Tomb of the Lost

Chapter THIRTEEN



The rider brought his horse to a stop at the top of the dune. It was near midday and the April temperatures were beginning to climb. He had been travelling for six weeks. Six weeks of following a road which sometimes wasn’t even there at all due to the shifting sands of the Sahara.

It had been three days since he’d left the last signs of life. The small oasis in the desert. There he had found fresh water, an abundance of fresh fruit and most importantly, warm hospitality. There he had discovered from the locals that just one week before men dressed like him with the same weapons had stopped by for water and provisions. He had quizzed them with signs in the sand. Neither of them able to understand the other’s language.

There should have been three hundred of them. Officers, soldiers, slaves, horses, camels and a large cargo. He got despondent when the locals knew nothing of any of these. Just twenty men on horses requesting water.

’It had to be them’ he had said to himself.

Then his spirits were lifted when he was shown the Roman coins they had paid with. Now there could be no doubt.

He un-stoppered his water skin and took a mouthful. It was warm despite his having tried to keep it cool under his cloak. He got down out of the saddle and went around to the front of his horse. He patted the side of her face and she nudged him with her nose.

“It shouldn’t be much longer girl,” he promised her.

He poured water into his left hand and let her drink from it. He let her drink until she’d had enough and turned her head. He replaced the stopper, then reached into a bag and took out a handful of fresh figs and broke them open for her and offered them. She munched on them as he walked around her checking her general health.

Servius Catalus was confident his mare was in good health. He walked a few paces from her and eased himself out of his undergarments and urinated in the sand. He moved himself about making patterns in the sand just to amuse himself. It was when he was shaking himself dry that he saw the tracks on the neighbouring dune. He shielded his eyes from the glare of the sun to make sure.

There was no mistaking it. They were definitely tracks and fairly fresh. He mounted his horse and trotted her over to them. The footprints in the sand were deep.

Horses carrying riders!

He followed them to the crest of the dune and saw the caravan ahead. His pulse quickened. He had caught up to them. After six weeks of wandering endless desert, sometimes travelling for a day without seeing anything, any change in horizon, any plants, any life. Now miraculously he had caught up to the caravan that had left Alexandria five months ago.

Servius dug his heels into his mare’s ribs and she reared her head, whinnied and trotted down the dune.



The column stretched along the road for nearly a quarter of a mile. Their numbers had swelled from three hundred to over eight hundred and included forty horses and thirty camels. The camels carrying water and food. Marcellus had moved the column from one piece of water to the next, from river to river, town to town.

At every town and village he had sought out retired legionaries and veterans, men who had seen countless battles and campaigns. He had hired as many as possible to assist with a promise of enough money to return to their loved ones. Many had given up their mundane lives to return to Rome and a chance to serve the city they loved once more. Some had chosen to stay, preferring a quieter life while others were invalids and unable to help. Many men had wanted to bring their families to start afresh but these had been refused and Marcellus and his officers had watched many tearful farewells as husbands and fathers had kissed wives and children goodbye, promising to return.

Marcellus and his officers rode in the middle of the column. A century of legionaries in front of them. The sarcophagus pulled by two hundred slaves behind. At the rear was the baggage train and the merchants and pedlars and the dozen or so women who sold themselves to the soldiers nightly.

Marcellus’ second in command raced up on his horse.

“A rider coming in,” he told the General.

Marcellus turned in his saddle. He saw the dark figure some distance down the road.

“Any idea who it is?”

“Not sure yet sir. He’s too far away. Should we intercept him?”

“Is he definitely on his own?”

“It appears so sir.”

Marcellus watched for a few more moments. Then he moved off the road.

“Come. We’ll meet him.”

He kicked his horse and galloped off back down the road towards the rider. His officers and guards in hot pursuit.



Servius Catalus reined his horse in and saluted the most senior officer.

“General Marcellus?”

“Yes.”

“Sir. I am Servius Catalus. I have a message for you, from Alexandria. From Julius Caesar.”

“How is Caesar Servius?”

“Alive and well Sir,” Catalus couldn’t keep the excitement from his voice,” He sends his regards.”

“And orders?”

“To continue as before. To take Alexander to Rome. Oh sir! I have so much to tell you.”

“Come to my tent this evening and you can tell me everything.”

“Yes sir.”

“But for now Caesar is alive and well.”

“Yes sir.”

“Thank you. I’ll speak to you tonight.”



It was after dark when a refreshed Sevius Catalus arrived at the General’s tent. They had struck camp one hour before dusk and as the evening fell campfires had been lit and soldiers and slaves alike had warmed themselves around them.

Servius was granted access and he walked into a large tent and straight into the aroma of roasted meat. Marcellus greeted him with a warm smile and a cup of wine.

“Good evening,” Marcellus said offering the cup which was accepted with thanks, “Would you care for some roasted lamb?”

Servius saw it roasting on a spit and his stomach grumbled. He had been without fresh cooked meat for four days.

“Thank you,” he said staring in wonder at the roasted lamb.

Marcellus intercepted his thoughts.

“You’d be surprised at who we bump into out here in the desert. This is the courtesy of a local shepherd who we paid most handsomely.”

A servant cut off a whole leg and put it on a plate. Servius felt his mouth watering. The meat was quickly cut and placed on serving dishes.

“Help yourself,” Marcellus offered, “But don’t gorge. Sickness isn’t pleasant out here. You’re a long way away from remedies and medicine.”

“Yes. I saw some corpses on my journey. Most had been ravaged by animals.”

“Egyptian slaves mainly. From here on we should start to meet more people. We are now entering the Roman province once known and owned by the Carthaginians. A mighty empire that once provided such sons as Hasdrubal Barca and Hannibal.”

“I know the stories well,” Servius said, “My father used to tell me them when I was a child.”

“Good stories, incredible people. Only the might of Rome could defeat them. Two centuries ago. There is still a long journey ahead of us. We continue North until we reach the great and ancient port of Carthage and from there we set sail for Rome and home. I personally cannot wait!”

Marcellus helped himself to a plate of meat and taking a cup of wine he sat down in his comfortable chair.”

“And now,” he said, “I’m dying to hear your story.”

Servius helped himself to a plate of meat and sat himself down, blessing his good fortune to be the messenger Caesar had sent and now enjoy rich food in a General’s tent.

“You left sir when the fire was at its worst didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Much of Alexandria burned that day. The library was destroyed and most of Alexander’s mausoleum. Caesar was very upset but pleased he’d gotten the great king’s body to safety first but the great paintings and mosaics were lost.”

“That’s truly a pity,” Marcellus couldn’t wait any longer, “I’m sorry to interrupt but I must know if our master is well.”

“He is sir. He and the Queen are probably enjoying a cruise down the Nile. That was the plan once the fighting was over. The Queen said it would help her to relax before the baby was born.”

“Baby?”

“Oh yes sir. The Queen is heavily pregnant with our master’s child.”

“Pregnant?”

“Yes. They are both praying to the Gods that the baby will be a boy. Our master, because, he wants an heir. The Queen, because, she wants her son to inherit Caesar’s world, to cement Egypt and Rome together, forever.”

Marcellus’ head was buzzing, then he burst out laughing.

“The wily old fox.”

“Sir.”

“Our master.”

“Yes sir.”

“What about the other’s?”

“Other’s sir?”

“Yes. The other Generals, Ptolemy, etc.”

“Little shit face drowned in the Nile.”

Marcellus’ had just taken a bite of hot lamb. Juice spurted from it and trickled down his chin. He mopped at his chin with a napkin while trying to swallow the meat down.

“Who?”

“Ptolemy. The Alexandrians sent an ambassador to Caesar saying that they were fed up with the princess Arsinoe and asked if they could have Ptolemy back. Caesar of course refused the request outright. Then the Alexandrians suggested that if they could have their boy king back, who always spoke highly of Caesar, they may have been able to sue for peace. Caesar was suspicious of their intentions at first but he talked it over with the other Generals and it was agreed that Ptolemy, having no military or leader skills, could be handed over. Cleopatra was only too pleased to be rid of him but how much influence she had over our master at this time is not known. So Ptolemy left the palace crying like a baby because he didn’t want to go, promising to come back with a peace offering. None came though. Then days later as we all waited news reached the palace that Ptolemy had declared Caesar his most mortal enemy. Caesar had expected such treachery and waited knowing the Alexandrians would start fighting amongst themselves. Now our master declared Ptolemy a rebel and kept Queen Cleopatra on the throne. News reached us that the Alexandrian navy was waiting by the mouth of the Nile to attack Roman convoys bringing us aid. Caesar sent the great Tiberius Nero to engage them. Do you remember the Greek mercenary Euphranor?”

Marcellus nodded.

“He was killed in the battle. Caesar was mightily upset at such a loss.”

Servius’ mouth was getting dry from talking at length. He took a gulp of wine.

“Is that when Ptolemy was killed?”

Servius shook his head.

“No. Last month, it was the beginning of March, Mithridates arrived at Pelusium with an army from Syria and Arabia and Palestine. As you know General Marcellus the Palestinian Jews suffered under Pompey and were only too keen to ally themselves to our master. Also the Jews hoped to reach out to the large Jewish population in Alexandria itself.”

“Pompey destroyed or tried to destroy the temple in Jerusalem and took much of the land so it’s no wonder the standing Jewish army hailed Caesar as their ally.”

“I didn’t know that,” Servius said.

“Didn’t know what?”

“That Pompey had damaged their temple, took their land. I had heard that they’d suffered under him and assumed he’d persecuted their people.”

“He probably did. Please continue.”

“Mithridates quickly sacked Pelusium and upon reaching the Nile he turned and headed southwest. Someone tipped off the Alexandrians and Ptolemy ordered his army to confront them. When Caesar saw the Alexandrian army leaving he marched his army around the great lake Mareotis and joined with King Mithridates. When Ptolemy arrived his army set up camp on a hill west of the Nile. The following morning our master attacked. He drove the Alexandrians from their hilltop and trapped before the banks of the river our forces slaughtered them. Ptolemy made it to his royal boat and from the middle of the Nile he goaded our master with taunts. A great cheer went up from the Romans however when the young king’s boat capsized and he drowned. After three months of conflict our master had finally rid Egypt of one of its monarchs. Caesar was so happy at this victory that he rode at the head of the cavalry all the way back to Alexandria. The people of the city begged for mercy and Caesar, hard to contain his temper, reluctantly granted them a full pardon. Cleopatra of course welcomed back our master with open arms. Caesar read out Cleopatra’s father’s will again and appointed the young Queen and the youngest brother, now Ptolemy the fourteenth, as rulers over the lands of Egypt and Cyprus.”

“Cyprus! So he kept his word.”

“Yes sir. Some say he only did it to infuriate Marcus Cato in Rome who spent so many years pushing for Cyprus to be under Roman rule.”

Marcellus laughed.

“Our master is never done is he? But tell me what of the other sister Arsinoe.”

“Ah yes. She was captured, placed in chains and will be sent to Rome as a slave. Maybe Caesar will kill her. Who knows what he’ll do.”

“Did he mention a Roman garrison in Egypt?”

“Yes sir. He will be leaving three legions with Cleopatra to, as he put it, secure Roman-Egyptian relations. Some say the great General Marcus Antonius may be called for.”

“Mark Antony. He’s in Rome isn’t he?”

“I believe so sir yes.”

Marcellus shook his head to clear it. He was buzzing from so much information. He put his wine down. He cross questioned Servius over and over, verifying facts, checking that he knew the story accurately.

‘It’s truly incredible’ he was thinking, ’When the Persian King Darius walked into Egypt he was met with no resistance. When Alexander of Macedon came he was met and hailed as a conquering hero. When Caesar arrived he was met with hostility and urban warfare on a scale he had, the world had, never seen before, “Despite the odds he has done it.”

“Begging your pardon sir?”

Marcellus hadn’t realised he’d spoken out loud.

“Our master has done it, conquered the land of the Pharaohs, something no one has ever done before.”

He stood and raised his glass.

“A toast!” he said, “To our master, to my friend, the greatest Roman who has ever lived, Gaius Julius Caesar!”



Marcellus stopped his horse at the top of a rise, his officers flanking him. The desert seemed endless. In the very far distance they could see other travellers on the road. Below them the desert opened up into a wide, crescent gorge.

“According to the map this used to be a river, recorded thousands of years ago by Pharaohs of the second dynasty.”

“Does it still flow sir?”

“I think it’s long since dried up.”

“What a desolate place,” someone else said, “What does Rome want with such a territory?”

“Africa is Rome’s biggest province Quintus. We will never give it up.”

A shout from behind made them turn. A centurion was some distance away running towards them. Behind him the caravan had picked up pace. The two hundred legionaries had stopped and were staring across the desert. Suddenly as one they turned and began running along the line on the road, chased on by the other centurion. The first centurion was still running towards them, shouting and pointing. Marcellus raised his hand up to his eyes to block out the sun.

“Who is it? I can’t see clearly in the sun. Is it Cassius? What’s he shouting?”

“It is Cassius. Can’t hear what he’s shouting though.”

Marcellus looked back down the road expecting another messenger or an enemy attack or something, anything, but could see nothing.

Marcellus was about to order Quintus to ride down to see what the fuss was about when he thought he saw something.

He had been scanning the desert and had been about to give the order when something caught his attention. Miles away on the horizon where the land met the sky he saw a distortion, a discolouration. They were all used to seeing heat haze but this was something different and what was more it seemed to be moving closer.

Cassius the centurion was still shouting. Quintus had also seen the horizon change.

“What is that?”

A huge gust of wind suddenly blew Marcellus’ cape up, making the horses start. Marcellus pushed his cloak down. There was now sand in his mouth brought by the sudden gust. The next big gust stung his face and he closed his eyes to it. The sand was stinging him. He opened his eyes again. The distortion on the horizon had appeared to have got bigger, then he felt dread rising.

“Sandstorm!” he shouted.

He kicked his horse in the ribs and it whinnied and bolted down the hill.

“Sir there’s a sandstorm coming,” Cassius shouted as Marcellus raced past him.

“Get everyone moving as quickly as they can. I want all of the sarcophagus carriers working at once. I don’t care if some of them are resting. Everyone! Understood!”

“Yes General.”

Cassius began running, with difficulty, back down the hill towards the column.

Quintus reined his horse in.

“Judging by the way the wind is blowing it may miss us.”

“We can’t wait around and take that chance.”

“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.

“We may have lost your treasure master but as you’ll see it wasn’t my fault. With this map I will return to this place and find it again. And when I do I will bring it to you in Rome. And I, Marcus Marcellus, General of Caesar’s army, I will be a hero.”

He mounted his horse and taking one last look at the gorge he turned and set off towards Carthage.

He patted his horse’s neck.

“I did not choose this. It is my destiny.”