Simon Scarrow - The Eagle In the Sand

Centurion Postumus stabbed his finger at Parmenion. 'Thank you, Centurion Parmenion. I am aware of your long experience in this province, but that will be all for now. You have your orders. All you have to do is carry them out. Trust me, when the locals understand that Rome will brook absolutely no hint of defiance, then we will have order in this area. Besides, according to my sources, the number of Bannus' men has been exaggerated. They're poorly armed, and equipped with little more than the rags they stand up in.They're nothing more than a handful of wretched robbers.'

'Sir, I'm not sure how far we can rely on those sources of yours.They've not been much help so far, and anyway, men who are paid to inform tend to say what they think their paymaster wants to hear.'

'I trust them,' Scrofa said firmly. 'The threat from Bannus is minimal.'

Parmenion shrugged and nodded towards Macro. 'They seemed to give the centurion's escort a pretty good hiding.'

Postumus smiled. 'Let's just say, the centurion's escort must have had an inflated sense of any danger they might have been in.'

Parmenion turned to Macro. 'What do you think, sir? You were ambushed by them. How much danger do you think Bannus poses to us?'

Macro pursed his lips a moment before he replied. 'It was a well-worked trap. He caught us on a narrow track, and must have had three, maybe four hundred men with him. Yes, they were poorly armed, and only a small proportion had mounts. But if that's how many men he can call on for a simple ambush, then I should imagine his entire force is something to be reckoned with. Or will be, if he can ever train and equip them adequately. As it was, we only managed to break through because they weren't expecting us to charge them.'

As his friend spoke, Cato felt a chill run down his spine. What was it that Bannus had said as he stood outside Miriam's house? Something about friends who were about to help them. And that soon he would have an army behind him. But was it mere bluster? The vain boasts of a desperate man condemned to spending the rest of his days as an outlaw and fugitive? Yet Prefect Scrofa seemed content to let the brigand remain at large while he attacked what he perceived to be his supporters. And with Scrofa's current approach to the problem, if they weren't already supporters of Bannus they soon would be.

Centurion Postumus again responded on behalf of his commander. He nodded his head, as if in agreement with Macro, and then smiled faintly. 'Of course, in your haste to escape it is possible that you might have overestimated the danger.'

Macro stared hard at the adjutant. 'Are you calling me a liar?'

'Of course not, sir. I'm just saying that in the heat of, er, shall we say battle, it must be hard to know exactly how many men you were facing.'

'I see.' Macro's expression darkened. 'If you don't believe me, then ask Centurion Cato here how many men he thought we were facing.'

'What would be the point, sir? He was in the same predicament as yourself. Why should his judgement be any less clouded? Besides, he had a head injury. He could easily have been mistaken about the size of the force you encountered. I assure you, we have perfectly good intelligence that the threat from Bannus is minimal.'

Cato leaned forward. 'Then why go to the trouble of all these punitive raids on local villages?'

'Because we need to dissuade them from any further support for Bannus. If we go easy on them it can only make us look weak. Bannus will be able to claim that, given enough men, he can guarantee to deliver the people of Judaea from Roman rule.'

'Surely, if you treat the Judaeans harshly, you'll only drive them into his arms, as Centurion Parmenion pointed out. Perhaps we should be trying to win these people over.'

'No point,' Scrofa interrupted.'It's clear that they hate our guts. We'll never win them over as long as they cling to their faith. In which case we can only hold them in line through fear.'

Macro leaned back and crossed his arms. 'Let them hate, as long as they fear, eh?'

The prefect shrugged. 'The dictum seems to work well enough.'

Cato felt his heart sink. Scrofa's was a short-sighted and dangerous approach, particularly in the present situation where Bannus offered its victims a chance to fight back. Every village that the Romans made an example of would become a recruiting ground for Bannus and swell his ranks with men who had a fanatical hatred of Rome and all those they perceived as serving Roman interests.

'Anyway,' the prefect concluded, 'I've made my decision. The orders stand and will be carried out. The briefing is over. Centurion Postumus will have written orders prepared for the relevant officers. Good day, gentlemen.'

The benches scraped over the flagstones as the officers rose and stood to attention. Scrofa collected up his slates and left the room. Once he was gone Postumus called out, 'At ease!' and the officers relaxed again.

Cato nudged his friend. 'I think we should have a word with Centurion Parmenion.'

Macro nodded, then glanced round at the other officers, slowly dispersing to carry out the day's duties. 'Yes, but not in front of the rest. Perhaps we should ask him to show us round the fort. No harm in that. Only natural that new arrivals should want to look over the place.'

07 The Eagle In the Sand

Fort Bushir, like nearly all Roman forts, followed a roughly standard design. The commander's house, the headquarters, hospital and stores all occupied a central position and lined the two main thoroughfares that ran through the fort at right angles to each other. On either side stretched the long, low roofs of the barrack blocks where the cohort's men were accommodated eight to a room in the buildings allocated to each century or cavalry squadron. The stables took up one corner of the fort and the smell of the animals permeated the hot air that hung over everything like a stifling blanket. As Centurion Parmenion gave them a detailed tour Cato noted examples of a slackness that would not be tolerated in most other auxiliary cohorts, let alone the huge fortresses of the legions he was more familiar with.There were broken doors and shutters, food slops left in the street and several items of poorly maintained equipment, most notably the dried-out wood on the bolt-throwers mounted in each of the towers. They were quite useless; sure to split the moment the arms were placed under any strain if the weapons should ever be made ready to shoot. There was also a discernible listlessness amongst the rankers of the cohort and Cato wondered if it might be more than just the natural reaction to years spent in such a desolate posting.

As the three centurions climbed the ladder to the watchtower built over the main gates Macro decided it was time to speak directly.

'Have you always served with the auxiliaries, Centurion Parmenion?'

'No chance. I'm a proper soldier. Spent seventeen years with the Third Gallica up near Damascus, the last as an optio. Then I took a transfer into the Second Illyrian with promotion to centurion. Been here ever since. Should be demobbed within the next year or two.'

'I see.'

'Why do you ask?'

'With someone of your background here, I was just wondering how the place came to be in such a state.'

Parmenion did not respond until all three of them were standing on the small platform of the watchtower, in the shade of the palm thatch roof. Around them the desert unravelled to the horizon, shimmering in the glare of the sun. But Parmenion's gaze was fixed on Macro. 'There's nothing wrong with the cohort, Centurion Macro. Not the rankers at least,' he said guardedly.

'And the officers?'

Parmenion stared back at Macro, and glanced at Cato. 'Why are you asking me that? What are you after?'