by J. E. Gurley
“I have a few surprises for these damnable creatures.”
“They must be great surprises indeed if you expect to survive this journey.”
“I expect to survive and return to Rome in triumph.” Gaius surprised himself with the confidence of his words. Even against a seemingly undefeatable enemy such as they faced, he held out hope for victory. He would accept no other outcome.
“If the gods will it.”
He walked across the room, limping from the renewed pain in his leg. Rashid noticed and called him back.
“Your leg pains you, Centurion. There will be herbs in this house. It belonged to a healer.” His face contorted at the memory. “A mixture of dried gentian and henbane will both ease the pain and help heal the wound. We use gentian to draw poison from the body from snakebites or scorpion stings. If you allow me, I will make a poultice for you and your stricken men.”
“Why would you help me?”
“My fate is in your hands, Roman. Your death will mean mine. Any encumbrance of yours could cause your death.”
“Make your poultice, Berber. Remember well that your fate is indeed in these hands.” Gaius held out his hands and showed them to Rashid; then, he turned to his men. “Sleep now. We march at dawn.”
§
The predawn darkness clung to the valley as if draining the life from the already sterile soil. A hundred paces distant from the well, nothing grew except thorny weeds and stunted brambles. Small gardens of beans, melons, and millet, nourished by water from the well and protected by the shade of the oasis palms, barely produced enough food to supplement the villagers’ diet of goat’s milk and meat. The goats and camels scrounged the valley floor for enough food to survive. Rashid’s people were not nomads, traveling from meager pasture to meager pasture. They had chosen to remain in the valley, and other than a dependable source of water, Gaius could see nothing to keep them there.
After the trials of the night, fingers of light gleamed like hope on the jagged hilltops surrounding the valley, but deep shadows burrowed into the narrow canyons and rocky crags, a warning of what awaited them. The men stumbled from the buildings, eagerly scanning the faces of their comrades to see if any had vanished during the night. The four soldiers and the new Tebu recruits returned unmolested from the valley mouth, having seen no signs of the creatures or the scorpions. Two men had died from wounds inflicted by the wraiths, and one of a scorpion sting. The poultice Rashid contrived for the remaining two scorpion-stung soldiers removed most of the venom, and it seemed they would live.
Gaius knew they had escaped greater numbers of dead only because of Rashid and his mysterious amulet. The creatures were determined and would have eventually broken through their defenses. He wanted to thank the Berber for his actions but did not wish to imply a sense of comradeship or a debt upon which the Berber could demand recompense. Gaius’ distrust of the Berber prince waned, but he would still kill him if he proved dangerous.
The poultice Rashid applied to Gaius’ thigh reduced the swelling and eased the dull throb, but it did nothing to ease his heavy burden. He had come to Rashid’s village seeking help. Instead, he had found a dead village and had exposed his men to more danger. His enemy continued to vex him at every turn.
As the camp cooks prepared the morning meal, Gaius strolled to the well in the center of the oasis, the only sign of life in the sun burnt valley. The well, a wide, deep gash in the rock, looked more ancient than the village that had sprouted along its edges. A series of hand-hewn steps led to the bottom. He wondered at the tens of thousands of people who had trod those steps over the centuries. The wells were the lifeblood of the desert. If they went dry, the people either died or moved away. According to Rashid, the village had existed for ten generations, a long time for any culture.
A line of men passed jugs of water hand-over-hand and emptied them into large wooden kegs and empty water skins. Others carried them and loaded them onto the wagons. He waited until they had finished, and then, at the top of the well, he stripped off his uniform and walked down the steps naked. The stone felt cool on the bottom of his bare feet, but the warm water embraced his naked flesh. He floated on his back with his eyes closed, allowing the water to replenish the moisture in his desiccated skin. He could easily forget where he was, what he was about to do, and imagine himself back home in his scented bath. If he opened his eyes, his wife would be waiting for him with a towel to dry him off. The sounds of men preparing to march sounded dully through the water in his ears. He sighed and opened his eyes. Not his wife but Flavius stared down at him.
“We must talk,” he said and walked away.
Flavius waited at the door of one of the buildings with a dour expression creasing his already craggy face. His eyes were on Sevilius, sitting inside the house on the floor. Crudely drawn images in charcoal covered one entire wall. The charred stick used to draw them lay at the base of the wall. The series of dizzying swirls and jagged lines that, at first, made no sense, as he stared at them became a roughly depicted humanoid torso and head. Beyond that, all resemblance to anything human ended.
Gaius’ sharp intake of breath alarmed Flavius, as did the Centurion’s suddenly pallid face. “Are you all right?” he asked.
Gaius said nothing. His gaze remained fixed on the grotesque drawing. His stomached knotted until it became a fist punching him in the gut and his heart pounded unmercifully in his chest. The Tribune had reached into his mind and sketched the image of the creature that had been haunting his dreams. The creature stared at him with two great, blood red eyes that stood out from the charcoal drawing. Gaius noticed the blood dripping from the palm of the Tribune’s hand. He had cut himself and used his blood to color the eyes. Octopus-like tentacles surrounded the oversized mouth. The lower torso rested on a dozen large tentacles instead of legs. The roughly sketched lines created an air of motion to the creature. As Gaius stared at the creature, he could almost see tentacles writhing, reaching for him.
“After the Tribune drew this, he slashed himself to bloody the eyes,” Flavius said. “When Marcellus tried to stop him, he struck him.”
“Is Marcellus all right?”
“He is fine, but the men who witnessed the Tribune’s actions are frightened. What shall we do about him?”
Gaius tried to focus his disjointed thoughts. Did he and the mad Tribune share the same nightmare? He suddenly grew afraid of the Tribune. He knew that Flavius would not hesitate to kill Sevilius if he ordered it, but his reluctance to murder a Roman officer, even one as deranged as Sevilius stayed his hand.
“We will watch him more carefully. Bind his wound. If he resists, a light tap to the head with the butt of your sword would not be out of line. We may need this Tribune before this war is over.”
Flavius nodded, but clearly, he wanted to do more than tap the Tribune’s head lightly. Given the Tribune’s state of mind and his connection with the Dark Ones, Gaius almost gave the order to do so.
“The scorpions were an added entertainment,” Flavius said. “Did you suspect the Inyosh could control living creatures?”
Gaius had found little time to consider the implications, though far-reaching they were. “It came as a shock. Perhaps the creatures and the scorpions both serve the same master.”
“This Nergal the Berber speaks of?”
“It may be so.”
“We live in interesting times when myths arise and the dead live.”
Gaius grinned at his optio. “Indeed.”
After a hearty breakfast of hot porridge, roasted goat, and bread with butter and honey, the men lined up for the march to Hamad Rus. The night’s tribulations had given them a new sense of purpose. The men were not cowards. Most had faced enemies before. This new, unseen enemy was unlike any they had encountered, but they still had faith in their officers. As long as Gaius kept them alive, they would follow him and fight when ordered.
“Marcellus, take men and gather all the palm date oil in the village. Find wood for fires and rags
for torches. Gather anything that will burn.”
“There are rags plenty enough,” Marcellus replied, “If you do not mind Berber blood.” He chose half a dozen legionnaires and hurried away to gather oil.
Gaius cringed at Marcellus’ grim comment about the dead villagers. He no longer harbored any ill will toward Rashid or his Berber kin. They were not the enemy. Indeed, they were victims of the Dark Ones just as were his troops. He imagined the horror and terror of unarmed, untrained villagers confronted with shadowy demons from hell. His trained Romans legionnaires had done little better. It seemed Roman iron was useless against the creatures. Only Rashid’s mystical amulet wielded any power over the shadowy Inyosh.
As they had on the journey to the village, they would make no camp before reaching Hamad Rus. Gaius set a pace he knew the men could endure for hours. They stopped often to rest. The vast, open plain of sand and rock allowed them to see for leagues in any direction. They felt confident no enemy, not even shadow wraiths, could sneak up on them. The day wore on hot and endless. The men moved in a silent, undulating line. Only the soft crunch of rocks beneath their sandals or the creak of the wagon wheels broke the eerie quiet.
Sevilius sat atop his horse as if at the head of a parade, his back straight, and his eyes staring straight ahead. He ignored those around him. Gaius noticed the Tribune’s freshly bound wounded hand and wondered if Flavius had resorted to violence to accomplish it. The charcoal drawing had unsettled Flavius. Gaius had not allowed the optio to see how much it had disquieted him as well. The crude drawing resembled nothing he had ever seen. Gaius questioned if it sprung entirely from the troubled Tribune’s fertile imagination, a part of his growing madness, or had the touch of the Dark Ones deposited it in his mind.
During one rest stop, Gaius pulled Rashid aside. With his foot, he drew in the sand a rough sketch of the Tribune’s creation. Rashid’s face immediately paled. He quickly kicked sand over the drawing, erasing it.
“Do not give life to such nightmares,” he warned.
Rashid’s reaction troubled Gaius. “What is it?”
“My grandfather once drew something similar when I was very young. I remember his hands shook as he drew it.” He glanced down at the scuffed sand where the drawing had been. “I think it is Nergal, the god of the Inyosh.”
“How could the Tribune know of it?”
Rashid glanced at Sevilius, studying the taciturn Tribune for a moment. “One of the Dark Ones touched him. Perhaps he saw into its mind. If so, I would not trust him.”
Even coming from Rashid, whom he did not fully trust, it seemed sound like sage advice. Now, he had one more item to add to his long list of worries.
The wagons, heavily laden with jars of oil, wood, and extra food from Rashid’s village, mired often in the soft sand. The men dug the sand from around the wheels to free them, only to repeat the procedure a few minutes later. Progress slowed to a crawl. The men grew restless, eager to move on even if it meant abandoning the wagons, but Gaius knew they could not. Six times during the morning, they freed the wagons before they reached harder packed sand.
By mid-day, Flavius allowed the men to place their heavy shields in the wagons to ease their burden, but they did not relinquish their swords or javelins. Several men suffering from severe heat exhaustion or fatigue and the two soldiers stung by the scorpions joined the armaments in the wagons. The extreme heat began to affect Gaius as well. His mind felt drained and his thoughts disjointed. He could not concentrate or develop any plan of action once they reached Hamad Rus. It was difficult enough simply forcing his body to continue. He relied on Apollo to guide him rather he guide the horse. When a wave of dizziness swept over him, he clamped his thighs against the four-pommel saddle to keep from falling off.
The day wore on interminably, hours passing with no let up from the heat or the endless desert. Once, he felt Apollo quiver beneath him, rousing him from his disorientation.
“Steady, boy,” he said. He patted the horse’s head; then, noticed the men standing instead of marching. Their faces bore looks of alarm. “What is it, Flavius?” he asked.
“Did you not feel it? The earth shuddered and groaned. A rippled passed along the ground, as if a large fish passing just beneath the surface of a pond.”
Gaius, in his dazed state, had not felt the quake, but Apollo had. “I must have dozed.” He glanced back at the column. “Are the men well?”
“Aye, frightened, but unharmed.” In a quieter voice Flavius asked, “What if the earth moves while we are underground? What if we are trapped, buried alive?”
“Do not dwell on the worst that could happen,” Gaius advised. “Consider scenarios we can remedy.”
“Do you have a plan, Centurion?”
Flavius’ question caught him off guard. He scowled. “Do you believe I am so reckless, optio? I have a plan of attack. Do you believe we need a plan to retreat as well?”
“No, Centurion. If we need to retreat, it will be too late.”
Gaius started Apollo walking again. “That is my thought as well.”
He had not lied to his optio, at least not entirely. His plan, though only half-formed in his mind, was simple enough. Much depended on what they encountered in the dark caverns. Flame and the Berber’s amulet seemed their only effective defenses, so he would keep both close by. The creatures could not pass through stone, as proven by their inability to enter the houses. If they could seal the caverns with the wraiths inside, the problem would end. He just wasn’t sure how to seal the cavern.
The day slowly dissolved into another night. Once again, men carrying torches flanked the column. They did not grumble when told they would not stop for the night. They were eager to reach any safety, even the stone walls of Hamad Rus. Wary and weary men cast furtive glances into the shadows, but they did not come under attack. Despite what little relief he might have felt, Gaius attributed the lull to the shadows waiting for them at Hamad Rus.
Morning brought relief from the darkness, but not from the heat. The sun scoured the land around them. After two days of forced march, fatigued men stumbled, tripped, and fell. Horses moved slowly with whinnies of distress. The column rested, drank water and wine, and ate sparingly at intervals, but their weariness grew too great for a short rest to offer much solace.
Gaius tried to remain alert, but the heat sapped his strength, bearing down on him as if Jove had singled him out for punishment. His mind wondered between dark images remembered from snippets of his nightmares and a vision of his wife. Would he ever see her again? Did she already number him among the dead? He realized his pride and ego had forced him to abandon her when she needed him most. Returning to her depended on defeating the enemy. For that reason, he was eager to reach Hamad Rus before nightfall. His men were slowly losing their effectiveness as a fighting force. Another day on the sand would finish them.
Several minutes passed before Gaius realized that Apollo had stopped moving. He opened his eyes and stared ahead. The dark openings of the cliffs loomed like hollow eyes warding the dead city of Hamad Rus below them, a warning to any intrepid visitor. The sun sank below the horizon, deepening the shadows already enveloping the city like an ebony cloak. He turned to see Flavius watching him intently.
“For what do we wait?” Flavius asked. The optio’s dusty face bore the strain of his fatigue.
Gaius glanced at Sevilius. The Tribune sat on his horse as if willing himself to become part of it. His took no notice of the ancient city before him. He had not spoken all day. His days of leadership were over. He had become an empty shell filled with Gaius knew not what. Gaius tightened his grip on the reins and kicked Apollo in his flanks. The horse snorted, reared, and galloped down the slope toward the city. Gaius hung on, allowing the horse his head.
“We wait for nothing,” he called back to Flavius.
He entered the city alone, daring his unseen enemy to strike him dead and end his misery. A soft murmur of voices rode the hot breeze, the ululant whispers of the dead. H
e ignored their taunts and rode directly to the ancient temple. As before, the temple seemed to drink in the darkness of the evening, growing more substantial as night encompassed it. The shadows surrounding it rippled, as if stirred by a breeze he did not feel. He contemplated the macabre frieze above the door, as his men marched up behind him breaking the silence. The carving depicted a thing of loathing, a creature whose eyes revealed an enmity for all things living. Men did not worship it out of love, but from fear. Only a people who had given up all hope would pray to such a god. In the end, it had done them no good.
As the dying sun slowly kissed the desert sands, long shadows crawled down the empty streets of the dead city like an advancing black tide. The darkness pooled in the yawning cave entrances on the bluff billowed out of the mouths of the caverns and spilled down the rock, streaming to join the growing pool of gloom engulfing the city. Gaius felt the uneasiness of the men. Darkness brought the enemy. This time he was prepared. He pointed to the same building in which they had earlier made camp.
“Set up camp there. Place braziers of oil at each opening.”
He smiled. This time death would not catch them unawares. He didn’t enter the temple to see if the blood of his men still stained the altar. He pointed to the doorway.
“Have men bring stones and seal this door. Large stones. Let’s see if these creatures can make sacrifices to their dark god now.”
While Marcellus oversaw the men and the camp, Gaius, Rashid, Flavius, Sevilius, and two others rode toward the bluffs. He wanted a closer look at the strange tombs. A narrow path, carved from the rock, wound back and forth across the lower face of the bluff until it reached a man-made plateau hewn halfway up its flanks. Something about the caves disturbed him. Then he realized what it was.
“Where is the rubble?”
Flavius turned to him. “What?”
“The city was carved from native stone as were these caverns. Where is the rubble from their construction?”