by J. E. Gurley
Shadow Legion
Copyright © 2019 by J.E. Gurley All rights reserved.
First Edition: 2019
Cover Art, design, and Formatting: by Cyrusfiction Productions
3D Armor renders by Marcelo (Maxx) Pinheiro, armor concept by Daehun Park.
Published 2019 by J.E. Gurley
www.jamesgurley.com
ISBN Print: 978-1-7332103-0-0
ISBN eBook: 978-1-7332103-1-7
Printed in the United States of America
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without the author’s permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Glossary of Roman Terms
About the Author
1
The blistering wind pried sharp grains of sand from the desert floor and hurled them into Gaius Marcus Linneus’ face. Each tiny particle became a ravenous, silicate creature whose dagger-sharp teeth gnawed hungrily at the tender flesh around his fierce steel-gray eyes. He lifted higher the dirty, red focale covering his nose and mouth to protect it from the onslaught. Flinty dust sifted through the loosely woven linen scarf, souring his parched throat and leaving the taste of mighty mountains ground to dust by centuries of perpetually scouring winds. The odor of sun-baked earth plugged his dust-coated nostrils.
He snorted to clear his nose. “This accursed sand seeks to kill me even before I reach my new post.”
Gaius was no stranger to deserts. Armenia and Mesopotamia had been his home for four years, but the deserts there had been the cradle of civilization, harsh and desolate but livable. Mesopotamian civilizations had arisen, thrived, and fallen over the centuries. The Sahara was unyielding, unconquerable. Man survived in the Sahara, but he did not thrive.
Gaius glanced up at the sun, a burning yellow ember perched in the dirty sky. He had cooked beneath its onslaught for weeks. Today, however, instead of broiling him, the searing wind sent a cold, foreboding chill crawling up Gaius’ spine, as he surveyed the ragged collection of sun-bleached, brown leather tents that would be his new home. For how long? If Emperor Marcus Aurelius has anything to say about it, until my death.
Perched atop a rocky spine lifting like a skeletal finger beckoning from a sea of golden sand, the hovel of leather tents more resembled a double row of weathered tombstones than it did a proper Roman castra, or fort. The tents crouched behind a low, unfinished rock wall constructed to protect them from the winds that periodically flayed the bones of the earth upon which the camp rested. Two of the papilia sagged in the middle like worn saddles or a resting butterfly from which the name derived. The rough outline of a stacked-stone building formed one corner of the bleak compound.
The sight of the makeshift fort drew a deprecating scowl from Gaius. Like any proper Roman commander, he abhorred sloppiness, and the condition of the fort spoke of lethargy and neglect. Yes, Marcus Aurellius has chosen my punishment well.
He turned his attention to the surrounding sea of sand, scanning it, as would a sailor gazing out at the endless expanse of water from the prow of his ship. The stark landscape, barren and lifeless to the beholder, bore no trees save for the three withered date palms swaying above the fort, and no shrubs. Not a single blade of green grass broke the bleak, monotonous view extending to the distant, knife-edge horizon. No birds soared above it. No lizards, vipers, or scorpions patrolled the wasteland in search of scarce prey. It was a dry, parched, desolate land – a dead land.
White, wind-chased wispy clouds sped across the burnt sky, offering a tantalizing hope of rain that would never come. Like the Emperor’s false promise of redemption, the pitiful camp reminded Gaius of just how far from the Emperor’s grace he had fallen. A gust of wind sent particles of sand and dust around the edge of his focale and into his mouth. He moved it aside and spat out the bitter dust.
“Is it always this windy?” he asked Flavius Cirrus, his new Optio, his second in command. “This pervasive dust is unbearable.”
“This day is calm compared to most. You will get used to it – eventually.” Flavius reined in his mount. “Castra-Augustus,” he announced with a wave of his naked, hirsute arm, indicating the sparse collection of ragged tents comprising the fortified camp. His forced smile barely creased his weathered face darkened by the sun, and his dark brown eyes betrayed no hint of amusement.
Flavius had ridden out from the encampment a few hours earlier to meet him along the way, a thoughtful gesture Gaius appreciated from a subordinate, but the entire ride back had been a constant barrage of questions Gaius preferred not to answer until he had taken proper stock of his new post. He nodded perfunctorily, his mind absorbing the implications of what he saw. He quickly realized that the centuria that the Emperor had assigned him to command lacked proper Roman discipline – no watchtower guarded the encampment, no gate barred the unfinished wall, and no Legion standard flew above the tents.
He raised the wooden cudgel lying across his saddle and pointed toward the camp. “I count but five tents, Optio,” he said. “Normally, a contubernium of eight men is assigned to each tent. That means just forty men, Optio Flavius, not the eighty men of the full centuria I was promised.”
“We have had ... casualties,” Flavius offered before becoming strangely silent, as if reluctant to explain further.
Gaius raised an eyebrow and scowled, irritated that he must probe deeper. Gods! Must everyone and everything in this place hold secrets like the cursed sand?
“Casualties?” he asked.
Flavius shrugged his shoulders and sighed, the sound of a dry desert breeze escaping his parched lips. “Five men have deserted, though Jove knows where they thought they were going in this hell hole. Six more have died of poisonous bites or stings, disease, or of sun fever. A dozen are simply … missing, vanished in the night.” He glanced away. “Centurion Lucius Agrippa was one of the vanished.” He wet his lips with his tongue and swallowed before continuing. “A foot patrol of five men failed to return six days ago. A second mounted patrol sent to search for them is two days late in reporting back.”
Gaius fought to control his temper. The stifling desert heat sufficed without adding the heat of anger to the mix and only increased the churning in his restless stomach. His magnificent Andalusian warhorse, Apollo, as white as the snow atop the distant mountains of his home, detected his master’s agitation and snickered uneasily. Gaius reached down to pat the horse’s neck reassuringly.
“Missing men? Lost patrols? Vanished Centurions? Why did they not inform me of this in Leptis Magna?” he snapped.
“Praetor Augustus thought it best not to make the populace aware of our, er, difficulties. There is much dissent here in Tripolitania, especially after the recent revolts in Egypt.”
Flavius did not meet his commander’s eyes. Gaius took this to indicate he didn’t agree with the Governor’s actions. Gaius glanced back at the remaining ten of the twelve men who had accompanied hi
m, three of which were non-combatants, the two wagonloads of supplies, and the ten native bearers driving the wagons and leading heavily laden packhorses. Two men had vanished without a trace during the night along the way. He had suspected that they had deserted, but now he had doubts. The accursed land, fit perhaps for the barbarian Berbers, offered only a living death for one born and reared in the forests and mountains of Northern Italy.
“Difficulties,” he repeated. “If I had but known, I would have demanded more men from the garrison commander at Marzuq.”
Flavius scowled. “I know the commander, Praefectus castorum Sunio Atticus.” He spit in the sand, a gesture of contempt made even more significant in such a dry land. “He would not have given you any more men. He is jealous of his position and does not welcome your arrival in Tripolitania.”
Gaius snorted. “Jealous! Emperor Marcus Aurelius Antonius Augustus personally banished me to this lost land with my tail between my legs. The sands of the Sahara are to be my grave. What does the Praefectus have to fear from me?”
Flavius sat up straight in the saddle and in a stern voice said, “You were once the finest Legate in the Third Legion; still are. It was not your fault your men failed you.”
Gaius noticed the sparkle of admiration in Flavius’ eyes and felt a raw wound open in his chest. It would be to dash his optio’s hopes early. He didn’t need a hero-blinded worshipper. “Yes, it was,” he countered sharply, his voice filled with the vile taste of somber memories. “They trusted me, and I did not question my orders though I believed it a foolhardy plan of attack. I allowed my men to walk into an ambush, slaughtered to save my honor.” He could not hide the rancor in his voice, the tone of self-recrimination that had grown stronger during the past four months of exile.
“They ran. Not you. You stood your ground, sword in hand, and faced your enemies. You were willing to die with honor.”
Gaius rubbed the still vivid scar on his left leg just above the knee, another reminder of the battle. The long ride from the coast had intensified the constant ache with which he had grown accustomed. The pain served as a bitter reminder of his failure. “Better if I had.”
“Here we are,” Flavius said as they entered the camp, quickly changing the subject.
“Indeed,” Gaius agreed, not attempting to hide the disdain in his voice.
Most of the men huddled uncomfortably under the sparse shade in the lee of tents or beneath the three, half-dead date palms that huddled like frightened virgins surrounded by sex-starved men in one corner of the compound. Three others, stripped to the waist, carried large rocks from a pile of stones in the center of the compound to reinforce the walls. They moved with the lassitude of galley slaves or condemned prisoners confined to the sulfur mines.
Gaius eyed the pitifully small stack of firewood beside the stone wall, gathered from ancient dead trees almost fossilized by the desert heat. Considering the three date palms in the camp were the only trees he had seen in over three weeks, he understood the lack of firewood. One of the wagons he had brought was half-filled with stacked wood and charcoal for the ovens and campfires.
The aroma of baking bread drifted on the light breeze from two dome-shaped beehive ovens beside the kitchen tent. A cook, his filthy red tunic hiked up until it barely covered his hairy, naked ass, glanced up at the approaching men, waved casually, and then continued stirring the contents of a large black kettle over an open fire. Beads of sweat dripped from his arms into the contents of the pot, turning Gaius’ already uneasy stomach. The cook’s helper, a dull-eyed youth holding a box of herbs and seasonings, stood behind the cook looking vapid and lost in time.
The chill that had enveloped him upon first seeing the encampment evaporated in a flash, as a blast of heat from the bare bone-colored rock swept up his legs and smothered him. His horse, struck by the sudden heat, reared. Gaius soothed the horse by gently speaking to it and patting its broad neck. “Calm, Apollo, calm. It is only the wind.” He glanced at Flavius. “Get used to it.”
Mistaking the dour expression on Gaius’ face as a result of lack of proper respect for the new commander, Flavius called to a young man sitting cross-legged outside one of the tents. A curved brass horn lay across his lap.
“Cornicen, blow your horn.”
The young man leapt to his feet, licked his dry, parched lips, and blew the Call to Order. Men awoke from their stupors and stared about them in confusion. Others stumbled from the tents half-dressed, weapons in hand, believing they were under attack. One old veteran began verbally haranguing the men as he lined them up in some semblance of order.
“Don’t you recognize the Call to Order, you dogs? Are you tirones fresh from the fields? Get in line and at least look like legionnaires for our new commander.”
“Sir!” the veteran called out stiffly as Gaius approached. “Acting Tesserarius Marcellus Qintilus at your command.”
Gaius stared down at his temporary third in command. The man bore many battle scars on his arms and legs, including a leather patch over his left eye. He, at least, has seen battle, Gaius thought with approval. He was an evocati, a veteran who, after serving his term of enlistment, had reenlisted. What perfidy has he caused to wind up here in this hellhole? Swiftly surveying the men stumbling to ranks, fumbling to fasten their armor, he doubted that any of the others had seen action. Many looked too young to leave their mother’s side, the tirones, freshly recruited from Roman families living in Tripolitania.
“Your men seem bored, Tesserarius.”
Marcellus flinched under Gaius’ hard gaze but didn’t back down. He eyed the heavy cudgel Gaius held in his right hand, absentmindedly slapping it into the palm of his left hand, as if he had seen such symbols of office used on recalcitrant officers.
“Begging your pardon, sir,” he replied, “but the heat is unbearable during mid-afternoon. We barely survived a sandstorm that blew for two days and two nights in which we lost two men and a tent.” He paused, glanced at the gathered troops, and continued, “Sir, the men are exhausted.” He relaxed his stance slightly as if to emphasize the point of his fatigue.
Gaius silently cursed his haste in judging the veteran warrior. He now noticed two sand-covered heaps that had been tents and another knocked-down tent inside the framework of the stone building. The sandstorm explained the disarray of the tents and the lassitude of the men. He pointedly slid the cudgel beneath the edge of his saddle to empty his hands.
“Very well, Marcellus,” he said in a more gentle tone. “You are now full Tesserarius. You will take orders only from Optio Flavius Cirrus and me. I trust you know who I am.”
The man smiled, revealing two missing teeth beneath an upper lip bearing a sword scar. “Of course, sir. You are Legate Gaius Marcus Linneus.”
“I am Centurion Gaius Marcus Linneus,” Gaius corrected promptly, cringing inwardly as he spoke aloud his new rank. “I am no longer in the Emperor’s favor.”
“Pardon, sir, but I have heard of the Battle at White Rock Pass.”
Gaius managed a smirk. Word travels fast. “I lost over three hundred men in Armenia, Tesserarius. Does that not frighten you?”
“You saved eight hundred, sir. That encourages me.”
Gaius smiled. The man either knew how to suck up to officers or genuinely meant what he said. “Thank you, Marcellus. Choose four men to help the bearers unload the supplies we have brought, and allow the remainder to rest through the heat of the day as you suggest. Recall the men at the wall until the sun has set. We will continue the repairs at night when it is cooler.”
Marcellus cast a disparaging sneer toward the men at the wall. “They are on punishment detail for speaking of desertion.”
Gaius wiped his hot, sweaty brow with his hand, cursing the feverish heat. “Is being here not punishment enough? Warn them that if I hear of such talk again, I will stake them out for the scorpions to feast upon their eyes. Let them consider that.”
Marcellus smiled. “Yes, sir.” He glanced toward the wagons. “I
hope our supplies include wine, sir.”
Gaius eyed the livestock huddled around the wagons with disdain. “Herding six oxen and two dozen goats cost me four extra days travel time on the journey here. The wagons are laden with crates of chickens – most survived – wood, charcoal, barrels of water, casks of salted meat, flour, dried fish, flasks of garum fish sauce, honey, wheels of cheese, baskets of carrots, leeks, beans, onions, fresh fruit and dried fruit, and, yes, casks of wine … I know not what else.”
“I hope the food is not rotten, though with our cook’s dismal skills it would matter little.” He ran off barking orders.
“Welcome to your new home,” Flavius said. His lips quivered slightly, as if he were suppressing a smile or a smirk.
Gaius couldn’t decide if Flavius meant his remark as one of acquiescence or merely offered in jest. He had not yet learned to read his optio. That would soon change. “I will find a way back into the Emperor’s favor somehow,” he replied.
Flavius acknowledged the hint of bitterness in Gaius’ voice with a slight nod of his head. “Here? Here there is nothing but sand and scorpions, as you just noted. I have become used to my prison.”
“There is always an enemy, Flavius, someone chaffing against the rule of Rome. The Empire produces them as a sow produces litters of piglets. We just need to find them and escape our prison.” Gaius surveyed the desert as if searching for his longed-for enemy.
Flavius also eyed the surrounding desert, but saw nothing in the vast emptiness surrounding them. “An enemy could be anywhere in this dead expanse.”
“Then we will draw our enemy to us.”
Flavius looked at the troops standing uncomfortably at attention in the broiling sun and scowled. “These men are mostly milites, untrained and undisciplined, outcasts from a dozen legions. The only thing uniting them is the crippling fear the Emperor has consigned here to this wasteland to die. Many are flat-footed tirones; raw recruits from the gods’ only know what remote villages, farms, and whorehouses throughout the Roman Empire. They will hardly make a reputable centuria, much less a Shadow Legion.”
