Mists of the Miskatonic (Mist of the Miskatonic Book 1) (5 page)

“Given the circumstances, doubtful,” Lucius said dubiously.

The officer turned. “One final unpleasantness, Prior. Our deserting auxiliaries took more than their fair share of the food. Split what you have. Bring a third of your share on the morrow so we can stay supplied. Ration what you have. It bodes ill to have more mouths eating than food to put in them.”

“For the glory of Rome,” Lucius said quietly.

“For Rome,” Primus Vitus said.

Lucius slowly descended the misshapen stairs. He contemplated how the other legionnaires would take the order to ration food. Then he worked his way around the blocks of stone to the north side where a tent was erected near the ruins. Anok Sabé was in the shade of the shelter. The Egyptian was still, except for when he drew a ragged breath. His skin was filthy and his eyes stared out into nothingness. The legionnaire leaned over the slave and patted him on the face with his open palm. “Wake up, Egyptian mongrel.”

              Anok did not respond or flinch. He just kept staring into the hot sands. Lucius slapped him harder. He still did not react to the pain.

“Damn, he stinks,” Augustinus said from behind his comrade. Lucius jumped in surprise.

              “Dammit, announce your presence before startling me like that, Augustinus,” Lucius grumbled. “This place is haunting enough without you creeping like some Greek, prowling the groves for boys.”

              “Damn Greeks,” Augustinus chortled. “The camels are loaded and the slaves ready for the march back to the village and the well. Truth be told, it is a relief not to camp here. ”

“I have other bad news to share, but let us head back. At least we won’t run out of water, unless Jupiter toys with us, or allows the savage gods of these primitives to curse us,” Lucius said cynically.

“What other bad news?” Augustinus asked.

Lucius looked at a list of supplies, and then decreased the flour ration by a third, along with several ampules of wine and olive oil. The other soldiers grumbled at the news that their food was to be cut by a third, but they complied with a minimum of complaints. Martinus Marius had suggested eating a slave, but Augustinus took great offense at the suggestion of cannibalism due to tightened rations. Lucius was not sure if the other legionnaire jested about the consumption of human flesh.

The matter was dropped promptly when Augustinus voiced his displeasure at such dark humor.

The evening meal came and went, and stomachs were not satisfied with the new portions. The Romans were quiet. A hot breeze blew in from the south to sour already frayed nerves. The fine grit invaded everything, adding to the frustrations. Water was that evening’s drink of choice. Though an ampule of wine could have been spared, Lucius feared what the drink might bring about in the already-angry legionnaires. It was best if they all stayed sober, and give the news of shrunken rations a day to set in before they imbibed intoxicating libations.

Several of the Romans protested about hunger after cena. Lucius reminded them of the duty ahead and that they should look forward to the supplies being marched to them. He finished a hard cyllestis, the bread crunchy and a bit gritty. The sun set, fiery golden orange hues were cast across the sands, a harbinger of a cool night to come. The Prior waited for his comrades to bed down for the night so he would not have to listen to further protestations about rations.

A tiny sliver of the moon cast long, faint shadows: the hue of the sands a dark-brown as far as Lucius’ eye could see. He stirred a tiny fire, then watched light of the flames flicker against the ruins of the Egyptian walls. After quiet meditations while he stared into the embers, he retreated to his tent where several of the soldiers snored. The scutum seemed particularly hard tonight as he listened to the others breathe. He rolled back and forth and tried to find a comfortable position. “Not the best of days,” Augustinus whispered. “The men handled the news of rationing better than hoped.”

“Not as well as they could have,” Lucius said. “Any talk of cannibalism unsettles me immensely.”

Augustinus laughed quietly, then rolled over and shortly began to snore. Lucius finally descended into a fitful sleep, dreaming of ampules of wine and more fruit than he could eat. In his dream he travelled on the Nile, past Memphis and Dahshur and the massive pyramids at the Theban Necropolis. Then he stood in front of the silent sandstone Sphinx. His dream journey made no sense, as the destinations were out of order, but he enjoyed the cool breeze that wafted across the dark waters.

In the dream, Egyptian beauties smiled: their perfect white teeth showed behind painted lips as they walked past him and the giant stone construct. The Sphinx quietly contemplated him as if it saw into his soul.

Something invaded the calm and disturbed the peaceful bliss. Augustinus shouted something unintelligible, some agitated curse that was impossible to decipher. Lucius’ eyes opened and he realized his perfect dream of Aegyptus was now ruined by his fellow legionnaire’s meddlesome nature. “Dammit Augustinus,” he moaned as he fought to ignore and stay asleep.

“Lucius. Awaken. Something is wrong,” Augustinus whispered, and Lucius could hear shouts and commotion outside the tent. “The slaves are agitated; the camels have broken their hobbles and run into the desert.”

The Prior sat up and grabbed at the handle of his gladius. The two surveyed the scene through the tent flap. The Romans tried to keep the animals that remained calm. The soldiers struggled with the camel’s reins. The beasts bucked, reared, and tried to pull away. Their padded feet kicked clouds of sand while they struggled.

Several slaves ran into the darkness, the dim sliver of the moon illuminated their light garments until they vanished over a dune. “Dammit Augustinus,” Lucius shouted. “What bedevils us this night?”

“Listen. It’s the wind. The Egyptian gods are sending the squall to us, driving their adherents mad,” Augustinus shouted back.

Lucius paused and listened intently. Faintly he could detect a murmur, some type of barely audible whisper of a dark presence. Not from above, but it vibrated from deep below. “But the breeze is barely perceived. This distant noise, the sound of the wind is not in the air. It feels,” he said, crouched down and put his left palm onto the sand. “Like it is coming from the desert itself: like it is a living and breathing colossus.”

Augustinus knelt down and felt the desert for a few seconds, then pulled his hand away like it had been burnt. “This deviltry is the Egyptians’ evil god, Set, testing our mettle. The breeze howls underground from afar, whirling unrestrained under the desert.”

“A cave or underground passage funnels the haunted air itself, creating the distant scream that we hear,” Lucius stated. “It is not a phenomenon of the gods, but probably some oddly carved stone that wreaks havoc on our animals and slaves. The Egyptians and their penchant for gargantuan constructions: somewhere, the distant wind batters against stone to create such noise.”

The other legionnaire looked with skepticism at his comrade, then put his hand back against the sand. “No. This is something different: something boding ill for the lot of us. No wonder the Primus’s camp was in uproar. The gods toy with us. Press us. The Egyptians’ deities now seek revenge for the battle of Actium. The living dead of legend stir beneath us. We are paying now!” Augustinus shouted.

“Compose yourself. You are a Roman Legionnaire!” Lucius commanded. “Your protestations sound like the whining of a boy-loving Greek. Stay your tongue. You shame Jupiter and yourself.”

Augustinus took a deep breath, and then looked in the direction the slaves had escaped. “My apologies. I dishonor my ancestors with my fear.”

“You dishonor us all. All men feel fear, but it does not dictate the actions of a Posterior,” Lucius said. “There is tangible explanation for this phenomenon.”

After a few minutes, the howls subsided. The haunted wind quieted as mysteriously as it started. It took several hours for the Romans to regain their composure and restrain the animals and slaves. Of the original dozen slaves, only four were left. Only half the camels remained. Tracks of the escaped beasts scattered into the desert every direction. Augustinus and Lucius concurred that the odds of capture of the creatures was so slim that it would not be worth the effort to track them.

“They will run until they see the Nile,” Lucius said angrily.

Augustinus double-checked the stores of food and wine. The sudden decrease of mouths to feed made the rations at the abandoned village more palatable, even after they divided the food to take to the forward camp at the ruins.

Jentaculum was prepared late due to the chaos that had resulted from the nights events. The tired soldiers ate in silence except for the scrapes of utensils on the bronze pateras. The mess tins rang out as the sun beat down, prophecy of another day in the miserable desert.

With only four slaves left, cleanup took longer than usual. The Romans worked side-by-side with the Egyptians to pack the camels with clean water and food. “Martinus,” Augustinus called out. The legionnaire came to the senior soldier and drank from a water skin. “You are saved from the march today. Remain behind with two slaves. Guard the encampment. If Berbers are seen approaching, hide. The lookout on the escarpment overlooking the camp would be eminently defensible, even by one man.”

Martinus took the water skin and drank deeply, then smiled. “The hot march will not be missed,” he laughed. “Guarding camp rather than walking in this oven is an easy choice, even if it is spent defending the perch above.”

The nine soldiers and two slaves started to march later than planned. The Romans were not as experienced with camels as the Egyptians. The animals were still agitated from the night, so progress was slow. The bags of the creatures were overloaded. They roared and snorted at times, upset at the massive loads on their backs.

The march took the legionnaires through the hottest part of the day: and it was vicious. Lucius did not waste energy on wit. He focused on his tired muscles and put one foot in front of the other. They stopped and drank water often. Augustinus was afraid of the men becoming ill from the walk over the wretched sands. After the scorching march, the eleven men and the animals arrived at the ruins of the outpost.

The Primus strode across the sand to meet them. He was angry. “Taking your sweet time today it would appear. Sleep late? Are you rested? We dangle here like a worm on a fishhook.”

“Quite the opposite,” Augustinus said dryly. “Our camp was thrown into chaos during the night. Many of our camels and slaves disappeared into the darkness. The lack of manpower slowed our loading and journey across the desert. We heard the wind, the unseen squall of devils…”

“Augustinus is tired,” Lucius interrupted and looked towards the ruins. “He babbles, affected by the heat. We will supervise the unloading of the provisions and water, Primus.”

The legionnaire glared at Lucius, and shook his head. Vitus’ features softened for a second, and his frown relaxed.

“The good news, an entrance into the ruins has been discovered. Mayhap our time in this hell is coming to an end.” The Primus led the two back to the top of the structures where they looked down on the excavations. The pit had increased in size and uncovered more of the wall. A small triangular structure had been revealed, and several of the legionnaires scraped at the inset stones.

“That is small for an entrance into this edifice,” Augustinus said. “An entrance for child, mayhap, but hardly for a man.”

“Damned Egyptians with their sliding doors and counter-weighted panels,” Vitus grimaced. “These savages make tomb robbing more difficult than it should be. Nowhere on the door is writing indicating egress, or mechanism to slide the stone. Chiseling through such a block will take days if that is the course of action.”

Lucius observed quietly as the two legionnaires in the courtyard scratched and tapped at the odd doorway. One of the soldiers, a Roman named Atilius turned and looked upward, then wiped the sweat from his brow.

“Primus,” Atilius called out. “Something gives, a stone moves…”

A straight shaft jutted from the sands at Atilius’ feet. It impaled him and cut his observations short. The metal spear entered the man somewhere in his groin and ripped through his tunic. It exited with a bloody splash on the left side of his neck. He shrieked, held in the air on the spike as he twitched in the throes of death.

The second legionnaire stepped back as another spear thrust straight from the stone jamb of the entrance. It caught him in the center of his chest. The spike ran through him and exited bloodily out of his back. “Gods dammit,” Vitus growled and the three rushed down into the courtyard and the excavations. Several of the other legionnaires arrived first, but the two impaled were already dead as their blood was soaked up by the heated sands.

Lucius moved carefully. He inspected the rods that had run through his comrades. The end of the shaft was serrated, some metal he did not recognize that dripped with dark crimson. “Designed to impale and be almost impossible to remove,” the Prior observed. He tapped at the spear with the tip of his pugio. “Barbed to hook flesh; the designer was a wicked soul.”

“Get the bodies off of these spikes carefully. The Triarri is already down five soldiers. No more loss can be afforded,” the Primus ordered.

Augustinus assisted as they pulled the bodies from the demonic shafts. “Primus,” he said. The hot dry air burned into his lungs in an attempt to catch his breath. Lucius watched. “Engineers are needed for this chore, not soldiers. The builders of this place have reinforced it with wicked man-killers. Entry into this ruin could be the death of all. Our brothers-in-arms have already met their deaths. More will follow.”