Dragons and Romans

by William David Ellis

  According to previous plans, it would be “sine tubae,” without the trumpet. They drilled on this several times over the last few nights and had improved greatly. Everyone was on edge and few had rested. Regulus intuitively kept the time, wondering if the sentry trumpets would sound at all. or if all his outposts were wiped out. Exactly four minutes later, he heard Oenus’ troops pierce the night with their blast. He had anticipated the trumpets call to come from farther away and therefore be softer, and the fact they weren’t troubled him. It had taken the camp seven minutes to be fully alert and at stations in all previous sine tubae drills. He didn’t know if the dragon would accommodate his schedule. All, he could do was wait. But he would wait on the run.

  Regulus had moved from his recognizable headquarters a few nights before to a camouflaged version dug into the side of a hill and protected by logs and dirt. Some commanders had their command inside the heavily protected center of the Roman forts. Regulus was not a normal commander and led from as close to the front as possible. It helped communications and morale. But in the last few days he had realized with the battle imminent, he needed to be inside the better-protected fortifications.

  He knew the camp was ringed with ballistae, and his troopers manning those weapons were as protected as humanly possible. Han Xing, Xenophanes, and every skilled engineer available had labored around the clock to prepare for this. Even so, it did not keep him in the last few anxious moments from second-guessing himself.

  Six minutes passed. The camp was still moving like a horde of locust, phalanxes forming, fire brigades moving, optios shouting orders. Thirty seconds later, the cries calmed discernibly. Thirty-five seconds later, a fire appeared in the sky heading toward them like a blazing comet. The Romans were ready. Regulus sighed deeply.

  Han Xing, who had walked in two minutes earlier, half-smiled at Regulus’ deep breath. He had been waiting for it. His commander seemed not to breathe in the moments before a battle, and then took a deep breath and exhaled right before the dam burst. Han Xing, subconsciously also exhaled, and then the battle was upon them.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Decemus anxiously waited in the dark tunnel with his team. Tiras should have either crept back and signaled all clear or cried out a warning. Either would have been preferable to silence. Decemus’ instincts told him something was very wrong. He tapped the man behind him using the voiceless language Han Xing had taught them. The word quickly passed in utter quiet, and Decemus moved forward. Only the dripping of the water could be heard. The men had actually trained walking through water. They realized how noisy it could be, especially when its sound was amplified by the dark walls surrounding them.

  Slowly they wound their way forward moving like a snake slithering through its tunnel, approaching an unwary prey. They got closer and stopped, listening to nothing. One more time they moved forward. Their eyes, having adjusted to the gloom, could faintly see the light that came down through the vent.

  Decemus stopped abruptly. He smelled the thick, musty, metallic scent of blood. He had first smelled it on the battlefield, then in the legion hospitals, and now its smell permeated the dark hall he and his team crawled along. There was no doubt in his mind; Tiras was dead. What he didn’t know was how. Seconds later, he found out. When Tiras tripped the silk string triggering the booby trap that killed him, he also activated other traps installed after the last visit of the Romans. Decemus heard the swift grinding of gears and the twang of crossbows embedded in the wall and ceiling. He screamed as an arrow grazed his ribs and sliced his right shoulder. He heard his men cry out, and then saw the grate move back and Carthaginian soldiers drop down through the drain.

  There was absolutely nothing he could do; he was pinned, and his men were dead, wounded, or helping someone who was. Decemus drew his sword and swung in the gloom. It connected. A scream answered, and wet splattered his face. Suddenly, a club slammed into his chest, knocking the breath out of him as a wet towel with a sharp smell was pressed over his nose. Then darkness.

  ****

  Decemus woke, his head pounding like a blacksmith’s anvil, and pain rippling across his ribs and arm. He lay in a pile of clean hay, with fresh water and bread within easy reach. Confused, he thought, so this is what hell is like? Any second, he expected a demon straight from some religion’s mythology to walk through the door and torment him. He was surprised when it was a Carthaginian military commander.

  ****

  Sappho wasn’t quite a demon. He knew a demon and was sure he didn’t qualify but considering what he was capable of in regards to torturing prisoners, the line was faint. He looked at Decemus, and knew he wasn’t Roman by birth. Sappho always wondered how the Romans could allow the mongrelization of their culture and military with conquered peoples. At the moment, he put the thought aside for the work at hand.

  “You know you failed, Decemus,” Sappho began in perfect Latin.

  Decemus startled at the mention of his name. One of his team members must have survived and been tortured till he talked. But still, it disturbed him for his enemy to casually call him by name.

  “You were sent here to assassinate the high priest, Asdrubal, and now you’re captured, your men killed, and your army destroyed.”

  The fact that most of Decemus’ men were actually alive and unharmed, their wounds tended to, and Carthaginian attack barely begun, didn’t hinder Sappho from declaring they were. His lies were part of the process of taking away hope from the person interrogated. He would give it back if it convenienced him later, but for now, hopelessness was a very productive tool in manipulating prisoners.

  Decemus’ face paled. The color left it as much for the pain and headache as for the news he just received. All he had left to do was die, and he didn’t even have charge over that.

  Sappho continued, “Our city will remain and continue to resist the dictates of Rome. Now that we have crushed your army, our allies will come back to us, and our empire will rebuild. You don’t have anything left.” His tone was sympathetic, exaggerated to the point of mockery. “Perhaps we can use you to feed our dragon or entertain us in our stadium. What do you say to that, Decemus?”

  As Decemus listened to the scornful tone of Sappho, he recalled a lesson Han Xing taught in dealing with interrogation. Tormentors lie. They extend sympathy. They take away hope. The fact you are still alive means they want something. Remember that! That thought brought a reprieve and courage filled the vacuum hopelessness had dug. Decemus began to question: I am alive. Why? I am not being tortured, and I am in clean quarters. He wants something.

  Sappho continued, but was interrupted by Decemus, “Tell me, General, why do you Carthaginians allow yourselves to be ruled by a priest? He has no military experience. He was not born to a high family. He did not even sacrifice his own blood. Why do you tremble at his feet and allow him to rule over you?”

  Sappho answered too quickly, “We do not fear him. We honor him for his abilities, and he has shed his blood for our city. So, do not mock what you do not know. It is because of his power and cunning that you are in my care, and your army is at bay.”

  Decemus did not fail to catch the change of wording Sappho used. From “army destroyed” to “army at bay,” was a large difference. And if he lied about one thing, then he lied about other things as well.

  Sappho, by nature a manipulator and an opportunist, feared Asdrubal and knew even if they did manage to defeat the Romans, he would still be oppressed by the demonic high priest. He had seen no way out of this lose-lose situation until Decemus entered the tunnels, was captured, and one of his men talked. If Decemus were allowed to continue with his mission to kill the priest and failed, Sappho would be no better off and no worse. If Decemus succeeded with a little help from a certain general, the high priest would be removed and perhaps the Romans might be grateful. If the high priest was removed, and they still won the battle, Carthage would need a new leader. Suddenly, Decemus’ mission was critical to all concerned. The only problem would
be if he failed, and the high priest was able to interrogate Decemus and discover who aided him. But since Sappho was the head of the Carthaginian secret police, and responsible for the interrogation, he was fairly certain Decemus would not survive it in his weakened condition.

  Sympathy dripped like honey from Sappho’s lips. Speaking to Decemus like an old friend, he continued, “Decemus, what was your original plan? How did you intend on getting close to the priest, past his bodyguards, and finally into his dark presence without being destroyed?”

  Decemus knew death was close, and although he feared the torture to come, he feared betraying his own heart more. So, he said nothing and prepared the best he could for the torment.

  Sappho watched the young man brace himself and clench his teeth, preparing for the worst. He half admired him. “You are a very brave man, Decemus, as were your brothers. But you lack knowledge. You don’t know how the high priest moves about the city. You don’t know his secure places. You don’t know that today he will be in the temple in his sanctuary, and tomorrow in the hidden rooms under the stadium, and the next day out on the admiral’s island in the harbor. You don’t know the guards shift around on an irregular basis, and I determine that arrangement. Nor do you know that during this attack I have cut their force to the bone and replaced the regular guards with wounded and older men. You don’t know that when Asdrubal is possessing the dragon, his body is vulnerable and helpless, and that if someone attacked him during that time, he would be easily dispatched. You don’t know any of this! And it doesn’t matter because you would have to escape from me first. And your clothes would give you away.”

  Decemus couldn’t believe what he was hearing… the general was telling him exactly how to carry out his mission! Decemus tried not to show that he understood, but he was not as gifted or as experienced as Sappho in deception. Sappho saw it and continued, “Even if you were to get away, Decemus, you would probably be killed before you ever got near the high priest, and if you could accomplish your mission, how would you escape? Did you think to hide out until your victorious soldiers found you? Are you prepared to take your own life? Do you have spies in the city who would take you in and hide you?”

  Thoroughly confused, Decemus stared at Sappho. The general was either stupid or trying actually to help him accomplish his task. But now he wondered if this wasn’t some brilliant interrogation tactic based entirely on lies and deception to get him to give away information. But what do I have to give away? The battle is joined, and things are going to happen, no matter what I do. It’s too late for me to give away any information that would aid these people. And the general has not asked me for that information.

  Sappho continued, “It’s time for you to think on this a little while. You will note that your quarters are clean, and you are being fed. As a token of my respect for you and your men’s bravery, I will have your surviving team brought to you. Have a care, Decemus, consider carefully what I have told you, and be prepared.”

  Decemus caught that Sappho deliberately didn’t say what to be prepared for. He was still confused when he got back to his cell but grateful to see a few of his men there. Most were only superficially wounded and mobile like himself, their wounds tended to, and they had not been tortured. Strange... and then he walked in and greeted his men.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Miriam dreamed she and Issur were sitting nestled in a green pasture, a small stream flowed at her feet. She felt content and happy. Suddenly, an angry, dull horn blast ripped across the countryside, startling her. She awoke wide-eyed, staring at the tent ceiling of her candlelit quarters. She quickly adjusted to the noises around her and realized the long-awaited and feared attack had come. The dragon was attacking again, and if the Roman commanders were right this time, it would be accompanied by the Carthaginian army.

  She rose hastily, slipped into her tunic, and splashed water on her face from a bowl. She grabbed Issur and headed to her assigned duty post, the headquarters of Regulus, a fortified bunker with tunnels leading into it and out. The bunker was designed to be both a protected shelter from dragon bombardment and a viewpoint. To accommodate the latter, it was connected by stairs to a high tower and protected at its height by two overlapping ballistae on either side. From the tower an officer, perhaps Regulus himself, could watch and oversee his troops in the battle. It was a feat of Roman ingenuity in the face of threats no other legion had ever faced.

  The guards on duty at the tunnel entrance knew Miriam and directed her in. She wondered if they would stand their stations in the middle of a bombardment of dragon fire, or if they were allowed to move back into the tunnel under such circumstances?

  At the end of the torch-lit hall, she saw a table laid out in miniature reflecting the land around the Roman fortifications. The Romans had several months to erect their fort, and she knew from observation that every legionnaire was both a soldier and a digger. A shovel seemed to be as important to the men as their swords, and they made good use of it, even though in laying siege to Carthage, they had not failed to build up their own defenses. She took quick note, and then her attention focused on Regulus and Han Xing.

  Regulus noticed her and walked toward her. “I don’t know how you are going to…” then he stopped, realizing how foolish what he was about to say sounded. He continued... “Carry out your duties,” he improvised, “but we have a small room set aside for you and Issur. It is probably the safest place in the whole camp. Han Xing and I will be here commanding the battle and communicating with the troops. “Pray, Miriam!” he ordered, then impulsively bent over, kissed her on the forehead, turned and went back to Han and the preparations they were making.

  Miriam hadn’t known what to expect when she entered the bunker and was surprised at Regulus’ simple kiss. She blinked, frowned, and thought, I don’t have time to think about this right now. She figured the strain of the moment probably contributed to the action, and that’s all there was to it.

  As she looked away to find the room Regulus mentioned to her, Sarrius, Regulus’ bodyguard, caught her attention and motioned for her to follow him down a corridor and into a small room that had actually been cut out of the rock. It was lit by candles and had a cot and a water pitcher, which stood on a small table.

  Sarrius also handed her a note and then said, “Domina Miriam, my orders are, in case we are overrun, to defend you to the death. I assure you I will do that. But I also want to make you aware that if we are overrun, my death is a certainty, and you might not want to be captured, if you understand what I am telling you, ma’am.”

  Miriam stared at the noble soldier she had come to respect greatly and gulped. She nodded slowly, and then noticed Sarrius’ outstretched hand. In it he held a small dagger, hilt first. She looked at the dagger for an instant and then took it and whispered, “Thank you. Sarrius.” At that, the soldier turned, gently closing the wooden door behind him.

  Miriam, stunned by Sarrius’ gesture, gripped the dagger firmly, then walked over and laid it on the small table by the water pitcher and lamp. “I will not be needing that,” she spoke confidently. Then turned her attention to the note she held in her other hand.

  To Domina Miriam

  From Marcus Atilius Regulus

  I do not know if I will survive the coming battle. That being the case, I wanted to ensure that Roman law officially and legally frees you from this day forth. This is your legal degree of manumission.

  Signed and witnessed before me and General Han Xing of the 7th Roman Legion.

  Dated Matrius, mcdlxvii.

  Sincerely,

  General Marcus Atilius Regulus, Legate of the Legion

  And then she noticed at the very bottom of the page another sentence.

  If we do survive this, I have something I would like to discuss with you. Considering your great contributions to both the legion and myself, I was wondering if you would consider a permanent position. Perhaps if you are willing to share bread with me? Assuming I am not wounded beyond your abil
ity to heal, we can discuss this further.

  Again, Miriam was stunned. Regulus was certainly a man of his word. He had gone so far as to make his order irrefutable in any court of law and added to his own authority that of Han Xing as a witness. Tears rolled down her cheeks and fell on the document. Her freedom was literally in her hands. She carefully folded the paper and placed it in the pouch held by a strap around her shoulder. And I even have means of support. He wants to hire me. Perhaps I can work for the physicians and then Issur can be trained as well. Well, I look forward to that meal. She blew out a long slow breath, and then thought, but first we have to win this battle.

  ****

  Oenus saw the dragon’s breath flaming against the night long before he heard its steam engine-like breath belching out flames. He heard himself shouting, “Steady boys, steady!” His throat always hurt the day after a battle, the price of being heard. Some good men missed being promoted into positions of leadership simply because they could not project their voices enough to be heard over the cries of battle. He did not have that problem. The problem was it was night. He had never fought a night battle and wondered how they would aim their weapons in the dark. Then it occurred to him the dragon would be lit up with its own breath and should make a great target.

  One of his optios had come up with the idea of applying a coat of oil on the obsidian projectiles and lighting it, in the hope it would leave a trail of fire they could see and then adjust their aim. The hard, black rock didn’t take to the oil well, but the wooden shaft burned perfectly. One man stood with a torch ready to light it, as another manned the weapon, waiting on Oenus’ order. Oenus shouted, “Closer ....closer ...closer...fire! Fire! Fire! Light ‘em up!!” Schump, schump, schump, the weapons’ deadly breaths answered his call as they burst out of their carriages and into the night sky. His ballistae fired fifteen rounds, three from each weapon, and scorched the night with their fiery trails. Instantly the ballistae on both sides followed with projectiles, man-made lightning leaping from earth to sky.