The Eagle In the Sand - Scarrow Simon (читать книги онлайн без сокращений txt) 📗

'Don't worry,' Florianus replied casually. 'I know what becomes of those who fall foul of Narcissus. Before I came here, I was one of his interrogators.'

'Ah…' Macro made to speak, thought better of it, closed his mouth and impulsively thrust his cup towards Florianus. 'I think I need some more of your wine.'

As Macro took a hefty gulp from his replenished cup Florianus continued, 'So what is your plan?

'We'll start with Prefect Scrofa and Bannus,' said Cato. 'If we can sort them out then we might be able to prevent an uprising. Without that Longinus will have no reason to call for reinforcements. He won't be strong enough to march on Rome. If he's forced to hold his position, then, with luck, the Parthians will not dare to push their ambitions too far.'

'That's two ifs too many for my taste,' Macro muttered.

Cato shrugged. 'There's nothing we can do about it. At least until we reach the fort at Bushir.'

'When will you go?' asked Florianus.

'A fine host you are!' Macro laughed, and Florianus tried to stop himself blushing as he replied.

'I'm not trying to get rid of you. It's just that since you killed some of the sicarians in that skirmish down in the temple, their friends will be looking out for you. I'd advise you to look to your safety until you reach Bushir. Don't go anywhere alone. Always keep armed men close to you and watch your backs.'

'We always do,' Macro told him.

'Glad to hear it. Now, I imagine you'll want a guide. Someone who knows the route, as well as the lie of the land around Bushir.'

'That would be helpful,' said Cato. 'Do you know anyone we can trust?'

'None of the local people, that's for sure. But there's a man who should serve your needs. He usually works as a guide on the caravan routes to Arabia so he knows the land and the people well. Symeon's not exactly a friend of the Empire, but he's smart enough to know that nothing good will come out of any attempt to defy Rome.You can trust him that far at least.'

'Sounds useful.' Macro smiled. 'My enemy's enemy is my friend.'

Florianus nodded. 'Thus it ever was. Don't knock it, Macro.The adage works well enough. Now is there anything else I need to know? Anything I can do for you?'

'I don't think so.' Cato stared out over the ancient city. 'Given what you said about the sicarians, I think we should leave Jerusalem as soon as possible. Tomorrow morning, if possible.'

'Tomorrow?' Macro repeated in surprise.

'We should leave at first light. Try to put as much distance between us and Jerusalem as we can before nightfall.'

'Very well,' Florianus nodded.'I'll get hold of Symeon and organise a mounted escort for you. A squadron of horse from the garrison should be enough to guarantee you reach Bushir safely.'

'Is that really necessary?' Macro asked. 'We can move faster on our own.'

'Believe me, if you left here without an escort, the bandits would track you down and kill you before the day was out. This is a Roman province in name only. Outside the city walls there is no law, no order, just a wasteland ruled by the local thieves, murderers and the odd religious cult. It's no place for Romans.'

'Don't worry. The lad and I can look after ourselves. We've been in worse places.'

'Really?' Florianus looked doubtful. 'Anyway, keep me informed of the situation at Bushir, and I'll pass the reports on to Narcissus.'

Cato nodded. 'Then it's all settled. We leave in the morning.'

'Yes. One last thing,' Florianus said quietly. 'A word of advice. When you reach Bushir watch your backs. Seriously. The commander before Scrofa was killed by a single sword blow, from behind.'

07 The Eagle In the Sand

CHAPTER FOUR

The small column prepared to leave the city just after the sun had risen, bathing the walls of the Antonia fortress in a warm rosy glow.The air was cool and after the heat of the previous night Macro relished its refreshing embrace as he ensured that his bags were securely tied to his saddle horns. Like every man in the legions he had been taught to ride after a fashion, but still distrusted and disliked horses. He had been trained as an infantryman, and from long experience he preferred the company of 'Marius' Mules', as the footsloggers were known the length and breadth of the empire. Still, he was respectful enough of the fierce heat that blasted the rocky landscape of Judaea to know that it would be far more exhausting to reach Bushir on foot. So by horse it would be.

He glanced round at the cavalry squadron detailed to accompany the two centurions to the fort. These men were Greek auxiliaries, recruited from the population in Caesarea.There were no native units in the province now that Rome had taken Judaea under direct control. The army of Herod Agrippa, largely composed of Gentile mercenaries, had been disarmed and dispersed after his death two years ago. With all the inter-faction fighting that had plagued the kingdom of Judaea the authorities in Rome had decided that it would be foolhardy in the extreme to make any attempt to raise local forces and provide them with weapons. Besides, the peculiar requirements of the local religion, with all the fasting and days of abstaining from any labour, did not sit well with the routines of the Roman military system.

Macro cast an experienced eye over the cavalrymen. They seemed competent enough, and their kit was well maintained and their mounts well groomed and healthy-looking. If there was any trouble on the road then he and Cato could count on these men to put up a good enough fight to beat off an ambush.A quick charge and any band of robbers would bolt like rabbits, Macro decided. He turned to look for Cato.

His young friend was talking earnestly to the guide, and Macro's eyes narrowed slightly. Centurion Florianus had brought the man to them as Cato and Macro were packing their saddlebags by the wan light of oil lamps in the last hour before dawn. Symeon was a tall, broad-shouldered man in his forties. He wore a clean but plain tunic, sandals and a simple keffiyeh held in place by an ornate headband that was the only outward sign of opulence. Indeed, he carried little on his horse apart from a small bundle of spare clothes, a thin curved sword, and a compound short bow and a quiver of arrows. He had a pleasant, round face and spoke Greek fluently. More than fluently, Macro realised. Macro's grasp of the language was limited, no more than the basics learned from Cato on the voyage from Ravenna. With the diversity of languages at this end of the Empire, the common second language was Greek and Macro had to be able to make himself understood. The guide's accent was flawless. The effect was so unexpected that Macro was instinctively suspicious of the man. Yet he seemed friendly enough and had clasped forearms in a firm and frank manner when he had been introduced. Cato was smiling at some comment the guide had made, and then he turned away and strolled over to join Macro.

'Symeon has been telling me about the route to the fort.' Cato's eyes glinted with excitement. 'We go east to Qumran, on the shore of the Dead Sea, then cross the River Jordan and climb the hills on the far side up on to the escarpment.That's where the desert begins, and that's where the fort is.'

'Oh joy,'Macro replied tonelessly.'A desert. Can't wait to discover what they do for entertainment out that way. Finally, after all these years, I make it out to the eastern provinces. Do I get to see the fleshpots of Syria? I do not. Instead I spend the time in some far-flung fort in the middle of a bloody desert where I'll be lucky if the sun doesn't fry my brain to a crisp every day. No. I'm sorry, Cato, but I just can't seem to share your obvious pleasure at the prospect. Sorry.'

Cato punched him on the shoulder. 'We're going to spend tonight by the Dead Sea, you idiot. Surely you want to see that?'