The Zealot

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Has Symeon left for Petra yet?’

  ‘Just before the briefing.’

  ‘Did you make quite sure he understood exactly what I wanted him to do?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good.’ Macro nodded. ‘Right then, it’s time we made preparations for dealing with Bannus, and those desert raiders.’

  The new prefect of the Second Illyrian made his presence felt at once. Barracks inspections were made at dawn and dusk and every infringement of rules punished. The men were drilled for twice as long as they had been before, and after each century had completed the regulation manoeuvres it was quick-marched round the fort until noon, when at last the men were permitted to fall out, panting and thirsty in the merciless glare of the sun. The officers quickly recovered their professional edge and worked themselves as hard as their men. There were no further patrols into the surrounding villages. Instead the mounted scouts observed the locals from a discreet distance and concentrated their efforts on searching for signs of Bannus and his men. The geography of the region was such that a large force could hide in the caves of the numerous wadis that cut through the landscape. Their only weakness was a dependence on food and water which they needed to draw from the settlements. Whenever the scouts saw a suspicious-looking party of men arrive at a village they attempted to follow them as they left, but always their prey managed to vanish into the clefts of the mountains that rose up on the east shore of the Dead Sea.

  Prefect Macro concentrated his efforts on selecting a detachment for a special task. He needed the pick of the cohort’s mounted men, and he needed their riding ability to be matched by their skill with a bow. As in many of the cohorts in the region, there was already a small number of men able to use the powerful compound bow favoured by eastern warriors. These Macro kept practising at the hastily erected target range outside the fort, until they were proficient at a variety of distances.

  At the same time the cohort’s carpenter had been tasked with designing a saddle frame equipped to carry lightweight burdens which could be jettisoned in an instant. Other men worked hard to create dummy bundles of fabrics to be loaded on to the saddle frames. All was ready by the end of the tenth day after Macro had taken control of the cohort. The same evening a message arrived from Petra. Symeon had done as he had been asked and contacted the merchants whose caravan Macro had saved. They had agreed to meet Macro and his men at the same place as before – the Nabataean way station – at dusk in three days’ time.

  On the night before Macro and his small force of men left Fort Bushir, he had a final meal with Cato in the dining room of the prefect’s quarters. Scrofa, no doubt flush with the money he had extorted from the caravan cartels, had decorated his accommodation lavishly and the walls of the dining room were alive with hunting scenes set in lush green landscapes so utterly different from the barren wilderness stretching out around the fort that it made both men long for the kinder, temperate landscapes of Italy or even Britain.

  ‘Say what you like about Scrofa,’ Macro said, as he chewed on a chunk of roast kid, ‘at least he knew how to live.’

  ‘So I can see.’ Cato was still billeted in the same room at headquarters where he and Macro had been confined. Given the mood of some of the officers it had been felt necessary for Cato to remain at the administrative heart of the cohort and keep watch on their activities. At the same time, he made sure that the two prisoners in the cell did not speak to anyone. Scrofa and Postumus were sent their food, and had their slops bucket emptied, rinsed and returned, and that was all the contact with others that Cato allowed them.

  ‘How is Scrofa coping?’ Macro asked.

  ‘Well enough. He’s stopped playing the outraged innocent and given up demanding to be set free. What worries me is that the other officers keep asking what is going to happen to the pair of them.’

  ‘Just tell them that those two will be treated fairly and given a proper hearing once we’ve settled things with Bannus. If that doesn’t work then tell them to keep their mouths shut and their noses out of things that don’t concern them, unless they want to share the same cell.’

  ‘Do you think they will be given a hearing?’

  ‘Not if Narcissus has anything to do with it. They’ll be interrogated to reveal anything they know about Longinus, and then disposed of. You know what Narcissus is like, Cato.’

  ‘I know. But there’s no concrete proof that Longinus is plotting anything at the moment. All the evidence we have is pretty weak. In which case Scrofa and Postumus are not guilty of plotting against the Emperor.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ Macro agreed, helping himself to another mouthful of goat. ‘But they’re certainly guilty of screwing up the situation here on the frontier. Even if we get through this business with Bannus, it’s going to take years to mend our relations with the locals. If we ever do.’

  Cato nodded thoughtfully, and then replied, ‘Perhaps the Emperor should consider abandoning Judaea.’

  Macro nearly choked. ‘Abandon the province! Why on earth do that?’

  ‘I’ve seen nothing here that makes me think the Judaeans will ever accept their place in the Empire. They’re just too different.’

  ‘Bollocks!’ Macro spluttered, and a gobbet of gristle narrowly missed Cato’s ear as it sailed over the dining couch. ‘Judaea is like any other province. A bit wild and untamed at first, but give it enough time and we’ll make them see things our way. They’ll embrace the Roman way of life whether they like it or not.’

  ‘You think so? When was Judaea annexed? In the age of Pompey. That’s over a hundred years ago. And the Judaeans are still as intractable as ever. They cling to their religious practices as if they were the only things that mattered.’

  ‘The situation could be improved if we could only persuade them to worship our gods, or at least get them to worship our gods alongside theirs,’ Macro concluded impatiently.

  ‘Well we won’t manage it. So perhaps we should give up the idea of including Judaea in the empire, or we should crush them, destroy their religion and everyone who holds to it.’

  ‘That might do it,’ Macro agreed.

  Cato stared at him. ‘I was being ironic.’

  ‘Ironic? Really?’ Macro shook his head and tore off another strip of meat. ‘Well I bloody well wasn’t. If we’re going to make the Empire safe, then we have to make sure that we control this region. Not Parthia. These people will have to accept Roman rule, and like it, or else.’

  Cato did not respond. He could see the limitations of Macro’s approach all too clearly. As in most provinces the Romans had tried to establish a ruling class to collect tax and administer the law in Judaea. Only this time the common people had seen through those who claimed to be their natural leaders. That’s why Judaea had become such a sore in the flesh of the empire. The Judaeans could not be left to run their own affairs on Roman lines because their religion would not permit it. So Rome would have to intervene in order to enforce Roman rule. Unfortunately, she would have to intervene on such a scale that the cost of maintaining Judaea was far in excess of the tax revenue that could be generated, unless the people were squeezed for every coin available, and that in turn would only lead to revolt sooner or later. More troops would be required to restore and then maintain order. More taxes would be required to pay for the enlarged garrisons needed to keep the Judaeans in line, and so the vicious cycle of rebellion and repression would continue on and on. No wonder Centurion Parmenion was so weary and worn out after his years of service in the province.

  With a sudden flash of insight Cato realised that this was why Parmenion had been prepared to surrender Canthus to the mob. The soldier had outraged the villagers, and Parmenion had faced a stark choice. If he had tried to defend his man and ignore the offence, or protect him, he would have provoked a riot and simply added to the friction that was remorselessly tearing Judaea to pieces. Canthus’ death had served notice on Roman and Judaean alike that no one was above the law. If only such a principle became gener
al policy then some accommodation between Rome and Judaea was possible.

  Macro was watching him closely. ‘Don’t go soft on me now, lad. Whatever you may think are the rights and wrongs of the situation, we have a mission to carry through. About the hardest job that’s ever landed on our plate. I can’t afford to have you thinking about where all this goes. Keep your mind on what we must do. Worry about the other stuff later on, when it’s safe to do it.’ He chuckled. ‘And if you’re still alive to do it.’

  Cato smiled back. ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘Good. I’ll feel a lot better knowing that you are keeping an eye on things in the fort while I’m gone.’

  ‘Is it really necessary to do this?’

  ‘We need all the friends we can get in this region. If my plan works out, then it should go a long way towards restoring relations with the Nabataeans. That bastard Scrofa has a lot to answer for.’

  ‘Yes,’ Cato replied quietly. ‘Are you sure you want me to stay here?’

  ‘Absolutely. Most of the officers are good men, but we’ve seen how easily they can be led from the straight and narrow. There’s a few of them I still don’t trust. They’ll need watching. The last thing we need right now is some kind of counter-coup to restore Scrofa to command. That would be a bloody disaster. So you have to stay here, Cato. Anyway, I’d thought you’d be glad to have a cohort of your own to command.’

  ‘It’s a big responsibility, and given the doubtful loyalty of some of the men I’d rather be out in the field.’

  ‘I’m sure you would.’ Macro’s expression grew serious. ‘But not this time, Cato. You’ll be in charge here. You know who you can rely on. Parmenion may be getting on, but he’s a tough old bird, and straight as they come. If anything happens to me, then you must take care of Bannus. Don’t go tear-arsing around the desert looking for revenge, understand?’

  ‘It’s all right, sir. I know what needs to be done. Just make sure you don’t take any unnecessary risks.’

  ‘Me?’ Macro touched his chest with a hurt expression. ‘Take risks? I wouldn’t know where to begin.’

  Dawn was breaking across the desert as the gates of the fort creaked open and Macro led two squadrons of mounted men through the gatehouse. Despite the heat of the day, the nights were cold, and Cato was wrapped in a thick cloak as he stood in the tower above the gate and watched his friend ride out on to the stony track that led away from Fort Bushir, south and east towards the great trade route along which the caravans brought precious goods into the Empire from lands no Roman had ever seen. The first rays of the sun burnished the sand a fiery red and the dust kicked up by the horses’ hooves rose up in swirling puffs of orange. Long shadows flickered across the plateau like ripples of dark water and Cato could not help feeling a sense of foreboding as he watched the small column head out to do battle with the desert raiders. When he could no longer distinguish Macro from the rest of the men, Cato turned away and gazed down at the long barrack blocks stretching away from the wall. The fort was his to command, and to his surprise he found that beneath all his concern about his aptitude for his new role, he was secretly delighted to be the acting commander of the Second Illyrian cohort.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  ‘They’re here, sir,’ the decurion said softly.

  Macro blinked his eyes open. It was already daylight and the man was silhouetted against a pale blue sky. They had ridden hard for two days after leaving the fort and last night they had eaten and slept well. Macro had insisted on it, firmly believing the old military adage that men fight well on a full stomach. Around him there were the faint sounds of the first of his men waking. Macro threw back his cover and rose stiffly, stretching his shoulders until he felt the joints crack.

  ‘Ahhh! That’s better!’ He rolled his head and turned to the decurion. ‘Right then, show me.’

  The two officers strode across the courtyard of the Nabataean way station and climbed the ladder to the lookout tower built over the gateway. As Macro stood beside the decurion, the latter scanned the dimly lit land to the south of the fort and then pointed. ‘Over there, sir.’

  Macro squinted, and saw a faint flicker of movement, no more than a thin scattering of dots on the desert horizon; the head of the caravan he was waiting for, emerging from a depression in the plateau. ‘I see them.’

  As the two officers watched, the first riders led out a long train of pack animals as the caravan crawled along the trade route towards the way station. When it drew closer Macro saw a small party of horsemen detach from the vanguard and start trotting towards them. He turned to the decurion.

  ‘Get our men on their feet. I want them ready the moment the caravan reaches us.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The decurion saluted, climbed down into the courtyard and began shouting out his orders, rousing the last of the grumbling sleepers from their blankets. Macro stared down into the gloomy courtyard and nodded his approval as the decurion kicked some of the slower men into life. No laggard was going to show up the Roman army when those horsemen arrived. The auxiliaries hurriedly pulled on their boots and took up their weapons as the horsemen drew near. Due to the nature of the task ahead they had left their helmets, shields and spears at the fort, but they still wore chain mail over their padded linen tunics and had cavalry swords strapped to their sides. Finally, from each man’s shoulders hung a bow case, from which protruded the curved end of an unstrung compound bow and the feathered flights of the arrows. When Macro climbed down from the tower to inspect them he saw that they had all brushed off the fog of sleep and were alert and ready for action.

  The sound of hooves drumming across the parched ground drew their gaze towards the arched entrance and a moment later the dark silhouettes of mounted men filled the gate as they swiftly reined in and walked their horses inside. There were four of them, swathed in dark robes and turbans with veils that covered all but their dark eyes. For an instant all was still, and just the heavy bellows breath of the horses and the stamping of their hooves echoed round the station. Then, as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, the leader of the horsemen plucked his veil aside and smiled at Macro.

  ‘Symeon!’ Macro grinned back. ‘Good to see you. Is everything ready?’

  ‘Yes, Prefect.’ Symeon slid down from his saddle and gestured to his followers to do the same. ‘All is ready. The caravan is just behind us. It did not take me very long to find a cartel willing to have their revenge on these desert raiders.’

  ‘Good.’ Macro was relieved. His plan had hinged on Symeon’s persuading some Nabataeans to turn on their tormentors of the last few months. Now all the elements had fallen into place and the trap was ready to be sprung.

  Symeon stood aside and gestured to the men with him. They had also lifted their veils and Macro saw two older men, perhaps the same age as Symeon, but darker-skinned. Symeon gestured to them. ‘Tabor and Adul, my former business partners. Tabor also represents the cartel that owns this caravan. He and Adul still provide escorts for caravans from Arabia up to Petra. They’re travelling with the caravan because they want to extend their escort business towards Syria. Frankly, I suspect they’ve just come for the fight.’ Symeon grinned, and then placed his hand on the shoulder of the last man, who was younger. He was shorter than Symeon, though powerfully built with fierce black eyes and a neatly trimmed moustache. Symeon gazed on him proudly. ‘This is Murad, my adopted son. He took over my share of the business when I returned to Judaea. Tough as they come.’

  He spoke to the young man in Aramaic and Murad grinned, revealing fine white teeth. He drew his finger across his throat and made a guttural hiss to emphasise the gesture.

  ‘I think I might just get on well with you, young Murad.’ Macro smiled back, then bowed his head in greeting to Symeon’s companions. ‘Did you bring spare robes?’

  ‘Of course, Centurion. They’re on the lead camels.’

  Macro clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Fine work! Now, all that remains is to give those raiders the surprise of their lives.’
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br />   The sun was directly overhead and the glare shimmered off the sand and rock of the landscape so that Macro had to squint to avoid hurting his eyes. He rode at the head of the caravan with Symeon and his companions. Behind them came the long column of camels and horses, laden with goods. Macro’s men, dressed in the robes of caravan herders, walked along the route, leading small strings of their charges. Their weapons were concealed under the fake baggage on their animals’ saddles, the bows strung and ready to use. The real herders had remained in the way station, resting in the shadows of the walls as they waited for word from Symeon. It would have looked suspicious if the caravan had been attended by more men than usual. Macro stared back over his shoulder for a moment. To his eyes the caravan looked just as it did when it approached the way station at first light. With luck, then, it might fool the desert raiders as well. Only a handful of escorts rode out on the flanks and Macro hoped that such easy-looking prey would prove too tempting for the raiders to resist.

  After a brief halt, while the auxiliaries had dressed in the robes that Symeon and his men had provided, the caravan had continued past the way station, heading towards Philadelphia. The hours had passed slowly as the laden pack animals and camels trudged on with their endless hypnotic sway. Fearing that an enemy scout might overhear Roman voices, Macro had forbidden any conversation, and the caravan edged forward with only the soft shuffling of camels’ feet and the crunch of hooves and boots and on the ancient trade route to break the silence of the desert.

  Then Murad muttered something and there was a brief exchange of muted conversation between him and Symeon before the latter turned to Macro.

  ‘Centurion, we are being watched, but don’t look round. Murad saw a man in the dunes a moment ago. Just for an instant, then he disappeared.’

  ‘One of our raider friends?’ Macro responded softly.

  ‘Almost certainly. They will attack us soon, I think.’