by Al Halsey
“Mindful of coming conflict is more accurate,” Lucius whispered as he closed his eyes.
“What besides scorpion or beetle could survive in this oven?” Augustinus chortled quietly.
In the morning, Lucius woke to the sound of some argument outside the tent. He stuck his head out of the tent flap. The other legionnaires already moved about and packed their gear. The sun was not yet visible over the sea of sand: the predawn light lifted the darkness and erased the stars. The Primus and the scout argued again, as heated as the night before. Augustinus came around the corner and ducked into the tent, then pulled Lucius in by the arm.
“Best not get caught spying on Vitus today, or making humorous quips. During the night, half-dozen slaves and an equal number of auxiliaries vanished in the dark. Tracks lead east, back towards the Nile valley: no doubt they will be executed if found,” Augustinus said.
The two packed in silence, and listened to the sound of Vitus’s rage. “Hope their cocks fall off and bake in the desert,” was a phrase Lucius understood. Finally, Vitus and the scout parted ways and the legionnaires left their tent. Fires were stoked and jentaculum, the first meal of the day, was served just as the sun peeked onto the dunes. It warmed the vast Libyan Desert.
Flat, heavy wheat pancakes drizzled with honey were served with dates. Several ampules of watered wine were also consumed quickly, and the soldiers discussed the day’s march.
The slaves continued to cast furtive glances and move cautiously. The auxiliaries whispered in hushed tones, all men on the emotional edge. They would often fall silent and look at the sand as the legionnaires approached. Both groups avoided eye contact with the soldiers. The Romans seemed not to notice, aside from Lucius and Augustinus who finished their cakes while the slaves packed up the tents and cooking gear.
The column formed up in short order. The sand under foot had already warmed from the chill night and felt rough between Lucius’s sandals and his feet as he walked. His armor and weapons seemed heavier today: maybe the heat of the desert had got to him. Thank Jupiter, his heavy iron scutum was on one of the pack camels. His eyes tracked Vitus as he rode up and down the line. He was careful to control his tongue after Augustinus’ warning. The Primus seemed lost in thought beyond the caravan on the sand.
The legionnaires focused on the march and kept mostly silent. They trudged mindlessly and put one foot in front of the other. All had become aware of the events of the night, as the Primus had mentioned it during jentaculum. Vitus settled his horse and rode in front of Lucius and Augustinus.
“Your tongue is kept harnessed today, Lucius,” the Primus commented and looked ahead. “Is my aggravation that obvious, even creating enough fear that your pugio-sharp wit is afraid to unleash itself?”
Lucius looked ahead, and then wiped his forehead with his focale. “No disrespect is meant by humorous quips, Primus. I would seek to not burden you more than troubled thoughts already have.”
“Our allies are stirred at the revelation of our mission, Legionnaire,” Vitus said. “According to Egyptian legend, long before this desert was as it is now, verdant forests and grasslands abounded. The creatures that built the outpost we seek plied dangerous magics that poisoned the land, according to their Pharaoh. Superstitious, cat-worshipping Egyptians and their God-Kings.”
“Maybe if you meowed like their gods it would bolster their sagging bravery,” Augustinus laughed. “Fighting is best left to Romans, not our weak-willed auxiliaries. It is doubtful a cadre of Gauls would have turned and run at the legend of lurking things. The tales tell that the forests of Gaul are nearly overrun with wicked creatures of ancient legend.”
The legionnaires laughed, and several of them meowed. They then looked over their shoulders at their Egyptian auxiliaries towards the rear of the column. The sarcastic remarks lightened the legionnaires’ mood and the Primus spurred his horse towards the head of the line where he stayed. Midway through the morning, a rock outcrop rose on the horizon. Lucius thought at first it may be mirage, but as they got closer he could see it was real.
The crag thrust through the deep sands: a jagged peak of dark stone that seemed out of place in this hot sea. It was like the fang of some long-dead titan that defied the gods as it sought sunlight. Nestled at the foot of the spike were the ruins of Egyptian constructions. The bricks, dried in the fiery sun hundreds of years ago, were now silent witness to its vanished occupants.
Six broken buildings were huddled together, the tops caved in from the ravages of time. A broken obelisk stuck angled from the sand, knocked from its unseen base. The low, squat structures were in a half circle against the outcrop of sandstone, their small windows dark and empty.
“Base camp is set here. The legendary abandoned outpost is two more hours to the west,” Vitus ordered. “Lucius. Augustinus. Set a watch on top of this crag, eyes towards the horizon for Berbers or other bandits that may approach. I want warning.”
The slaves unloaded several camels and set up tents. Lucius found some handholds carved into the rock, albeit worn from the sand and wind. The two legionnaires climbed the treacherous outcrop, the rock hot from the blazing sun.
“A fall would end this misery,” Augustinus said from below Lucius as they ascended the rough stone ladder. “Fall on me and I will stab you as we tumble to our deaths.”
“The drop will not give sufficient time to draw pugio. Once our bodies break on the rock below, we will travel to the Styx where Charon will float us across together. We are bound in death as in life, comrade,” Lucius snorted.
“Maybe my head will strike the rock first, and I will be done with your incessant joking,” Augustinus said cynically. The two continued their climb until they arrived at a flat area, worked into a lookout for the abandoned village. Lucius propped up his bedroll with his pilum that he had carried, making shade. The two shared a water skin while they watched the camp below.
The Primus barked orders in the middle of the deserted square. Slaves began to excavate a blocked well in the center of the half-circle of edifices. Cool water hid from inquisitive eyes far under the desert floor, if one knew where to look. They dug several hours and moved hundreds of baskets of sand that had plugged the stone shaft. Eventually, the slaves in the pit let loose with shouts of accomplishment as water began to seep into the well.
The two peered down on the commotion as slaves began preparing prandium, the midday meal. It was a simple meal: bread, with chunks of cheese and dried, salted fish. Martinus Marius climbed to the high perch and the other two worked their way carefully down the face of the crag. Once down, they filled their bellies with bread and water fresh from the depths of the desert.
“Drink like Britons reveling in victory, this bounty of cool water,” Vitus ordered. “Piss must run clear before we start marching in an hour. Drink up!”
“You think he will check?” Lucius laughed under his breath. “Some orders tickle me in inappropriate ways.”
“Keep your opinion to yourself lest you be assigned piss duty, Lucius,” Augustinus said and glared. He sat with his back against the broken wall, and then shifted his weight to get comfortable. Something just under the sand poked his ass. He rose, and held his cyllestis in his mouth. Then he sieved the sands with his fingers, grasped metal and pulled a gladius from the grit.
“Primus,” Lucius shouted and pointed at the blade in his comrade’s hand. “Evidence of our missing comrades, I believe.”
Vitus strode to the pair and Augustinus stood. “From whence came the blade?” the Primus said.
“It was buried in the sand, Primus,” Lucius replied.
Vitus took the sheath and pulled the gladius free. Dark brown letters were writ on the blade, roughly painted in Latin. “Living death slumbers eternal beneath the sands,” he read, then held the blade close to his face. “The desert must have addled the poor legionnaire’s brain that carried this blade.”
Augustinus inspected the weapon. “What soldier would leave his gladius, sheathed with this cry
ptic message in such a forsaken place as this? Odds of finding the weapon were slim at best. Only by Jupiter’s will, could we find such a thing.”
“Or Augustinus’ arse,” Lucius chortled.
“Someone who did not want to carry it any farther, or felt sending random message was more important than what they could accomplish with it,” Vitus said quietly.
Several of the Egyptian slaves looked on, disturbed by the discovery of the blade. They murmured quietly between clenched teeth while they stared.
“Everyone search the sands for more evidence or hidden signs of our brothers’ whereabouts.”
Lucius took the gladius and stared at the words, then touched it with his tongue. “Blood was used to write this message.”
“This bodes ill as hope of their survival wanes,” Augustinus said. The legionnaires searched the area. Repeatedly they poked and prodded the sand. After the fruitless search, Vitus gathered the legionnaires together. The slaves and auxiliaries looked on, still agitated.
“Ten legionnaires will stay behind with a dozen slaves to maintain camp. The rest of us will march ahead to explore the ruins,” the Primus ordered. “Any man caught deserting will be executed, be him slave or auxiliary. It is doubtful I need to remind Romans of loyal duty.”
The line of soldiers and slaves with their camels moved on, but Lucius and Augustinus were part of the group that stayed behind at the deserted village. As the column traveled west, Vitus mounted his horse and signaled for Lucius and Augustinus to draw closer.
“Yes, Primus,” Augustinus said. He watched the Officer’s dark eyes as they surveyed the line. “Guard the water source. Keep resupplying us at our destination. Prefect Gallus’s orders include the looting items of worth, in addition to finding our lost brothers in arms. He secretly hopes for ancient tombs of gold. These Egyptians conceal all of their worldly worth behind stones set with cryptic curses. He would rather see it in Roman coffers.”
“Yes, Primus,” Lucius said. “We will be wary and support you at the destination.”
Vitus turned away, and then looked askance at the legionnaire. “If slaves are caught deserting, they will not live to see the morrow. Understand? We will not tolerate further insolence on the part of these Egyptian dogs.”
“We will be watchful of deserters,” Augustinus said solemnly. “And kill them if caught.”
“Very good, then,” the Primus said, and spurred his horse towards the center of the column. The two watched the group disappear as the troops were soon obscured by the shimmers.
“Well then,” Lucius said. “We need to scout the perimeter of the camp, secure it and ready ourselves for the unexpected. We must rotations to the cliff to provide watch. We need to also inventory our supplies.”
Into the hot afternoon, the remaining legionnaires continued to search the sands to no avail. The slaves organized the supplies and checked the tents, then began to prepare cena late in the afternoon. Vitus ordered the first resupply of water should arrive in the morning. The slaves lined the skins up near the well to be filled.
As the sun began to dip below the horizon, the camp prepared for the night. Concerned about the dangerous climb in the dark, Augustinus announced an Egyptian slave would be assigned the duty. If he dozed he would be flogged. The legionnaire on watch descended and a slave climbed the stone with a water skin, blanket, and a small sack of bread and dates.
Torches were struck and the small troop of legionnaires sat around a small fire. They shared tales of battles from different places in the Empire. The flames flickered, and made long shadows dance. The darkness moved like a sinister creature that spied on the soldiers. Martinus talked at length, and repeated tales from his brother who served in distant Briton. He described the lanky primitives who inhabited the isle. The soldiers ate dates and dried fruits into the night, then opened an ampule of wine and passed it around.
While the legionnaire continued his tales of distant Briton, Augustinus leaned to Lucius and whispered in his ear. The soldier heard, considered, and then left the circle around the fire. The conversations continued around the flames. Some stories of various battles and victories were more believable than others. Two of the Romans had seen action at Actium and they talked quietly of the death and destruction. Within the hour, a shout went up from beyond the camp in the desert, beyond any light the torches shed near the ruins. The nine legionnaires around the fire quickly armed themselves with pilum and scutum and moved towards the screams.
The cause of the commotion became readily apparent as Lucius had a slave. The legionnaire had twisted the left arm of the Egyptian into a position it was not meant to bend. The skinny man cried in rough syllables about the mistreatment. Augustinus set his pilum in the sand, the weapon standing upright as the two approached.
“Caught like a fish out of water, deserting us,” Augustinus laughed. He glared at the slave. “We execute this one. Make an example to the others at first light. That should cool any insolence or disposition to desertion these mongrels might possess.”
“This gangly one is a scrapper,” Lucius chuckled. “A few well-placed fists to his head took the fight out of him, however.”
The slave glowered at the legionnaires and spit.
“Not all of the fight, apparently,” Martinus chortled. “Anticipation of bloodletting at dawn will help assure sound sleep.”
“He maybe a fighter, but not a smart one to set out on foot without supplies or water,” Augustinus said, then punched the slave on the head. The man fell into the sand with a moan. “The Nile Valley is a long walk through hot sand on the morrow. Execution will only hasten the inevitable death that journey would have caused.”
Lucius dragged the unconscious Egyptian near the fire and bound him with leather thongs.
“That ought to keep him,” Lucius said. “I will keep watch on our captive for now.”
Augustinus stayed with Lucius. The rest of the soldiers retired to their tents for the night. The two talked and laughed in hushed tones lest they disturb their fellows. They finished the ampule of wine, then stirred the coals and watched the sparks float with the hot smoke towards the stars.
“These Egyptian swine; deserters, cowards. Who knew ruins could so fluster the savages?” Augustinus said.
Lucius snorted. “Primitive cat worshipers.” He looked at the slave, the eyes of the man open now: his dark pupils reflected the firelight. “If only the swine could comprehend last hours: could see his death at daylight as an example for his fellows.”
“I see and understand more than you know, Roman dog,” the Egyptian hissed quietly. “Holding my tongue does denote ignorance, but temperance.”
“It speaks!” Augustinus cackled. “How could a slave speak such pristine Latin?”
“I was not always in this sorry state,” the slave said quietly. “I am Anok Sabé, son of the Royal Astrologer for Queen Cleopatra, taken prisoner at the battle of Actium. More than a few Roman dogs fell under my blade before my capture.”
Lucius drew his pugio and started toward the prisoner.
“Stay your hand, Lucius Marianus” Augustinus commanded. “His demise without witness will not command fear and respect of his fellows.”
The legionnaire stopped close to Anok, blade still in hand. “I look forward to the morrow,” he said, then slapped the Egyptian across the face. “You will die.”
The slave glowered: a trickle of blood dripped from his split lip. “So will you,” Anok whispered angrily. “The creatures you seek are known to me.”
“Enlighten us, slave, son of the Royal Astrologer,” Augustinus said. “Tell us of our impending deaths.”
Anok stared at the fire. “For a swallow of cool water.”
“Tell us what you know. You will soon be dead, but time passes slowly while Lucius carves your venerable flesh into tiny strips,” Augustinus said, menacingly. “Tell us what you know so that you may pass quickly to your sandy afterlife ‘pon the morrow.”
“Your brothers have marched to thei
r deaths,” the slave laughed. “The ancient race that built the forgotten city, whose outposts are hidden beneath the eternally shifting sands, slumber in a state between life and death. Their magic is beyond our ken. Their power is immeasurable. Not that long ago, as their dead eyes measure time, this desert was a green paradise teeming with life. Few know the truth. Many know of things whispered in the dark. Rumors, scraps of legend or long-desiccated knowledge. But, in the court of Cleopatra, my father knew the truth. There is a reason Egyptians fear the dark, more than Set. Dead things shuffle below our feet, waiting to feast on living souls. Where your fellows seek riches to fill your Caesar’s coffers, they will find naught but demise.”
“Pfft,” Lucius laughed. “Wives tales. Gossip for old crones threshing wheat. Stories for unruly whelps to be scared into submission. Save it for a darkened tavern: some traveler drunk on clumpy Egyptian beer will believe. A Greek, maybe, might be so naïve to believe such outlandish stories.”
Anok Sabé shifted his gaze to the Romans. “Scoff if it suits you. Believe or do not. I care not at all either way. But death at your blade is a welcome alternative from the soul eaters, the living dead beneath sand. Soon, you will know their anger.”
“Let us gut him like a fish now. His fellows will hear the message when they see his blood scattered ‘pon the sand on the morrow,” Lucius said, as he raised his pugio again. “One swift cut will end his insolence and quiet his sharpened tongue.”
The slave raised up his chin and showed his neck. The firelight caused the shadows to dance in anticipation of blood. “Cut deep, Roman dog.”
Lucius gritted his teeth, stared at the unprotected throat of his antagonist but he stayed the blade. He slipped it back into its sheath. The legionnaire spit at the Egyptian’s feet. “On the morrow. Make peace with your gods.” He turned and walked away. Augustinus followed.
“Control your wrath. Your hot temper gives him power over you,” Augustinus said. The legionnaires stopped and looked back at the flames. “If there is a thread of truth in his raving, then we need to keep our wits about us.”
