Shadow Legion

by J. E. Gurley

  As Gaius entered the building, Rashid looked up at him with pity in his eyes. “I cared for my men as you do yours,” he said. “One was my nephew, the only son of my sister. It was his first journey to the salt flat. Now, I must tell my sister that I killed her only son. Do you think I fear death at your hands more than that, Roman?” He shook his head. “What can you do but kill my body? My spirit is dead already.’

  Gaius believed the Berber, but decided to keep him bound through the night. He did so to prevent the Berber’s escape, but mostly to discourage the frightened soldiers from slitting his throat in the night. In spite of his conviction that the Berber did not lie, he felt Rashid withheld vital information, perhaps to protect the real murderers.

  “Tomorrow, we march to your village. If I find anything Roman there, even a scrap of Roman cloth,” he warned, “I will slaughter your people.”

  “If they are not slaughtered already,” Rashid added.

  The men were restless and huddled around the fires as if wrapping themselves in the feeble light they cast like a blanket. Javelins and swords remained close within reach. No one removed sandals or armor, fearing another attack.

  Gaius ordered two more men upstairs. They unashamedly quaked in their sandals as they climbed the stairs, their eyes frozen on their sympathetic comrades. One of the men glanced at him hoping for a reprieve, but Gaius remained steadfast. He didn’t blame them for their reluctance, but someone had to remain on guard. He ordered the fires strengthened and the open doorway barricaded with shields. The increased blaze only lengthened the eerie shadows along the walls, which danced with a life of their own. Men huddled in twos and threes, grumbling. Gaius, fearing mutiny, removed his sword from its scabbard and hid it beneath the folds of his blanket. He laid awake, eyes open, watching the strange shadows until sleep crept over him.

  Dawn came at last, seeping from the earth like a blood-tinged miasma, clinging long to the horizon, reluctant to loosen its tenuous grasp on the land. Gaius awoke with a start, his neck aching from sleeping leaning against the wall. His mind shuddered with snippets of a half-remembered nightmare. An image, dark and dire, rose as a specter to haunt his memory. The aftertaste of the blurred image’s power left him cold and afraid, though the dream itself had vanished from his mind upon awakening. He had experienced nightmares before, but this one differed from any previous bad dreams. Bizarre and haunting, it felt more real than such a sinister dream should be.

  He did a quick head count – No one lost; no one deserted. The men breakfasted quickly but unenthusiastically on bread and dried beef. The stale bread had no taste, and the cold meat tasted of blood. After the meal, they made a second cursory search around the building for their lost comrades but found only a second shattered longbow, a few spots of dried blood, and nothing of their enemy.

  As Gaius assembled his exhausted men in the dusty street for the march from the city, he tried to ignore the tricks of the light and sudden susurrations of the wind that conveyed a feeling of being under observation. Each darkened window and doorway held stirring shadows the sun did not erase. The center of his back itched with the expectation of an enemy arrow or javelin, though his enemy used no weapons and came and went like an unseen breeze.

  The light of day did nothing to diminish the sense of dread that oozed from the mysterious structures like the pall of death rising from the blood-drenched soil of an ancient battlefield. The countryside around Rome teemed with old and abandoned buildings – Etruscan, Sabine, Celt, and Umbrian – but none approached the advanced age of Hamad Ras, not even the Greek ruins of Italy’s boot heel. Nor did they convey such a mood of erstwhile abandonment, as if the inhabitants of Hamad Rus had not fully left their homes or had died and returned as specters, shades of their former selves.

  The men felt it too, a fear that leapt from man to man like the ubiquitous sand fleas infesting their clothing. They carefully scrutinized their surroundings, paying scant attention to their commander as he spoke to them rallying them for the coming journey deeper into the terrifying desert. As much as they feared what the desert sands might conceal, they loathed remaining in Hamad Rus more. Facing the rising sun, they filed from the city and marched past the hollow-eyed cliffs moaning mournfully as the wind blew across the openings, as if flutes carved from dead men’s bones. Shadows within the caverns writhed like nests of vipers. No amount of curiosity, Legionnaire loyalty, or promise of worldly wealth could have forced any one of them to enter the dark opening in search of their missing comrades.

  Gaius, too, scanned the caves, but with the gaze of a professional soldier. His concern lay not in forcing his men into the uninviting caverns but in what might be lurking just inside the shadows to emerge as they passed. Astute Apollo noticed his master’s unease, prancing and snorting as if to flush the stench of Hamad Rus from his nostrils.

  The men forced the pace, eager to be away from the dead city and its aura of primordial evil. Gaius did nothing to slow their march. He, too, would feel better with some distance between him and the ruins.

  Beyond the city, crescent-shaped dunes thrust skyward twice the height of the date palms at Castor-Augustus, marching endlessly across the sere landscape. The column wound serpentine between the one-hundred-fifty-foot hillocks, meandering like a line of ants in search of food. Miniature avalanches of sand slid down the steep slopes with the soft whispers of unseen voices. The men were uneasy. Gaius was as well, wondering if the Berber’s tales were lies and his companions waited among the dunes to ambush them from the concealing mountains of sand.

  At one point, amid a series of dunes that appeared no different from any of the others dunes they had passed, Rashid called out to him. “We must turn north here,” he said.

  Gaius glanced at the sun and saw they were still traveling due east. “You said your village lay east of Hamad Rus.” He suspected the Berber of treachery.

  “Beyond this point the sand gives way to a wide hamada. Travel across the pitted, rocky plain is difficult for men and dangerous for horses. The heat is unbearable, even for a Berber. Turning north to skirt its edge is longer but safer.”

  Gaius saw little reason to trust the Berber. Any delay gave the villagers time to flee. “We continue this way,” he said.

  Rashid held his arms wide in supplication. “As you wish, Roman, but you were warned.”

  Travel became easier by late midmorning when the encroaching dunes gave way to smaller dunes and sandy ridges. He increased the pace of the march to make up for time lost in the maze of dunes. As they passed over the crest of one ridge, the dunes yielded to a vast, endless plain of gray, windswept rock pockmarked with deep holes etched by sand and wind, just as the Berber had predicted. Across this dangerous terrain, Gaius dismounted and led Apollo.

  The hamada reflected the sun’s fury upon them like the cooking stones of an oven. It wavered as a translucent veil through which they plunged ever deeper, its folds enveloping them in suffocating folds of heat. The scuffing sound of the men’s metal-shod leather caligae on the stony surface and the rhythmic clatter of the horse’s hooves echoed loudly in the desert silence, punctuated by the curses of weary soldiers as they stumbled into holes.

  After a time, the plain became narrow stone fingers barely wide enough to accommodate the men and horses in a single file. Each ridge ran as straight as a knife’s edge into the heart of the desert. On either side of the fingers, lay flat expanses of hard-crusted sand that that produced clouds of fine choking alkali dust when their weight broke through the thin crust.

  Gaius noticed the Berber slowing, carefully testing each footstep, and rode back to order him to move faster. Moments later, the first man in the column disappeared from view. The sand sucked him down so quickly he barely had time to cry out. Only the fact that he retained his hold on his aclis saved him. His comrades formed a human chain to reach the shaft of the javelin protruding from the sand and pulled him to safety.

  “You were warned, Roman,” Rashid said. “The sand here is filled w
ith such dry mires as deadly as quicksand found near the coast. Amazigh and Tauregs alike avoid this area.”

  “From now on, you march at the head of the column,” Gaius told him; and then ordered the men to stay on the stony fingers of rock.

  Spirits lifted when they reached another erg of dunes and basins in late afternoon. A short time later, a scout waved from atop a nearby dune. Gaius rode ahead and joined him. In an oasis below the dune, a camp of a half dozen tents lay scattered around a small pool of water. The water reminded Gaius just how thirsty he was. The hamada had leached the moisture from his body like a wick. He licked his raspy tongue over parched lips, as he lay on the dune crest on his belly watching the camp. After several minutes, he hadn’t detected any movement within the camp. The eerie silence and lack of movement seemed strange. He motioned for Rashid to join him.

  “Are these your people?” Gaius asked.

  Rashid frowned as he surveyed the empty camp. “Of my tribe,” he answered, “but not my kin. Perhaps they, too, are en route to the salt flats from farther south.” He paused for a moment, biting his lower lip as he craned his neck to see beyond the small copse of palm trees. “I see no camels, and where are the guards? Even if they were resting through the heat of the day, they would post guards in this dangerous country.”

  “I thought you said there were no oases here.”

  “No, Roman, I said the spring near Hamad Rus was foul. This spring is far south of my route. Hamad Rus was much closer.”

  Gaius quietly motioned his men forward. They converged on the camp from two sides, weapons at ready. He soon realized that stealth was not necessary. The stench of death hung heavy over the camp. Clouds of black flies buzzed around pools of dried blood. Black scorpions and ants scavenged tidbits of food from the remains of the occupants’ last meal, while small lizards concentrated on the scorpions and ants, their sticky tongues snatching scuttling insects. Vultures circled warily at a distance, as if fearing to land. A search of the tents revealed no corpses, only tattered robes. Again, no possessions were missing.

  “Where are the bodies?” Gaius asked.

  Rashid stared at him. “The devils took them, perhaps back to the evil city.”

  Gaius pointed to the sand. “There are no tracks.”

  “Does the wind leave tracks? Does the morning mist leave footsteps? Death does not walk on the feet of men.”

  Gaius ignored Rashid’s rhetorical questions. The atmosphere of evil that lay over the oasis matched that of Hamad Rus, the spore of a predator that had developed a taste for human flesh. Or a demon, he thought; then, quickly dismissed the idea as too preposterous to consider in spite of the Berber’s suggestion.

  “How far to your village?” he demanded of Rashid.

  Rashid bit his lower lip in thought. “Perhaps a day and a half farther, but I fear it will be the same. A newly awakened evil stalks the land, and none are immune to these horrors.”

  Gaius considered his options. So far, he had already lost two men and almost lost a third. He had encountered no enemy against which he could draw his sword. Even if he located Rashid’s village, he knew he would need more than eight soldiers to subdue it. His first foray into the desert had been a dismal failure except for his captive.

  “We return north and meet Flavius,” he announced.

  The remaining men met this news with much enthusiasm. They were not eager to continue their fruitless trek through the desert or to face an unseen enemy.

  “What of me?” Rashid asked. “May I return to my people?”

  “You will remain my prisoner until I deem otherwise.”

  Rashid lowered his head but said nothing. Gaius had a second reason for intercepting Flavius. He wanted to stop him before he reached Hamad Rus. If an enemy existed, Gaius suspected he skulked at Hamad Rus and was no ghost. The time for battle had not yet arrived. His troops needed more training. As he scanned the empty waste spread out before them, he hoped his prisoner didn’t attempt to escape and force his men to kill him. He suspected the Berber had more answers than he wished to reveal. Later, if he refused to talk, he would personally slit the Berber’s throat.

  Ignoring the stench of death, Gaius stripped naked and plunged his body into the tepid pool of water, allowing the water to refresh his drained body. By closing his eyes, he could imagine himself floating in the Mediterranean. Soon, his men joined him. For a few moments, they forgot their weariness and set aside their fear, frolicking in the water like schoolboys, splashing and laughing. Only Rashid refused to join in. No amount of washing could remove the smell of death.

  As he floated on his back staring up at the sky, the water rippled, as if struck a blow from beneath. The second occurrence a few seconds later was stronger. Water sloshed onto the banks. The palm trees swayed drunkenly. A stack of spears, their butts thrust into the sand toppled. Men rushed from the pool to don uniforms, yelling to one another in fright. To maintain discipline, Gaius strode from the pool slowly and made a show of donning his uniform, taking his time fastening straps. His actions calmed many of the men, but a few stared at the desert in fear. More than a few glared at the Berber, as if he were somehow to blame.

  Gaius mounted Apollo and announced, “It is time we continue our journey.”

  They marched until sunset and camped in the open. By the redness in their eyes and their quiet demeanor as they roused to break camp the next morning, Gaius knew few had slept soundly. He had slept but a few hours himself the last three nights and badly needed sleep, but nightmares had disturbed any snatches of sleep he had managed. He could not remember them, but felt they had been prophetic.

  No one had deserted during the night, too frightened by the bloody scene at the Berber camp to risk straying too far into the desert. Like him, they were overjoyed at the prospect of returning to their own ramshackle encampment at Castra-Augustus.

  “We will never make it in time,” Rashid said as Gaius checked the bonds on his prisoner’s wrists.

  “What do you mean?”

  Rashid pointed to the southeast with his bound hands. Gaius followed the Berber’s gaze. As he watched, the dried-blood red horizon toward sunrise edged closer. A few grains of windblown sand struck him in the face. He swiped them away.

  “It is a tignut, a sandstorm, a very bad one,” Rashid warned. “We have no cover here. Your men must lash themselves together or they will be scattered and lost.”

  Gaius stared with mounting apprehension at the increasing fury of the approaching storm. The roar of the wind grew louder, a terrible tempest bearing a burden of sand before it like the hand of a god swiped across the desert. He had never witnessed a sandstorm of such magnitude. He decided to follow Rashid’s suggestion.

  “Use rope,” he told them. “Each man must secure himself to the man in front and behind him. Cover your mouth and nose with your focale.”

  As the men hurriedly lashed themselves together, Gaius made certain Rashid took the spot in front of him where he could watch him. Apollo and the two pack animals trailed the line of men. By the time they had completed the task of securing themselves together, they choked on the fine dust filling the air.

  The sandstorm, when it hit, showed them no mercy. It slammed down on top of them like a collapsing wall. The sharp grains of sand rubbed exposed flesh raw, and the incessant wind insured that the fine dust invaded every orifice, no matter how well covered. Fists of wind battered men to the ground. When they rose, it slapped them down again. They made little progress. The sky grew as dark as night, and the wind howled like a living creature. Only the constant tug on the rope by stumbling men before and behind him eased Gaius’ fear that he was alone in the storm.

  It was therefore great cause for alarm when the rope behind him suddenly slackened. He called out, but the banshee scream of the wind swept away his voice. All he managed was to fill his mouth with sand. He tugged on the rope in front of him until Rashid’s face appeared from the sand.

  He shouted into the Berber’s ear. “The line br
oke!”

  Rashid reached behind Gaius and examined the end of the rope.

  “No,” he said. “It has been slashed. Here is blood.”

  Though almost blinded by sand, Gaius saw that Rashid was correct. The rope had been cleanly cut, and blood dampened the end.

  “We must find them,” he shouted against the wind.

  “Impossible,” Rashid warned. “We will die. Three men remain in front of me. Will you kill them in a hopeless venture to find the others in this?”

  Gaius gritted his teeth in anger, but he knew that Rashid was right. Finding anyone in the sandstorm would be impossible. “We wait here.”

  The five remaining men sat in a tight huddle, cowering as best they could beneath shields and blankets to wait out the storm’s fury.

  4

  Gaius awoke beneath his blanket pressed down by a heavy layer of sand. Once again, images of a creature so nightmarish only a deeply disturbed mind could have conjured it assaulted his sleep. Did the desert weave a mad spell over him? Did the Berber have some arcane power at his disposal to tamper with his mind? At the thought of the Berber, he noticed the severed rope that had secured him to Rashid dangling at his waist. The Berber was gone.

  He burrowed from beneath the heavy burden of sand, wiped away the dust that coated his face, and stared around him. The outlines of his men’s bodies were barely visible beneath the sand.

  “Get up!” he yelled, brushing the sand from his clothing.

  Slowly, the other three men pushed back their blankets and shields and shook off the sand entombing them. They stood around bewildered.

  “Find the Berber,” he ordered.

  “There is no need,” Rashid said, walking from behind a hillock of sand. “I was simply relieving myself.”

  The Berber’s reappearance surprised him. “Why did you not escape?” Gaius asked. He held out the cut rope.

  Rashid shrugged. “You slept soundly, and my morning ritual would not wait.” He swept his arms around him. “Where would I go on foot with no food or water?”