Dragons and Romans

by William David Ellis

  She paused and tried to switch subjects, but Nachum was onto her ways. “Which what?”

  “My grandmother thought that the Psalms of David would soothe the heart because it warded off evil spirits.”

  “And you don’t? Don’t you remember we just battled a dragon, a Leviathan conjured straight from the book of Job? And you and your infant were about to be offered as a human sacrifice to release dark powers that called that serpent forth! I think the singing is extremely important to our situation and would strongly advise you to include it in this mix of cures…one for the body, the other for the soul. And keep this in mind, his soul is the soul of this army. As to the herb you just described, I think I know the one. The Romans call it an earth apple. I have some. Anything else?” Before she could answer, he added, “And don’t worry about the kinnor, there are over a thousand Jews posted with this legion; it is a way to Roman citizenship. I guarantee that one of them has a kinnor, and I will find it.”

  Miriam looked skeptical and shook her head. “I don’t think so. Put all that together and ask the general if he is willing to put up with my caterwauling, and we’ll see what happens.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The dragon woke restless and hungry. Its eye itched; he tried to rub it with the back of his scaly claw, which only succeeded in making things worse.

  As the beast sat in the great arena the priest had set aside for it, the creature had a vague memory of another life where it stalked and preyed on smaller animals that ran in herds and hovered near water holes. It sniffed the air and caught the scent of sheep, the last remnants of the flocks of Carthage. The dragon was about to leap into the sky after them when it was yanked back and began to claw at a sharp pull inside its skull that chained it to the ground.

  Back in the inner chambers of the high priest, Asdrubal sensed the dragon’s restless hunger. He knew it had awakened from its healing trance and was holding it back from plundering Carthage’s food reserves. Asdrubal knew the dragon would not be able to distinguish between a Roman and a Carthaginian and would exert its wild tendencies when it got hungry, indifferent to which side of the city wall it feasted. The priest couldn’t afford the dragon feeding on the people or animals of Carthage, and he wasn’t ready yet for the dragon, in its weakened condition, to re-engage the Roman army.

  Asdrubal had been surprised at the Romans’ ability to injure his pet predator. It shocked him to see the blood-stained eye with a ballista projectile sticking out of it and troubled him to hear the roar of pain the dragon shrieked into the sky. Carthage trembled as well as the Romans at those cries. So Asdrubal used much of his dark power to settle the beast. Distressed at the drain of his own energy in corralling the dragon, he realized only too well that even though he controlled it and could possess it at will, it cost him to do it. Asdrubal was surprised at the serpent’s strength of will and had begun to realize the pain the Roman weapons inflicted strengthened that will, encouraging the beast to resist. He also knew he had to feed the dragon. The question was what? And how?

  Asdrubal knew the dragon’s eyesight was not yet whole because when he attempted to see through the dragon’s eyes. It was obvious the wounded eye was not functioning normally, had little peripheral vision, and focusing required a lot of effort, so he was unwilling to hurl the dragon at the Romans just yet. The only option was to take from the stockpile of provisions held for the people or… A crocodile grin spread across his face “Yes!” he laughed. That would do nicely!” As the idea persisted, he slid back into his cushioned throne and continued brainstorming his wicked thought. “Yes, that would work out well. One problem would be used to solve another.” He quickly rang for his steward, and when the trembling slave arrived, he rose imperiously from his throne and spoke. “Steward, were there not some citizens of Carthage who rebelled against the glorious sacrifice, and are they not imprisoned?”

  “Yes, your eminence, they were imprisoned for their impertinence.”

  Asdrubal glided into his cushions again, like a snake settling into its coils. “Bring me the jailer and tell him to pick out four of his prisoners…the plumper ones if he would and bring them to the great court area. We are in for a treat, especially the serpent. A very nice treat, indeed.”

  ****

  The dragon struggled to stay awake, shaking its head like a sleepy child resisting a nap. Had it been able to reason, it would have realized it should have been wide awake. It was hungry and had been sleeping for a few days beneath the heavy healing spells Asdrubal had set on it. The dragon feebly kept trying to raise its head but could not resist the power of the darkness and was about to surrender to the heaviness when it heard a cry. With a start, the spells broke. It opened its snake-like eyes in time to see something dart to one side. Great drops of saliva fell from its mouth as its stomach growled at the scent of fresh meat.

  The jailer had brought in four middle-aged prisoners, criminals who dared resist the slaughter of their children. He had blindfolded them and replaced their iron bonds with rope. The guards had changed the iron to rope because the priest feared his lovely pet would chip a tooth on one of the manacles. The jailer thought that was hilarious, so laughing and taunting, he prodded the prisoners as they stumbled over one another into the musky-smelling arena.

  The arena consisted of a pit surrounded by high walls with concrete seats terraced upwards several rows. It was typically used for gladiator fights, public executions, and child sacrifice. The arena quietly filled with Asdrubal’s associate priests and their minions, who had been harshly warned to silence. The high priest wanted to watch the dragon wake to the smell of its first catered meal and didn’t want the loud uproar characteristic of an arena mob to wake it.

  The high priest had nothing to fear. His guests crept into the arena stands like thieves breaking into a guarded home. They were terrified of being close to the dragon, even when separated by the high walls of the arena. They knew the monster could fly, and the walls were scant protection from a flying dragon.

  At first, they deliberately spoke in hushed tones. But when they saw the prisoners brought into the arena and the serpent rouse itself, one after the other, they forgot the command to silence and began to howl and laugh, shouting for the blood that would soon spatter the walls they sat behind.

  As soon as the jailers caught sight of the serpent, their taunts turned to wails. They trembled, caught between their fear of the high priest and the horrible serpent. The prisoners were blindfolded, but not deaf and could hear the large movements of the dragon and the hungry growl of its belly. They began to fight the jailers and scream, pushing back against the spears that prodded them. The jailers beat them out onto the arena floor as close to the dragon as they dared, and then yanked off the blindfolds of their charges and ran toward the arena gates. The prisoners tied by ropes were also quick to run from the beast, but as quick as they were, the reflexes of the primordial predator were quicker.

  One prisoner actually outran a jailer, beating him to the temporary safety of the gate. The jailer turned to face the claws of the dragon, but his scream was quickly cut off as a claw raked his body, and his head flew off his shoulders, the scream permanently fixed upon his crushed face. The high priests Asdrubal had gathered for the spectacle howled in blood thirsty delight as the jailor’s head bounced off the wall and rolled to a stop. The dragon’ stopped eating the corpse laid out in front of it, tilted its head up to the noise in the stands and grinned.

  A dark silence crept through the howling mob. One by one they stopped their wicked laughter and stared at the cold, scheming eyes of the hungry reptile. In a heartbeat, the uproar of the mob had turned to shocked stillness. Suddenly, one of the priests broke from his petrified quiet and dashed toward the exit. The frenzied mass that followed him crushed him, clogging the exits gates. The dragon saw the commotion in the stands, realized its prey was trying to escape, and immediately lunged after it, hopping into the stands, spewing flame, and ripping the unlucky spectators to tattered scraps.


  Asdrubal saw what happened and reached out to stop the dragon. He stepped into its mind and fought for control. The bloodlust of the dragon was strong, and Asdrubal was swallowed up in it, as the dragon grabbed a portly lower priest and ripped him in half. Asdrubal, a creature of the darkness more than the dragon, reveled in the kill and delighted in the pain it caused. But after a moment, Asdrubal realized he could not give way to the cravings and turned the creature back, forcing the dragon to move away from its unscheduled snack. Frustrated, it jumped into the arena shrilly protesting its confinement, roared in frustration, then bent its head, and was soon crunching away at the charbroiled remains of its first victims. As the dragon settled, Asdrubal left its body and pulled back into his own. For a moment, he sat in the blood-splattered high priest chair, kicked a ravaged former associate’s leg away, pulled his robes around him, and thought: Well that didn’t quite work out like I planned, but next time I will know better.

  Chapter Seventeen

  As second in command of the army, Han Xing inherited Regulus’ responsibilities till such time as Regulus was able to take them back. With that responsibility came the problem of how to defeat the dragon. Had a traditional Roman general held that charge, the Romans would have been in trouble, but the finest strategist since Alexander the Great held the reins. He was steeped not only in Roman tactics and weapons, but also in the warfare of the East. Han Xing had been educated in the halls of the Chinese emperors. His whole life immersed in weapons technology, adaptation, assimilation, and survival. He easily stepped into the role of commanding general.

  The first problem, how to survive the dragon’s deadly breath, was a huge one. Nothing in his memory helped solve the problem. The Chinese had fire-generating weapons, as did the Romans. Defending from fire weapons usually centered on putting the flames out rather than protecting a facility or individual from them.

  He scoured his library, containing volumes from fifteen different nations: Persia, China, India, Egypt, and on and on, all transcribed into Latin. He had weapons from poisons to ballista, swords from three empires, lances, firebombs, but none of them solved the problem. He called in his seconds for a consultation, and they considered a score of options. Nothing available in the Roman arsenal gave him any hope. He knew he could shoot at the dragon with stronger and more numerous ballistae, but what could protect the ballista operators from the flames?

  The unflappable general, conqueror of kingdoms, and survivor of scores of battles was growing more and more frustrated. He took to pacing and talking to himself, totally absorbed in the search, when his faithful, old servant limped into his tent. “Sir, it’s late, and you haven’t eaten anything or rested in days. Don’t you think you should?”

  “I’m not hungry,” Han Xing replied graciously to the bent old soldier. “But thank you.”

  “Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?” the wise old man insisted.

  “Well, unless you know of a device that can protect our soldiers from the flames of a dragon, I don’t think so, Romulus. But I appreciate your concern.”

  The servant scratched his grizzled chin thoughtfully. “I will put my mind on it, general.”

  “Any help would be appreciated. Tell me if you get an idea. No matter how foolish you think it might be. I’ve considered everything from vinegar-soaked seaweed to waxed leather to goose down beneath the metal armor. I have nothing.”

  “I will do my best, sir.”

  ****

  Romulus retreated from his general’s presence, but not from the question asked. The general might have only been half-serious when he asked, but Romulus was deadly serious when he answered. He carried the idea with him back to the kitchen where he intended to prepare a plate and take it to Han Xing. The general may not want anything now, but when the smell hit his weary nose, he might change his mind.

  The traditional Roman legion had nothing like the meals and cooks and variety of food Regulus’ troops enjoyed. In a traditional army, each trooper was given a grain ration and had to grind and bake his own bread. Han Xing and other non-Roman advisors developed a mess hall approach that insured the quality and variety of food the legion enjoyed. Regulus believed a healthy, well-fed soldier performed better and fought better, and when necessary, healed better. His troopers were extremely grateful for their mess hall and cooks. Wandering back to the kitchen, Romulus found the cook.

  The cook asked, “Isn’t the general going to eat?”

  “Afraid not,” Romulus answered. “He is consumed with trying to figure out how to protect the soldiers from the flames of the dragon.”

  The cook grumbled. “Work all day and half the night, cooking and cleaning and cutting and boiling around hot stoves, and those high-browed officers can’t even find time to eat.” He grabbed a cooking glove, put it on, and reached into the oven taking out loaves of bread. Romulus stared at him.

  The cook noticed the look. “They are not for you. They’re for the men in the field hospital. Those poor boys.”

  Romulus was not listening. He barked at the cook, “Wait! Do that again.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You just stuck your hand into an oven. You put a glove on before you touched the baking tray. What kind of glove is that?”

  “It’s just a glove we use to shield us from the heat.”

  “Just thick cloth?” Romulus asked, starting to deflate.

  “No, cloth alone would not hold up under the continued use we put it to. It’s made from a material found on the Greek island of Evvoia. I don’t know much about it, but I do know this is not the only heat-resistant cloth we use in the kitchen. We use it in the officer’s galley to cover the tables. That lot is so messy, and when they get in their wine, they are downright piggish! We take the whole tablecloth made from this material and throw it in the fire. When we take it out, it is hardly warm but clean as a trooper’s toes on inspection day.... and it is ready to serve the next group of slobs. I think we should change the name of the officer’s galley to slob, or trough, or something of the sort.”

  The cook rambled on, but Romulus was not listening. He shook his head as a glimmer of hope settled on his grizzled face. “Yep, the provision exists before the need.”

  “What?” the cook asked.

  Romulus ignored him. He was on the trail, and the scent was strong. “How many of those table clothes do you have?”

  “I don’t know. A couple hundred.”

  “Hmm. Might not be enough. But, we have to go with what we have,” he muttered.

  “What are you mouthing on about?” the cook demanded.

  Romulus thought, I’m not sure this will work. He did say no matter how foolish... and we can always test it and see. Then to the bewildered cook, he said. “Can you get me one of those tablecloths? If what I am thinking works, you may have just saved the legion.”

  The cook ran to the local supply wagon, grabbed a tablecloth, and brought it back to Romulus. “Show me how it works,” Romulus demanded.

  “Well, we just toss it into the flames and leave it for a few minutes, then we reach quickly into the fire, grab it, and it’s clean.”

  “Is it hot when you bring it out?”

  “It’s warm, but not unbearably so.”

  “You ever tried to stick your hand in the flame while covered by a cloth?” Romulus continued probing.

  “Well, hell no, stupid! What idiot would do a thing like that?”

  “One who had to stand up under dragon’s breath and live through it might!” Romulus bellowed. “Let’s try and see if it works.”

  The cook handed the cloth to Romulus.” I’m not going to be the one you test it on. I like my hands the way they are, not burned to a crackly crunch.”

  “I’m not going to leave it in long, and if it burns, I will take it out immediately.”

  “Well, have at it,” the cook said, pointing at the fire.

  A few other cooks and off-duty soldiers who overheard the conversation were drawn to the discussion. The more
who gathered, the more that wanted to know what was going on. Soon twenty men congregated around the cooking fire, curiously watching as Romulus covered his arm with the cloth and gingerly moved toward the fire. He didn’t just ram his hand into the flames, he gradually got closer and closer, and then without a moment’s hesitancy immersed his whole hand into the flames.

  The cook was grinning, and the men in the circle were gaping wide-eyed and quiet.

  After about ten minutes Romulus took out his arm. “It’s starting to get hot,” he said.

  He unwrapped his hand and showed it to the men, who started yelling and clapping. Han Xing’s tent was close, and the noise alerted him. He walked out of his tent toward the circle of men who surrounded Romulus, congratulating him. Romulus quickly made his way to his general. “Sir, I think I have a solution to the dragon’s flame.”

  ****

  Han Xing started his day with Regulus who was delighted to hear about the discovery. Afterward he spent hours with the best tailors he could find. Since each soldier was required to patch his own garments, finding the best tailors was an undertaking in itself. But the optios all seemed to know who did what and where to find them. Han Xing was hoping for just a moment, or at best an hour or two to rest, but too much had to be done, so he was burning fumes by the time the fire-resistant cloaks had been designed and men delegated to make them. He finally found a moment to rest his weary eyes, only to be troubled by dreams in which the dragon attacked, and nothing they had to throw at it, or that was literally thrown at it, could pierce or break its hide. He woke with a start, found he had recharged enough to put his feet on the floor, and headed for his weapons master, Xenophanes.

  ****

  Xenophanes was as eccentric as his name sounded. He was a Greek whose name meant strange one, and Han Xing thought his mother was prophetic. No one was better named. He would not have passed even the most corrupt legionnaire recruiter’s distorted physical exam. He towered over most Romans, easily a foot taller than anyone in the legion, skinny to the point of wonder, his arms long enough to scratch his knees without bending over. His eyes bulged out and were wildly distorted and amplified by the glass, embedded in a leather strap, wrapped around his head used to magnify small objects. His red-tinted hair looked like a thin patch of drought-robbed prairie grass. He had a nose that looked like someone had hit him between the eyes with a hatchet and broken off the handle. When he spoke, it was with a nasal squeak that reminded Han Xing of the screech of a hawk. But the unknown god, which the Athenian worshiped, had magnificently countered his outlandish physique with an amazing brain.