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Kidron gate. As they emerged from the shadows of the gateway Cato blinked at the sunlight shining directly into his eyes. This was a mistake, he suddenly realised. The sun would blind them to any ambush the sicarians might attempt along the street and he squinted painfully as he scanned the buildings crowding in on each side. But there was little sign of life. A few early risers were abroad, some beggars were taking up their pitches for the day and a mangy dog trotted from one pile of refuse to the next, sniffing for morsels of food.The handful of people on the street gave way as the column approached and stared expressionlessly at the mounted soldiers as they passed by. Ahead of them, Cato saw the watchmen on the city gate draw back the locking bar and begin to ease back the heavy slabs of timber that protected the city.A short while later, without incident, the squadron rode out of the city and began to descend the steep track leading down into the valley of Kidron. Cato breathed a sigh of relief.
    ‘Glad we’re out of there.’
    Macro shrugged. ‘It’d take more than a few fools who fancy themselves with a blade to worry me.’
    ‘That’s a comfort to know.’The dust from the mounts ahead of them was already filling the air and Cato pressed his knees into the flank of his horse and twitched the reins to the side. ‘Come on, let’s get to the front.’

    By the time the column had crossed the valley and climbed the Mount of Olives on the far side, the sun had risen far enough into the sky for its heat to begin to be felt. Macro, far more used to the climate of the northern provinces, started to dread the prospect of spending the rest of the day swaying in the saddle under the direct blaze of the sun. His helmet hung from the saddle frame and like the rest of the soldiers he wore a straw hat over his felt helmet liner. Even so his sweat soon made the liner feel hot and prickly and he silently cursed Narcissus for landing them with this job. As the horses picked their way along the track that led towards the River Jordan where it fed into the Dead Sea, they soon left behind the large estates of the wealthier Judaeans. Most of the great houses were closed up, their owners no longer daring to live under the threat of a brigand’s knife. Instead they had retreated to their houses in Jerusalem where they could live more safely. The land steadily became more sparsely populated and the villages they rode through comprised huddles of mudbrick hovels surrounded by small strips of cultivated land.
    ‘This is crazy,’ Macro commented. ‘No one could live off these scraps of dirt. Hey, guide!’
    Symeon turned in his saddle and smiled. ‘Yes, my friend?’
    Macro stared at him. ‘You’re not my friend. Not yet. You’re just a guide, so watch your lip.’
    ‘As you wish, Roman. What did you want of me?’
    Macro indicated the intricate patchwork of fields around the village they were passing. ‘What’s going on here? Why are their plots so small?’
    ‘It’s the Judaean way. When a man dies his land is divided between his sons. When they die in turn it is divided between their sons. So, every generation the farms get smaller and smaller.’
    ‘That can’t go on for ever.’
    ‘No, indeed, Centurion. That is one of the problems that blights this land. When a man can no longer support his family, he is forced to take a loan against his property.’ Symeon shrugged.’If there’s a bad harvest, or if the market is glutted, he can’t pay the loan off and his land is forfeit. Many drift to Jerusalem looking for work, the rest go into the hills and become brigands, preying on travellers and terrorising some of the smaller villages.’
    Macro pursed his lips. ‘That’s not much of a life.’
    ‘Still less of a life, now that the people have to pay Roman taxes.’
    Macro looked at him sharply, but the guide just shrugged. ‘I mean no offence, Centurion, but that’s how it is. If Rome wants peace here, then she must