The Eagle In the Sand

Ahead, the survivors of Scrofa's cavalry slumped wearily in their saddles and stared in confusion as the Parthians suddenly turned and fled from the scene, galloping away as fast as their mounts would carry them, heedless of their former allies as they rode through and over them. When Macro reached the scene he looked round.

'Where's Scrofa?' He turned. 'Scrofa!'

'There, sir.' Cato pointed. A short distance away, beneath a riderless horse, lay a crumpled body in a rich red cape, the helmet bearing the crescent of an officer. Near him lay the bodies of two Parthians. Macro and Cato hurried over and knelt down beside Scrofa, shifting him gently on to his back. Scrofa's eyes flickered open. He stared round with a dazed expression when he saw the two officers looming over him.

'Macro…' he said quietly. 'I'd hoped they'd got you too.'

Macro smiled. 'No such luck.'

Cato caught his eye and nodded towards Scrofa's side. The broken stump of an arrow shaft protruded from the former prefect's chest, just below his heart. Frothy blood oozed out of the wound. Macro turned his gaze back to Scrofa's face. 'That was quite a charge you led there.You saved us.'

'So it seems.' He smiled weakly and then his face screwed up in agony for a moment, before the pain receded. 'Who would have thought I'd ever save your lives? There's no justice.'

'Enough of the hard man act, Scrofa. It doesn't suit you.'

Scrofa's lips flickered into a smile. 'But I was a good soldier in the end, wasn't I?'

'You were. I'll make sure that everyone knows it.'

'You do that… One other thing.'

'What is it?'

'Postumus…' Scrofa raised his head with a struggle and suddenly gripped Macro's hand tightly. 'Swear to me you'll make that bastard pay. For running out on us. For his treachery…'

'Don't worry about Postumus. Last I saw of him he was being run down by scores of Parthians. He'll not get away. And if he does, and we take him alive, I'll make sure he knows what you thought of him before you-' Macro broke off in embarrassment. 'Well, you can tell him yourself. Once you've recovered.'

Scrofa slumped back and whispered, 'No such luck…'

'Wait!' Cato leaned over him. 'Scrofa! You said treachery. What treachery?'

Scrofa's eyes fluttered and he spasmed, his body arching as the muscles tensed. Then abruptly he relaxed and sank back on to the sand, head lolling to one side. Cato snatched his wrist and felt for a pulse, but there was nothing and he let the arm drop down to Scrofa's side. 'He's gone.'

Macro stared at him for a moment and shook his head. 'You know, I never thought he had it in him to go out like a hero. It took guts to do what he did. I was wrong about him.'

'No, you were right about him, up until the end.' Cato rose to his feet. 'This was his redemption. He knew that. I saw it when he saluted you. He was lucky to get his chance to do some good before he died.'

'Lucky?' Macro stood up. 'You have a funny idea of luck, Cato.'

'Maybe.' Cato looked round. The auxiliaries were spread out across the camp, chasing after the Judaeans. This time it was no ploy to gain time. The enemy was routed and the Romans' wild triumph and bloodlust was unrestrained. Ahead of them rode the new arrivals, mercilessly running down the Judaean rebels and those Parthian allies who had been unhorsed.

Macro noticed a small group of horsemen riding across towards them. At their head was Symeon, and as they approached and reined in Macro recognized Murad amongst his companions and they exchanged a smile. Symeon slid down from his mount and grasped Macro's arms and planted a kiss on each of his cheeks.

'Prefect. Thanks be to Yahweh that you are safe! You too, Centurion Cato.' Symeon gestured towards the riders sweeping across the desert after the enemy. 'Apologies for not arriving sooner, but we made the best time we could.'

'Who are all these men?' Macro asked. 'I was expecting some help, not a bloody army.'

'Those men work for the caravan cartels. Caravan escorts. Mostly mercenaries, but good men.'

'They certainly seem to be taking satisfaction in their work. How did you get hold of so many of them?'

'My friends gave their word to repay you for saving that caravan.'

'Well, they've certainly returned the favour,' Macro responded. 'Now we have to find Bannus, make sure that he's taken alive if he isn't dead already. He needs to be made an example of.'

'Bannus?' Symeon turned and pointed down the road towards Heshaba. 'I saw a party of horsemen ride that way as we attacked. Perhaps twenty or thirty. Most were Parthians. He could have been with them.'

'More than likely,' Macro replied. 'I'll have to go after him.'

'Ride with us,' Symeon offered. 'We know the lie of the land. You'll not get far on your own. No Roman would. Besides, I have my own business to settle with Bannus.'

Macro thought for a moment.'All right then. But first tell your men they can quarter in the fort if they wish.We can feed and water them. I'll leave Centurion Parmenion in command, and give him orders to look after your men. He can also have our hostages released. We've no further need of them now. Wait here. Cato!'

'Yes, sir?'

'Find us two good mounts, and suitable kit and provisions for hunting down Bannus.'

'Yes, sir.' Cato looked at him with an anxious expression.

'What's the matter?'

'It's that village that worries me, sir. The one that sheltered me and Symeon.'

'What about it?'

'Symeon said Bannus was heading in that direction, and he'll need to water his horses, and find provisions himself, before he goes any further. Bannus is a desperate man. In his current frame of mind who knows what he'll do when he gets there?'

'Well, we'll find out soon enough,' Macro responded soberly. 'Now, let's not waste any more time.'

He turned and strode back towards the fort.

Cato had a sick feeling in his stomach the moment they turned the last corner in the track leading down the wadi towards the village of Heshaba early in the afternoon.They had seen a trail of smoke from some distance away and now the village was in view below them, beneath a dark billowing cloud. Several of the houses in the centre of the village were burning fiercely and some of the inhabitants were trying to beat the flames out, while others formed a chain from the water trough in the village square, throwing buckets of water on to the flames. Symeon looked aghast and spurred his mount into a gallop at the sight, and the rest of the small column hastened after him.They tethered the horses to a clump of olive trees outside the village and ran through to the square. Several villagers lay dead to one side amidst great puddles of blood, all of them with cut throats. Symeon snapped a series of orders at his men and they went to help fight the fires as best they could. Cato looked round in alarm.

'Where's Miriam? I can't see her.'

Symeon looked round anxiously, then pointed up the street to where a woman sat slumped against the side of a building, in the shade. 'I think that's her. Come on.'

They ran over to the woman, who was sitting cross-legged and nursing her head in both hands as she wept.

Symeon crouched down beside her. 'Miriam?'

She wiped her eyes and looked up, revealing a cut and bruised cheek. She seemed dazed and confused for an instant before some clarity of thought returned to her. She swallowed and cleared her throat. 'What have we done to deserve this?'

'What happened?' Symeon asked gently. He took her hand and stroked it. 'Miriam, what happened?'