Shadow Legion

by J. E. Gurley

  True, it was arid; broiling hot by day and chilling at night, and inhospitable to traveler and local inhabitants alike, but it possessed an indefinable quality that no other place had. Even in the deserts of Mesopotamia, though vast and uninviting, he had never felt such loneliness. Thriving cities, the ruins of ancient cities, small villages, and caravan roads scattered throughout the region like handfuls of stones cast onto a courtyard. They were remote and far between, but never had he spent more than two nights camped in the desert before encountering some inn, village, or oasis with bed, food, and water – A land that did not welcome travelers, but tolerated them.

  The vast sand sea sweeping from Marzuq south into the heart of the Sahara was antagonistic toward life. Since the days centuries ago when the area had been wet and welcoming, the relentless climate and encroaching sand slowly swallowed everything it touched, grinding it into more sand and dust to further extend its reaches. The Roman Empire’s claim to Tripolitania and Cyrenaica consisted of cities along the coast, a few towns situated along trade routes, and scattered castras like Castra-Augustus comprising the Lime Tripolitanus.

  In truth, the Sahara itself was a vast, self-sustaining lime, a natural fortress of sand, scorpions, and sun more secure than any Roman-built wall of stone and sod, or wooden palisade. Vast sand-sea ergs, rocky hamadas, gravel-strewn serirs, salt-choked chotts, dry wadis, and impassable high promontoria – All acted as barriers to invading armies and intrepid explorers alike.

  Perhaps by surviving the desert one began to understand it and appreciate its stark beauty. Each dune differed from its neighbor as two pebbles on the beach, each oasis a distinctive Eden, offering a diverse harbor for wandering men and beasts. Sandstorms, heat mirages, scuttling clouds all became daubs of paint on a sand-covered canvas. Each quartz crystal granule of sand sparkled like jewels in the Emperor’s crown.

  When Gaius caught sight of abandoned Castra-Augustus, now just an exposed rocky rib of the earth protruding through the soil, a jumble of mixed emotions passed through his mind. It had been his home for only days, but it saddened him to see it barren and empty with its unfinished stone wall, latrine, and its rubbish heap attracting vultures and rodents the only reminders that humans had once lived there.

  Marcellus brought his horse alongside Gaius. “I hope young Dracus Armis didn’t drink all the wine we left buried.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “This tepid, sour desert water leaves my thirst unquenched.”

  Gaius patted Apollo’s neck. “I am more concerned that they left oats for the horses. It is still a long ride to Marzuq.”

  As they entered the compound, Gaius felt the ghosts of the dead staring at him, as if silently asking why he had allowed them to die. He had no ready answer. Men died in battles. Only the outcome would determine if their deaths had been gloriously spent or foolishly sacrificed.

  “We remain only long enough to eat and rest the horses,” he said. “Then, we ride on.”

  The well was dry. It had finally given up its last precious drops of water and died. The tiny oasis could easily replenish itself after occasional use, but couldn’t withstand the abuse of a permanent Roman encampment. Gaius knew it would never come back. Now, thirsty travelers and local wildlife would have no place to drink. One more death Rashid could blame on the Romans.

  Two full water skins, salted meat, dried fruit, and stale bread, as well as oats and honey for the horses, remained in the buried cache of supplies. They unsaddled the horses, groomed, and fed them before tending to their own needs. The horses were more important to their survival than food or water. They rested through the heat of the day until just before sunset. As he lay there, Gaius felt slight, rhythmic tremors through the rock. Before an hour had passed, the vibrations became more noticeable. He knew their source and quailed.

  “How can Nergal move so quickly?” he asked Rashid. “Surely such a ponderous creature must move slowly.”

  “It is said the earth is hollow with many deep tunnels leading throughout its width and breadth. Nergal travels through these. His domain is the deep earth. He draws strength and nourishment from the stone, as we draw it from the food we eat. He needs no rest or sleep. His pursuit is relentless. If we tarry, he will overtake us.”

  “Then we sleep in the saddle until we reach Marzuq.” Gaius stood and buckled on his balteus and sword.

  Antonius Cossus took a swig from the wine skin he and Marcellus shared. “Must we ride so soon? I am a foot soldier unused to horses. My backside burns like a desert fever.”

  “If you knew what followed us, Antonius, you would be on your horse by now.”

  Antonius Cossus stared at Gaius for a moment; and then, rose and saddled his horse.

  “Come,” Gaius said. “We will find no rest until we reach the walls of Marzuq.”

  In his heart, he doubted even the solid walls of Marzuq would be enough to deter Nergal’s wrath.

  13

  For two days and nights they rode, stopping only long enough to feed, water, and rest the horses. They dozed in the saddle, ate, and drank in the saddle. Conversation required too much energy, so they rode in silence. The heat savaged them by day, and the cold sucked out their life force by night. They were more automatons than men when they approached the walls of Marzuq on the morning of the third day.

  The gentle swaying of the date palm trees in the breeze hypnotized Gaius as he sat astride Apollo and stared at the buff stone walls of the garrison. Around it, like young chicks at the feet of the mother hen, buildings of bleached, sun-baked brick, blocks of pink or buff stone, and tents of all shapes and sizes fought for proximity to the garrison’s walls, creating a warren of narrow alleyways teeming with people, camels, horses, and carts. Tables of food, spices, jewelry, cloth, and weapons ate up what little space remained. The sight of so much life seemed alien to Gaius after his weeks in the deep desert.

  As he watched, a squad of legionnaires rode out from the gates of the garrison to meet them. His unshaven face, filthy body, and tattered clothing wouldn’t make a good impression, but he could do nothing about it. He straightened himself in his saddle and waited. The young officer, a Principale of undetermined rank, perhaps optio centuriae by his bearing, dressed in full armor except for helmet, stopped in front of him, withdrew a scroll from his tunic, and read from it.

  “Centurion Gaius Marcus Linneus, by order of Praefectus Titilus Pontius Calidus, you are under arrest for crime against the Republic.”

  The officer motioned to the six men with him. They drew their swords and surrounded Gaius’ small band. Marcellus’ hand went to his sword, but Gaius stopped him.

  “No, my friend. Now is not the time to die.”

  Marcellus scowled, reversed his sword, and handed it hilt first to one of the guards. Gaius and Antonius Cossus did the same.

  To the young officer, Gaius said, “Did not Sesquiplecarus Dracus Armis arrive with my missive to the garrison commander, Sunio Atticus?”

  The officer’s face soured. “Praefectus castrorum Sunio Atticus is not here. He left for Leptis Magna a week ago. His wife is ill with the plague.”

  Gaius was aghast. “With Tribune Sevilius absent, he left the garrison without a commander? Who is in charge?”

  “Praefectus Titilus Pontius Calidus.”

  “But he is the civil authority. Who commands the legion?”

  “Myself and two other optio.”

  “By the gods,” he snapped. “Did Dracus deliver my letter to the Praefectus?”

  The young optio frowned. “He did, and with it a tale so unbelievable it bordered on jest. Even after twenty lashes from the flagellum ordered by the Praefectus, he refused to change his story.”

  Gaius fumed. “Tribune Sevilius Antonius Livinius is dead, as is his entire double-centuria, wiped out by these creatures of which my letter spoke. They march on Marzuq. We must prepare to meet them.”

  “We all know of your gradus dejectio, Gaius Linneus. Tribune Sevilius was much loved and respected in this garriso
n. The demise of two centuriae has left the garrison undermanned. We will not tolerate your perfidy with this Berber dog.”

  The officer made as if to strike Rashid with his sword.

  Gaius held out his hand. “Stop! Strike him and you will die, optio.”

  “Do not threaten me, prisoner,” he replied gruffly.

  “Your prisoner I may be, and your men may kill me, but if you strike this man, I assure you, you will die.”

  The officer reconsidered, sheathed his sword, and motioned to the guards. They herded Gaius and his party before them through the narrow, winding streets to the gates of the garrison. Men stared down at them from the walls, their faces displaying their loathing. They, too, had heard of his letter, and like the Praefectus, refused to believe. Gaius noticed the sentries were spaced twenty paces apart, leaving large gaps in the defenses. Their escorts delivered them to the stables, a long, brick structure against the rear wall of the garrison. The stench of horse manure ripening in the sweltering heat assaulted Gaius’ nostrils. The reek of urine from the latrine standing next to it added to the acrid pall. The open buckets for collecting urine for the laundry buzzed with flies, for which the alkaline urine was as delectable as vinegary wine to the soldiers.

  At one end of the building, a heavy wooden door opened into a small room once used as a tact room for saddles, bridals, and reins. Now, it held only a small desk, a chair, and a wall with wooden pegs from which an assortment of flagellum and iron manacles hung. Gaius didn’t envy the post of optio carceris, the jailer, in the unhealthy environment. He was certain only a low-ranking milite would draw such a disagreeable duty with extra pay and an outlet for sadistic tendencies the only benefits. A second doorway led into a narrow L-shaped corridor. They were pushed and shoved down the corridor until it ended at a large empty room save for two holes in the floor, each barely wide enough for a man to pass through. Gaius stared into the hole and backed away as the stench overwhelmed his senses.

  “I demand to see the Praefectus,” he yelled.

  “The Praefectus will not see you, fustuarium.”

  Gaius shuddered. Fustuarium were crushed to death with heavy stones or beaten to death with cudgels. “We are sentenced to death with no hearing, no trial? Has the Republic fallen so low so quickly?”

  The optio spat at him. “If I had been allowed, I would have run you through with my sword when I first met you. There is no room for cowards and traitors in the Legion. Your treachery threatens us all. Now, into the hole, or I will have the guards drop you in head first.”

  Gaius stared at the officer but knew he could not reach him. His superiors had deemed Gaius a traitor, and he had no reason to question them. Their Tribune was dead and they had no other enemy to blame but him. “Very well,” he said and stepped off into space.

  The floor of the prison was eight feet below the hole. He hit the rough stone heavily and fell against the wall. His face and hand came away wet and sticky, coated with moss, algae, and other substances too foul to guess at their origin. He moved aside just in time to avoid being struck by Marcellus and Rashid as they followed him into their prison.

  “What of Antonius Cossus?” he yelled up through the hole. “He is one of Sevilius’ men.”

  “He will join your sesquiplecarus in the next cell.”

  “What of the Tebu auxilia who accompanied Dracus?”

  “Auxilia?” The officer laughed. “Surely you jest. The barbarian scum were killed as soon as they entered the city bearing Roman weapons. Soon, you will join them, as will the Berber.”

  Gaius sat down and leaned against the wall. He quickly regretted his decision. Decades of filth coated the slimy wall. The murder of the innocent Tebu infuriated him. They had joined the legion, served honorably, and deserved a better end. “It seems our warning was not heeded.”

  “Aye,” Marcellus said. “We should have ridden straight to the coast and across the sea.”

  “This is my land, Roman,” Rashid reminded him. “I have no other place to go. If Nergal comes, which he will, he will suck this country dry of life before moving on. I should have returned to my people to fight with them. We will die in this place.”

  “Titilus Calidus will speak with me soon,” Gaius said with more conviction than he felt. “He’ll have to. Once the Praefectus understands …”

  Rashid’s sharp grunt of derision interrupted him. “He will never understand, Centurion. His mind is closed, as yours was. It took the deaths of your men to open yours. It will take the destruction of this town to open his. Then, it will be too late.”

  “I’ll find a way out of this prison.”

  “What would you do to escape, Centurion?” Rashid posed, staring at Gaius across the expanse of the room. His face looked chiseled from cold marble, but his eyes glowed hot and angry. “Would you kill fellow Romans to reach the Praefectus’ side?”

  “Do not answer him,” Marcellus advised. “He is a crafty one. He will have you do his bidding.”

  “My bidding is the saving of my country from the ravages of Nergal and his army of wraith minions. I cannot do it from here.” He turned to face Gaius once more.

  Marcellus’s warning had given Gaius time to consider his answer carefully. He knew what the Berber wanted him to say, and he knew of no way around it. “The lives of a few legionnaires or principales mean nothing to the safety of Rome. If you know of a way out of here, Berber, tell me.”

  Rashid walked to the far side of the room, picked the cleanest spot he could find on the filthy floor, and lay down. “Sleep now, Centurion. Soon, our time will come.”

  §

  For two days, they lingered in their dark, stinking prison cell, eating the foul food dropped through the hole once a day, drinking water delivered in the same buckets horses drank from, and relieving themselves in the corner of the room. The stench of their own bodily wastes added to their miserable existence. Lice gnawed at their flesh by day, and rats and cockroaches scurried over their bodies by night. The wraith scratch on Marcellus’ arm became inflamed. Pus oozed from beneath the scab, and the flesh around the wound turned a sickly yellow. Marcellus shrugged off the wound with his usual insouciance.

  “One good eye and one good arm is all I need to serve you, Centurion. I can still caress a woman’s breast while she feeds me or pours wine into my mouth. Two arms are overrated.”

  Each day, Gaius demanded to speak with the Praefectus. Each day, they refused him. He grew weary of his incarceration and wondered about Rashid’s plan, but the Berber revealed nothing. He sat with his eyes closed most of the day either praying or sleeping, Gaius couldn’t tell which.

  Antonius Cossus, Sesquiplecarus Dracus Armis, and the remaining soldier resided in the cell across the large room. The conditions of their captivity were even worse than that suffered by Gaius and his companions. The guards treated Sevilius’ men as if they were cowards instead of survivors. The wounds on Dracus’ back from his scourging became severely infected. A fever wracked his body, and Gaius’ appeals for a medicus to treat his wounds were ignored.

  Gaius wondered why they were still alive, why Praefectus Titilus had not executed them immediately. At the very least, fustuariae were usually banished to wander the countryside with the sentence of death hanging over their heads. In the desert, that meant a slow death. If the Praefectus feared to kill him for fear of incurring the wrath of Marcus Aurelius, then he would send a message to the Emperor asking for instructions. That could take months. Gaius feared they would be dead before then. Nergal was fast approaching the city.

  The absence of pain became the only redeeming quality of his incarceration. His stomach voiced its revulsion at the food served them, but no more gut-wrenching stabbing pains wracked his body. Even his thigh barely troubled him. He wondered if the azure magic of the amulet had affected him as it had Rashid.

  At least I will die healthy and free of ailments.

  On the morning of their third day of captivity, the young optio who had arrested them appeared in
the opening above their heads. He peered down at them with disgust, wrinkling his nose at the stench. A few minutes later, the guards lowered a ladder into the room.

  “You, Gaius Linneus,” he called. “The Praefectus wishes to speak with you. The Berber is to come as well.”

  “Unless I have been stripped of my rank during my incarceration, you will address me as Centurion Gaius Linneus. I still outrank you. You may inform the Praefectus I will not come unless first, I bathe, and then you provide a clean uniform. I will not appear before him in these stinking rags. The Berber prince as well,” he added.

  The optio scowled at him. “You will come as ordered or my men will drag you out of your hole.”

  “Any of your men that enter this hole will not emerge alive,” Gaius threatened.

  The officer licked his lips as he considered his options for a moment or two, finally deciding not to test Gaius’ threat. “Very well. The two of you may bath first, under guard, but be warned; the Praefectus is not pleased with you.”

  “The Praefectus has bigger issues to worry over, as I have warned him.”

  As he walked to the foot of the ladder, he spoke briefly to Marcellus sitting on the floor holding his infected arm in his lap. “I will insist on treatment for your wound.”

  “I would prefer wine,” he replied.

  Rashid pushed up close behind him and whispered, “The time has come, Centurion. Nergal is near. I can feel his presence.”

  The Berber shoved a metal object into his hand. He glanced down to see Rashid’s dagger. He stared at Rashid. “How?”

  “They did not ask, and I did not tell,” he said. “I am not a Roman Legionnaire to relinquish my weapons on demand.”

  Gaius tucked the dagger into his tunic. “I will determine if and when to use it.”