Montague Cutter in Timbuktu: A Montague Cutter Adventure, #1

By E.F.L. Tuan, Bret H Lambert and Bret Lambert

It's July 1940.

 

Timbuktu, French Sudan, is under the theoretical control of Free France. With players from Vichy France, Nazi Germany, and fascist Italy tossed into the mix, this ancient city is a no-man's land where life is cheap.

 

Somewhere in the Sahara, so the legend goes, is the IX Legio Hispana — Rome's Ninth Legion Hispaña — better known to some as the Lost Legion. Sent on a mission by Emperor Trajan in 108AD to find wealth to refill his coffers, the legion vanished into history … and the ever-shifting sands of the Sahara Desert.

Montague Cutter just wants to enjoy a simple life away from the strife and horrors of Europe's war, but that is cut short on a hot, dusty day when someone from his past appears in the doorway of Reggie's Oasis.

 

Alyxandria Constantinescu, daughter of the renowned Romanian archaeologist Andrei Constantinescu, has a simple favor to ask: help her rescue her father from the Nazis and locate an artifact that has been lost for more than eighteen hundred years.

 

The Nazis, as it so happens, have a personal grudge against Cutter and do not take lightly to his interference in their mission for der Fuhrer.

Escaping into the desert with the help of a pair of young local adventurers and a mysterious Tuareg, Cutter and crew begin their perilous quest for the bronze eagle of the Lost Legion … and the wealth that the legion had been sent to find.

 

But nothing's ever easy and what Cutter and crew stumble across was something even they never expected!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bret Lambert
• Release date: Feb 25, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393403623

E.F.L. Tuan

E.F.L. Tuan is the pseudonym used by Bret H. Lambert, author of the For the Innocent series. Born in Indonesia, he has traveled throughout Southeast Asia and the Mediterranean. His decade of military service in the USAF included time in Germany and Turkey, as well as North Dakota and Washington. He spent a decade in a West Texas city CSI unit and received a bachelor’s degree in Criminology. He spent a decade at a petroleum refinery in Southern California. He now resides in Arizona with his family where he enjoys time outdoors and writing.

Book preview

To my father,

Who showed me the world.

The best way to see a place

Is to get lost in it.

Which I did ...

And still do.

Thank you.

Other stories by this author as:

D.D. Drew

Welcome to Ordinary

Return to Ordinary

An Ordinary Treasure Hunt

On the Road to Ordinary



Bret H. Lambert

For the Innocent

Vindicta

Regina Maris

Praesidium

Havoc

Nemeses

A.D. 108

Eboracum (Britannia)

I

Flavius Pompeius Atticus, optio of what remained of the Legio IX Hispana, looked warily at the parchment in his hand. Titus Julius Marcellus, the governor of Britannia, requested his immediate presence. The young legionnaire who had brought the demand stood at attention before him; he may have been sixteen years old. A replacement for one of the many thousands killed in Rome’s failed attempt to conquer northern Britannia against the indigenous Celtic tribes. They had not fared well in the Boudican Revolt of AD 61 either. The legion had numbered 4800 men, each legion consisting of ten cohorts of 480 men each, and each cohort consisting of four maniples of 120 legionnaires. The unlucky Legio IX Hispana had been reduced to a maniple, put together from the despondent survivors.

What’s your name? asked the thirty-year-old optio, his blue eyes searching the younger man’s face.

Aulus Balbus Tullius, was the crisp reply.

This boy may actually have a backbone, thought Atticus. First time away from home, Tullius?

Yes, sir. His brown eyes were focused on a point above and behind the older man.

A smile touched the lips of the sandy-haired optio. I was about your age when I became a legionnaire, he told the youth in a casual, friendly tone. It seems a long time ago, now. Coming out of his simple camp chair, he stretched his back and then clapped his hands together. "Right! Shall we see why our esteemed governor wishes to see a lowly optio?"

Titus Julius Marcellus was a short man — not quite as tall as young Tullius at five-feet-five-inches — with a pronounced midriff that was indicative of being well-fed. His bulbous nose and bloodshot eyes showed signs of alcoholism. He was pacing nervously within his generous marquee, hands tightly clasping two scrolls behind his back. He stopped and stared at the two legionnaires who entered.

Who is that? he demanded, pointing toward the youth.

Without missing a beat, Atticus replied, "Aulus Balbus Tullius, my electus."

Young Tullius, standing just behind and to the left, did not bat an eye at being introduced to the governor as the optio’s aide de camp.

Continuing effortlessly, Atticus inquired, You sent for me, sir?

Titus Julius Marcellus hesitated for only a moment before shrugging off the situation. I have received an urgent communiqué from Rome, he said, holding up the scroll in his right hand. From Trajan himself!

Imperator Caesar Nerva Traianus Divi Nervae filius Augustus, second of the Five Good Emperors, was into his tenth year as emperor. A successful soldier-emperor presiding over the greatest military expansion in Rome’s history, he was loved by the masses for his philanthropic rule, his extensive public building programs, and implementation of his social welfare policies.

Atticus, eyeing the scroll, was impressed.

He has instructed me to promote you to centurion, went on the governor of Britannia, and he has further instructed me to hand over to you this sealed scroll. He presented the second scroll with his left hand. I am to give you all the necessary support you require for the successful completion of this ... mission.

Atticus looked at the scroll in his hands. He refused the show the surprise that left him momentarily speechless. Focusing on the short, fat politician, the newly promoted centurion said evenly, Thank you, Titus Julius Marcellus. I shall return to my domicile and review these orders. I will let you know what I might need.

Titus Julius Marcellus frowned briefly. He had been hoping that the centurion would open the scroll in front of him; he hated being kept in the dark. Very good, he sighed. You may go.

Atticus and his young aide de camp promptly exited the marquee and returned to former optio’s humble stone-and-wood quarters. He closed and barred the door and windows before lighting an oil lamp on his wooden table and sitting down with the still-sealed scroll. He glanced up at the teenager who stood erect near the door.

Take a seat, my boy! laughed the newly promoted centurion. Stop looking so terrified!

Aulus Balbus Tullius hesitated for a moment before sitting on the stool across the table from his superior. The forefinger of his right hand followed the shape of an ichthys etched deeply into the worn tabletop. Are you sure you want me here, sir? he asked. I mean, that’s a sealed scroll from Emperor Trajan himself, and probably contains a message to which I should not be privy.

Smiling at the nervous youth, Atticus responded, I’ll read through it quietly so as to protect your sensibilities. He produced his pugio from its sheath on his side and used the sharp tip to carefully break the wax seal. He unrolled the scroll and quickly read through the text. Well, he murmured when he had finished. He lay the open scroll on the table and repeated himself, Well.

Tullius looked expectantly at the older man. It is ... good news, sir? he asked hesitantly.

Well, said Atticus for the third time, followed by, "it is definitely interesting news! He tapped the scroll with a calloused index finger. Our beloved emperor has directed me to take what remains of the Legio IX Hispana and set sail for Africa."

The youth’s jaw dropped. In a voice that was just barely audible, he inquired, Where? Oea? Sabbratha? Leptis Magnus?

No.

Carthage, then? Or Alexandria?

No. No, my boy, Trajan wants us to sail south, along the western coast — there is map of sorts here — and then march inland, explained the centurion. It would seem he has gotten wind of vast deposits of gold and precious jewels somewhere in there, and he wants us to secure that wealth for the Empire.

But, sir, no one has ever gone on such an expedition! gasped Tullius. That land is all unknown! We could be lost!

True, admitted Flavius Pompeius Atticus, the newly promoted centurion of what had been the Legio IX Hispana. He smiled and gave the youth a wink. We could very well become a lost legion. After a pause, he added, Or, at the very least, a lost maniple!



Flavius Pompeius Atticus stood on the gently rocking deck of the galley. His blue eyes, squinting into the rising sun, were fixed on the sandy shoreline less than a mile off the ship’s port side. The western shoreline of Africa looked very much like the northern shoreline of Africa, in his humble opinion. He was not sure what he had expected to find, but this was not it. Glancing aft, he saw the other two galleys that made up his little fleet. It was three weeks since he had received his orders from Emperor Trajan, and two weeks of that had been spent at sea. His legionnaires were not seafaring men and were more than ready to set foot on solidum terram.

Today, he told the pale youth who stood beside him. He tapped the rolled scroll securely tucked into his leather belt. Following Trajan’s instruction, we set foot on that shore today, and tomorrow we begin our march inland.

Aulus Balbus Tullius nodded weakly. "That is good news, sir! I don’t know that I can take this pitching and swaying much longer."

You have done well, Tullius, the centurion told him reassuringly. Certainly, no worse than any other legionnaire!

At that moment, the ship’s captain approached. He gave the centurion a lax salute before addressing him. We’ll move in slowly, he explained, taking regular soundings. We don’t want to get beached. When we’re close enough, we’ll start ferrying you lot ashore.

Very good, Marcus Ignacius, agreed Atticus with a firm nod.

The captain smiled knowingly. The sea is not for everyone, but you lot have held up well!

By midday, the three galleys were anchored one hundred yards offshore and their cargos were loaded into small boats and sent ashore. Horses, mules, and oxen were lowered into the water and tied to the small boats, which were loaded with men and supplies, and towed to the welcoming sand. Quickly the boats were unloaded and sent back for more. It was late in the afternoon, with the sun sinking toward the western horizon, by the time the last of Legio IX Hispana and its supplies were beached. The centurion made a thorough accounting before thanking the captain and bidding him and his sailors farewell.

Tullius, commanded Atticus, his blue eyes warily scanning their new surroundings, "get for me the optio."

Promoted from the ranks to fill the vacancy left by the newly promoted centurion, Quinctius Faustus Caius was a huge man. Only two inches taller than Atticus, he was broad in the shoulders, densely muscled, and prided himself on being an undefeated wrestler wherever he went. His black hair was cropped short, and his dark eyes possessed a devious intelligence. His face, scarred from battle, was not a handsome one. He presented himself to his commander with a sharp salute. Hail, Flavius Pompeius Atticus!

A small smile touched the centurion’s lips. He liked this rogue; they had been through a lot together — and had survived. Yes, yes, hail, Quinctius Faustus Caius. The men are setting up our encampment?

A makeshift corral is done, and they are putting the finishing touches on our defensive perimeter, replied Caius, relaxing. "I drew up a sentinel rotation while we were at sea and have posted it near our aquila." He gestured toward the center of the encampment where the stout staff—atop which was a bronze eagle with outstretched wings—was firmly planted in the sandy earth of this new land.

With a nod, Atticus said, Very good. Very good. As soon as the work is done have the men build their cooking fires. It will be dark soon. Have them all fed and bedded down within the next couple of hours. We set out early tomorrow morning.

Caius gave a brief nod of acknowledgement and went off shouting orders at the legionnaires.

Atticus glanced down at Tullius. Better now that your feet are on firm ground? he asked kindly.

With a sheepish grin, the youth replied, Much, thank you. I don’t come from a seafaring family.

Most of us don’t, confessed Atticus with a chuckle. Although I had an older brother who went to sea because he thought it would be more exciting than being a legionnaire.

What became of him?

With a booming laugh, Atticus responded, He came back to become a legionnaire!



Morning came early only to find the existing maniple of the Legio IX Hispana already breaking camp. All their supplies were loaded upon the braying mules and snorting oxen. Astride his dappled horse, Flavius Pompeius Atticus watched as his seasoned soldiers quickly made ready for their departure. He turned his blue eyes inland. There is a lot of sand, he thought unhappily, just like the north of Africa. It was not a barren land, however. There were palm trees and various scrub brush, and he had no doubt that they would meet natives as they pushed inward. Normally, a legion would conquer the people as it went, but as his was not a legion and his mission was specific to finding the wealth his emperor wanted, he decided to forgo that tradition.

Astride a large bay, Quinctius Faustus Caius appeared even more intimidating than he already was. Hail, Flavius Pompeius Atticus! he announced with a crisp salute.

Atticus eyed the man with warm affection. You appear well-rested, Caius.

I didn’t sleep well aboard ship, confessed the optio, so I made up for it last night.

The centurion smiled. As did young Tullius. Snored like a thunderstorm!

Aulus Balbus Tullius immediately flushed. It’s all this activity, sir, and the anticipation of our mission.

Atticus laughed raucously. Good answer, my boy!

The centurion looked over his maniple with a critical eye, pleased with what he saw. They had been through a lot over the years and had not done particularly well in the last few battles — having been almost obliterated in their most recent campaign against the crazed Britons — but now they had an opportunity to recoup their honor. This was a mission handed them from Emperor Trajan himself! He shifted his gaze, once again, inland. For the briefest moment a shiver coursed through his body.

Caius, he murmured. Tullius. He pointed toward the rising sun. For the glory of Rome and our beloved emperor!

The only surviving maniple of the Legio IX Hispana vanished into history.

A.D. 1940, late July

Timbuktu, French Sudan

ONE

It was Monday, the 22nd of July, and we knew that it was going to spread, the war in Europe.

We had listened for years to the news broadcasts over the age-worn cathedral radio at Reggies’ Oasis near the outskirts of town. We had followed the rises to power of Adolf Hitler and Benito Mussolini. We had been almost amused when, on 30of September 1938, upon his return from Berlin and the much-ballyhooed Munich Agreement, Great Britain’s Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain made his famous — or infamous, depending on your perspective — declaration of peace for our time. Less than a year later, on 1 September 1939, the Nazis sealed that peace deal by invading Poland unhindered; two days later, in response to Hitler’s invasion, Britain and France, both allies of the overrun nation, declared war on Germany. In April 1940, they followed up by invading Denmark and Norway, which was then followed in May of that same year by rolling into — and over — France, Belgium, Luxembourg (I barely got out of there in time, let me tell you!), and the Netherlands. On the 10th of July, the Battle of Britain had begun — just twelve days before.

Prior to all this invading of Europe by the Germans, and Hitler’s big push for Lebensraum, the Nazis had been busy aiding Generalissimo Francisco Paulino Hermenegildo Teódulo Franco Bahamonde’s (more affectionately known as Francisco Franco) Nationalists in Spain’s brutal civil war from July 1936 through March 1939. It had been a ruthless war against the Republicans, who were allied with the anarchists and communists. I, myself, had made a little money off that conflict by running guns to the losing side, which had gotten rather hairy on more than one occasion. I had been in Germany during Kristallnacht (the 9th and 10th of November 1938) and seen first-hand the Nazis in action. I knew, then and there, that Adolf Hitler and his goons had to be stopped. And not just Hitler, but Benito Mussolini, Franco, and even Josef Stalin.

I had wanted none of the conflagration that was sweeping through Europe and did what I could, but it wasn’t enough.

The Italians had started throwing their fascist weight around even before the Germans with their invasion of Ethiopia from October 1935 through February 1937. They followed up that success with Albania’s fall in April 1939; I ran guns and ammunition to the losing side there, too.  Il Duce was quite proud his military prowess. One thing about that little dictator, he got the Italian trains running on time!

In June we flew into Timbuktu to escape, truth be told, my mechanic (and best friend) Jackson ‘Jack’ Dillard and me. We’d had enough of war and had barely made it out of a couple of tight spots with our hides intact. There was no airfield to speak of, just a cleared strip of hard-packed earth. The only other plane on the ground that day had been a colonial transport — the "Ville de Dakar" — a three-engine all-metal, high-wing, cantilever monoplane belonging to the Société des Avions Air Afrique. It was used as a general transport carrier, which included up to ten passengers and mail.

Timbuktu. The French, after they captured the place in 1894, partially restored the city to a habitable condition. Many of the buildings were built of earth and cement. There was an eclectic mix of traditional mud huts, concrete houses, and European-style villas, with mosques and government buildings in the Sudanese style. There were no paved streets, and a good rain often washed away the dirt roads.

Now, apart from the local population, Timbuktu had four small groups comprising the Germans, Italians, Nazi-sympathizing Vichy French, and, of course, the Free French. It was the latter group which was in actual ‘control’ of the town. Under French colonial rule, it was part of their Soudan Français, or French Sudan. The region was administered as part of the Fédération d’Afrique occidental (Federation of French West Africa), and it supplied labor to France’s colonies on the coast of West Africa. As you might imagine, the local folks were not keen on this, and resistance, which had started in 1892, continued.

The local Free French assemblage — under the reasonably-capable command of the Préfet de Police, one Lieutenant Albéric Boucher — was understandably distressed in May 1940 when Germany walked around their much-touted Maginot Line and took control of their country and the neighboring lowlands. Not too long after that happened came the arrival of the assemblage from Vichy France with an eye on taking control of this little piece of the desolation. The Germans also sent a small group to keep an eye on their new comrades, not to mention the Free French. Not to be outdone, Il Duce sent a handful of sharply dressed troops to keep an eye on everyone.

As for me, not claiming allegiance to any nation — sovereign or otherwise — I remained neutral — more or less. Being the sole product of an American father (deceased near the end of the Great War of 1914 to 1918 when I was ten) and an English mother (who lived in a quaint little thatch-roofed cottage in the Cotswolds), I was often considered a mongrel among Timbuktu’s upper crust.

I ran a small air service from a corner table in the only reputable foreign café in town, which, in turn, was owned and operated by a Brit with a limp, one Reginald ‘Reggie’ Brandreth. Whether or not that was really his name was immaterial in this town; it just wasn’t that important. In