Simon Scarrow - The Eagle In the Sand

The officers rose smartly to their feet and stiffened to attention, saluted, and then began to shuffle towards the doors leading from the hall. Macro watched them carefully as they dispersed, pleased with his performance and feeling that he had put some iron back into his new subordinates. As the last of them left the hall Cato came over.

'How did you think that went?' Macro asked.

'Blunt, but to the point.'

Macro frowned. 'I'm trying to kick them into shape, Cato, not win first fucking prize in a rhetoric competition.'

'Oh, in that case, it went rather well.' Cato smiled. 'No, seriously, I think that was just what they needed to hear. I like the touch about the standard. Is that true?'

'No. Load of bollocks. But it's the kind of thing that goes down well with the glory-hunters. And that's just what we'll need if Bannus decides to take the cohort on.'

'I suppose so.' Cato conceded. 'And what exactly are your first orders, sir?'

Macro was a little taken aback by Cato's last word, but realised immediately that it was right that his friend should defer to his new rank of prefect. It reminded him of the days when they had served in the Second Legion in Germany and Britain, when Cato had been his optio, and then a junior centurion in the same cohort. Much had happened since then, and Macro had grown used to treating the younger officer as an equal in most respects, but now the situation had changed and the professional in him accepted it as a necessity.

'Has Symeon left for Petra yet?'

'Just before the briefing.'

'Did you make quite sure he understood exactly what I wanted him to do?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Good.' Macro nodded.'Right then, it's time we made preparations for dealing with Bannus, and those desert raiders.'

The new prefect of the Second Illyrian made his presence felt at once. Barracks inspections were made at dawn and dusk and every infringement of rules punished. The men were drilled for twice as long as they had been before, and after each century had completed the regulation manoeuvres it was quick-marched round the fort until noon, when at last the men were permitted to fall out, panting and thirsty in the merciless glare of the sun. The officers quickly recovered their professional edge and worked themselves as hard as their men. There were no further patrols into the surrounding villages. Instead the mounted scouts observed the locals from a discreet distance and concentrated their efforts on searching for signs of Bannus and his men.The geography of the region was such that a large force could hide in the caves of the numerous wadis that cut through the landscape. Their only weakness was a dependence on food and water which they needed to draw from the settlements. Whenever the scouts saw a suspicious-looking party of men arrive at a village they attempted to follow them as they left, but always their prey managed to vanish into the clefts of the mountains that rose up on the east shore of the Dead Sea.

Prefect Macro concentrated his efforts on selecting a detachment for a special task. He needed the pick of the cohort's mounted men, and he needed their riding ability to be matched by their skill with a bow.As in many of the cohorts in the region, there was already a small number of men able to use the powerful compound bow favoured by eastern warriors. These Macro kept practising at the hastily erected target range outside the fort, until they were proficient at a variety of distances.

At the same time the cohort's carpenter had been tasked with designing a saddle frame equipped to carry lightweight burdens which could be jettisoned in an instant. Other men worked hard to create dummy bundles of fabrics to be loaded on to the saddle frames. All was ready by the end of the tenth day after Macro had taken control of the cohort.The same evening a message arrived from Petra. Symeon had done as he had been asked and contacted the merchants whose caravan Macro had saved. They had agreed to meet Macro and his men at the same place as before – the Nabataean way station – at dusk in three days' time.

On the night before Macro and his small force of men left Fort Bushir, he had a final meal with Cato in the dining room of the prefect's quarters. Scrofa, no doubt flush with the money he had extorted from the caravan cartels, had decorated his accommodation lavishly and the walls of the dining room were alive with hunting scenes set in lush green landscapes so utterly different from the barren wilderness stretching out around the fort that it made both men long for the kinder, temperate landscapes of Italy or even Britain.

'Say what you like about Scrofa,' Macro said, as he chewed on a chunk of roast kid, 'at least he knew how to live.'

'So I can see.' Cato was still billeted in the same room at headquarters where he and Macro had been confined. Given the mood of some of the officers it had been felt necessary for Cato to remain at the administrative heart of the cohort and keep watch on their activities. At the same time, he made sure that the two prisoners in the cell did not speak to anyone. Scrofa and Postumus were sent their food, and had their slops bucket emptied, rinsed and returned, and that was all the contact with others that Cato allowed them.

'How is Scrofa coping?' Macro asked.

'Well enough. He's stopped playing the outraged innocent and given up demanding to be set free. What worries me is that the other officers keep asking what is going to happen to the pair of them.'

'Just tell them that those two will be treated fairly and given a proper hearing once we've settled things with Bannus. If that doesn't work then tell them to keep their mouths shut and their noses out of things that don't concern them, unless they want to share the same cell.'

'Do you think they will be given a hearing?'

'Not if Narcissus has anything to do with it.They'll be interrogated to reveal anything they know about Longinus, and then disposed of.You know what Narcissus is like, Cato.'

'I know. But there's no concrete proof that Longinus is plotting anything at the moment. All the evidence we have is pretty weak. In which case Scrofa and Postumus might not be guilty of plotting against the Emperor.'

'Maybe not,' Macro agreed, helping himself to another mouthful of goat. 'But they're certainly guilty of screwing up the situation here on the frontier. Even if we get through this business with Bannus, it's going to take years to mend our relations with the locals. If we ever do.'

Cato nodded thoughtfully, and then replied, 'Perhaps the Emperor should consider abandoning Judaea.'

Macro nearly choked. 'Abandon the province! Why on earth do that?'

'I've seen nothing here that makes me think the Judaeans will ever accept their place in the Empire. They're just too different.'

'Bollocks!' Macro spluttered, and a gobbet of gristle narrowly missed Cato's ear as it sailed over the dining couch. 'Judaea is like any other province. A bit wild and untamed at first, but give it enough time and we'll make them see things our way. They'll embrace the Roman way of life whether they like it or not.'

'You think so? When was Judaea annexed? In the age of Pompey. That's over a hundred years ago. And the Judaeans are still as intractable as ever.They cling to their religious practices as if they were the only things that mattered.'

'The situation could be improved if we could only persuade them to worship our gods, or at least get them to worship our gods alongside theirs,' Macro concluded impatiently.

'Well we won't manage it. So perhaps we should give up the idea of including Judaea in the empire, or we should crush them, destroy their religion and everyone who holds to it.'

'That might do it,' Macro agreed.

Cato stared at him. 'I was being ironic.'

'Ironic? Really?' Macro shook his head and tore off another strip of meat. 'Well I bloody well wasn't. If we're going to make the Empire safe, then we have to make sure that we control this region. Not Parthia. These people will have to accept Roman rule, and like it, or else.'