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.'

The beast seemed to sense his will to live and stretched out its sleek neck as the hooves pounded across the crude track. Ahead, Macro could see the auxiliaries and was sure that he was gaining on them.That gave him a slender shred of comfort. At least it would improve the odds, if the brigands did catch up with them. Better odds, same result, Macro thought. But at least, with a few men fighting at his side, he should be able to take more of the bastards down with him before his turn came.

He raced on across the desert, and as the distance took its toll on the horse's reserves of energy it began to slow down, and soon was barely able to do more than a canter. A quick glance forward and another over his shoulder revealed that all the mounts were suffering fatigue, and with the sun rising higher into the sky, the heat soon sapped their fast dwindling strength. They had been ridden far longer and harder than they were used to and were blown. One by one, the auxiliaries' horses stopped running and slowed to a weary walk, and Macro had closed up with the stragglers by the time his mount too had had enough.

The decurion dropped back to ride at his side. 'Where's Centurion Cato, and the guide?'

'Couldn't keep up with us,' Macro explained. 'They're hiding back there.We'll go back for them with men from the fort.'

The decurion shrugged. 'If they're still there.'

The auxiliary officer left Macro to continue along the track and rode back to round up his stragglers Half a mile behind the brigands came on in a haze of dust. Twice they forced their horses into a canter and the Romans followed suit, driving their mounts on harshly, until the brigands gave up and continued at a steady walking pace, at which point the Romans reined in as well, and both parties continued along the track in the grilling heat of the midday sun.

Then, ahead, where the heat shimmered off the ground like water, Macro saw a low wavering silhouette. He squinted and it took a moment before he realised what he was seeing, and his heart soared. Turning in his saddle he called out to the auxiliaries.

'It's the fort, lads! Straight ahead.'

The men instantly lifted themselves and stared along the track, some shielding their eyes to cut the glare and see Bushir more clearly, no more than two miles away. As they drew nearer and the heat haze dissipated Macro could make out more detail. The fort was constructed from stone, with four massive towers, one at each corner. In between stretched long curtain walls with a smaller tower either side of the main gate on the wall facing the track. A short distance from the fort was a reservoir, built into a dip in the ground where two shallow gullies converged. Macro could just make out the tiny dark shapes of a group of men watching their approach from one of the towers.

Behind them, a faint cry rose up from the brigands as they too caught sight of the fort, and forced their mounts to make one last effort to catch the Romans before they reached safety.

The decurion responded immediately. 'Squadron… forward!'

He kicked his heels in and his tired mount lurched into a canter, and his men followed suit, pounding along the track as their pursuers started to close the distance, desperate to make the kill. Macro did his best to keep up with the auxiliaries, but he was an infantryman and not used to getting the best out of his mount, and so he gradually slipped behind. As the auxiliaries approached the fort the gate opened and fully armed men piled out and quick-marched towards their comrades, ready to provide a defensive screen against the pursuers. Some officer in the fort had acted very quickly and Macro made a mental note to thank the man, if he got away from the brigands pursuing him.

The first of the auxiliaries passed through the gap in the infantry line and then reined in quickly and dismounted from their exhausted horses. Macro glanced back and saw that Bannus' men were much closer now, foam flicking back from the muzzles of their driven mounts.

'Come on, you bastard!' Macro growled at the two ears rising stiffly at the end of his horse's neck. 'Run! Or we're both food for the jackals.'

The horse sensed his urgency and struggled on, as fast as its trembling limbs could carry it, towards the line of infantry striding towards them. Then it seemed to miss a step, and staggered on for an instant before its front legs began to buckle. Macro released the reins and grabbed the saddle horns with all his might to stop himself being thrown forward. The beast slowed and then collapsed, thudding belly first on to the ground. At once Macro heaved himself off, and sprinted towards the oncoming infantry. Behind him he heard the exultant cry of the brigands as they scented his blood. He glanced back and saw them only a short distance behind, blades drawn, the leading man leaning out to one side, sword rising up ready to strike. Just beyond the line of infantrymen the decurion suddenly wheeled his horse round, drew his weapon and spurred his mount back down the track, knocking aside one of the infantry as he charged towards Macro. At the last moment, he cried out, 'Get down!'

Macro's ears were filled with the pounding rhythm of hooves as he threw himself to one side, off the track, and rolled heavily, the impact driving the breath from his lungs. A large shadow danced across the ground beside him and he heard the swish of a blade cutting through the air. Then the legs of horses were all about him and Macro curled into a ball, shielding his head in his burly arms as he was sprayed with gravel. Blades clashed with a shrill ring and the decurion shouted, 'No you don't, you bastard!' Each time Macro tried to glance up, he was blinded by grit and dust, and only heard the fight going on around him.Then something spattered down on him, hot and wet, and a voice grunted in triumph.

'Get 'em!' a voice shouted. 'Stick it to 'em, Second Illyrian!'

Then there were booted feet all round Macro, more shadows, and someone grabbed him under the arms and hauled him up.

'You all right, mate?' A man's face loomed in front of him. Then the soldier saw Macro's mail vest and the medallions on his harness. 'Sorry, sir.You all right?'

Macro was dazed. 'Yes, fine.'