“We certainly can’t out run it.”
Marcellus was gauging the distance. The sandstorm was definitely closer.
“Sir we can’t out run it. Our best option is to cover ourselves here and ride out the storm.”
“Cover ourselves? What do you mean?”
“We have to lay our horses down sir and cover their faces and ours as best we can.”
“And the prisoners? What do they cover up with?”
Marcellus glanced at the Egyptians. Hardly any of them were wearing any more than loincloths.”
“Too bad about them.”
“They are carrying Caesar’s treasure. We can’t let them be lost.”
“We won’t lose all of them sir. What we do lose the legionaries will have to make up.”
Marcellus watched the sandstorm. It had got considerably closer.
“I need your decision sir.”
“Get everyone into that gorge.”
“We don’t know where the opening is.”
“Find it.”
Quintus spurred his horse forward. He raced along the top of the ridge, turned at the end and raced back. Then halfway back he saw it. A natural gentle slope leading down to the dried river bed. He whistled using his fingers. Marcellus turned at the sound.
“That’s it! Quintus has found it.”
Marcellus’ officers raced up the caravan on their horses shouting instructions.
Doing their best to avoid panic the legionaries got the entire procession turned around and heading for the gorge.
Then the sun dimmed and the slaves at the rear turned, saw the oncoming terror and panicked. A horse bolted past Marcellus. Its rider being dragged helplessly behind, his body bouncing along the hard track until his head was dashed against a rock leaving a crimson smear. The slaves had dumped the sarcophagus now and were running in all directions screaming to their Gods to save them. Roman soldiers who had been whipping them now threw down their whips and ran, adding to the chaos.
Marcellus’ horse reared onto her hind legs and he fought her under control. He turned her and kicked her in the ribs and dashed for the gorge.
Quintus saw him go and he made to follow but the storm caught him. His horse reared and threw him causing him to land hard on his back. He got to his feet quickly and tried to grab the horse’s reins as it bolted. Then a huge gust of wind almost lifted him off his feet and he bent forward as the sand buffeted his face.
The storm was completely on them now, visibility almost zero. Quintus could see swirling shadows and shapes in the gloom. The screams of despair drowned out by the roar of the maelstrom. He found himself unable to breathe and a new terror gripped him. Slowly he sank to his knees desperately ripping at his toga around his throat, blinded by the sand. He felt the hot touch of death now. The sand in his mouth making him choke. He pitched forward onto his face and rolled onto his back. He opened his eyes one last time. Within minutes he was covered in sand. He felt himself sinking, deeper and deeper and then, he felt no more.
Marcellus raced down into the gorge desperately looking over his shoulder. He brought his horse to a stop. The walls of the gorge climbing over a hundred feet above him.
Had he escaped the storm?
His horse whinnied, foam frothing around her lips. Then he saw an opening in the rocks three quarters of the way up the face.
A small cave!
He got off his mount and scrabbled up the slope. Halfway up he turned to a terrific roar. The dust storm was rushing up the gorge towards him at an incredible speed.
His horse bolted, running past him, her eyes wide with terror.
Marcellus scrabbled up the slope, slipping once on loose rocks and threw himself through the cave opening just as the storm raced past. He felt it pulling at him and he dug in close to the cave wall and hugged it. Twice the power of the storm nearly pulled him back outside but he fought it with all his strength. He managed to move away from the opening, going a little deeper. Inside was pitch black. He had survived for now. Exhausted he collapsed to the ground and was soon in a deep sleep, the sound of the wind howling in his ears.
The first, warm, rays of sun on his face woke him. He opened one eye, the other he was laying on. His mouth was desperately dry. He tried to swallow but had no spit. He tried to spit but couldn’t. Slowly he pushed himself up until he was kneeling. He wiped as much sand as he could from his face. His hair was thick and matted with it. He got to his feet and headed towards the light. Once in the cave entrance the bright morning sun dazzled him. He squinted into it. Its brightness making his eyes water.
The bottom of the ravine was different now. Soft dunes of sand where there were none before.
His horse was down in the gorge waiting for him. He blinked in amazement.
’I’m seeing things’
Then she took a few steps forward and sniffed at a tiny green plant. He let out a laugh and rushed down the slope towards her. He tripped twice but didn’t care. He rushed up to her and grabbed her reins. Her saddle had slipped and he rummaged into a bag and brought out a water skin, pulled out the stopper and drank. He drank some more, spat, glad to be rid of the sand from his mouth and poured some water into his hand and offered it to the horse. She gobbled it up, her whiskers tickling his palm.
“I’m so glad to see you Portia,” he said.
Her normally beautiful chestnut coat was dusty. Her left front knee was caked with dry blood and sand. He cleaned it as best he could to examine it. It wasn’t bad and she was able to put her weight on it. He gave her more water, then drank once more himself. He shook the skin. It was still half full.
“I’d better find survivors and more water and fast,” he said to her.
He went through the other bags on her saddle. He still had the map and his sword. His helmet was nowhere to be seen. He put the water skin back and then taking her reins he mounted her and led her through the new dunes and towards the slope that led up.
At the top he stopped and stared at his surroundings. Nothing was recognisable anymore. The road had gone. He turned three hundred and sixty degrees and saw no-one, nothing. The people that had been seen in the distance were gone, everyone was gone.
’Maybe they survived and left without me’
He knew it was a false hope. There wasn’t a mark on the sand anywhere to be seen.
“It’s all gone,” he said out loud.
He jumped down off his horse and slumped to his knees, sobbing.
“The sarcophagus is lost. Caesar will never forgive me!”
He reached into his tunic and took out his dagger. Then he tore open his tunic and grasping the dagger with one hand over the other he placed the tip against his skin, over his heart.
‘Better this than a slow death’
The wind, as if to torment him, suddenly blew a gust into his face. He closed his eyes to the sand again. He cleared his throat and spat and looked back down to the dagger poised over his heart. Then he looked past it. Something had gotten his attention. The wind had uncovered something red in the sand. He threw the dagger down and began sweeping the sand away from the object. Then he pulled it free.
It was the material from a Roman standard. It was tattered and torn. An image of Caesar in gold and the words IMP CAESAR were all that remained.
Caesar’s standard!
“I have failed you master,” he said to the image on the cloth.
He stared at it for a minute. Then he stood, feeling suddenly stronger. He picked his dagger up, went over to Portia and searched for the map. He stuffed the piece of standard into another pouch. He knelt down again, this time on the map, pinning it open with his knees. He pricked the tip of his finger with the dagger, waited until there was a decent sized blob of blood and then dabbed where he believed his location was next to the gorge.