Qin: Dragon Emperor Of China

Chronicles of the Watchers
Book 2

By Brian Godawa
Story by Charlie Wen & Brian Godawa

Qin: Dragon Emperor Of China

Chronicles of the Watchers Book 2
3b Edition

Original title: The Dragon King: First Emperor of China

Copyright © 2016, 2019, 2021 Brian Godawa and Charlie Wen.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without prior written permission, except in the case of brief quotations in critical articles and reviews.

Warrior Poet Publishing

www.warriorpoetpublishing.com

ISBN: 9798711100812 (hardcover)

ISBN: 978-1-942858-55-3 (paperback)

ISBN: 978-1-942858-54-6 (ebook)

Chapter 1

Year 90 A.G., Anno Graecorum, year of the Greeks. (221 B.C.)

Xeneotas stood at attention in the throne room of King Antiochus the Great, in the capital city of Seleucia on the Tigris, in Mesopotamia. At twenty-three years of age, Xeneotas was the youngest general in the armed forces of the king. He had achieved high honor for his fighting skills and battlefield leadership in the military academy. His flowing raven-black hair, dark eyes, high cheek bones and muscular build left his peers with an imposing impression of mystery. He lacked the hairiness of his Greek counterparts, which made him seem superior though alien.

He now stood in line with other generals amidst a grand wedding display in the crowded, pillared throne room. He watched the king sitting on his golden throne at the front of it all, elevated above them.

 The monarch rubbed his gray-haired temples from an apparent headache, careful not to remove the diadem, a royal cloth band knotted around his head that distinguished him as sovereign. As all kings before him, he was clean shaven in imitation of Alexander the Great. Most of the military followed this same fashion. He adjusted the regal purple robe that crumpled uncomfortably beneath him, and fiddled with the royal gem-studded scepter, another Greek royal symbol since the days of the Iliad. 

Antiochus looked tired, crestfallen, and Xeneotas knew why. The king was marrying the beautiful Laodice III of Pontus, his maternal cousin. Royal courtiers in expensive wedding garb surrounded his throne before the sea of aristocratic observers in the long walkway to the throne. It was glorious and celebratory, but Xeneotas knew it was not what the king really wanted.

Perhaps it was a life of suspicion that tired the great ruler more than anything else. When you governed an expanding kingdom of such size, the number of those who sought to wrest power from you was equally expanding. His kingdom included northern Mesopotamia and stretched all the way from Anatolia in the west to Media and Parthia in the east. Some one million square miles of territory with over fifteen million subjects. 

The Seleucid dynasty had begun over a hundred years earlier with the death of Alexander the Great. Civil wars for power immediately followed until the kingdom was divided between four of his previous generals, the Diadochi, or “The Successors.” Seleucus, the forefather of Antiochus was one of them. The others were Ptolemy, Antigonus and Attalus. Eventually, the Seleucid empire dominated the northern and eastern regions, and the Ptolemies dominated the west and the south of Egypt. The Antigonids ruled Macedonia. The republics of Rome and Carthage loomed on the horizon as a shadow of increasing danger. But for now, the Seleucid kingdom’s greatest concern was with the expanding reach of the Ptolemies into the land of Palestine. This marriage to Laodice would create diplomatic ties with Pontus in the north, and with it, an ally against the encroaching Ptolemaic interests from the south.

Power could not be achieved or maintained without politics.

The king’s most trusted advisor and prime minister, Hermias, stood beside him like a bird of prey on the arm of a falconer. This grizzled war veteran and ruthless advisor had recently forced another general, Epigenes, into retirement. They had given contrasting advice to the king regarding the rebel Molon, governor general of Media. Molon was leading a revolt against Antiochus. Epigenes had counseled the king to inspire his forces by personally leading them in battle against Molon. Hermias counseled the king to stay out of the fight, and lead from a safe distance. His life was too valuable to risk out on the field of battle. But because the treasury was so low, Hermias promised to personally pay for the battle, if the king led from behind the forces, and Epigenes retired to his home town. Antiochus followed the former’s advice. Hermias was a brilliant strategist on and off the battlefield.

As protective as Hermias appeared to be, Xeneotas knew he still sought personal gain. But his loyalty to the throne had been consistent. His war-scarred body and face illustrated his willingness to die for the Seleucid cause. Xeneotas knew the king respected Hermias for his ability to maneuver his personal interests in subjection to his support for the crown. All men sought power. Those who pretended not to were the ones most suspicious to the king. Xeneotas didn’t trust any of the generals.

But then again, Xeneotas wasn’t exactly the most trustworthy of subjects either. He had a secret of his own. Something he wanted to prove to the king.

The musicians began playing flute, lyre, and harp, as all eyes turned to look for the arriving queen-in-waiting. But Xeneotas kept his gaze upon the king, who now stood to receive his bride. Xeneotas looked with envy upon the man that he felt he knew better than the sycophants and plotters around him did. He could see the pain in the king’s eyes. Though the people treated their kings as gods, Xeneotas knew Antiochus was very human. 

Previous Seleucid kings had taken epithets to distinguish themselves with increasing self-aggrandizement. The first Seleucus dubbed himself Seleucus Victor. His son called himself Antiochus Savior. His son became Antiochus God. Antiochus the Great took his title from Alexander, his more human, yet no less imperious, example of power and vainglory.

But Xeneotas knew the king’s secret. He knew why this man could never be satisfied with all the power in the world. 

Antiochus the king stared down the long, pillared approach to the throne. The future queen now stood in the entrance, dressed in dazzling display of the finest Greek adornment. A white dress, augmented by gold and turquoise jewelry. Mediterranean cosmetics on perfectly pale skin made soft with honey and perfumed with herbal ointments. A translucent veil covered her braided hair, her darkened eyes, enticing. She was a goddess. She glided slowly past the crowd on her way to the throne where king and priest stood waiting to officiate the holy matrimony. 

Yet, Antiochus did not see her. His thoughts drifted away to the painful memories of his haunted past. This woman, Laodice, this royal queen-to-be, was a politically important alliance, she was even a spectacle of poise and beauty. 

But she was not Thera.

All he wanted to see was Thera. All he would never see was Thera. The only treasure he coveted in all his kingdom of power and glory were the fading memories of his youth, of a sixteen-year old servant with a mixed foreign ancestry, the only woman he had ever loved. 

Antiochus had noticed Thera because she stood out from the plethora of servants in the palace. He was admittedly drawn to her exotic look. Rich black hair, almond eyes, alabaster skin. But even her ways were different from any he had known. Centuries of imperial expansion and the overthrow of kingdoms brought with it an intermixing of all kinds of unusual foreign slaves and subjects. Some kept their cultures, many assimilated. Thera’s family veiled theirs.

But she had told Antiochus her secret name, a memory of her people. She was called Zhen Li by her parents, which meant “truth.” He had kept his vow to never reveal her truth to anyone. It was the only vow he had ever kept. Along with the only memories he cherished. In return, he gave her his princely signet ring with the king’s seal on it. She could show it to no one, for he did not have the authority to do such a thing.

Young, innocent, forbidden love. Stealing away with every opportunity. They pledged their bodies and souls to one another.

Antiochus felt a rising dread within as his memories of her soft skin faded away. He had difficulty remembering the wetness of her lips and the silkiness of her hair. The sweetness of her breath, the musty perfume of her scented neck, her dark and mysterious eyes of beauty were all dissolving in the mists of the past. 

The strongest memory that haunted his cloudy, aging mind was the shocking, intrusive pain of their discovery. Of the king’s guard pulling them apart, never to see or touch one another again. Of his signet ring, hidden in her hand as his only capable act of defiance before submitting to the inevitable. Of her secretly kissing the gold ring with eyes pouring out rivers of pain. They could never be man and wife. She was nothing. He would be king.

But the fading fog of that ghost was overtaken by the flesh and blood bride that now stood before Antiochus, reaching to grab his hand. They turned to the magus priest who would marry them before the gods.

• • • • •

Xeneotas stood drinking with the magus Balthazar in the afterhours banquet of celebration. Balthazar was the son of the high priest of Marduk in the temple of Babylon. Magus meant “wise man.” The priesthood of magi had a long history in Babylon and provided the power of magic and wisdom for the king. Magic and wisdom from both sages and the gods. 

Balthazar was the same age as Xeneotas, but unlike his comrade, Balthazar rejected power and glory. He had inherited the high priesthood, but had scandalously turned it down. It never made sense to Xeneotas, as so little of the esoteric priest did. 

They were surrounded by the loud celebration of royalty and aristocracy. Dancing women, flowing beer and wine, roasted boar, pheasant and gazelle.

“Now is not the time,” said Balthazar. “The king is newly married. Give it some time.”

“I can wait no longer,” said Xeneotas.

A servant approached them with a platter of honey cakes. They turned her away.

“Xeneotas, am I not your trusted friend?”

Xeneotas would not respond. He knew the other was drawing him into a trap.

“Am I not a magus?” 

 “The gods have never been of much wisdom to me, Balthazar, you know that.”

“At least then, grant me the wisdom of the sages.”

Xeneotas could not hold back his smile. 

Balthazar continued, “And they are in concurrence with the stars and the gods. Do not do this. You will lose everything you have worked so hard to gain.”

“I am sorry, my friend,” said Xeneotas, “I no longer care. I have nothing else to lose.”

“My generals!” The voice of the king drew their attention. From their scattered locations in the hall, the generals gathered about the king. Xeneotas saw a winded messenger with the king. 

Hermias stared at Xeneotas as the king spoke. “Molon advances upon Babylon.” Balthazar lost his breath. Babylon was his home and the location of his holy temple. It was a mere ten miles southwest of where they were now in Seleucia. 

After a moment of reflection, the king concluded, “Xeneotas, I want you to be the chief commander. Assemble a regiment to defend the city and capture this rebel.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The king added, “Use the sorcery of the magi to augment your forces.” Xeneotas exchanged glances with Balthazar. They would fight beside one another.

This was the moment for Xeneotas. This was his chance to garner respect with a crushing victory that would finally grant him a special audience with the king and allow him to share his secret.

He would gather his forces and leave for the ancient city immediately.

Chapter 2 

Xeneotas and Balthazar stood on the parapet of the north fortress and looked out over the Euphrates river that ran through the middle of the great city, Babylon. The once great city. Behind her towering walls of brick lay the streets, towers and temples of fading glory. Her hanging gardens, once a splendorous wonder of trees and plants adorning a vast garden complex for the gods, were now gone. Dried up and dead in the heat of the Mesopotamian sun. The huge temple complex housed the ziggurats named Etemenanki and Esagila, step-pyramids that rose to the heavens, now crumbling and in disrepair. They were still used by the magi priests for their services on behalf of the king and his kingdom, but woefully unfunded and rarely visited by the diminished population within the walls. 

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 of 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.