Dark Eagle IV: Scarab, page 2
The moon hung low over the desert, its pale light glinting off the shifting sands as the Nubian raiding party crept toward the Egyptian border town. They moved like shadows, their bodies swathed in dark cloth that blended seamlessly with the dunes.
Their leader, Abasi, a wiry man with eyes like a hawk, signalled with a sharp flick of his fingers, and the group came to a halt. They crouched in the lee of a jagged outcrop, the town now visible in the shallow valley below. Its low, mud-brick walls were dark against the sands, and the faint outlines of storage silos stood silhouetted against the horizon.
Abasi scanned the scene carefully. The Romans, he knew, kept a fort not far from here. The patrols were sporadic but deadly, the legionaries well-armed and ruthless. A single misstep, a clumsy sound, an errant glint of metal, could bring them down in force.
His fellow tribesmen looked to him with total trust and obedience. He had been their leader for many years, ever since his father had been killed by a desert lion, and he had proved a good chieftain, in good times and in bad. These were the latter, a time of fear and of desperation. Hunger drove them, but they were desert men, accustomed to patience. Any food obtained from the village before them could feed their people for weeks, perhaps longer… if they succeeded.
Abasi gave the signal to advance, and they continued down the slope towards the Egyptian village. The approach was slow, deliberate. Bare feet slid noiselessly over the cool sand, careful to avoid the crunch of loose stones or the brittle snap of dried grass. Abasi paused at the edge of the town, raising a hand again to halt his men. The silence struck him first, a deep, unnatural stillness. No dogs barked, no muffled voices murmured from within the homes, no faint snatches of song or laughter broke the night.
His brow furrowed. Something wasn’t right. The villagers here were poor but lively and their evenings were usually filled with the sounds of life. He exchanged a glance with the man closest to him, a hulking fighter named Kamalu, who shrugged uneasily.
Cautiously, Abasi motioned them forward. They slipped into the town like shadows, the silence deepening as they entered the narrow streets, the air thick with an almost oppressive stillness.
The first house they passed had its door ajar, swinging slightly in the faint breeze. Abasi peered inside but found no sign of life, no sleeping bodies, no evidence of hurried departure. A clay jar lay shattered on the floor, its contents spilled and congealed.
They pressed on, skirting the central square where a well stood dark and unused. The granaries loomed ahead, their thick wooden doors reinforced to protect the grain from thieves and rodents. To the Nubians’ surprise, the doors were unbarred.
Kamalu stepped forward, his bulk moving with surprising grace as he eased the door open. Inside, sacks of grain were piled high, untouched. The men exchanged wary glances, this was too easy.
‘Take what we can and leave,’ whispered Abasi.
They moved quickly now, each man hefting as many sacks as he could carry. The grain was heavy, its weight a blessed burden on their starving shoulders. Still, the eerie emptiness of the town gnawed at them. Abasi’s instincts screamed a warning, but he pushed it aside. They needed to get back to the desert before the Romans found them.
As they retreated, the silence became oppressive. The town seemed to watch them, its shadowed alleys and abandoned homes exuding an unnatural stillness and by the time they reached the outskirts, even Kamalu, normally unshakable, kept glancing over his shoulder.
They retreated back up the hill, moving swiftly and silently, the town disappearing into the darkness behind them. No alarms had been raised, no shouts of pursuit followed them. It was almost as if no one had been there to notice their presence at all.
----
Abasi led his men deeper into the dunes, their burdens growing heavier with each step. The desert was a fickle ally, its cold night air biting at their skin while the sand shifted treacherously underfoot. The village was behind them now, swallowed by the endless sea of darkness, but its silence clung to their thoughts like a persistent shadow.
The group moved with a grim determination, their silence a tacit acknowledgment of the unease none dared voice. Then, cutting through the stillness, came a sound, a sharp yip, followed by the low growl of a scavenger. Abasi stopped abruptly, raising his hand. The men froze, their breathing shallow as they listened.
More cries followed, the unmistakable squabbling of jackals. The noise grew, rising and falling in a chaotic symphony that seemed to come from just over the next rise. Kamalu stepped up beside Abasi.
‘Jackals,’ he muttered. ‘There must be something dead nearby.’
‘It’s worth a look,’ said Kamalu, ‘there may be some meat we can salvage.’
Abasi nodded, his face impassive. Meat was always hard to come by, even scavenged meat. With a bit of luck, it could be the leg of an antelope, or even a head, all meat was good.
‘Let’s go,’ he said, and the men followed him off the well-beaten track.
The jackals’ cries grew louder as they neared, their savage squabbles echoing off unseen rock faces. The dunes gave way to harder ground, the sand thinning to reveal patches of cracked earth and jagged stones. As they crested the next rise, the clouds above shifted, peeling back from the moon to flood the landscape with pale light, and what they saw stopped them cold.
A vast natural bowl lay before them, its sloping sides leading down to a blackened pit where the remains of a fire still smouldered. Around it, littered in chaotic disarray, were the bodies, hundreds of them, men, women, children, their lifeless forms sprawled across the ground like discarded dolls. The moonlight caught on twisted limbs, gaping wounds, and the dull sheen of blood that had long since dried.
The smell hit them next, a sickening stench of decay and charred flesh that clawed its way into their nostrils and turned their stomachs. Several of the men gagged, one doubling over to retch into the sand.
Abasi forced himself to breathe shallowly, his hand tightening on the hilt of his curved blade. He scanned the scene, his sharp eyes picking out the details: the torn clothes, the scattered belongings, the sheer, unrelenting scale of the carnage. These were no soldiers; the dead wore the simple garments of villagers.
Among the corpses moved the jackals. Dozens of them, their thin, mangy bodies darting between the dead, ripping into the flesh with gleaming teeth. They snarled and snapped at each other, their bloodied muzzles glistening in the moonlight.
Kamalu cursed under his breath.
‘What in all the hells is this?’ he whispered.
Abasi didn’t answer. He stepped forward, scanning the ground for any signs of movement among the bodies. There was none.
‘We shouldn’t be here, Abasi,’ said one of the younger men behind him. ‘This is… this is cursed ground.’
Abasi straightened and looked over at him.
‘Curses don’t kill hundreds of people,’ he said, though the words felt hollow even to his own ears. ‘We don’t leave without understanding what happened here.’
Kamalu looked at him sharply.
‘And if it happens to us?’
Abasi’s gaze hardened.
‘If we don’t understand this, it might. Keep your wits about you. We’ll make it quick.’
The men reluctantly spread out, keeping close enough to hear each other over the squabbling of the jackals. Abasi descended toward the fire, his every step calculated, his senses straining for any sign of danger. As he neared the center of the bowl, the heat from the embers prickled his skin, though the fire was long dead. Around it lay more bodies, arranged in a haphazard circle, as though they had fallen while fleeing.
At the edge of the fire pit, he stopped and knelt, gently turning over the body of a baby. His heart missed a beat at the sight of her injuries, and he said a silent prayer, begging for a safe journey for her spirit on her journey to the afterlife.
He straightened slowly, his mind racing. It would have taken many men to do this, and it would not have been quick, but what scared him the most was the fact that there was no signs of any sort of struggle. Some of the men gathered around and stared down at the baby.
‘We take what we’ve seen back to the others,’ he said finally, the dread coiling in his gut.
The men nodded, their faces pale as they retreated from the bowl and, as they ascended the rise, the jackals paused in their feasting to watch them, their yellow eyes glinting in the moonlight.
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Chapter Three
Alexandria
The long shadows cast by the braziers danced against the marble walls of the governor's palace, illuminating its grandeur with a flickering, golden light. Gaius Julius Postumus sat at the head of an ebony table so vast that it seemed to consume the room. The edges of the table were inlaid with ivory, a gleaming contrast to the dark wood, while the carved legs curled into lion’s paws. Behind him, the towering window framed Alexandria’s great harbour, its waters silvered by moonlight. Masts swayed lazily in the breeze, and the distant cry of a gull carried faintly through the silence.
Postumus was not a man of grand gestures. His power, as Rome’s prefect of Egypt, was spoken in quiet commands, enforced by legions, and felt across the empire in the grain that fed its hungry masses. Yet tonight, he looked troubled. His sharp eyes, deep-set beneath a furrowed brow, rested on the long scroll unfurled before him. A half-empty goblet of Falernian wine sat untouched at his elbow, its aroma mingling with the faint scent of incense wafting from the corners of the room.
Standing nearby, his chief aide, Lucius Marcellinus shifted uncomfortably. The Roman administrator was a man tired by the demands of empire. His thinning hair was slicked back, but sweat still glistened on his brow, betraying the strain of recent weeks. In his hands, he clutched yet another report, one of many that had passed across this room in an endless tide of bad news.
‘Another shortfall,’ said Postumus, his words slicing through the silence. ‘First Memphis, then Hermopolis, and now Crocodilopolis.’ He leaned back, his gaze piercing. ‘These governors test the patience of the empire, Lucius.’
The aide hesitated, then stepped forward, unrolling the scroll he carried.
‘Excellency,’ he began carefully, ‘the reports from the nomes are… consistent. The Nile’s flooding has been erratic this year. In some regions, the waters never reached the fields. In others, entire villages were swept away. Panehesy, the governor of the Crocodilopolis nome, claims his stores were…’
‘Panehesy?’ Postumus interrupted. He leaned forward, his hands resting on the table’s edge. ‘That name has crossed my desk far too often. Every year, there is some excuse. A failed harvest, bandits, flooding. Yet the grain quotas are not negotiable. Do you think the mobs in Rome will accept a barren Nile as an explanation when they riot for their bread?’
‘No, Excellency,’ replied Lucius, ‘but Panehesy is not alone in this. Other governors report similar struggles. Even the nome of Antaeopolis, which has never failed us before, sent only half its usual stores.’
Postumus leaned back, his gaze narrowing as he considered the scrolls scattered before him. The flickering torchlight deepened the lines on his face, making him look older than his forty years.
‘This is not the first time I’ve heard such claims,’ he said quietly. ‘But this… this is worse. Every week, another nome falls short. And it is not just the grain. The roads are less safe, merchants speak of bandits growing bold, and priests whisper of unrest among the peasants. Tell me, Lucius, are we losing control?’
The aide straightened, though his expression remained grim.
‘No, Excellency. The legions hold the garrisons, and the grain routes remain open. But there are… murmurs. The old gods of Egypt have always stirred unrest amongst the people, and with famine comes desperation.’
Postumus’s mouth curled into a faint sneer.
‘The old gods,’ he said, the words heavy with disdain. ‘Let them pray to Ra and Osiris all they like. It will not fill their bellies. The Nile’s favour is fickle, Lucius, but Rome’s is not. These governors will deliver their quotas, or they will face consequences.’
Lucius hesitated, then inclined his head.
‘Panehesy will be here shortly, Excellency. He is one of the last to respond to your summons.’
‘And he is late,’ Postumus said coldly. ‘This is not a council of equals, Lucius. The governors of Egypt’s nomes are servants of Rome, just as the grain fields are Rome’s property. If Panehesy thinks he can shirk his duty because he bows to his precious Isis and not the emperor, he is mistaken.’
The bronze doors at the far end of the hall groaned suddenly, their weight reverberating through the chamber as they swung open. Postumus turned his gaze toward them, his expression unreadable. Beyond the threshold, the flickering torches revealed the figure of Panehesy.
The Egyptian governor stepped hesitantly into the room, his sandaled feet making faint echoes on the polished marble floor. He wore the robes of his station, their gold embroidery catching the light, but his face betrayed his unease. His features were proud, his skin weathered by years under the desert sun, but his eyes darted nervously between the towering statues of Augustus and Isis that flanked the entrance, as though measuring his allegiances.
Postumus remained seated, his presence commanding even in stillness. He let the silence stretch as Panehesy began his slow, deliberate walk across the expanse of the hall. The Roman guards stationed along the walls stood motionless, their polished armour glinting in the torchlight, while the ever-watchful Lucius stepped back into the shadows, his sharp eyes fixed on the approaching figure.
Panehesy’s steps faltered slightly as he neared the table, his unease palpable in the cavernous room. Postumus let his gaze rest on the Egyptian governor, unblinking, the weight of his authority filling the silence like a thundercloud. Finally, Panehesy stopped several paces from the table and inclined his head in a shallow bow.
‘Excellency,’ he said, ‘I am at your service.’
Postumus did not reply immediately. Instead, he regarded the man with a cool, calculating look, as though weighing every word that would follow. The brazier flames flickered, and the oppressive silence returned, broken only by the distant murmur of Alexandria beyond the palace walls.
Panehesy’s shallow bow lingered a moment longer before he straightened, his fingers twitching nervously at his sides. His dark eyes flicked between the seated governor and the shadowed columns behind him, as though seeking an escape that didn’t exist. Postumus, seated like a marble statue at the head of the table, did not gesture for him to sit. Instead, he stared at Panehesy with a gaze that might have turned lesser men to stone.
‘Well?’ he said eventually, ‘I summoned you hours ago, Panehesy. Why do you keep me waiting? I hope it is because your mules are weighed down by so many sacks of grain, they are even slower than usual?’
Panehesy stiffened, his lips tightening, though he dared not show his anger.
‘No, Excellency,’ he said. ‘The journey was long, and I thought it prudent to ensure my reports were complete before I appeared before you.’
‘Prudent,’ Postumus echoed. He leaned back in his chair, the rich crimson of his cloak pooling around him. ‘Very well, then. Let us hear your report. Explain to me, Panehesy, why yet another nome under your administration has failed to deliver what is owed to Rome.’
Panehesy swallowed hard and clasped his hands before him.
‘Excellency, the grain is there,’ he began, ‘the fields are full, but… I cannot get it in, not in time.’
Postumus’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing, allowing Panehesy to continue.
‘The floodwaters receded late this year,’ Panehesy explained, his words tumbling out now, as if he could will his sincerity to bridge the chasm between them. ‘The fields ripened, but the workers… they stayed away. By the time I could gather enough hands, the grain had begun to wither under the sun.’
‘You let the grain rot in the fields,’ Postumus said coldly, his words more an accusation than a question. ‘What good are full fields if the granaries are empty? Do you think Rome cares for your excuses?’
Panehesy’s hands tightened into fists, the tension in his posture betraying his desperation.
‘I tried everything, Excellency. I increased the payment for labourers. I sent my officials to every village, to every hut. I promised rewards, food, protection for their families. When that failed, I turned to harsher measures, threats, beatings. I conscripted anyone I could find. And yet…’
‘And yet you failed,’ Postumus finished. ‘These are your lands, Panehesy. Your workers. If they do not obey, it is because they do not fear you enough.’
Panehesy’s face flushed with frustration.
‘Excellency, it is not fear of me they lack. They are just more afraid of something else. Something… beyond my reach.’
Postumus raised an eyebrow.
‘What nonsense is this? Bandits? Raiders? Speak plainly.’
‘It is not men they fear, Excellency,’ replied Panehesy. ‘It is the old gods.’
Postumus leaned forward, his gaze turning icier.
‘The old gods,’ he said slowly. ‘Do not waste my time with such superstitions, Panehesy. Isis and Osiris are nothing but stone and myth. These workers are peasants, they eat, they work, they sleep. They fear empty bellies more than their gods.’
Panehesy’s expression twisted, his frustration spilling through.
‘Excellency, with respect, you do not understand. These people would rather starve than anger the gods. They whisper of curses, of omens. They say the floods came late because the gods were displeased. That to disturb the fields at the wrong time is to invite their wrath. I have seen it with my own eyes, men collapsing in fear at the edge of the fields, refusing to set foot on the soil. I cannot force them if they believe they are already doomed.’
Postumus slammed his hand down on the table, the sound echoing sharply through the hall. Panehesy flinched, his shoulders drawing tight.
‘Then make them believe otherwise!’ he shouted, ‘show them what happens when Rome is displeased! Drag their priests into the fields if you must and make an example of them. Burn their temples if that is what it takes to remind them who rules here but do something. This is not acceptable.’
