The Zealot Read online

  ‘Wait here a moment,’ he called back. ‘Until I’m out of sight. Then go. They’ll follow you.’

  As soon as Symeon and Cato had dropped below the level of the main track the decurion wheeled his horse round. ‘Let’s go!’

  The auxiliaries followed him, kicking their heels in and yelling at their mounts to urge them on. Macro waited a moment, torn between staying with his friend and getting to the fort as swiftly as possible to give the order to send out a column to rescue him. Then he gripped the reins and thrust the heels of his boots into the side of his horse and set off after the auxiliaries. As he took a last glance towards the gully into which the two figures had disappeared, Macro vowed to himself that if any harm came to Cato he would not rest until Symeon paid for it with his life.

  Symeon steered the two horses into the dried river bed and followed its course for a moment until there was a looping bend. Then he reined the animals in and waited. The horses were exhausted, and snorted and breathed heavily as they scuffed the ground with their hooves.

  ‘Shhh!’ Symeon said softly, and gently patted the neck of his horse. ‘Let’s not give ourselves away, eh?

  In the distance he could hear the faint drumming of a number of horses, getting closer. Symeon offered up a silent prayer that his pursuers would be single-minded enough to chase after Macro and the others and ignore the quiet side track. The sound of their approach swiftly grew louder and Symeon felt his body tense as he waited for them to pass. Beside him, Cato suddenly straightened up in his saddle, his eyes flickering open and then staring about as he gazed at his surroundings in confusion.

  ‘What … Where am I?’

  ‘Quiet, boy!’ Symeon grabbed his forearm tightly. ‘I beg you.’

  Cato stared at him, then clenched his eyes shut as another wave of dizziness overcame him. With a convulsive heave he threw up, over his mail vest and down the glistening flank of his horse. He spat weakly to clear his mouth, then slumped forward again, his mind wandering as he muttered, ‘Because it’s my fucking tent … that’s why.’

  Symeon’s shoulders sank in relief as the Roman fell silent again. He strained his ears and listened as the brigand horsemen galloped closer, shouting wildly with the thrill of the chase with the auxiliaries clearly in view. There was no sound to indicate they had divided or even slowed down at the junction of the two tracks, and they galloped on until the sounds faded in the distance. Symeon waited until it was quiet again, listening for any sounds of stragglers, but there was nothing. With a click of his tongue he turned the horses round and headed back up the gully to the track. Then, supporting Cato as carefully as he could, he steered the horses in the direction of the village.

  Cato awoke from a bad dream with a start. Instantly, whatever terror it was that had spurred him into consciousness was gone, even before he could remember it. His head hurt horribly, the pain pounding away at his skull. He opened his eyes and at once the pain was worsened by the searing brightness of the sunshine. Cato blinked and squinted and then his nostrils filled with the acidic odour of his vomit and he retched, clasping a hand to his mouth.

  When he opened his eyes again a moment later, the stabbing pain of the light had subsided a little and he saw that he was riding into a small settlement. Small, neatly kept houses of stone, plastered with mud, were on either side. Sun shelters of thatched palm leaves leaned against the sides of buildings and here and there the long slender trunks of palm trees stretched up. Then Cato was aware of the people, Semitic and dressed in light-coloured flowing robes. Children wore simple tunics. Women and men were grinding grain in stone basins, and a small group of people seemed to be engaged in some kind of meeting outside the largest of the buildings. They paused and stared at him as Symeon led the horses past. Symeon bowed his head in greeting to each person in turn and then stopped outside a small house at the centre of the village. Sliding down from his horse, he turned and helped Cato down, straining as he took the centurion’s weight. As he pulled Cato’s arm across his shoulders and struggled towards the doorway an older woman emerged from the house.

  She was grey-haired, with strikingly beautiful features and dark eyes. Although she was small and slender, she carried herself with graceful authority and stared a moment at the two men approaching the threshold of her house.

  ‘Symeon ben Jonas,’ she said sternly, in Greek. ‘I have not seen you for over a year and you turn up on my doorstep with a drunk Roman soldier. What’s the meaning of this?’

  ‘He’s not drunk. He’s injured and he needs your help. He’s also very heavy … I could use a hand.’

  The woman tutted and stepped forward to support Cato on his free side. As she took up some of the weight Cato stirred, rolled his head round and smiled as he introduced himself. ‘Centurion Quintus Licinius Cato, at your service.’

  ‘You are welcome to my home, Centurion.’

  ‘And whose home would that be?’

  ‘This is an old friend of mine,’ Symeon explained. ‘Miriam of Nazareth.’

  Cato’s mind was still reeling, and he struggled to make sense of his situation. ‘Nazareth. This can’t be Nazareth.’

  ‘It isn’t. This is the village of Heshaba.’

  ‘Heshaba. That’s nice. Who lives here?’

  ‘It’s a commune,’ said Miriam. ‘We’re followers of Jehoshua.’

  Jehoshua … Cato struggled for a moment before he recalled that this was the man who had been executed by Rome. He glanced round at the faces of the villagers as a cold trickle of fear traced its way down his spine.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Macro deliberately slowed his pace as the brigands reached the junction, to make sure that they came after him. As soon as he saw them gallop past the side track he stabbed his heels in and his horse burst forward again, pounding over the ground. He glanced back and saw that the brigands were keeping up with him, some two hundred paces behind. If his mount fell, or tired too quickly, they would be on him in a moment. One Roman against thirty or more. Not good odds, he thought grimly. If only he could do that trick of Symeon’s with his bow. He had never seen archery like that before. He had heard of it. Only one nation in the east had archers who were reputed to be able to perform such feats. Parthia. In which case … he felt his stomach turn to ice. If Symeon was a Parthian spy then he had left Cato in the hands of one of Rome’s longest-standing and bitterest enemies. But surely not. Symeon did not look like a Parthian. He certainly did not sound like one, and after all, he had saved their lives only the day before. So who exactly was Symeon of Bethsaida?

  If he escaped his pursuers, Macro told himself that he would find out. But for the present only one thing mattered: staying out of the hands of Bannus and his men. He had little doubt that the revenge Bannus would seek for the death of his sicarian gang members would be agonising and drawn out. He glanced back and saw that they were still some way behind him, and did not seem to be closing the distance.

  ‘Go on, my girl!’ he called out to the horse. ‘Run like we’re on the last lap in the Circus Maximus.’

  The beast seemed to sense his will to live and stretched out its sleek neck as the hooves pounded across the crude track. Ahead, Macro could see the auxiliaries and was sure that he was gaining on them. That gave him a slender shred of comfort. At least it would improve the odds, if the brigands did catch up with them. Better odds, same result, Macro thought. But at least, with a few men fighting at his side, he should be able to take more of the bastards down with him before his turn came.

  He raced on across the desert, and as the distance took its toll on the horse’s reserves of energy it began to slow down, and soon was barely able to do more than a canter. A quick glance forward and another over his shoulder revealed that all the mounts were suffering fatigue, and with the sun rising higher into the sky, the heat soon sapped their fast dwindling strength. They had been ridden far longer and harder than they were used to and were blown. One by one, the auxiliaries’ horses stopped running and slowed to a weary walk
, and Macro had closed up with the stragglers by the time his mount too had had enough.

  The decurion dropped back to ride at his side. ‘Where’s Centurion Cato, and the guide?’

  ‘Couldn’t keep up with us.’ Macro explained. ‘They’re hiding back there. We’ll go back for them with men from the fort.’

  The decurion shrugged. ‘If they’re still there.’

  The auxiliary officer left Macro to continue along the track and rode back to round up his stragglers Half a mile behind the brigands came on in a haze of dust. Twice they forced their horses into a canter and the Romans followed suit, driving their mounts on harshly, until the brigands gave up and continued at a steady walking pace, at which point the Romans reined in as well, and both parties continued along the track in the grilling heat of the midday sun.

  Then, ahead, where the heat shimmered off the ground like water, Macro saw a low wavering silhouette. He squinted and it took a moment before he realised what he was seeing, and his heart soared. Turning in his saddle he called out to the auxiliaries.

  ‘It’s the fort, lads! Straight ahead.’

  The men instantly lifted themselves and stared along the track, some shielding their eyes to cut the glare and see Bushir more clearly, no more than two miles away. As they drew nearer and the heat haze dissipated Macro could make out more detail. The fort was constructed from stone, with four massive towers, one at each corner. In between stretched long curtain walls with a smaller tower either side of the main gate on the wall facing the track. A short distance from the fort was a reservoir, built into a dip in the ground where two shallow gullies converged. Macro could just make out the tiny dark shapes of a group of men watching their approach from one of the towers.

  Behind them, a faint cry rose up from the brigands as they too caught sight of the fort, and forced their mounts to make one last effort to catch the Romans before they reached safety.

  The decurion responded immediately. ‘Squadron … forward!’

  He kicked his heels in and his tired mount lurched into a canter, and his men followed suit, pounding along the track as their pursuers started to close the distance, desperate to make the kill. Macro did his best to keep up with the auxiliaries, but he was an infantryman and not used to getting the best out of his mount, and so he gradually slipped behind. As the auxiliaries approached the fort the gate opened and fully armed men piled out and quick-marched towards their comrades, ready to provide a defensive screen against the pursuers. Some officer in the fort had acted very quickly and Macro made a mental note to thank the man, if he got away from the brigands pursuing him.

  The first of the auxiliaries passed through the gap in the infantry line and then reined in quickly and dismounted from their exhausted horses. Macro glanced back and saw that Bannus’ men were much closer now, foam flicking back from the muzzles of their driven mounts.

  ‘Come on, you bastard!’ Macro growled at the two ears rising stiffly at the end his horse’s neck. ‘Run! Or we’re both food for the jackals.’

  The horse seemed to sense his urgency, and struggled on, as fast as its trembling limbs could carry it, towards the line of infantry striding towards them. Then it seemed to miss a step, and staggered on for an instant before its front legs began to buckle. Macro released the reins and grabbed the saddle horns with all his might to stop himself being thrown forward. The beast slowed and then collapsed, thudding belly first on to the ground. At once Macro heaved himself off, and sprinted towards the oncoming infantry. Behind him he heard the exultant cry of the brigands as they scented his blood. He glanced back and saw them only a short distance behind, blades drawn, the leading man leaning out to one side, sword rising up ready to strike. Just beyond the line of infantrymen the decurion suddenly wheeled his horse round, drew his weapon and spurred his mount back down the track, knocking aside one of the infantry as he charged towards Macro. At the last moment, he cried out, ‘Get down!’

  Macro’s ears were filled with the pounding rhythm of hooves as he threw himself to one side, off the track, and rolled heavily, the impact driving the breath from his lungs. A large shadow danced across the ground beside him and he heard the swish of a blade cutting through the air. Then the legs of horses were all about him and Macro curled into a ball, shielding his head in his burly arms as he was sprayed with gravel. Blades clashed with a shrill ring and the decurion shouted, ‘No you don’t, you bastard!’ Each time Macro tried to glance up, he was blinded by grit and dust, and only heard the fight going on around him. Then something spattered down on him, hot and wet, and a voice grunted in triumph.

  ‘Get ’em!’ a voice shouted. ‘Stick it to ’em, Second Illyrian!’

  Then there were booted feet all round Macro, more shadows, and someone grabbed him under the arms and hauled him up.

  ‘You all right, mate?’ A man’s face loomed in front of him. Then the soldier saw Macro’s mail vest and the medallions on his harness. ‘Sorry, sir. You all right?’

  Macro was dazed. ‘Yes, fine.’

  Then he noticed the doubtful look on the man’s face and glanced down and saw that a great streak of bood splashed across his shoulders and down his left arm. His fingers fumbled over the blood, but found no injury. ‘Not mine.’

  The soldier puffed out his cheeks in relief, nodded and turned away, hurrying after his comrades as they drove the brigands back. Macro closed his eyes and wiped the grit from his face on the back of a hairy forearm, then looked around. The men from the fort were chasing after the surviving brigands, thrusting at them and their mounts with spears. On the ground close to Macro lay the bodies of three of the brigands, and the decurion. The latter lay sprawled on his back, eyes staring up at the sun, mouth hanging open. A sword blade had opened his throat to the spine and the ground about him was drenched with blood.

  ‘Poor bastard …’ Macro mumbled, before he realised that the decurion had sacrificed himself to save the man he had been charged with escorting safely to Bushir. ‘Poor brave bastard,’ Macro corrected himself.

  ‘Who are you?’ a voice demanded.

  Macro turned and saw an officer approaching him. At the sight of the plumed feathers in the man’s helmet crest, Macro instinctively stiffened to attention before what he assumed was a superior.

  ‘Centurion Macro!’ he snapped, and saluted.

  The officer saluted back, then frowned. ‘Mind explaining what’s going on, sir?’

  ‘Sir?’ Then it dawned on Macro that the officer was a centurion like himself, and only a freshly minted one at that. He regarded the man anew. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Centurion Gaius Larius Postumus, adjutant at the fort, sir.’

  ‘Where’s Scrofa?’

  ‘Prefect Scrofa? He’s in the fort, sir. Sent me out to cover your force.’

  ‘Leads from the front, eh?’ Macro couldn’t help sneering for a moment. ‘Never mind. I’ve been sent to take command of the Second Illyrian. These men are my escort. We were ambushed several miles back.’

  Macro glanced round and saw that the fight was over. Most of the brigands had pulled back and were staring silently at the fort from a small rise some distance away. The officers of the Illyrian troops had called their men back and were forming them up beside the survivors of the cavalry squadron. Two of their men lifted the decurion off the ground and gently placed his body across the saddle of his horse before leading it towards the gate. Macro shook his head. It had been a close thing. But even though he had escaped this time he didn’t suppose that Bannus would abandon his design on his life. And Cato’s. At that thought Macro stared back along the track.

  ‘Sir?’ Postumus tilted his head and looked questioningly at Macro. ‘Anything the matter?’

  ‘Yes. My friend’s out there. We need to go and find him as soon as possible. I want you to give orders for the cavalry contingent to mount up.’

  ‘With respect, sir, that is a decision for Prefect Scrofa to make.’

  Macro rounded on the man. ‘I told you. I’m in com
mand now.’

  ‘Not until the appointment has been properly authenticated, sir.’

  ‘Authenticated?’ Macro shook his head. ‘We can deal with that later. Right now, what matters is Centurion Cato.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. I take my orders from Prefect Scrofa. If you want to help your friend, you’ll have to speak to the commanding officer.’

  Macro fumed for a moment, balling his hands into fists as he glared at the young centurion. Then, with a sharp intake of breath, he nodded. ‘Very well. There’s no time to waste. Take me to Scrofa.’

  They made their way back into the fort with the last of the troops who had been sent out and Macro was able to take a closer look at the men as he made his way through them. Their kit was only adequately maintained, but they looked tough enough. Certainly, they had moved to engage the enemy horseman willingly. That was always something of a test of any unit. The men in the legions could be counted on to hold their ground against any kind of attack. It was different with auxiliaries since they were more lightly armoured and not so well trained. But these lads had faced the enemy horsemen without any trouble. Macro nodded approvingly. The men of his new command – the Second Illyrian – seemed to have some potential and Macro was determined to build on that. Then he stepped through the gateway and saw the poorly maintained barrack blocks stretching out in rows on either side of the gate. There would be plenty of work to do before the cohort came up to Macro’s standards. Opposite the barracks were the grain stores, infirmary, stables, headquarters building, officers’ quarters and the cohort commander’s house.

  The Second Illyrian was a mixed cohort. Of over nine hundred men who served in the unit, a hundred and forty were mounted. There were cohorts like this on every frontier, where the mixture of cavalry and infantry allowed for greatest flexibility for those officers charged with policing the local tribes and keeping watch for any attempt by barbarians to cross the border. A strong force of cavalry allowed the cohort commander to scout a wide area, chase down any barbarian raiding parties, and when necessary, launch quick punitive raids into enemy territory.