The Eagle In the Sand

'Shit!' he cried out, as the leading man loomed high above him, sword raised ready to slash down with a killing blow. Cato saw the triumphant glint in the man's dark eyes and the teeth clenched in a feral grin. Then Cato stumbled and sprawled painfully on the ground. Instinctively he rolled over and raised his arm. The man was as before, only now his eyes were wild with surprise. The shaft of an arrow protruded from his chest. His sword slipped from his hand and clattered on to the track beside Cato. Then he slipped from the saddle and fell to the ground with a heavy thud that drove the wind from his lungs in an explosive grunt of agony. Cato snatched up the weapon and rose into a crouch. The other horsemen were only an instant away, already swerving round the riderless horse. Cato glanced at Macro, who had stopped several paces further on and turned towards him.

'Run, Macro! Don't stop!'

'Fuck that.'

Macro took a step towards Cato but the latter shouted, 'There's nothing you can do. Go!'

Momentarily torn, Macro delayed for a fatal instant and the next horseman clattered forward, his mount knocking Macro flat on his back. But before the man could strike an arrow thudded into his stomach, doubling him over in the saddle before he rolled off to one side. The men behind, confused and frightened by the unerring accuracy of the bowman, reined in and looked up towards the fort. A third arrow tore through the throat of the nearest rider and he toppled from his saddle clutching at his neck with a strained gurgling noise as the blood poured from his wound.Then one of his comrades shouted something and the two survivors wheeled their mounts round and galloped back down the track, bent flat over their horses, not daring to look back. Cato watched them for a moment, chest heaving, and then he let his grip on the sword relax. They were saved. He turned to Macro.

'All right?'

'Fine.' Macro gulped down some breaths. He nodded at the three bodies on the ground. 'Bloody good piece of archery that.'

Cato turned to glance up at the parapet above the gatehouse. Brightly lit by the setting sun, Symeon lowered his bow and waved.

Cato bowed his head, and behind him Macro chuckled.

'Remind me never to try to raid one of his caravans.'

07 The Eagle In the Sand

CHAPTER FIVE

The next morning, as the column left the fort, the men eyed the landscape around them warily. The previous evening's attack was not the work of simple thieves. It had been a deliberate attempt on the lives of the two centurions and it was clear that they had been followed from Jerusalem. The survivors of the attack would now shadow them, waiting for another opportunity to strike. It was also possible, Cato thought, that the five men were part of a larger group, in which case the column must guard against ambush.

'What is the lie of the land between here and Bushir?' Cato asked their guide as they left Qumran behind and continued along the shore of the Dead Sea.

'We should be safe enough this side of the Jordan, and some way into the east bank. The danger lies there.' Symeon raised his arm and indicated the mountains on the far side of the sea. 'To reach Bushir we're going to have to climb up a steep wadi.We won't reach the plateau before dark. If our friends are going to try another attack that's where it'll happen.'

'Is there no other route?'

'Of course. We could head further north, where there's a more open road to Philadelphia.Then turn south along the caravan route to Petra. That will add two or three days to the journey. Do you wish me to take you that way?'

Cato thought about it a moment and shook his head. 'I don't think it would be wise to give those people any more time to make another attack. What do you say, Macro?'

'If they're going to come for us, let them come tonight. I'm ready.'

'Very well then.' Cato smiled. 'We'll take the direct road.'

They continued in silence for a moment, and Macro's eyes alighted on the horned tip of the bow protruding from Symeon's saddlebags.

'That was fine shooting yesterday.'

'Thank you, Centurion.'

Macro paused for a moment before continuing awkwardly, 'You saved our lives.'

Symeon turned and flashed his white teeth. 'I would hardly be doing my job if the men whose lives I had been charged with guarding had been killed. Why, Florianus would have demanded a refund of my fee.'

'So you're a guard as well as a guide?'

'As I told you yesterday, Centurion, I spent many years in the desert escorting caravans. More than enough time to learn how to use my weapons. And I was taught by the best warriors in Arabia.'

'Why did you give it up? Escorting the caravans?'

'It's a hard life. I was growing weary of it. And now my adopted son has taken over from me. Murad commands a company of escorts and works the route from Petra to Damascus.'

'Is he as good as you with the bow?'

Symeon chuckled. 'As good? No, Murad is far better. Far tougher, and so are most of his men. Murad would have taken down all five of those riders before they had even got close to you.' He spat on to the ground in disgust. 'I only managed three.'

Macro glanced at Cato. 'Only three. The man's slipping.'

'Please don't mention it again,' Symeon said quietly. 'I'm ashamed enough as it is.'

'Fair enough.' Macro smiled. 'Still, your son sounds like the kind of man the Empire could use. He'd make a fine auxiliary soldier. I wonder if he's ever considered it.'

'Why should he?' Symeon seemed surprised by the suggestion. 'Murad lives well enough as he is. Your Empire could not afford to pay him a tenth of what he earns from guarding the caravans.'

'Oh,' Macro responded with embarrassment. 'Just a thought.'

The day wore on, much like the day before, and soon the heat was stifling. Far up the flat Jordan valley the air shimmered like quicksilver. They crossed the river late in the morning, at a point where it meandered between great clumps of reeds. There was a ford where the river ran across a wide bed of sand and pebbles and the horses kicked up a foam of white spray as they surged across. Glancing upriver Cato saw a large shelter on the far bank, thatched with palm leaves. In the shallows below the shelter stood a small crowd of people, gathered around a man who immersed each in turn.

Cato tugged Symeon's arm and indicated the gathering. 'What's going on over there?'

Symeon glanced up. 'That? A baptism.'

'Baptism?'

'Local tradition. Supposed to wash away the sins of the person being baptised. It's popular with some of the sects. The Essenes, back at Qumran, for one.'

'I meant to ask you about that,' Cato said.'These sects. How many of them are there? What makes them different?'

Symeon laughed. 'Less than you imagine, yet they seem to hate each other with a passion. Let me see… Best to start in Jerusalem. The main sects there are the Sadducees, the Pharisees and the Maccabees. The Sadducees are the hardline traditionalists. They believe that the holy books represent the incontrovertible will of God.The Pharisees are a little more pragmatic and argue that the will of God can be interpreted through the holy books. The Maccabees, on the other hand, tend towards the hardline position. They hold that Judaeans are the chosen people who are destined to rule the world one day.' He smiled at Cato. 'So you can imagine how they feel about being ruled by Rome. They hate you even more than they hated Herod and his heirs.'

'Why hate them?'

'Because they were Idumaeans, and not descended from one of the original twelve tribes of the Hebrews.'

Macro shook his head. 'These Judaeans sound like a pretty stuffy lot. Fuck knows why, given that they've been rolled over by every empire that's passed through the region.'