by J. E. Gurley
Before Gaius could reply, one of the sentries called out. Then, like ghosts, a group of men appeared from the darkness, shuffling silently but for the sound of their sandals in the sand.
“Ho!” one called out to the sentry’s challenge. “We are Roman soldiers.”
“As are we,” Gaius answered. “Come forward and be recognized.”
Sevilius emerged from his tent and brushed past Gaius. He stood at the edge of the camp as his men marched in, each one weary and in shock. Several wore bloodstained uniforms. After thirty-one men passed him, the Tribune’s eyes searched the darkness for the rest of his troops. He grabbed a soldier and shook him. The soldier looked up at him with glazed eyes.
“Where are the others?” Sevilius demanded. “I had eight score men and officers.”
“Gone,” the soldier said. “All gone.”
“Did Berbers attack you?”
The man croaked out a hysterical laugh. “Berbers? No, they were demons, shadows of demons. My sword cut cleanly through one to no effect. They fell upon us as we marched in the night. Men vanished before our eyes with bloodcurdling screams, leaving no trace. We fought, but they were invisible. We formed ranks, fought shield-to-shield, but it did no good. They slipped through our ranks as easily as the wind.” He laughed again. “Demons, I say, black, evil demons.”
Sevilius released him, and the dazed soldier stumbled away. Flavius directed the men to the fires and ordered food and wine for them.
“It is as I feared,” Gaius said.
“How?” Sevilius asked. His mouth worked, as if he wanted to ask more but could not form the proper questions.
“I don’t know. It was the same with my men both before and after I arrived; no one saw anything.” He didn’t mention his brief glimpse of the shadow creature with baleful red eyes beneath the window at Hamad Rus. The Tribune held him in low enough esteem already.
Sevilius now no longer looked as sure of himself. His troubled brow belied his youthful face. His eyes darted to the darkness and back to the light. “A hundred and twenty-nine men, gone.” He looked at Gaius. The first traces of panic had crept into his eyes. “We must leave this accursed place. Now!”
“Don’t be foolish, Tribune. We would be too vulnerable at night in the desert.”
Gaius’ use of Sevilius’ rank had the desired effect. He straightened his posture and wiped the fear from his mien. “What do you propose?” he asked, his voice more steady.
“Meet our enemy where he will not expect it, Hamad Rus.”
Sevilius wiped his lips with the back of his hand and nodded. “Better to die fighting than running.”
His remark, whether or not intended as an insult to Gaius, made sense.
“But not tonight,” Gaius suggested. “First, we must prepare.”
Sevilius nodded. “Yes, yes. Prepare.”
Gaius looked into the faces of his men and saw newborn fear. If two centuriae could not face the enemy, how could their few numbers? He had no answer for them, but he knew that they must try.
Before retiring for the night, he sought out Rashid. He found the Berber sitting alone outside his tent. Gaius frowned when he did not see the assigned guard. Rashid looked up as Gaius approached.
“The Tribune is a fool,” Rashid spat, “even for a Roman.”
“Likely, he is. We go to Hamad Rus.”
“You go to your death if you follow such an akuzzi.”
“What is an akuzzi?”
“Gas that is passed from the anus in a noisy fashion.”
Gaius smiled at Rashid’s apt description of Sevilius. “This invisible foe is enemy to both our people. Will your people join us in the battle to defeat them?”
Rashid snickered. “Romans and Berbers fighting side-by-side? That would be a sight worth dying to witness.” He shook his head. “But I cannot speak for my people. They fear the Inyosh. They fear Romans as well. We desert people are not as foolish as Roman Legionnaires. We do not seek out the Darks Ones.”
“Better to stand together than to die alone.”
“I can but ask. Perhaps in this way you will see that we are not to blame for the Roman deaths.”
He abandoned his original plan of allowing two days of rest. The demise of Sevilius’ troops was too disheartening to his tiny, beleaguered half-centuria. If they didn’t march on Hamad Rus soon, he feared a mutiny. If captured, it would mean their deaths, but frightened men didn’t think straight.
“Good. We leave in the morning for your village, and then on to Hamad Rus.”
As he spoke the name, a chill wind blew across the desert, raising whispers from the sand. He wasn’t certain, but it sounded as if they called his name.
7
By sunrise, the encampment on the ridge had vanished as if it had never existed. As impermanent as any structure except solid stone in the wind-scoured desert, Castra-Augustus was gone, a mirage on the horizon, leaving only the scraggy date palms, the uncompleted rock wall, a jumble of footprints in the sand, and a litter midden to indicate that people had once lived there. The wind would soon scatter the garbage and erase the footprints, eliminating all signs of human occupation, as it had with previous civilizations.
Gaius wondered how many bones of earlier civilizations like Hamad Rus lay buried beneath the ceaseless sands. All civilizations fell. Rome had lingered longer than most. Would she, too, vanish unremembered, her grave marked only by stubs of broken marble columns jutting from the sand and half-remembered legends of her greatness.
He rode beside Tribune Sevilius, followed by his foot legionaries, his newly recruited natives, and two supply wagons. The other mounted cavalry patrolled the column’s flanks to avoid ambush. The Tribune had made certain that everyone knew he commanded the column, bellowing orders at the top of his lungs, as they made ready to depart. Gaius remained out of his way. He did not wish to confront the Tribune unless necessary.
The day had dawned oppressively hot, almost as if anticipating and opposing the army’s march. Little conversation accompanied the move. Most of the soldiers kept their eyes fixed on the horizon, which seemed to draw no closer as the day wore inexorably on.
Sevilius’ men marched apart from the others with their eyes on the surrounding desert, as if expecting the sand to come alive and swallow them. Their story had spread throughout the encampment, eliciting a sense of hopelessness that Gaius feared would soon infect them all.
Flavius rode behind Gaius, equally absorbed by the scenery, or by its lack. League after league of featureless desert surrounded them, featureless save for the series of low dunes that served mainly to break up the rhythm of the journey. He dismissed them as too small to hide an army, unless, he reminded himself, that army was invisible. He quietly berated himself for harboring such sinister thoughts. Though unseen in the darkness, he was quite certain they would provide ready targets in full daylight and would therefore hide at the sight of armored legionnaires.
Gaius had not broached to the Tribune his plan to recruit Rashid’s people in the fight with the Inyosh. He was certain the Tribune would reject it, but equally as convinced they would need as many men as possible. He would wait until the last possible minute to inform Sevilius of his plan.
The column meandered slowly across the desert, avoiding the areas of softer sand and the high dunes for the sake of the heavily laden wagons. They marched southeast toward Rashid’s village; avoiding Hamad Rus. Sevilius questioned their direction.
“You informed me the city lay due south. Why do we bear so far east?”
“There is a small oasis and spring we can use. Approaching from the west allows us to use the dunes as cover. From the north, the ground is too open. We would be observed.”
It was not all lie, and Sevilius did not argue.
Allowing only short rest breaks and an equally short cold lunch of hardtack biscuits with honey, they covered many leagues before camping for the night. With no wood or stone available, they could construct no protective barricade. They would have
to rely on alert sentries.
“Flavius,” Gaius said as he dismounted his horse, “set double sentries at all points with more men at the ready. Rotate them at three-hour intervals. I want no man closing his eyes on guard duty tonight.” He paused. “Place the soldier who preached mutiny farthest out atop the dunes.”
Flavius grinned. “Aye, dour Allectus has often espoused his disdain for authority. Perhaps a tiny domain to call his own will quench his desire.” He rushed away to assign duties.
As his aide walked Apollo to the rope corral, Gaius chose a spot in the lee of a sand dune to make his bed. They would erect no tents on this trip. Men in tents made easier targets than did men sleeping around an open campfire, weapons at ready. His aide returned bearing a bowl of water. Gaius washed his face and hands to remove the dust of the journey and ordered him to give the remaining water to the horses.
Sevilius spread his blanket at a spot near Gaius but distant enough to show his contempt. He looked unused to sleeping on the ground, but he would not allow Gaius to see his discomfort. Quintus Cantos, his devoted aide, laid out silver dishes and a silver cup for his meal. He’s not roughing it too much, Gaius mused. The disgruntled Tribune had spoken few words during the entire journey, but his frequent looks of hatred directed toward Gaius made up for the lack of communication. Gaius would sleep with his sword handy even if there were no other enemy to consider but the Tribune.
Soon, the aroma of spitted meat and pan-fried bread filled the air. With no breeze, the smoke and the cooking smell hung low, permeating the slight depression in which they had made camp. Most of the scrounged firewood gathered came from dead acacia and beech trees that had thrived in the Sahara savannah before the time of the Egyptians, buried by the encroaching sand but later uncovered by the ever-present winds, as they had uncovered dreaded Hamad Rus.
The odor of burning wood reminded him of more leisurely times between wars when he and his son camped out on the slopes of Mount Vesuvius, gazing at the stars. The slopes trembled and the summit glowed red from the fires within. He had explained that Vulcanus, weapon forger of the gods was hard at work at his forge and anvil. Those memorable times were rare. His certainty of more such times grew rarer with each passing day.
Gaius satisfied his appetite with a small piece of roasted mutton, bread, cheese, dried dates, and wine with just a smidgen of henbane, yarrow, and rhubarb to ease his stomach. After the meal, some of the normal routine returned to the weary soldiers, who joked and bragged of their exploits as soldiers do. However, Gaius noticed the new recruits, his native aclis bearers, remained ominously silent. They sat together as a group facing the desert with the fire at their backs. Their javelins lay across their laps, their curved blades stuck into the sand beside them. The fierce expressions on their faces disturbed him, as if they sensed danger nearby.
Flavius returned from his rounds munching on an apple. He tossed the core aside and plopped down in the sand across from Gaius, one arm resting on his knees. His sword arm, Gaius noticed, remained close to the hilt of his scabbard. “We will have a moon tonight,” he said. “The men see this as a good omen.”
“Do you?” Gaius asked.
Flavius shrugged. “I pay no attention to omens or signs. With a moon, perhaps we can see our mysterious enemy if he shows his face.”
“So you are certain our enemy is human.”
Flavius squinted to stare at Gaius to see if his commander joked with him. He detected no humor in Gaius’ face. “You believe the Berber’s wild tale?”
Gaius smiled. “I would not bet a copper as on his words,” he said. “I believe our enemy is cunning and deadly, but as human as you or I.” He spoke as assuredly as he could, despite his doubts. He could not betray his suspicions to his optio.
Flavius nodded at Gaius’ reference to the lowest denomination coin in the Roman Empire. “As do I. Once our men draw first blood, this melancholy will vanish as quickly as the morning dew.” He grabbed a handful of sand, letting it trickle through his fingers, as he stared at Sevilius. “I fear our young Tribune has lost his way. His eyes are empty. His men see this and are frightened as well.”
“What of our Berber friend?”
Flavius jerked his head toward the group of native recruits camped a short distance from the others. “He sits with his kind, although they do not trust him any more than do I. It is strange. They seem to defer to him, as if he is of a higher status than they are.”
“Yes, he strikes me as more than a simple salt merchant. I wonder where he learned his Latin.”
Flavius snorted derisively. “Probably from a captured Legionnaire just before he slit his throat.”
Gaius winced at the thought and hoped Flavius was wrong. Something about their Berber captive disturbed him, but he didn’t think him a murderer. He could have easily killed Gaius and the three remaining men during the sandstorm, taken their water, and escaped, but he had not. For some reason, he wished to remain with them. Gaius determined to find out why.
He noticed Flavius’ furtive glances. “You have a question, Optio?”
“I can read maps. Why do we approach Hamad Rus in such a roundabout fashion?”
“Because we first go to Rashid’s village to convince his people to fight with us.”
Flavius did not explode, as Gaius had thought he might, but his face reddened. “Fight with Berbers? First Tebu, now Berbers. Dare we turn our backs?”
“We need the Berbers. They are aware of the danger of the shadow creatures. We share at least that bond with them.”
“They might offer us as sacrifice to these Dark Ones. There is no love lost between our peoples.”
“We must take that chance. We must win this battle at any cost.”
“What of Sevilius? Does he know of your plan?”
“Not yet.”
Flavius chuckled. “I thought not. He has not called for your death. If old enemies become friends, what does this foretell about the Empire?”
“Here in this deep desert waste, we have more in common with the Berbers than we do with the Empire. I fear we face a determined enemy, evil and ancient. If we do not defeat him, he will spread. All the Empire could be in danger.”
Flavius sighed. “I am an old war horse. Politics and Empires are beyond my addled brain. I follow you wherever you lead, Centurion.”
“It is all I ask.”
Flavius rose. “I will see to the men.”
Night fell with the finality of a drawn curtain, but a shimmering display of fingers of fire streaking across the blood-red sky marked the sharp division between day and night.
“Falling stars,” some of the men called out at their appearance, “a sign from the gods.”
Gaius watched the celestial event with rapt attention, awed by the display of undulating color, until Flavius remarked, “An ill omen. They are all headed south toward Hamad Rus.”
“I thought you took no notice of omens,” Gaius replied.
“Not of the reading of entrails, the color of the moon, or the chattering of soothsayers, but perhaps this is the gods speaking to us.”
Did Gaius read fear in Flavius’ eyes? “The gods have forsaken this land.”
Even as he said it, he wondered if there were gods older than the Roman ones he knew so well but in which he had so little faith. Rashid’s story of Nergal and undead shades of the god’s minions seemed like mad ravings in the light of day when the earth was alive and filled with the sounds of the living, but it took on new strength at night when darkness and silence conspired to blot out even the memory of life.
Flavius smiled. “If this is true, then we have nothing to fear. Still,” he said as he got to his feet, “I will check the sentries again.”
The moon rose a short time later, so large that Gaius felt he could reach out and touch it. Only somewhat comforted by its cold, ethereal light, he doused his small campfire, a small victory on his part. The added heat had made him uncomfortably warm, and yet he found himself clinging to it. Only the forl
orn look of Sevilius broke the spell of the flames. With a sigh, he roused and went to the Tribune. His leg ached, but he refused to allow the tribune to see him limp.
“Tomorrow, we turn farther east,” he said. “We will reach Rashid’s village day after tomorrow.”
Sevilius sat with his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms draped over them. A plate of uneaten food sat beside him. A small jerboa timidly hopped over and nuzzled the bread with its whiskered nose. The mouse’s ears were almost as large as its body to keep it cool in the desert heat. Sevilius stared at the jerboa for a moment before asking Gaius, “What manner of enemy can defeat two centuriae without showing themselves?”
Gaius wondered if the Tribune had even heard him. “I don’t know. Perhaps your men ran.”
Sevilius glared at him with unbridled hatred at the reminder of his similar accusation flung at Gaius. “Evil follows you.”
The Tribune’s statement stung Gaius but also confused him. “What do you mean? How can you blame me for the loss of your men?”
“The gods abandoned us in Parthia after your disgrace. A plague swept through the legions, killing hundreds in Armenia and Syria. Before I left Marzuq, I received a dispatch from Leptis Magna. The eastern plague has now entered Rome. People are dying in the streets. Now, you come to Tripolitania, and death follows you here.”
Plague, the worst thing that could befall a country, second only to war. Gaius worried for his wife and child. After his disgrace, he had sent them from Rome to stay with his uncle in Ischia to avoid the taint of his ignominy. The island should be safer than the mainland, but he had seen plague ravage entire cities. No place was truly safe against an enemy the sword could not touch. Much like the dark, formless specters.
“Why did you not tell me of this upon your arrival?” he demanded. “I have family in Ischia. My men have families in Rome and adjoining provinces.”
Sevilius lowered his head to his knees as he spoke. “Their fates will be sealed long before any of you could reach them. I, too, have family in Rome.” When he glanced back up at Gaius, the look of defeat and resignation in the Tribune’s face dismayed him. “Our fates will be decided here in Tripolitania.”