Dragons and Romans

by William David Ellis

  “Just how the hell do you know that?” Han Xing asked, looking impressed.

  “Because this is not the first time they have done this. I have heard the legends. The story is an ancient king of their ancestry, when besieged by the Hebrew nation, slew his own son on the wall of his fortress and unleashed such a fury that the Hebrews were forced to retreat. I think this must be a very similar tactic.”

  “Do you believe such a… what is the word I am looking for… witchcraft, will work?” Han asked with a curious tone, but skeptical expression.

  “I have seen a lot of things in the last few years. I began life as a soldier, a practical agnostic. Believing only what I saw and touched and understood. As time passed, I have seen and touched and started to understand there is more to this world than is explained by the tangible. Wickedness is palpable, contagious, and extremely hard to master. So, to be honest, I don’t know. But apparently, the Carthaginians believe their infants’ destruction at their own hands will unleash something, and if we are wise, we will prepare for it.”

  “How, my general, do you propose that we do that?”

  “I wonder,” Regulus said, thoughtfully processing his ideas as he spoke, “if it wouldn’t be easier to prevent the sacrifice rather than deal with what it provokes? How do we interrupt, or prevent them from engaging in the act?”

  Han Xing stopped his slow pacing, looked at Regulus and said, “Now you have given me a question I can answer. I have some ideas. Let me speak to a few people.” Then he bowed and walked out.

  Regulus, slowly shaking his head, sat staring at the tent entrance Han Xing had left, “Child sacrifice?”

  Chapter Three

  Inside the city of Carthage

  The high priest of Baal, the child-consuming god of the city of Carthage, paced back and forth like a jaguar in a cage. Prematurely grey, Asdrubal had lost weight during the siege. His eyes were glossy and feverish. Occasionally, he would stop pacing and stretch his lean frame back and forth, swaying and rocking like a serpent under the spell of a snake charmer. He walked the smoky room adjacent to the sacrificial amphitheater, breathing in the tainted incense of dried opium flowers. As his drugged walk continued, he chanted, mimicking dark, forgotten languages that curled up from the demons feasting on him. He prepared for the sacrifice of hundreds of innocent children, and even for a sadist like himself, it took a tremendous effort to totally give himself over to the insatiable hunger of the killing.

  Yoroah watched the high priest animal-pacing while hiding behind his own stone countenance. He knew the routine. The manic high priest would struggle to remove any shred of conscience he had left by casting it into a literal psychic hole—a moral abyss, a tangible refuge from any light that still threatened to resist the overwhelming darkness he had given himself to. He wanted to make it so deep he could hide at its bottom while letting the hunger ascend and devour the innocents he had gathered to commit to the flames. Then, like a leech, he would come alongside his dark companions and suck up the leftover residual energy from the infants’ anguish, ascend back into his own mind, relight his humanity, and continue his reign.

  Inside, Yoroah was boiling. His infant daughter had been one of those chosen for the sacrifice, and even though he had always known the possibility existed, he assumed and expected, due to his high position in the priesthood, she would be exempt and a slave child would be substituted. But when Asdrubal received a revelation that Carthage was being punished because her prominent citizens refused to offer their own to Baal, Yoroah’s exemption was revoked. Now the façade of his faith that he had always manipulated to his own end lay in ruins. All that was left was soured rage. Seething in cold patience, he had made inquiries that ultimately reached the ears of Han Xing, and from there to Regulus. Yoroah never intended to betray his city, but his city had betrayed him. Now, anything he could do to destroy the system that lived on the blood and ash of its children he was willing to do.

  Asdrubal continued to chant until he passed out and lay in a heap of his excrement and sweat, totally oblivious to the schemes that were weaving around him. When Asdrubal fell, the group of priests quietly left the room and went on with preparations for the sacrifice. Urns needed to be cleansed, flint sanctified, knives sharpened, and wood gathered in huge quantities.

  While leaving the preparation room, Yoroah’s cold eyes fell on the floor drain, which was ready for the flood of holy water that would mix with ash and bone in the center of the room after the sacrifices had burned away. Yoroah’s eyes widened as he realized that the opening was wide enough for a man to sneak into and prematurely set fire to the whole arena.

  Chapter Four

  In a dungeon below the city of Carthage

  Miriam dreamed of fire and screams and pain. She slipped back into consciousness, waking before she realized it, and gradually, reluctantly opened her swollen eyes. The room where she lay, strapped to a cold, stone table, was lit by a flickering torch. Becoming aware of her surroundings, she realized both feet and hands were bound, her clothes stripped away, and she was bruised and sore in several places. Gisco or his wife must have continued to kick and beat her after she had passed out. She instinctively recoiled from the stench of human waste and sweat and the unfamiliar metallic smell of blood. Her last memories were of Gisco taking her baby Issur from her, and then telling her he was going to use the baby for the “glorious purpose,” which, she knew, meant being burned alive as a sacrifice to his serpent god. She had a confused memory of attacking Gisco and of hurting him, then nothing.

  “I see you are awake,” a voice from the darkness whispered. “I am actually sorry for that. I hoped your coma would be permanent, and you would die in your sleep. You see now it’s my job to punish you for attacking your master.”

  Miriam gasped and began to whimper as the hulking form of her torturer bent over and gently blew his vile breath across her body.

  “I know,” he continued sympathetically. “I know, shush, shush... It won’t do to cry. Nobody can hear you here. For those who can, well, you wouldn’t want to meet them. So if you can... better to lie still and just endure. I will place a bit in your mouth if you wish. A lot of people break their teeth on it, though I’m not sure they notice. You shouldn’t have hurt your master, pretty one. Now, I must make an example of you. I promise not to enjoy it too much.”

  Miriam watched with bulging eyes, straining at the straps that held her down as the torturer drew his sharpened knife toward her cheek. Her screams broke through the darkness like flashes of lightning piercing an evil sky.

  ****

  Roman headquarters

  Regulus wrote with his stylus in the candlelight of his tent. At this late hour, he should have been asleep, but his frenzied thoughts haunted him, so he attempted to bleed them off using his stylus as a lance and the vellum in front of him as the physician’s bowl.

  Long ago he realized that writing what troubled him helped structure his thoughts and sometimes gave him a release as he cast them out onto the page. Tonight, it didn’t work. The more he wrote, the more he thought, and there did not seem to be an end to the matter. According to Han Xing, the Carthaginians were about to slaughter their own children to unleash some angry, mystical energy on his army.

  The commander in him scoffed, mocking his own fear saying, Let them kill all their kindred, the less for his soldiers to deal with later. But that was the conscious side of him. The side that spoke to him in battle and informed his direction that saved him more times than he was comfortable with, his hidden man, warned him that a grave danger was coming, and he must do all in his power to stop it. That haunting, inner voice birthed the frustrating question, How do you stop what you don’t understand? Are the Carthaginians conjuring a demon? He had actually researched and confirmed his old memory of the king of Moab who had sacrificed his son on a wall. He found the text in the second book of the Hebrew Kings, but it did not help. Was the fury that the sacrifice released a real spirit? Or was it simply an attitude, so grim an
d determined it would not be conquered? He didn’t even know what to call it. His quandaries were halted for a moment when his attendant, Sarrius, interrupted with a request that General Han Xing wanted to speak with him.

  “Show him in, Tribune Sarrius,” Regulus answered, waiting while the brilliant tactician and spymaster walked into the tent. “Well?” Regulus asked focused on Han Xing.

  “We may have a way to prevent the sacrifice and destroy the provisions for the ritual. One of the high priest associates did not take kindly to his own daughter being chosen for the ritual. He assumed he would have an exemption for his family due to his status among the priesthood, but was dismayed when the high priest said that their serpent god was angry that they had not sacrificed their own children but only the children of the slaves. So now only the highest of the high is being exempted, and even that may not last long.”

  “What did he expect? Did he really believe all the grief and misery his kind had sown would not come back on him?” Regulus growled. “Do they really believe this garbage? And even if some god did demand this kind of sacrifice, is that the kind of god anyone would want to serve? I’m glad the Roman gods are not of that stripe.”

  Han Xing nodded. “An old sage once noticed and called to my attention that the gods made men in their image, and men being of kindred mind returned the favor. What we worship determines who we are and can become. Or perhaps it works the other way. We make our idols from images of our own darkness. Either way, this city needs to be destroyed before its infection spreads to other races and nations.”

  “So, what do you have in mind?” Regulus asked.

  “The Carthaginian spy told me about a large drain tunnel running from a valley not far from here and ending in the heart of the city, in the very rooms of the high priest. We could dispatch a team of close combat specialists.”

  “You mean assassins, don’t you?”

  “As long as they get the job done, I don’t care what you call them. But they might care, so I choose to use a term an honorable Roman might salve his conscience with.”

  “Considering who we are going to kill, I think the most honorable of my troops would have no problem. The high priest is a monster, and he will probably have several bodyguards. This might be a very, very difficult mission.”

  “Not if we plan it right. The spy is sure he has not been detected and swears he can lead the soldiers right into the high priest’s quarters and the sacrificial area, which is only a few meters away. Once they dispose of the high priest, they will set fire to the provisions for the sacrifice and then make their way back through the drain pipe.”

  Regulus considered a moment, then asked, “How many men will it take?”

  “One contubernium.”

  “Eight men? Only eight men?” Regulus responded, surprised.

  “Any more and they won’t be able to hide or move quickly; any less, there won’t be enough of them if there is trouble.”

  “Do you have anybody in mind?”

  “Actually,” Han Xing said smiling, “I have been training special units for just such a task for a few months, and the best of them are ready for their first mission.”

  “Do they understand this is going to be an extremely dangerous mission?”

  “They are Roman soldiers. Most of them do not expect to ever see home again. If we can convince them of the importance of this operation and explain to them that hundreds of children may be saved because of it, they will not hesitate.”

  “Do it then. Let’s see if we can put this fire out before it starts.”

  ****

  Close combat specialists team; Roman camp

  Decemus had been handpicked by Han Xing because of his speed, strength, and ability to blend in. He could pass for many nationalities. He was also extremely intelligent. Han Xing had introduced the Roman soldiers to basic forms of hand-to-hand combat called martial arts. Decemus and his team were introduced to several weapons and then practiced with each until they became proficient with them. Decemus knew that part of his task would be to kill quietly and quickly. His favorite newly found tool for that mission was the rope dart—a rope with a blade on the end used to quickly silence an enemy guard from a greater distance, but still close enough, once the guard was down, to quickly close the gap or even retrieve the knife without moving out of concealment. The men of his contubernium specialized in other weapons, and of course their basic fall back was the Mainz gladiolus, a Roman short sword for stabbing. Tonight was their first mission, and Han Xing drilled them till they could barely stand, then gave them a new uniform that didn’t jingle when they walked, and sandals, that didn’t creak when they applied weight on them. Amazing what whale oil did to leather. The Chinese general even insured that they bathe, lest the smell of sweat, common to Roman soldiers and invisible to their own noses, might reveal their presence to an enemy not dulled by constant exposure.

  Men from Britain, Syria, and Germany, and of course the ever-present Italians, rounded out the team, all trained by Han Xing and all extremely proficient and loyal to Regulus. They were the most highly qualified and equipped individual combat specialists in the empire. Tonight would be their first mission as a team. This method of warfare was extremely different from what they had been originally trained for. This was battle, but included silent, crafty, quick-killing with the emphasis on speed and stealth rather than force and mass. In the dark arena they now entered, silent gasps replaced the noisy screams of battle. It was one thing to train in this new art, but now without any more experience than what Han Xing had taught, they were being cast into the fire of their first operation.

  Chapter Five

  In the storm drains underneath Carthage

  Earlier Yoroah followed up on his idea about the drain. He reported it to his contact, who then passed the information on through dead drops till it reached the Romans and Han Xing. The reply came, and Yoroah should have expected it but still scowled when he read the response, “Scout out the drain, find the exit, and report back.”

  Yoroah knew the Romans couldn’t use a drain exit if they didn’t know where it was, but he still didn’t want to be the one who pried it open and climbed into it.

  Since he had around-the-clock access to the room, it wasn’t hard to sneak in and apply an oil imported from Persia that had penetrating qualities. Yoroah thought himself clever using the oil so the hinges on the drain cover would not screech when he pried them open. He applied it liberally, then pried the drain open with a bar, pushed it aside, lit his beeswax candle, and carefully dropped down on the floor beneath the drain. He did not forget to pull the drain cover back down and once that was in place, turned his attention to the channel that lay before him. It was high enough that he could walk through it but too low to walk upright, so he stooped over and with his candle for company and crept slowly through the drain.

  Yoroah did not realize that he had been observed. Asdrubal had a secret unit loyal only to him that monitored all his priests. He had also developed a dark paranoia with a literal life of its own that would whisper secrets to him, alerting him to the plots and devices of his own people. His ability to detect betrayal and ferret out conspiracies was well-known and feared. Asdrubal’s connection with the demonic minions of the serpent god exacted a toll but paid a fare as well. His nightmares might have amused his demonic tormentors, but the dark spirits also used it to warn him when he was in danger. So, it wasn’t a secret to Asdrubal that Yoroah was enraged at his child being chosen, nor was Yoroah’s notice of the drain beneath the sacrificial pile lost to the darkness that protected Asdrubal.

  Quickly after Yoroah crept down the dark tunnel, another pair of sandals also found the narrow channel and stole behind him.

  Yoroah’s candle flickered and hissed as small drops of putrid water fell from the damp ceiling of the sewer. Although flickering, it never dowsed, so he continued through the long tunnels curving first this way then that, avoiding blind alleys and a multitude of forks and turns that, had he not had a
map, would have caused him to be lost in their mazes. Finally, he felt the air change; night air met him as he came out of the tunnel into a crevasse notched into a hill far below Carthage and close to the Roman camp, hidden from the eye and camouflaged by boulders. As he approached the Roman lines, he was challenged by a sentry waiting for him. He responded with the password and was led to the quarters of Han Xing.

  ****

  Han Xing sat quietly waiting for this particular spy. Olive lamps, dimly lit the night hiding the room in shadows. Guards surrounded the tent in rings fifty feet apart assuring that no attendant ears could listen in on the conversation. The general didn’t have to wait long. A centurion parted the curtain. “General Xing, your guest has arrived.”

  “Bring him in, Thracius,” Han Xing answered. “I’m interested to find out what he knows.”

  Yoroah parted the curtain into the Roman general’s tent and looked surprised to see Asian features confront him. His wonder was not lost on the perceptive spymaster.

  “Not everyone who serves the Roman Empire is Italian, Priest Yoroah,” Han Xing offered in fluent Punic. “It is an empire that respects the legacy of every nation while usually offering an inheritance superior to what one’s ancestors offered, in most cases, that is. Unless of course, you are Greek, at least according to the Greeks or Chinese like myself. Rome has the wisdom to grant autonomy and the generosity to offer rule and law rather than the caprices of the tyrants that we defeat along the way. Why we even concede the right of a civilization to worship its own gods, unless of course, those gods require the sacrifice of innocent children. But I am not telling you anything you don’t know, am I?”

  Yoroah’s astonishment heightened at Han Xing’s ethnicity, at the general’s fluency in his own language, and the general’s knowledge of his name. He had told no one his identity and was dismayed that it had become known. Before he could recover from his shock, the tent curtain opened, and Regulus entered the room.