The woman tutted and stepped forward to support Cato on his free side. As she took up some of the weight Cato stirred, rolled his head round and smiled as he introduced himself. ‘Centurion Quintus Licinius Cato, at your service.’

‘You are welcome to my home, Centurion.’

‘And whose home would that be?’

‘This is an old friend of mine,’ Symeon explained. ‘Miriam of Nazareth.’

Cato’s mind was still reeling, and he struggled to make sense of his situation. ‘Nazareth. This can’t be Nazareth.’

‘It isn’t. This is the village of Heshaba.’

‘Heshaba. That’s nice. Who lives here?’

‘It’s a commune,’ said Miriam. ‘We’re followers of Jehoshua.’

Jehoshua . . . Cato struggled for a moment before he recalled that this was the man who had been executed by Rome. He glanced round at the faces of the villagers as a cold trickle of fear traced its way down his spine.

07 The Eagle In the Sand

CHAPTER SEVEN

Macro deliberately slowed his pace as the brigands reached the junction, to make sure that they came after him. As soon as he saw them gallop past the side track he stabbed his heels in and his horse burst forward again, pounding over the ground. He glanced back and saw that the brigands were keeping up with him, some two hundred paces behind. If his mount fell, or tired too quickly, they would be on him in a moment. One Roman against thirty or more. Not good odds, he thought grimly. If only he could do that trick of Symeon’s with his bow. He had never seen archery like that before. He had heard of it. Only one nation in the east had archers who were reputed to be able to perform such feats. Parthia. In which case . . . he felt his stomach turn to ice. If Symeon was a Parthian spy then he had left Cato in the hands of one of Rome’s longest-standing and bitterest enemies. But surely not. Symeon did not look like a Parthian. He certainly did not sound like one, and after all, he had saved their lives only the day before. So who exactly was Symeon of Bethsaida?

If he escaped his pursuers, Macro told himself that he would find out. But for the present only one thing mattered: staying out of the hands of Bannus and his men. He had little doubt that the revenge Bannus would seek for the death of his sicarian gang members would be agonising and drawn out. He glanced back and saw that they were still some way behind him, and did not seem to be closing the distance.

‘Go on, my girl!’ he called out to the horse. ‘Run like we’re on the last lap in the Circus Maximus.’