Free The Eagle In The Sand by Simon Scarrow Page B

down the side track.
    ‘Wait here a moment,’ he called back. ‘Until I’m out of sight. Then go. They’ll follow you.’
    As soon as Symeon and Cato had dropped below the level of the main track the decurion wheeled his horse round. ‘Let’s go!’
    The auxiliaries followed him, kicking their heels in and yelling at their mounts to urge them on. Macro waited a moment, torn between staying with his friend and getting to the fort as swiftly as possible to give the order to send out a column to rescue him. Then he gripped the reins and thrust the heels of his boots into the side of his horse and set off after the auxiliaries. As he took a last glance towards the gully into which the two figures had disappeared, Macro vowed to himself that if any harm came to Cato he would not rest until Symeon paid for it with his life.
    Symeon steered the two horses into the dried river bed and followed its course for a moment until there was a looping bend.Then he reined the animals in and waited. The horses were exhausted, and snorted and breathed heavily as they scuffed the ground with their hooves.
    ‘Shhh!’ Symeon said softly, and gently patted the neck of his horse. ‘Let’s not give ourselves away, eh?’
    In the distance he could hear the faint drumming of a number of horses, getting closer. Symeon offered up a silent prayer that his pursuers would be single-minded enough to chase after Macro and the others and ignore the quiet side track. The sound of their approach swiftly grew louder and Symeon felt his body tense as he waited for them to pass. Beside him, Cato suddenly straightened up in his saddle, his eyes flickering open and then staring about as he gazed at his surroundings in confusion.
    ‘What . . . Where am I?’
    ‘Quiet, boy!’ Symeon grabbed his forearm tightly. ‘I beg you.’
    Cato stared at him, then clenched his eyes shut as another wave of dizziness overcame him. With a convulsive heave he threw up, over his mail vest and down the glistening flank of his horse. He spat weakly to clear his mouth, then slumped forward again, his mind wandering as he muttered, ‘Because it’s my fucking tent . . . that’s why.’
    Symeon’s shoulders sank in relief as the Roman fell silent again. He strained his ears and listened as the brigand horsemen galloped closer, shouting wildly with the thrill of the chase with the auxiliaries clearly in view. There was no sound to indicate they had divided or even slowed down at the junction of the two tracks, and they galloped on until the sounds faded in the distance. Symeon waited until it was quiet again, listening for any sounds of stragglers, but there was nothing. With a click of his tongue he turned the horses round and headed back up the gully to the track. Then, supporting Cato as carefully as he could, he steered the horses in the direction of the village.

    Cato awoke from a bad dream with a start. Instantly, whatever terror it was that had spurred him into consciousness was gone, even before he could remember it. His head hurt horribly, the pain pounding away at his skull. He opened his eyes and at once the pain was worsened by the searing brightness of the sunshine. Cato blinked and squinted and then his nostrils filled with the acidic odour of his vomit and he retched, clasping a hand to his mouth.
    When he opened his eyes again a moment later, the stabbing pain of the light had subsided a little and he saw that he was riding into a small settlement. Small, neatly kept houses of stone, plastered with mud, were on either side. Sun shelters of thatched palm leaves leaned against the sides of buildings and here and there the long slender trunks of palm trees stretched up. Then Cato was aware of the people, Semitic and dressed in light-coloured flowing robes. Children wore simple tunics. Women and men were grinding grain in stone basins, and a small group of people seemed to be engaged in some kind of meeting outside the largest of the buildings.They paused and