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?’