'Look out!' Macro grabbed Cato's arm and pulled him back as a heavily laden camel crossed in front of them. The beast's wooden-framed saddle was weighed down with bales of finely woven material and it let out a deep grunt as it stepped aside to avoid the two Romans.When it had swayed past, Cato pushed on again, and suddenly paused.

'What's the matter?' asked Macro.

'Shit… I can't see them.' Cato's eyes hurriedly skimmed over the section of the crowd where he had last seen their prey. But there was no sign of the hooded men. 'They must have lowered their hoods.'

'Oh, great,' Macro muttered. 'What now?'

'Let's make for the tax collectors. That's where they seemed to be heading.'

With Cato leading the way, the two centurions moved over to the end of the line of stalls stretching alongside the steps that led up to the walls of the inner temple. The nearest stalls belonged to the moneylenders and bankers, who sat in comfortable cushioned chairs as they conducted business with their customers. Beyond them was the smaller section where the tax collectors and their hired muscle sat waiting for payment from those who had been assessed for taxation. At their sides were stacked the waxed slates that detailed the names of those to be taxed, and how much they should pay. The tax collectors had bought the right to collect specific taxes at auctions held by the Roman procurator in the province's administrative capital at Caesarea. Having paid a fixed sum into the imperial coffers, they were legally entitled to squeeze the people of Jerusalem for any taxes they might be deemed to be liable for. It was a harsh system, but it was one that was applied right across the Roman Empire, and the tax collectors were a deeply resented and despised social class. That suited Emperor Claudius and the staff of the imperial treasury very well indeed, since the odium of the provincial taxpayers was invariably focused on the local collectors and not the people from whom the latter had bought their tax-collecting rights.

A sudden outburst of shouting and screaming drew Cato and Macro's attention to the far end of the line of stalls. A group of men had charged out of the crowd. Sunlight flashed off the side of a blade and Cato realised the men were all armed as they closed in round one of the tax collectors, like wolves at the kill. His bodyguard took one look at the blades, turned and ran. The tax collector flung up his arms to protect his face and disappeared from sight as his attackers fell on him. Cato's hand automatically snatched at his sword as he ducked round behind the line of stalls.

'Come on, Macro!'

There was a rasp as Macro's blade was drawn behind Cato and then the two of them sprinted towards the killers, thrusting the moneylenders aside and leaping over their stacks of record slates. Ahead of him Cato saw the men draw back from the tax collector, now slumped over the top of his stall, his white tunic torn and bloody. In front of the stall the crowd drew back in a panic, crying out in terror as they turned and ran.The attackers turned on the men behind the next stall.They had frozen for an instant before realising the terrible danger they were in, but now they attempted to scramble away from the men brandishing the short curved blades that gave them their name: the sicarians – assassins of the most extreme fringe of the Judaean zealots resisting Roman rule.

The sicarians were so intent on their killing frenzy that they did not notice Cato and Macro until the last moment, when the nearest killer glanced up as Cato thrust a collector aside and leaped forward, teeth bared and sword thrust out in front of him.The point took the attacker just to one side of the neck, split his collar bone and drove deep into his chest, piercing his heart.With an explosive gasp the man slumped forward, almost wrenching the blade from Cato's grasp. Cato raised his boot and kicked the body back, yanked the blade free and crouched, looking for his next target. To one side there was a blur as Macro ran past and hacked his sword into the arm of the next sicarian, almost severing the limb. The man fell away, howling in agony as his nerveless fingers released his blade.The other men abruptly abandoned their attack on the tax collectors and turned to face the two Romans. Their leader, a short swarthy man with powerful shoulders, snapped out an order and the sicarians swiftly fanned out, some circling round the stalls while others climbed the steps and moved to cut off Macro and Cato from the direction they had come. Cato kept the bloodied point of his sword raised as he glanced round.

'Seven of them.'

'Bad odds.' Macro was breathing heavily as he took up position with his back to Cato's. 'We shouldn't be here, lad.'

The crowd had fled back towards the gate, leaving a clear space round the two Romans and the killers. The paving slabs of the outer court were littered with discarded baskets and half-eaten snacks, hastily flung aside as people fled for their lives.

Cato laughed bitterly. 'Your idea, remember?'

'Next time, don't let me do the thinking.'

Before Cato could respond the leader of the sicarians snapped an order and his men closed in, moving quickly, blades held out ready to strike.There was no way out for the Romans and Cato crouched lower, limbs tensed as his eyes flickered from man to man, none more than a spear's length away from him and Macro.

'What now?' he whispered softly.

'Fuck knows.'

'Great. Just what I needed to hear.'

Cato sensed a movement to one side and turned just as one of the killers lunged forward, stabbing towards Macro's side.

'Watch it!'

But Macro was already moving, his sword a glittering blur as it swept round and knocked the blade from the man's hand. Even as it clattered to the ground another sicarian feinted, causing Cato to turn towards him, ready to parry. As he moved, another of the men jumped forward, knife point flickering out. Cato turned back just in time to meet the threat. He lowered his spare hand and snatched out his dagger, broad-bladed and unwieldy compared to the narrow-bladed weapons of the killers, but it felt good in his hand all the same. The leader shouted another order, and Cato heard the anger in the man's voice. He wanted this finished at once.

'Macro!' Cato shouted out. 'With me! Charge!'

He threw himself at the men backing onto the courtyard and his comrade followed him, bellowing at the top of his voice. The sudden reversal of roles startled the sicarians and they paused for a vital instant. Cato and Macro slashed at the men in front of them, causing them to jump aside, and then the Romans were through, running across the paving, back towards the entrance to the Great Courtyard. There was a cry of rage from behind and then the scuffling pad of sandals as the sicarians chased after them. Cato glanced back and saw Macro close behind, and just a few paces behind him the leader of the killers, lips drawn back in a snarl as he sprinted after the Romans. Cato knew at once they would never outrun them. They were too heavily weighed down and the sicarians wore nothing but their tunics. It would all be over in moments. Just ahead lay an amphora, abandoned in the rush to escape from the courtyard. Cato jumped over it and immediately turned round. Macro, with a puzzled expression, leaped past him just as Cato slashed his sword down, shattering the large jar. With a gurgling rush the contents sloshed across the paving slabs and the air filled with the aroma of olive oil. Cato turned and raced after Macro, and glanced over his shoulder just in time to see the leader of the sicarians slither, lose his footing and tumble back on to the ground with a thud. Two of the men immediately behind him also slipped over, but the rest skirted the spreading slick of oil and chased after the Romans. Cato saw that they were only a short distance from the stragglers of the crowd: the old, the infirm and a handful of small children, crying out in terror.