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.’