Children of Apollo - Eagles and Dragons Book I

I - The Tribune

It was a forgotten place, an ancient wasteland that must once have been privy to the great maw of battle between Gods and Titans. All was emptiness and heat, bleached bone and boredom. That such a place existed was beyond reason. In fact, it was beyond sanity itself that men would even cross the sandy seas, the desert.

Lucius Metellus Anguis sat atop his black stallion, a dusty hand shielding his eyes from the burning whiteness enveloping him and his men. He thought that he would be able to see more from the top of the dune, better observe the plodding troops as their column struggled up and down the shifting sand. They had lost the road, covered over the previous night by some god’s howling breath. The Romans longed for that wind now, for some relief from the burning world. But it was not to be, for the heavenly orb beat down on them so that not even their sandaled feet were immune to the ashen earth.

The situation was desperate. The men were grumbling and, it seemed to their young officer, waiting for him to make a mistake. His recent promotion to the rank of Tribune had at first excited him; to be given command of four hundred and eighty men as well as a cavalry unit was a huge responsibility, a challenge he welcomed. His ancestors had commanded Rome’s Legions, been conquerors of Crete, Numidia and Macedonia. Hundreds of years later, Lucius Metellus Anguis, descendant of the Equestrian class, now led a routine patrol to ‘discourage nomad activity along the Empire’s southern frontier’, from Alexandria in Aegyptus to the legionary base of Lambaesis in Numidia. Questions rang loud in his head. Was he capable of command? Could he live up to the expectations that weighed so heavily upon him? The Metelli were staring at him from across Death’s black river, and he could feel their gaze.

Lucius looked down at the sleeves of his tunic where they protruded from beneath his leather and bronze cuirass; it was no longer soft and white, but torn and sweat-stained. The thin purple stripe around the hem, a sign of his rank and class, was faint and grimy. His body was caked with salt and sand, he could feel its coarseness everywhere under his clothing, taste it at the back of his throat. Lucius shifted in the saddle and felt his muscles complain. He swung a leg over the stallion’s black neck and a scorpion skittered away from where his boots disturbed the flour-like sand. He removed his helmet, hung it on one of the four saddle horns and drank from a leather water skin, choked by the wetting of his parched throat. When he recovered, he poured some in the palm of his hand and held it up to the stallion.

“Here, Pegasus. It’s not much but it’ll do until we reach the oasis.” The stallion lapped the liquid up quickly and nudged Lucius with his snout. “All right, here’s some more.” Lucius could not help smiling. His horse was in a better mood than any of the men. That was a problem. He pat the muscular neck as the last of the men passed below. “Time to go.” Lucius swung up into the saddle. Several miles to the south, he could see a dust cloud running parallel to his cohort. He adjusted his crimson cloak, gladius and pugio. His eyes searched through the thick, scentless air. “They’re following us,” he muttered. Pegasus stomped a hoof in the sand and Lucius kicked him down the dune’s steep slope to the front of the marching column.

The first time Lucius saw the desert he was in awe of its simplicity, its beauty. A man could think out in the emptiness, sort through the memories of his past. The senses were heightened too, especially one’s hearing, though some said that in the desert, the keenest sense was one that was inexplicable. Strange things happened among the dunes, beneath the sea- blue sky or on nights when the full moon cast its cool blanket over the land. However, as he rode beneath the fiery sun, Lucius could only think of arriving at the next oasis, of cool water and a campaign cot.

He turned in the saddle to see his men; they were exhausted. It was a dangerous time of day, when strength has been sucked from the limbs and minds wander. To be lulled into a false sense of security could get them killed. Lucius looked again to the south, the cloud was still shadowing them. He turned to his first centurion, Alerio Cornelius Kasen. The centurion nodded, having seen it too. Two weeks into a three- month, two-thousand mile patrol, and already they were being followed. But why were they not attacking? Lucius told himself that his men would be ready when it happened. If only they were on solid ground and not the giving sands of Cyrenaica Province.