Mists of the Miskatonic (Mist of the Miskatonic Book 1) (4 page)

“The sound reverberated across the dunes, an unhallowed call of nature. It seemed to originate from all around: never could the origin be identified. It drove the natives to madness, chattering and capering like animals. Never have I encountered such sounds. By dawn, the wailing gale had stopped. When it ceased I did not notice because of the rebellion. One of the lusty slaves even bled me with a stolen pugio. That was his last act on this earth, I can attest,” Vitus murmured. “Bled clean and cauterized the wound with my own blade. Bastards. By Jupiter, I am ready to be done with this province and its monkeyish inhabitants; their chittering and chattering.”

Augustinus looked at the stones. “Any news on our missing comrades?”

The Primus shaded his brow and looked across the row of tents. The legionnaires and slaves that had just marched across the sands from the west unloaded full water skins and loaded empties back onto the camels. “Nothing yet, other than the cryptic message ‘pon the gladius found at the abandoned village west of here. Follow me and inspect these ruins before cena. Late yesterday, excavations were started in hopes of finding an entrance to the dusty tunnels below, but as of now no ingress is readily apparent. I no longer have enough slaves to continue to dig in torchlight, so we will suspend our excavations at dusk.”

“Set extra guards, lest remaining Egyptians are goaded to chaos again tonight, Primus,” Augustinus said as the three walked through the rows of tents on the north side of the cyclopean stones. Several legionnaires sat in the shade of the shelters, their bodies bandaged from the night’s events. “Your troops are worse for wear, Vitus.”

“Maybe a bit overconfident, and caught unawares. It is a mistake that will not be repeated, by Minerva,” the Primus murmured angrily. “Lulled into overconfidence, the assumption was made the marauding Berbers were the greatest threat to our expedition. It turned out to not be so.”

Through the tents the three moved. The trio stopped beside the smooth, stone wall. Next to the granite Lucius surveyed the massive blocks: everything but the top of the construction concealed deep within the heated sands. The giant blocks were tightly laid against each other perfectly. The masses were absolutely smooth, no telltale sign of chisel or hammer apparent. Some oddly shaped steps led from the sand up the side. The three ascended the tiny stairwell to a smooth-topped block.

They looked down and Lucius realized that the massive stones were in a semi-circle around an open courtyard. Some slaves and soldiers lugged baskets of sand up another set of diminutive steps in an attempt to uncover the western wall. “Logic would dictate that an entrance would be near the stairs, or so we hope,” the Primus said. “The size of the construct may be massive, buried below the sands. To know more is impossible, so excavations continue.”

Massive stone blocks butted up against one another. They disturbed Lucius, even from the top. The proportions seemed like some type of map to nowhere explainable. Some kind of relief or ancient script sculpted into the rock would have put him at ease, but nothing visible indicated human hands had touched the blocks. He tried to shake the shreds of doubt and dread. He was a Roman Legionnaire. He thought he had left fear behind long ago.

“Sand removal would be faster if more slaves were lifting baskets, and not baking on the desert as punishment for feeble escape attempts,” Lucius spat quietly. “It arouses anger to see Roman legionnaires engaged in such menial pursuits.”

“The attempt was hardly feeble, given the loss of men,” Augustinus rebutted as he stared into the courtyard. “If Jupiter is just, their corpses shall burn on the sand between here and the Nile Valley. Egyptians are vermin.”

One of the Romans involved in the excavations shouted unintelligibly, then held up a shiny item. The find created quite a stir among the legionnaires. A soldier named Titus Junius waved something metal over his head, and then took the misshapen stairs four at a time as he sprinted towards Vitus and the other two.

“Primus. Evidence of our missing comrades.” With sweaty hands, he offered up a dusty galea. The helmet had several large dents in the top.

Vitus ran his fingers across the metal, then turned the helmet upside down and peered into it. Dark smears were on the metal. “Dried blood. An ill omen for our missing comrades,” he said quietly. “Fine work, Titus.”

“Thank you, Primus.” The legionnaire returned to the dig. Vitus handed the galea to Augustinus.

“This bodes ill,” Lucius said. “First the cryptic message, now this. Why would the galea be buried so, in this place?”

The Primus walked over to the edge of the stone, and then wiped his forehead with his focale. “They made it to this gods-forsaken place. Who knows what transpired, but it is safe to say violence ensued. Berbers, maybe. Some other rabble. Tomb robbers. Some unit of Egyptian soldiers that are running from their homeland. It has been several months since they went missing. The sand could have buried their bodies, yet to be unearthed by our scrabbling.”

“It would have taken hundreds of Berbers or bandits to defeat a Triarri of Romans: an army unto itself. Only soldiers could have done it. It has to be the Egyptian swine,” Lucius said, angrily. “A portent of uprising? Many of the inhabitants of this protectorate, here on the borders of Rome’s rightful claim, have not yet accepted our supremacy.”

Vitus shook his head and took the helmet in his hands. “No. This is too far from the Nile, and no significant military objective was achieved. It is doubtful Berbers would find anything worth the loss of life in attacking a Triarri of legionnaires. This is something else entirely.” He turned and stared over the camp. “Return to the abandoned village and keep our water supply secure. Rain will not be imminent in this hell. Return tomorrow with fresh water. Maybe answers will be forthcoming from our continued digs.”

Augustinus saluted. “We have a captive. Anok Sabé, son of the Royal Astrologer of the court of Cleopatra, if his wicked tongue is to be believed. The wayward slave that claims we are sticking our noses into places where they do not belong. Lucius pummeled the swine into submission during an escape attempt, so terrified he was of this place and its long dead inhabitants. Perhaps staking him in yonder courtyard for the night would teach humility to the lot.”

The Primus smiled. “Excellent suggestion. Tomorrow, Legionnaires. Eat with us before your travels, and I look forward to your return.”

A quick prandium filled the legionnaires and gave them renewed energy to face hot sun again. After quick farewells to their comrades, they left the ruins of the nameless outpost.

The return march was uneventful. The trek both ways had used up most of the day. As the sun began to be eaten by the distant horizon, the group marched to the deserted Egyptian village. A bit of smoke wafted from a fire, the slaves had already started to cook cena as they watched the column approach. Hortensius Julius waved as the group began to fall out, instructing the slaves to unload the empty skins and jugs from the camels.

“Filthy spitting beasts,” Hortensius said, handing a water skin to Lucius. The legionnaire took a long drink: the cool well water lifted his spirits. “I cannot deny I am glad you guarded the animals and their cargo, not me.”

Augustinus took the skin and drank, then poured water over his face. He took another mouthful, swished and then spit it onto the sand. “Tomorrow you can march to the ruins with us. The journey is restful and most delightful, brother.”

Hortensius laughed and took the skin, then drank. “I cannot be trusted with such responsibility. Travelling over the arid sands is best left to experts such as yourselves.”

“Your faith is us is well placed,” Lucius said coolly. “Still, you might have a change of heart.”

“Doubtful,” Hortensius said sarcastically. “Only if ordered.”

Once the sun set and the sands cooled, the night became unpleasantly chill. In the cold morning the Romans stirred and the usual routine repeated itself. Jentaculum was served after Lucius double-checked the inventories of food. A supply caravan should arrive in seven days to replenish stores of food, but the wine would have to be stretched to make it another week. The legionnaires kept a close watch on the slaves and auxiliaries during the night. None had fled.

Augustinus awoke to the smells of cakes frying and wandered out of the tent. He tried to brush the dust from his body. “My neck hurts,” he said bluntly as he approached Lucius. The other soldier had several wheat cakes in his patera. “Damn scutum is harder than the night before.”

“You whine like a Greek,” Lucius laughed. He watched the other soldier rub the back of his neck. He held out a partially full ampule of wine. “Maybe duty in the desert will strengthen you through adversity. Warriors are so forged.”

“Or make one’s gait like a crippled old woman,” Augustinus grumbled. “How dare you compare me to some boy-loving Greek? Fortunately for you, I am so damaged from the night that I don’t have the strength to teach you respect.”

“The Spartans in the day were almost invincible in single combat,” Lucius recalled. “But they were bred out of existence. Too much swordplay and not enough love making. Damn Greeks, loving each other’s asses and not their women.”

“Maybe the sword arm’s strength diminishes the cock’s vitality. That explains their predilection for war and not sex,” Augustinus chortled. “But both of mine are up to a challenge, if confessions are in order. Like a woman could be found in this desolate section of this sandy hell: only sharpened iron will be wielded here.”

“Hopefully, neither will be put to the test,” the other Legionnaire snickered.

Jentaculum was finished and the camels were once again loaded with fresh water brought up from the well, and the trek west began again. Several hours later, the caravan arrived at the necropolis. From a distance, figures moved around the tents and the Roman saw camels that rested in the shade.

Augustinus led the train to the shelters and instructed the slaves to unload the water vessels. Lucius grabbed a water skin and quietly took the steps to the top of the giant stone blocks of the ruins where Vitus watched the courtyard. His eyes were red and the officer looked tired. Lucius held out the skin to his commander. “Did the night pass uneventfully, Primus?”

Vitus shook his head. After several long drinks from the skin, he poured some water over his face. He swished out his mouth and spit onto the top of the hot stone where it immediately evaporated from the heat. “If I never cross sand again it means Jupiter mightily blessed his humble adherent. Everything is gritty and never have I been so filthy. Last night was as bad as the night before: little sleep.”

Lucius could see that much sand had been removed from the courtyard. Oddly enough, no inscriptions or writing could be seen. The ancient walls were blank except for the disturbing ways the blocks fit together. Basket after basket filled with sand was raised and dumped over the side of the edifice. Vitus took another drink then spoke. “Still no entrance found. In the middle of the night the damn wind began howling. It sent the slaves and camels into fits. The animals pulled at their tethers. Some of them broke free and ran into the desert. Again, the slaves fell on each other. Seemed a better plan to let them pummel one another bloody than have them fall on us. They say the gangly Britons fight that way: one falls on a legionnaire’s pilum, impales himself while the other attacks. Sign of savages, tactics like that. We let them beat each other senseless.”

“How strange. Is some superstition attached to the desert wind, perhaps?” Lucius asked, puzzled.

The Primus took another drink. “Oddly, the mild breeze would not indicate the overwhelming roar of the winds. The origin of what echo or phenomenon creates the howling squall is beyond my ken. Maybe it is an oddity of this part of the desert, some strange rock formation channeling the gale to mimic some demonic flute somewhere over the dunes, echoing to this forgotten place. Never in many years of service to Caesar have I encountered such strangeness.”

“How did Anok Sabé, our rebellious Egyptian, fare as an example to the others?”

Vitus stared at the excavations. “Not well. His agitations continued long after your journey east. Once ungagged, it only allowed him to squeal and shout about this place: some long-hidden evil vaguely known by the natives. He had special knowledge to share he claimed, given his proud lineage. After we replaced the gag, I had him put in the excavation pit for the night to temper his rebellion. At dawn, he was in some state that is near a hysterical catatonia. Eyes fixed on some unseen evil, mouth agape and a trickle of drool like an idiot. Unfortunately, his ability to piss and shit himself has not subsided. He is lying in an unusual state in one of the tents on the north side of the ruins, flesh pale and eyes wide.”

“They say some Egyptians believe that when they die, they go to the afterlife and place their heart on a scale in front of their gods. If they are found worthy, they go to a paradise they call The Field of Reeds,” Lucius said and smiled. “If their gods were as powerful as Jupiter, I think conquering them would have been impossible.”

The Primus cast a glance over his shoulder. “The primitive beliefs of these savages interest me little, Prior. Is the water unloaded?”

Lucius glanced back to where the slaves loaded empty skins and urns onto the camels. “Should be by now, Primus.”

The officer sighed. “The prattle of savage religions and such tires me. Return to your camp and maybe on the morrow my humor will be better.”