"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."

PART.

THREE.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

TUNISIA, NORTH AFRICA , NOVEMBER 1942.

Alfred Dennis cursed again as the Bedford lorry he was driving struck another pothole. It jumped, shuddered and jarred as it bounced along over the rough desert road. He swerved around another deep pothole and took evasive action to avoid the next. The Bedford slewed around and got dangerously close to leaving the road but he held it. In the passenger seat his long time friend Wilfred Burroughs held on to his gun and the map. Twice he had been on the floor because of the condition of the road.

"What a bloody shit road Alf," he called out before going into a coughing fit from the dust that was all around them. Even with the windows closed it still found its way into the cab.

"Worst road I've ever driven."

Wilfie looked out at the vast desert ahead of and around them. hills to either side, the mountains always on the horizon. This was a desolate barren expanse of sand covering most of North Africa. Its name?

The Sahara desert.

"What the hell did the Germans want with this anyway?"

"Beats me," Alfred replied "perhaps that maniac in Berlin sent them to capture it. Now Rommel's here to claim it. Sand, sand and more bloody sand."

"Rommel," Wilfie said "Well he hasn't met Monty yet. Monty will smash him. Monty or Alex."

"I certainly hope so," Alf said avoiding another rut in the road. They were soldiers of the Royal Engineers, part of the greater eighth army under the command of General Sir Bernard Montgomery. They were the desert rats. Rommel the desert fox.

Alfred and his men were on their way to Matmata to move minefields laid by the axis powers. Part of the road had been extensively damaged by the fighting and they would make what repairs they could to that also.

Unsure as to whether the road was mined a column of Valentine tanks had ventured into the desert in heavy rain on either side of the road and had got stuck, bogged down. The tanks too heavy for the sand that turned to mud like a thick soup.

Alfred and his men in seven Bedford's, twelve men in each truck, were to get the Valentines out if possible. Driving the lead truck Alfred crested a rise and the first view of Matmata lay before them. The ruins dominating the skyline. He sped past the first few scattered houses either side of the road and quickly arrived in a clearing in the centre of the small village. He brought the Bedford to a halt, the following vehicles fanning out to either side.

Alfred swung his cab door open and jumped down to the road as Captain Bill Rogers came strutting up. Bill Rogers was in charge of Alf's group. Together he and Alf removed a pin each from the tailboard of Alf's truck and lowered it. Rogers banged his hand on the side of the truck.

"Everybody out lads. Stretch your legs. We'll rest here for an hour. Find yourselves some shade."

Men gratefully jumped down onto the dusty road. Hours travelling in the backs of the trucks was far from comfortable. Many made jokes to their colleagues. Lots of shoulder slaps and ribs playfully punched. All were relieved to be out for a short while. The threat of enemy fighter planes strafing a canvas backed lorry that offered no protection a constant threat.

Many wandered off to relieve themselves before making their way back to the trucks. One of them eighteen year old Johnny Larder came excitedly up to Alfred.

"Hey *old un' come and take a look at this."