Dark Eagle IV: Scarab, page 15
Marcus reached the top first, hauling himself over the edge with a grunt. He stood for a moment, hands on his knees, before straightening and turning to help the next man up.
One by one, the patrol emerged, collapsing onto the rocky plateau to catch their breath. The men sprawled out, gulping from their waterskins and wiping the sweat from their faces. Marcus turned to Tullus.
‘Keep them here for now,’ he said. ‘Let them rest.’
Tullus nodded as Marcus turned, and walked up the last slope to the plateau, finding an unobstructed view of the arid plains to the south. Marcus stopped just short of the edge, his gaze sweeping across the landscape. The air shimmered with heat, the horizon a distorted mirage of ochre and gold. Moments later he was joined by Tullus and both men stared in silence, their breaths slowing as the endless expanse stretched before them.
‘There,’ Tullus said suddenly, pointing into the distance.
Marcus followed his line of sight, squinting against the glare. At first, he saw nothing, just the rippling waves of heat. Then, gradually, a faint line of movement came into focus, a caravan snaking its way across the desert, its long column trailing like an ant line over the sands.
‘It’s a big caravan,’ Tullus said, shading his eyes. ‘Looks like camels, donkeys... carts too.’
As they watched, the rest of the patrol joined them, the men standing silently behind them. The caravan had grown more distinct now, the shapes of animals and wagons becoming clearer with every passing moment.
‘That’s not a normal caravan,’ one of the men muttered, ‘it’s too big.’
Marcus frowned, his sharp gaze fixed on the distant line. It was enormous, far larger than the typical trade caravans that often passed through the region.
The men murmured among themselves as they took in the sight, the sheer scale of the caravan unsettling in its abnormality.
‘What do you think it’s carrying?’ asked Tullus.
‘I don’t know,’ said Marcus. ‘But we’re going to find out.’ He turned to his men. ‘Sort yourselves out, we’re going down there.’
Ten minutes later, Marcus led his men carefully down the far side of the escarpment, their caligae skidding slightly on the loose gravel. The descent wasn’t as steep as the climb, but the distant caravan remained their focus, a long, winding thread of movement across the barren expanse.
By the time they reached the desert floor, the sun was unforgiving, its heat pressing down on them like a heavy hand. The men adjusted their shields and water skins, their faces streaked with sweat and dust. Marcus wiped his brow, his gaze locked on the caravan, calculating the best point to intercept.
‘Centurio,’ called Tullus, ‘look.’
Marcus turned, following the Optio’s outstretched arm. At first, it was difficult to make out against the heat haze, but as the moments passed, his stomach tightened.
From the far side of the caravan, a line of mounted men was emerging, some on horses, some on camels. The riders were spread out at first, their mounts pacing easily alongside the wagons, but soon their movements changed. More and more appeared, forming into a single, ominous mass.
‘Who are they,’ asked Marcus, ‘some sort of armed escort?’
‘It could be,’ said Tullus, ‘but why would a trade caravan have so many.’
‘How many do you think there are?’ asked Marcus.
Tullus squinted.
‘At least a hundred,’ he said, but however many there are, they are coming this way.’
Marcus’s looked nervously around at his men. There was no indication of any danger yet, but he did not want to take any chances, and, against a hundred mounted warriors in open terrain, they were at a clear disadvantage. He looked back at the oncoming riders. The horsemen were forming into a wedge and heading towards them, the cloud of dust they kicked up spreading wide across the horizon. He turned to his men, raising his voice.
‘To the base of the escarpment! Move quickly but stay together!’
The order was obeyed without question, the column turning sharply and heading back toward the safety of the rocks.
‘Drink the rest of your first waterskins,’ he ordered, his voice cutting through the tense silence. The men obeyed quickly, uncorking their waterskins and draining what little remained. Tullus moved among them, his presence a steadying force as he checked their shields and ensured their weapons were ready.
‘We don’t have much time,’ said Marcus, ‘so listen carefully. ‘We do not know their intentions but for now, we will assume the worst. Yes, they have horses, and in the open that gives them the advantage, but here, among the rocks, they’ll have to dismount. That evens the odds and if that happens, you are more than a match for them. So, prepare your weapons, ready your shields, and stay together.’
He turned to face the oncoming riders, their wedge formation now clearly visible as they approached. The lead horses were sleek and powerful, their riders draped in black thawbs, their faces mostly obscured save for dark, piercing eyes.
Marcus watched them approach with a calm intensity, his eyes taking in every detail, the strung bows across saddles, the glint of steel, the grim efficiency in the riders’ movements. These were no merchants; they were fighters, well-organised and prepared for bloodshed.
The riders pulled up a few hundred paces away, a cloud of dust settling around them as their mounts pawed the ground. A tense silence fell over the rocky terrain, broken only by the occasional snort or shuffle from the animals. One man urged his horse forward, riding ahead of the group. He halted a short distance from the Romans, lowering the cloth that covered his face.
Marcus adjusted his grip on his shield and stepped forward, his movements deliberate but unthreatening. The weight of command rested on his shoulders as he stopped a few paces from the mounted man.
‘What are you doing here?’ the rider demanded ‘The fort in Pselchis is the limit of Roman control. You’ve broken the unwritten agreement by coming beyond the escarpment. Turn back.’
Marcus’s expression remained impassive, his tone firm as he replied.
‘Rome controls all of Egypt. That includes this land. The fact that we rarely travel this far south doesn’t make it any less true.’
The rider’s eyes narrowed, his anger simmering beneath the surface.
‘You speak as though you own the ground beneath your feet,’ he spat. ‘But this is not your land. The escarpment is an agreed boundary meant to keep the peace. You’ve crossed it.’
Marcus stood tall, refusing to yield even an inch.
‘Boundaries shift. Rome’s reach is long, and its presence here is not a matter of debate.’
The rider’s knuckles tightened on the reins, his fury evident.
‘Turn back,’ he demanded again, his voice rising. ‘Return to your fort and leave this land in peace, or you will suffer the consequences.’
Marcus said nothing for a moment, his sharp gaze drifting beyond the rider to the caravan in the distance. Now that they were closer, he could see its scale more clearly, dozens of camels, wagons loaded to their breaking point, and people moving purposefully alongside. This was no ordinary trade caravan. He turned back to the rider.
‘We will leave,’ he said, ‘but first tell me, what is that caravan carrying and where is it headed?’
The man’s expression darkened, his lips curling into a snarl.
‘That is none of your concern, Roman. Turn back now.’
‘Not answering questions only raises more,’ Marcus replied.
‘And giving you answers will only give Rome more excuses to interfere. This is your last chance. Leave, now.’
Marcus held his ground, his gaze unwavering as he stared at the mounted man. The silence stretched between them, the tension growing thicker with every passing moment. Finally, the rider jerked the reins and, wheeling his horse around, rode back to his men, his posture stiff with rage.
The Romans held their formation, their shields braced and weapons ready, but their unease was clear. The horsemen huddled together, their leader issuing sharp commands in a language Marcus didn’t understand. Then, without warning, the riders spread out forming a wide line, every archer among them pulling a bow from their saddles.
Marcus’s stomach tightened and he turned sharply to his men, his voice ringing out.
‘Testudo! Now!’
The Roman soldiers snapped into action, their training taking over. They formed two tight squares, the front ranks kneeling and raising their shields forward while the men behind them held theirs overhead, locking the formation into an impenetrable shell. Marcus stared in horror as the desert wind carried the faint creak of bending wood towards him and he took his place at the edge of the first formation.
‘Brace!’ he roared as he ducked beneath the shields, and seconds later, the first volley crashed into the Roman position, some splintering on impact, others lodging deep into the thick shields. The men grunted under the force of the assault, but the testudos held, their interlocked shields forming an unyielding barrier.
‘Hold steady!’ barked Marcus, peering out from his position.
The second wave of arrows rained down like a black storm, hammering against the shields with a relentless drumbeat. The men adjusted instinctively, shifting their positions, closing any gaps, their discipline the only thing keeping them alive. The attack was unrelenting, the thud of arrows against wood, the hiss of incoming shafts, the occasional grunt of pain when a missile found a weakness.
Marcus crouched low, his shield locked into place with the others. The testudo was their salvation, a disciplined wooden shell that turned them from men into a fortress and though the arrows continued to fall, the line did not break.
Another volley rained down, the sound of arrows striking shields mingling with the grunts of exertion from the soldiers. Most were deflected harmlessly, bouncing off the layered wood and metal, but two found their mark. One man cried out as an arrow pierced his thigh, another as it buried itself in his arm.
The wounded men were pulled into the centre of the formation, their comrades shielding them with grim efficiency as the rest of the patrol tightened ranks, their shields overlapping even more closely to close the gaps.
‘Centurio,’ called one of the men, ‘we can’t just sit here, let us take the fight to them!’
Marcus didn’t respond immediately, his sharp gaze fixed on the enemy through a gap in the shield wall. The riders remained at a distance, their black-clad figures blurred by the heat haze. Another volley of arrows flew toward them, the shafts striking with a ferocity that tested even the most steadfast nerves.
‘No!’ Marcus shouted. ‘If we leave the rocks, they’ll pick us off before we reach them. Hold your ground.’
His words carried the weight of experience, and although the arrows kept coming, gradually, the pace of the volleys began to slow until finally, the riders wheeled their mounts around and rode back toward the distant caravan. Only when they were well out of range did Marcus give the command to stand down.
‘Shields up!’ he called. ‘Report casualties.’
The men emerged from the testudo, the tight formation breaking apart as they stood and surveyed the damage. Shields were riddled with arrows, some bent and splintered from the force of the impacts. The wounded men were tended to quickly, their injuries painful but not life-threatening.
Marcus stood at the edge of the rocks, his gaze fixed on the retreating riders as they rejoined the caravan. The line of camels and carts had paused during the attack, but now it began to move again, heading northeast toward the horizon. Tullus stepped up beside him, staring at the caravan.
‘What are your orders, Centurio. Do we follow them?’
‘No,’ replied Marcus. ‘We head back to the fort. Get the men formed up.’
The patrol moved quickly, the wounded supported by their comrades as they began the climb back up the escarpment. Marcus lingered for a moment, his gaze lingering on the distant caravan, his thoughts consumed by the question that hung over them all: What could be so important that it warranted such a brutal response? Whatever the answer, he was determined to uncover it. But for now, they would regroup and look after their wounded.
Chapter Twenty-One
Alexandria
Two days after the fight, Falco and Sica approached the entrance of the royal palace, their steps faltering as the sheer scale of the opulence before them came into focus. The stairway leading to the palace doors was flanked by two rows of Egyptian soldiers, each standing perfectly still, their ceremonial robes bright with gold and turquoise accents. Their spears, tipped with polished bronze, gleamed in the fading sunlight. The soldiers’ faces were stern, their gaze fixed ahead, but their presence alone was intimidating.
Falco adjusted the gold-trimmed toga draped over his powerful frame, its folds feeling unnatural on his shoulders. The garment had been supplied by the Roman governor himself, and while it fit well enough, he couldn’t help but feel out of place in such finery. Beside him, Sica walked with his usual quiet intensity, though his sharp eyes darted about, taking in every detail of their surroundings.
‘This is... something,’ Falco muttered under his breath.
‘It is,’ Sica replied dryly, ‘and then some.’
As they climbed the stairs, their eyes were drawn to the four men standing near the massive, ornate doors at the top. Each held a thick iron chain, and at the end of each chain was a leopard, sleek and powerful, their coats shimmering like liquid gold in the evening light.
One of the leopards growled as Falco passed, its amber eyes fixed solidly upon him. Its handler tightened his grip, the muscles in his arms straining as the big cat pulled against the chain. Falco slowed for a moment, his gaze meeting the animal’s, his body instinctively tensing.
‘Easy, now,’ Falco murmured. ‘There’s a good cat.’
The handler gave a sharp tug on the chain.
‘Move along, Roman. She doesn’t take kindly to strangers.’
Falco snarled back at the cat before walking through the great doors, leaving the leopards and their watchful handlers behind.
----
Inside, the palace was even more astonishing. Every surface seemed to gleam. Gold, polished marble and intricate mosaics stretched in every direction, catching the light of countless oil lamps and torches.
Servants in fine linen robes moved through the space, guiding guests toward a wide marble staircase. Falco and Sica followed the flow of people, their boots clicking softly against the polished floor. At the top of the stairs, they entered an ornate antechamber, its walls lined with intricately carved columns and shelves filled with priceless ornaments. The room was filled with guests, many lounging on low couches or standing in small groups, engaged in polite conversation. More servants moved gracefully among them, offering trays of delicate cups filled with honey-sweetened wine.
Falco and Sica hesitated for a moment, both feeling distinctly out of place in such opulence.
‘This is insane,’ Falco whispered, before making their way through the crowd, weaving between clusters of finely dressed men and women. Falco could feel eyes on him, admiring, curious, envious. A few men stopped him to offer hearty congratulations on his recent victory, their voices filled with genuine awe.
‘Magnificent fight, my friend!’ one said, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘The way you bested Darius... it will be spoken of for years!’
‘You made us proud,’ said another. ‘Rome could use more men like you.’
Falco nodded politely, offering his thanks, though his discomfort was clear.
The women, however, were bolder. A few sidled up to him as he passed, their eyes lingering on his broad shoulders and powerful frame.
‘You’re even more impressive in person,’ one woman said, her voice low and sultry.
Another, clearly married but unbothered by the presence of her husband nearby, smiled coyly.
‘Such strength,’ she murmured, her fingers grazing his arm. ‘It’s no wonder you’re the talk of Alexandria.’
Falco forced a smile, brushing off the attention as tactfully as he could.
Sica, walking just behind him, smirked but said nothing, his amusement clear in the glint of his eyes. Toward the far end of the room, Seneca stood near the governor of Alexandria, the two deep in conversation. Seneca’s posture was relaxed, but his sharp features were as focused as ever, his expression unreadable.
Falco nudged Sica subtly, nodding toward Seneca.
‘There he is.’
Sica’s gaze flicked to their comrade, then back to Falco.
‘Avoid him. We can’t risk drawing any unwanted attention.’
Falco nodded in agreement, the two of them shifting their path to avoid crossing directly into Seneca’s line of sight.
They continued to weave through the crowd, their unease growing with every passing moment. The luxury of the palace was stifling, its beauty almost oppressive to men who had spent their lives in the dirt and blood of the battlefield.
Finally, another set of ornate doors at the far end of the room swung open, the sound of horns cutting through the chatter.
‘The banquet is served,’ a servant announced, and the crowd began to move, a steady stream of finely dressed guests heading toward the grand dining hall. Falco and Sica exchanged a glance before joining the procession, stepping further into a world of power, politics, and danger.
As they walked through the doors, they were met sight that made even the most opulent corners of the palace pale in comparison. The room was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, a testament to the wealth and splendour of Egypt. The walls were adorned with intricate mosaic frescoes in vibrant hues, each depicting the gods of ancient Egypt. Ra, Anubis, Hathor, and others gazed down serenely, their forms rendered in precise detail, the colours so vivid it seemed the gods themselves were watching.
