A fog rose from the cobblestones as they warmed, throwing off the rain from the night before. The fog would soon burn away. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky and the Mediterranean sun was merciless.

Even at this early hour a few enterprising individuals walked the road to Rome. Beggars and traders, messengers and even a member of the cursus publicus.

Beggar and rich merchant alike stopped and stared as Prefect Secundus Lucianus Ahenobarbus Pius staggered past. He’d been running through the night. Somewhere along the way he’d lost a sandal and he’d not thought to stop and find it. He was too tired to stop. He’d been running the day before too. And the day before that. Ahenobarbus knew he must have slept at some point but he couldn’t remember it. It felt like he hadn’t slept since... since Serica. Maybe since Judaea.

The missing footwear gave his passage a lurching staggering motion, more stumble than job at this point. Still, he gained on and passed the carts and workmen along his path. Ahenobarbus let the clacking of his gladius announce his approach. He’d lost his armour back in Indus. They could shy from his path or be cut down. he couldn’t afford to go around them. Their fury and their fear were equally meaningless to him. He was too tired. Too sore. Too scared.

The sentry at the gate was the only person, ironically, who had ignored his approach. Instead he was talking with the cursor Ahenobarbus had seen earlier.

“Out of the way tesserarius! Can’t you see I am pursued!”

The sentry straightened and levelled his pilum, hand reaching for his horn. Then he slowed. The road was empty behind Ahenobarbus. The sentry leaned first left, then right to look around the prefect, but saw only the slowly approaching morning crowd.

He shared a glance with the cursor, “I’m sorry sir, but are you quite alright? I could fetch a medicus if you think-”

Ahenobarbus looked about with wild eyes, “Leave your medici! I need to speak to the imperial legate! To the Caesar! Hurry!”

The sentry gave the cursor a shrug, “Off you go, I’ll deal with this,” he then turned to one of his assistants, “If you could fetch the medicus and a few strong men to calm this gentleman down?”

The soldier saluted, “At once sir.”

Ahenobarbus was fiddling wildly throughout all of it, hand running over the grip of his gladius. The sentry, Aetius, wasn’t overly worried. Ahenobarbus was an old man by any account, strong looking, but without armour and with his beard fully turned grey.

Aetius addressed the man, “Please, you’re maniac. Comport yourself as suiting a man of your years.”

Ahenobarbus’s eyes snapped to stare directly into Aetius’s own. He flinched. It was more than madness possessing him. There was a strength in his gaze that even Mania could not overpower. This man had seen something.

An ironic smile cracked Ahenobarbus’s dirt smeared face, revealing blood-stained teeth, “You see it too? A taste of the Maureti veneficus?”

The man’s voice was horrible and cracked, as though he’d gone without speaking or water for many days.

“You are afflicted with sorcery? Perhaps I should have sent for the flamens?”

The older man took a deep breath, composing himself. He stood upright, relaxed his shoulders and threw a salute. Suddenly, the mad beggar disappeared and a powerful soldier, still in his prime despite his grey hair took his place. Though it could not go without notice that the man’s outstretched hand still trembled.

“Ave tesserarius. I am Prefect Secundus Lucianus Ahenobarbus Pius of the Last Roman Legion. I must speak to Aulus Vitellius Germanicus Imperator Augustus at once about the fate of the legion and the one who still pursues me.”

“Ahenobarbus Pius? Of Legio XXX? I’ve heard of you, the commander who would rather slit his own throat than lie. But it would benefit a charlatan to claim his title for himself. Who can vouch for you?”

At that moment the medicus arrived, an older man with a kindly smile and a shock of red hair. The smile dropped at once upon seeing the Prefect, “Ahenobarbus? Is that you?”

“Gallus?” Ahenobarbus’s face broke into a true smile even as his friend’s fell, “Here is the man to vouch for me! Medicus Postumus Marinus Gallus, the greatest medicus since Hippocrates himself! and a dear friend.”

Gallus ran to his side and began to immediately dig through his medical pouch, “Ahenobarbus, what happened to you? Where have you been? Last I heard you were touring in Syria-Palestina.”

“It is a long, long story my friend. One I must give to the Caesar, but you shall be there! The more who are there to spread the word, the more can be warned of what befell Legio XXX.”

***

Imperial Legate Decimus Cornelius Januarius Felix frowned at his aide’s words, but bid he let the small crowd of people in; a sentry, a bloodied beggar, and a bellum medicus. If what his aide said was true, the beggar outranked everyone but himself here. He waited to allow them to introduce themselves. It was the beggar who saluted first, followed by his compatriots.

“Ave Legatus Augusti pro praetore, I am Prefect Secundus Lucianus Ahenobarbus of Legio XXX, named Pius by Legate Secundus Salvius Rufus Regulus. I am here to speak on his fate, and that of his legion, and to warn you of what befell him. With me are Medicus Gallus and tesserarius Aetius who ask be witness to my tale.”

Januarius Felix leaned forward, “Do you mean to say Rufus is dead? He is a dear friend of mine.”

Ahenobarbus shook his head, “Not dead, lost. Though if he was your friend I fear you will not like what I have to say.”

Januarius sniffed, “I will be the judge,” he sniffed again and immediately regretted it. He made his decision at once.

“Come,” he said, stripping free from his toga as he stood, “we will speak in my private bath. Your companions may join us. You look as if you could use relaxation as much as cleanliness.”

***

Januarius Felix lay back in the thermae while the medicus scraped Ahenobarbus with his own person strigil. The prefect’s cleaning was taking somewhat longer than his own. That did not mean, however, that the story had to wait. Ahenobarbus had begun the moment they’d entered the caldarium.

“We set off for Judaea on the first day of Martius. Imperator Marcus Otho Caesar Augustus himself gave the order. The claim was to guarantee the security of those outer provinces neglected during Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus’ reign. There is indeed a revolt of the Jews in the region, but Legate Rufus shared the opinion that Imperator Otho Caesar feared the loyalty of our legion more than the Jews. He sent us away as to avoid yet another civil war.”

Januarius frowned, “Rufus would never disobey the orders of the emperor. What he lacks in humility he make up for in loyalty. The emperor could not hope for a better soldier to secure his rule. And Imperator Otho Caesar Augustus was no coward. Far from it.”

“And yet he sent us away, and he died.”

“And yet there was no civil war.”

“Even so. We received news of his death shortly before entering the Palestina provinces. Janus, Jupiter, Mars Pater, Quirinus, Bellona, Lares, divine Novensiles, divine Indigetes...,” Ahenobarbus shook his head, “A worthy sacrifice indeed, regardless of orders given.”

“Mind your tongue Ahenobarbus,” said Januarius.

“I fear neither death nor lashes. Not since Serica, and never before.”

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Januarius couldn’t help the wry smile which spread upon his lips, “Pius indeed. Come then, you a clean enough. Settle yourself there. Let us hear what happened.”

“It is in Judaea the tale of Legio XXX truly beings, in the city of Caesarea Maritima, where we met the Maureti veneficus. It was a day much like this one; too hot to bear, not hot enough to devote to the gods. Fortuna blessed me to be in the tent of Legate Rufus on that dread occasion...

***

A runner burst into the tent and snapped a quick series of salutes, “Ave Legate! Ave Prefect! A Mauriman has entered the castrum from the edge of the city, he is in need of assistance and claims to have an offer for you.”

Legate Rufus Regulus looked up from the map of the city he’d been studying, “A sailor? Why has he come to me? Are there not medici on the docks? Who sent you?”

“The Tribune, Legate. And he didn’t come from the docks, but the desert.”

Ahenobarbus pushed himself upright and shared a glance with Rufus, “I can look into it, Legate.”

Rufus pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand and waved away the suggest with the other, “It is fine. I trust Tribune Tacitus Saturninus with my life. Send in the Mauri.”

The runner saluted once more before retreating out of the tent, “At once Legate!”

“Thank you for seeing me gentlemen.”

The voice came not an instant after the runner had left the tent. Both officers started, Ahenobarbus went so far as to pull his gladius and spin about.

There, in the corner of the room, stood a tall man, so tall he towered above the Romans even with the pronounced stoop he affected to lean on his twisted-wood staff. His face was wrinkled, as one who tours the desert, but he wore a pointed little goatee as was the fashion among a number of the Arabs.

“How did you come to be here?”

The man smiled wickedly, as if at some private joke, “From going to and fro in the earth, and from walking up and down in it. How else?”

Rufus’s eyes widened. Ahenobarbus tightened his grip on his gladius. Few were the things which made his commander uneasy.

“Do you speak of folding the earth? I’ve heard of such from Jewish sorcerers.”

The man’s grin widened, as though his face would fall in half, “That and more. The names of God are known to me, as are the names gods. Demons, spirits, marid, and efreeti are all at my command. They can be at yours.”

“Do you claim to be a witch?”

“Witch, magician, sorcerer, whatever pleases you. Iarbus is my name.”

“Jupiter grants us victory already, witch,” Ahenobarbus interjected, “Tacitus Saturninus sent word of aide. Speak your need or get out.”

The man’s smile could not get any wider, but his eyes sparkled, “Of course. You have little reason to trust me. I ask you remember Solomon was a sorcerer as well, and his wisdom and riches were the foundation of a kingdom only since rivalled by your own.”

Rufus snorted, “Not since Alexander has an empire been worthy of Rome. Even the Persians and the Sericans pay tribute to our greatness.”

Iarbus bobbed his head consolingly, “Perhaps they do. Perhaps they do. Tell me then, where is Alexander’s empire? Where is the Egypt which came before him? And have you been to Serica? Unless you were at Zhizhi I doubt it. Their emperor is a god. And further, across the sea, there are those whose alchemy surpasses even the Egyptians, and gods walk among their people like men,” his gaze turned sly, “though I hear you crucify such beings.”

Rufus fell still. Ahenobarbus could only guess at what he was thinking. Surely the Egyptians had thought themselves immortal until Alexander. Alexander himself had worshipped Cyrus, and even modern historians couldn’t say with certainty which land the King of Kings had ruled. Why should Rome be the exception? Already the Jews were proving the fragility of their grasp on the east, and with Otho’s death, reported just a few days prior, they had had three emperors in a single year.

The silence stretched to more than a minute before Rufus spoke, which for the hot-headed Legate was equivalent to near half an hour for normal men, “Speak then, Hiarbus, what do you mean by this? Your life may hinge on whether I perceive insult to the imperial rule.”

The sorcerer seemed far from frightened by his words, in fact, he leaned further on his staff, lunging towards the two officers, “Iarbus, please. I am a stickler for pronunciation. At least when it comes to names.”

Rufus waved away the concern, “Iarbus then, speak.”

“I propose riches and magic such that Solomon could only imagine. Power and wealth enough to last Rome a thousand years. An empire without end.”

“If you have such riches, why are you not already the emperor?”

Iarbus’s fingers played along his staff like a spider scuttling out from shelter, “Because I have them not. Merely the location. My brother, Mustapha, is a tailor in Serica. It is there he learned of the Qíjī zhī dòng, the realm the Sericans use to store their treasures. It is sealed with a powerful magic ward, one his feeble talents could not surpass. He believed me able to, however, and sent for me at once.”

“Where does the aide of the Last Legion come in?”

Long fingers reached up to stroke his pointed beard, splitting it into a fork like a snake’s tongue, “The Qíjī zhī dòng is not unguarded. And the journey to Serica itself is fraught with dangers. I am in need of an escort.”

“In a land of mercenaries you ask instead for the aide of an entire Legion? We are not for hire.”

The Mauri’s features drooped, and he raised a hand to the top of his head in a strange gesture, almost as if pouring something there. Then his hand fell to his robes and he tugged feebly at them.

“My brother’s investigation did not go unnoticed. He was captured and slain. There will be a guard upon the Qíjī zhī dòng I fear even the Ten Thousand at their height could not have overcome.”

His hand then shot out and grasped the Legate’s shoulder, “But you, you and yours... We are in agreement about many things. One of them is this: There is no army which can stand against the might of Rome. You could overcome the Serican army, hold them at bay long enough for me to work my magics, and then there is no force which could stand against us.”

Ahenobarbus snorted, “So we abandon the Empire, risk life and limb, travel to the ends of the earth, and we’ll be granted some pittance of Serican treasure? I’m sure you’ll want your share as well.”

“It is not abandoning the Empire to secure its strength. I only ask for first pick of the plunder. One or two items, as much as I can carry.”

Ahenobarbus knew Rufus was no fool, and therefore was not surprised when he stated, “You already have a treasure in mind.”

Iarbus scratched at the back of his hand, running along his middle finger, “Two treasures,” he chuckled, “I’ve no secrets from you it would seem. A ring and a lantern of sorts, though both are much more than that.”

“What is the nature of these treasures?”

“They both house powerful demons, more powerful than Solomon’s own LXXII. Demons who grant wishes.”

“What sort of wishes?” asked Rufus.

“Oh, all manner of things,” if the fool didn’t stop grinning soon, Ahenobarbus was going to have to call a medicus. His face was going to freeze that way, “They can gather silver, gold, and gems from the deepest caverns of the earth. Build a castrum with the efficiency and speed of an entire legion. Raise great winds to scatter a foe’s arrows. Hold back the waters of the sea to allow swift passage across. Sow a year’s worth of seeds in an afternoon. The possibilities are endless.”

Rufus rubbed his chin, “Are the other treasures of this nature?”

The sorcerer raised his great bony shoulders up in a shrug, “Flasks which endlessly pour oil, spears which make you invincible in battle, standards under which no man will flee, trees of crystal, birds who speak; who can say? My brother is no longer with us. I only have his word and legend to draw on. That, and my mirror.”

“Mirror?”

The Mauri gestured and there it was, as though it had always been; a polished sheet of obsidian half the height of a man lay on the table which held Rufus’s map.

***

Ahenobarbus hesistated then.

“What is it?” Januarius Felix asked.

“You mentioned Rufus was your friend, were you aware of his restless nights?”

Januarius frowned, “He was often tired, though he never said why.”

“It is not my place to share, though I must anyway, Janus guide me, Mars forgive me. Rufus was afflicted by a lemur. No sacrifice nor Lemuria could drive it from his doorway. It was fear which kept him awake.”

Januarius’s cheeks grew red, and he half rose from the bath, “Fear? Rufus is no coward.”

Ahenobarbus rose as well, though his cheeks were pale and his gaze remained steady, “I’d never call the Legate a coward. He faced fear few can imagine every night without the slightest complaint. I would not impinge on his honour to suggest otherwise.”

Januarius let out a breath and lowered himself, bowing his head to the other man “I apologize, Ahenobarbus Pious. Please, continue. How did you learn of this?”

The older man’s gaze never wavered, though it grew distant, fixed on a point Januarius could not see.

“I saw it.”

***

The three men gathered around the Mauri sorcerer’s “mirror”. It was black, clouded, as though filled with smoke. Ahenobarbus strained his eyes trying to see beyond the fog, but saw nothing but blackened glass.

“What are we supposed to see?” he asked.

The sorcerer patted the air, “You will see, fear not,” he then waved the same hand over the surface of his mirror, and the impurities which Ahenobarbus had thought merely looked like smoke began to swirl.

“Minerva protect me!” cried out Rufus, startled.

“By Jupiter!” Ahenobarbus couldn’t help but agree.

The men’s wonder—and soon fear—only continued to grow as the smoke parted, revealing a scene shrouded in mist. A man, lying in bed. Around him was only darkness, but that too slowly slipped away revealing the tent where the man lay. He didn’t sleep, his eyes were open and sweat beaded as his brow as he stared with unconcealed horror at something still concealed by the smoke.

As if his gaze were a breeze of wind, the smoke slowly parted along the path of his vision, revealing the flap of his tent. There, peeking in through the gap was a shadowed figure with darkened skin and a smile which stretched wider even then the sorcerer’s. Black teeth from ear to ear, and lidless eyes sunken with sorrow.

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Sound rose from the mirror, first that of the man—Rufus, Ahenobarbus realized—praying, and then the murmurs of the creature.

“I’m sorry. So sorry. So so sorry. I’m sorry.”

It was an endless litany pouring from the creature’s mouth.

A chill spread across Ahenobarbus’s skin.

“Who is speaking?” asked the sorcerer. For once he sounded kind rather than capricious.

Rufus swallowed, “My mother.”

“She abused you.” The sorcerer said. It wasn’t a question. Rufus nodded.