But Regulus did not have the gift. He kept giving orders—moving reserves, rearranging regrouped cohorts, screaming himself hoarse. Miriam had moved into the command bunker a few minutes earlier, as if on some mystical command. Her guard stood beside her, and her baby was on her hip. She waited patiently. In another context Han Xing could see her as a matron waiting for her husband to accompany her and her child to the market. It would have made a nice picture, except for the screams, the smell of blood, and shriek of the dragon that stopped strafing the Romans and now just hovered outside of their ballistae range. Whether holding back because the Carthaginians and Romans were so close together he could not fire on one without destroying the other, or for some other reason Han Xing did not know, he only knew he was glad for the reprieve. Finally, Han Xing listened to the screams of his intuitive gift.
“Commander! Commander! REGULUS!” Han Xing boomed. “It’s time!” Regulus cast a dazed glance at him, shook like a wet dog, and tried to answer. “We have to go now, Marcus!” Han Xing used his general’s first name to keep his attention. Regulus sighed, shivered again, and hoarsely croaked, “Yes. Yes. We must. The plan is working. They are entering the fort. They are pouring in, but still no word from the fleet or those I sent to signal it.”
“We have to go no matter what. Someone has to command the retreat. Or celebrate the victory. Whatever happens is in play. All we can do now is our last bit. But we must be alive to do so. So, if you will, Sir, let’s go!”
****
Regulus nodded and started to gather up some maps, paused, looked at Miriam and Han Xing and signaled to his bodyguards to lead out. He followed them protectively placing his arm around Miriam and her child. Escorted on all sides, he left the bunker to step out into a screaming maw of fire and pain. Smoke made the air hazy like a thick blanket of angry steam, soldiers bellowed and cursed.
The Roman testudo tasked with guarding Regulus’ headquarters had come under heavy assault. The Carthaginian army had passed through the civilians in front and now led the way, hammering against the weakened and exhausted Roman shield walls. Right as Regulus and his guards and staff stepped out of the bunker, the testudo tasked with guarding him collapsed under the assault. What could have been a disaster quickly transitioned as the combat reflexes of the seasoned general and his elite troops manifested. Regulus moved his staff and guards to protect the weakened testudo. They became the protectors instead of the protected.
His staff and bodyguards were handpicked warriors with years of battle experience. They were also fresh and shifted with practiced ease into a dance of choreographed slaughter. The Carthaginian lines buckled and fell and would have broken in the section of the line Regulus’ staff defended had not Regulus remembered his battle plan. His whole strategy depended on the Carthaginians taking the fort. With that in mind, he ordered retreat—an orderly, protected, procession. The legionnaires began to back up, step by step, the shield walls of the Romans protecting the fort collapsing in unison, pulling back, farther and farther until only one gate was left.
Regulus managed to elude his bodyguards and stay in the center of the fire, trying to personally infuse his men with the will and strength to stay alive and swinging, until the ship’s artillery could sweep through the sky and save them. He kept looking up, hoping to hear the scream of the blazing projectiles and almost wishing the firebombs would land on him. But nothing came. Suddenly he heard the scream of the dragon raging through the night and the giant swoosh of its wings as its shadow crossed the top of the Roman wall.
Chapter Forty-Three
As the high priest’s slitted eyes opened, Decemus jumped back in horror. The priest laughed; arrogance danced across his face as he mocked the soldier. It abruptly ended when a Carthaginian spear slammed through the back of the throne and out his chest. Decemus leaped back but not before he saw the cowled frame of the old slave holding the end of the spear impaling Asdrubal. The shriviled old man quickly barked an order, “Cut his head off, Roman! Quickly! His recuperative powers are phenomenal. Hurry!”
Without a second thought, Decemus’ sword cut. Two quick slices and Asdrubal’s head flew from his body.
“You think that will be enough?” Decemus asked, grinning.
The old slave stared hard at the stump and answered soberly, “I hope so, but let’s light a fire in this room, just to be sure.”
Decemus shook his head, rebuked, the smile stricken. “Demons, dragons, visions, old prophecies. It’s time for this to be over!” he shouted as he grabbed the high priest’s body and threw it on the heap of tangled serpent his men were dousing with lamp oil.
“Follow me, Roman.” The old servant motioned toward the hidden panel in the wall behind the throne. “Sappho and his men are about to break down the door. They don’t know about the secret passage, but we have very few moments left to get out of here. They will find the passage soon enough because if they don’t find us, they will know there has to be another way out. So, move!”
****
Moments earlier
The dragon circled, exhausted, fighting two battles. It faced the stinging projectiles ripping through its bat-like wings and bruising its ribs as they pounded his chain mail armor. His supernatural, recuperative powers kept him in the fight with momentary periods of respite. But that dark slavery was also the ground where he fought his second battle. The dragon grew by association with his master. He began with the intelligence of a dog, and now reasoned as a self-aware being. The beast recognized his battle was not with the Romans, but with the high priest. As a result, every time he felt Asdrubal’s evil presence loosen, he strained against its bounds. It was a battle of wills. So far, he had lost every round, but he was not broken. When the golden lion attacked his demonic oppressor in the spirit realm, the dragon felt the blows fall on its tormenter, and actually broke loose for a precious moment. He saw the woman with the horn and attacked her only to slam into an invisible fist that broke his jaw and threw him to the ground. He recovered enough to retreat and circle the rear of the battle, hovering out of the way of the Roman weapons and yet not so far away as to feel the restraints of his keeper. Suddenly the bonds broke. He tested them—they were gone! With a screech of exhilaration, he raced straight up into the sky and hovered. Vengeance on his mind, he studied the battle from his roost and then dove.
The main battle knotted like a cancer around the Roman fort. The Carthaginian army surged through their civilian fodder and now poured into the Roman stronghold. The dragon dove on that army that represented the physical power of his dark master. In one blow he could destroy both it and the Romans who had fought him to a standstill. He screeched and flamed, filled with new energy and power from the victory over his tormenter. His breath broke from blooded lips in a river of blistering flame. The dragon began strafing at the gates of the Roman fortress and ran the length of the interior, searing and devouring all that lay in its path. Every Carthaginian soldier that poured into the Roman fort died a fiery death. A few Romans were also killed. The wounded that lay beneath the feet of their conquerors died with their slayers. A few survived by simply being at the bottom of the bloody, searing pile. They escaped with less severe burns but would hear the screeches and feel the heat of the great beast’s breath in nightmares the rest of their lives.
As the dragon bathed the fort in flames, it did not notice the Roman fleet beached on the battle shore. It did not hear the whine and whistle of the obsidian sheathed projectiles and the raging Greek fire bombs until it was too late. The dragon turned toward the shrill screech and was surrounded and overwhelmed. In seconds, the massed projectiles ripped through its wings and the Greek bomb explosions forced flechettes through its chainmail to lodge in a hundred places in its torn body. Roaring its death cries into the heavens, the dragon strove with battered limbs and broken wings to gain the heights and safety of the sky. It still maintained a fragment of the recuperative powers that had kept it in the battle and pressed them into futile service, forcing its ruined b
ody to flee. It screamed away from the inferno of the Roman fort, trailing a stream of blood.
****
Decemus, and what was left of his covert operations team, quickly followed the old servant through the secret passage and out of the flaming throne room.
Decemus reasoned, If we get far enough down this secret passage, and the fire holds General Sappho’s men long enough, we might just make it.
Had he seen the dark, circling smoke rise from Asdrubal’s burning body, collect and form into a manlike specter, then steal away through the wall of the burning room, he would not have thought so.
****
The dark spirit that had possessed Asdrubal had not foreseen the betrayal of the old slave and been taken by surprise by the attack. But once again, like a thousand times before, it had survived the death of a mortal body. For all practical purposes, the ancient evil was immortal. He could be hurt, suffer setbacks, even be imprisoned for a time, but as far as he knew, he could not die. And in that knowledge, he gloated.
He had sacrificed the innocent children of Carthage, conjured the dragon, burned the Roman army, and then broke that army by forcing waves of Carthaginian civilians to die upon Roman swords.
Millions of years before, he had stood among the sons of God when the stars first sang. He had helped lead the rebellion and brutalized the heavens until he and a host of others had been thrown out of the kingdom of light. Since that empty time, he had possessed the first murderers, seduced kings, and bloodied civilizations.
Now he laughed. This battle was not over, far from it, for there was too much blood in the ground. Too much energy released by the deaths of thousands of innocent and not-so-innocent people. If he was patient, he would be able to turn the current slaughter to his advantage.
****
The dragon gasped. It could sense its great heart failing. The Roman projectiles had done their job. It could not heal quickly enough to stem the flow of life pouring from it in a score of places. The dragon did not fear death. It remembered it had died before, a million years ago, and then rested, a long sleep, till ripped from the darkness of its repose by the call of the dark spirit that enslaved it. The dragon wasn’t afraid to sleep again, but it was now self-aware enough to be disappointed. It could sense the darkness had not been destroyed, only temporarily hindered. And that frustrated the beast. The dragon surveyed the city beneath its dying flight. It sensed the dark spirit hovering over the evil juncture where the little ones lost their lives. Then the intelligence, which had been a gift of the darkness, quickened. The dragon smiled, and with its last breaths it dove on the altar of sacrifice.
****
The demon spirit moved toward the original place of his release, the altar, where the children died screaming in the flames while their parents tore their flesh and wailed. The ancient, blood-drenched altar was the origin of his power. The sacrifice of the infants had broken open the doors of the fallen one’s dark prison and created a portal. Now he felt it opening again. The blood of both his people and the Roman army covering the ground and running down the gullies like a spring after a large rain, called to him, surging and pulsing with the power of broken life.
But in order to harness and exploit that power, he would have to be patient, so the evil hovered around the place of innocent blood and ash. It began to absorb the residue of pain that haunted the burnt stone. It waited, preparing for a man or woman or even a child to draw close enough so that, like a serpent, it could strike from its lair and devour the soul, then, like the worm it was, infest the body. It had done so a thousand times.
Finally, the patient demon heard the steps and felt the presence of a young man. The darkness smiled, then frowned, puzzled; he didn’t understand. The man was walking quietly toward him—purposefully, the demon realized. The man knew he was there! He was exposed.
The bright young man pulled back a veil and revealed himself. The demon screamed. The Holy One grabbed him and held fast. The sky grew dark with the falling shadow of the dying dragon, then bright and brilliant with heat that melted rock and caused the bricks of Carthage to boil. The ancient evil strained against the Glorious One’s hold, but the dark spirit could not flee the iron-clad grip of the Most Holy or the incredible energy that had been stoked in the dying heart of the failing dragon.
The flames of a temporal sun touched the spot Asdrubal had defiled by the blood of innocents. It roared over it and cleansed it, releasing the dragon to rest and condemning the evil one into eternal light and torment.
Chapter Forty-Four
Regulus limped back toward the remains of his army. Han Xing on one side, Miriam on the other. Who supported whom was debatable. They were a threefold cord bound with a thousand others that stood the test of the dragon and the high priest. Regulus looked back at the city that cost them so much pain. He shifted his gaze and watched as the fleet artillery swung from striking the flaming fort to slamming the remains of the Carthaginian army. All over the battlefield, Carthaginians were surrendering, and Romans were rising, tending to their wounded, and reforming their lines. It was over.
Suddenly the ground rocked. Regulus turned quickly back toward the city. He had never seen such a conflagration of flame and destruction. Walls crumbled as a mighty tremor shook the city. The center of the blast came from a familiar place. It centered on the site of the innocents’ sacrifice. Flames and soot rose into the sky billowing from the forge of a small star, and the sky melted away in a fervent heat. As he watched, a part of him he didn’t realize had been twisted, snapped like a broken bone shifting back in place. He drew in a sharp breath. Miriam studied him and asked, “General, are you all right?”
Regulus took a few breaths, got his composure, and regarded Miriam for a long moment. Then smiled at her and said, “Yes. Yes, I believe I am, and if I recall, you and I have a dinner engagement soon.”
Miriam shook her head wondering, Was it Romans, men in general, or just this Roman man that puzzled her so much? “Well sir, it may be a few days. I have a lot of work to do right now. Your army needs tending to. Your men need nursing. And you are most assuredly short of medicos. So, as soon as I find you a place to rest, I am going to go to work. Then I am going to sleep for a few days, and if I decide to wake up, then I will be available for dinner.”
Regulus smiled. And limped on.
****
Decemus and his men found themselves coming out of the tunnel in a hidden basement of one of the larger townhouses of the city. The slave guided them up the stairs and then out a back room. He was about to instruct them on what route to take out of the city when he and Decemus’ team were thrown to the floor by a large blast. After assuring themselves that they were unhurt, they slowly rose and quickly walked out on the street to see if they could locate the source of the explosion. It was not hard to find.
Several blocks away, centered in the area they had just vacated, massive flames clawed at the heart of the sky. Decemus’ face immediately grew hot, he realized they needed to keep moving away from the burning. As they quickly moved from the flames, they were surprised to see grey ash drifting down like dark snow covering people, animals, and buildings.
The old slave spoke, “I remember my grandfather telling me that when he was a boy, a giant mountain exploded, and for days the skies poured forth ash. It was like snow, except it was warm, and it covered everything. Many people died because they could not breathe. I think this is a very similar thing. But what happened? There are no mountains in the middle of the city.
Decemus looked at him thoughtfully and said, “Maybe not a mountain. Maybe a fire-breathing dragon?”
The falling ash was somewhat of a blessing to the escaping Roman team. To keep from breathing it, they covered their faces, and it covered them, blending them into the rest of the people of Carthage. As they continued to move out from the middle of the city, they realized they were the only ones moving toward the advancing Romans, the few people left in Carthage were running the opposite direction. The confusion ma
de it easy to simply walk quietly out. The only time Decemus got uneasy was when they began to run into Roman soldiers. Fortunately, he was well-known and an optio he recognized vouched for him, and then escorted them back to the camp.
****
The army’s casualties were staggering. Regulus lost a third of his soldiers—half of those were killed outright, the other half wounded. He would not quickly absorb these loses, but he had delivered the city of Carthage to Rome, and that meant a senate seat, if he wanted it. Right now, he didn’t think so.
Although he had cut his teeth on politics, he hated it. He preferred his enemies toward his front and recognizable. If he could avoid public office, he would. For several days, his army tended to its wounded, buried its dead, and burned its fallen enemies.
The moment he was certain the siege was over, Regulus used the semaphore to signal the fleet and send its fastest ship to Rome with the message that Carthage had fallen. That ship had signaled others, who in turn had passed the message, so that in a matter of hours the message of Regulus’ victory was read on the floor of the Roman senate. A few days later the leaders of the Senate and their enterprising supporters sequestered a ship and headed for North Africa. The senators were coming to congratulate Regulus and gain quick and lucrative access to the slave labor that would quickly be flowing out of the ruined city and into the industries and farms of Rome.
Two nights before the ship was to arrive with the senatorial group, Regulus lay tossing on his cot. The typical night breezes had seen fit to find another land to caress, and he lay steaming, turning and fidgeting in the heat. He was finally about to slip into darkness when the breeze returned, and his tent flaps began to slap, quickly alerting him that a change had taken place. He groaned and sat up, having shifted from sweltering to needing a blanket. As he rose to get out of his cot, he noticed the familiar features of Elijah sitting at his small desk that was gloomily lit by an oil lamp.
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