Dragons and Romans

by William David Ellis

  DRAGONS

  AND

  ROMANS

  BY

  WILLIAM DAVID ELLIS

  ALTAR STONE PUBLISHING

  TEXAS

  Copyright © 2018 by William David Ellis

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

  William David Ellis/Altar Stone Publishing

  www.williamdavidellisauthor.wordpress.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Book Layout © 2017 BookDesignTemplates.com

  Romans and Dragons/ William David Ellis. -- 1st ed.

  ISBN 978-0-0000000-0-0

  Author’s Note

  Is this a historically accurate depiction of the siege of Carthage by Roman legions? No, it is not, nor have I gone to great lengths to make it so.

  That is why it is called alternate history. It is fiction. It is a “what if” kind of story just like alternate history is supposed to be. I have, however, tried to be as accurate as I can without destroying the story. One criticism I have received is that the technology of the Romans in this book is too advanced, yet there is nothing advanced about it. What is fresh is the collection of existing technologies from other cultures, especially of the Chinese and other Mediterranean cultures of the day. If they had the resources to make something and only lacked the knowledge, then it was fair game for inclusion in the story. There were limits of course: gunpowder and bombs, yes; rifles and land mines, no; diversity among the Roman legions, yes.

  Some have asked is this a spiritual book? My response is--what isn’t spiritual? What did the people of the time believe and what was available for them to believe? What gods and monsters and what means of conjuring them existed or are implied by ancient texts? If they did exist and were invoked through child sacrifice, what happened to them? Could they be invoked today? Are the mystical weapons and concepts mentioned in Dragons and Romans actually used in spiritual warfare? Do people have dreams? Do demons possess? Do prophets speak?

  Are the Carthaginians accurately described as destroying their children in the flames? Yes, they did and suffered consequences for it. Can dragons and or demons be conjured by the energies available through child sacrifice? Well, this is fiction. Or is it?

  Dedication

  Special thanks to my beta readers, Don Brewer and Susan Martin Townsend. Your encouragement and willingness to actually read this work when it was soooooo rough is greatly appreciated! Also, to my dear wife, Deanna, who fought with me line by line and sometimes word by word through the editing process. I am so grateful and could never have done it without you.

  Finally, to all the Reguluses and Miriams who stand in the gap today, to all those whose life-prophecies haunt them, to all the warriors of the spirit, be not weary in doing good, for in due season you will reap.

  —William David Ellis, March 2018

  The Roman historian Livy, reported the following: "After many of the soldiers had been seized in the dragon's mouth and many more crushed by the folds of its tail, its hide being too thick for javelins and darts, the dragon was at last attacked by military engines (catapults) and crushed by repeated blows from heavy stones.”

  ― Titus Livius Patavinus (64 or 59 BC – AD 17)

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Coming this summer…

  The Princess Who Forgot She Was Beautiful

  Chapter One

  Carthage, North Africa 147 B.C.

  The flickering light reflected the struggle the charred wick had to stay lit. Its dim glow revealed the weary face of a dark, curly-haired woman who sat nursing her infant son. As she held him tenderly, she remembered the tragic events that had brought her to a tiny room in the back of a large house in the middle of Carthage. She stared though tears at her little boy named Issur. He was six months old, large for his age, and very hungry. She saw his father, whose features were eternally mirrored in the baby’s face.

  Miriam’s husband had died futilely, trying to protect her. Her village also died that day at the hands of slavers. Men with no soul who stripped Miriam of everything she cherished. Before her husband’s blood had dried on her blouse, they slapped her in rusty iron manacles, threw her into the hold of a leaky ship, and sold her. Her introduction to slavery had been brutal but had not driven hope from her. She learned to survive. When her captors discovered she was pregnant, she was sold again and, after another nauseating sea voyage in the bottom of a filthy ship, wound up in Carthage.

  Wilted by middle age, Miriam’s new owner Gisco was stern and difficult but not particularly cruel. His wife, on the other hand …was an aging, gangly-formed, thin-lipped tyrant, whose family money had run out before their willingness to abandon their station.

  When Similce was a young woman, her father had traded her to Gisco. Gisco’s money for entrance into the halls of power in Carthage, or so Gisco had thought. Later he realized power was an illusion, but the millstone of an angry wife, a disappointing reality. Miriam’s beauty and Gisco’s obvious awareness of it only caused Similce to focus her cruelty on Miriam more intently. Beatings for the smallest infractions, with the rules changing daily, made Miriam’s life a hidden snake pit of awful surprise, dark-lined and twisted by the insatiable jealousy of her unloved mistress.

  Miriam struggled against painful tremors and deep sobs as her memories and the ever-present fear of Similice’s attentions lay heavy on her. “I can endure this,” she told herself. “I must endure this! There is still hope.”

  A loud call at her quarter’s entrance interrupted her thoughts. Gisco’s shrill, nasal voice pierced the quiet of her tender refuge.

  “Miriam…Miriam. I need to talk with you, are you in there?” He demanded before pushing his way through the rough, wool curtains that hid her from the rest of the house. His eyes lit on her exposed breast. She quickly dropped a cloth over her and the baby and waited.

  Gisco sat down on a crude wooden chair in front of Miriam and smiled. “That
is just precious, dear. You are so beautiful; your son so perfect.” He attempted a sympathetic, caring smile that failed to reflect either and said, “May I hold him?”

  Miriam had learned no matter how desperately she opposed any actions her owners required, if she did not want to be beaten, she had to comply. So, with extreme reserve, and as slowly as she could without seeming not to obey, she handed Issur to Gisco.

  He looked at the boy with an approving glance and nodded. “Yes, he will do just fine. Brankor,” he said, “You can take him now.” Gisco’s manservant, a huge, well-muscled Nubian waiting outside the curtain, quickly walked into the room and took the child before Miriam could react. Then he left.

  Forgetting herself, Miriam leaped toward the child. Gisco’s quick reach stopped her short and held her. He was drunk and had buttressed his normally weak will with strong wine before entering the room. He would never have had the courage or strength to confront Miriam unless drunk and supported by his manservant. Normally he was not cruel, but when provoked by his wife and bolstered by drink, he could be vicious.

  Miriam’s hands trembled in rage, but the scars on her back held her spine rigid as she stopped and stared at her master. “What are you doing?” She cried hoarsely. “Why are you taking my baby?”

  “Your baby?” Gisco replied. “Your baby? You mean your master’s baby, don’t you?” He continued in a quiet voice poisoned with warning. “That’s really none of your concern. You’ve been spending entirely too much time with him. I have need of him. He will serve a glorious purpose, and you should be proud.”

  Gisco failed to notice the tremor in Miriam’s hands, thinking he was secure in his ability to beat her senseless any time he chose. He was unaware that the single flicker of hope that lit her heart snuffed out when he uttered the phrase “glorious purpose.” It had been replaced by an insanely burning wrath.

  Gisco shifted his weight to move out of the chair. Miriam’s eyes began to jerk rapidly from side to side. Her breaths came in quick rasps. Her heart broke and took her mind with it. She shrieked and leaped on him, clawing his face, raging, against him. Blood splattered as her fingernails bit into Gisco’s fat cheeks. He tried to throw her off, but caught off balance by her leap, wound up on the floor beneath her, as she ripped and mauled him like a tormented beast. Their screams brought other slaves who tore her off him. She kicked and fought with no attempt to flee. Anger and fear fell away like ash beneath a harsh wind. Her mind twisted and warped from months of hopeless cruelty and beatings, mutated into a wild thing bent on killing.

  Finally, Brankor hammered her face with his giant fist, and she slid into the dark.

  Chapter Two

  Roman Headquarters, 7th Legion, outside the walls of Carthage

  Sweltering under the pathetic shade of his command tent, Regulus Marcus Atilius wiped the stinging sweat from his eyes for the hundredth time that miserable afternoon. The still-young supreme commander, the Legatus Legionis of the Legion was not particularly tall for a Roman, although you couldn’t tell that unless you measured him. He projected strength and wisdom, leadership and diplomacy in a way that drew men to him. It made enemies respect him, and allies revere him.

  Today he wasn’t feeling particularly strong or wise or respectable. Being from northern Italy, not northern Africa, heat was a curse to him, and he hated it. But as a good soldier, he endured, waiting for the desert night that would cool things down to a tolerable level.

  Regulus had been born into a politically favored family. His father was a senator, so privilege wasn’t anything new to him. Early in his life, he developed a contempt for anything he could not earn. He saw his family platform, not as a right, but as a responsibility to use his birthright to better himself. He pushed harder, worked longer, and honed his gifts and intellect to a keen edge. Simply because he was given opportunity others never shared did not mean he did not attempt to make himself worthy in his own eyes and in the eyes of others who, once they knew him, would never accuse him of using his family to promote himself.

  Regulus’ enemies were the enemies of Rome. For a century that enemy had been the empire of Carthage. Carthage had been defeated twice, but the stubborn city kept rising to challenge Rome again and again. Her famous general, Hannibal, had crossed the ice-covered mountains of northern Italy and routed Roman armies for sixteen years before finally being defeated by the Scipio family. Now Rome had forced the Carthaginians back to the walls of their city, where 500,000 of them worked producing 300 swords, 500 spears, 140 shields, and 1,000 projectiles for catapults daily. Regulus, under pressure from the Roman senate to end the siege, defeat the troublesome city, and stop the drain on the Roman economy, was making progress. But he was stalled by the same strength of will that had caused Carthage to rise and fight Rome twice before.

  As Regulus sweated through these thoughts, the grizzled old veteran who had looked after him from the beginning of his career to his position as general of the legion and now acted as his aid entered, saluted, and said, “General Han Xing wishes to see you, sir. Says his spies discovered something is going on in the city, and you may want to know about it.”

  Regulus sighed, “No rest for the weary or the wicked. Bring him in, Sarrius.”

  Han Xing was a gifted addition to Regulus’ staff. He had swept up on Regulus’ eclectic shore and Regulus, perceiving him for the gem he was, had quickly recruited him.

  Han Xing had been a victim of China’s imperial court intrigue. He had sided with the wrong prince on a wrong day, resulting in political and military disaster. As a result, Han Xing found himself fleeing in the middle of the night with the clothes on his back and wits in his head. Determined to keep the two attached, it had occurred to him to relocate quickly and radically rather than spend his days looking over his shoulder for the bounty hunter that would inevitably be sent to kill him.

  For two years he traveled west, through the jungles of India, and the deserts of Persia eventually ending up in the Middle of the Balkans. Continuing on one caravan after another, he ran into the Roman Empire and found a home. It had taken him a while to find his fit. Most Romans were elitist and bigoted, and wouldn’t even talk to him, much less hire him. But then one night in a dingy tavern in a bad section of Rome, he sat down by a Greek that actually spoke a mangled version of Sanskrit, the ancient tongue of India. Han Xing had a basic understanding of the language. The strange looking man, who also happened to be an outcast named Xenophanes, began a halting conversation with him. Xenophanes later discovered Sanskrit was not Han Xing’s native tongue, but by then it didn’t matter because he had introduced him to Regulus. The commander had a nose for military talent and immediately offered Han Xing a job, depending of course on him learning Latin. Han Xing was a master of languages, like almost everything else in his life. After a few years and a dozen battles, he now stood at the young general’s side as second in command.

  He had taught Regulus a great deal and introduced him to technologies and tactics that, up until Han Xing’s sudden arrival on the scene, the Romans had not known. Many aristocratic conservative Romans scorned Han’s counsel. Regulus was of a different mind and realized excellence was not the sole domain of Italy. He wanted the best people he could find; consequently, he could not afford to be a discriminating elitist. It’s not that he had a desire to be anything but Roman, but he had learned early that if it works, make it Roman. And if it was Roman and didn’t work, get rid of it and blame it on the Greeks. That philosophy had seen him through, advancing his career and reputation as a master tactician and military leader, all because he knew wisdom when he heard it and was adaptable when he needed to be.

  Han saluted as he walked into Regulus’ tent. Even though Regulus saw him as a mentor and somewhat of a father figure, Han kept to the Roman rituals of saluting a superior officer when entering.

  “How is my favorite spy master tonight, and what can I do for you?” Regulus asked, curious to know what Han’s spies had discovered.

  Han Xing smi
rked. “Since I am your only spymaster, General Regulus, I am not sure how to take that. And tonight, it’s not what you can do for me, but what I can do for you. My spies brought me some interesting news, and not being completely versed in the religious habits of the Carthaginians, I am wondering if you might have more insight than I do about those habits.”

  “Well let’s hear it, Han Xing. I’m not sure if I know any more than you, but who knows. Between the two of us, maybe we can figure out what our enemies are doing.” Regulus pointed to the extra chair in his tent.

  Han Xing shook his head and started pacing. “The Carthaginians are collecting infants from slaves and from the people of the city to sacrifice at the full moon. My spies say there is turmoil and anguish in the city and yet great resolve. Some of the parents of the infants actually volunteered their children! Others not so much.” He stopped pacing and faced Regulus. “I don’t understand the fanatical zeal to destroy their offspring in a time of siege. It is not a Chinese failing. It troubles me deeply, and I thought you should know.”

  “Damn, these gods-forsaken savages!” Regulus cursed violently, pounding on the small, portable desk he sat behind. “You understand now why Rome has fought them tooth and toenail for three centuries? They are wicked to the core, seared in the heart. Damn them! How self-destructive.”

  Han scratched his beard, clearly perplexed. “Destroying one’s offspring would ultimately destroy his race, and if they were doing that to placate Rome, that’s one thing. Although Rome would never ask for that. But what do they expect to accomplish in the short term? Is this some type of appeasement to a demon god? Some type of sacrificial bribe they expect will release the city from our siege?”

  “Not a bribe my friend, a release of power. They expect their demon god to infuse them with the strength of their slain children. They expect to harness the anguish and grief and raw anger of their own souls to destroy us!”