Oenus pulled out the long-range optical device and focused it on the dust and flames gathered behind the Roman encampment. He was extremely troubled to see Numidian cavalry descending on a small rear guard of Roman troops. Usually, the rear guards were the mobile- wounded and supply and support troops, not elite fighters. And if those were all that held the back door for Regulus, Oenus saw little hope that this battle would end well. He slowly pulled the device away from his eyes, and was about to give a desperate order to charge into the whirling, screaming mass before them, when one of his soldiers, who was checking the bodies of a group of Roman soldiers gathered on the hill, yelled at him, “What the hell is this? And why were they protecting it?”
****
The dragon fought on two fronts. The Romans were its main enemy, but the one who drove it into battle, forced it to fight in pain, and wouldn’t let it fly to safety was also being resisted.
Asdrubal knew that keeping the dragon in check was going to be harder this time than before. The beast defied him. In the initial moments of the battle, the bloodlust consumed both the dragon and the spirit of death that was Asdrubal. They drank from its frothy fountain, gorging themselves on the scarlet flood. Asdrubal’s undying bloodlust was still driving him, but the dragon was a simple beast. When its thirst was quenched, and it had to continue to fight the missiles and fiery pots the Romans threw at it, every sting, every explosive shrapnel that cut it or struck it bolstered its will to resist its demonic oppressor.
It did not want to fight the little men who stung it but was forced to by the dark presence of the priest. Once, when it was slammed particularly hard, and a soldier’s spear caught in the webbing of its claws, it sensed the high priest’s presence release. It leaped back into the skies, flying back to the city and its perch, when suddenly the presence seized it again and forcibly twisted its flight toward a flaming barrage of a Roman testudo. The dragon was nearing exhaustion. It bled, its wings wore gaping holes, and even though the presence of the dark priest caused it to heal rapidly, that healing consumed energy. Its flame dwindled both in reach and intensity. It no longer sent out as large a blast. The fiery torrent was quickly turning into a narrow spray. Asdrubal sensed that but knew the Roman army was close to breaking, and if the dragon were lost in the process, he would welcome the trade.
****
Regulus turned into a stone, his countenance fierce and cold as he ordered men to their deaths in order to spare others and preserve the legion. Han Xing had seen him like this before and knew that ability to do what must be done regardless, and to detach himself from his emotions while in the process, was the main reason that Regulus was the Legatus Legionis, commander of the Legion.
Regulus watched as the amassed weight of the desperate Carthaginians whittled away at his army. He bought time at the price of ground. Troops had been dispatched to hold certain portions of the line while others retreated into the relative and temporary safety of the Roman fortifications. Slowly his legion had been pushed back until it battled with its back to the walls of the encampment. Archers and auxiliary ballistae had been shattering the Carthaginians from the walls and turrents of the fortress, buying time and space for the weary phalanxes to gradually collapse around the gate of the fort. Man by man, group by group, they moved with severe discipline, holding their own against a supernatural enemy and a ravaging natural one. Both sides bled terribly, and both sides seemed not to care. There was no reprieve, no quarter. But to a trained observer like Regulus, it was obvious that either side could break at any moment. If the dragon had not backed off, or if the Roman ballistae had not been destroyed, this slaughter would have ended hours ago. Now it was bloody attrition, and the edge was to the Carthaginians because of sheer numbers.
Inside, Regulus seethed and boiled, screaming and cursing himself in wretched second-guessing. He felt every blow, saw every boy die, suffered every time a soldier fell beneath the dragon’s claws or was consumed by its flaming breath. He roared when he saw his troops stand and utterly destroy the best Carthage could throw at them and wept when those same soldiers were overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of their enemy. But none of those seething, churning passions made it to his face. Gift or curse depended on the moment. And at this moment, it was a great gift. Early in the battle, Regulus shifted from commanding the entire battle to managing only the frontal attack. He had given Han Xing authority to deal with the enemy in the rear and never gave it a second thought. Occasionally, he hoped the news from that quarter was better than his but never had the opportunity to ask.
****
Porcius’ plan worked for about thirty-five seconds. The plan was for screaming pigs, to run from the chutes prodded by the Roman’s spear tips, be lit on fire by a flaming Roman arrow, and then run toward the elephants causing them to panic and bolt.
As soon as the first pig was hit by a flaming arrow, it ran blazing and squealing toward the Numidian cavalry. The panicked elephants reared up on their hind legs trumpeting their pathetic screams. In response the burning hog, terrified by the screams of the frightened elephants, reversed its course and ran straight back into the chute it had vacated!
Dying in agony, it bumped another hog, lit it up, and then whole squealing ensemble burst into flames. Porcius, quick on his feet, saw the disaster, grabbed the flimsy wooden fence that held back the screaming horde from hell and ripped it away. The pigs saw the break and rushed toward it, away from the flames that engulfed them. The result was, instead of single hogs running toward the Numidian elephant advance, a flood of burning, squealing porkers charged out toward the elephants.
Overwhelmed by the ear-piercing sound of the hogs, the elephants reared up and tried to pull back. Their drivers prodded them forward, but the hogs were among them. Some elephants stomped at the pigs. A few pigs were squashed and sparks blew into the air. The elephants screamed; their drivers cursed. The Romans unleashed their ballistae and hurled firebombs, deliberately timing their delivery to explode on top of the rearing elephants. Blood and gore and pieces of elephant and drivers blew into the sky. Hundreds of Numidian troops were crushed in the fray. Chaos reigned, and the Romans continued to rain the bombs down on them.
The Numidian leaders tried to regroup. Trumpets blared and orders were frantically screamed out. A sharp-eyed ballista crewman, using a long-range optical device, sighted the Numidian leaders at the extreme edge of accurate range for his weapon. This gifted and experienced weaponeer recognized one large, commanding presence. He sighted his device, took quick notice of wind direction and speed, then with the precision born from a thousand previous shots, put his obsidian spear tip through Jugurtha’s chest. In less than an hour, the grand Numidian cavalry ceased to exist. Not a single Roman soldier had been killed or wounded.
Porcius sent the scouts to follow the retreating survivors of the Numidian cavalry in case they decided to regroup and try again. He didn’t think they would or could, but you didn’t grow old in the Roman army by taking stupid chances. Then he turned his troops around, and after confirming with his young superior officer, gave the order for his rear guard to move into position supporting the main army’s desperate struggle for survival.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Back in the Carthaginian dungeon
Decemus woke with a start, not realizing he had fallen asleep. He sat in the hay a moment, thinking about the fantastic dream where Domina Miriam came to him and reminded him of the prophecies his mother had sung over him when he was a small boy. The dream had been so real; he had never had a dream like that before. That being the case, he wondered if he’d been drugged, or if the emotional pressure of being kept in Carthage’s dungeon worked on him more than he knew. Of course, a third possibility existed: she really visited him and reminded him of the prophecies that he had forgotten long ago, and only now, thanks to Miriam’s song, recently started to remember.
To add more to his plate, the Carthaginian General Sappho’s interrogation mystery disturbed him. The general all but told Decemu
s how to assassinate the high priest. Was it a trap? Was he setting him up? But why? He was already captured. The general could call for the executioner and Decemus would be history. So why the story? What did Sappho want?
Decemus didn’t have time to ponder that question long. He heard the cell door creak open. A slave with a dingy oil lamp entered the cell, grunted and beckoned the men to follow, without a hint of explanation on his face. Decemus’ men looked at him for direction, and he quickly gave the signal to follow the slave out of the dungeon.
Decemus followed the old slave slowly tottering through the winding tunnels under the city of Carthage. They exited the under-city dedicated to the dungeon and trudged through the storm and sewage tunnels of Carthage. The wordless slave’s torch trembled beneath his aged hand as they walked on. The only sound was the constant dripping of water and the sloshing of their sandaled feet through the corrupt waters. Finally, the slave stopped and pointed. Decemus was surprised to see his and his men’s equipment and fresh clothing in a heap on the floor in front of them. If this was a trap, it was a bizarre one. Apparently, Sappho had released them, given them back their equipment, and even arranged for them to clothe themselves with the common wear of an average Carthaginian male. Now I know we will not survive this mission. The general will see to it that even if we kill the high priest, we are destroyed in the act. He is too involved and knows we would talk if tortured. But who knows, we may surprise our helpful schemer. Either way, we have to go on.
Decemus had no idea where they were but noted that the servant, who must be mute, waited stoically for them to dress in the clothes provided. When they were ready, he continued leading them on. They finally halted. Decemus noticed that the place looked familiar. It was the tunnel that led directly into the sacrificial chamber. His friend, the soldier Tiras, had died here, thrust through by a booby trap. His blood still stained the floor beneath the grate that led into the room. Surely the Carthaginians would have sealed the drain by now, or worse yet, reset the trap. But the grate was where the slave pointed. I suppose that they would never expect us to come again to the same spot three times. But I am still not inclined to push that grate open. Every time we have come to this place, someone died here. Just getting through the door is going to be a miracle. I hope Domina Miriam is praying for me. Because this is when I need it.
Decemus started to move toward the grate, but the slave stopped him. He shook his head, then quietly and carefully moved the tip of his walking cane to push against a stone in the wall. A loud crash broke the silence of the tunnel. A heavy, spiked bar swung from a hidden cabinet in the wall, slamming into the wall behind the drain. The spikes would have impaled Decemus had the slave not stopped him.
“Now go,” he said in perfect Latin, again surprising Decemus, who would have sworn he was a mutilated mute whose tongue had been removed so he could not betray the secrets of his masters. As Decemus moved forward with his men through the grate, the slave added, “And rid us of this evil. Go, Roman, and kill him, and then come back and burn this city to the ground, so its ashes will mingle with the ash of its innocent children.”
Decemus gawked at the old man and answered, “We will do our best. I think I know the way from here. The high priest’s quarters are adjacent to this room. Will he be aware that we have come, or is his body sleeping as his soul possesses the dragon?”
“His body sleeps, Roman, but his guard does not. Be careful, be wise, and may the God who does not lust for the blood of children guard you.”
“What about his guard? Are there few? Many? I thought his guards were wounded or old men?”
“Most are, but he has one that neither sleeps nor slumbers, but is always awake.”
“I don’t understand… every man needs to sleep, no matter how strong he is.”
“I did not say his guard was a man, Roman.”
“What?” Decemus sputtered, struggling to be quiet in spite of his exasperation. “What do you mean, not a man?”
“There is more than one dragon,” the slave continued soberly. “This one is a simple beast, but it is a terrible beast all the same. It lays coiled at the feet of the sleeping priest. Beware, it is quick. And its coils can break a bone. The priest feeds it captives and criminals, and occasionally Romans. It is mortal. It does not heal like the dragon. But it is a hideous and dangerous serpent. Its scales are tough, and even though a worm, it slithers with great speed.”
Decemus was shaken. He had come prepared to fight men. He knew he could hold his own with them. But another serpent, even though smaller, was not what he had prepared for.
“How do you kill it?” he asked the slave, not really expecting an answer.
“I only saw one man hurt it. He was barely alive, and it killed him anyway.”
“So, what did he do?”
“He stabbed it in the roof of its mouth.”
“Damn!” Decemus stepped back like he had been hit in the stomach. He staggered, stunned. At first, he didn’t say anything; then he caught his breath. He had turned pale and cold. After a moment, he got control and looked at the servant. “He was half-swallowed when he did that, wasn’t he?”
This time the slave was the one surprised. “Yes, he was. How did you know?”
“Because I saw it in a dream. I have had a reoccurring dream for years. There were no snakes in my country, so when I first had the dream, I didn’t know what the beast was. I saw my first snake after the Romans captured me. Since then I’ve seen many, but in all the dreams, I was swallowed, and right before I passed through the mouth of the huge snake, I stabbed it through the mouth and into its brain, killing it.”
The servant looked at him, and said, “Your time has come, Roman. Do what you must. But don’t forget you still have to kill the high priest. Killing his guard alone will not be enough.”
“That is why my general sent a team.”
The old slave nodded, “Then do it.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Miriam was about to curse but thought better. She was pretty certain blasphemy in this place would not be tolerated. It might even bring about the very damnation she declared. So, she bit her lip till it bled, then quietly, in a slow, evenly paced, angry voice turned to Elijah. “What do you mean, you can’t? You just told me to reach into the heavenlies and pull down something. Well, aren’t we in the heavenlies now? Why so cryptic, so hidden? I am tired of riddles and poems and confusion. I want you to tell me what do to, now!”
Elijah, no longer mortal, didn’t cringe at Miriam’s tirade. But it did bring back old memories of other women he had known when he was a mortal and had cringed. He gently answered, “Miriam, I cannot tell you because it is something you must find for yourself. The Lord of Hosts rewards the diligent, and the persistent, and those who absolutely refuse to give up. He tests them in the cauldrons of disaster and pain. His intent is not that they are consumed, but that they are molded into the best version of themselves they can be. In that process, they find a way. Or make a way. For that reason, He will not withhold struggle from them. It is like breaking out of a web, or a cocoon, and the process not only assures they get what they struggled for, but that they become a person who can receive the reward of that struggle without it destroying them.”
“Fine,” she growled. “I don’t understand. I don’t care to understand. All I know is I am surrounded by pain and death and agony, and I am helpless to do anything about it.”
“If I remember correctly, that is where this journey started,” Elijah answered, and then he was gone.
****
Miriam blinked and realized she was back in the bunker. The battle raged around her, the muted cries of dying soldiers, combined with the thunder of exploding Roman projectiles, brutally brought home the desperation of a hundred thousand tormented people—all terrified, all wishing they were somewhere else, all afraid to die. Miriam began to weep. A dam broke forth from her soul, and the tears flowed. She wasn’t hysterical, just raw—all pretense scoured away, every emot
ion laid bare, like exposed nerves. She shook and trembled, entirely consumed by the moment, stripped of all reserve, a naked conundrum of anger, fear and demand. She knew she and her child, and Regulus, and the entire Roman army would die soon at the iron-fisted hand of a demon god. She felt helpless. She wanted to hope, to keep on believing, but even as she grasped for it, it flittered away like straw in a gale wind.
In the middle of the hurricane, she bowed her head against the forces of everything exploding around her and cried in loud, panting sobs, a prayer of her childhood. She had wept it out at the most desperate times of her life—when her husband died, when she discovered she was pregnant, when she faced death in the furnaces of Carthage as a sacrifice to the demon that now ruled it.
Be merciful to me, O God,
be merciful to me!
For my soul trusts in You;
And then she added, I am trying to trust in You, and I am not doing it well. Where are You? Come to me!
And in the shadow of Your wings,
I will make my refuge,
Not in the shadow of this damned dragon. It is a horrible beast, and it is devouring Your people!
Until these calamities have passed by.
I will cry out to God Most High…
I am not letting go! I am going to cry out to You, and when the Carthaginians come through that door, they are going to find me crying out! You are going to have to help me to get me to shut up!
To God who performs all things for me.
He shall send from heaven and save me;
He reproaches the one
who would swallow me up. Selah
You’ve always been there for me. You’ve brought me through, not out, of calamity. To be honest, I am tired of it, but I am not going to quit. I am not going to give up. You are able, O God!
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