The Zealot

by Simon Scarrow

  Scrofa slumped back and whispered, ‘No such luck …’

  ‘Wait!’ Cato leaned over him. ‘Scrofa! You said treachery. What treachery?’

  Scrofa’s eyes fluttered and he spasmed, his body arching as the muscles tensed. Then abruptly he relaxed and sank back on to the sand, head lolling to one side. Cato snatched his arm and felt for a pulse, but there was nothing and he let the arm drop down to Scrofa’s side. ‘He’s gone.’

  Macro stared at him for a moment and shook his head. ‘You know, I never thought he had it in him to go out like a hero. It took guts to do what he did. I was wrong about him.’

  ‘No, you were right about him, up until the end.’ Cato rose to his feet. ‘This was his redemption. He knew that. I saw it when he saluted you. He was lucky to get his chance to do some good before he died.’

  ‘Lucky?’ Macro stood up. ‘You have a funny idea of luck, Cato.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Cato looked round. The auxiliaries were spread out across the camp, chasing after the Judaeans. This time it was no ploy to gain time. The enemy was routed and the Romans’ wild triumph and bloodlust was unrestrained. Ahead of them rode the new arrivals, mercilessly running down the Judaean rebels and those Parthian allies who had been unhorsed.

  Macro noticed a small group of horsemen riding across towards them. At their head was Symeon, and as they approached and reined in Macro recognized Murad amongst his companions and they exchanged a smile. Symeon slid down from his mount and grasped Macro’s arms and planted a kiss on each of his cheeks.

  ‘Prefect. Thanks be to Yahweh that you are safe! You too, Centurion Cato.’ Symeon gestured towards the riders sweeping across the desert after the enemy. ‘Apologies for not arriving sooner, but we made the best time we could.’

  ‘Who are all these men?’ Macro asked. ‘I was expecting some help, not a bloody army.’

  ‘Those men work for the caravan cartels. Caravan escorts. Mostly mercenaries, but good men.’

  ‘They certainly seem to be taking satisfaction in their work. How did you get hold of so many of them?’

  ‘My friends gave their word to repay you for saving that caravan.’

  ‘Well, they’ve certainly returned the favour,’ Macro responded. ‘Now we have to find Bannus, make sure that he’s taken alive if he isn’t dead already. He needs to be made an example of.’

  ‘Bannus?’ Symeon turned and pointed down the road towards Heshaba. ‘I saw a party of horsemen ride that way as we attacked. Perhaps twenty or thirty. Most were Parthians. He could have been with them.’

  ‘More than likely,’ Macro replied. ‘I’ll have to go after him.’

  ‘Ride with us,’ Symeon offered. ‘We know the lie of the land. You’ll not get far on your own. No Roman would. Besides, I have my own business to settle with Bannus.’

  Macro thought for a moment. ‘All right then. But first tell your men they can quarter in the fort if they wish. We can feed and water them. I’ll leave Centurion Parmenion in command, and give him orders to look after your men. He can also have our hostages released. We’re no further need of them now. Wait here. Cato!’

  ‘Yes, sir?’

  ‘Find us two good mounts, and suitable kit and provisions for hunting down Bannus.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Cato looked at him with an anxious expression.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘It’s that village that worries me, sir. The one that sheltered me and Symeon.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Symeon said Bannus was heading in that direction, and he’ll need to water his horses, and find provisions himself, before he goes any further. Bannus is a desperate man. In his current frame of mind who knows what he’ll do when he gets there?’

  ‘Well, we’ll find out soon enough,’ Macro responded soberly. ‘Now, let’s not waste any more time.’

  He turned and strode back towards the fort.

  Cato had a sick feeling in his stomach the moment they turned the last corner in the track leading down the wadi towards the village of Heshaba early in the afternoon. They had seen a trail of smoke from some distance away and now the village was in view below them, beneath a dark billowing cloud. Several of the houses in the centre of the village were burning fiercely and some of the inhabitants were trying to beat the flames out, while others formed a chain from the water trough in the village square, throwing buckets of water on to the flames. Symeon looked aghast and spurred his mount into a gallop at the sight, and the rest of the small column hastened after him. They tethered the horses to a clump of olive trees outside the village and ran through to the square. Several villagers lay dead to one side amidst great puddles of blood, all of them with cut throats. Symeon snapped a series of orders at his men and they went to help fight the fires as best they could. Cato looked round in alarm.

  ‘Where’s Miriam? I can’t see her.’

  Symeon looked round anxiously, then pointed up the street to where a woman sat slumped against the side of a building, in the shade. ‘I think that’s her. Come on.’

  They ran over to the woman, who was sitting cross-legged and nursing her head in both hands as she wept.

  Symeon crouched down beside her. ‘Miriam?’

  She wiped her eyes and looked up, revealing a cut and bruised cheek. She seemed dazed and confused for an instant before some clarity of thought returned to her. She swallowed and cleared her throat. ‘What have we done to deserve this?’

  ‘What happened?’ Symeon asked gently. He took her hand and stroked it. ‘Miriam, what happened?’

  She looked up at him, lips quivering. ‘Bannus. He came here with some men. They demanded food and the little gold and silver that we have. When my people protested Bannus seized the nearest family, and killed them, one by one, until we gave him what he wanted.’ She looked round at Cato and Macro. ‘He took my son’s casket … and … and he took my … my Yusef.’ Her face crumpled and she began to weep again, great sobs of despair and sorrow racking her thin frame. Symeon tenderly placed his arm round her shoulder and stroked her hair with his spare hand.

  ‘Yusef?’ Cato frowned. ‘Why would he take Yusef? It doesn’t make sense. If he’s trying to escape us why burden himself with a prisoner?’

  ‘Not a prisoner,’ Miriam mumbled. ‘A hostage. He recognised you, Symeon, when you attacked him this morning. He knows you are coming after him, and he knows you would not allow Yusef to come to any harm. So he took him with them.’

  ‘All right,’ said Macro. ‘I can understand the boy, but this casket? What’s that about?’

  Miriam replied quietly. ‘Bannus claims to be the one who is continuing the work of Jehoshua. He had a large following amongst our people. They would place great value on the contents of the casket.’

  ‘Treasure?’

  Miriam shrugged. ‘A kind of treasure. Now it’s in the hands of Bannus and he will want to use it to claim that he is the rightful successor to my son.’

  ‘What’s in the casket?’ Macro asked Symeon.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Symeon replied. ‘Only Miriam knows.’

  Macro turned back to her. ‘Well?’

  She shook her head and Macro sighed impatiently. ‘So don’t tell me … Anyway, Bannus has the casket, he has a hostage and he has a head start on us. Do you know which way he went?’

  ‘Yes.’ Miriam looked up and cuffed her tears away. ‘He said to tell Symeon to find him in Petra.’

  ‘Petra?’ Cato was confused. ‘Why Petra? And why tell us where he is going?’

  ‘He wants to speak to Symeon. Somewhere he can talk in safety.’

  ‘Makes some sense,’ Symeon conceded. ‘Petra’s neutral even if these friends of mine are not. They’ve been an enemy of Judaea in the past, but now they’re concerned that Rome has her eye on Nabataea. Bannus is counting on their king’s mistrust of Rome. Bannus thinks he’ll be safe there.’

  ‘How long ago did they leave?’ Macro interrupted. ‘Miriam?’

  ‘Just before noon.’
/>
  ‘It’s what, two days’ ride to Petra?’

  Symeon nodded. ‘Two days, or quicker if you force the pace.’

  ‘Could we catch up with him?’

  Symeon shrugged. ‘We could try.’

  ‘Then let’s get moving – we’ve wasted enough time here.’ Macro saw the hurt in Symeon’s expression as he comforted Miriam and was aware of Cato’s disapproving frown. He turned to Miriam and tried to sound reasonable and reassuring. ‘Listen, Miriam, the sooner we set off after them, the better chance we have of getting your grandson back for you, and that casket.’

  Miriam suddenly grabbed his hand and looked into Macro’s eyes with an intense expression. ‘Swear to me that you will bring Yusef back to me! Swear it!’

  ‘What?’ Macro looked angry and tried to pull his hand back, but the woman gripped him with surprising strength. ‘Look, I can’t swear it. But I’ll do my best.’

  ‘Swear it!’ she insisted. ‘As Yahweh is your witness.’

  ‘I don’t know about any Yahweh,’ Macro replied uneasily. ‘But if you want me to swear by Jupiter and Fortuna, I will, if it helps you.’

  ‘By your gods then,’ she assented. ‘Swear to return Yusef to me.’

  ‘I swear I will do my best,’ Macro compromised, then turned to Cato and Symeon. ‘Now let’s get going.’

  He strode back towards the horses. Symeon squeezed Miriam’s shoulder gently one last time, then set off after Macro, calling out to his men to leave the fires and come with him. Cato hesitated a moment. He was sick of the suffering that he had witnessed in this province. Sick of his part in its perpetuation. The image of the boy he had slammed his shield down on to flashed through Cato’s mind. A boy the same age as Yusef. He felt a great sadness settle on him like a heavy burden. Something had to be done about the situation. Cato needed to bring some good out of it all. Just to feel clean again. ‘Miriam?’

  She looked up.

  ‘We will find him, and bring him back,’ said Cato. ‘I promise I won’t rest until we do.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  ‘So where’s this city of yours?’ Macro asked as they rode down the worn track between the steep-sided hills.

  Symeon gestured to his right. ‘In there.’

  Macro and Cato turned towards the sheer rock faces towering up on the other side of the valley. There seemed to be no break in the cliffs, and rising up in the distance beyond were the rocky peaks and crags of yet higher hills.

  ‘Rocks, rocks and more rocks,’ Macro grumbled. ‘Petra – the name says it all.’

  Cato nodded wearily. He was at the end of his endurance. There had been no rest in the days of Bannus’ assault on Fort Bushir, and afterwards they had ridden relentlessly down the line of the mountains that ran along the Jordan valley, pursuing Bannus and the small band of his followers who had survived their defeat at Bushir. Symeon, at the head of a select party of the Nabataeans, had driven them on, grim-faced, forever scanning the way ahead for the least sign of Bannus. They had sighted him once, from the peak above the village of Dana. Before them stretched a vista of smaller mountains and hills that gave out on to the wide barren basin of the lower Jordan valley. The air was so dry and clear that little of the detail was lost in the distance and from where they stood they could see the foothills on the far side of the valley, thirty or forty miles away. Even Macro was impressed by the spectacular vista. Then Murad gave a shout and pointed towards the hills further to the south. A thin column of tiny black specks was climbing a distant ridge, and a faint puff of dust marked their progress. Symeon shouted a command and they set off again, riding hard to catch up, but soon the distant horsemen had crested the ridge and disappeared from sight.

  They rode until dusk made further progress dangerous and then camped in the open, rising at the first hint of light to continue the chase. So it was that two days after leaving Heshaba they approached Petra in the blistering heat of noon. As they descended into the valley that led to the entrance of the city they passed a caravan heading north: hundreds of camels piled high with goods bound for the luxury-loving Hellenic cities of the Decapolis. Symeon, Murad and the others exchanged greetings with the men in charge of the caravan and stopped a moment for a brief conversation before they made their farewells and the caravan continued climbing the track at a slow steady pace.

  Symeon reined his horse in alongside Macro and Cato. ‘I asked them if there had been any new arrivals in Petra earlier today, or yesterday.’

  ‘And?’ Macro responded.

  ‘It seemed that Bannus arrived at first light. They saw a party of horsemen enter the siq as the camels were being loaded. They had a boy with them, and a number of Parthians. It has to be Bannus.’

  ‘Siq?’ Cato asked. ‘What is the siq?’

  Symeon smiled at him. ‘The siq is Petra’s secret weapon. You’ll see what I mean the moment we pass into it.’

  They rode on, into the base of the valley, and became aware of a growing sound of voices, the braying of donkeys and the deeper grunt of camels, and then the track turned round a spur of rock and ahead of them lay a vast open area filled with men and beasts. Porters struggled with great bundles of goods: rolls of cloth, tightly bound packages of spices and fine glassware carefully packed in straw and placed in wicker baskets. Caravans were being loaded for the cities of the north, while others, unladen, were preparing to return to the great trading ports of Arabia for their next consignment of luxuries. Cato looked round eagerly. He had never seen the like of some of the people who thronged the great natural marshalling arena of Petra – brown-skinned, silk-robed men with narrow eyes, and dark hair in plaits. He pointed them out to Symeon and asked who they were.

  ‘They’re from the east. The furthest east a man can go, so I’m told. I don’t know much about them, except that they are as rich as men can be, thanks to Roman and Greek gold and silver. The amount of treasure passing through Petra is almost beyond imagination, Cato. I am surprised you Romans aren’t being bled white by such an outpouring of your wealth.’

  ‘You’ve never been to Rome, have you?’

  ‘Not yet. But I will, one day.’

  ‘Then you’ll see why Rome can afford these luxuries. There is nothing the richest men cannot buy. Their coffers are that deep.’

  ‘For the moment perhaps,’ Symeon mused. ‘But no empire, however rich, can continue indulging itself at such a rate, surely?

  ‘I don’t know,’ Cato admitted. ‘I’ve never thought about it.’

  Symeon shrugged. ‘Then maybe you should.’

  After Symeon had dismissed his Nabataeans they rode on, threading through the marshalling arena until they reached a broad road that led towards the rock cliffs. The road was paved and gently cambered with a drainage ditch on either side. There was plenty of traffic along the route, more porters, merchants and mercenaries like the men who rode with Symeon and Murad. On either side of the road were tombs, carved into the rock with great skill so that the facades looked like freestanding columns. Then the road curved round a large rock formation and Cato and Macro saw a small but solid-looking gateway built across the road. Behind it soared sheer cliffs of red rock marked with darker and lighter bands of stratification. There was a narrow fissure between the cliffs that led back into the mountains. Symeon turned to his Roman companions.

  ‘That, my friends, is the siq.’

  The gateway was guarded by a score of men in fine robes and polished scale armour that gleamed brilliantly when they stood directly in the sunlight, out of the shade of the cliffs. Before the gate stood a crowd waiting to pay their toll to go through, while a steady stream of people passed by in the opposite direction. Symeon indicated that they should dismount, and led them over to join the crowd entering the siq. The crowd slowly shuffled forward until Symeon approached the table set up by the entrance. A smiling, over-indulged official greeted him in Aramaic.

  Symeon responded, indicating the size of his party, and the official quickly rattled some beads across an
abacus to work out the toll. Symeon took out his purse and handed over some silver coins, and the official slipped them into the slot atop a big chest to one side of the table. He was about to wave them through when he spotted Macro and Cato and his eyes narrowed suspiciously. He raised his hand to halt Symeon and shot some questions to him in a hostile tone. Symeon responded as reasonably as he could, but the official became increasingly ill tempered and finally shouted an order to the guards by the gate.

  Macro stepped towards the table. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Our friend seems to have taken exception to you. There were some Parthians amongst a party seeking entry to Petra early this morning. Now there are two Romans. He wants to know why representatives of the great powers are suddenly so interested in visiting Petra.’

  ‘But we’re not representatives. We’re just hunting down Bannus. Tell him.’

  ‘I did. I said I have a house here and that you are my guests. He didn’t believe me. He says he must detain you and is going to inform the palace that you are being held.’

  ‘Detain? You mean arrest?’ Macro frowned. ‘Not likely.’

  A squad of six guards approached from the gatehouse and Macro’s hand slid down to the handle of his sword. He drew it a short distance from the scabbard, before Cato pressed the pommel back down.

  ‘Macro, that’s not going to help. Please don’t. We can’t afford to cause any trouble.’

  ‘Bollocks.’

  ‘This won’t help us to take Bannus prisoner, and return Yusef to his mother.’

  Macro turned from Cato to the approaching guards, and then back to Cato again with a deep sigh of resentment and frustration. ‘All right then.’

  The guards halted in front of the table and their leader approached the two Romans warily. He gestured towards their swords and Cato and Macro reluctantly drew them and handed them over. Then he indicated the entrance to the siq.

  Cato turned to Symeon. ‘Where are they taking us?’