Dragons and Romans

by William David Ellis

  Miriam laughed in spite of herself and nodded in agreement then settled into helping Nachum bandage another burn victim. She moved on under Nachum’s watch, bandaging, and encouraging soldiers till she came to a young man she sensed was dying. His pale face was coated in sweat, and the stench of scorched flesh stung her nostrils. He shook violently and cried out. Miriam, exhausted, looked down on him. She instinctively knew she could not help him. She sighed as she looked at him, and then saw that he had seen her and was looking at her. She knelt down beside him, and he whispered roughly, “Are you an angel?”

  She smiled back at him, “No, just a friend.” He gasped as his body rocked in pain, seizing him, and causing him to cry out again. She reached for his hand and held it. He squeezed so hard she flinched but held on. The seizure left him, and his grip lessened.

  He tried to talk, his speech coming in gasps. “Am I dying?”

  Miriam looked at him, desperately trying to think of how to answer. Finally, she remembered Nachum’s words to her, they settle down when they know. And she answered, “Yes, you are.” Her Latin was limited, but she understood the young man, and the grace of the moment empowered her stumbling language skills.

  He looked at her and took a quick breath. Tears began to flow down his cheeks. “How long?” he panted.

  She gazed at him, tears sparkling in her own eyes and quietly answered, “Not long.”

  He looked up at her, his lips trembling. “I don’t know how to do this.”

  She thought how odd a statement and prayed, Lord God, what do I do? The thought came back to her, “Sing over him.” She wondered how the wounded men huddled all around them would respond to her singing but then thought, Does it matter? She began to softly sing an old Hebrew hymn her mother would sing to her at bedtime. She didn’t know the words in Latin, but the spirit of the song was universal, and her voice melodic. She held the young man’s hand as she sang. As she came to the end of the song, she noticed his eyelids gently begin to close, his breathing ease, and he was gone.

  Chapter Fourteen

  When the dragon left the battlefield, it flew directly to the ancient court area where the sacrifices had been made and lit there, still streaming a trail of dark blood. It screamed and wailed and tried to rip out the missile lodged in its eye but couldn’t grasp the small object that had ripped apart its optic and embedded itself deep in the fragile flesh.

  Its landing alarmed the high priest’s court, and most evacuated the area quickly. But Asdrubal who had conjured the dragon, calling it from oblivion, walked right up to the beast, cooing and calling to it like a falconer would to his bird. Had Asdrubal still been a man, he would have been torn to pieces and gulped down the dragon’s throat as soon as he came within range of its claws. But Asdrubal was no longer a man, being possessed by a dark entity, and the serpent was acutely aware of that. The dragon was a terrible creature, but it was a creature of the earth, honest born and bred, a creation of dust. The being that called to it had been alive before the sun the dragon had flown beneath, ages before had been fashioned.

  The dragon calmed and grew still. Its eye still pained and irritated but not to the point it could not submit to the manifest presence of the darkness radiating from Asdrubal, who walked up to it, climbed up on its cheek, and began to probe the hole left by the projectile that ruined the creature’s eye. Within a few painful minutes, Asdrubal removed the bolt and applied a healing salve.

  “You will heal quickly dragon. You are not just a beast of the earth any longer. Now you belong to me, and I will call the darkness to assist you. So sleep now and heal. We have work to do, soon.”

  ****

  Back in the camp, Han Xing was busy. Now that Regulus was incapacitated, Han Xing assumed command and began reshaping the army and reinforcing the first line of defense, the ballistae.

  He interviewed every man he could find who had been up close and either fired a weapon or saw those that did. In the process, he discovered the dragon’s change of tactics from strafing the Roman lines from the air to ripping and tearing individuals on the ground, although horrible to observe, actually saved the Romans from greater casualties.

  As he questioned the troops who had battled the dragon, he asked them about the flames and the claws and the tail and any perceived vulnerabilities. He discovered that the troops had seen the dragon take direct hits from projectiles that were deflected by its scaly, armored hide.

  The fact that Han Xing was interviewing the soldiers who directly engaged the dragon spread through the camp like corn through a sick goose. Soon a line of soldiers formed at the entrance of his tent. Then a murmur arose that interrupted the General’s interviews. The noise caught Han Xing’s attention, and needing a break, he walked out of his tent to see what the uproar was all about.

  “Ya did not knock it off with your sword, Spurius … I know because I saw Oenus’ ballista hit the beast and blow it on its arse! All you did was pick up the pieces afterward!”

  Before the accused Spurius could respond, Han Xing who had been watching the argument for a moment, saw what the Legionnaire had in his hand and quickly moved between the two soldiers.

  Spurius clutched a large scale, about the size of a legionnaire’s helmet but wider in his hand. Han Xing reached for it, and as he held it, rubbing it with his fingers, he looked at Spurius and said, “This is what I think it is, right?

  “Yes, sir, it is a dragon scale.” And then he started to say something else, and stuttered to a halt, remembering who he was talking to. He noticed the narrowed focus of his commander and stood speechless, waiting for the next question. It came quickly.

  “Spurius, did you see the scale get knocked off?”

  “Yes, sir, I did.”

  “What knocked it off?”

  Spurius frowned at the soldier who had been berating him and answered softly, “Oenus’ ballista, sir.”

  Han Xing grunted, disappointed.

  “Did you or anyone else see what happened when the ballista bolt penetrated the dragon’s eye?” He involved the crowd of soldiers around him in his question. A torrent of voices burst forth.

  One optio swore he saw a projectile knock off a scale and expose the tender hide beneath it. Then the soldier had been knocked unconscious by a deflected swipe of the creature’s tail. The men who had seen the dragon take the hit from the weapons said the missile entered the eye and embedded. They also noted the beast’s hide appeared to be like ceramic pottery fired in an oven and impervious to flame. The men noted that spears dented it, and swords cut it, but only like an ant or bee sting with no major wounds suffered.

  Han Xing collected his information and synthesized it into a list of confirmed and unconfirmed. The results of the interviews helped him in one regard but not in another. The insights gained from the questioning helped him understand what he must do but didn’t help him do it. That frustrated him, for all the data collected did not point to any means of killing the dragon. All he could do was continue to have his ballistae aim for the eyes, the only vulnerable spot on the beast. Other than that, he was clueless.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Regulus slept the sleep of the damned. His wounds had pussed, and although the physicians knew that to be a good sign, the they also stunk. To his feverish subconscious, the smell and the guilt that good commanders feel at losing men in battle, cascaded like a dark plague into his dreams. His dreams, all pretty much the same, relived the fight with the dragon:

  The cries of angry men and the screams of dying ones burst from the center of the broken testudo. Regulus stood behind the ruins of both men and shields, rivers of stinging sweat pouring down his face, causing his eyes to burn. He vainly tried to wipe his burning eyes, but the torrent was too much. As he shouted orders to the men to pitch their javelins, the giant creature turned its massive, scaly head toward them in a heartbeat of surreal motion. Regulus wasn’t forty feet from the beast and could see its face plainly. As the animal drew back, inhaling the wind it was about to spew out
as fire, Regulus made eye contact and gasped. He was looking at intelligence—spiteful, hungry, malevolent intelligence. The encounter lasted only a second, then the dragon roared, and a wretched-smelling stench ignited into a spew of vomited flame. A terrible scream broke Regulus’ concentration. He turned in time to see the optio who had saved his life by forcing him into the center of the testudo burst into flame from a direct hit of the dragon, melting the man’s eyes and face like a horrible wax doll.

  Regulus screamed and screamed and then suddenly awoke to a cot soaked with sweat, and body fluids, the after-effect of the horrible dream.

  The Roman physicians used what they had, acupuncture and opium, which combined to dull his pain. But they did not help with the dreams, if anything, they enhanced them. Regulus hated taking the opium and wasn’t overly fond of the sharp needles of Chinese acupuncture, but knew he had to endure them, otherwise, he could not function.

  After awakening from the latest series of dreams, he fell back to his cot, spent. His thoughts condemned him. He was the commanding general of the army, and his men needed him to rise and command them. A thousand questions haunted him: Had the serpent come back? Had the army fallen back? What were the Carthaginians doing now? How were the wounded? Did Han Xing’s spies have anything more to report? Did anyone know where the dragon flew off to? Those questions and a score of others worried him.

  And to spite it all, stomach cramps gripped his bowels. The army fed its men high protein meals noted for producing cramps or gas or a terrible combination of both. So, as he fell back on his bed and closed his eyes and gave way to the deluge of worrisome questions, he quietly bent his head back, strained and passed gas. In any other context, it would not have been noticed. But in this case, Regulus was not alone in his tent. He was barely awake when he escaped from his terrible dream and had not noticed the stranger in his room until, overcome by the noxious odor, she choked. Instantly, Regulus bolted out of bed on guard. In spite of his pain and grogginess he sat up, his red eyes glaring at Miriam.

  Startled by his quick movements, she cried out, staring back at him in wide-eyed embarrassment. He looked at her and frowned, and a medico chose that moment to part the curtain and walk in. “Excuse me, sir, oh goodness. Sir, do you require assistance?” The medico walked right into the fumes, grimaced.

  Regulus, embarrassed, aggravated and curious all at once, read the medico’s expression and barked. “No, I don’t require wiping, medico. I am moving around better today, but I do wonder who this young woman is, and what is she doing in my tent? Is she another of Nachum’s medicinal improvements?”

  Then before the medico could reply, Regulus noticed the still red scar on Miriam’s face with its new stitches. In a heartbeat he changed his commander voice into a compassionate, quiet tone. “Is she a patient? Have we so many casualties that we have to share a tent?”

  Just as Regulus was barraging the medico with his questions, Nachum walked in. He had heard the general from outside the tent, and could tell by his tone something was wrong, so he rushed to the attending medico’s aid, and immediately took over answering the questions.

  “No sir, she is not a patient. As a matter of fact, she is a very gifted healer herself—a refugee from the sacrificial altar of the Carthaginian high priest. When the dragon struck, she assisted me in helping the men and has stayed with it since. She is currently assigned the dismal task of changing your sheets, or bandages, or slop pot. Whatever the need might be. But if you prefer her moved, she will be at once.”

  Regulus felt his fatigue, and this incident was making more demands on him, so he fell back on his cot and sighed. “No, Nachum, she can stay or attend others or whatever it is she does. I would like to see Han Xing, now that I have at least a little of my life back. But I do have one question for you…I am having nightmares. I know wounded men do. I just didn’t expect them to be so vivid and troubling. In all your wares, and herbs, and tonics, and sharp little sticks, is there anything that can help me sleep and not wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat?”

  Nachum thought for a moment. “General, the drugs are influencing your dreams. But without them, the pain will keep you awake, and you will feel worse. There are only a few ways through your healing and no way out of it. Our cures are not worse than your wounds, but only by a little. I am sorry.”

  “So, if I want to sleep, I have to suffer the dreams caused by the drugs, and if I don’t take them, the pain will be so great, I can’t sleep. Is that what I hear you saying?”

  “Yes, sir, that sounds about right.”

  “Devil’s choice then, isn’t it? Can you reduce dosage of the drugs? To the point that my dreams are not as vivid, and the pain, although present, is bearable?”

  “We can try, sir. It will be trial and error, and it may take a few days to get it right, but we will sure work on it.”

  “Thank you, Nachum, nobody can ask for more. Now, will you send someone to get Han Xing?”

  “Yes, sir.” He walked out of the general’s tent and beckoned for Miriam to follow. She did, quickly and gladly. She understood most of what had been said and caught the rest from Regulus’ tone.

  As soon as they were out of the general’s tent, Nachum switched to Hebrew. “The general is having trouble sleeping. It is very common, considering the severity of his burns and the drugs we are using to keep his pain manageable. When he heard you gasp, it startled him and also embarrassed him. He meant no disrespect or ill will toward you. He is a very good man.”

  Miriam looked at Nachum, puzzled. “I thought you said he was a Roman general? How can he also be a good man?”

  Nachum smirked and answered, “I understand how you feel. But he is not like most Roman generals. He was born to privilege but did not take advantage of it. He is extremely honorable, to the point that he has chosen to earn the trust of his army rather than demand it. Don’t misunderstand, he can be hard when he has to be, but his soldiers love him and trust him. He has foreigners as general officers; I am his top physician. When he finds a man of merit and ability, regardless of his birth or cultural background, he employees him. Jews serve in his officer corps and as his physicians. Chinese serve as his technical advisors and invent amazing machines that support his army. His motto is: If it works, make it Roman. If it is Roman and doesn’t work, get rid of it and blame it on the Greeks. Most Roman elites are not like that, but he is.”

  Miriam frowned. A thoughtful look crossed her face. “If what you say is true, he is indeed a remarkable individual. Thank you for helping me to understand. I wish I could do more.” Then she paused, and a melancholy expression brushed its sad way across her face.

  “What? What are you thinking?” Nachum asked.

  Miriam shook her head slowly, looked at the physician and kept on shaking her head.

  “What is it, woman? What are you thinking?”

  She sighed and said, “I just remembered a time long ago, when somebody else was troubled, and bad dreams plagued them, how I helped them. But that would never work for the general. It would not be appropriate or even allowed.”

  “You don’t know that. What are you talking about?” Nachum said quietly, reflecting Miriam’s mood.

  “Years ago, before the raiders came and killed my husband and captured me, when he was troubled or sore from the work he did in the fields—and once when feverish and suffering from a terrible rash—I fixed a concoction, an old Hebrew remedy my mother showed me, and made him drink it, hot. Then I would play my kinnor and sing the songs of our people and the Psalms of David, and he would rest. I don’t know if it was the song or the drink, but he slept better and healed quicker. I doubt this Roman general would be open to a Jewish woman fixing him a concoction or singing over him.”

  Nachum looked at her strangely and said, “Did you hear the shofar blow? Did you feel the power of the moment and notice how the troops responded?”

  “Yes, I did!” she exclaimed. “I thought it was an archangel and was astounded that a shofar
was trumpeting. I could feel the power it released.” Her voice dropped as she remembered and she continued softly, “I sensed the response of the Romans that they also felt the Spirit, and they cheered.” She finished her, voice dropping to a whisper like she couldn’t believe what she was saying or had witnessed. “At the time, I was too scared to wonder about it, and since then I have been too busy or exhausted. But yes, Nachum, I heard the shofar.”

  “Regulus, the man you just left, ordered that horn blown. I told you he is different, and I don’t know if he would be open to your ministrations, but as his primary and attending and much-valued physician, I would be willing to suggest it to him.” He raised his eyebrows and fixed his eyes on her.

  “But I don’t have the concoction, and I don’t have a kinnor, and I don’t have a voice anymore. And… and…”

  “Okay, one thing at a time. What’s in the concoction?”

  “Honey, it is made from fermented honey.”

  Nachum looked at her and laughed. “Seriously, Miriam?” When she responded with a puzzled look, he really began to laugh. “Miriam, don’t you know where you are and who you are with?”

  She shrugged her shoulders in answer and still looked confused.

  “Romans! You are in the middle of a Roman army camp, surrounded by thousands of soldiers who love to drink anything fermented. And we have a beekeeper unit that goes with us and supplies our medical corps with honey. We have our own bees! So fermented honey drink is not a problem. What else is in the honey mead?”

  She furrowed her brow till her dark eyebrows almost met. “Give me a moment. I am trying to remember. It was an herb. What was it? I can see it in my mind’s eye. It is a flower that has a yellow center and white petals with a down-covered stem and feathery light green leaves and smells a bit like apples. My grandmother would pick the flowers, dry them, and boil them into a tea, and then mix them with the hot honey mead. Between that mixture and my soft singing… which...well, anyway…”