Dark Eagle IV: Scarab, page 4
‘What’s so funny?’ he growled, narrowing his eyes. ‘You’ll have to do it too. You’ll be just as miserable as me.’
Sica set his cup down and leaned back in his chair, a picture of calm amusement.
‘Not quite,’ he said casually, ‘I’m already fluent.’
The words landed like a slap. Falco’s jaw dropped as his hands fell to the table.
‘You’re what?’ he barked.
‘Fluent,’ Sica repeated, savouring the word as if it were fine wine. ‘I spent a long time in Egypt many years ago. Although, I have to say, it isn’t easy, and it will be a pure joy to watch you struggle.’
Falco’s face reddened, and he clenched his fists on the table.
‘You think this is funny, don’t you?’
Sica nodded, unashamed.
‘Very funny.’
‘You smug little…
‘Falco, stop whining,’ interrupted Decimus. You’ll pick it up fast enough. And if you don’t, well, just grunt and wave a sword. You’re good at that.’
Falco groaned, sinking into his chair and muttering curses under his breath. Sica smirked again, earning another glare from Falco, though the big man said no more.
Their discussion was cut short as the door creaked open, and two servants entered, carrying trays laden with steaming dishes. The rich aroma of spices and roasted meat filled the room, and all three men turned to watch as the food was placed before them. One tray held spiced lentils and roasted vegetables, another a platter of skewered meats glistening with juices.
The last servant entered, carrying a plate stacked with thick, perfectly seared steaks and the sight was enough to make Falco sit up straight, his earlier annoyance vanishing in an instant.
‘Now that is what I’ve been waiting for,’ he declared, eyeing the steaks hungrily. He leaned forward, counting them with exaggerated care. ‘Twelve steaks, that’s two each for you two and eight for me.’
‘Eight steaks?’ gasped Decimus, ‘you’re joking.’
Falco tore his gaze away from the food long enough to look at him seriously.
‘Not joking. If I’m going to fight in the arenas again, I need to rebuild my muscle. You don’t win by looking like a half-starved Celt.’
‘You don’t win by eating yourself into a stupor, either, replied Decimus.’
Falco ignored him, already reaching for one of the steaks.
‘Fine. Three each for you two, six for me. Fair deal.’ Without waiting for their agreement, he grabbed a steak with his bare hands and tore into it, his teeth ripping through the tender meat with the enthusiasm of a starving wolf.
Sica and Decimus exchanged a glance, shaking their heads with bemusement.
‘You’re an animal, Falco,’ said Sica with a sigh.
‘And proud of it,’ Falco replied around a mouthful of steak, juice dripping down his chin. He gestured vaguely with the hunk of meat in his hand. ‘You’d better dig in before I finish the rest.’
Decimus chuckled, leaning back in his chair.
‘A month here is going to be interesting with you around, Falco. That much, I’m sure of.’
The three of them settled into the meal, the weight of the earlier discussion momentarily lifted by the warmth of the food and the companionship of old friends. For now, at least, they had the luxury of laughter and full bellies, but all of them knew that life had a way of changing very quickly and it could be a long time before they experienced such luxuries again.
----
Chapter Five
Saqqara
The desert was a canvas of shifting shadows under the full moon, its pale light spilling across the jagged teeth of the rocky escarpment that loomed like a sentinel over the lifeless plain. Silence reigned, heavy and oppressive, broken only by the occasional hiss of shifting sands or the distant cry of a night bird.
Sprawled between the mass of rocks and dust stretched a sprawling graveyard, a labyrinth of ancient tombs and mastabas, carved into the sandstone. Their facades, weathered by millennia of desert winds, bore faded hieroglyphs and crumbling statues of forgotten gods. Some entrances were sealed, their heavy stone doors still intact, while others gaped open like yawning mouths, their interiors swallowed by shadow. Sand spilled into these violated sanctuaries, mingling with the debris of broken burial jars and the splintered remains of wooden sarcophagi.
A lone jackal emerged from the darkness, its thin frame and patchy coat betraying the harshness of its existence. It moved with a cautious, almost reverent tread, weaving between the tombs as though wary of disturbing the slumber of those who rested within. Its yellow eyes glinted like twin coins under the moonlight, reflecting an intelligence that seemed out of place in the stillness of this ancient necropolis. For a moment, the creature stood motionless, a silhouette against the pale sands, before it slunk away, disappearing into the deeper shadows of the graveyard.
The ruins lay still once more, bathed in the cold light of the moon. The silence of the Saqqara necropolis was absolute, broken only by the occasional whisper of wind weaving its way through the scattered ruins. The vast expanse seemed untouched by time, a frozen tableau of forgotten grandeur and desolation, until eventually, from the eastern edge of the graveyard, a hooded figure appeared, cutting a ghostly silhouette against the pale sands. His gait was slow and purposeful, as he made his way carefully through the labyrinth of tombs, as though this place, with its crumbling tombs and faded hieroglyphs, was a path well-trodden.
The man’s steps were soundless, his sandals stirring no more than a whisper of sand as he passed a toppled obelisk and a broken statue of Osiris. He glanced neither left nor right, his attention fixed ahead, on the escarpment that loomed over him like a watchful guardian. The ruins of Saqqara stretched out above him, mystical and brooding, but he seemed unconcerned with their ancient splendour. His destination lay elsewhere.
He reached the base of the escarpment, its sheer rock face rising like a wall before him. To any observer, the cliff appeared unbroken, smooth and featureless save for the occasional jagged crevice or weathered indentation. Yet the figure continued toward it without hesitation and when he was within touching distance, he stopped. For a moment, he stood motionless, a part of the shadowed landscape. Then, as if the night itself swallowed him, he disappeared.
Minutes passed and then, from the same direction, another figure appeared. This one was shorter, cloaked in a similar dark garment, his strides brisk and confident. He walked the same path through the maze of tombs, his movements eerily similar, his gaze fixed on the escarpment. Like the first, he reached the base of the cliff and vanished into the rock face, leaving no trace behind.
And so it continued. One by one, they appeared from different directions, each figure cloaked and faceless, each taking the same silent journey toward the escarpment, and all disappearing into the same blank expanse of stone, the crag consuming them as if they had never existed. To any watchers it would have seemed magical, but there were none, except perhaps, the ghosts of millennia who remained unconcerned of the ways of the living.
For a moment, the desert returned to its quiet dominion. The sands shimmered under the moonlight, the ruins standing as eternal witnesses to secrets untold. Then, a final figure emerged.
He was taller than the rest, his bearing commanding even at a distance. He moved with deliberate slowness, his hood drawn low, concealing his features. The ruins seemed to close in around him as he passed, the air growing heavier, seemingly charged with an unspoken energy. Unlike the others, his gaze swept the necropolis as he walked, lingering on the broken tombs and jagged ruins as though committing them to memory.
When he reached the escarpment, he stopped short, his head tilting slightly. He did not step forward into the invisible threshold as the others had. Instead, he turned back to stare the way he had come, checking he had not been followed until finally, when he was satisfied he was alone, the ominous looming crag, complete with its millennia of ancient secrets, swallowed him whole and he disappeared into the cleft, his figure melting into the shadowed trail beyond.
----
Just over a hundred leagues away, perched on the eastern bank of the Nile, the Temple of Coptos, for many generations a testament to ancient devotion, now, reflected nothing but Roman might. Once a sacred site dedicated to Min, the god of fertility and the desert’s vast expanse, it had been repurposed by the empire into a well-fortified outpost and here, at the edge of the Nile’s fertile embrace and the desert’s unforgiving wilderness, Rome’s grip on the region was absolute.
Though weathered by centuries of wind and sun, the temple’s stone pylons still loomed over the surrounding terrain, carved with faded hieroglyphs that whispered of gods long forgotten. Columns rose from its heart, their surfaces adorned with worn reliefs depicting ancient rituals, but these once-sacred halls, nestled amidst the cliffs and dunes of the Eastern Desert, now served a far more practical purpose.
The Romans had claimed the temple as their own, transforming it into a fortified camp. The perimeter, once lined with sacred sphinxes and procession routes, was now encircled with sharpened stakes and rocky defences. Watchtowers towered above the desert at strategic points, and sentries patrolled with practiced discipline, their helmets catching the moonlight as their boots crunched softly against stone and sand.
Inside, the temple was a strange fusion of ancient grandeur and Roman pragmatism. The central hall, where priests had once offered incense and offerings to Min, now housed the command centre. A massive stone altar, still bearing faint carvings of deities and prayers, had been converted into a tactical table and maps of the Nile and its surrounding territories lay spread across its surface, secured by small weights. Two legionaries stood guard near the altar, their spears held upright as their watchful eyes swept the chamber as a Centurion leaned over the maps, murmuring instructions to his Optio.
The adjacent chambers, once sanctuaries of divine rituals, now served as quarters for the soldiers. The walls, still adorned with faded depictions of divine processions, contrasting sharply with the rows of simple cots, armour racks, and supply chests. Discipline remained the lifeblood of the camp and despite the ancient surroundings, the soldiers of Coptos knew better than to relax their vigilance.
Rome’s reach in this region was ironclad, its presence unchallenged by the local population. The nearby villages paid their tributes in grain and labour without question, their inhabitants cowed by the sheer might of the empire. Patrols along the Nile reinforced this subjugation, their steady rhythm a reminder to all who dared dream of rebellion.
And yet, the temple itself exuded a quiet unease. Whispers of strange occurrences rippled through the ranks. Some men spoke of hearing faint chants late at night, their origin impossible to pinpoint. Others claimed to see shadows moving in the corners of their vision, only for the darkness to yield nothing when they turned. Superstitions grew in hushed tones, but any soldier caught spreading them was swiftly disciplined. Yet, for all their faith in Rome’s gods and their fear of the punishment administered by their Centurions, the soldiers couldn’t ignore the weight of the temple’s ancient presence.
----
In a secluded chamber near the rear of the temple, where the walls depicted the underworld’s journey, a young recruit shifted uneasily in his cot. His dreams were troubled, filled with visions of sandstorms and dark figures emerging from the desert. He awoke with a sharp intake of breath, his heart pounding in his chest. Around him, his comrades remained undisturbed, their steady breaths the only sound in the room.
Tiberius had never truly been accepted by the veterans. They laughed at his frail build, mocked his inability to keep pace on marches, and sneered when his hands trembled during training. His nickname, Ovicula, little sheep, was spat at him with derision and although the isolation suited him, it gnawed at his already fragile sense of belonging.
The room was filled with the low hum of sleeping men: the gentle snores, the rustle of blankets, the faint creak of the wooden cots. The oppressive heat pressed against his chest like a weight, and his restless mind churned.
He stared at the ceiling, where faint outlines of ancient carvings flickered in the light of a single oil lamp. The shapes danced and twisted in ways his weary eyes struggled to follow, and then it came, a sharp, unnatural pressure exploded in his skull, as if an iron spike had been driven into the base of his neck.
Tiberius sat bolt upright, gasping, his heart hammering in his chest. Sweat soaked his thin blanket, clinging to his skin. His vision blurred, the edges of the room dissolving into an indistinct haze. The air seemed to grow thicker, heavy with an energy that crackled against his skin.
His breath came shallow, panicked. He rubbed his eyes, trying to clear them, but the haze deepened. A faint sound tickled his ears, at first a whisper, like wind scraping against stone. It grew louder, more guttural, alien. Words, or something like them, churned in the air around him, filling his head with a language he didn’t understand but instinctively feared.
‘What... what is this?’ he croaked. His body felt... strange, his limbs heavy and sluggish. He swung his legs off the bunk and stood, but his knees buckled. He staggered, his hand catching the edge of a crate to keep him from collapsing entirely. The room pitched and rolled like the deck of a ship in a storm, and he stumbled forward, his movements jerky and unnatural.
Tiberius blinked, trying to focus, and then he saw them. Shapes forming in the corners of the room, emerging from the shadows, monstrous and towering. One had the head of a jackal, its eyes burning with golden fire, another, a falcon, its curved beak sharp and glinting. They didn’t move, not exactly, but their presence filled the room, suffocating him with a primal, incomprehensible dread.
‘No...’ he muttered, clutching his head as if to squeeze the visions from his mind. The whispers grew into a cacophony, the words stabbing into his thoughts like blades. He staggered toward the others, desperate to wake someone, anyone. He reached the nearest cot and reached out, his hand trembling as it landed on a shoulder. The flesh beneath his fingers was cold, unnaturally cold.
Tiberius blinked, his vision sharpening for a brief moment. The Decurion, their leader, lay sprawled on his back. His eyes were wide and staring, his mouth frozen in a rictus of terror. A dark, gleaming pool of blood surrounded his head, soaking into the cot and dripping onto the floor. His throat had been slit, the wound clean and precise, the edges dark against his pale skin.
Tiberius stumbled back, his foot sliding in the sticky blood. He fell hard, the air driven from his lungs as he hit the floor. Gasping, he tried to crawl away, his palms leaving red smears on the ancient stone. He turned his head and saw them, all of them. The rest of the soldiers in the chamber. Every one of them was dead.
They lay in their bunks, their bodies twisted and pale, their throats bearing the same gruesome wound as the Decurion. The expressions on their faces were the same: mouths open in silent screams, eyes wide with terror. The stench of blood filled the chamber, thick and metallic, and Tiberius gagged, bile rising in his throat. His hands trembled as he tried to push himself away from the carnage, but his legs refused to obey.
The figures in the shadows moved closer now, no longer content to stay in the periphery. The jackal-headed god towered over him, its golden eyes piercing into his soul. The falcon screeched, its cry silent but deafening in Tiberius’s mind. The hieroglyphs on the walls glowed faintly, their ancient carvings coming to life, writhing and shifting like serpents. The air pulsed with energy, and Tiberius clutched his head, his fingers digging into his scalp.
‘Get out... get out of my head!’ he screamed. But the gods would not relent. Their cries grew louder, their presence heavier, until it felt as though the very walls were pressing in on him. He stumbled to his feet, his limbs moving without coordination, and ran, blindly, instinctively, toward the exit.
He didn’t make it far. His foot caught on the edge of a cot, and he pitched forward, crashing to the ground.
From the corridor came the sound of boots, running, pounding against the stone floor. Torchlight spilled into the chamber, casting flickering shadows across the carnage the voices of the soldiers panicking, confused.
‘By the gods,’ shouted one, ‘what’s going on in here?’
Tiberius turned toward them, but his mind was already fracturing. The faces of his comrades twisted into monstrous forms, their features warped and inhuman. The jackal-headed god loomed closer, its golden eyes burning with divine rage, and the falcon’s scream tore through what remained of Tiberius’s sanity. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came, and the last thing he saw before the darkness claimed him, was Anubis’s hand, outstretched, as if reaching into his very soul.
----
Chapter Six
The Docks in Alexandria
The Port of Alexandria was alive with the chaotic hum of activity, a cacophony of sounds and scents that greeted every new arrival. The ship groaned as it docked, its ropes pulled taut by sweating labourers who barked orders in a mix of Greek and Egyptian. The sun hung high, blazing down upon the sprawling harbour, where countless vessels bobbed on the glittering waters of the Mediterranean, triremes, grain barges, merchant ships from distant ports, their sails emblazoned with symbols from every corner of the empire.
Among the throng disembarking was Falco, towering and unmistakable even amidst the crowd. His shoulders were hunched slightly, the stiffness in his movements betraying the two arrow wounds he was still recovering from. Yet his immense frame carried him forward with a determination that suggested the pain was merely an inconvenience. Beside him was Sica, his dark eyes scanning everything and everyone, his hands twitching slightly at his sides as though they itched to be holding a blade.
The two men paused as they stepped off the gangplank, the full force of Alexandria's port washing over them. The air was thick with the mingling smells of salt, tar, fish, spices, and sweat. Merchants shouted over one another in a jumble of languages, from Greek to Coptic to Latin, hawking everything from baskets of pomegranates to bolts of dyed silk. Donkeys brayed, sailors argued, and the heavy creak of cartwheels on stone underscored it all.
