by J. E. Gurley
Gaius flinched at the implication of Rashid’s comment. In spite of the danger, he had slept soundly as the storm raged. By the present position of the sun, he had slept for hours, leaving his remaining men unguarded and exposed to both the storm and their unseen enemy. The days of pent up tension had drained away the fatigue as he lay beneath the sand, allowing his mind to succumb to sleep’s irresistible allure. He was as guilty of breaking his personal sense of duty as a soldier who abandoned his sentry post.
“We must find the others.”
“I have searched the area. There is no sign of them.” He stared at Gaius with sympathy in his eyes. “They are gone, Roman. The desert has taken them, or something far worse.”
He felt the truth of Rashid’s words. The rope securing them had been bloody and cleanly cut, not broken. They had not wandered away in the sandstorm. The five soldiers had suffered the same unknown fate as the others. What kind of enemy could seize men in a blinding sandstorm? And horses. Apollo was gone, as well as both packhorses and most of their supplies. He felt a momentary twinge of guilt that the loss of Apollo struck him more deeply than the deaths of his troops. He would have to walk out of the desert, a sign of weakness for a Centurion.
The ordeal of the sandstorm had shaken their nerves and shattered their confidence. After coaxing by Gaius, they built a small fire for their meager breakfast, but no one possessed an appetite for the roasting meat. They stared into the flames lost in thought. Some brooded over the lost supplies; others over missing companions.
Rashid did not share their reluctance to eat. He sliced a piece of beef from the spit and chewed it slowly, savoring the moisture from the meat. They had lost most of their water supply with the packhorses. Among them, they had only two partially filled water skins, not enough to see them back to camp. If they missed Flavius, they would be very thirsty by the time they returned.
Gaius felt the blazing heat of the sun on his back and realized the day would only grow hotter.
“Okay, men,” he said. “We must march now.”
They eyed him with suspicion but moved to obey.
“Quench your thirst now, but drink sparingly. What little we have must sustain us until we reach camp.”
Wearily, they packed their few remaining supplies, picked up their weapons, and began their long hike across the dunes. Gaius looked at them and sighed. Three men, he, and a Berber prisoner remained from a patrol of eleven. His command dwindled rapidly. They no longer marched as Roman Legionnaires. They trudged along, beaten and without hope, their dragging javelins leaving furrows in the sand behind them, like farmers plowing a field. If they did not cross Flavius’ path soon, they might not make it back to Castra-Augustus.
In the middle of the afternoon, they rested. With no escape from the sweltering heat of the blazing sun directly overhead, Rashid showed them how to dig shallow holes in the sand to reach cooler earth deeper in the ground and how to use their blankets and javelins to erect temporary awnings to ward off the sun. Gaius forbade them to drink too deeply from their rapidly shrinking water skins, though his own mouth ached and his lips swollen and parched. One sip in the morning, one at midday, and two at night would have to suffice until they encountered Flavius or they reached camp.
He had difficulty rousing them from their brief respite. He understood their lack of enthusiasm. Dehydration, the oppressive heat, and the leagues of marching had drained him of most of his reserve of strength. He now continued on sheer determination, using the anger of his failure to drive his steps.
By late afternoon, they stumbled along blindly, having traveled less than two leagues since their brief rest. Gaius’ old wound troubled him like an itch he couldn’t scratch. He limped along, each step sending fingers of agony shooting through his thigh. The only positive aspect of his misery was that he had no time to contemplate his stomach problems, which seemed to plague him doubly with nothing in his stomach. He considered calling another time-consuming halt when, squinting against the sun, he noticed what he at first thought a mirage dancing above the wavering sands; then he saw it was a troop of men.
His anxiety did not lift. They could be Berbers or Tauregs. If so, he and the fate of his remaining men would be uncertain at best. Then, he saw the flapping banner and the glint of a gold eagle above it. Flavius! He would have cried tears of joy if his desiccated body could spare the precious moisture. Cries of, “Eaux!” erupted from the weary men hurrahing the arrival of their comrades. Flavius spotted Gaius and rode out to meet him. The joyous reunion faded when Gaius observed that nearly a quarter of Flavius’ men were missing.
“Ho, Flavius,” he called out in dismay. “What dire fate has befallen you?”
Flavius hung his head in shame. “Demons. They struck during the sandstorm. We saw shapes darting among us but could not catch them. When the storm passed, nine men were missing. We searched but found no one.”
Gaius nodded. “The same fate befell us, I fear.”
Flavius scowled at Rashid and pointed his finger. “Who is he?”
“A Berber. He claims his men are dead also. We did discover a deserted camp and signs of a struggle.”
“Do you trust him?”
Gaius stared at Rashid. “Not entirely.”
“Do we continue?” The tone of his voice made known his thoughts on the idea.
Gaius’ gaze took in Flavius’ men, and then his. “We must return to camp. We need supplies. Then we return to Hamad Rus.”
“Hamad Rus?”
Gaius patted Flavius on the back. “I will tell you of Hamad Rus on our return journey.” He turned to his men. “Bind our Berber friend.” Rashid had not escaped during the storm, but Gaius still did not trust him. He withheld something, some bit of information that might prove the difference between life and death. Rashid scowled at him, as he held out his hands for the soldiers to secure them with leather thongs.
Gaius accepted a horse from one of the men and mounted. Until that moment, he did not realize how debilitating his wound was. It had been over four months and still he could walk no more than half a league without enduring excruciating agony. He decided he needed to exercise his leg more often. But not just yet, he thought. It felt good to sit astride a horse once more although he felt none of the connection between rider and horse as he did with Apollo.
They turned their backs to the deep desert and headed north, following the tracks Flavius had made on his southbound trek, traveling slowly for the sake of the exhausted men. Later that day, just before sunset, they encountered the second lost patrol, all five men alive and well. Their welcomed appearance offered small recompense for the men he had lost, but their safe return signaled the gods might yet be smiling on him. He spoke with the sesquiplecarus of the patrol, a corporal named Dracus Armis.
“We thought you all dead,” he said.
Dracus Armis replied, “We, too, thought we were lost, especially during the second sand storm we have suffered in six days. I regret that we did not find the earlier patrol, Centurion Linneus.”
“We located their empty camp, but I don’t think we will find them alive.”
The officer glanced back at his men; then nodded. “It is as I suspected. We heard ominous sounds in the night. I feel we have been watched. We crossed the tracks of men and horses and decided to follow. We are glad it was legionnaires.” He looked at the bedraggled appearance of Gaius’ few men and at the Berber captive. “Did you encounter much trouble?”
Gaius resisted the urge to laugh at the absurdity of the sesquiplecarus’ question. “An unseen enemy. We now return to camp for supplies and reinforcements.”
§
The hour neared midnight when they entered Castra-Augustus the second day after joining with Flavius. The men, footsore and weary from their five-day forced march, threw themselves on the ground as soon as they passed the wall. Gaius noted the men left in the camp by Flavius had added only a single layer of stones to the wall along one side of the compound.
They did not exp
ect us to return alive. He would have to remind them, forcefully if necessary, that their lives might depend on the wall.
Marcellus rushed up to greet them.
“Thank the gods you are well.” He took in the missing men and frowned. “You encountered trouble, I see.”
“Later, Marcellus.” Gaius was too tired to reprimand Marcellus or the men left in camp. He noticed a soldier, stripped to the waist, strapped to a makeshift rack, his back red and blood-scabbed from flogging. “What is his story?”
Marcellus scowled and spat on the ground. “He tried to inspire the others to desert. They did not.” He looked apologetically at Gaius. “I would have waited for your order, but the men needed an example.”
Punishment by flagrum, a short leather whip with bits of metal braided into the multiple leather cords, was a grisly sight. In the hands of a practiced lictor, the tips could peel flesh from bones. The minimal ten lashes left a man bruised, bleeding, and in agony. Scourging served two purposes: to punish an offender and to serve as a warning to others.
Gaius waved his hand in dismissal. “You did right.”
A half-smile creased Marcellus’ lips. “Do we leave him for the scorpions?”
“Release him in the morning. A night hanging stretched between posts will drive deeper the point. He will serve us better as a sentry than as a corpse.”
Marcellus stroked his chin and frowned. “You trust him to stand guard?”
“His screams when our enemy takes him will serve as a warning to the others.”
Marcellus nodded. “He will serve better in death than he did in life.”
A familiar whinny from the corral lifted Gaius’ spirits. Apollo had found his way home.
“Your horse is safe,” Marcellus said. “Fortuna te favet. Luck favors you. The gods think you worthy of their consideration.”
As he stared out at the remains of his small garrison, Gaius muttered, “Perhaps the gods are instead toying with me as gods often do.”
After building fires, the men collapsed in the shade of their tents, or on the bare sand near the fires. He set no guards. In spite of his fatigue, he would personally remain awake to watch over them.
Gaius decided to damn the lack of water and rescind his abnegation of a hot bath. “Heat water,” he told his aide. “Set up my tub and fill it one-quarter full.” The aide stared at him for a moment before rushing off to carry out Gaius’ order. Gaius made a rapid mental calculation and concluded that the amount of water he ordered would equal what the seven men lost on his patrol would consume in two days.
He detested bathing in such primitive conditions, but as a soldier, he had long ago resigned himself to such squalor. A small, portable leather tub, supported by wooden poles and filled with a few pails of hot water was a poor substitute for the luxurious sunken balneum in his family home in Rome. From the bath, he had an unobstructed view of the River Tiber and the magnificent Aqua Claudia aqueduct bringing water to Rome. Here, he had no capsarii, or bath slaves, to aid him in his bathing ritual, and he would allow no soldier to attend him. That would be undignified.
After soaking and then rubbing his body briskly in the tepid water with his hands, he used his prized curved bone strigil to remove dirt and body oils. Once out of the tub, clad only in a towel, he anointed his legs, arms, and shoulders with scented oil, a parting gift from a female admirer. He longed for a slave to massage his aching muscles, but slaves required food and water, and both were far too precious in the desert to waste on slaves.
A low cough outside his tent alerted him that Flavius wished to speak with him. At least he was courteous enough to wait until I completed my ablutions. “Enter, Flavius,” he said.
“Your pardon, sir. What of the bearers who accompanied you from the coast?”
Gaius realized he had forgotten about them. Originally, he had intended to send them back. He had half-expected them to flee during his absence, but now, with the loss of so many soldiers … “Perhaps recruiting them would be best.”
“Recruiting them? You mean as munifex.”
Gaius smiled inwardly at Flavius’ skepticism, but fatigue workers were not what he had in mind. “Why not?” he asked, as he donned his tunic and sandals. “They are strong, relatively healthy, and more importantly, they are already here. Promise them full Roman citizenship, gold … I don’t care what you promise them, just don’t allow them to leave.”
Flavius said nothing, but his scowl revealed much.
“You disagree?”
“It is not my place,” he growled.
Gaius sighed. “No, it is not, but I must depend on you, Flavius. You are right. It is unorthodox, but we have lost far too many men. We face a seemingly invisible enemy. Teach them the use of the hasta. They are familiar with spears. The short sword requires too much training. Most have knives and scimitars with which they are more familiar and are equally effective. Train them with those.”
Flavius nodded as he scratched his stubbled chin. “Aye, they could learn the proper use of the hasta quickly enough. We could use them as sentries or to rebuild the wall.”
Gaius smiled and held his arms out wide. “See. Already you have found a use for them.”
Flavius returned Gaius’ smile. “With this unseen enemy, I may have to pair each with a tirone to keep them both from fleeing in the night.”
Gaius shuddered, as he thought of the darkness and the unseen dangers within. “I doubt they will move very far from the campfires at night.”
Flavius nodded in agreement. “I find the flames more comforting than in times past.”
Gaius clenched his right fist. “We will find this enemy, and we will defeat him. I will not die forgotten in this sandy waste. I will return to Rome in triumph. I swear it.” He turned to Flavius. “With you by side, eh, noble warrior?”
Flavius drew his sword. “I swear my allegiance,” he said with a solemnity that touched Gaius deeply. He suddenly felt a stronger bond with his optio. He reached out and grasped Flavius’ sword with his hand, allowing the sharp blade to draw a few drops of blood that splattered on the sand.
“I pledge my favor for that loyalty. Now, tell me, Optio. What secret do you harbor you have not yet decided to tell me? I must know all.”
Flavius rubbed his chin. “I told you Centurion Agrippa was quiet and moody. He … he revealed to me he had troubling nightmares.”
Gaius shuddered, remembering his own dreams. “Nightmares?”
Flavius nodded. “Dark dreams of shadows with teeth and eyes. They spoke to him with voices he could not understand but knew their message was dire. It drove him insane. I believe he went in search of them that night, perhaps to learn their secret.”
With his glimpse of the red eyes of the shadow in Hamad Rus, Gaius hoped Agrippa had not found them. “Five days ago, I would have doubted you. Now … Now, see to the men before you sleep. In two days time, we return to Hamad Rus.”
“They will be ready,” Flavius promised, and then turned on his heel and exited the tent. Gaius smiled at his second-in-command. Although now only a Centurion, Flavius treated him as if he still commanded a Legion.
“With a dozen like him, I would conquer these shadows of the night.”
5
Gaius declared the following day one of rest for his exhausted men, but Flavius heeded his advice and began training the newly conscripted native bearers early. Most seemed pleased by the promise of Roman citizenship and Roman gold, but a few balked and attempted to leave. Flogging one of them as an example to the others squelched further objections. Gaius detested such harsh methods of discipline, but he had witnessed many men’s objections wither under the well-placed blows of a leather flagrum. The wounds were painful and the scars became a reminder to all that saw them.
All morning, Flavius instructed the new recruits in the proper use of the aclis and the hasta. The Roman javelin, with its long wooden handle ending in an iron point, proved a formidable weapon in trained hands. The hasta, with its heavier, broad point
, excelled as a close-fighting weapon used to protect the ranks and required only basic training to be effective. He had no time to teach them finesse, but demonstrated to them the fundamentals of thrusting and parrying singly and in tightly formed ranks, drawing a little blood and bruising a few hands in the process. There were no extra shields for them, but as they would unlikely be opposing an armored enemy, the long spear would suffice. Their very lack of armor and shield gave them a speed advantage over the heavily armored troops.
By midday, the extreme heat had taken its toll on even Flavius’ boundless enthusiasm. He dismissed the men and returned to Gaius dripping with perspiration. He accepted a goblet of wine from Gaius’ hand and drained it in one gulp.
“They will never be Roman soldiers, but they know how to kill and how to protect themselves.” He chuckled. “I dare not push them too hard, or they will harm each other.”
Gaius nodded. He had watched the training from his tent, pleased by Flavius’ dogged determination. “Choose one of the more adept and promote him to decanus. Be sure he can speak at least some Latin. They will follow one of their own more readily than they will a Roman.”
“Decanus,” Flavius scoffed. “We have milites that will never advance to private. They will not like a foreigner outranking them.”
“He will be decanus in name only. He will command only the auxilia. I would not have a Roman subordinate to a Tebu or a Berber.”
Flavius nodded and offered his goblet for a refill. Gaius poured more wine, and Flavius seated himself on a gilded wooden trunk, sipping more slowly this time. “As you wish. Their food is horrendous – spicy, and smelly. It turns my stomach. I will billet them together, and they can cook their own mess downwind of the camp. Perhaps the stench of the latrine can mask it.”
Gaius stared out at the sea of sand surrounding them, recalling his visits as a young boy to the island of Ischia off the coast of Napoli, a green, mountainous island jutting from the Tyrrhenian Sea, surrounded by blue water, not flat, dry, featureless desert. His uncle’s villa perched like an eagle’s aerie on a high cliff facing west toward the wide Mediterranean, Mare Nostrum. Each evening as the sun set, it transformed the tranquil blue waters to blood crimson, the same color he had seen so many times on battlefields since, almost as if an omen of his future life. He remembered meals at his uncle’s villa, sumptuous affairs with dozens of slaves and servants and food from all of Italy and the lands beyond. He picked up a dried fig from the tray of fruit beside him and stared at it.
