Dark eagle iv scarab, p.1
Dark Eagle IV: Scarab, page 1
Dark Eagle – Book V
Scarab
by
K. M. Ashman
Copyright K. M. Ashman – January 2025
All rights are reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the copyright owner. All characters depicted within this publication are fictitious, and any resemblance to any real person, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
----
Also by K. M. Ashman
The Brotherhood
Templar Steel
Templar Stone
Templar Blood
Templar Fury
Templar Glory
Templar Legacy
Templar Loyalty
The India Summers Mysteries
The Vestal Conspiracies
The Treasures of Suleiman
The Mummies of the Reich
The Tomb Builders
The Exploratores
Dark Eagle
The Hidden
Veteranus
Scarab
The Wraith
The Roman Chronicles
The Fall of Britannia
The Rise of Caratacus
The Wrath of Boudicca
The Medieval Sagas
Blood of the Cross
In Shadows of Kings
Sword of Liberty
Ring of Steel
The Blood of Kings
A Land Divided
A Wounded Realm
Rebellion’s Forge
The Warrior Princess
The Blade Bearer
The Road to Hastings
The Challenges of a King
The Promises of a King
The Fate of a King
The Otherworld Series
The Legacy Protocol
The Seventh God
The Last Citadel
Savage Eden
Vampire
Coming soon
Seeds of Empire
Table of Contents
Map
Character List
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Epilogue
Author's Notes
Next Book
Character Names
The Occultum
SenecaRoman Tribune
MarcusRoman Centurion
BrennusBatavian Auxiliary
SicaTurkish Assassin
FalcoEx Gladiator
TalorcanBelgic Guide
CassiusExploratore
Other Roman Characters
VeteranusRetired Exploratore Veteran
DecimusRetired Explorator Veteran
RavenTraitorous Ex-member of the Occultum
LepidusSenator in charge of the Occultum
PostumusGovernor of Egypt
TullusOptio at the fort in Pselchis
Egypt
Circa 43AD
Prologue
Alexandria – AD 43
The capital of Egypt, Alexandria, unfurled along the shimmering blue expanse of the Mediterranean like a mosaic of marble and ambition. Founded by Alexander the Great, it had grown into one of the greatest cities of the ancient world, a place where the monumental collided with the ephemeral. It was here that Rome's dominion over Egypt was most tangible, yet Alexandria maintained a soul of its own, neither fully Roman nor wholly Egyptian, but something in between.
The city’s famed harbours bustled with activity as the grain fleets prepared for departure. Merchants shouted in a cacophony of tongues, Latin mingling with Greek, Aramaic, and the fluid cadences of the Nile’s native dialects. Masts rose like a forest of pines from the docks, their sails painted with the emblems of trading houses from across the empire. The salt-laden air carried the scent of spices from Arabia, the tang of freshly caught fish, and the earthy undertones of grain being loaded by the ton.
At the heart of the city stood the Great Lighthouse, the Pharos of Alexandria, its white stone tower glinting in the afternoon sun. A marvel of engineering, it guided ships safely through the treacherous waters of the delta, its flames visible for miles. Sailors whispered that the gods themselves watched over the beacon, ensuring the city’s prosperity.
The streets of Alexandria radiated outward from the Canopic Way, a grand boulevard lined with colonnades and bustling with life. Roman soldiers patrolled in tight formations, their polished Lorica Segmentata catching the light, while citizens darted between them, their robes flaring in the breeze. Public baths and marketplaces teemed with humanity, a mix of merchants, scholars, labourers, and beggars, all jostling for space and shouting to be heard above the din.
The cultural heart of the city lay further inland: the Library of Alexandria, or what remained of it. Though much of the collection had been lost in earlier fires, scholars still roamed its echoing halls, poring over scrolls and debating philosophy in quiet alcoves. The library symbolized the city’s enduring hunger for knowledge, a beacon of intellect even under Rome’s yoke.
Yet the true power in Alexandria resided in the Roman governor’s palace, a sprawling complex overlooking the harbour. The governor’s residence was a fortress of bureaucracy, its marble halls crowded with scribes and officials managing the empire’s lifeblood: the grain shipments destined for Rome. Statues of Caesar Augustus and the reigning emperor, Claudius, stood sentinel over the entrance, reminders of who truly ruled here.
Despite the Roman presence, Egypt’s ancient soul thrummed just beneath the surface. The temples of Isis and Serapis remained hubs of devotion, their incense-laden courtyards filled with petitioners seeking the gods’ favour. Priests in flowing robes moved with quiet purpose, their chants mingling with the cries of street vendors and the distant calls of gulls.
To the east of the city, the Nile stretched in all its majesty, a ribbon of life winding through the desert. From its fertile banks came the wealth that sustained Alexandria and, by extension, Rome itself. It was said that whoever controlled the Nile controlled the fate of empires, a truth etched into the very stones of the city.
As the sun dipped toward the horizon, Alexandria came alive with a different kind of energy. The wealthy reclined in their villas, hosting feasts where wine flowed like water and the strains of lyres and flutes filled the air. In the darker corners of the city, shadows flickered as merchants struck clandestine deals and whispered of uprisings that never came to fruition.
It was a city of contrasts: wealth and poverty, Roman order and Egyptian mysticism, the ancient and the modern. It stood as both the jewel of the empire and the stinking underbelly of Rome’s opulence, its undeniable beauty masking the struggles of the poor simmering beneath.
And it was here that the fires of rebellion kindled, a weak yet growing flame of hope, and fear, and anticipation, as those that navigated the streets of power with such ease, colluded with the men of the dark. The time was getting near and soon the tyrannical yoke of Roman oppression would be cast aside, and the country of Aegyptus returned to the true leaders of the people, the old gods. To Ra, Osiris and Isis, and to Horus, Anubis and Thoth, each important deities in the pantheon of Egyptian gods, and each waiting patiently to be restored to the greatness they had enjoyed for millennia. The time was coming, and there was nothing the romans could do about it.
----
Chapter One
The Mare Nostrum – AD 43
The grain ship Fortuna, its hull laden with precious cargo, creaked and groaned as it cut through the rolling swells of the Mediterranean. Its oaken timbers, bleached and cracked from years of salt and sun, carried the lifeblood of Rome: Alexandrian grain, destined to feed the hungry masses clamouring for their daily bread. The square sail, patched in places but still serviceable, bellied under a steady easterly breeze, while the rhythmic plunge of long, sturdy oars beneath her reinforced hull kept her true on her course toward Ostia.
The ship’s master, a wiry Greek named Demetrios, stood at the stern with one hand on the tiller and the other shading his eyes against the glare of the late afternoon sun. His sharp gaze swept the horizon, but his thoughts lingered on the dangers that plagued these waters. Pirates were no longer the only menace; rumours of ships vanishing without trace or found adrift with no crew had spread fear among the Mediterranean’s mariners.
High above, the lookout perched precariously in the swaying crow’s nest let out a sudden cry of a
larm.
‘Smoke, my lord. To the east!’
Demetrios stiffened, his head snapping up to where the man pointed. Against the vivid blue of the sky, a distant dark plume curled and twisted, an ominous smudge rising from the shimmering expanse of the sea. The crew, hardened sailors and slaves alike turned their faces to the horizon with unease. They were in the middle of the sea, and there should be no smoke. Demetrios turned to his first mate, a burly Thracian named Aros.
‘Change course,’ he said quietly, ‘let’s see what burns.’
The Fortuna angled toward the smoke, her oars carving the waves with precision. As they drew closer, the source of the smoke revealed itself, a galley, its once-proud form now blackened and crippled, wallowing in the swell. Flames licked hungrily at the remnants of its scorched sails, but the fires along its deck seemed to have subsided, leaving only charred wreckage and tendrils of smoke that stung the nostrils as the grain ship approached.
Demetrios swore under his breath. The vessel was unmistakably Roman, its sturdy construction and reinforced hull marking it as a war galley. Scars along the prow spoke of battles fought and won, and its bronze ram, shaped like a snarling wolf, glinted dully in the fading light. But there was no sign of life aboard, no frantic figures battling the flames, no desperate cries for aid. Only the groan of wood and the crackle of dying embers.
‘By the gods,’ Aros muttered as they neared. ‘What could’ve done this?’
Demetrios said nothing, his hand tightening on the tiller.
‘Hold steady,’ he ordered the rowers. ‘Wait until the fire’s out before we get any closer.’
The crew obeyed, their eyes fixed on the smouldering wreck. The Fortuna circled warily, the oarsmen straining against the currents to keep her at a safe distance, until the only evidence of the blaze was a scorched tangle of rigging hanging limply from the mast. Finally, Demetrios gave the order to approach.
‘Ready grappling hooks,’ he called. ‘And stay sharp, whatever did this might still be nearby.’
The rowers brought the Fortuna alongside the crippled galley with practised skill, their oars folding like wings as the two ships kissed gently in the swell. Hooks flew and lines tightened, drawing the vessels together as Aros and a small team scrambled aboard the galley, their footsteps kicking up the ash on the scorched deck.
The scene that met them was one of desolation. Blackened timbers jutted skyward like broken bones, and the acrid stench of smoke and charred flesh hung heavy in the air.
Demetrios’ unease deepened as he watched his men search the ruined vessel. The sea was calm, the horizon empty. Yet the feeling of being watched lingered, a prickling at the base of his neck. Something was wrong. Something terrible had happened here.
Aros and his team advanced cautiously across the galley’s deck, their sandals crunching on charred splinters and scorched debris. The faint creak of timbers and the rhythmic slap of the waves were the only sounds, an eerie counterpoint to the grisly tableau that greeted them.
The bodies of Roman mariners lay scattered everywhere, but something was wrong. Aros had seen dead men before, hundreds of them, and had even taken part in several battles, but he had never seen anything like this. The bodies, their expressions now frozen in death, did not show rage, or terror, or fury. There were no broken bones, or torn clothing or scattered weapons, there was nothing but dead men who had seemingly just laid down and died.
‘Keep your nerve,’ Aros growled. ‘Whatever happened here, it’s done. Focus on finding anything useful, or anyone still alive.’
The men nodded reluctantly, spreading out to search, their makeshift weapons clutched tightly as though they might ward off whatever horrors had visited the galley.
Demetrios watched from the Fortuna, his lean frame taut with tension. His knuckles whitened on the tiller as he shouted across the narrowing gap between the ships.
‘What do you see, Aros?’
‘Death,’ came the grim reply. Aros knelt by a corpse, rolling it over with care. His grimace deepened as he inspected the man’s wounds, a single slice to throat, opening his jugular.
The search yielded little beyond the grim evidence of slaughter. The ship’s stores had been raided; amphorae lay shattered, their contents spilled and wasted. Personal belongings were scattered and trampled, but some crates of military supplies, javelins and spare shields, remained untouched, as though the attackers cared only for speed.
‘Anything of value?’ Demetrios called again. He felt the eyes of his own crew upon him, their unease mirroring his own. Mariners who plied the grain routes were accustomed to danger - storms, pirates, and reefs, but this was something else entirely.
Aros stood slowly, scanning the deck one last time.
‘Nothing alive, Captain,’ he said, louder now. ‘And no sign of what killed them, only that they all died the same way.’
A sense of dread settled over the grain ship’s crew as the team returned to the railing. Their faces were pale, their movements quick and nervous as they swung back onto the Fortuna.
‘We’ve seen enough,’ Aros said grimly as he climbed aboard. ‘Whoever, or whatever, did this is gone, but their handiwork speaks for itself.’
Demetrios nodded sharply, his gaze fixed on the dark stains that marked his men’s sandals. He didn’t need to ask for more details. He had seen the terror in their eyes.
‘All oars to the water,’ he barked. ‘We leave this place now. Ready the sail.’
The crew scrambled to obey, their movements fuelled by desperation. But as the Fortuna turned away from the ruined galley, Demetrios couldn’t shake the sensation of unseen eyes still watching, lurking just beyond the horizon.
----
As the Fortuna reached a distance from the crippled galley, the crew worked in uneasy silence, their eyes darting to the horizon as though expecting an unseen enemy to appear. At the stern, Demetrios remained at his post, one hand still gripping the tiller while his other rested on the pommel of the small dagger at his belt, a pitiful comfort against the kind of menace that could slaughter an entire Roman war galley’s crew.
Aros approached, his broad shoulders hunched and his weathered face grim. The stench of smoke and blood still clung to his tunic, and his steps felt heavy with the weight of what he had seen. He climbed the few steps to the captain’s platform and stood there for a moment, watching the smoking wreck recede into the distance before speaking.
‘What is it, Aros?’ said Demetrios, ‘spit it out.’
‘They were all dead, captain,’ said Aros. ‘Every last one of them. No sign of a fight. No enemy bodies. No scattered weapons or signs of a struggle. Just… dead men lying in pools of their own blood. It’s as if they didn’t even fight back, they just stood there and… let it happen.’
‘That’s impossible,’ said the captain. ‘A Roman galley’s crew is disciplined, trained to fight and die on their feet if need be. Even if they were caught by surprise, they wouldn’t go down without a struggle.’
‘Exactly,’ Aros agreed. ‘But this… this wasn’t natural. It felt wrong. Like something otherworldly.’
Demetrios cast a sharp glance at his first mate.
‘Watch your tongue, Aros,’ he snapped. ‘We’re sailors, not storytellers. Don’t let superstition infect the men.’
‘I’m not trying to scare them,’ Aros said, holding the captain’s gaze. ‘But you saw their faces when we came back aboard. They felt it too, the wrongness of it. Something terrible happened on that ship, and we’re fools if we don’t take it seriously.’
‘Double the watch tonight,’ said the captain. ‘No one sleeps more than four hours, and I want two men at every station. If they see anything at all, they sound the alarm.’
Aros nodded and turned to carry out the order, but Demetrios stopped him with a hand on his arm.
‘And Aros,’ he said, ‘keep the men calm. We’ve got a long journey ahead, and I don’t need them jumping at shadows.’
The first mate gave a grim smile.
‘Aye, Captain. Though I’ll wager it’s not shadows they fear.’
As Aros descended to the deck, Demetrios stayed where he was, his gaze lingering on the distant plume of smoke. He couldn’t shake the gnawing feeling in his gut, a sense that they had stumbled into something far beyond their understanding. And he for one wanted to get as far as he possibly could away from it.
----
Chapter Two
Egypt
