by J. E. Gurley
The night fell so suddenly and so completely, that Gaius, who had campaigned in several such deserts, found himself briefly confused by his surroundings. He attributed it to the aftereffects of the henbane. The gloom brought an unnatural stillness to the camp but no relief from the oppressive heat. Men ate their meals in silence, staring into the night and waiting. Sentries gripped their weapons tightly in their hands, as if eager to use them. Even the native Tebu bearers, now fledgling Roman auxilia, refrained from their usual singing after their meal. Men huddled in groups near the blazing fires, ignoring the sweltering heat for the illusory comfort of the light.
Gaius, too, ate his meal in silence, apart from his comrades. The salted meat was necessary in the desert where men sweated away their salt, but the preserved meat had none of the flavor of fresh beef. The cheese tasted rancid in his mouth, but he knew its vileness only represented the foulness of his present predicament. His stomach knotted itself like the coils of a serpent around his middle. The wine tasted of piss and vinegar. Only water slaked his thirst, as only victory could sate his appetite. He debated pouring another dose of henbane but refrained for fear he would grow too accustomed to its soothing qualities. He would have to learn to live with the pain. He laughed. According to the physician, living with the pain might be a short undertaking.
In an attempt to exorcise the demons of despondency that had descended over him, he roamed the perimeter of the camp, inspecting the sentries, warning them to remain alert. They took heart from his presence though his heart was little in it. He offered them a few words of encouragement that he himself did not feel.
He stopped at the corral and rejoiced at the sight of the white ghost prancing alongside the wooden rails. He gently rubbed Apollo’s stout neck, soothing the horse’s unease. Gaius had always felt more comfortable in the presence of horses than in men. His love of horses had led to his choice of a cavalry officer as his career. Storming the enemy from atop his steed, slashing downward at his opponent with his spatha, the heavy long sword that could cleave enemy armor, thundering into the enemy’s lines – Those were the moments that paid for the tedium, the endless waiting between battles.
Now, he faced more waiting. The night would be long, but with the dawn, they would break camp and move on Hamad Rus to confront their unseen adversary. He sensed Apollo’s eagerness to attack, gleaned somehow from his master’s touch. The eager horse pawed at the earth with its massive hooves, snickering his agreement to carry Gaius to victory.
Satisfied, Gaius returned to his tent for sleep.
6
Marcellus shook him awake the next morning just after dawn. Startled, he groped for his sword, fearing another attack.
“No, Centurion,” Marcellus said, staying his hand, “there is no attack. Two men on horseback approach the camp.”
Gaius splashed water on his face, strapped on his sandals and belt with his sword. “Are they Berbers?” he asked, wondering if Rashid’s men had come to barter for his release?
“No, they are Roman.”
Had he heard right? The last thing he expected were Roman visitors arriving at Castra Augustus. Marcellus’ war-weary, deadpan face betrayed no chance of mistake, but Gaius detected a slight tremor in his jaw. “Romans? Here?” he asked.
“So it seems.”
“And only two?” To Gaius, that was more curious than the fact they were Romans.
Marcellus nodded.
Gaius strode from his tent and stared north. Indeed, two men rode toward the camp on horseback. Both wore Roman armor that gleamed like burnished brass in the early morning sun. One wore a paludamentum draped around his shoulders. The red cloak billowed in the morning breeze. What would bring two Romans alone into the desert so far from civilization?
Flavius stood near the rock wall waiting for him. Gaius joined his optio and the dozen curious men standing around watching. As he recognized the cudgel one of the men held in his hand, he turned to Marcellus. “One of them is an officer. Have the men turn out to properly greet him.”
Marcellus’s deep voice broke the morning quiet ordering the men to turn out for inspection. The camp came suddenly alive, as men rushed to don armor and find weapons. Gaius noted his own sweat-stained, dirty tunic, but now he had no time in which to change. The strangers had already entered the camp.
The leader, a thin, blond-haired young man with cold, close-set blue eyes, glared down at him from his horse with a hawkish stare. “I am Tribune Sevilius Antonius Livinius, second in command of the garrison at Marzuq. My companion is Quintus Cantos, my aide.”
Gaius noted the torc around the tribune’s neck. He wore the gold necklace military decoration as if on parade. “I am Gaius Marcus Linneus,” he replied.
“I know who you are, Centurion.” Sevilius spat his rank at him, and then stared at the camp and the men pouring out of the tents for inspection. “I was informed that rejects from other companies comprised this motley centuria, but I expected better than this.” He scowled when he saw the new native recruits carrying Roman hastas. “You arm these dogs? Have you lost your mind?”
Gaius fumed but held his temper. “We have been under attack and on the march. I armed everyone who could carry a weapon.”
Sevilius stared at him. “Under attack? From whom, sand fleas?”
At Sevilius’ laugh, from the corner of his eye, Gaius saw Flavius’ hand reach for his sword at the insult. He shook his head. He would have no Roman blood on his hands.
“Our enemy is unseen, but nonetheless deadly, as you can see from our reduced ranks. Why are you here, Tribune?” He glanced behind the pair. “Did you cross the desert alone just to fling insults?”
Sevilius bridled at Gaius’ tone, but withheld comment. “I lead two centuriae to track and apprehend a band of Berbers that attacked a patrol near Marzuq and killed ten soldiers. I left my troops at a deserted village last night while my aide and I rode ahead to arrange billeting here. I preferred riding in the relative coolness of the early morning. Have you seen any Berbers?”
“Just one. He is my prisoner.”
“Deliver him to me.”
Gaius bridled at the Tribune’s deprecatory tone. “No.”
Sevilius fumed. “I am an officer. I demand to question him.”
“You may question him in my presence, but I will not hand him over to you for rough handling.”
Sevilius raised his cudgel and pointed it at Gaius. “I’ll have you flogged.” His aide’s face paled at the threat.
Gaius kept his voice steady, as he replied, “Do not equate my demotion with fear, Tribune Sevilius Livinius. I do not fear you. I command here. You are my guest.”
“You have not learned your place.”
“It will take more than an unruly child to show it to me. Come, Tribune, rest and dine. Then I will bring the Berber to you.” He held out his arm in welcome. “You may refresh yourself in my tent.”
He coughed to hide Flavius’ snicker. Sevilius said nothing as he dismounted his horse. His aide followed him. Clearly, the exchange between the two bewildered the aide. He stared at Gaius with undisguised contempt. Gaius did not flinch. He motioned for a soldier to deliver the two horses to the corral. Sevilius stopped to count the men lined up for inspection.
“I count but fifty-three men and officers. Where are the others?”
Gaius noted that the Tribune had summarily dismissed the new recruits as unworthy of mentioning. “Dead,” he replied, “as I informed you. We have been under attack.”
“How many Berbers have you slain?”
“We have slain no one. We have seen no one, except for our guest, and he delivered himself to us after his men were attacked.”
“By this unseen enemy?” Sevilius asked. His tone was haughty and mocking.
“Yes, I fear your men might not be safe. Perhaps I can send riders to bring them here. Together, we would be safer.”
Sevilius scowled. “My men do not need your protection. They will arrive by nightfall once they have roun
ded up and dealt with the accursed Berbers.”
“As you wish.”
As Sevilius and his aide stalked away, Flavius came to Gaius’ side. “I have heard of young Sevilius. He is a friend of the Emperor. That is why he made Tribune at such an early age. Praefectus castrorum Atticus defers to him. They say the Emperor will soon call him to Rome. Emperor Marcus Aurelius himself placed the torc he wears so proudly about his neck with his own hands. It might not be wise to anger him.”
“What more can the Emperor do to me?”
“He could order your death.”
Gaius laughed. It seemed his death was now out of the hands of the Emperor. “Death would be preferable to this exile, but that would not suit the Emperor’s purpose. No, young Sevilius is no threat to me. He is not worth his own piss. However, until he recognizes the danger we face, he can be a problem.”
“He and his aide could vanish mysteriously,” Flavius replied. “Then his men will be yours to command. The shifting sands can hide much.”
Gaius smiled. “Flavius, you are a bloodthirsty old man. Your solution has some merit, but we are not yet reduced to killing fellow officers.”
“Oh, well. Perhaps the shadows will take him.”
Gaius wondered if the shadows would not take them all. “We need him. When he has faced these dark creatures, his word to the Emperor will be weightier than that of a disgraced former commander who has suffered militae mutatio and gradus dejectio.”
Noting the bitterness in Gaius’ voice, Flavius replied, “The Emperor can relegate you to an inferior service, such as is our pitiful sandbox fort, and reduce your rank, but he cannot take from you your dignity or your honor unless you allow him. Your skill, your knowledge, and your sword are as keen as they were before Parthia. I am an old war dog, long in the tooth and too free with my words to rise any further in the ranks than I have. For me, this is my last post. Though we are few in number and a poor excuse for a Desert Legion, you name me optio, and I hear no ridicule in your voice. I will be worthy of your trust, if you will be worthy of your name. Do not allow this place to defeat you, Gaius Marcus Linneus.”
Flavius’ heartfelt oratory shamed Gaius for doubting himself. Giving in to self-pity now when he had resisted succumbing to it under much more difficult circumstances in Rome would be beneath him.
“You are right, Flavius. Only the dead have no hope for tomorrow.”
As Flavius walked away, Gaius silently thanked the old veteran for the swift kick to his behind. Despite the physician’s dark prognosis, death would not find him cowering in fear.
After allowing Sevilius time to refresh himself after his long journey, Gaius ordered Rashid brought to him beside the perimeter wall. The Berber eyed the Centurion’s tent, now housing the newcomer.
“Another officer wishes to question you. He is not as forgiving as I am. Do not anger him.”
Rashid shrugged. “It is difficult not to anger a Roman. You are offended by anything not Roman.”
Gaius ignored the barb. He escorted Rashid to face Sevilius. The Tribune sat, still fully dressed in spite of the oppressive heat, sipping from a goblet of wine. He eyed Rashid with contempt as he entered. The look of derision did not fade as his gaze drifted to Gaius. In fact, the corners of his lips curled slightly higher. It seemed the Tribune had a special scorn for him.
“Who are you?” Sevilius demanded of Rashid.
Rashid bowed. “I am Rashid Ahmed Abdullah, a humble salt merchant.”
“Salt merchant indeed. Rebel more likely.”
“My people, the Meshwesh, live humbly and respect all travelers in this land, even Romans.”
“We are not travelers. This is our land.”
Rashid shrugged. “We are all travelers. Is life not a journey?”
Sevilius didn’t wish to discuss philosophy. “Where are the Berbers who killed the soldiers at Wadi Ashar?”
“We Berbers do not kill Romans. Perhaps you seek Tauregs. They kill all interlopers into their domain, even Berbers.”
Sevilius glanced at Gaius. “Where did you find him?”
“Near a ruined city he calls Hamad Rus some leagues south of here. Two of my men died there, but we could find no bodies.”
“And him?” Sevilius pointed his cudgel at Rashid.
“He was with us.”
Sevilius slapped the cudgel on his knee. “Then his men killed them.”
“Perhaps, but we found no tracks or any other signs of people.”
“My men will find them when they arrive.”
Rashid spoke up. “Wadi Ashar is northeast of here, near aduar Ishiri.”
“Yes, we visited the village of Ishiri seeking the murderers and found it deserted.”
Rashid wailed aloud and fell to his knees, grief-stricken. “The people of Ishiri were blood kin.”
“Silence!” Sevilius snapped.
Rashid ignored the command. “Deserted? You found no one?”
Sevilius smiled. “Nothing but bloody rags. Perhaps some of the dogs were wounded while killing my men.”
Rashid didn’t answer. He rocked back and forth on his knees.
“Take this sniveling coward outside and execute him. He was probably involved in the ambush.”
“This man has been with us for five days and could not be involved. We came across a small camp at an oasis and saw the same thing you saw – bloody clothing and no people. The same for a lost patrol.”
Sevilius glared at Gaius. “You waste your time with this cur. He should be executed. When my men arrive, we will scour this country until we find the culprits. What of this Hamad Rus?”
“The city is empty, long abandoned, but there are caverns nearby. Our enemy may be hiding within.” He decided not to mention the temple or the blood in the altar bowl. He doubted Sevilius would believe him. “I believe he Berber may prove useful when we go there.”
Sevilius stroked his chin. “Yes. Perhaps we do need a hostage. Very well. My men will march to the caverns and vanquish this enemy.” He pointed to Rashid. “He will show us the way. You and your men will remain here and await our return.”
“I will not remain here.”
Sevilius sat forward in his chair. “What, Centurion? I gave you an order.”
“You do not know this enemy, Tribune. You will need as many men as we can muster.”
“I do not need this rabble of yours. They are cowards, like your men at White Rock Pass.”
Before Sevilius could react, Gaius strode forward, grabbed the startled Tribune by the neck with one hand, and squeezed. Startled, the Tribune’s eyes opened wide, and a stifled gasp creased his lips, which now trembled in fear.
“My men were battle-hardened veterans of many campaigns. They won Duras-Europos for the Emperor at a heavy cost. At White Rock Pass, an officer like you, cocksure and foolhardy, ordered us forward into an ambush. Three hundred of my men died around me, and I paid the price for their failure.” He grabbed the gold medallion around Sevilius’ neck and yanked on it, as if he were going to rip it away. Instead, he let it drop. “What battle did you fight for such an honor,” he scoffed. “I have three pair of amillae in my trunk, one golden armband for each of my victories in Gaul and Parthia. These men here are under my command. You will not slander them or the men at White Rock Pass in my presence.”
He released his grip. Sevilius fought for breath, his face red. “You dare lay a hand on me?” he gasped. “I will have you killed.”
Gaius smiled. “If any of us survive the next few days, you may try, Tribune.” He motioned to Rashid. “Leave.” Rashid bowed and left the tent. Gaius faced Sevilius. “We do not face a few Berbers or Tauregs, or even rebellious exiled Jews. There is another enemy here, deadly and unseen. They are like shadows in the night. They will not bow before the sword. We must work together, or we will all die.”
Sevilius rubbed his throat. The red imprint of Gaius’ hand still marked it. “We will locate this unseen enemy you fear so much and destroy him. Then, I will deal with you.�
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Gaius nodded his head and grinned. “As I said, you may try. I will have a tent made ready for you.” As he turned to leave, he said, “There is no Emperor here, no Rome. There is only sand and the things that thrive in such desolate places. We must rely on our wits more than our swords.”
As he exited the tent, he heard the Tribune’s curse and the sound of the thrown goblet as it struck the side of the tent.
Night fell with still no sign of Sevilius’ men. Sevilius showed little concern, but Gaius feared for their safety. After the evening meal, Marcellus posted sentries and built the fires high to serve as beacons. By the night sentries’ second watch, even Sevilius began to show signs of worry. Several times his head popped out of the tent, which he had not left all day, to scan the desert. At midnight, he sent Quintus Cantos to the wall to watch. The aide, a sallow-faced man whose soft features made him look more like a eunuch than a legionnaire, paced along the wall for a time; then sidled up to Gaius, who made no pretense of his concern for Sevilius’ two past due centuriae.
Quintus spotted a crude drawing of a man with an enlarged penis scratched onto a rock in the wall, such graffiti as bored soldiers scribble. “Is he boasting or wishing,” he asked, his voice unnaturally high-pitched for a man, reinforcing Gaius’ earlier opinion that he was a eunuch or a castrato, though they were rare.
“Perhaps he’s advertising for companionship,” Gaius suggested.
If Gaius’ evocative comment distressed the aide, he didn’t show it. “If true, he would be the delight of many a Patrician’s wife and the envy of any Equestrian’s delicati, though more money can be made in a lupanarium.”
“None here is youthful enough or of well-formed features to be an Equestrian’s plaything, and most are more likely to spend their hard-earned pay in a brothel than profit from one.”
Quintus glanced at the drawing once more. “Pity, such a man is wasted here in this awful place.”
