by J. E. Gurley
Rashid spread his hands wide. “Of course.”
The bright sunlight outside the building hurt Gaius’ eyes. He covered them with his grubby hand, noticing the accumulated dirt and gods only knew what else beneath his fingernails. An officer of the Legion couldn’t always be fastidious in his hygiene, but the indignity of parading across the open ground of the fort wearing filthy rags and was more demeaning than his incarceration. Away from the stable and the latrine, the air smelled of oleander blossoms and tamarisk. Gaius inhaled deeply to flush the stench of the jail from his lungs. The broiling sun he had learned to hate baked his bare head, but warmed his spirits.
Nearer the barracks, the pungent aroma of turmeric and the fragrance of sweet silphium drifting from the open kitchen door flavored the air. Silphium had become the major export from Cyrenaica to Rome’s households. He had tried its curative effects for his constant stomach ailments, but it had failed.
Outside the barracks, steam rose from a simple communal bath constructed of native stone. There were no boilers or furnaces for a caldarium, a hot bath. Young native boys stoked the fires beneath the raised thermae with kindling and dried camel dung to heat the tepidarium, the warm bath. The bath, primitive by Roman standards, perhaps even crude, lay open to the sky. It boasted no statuary or mosaics. It contained no atrium where friends could meet and converse or changing rooms. No musicians provided soothing music while bathers relaxed. No slaves provided food or wine. Soldiers had no need of such luxuries.
As small as the bath was, the waste of so much water in a desert must have dismayed the natives at what they considered a Roman affectation. Its water drew Gaius’ gaze like the gyrations of a half-naked female dancer to a sex-starved legionnaire. He didn’t resist when the guard shoved him in the back to keep him moving toward the bath.
“Stand here,” one of them ordered, pointing to a spot just before the steps.
Two young boys brought buckets of cold water and set them at Gaius and Rashid’s feet.
“Strip and wash off the stink before you enter the bath,” the guard said.
Gaius and Rashid discarded their clothing, poured the water over their heads, and rubbed down their bodies with their hands as best they could, flaking away the last of the crusted goat’s blood that had fouled his body for almost a week.
Tone guard scanned the numerous scars covering Gaius’ body. “Now you may bathe,” he said, but his voice no longer held as much disdain.
Gaius reached down to pick up his clothing.
“Leave that pile of filth,” the other guard yelled. “We will burn them.”
Gaius did not intend to re-don his foul uniform. He used the opportunity to secret the dagger in the palm of his palm. As he descended the steps into the warm waters of the bath, he laid it on the bottom step beneath the waterline. His skin felt as it would drain the bath, absorbing the life-giving water into his desiccated flesh. He used a pumice stone and a wooden strigil he found on the edge of the bath to scrape away the layers of accumulated filth, vigorously scrubbing his flesh until it became raw. He sat on the steps chest deep in the warm water, allowing it to ease his aching muscles, while regretting that he had no capsarii to massage them.
Rashid seemed uncomfortable in so much water. He scrubbed his body clean, but glared at the water around him as if it might come alive and drown him. After only five minutes of luxuriating, the guards ordered them out of the bath. Gaius stepped to the edge of the small frigidarium and leaped in feet first. The waters of the cold plunging pool were barely cooler than the waters of the warm bath, but he emerged feeling more refreshed and invigorated than he had in many weeks.
Clothes had been laid out for them; a simple native robe and sandals for Rashid, but for Gaius a white toga with red piping, underclothing, sandals, and a gold pin to hold the toga over his shoulder was provided. The patrician clothing surprised him. He had expected at most a soldier’s plain tunic and sandals.
“The Praefectus must have more in mind than informing us of the time of our executions,” he said to Rashid.
“Perhaps that is the reason.” Rashid pointed south to a dark cloud covering the southern horizon.
“A sandstorm?” Gaius asked, although he knew it was not. His chest ached from the connection between him and the dark cloud. His mind detected the ponderous writhing of Nergal’s tentacles as they sped him toward the city, though his ears heard nothing.
Rashid shook his head. “No, it is a black shroud, a shadow in which Nergal conceals his hideous visage. It is wraiths, Roman, thousands of wraiths.”
“Come now,” the guard ordered. His gaze kept drifting back to the dark, turbulent haze. Fear clouded his face. “Centurion, did Tribune Sevilius truly die at the hands of demons?”
Gaius couldn’t reveal that he had killed mad, demented Sevilius. He lied. “Yes, he fought bravely against the shadow creatures, but they overwhelmed him.”
The guard nodded as if satisfied. “Our officers are frightened. Rumors abound from natives fleeing the villages to the south. They say a walking mountain comes.”
Close enough, thought Gaius. “It is Nergal, the creatures’ god. It is of him that I tried to warn the Praefectus.”
“I heard it said that the Emperor judged you wrongly; that you fought well in Parthia and saved most of your men. Is this true?”
He knew he must speak the whole truth. As a legionnaire, he deserved the truth. “I listened to the Imperator and blindly sent my men into an ambush. Three hundred died. Their deaths weary my spirit, but the remainder I saved, yes.”
Gaius expected the next words. “Can you save us, Centurion?”
“We will see,” he answered as truthfully as he dared. He would make no more promises he could not keep.
Praefectus Titilus Pontius Calidus, a short, pudgy man with pallid skin, possessed the restless, darting eyes of a viper. His reddish-brown hair was the color of tamarisk bark, and his white and purple toga ill fit him like a blanket draped over a horse. The toga barely covered open lesions on his arms and legs. Gaius had seen such lesions before – Morbus gallicus, the wasting disease caused by unhealthy sexual dalliances, a common occurrence common among soldiers but never so openly displayed among patricians. The disease ate away bones and made men mad. He wondered how far down the path of insanity the disease had taken the Praefectus.
Titilus reclined on a cushioned marble bench in a room open on three sides. A bored young boy waved a palm leaf fan above his head. A bowl of grapes and dates sat on a table by his side. Purple juice from the grapes dribbled down his chin. A golden goblet held wine. Gaius glanced at the wine and licked his lips. He resisted the impulse to snatch it up and drain the cup. A small bowl held the mashed pulp of the poppy plant, morphine to ease the pain of his disease. Titilus jabbed his finger in the bowl, brought the paste to his mouth, and licked his finger. Then he waved his arm at Gaius and pointed to a shorter wooden bench bare of cushions.
“Sit, Centurion.”
He didn’t offer the same courtesy to Rashid. Titilus’ civility confused him. “I will stand, Praefectus. I have wasted three days sitting in your stinking fusturium while Nergal and his minions draw closer.” He pointed south. “You see their cloak now. Tomorrow, you will see their faces and know I spoke the truth.”
“It is a difficult story to believe, Centurion – Terrible gods and vicious creatures who steal soldiers away in the dark for their blood. Surely, you see my dilemma. Tribune Sevilius was a …”
“Sevilius was a pompous fool,” Gaius said. He had nothing to lose now by speaking the truth. “He held his position through family ties, not merit. He lost two centuriae to these creatures, though I cannot fault him for that. I lost my entire command, but he refused to learn from his mistake. The touch of the creatures drove him mad. Will you follow his example?”
Titilus’ face reddened. He rose from his bench and sat upright. “I have heard disturbing reports from the few scouts that have returned and from villagers seeking refuge. They spe
ak of shadows devouring people and of great rumblings beneath the earth.”
“Send out no more patrols. Tonight, build fires, huge ones. Fire is one of the few things that ward against these creatures.”
Titilus’ eyes narrowed. “What is the other?”
“Now we come to the Berber prince.” He indicated Rashid.
“I can speak for myself,” Rashid said. He faced Titilus. “I am the bearer of a sigil that has power over the creatures.” He held out the amulet. “As prince of my people, I alone possess the knowledge of its use. In Roman hands, it is worthless.”
Titilus looked at Gaius, who nodded. “Only he knows the words that awaken the power within the stone.”
“Will you take command of the troops, Centurion, under my ultimate command of course?” he added quickly.
“Yes, but first you must free all who came with me and send the medicus to tend to their injuries.”
Titilus slapped his knee with the palm of his hand. “Done.” He turned to one of the guards standing near the edge of the room. Gaius had not missed the fact that one of the guards held his aclis ready to hurl at Gaius’ first threatening movement. “Do as the Centurion commands.” To Gaius, he asked, “Can we defeat this creature, this Great Old One?”
In answer, he chose one of Rashid’s aphorisms, “We can but try. I must take leave of you to make preparations for the battle to come.”
He placed his clench fist over his chest and bowed slightly, just enough to show obeisance to the pompous Praefectus. As he turned to leave, he made a public display of returning Rashid’s dagger. “I will not need it after all,” he said. The startled look on Titilus’ face was almost worth the days of captivity, almost.
14
Gaius had men lift the garrison’s three Ballistae to the roofs of buildings that rose above the wall to allow them to fire their bolts over the walls. The task was formidable, made possible only by use of hoists, blocks and tackles, and muscle power. Each three-foot-long shaft ended with a broad triangular iron tip as large as a spear tip, effective against flesh and blood enemies but useless against shadows. He ordered oil-soaked rags wrapped around the shafts near the spear point and secured with leather thongs. Fired with enough force, a heavy ballista bolt could penetrate a dozen human bodies before stopping. He hoped it could skewer and ignite that many wraiths as well. He wished they had twenty of the weapons instead of only three.
Three ballista and four medium-sized onagers, stone-throwing catapults, provided a moderate defense against a human army, but to Gaius’ trained military eye, they were pitifully inadequate for repelling an unnatural horde of undead demons and a rampaging monster. They might as well toss pebbles at a charging war elephant. Pebbles and stones he had in plenty. Heavy rocks the size of a man’s head wrapped in layers of cloth and soaked in oil would serve as ammunition for the onagers, as would clay pots filled with white-hot embers, which upon impact would shatter, scattering embers everywhere.
Blazing fires at multiple points along the walls and in front of each gate and door would keep out the creatures for as long as the fuel lasted. He left gaps in the South-facing wall to direct the creatures into the range of the siege weapons. He had confiscated every scrap of wood, jug of oil, and bolt of cloth in the city. Men had felled every date palm and shrub to add to the growing pile of kindling. Stockpiling food would not be necessary. If they did not defeat Nergal and his minions quickly, they would all die. There would be no long siege.
Once the wooden pyres were set ablaze, no citizen of the town could enter or leave the fort. Those who chose to remain outside would survive or die by their own defenses. Many were already evacuating the city. The burning pyres also meant that the defenders inside the fort could not escape. It was a nightmare scenario, the equivalent of chaining one foot to a stake in the ground amid a sea of attacking enemies.
He spotted Titilus Calidus hurrying across the courtyard toward him. He had no wish to speak with the Praefectus. Too many things took priority over listening to the frightened ramblings of a career politician. Gaius ignored him in hopes that he would go away. Instead, he climbed to where Gaius directed the crew positioning the last ballista. As he approached, his plump cheeks glowed rosy from the exertion of climbing the steps to the top of the wall.
Seeing that the siege engines were all pointed south, Titilus asked, “What if they surround us? Should not they be divided to cover all the walls?”
“We cannot cover all the walls from attack,” Gaius explained. “We do not have enough men. With Sevilius’ two centuriae massacred, the Third Cohort has less than four hundred men remaining. That includes cooks, grooms, wood workers, engineers, paymasters, supply clerks, standard-bearers, and musicians. Twenty men are tironii, here from Leptis Magna less than a month. They haven’t completed their basic training. I have two hundred munifex culled from the thousands in the city capable of wielding sword, spear, or the bow. Still, it is not enough. We will build fires along the bottoms and on the tops of all the other walls and force the dark army to attack the south wall. I will position the onagers below the south wall as well.”
Titilus waved his right hand in the air. “It seems a foolish move, but I have given you command of the garrison and will not interfere. What of the creatures’ master?”
Gaius noted that the Praefectus shied from mentioning Nergal’s name. Everyone in the fort could feel creature’s movements as a dull rumbling in the earth. “Fire or walls will not stop him. If Rashid cannot summon sufficient power from the amulet ….” He shrugged. “This is not a battle against any enemy we have faced. Our weapons are useless against Nergal. If we fail, he will seek out Rome and destroy it as well.”
Titilus’ face grew even more pallid than normal. “Rome fall?” He reached up his hand and pressed it against his chest, as if his breath had failed him. He shook his head slowly side to side, making his jowls flap. “It cannot be, Centurion. We cannot allow such a thing to happen.”
Gaius’ face grew stark as he said, “Men will die, Praefectus. We may all die, but the Berber must live. Impress that upon your officers. Rashid must live. Without him, all is lost.”
Titilus nodded. “I will issue an order immediately. What else can I do?”
“You can pray to your family gods, Praefectus Calidus. If they have any power, we will need their intervention.”
Gaius watched a dark line of men, women, and children, laden with all the possessions they could carry or load onto the backs of camels and even goats, streaming steadily from the city headed north, the first refugees of Nergal’s onslaught. They had no carts. He had ordered all wagons, carts, and chariots broken up for the wood. The citizens of Marzuq had ignored his attempts to dissuade them from leaving. He knew they would never reach safety. The creatures, sensing easy prey, would hunt them down and devour them before attacking the fort, providing the raw material for more wraiths in Nergal’s ever-growing army of the dead, or instead, as had happened is Rashid’s village, control hordes of deadly desert creatures to attack them.
Praefectus Calidus too eyed the line of refugees snaking across the desert as if he longed to be among them. “If you succeed in this, Centurion Linneus, I will send a letter to the Emperor to extol your contribution to our defense. I will make no mention of the death of Tribune Sevilius. I am sure his death was beyond your ability to prevent. The Emperor may rescind his judgment and return your honor.”
The Praefectus had no faith in Gaius’ ability or in his plan. Titilus’ only goal was to see that all responsibility fell on Gaius’ shoulders; therefore, any blame for failure became his as well. Gaius turned on Titilus. He had heard enough of the spouting of hot-winded patricians to know how mercurial their praises could be. “No one can take my honor, Titilus Calidus. All that the Emperor took from me was a burden. Now, I have nothing to lose.”
Titilus stared at Gaius, reached into his robe, and withdrew a leather bag. It clinked when he held it out to Gaius. “There are one hundred gold denarii here, Cent
urion, enough to buy an estate outside Rome, slaves, perhaps even your good name. It is yours if you assign twenty men to accompany me to Leptis Magna. I will send more reinforcements.”
The Praefectus’ voice pleaded. Perspiration dotted the flash above his lip. The stink of his fear and his disease poured from his body fouling the air. Gaius felt a momentary desire to run his sword through the fat, pompous patrician’s belly. Instead, he let his anger find voice.
“You are an abomination, Praefectus. The Emperor’s judgment upon me has freed me to speak my mind. Return to your apartments and pray to see the dawn. If you dare to bribe me or any of my men again, I will set you in front of the gates to await judgment by Nergal and his minions.”
Too shocked to speak, Titilus backed away, almost stumbling over the edge of the wall. He recovered, trotted down the steps, and disappeared.
Speaking of the Berber raised the issue of Rashid’s absence. The Berber prince, now wearing new robes more befitting his rank, had kept to himself since their release. Rashid had begged him to order all the population brought into the fort, but he had refused. He didn’t have the manpower to spare rounding up recalcitrant Berbers, Tebu, and Maxyans were in the town trading in the marketplaces or passing through in caravans. He had compromised by allowing the families of any of the munifex assigned to defend the fort to join them inside the walls. Rashid’s anger had been monumental but had made no dent in Gaius’ armor.
He spotted Rashid in his customary position at the corner of the south wall, standing solitary vigil and staring out across the desert. The black cloud of the day before was now recognizable as an enormous, whirling dust devil. Gaius walked the length of the wall and stood beside the Berber. The black cloud looked even more frightening than the sandstorm for which they had first mistaken it.
“It is not sand,” Rashid said, as if reading his thoughts. “It is the shattered bodies of the creatures. Nergal has sacrificed them to cloak his approach.”
