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ampules of wine and more fruit than he could eat. In his dream he travelled on the Nile, past Memphis and Dahshur and the massive pyramids at the Theban Necropolis. Then he stood in front of the silent sandstone Sphinx. His dream journey made no sense, as the destinations were out of order, but he enjoyed the cool breeze that wafted across the dark waters.
    In the dream, Egyptian beauties smiled: their perfect white teeth showed behind painted lips as they walked past him and the giant stone construct. The Sphinx quietly contemplated him as if it saw into his soul.
    Something invaded the calm and disturbed the peaceful bliss. Augustinus shouted something unintelligible, some agitated curse that was impossible to decipher. Lucius’ eyes opened and he realized his perfect dream of Aegyptus was now ruined by his fellow legionnaire’s meddlesome nature. “Dammit Augustinus,” he moaned as he fought to ignore and stay asleep.
    “Lucius. Awaken. Something is wrong,” Augustinus whispered, and Lucius could hear shouts and commotion outside the tent. “The slaves are agitated; the camels have broken their hobbles and run into the desert.”
    The Prior sat up and grabbed at the handle of his gladius. The two surveyed the scene through the tent flap. The Romans tried to keep the animals that remained calm. The soldiers struggled with the camel’s reins. The beasts bucked, reared, and tried to pull away. Their padded feet kicked clouds of sand while they struggled.
    Several slaves ran into the darkness, the dim sliver of the moon illuminated their light garments until they vanished over a dune. “Dammit Augustinus,” Lucius shouted. “What bedevils us this night?”
    “Listen. It’s the wind. The Egyptian gods are sending the squall to us, driving their adherents mad,” Augustinus shouted back.
    Lucius paused and listened intently. Faintly he could detect a murmur, some type of barely audible whisper of a dark presence. Not from above, but it vibrated from deep below. “But the breeze is barely perceived. This distant noise, the sound of the wind is not in the air. It feels,” he said, crouched down and put his left palm onto the sand. “Like it is coming from the desert itself: like it is a living and breathing colossus.”
    Augustinus knelt down and felt the desert for a few seconds, then pulled his hand away like it had been burnt. “This deviltry is the Egyptians’ evil god, Set, testing our mettle. The breeze howls underground from afar, whirling unrestrained under the desert.”
    “A cave or underground passage funnels the haunted air itself, creating the distant scream that we hear,” Lucius stated. “It is not a phenomenon of the gods, but probably some oddly carved stone that wreaks havoc on our animals and slaves. The Egyptians and their penchant for gargantuan constructions: somewhere, the distant wind batters against stone to create such noise.”
    The other legionnaire looked with skepticism at his comrade, then put his hand back against the sand. “No. This is something different: something boding ill for the lot of us. No wonder the Primus’s camp was in uproar. The gods toy with us. Press us. The Egyptians’ deities now seek revenge for the battle of Actium. The living dead of legend stir beneath us. We are paying now!” Augustinus shouted.
    “Compose yourself. You are a Roman Legionnaire!” Lucius commanded. “Your protestations sound like the whining of a boy-loving Greek. Stay your tongue. You shame Jupiter and yourself.”
    Augustinus took a deep breath, and then looked in the direction the slaves had escaped. “My apologies. I dishonor my ancestors with my fear.”
    “You dishonor us all. All men feel fear, but it does not dictate the actions of a Posterior,” Lucius said. “There is tangible explanation for this phenomenon.”
    After a few minutes, the howls subsided. The haunted wind quieted as mysteriously as it started. It took several hours for the Romans to regain their