Dragons and Romans

by William David Ellis

  Regulus was all that Yoroah expected, but the Carthaginian was surprised that he seemed to delegate the majority of the questions to the Asian general.

  Hans Xing continued. “Yoroah, we know your priestly rulers intend to sacrifice the children of your city to your gods. What we don’t understand is why?”

  Yoroah was stunned by how much the Romans knew, but fully comprehended why they asked about the sacrifice.

  He responded with more bluster than courage. “You fear it, don’t you? I know you do. I would if I were you. Baal demands the children of his servants. Their energy, released at death, especially a death of fear and agony, mixed with the anger and often depravity of their parents, produces a force that can be focused and used as a weapon.”

  Regulus snarled in disgust, piercing the priest’s façade. “And you were all for that until one of the children chosen was your own infant daughter. Is it beyond you, priest, to understand why the noble gods of the universe have used Rome to defeat your people twice now? Is it lost on you that your total lack of moral core is reaping what you have sown?”

  Yoroah, steeped in his own doctrine, fired back, “And is it lost on you, Roman, that to honor our god demands more than self? It demands all we have and are and have produced, and it is an honor to give what he requires.”

  “You cannot truly believe that! This very act of hypocrisy makes my point. You’re quite willing to sacrifice someone else’s child but not your own, and when you are called upon for that you run to us, trying to find a way to sabotage the very abomination you stand here trying to justify.”

  Yoroah grew quiet and bowed his head. Then after a moment slowly raised it and answered. “I have spoken what I have been taught. I have used those teachings to make my way in life. Laying down the law and explaining the mysteries of the universe—they were a means to an end. They brought fortune and opportunity, but a wise man once said the more one knows about his religion, the less he believes it, and no one knows more about their religion than a high priest. It has taken me this long to admit it. It has taken me the pain of sacrificing my child to expose the wickedness and horror of a sacrifice that demands innocent babes be burnt alive to activate its power. I will no longer serve such a god. I will do everything to ensure it is destroyed, and its doctrine washed from the earth with the blood of men like me who have promoted and imposed it on others.”

  Regulus, still angry and leery of the priest, answered, “Well, isn’t it fortunate for you that an army is here to help you?”

  Han Xing, not inclined to get into a religious or philosophical debate, waited. When Regulus paused, Han continued, “You say the sacrifice would bring energy focused against us like a weapon. How do you know this, and how is it brought about? How long does it last? What does it look like? Are you certain this is not make-believe, or taken from stories fabricated to instill fear and compliance in your own followers?” Han Xing’s fast-paced questions spewed out like a volcano ending in an eruption inches from Yoroah’s face.

  The priest, who had been interrogated before by even more dangerous men, didn’t bat an eye, “Before I answer your questions, what are you willing to do for me? I don’t want your money. I want my daughter and wife brought out of the city and then released in a safe place. After you do that, then I will answer all your questions.”

  Regulus was about to tell Yoroah that he was now in the custody of Roman soldiers skilled in extracting information, and he would not negotiate when Han Xing, more experienced in interrogation, interrupted.

  “I noticed, Yoroah, that you did not include your own safety in your demands. Was that an oversight, or did you assume that we would consider you were included?”

  “I did neither, General. I do not expect to survive this engagement. You are going to need someone to lead your assassins into the city. The tunnels are too confusing to navigate without a guide. Once your troops are in the arena chosen for the sacrifice, the battle will be a blood feast. The tunnels will be clogged with the bodies of your dead soldiers, and mine will be buried beneath theirs. But if you have the strength of will, you should be able to stop the sacrifice, and if you can do that, then my family may be safe.”

  Han Xing looked at Yoroah and sighed. “Perhaps ...perhaps not. We may have resources that you haven’t seen, and that can accomplish this task without the use of brute force. Now back to the questions. “We really only have two. And we already assumed you would want your family safe, so that has been set in motion as we speak.”

  Yoroah exhaled a long breath. “Thank you, what are your questions?”

  “When and where is the sacrifice to take place? All other questions revolve around the details of those two.”

  “The sacrifice is scheduled to take place in the amphitheater just a few yards away from the room with the drain I used to get here. The time is the next full moon.”

  Chapter Six

  Han Xing escorted the group to the opening in the hills outside of Carthage where the drain emptied. Here they would enter the city and from there access the arena of sacrifice. He looked the men over, each one trained by him personally. He had confidence in their abilities. They had all been in combat and were excellent fighters before the training; now they were phenomenal. He drilled them to within an inch of their lives. Han Xing had started with two hundred soldiers, and because of injuries or failure to be quick enough or smart enough to adapt, or just bad attitudes, they fell out like flies. He had begun to wonder if he had been too hard on them. They were just ordinary soldiers, not like the warrior caste of his homeland who from birth were observed, trained, culled, and honed into an undefeatable weapon. But finally, when everything that could be burned away was, he found a group of men with no quit in them, intelligent and capable. They stood before him now. This was their baptism of fire. Now they would find out if all their training and effort was successful. He watched as they filed into the dark tunnel, the chief sewer line of Carthage.

  It was dark when they entered the tunnel, and they did not light torches until they were safely inside in order to ensure they were not observed from the wall by sentries posted to observe the Romans. Decemus had heard rumors of a Carthaginian device made from glass set on the end of a tube that could actually improve vision. He wasn’t sure he believed that tale but was ordered by Han Xing to act as though it were true and not light the torches until they were safely hidden in the damp tunnels.

  So here I am, Decemus grimaced, outside the camp in the dark trying to find the opening to a stinking sewer pipe that we’re going to be led through by a Carthaginian traitor to stop child sacrifice. Otherwise, it will unleash a powerful curse or fire or something on the Roman army.

  Decemus shook his head, trying to clear the madness. How can these things be? Finally, he determined it wasn’t his case to decide. With a few sparks from his flint on the steel rod he carried, he lit the torch in his hand, signaled to the Carthaginian priest, and whispered to his troops that from here on out, silence was the law and hand signals only were to be used to communicate. And since they were going to be in a place barely lit, communication would be by touch rather than sight most of the time. The touch signals were another improvisation of the Chinese general. Finally, they moved forward into the smelly, dank channel behind the quiet footsteps of Yoroah.

  Chapter Seven

  Asdrubal’s spies were aware that Han Xing had spies. An intricate, deadly game had developed with each side losing soldiers and having double agents. Asdrubal had the aid of his dark minions, and Han Xing the assistance of age-old spycraft developed in the intrigues of the Chinese emperor’s courts, which included dealing with dark magic and witchcraft. Up until now, it had been a standoff, with the tie going to the Carthaginians. The Roman army had been held at bay. Now the stakes were higher, the risks taken greater, and the causalities of the game mounting. At the moment Asdrubal was ahead, for he knew Yoroah was coming down the tunnel to exit the drain into the arena of sacrifice. Knowing that, he changed the time and pla
ce of the sacrifice, but to keep the ruse alive, he had prepared a trap. He couldn’t allow himself to be observed moving the sacrificial event, so he only moved a part of it, slowly, a piece at a time, to a new location while preparing bait, and ambush troops at the original site where the Romans were expected to exit.

  His choice of bait had been easy to decide, Yoroah’s wife and infant daughter. The priest had betrayed Asdrubal and his city for the lives of his wife and daughter; therefore, it was only fitting that Yoroah’s wife and daughter be the first ones slaughtered, as well as the bait that would lure the Roman spies into thinking they were attacking the main sacrifice.

  As soon as the Romans were out of the drain, Asdrubal’s hidden troops would attack, the fire would be lit, and while defending themselves, Yoroah’s dying vision would be of his family ablaze. A slave girl and her child had also been chosen. The more sacrifices, the more authentic the event appeared. The slave had assaulted her master and been punished with mutilation to ensure other slaves and the poor of the city knew that resistance was pointless. He rejoined mother and child along with Yoroah’s family, tying them to the sacrificial pyre.

  ****

  As Decemus’ team drew closer to the end of the tunnel and the drain exit, Yoroah felt his heart beating faster and faster, his breathing quicker. Decemus noticed this and put his hand on the priest’s shoulder. Neither the Roman nor the Carthaginian spoke the other’s language, but the contact communicated volumes: Slow down, take deep breathes, gather your courage. When they reached the actual exit, Decemus motioned for the priest to move aside and let the team cautiously listen to the room.

  Another one of Han Xing’s lessons had been on listening, simply listening to a room. He tried to teach each soldier the art. One excelled above the others, a tattooed, young Celt captured in battle a decade earlier. Brought to the legion in chains, he had adapted to become a Roman legionnaire, now an elite one.

  Bevyn had mastered the art of listening. It was a matter of focus—pushing out the sounds around you and stretching your mind to comprehend what it heard. Bevyn could block out all other noises—the drips from the ceiling, the accumulated breathing of the troops that surrounded him—to focus on the room above them. An empty room had an empty sound to it, and one full of enemy soldiers did as well. So Decemus ordered his team to fall back to make it easier on Bevyn to focus. He gently pulled Yoroah back with him and then signaled Bevyn to creep forward and place his ear to the drain and listen.

  Bevyn slowed his own heart, deliberately took shallow breaths, and concentrated. It didn’t take long. The room was massive. It was an actual indoor arena with an open-air ceiling to let the smoke from the sacrifice escape. Tall columns, tile floors, a stadium of concrete seats, approximately 200 by 115 feet, carried sound easily, and to the trained ears of Bevyn, the sound was like shouting. He heard the breathing of the ambush team. One of them must have had a sinus problem, his whistle-like exhalation was as clear as wind chimes.

  Bevyn signaled for Decemus and then whispered in his ear, “They are waiting for us. I don’t think the Carthaginian priest knows. But we have been found out.”

  Decemus let out a long sigh. He was about to signal a silent and quick retreat when Yoroah also heard something, his wife’s sobs. He had been married to her for five years and would have known her cries anywhere. The priest raged at Decemus. “Your general told me you had rescued my family!” Then the whole team heard the wails of his infant daughter, and the quick slash and thump of metal meeting flesh.

  “Noooo!” The horrible cry of a mother who had just seen her daughter perish echoed throughout the chamber. Apparently, the Carthaginians were also aware of the Romans and had chosen to provoke them by murdering Yoroah’s infant daughter.

  Yoroah exploded, slamming the iron drain back against its hinges and rushed out of the hole before the Romans could stop him. He raced toward the sound of his wife’s cries, surprising the Carthaginian troops as well as the Romans with his fury. Yoroah was a big man, and he was moving fast. With, twenty arrows aimed at him, only five hit him, and they could not stop his rush. He hammered the guard holding his wife and then saw the bloody decapitated body of his daughter. His rage and adrenalin kicked in. Centuries later, the raging adrenalin rush to battle would be called berserker, a warrior’s madness induced by trauma and anger, now witnessed in its horrible glory by both Carthaginians and Romans.

  Decemus was no stranger to battle and instinctively knew what could have been a disastrous ending for his soldiers, had turned, in a flash of madness, into opportunity.

  He saw the Carthaginians close on Yoroah, drawing their combined attention on him. At that moment, the battle shifted, an opening presented itself, and without hesitation Decemus rushed out of the drain with his team behind him.

  They were equipped with weapons and tactics the Carthaginians had no defense for. Han Xing had introduced them to a weapon that the Roman mechanical savant Xenophanes developed. Combining the technologies of both the Greeks and the Chinese, he improved on them and created portable and throwable bombs in the form of flint-activated clay pots the size of a man’s fist. They were full of what would later be called gunpowder, but also razor flechettes—sharp, thin pieces of metal that when exploded would decimate a large group of troops.

  Eight men threw eight pots. Before the last one was out of the drain, four had already landed. Two failed to go off, but the remaining ones blew a loud hole in the Carthaginian ambush team and created enough smoke to screen the room. For an instant, all was fire and screams. The Romans didn’t wait for the smoke to clear before rushing their would-be ambushers. The room wasn’t bright, and they wore dark, silk clothing, dark to hide them and silk to act as a barrier against barbed arrows.

  When Asdrubal had cast his high priestly spells on these troops, the men thought it a simple religious gesture of blessing. They did not realize that Asdrubal had melded with them and used his enchantments to enter their subconscious. So that in the middle of a fight, the high priest could exert control like a demonic puppet master, forcing his soldiers to take greater risks, sacrifice themselves, and suffer terrible wounds they would not normally take.

  Decemus noticed the recklessness of the Carthaginians and at first thought he was fighting a highly trained unit, but after a few seconds, he realized they were just regular soldiers taking extraordinary risks and paying for it with horrific wounds that didn’t seem to slow them down. A few were even on fire from the explosive force of the bombs Decemus’ team had thrown. He didn’t have long to think about it. The burning Carthaginians were lighting up the room, making the Romans easier targets.

  The firebombs had also lit the sacrificial pyre. Decemus caught sight of a young woman and her child tied to the center post. He moved toward the captured woman, cut her bonds, and motioned for her to move toward the drain. As he turned, an arrow pierced his thigh, and he felt the impact like a blow from a hammer. The Carthaginians had recovered. In spite of the Romans’ training and equipment, they were heavily outnumbered. As he whirled the rope dart and caught a surprised Carthaginian in the neck, Decemus realized his troops couldn’t hold much longer. Swords struck, and arrows flew. His men were down to four. He called for firebombs. Two Romans got them off, and he added his to the mix. One fell short, piercing his own troops as well as their enemy.

  The noise of the battle brought more Carthaginian soldiers. The Romans were wounded and trying to make a tactical retreat. Decemus tried to throw another bomb, but his blood-slicked hand could not grasp it, and it fell short. Bevyn, who was bleeding profusely, reached down, grabbed the bomb, and ran it toward the advancing mob of Carthaginian soldiers. It exploded in a bloody mass of bone and steel, blowing a hole in the advancing troop and buying Decemus seconds to push his mangled survivors down the drain and pull it closed on top of them. He jammed a sword in the hinge to keep his pursuers out. When the Carthaginians broke through the jam, they would be forced to come at them one at a time.

  Decemus ye
lled at his men to move down the dark corridor. One managed to get a torch lit, but it flickered and went out. Another tried, and that one held. The Carthaginians were massing to come down the drain. Decemus remembered his training and tore into his belly pouch, ripped out his last pot bomb, and attached a long fuse to it. He lit it, ran toward the drain, and pushed it up through the bars. A Carthaginian soldier saw it, screamed, and ran over his comrades trying to get away. As the long fuse sizzled, more Carthaginian soldiers scrambled away, slipping over the bloody floor and fallen bodies of their comrades. Because the bomb didn’t explode immediately, it actually kept the soldiers at bay longer than Decemus could have hoped, but he didn’t wait to find out. He turned and hobbled down the sewer, chasing the faint light of his surviving team member’s torch.

  They moved as quickly as they could. All were wounded, one wounded so badly he might not live through the escape. The longer it took them to get out, the less likely any of them would live through the night. The young woman was also wounded, her face slit by a sharp knife was bruised and swollen. Her tunic was bloody over her chest. Decemus couldn’t see but suspected that her torturer had not limited his attention to her face. Her baby looked like he had suffered severe sunburn and screamed his pain into the misery of the moment. Everyone was breathing hard. Three men made it out with Decemus. As he limped painfully down the dark tunnel, he realized their mission had failed. They had not stopped the sacrifice but had been ambushed and had lost four of his eight-member team. He couldn’t stop to grieve now. The race was on, and he needed to get out of the underground canal and get information back to Han Xing.

  ****

  Miriam had prepared her heart to die. In her painfully maddened mind, she wasn’t sure she wasn’t dead. She had trouble staying focused. Her face hurt all the time. The torturer had pinched small pieces of skin from her arms, and due to the filth and infection of the dungeon, she was feverish. Her breasts, where the beast made a dozen small razor-like incisions, hurt every time her coarse tunic rubbed against her. She had not understood why the torturer, much to his obvious disappointment had stopped, until they brought her and Issur to the pyre and tied her to the stake. When the Romans burst through the floor, and her world erupted in explosive violence, she had been too confused to scream. She barely understood the Roman soldier who cut her free and shoved her away from the combat. Then she saw the drain hole and ran toward it, dodging arrows and stumbling over bodies until she reached the darkness of the sewers. She ran for a bit down the channel, then realized there was no light, and she could fall into a pit, or stumble into a cesspool and drown in filth. So she waited, standing close enough to the drain of the sacrificial room’s floor to see its light. When the Romans jumped down the hole and slammed the drain shut, she didn’t know whether to run away from them or toward them. Their move toward her made the decision, and now she traveled with them. She noticed they were all wounded, supporting each other as best they could. When one of the soldiers accidentally stumbled into her, Miriam shifted her child to her other arm and tried to help support him. He nodded thankfully, grunted what she thought must be gratitude, and they trudged on.