers will charge.’

  The priest stared at him defiantly, and for an instant Cato feared that he too was caught up in the wild rage of the moment. Then the man looked round at his people and seemed to realise the danger. He advanced to stand beside Cato, then flung his arms up and waved wildly as he shouted at the villagers. The grim-faced soldiers looked on while the crowd slowly quietened, until there was a tense hush hanging over both sides. Cato spoke quietly to the priest.

  ‘Tell them to leave the square. Tell them to go home, or the soldiers will charge.’

  The priest nodded and called out to the people. At once they stirred angrily and several voices shouted back, and the crowd roared in support. Again the priest quietened them, and then one of the men rushed forward, snatched up the torn scroll and waved the pieces in the face of the priest. Then he turned to glare at Cato and spat on the ground, just in front of the centurion’s boots. Cato forced himself to stand still and show no reaction. He stared back at the man for a moment and then looked at the priest.

  ‘What does he want?’

  ‘What they all want. The man who did this,’ the priest replied. ‘The man who profaned the scriptures.’

  ‘Impossible.’ Cato had no doubt what the mob would do to him.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Parmenion growled, approaching to stand beside Cato.

  ‘They want the soldier who tore up their sacred book.’

  Parmenion smiled grimly. ‘Is that all?’

  ‘No,’ the priest cut in. ‘Some of them are calling for the hostages to be released.’ He glanced back at the crowd before he addressed the two officers again. ‘They will accept nothing less.’

  ‘We’re keeping the hostages,’ Parmenion said firmly. ‘And our man. He will be disciplined for his actions when we return to our fort. You have my word on it.’

  The priest shook his head and gestured to the mob. ‘I don’t think they’d accept the word of a Roman.’

  ‘I don’t care. We’re not giving anyone up. Now, you’d better persuade them to move, before my men do.’

  The priest eyed the Roman officer shrewdly before he replied. ‘They will not let you leave, unless you hand your soldier over.’

  ‘We’ll see about that,’ Parmenion growled.

  Cato coughed and gestured casually over the crowd. ‘Look up there.’

  Parmenion’s gaze flickered to the roofs of the buildings surrounding the square, where more of the villagers were gazing down at the Romans. Several, he noted, were carrying slings – the hunting weapon of the Judaean peasant.

  ‘Looks like we’re going to have to fight our way out,’ Cato said quietly.

  ‘Not if you hand the man over.’ The priest spoke urgently, with a discreet wave towards his people. ‘That’s what they want. Then you can go. With the hostages.’

  ‘And let our man be torn to pieces?’ Cato shook his head.

  ‘It’s his life, Roman, or the lives of hundreds of my people and your men.’

  Cato could see no way out of the impasse. So there would be a fight. He swallowed nervously and felt his heart beat quicken.

  ‘Shit,’ Parmenion hissed through clenched teeth. ‘We have to give the man up.’

  Cato turned to him in astonishment. ‘You’re not serious. You can’t be.’

  ‘We’re caught in the heart of the village, Cato. I’ve seen it before when I was in Jerusalem. There was a riot. We chased them into the old city and they hit us from all sides and above. We lost scores of men.’

  ‘You can’t do it,’ Cato said desperately.

  ‘I have to. As the priest says, it’s one life weighed against many.’

  ‘No! All he did was tear up a scroll. That’s all.’

  ‘Not to him, and the rest of them.’ Parmenion jerked his thumb at the mob. ‘If we don’t hand the man over, we’re going to have to fight our way out of here, and all the way back to the fort. And once word of this gets out you can count on every village in the area rising up. Bannus will have an army in a few days. It’s that, or hand the man over.’

  The priest nodded and Cato opened his mouth to protest. But the veteran was right and there was nothing more he could do to save Canthus without provoking a bloodbath. He nodded his assent. ‘Very well, then.’

  Parmenion turned towards his men. ‘Canthus! Step forward!’

  There was a short pause, then a man shuffled through the line of oval shields. He stepped hesitantly towards the two centurions and the priest, who eyed him with bitter hostility, and stood to attention.

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘You’re being relieved of duties, soldier. Disarm.’

  ‘Sir?’ Canthus looked confused.

  ‘Lower your shield and hand me your sword. Now,’ Parmenion added harshly.

  After a instant’s hesitation, Canthus leaned over and placed his shield on the ground. Then he drew his sword and handed it, pommel first, to his superior. Parmenion tucked the blade under his arm and tapped his vine cane on the ground. ‘Now stand to attention! Don’t move until I give the order.’

  Canthus drew himself up and stared straight ahead, still unsure of what was happening to him, and Cato felt sick with pity over the man’s fate. Then Parmenion nudged him.

  ‘Get the column moving. Out of the village as quick as you can. I’ll follow on.’

  Cato nodded, keen to be as far from this place as he could be. He paced over to his horse, slid awkwardly on to its back and gave the order for the column to move out of the square. At first the crowd stood firm, blocking the route by which the Romans had come. The horsemen at the head of the column walked their beasts steadily towards the silent villagers, and then the priest shouted out to them and with dark expressions they shuffled aside and let the head of the column through. Cato waited for the last of the mounted men to pass and then eased his horse into position ahead of the standard carried at the head of the infantry.

  ‘What’s going on with Canthus?’ a voice cried out.

  Cato swung round and shouted, ‘Silence! Optios, take the name of the next man to utter a word. He’ll be flogged the moment we return to the fort!’

  The men trudged on, casting wary glances at the villagers massing on either side of them. But the crowd just stared back, glowering with hatred, and made no threatening moves as the Romans passed. Once he was out of the square Cato tried not to look up at the figures looming above him on either side of the narrow street. Parmenion had been right. If there had been a confrontation then the Romans would have been caught like rats in a trap, showered with missiles and unable to strike back. Cato shuddered at the thought and then stiffened his back and stared straight ahead, refusing to appear intimidated.


  When the column had cleared the village Cato eased his mount to the side of the track and called over the centurion in command of the infantry. ‘Get ’em up that track there. I’ll wait for Parmenion.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  As the men marched away Cato sat in the saddle and gazed back at the village. The crowd was no longer silent; an angry chorus of shouts sounded from its heart and Cato willed the veteran to hurry up and quit the place. Just when Cato had gripped his reins and was about to ride back to find him there was the dull thrumming of hooves and Parmenion came trotting out of the alley. A vest of mail armour hung over his saddle horn and a shield hung from straps tied to his belt. His face was set in a grim expression and he barely acknowledged Cato as he rode by and continued towards the column, a short distance off. Cato turned his horse and followed. When they reached the brow of the small hill that Cato had indicated to the centurion the two officers halted and turned to stare down into the centre of the village.

  At first all that Cato could see was a dense mass of dark heads and skullcaps, all facing the synagogue expectantly. ‘What did they do to Canthus?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘I didn’t wait to find out. The priest and some of his men took him as I rode off.’ Parmenion glanced down. ‘He begged me not to leave him.’

  Cato did not know what to say.

  A fresh roar rose from the village. A small group of men had emerged on the roof of the synagogue, all but one of them clad in the flowing shirts of the local people. Writhing in their midst was a man in the red tunic of a Roman soldier.

  ‘That’s Canthus!’ someone called out, and the nearest soldiers glanced back over their shoulders.

  ‘Silence there!’ Parmenion bellowed. ‘Mouths shut, eyes front and keep marching!’

  There was a thin scream in the distance and a fresh roar from the crowd. Cato looked back and saw that Canthus had his arms pinioned tightly behind him. Someone had wrenched the tunic over his head and he stood naked above the crowd. Another man bent down to pick something up, and as he rose to his feet the sun glinted brilliantly off a curved blade. A reaping tool, Cato realised. As he and Parmenion watched, the man swung the blade into the Roman soldier’s side, and then wrenched it across his stomach in a sweeping movement. Blood and intestines burst out from Canthus’s body and spilled down the front of the synagogue, leaving a bright red smear on the white plaster wall. The crowd let out a shrill cry of delight that echoed up the slope and Cato felt the bile rise in the back of his throat.

  ‘Come on,’ Parmenion said huskily. ‘We’ve seen enough. Let’s go. We need to reach the next village before nightfall.’

  ‘The next village?’ Cato shook his head. ‘After that? Surely we’d better get back to the fort and report to Scrofa.’

  ‘Why? Because of Canthus? The fool should have known better. We still have our orders to carry out, Cato.’ Parmenion pulled his reins harshly, turning his horse away from the scene below. ‘Maybe next time, our men will have learned a lesson.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ‘We’ve got ourselves into a right nasty situation here,’ Macro mused, when Cato had finished telling him about the patrol through the local villages. Parmenion had taken hostages from every one of them, including Heshaba, and now forty men were languishing in a store shed, fed and watered, but forced to stay inside. In the days that followed the incident at Beth Mashon Parmenion had made no mention of the fate of Canthus and curtly rebuffed any attempt by Cato to raise the matter. The death of their comrade had soured the rest of the men and their grim mood was reflected in their treatment of the other villagers they encountered, with the result that, far from subduing the locals, Scrofa’s measures had made them hate Rome even more. Cato had little doubt that the ranks of Bannus’ band of brigands would be swelled in coming days by young men from the villages visited by Parmenion.

  Cato had stripped down to his loincloth and was busy washing the dust and grime from his skin. He was as sombre as Macro had ever seen him. Macro leaned back on his bed and gazed at the ceiling. ‘I don’t see how we can do any good here, Cato. Scrofa’s got most of the officers involved in his protection scam; the rest of ’em are trying not to notice and losing heart. The men are pissed off that they aren’t getting a share of the spoils, and now it seems that Scrofa is pushing the locals towards open revolt. If that happens then the Second Illyrian is going to land right in the shit, at least while Scrofa is in command, which won’t be for much longer, I hope. We should hear from the procurator any day now, confirming my appointment.’

  ‘Assuming the message got through to Caesarea,’ Cato said quietly.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘If the officer tasked with carrying the message was one of those on the take, I suspect he would be in no hurry to see Scrofa replaced. It would be an easy thing to do to lose the message.’

  ‘He wouldn’t dare.’

  ‘We’ll see. And what if the message was lost in an ambush? Or what if the message got through to the procurator, but the orders were lost on the return journey?’

  Macro propped himself up on one elbow and stared at Cato. ‘Cheery little devil, aren’t you?’

  ‘Just pointing out the possibilities.’ Cato shrugged, and dabbed at his skin with a woollen cloth. ‘Besides, you’ve hardly mentioned half our problems.’

  ‘Do, please, enlighten me. I could do with some light relief.’

  ‘All right.’ Cato sat down on the couch opposite Macro’s and sat forward, leaning his elbows on his knees. ‘As you say – the cohort’s in poor shape. The locals are after our blood. If Longinus really is trying to provoke a revolt then he’s almost got what he’s after. And if it happens then we’ll be facing Bannus with an enlarged force, armed to the teeth, with little prospect of receiving any reinforcements, or even the despatch of a relief column to help us reach safety. My main worry is Bannus. At the moment he is a brigand chief, but if he manages to raise a force large enough to take us on, then there’s every chance that he will try to present himself to the Judaeans as the mashiah. Only the latest in a long line of claimants to the title, of course. But if he has an army of thousands, equipped with Parthian armour and weapons, then he’s going to look very credible to his people. If the rising spreads beyond this area, the whole of Judaea could join in the revolt.’

  ‘Oh, sure!’ Macro laughed. ‘Come now, Cato, that’s just not going to happen.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘They wouldn’t stand a chance. A bunch of farmers and sheep herders up against professional soldiers? Auxiliary troops admittedly, but still good enough to scare a bunch of peasants back into line. Even if they were thinking of rebelling, they’d know that the Syrian legions were on their doorstep. No amount of rebels would be a match for the legions. As far as the local people are concerned, the moment they get stroppy the legions are going to jump on them and kick them into the dust.’

  ‘Yes,’ Cato conceded. ‘I’m sure they believe that …’

  ‘But?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Cato frowned. ‘Ever since we arrived in the province, I’ve had the feeling that this place is like a tinderbox. One spark could set it off, and Judaea will go up in flames. If Narcissus’ suspicions about Longinus turn out to be well founded, then there won’t be any help coming from Syria.’

  ‘Yes. But Bannus and his boys don’t know that.’

  ‘Don’t they?’ Cato looked up. ‘I wonder.’

  Macro snorted. ‘What are you suggesting now? That Longinus has cut a deal with some hairy-arsed barbarian bandit hiding out in the hills? Don’t you think that’s a bit far-fetched?’

  ‘Not really.’ Cato stared back wearily. ‘If Bannus knows that Longinus will refuse to march, then he can launch his revolt in the knowledge that he will only be opposed by auxiliary troops. That’s quite an incentive to action. And Longinus gets his revolt, and justifies his request for reinforcements. Both men get what they want. Coincidence? I think not.’

  Macro was silent
for a moment. ‘A Roman general bargaining with a common bandit … that’s quite a nasty thought.’

  ‘No. Just straightforward politics.’

  ‘But how would Longinus have got in touch with Bannus?’

  ‘He must have some kind of intermediary. A dangerous job to be sure, but at the right price I’m sure Longinus could have found someone to approach Bannus and make him aware of the Governor’s offer not to intervene. All that would remain to be done would be to provoke the locals into rebellion, and Scrofa and Postumus have been doing their best to fan the flames of discontent.’

  ‘Fan the flames of discontent?’ Macro smiled. ‘You’ve not been writing poetry on the sly, have you?’

  ‘Just a figure of speech. Be serious, Macro.’ Cato concentrated again before continuing. ‘The thing is, I’m not sure that Longinus is fully aware of what he is unleashing. It seems that Bannus has also been in contact with the Parthians. So far I imagine they’ve promised him some weapons for his men. Of course, they’d never own up to it. Anything they can do to undermine Roman power in the east is all part of the great game as far as they are concerned. However, if they got wind of an arrangement between Bannus and Longinus then they’d instantly see the chance to settle the score with Rome once and for all. The moment Longinus leaves Syria with the eastern legions at his back, Parthia would have a free hand in the region. If they moved quickly enough they could overrun Syria, Armenia, Judaea, Nabataea, and maybe even Egypt.’ Cato’s eyes widened as the implications of what he had said hit home. ‘Egypt! If they took that then they’d have a stranglehold on the grain that feeds Rome. They could force peace on Rome on almost any terms they wanted.’

  ‘Hold on there!’ Macro raised his hand. ‘You’re jumping at shadows. Remember, Cato, you’re just outlining possibilities.’ He smiled. ‘There’s still a long way to go before the situation represents any serious threat to Rome.’