The Zealot

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘To the cells under the royal palace. Don’t worry, I’ll do what I can to get you out of there as soon as possible.’

  ‘That would be nice,’ Macro said coldly. ‘If it’s not too much trouble.’

  The leader of the guards spoke to them, more insistently this time, and thrust his finger towards the siq. Cato stepped into the middle of the group of guards, and after a moment’s hesitation Macro followed him and they marched away. Once they had passed through the gate the rock faces closed in on both sides so that in places only a few men could stand abreast. Overhead the cliffs blocked out all but a thin sliver of open sky, and in places an overhang threw the passage into dim shadow. The route was paved and a small water channel ran alongside to prevent flooding. Those ahead of the small party had to squeeze to one side to permit them to pass as the guards and their prisoners made their way along the winding path into the city.

  ‘You can see why Pompey was never able to bring the Nabataeans to heel,’ Cato said quietly. ‘If this is the only way into Petra then a small force could hold an army at bay for ever.’

  ‘There has to be another way in,’ Macro replied. ‘A path through the mountains, or at least something scaleable. Surely?’

  ‘Maybe not. How else could Nabataea have resisted every conqueror passing through the region?’ Cato looked up at the cliffs in wonder. ‘It’s a miracle that anyone ever found this entrance in the first place.’

  They turned a corner and ahead of them a narrow fissure of light split the cliffs from top to bottom. A short distance beyond the opening was an enormous structure, a temple, built from massive columns. Only when they got closer did Cato realise this was no construction, but had been carved from solid rock.

  ‘Will you just look at that,’ Macro marvelled as they emerged from the siq and could see the entire edifice, fiery red in the sunlight angling down across it. They had emerged into a narrow canyon, stone-paved and filled with market stalls and the stands of bankers, just as in any large city of the empire. Except that there were no temples surrounding the market, just red cliffs. The guards steered them across the market area and round another corner and there, at last, the city of Petra revealed itself to them. Great tombs carved into the rock lined the broad thoroughfare leading into the heart of the mountain-bound city. More stalls lined the route and ahead, rising above a low spur of a hill, was a sprawl of magnificent palaces and temples. As they emerged from the tomb-lined street the cliffs opened out and the rest of the city came into sight, a mass of houses and streets covering the small rises in the ground that surrounded the basin at the heart of Petra. The guards and prisoners marched down a wide straight street, colonnaded on both sides, until they reached a broad flight of steps rising up the hill to the right upon which rested the great palace of the kings of Nabataea. They climbed the steps, but headed away from the large brass-covered doors of the main entrance towards a small, discreet door at the side. Beyond, a staircase descended beneath the palace and then a torchlit tunnel doubled back towards the street they had walked down. At the end of the tunnel was a line of cells with small barred openings that looked down into the street. The leader led them past the first cells, some of which contained a handful of wretched individuals living in their own filth as they awaited judgement or served out their punishment.

  Cato nudged Macro. ‘Look there.’

  Macro glanced to the side as they passed the bars of the last cell but one. Inside, sitting against the stone walls, were several Parthians, still wearing the scaled armour that they had fought in outside Fort Bushir. The eyes of the Parthians followed the new arrivals as they passed by and were ushered into the next cell. The leader of the guards closed the barred door and slid the bolts into place, and then marched off with his men, leaving the two Romans to themselves.

  Macro went over to the window and stepped up on to the bench below it so that he could see through the bars. Outside, people passed by, not bothering to cast a glance at the face of the prisoner staring at them from the dim recess at the base of the palace.

  ‘Not the best of results,’ he said grimly.

  ‘Symeon will sort the situation out. He’ll have us released as soon as possible.’

  ‘You seem to place great confidence in that man.’

  Cato had slumped down against the wall and felt the urge to sleep closing in on him like a shroud. His eyes felt heavy and he closed them for a moment. Yet he was piqued by Macro’s comment. ‘Confidence? Yes, I suppose so. He seems to know what he’s doing. And it’s thanks to him that Bannus was defeated at Bushir, remember?’

  ‘Fair point,’ Macro replied flatly, continuing to stare out between the bars. ‘I just hope he can get us out of this shithole.’

  ‘Colourful,’ Cato muttered, and then finally succumbed to his exhaustion as his chin dropped on to his breast and he fell asleep.

  A hand grasped his shoulder and shook him roughly. Cato stirred. ‘Leave me alone,’ he mumbled. ‘Go away, Macro.’

  The hand shook him again, more forcefully this time, and Cato raised his head, opened his eyes and made to protest again. Only it wasn’t Macro. Murad grinned at him and said something in his own tongue while he waved a finger mockingly at the young Roman officer. Macro was standing behind him.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Cato asked.

  ‘Seems that Symeon has sent us a few necessaries.’ Macro gestured to the floor of the cell and Cato saw a bundle of clothes and a small basket of bread and meat. Murad smiled, pointed to the food and then to his mouth.

  ‘Good! Eat. Eat.’

  Cato nodded. ‘I get the point, thanks.’

  He rose up stiffly and rubbed his lower back and buttocks, still aching from two days in the saddle. Outside in the street it was dark and the cell was illuminated by three flames of an oil lamp on the ground beside the door. Macro squatted down and tore off a hunk of bread and popped it into his mouth. As he chewed he gestured towards a wax tablet resting on top of the bundle of clothes. ‘He sent us a message as well.’

  ‘What does it say?’

  Macro started to explain, but he had too much bread in his mouth to talk properly and he began to chew furiously for a moment before he gave up and tossed the tablet over to Cato. ‘See for yourself,’ he managed to say.

  Cato picked it up and began to read. Symeon had been to see the royal chamberlain to explain the situation and request that the Romans be released. The trouble was that Bannus had beaten him to it, and had already informed the chamberlain that these were Roman spies sent to investigate Petra’s defences. Symeon had protested their innocence on this charge. Accordingly, the chamberlain had decided to see all parties first thing in the morning. Symeon had sent them a change of clothes and some of the local scented oil, and had paid the palace guards to bring them some water for washing so that they might present themselves in a decent state to the chamberlain. He concluded by saying that he was still trying to discover where Bannus was staying, that Yusef was safe and the casket was still in Bannus’ possession.

  Cato lowered the tablet and glanced down at himself. His skin was still streaked with dark smudges of the ash he had blackened himself with for the attack on the enemy camp. The sweat he had shed over the course of two days’ riding under the glare of the sun had caused dust to stick to his skin and work its way into every pore and crease. Glancing up at Macro he could see that his friend looked equally dishevelled. Murad pointed towards a tub in the corner of the cell and mimed washing his face.

  Cato nodded and bent down to untie his bootlaces. ‘What hour is it?’

  ‘No idea,’ Macro admitted. ‘I fell asleep a short time after you. Only woke up when they let Murad into the cell.’

  Once his boots were off, Cato reached for the hem of his tunic. Murad muttered something and quickly backed away and knocked on the door. A moment later the bolt slid back and a guard pulled it open. Murad turned and waved to them both and was gone. The guard shut and bolted the door behind him.

  Macro chuckled. �
�Seems that they’re not too keen on exposing bare flesh around here. I noticed that in the street. No idea how they can bear so much clothing in this heat.’

  Cato continued to strip. When he was naked he reached into the tub and discovered that there was a brush resting in the bottom. After he had scrubbed his skin down and dabbed himself dry he examined the clothes that Murad had brought them. There was a light linen tunic for each of them, as well as a flowing robe of some fine material he had never encountered before, and two pairs of lightweight sandals.

  ‘Nice,’ he muttered and began to dress.

  Macro took his turn at the tub, and then looked at the clothes suspiciously. ‘I’d rather wear my army tunic.’

  ‘It’s filthy, it’s torn and it stinks of horse-sweat.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So it’s hardly going to impress this royal chamberlain that Symeon mentioned. Besides,’ Cato raised his arms so that the folds of the fine material hung from his thin frame, ‘these clothes feel very comfortable. Very comfortable indeed. You’ll see.’

  ‘Huh!’ Macro snorted. ‘You look like a high class whore.’

  ‘Really?’ Cato smiled mischievously. ‘Then just wait until I try on that scented oil.’

  Shortly after the sun had appeared above the hills that surrounded the city, the guards came for Macro and Cato. Macro had made a poor show of wearing the clean garments provided for him and the robe hung untidily from his broad shoulders, folds of it overflowing the army belt that he wore loosely about his waist. Earlier, he had refused point blank to wear one drop of the scented oil from the ornate vial that Murad had placed carefully beside the clothes.

  ‘I will not stink like some two-sestertian tart!’ he fumed.

  Cato tried to reason with him. ‘When in Rome—’

  ‘That’s precisely the fucking point! We’re not in Rome. If we were then I wouldn’t have to take part in this fancy dress nonsense.’

  ‘Macro, there’s a lot riding on this. Not least the question of our getting out of this cell. We can’t do anything from here. We have to make a good impression on the local powers. So please, arrange those clothes properly at least. And, if you’re not going to wear the oil, you’d better make sure you stand downwind of the chamberlain.’

  ‘Ha bloody ha,’ Macro grumbled, but he began to pluck the folds of the unfamiliar garb into place. When it came to the sandals, Macro was surprised to discover how comfortable they felt after the sturdy army boots he had grown so accustomed to. Not, of course, that he would admit as much to Cato.

  ‘All right then. I’m ready. Let’s go.’

  They were taken up the tunnel from the cells. As they passed the Parthians, still held in the next cell, Macro winked at them. ‘Enjoy the hospitality, lads.’

  ‘What’s the point?’ asked Cato. ‘They can’t understand you.’

  ‘I’m out here in clean clothes, while they’re stuck in a nasty dark cell. What’s not to understand?’ Macro grinned.

  The chamberlain saw them in the court he held adjacent to that of the King. It was a grand hall, lined with columns that soared up to a ceiling covered with geometric patterns picked out in gold. A low dais with an ornate chair and side table stood at the end of the room and light flooded in through shuttered windows high up on the walls. In one corner a caged bird was singing a beautiful but mournful song over and over again. A guard indicated that they were to stand in front of the dais and then turned away and left them, closing the doors behind him.

  ‘What now, I wonder?’ Cato said softly.

  They stood in silence for a while, expecting the imminent arrival of the chamberlain and his retinue, but no one came, and the repetitive song of the bird continued to echo off the walls until Macro felt a compulsion to wring its neck and jam the carcass on a roasting spit. Fortunately for the songbird, the doors suddenly opened again and Symeon was shown into the room. He smiled at the sight of the two Romans.

  ‘There! You look a lot more civilised.’ He gave Macro a quick appraisal. ‘Well, less like barbarians at least.’

  ‘What’s happening?’ Macro asked. ‘We’ve been waiting here for ages. Where’s this bloody chamberlain?’

  ‘He’s been conferring with his advisers. The arrival of Bannus, and then you two, has created something of a difficult situation for the Nabataeans.’

  ‘How so?’

  Symeon glanced round before he lowered his voice and continued. ‘One of the Parthians who entered the city with Bannus claims to be a prince of their royal household. If the Nabataeans continue to hold him prisoner, they risk offending Parthia. They’ve heard that the Parthians are massing forces close to Rome’s Syrian frontier. If there’s a war between Rome and Parthia, and Parthia wins, then Nabataea cannot afford for there to be any bad will between them. On the other hand, Bannus and his Parthian friend are responsible for attempting to launch a rebellion in Judaea. If the Nabataeans release this Parthian prince and his friend Bannus, they risk offending Rome.’ Symeon paused to let it sink in. ‘You can see the problem. At the moment they are trying to verify the Parthian’s claim.’

  ‘But that could take weeks.’

  ‘Apparently not. Parthia sent an ambassador to the Nabataean king recently. They’re at his palace on the Red Sea. The chamberlain has sent word to the King about the situation and asked that he return, with the ambassador, to Petra.’

  ‘How long will that take?’ asked Macro.

  ‘Several days.’

  Macro pressed his lips together to contain his frustration. ‘I am not going to be stuck in that bloody cell for that long. You can tell that to your bloody chamberlain.’

  At the sound of footsteps approaching Symeon glanced towards the door. ‘I think you’ll be able to tell him yourself.’

  The doors opened again, and a small crowd of people entered the hall, in the wake of a tall thin man, richly dressed. The chamberlain’s retinue of clerks and advisers took their positions on and around the dais. The chamberlain ignored Symeon and the two Romans until he had settled in his seat. Then he looked towards them and smiled an insincere politician’s smile.

  ‘I apologise for the inhospitable manner of your entry to our city.’

  His Greek was cultured and flawless. He sounded more Greek than most Greeks, Cato decided as the chamberlain continued addressing them.

  ‘Symeon has made representations to me that you be released into his custody for the duration of your stay in Petra. I will grant this, on the following conditions: first, that you swear an oath not to attempt to quit the city; second, that you confine your movements to the centre of Petra, and make no effort to reconnoitre our defences; third, that you avoid all contact with Bannus and his Parthian allies. If you encounter them in the street you will ignore them. Any breach of these conditions will result in your immediate reincarceration.’

  ‘Reincar-what?’ Macro muttered to Cato.

  ‘They’ll chuck us back in the cell.’

  ‘Oh.’

  The chamberlain looked at them. ‘Are you willing to accept these conditions?’

  Macro nodded. ‘We are, sir.’

  ‘Very well. Do I have your oath to abide by these conditions?’

  ‘I swear it.’

  ‘And your friend?’

  ‘I swear it also,’ Cato responded.

  ‘Good! That is settled then. Bannus and the Parthian prince have sworn the same oath, so there will be no trouble between you while you are under our jurisdiction.’ There was no doubting the imperative undertone of his statement and the Roman officers nodded their assent.

  ‘So, then,’ the chamberlain continued. ‘What is it that Rome would ask of the Nabataean kingdom, in respect of the present situation?’

  Macro frowned as he tried to follow the gist of the chamberlain’s words. Fortunately Cato had a firm grasp of Greek and was able to reply on their behalf. ‘We want the safe return of the boy taken hostage by Bannus. We want the return of a casket that belongs to the boy’s family, and we want B
annus.’

  ‘And what of the Parthian prince?’

  Cato looked to Macro for a decision. Macro opened his mouth, paused and then raised a finger. ‘Just a moment please, sir.’ He turned to Cato and whispered, ‘What do you think? Should we let that Parthian bastard off the hook?’

  ‘I don’t see what else we can do,’ Cato replied, with a quick glance at the chamberlain who was clearly less than amused by Macro’s informal request for an intermission. ‘You heard what Symeon said. Nabataea dare not risk offending Parthia. For that matter, I doubt that the Emperor would want to present Parthia with any grievance against Rome. I’d say we drop any claim we have on him and concentrate our efforts on Bannus.’

  Macro thought it over. It made sense in the circumstances, even though he was reluctant to lose his moral claim for revenge against the Parthian who shared the responsibility for the deaths of so many men of the Second Illyrian. He swallowed his anger and turned back to the chamberlain. ‘We lay no claim on the Parthian.’

  A visible ripple of relief swept through the Nabataean officials. The chamberlain gestured to one of the guards and spoke in their tongue. The guard bowed and turned to a side door. He opened it and beckoned to someone waiting outside. A moment later, Bannus entered the hall. He glanced round and for a moment there was no expression on his face as he caught sight of Symeon and the two Romans. Then his eyes narrowed slightly, betraying his bitter hatred. The chamberlain called out to him and indicated that he should stand to one side of the dais, some distance from his enemies.

  ‘Bannus,’ he began, ‘these representatives of Rome demand that you are handed over to them.’

  ‘No!’ Bannus cried out. ‘You must not betray me. I came here to ask for asylum. Is this how Nabataea treats its guests?’

  ‘I do not recall extending an invitation to you,’ the chamberlain replied with another of his smiles. ‘Therefore you are not our guest.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I would ask you for shelter, for protection against a common enemy.’

  ‘Enemy?’

  ‘I speak of Rome.’