At the first blast of the cornum, the ballistae were sighted on the wall of Carthage and the flaming figure forming on top of it. When the cornum sounded again, the ballistae operators were ready, and weapons were free.
****
Oenus, a squad leader, commanded the five ballistae that sat closest to the wall, and he was acutely aware they were the five closest to the fire forming into a figure above them. He and his men began this strange evening snuggling up to their campfire and drinking heavily to ward off the cold and the cries that started earlier, then continued and continued and only just now ceased. He was drunk, but like his name implied, maker of wine, he was used to it, and sobered insanely fast when the cornum trumpeted the cry. Until now, he never thought he would ever fight at night, but the moon was bright, and the target lit. His men had not seen as much combat as he had and because of that didn’t drink as much. They were young, and some had never even fired at men with their weapons, but Oenus had told them repeatedly that it was a slaughter machine. Oenus knew until they had seen a person cut in half or pinned against a tree and left hanging by the projectiles their weapons cast, they would not understand. Some of the men were trembling, a few had soiled themselves and didn’t realize it. Oenus noticed but no one cared. There would be more than piss in the wind before this night was over, and no one who fired a weapon that would cut a man in half, ever spoke about a little piss against the desert wind.
Chapter Ten
After the dragon roared, it reared up on its giant hind legs and spewed flame into the night sky. Then it leaped off the wall, flapped its bat-like wings, and flew straight up like it was charging the heavens. It hovered for a moment, silhouetted against the blood-red moon. Fearful cries broke from the lips of many of Regulus’ troops. No army they had ever faced brought forth that response from his battle-hardened men, but a flame throwing dragon silhouetted against a blood moon, screeching into the night, did.
As Regulus listened and watched the dragon challenge his army, he started to scream back at it, but stopped, embarrassed, realizing his pitiful response wouldn’t be heard over the fearful cries of his own men and the roaring of the dragon. As he stared helplessly at the giant beast primed to descend on his army, he looked at his trumpeter, Othniyel, a talented musician, who belted out signals on the cornum. Regulus forced his body to quiet, and when he paused, heard Othniyel praying in Hebrew and using the name Leviathan over and over. Regulus interrupted him, “Does your God know of that creature, Othniyel?”
“I do not know, sir, and to be honest, I haven’t prayed or read the Torah for years, but now seemed as good a time as any to do so.”
Regulus laughed, “You think so, son? I want to scream at it, but it wouldn’t hear me. It is something ancient, evil, and unnatural. I am standing here screaming at it and shaking my fist,” and then whispered beneath the trumpeter’s hearing, “powerless.”
The young soldier started to speak, then thought better of it and stopped. The motion was not lost on Regulus. “Spit it out, soldier. What’s on your mind?”
Othniyel nodded. “Sir, in my religion we have a trumpet that we use much like the Roman army uses the cornum to signal troops, but we also use it to worship and engage dark forces. I do not know if you would be open to using a non-regulation instrument, but if you are, the idea behind the shofar, as it is called, was to let the hordes of hell know the Lord of Hosts has come forth.”
Regulus smiled briefly, he knew he was grasping at straws, but one more stroke of madness wouldn’t hurt. “Othniyel, get your trumpet and prepare to blow the hell out of it!”
Othniyel’s tent wasn’t far because of his duties. He ran to his tent and grabbed the horn. The shofar was a beautiful instrument a meter long—a light tan ram’s horn, twisted and curved, with a gold band at the end. It was polished, with fine gold and silver letters inlaid along its curved spine.
Regulus’ eyes widened as he caught the reflection of the horn in the moonlight. It was a beautiful instrument. “Do you require preparation—a special prayer or ritual?”
Othniyel said, “No, sir, the act of blowing the horn itself is a prayer. But if you would like, and I mean no offense, but if your intent is to call on the Lord Most High, challenging this terrible beast, it might be appropriate if you as our leader officially ordered me to do so, Sir.”
Regulus nodded agreement and said, “We need all the help we can get.” Then seeing his officer’s face turn extremely serious, the general straightened his back and in his official Roman commander voice barked, “Call on your God, soldier!”
Othniyel held the shofar to his lips, took several deep breaths, and blew. The ram’s horn had a powerful tone, a low bellowing sound like a giant living creature resounded from it. Regulus was startled by its power as Othniyel blew it long and loud.
Regulus immediately loved the sound. It felt good. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, and his heart pounded. The sense of helplessness and terror that attacked him when the dragon first appeared in a whirlwind of power, strangling his courage in its cold grip, was replaced with the ferocious strength the horn called forth.
When the echo of the last note stopped, Regulus listened and heard silence. The dragon had stopped roaring, and his men’s cries had stilled. Then as he continued to listen, he heard, faintly at first, then increasing till it echoed across the camp, the ragged cheers of his men. They had heard the shofar and knew instinctively that it was exactly the right response to the dragon.
The dragon screamed out death and raged against the bounds of darkness. The shofar called out light and birthed hope, a hope that bolstered the men and put steel in their spines. Their instinctive response was to cheer. Regulus stood proud, a single tear running down his cheek. He knew that from the moment the horn sounded and his men cheered in response, that come what may, they would stand. They would not lose this fight with their backs turned. The fear that threatened to overwhelm them, breaking their will and strangling their courage before a single drop of blood was shed, had lost its power. His army had heard the sound of life and would stand.
****
Behind the wall of Carthage, the people heard a lonely trumpet call… faint at first, then louder and louder till it echoed across the city. The sound erupted from the earth, springing from the rivers that fed their city and the teeming ocean surrounding it, roaring like the waves of a storm.
The people on the other side of Carthage’s dark wall did not realize what they were listening to. For many, it was a terrifying noise, an angry rebuttal of the forces they had released in the awful sacrifice of their innocents. For a few, it was surprisingly sweet. They did not understand their involuntary attraction to it.
One toddler who missed the awful lottery that had taken her little brother, laughed, her eyes wide open in wonder. As she listened to the ram’s horn, she smiled and started to say, “Pretty pretty!” but was quickly silenced by her grieving mother’s hand across her mouth and huddled into the back of the brick hut, away from prying eyes. The people of Carthage were listening to Regulus’ response, a living song, breaking forth against the coming night.
The demon that inhabited Asdrubal’s body had an entirely different reaction. The blast of the horn shook the spirit world that anchored his malevolence. He grabbed his ears as waves of agony ripped through him, stripping him of the dark shields that protected him. He was thrown to the ground and into to the sacrificial altar still filled with red-hot coals.
The new Asdrubal had not reckoned on the limitations of the body he had stolen, and now he paid for it. Blisters burst forth, and his feet seared, but he was a superhuman creature, and as soon as his new nerves told him to move, he jumped out of the pile and tore off his burning robes. Standing naked and blistered, he was burnt over the lower part of his body, but also in extreme control and able to push back the pain and think. He knew the sound that had struck him. He knew it well. Smirking, even as his flesh began to heal with astounding quickness, he had assumed the Romans had
no idea how to call forth the light, but obviously, they did. So, the battle was not going to be as quick as he had hoped. Even so, it could still be won. The endless war was entering a new phase, but he had fought it before and lived to tell.
Chapter Eleven
Miriam and her child Issur had been taken to a Roman mobile hospital, along with Decemus and his surviving men. The valetudinarium or field hospital of Regulus’ army was extremely adaptable. It could be expanded to include five thousand soldiers, or just as readily, contracted to meet the non-combat medical needs of the army on a daily basis. Regulus’ physicians were as eclectic as the rest of his army, so it was no surprise to see Chinese herbs and acupuncture combined with Egyptian surgical practices, Indian poppy anesthetics, and Maltese honey. Honey was such an essential part of the surgical practice of the physicians that they had contracted beekeepers to cart their hives along with the army to ensure they had plenty.
When Miriam awoke from her exhausted sleep, sore and bruised, she was bandaged and sticky from the honey the Roman physicians had used. She smelled a fragrant stew, saw Issur safely swaddled in fresh clothes and held by a grizzled Roman soldier, who noticed she was awake and offered her a bowl of stew.
Surrounded by her rescuers in the field hospital, Miriam was amazed to be alive. She was also delighted to find that a few of the physicians were Jewish, so she was able to communicate and that added to her sense of ease. But not for long. Within hours of her rescue she, like everyone else in the camp, was hastily evacuated beneath the tortuous shrieks of the dragon.
When Miriam heard the shofar’s ancient call and saw how it stirred the men of the camp and rattled Carthage, she almost fell to the ground, expecting any moment to see the sky split and roll back like a scroll. She was surprised when it didn’t. She asked the Jewish physicians why a shofar was being blown, and they had no answer except that they knew Regulus’s trumpeter was also a Jew and perhaps had a shofar. At any rate, the hospital carts began to move away from the fiery whirlwind soon after, and her attention was redirected to helping take care of the wounded soldiers who had rescued her. With a baby on her back and Roman soldiers leaning on her arm, she made her way from the quickly forming front lines to as far away as the hospital could safely camp and still be available to the wounded in an emergency.
****
The field hospital where Decemus woke up was a marvel of ingenuity and eclectic Roman medical philosophy. They did not understand germs, but they did know that clean wounds healed, and certain medicines kept infection from spreading. As soon as the wounded soldiers arrived at the Valetudinarian, they were washed, rehydrated, and an antiseptic of water and honey applied to their wounds. The ancient Egyptians had discovered that honey contained antibiotic properties as well as antiseptic ones, so the surgical protocol was to clean the wounds with a honey-water solution. Once the wound was clean, the soldiers were treated with a pain-dulling powder made from opium, another gift from the Greeks. Their wounds were probed, sutured, and more honey applied along with the bandages. Roman surgical practices combined with Chinese acupuncture allowed the wounded soldier to be anesthetized while he was operated on, giving the surgeon more time under less stress to take care of the patient. The fact that Decemus’ troops had worn silk garments also was a tremendous asset to the surgeons. The silk helped pull the barbed arrows out.
These types of procedures saved many wounded simply by lessening the trauma of the surgical process. It wasn’t foolproof, but it was extremely effective. Because Han Xing had brought with him Chinese physicians trained in the use of acupuncture, it often happened that a soldier would be stuck with needles, awake without pain, as a surgeon probed his wound to remove an arrow, or sutured a deep wound, or set a broken bone. After the surgery, the patient was kept fully hydrated to the point the soldiers often complained about having to urinate half the day and tripping over the bowls and jars put beside their beds for that purpose. Herbs were also administered to enhance blood production to replace that which had been lost. Regulus’ field hospital was a marvel of its time and unique among Roman legions.
****
Decemus had been treated, his wound sutured and bandaged, and he was trying to fan honey bees away from his bandages when Han Xing caught up with him. The wounded were being evacuated as far from the walls of Carthage as they could, and Decemus was on a cart with his soldiers when the Chinese general walked up behind him and said, “Good job, Decemus.”
“Not sure about that, sir, I lost half my men,” Decemus answered quietly. “And it appears the sacrifice went on anyway. The hand-thrown fire pots you gave us saved our lives. If it were not for them, I wouldn’t be lying here. We also brought back a victim, a slave girl and her child. She was chained to the pyre along with Yoroah’s wife and child. She is a real trooper, seems to get along with the Jewish doctors well, and isn’t hard on the eyes either, in spite of the mess the Carthaginian torturer started making of her face. It seems her baby was chosen for the sacrifice, and she objected to it and tore a hunk out of her master who did the choosing. She wound up in the dungeon, where the torturer started on her, and then they decided just to make her the first act of their wicked sacrifice. When we broke into the hall, she was already strapped to a stake along with her baby.”
“What went wrong Decemus?” Han Xing asked.
“Everything was going well. Then we even discovered that an ambush had been set for us, thanks to Bevyn, and we were about to back off.”
Han Xing’s eyebrows reached his forehead at that remark, then settled down into a dark frown. “Are you sure of that?”
“Yes, sir. Before we were ambushed, the listener, the young Celt, heard them. They intended to surprise us, but Yoroah’s wife cried out. Yoroah heard it and rushed out of the drain and ran right into them breaking them up. By then it was too late to retreat, so we charged in throwing the hand bombs. That shook them up. We saw the girl and her baby, but she was alone. There were no others, and the pyre wasn’t big enough. It was definitely not the main event, sir.”
“So we observed, Decemus,” Han Xing agreed, and then thought to himself, but we couldn’t have known that. Or could we? The source of our information may also be the source of the high priest. Someone may be taking money from both sides. We definitely have a spy among us. “Anything else you saw or think might be helpful?”
Decemus lay back on the cart wall and closed his eyes. Han Xing knew he was reflecting on the fight, seeing it in his mind’s eye, rehearsing every move, every decision. He looked at the young warrior and was proud. Decemus was a powerful weapon fashioned beneath Han Xing’s hand.
Decemus opened his eyes. “Yes, there was something else. I forgot it in light of everything we’ve been through. The Carthaginians did not fight like normal soldiers. They took risks and ended up with casualties they shouldn’t have, and they endured pain that would remove other men. It’s like they had no fear or were not in control or maybe drugged, but after they were hit with the Greek fire, or in your case Chinese fire,” Decemus grinned in respect for his general. “They seemed to come back to themselves. They began to scream more and even retreated, but only after we broke them. And only towards the end of the fight.”
Han Xing took a deep breath and let it out. “Tell me that again, describe it as best you can. If you can recall any, give me an example of what you remember.”
Chapter Twelve
Earlier, as the shofar blew
Just as the dragon flew into the sky with the intent of making a predatory swoop down on the Roman army, it was hammered. The shofar blast hit it like a whirlwind pushing it along the sky like a dove before a cyclone. The monster finally escaped the blast and flew back to the highest point of Carthage where it sat preening and watching, its keen eyes observing the retreating Roman army as well as the people of Carthage.
Asdrubal quickly recovered from the blast and walked to his inner sanctuaries where he could chant and conjure up control of the beast. The Roman soldiers had noticed
that the Carthaginian ambush team was extremely reckless and when wounded able to keep going beyond what a normal man could endure. Asdrubal was exerting the same control over the dragon. He actually had entered the mind of the dragon, saw through its eyes, and controlled its movements relishing the carnage it would wreak.
But the dragon was not as easy to control as the men. The primordial instincts of the predator reptile resisted the control of the priest. It was a wild thing, and it despised the attempts to chain it mentally. The dragon also wanted to prey upon the Romans, but it did not want to do so at the command of Asdrubal. The new Asdrubal was a creature of the darkness, but the dragon was a creature of the earth and had been dust for millions of years. Now given breath and life, it did not want to bend to the will of another. But Asdrubal had the power of the abyss at his beckoning, so the dragon screeched and screamed and tore at its own head with its claws, but it could not rid itself of the mind of the priest. Finally, when the priest totally dominated the beast, it stood and screamed and leaped into the air.
The dragon flew up and up and up, and when it gained enough height to speed its descent, it turned and plunged toward the earth and the Roman army. The Romans had not been negligent but watched with great intensity the movements of the beast and had arranged their troops accordingly. The ballistae were armed, and their guides trained on the target. The Roman soldiers who manned the ballistae were combat veterans and practiced on their weapons constantly. If a ballista could hit the dragon, it would; if it could pierce it, it would. The dragon drew long breaths as it plunged toward the earth, like a puffing steam engine or a large panting dog. It was storing up breath and stoking the inward mechanism that lit its methane spray.
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