“I’m sorry, I wasn’t quite paying attention,” replied Hasdrubal.
“Could it have been in Alexandria that we met somewhere? Last month. On the docks, perhaps, or somewhere downtown?”
A good shot. Hasdrubal shook his head negatively. “No, I am sure we did not, quite sure. I was in Rhodes, then came here last month.” He returned to his patter of nautical terminology, but now his eyes had a most distant, glazed expression.
Crucifixion. Despite the noonday heat, Hasdrubal shivered as he recalled that one crucifixion he had witnessed. The man staggered drunkenly as the Roman crucifixion team lay the heavy crossbeam on his back, tying his wrists to hold it in place.
When they reached the place of execution, they lay the man down and drove nails through his bound wrists into the beam. Expertly avoiding the arteries which would cause his life to course out redly in just a few minutes. Thud, went the hammer, and the man screamed as the nail shattered his wrist. Then thud, thud, thud, thud. Again for the other side. Then they hoisted the cross beam with the man up onto the upright. They nailed the feet vertically through the ankle to the step. Thud, and another scream, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud. So nailed, he might carry his weight for days.
Crucifixion reduced the strongest, most defiant man to a pitiable, whimpering mass of tormented flesh. There were no martyrs at the cross. It didn’t allow them.
The man tried to die defiantly. For most of the first day, he protested his innocence and hurled invective at the soldiers. He then fell silent, his chest rising and falling convulsively.
Throughout the night, he dozed fitfully, but lurched awake every few minutes. At sunrise the following morning, he stirred, staring about with his glazed eyes. After lunch the centurion gave permission to terminate the execution. A soldier broke the man’s legs with a club with a sickening crunch. Unable to lift himself to breathe, he struggled desperately for a few minutes for air, then his chest heaved for the last time and life left him.
The man had been his uncle, Isdrubal, who had raised him from childhood when Hasdrubal’s father had died. Isdrubal had the misfortune of knowing some fellow Phoenicians who spoke often of avenging the Roman rape of Carthage centuries before. These men had taken part in an attack on some Roman soldiers, and they and all the people they knew, including Isdrubal, were rounded up, tried and crucified. This despite the fact that Isdrubal had always believed that the benign Roman rule of law was the best thing that could happen to Phoenicia. Till the night when the soldiers knocked on the door and then, not waiting for the door to be opened, burst in with swords drawn. “You’ll come along with me, sir. We have some questions for you.” In Latin. Not Greek. Not Aramaic. Latin. Just some questions.
Hasdrubal, all of twelve years old, had watched every minute of the ignominious last thirty-six hours of Isdrubal’s life, in the mud beyond the perimeter established by Roman lances.
“I said, when do you expect to get underway for sea trials? Honestly, Hasdrubal, are you sure you are all right? It seems as though the heat might have gotten to you,” Aulus asked with concern, placing his arm on the Phoenician’s shoulder. “Let’s get you out of the sun here.” They retreated to the master’s cabin for shelter from the direct rays of the sun. Inside, it was even hotter and more stifling than the main deck, even with all the windows flung wide.
“Lie down here, my good Hasdrubal, I cannot have you become ill now. Whatever would become of our departure? We have only a few weeks until we sail. I want you to stay at my residence until you recover.” He lay Hasdrubal down on his own cot, while Antonius gave him water.
Thud, thud, thud, the crucifixioner’s hammer in his chest. “You’ll come along, sir. We need to ask you some questions.” Just the way they came for uncle that night. So the trap isn’t yet sprung, and a trap not sprung is a trap that can yet be avoided. But how?
CHAPTER 10: SUSPICIONS
The visit to the Europa was cut short due to Hasdrubal’s sudden illness. Antonius felt that there was something very, very wrong here. Hasdrubal retired to his quarters, while Aulus and his companions returned to the residential domus.
Gaius and Antonius retired to their adjoining rooms. “Sir, may I talk privately with yer?” asked Antonius at Gaius’ door.
“Certainly, Antonius. Come in, please.” He gestured toward a folding camp chair in the corner. “Sit down. What’s on your mind?”
“Maybe nothin’. Were yer watchin’ Hasdrubal today while him an’ me was talkin’?”
“Yes, closely. He seemed to genuinely recognize you from somewhere, didn’t he?”
“Aye, that he did, an’ din’t seem ter like it much, either. Funny thing, I kinder recognize him meself” Antonius paused. “I baited him a bit, an’ suggested we had met somewhere in Alexandria an’ he got sick, real sick when I did that.”
“It seems he started getting sick when he first saw you!”
“Been rackin’ me brain ter figger that out. I’m sure I woulda remembered being introduced to the richest merchant shipper in Alexandria. Maybe I met him at the Bull an’ Dove,” chuckled Antonius. “That’s where I was supposed ter meet him, according to the late young Crassus. But I met with Ibrahim bin- whatever, with his silent friend instead. I made a point ter remember that guy’s face, an’ ter think on it, I’d think it were him. But it wasn’t his kinda place, and it don’t make sense for a man like him ter be hangin’ out with the biggest pirate in the Mediterranean.”
“Tell me again what the stranger looked like.”
“About same build, black beard, blue eyes, hooked nose. Looked ter be thirty or forty years old. Hard ter see more, he kept a cowl over his head, never said a word so I can’t match the speech. Am I bein’ too suspicious, sir?”
“Maybe. That describes a lot of men in Alexandria. You’re right, the biggest shipping master in Alexandria is not likely to be hanging out in a dive with the biggest pirate in the Mediterranean. But there are some things here that don’t feel right. That young soldier getting killed is connected to all of this, and someone wanted your trumped-up report badly. Don’t get too far away from your weapons.”
“Aye, right here,” said Antonius, reaching back through the neck of his tunic to withdraw his army dagger. “Suspended right there between me shoulder blades.”
“Look, tomorrow I am going down to the garrison. I want to see if there is any news from home or III Cyr. Anything developing up in Alexandria, the Third said they would keep us informed by military post. And I am expecting some letters from the Twelfth. Now, for you, here is my plan. I am going to assign you to Hasdrubal to train the sailors in fighting tactics. He won’t like it much, but I suspect that Aulus’s little fleet has attracted the attention of every pirate that can put a hull in the Red Sea. Aulus Aemilius has already suggested you train them on the ballistae and I am sure he will buy the rest of the program, even if Hasdrubal wants to stall you off. Size up the crew, work them hard at swordsmanship and see if we can have some fighting sailors. And keep your ears open. That will plug you into some of the shipboard gossip...but watch your back.”
The group dined after sundown. The oppressive heat kept the meal small. Goat, roasted on a spit, some olives and figs, thin breadcakes, all washed down with unwatered wine was enough for everyone’s appetite. Salawi seemed trying to be everywhere, but when finally the last of the light meal was cleared away and the wine refilled, he departed into the shadowy kitchen area, and the three men, alone at last, were free to chat. Aulus was bubbling with enthusiasm.
“Isn’t she fine? She’ll be taking to sea this week for sea trials, and the other two the week following.”
“Cousin,” asked Gaius, “Didn’t the behavior of Hasdrubal strike you as strange? He seemed to become positively alarmed, then ill, at the sight of Antonius.”
“He did indeed, but I am sure that it is the heat. And have you not seen someone that looks just like someone from your past...but is not? Or an event, where for a minute, it seems to have happened to you before, a
nd you know the unfolding of events before they take place? Such was the case, I am sure.”
“Sure was coincidental,” said Antonius. “Got sick just when I mentioned meeting him in Alexandria…” Directing his attention to Gaius, he continued. “Sir, does he know about the Bull and the Dove an’ the other goin’ on with III Cyr?”
“He does, Antonius, I told him the next day at his inn. But thanks for not assuming that I had!” Gaius turned toward Aulus. “Hasdrubal... how long has he been down here?”
“Since January. No, he made a trip back in early February to visit his family in Rhodes, then to Tyre to check on the timber for the masts. But that was a short trip, I think the travel was longer by far than his stay in Tyre,” answered Aulus.
“But not by way of Alexandria?”
“No, he went by Gaza and the coast road, much shorter that way. He hasn’t been in Alexandria since before the winter solstice. Why?”
“Just wondering if he could have run into Antonius there. But I guess not.” Gaius paused, then continued. “Cousin, please ensure that you do not discuss the matter of the incidents in III Cyr and the Bull and the Dove with Hasdrubal yet. It may be... premature. Tomorrow I will go down to the military garrison here. They should have news, if any, which may shed light on the incidents in the camp,” said Gaius, hoping that his nascent distrust of Hasdrubal was not warranted.
The three continued chatting quietly into the night, drinking wine and batting mosquitoes, as the stars pierced the sky over the sweltering Red Sea port.
CHAPTER 11: A CAMP IN THE DESERT
Gaius Lucullus set off alone in the morning to the military garrison near Myos Hormos. Despite the heat, he went in battle gear, since this was a professional call on a contemporary commander. He mounted up on a frisky grey, one of several fine Arabian ponies Salawi had procured for them, and spurred it into a gallop.
The cohort-sized unit, cobbled together from vexillatio detachments from various eastern legions, was located to the northeast along the main artery between Myos Hormos and Coptos.
He crested the hill and looked down at the encampment, a small one about a tenth the size of a legion castra, definitely a non-standard unit. Rather than the orderly beige eight-man army tents arranged in an orderly grid, the wide multi-colored awnings of Bedouin tents sprawled about in barely perceptible order. He did recognize the walls of the encampment, and a wide, staggering row between tents which might be the via principalis, and the large tent on the south side of it might be the praetorium. Maybe.
To the east, several large strings of horses competed for the sparse desert vegetation, while a few dozen camels milled about on the western side, an unusual number of animals.
As Gaius approached the camp, he began to wonder if perhaps these were the auxilia native troops rather than the Roman. Most of the soldiers were dressed Bedouin-style, with white, full-length flowing robes, no Roman uniforms in sight. As he rode up to the eastern gate that gave way to the via principalis, the two sentries snapped to attention. Here Gaius finally noted some evidence of Roman army equipment, for about their waist were the gladii swords and bucklers around their Bedouin robes, and lightweight Gallic helmets. The two soldiers crossed their lances to block his entrance, and in a Latin so vulgar that it could only have been spoken by a native, one challenged his identity.
“Gaius Lucullus, legatus, Legio XII Fulminata, here to see the commander. On Imperial orders.” He identified himself, waving the parchment with the Imperial seal. The two withdrew lances, and he cantered into the camp.
Beneath the open sides of the tents, he could hear all the familiar accents of Latin normally heard in camp, the nasally twang of Gaul, the harsh guttural pronunciation of Germania, the clipped syllables of the Roman lower class insulae, and occasionally the careful enunciation of someone with some formal education. The Roman army was indeed in, and underneath the tents, Gaius noted that the troops were doing those things that all Roman troops do in camp: reading watch assignments, complaining about duty, gambling, and comparing women. They just did not look like Roman troops. Under the tents, most were bare-chested with knee-length kilts of white linen, Egyptian style. Outdoors, most donned the Bedouin robe, although some hardy, heavily-tanned souls braved the sun’s direct rays on their bronzed skin. Nowhere was there a proper uniform to be seen.
Outside what he hoped was the praetorium, he dismounted. His own uniform had attracted considerable attention, since he was the only one wearing one. Two troops appeared out of nowhere to escort his mount. A young tribune, perhaps twenty-five, lean, bronzed and tautly muscled, emerged wearing a linen kilt. Gaius saluted in a nonchalant sort of way, despite the disparity in rank: the young man, after all, acted like the commander. Gaius noted that the edge of the young man’s kilt was decorated with a wide purple stripe. That meant socially, if not militarily, the young man outranked him.
“Welcome to Camp Charon!” the young man greeted him. “If you’ve a coin in your mouth, we’ll ferry you across the Styx to Hades in Arabia on the other side, where it is really hot.” He extended his hand, “I am Sextus Julius, a distant relative of much more important people in the Julian gens.”
No wonder the young man acted like he could get away with anything. He was somehow related to the whole Julio-Claudian line of emperors down to the late but unlamented Nero.
“Gaius Lucullus, legatus Legio XII Fulminata, here on Imperial orders.” Gaius said stiffly and formally. He did not like the unmilitary camp, and he did not like young tribunes flaunting their social status and higher connections, though those connections had done the young man little good in getting this assignment.
“Ah, yes, you have been preceded by a ton of mail, most of which was addressed to me about you and Senator Aulus Aemilius’ mission. Come in out of the heat and sit down.” He motioned to the camp chair, while he seated himself at his desk.
“Rufus!” A young red-headed soldier appeared from behind a curtain. “Water for the good legate!” He turned back to face Gaius. “You need water now,” not asking.
“Please feel free to remove all or part of your uniform, as you see fit. As you have noticed, and probably do not approve, I have developed my own uniforms for desert warfare, and my own style of fighting. The Roman uniform here we call the clibanus, a bread-oven. For what it does to the men inside them, as you are discovering but will not yet admit. So we dress and fight here as the Bedouin do. They’ve been doing that in this hell-hole for longer than we have, so I reckon they know what they are doing.”
Gaius thought that the young Sextus was certainly enthusiastic, and what he said made sense. The uniform had become stifling just in the short ride out from town, and it was still early morning. He removed his helmet, the leather liner and chinstraps black with sweat, and rubbed the pressure lines on his forehead. Any fight at noon, especially an all-day pitched fight, would probably kill more men from heat than from the sword. He savored the sweet water Rufus gave him. “I noticed that the camp was... unusual.”
“Unusual! You should have seen it when I first got here. The previous commander of this detachment ran this camp like it was in Germania, with daily sword drill and three mile runs in full kit. He killed way too many of his men. Criminal! Dead from exhaustion, thirst and heatstroke. Combat out here is different, and he couldn’t think of any new way that hadn’t been done for centuries. Chasing Bedouin raiding parties on foot.” Sextus’ disgust was obvious. “With all those casualties, not once, in two years, did he ever close with an enemy. Not even close enough to chuck a pilus at them.”
“And you?”
“I’ve been here nine months, and I’ll probably be here a while more, the problem with success… I spent a month with the Bedouin auxilia here to find out how they fight, and how they beat the desert. Then I trained the men to fight like they do.”
“The Parthians aren’t coming down here to raid. They’d like to, for all the money that moves through this dung-heap, but they can’t get here. No big army is
coming down the Nile and across the desert to the west of us, either. It just isn’t going to happen. The Bedouin is the threat here, and the Bedouin is a mobile raider. He lives on his horse, he strikes like lightning out of the desert, he steals what he wants and disappears back into the dunes. If you want to fight him, you fight him on his terms and his territory.”
“So when I got back, I took all my centurions back there to train with them. We learned how to find water in the desert, what to eat, and what not to eat. Then we all got together and developed desert tactics and formations, and along the way almost everything Roman, except discipline, went away. We dress like Bedouins because that robe keeps you cool in the desert. We fight like Bedouin on horseback, or on camelback for the really deep desert work. We do everything the Bedouin does, but faster and better.” The young man was smiling.
“Our first few engagements were inconsequential, except to the men we lost, but at least we engaged. Two months ago, we tracked down Ibn Sahaad, sixty miles east of here, and left twenty of his men in the sand. Missed him, but just barely. And only lost two men, one by an accident.” Sextus could not conceal his pride.
“And these aren’t your best legionaries here.” Sextus looked knowingly at Gaius. “You can bet that when your legion’s turn came to ante up a century or two for detached duty here, you didn’t send me your best troops. You probably didn’t send me a proper century, for that matter. You scraped the bottom of the barrel for the eighty worst slackers you could find, promoted one to centurion, sent them to me and hoped I’d forget to send them back!” The young man laughed and Gaius chuckled inwardly, for that very much described the process they had gone through last winter to assemble their “century” for detached duty.
“And I’ll take them, because I’m a misfit, too. My family hates me because I hated the bullshit that went with life in Rome. Didn’t understand important questions like who to invite or not invite to a dinner party. You know what? Misfits work out better here. They have fewer misconceptions to overcome. And these boys won’t be misfits when I send them back.”
The Eagle and the Dragon, a Novel of Rome and China Page 10
