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.
When the oasis finally came into view, a wave of elation swept through the ranks of legionaries as though to wash away the day’s misery. No matter that it was a mere scattering of trees or that they had yet to make a fortified camp; the sight of that still pool of water was enough reward, the shade that would be offered by the rustling palms, perfect. Lucius was relieved that the old maps he had been given at the outset of his assignment were correct about the location of each oasis thus far.
“Make camp!” Lucius ordered, his six centurions echoing the command to each of their units. A roar of approval went up and the favourite bawdy songs emerged from the men’s mouths. They shifted heaps of sand and drove their wooden stakes to form the fortifications of their camp around planned avenues which the engineers had quickly laid out. It was routine, and within two hours the fortifications were set. The sand was not ideal terrain for a marching camp but it was essential, especially with their distant travelling companions.
Lucius finished tying off the last peg of his command tent at the centre of camp. The tanned leather was thin and needed stitching in places, but it was his. He unloaded the two chests from the pack horse that carried his things and placed them inside. The first room was for meeting with his officers and beyond that, behind a small partition, was his private area. The first thing he unpacked was always the small stone altar which he placed on a mound of packed sand next to his cot. Next to the altar, he placed a miniature statue of Apollo, his family’s patron god for hundreds of years.
“Tribune?” The voice startled Lucius momentarily but he quickly recognized the hesitant manner of one of his centurions.
“Antanelis. How goes it?”
The young man saluted, then relaxed. “Just wanted to let you know that the sentries have been posted every ten paces and the cavalry auxiliaries sent out on patrol, as you ordered. The rest of the men are eating now.”
“Good. They need the rest.”
“I’ve also brushed down and fed Pegasus for you. He’s just outside your tent.”
“You know, Antanelis, you don’t need to do that for me.” One of the reasons Lucius did not have a slave with him, as was his right as a tribune, was because he did not want someone fussing over him all the time. He preferred to enjoy what few quiet moments he had for himself.
“I know. I just enjoy it...makes me feel normal.” The scar across his forehead reddened and creased in thought as he looked down; it had healed well since Parthia. Lucius thought that if only he had been quicker to pull Antanelis out of the way of that Parthian battle axe, his face would still be youthful, flawless. On the other hand, his friend was alive, and scars suited soldiers, especially silent, tough ones like Antanelis. Ever since that day, the young man had gone out of his way to pay Lucius back for saving his life.
“You’re right. We all need some measure of normalcy in our lives.” Lucius looked at a small cedar box that contained his precious scrolls. “Those are what keep me sane.” He put his hand on the centurion’s shoulder. “Go. Get yourself something to eat. I want all six of you here in three hours.”
“Yes, Tribune!” Antanelis saluted again before leaving.
When he was alone again and had eaten a small meal of dried meat, cheese and dates, Lucius took a piece of incense from a small pouch among his things and lit it on the altar. The camp was quieting down as men washed and drank and nodded into restful oblivion beneath a sleepy pink and orange sky.
Lucius set about his own ritual, removed his armour and weapons, brushed away the dust, polished them. With a folded piece of doeskin dipped in oil, he revived his breastplate, crimson-crested helmet and greaves, paying special attention to the images of embossed dragons on the chest and cheek guards.
“Anguis,” he whispered the word in reverence, dragon. This armour was a Metellus family heirloom, his charge. The images upon it had haunted and mystified him from the day they were placed in his care. The name he bore, signifying his vague branch of the Metelli, had weighed on him from a young age when he and his tutor, Diodoros, had walked the streets of Rome in lesson, until now, in his twenty-fourth year, when battle-hardened veterans spoke the name with superstitious caution or avoided saying that part of his name altogether. By caring for this armour nightly, he was reminded of who he was, and it brought him a sense of pride but also dread.
When the treasured pieces were gleaming, he hung them on a wooden stand in the corner of his tent and began to sharpen and oil his gladius, pugio and spatha, the two former also having seen service in the hands of Metelli warriors. They never left his side.
A bowl of cool water and a sponge had been brought in for him. Lucius removed his tunic and breeches and began to wash the filth from his body. He hated the way he smelled, how his dark hair matted around his scalp, stiff and itchy. They were a long way from the baths of Alexandria.
Alexandria... He passed the sponge over the scar on his arm and memories flooded back, of pain. What was supposed to be a civilized polis had proved to be as barbaric and unendurable as the seediest Cilician port. Each scar on his body held a memory, but this was one he pushed away.
When he was clean and had donned a cleaner tunic over his pteruges, the armoured leather skirt that hung to just above his knees, Lucius knelt in the sand before the smoke-engulfed altar.
“Apollo, guide me...”