The Eagle In the Sand

Before Cato could respond the decurion in command of the squadron bellowed the order for his men to mount and the courtyard of the fortress was filled with the sounds of horses stirring and scraping their hooves across the paving stones as their riders swung themselves up on to their saddles. The leather seats gave under the weight of the riders and the saddle horns squeezed slightly inwards, giving the cavalrymen a steady position on top of their mounts. The two centurions abandoned their conversation and climbed on to their horses in a somewhat ungainly manner, and then steered their beasts over to the middle of the column. Florianus had suggested that this would be safest for them until they were outside the walls of Jerusalem, when they could join Symeon and the decurion at the head of the column. Macro was not entirely happy about the precaution.

'I don't like being nursemaided,' he grumbled.

'Better than being assassinated,' Cato replied.

'Let 'em try.'

The decurion glanced round at his squadron, saw that all was ready, and raised his arm.

'Column! Advance.' His arm swept down towards the gate and the sentries stood aside under the great arch as the column clopped forward, out into the street that ran down from the Antonia, alongside the north-facing mass of the temple complex towards the Kidron gate. As they emerged from the shadows of the gateway Cato blinked at the sunlight shining directly into his eyes. This was a mistake, he suddenly realised. The sun would blind them to any ambush the sicarians might attempt along the street and he squinted painfully as he scanned the buildings crowding in on each side. But there was little sign of life. A few early risers were abroad, some beggars were taking up their pitches for the day and a mangy dog trotted from one pile of refuse to the next, sniffing for morsels of food.The handful of people on the street gave way as the column approached and stared expressionlessly at the mounted soldiers as they passed by. Ahead of them, Cato saw the watchmen on the city gate draw back the locking bar and begin to ease back the heavy slabs of timber that protected the city.A short while later, without incident, the squadron rode out of the city and began to descend the steep track leading down into the valley of Kidron. Cato breathed a sigh of relief.

'Glad we're out of there.'

Macro shrugged. 'It'd take more than a few fools who fancy themselves with a blade to worry me.'

'That's a comfort to know.'The dust from the mounts ahead of them was already filling the air and Cato pressed his knees into the flank of his horse and twitched the reins to the side. 'Come on, let's get to the front.'

By the time the column had crossed the valley and climbed the Mount of Olives on the far side, the sun had risen far enough into the sky for its heat to begin to be felt. Macro, far more used to the climate of the northern provinces, started to dread the prospect of spending the rest of the day swaying in the saddle under the direct blaze of the sun. His helmet hung from the saddle frame and like the rest of the soldiers he wore a straw hat over his felt helmet liner. Even so his sweat soon made the liner feel hot and prickly and he silently cursed Narcissus for landing them with this job. As the horses picked their way along the track that led towards the River Jordan where it fed into the Dead Sea, they soon left behind the large estates of the wealthier Judaeans. Most of the great houses were closed up, their owners no longer daring to live under the threat of a brigand's knife. Instead they had retreated to their houses in Jerusalem where they could live more safely. The land steadily became more sparsely populated and the villages they rode through comprised huddles of mudbrick hovels surrounded by small strips of cultivated land.

'This is crazy,' Macro commented. 'No one could live off these scraps of dirt. Hey, guide!'

Symeon turned in his saddle and smiled. 'Yes, my friend?'

Macro stared at him. 'You're not my friend. Not yet. You're just a guide, so watch your lip.'

'As you wish, Roman. What did you want of me?'

Macro indicated the intricate patchwork of fields around the village they were passing. 'What's going on here? Why are their plots so small?'

'It's the Judaean way. When a man dies his land is divided between his sons. When they die in turn it is divided between their sons. So, every generation the farms get smaller and smaller.'

'That can't go on for ever.'

'No, indeed, Centurion. That is one of the problems that blights this land. When a man can no longer support his family, he is forced to take a loan against his property.' Symeon shrugged.'If there's a bad harvest, or if the market is glutted, he can't pay the loan off and his land is forfeit. Many drift to Jerusalem looking for work, the rest go into the hills and become brigands, preying on travellers and terrorising some of the smaller villages.'

Macro pursed his lips. 'That's not much of a life.'

'Still less of a life, now that the people have to pay Roman taxes.'

Macro looked at him sharply, but the guide just shrugged. 'I mean no offence, Centurion, but that's how it is. If Rome wants peace here, then she must look to the needs of the poor, before she adds the spoils of Judaea to her coffers.'

'The Empire's not a bloody charity.' Macro sniffed. 'It has an army to run, borders to maintain, roads to build, aqueducts, and… well, other things. Doesn't come cheap. Someone has to pay. And without us, who would protect these people, eh? Answer me that.'

'Protect these people?' Symeon smiled thinly. 'Who from? They would scarcely be any worse off under the heel of another empire.'

'I was referring to people like Bannus and his brigands. Rome will protect them from Bannus.'

'The people don't see him that way. Many are inclined to see Bannus as some kind of hero. You won't defeat Bannus unless Rome governs Judaea with a lighter hand, or garrisons these lands from top to bottom. I don't see that happening in my lifetime.'

'So what would you do then, Symeon? How would you improve the lot of these Judaeans?'

'Me?' The guide paused for a moment before he answered. 'I would rid them of their burden of Roman tax for a start.'

'Then there'd be no point in having Judaea as a province. Is that what you want for your people?'

'My people?' Symeon shrugged. 'They're not really my people any more.'

'Aren't you a Judaean?'

'I am. But I am no longer so sure that I share their beliefs. I have not been living in the province for many years.'

'So how did you end up as a guide?'

'I had to leave Judaea in a hurry over ten years ago.' Symeon glanced at Macro. 'Before you ask, I had my reasons, and I won't go into them.'

'Fair enough.'

'Anyway, I went south, to Nabataea, where no one would come looking for me. I joined one of the companies of men who guard the caravans. That's how I learned to use weapons properly. I'll never forget my first caravan. Twenty days across deserts and through mountains. I'd never seen lands like it before.Truly, Centurion, there are certain places in this world where the hand of God can be seen.'

'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?'