The Eagle In the Sand - Scarrow Simon 5 стр.

'I think I've seen enough already,' Macro grumbled. 'Give me Campania or Umbria any day. Sod all this desert and rock.'

'It's not always like this, Centurion. In spring, it's cool and there's rain and the hills are covered with flowers. Even the desert across the Jordan blooms. And there's a kind of majesty in the desert. To the south there's a wadi where the sand is bright red and great cliffs of coloured rock rise up to the skies. At night the heavens are filled with stars and travellers gather round fires and tell tales that echo back off the cliffs.' He paused and smiled self-consciously. 'Perhaps one day you'll see for yourself, and understand.'

He clicked his tongue and urged his horse forward, until he was a short distance ahead of the column. Macro stared at him for a moment and spoke quietly to Cato. 'Well, what do you make of him?'

'I'm not sure. If he knows the area as well as he says, then I can see why Florianus uses him. But there's something about him that doesn't seem right.'

'What is it?'

Cato shook his head. 'I'm not quite sure. I just can't believe a man turns his back on his family and friends for such a long time so easily. He's interesting.'

'Interesting?' Macro shook his head. 'Mad more like. Maybe he's just had a little too much of the desert sun.'

The column of horsemen reached the small Essene community of Qumran as the sun dipped down behind them, casting long distorted shadows before the riders. Qumran was a small settlement made up of simple houses that lined dusty narrow streets. The people warily acknowledged the greetings offered to them by Symeon as he led the column through the village towards the small fort built on a slight rise a mile beyond Qumran. Beyond the fort lay the Dead Sea, stretching out towards the mountains that rose up, fiery coloured and forbidding, in the red glow of the sun settling in the west. The fort was little more than a fortified signal station and a thin trail of smoke wafted from the brazier in the main tower that was kept alight at all times. It was defended by a half-century of Thracian auxiliaries under an ageing optio who greeted them warmly as the column rode in through the gateway.

'Glad to see some new faces, sir.' He smiled as Macro dismounted and returned the optio's salute. 'Haven't seen any Romans for over a month now.'

Macro yawned and stretched his back before giving his buttocks a firm rub to restore some of the circulation lost after a day in the saddle. He ached, stank of sweat and was covered in dust.

'I need a bath. I don't suppose there's a bath-house here.'

'No, sir.'

'What about back there, in Qumran?'

'There is, sir. But we're not allowed to use their baths.'

'Why's that?' Macro said irritably. 'I'll pay 'em good money.'

'They're Essenes, sir. Friendly enough but they won't share any food or facilities with us, in case we contaminate them.'

'What is wrong with this fucking land?' Macro exploded.'Has the sun boiled everyone's brains? What are Essenes? Not another bloody sect, surely.'

'Sorry, sir.' The optio shrugged. 'That's how it is. My men are under strict orders not to cause the Essenes any offence.'

'Oh, very well then. Just find quarters for our men and then feed 'em. I'm going for a swim.'

'A swim, sir?'

'Yes. In the sea.'

Macro noticed the surprised look on the optio's face and continued irritably, 'Don't tell me our Essene friends are going to take exception to sharing a whole bloody sea with me?'

'No, sir. It's not that, it's just-'

Macro cut him off.'See to the men and their mounts.' He turned to Cato. 'Coming?'

'Oh yes.' Cato smiled. 'I wouldn't miss this experience.'

From the corner of his eye Macro saw Cato exchange a knowing look with Symeon and turned on them suddenly. 'What?'

Cato feigned innocence. 'It's nothing. Let's go and swim.'

The two officers stripped down to their tunics and boots and descended the stony slope to the shore. They picked their way a short distance along until they found a stretch of pebbled beach and undressed, leaving their clothes, belts and daggers on top of a rock. Macro trod warily down to the edge of the water and began to wade out, under the amused gaze of his young friend.When he was up to his waist Macro raised a hand and rubbed his fingers together.

'Odd… Feels kind of oily.' He raised his fingers and sniffed them for a moment before dabbing them with his tongue. At once his face tightened into a grimace. 'Ugh!'

'What is it?'

'The water. It tastes awful. Far too salty.'

'Then don't drink it,' said Cato. 'Just swim in it.'

'For someone who is such a poor swimmer, you're awfully keen to get stuck in.'

Cato laughed. 'You'll understand in a moment.'

Macro was too weary to continue playing Cato's games and turned away. Stretching his arms out he thrust himself forward into the gently lapping sea. Instead of plunging down beneath the surface he bobbed up like a cork. As soon as he tried the first stroke his legs seemed to come up out of the water behind him.

'What the hell is going on?'

Cato laughed as he waded out towards his friend, and was treading water even before the sea came close to his shoulders. It was a strange sensation and he smiled in delight. Macro was still floundering, trying to swim a few strokes further out from the shore.

'This is ridiculous.' He gave up and turned on to his back. Floating effortlessly, he looked at Cato. 'I suppose this is why it's some kind of natural bloody marvel.'

Cato settled into the water and raised his legs. 'Strange, isn't it?'

Now that he had got over his surprise Macro found that the experience was quite agreeable after all and for a while he experimented with propelling himself around, finding that the best way was to stay on his back and use his arms like oars. Cato followed his example, whooping like a small boy.

They were splashing about so much that they did not hear the warning shouted from the walls of the fort until it was far too late. Cato was aware of the sound of hooves first. He craned his neck round and saw a small party of horsemen, five of them, racing along the track that ran along the shore of the Dead Sea.

'Macro! Get out!'

'Eh?'

Cato pointed to the horsemen, now less than three hundred paces away. At once they stroked back towards the pebbly beach and as soon as their feet gained purchase on the stony bottom they surged ashore.Already the horsemen had closed the distance and Cato could see the glint of the swords they had drawn. There was no time to run back for their daggers.

'Forget the clothes! Make for the fort!'

They ran awkwardly across the rocks, wincing as the rough surface jabbed and cut into the soles of their feet. Then they reached the track and sprinted across it and started up the slope towards the gateway. The sentry on watch was shouting down into the courtyard and moments later two men emerged from the fort, stared at the approaching horsemen and then started down the slope towards the two officers. Cato risked a glance back along the track and was horrified to see the horsemen no more than a hundred paces behind, closing fast as they bent forward along the sides of their horses' necks, urging their mounts on as they prepared to strike with their swords. Cato knew that he and Macro would be run down before they could reach the fort, long before the first of the auxiliaries could reach them.

'Keep going!' Macro shouted, scrambling up the slope beside him. 'The bastards are almost on us.'

Cato ran on, head hunched down into his shoulders as if that would somehow make him a more difficult target for the horsemen's swords. He was barely aware of the pain from his torn feet as he focused on the gateway and ran towards it with all his might. The pounding of hooves from behind was deafening and at the last moment he risked a look back over his shoulder.

'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.'