Free The Eagle In The Sand by Simon Scarrow Page A

he realised that, because of the dust, the decurion and his men could not be aware of his situation.
    Behind them a group of four brigands was swiftly catching up, some distance ahead of the weaker mounts of their comrades. They knew they would soon have the Romans at their mercy and whipped their horses on in frenzied anticipation of catching their prey.
    They had ridden down through some hills and now they were emerging on to the plateau: an undulating expanse of stony ground through which a thin strip had been cleared for the track. Symeon steered his horse away from Cato’s and called out to Macro, ‘Keep going. I’ll be a short distance behind.’
    Macro nodded, took a tighter grip of Cato’s shoulder and continued riding on. Behind him Symeon flipped open the lid of his quiver, drew an arrow and fixed the nock precisely to his bowstring while his horse continued down the track at an even canter, directed by pressure from Symeon’s knees. He let the pursuers get closer, and still closer, until they were no more than thirty paces behind him. Only then did he swivel round in his saddle, revealing his bow as he took careful aim at the nearest brigand. The man looked startled and crouched low to present a smaller target. But Symeon was not aiming at the man. He released the string and the arrow shot straight into the chest of the oncoming horse. With a shrill whinny of pain and terror the horse stumbled, then cartwheeled over, crushing the rider. Symeon had already notched his second arrow and twisted to draw a bead on the next target. The brigands had lost a little ground as they swerved round the downed horse, which was writhing on its back, kicking the air as it tried to dislodge the barbed shaft lodged in its chest. Then they came on again, close enough for the guide to see their grim, determined expressions. One by one he shot their horses down and left them in the dust. Then with a nod of satisfaction he flipped his quiver shut and hung the bow on the saddle horn and caught up with Macro.
    A short distance on, they reached the place that Symeon had spoken of where the track divided, a smaller way dipping off into a shallow valley that meandered down towards a broad wadi. The decurion and his men were waiting at the junction, unsure of which branch to take. Their horses were blown and their sides heaved and shrank like bellows. The decurion looked relieved to see them, and then he saw that Cato was unconscious.
    ‘Is he injured?’
    ‘No,’ Macro responded coolly. ‘He’s having a bloody nap. Of course he’s injured.’
    The decurion realised the problem at once.’He’ll slow us down.’
    Symeon pointed down the main branch of the track. ‘Keep going that way. It’ll take you to the fort. Centurion, you go with them.’
    ‘What?’ Macro started. ‘Not likely! I’m staying with him.’
    ‘They will still catch you long before you reach the fort if he stays with you.’
    ‘I told you. I’m not leaving him to Bannus.’
    ‘Bannus will not have him. I’m taking him to a safe place.’
    Macro laughed. ‘A safe place? Out here?’
    Symeon pointed down the side track. ‘There’s a village a mile down there. People I know and trust.They will shelter us.When you reach the fort, come back with a relief column. I’ll watch for you.’
    ‘This is madness,’ Macro protested. ‘Why should I trust these villagers? Why should I trust you?’
    Symeon stared at him intently. ‘I swear to you, on the life of my son, that he will be safe with me. Now, hand me the reins.’
    For a second Macro was still, weighing up the situation. He did not want to leave Cato, yet to try to continue with him to the fort would almost certainly mean death for both of them.
    ‘Sir!’ One of the auxiliaries pointed down the track. ‘I can see ‘em!’
    Macro let the reins drop from his grip and shaded his eyes. Symeon scooped the reins up before the centurion could change his mind.With one hand steadying Cato he led the horse