by J. E. Gurley
“I thought you said he traveled using underground tunnels.”
“He does, but his movements disturb the soil above. The devil tamzawit covers his approach and fills onlookers with dread and awe, does it not?”
He gazed at Gaius. His once blue on blue eyes were now a dull, bluish gray – lividis, the color of contused flesh. They were sunken deep within his sockets, surrounded by black circles from lack of sleep. His lips were thin and pale, his cheeks gaunt. His brow furrowed by the concentration required to remain in contact with the entity within the azure stone, which now glowed continuously, even in bright daylight. His right cheek had developed a slight tic that danced when he spoke. He turned away from the image of the approaching dust devil when Gaius approached. He wore the mien of a condemned prisoner, as if watching it hour after hour wrenched away chunks of his soul. The amulet never left the Berber’s hand. As he spoke, his fingers caressed its smooth surface.
“Yes, Centurion, I see your eyes observe my pitiful countenance. I told you the sigil is a living thing. All living things require nourishment. The stone draws sustenance from my flesh and my vigor. It is a small price to pay, for in exchange, it now speaks to me, tells me things of its history.” He shook his head. “We cannot win this battle here, Centurion. I cannot stop Nergal. No power on Earth, not even the iharz I hold in my hand, can vanquish him.”
At Rashid’s confession, the enormity of it all descended on Gaius like a sudden downpour. His legs became rubbery and failed to support him. He grasped the wall beside him to prevent falling to his knees. He had gambled everything on Rashid’s ability to stop Nergal and protect Rome. Was he lying to allow Romans to die? He searched Rashid’s face; read his eyes and his expression, and saw that the Berber spoke the truth. The amulet had told him so, and the truth ate at his soul.
“But … but I felt its power in the temple,” he said, remembering the sensation of the amulet in his hand, the tingling in his chest while clutching the blazing sword when attacked on the journey to Marzuq. “It healed your wounds. It healed my leg. Nergal recoiled from it. I witnessed it.”
“The sigil wounds him, even frightens him, if such a creature can feel fear, but it cannot kill him. However, it can bind Nergal to his underground lair where men wiser and more powerful than me imprisoned him eons ago when the world was young. For millennia, he remained asleep, confined in his subterranean cell by runes and signs set in stone by his jailers. Then, first the Greeks, then the Carthaginians, and now you Romans come to my country with thoughts of conquest. Your blood lust has awakened him. He feels in you a kindred spirit, a despoiler of civilizations.”
Rashid’s tirade taxed his energy. He collapsed and sat on the edge of the wall, gasping for breath. Gaius moved toward him to aid him. Rashid stopped him with a sharp wave of his hand.
“I do not need your help, Centurion. See to your defenses. They will fail, but you must try. It is your way.” His tone softened. “I do not hold you responsible for what has befallen my people, Gaius Linneus. I see now that refuge within these walls was an illusion. For a Roman, you treated me well. You are no longer the typical pompous Roman ass you once were. You know the truth of Nergal and his dark minions, but you still consider the Inyosh an enemy to defeat. Each death here in this city, in this fort, will create more wraiths. They will spread across the land like a plague of locusts. It is a battle you cannot win.”
Gaius abhorred admitting defeat before fighting the battle, but he knew Rashid was right. Despite his frantic preparations, they could not win. Every military leader relied on his gut instinct to foresee the outcome of battles. Gaius’ gut spoke of defeat. “What then do you suggest?”
Rashid looked up. His eyes now held a glimmer of hope. “You seek my counsel? It is as I first suggested when we fled Hamad Rus. We must lure the creature back to its pit and bind it there with the sigil.” He squeezed the amulet in his hand with renewed vigor.
“I cannot abandon these people.”
“You abandoned mine readily enough,” Rashid wailed; then, shook his head. “It is useless, Centurion. The creatures will sense blood and be eager to overrun the fort and the city. Appoint someone to command your troops, someone to see to the defenses.” His voice took on a pleading tone. “You must accompany me to Hamad Rus. You have shared a small portion of the amulet’s power. If anything happens to me, perhaps it will suffice to allow you to complete the task.”
Gaius considered Rashid’s suggestion. Abandoning his post went against everything he believed in, everything drilled into him by years of training and battle, but had he not done it once before when he took his entire Shadow Legion to Hamad Rus? Then, it was on a chance to regain his lost honor, a way out of Tripolitania. Could he not do as much to save Rome?
Quickly his sense of duty took over. “No. Marcellus is still weak. The other officers are young and inexperienced, unfamiliar with the tactics I propose to employ. If I leave, the fort will fall and the garrison will be lost.”
Rashid sighed and seemed to collapse into himself, as if the possibility of Gaius accompanying him to Hamad Rus had been his last hope. “Perhaps you have not lost all of your Roman pomposity after all,” he sighed. “Your warrior’s ego betrays you. You fear to loosen your grip on a power you know, however futile, to grasp a power that can save all. You plan a foolish gesture. Dying gallantly among your troops will earn you a Roman epithet, but by doing so you throw away Rome’s only chance of survival, as well as my country’s only chance. One day you Romans will leave this land, conquered by another, as you have conquered so many. Some fledging empire will take your place, but the Tamazight will continue to live in this desert as we always have. It is our home.”
The truth of Rashid’s words stung him. Was his ego betraying him, just another ineffectual gesture on his part, another White Rock Pass, but this time with him saving no one? He was a legionnaire, a soldier. It was a soldier’s nature to fight. The situation called not for bravery and the sword, but for abandoning his nature, his calling, to follow Rashid on a madman’s quest. The conflict raging within him made his mind a churning cauldron. He could not think straight. Then, he focused on the one thing that had always been true to him, the image of his wife and child in Ischia. Could he protect them there by throwing away his life within the fort’s walls? In the end, did it really matter where he died?
His decision surprised him. A deep sigh, sounding as if wrenched from his soul, escaped his lips. He felt as if he were betraying everything he held dear. “You win, Berber. I will accompany you to Hamad Rus, but I must direct the first attack. Their first encounter with the wraith army will break their spirits. They must see me on the wall, unafraid, or they will not rally for a second attack.”
“Are you, Roman? Are you truly unafraid?”
Gaius considered Rashid’s question. Did he feel fear or dread, as with any other battle? He had never gone into battle fearing for his life. His skill as a tactician determined the outcome, barring the capriciousness of the gods. He feared for the safety of his wife and child. He feared for Rome. He did not fear for himself.
“No, Prince Abdullah,” he answered using Rashid’s rank for the first time, “I am not afraid.”
Rashid nodded; then, smiled, as if Gaius’ answer pleased. “Nor I, Centurion Gaius Linneus, but for a different reason. You seek to protect the ones you love and to give your death meaning. All I love and knew is gone, fodder for these creatures’ bloodlust. My death means nothing to anyone living except in the manner of its ending. I long for a noble death, one with meaning. Is this too Roman of me?”
This time, Gaius smiled. “Close enough, Rashid. We can use the confusion of battle to slip away. We will ride swift horses and lead two more each. We will use no saddle to save weight. We will ride them into the ground to gain us time. We will carry little food and eat in the saddle.” He stared at Rashid, forcing the Berber to look him in the eye so he could read the truth. “Are you certain Nergal will turn away from the city and follow us?�
� he demanded. If the amulet spoke to Rashid as he claimed, he should know the answer, but even after days of being near him, Gaius still didn’t know if he fully trusted the Berber.
“The sigil draws him. He knows it is ancient magic and the only thing that can imprison him. He will seek to destroy the amulet and its wielder. He will follow.”
Rashid’s eyes neither blinked nor quavered, and his voice remained even. Gaius believed him.
“What of the creatures?”
“Some he will retain to act as his tools. The others … I do not know. The city may yet fall.”
Gaius had already accepted that possibility, even its inevitability. “You need rest. It is a long journey to Hamad Rus, and we must ride swiftly.”
Rashid nodded and climbed down the stairs. He moved slowly and his steps were weary. The stone of the amulet drained Rashid’s body of life, but Gaius needed to learn all he could of Nergal, and only the amulet, through Rashid, could provide the answers. He hoped the Berber lived long enough to reach Hamad Rus. In spite of their differences, he liked the Berber prince. Another death to add to my mounting tally, he thought grimly.
Gaius glanced one more time at the spiraling ebony storm growing closer by the hour. He could hear the high keening on the wind, the creatures eager for blood to offer to their ancient god. He didn’t need to estimate the approaching army’s speed. He knew they would arrive that night after the moon had set. Darkness was their milieu.
The remainder of the day, he stalked the fort like a specter, appearing suddenly and vanishing just as quickly. He spoke with the apprehensive officers to reassure them that his tactics would work. They did not believe him, but obeyed anyway. The milites, the common soldiers, didn’t understand what was happening. The odd preparations for battle and the presence of the conscripted native population confused them, but they saw their officers obey and moved swiftly to each task assigned to them. He thanked good Roman discipline for that. He instructed the weapons master to school the recruits and the civilian conscripts in the proper use of their weapons. They were eager but lacked confidence in their ability. He decided to improve their odds.
He sought out Antonius Cossus, whom most of the men knew. He found the wizened veteran sharpening his swords, both his gladius and his longer spatha, to a razor-sharp edge. Two finely honed acilii lay beside him. He worked methodically but without haste, knowing a legionnaire’s keen-edged weapon was his best chance for survival. He had endured his imprisonment with the indifference of one used to such hardships. To him, jail had been just another conflict he had survived.
“Antonius,” Gaius said in greeting, “I am need of a tesserarius. Would the job suit you?”
Antonius stopped his preparations and glanced up at Gaius. “Aye, the extra pay would suit me, for as many hours or days as I might draw it.”
His straightforward manner was a relief to Gaius after dealing with so many whose words danced around the truth, such as Praefectus Calidus. “Are you afraid?” he asked, repeating the question Rashid had posed to him.
Antonius shrugged and resumed running the honing stone along the blade’s edge with long, even stokes. “What is death to a legionnaire? A long life or a quick death; a man can choose neither. The gods mete out their judgment as befitting their whimsy. What will my duties be, Centurion?”
“I want you to round up ever triarii in this garrison whom you believe trustworthy and skilled. I want one veteran for every twenty raw recruits and conscripts, if we have that many. They must act as their charges’ anchor and pull from them their maximum effort. Rough or gentle, I want the recruits ready by the setting of the moon. They will answer to you and Tesserarius Marcellus alone.”
He smiled. “Me, a tesserarius. That will turn a few heads in this place. Aye, I accept your promotion, Centurion. I know a few men capable of doing the job, if they are sober.”
“See that they. You can start now.”
As Gaius walked away, Antonius said, “You honor me, sir.”
“I make of you a target, Tesserarius. The creatures retain enough of their former memories to recognize a leader from a follower.”
“A Roman legionnaire is always a target. What does it matter who the enemy is?”
That problem solved, he visited the valetudunarium, the infirmary, to see how Marcellus fared. He needed his tesserarius’ experience and strong sword arm with him. He was appalled to find over thirty men inside the room lying on cots. He called the medicus to him.
“Physician, what is wrong with these men?”
The doctor, a tall, thin man of at least fifty years of age with a fringe of white hair rimming his baldpate, set down a bowl filled with blood and laid a bloody lancet beside it. His toga smelled of herbs and astringents used to clean instruments. “One has a broken leg, but it is healing nicely. Two suffer from heat strokes. Most suffer minor stomach ailments, dysentery, or maladies of the humors. I feed them rhubarb, horse heal, and licorice root and for their stomachs, egg yolks for dysentery, and bleed them for their misaligned humors.” He pointed to Marcellus. “This man has an unusual injury. I drained the pus and sewed the wound. I applied a poultice of gentian to draw out the poison and yarrow to help heal the wound.” He continued with a smug look on his face. “I have read the works of the Greek Galen and practice as he does.”
Gaius’ face grew redder as his ire increased. “If they must shit, let them shit on the wall facing the enemy with a sword in their hands. Queasy stomachs or loose bowels do not concern me, physician.” He jabbed his finger in the medicus’ face. “Bleed no more men. There will be blood enough within these walls before this night is through.”
The physician was aghast. “But they ….”
Gaius stopped him and pointed to Marcellus, lying in the corner of the room watching the proceedings with amused interest. “That man suffered an injury delivered by the enemy. Attend to him. Send these shirkers and malingerers back to their duties. We need every man at his post.” He addressed the men in the room. “If the enemy overwhelms us, your fate will be far worse than any you could ever conceive. Lying here in this room will not save you. There will be no quarter given. I can spare no one to protect you. Rome needs you. Your comrades need you.”
Marcellus threw back his blanket and rose from his bed. He wobbled slightly as he stood a moment to catch his balance. Gaius winced at forcing his tesserarius out of his sickbed. Marcellus was silent as he laced his sandals. Then he faced the others. “I will be in the armory preparing for war. Join me if you love your country, your comrades, or your title as legionnaires of Rome.”
Gaius placed his hand on Marcellus’ should as he passed. He noticed the flax thread suturing his would. The flesh around it was still sickly yellow. Of them all, he wished Marcellus could remain in the infirmary, but now his example would serve him well. The others, shamed by Marcellus’ call to arms, looked at one another and began dressing to join him. They did not like Gaius’ appellation of malingerer or shirker, deserved or not. Such a label followed a legionnaire throughout the legion, through every posting. The physician stared at them dumfounded and in disbelief.
“See, medicus, your treatments have been miraculous. Now, prepare yourself for the coming battle. There will be few wounded, but their wounds will be grave.”
His eyes seethed with resentment at his ill treatment, but he held his tongue and nodded his head. “Yes, Centurion.”
Somewhere in the long day, Gaius took a few minutes to eat. The food was of better quality and more plentiful than any he had eaten in weeks, but he didn’t taste it. He ate as he worked, wiping his hands on his tunic when he finished. When he saw any group of soldiers resting, he verbally berated them. They were tired, he knew, but better tired than dead. If they won the battle tonight, the survivors could rest tomorrow.
He tested all the archers, both the Legion sagittarii and the civilians, to determine their most effective ranges, and then placed them into three ranks according to strength and skill. They were his second
line of defense, the siege engines being his first line. Crossbows were more effective inside the fort. These, he kept in reserve for when the creatures breached the walls, for he knew eventually they would breach them. He had seen the warrens beneath the mountain. Given enough time and the cover of their self-generated dark cloak, they could claw their way through the five-foot thick limestone walls, if Nergal didn’t tear it down first.
15
Just after sunset, Gaius ordered the fires lit, sealing the defenders to their fate inside Castra-Flacco. They were as ready as they could ever be, but it would not be enough.
The earth-shaking, subterranean passage of Nergal now jarred the ground, as if from a continuous earthquake. The waters of the thermae sloshed over the sides. The pounding of Nergal’s tentacles against the stone became the beating of a hundred tympani drums, the high keening of the wraiths a chorus of a thousand trumpets. Despite the raging dust storm looming over the city, no wind stirred the air, as still and as calm as the sea before a tempest.
However, the lack of wind didn’t prevent the arrival of the stench of a thousand abattoirs from descending on the fort. The reek of rotting flesh and putrid blood disheartened the soldiers manning their posts, but there was no defense against it.
Gaius waved to Marcellus to his right, and then to Dracus on his left. Neither man was fit to fight, but both refused to allow another man to take their place. Men stood by the onagers and ballistas, awaiting his command to fire. Three ranks of archers lined the parade ground. Clay jars held hundreds of arrows for each archer to reload quickly. Fires blazed beside them to ignite their arrows.
In the distance, the screams of those who had refused to enter the fort or flee the city, began, as the mass of shadows descended on them. Gaius steeled himself to their cries, convincing himself he could have done nothing to save them. When the air began to grow chilly and the shadows deepened, he knew the attack was imminent. Suddenly, as if a tapestry ripped down from a wall, the black cloud evaporated, spilling shadows across the moonless sand. The shadows writhed like a nest of vipers.
