The Dragon King: First Emperor of China (Chronicles of the Watchers Book 1)

by Brian Godawa

  When her conqueror, Alexander, died a hundred years earlier, Babylon was caught in the middle of the fight for control between the four Diadochi. She had suffered much damage from which she never recovered. Most of her residents had been moved up to Seleucia. But sacrifices were still offered in her holy places by the magi who kept them up with a sacred calling.

  Xeneotas and Balthazar were joined by their captains just above the Ishtar Gate, famous for its glorious display of blue and gold-accented brick. Its gateway walls were covered with large mosaics of lions, bulls and mushussu, which were hybrid creatures of part dragon, part feline and part eagle.

  In the distance, several miles away, they could see the encampment of the rebel general Molon.

  “How many troops do you think he has?” asked Balthazar.

  “Five thousand,” said Xeneotas.

  “How many have we mustered?”

  “Four thousand. But the numbers are not what concerns me. Molon’s cavalry does.”

  As satrap governor of Media, Molon had the benefit of a sophisticated economy of horse breeding. Thus, his warriors were unbeatable on horseback. He was joined in this revolt by his brother Alexander, the satrap of Persia, and his infamous warrior cult, the Immortals. Together they represented the two most important eastern provinces for Seleucid rule.

  Xeneotas said, “I have warned Hermias too many times that the king is overextended in his ambitions. He should have waited to build up his security forces for occupation before he launched into his expansion in the east.”

  Balthazar mused, “What measure of power will satisfy a man?”

  “Just a little more,” said Xeneotas.

  Balthazar nodded in sad agreement.

  They saw a messenger arrive on horseback from Seleucia. Balthazar said, “The divination report.”

  Babylonian magi regularly consulted their celestial omen texts, such as the Enuma Anu Enlil, in order to divine the signs for the king. He could then make civil or military decisions based on the good or bad omens divined on his behalf.

  Xeneotas stared out at Molon’s distant forces, as Balthazar received the royal communiqué and read silently from the scroll.

  Xeneotas spoke to his watching captains, “They are on the move. Mount up and ready our forces outside the walls.”

  “No,” interrupted Balthazar. He held up the scroll. “The king orders us not to ride out, but to retreat behind the walls, and perform a sacrifice to the gods. The stars predict disaster outside the walls.”

  The captains looked to Xeneotas for orders. He remained staring out in the distance. He muttered, “Gods and stars. Superstition. Prepare your magic, Balthazar.”

  Balthazar leaned close to his friend so as not to be heard by the officers. “Xeneotas, you have known my loyalty since we were children. Do not do this.”

  Xeneotas hissed back, “I can crush this rebellion now. Save the kingdom. Earn the honor of my—king.” His hesitation was not obvious to the captains. But it was to Balthazar.

  “You cannot achieve the king’s tribute by disobeying his orders.”

  Xeneotas said dryly, “I never received his orders.” He looked at one of the captains. “Imprison the messenger and burn the scroll.” He looked at Balthazar who reluctantly handed the captain the scroll.

  Xeneotas reiterated, “Prepare your magic.”

  Xeneotas’ army lined up on foot and horseback over the western banks of the Euphrates river. A garrison of Greek citizen soldiers called hoplites wore light battle skirts, shin greaves, menacing Phrygian helmets and bronze breastplates. They carried short swords, shields and long spears. They lined up in phalanx position as a wall of impenetrable bronze, iron and muscle.

  Molon and three thousand of his men faced them across a divide of several hundred yards of desert plain. Xeneotas could see that Molon had only garnered five hundred or so of his infamous cavalry with their “chopper” swords on their purebred warhorses. A chopper sword was extra large for an increased span of attack by the horsemen. They looked like dragon’s teeth.

  So, this rebel is overly confident, thought Xeneotas. He thinks he needs a mere five hundred. His presumption is my advantage. He glanced over his shoulder at the line of a dozen catapults wheeled out behind them. He turned to Balthazar and nodded.

  Balthazar raised his standard. As a magi warrior, his dress was significantly different from the others. He wore all black leather as his armor. It was not as protective as bronze, but it was much lighter and afforded him the freedom to move more fluidly than his enemies. Even his helmet was a leather fitted mask more apropos for a sorcerer than a soldier. A black cape flowed behind him in the wind, giving him the appearance of a ghostlike phantom. Should the enemy mistake him for less than a warrior, they would find themselves at the mercy of a trained swordsman who could cut them to pieces without the aid of a single lick of magic. Magi were widely trained in all the arts, including the art of war.

  Balthazar lowered his standard.

  Across the battlefield, Molon watched the Greek soldiers load the catapults with large homemade looking projectiles. But they didn’t look threatening. He decided to wait until they launched their first volley and then attack while they were loading for their second. This wasn’t going to be a full-scale battle. Molon was merely engaging in a sortie to see how his enemy fought, figure out his battle patterns and maybe even strike some fear into them to demoralize their forces. When he was ready for all-out attack, he could minimize his own casualties by adjusting his strategy to his enemy’s weaknesses. And he could see his enemy’s first weakness was his reliance upon sorcerers. Such displays of magic might occasionally surprise or temporarily frighten an army, but in the end, battles were won with muscle, sweat, and blood, not magic tricks and spectacle.

  When the catapults released, his suspicion was confirmed. They landed short of the army line in the desert plain, and exploded into clouds of grey dust upon impact with the ground.

  They were testing the distance, charting it for accuracy with bags of chalk.

  Fools, he thought, Let them feel the terror of my Immortals. The Immortals were the most renowned of the Persian warriors. They wore small-scaled armor beneath loose fitting fabric that was flexible and afforded the impression that their bodies were supernaturally protected. They fought in such tightly organized formation that if one was killed, another would take his place immediately, giving the appearance that they were in fact immortal.

  Molon raised his sword and his brother Alexander blew his war horn.

  The Immortals gave a cry of war that sent chills through the bones of the Greek warriors. Five hundred Median horsemen raced out in front of the lines and led the Immortals onto the field. They galloped through the chalky clouds on their way to pierce the defenses of their lesser Seleucid opponents.

  But Molon now saw a line of archers behind the Greek forces raise flaming arrows into the air and release them. He watched with curiosity as the missiles arched through the sky like fiery lightning on their way toward his charging warriors.

  Down below in the field, the cavalry was just breaking through the cloudy field, covered in the fine dust. The Immortals were in the midst of the dispersing cloud.

  But then the arrows hit all around. They were not for the warriors. They were for the cloud. They lit the strange dust on fire. The grey smoke instantly became an inferno of orange flame that engulfed the unsuspecting horsemen and foot soldiers. The air itself was on fire. Those covered in the dust could not escape the burning. It was some kind of flammable substance that clung to their clothes.

  Warriors screamed in searing pain. Horses fell to the ground. Men rolled around in the dirt, seeking to quench the flames. But they could not. Flesh melted from the bone in a frenzy of disoriented agony. Hundreds of them were burned alive in the firestorm.

  Molon and his brother watched with terror.

  “What sorcery is this?” muttered Alexander. “What black magic?”

  Molon stared out onto the field o
f fire with dead eyes. “It is not black magic, brother. It is not magic at all. It is science—whose unknown nature is what ignorant man fears.”

  Xeneotas smiled as the black smoke of death rose from the desert plain. Molon’s forces were demoralized.

  “Magnificent, Balthazar.”

  The magus deferred, “I am but your servant.”

  They heard the horn of retreat and watched Molon’s forces melt away.

  Xeneotas quipped, “So much for superstitious omens of dread.”

  Xeneotas raised his sword and yelled to his warriors, “CHASE THEM INTO THE DESERT! KILL THEM IN THE ROCKS AND CRAGS!”

  His herald blew the war horn and Xeneotas led his countercharge to chase them down.

  Let Hades swallow them in chaos, thought Xeneotas.

  The stench of burnt flesh stung his nostrils as they passed through the desert battle plain, filled with the scattered and blackened remains of bodies. The soldiers were charged with fury. Cries of victory bellowed from their throats.

  Xeneotas saw the last remnants of Molon’s forces disappear over the ridge. The Greek forces were almost upon them.

  We have them now, thought Xeneotas. The king will finally acknowledge me. The world will know.

  Xeneotas broke the ridge in the lead.

  He pulled back on his reins at the sight before him. Five thousand armed Median and Persian warriors awaited him in silence below the steep incline.

  He had just led his army into an ambush. It was the oldest tactic in the book, that worked against the oldest sin: pride.

  His cavalry followed him down into the chaos.

  It was too late to turn back now. He would have to fight. He would have to face the consequences of his own arrogance.

  His horse was grounded by a flurry of arrows that just missed his own body. He rolled in the dirt and recovered his weapon, a xyston, a ten-foot long spear with iron blade-tips at each end. He was a master of the xyston. He wielded it with such expertise that he had slain ten men before they realized what was happening.

  His infantry division crested the ridge to join them, but it was like diving into a swirling whirlpool of death.

  Xeneotas was surrounded on every side by a circle of fighters. They pressed in. He swung with a mighty arc, thrust, and slashed, forward and reverse. He was a spinning wheel of fury. Within moments, twenty men were lying in a heap around him.

  But there were hundreds behind them.

  I deserve this death, he thought, as his weakening arms sought to stave off the unending swarm of attackers with hopeless dread.

  But I will take as many of these criminals with me to the grave as I can.

  CHAPTER 3

  Xeneotas awoke in the dark. He could smell the dank musty air. He thought, Am I in Hades?

  He groaned as a sharp pain pierced his ribs. His body ached all over. He tried to move, but he heard the clank of chains and felt their cold steel on his wrists. Chains of Tartarus? Tartarus was the lowest pit of Hades where the Titans were imprisoned. No. He was not that significant.

  His eyes adjusted to the dark and he soon realized he was not dead. He was in a dungeon. Rancid water lay in still puddles. A rat scurried across the cell. Xeneotas tried to stand but fell back down to the ground with a dizzying pain from concussion.

  Then his memory returned in fragments. Flashes of what had happened on the battlefield:

  His horse crumbling to the ground by a flurry of arrows.

  Crashing iron and bronze.

  Splashing pools of blood.

  His battalion massacred.

  His arms weakening as he swung his xyston blade with fury.

  Piles of bodies everywhere.

  Sharp pain on the back of his head.

  Blackout.

  Flashes of a black wraith over him, cape flowing like a storm wind.

  Small balls that exploded with fire from the hands of his savior.

  Balthazar.

  Rescued by the sorcery of his magus.

  The sound of arriving guards and the unlocking of the cell door shook him out of his trance.

  Four heavily armed guards dragged him down the hallway. Now he felt the full pain of his bruises and wounds.

  He muttered, “My men. Where are my men?”

  One of the guards, an ornery one, spit out with contempt, “All dead. Slaughtered like pigs by Molon.”

  Xeneotas felt as if a javelin had pierced his kidney. He had betrayed his king and failed his men. And now they were dead. Sacrificed for his pride. His pursuit of glory and respect of the crown had ruined him.

  The other guard said, “Thank the gods the walls of the city kept Molon out. Hermias cleaned up your mess.”

  Xeneotas’ eyes were blinded by the sunlight as they brought him through the palace courtyard.

  Before he knew it, he was in the throne room of Antiochus the Great. He was back in Seleucia on the Tigris.

  They dropped him to his knees at the foot of the throne, a large golden chair with lion cherubim cast on the sides. The king looked down upon him in silence.

  Xeneotas looked up to see several generals and advisors standing beside the throne. Hermias, tall and imposing, stood closest. Xeneotas knew what his advice would be to the king. He just wasn’t sure what form of death it would be.

  At the outer circle stood Balthazar, stone-faced and silent. But a glance from his old friend assured him he was not alone.

  Xeneotas had achieved a special audience with the king, but for dishonor instead of honor. He waited to hear his sentence. But the king remained silent for an unbearable count.

  Then finally, Antiochus spoke. “Xeneotas, you have proven yourself a devoted and mighty leader in the past. That is why I gave you the command of Babylon.”

  Another moment of silence. The king’s anger melted into genuine confusion. “What has bewitched you? Why did you think you could disobey my orders and live?”

  Xeneotas would not speak. His teeth were clenched with bitterness.

  Hermias drew his dagger and commanded, “Answer your king, soldier. Or die where you kneel.”

  Xeneotas spoke, “I did not seek to disobey. I sought for distinction.”

  The king said, “So you thought you would gain my attention with an heroic victory of great risk. Defiance of the odds.”

  The next was a genuine question from the king. “Glory to what purpose?”

  The prisoner showed the king his hand. On it was a golden ring. A very familiar golden ring. The signet of the prince. His old signet ring. Confusion overcame Antiochus. Then fear.

  He barked to this advisors, “Leave us, immediately. Except Hermias.”

  The advisors whisked out of the throne room. Hermias was his most trusted aide, and he would protect the king.

  Antiochus glared at his captive. “Who are you?”

  Xeneotas looked up at him.

  Those dark thin eyes brought back a flood of memory to the king.

  Xeneotas said, “My birth name is Antiochus the Younger.”

  This cannot not be, thought the king.

  Xeneotas continued, “And that is what I want to be called in my death, because I will no longer hide my true identity.” He pulled off the ring and held it out to the king.

  Antiochus looked at it with dread. He would not touch it, as if it were cursed.

  He said, “Where did you get that royal signet ring?”

  Xeneotas stared into the king’s soul. “From my mother.”

  Antiochus’s kingdom crashed in on him. He felt dizzy. Short of breath.

  He reached out and took the ring from his disgraced general’s hand. He stared into it, and all the fading memories became clear again. He got down on his knees to look into the eyes of Xeneotas. A softness came over him. Compassion.

  “My son,” said the king.

  Xeneotas could not look at him. “Your bastard son.” He took a difficult breath. “Abandoned and forgotten.”

  Antiochus reached over and pulled Xeneotas’ face up. Now he saw
Thera’s bold penetrating eyes looking back at him. He melted with grief. “This—is why you risked everything?”

  Xeneotas said, “To face you. To claim my family name. To claim your…”

  He could not finish the sentence. Antiochus thought, To claim my throne?

  “To claim your love, my father.”

  Hermias was not so sentimental. He considered weeping, even familial weeping, to be a sign of weakness. “My lord, I beg your forgiveness in interrupting, but—the generals are already questioning your authority to stop this rebellion. They concur that your forces are overextended to the east. The Ptolemaic army is advancing upon Syria and Palestine to the west. And Roman naval forces are amassing in the Mediterranean. Weigh carefully the decision you are about to make.”

  Antiochus knew Hermias was right. And he dreaded what his general was going to say next.

  “Xeneotas may be your son. But he is a bastard son, and he remains a criminal who defied the king’s command. If you do not execute this criminal,” he emphasized the word, “then I alone cannot stop their mutiny. Your kingdom is in dire jeopardy.”

  Bastards born of mistresses were of little significance for royal legacy, especially ones from unknown foreign kingdoms. It didn’t matter that this was the son of Thera, his only true love. Kingdom and power transcended emotional attachments.

  Antiochus stood over his son’s broken posture.

  “Return him to prison. He will be executed on the morrow.”

  Hermias bowed in obedience and pulled Xeneotas in his chains toward the exit.

  The last look Xeneotas had of his father’s face was a sad but hardened resolve. In his hand, the king gripped the signet ring, as if trying to crush it into dust.

  Antiochus must be just. Xeneotas must die.

  CHAPTER 4

  The holy temple tower Etemenanki dominated the walled temple precinct of Babylon. Its name meant, “Temple of the foundation of heaven and earth.” Temples were manmade holy mountains that connected the three-tiered universe of heaven above, the earth below, and the underworld beneath. This particular temple was a ziggurat, a large step-pyramid, one hundred fifty feet square at the bottom, that rose one hundred and fifty feet into the sky. The levels rose in successive stair-steps and the higher levels contained rooms and passageways.