by J. E. Gurley
Gaius detected acrimony in Flavius’ pronunciation of the derogatory term, Shadow Legion. An undermanned centuria pretending they were part of a larger fighting unit, using a ranking system ordinarily reserved for full legions, had been the ultimate insult of the Emperor, as was his new rank of Centurion.
Flavius eyed the ten men who had accompanied Gaius and the native bearers. “If I know the Praefectus castrorum of Castra-Quietus in Leptis Magna, the men he sent with you are no prizes. They are doubtless thieving, slacking, drunken, libertine louts Sunio Atticus sought to rid himself of.”
Gaius had ascertained the same thing of the new men on his three-week-long journey from the coastal city of Leptis Magna. He hardened his face as he stared at his optio. “Train them, Flavius. Train them hard. Fear will toughen them. Exhaustion will silence their grumblings. A common enemy will band them together into an effective fighting force. We will offer them a choice – Die fighting the enemy or die of old age or disease in this desolate desert. Only the victorious will leave these cursed sands with me.”
Flavius saluted Gaius with his clenched right fist crossed over his chest. “Done, Centurion.”
Gaius detected lingering doubt in his second’s voice but dismissed it. He knew Flavius would do his job. The optio longed for a way out of his desert confinement and knew his best hope lay in his commander’s success. All that remained was for their unknown enemy to play its part.
“Now, let us inspect my troops and see if I should thank our Emperor, or curse him.”
That choice will be an easy one. I have been cursing him since leaving Rome.
§
“Tell me of this as yet invisible enemy, Marcellus.”
Gaius and his two senior officers dined in his tent. In front of Gaius, amid the flagons of wine and plates of meat and cheese, lay a crude map of the region drawn on vellum – A dot representing Leptis Magna on the coast, a second dot representing the city of Marzuq to their north, and a third indicating Castra-Augustus. South lay only leagues of empty space. The map bore no other discernible features except a row of squiggly lines representing as series of low ridges a dozen leagues to the south.
Marcellus brushed his hand across the top of the parchment map to remove a few grains of the pervasive sand. “This area contains mostly Berbers driven from the west. They resist our rule as they resisted the Carthaginians before us, but they are few in number and not well organized. Lately, an unseen enemy has appeared.” He stabbed the dot signifying Castra-Augustus with his finger. “He comes at night, taking one or two men, and then retreating into the darkness of the desert. At first, we followed but found nothing – no bodies and no tracks.”
“This is a desert,” Gaius reminded him. “Winds blow the sand, erasing tracks quickly. You sent out scouts, patrols?”
Marcellus shot a withering glance at him for asking such a question of a veteran soldier. “Aye. They found nothing. The last two patrols have not returned.”
“How long have they been gone?” Gaius asked, taking a sip of warm wine and wincing at the sour taste.
“Six days for the first patrol, two days for the second, but the storm may have delayed them.”
Marcellus’ tone implied he had given up hope for the first patrol’s return and feared for the second. Water was the determining factor. If the first patrol had not located an oasis, they would have exhausted their water supply by now. Gaius’ concern for the men of his new command urged him to set out immediately to rescue them, but caution was required. The camp was in shambles and the men, especially the men who had accompanied him from Leptis Magna, were exhausted.
“After a day’s rest, we will search for them,” Gaius said. He pushed his meal, largely untouched, aside. The oppressive heat and his unsettled stomach dampened his appetite. “Inform the men. I will need ten volunteers, well armed. Pick them yourself if they hesitate. In addition, two packhorses for supplies. Take men of this country only, even if they are fuzzy-cheeked tirones. The new men I brought with me are unused to the desert.” As am I, he thought wryly. This accursed desert is a furnace compared to the deserts of Mesopotamia.
“How long will we be gone?” Marcellus asked.
Gaius stared at Marcellus, surprised by the audacity of the question. “Until we find the patrols or their sun-bleached corpses, of course.”
Properly chastised, Marcellus saluted and exited the tent.
With Marcellus gone, Gaius removed his heavy galea, and allowed a stream of sweat to pour down his forehead. The rounded metal helmet with its rear neck guard, topped by its transverse red plume of rank, had been sitting heavily on his head the entire day. It had felt as if the sun were cooking his brain. Then, he loosened his Lorca hamata, the bronze chainmail armor protecting his upper torso.
“Damn this abominable heat,” he snarled. “I would rather fight the Germans or even the damned blue-painted Brits as endure this heat. Is there no succor from it?”
Flavius, who had remained silent during Gaius’ exchange with Marcellus, smiled. He wore a short tunic and no armor with his sword thrust through his leather balteus cinched around his waist. “You need not impress this lot. Remove your armor; wear your tunic only. The heat will kill you as surely as the thrust of a hasta, though not as cleanly as a good, sharp spear.”
Heeding Flavius’ advice, he removed his chainmail armor, the manica protecting his arms, the greaves from his legs, and the leather tunic over his cloth inner tunic. The absence of the heavy, smothering armor had an immediate cooling effect. His skin breathed a sigh of relief, even as he damned himself for giving in to the desert. He would make many such concessions in the coming days, he wagered.
“You heard my orders to Marcellus?”
Flavius raked the heel of his sandal across the sand. Without looking up, he answered, “I heard.”
“Do you approve?”
“It is risky. Ten men are too few if attacked.”
“This unseen enemy poses an opportunity, Flavius, but we must give him a name.”
Flavius scratched his head with the greasy bone of a roasted pork chop. “The Berbers are a handy scapegoat, but they believe this region is haunted. The Sea of Lost Souls, they call it. They seldom venture here. The Jews that fled Judea after the revolt that Lusius Quietus put down live in the wastes farther east, but they have caused no problems in years.”
Gaius shook his head, slinging droplets of sweat from his curly, brown locks. “I cannot deliver stories of ghosts to the Emperor. I must deliver bodies, live ones if possible, to parade before the Senate, be they Berber, Jew,” he paused, “or legionnaire deserters.”
This last barb he aimed at Flavius. His optio flinched slightly but held his tongue. “First, we must find them.”
Gaius smiled. “For that, we will need bait. I have played this part before. In one day’s time, you will follow my trail with thirty men. I will draw out the enemy, and we will smash them between us.” He slammed a fist into his palm with a smacking sound. “You will be the hammer against my anvil.”
Flavius cocked a bushy eyebrow at Gaius. “You play the devil’s game. What if they find you first?”
“In that case, march fast.” Gaius allowed the briefest flicker of a half-smile to crease his lips. After a few minutes of awkward silence during which both men studied each other, Flavius moving his empty cup from hand to hand as if unsure what to do with it, and Gaius rubbing his aching leg, Gaius asked, “How long have you been posted to this place?” Seeing Flavius’ hesitation, he added, “I mean no disrespect. Your circumstances for being here are of no importance to me. No doubt, we have all displeased someone in our careers. I need only know if you are familiar with this region, with these men.”
Flavius cleared his throat before answering. “I have been here fourteen months, Centurion, though each day and each season flows smoothly into the next with little to mark the changes in this foul place.”
“And Marcellus?”
“More than two years. I do not know exact
ly how long. We seldom speak of our former lives.”
“What do you think happened to Agrippa?”
The sudden change of topic caught Flavius off guard. “I, er, I cannot …”
“Speak freely, Flavius.”
Flavius sighed heavily. “Centurion Agrippa, though a good man, was not well suited for the desert or the solitude. He was too soft and given to deep contemplation. He had difficulty sleeping, which made him seem confused at times, indecisive. He often walked alone into the desert at night to think in spite of the dangers. One night, he did not return.”
Gaius waited for Flavius to continue.
“Did he desert, you may ask? No, I do not think so. Did he continue to walk into the wastes until he died?” He nodded. “Perhaps. He was a good man, but as I said, not suited to the desert.”
It was an honest answer, if not revealing. Some men chose a scented warm bath and a blade across the wrists to end their pain. Others made do with what was available. Gaius did not believe men simply disappeared in the night. No, someone took them.
“You will find that I am not indecisive. This fort is a holdover from the Jewish Bar Kokhba revolt is it not?”
“Yes, but it has been manned, abandoned, and re-manned many times in those 30 years. The Berbers called this place tautult agbalu, Spring of the Hare, an oasis.” He waved the empty cup in the air and chuckled. “I have yet to see a single hare in all the time I’ve been here.” Becoming more serious, he said, “The well is almost dry. In the dry months, we ration the water or sometimes bring in barrels from Marzuq, as you did. Soon, the spring will die and this oasis will look like the rest of this weary land – Sand and dust, dust and sand.”
“Then we must be gone before that day arrives, Flavius. With your help, we will return in triumph. Now, leave me. I wish to rest after my unpleasant journey. See that the men are given extra rations of the fresh fruit and vegetables we brought and a little wine.” He stopped Flavius as the optio turned to leave. “Only a little wine, Flavius. I want them sober tomorrow.”
Alone in the privacy of his tent, Gaius followed Flavius’ advice and stripped down to his woolen subligaria girding his loins. He sat almost naked on his cot wishing he could take a bath, but such luxuries were behind him. In the desert, water was for drinking. He settled for a sip of lukewarm wine. He picked up a piece of dried licorice root and began chewing it. Despite its medicinal properties for soothing troubled stomachs, Gaius’ guts remained in turmoil. The heat, the unaccustomed food, and the anxiety of the past few months had taken a bitter toll on his digestive system.
His new optio still withheld dark secrets from him. He sensed their heavy weight on Flavius’ bearing. Perhaps he wanted to learn more of his new commander before revealing all, or possibly, he suspected Gaius would think him crazy from the heat. Given the sense of evil that lay over the land, Gaius decided to give Flavius a bit of latitude.
Giving up on his recalcitrant stomach, he wet a cloth in his water basin and draped it over his face. Lying on his cot, he ignored the rumblings in his gut and listened to the men eating and talking among themselves, occasionally punctuated by Marcellus’ deep voice barking orders. The supplies of fresh fruit and the wine had eased their tensions somewhat, but he sensed an undercurrent of uncertainty flowing through the camp. He would give them direction and certainty over the coming weeks. He was not sure how they would like it, but they had little choice in the matter.
He was sure the Emperor would take hidden delight in the fact his centuria was reduced by almost half. The safe thing would be to keep all men in camp and simply survive, but playing it safe won no rewards. He was taking a gamble marching exhausted men into the desert in search of lost patrols, but he feared conditions and morale would not improve over time. They would act as bait to draw the unseen enemy to them, allowing Flavius to strike. It was a bold move, but one that could end the threat. If any of us survive. He did not worry about surviving. A return to Rome was his only concern.
He felt he had betrayed his family by accepting the Emperor’s offer of a new post in Africa. He could have retired in disgrace and remained with his wife and child, idled away his life. He had been absent from their lives for over a year, and they deserved at least a small portion of his time for the sacrifices they had made. However, once a legionnaire, always a legionnaire. As long as a remote chance existed to overcome his banishment and once again rise in rank, his ego would allow him to take no other course. Better if he died in the desert and freed them of the burden of his disgrace.
Closing his eyes, exhaustion soon lulled Gaius to sleep.
§
He awoke amid a cacophony of confusion and screams, the familiar sounds of conflict. He leapt from his cot and grabbed his gladius from its scabbard draped over his stool. The leather-bound haft of the short sword felt reassuring in his hand. His fingers fell naturally into the depressions in the leather formed from tightly gripping the gladius in many battles. He glanced longingly at the chain mail armor he had discarded at the foot of his bed, but decided to dispense with it.
With time of the essence, he raced barefoot from his tent clad only in his underwear, hoping no scorpion sting found his bare heel. The muscle beneath the wound in his left thigh had tightened as he slept. He fought down the pain as he limped across the rocky space between his tent and the center of the camp. As he searched for an enemy, he praised the gods for answering his prayers. I will return to Rome yet, he promised himself.
His heart pounded with excitement and his blood raced in anticipation. By the gods, this is how a man should live.
The sickly jaundiced glow of the dying campfires revealed men dashing about wildly. Most were half-dressed and unarmed, their faces frozen into masks of fear. Marcellus stood atop a boulder amid the turmoil yelling uselessly for order. Gaius grabbed the young cornicen standing dazed and trembling beside a tent.
“Call them to order,” he yelled.
The boy just stared at him. Gaius slapped him hard across the face with the back of his hand. The bugler reeled from the blow, but his frightened eyes focused on Gaius. He nodded, lifted the horn dangling from the cord around his shoulder, and pressed it to his lips. Its metallic blare pierced the night and the din of confusion like a peal of thunder. Men stopped running and looked toward the sound of the horn. Gaius grabbed a soldier by the shoulder as he rushed by and spun the man around to face him.
“What has happened?” he demanded.
“They came out of the darkness,” the man said, gasping for breath, his face ashen. His eyes darted about wildly in fear.
Gaius pressed the man further. “What do you mean?”
“I was speaking with Vincennes as we stood our watch. I turned away, and then back again, and he was gone. I heard a gurgling sound and saw shadows moving swiftly across the ground, shadows cast by no one or thing I could see. I pursued, but found nothing. Something brushed me in the darkness, but when I turned, nothing was there. I ran,” he added sheepishly.
Overhearing his comrade, another soldier spoke up. “I saw them by the light of the fire, four of them, dark like ebony cloaks. They fell like shadows upon poor Vincennes. He stabbed one with his spear, but it did not fall. They overwhelmed him and dragged him away screaming into the night.”
Gaius glanced at the clear night sky. The stars were out, but no moon, nothing to cast shadows but the dying embers of the campfires. “Find weapons,” he ordered. “Take torches. Search for him.”
The man nodded and called several others to join him. They lit torches and began scouring the perimeter of the camp just outside the wall. Flavius appeared from the darkness, wearing unlaced caligae and nothing else, but he gripped his sword as if ready to use it. His nakedness didn’t seem to bother him as much as wearing only his subligaria did Gaius, but then Flavius had never been a Legate. Gaius noted that Flavius had taken time to don his sandals. He wished he had. The sand hoarded the heat of the day and scorched the soles of his feet.
“These men a
re jumpy,” Flavius said, “seeing ghosts.”
“Ghosts don’t snatch men in the night,” Gaius reminded him.
“They probably …”
“Over here!” someone yelled.
He and Gaius ran to the crowd of soldiers staring down at a pile of cloth, the remains of a Roman soldier’s tunic, shredded and blood soaked. Beside it lay a solitary sandal, its leather fastening torn.
“It’s Vincennes’ sandal, all right,” one soldier commented, pointing at the sandal. “I recognize the patch on the heel.”
“Demons,” a second groaned. “Demons took him.”
“Berbers,” Gaius spat, stopping their wild speculation, “not demons, and Berbers can be killed with a thrust of a gladius or spear.” He grabbed a spear from one of the soldiers and hurled it at a date palm thirty yards away. It struck the center of the tree with a loud thud. “In a day’s time we search for those responsible and kill them. Tonight, we sleep.”
The men returned his gaze as if he were jesting.
“Double the guard if you must,” he yelled in irritation, “but get some sleep. Weary soldiers are easy prey. I’ll have no soldier under my command die for lack of sleep.”
Taking him aside, Flavius said quietly, “I saw no footprints in the sand. There is no wind to fill them in with sand, and there was not time to erase them.”
“Speak of this to no one but me,” Gaius warned. “The men are too jumpy to contemplate what may be of no consequence.”
“Aye,” Flavius replied, but without conviction.
Gaius returned to his tent, sat on a stool, and massaged his leg, forcing the cramped muscle to relax. After a few minutes, the pain subsided. He took a long swig from a wine bottle sitting on a nearby table, careful to take only one to follow his own advice. Outside his tent, the camp still stirred. He doubted many men would sleep that night in spite of his order. He knew he wouldn’t.