Dark eagle iv scarab, p.17
Dark Eagle IV: Scarab, page 17
‘Ah, the hero returns!’ said Cassius.
‘How was the palace?’ Decimus added. ‘Was it what you thought it was?’
Falco dropped into a chair, his legs stretched out in front of him, his gold-trimmed toga now creased as it dragged on the floor.
‘Like nothing you have ever seen,’ he said. ‘If the gods lived down here instead of the heavens, that is where they would live.’
‘Actually,’ said sica, ‘the palace was all smiles and luxury, but beneath it, there’s tension. You can feel it. Egypt might still glitter like gold, but it’s held together by strings. The pharaoh might smile, but he won’t act without Rome’s approval. He can’t afford to.’
‘Did you learn anything useful?’ asked Cassius.
‘Not yet,’ said Falco, ‘but I have made a lot of contacts.’ With a flourish, he reached into the folds of his toga and withdrew several pieces of folded parchment, spreading them out on the table.
‘What’s this?’ Decimus asked, leaning closer.
‘Leads,’ said Falco, a broad grin spreading across his face.
Cassius picked up one of the notes, scanning the elegant script. His eyebrows shot up as he read.
‘This isn’t a lead, it’s an invitation. To someone’s bed.’
Falco laughed, shrugging.
‘So? A bed can be just as good a place for information as a council chamber. Sometimes better.’
Decimus picked up another note, his expression equal parts amusement and disbelief. ‘A senator’s wife?’ he asked, glancing at Falco.
‘She was very persistent,’ said Falco with mock innocence.
Cassius rolled his eyes.
‘You collected these like trophies, didn’t you?’
Falco shrugged, unbothered by the jab.
‘Call them opportunities,’ he said. ‘You never know who’s willing to talk after a glass of wine and a few compliments.’
Cassius shook his head in exasperation
‘You’re unbelievable, Falco. Absolutely unbelievable.’
Falco leaned back in his chair, a satisfied smirk on his face.
‘I’m resourceful, Cassius. There’s a difference.’
As the others laughed and shook their heads, Falco’s fingers brushed the inside pocket of his toga, where one piece of parchment remained hidden, the note from Zarah. The others didn’t need to know about that one and though he smiled along with their humorous jabs, his mind was elsewhere, replaying her words and the promise of what awaited him the next night.
----
Chapter Twenty-Two
Alexandria
The oil lamp flickered weakly on Seneca’s desk, casting long shadows across the scrolls and parchment strewn in chaotic disarray. He rubbed his temples, his eyes burning from hours of reading and rereading reports that offered little more than frustration.
Quotas unmet, productivity faltering. Always the same vague excuses, sickness, accidents, or, more troublingly, whispers of supernatural intervention. The word itself appeared over and over, scribbled in different hands: omens, curses, spirits.
Seneca exhaled sharply, tossing a quill onto the desk. Superstitious nonsense, he thought, though the repetition nagged at him like a persistent thorn. He had scoured every line for a thread to follow, some connection that could explain why certain estates were failing their quotas. But there was no pattern, no common denominator. Nothing but stories of shadows in the night, strange sounds, and workers fleeing in terror.
He leaned back in his chair, staring at the low ceiling, his mind churning with possibilities before a knock at the door startled him from his thoughts.
‘Enter,’ he called, his voice sharper than intended.
The door creaked open, and a young slave stepped inside, his head bowed. In his hands was a small, folded note.
‘This came for you, dominus,’ the slave said softly, placing the note on the desk before retreating as quietly as he had come.
Seneca sat up, his brow furrowing as he reached for the note. He paused, lifting it to his nose. The faint, unmistakable scent of perfume lingered on the parchment, light but deliberate. His pulse quickened.
He unfolded the note, his fingers unusually hesitant. The lamp’s weak flame illuminated the words, written in a delicate hand.
‘Come straight away. A guide waits at the rear door of the palace.’
The message was short, almost cryptic, but its intent was clear. He glanced at the door, half-expecting the slave to return, but the corridor outside was silent.
Seneca stood, turning the note over in his hands as though it might yield some hidden meaning. There was no signature, no further explanation. But he knew who it was from.
He had thought of little else since their last meeting. The memory of her lingered like the scent on the note, her voice and laughter slipping into his thoughts at the most inconvenient moments.
But he had been told in no uncertain terms to keep his distance, to avoid complications. It was sound advice, pragmatic, logical. And yet...
He found himself gripping the note tighter, his gaze drifting to the cloak draped over the back of his chair. He knew he should ignore it and focus on the task at hand. But the pull was stronger than reason, an irresistible gravity that left him pacing the room. Ten minutes passed. Then he stopped, his decision made.
Snatching his cloak, Seneca threw it over his shoulders and tucked the note into his belt. He extinguished the lamp, plunging the room into darkness, and made his way down silent corridors towards the rear of the building. Once there, he hesitated for a fraction of a second, the governor’s warning surfacing one last time in his mind, and then, sweeping all doubts aside, he walked through, closing the door behind him. He was committed.
----
Outside the guide stood in the shadow of the palace’s rear gate, the hood of his thawb pulled low over his face. When Seneca stepped into view, the man straightened and took a step forward.
‘Dominus,’ he murmured, bowing his head slightly before gesturing for Seneca to follow.
The two walked in silence, the only sound the faint crunch of their sandals against the packed earth. The path wound through the outskirts of the city, past quiet alleys and shuttered homes, until the air began to carry the briny tang of the sea. The guide led Seneca down a narrow trail to a small dock, its timbers weathered and creaking faintly in the night breeze. A small boat waited there, its hull dark against the lapping waves.
The guide climbed in first, turning to gesture for Seneca to follow. Seneca stopped short, his instincts bristling. His eyes swept the scene, the empty dock, the gently rocking boat, the faint outline of the men at the oars. The guide said nothing, only watched him with quiet expectancy.
‘Where are we going?’ Seneca asked, his voice edged with caution.
The guide didn’t answer, instead nodding toward the boat.
Seneca knew he should turn back, but something about the night, the whisper of the sea, the glint of moonlight on the water, the faint scent of perfume still lingering in his mind, kept him rooted. With a sharp exhale, he stepped into the boat, his hand gripping the edge as it swayed beneath him.
The guide gave a soft command, and the two men at the oars began to row, the faint creak of the oars the only sound breaking the silence. Seneca sat stiffly, his eyes fixed on the horizon, but his unease began to grow as the shoreline faded into the distance.
Seneca’s nerves prickled as the land disappeared behind them, the open sea stretching out in every direction. But then, through the gloom, he saw it, a tiny island, rising like a jewel from the water. Its outline was faint at first, but as they drew closer, it became clear that it was no ordinary island.
Thousands of candles and lanterns lit the rocky slopes, their golden light dancing across the water like stars fallen to earth. The effect was mesmerizing, and for a moment, Seneca’s tension eased, replaced by quiet awe.
The boat glided to the island’s dock, a small but intricately carved structure that seemed impossibly delicate against the rugged rock. The guide disembarked first, turning to gesture for Seneca to follow once more.
He hesitated, his sandals perched on the edge of the boat, but the enchanting glow of the island pulled at him like a tide. With a nod, he stepped onto the dock, the wood firm beneath his feet.
The guide pointed towards narrow path lined with candles, their flickering flames illuminating the stone steps that wound upward.
At the top of the path stood a small arbour, its roof supported by delicate wooden beams entwined with vines, open on one side to face the sea.
Seneca walked around to the open side, the breeze brushing against his face. He stopped, his breath catching in his chest as he took in the sight before him.
Callista lay reclining on a sumptuous bed draped in fine silks, the fabric shimmering faintly in the candlelight. The bed itself was low and wide, piled with pillows of vibrant colours, deep purples, rich golds, and soft greens. Around her, freshly cut flowers spilled from ornate vases, their petals scattered across the bed and floor in a display of indulgent beauty.
She was dressed in a gown of sheer, semi-transparent silk that clung to her form, revealing just enough to tease without exposing too much. The fabric seemed to ripple like water as she shifted slightly, reclining with effortless grace. Her dark hair fell loosely over her shoulders, its soft waves catching the light as if kissed by the glow of the lanterns.
In her hand, Callista held a crystal goblet, and she swirled the golden wine gently, the faintest smile gracing her lips as her eyes locked onto his.
‘Seneca,’ she said. ‘You got my note.’ Her smile widened, fully aware of the effect she was having. There was confidence in her gaze, a knowing look that seemed to pierce through his composed exterior and unearth something deeper. She tilted her head slightly, the gesture inviting and utterly disarming.
‘Come,’ she said simply, her voice laced with promise.
For a moment, Seneca stood frozen, caught in the spell of her presence. The combination of her beauty, the setting, and the intoxicating scent of the oils left him uncharacteristically unsure of himself. He approached slowly, his sandals brushing against the scattered petals on the ground, his eyes never leaving hers.
As he neared, Callista sat up, propping herself against the pillows with effortless elegance. She reached for a nearby carafe, the crystal catching the candlelight in dazzling bursts, and poured a measure of the golden wine into a second goblet. She held it out to him, her fingers brushing his as he took it.
‘To moments worth remembering,’ she said softly, her voice carrying an almost hypnotic quality.
Seneca raised his glass, his fingers tightening slightly around the cool crystal. He knew, even as the first sip of the sweet wine touched his lips, that this moment would stay with him for the rest of his life. Finally, she broke the silence, her voice as smooth as the silk that adorned her.
‘Well,’ she said, tilting her head slightly, a playful smile curling at her lips. ‘What do you think of my special place? I spend a lot of time here alone. You are my first…visitor.’
Seneca took a moment to respond, his eyes flicking briefly to the shimmering sea beyond the arbour before returning to her. He set the goblet down carefully on a low table beside the bed.
‘It’s... extraordinary,’ he said honestly, his voice quieter than usual. He gestured to the sea, the glowing lanterns and carefully nurtured cascading vines grown in pots of soil brought from the banks of the Nile. I’ve never seen anything like it.’
Her smile widened slightly, and she leaned back into the pillows with a languid grace.
‘Good,’ she murmured. ‘I’ve gone to great lengths to make it so.’
‘It’s more than just beautiful,’ Seneca added, ‘It feels... untouchable. As though it’s outside of the world.’
Callista’s eyes sparkled at his words. She raised her goblet to her lips, taking another sip before speaking.
‘That’s precisely what it is,’ she said. ‘A sanctuary, free from the noise and expectations of the world. Here, there is no Rome, no Egypt, no governors, no rules.’ She looked at him over the rim of her glass, her expression unreadable. ‘Only what we choose to bring with us.’
Her words hung in the air, delicate yet laden with meaning. Seneca’s brow furrowed slightly, his mind turning over the weight of them.
‘And what is it you choose to bring here?’ he asked quietly.
Callista set her goblet aside, and leaned forward slightly, her dark hair falling over one shoulder.
‘Moments,’ she said simply. ‘Moments worth living, worth remembering.’
For a moment, the weight of her words pressed on Seneca’s chest. He was a man of duty, always calculating, always bound to the expectations of Rome. But here, under the glow of the lanterns and with her eyes holding his, he felt untethered, drawn into a world far removed from the one he knew.
‘And now,’ she said softly, her voice drawing him back, ‘I’ve chosen to bring you.’
Seneca opened his mouth, but no words came. For once, his sharp mind found itself adrift, unmoored by the intensity of her presence.
Callista’s smile deepened, fully aware of the effect she was having. She reached out, her fingers brushing lightly against his wrist, the touch sending a ripple through him.
Despite the voice in the back of his mind, the cautious, calculating voice that always guided him, he let himself fall into her embrace.
Callista drew him closer, her breath warm against his cheek, her scent intoxicating as jasmine and honey mingled with the salty air of the sea. The vines around the arbour swayed gently in the night breeze, the flicker of the candles throwing shifting patterns of light across their entwined figures.
Time lost all meaning. The worries of the world, the demands of duty, the tension of his mission, the weight of Rome itself, dissolved as they gave themselves wholly to each other. Their passion was unrestrained, a raw expression that swept them both away, leaving nothing but the heat of their bodies and the rhythm of their breaths.
When it was over, they lay together on the bed, the soft silk sheets tangled beneath them. Callista’s fingers traced idle patterns on Seneca’s chest, her head resting lightly on his shoulder. For the first time in years, he felt truly at peace.
Sleep claimed him quickly, exhaustion and contentment washing over him like a tide. Callista’s arms held him close as his breathing slowed, and soon the only sounds were the faint lapping of the waves against the rocky shore and the rustling of the vines.
----
The hours passed in silence, the night stretching on as the stars wheeled overhead. But just before dawn, the tranquillity shattered.
Seneca bolted upright, his body drenched in sweat, his chest heaving. His eyes were wide, wild with terror, as his screams tore through the stillness of the early morning.
The sound echoed over the dark expanse of the sea, startling the birds in their nests along the rocky cliffs. The peaceful glow of the candles now felt sharp and jarring, their flickering light casting strange, dancing shadows that seemed to close in around him.
Callista jumped beside him.
‘Seneca,’ she said gasped, ‘what is it? What’s wrong?’
But Seneca didn’t respond. His hands clutched at the silk sheets as he stared out toward the horizon, his face pale and stricken, as though he had seen something no mortal man was meant to see.
----
Chapter Twenty-Three
Pselchis.
Marcus stood at the top of the watchtower, his silhouette outlined against the deepening hues of the late afternoon sky. His hands rested on the rough wooden rail, his sharp eyes scanning the horizon. The air was still, save for the faint murmur of voices and the occasional clatter of boots from below.
Moments later, the sound of footsteps on the ladder broke his reverie and he glanced over his shoulder to see the Optio, climbing into view.
‘You sent for me, Centurio?’ said Tullus, stepping onto the platform.
Marcus nodded and gestured for Tullus to join him at the rail. They stood side by side, staring out over the rocky expanse that stretched beyond the fort. The silence between them lingered for a moment before Marcus spoke.
‘The men are improving,’ he said. ‘Their drills are sharper, and their discipline is holding. That’s your doing.’
Tullus blinked, glancing at his commander. Praise was rare from Marcus, and his tone carried an unusual weight.
‘Thank you, Centurio,’ he said cautiously, sensing something beneath the surface.
Marcus turned to him briefly.
‘You’ve done well, Tullus. The men trust you. They follow you. That’s important.’
Tullus frowned, his brow furrowing.
‘I appreciate that, Centurio. But... what’s this about?’
‘The unit is growing stronger and under your guidance, it will fare well. But I... I have to go.’
‘Go?’ Tullus repeated, incredulous. ‘Go where?’
‘Out there,’ he said simply, nodding over the palisade. ‘There’s something I must do.’
Tullus frowned, his confusion deepening.
‘My lord, if this is about the caravan, we can send a detachment.’
Marcus shook his head.
‘No. This is something I must do myself.’
‘Then I’ll go with you,’ Tullus offered without hesitation.
Marcus allowed himself the faintest smile before placing a firm hand on Tullus’s shoulder.
‘No. You’re needed here. The men need you. I trust you to keep them together, to keep them strong. If I don’t return, send a message to the fort at Syene and tell them everything that has happened here. They’ll send a replacement in due course.’
‘But why? What aren’t you telling me?’
Marcus stepped past him, the ladder creaking underfoot as he began his descent. He paused halfway, glancing back at Tullus.
‘Don’t worry about me,’ he said, ‘I’m used to this sort of thing. Oh, and I will need a horse.’
And with that, he disappeared below, leaving Tullus standing alone on the watchtower. He turned his gaze back to the direction Marcus had pointed, his mind racing with questions. What in Hades is going on?
