Fire.

Fire burns under a long ago sky. No city lights to kill the stars. An entire galaxy unfolds above this tiny dot of light in the desert. Two bell shaped tents made of animal skin set around it, large enough to house twenty men. Around the fire, much larger up close, set 9 rough men clad in the same red tunics though some in different lorica and galea. Marcus sets amongst them, close to the fire for its warmth in the cold night. He hears a howl in the distance and his heart beat speeds up. Was that the dogs of Rome? Had the group been found? Or perhaps wild wolves...

In the morning the sun beat down on 18 men. The night watch was missing. Marcus spoke with the group, the mood was concern. Had Octavius just left? It was unlikely. There were no tracks in the sand, ever shifting. Spirits in the night must have taken Octavius to the desert. The remaining voted on whether to search or change camp locations. Changing camp locations won and so the group marched through miles of desert followed by the fortuitous sign of an eagle joining them in the sky the whole time until they were just outside a small village where they set up once more. Marcus was on watch that night with three others, not that it would matter.

A vast wind swept through the camp.

Marcus was on watch with two others. More wind, sand flying. Obscuring vision. Marcus was on watch by himself in the blink of an eye. The trained soldier took a torch and thrust it into the fire, drawing his sword with his other hand. He waved the flame out in front of him into the darkness, while yelling. Signalling the alarm the camp was raised. The Romans came flooding out of their tents only to be set upon by three eagles flying down and trying to gouge out their eyes. The eagles were too fast. Evil spirits. The men form rank instinctively, forming the shield wall with the back lines shields up as though they were protecting themselves from arrows instead of possessed birds.

Marcus at the front of the line, in between two shields. Sword and torch ready to strike. The back line of this phalanx formed 6 men, in the blink of an eye they were dead. Marcus only got the barest glimpse of one of the spirits. A tall, pale, extremely muscled man in Roman armor that was adorned with severed heads held on his belt by rope. Covered in gore, with blood soaked mouth as it attacked its face was enraged in a way the Romans had never seen before, truly a malevolent spirit of war. There was no hope. Marcus blinked and the apparition was gone in an instant, leaving the body its claws had disemboweled to sink to the sandy floor. Had its face returned to that of a relatively normal but blood soaked man after the death of the soldier? Marcus's heart was beating wilder than it had in any battle before. Adrenaline thundered through those veins as the scared soldiers line was set upon once more, this time to it's left flank.

Instantly 5 men dead, just as the last 6 had fallen. Some of the living were yelling to hold the line. One fled. They made it all the way to the other side of a dune before their heads rolled back to the phalanx they should not have left. Ares had sent spirits of war to torment them all for their dishonor. Each here had abandoned their legion for various reasons and the God of War was punishing them. It was the only thing that made sense. They would die tonight...but they would die fighting. Marcus had timed the three attacks. Roughly 3 seconds between each. As the next attack should hit, Marcus yelled out the command to strike from all sides. This time they could see 3 of them caught on Marcus' side of the soldiers. One impaled on a spear but seemingly unharmed, another knocked back to the ground by a shield and one burning as Marcus' torch plunged into it's chest. Marcus took the momentum to kick the physical form before him now sure it was at least no disembodied spirit. Caught so off guard, the tall gore covered undead Roman was struck, and fell backwards into the bonfire. A shriek the likes you've never heard echoed out into the vast night as the fire grew and ash spread into the air.

A command was given from out in the shadowed dunes.

Every last dishonored runaway soldier died in that moment except Marcus though he would very soon wish he had... The screams that his men gave out drowned that of the burning thing in the bonfire now reduced to only a shell of ash. The last Marcus sees before he is knocked out is a bloody, dead legion coming into view in the blink of an eye. Covered in gore, some with spears purposefully sticking out of them to aid in their attacks. Body parts worn as trophies atop some of the spears, or tied onto their armor.

Fear.

Fear was the last thing Marcus felt as the fire went out.