****
Asdrubal caught the dragon off guard when he set out to attack the Roman fleet. The beast’s consciousness was bound and shoved out of the way as the demonized priest moved into control. In that position, Asdrubal could feel everything the dragon felt. Its wings became his wings, its eyes, his eyes; the sensation of flying intoxicating. As he moved into the sky, he felt the cold wind glide across his wings. The exhilaration of diving down and catching a warm air current and being cast into a higher plane delighted Asdrubal. From that height, he saw the Roman ships, hundreds of them. He noticed the wake of the larger ships as they moved farther out to sea and wondered had they seen him? How could that be possible? He was so far in the heavens they looked like toy boats on a small lake. How could they have spotted him so soon? But he also noted that smaller vessels had begun to move forward, toward the city. Asdrubal knew some of those ships were equipped with catapults and thought, I caught them in the middle of a surprise attack on Carthage! He began to screech angrily as he dove down from the heavens.
****
The lookouts on the smaller vessels had been training with the magnifying devices they had been given by Xenophanes and were quick to detect a smoking, flying dragon diving for them from the skies a few miles away. When the first vessel saw the dragon approaching, it signaled its countrymen, and the other vessels converged within ballista range of the targeted vessel. They didn’t get so close the dragon could destroy them with one blast, but they got close enough their ballistae had the range. Now came the test.
The balloons, held together in layers, soared to the end of their tethers, reflecting the design of the infantry phalanx, waiting. The dragon was now clearly visible to all the sailors. Its fiery breath scorched the sky. It was coming fast. The ballista operators knew they would have to lead the target, and they might not get but one chance. Each ballista operator was also cloaked in the same material the balloons were made from. As the dragon drew closer they realized the balloons might offer some protection from the dragon’s flames, but its sharp talons and spiked tail and teeth could easily destroy them. Some of the sailors began to pray under their breath, others cursed, each to his own nature. The captain, a veteran of many combat engagements, stood shielded and firm. The optio at his side shouted out, “Hold firm! Hold firm!” in a voice that rumbled like an angry mountain. “On my count, watch him boys. Here he comes!”
****
Asdrubal watched through the dragon’s eyes as it swept down on a Roman ship. The high priest was moving faster than any man ever moved and was drunk with the power of the beast and its ability to soar. Now he was attacking the Romans and would soon destroy their puny fleet and drown the sailors or burn them with the dragon’s breath. He spotted the balloons but didn’t understand their purpose. The dragon was moving too fast to stop. It swooped down, blasting its breath at the balloons, and moving them with the discharge but not destroying them with the heat. The airy shields swayed, but tethered, still protected the ship. Suddenly, the dragon felt a sharp pain as his body was struck hard. The obsidian tipped missiles were getting through. This time they were not mere stings but painful, piercing arrows that broke the skin and bled him.
The dragon’s consciousness had been pushed aside since Asdrubal possessed him, but the pain and shock of the missiles and the confusion of the balloons caused the priest to lose control. It was good for him that he did. Though Asdrubal could control the beast enough to fly, he did not have the instinctive muscle memory to fly masterfully and avoid missiles, or entanglements with the tethers of the balloon phalanx. So, in the middle of the pain and confusion, the dragon took control, and the cumbersome beast that originally attacked immediately became an expert flyer, instinctively dodging the projectiles and traps. The serpent bled, as several missiles penetrated its hide in the first few seconds of the attack and made it very aware it was not prepared for this battle. Most of its previous experiences attacking from the air had been on animals that were plant eaters and could not defend themselves. The few times it had taken on another predator, it had learned painfully the reward was not worth the consequence. It did not recognize the ships as edible, and when it realized they could strike, its preservation instinct was to run. And it did. It soared into the sky, licking its wounds, screaming in indignation but away
Chapter Twenty
The hydraulic semaphore signal beat the dragon back to Carthage. Regulus and Han Xing received the news of the attack and how it had been beaten off before the battered, bleeding dragon landed in the courtyard of the high priest. Both generals were pleased. The sailors on the ships were ecstatic, but the generals knew this had only been a small engagement. They needed to learn as much as they could from it, so they ordered the semaphore to signal the ship in.
The ship would be a few hours making port, so Regulus used the time to rest his wounded body. He knew Nachum his physician would plague him unceasingly, and rightly so, if he didn’t take care of himself. The Romans needed their general, and the general needed to heal, so Regulus excused himself and headed toward his tent.
****
Miriam heard from Nachum that Regulus was open to her honey herbal concoction and also her singing. She had a hard time believing it and thought: The poor man must be desperate. Then she realized, of course, he was. He was in physical pain. His army was facing a horrible beast that maimed its soldiers and its leader. The actual forces of hell had fashioned a monster at the command of one of its own to destroy the Romans. They didn’t know how to defeat it, and so the Roman general had to be grasping at straws. She would go in, hand him his drink and start singing. He would grimace, and if he were kind, thank her and dismiss her, and that would be that. Hopefully, the honey and earth apple would ease the general’s pain, and all would be well. If he wasn’t a kind man, she might find herself flogged and sold in a slave market, separated from her baby, and condemned to a life of misery. She mentally cast out the thought, reminded of Nachum’s words, and followed the guard who came to fetch her to Regulus’ tent.
Regulus noted the tribune who announced Miriam, dismissed him, and raised up on his cot, motioning Miriam to kneel beside him. Then he realized he spoke neither Carthaginian nor Hebrew, and thought, Great, now what?
Miriam sat as commanded and thought, Well, now what?
Regulus spoke first in his native Latin thinking, What difference does it make what language I speak? She doesn’t understand me. I don’t understand her, so I will speak what I am comfortable with, and we will stumble on from there.
“I am General Regulus,” he began and then mumbled, “but I suppose you know that already.”
Miriam had been in the camp two weeks. Before that, she had been owned by a Roman merchant, then sold by a Roman slaver, then bought by another merchant who was a citizen of Carthage and also spoke Latin. The Roman language was not the universal tongue of the southern Mediterranean but competed with Punic for the spot. So, although not fluent, she did speak it, understanding more than she could speak, and through immersion, having been surrounded by Latin-speaking Romans for the last two weeks, began to quickly grow in her linguistic abilities.
“Yes, I do,” she answered. To Regulus’ surprise, in his language.
“You speak Latin,” he smiled. “Thank the gods.”
“I am not very good at it,” she said hesitantly, “but I can get by and am slowly picking up more words.”
“Well, I am sure you speak it better than I speak Carthaginian. I am afraid all I know is “Ellerinizi yıka, dirsekleriniz kirli olsun.” He laughed.
She smiled again, not having a clue of what he tried to say. It sounded vaguely Carthaginian and might be, Wash your hands, your elbows are dirty. But she wasn’t sure and did not feel it appropriate to correct him. So she just nodded.
“I didn’t get that right, did I?”
She smiled sheepishly but didn’t answer.
“Okay well,” he said, breathing in sharply, a little embarrassed. “Let’s get on with it. As
I understand it, you have a Hebrew drink my physician swears by, and you are also a gifted musician that is supposed to sing me to sleep. Is that so?”
“Nachum is a gifted physician and an honorable man, sir. But he hasn’t heard me sing, and it’s been a long time since I tried to mix my grandmother’s sleep tonic. I promise it is not poison, and if the general desires, I will be happy to sample it in your presence, so you will know it is wholesome.”
“Well, now that is unusual.”
“What, sir?”
“A healer who is honest and humble.”
Miriam was a little offended and tried not to let her face show it, but Regulus was a veteran of not just physical combat but also the politics of the Roman army and caught her facial reaction. He found himself immediately apologetic. “That was meant as a compliment. I did not mean to offend.”
Miriam looked at him and paused. Had she been in her former master’s household, she would have been terrified and expect a beating, but she had absolutely no sense of that here. So she raised her head, looked him in the eye, and responded, “You did not offend me, general, you surprised me, though. I did not expect a man of your position to be…” She paused, noticed his eyebrow raise and the beginning of a smile cross his battered face.
“Be what?” he warily replied, noticing her pause.
“Be gracious,” she finally blurted out.
Regulus laughed and instantly regretted it because as he laughed, his facial muscles stretched, stinging his burn wounds.
“Damn, that hurts,” he exclaimed, stricken. “Please try and not make me laugh. It hurts to do so.”
Miriam’s healing nature exerted itself. “I may be able to help, sir.”
Regulus answered, “If you can, madam, I will marry you.” He laughed in spite of himself and grimaced as the sharp pain reminded him not to.
“Well, thank you, sir. But, no thank you. I will, however, tell you what I know about those scars. And warn you it is going to hurt. And I know you are a big, strong Roman commander who can take it. It won’t hurt as bad as the original wounding, but it will be sore.”
“Well, you are just full of good news, aren’t you?”
She shrugged her shoulders as if to say, “Don’t flog the messenger,” and continued, “Your facial muscles shriveled like a plant does when exposed to drought or bad weather conditions. You have muscle damage, and your muscles must be treated by exercise and by a facial cream made from honey and beeswax.”
“Nachum treated my initial wounds with honey. It truly is a gift from the gods.”
Miriam, beginning to feel secure in Regulus’ presence, frowned at his mention of gods in the plural.
Immediately noticing it, he confronted her with a question. “How can you Jews look at all creation in its incredible forms and thousands of novel expressions and believe in only one God?”
Miriam was very hesitant to reply based on her previous experience with the volatile nature of pagans when they talked about religion. So, she reached for the cup of fermented honey and herbs and deflected, “I think you should take your medicine, sir. You need your rest.”
Regulus saw the dodge and let it go. “If I recall correctly, you said you would take a drink first.”
“As you wish,” she replied nonchalantly and took a sip. It had a fermented apple taste, spiced with a tad of chamomile honey. Her face puckered, and eyes blinked at its alcoholic bite.
Regulus tried not to laugh and wound up groaning instead. He also took a drink from the cup, and being used to the bite of strong drink, said, “Hey, that’s not bad. Now, what about your other cures?”
She looked at him, bewildered. “Oh, you mean my singing.”
“That’s one,” he said, “but what about the others? You said you could do something for my facial pain. And then said it would hurt.”
“Yes, I believe I can... if you rub your face, and I mean actually stretch the scar tissue a little at a time, it would eventually respond like all muscle and start getting stronger. I don’t know how long it will take, or how quickly it will respond, but I know muscle massage can help. The scar tissue will be sore like any muscle exercised gets sore.” She put her hands on her face and began to show Regulus how to manipulate the muscle. He tried to mimic her movements.
Miriam shifted to full teacher-healer mode. “No, that is not quite right. You need to push a little harder.”
His face was starting to ache and sting similar to when a foot is asleep and starts to wake up. She noticed his discomfort. “Do you mind?” She moved her hands to his face, and gently but firmly, began to massage the wounded facial muscle. He still felt the ache, and it was painful enough to draw tears. It felt like skin being ripped off his face, but his fierce pride wouldn’t let him cry out.
She noticed but didn’t let him know. “There, that is enough for the first time.”
He sighed with relief, took another drink of the hot fermented mix and asked, “Are you sure this is going to work?”
“No,” she answered honestly. “But I have seen and heard of it working on others. You should notice results in about two weeks. Don’t massage it every day. Give it time to rebuild the muscles we just tore down. If you don’t exercise it, your facial muscles will stay shriveled and pain you the rest of your life. You really need to do this.”
“So, it’s either suffer now or forever, right?”
“I am afraid so.”
“Why did it hurt so much more when you did it?”
“Did it hurt more?” she asked, trying to shield his pride. She had seen his eyes glisten but not said a word.
“You know it did,” he answered, casting down her thin attempt to shield him.
The look she gave him complimented him. “Because you weren’t doing it right. You have to engage the wounded tissue, and it hurts to do so. It’s like leather; it has to be softened. In the morning I will mix up a facial lotion that will also help.”
“I am grateful,” he sighed. “And now for the main event. Your other cures.”
“You mean my singing, don’t you? Oh...” she stalled. “It has been a long time, and I don’t know if I can remember all the words.”
“Well, if you don’t tell me, I won’t know,” he said while settling down into his pillow and closing his eyes. “Sing, woman,” he ordered softly.
Miriam, knowing this time was coming, had been practicing. She played the kinnor, an ancient, harp-shaped instrument of her people, originally mentioned in the ageless scriptures as King David’s instrument of choice. He was the famous psalmist whose hymns she sang. Some of her people plucked the kinnor with a pick, and others strummed it with their hands. She was one of the few who pulled a bow, made of wood and horse hair, across the strings. It was an innovation and required the kinnor to be longer and narrower, but the music it produced was gaining in popularity, and she enjoyed the way it sounded.
The first few minutes she was nervous, and Regulus could tell it. He wondered if the animal she killed to string the bow was dead or merely being tortured. He was about to call a halt before the guards came to haul her away for abusing a cat. Then she hit her stride, and he was amazed. The sounds coming from the kinnor were beautiful, melodic, sad, windy one minute and melancholy the next. Regulus soon understood the music was a portal into Miriam’s soul, and he listened, closed his eyes, and saw her reflected in the notes of the song. He began to settle, felt his body relax, and thought, This is working. Then she began to sing in Hebrew.
Mizmor le’Dovid,
Hashem roei lo echsawr.
Binos desheh yarbitzaini,
al mei menuchos yenahaleini.
Nafshi yeshovev yancheini
bemagalei tzedek lema’an shemo.
Gam ki elech be’gei tzalmawves,
lo iraw raw ki ataw imadi,
shivtechaw u’mishantechaw
hemaw yenachamuni.
Ta’aroch lefawnai shulchawn
neged tzoriroi dishantaw
vashemen roshi, cosi
rivawyaw.
Ach tov vaw’chesed yirdifuni kol
yemei chayoi ve’shavti be’veis
Hashem l’orech yawmim.
For several minutes Miriam sang in her native tongue. As her singing filled the room, Regulus faded into sleep, then he shuddered and moaned. He began to toss; as he did, his weight shifted to his wounded side causing him to cry out.
Miriam saw what happened and immediately thought, He needs to hear the words in his own language. She had wondered if that might be a problem and had prepared. She couldn’t sing her whole repertoire in Latin but had translated the songs she knew best, and when she saw Regulus begin his nightly battle, she shifted into his language.
“The Lord is my shepherd. He makes me lie down in green pastures.”
Regulus’ cry startled him awake, He was about to call a halt when he heard the change and was grateful. Now he listened to the words thoughtfully and could see the imagery they conjured in his mind. Still waters, green pastures, he could almost hear the stream in the background and feel the fresh pasture grass beneath his head as he eased back down.
For an instant, he wondered if they would be like the pastures of his homeland and have terrible goathead weeds that were thorny and pierced your feet. Then a voice, he assumed was his own, assured him they didn’t, and he settled back into the music and the images it cast.
Miriam had a beautiful, low-toned, mesmerizing voice. She played until her hands cramped, and then stopped at the end of the final song. She played each song three times and repeated the set for a couple of hours. When she stopped, the general seemed to be sleeping peacefully; his breathing was not labored. She sighed and silently picked up the kinnor and walked out of the tent.
Dragons and Romans Page 10
