Dark eagle iv scarab, p.24
Dark Eagle IV: Scarab, page 24
‘We need to move them,’ shouted Seneca, ‘now!’
Falco grunted in response, hefting Cassius upright with one arm slung over his broad shoulders. Seneca did the same with Decimus, dragging him free of the mist and over to the door. The sound of the priest’s manic laughter echoed behind them, a chilling counterpoint to the growing hiss of the mist as it spread like a living thing, climbing ever higher. Falco reached the door first, his free hand once again slamming against the unyielding stone. The sound reverberated through the chamber, each blow desperate and furious.
‘Someone open the damned door!’ he roared, his voice nearly cracking with the effort.
Seneca joined him, propping Decimus against the wall while he pounded on the door with the hilt of his pugio.
‘Sica!’ he shouted, his voice carrying over the priest’s cackling. ‘Sica, we’re in here!’
The mist climbed higher, licking at their necks.
Falco slammed his fist against the door again, panic creeping into his voice.
‘Sica! If you’re out there, open the bloody door!’
Just as the mist began to curl around their throats, a metallic sound echoed from corridor beyond and the door slowly opened, revealing Sica standing above the corpse of the priest who had escaped a few minutes earlier. He looked at them with a calm that only years of violence could bring, a bloody knife still held in his hand.
Falco didn’t hesitate, dragging Cassius through the opening without a word. Seneca followed close behind, pulling Decimus with him as the oppressive mist swirled just inches behind them, its level lowering as it crept into the corridor.
Sica stepped aside, letting them through. Once past, he gripped the edge of the door, ready to slam it shut.
‘Wait!’ Falco gasped, and thrusting Cassius into Sica’s arms, turned to return to the chamber.
‘Falco!’ Seneca shouted, ‘what are you doing?’ But Falco was already gone, disappearing back into the swirling mist.
For several agonizing seconds, Seneca and Sica stood frozen, their strained breathing the only sound breaking the silence. Then, as suddenly as he had vanished, Falco reappeared and draped over his broad shoulders was the limp body of the unconscious priest.
Sica’s jaw dropped in disbelief.
‘What are you doing?’ he demanded. ‘You should have left him there!’
‘None of us have any idea what’s going on here,’ growled Falco, ‘but this bastard does. He knows something and I’ll be damned if I leave him to die in that hell without finding out what it is.’
Seneca and Sica exchanged a stunned glance. Falco’s reasoning was sound, unexpectedly so. It was rare to see such calculated thinking from the usually brash and impulsive soldier. Seneca gave a curt nod.
‘Fine. Let’s move before something worse comes out of that place.’
Together, the group hurried back up the narrow corridor, Seneca and Sica supporting the groggy forms of Cassius and Decimus while Falco carried the priest’s body like a sack of grain. They burst out into the street, the cool night air washing over them like a lifeline. The faint torchlight from the surrounding buildings cast long shadows, and the street was eerily empty, the temple’s earlier visitors long gone.
Leaning against the far wall of the alley stood the beggar, his wiry frame shrouded in shadows. His presence was as quiet and unobtrusive as it had been earlier, yet his eyes gleamed with curiosity as they fixed on the strange procession emerging from the temple. He straightened slightly but said nothing, simply watching as the group sorted themselves out, catching their breath and finding their bearings.
Eventually, the men moved past him without a word, their focus on putting distance between themselves and the cursed temple. Falco took several paces before something pulled him to a halt. He froze mid-step, then slowly, he turned, his gaze falling on the beggar.
The beggar straightened further, his back no longer touching the wall. Their eyes locked in a moment of silent recognition. There was no malice, no threat, just a quiet understanding that passed between them.
‘Do you still have the ring?’ asked Falco.
The beggar hesitated briefly before nodding. He reached into the folds of his tattered cloak and produced the ring, holding it up so it glinted faintly in the torchlight.
Falco stared at it for a moment, memories flashing through his mind like fragments of a half-forgotten dream.
‘It was given to me by Emperor Gaius,’ he said, his voice quieter now, almost reflective. ‘It’s now yours. Do with it what you will.’
The beggar’s eyes widened slightly, but he said nothing, clutching the ring tightly in his calloused hand. Falco didn’t wait for a response, and, with a curt nod, he turned away, his broad shoulders disappearing into the shadows as he followed Seneca and the others out of the alley.
The beggar remained where he was, staring at the ring in his hand. His fingers tightened around it, a flicker of something indescribable passing over his face. Then, with a glance toward the retreating figures, he slipped the ring back into his cloak and melted into the night.
----
Chapter Thirty-Two
Alexandria
The men of the Occultum gathered once more in the rented rooms near the docks. Cassius and Decimus sat slumped in chairs by the window, their faces pale and gaunt, their recovery slow despite the time that had passed. The ordeal in the temple had left its mark, though neither man spoke of it.
Falco paced the room like a caged animal, his footsteps a steady rhythm on the wooden floor. His tunic was rumpled, and his face was taut with frustration, the silence eating away at him. He stopped by the table long enough to pour himself another cup of wine, then resumed his restless movements, the drink barely touched as he muttered under his breath.
The others said nothing, their weariness matched by their shared unease. They had been holed up in the rented rooms for over a week, waiting, always waiting. Waiting for Seneca to return from the governor’s palace. Waiting for a plan. Waiting for answers.
The sound of the door opening shattered the heavy quiet and Falco stopped mid-step, his head snapping toward the entrance as Seneca strode in.
Seneca closed the door behind him and crossing the room without a word, picked up the jug of wine and poured himself a cup, the liquid sloshing faintly as it filled the cup to the brim. The others watched him in uneasy silence, exchanging wary glances, but Seneca made no effort to fill the gap. Instead, he placed the cup down carefully, the faint clink of ceramic against wood the only sound.
‘Well?’ he said finally, his sharp eyes cutting through the room. ‘What have you learned?’
‘Nothing,’ muttered Cassius ‘The bastard refuses to talk.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘Locked in a room below a house down the alley,’ said Cassius. ‘Nobody will find him there.’
‘We can’t keep him much longer,’ said Decimus. ‘If he doesn’t talk soon, we’ll have to let him go.’
‘Leave me alone with him for an hour,’ said Sica. ‘I’ll make him talk.’
‘You can’t just kill a priest, Sica,’ said Cassius.
‘Not kill him,’ said Sica, lowering his gaze to meet Cassius. ‘Just cut him a little. You’d be amazed how much truth is hidden under the skin.’
‘Enough,’ Seneca snapped, cutting through the tension. ‘This isn’t a game, Sica. After what happened in that temple, we know something is going on, something dangerous. We need answers.’
‘Do you think we don’t know that?’ said Cassius. ‘The priest is useless, Seneca. He just sits there, muttering riddles and smiling like he knows something we don’t.’
Seneca rubbed his temples, clearly restraining his frustration.
‘There’s possibly no direct link between what’s happening in that temple and the chaos spreading across Egypt,’ he said, ‘but it’s the only thread we have, and we’re running out of time.’ He reached into his robes and pulled out a scroll, placing it on the table. ‘This came from Rome,’ he said. ‘From Lepidus himself. The emperor is getting impatient. If we don’t uncover the truth behind this whole situation soon, we’ll be recalled.’
Falco frowned.
‘Recalled to Rome?’
Seneca shook his head.
‘No. Reassigned. Scattered across the empire. The emperor has made it clear to Lepidus that if we fail, we’ll be sent to different legions, different postings.’
The room fell into a heavy silence, the weight of Seneca’s words sinking in.
‘And what does that mean for the Occultum?’ Cassius asked quietly.
‘It means we’re finished,’ said Seneca. ‘The Occultum will be disbanded. No more missions, no more freedom. We’ll become just another group of soldiers, scattered to the winds to rot in whatever backwater posting the Senate deems fit.’
Falco slammed his fist on the table, his frustration boiling over.
‘Damn it, Seneca, we’re doing everything we can! What else are we supposed to do? If this priest won’t talk…’
‘He’ll talk,’ Seneca interrupted, his tone icy. ‘We just need to find the right lever. Everyone has something they fear. Even zealots.’
Falco broke the silence, the scrape of his boots against the wooden floor jarring in the stillness. He stood abruptly, his shoulders rigid with barely contained frustration.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Seneca.
‘To break the bastard’s knees,’ he said.
‘Falco,’ shouted Seneca, ‘Sit down.’
Falco froze, his fists clenching at his sides. For a long moment, he stared at the door, his broad shoulders heaving with barely suppressed rage. His knuckles whitened as he ground his teeth, his body coiled like a predator ready to strike. The others watched in tense silence, the air in the room thick with unease.
Finally, with a slow, deliberate motion he turned away from the door and crossed the room to drop heavily back into his seat.
Seneca’s sharp gaze lingered on him for a moment before he spoke.
‘Good. Now sit still and listen.’ He turned his attention to Cassius and Decimus. ‘You two,’ he said, ‘tell us again what happened to you in that temple.’
Cassius shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his brow creasing.
‘We already told you.’
‘Tell us again,’ Seneca interrupted. ‘We need to be sure we haven’t missed anything.’
Cassius shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his hands clasping and unclasping as he tried to gather his thoughts. Decimus sat silently beside him, his pale face cast in shadow, his expression unreadable. Finally, Cassius cleared his throat, his voice strained.
‘It was... the mist,’ he began, his brow furrowed as he stared at the floor. ‘I remember it rising from the scarab. Pale, like smoke, curling and twisting across the floor. He hesitated, glancing briefly at Decimus, before continuing. ‘There was fear,’ he admitted, his voice quiet. ‘Not just mine but everyone else in the coffins, I could see them. They were awake, just like me. Most of them looked terrified, but there were others...’ He faltered, his face tightening at the memory. ‘Some of them were smiling. Like they wanted to be there. Like they... expected something.’
The words sent a shiver through the room, but Seneca’s sharp gaze remained fixed on Cassius.
‘What else?’ he prompted.
Cassius rubbed his temples.
‘There was a sound. Someone crying. A man, in one of the coffins nearby. He wasn’t screaming, just weeping quietly. The room was silent except for that. I don’t know why, but it made everything worse. Like it was pulling at my nerves, and then… the priests came.’
‘The priests?’ asked Lepidus.
‘They were dressed in black,’ continued Cassius, ‘like shadows. Each of them carried a bowl. I thought they might be offerings, but...’ He trailed off, shaking his head.
‘Go on,’ Seneca urged.
‘Each priest went to a coffin,’ said Cassius. ‘They didn’t speak. They just stood there, waiting. Then a gong sounded, loud, like it came from deep within the earth. And that’s when they removed the lids, lifting the bowls up to our faces.’
‘What was inside them?’
Cassius swallowed hard, his face creasing in discomfort.
‘Burning wads of something,’ he said. ‘Tiny bundles of plants that gave off small wisps of smoke. I tried to turn my head away but couldn’t and was forced to breathe it in. We all were. The smell hit me first. Sweet, so sweet it was almost sickly. I could feel it in my lungs, in my head. It wasn’t like smoke, it was... heavier, thicker, somehow.’
Falco shifted in his seat, his brow furrowing, but he said nothing.
‘The priests stayed only a few moments,’ Cassius continued. ‘They replaced the lids, as though they didn’t want to breathe it themselves, and then they left. Every last one of them, just... gone. And after that...’ He hesitated, his voice trailing off as he searched for the words.
‘After that?’ Seneca prompted.
‘I don’t know,’ Cassius admitted with a sigh. ‘The smell, the mist, it made everything blurry. My thoughts... I couldn’t hold onto them. I felt sleepy, like I was floating, and then...’ He gestured helplessly, ‘nothing. Just a faint dream, slipping away the more I try to remember it.’
Seneca frowned, his sharp eyes narrowing.
‘What kind of dream?’
Cassius shook his head, his frustration evident.
‘I don’t know. I just remember... darkness…and shapes. That’s it, really, and when I woke properly, I was wandering through the streets of Alexandria being held up by you.’
‘That’s it?’ asked Falco from across the table.
‘Sorry,’ said Cassius, ‘that’s all I have.’ He fell silent, his eyes downcast, as all attention shifted to Decimus, who had yet to speak.
‘Decimus, what about you?’
Decimus’s head tilted slightly, his face partially obscured by shadow, but his trembling hands betrayed him. He didn’t answer immediately, and when he finally looked up, the haunted look in his eyes was unmistakable. Cassius turned to him, his brow creasing in concern.
‘Decimus?’
Decimus’s lips parted as though he were about to speak, but no words came. The silence in the room thickened, the weight of whatever he had seen pressing heavily on everyone. Seneca leaned forward, his tone softening slightly but still insistent.
‘Decimus. What did you see?’
Decimus’s trembling hands clenched into fists as he stared at the floor, his shoulders hunched as if bearing a weight no one else could see. The room held its breath, the tension thick as the others waited for him to speak.
‘Cassius is right, he said eventually. ‘The mist, the smell, the priests... all of it. But...’ he faltered, his eyes darting to Cassius and then to Seneca. ‘My dream... it was different.’
Seneca leaned in slightly.
‘Different how?’
Decimus swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly. He didn’t answer immediately, his breathing uneven as he forced himself to relive whatever horror lingered in his mind.
‘The room,’ he began. ‘got darker. I don’t know if it was real or just the fumes, but the light from the torches, it faded. Everything felt... heavy. The air, the darkness. And then the sound started.’
‘The sound?’ Falco prompted, his tone uncharacteristically cautious.
Decimus nodded.
‘A terrible sound. Like... like the earth groaning. Low and deep, but growing louder, sharper. It felt like it was coming from everywhere at once, shaking the walls, rattling my skull.’
Cassius shifted uneasily in his chair, his brow furrowing.
‘I don’t remember any sound,’ he muttered.
Decimus ignored him, his voice growing more strained.
‘I was scared. More scared than I’ve ever been. And then...’ He paused, his hands gripping his knees so tightly that his knuckles turned white. ‘Then they appeared.’
‘Who?’ asked Seneca.
Decimus raised his gaze, and the haunted look in his eyes sent a shiver through the room. Cassius stiffened, Falco leaned forward slightly, and even Sica lowered his gaze from the ceiling to stare at Decimus with rapt attention.
‘The creatures,’ said Decimus flatly, his eyes glazed and staring at nothing. ‘Horrible, deformed things. They crawled out from beneath the scarab, through the cracks in the stone. At first, they were just shapes in the mist, but then... then they took form.’ He shuddered, his breath catching.
‘What did they look like?’ Seneca pressed.
‘Human,’ said Decimus slowly, his face contorted in revulsion. ‘But not human. Their limbs were wrong, too long, too thin. Like spiders. Their movements were jerky, unnatural, as though they didn’t belong in this world. Their faces...’ He hesitated, his voice faltering. ‘Twisted. No eyes, just pits. Mouths that were too wide, full of teeth. They weren’t... they weren’t alive. They couldn’t be.’
The room was silent, save for the faint creak of Decimus’s chair as he shifted, his body tense.
‘What happened next?’ Seneca asked.
‘They came closer,’ Decimus continued, his words tumbling out now as though he needed to purge the memory. ‘They moved through the mist, crawling, slithering, floating, whatever it was. And then they... they started to climb into the coffins.’
Cassius’s face twisted in disbelief.
‘What do you mean, ‘into’ the coffins?’
Decimus turned to him, his eyes wide.
‘I mean they went into them. Into the prisoners. They wrapped around them, like smoke, but thicker, like they had weight. They poured into their mouths, their noses, their eyes. The other men... I could see them. Some were crying, some screaming, but others... others looked like they welcomed it. Like they wanted it.’
Falco muttered a prayer under his breath, his hand gripping the edge of the table as if to steady himself. Decimus’s voice grew quieter, his words trembling.
