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spotted the raiding party and gave chase. They only escaped by dumping the captured goods, including Jacob.”
    The shepherd studied the two boys with pursed lips. “The Parthians threaten us with the same.”
    Alban hitched his sword belt tighter still. “Not after today.”
    The highland pasture was bordered on all sides by sharp-edged cliffs. Alban ordered his soldiers to lower themselves prone, and soon his two squads of twenty-five men were just so many shifting mounds in the high grass. The shepherd used his staff to shove aside the animals and led Alban in a careful crouch to the southwest ledge.
    The breathtaking view descended in a mad tumble of rocks and grass and scrub trees to the southern plains. Far below, the Damascus Road was a winding yellow river of dust.
    The shepherd pointed with his staff. “There and there.”
    Alban nodded and muttered over his shoulder, “Horax? Do you see?”
    “I see them.”
    Two bands of men, each some fifty strong, crowded on ledges below jutting from the rubble-strewn hillside over the highway. Far to the southeast, where the heat caused the air to writhe and tremble, came a long snaking line of men and beasts. The expected trade caravan was approaching.
    Alban asked quietly, “Where are the paths?”
    “Look to your left and your right. See how one shadow in each place forms a line from cliff’s edge to valley floor.”
    Alban moved back a pace. A single bandit glancing upward would be enough to expose them and destroy the element of surprise. He lay on his back, surrounded by sweet-scented grass, and closed his eyes to the sun. “The question,” Alban said, “is how to mask our descent.”
    Neither Samuel or Horax responded. Alban’s adjutant rested on the grass beside him and remained silent. Watchful.
    Alban turned over and carefully slid forward for another look. The bandits below were very much on the alert, watching for any outrider who might raise the alarm before the caravan drew close.
    Fifty Roman soldiers descending from the plateau above them might as well arrive with trumpets and cymbals. To make matters worse, Alban’s men would be attacking in single file against seasoned warriors massed on two ledges. Unless Alban could find a way to maintain absolute silence, he and his men would be decimated.
    The shepherd moved back from the edge and swept his staff about him like a scythe. “The bandits saw us bringing sheep down to sell to a caravan they later destroyed. They tracked us back up and demanded a tax. Either in sheep . . . or in boys. Each time it is more. Last night they took half my newborn lambs.”
    A plan began forming in Alban’s head. Once more he slithered forward on his belly and inched his head out over the precipice. This third inspection confirmed what he thought he had spotted. He reversed away from the ledge, then said to Horax, “Assemble the men.”
    As Horax glided away in a low crouch, Alban told the shepherd, “You need go no farther.”
    “This is my clan’s pasture.” He could tell Samuel had more than his share of Judaean pride.
    “And I will keep it so. Now let my men do what we are trained for.”
    “I have fought brigands longer than you have been alive.”
    “Think of your sons,” Alban said, his voice low.
    More than half of Alban’s soldiers were older than he. Four years earlier, they had greeted his arrival with sullen hostility. Now they watched him with the unblinking eyes of seasoned warriors. They trusted his ability to lead them into danger and bring them out again. They knew he had been trained for this role since childhood. He might be a chieftain’s son, but he had never known a day when it had been within his power to choose a different life. Which, truth be told, was what bonded him most closely with his men and they with him. The power to choose one’s fate was the prerogative of the wealthy and the firstborn.
    Alban used his sword to diagram the cliff’s border and the two paths in the rocky