Night of the Dragon: The Saga of Saint George

By Brett Stortroen

In 297 A.D., at Rome’s apex of expansion and power, a hero emerges; George, loyal tribune to the Republic of Rome. George’s daring mission against Goth armies has caused him to be horribly wounded and left for dead. But, he is miraculously healed. When he appears alive before Emperor Diocletian, he is honored as an omen of great favor and is promoted to lead the Imperial Guard. Yet, soon after, George’s restored personal faith will make him an enemy of Rome, and the Empire itself, after Diocletian decrees an evil agenda.
With constant pressure from invading armies and economic turmoil, the Emperor slips into a state of madness. Declaring himself a living god, he enacts his draconian “Edicts of Intolerance” and wages a bloody campaign of religious genocide throughout the Empire.

Honored as a war hero, George and his men must accompany Diocletian’s army into Alexandria whereby they witness firsthand his maniacal mass slaughters and torture. George renounces allegiance to Rome and flees with his men to the African Sahara. During their long desert sojourn, George pits his warrior skills and nerves of steel against a ferocious river dragon to save a beautiful princess from certain death.

Word spreads of a Roman tribune named George who slays mighty dragons. Upon hearing this news, the Emperor dispatches his most powerful sorcerer to track down George and his rebels; even to the distant frontier of Britannia.

In the midst of chaotic persecutions, George encounters a fiery resistance fighter, Crocus, a German chieftain and eventual ally of the famous Constantine. They join forces in a revolution against the might of the Roman legions and duel against the Emperor’s fearsome wizard. He is a cunning and vicious opponent, conjuring hellish demons from the underworld into a host of terrifying dragons. Fighting for their lives, the battle sweeps across the Empire to the very heart of Rome itself.

This legendary hero, for over 1700 years, has remained a hallmark in cultures from the Middle East, Europe and America. His impact upon Western civilization will never be forgotten. The emblems, symbols, and writings representing this outstanding hero have become the standard for chivalry and honor.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brett Stortroen
• Release date: Nov 6, 2013
• ISBN: 9781310874215

Brett Stortroen

Brett Stortroen has authored the biographical novel, Night of the Dragon: The Saga of SaintGeorge and the non-fiction book, now sold in thirty countries, Mecca, Muhammad & theMoon God: A Candid Investigation into the Origins of Islam. With a BA and MA inTheological and Historical Studies, he also publishes articles on his web site,bigfaithministries.com. Traveling the world as a telecommunication engineer in the cruiseindustry, he has been able to incorporate his maritime experiences and historical researchinto the latest biographical novel series, The Magellan Chronicles

Book preview

Night of the Dragon:

The Saga of Saint George

by

Brett Stortroen

Night of the Dragon: The Saga of Saint George

Treasure Hill Publishing

Dunedin, Fl, USA

Third Revised Edition 2022

Copyright © 2013 by Brett Stortroen

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system - except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine or newspaper - without permission in writing from the publisher.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Cover art by Mark Daehlin

For inquiries, please email the author at [e-mail]

Dedication

I would like to thank my wife, Iris, for her patience and support while completing all the research and writing for this novel. A special thanks to Al Santos for his valuable insights and suggestions. Finally, I would like to give credit to my good friend, Gene Beach, for his excellent advice and editorial work.

Blessed is the man that endureth temptation: for when he is tried, he shall receive the crown of life, which the Lord hath promised to them that love him (James 1:12).

I

Nicomedia, Asia Minor, AD 297

A battered and weary legionary column marched along the coast of the Sea of Marmara. In the distance was the bustling city of Nicomedia, new capital of the Roman Empire. Tribune Georgios, olive-hued skin with rugged handsome features, rode in the front. His red cape flowed over a powerful white stallion. He stared at several crucifixes perched atop a distant hill. As they marched closer, a brisk wind flapped bloodied ropes against the wood crossbeams. Georgios rubbed his thumb over a rough wood cross attached to his neck by a thick leather string.

A muscular centurion rode up alongside Tribune Georgios. A deep scar ran across his cheekbone. ‘It would do you well to keep that hidden,’ he said.

Georgios gave Marcus a hard stare but after a moment of reflection said, ‘Very well, Marcus.’

He looked at the cross in his hand one last time and tucked it under his shirt. He paused as he caught a glimpse of the brutal scar on his chest. A sudden cold sweat broke across his brow as he remembered another place and time.

Georgios’ mind flashed back two months prior to the region of Transylvania. A dark and eerie harmony had engulfed the forested landscape with rain, misery, and gloom. An army of 200 Roman soldiers were stationed atop a hill which overlooked a valley gutted by a stream. Further in the distance, upon another hill, an imposing fortress loomed above.

Tribune Georgios led his army on horse up a slippery switchback trail. Cavalry and infantry struggled to maintain their balance as the rains churned up mudslides. Along the way they met a scout who saluted them.

‘General Vitruvius awaits you, Tribune. He calls for your men to stay low as you near the ridge.’

The soldiers tied their horses to trees and maneuvered with stealth precision to secure positions. Georgios carried a pilum, the standard Roman javelin, along with his bow and sword strapped on his back. His hardened and well-trained veterans held shields of the Fifth Legion, emblazoned with a red eagle inside a blue circle. General Vitruvius, seasoned in battle, stood stoic as he observed their approach. Georgios drew near the general.

‘So, the infamous tribune, slayer of the Goths, joins us.’

Georgios saluted. ‘My proud duty to the Republic and our steadfast emperor, Sir. We live to—’

Vitruvius gazed, unimpressed with Georgios and his men. ‘Serve his wishes, I know. Speaking of our mighty Emperor . . . Diocletian ordered you here after hearing of your numerous victories entailing certain, shall we say, unorthodox methods of battle.’

‘Tactics that have served us well in the past,’ Georgios respectfully responded.

‘As to why you are here, the Goths have conquered this stronghold and wish to exchange 10 captured Roman officials for lands to the south.’ Vitruvius appeared vexed. ‘Now, it’s a delicate plight, as the emperor wills not to show any sign of weakness, for the seeds of rebellion grow fast.’

‘Orders?’ Georgios asked, without hesitation.

Vitruvius looked across the valley. ‘The fortress is strong and the walls high, difficult to penetrate.’

Georgios took a long hard look at the stronghold considering his options. After a moment he turned to Vitruvius. ‘I will take nine of my men. Two of your best may accompany us to learn.’

Vitruvius paused, not quite sure what to make of Georgios or his plan. He sneered and then barked out an order: ‘Two of our best!’

General Vitruvius raised an eyebrow. ‘Twelve men to take a fort of Goth warriors?’

Blood-curdling screams echoed across the valley from the direction of the stronghold. The morale of the men shriveled with the screams and unrelenting rains.

Vitruvius winced. ‘They grow impatient. We must move now. They have given us until sunrise, or they all die.’

Sporadic lightning cracked through the distant sky.

Along the slippery rain-drenched hillside Roman soldiers crouched in the mud. They tied vines together to construct ropes. Further off, along the wooded hillside, Georgios walked by himself and collected vines. A flash of lightning illuminated the night sky. The sudden light allowed him to spot a lurking silhouette. Georgios’ combat reflexes engaged. He spun around and drew his spatha, the standard meter-long flat sword carried by most in the legion. With perfect precision and control, his blade came to a halt, resting against the throat of an imposing figure. A massive blond-haired soldier froze.

‘Easy!’ the German said. ‘The General sent us. I am Kur.’

Georgios glanced over his shoulder to find a shadowed figure slip out from behind a tree. A Persian man, built like a pit bull, displayed his long double-edged and richly ornamented dagger at the ready. He nodded to Georgios and then concealed his blade.

‘And this is Rahim,’ Kur said. ‘They call him The Dagger.’

‘The Dagger huh. Not many have made it that close to me.’ Georgios grinned. ‘Good, good, you will be perfect.’

Georgios sheathed his sword and turned to Kur. ‘And you, I thought you could have been a Goth. Where are you from?’

‘Northern Gaul. I was transferred to reinforce the eastern frontier.’

‘You have a sizeable presence, but the Goths, they are enormous. I have seen them up close. Formidable enemies.’ A smirk ran across Georgios’ face. ‘But when they fall it’s quite the site.’

Kur and Rahim did not share in Georgios’ enthusiasm. Rahim stepped in close to Georgios and then tapped on his sheathed dagger. ‘We shall see how mighty they are after I unleash my blade.’

Georgios deflected an intense Rahim: ‘Your blade, an akinaka? Persian?’

Rahim seemed a bit surprised. ‘You know your weapons.’

‘Let’s hope you keep that spirit.’

‘Spirit and my blade are all I have ever been able to keep,’ Rahim said.

Georgios fixed his gaze into the eyes of Rahim and then Kur. He peered deep into the souls of these veteran warriors. Georgios held his stare for a moment, then just as he turned away, he grinned. Kur and Rahim followed Georgios back toward the Roman soldiers who were about done fastening together two long vine-ropes.

Georgios approached General Vitruvius. ‘After we cross the stream, you should move into range to cover us.’

‘I will station the men across the hillside,’ Vitruvius said. ‘But I must ask, how will you—’

‘We prefer our own fighting style,’ Georgios interjected. ‘Rome does not always understand.’

The general and his men watched, perplexed, as Georgios and his nine men retrieved primitive, brown-green colored clothing from their side packs. They changed uniforms and smeared mud on their faces and hands. Georgios tossed extra packs to Kur and Rahim who looked in astonishment. Kur opened one, grinned and nodded back in acknowledgement.

The rain had tapered off yet lightning still illuminated the night in the distance. The 12-man detachment of Romans descended to the low-lying stream positioned midway between Vitruvius’ army and the captured Roman fortress. They crossed over the river on protruding rocks and with stealth precision climbed their way up the opposing hillside. Upon approach to the outskirts of the fortress, the Romans spied out numerous Goth warrior sentries. They patrolled along a perimeter ledge constructed just below the sharpened timber wall peaks.

Georgios carefully eyed a Goth on the left ledge. Meanwhile, his friend Marcus watched a Goth on the right ledge. Georgios signaled for his men to take aim. They retrieved arrows from their quivers, nocked them in place, drew back, then held. The Goth to the left seemed to look directly at them. The tense moment felt like an eternity. Finally, the Goth turned away. Rahim pointed to their camouflage in acknowledgement, alluding to its effectiveness in blending them into nature.

Georgios gave a nod to Marcus who in turn signaled the others. Like expert hunters, they sent off a barrage of arrows. The massive Goth on the right was struck in the back. In bewilderment, he looked down at an arrow protruding from his belly. He turned to run but was hit again in the chest. He slumped forward against the wall, dead.

Georgios’ eye followed the sentry on the left ledge. He launched an arrow. It penetrated deep into the Goth warrior’s neck. The Goth gasped for breath as blood gushed from his mouth. After stumbling for a moment, he slammed face down on the ledge. The men rushed to the wall and attached makeshift grappling hooks to the ropes. Kur swung one hook and then released it in perfect timed aim, locking it into the 40-foot-high timbers. Rahim climbed the rope like a wild animal. Once on top, he cautiously peered over the ledge but quickly yanked his head back when he spotted a guard below. Rahim waited a few seconds then took another look. He leapt over the wall and secured the rope to a wooden crossbeam then signaled with his arm that all was clear. Kur ascended with the second rope on his back. He tested the stress limits of the rope with his massive body as he climbed. Once on top, he fastened the second rope and signaled for the others to climb.

From the fortress ledge, the 12 Romans scanned the perimeter. They noticed two Goths patrolling a large pit with iron bars across the top. Several more sentries guarded the other walls. Georgios and Marcus retrieved furred garments and rustic helmets from the dead Goths and disguised themselves. The men descended into the fortress with caution. Several large pillars provided them good cover. Once inside the fortress grounds, the 12 Romans spread out. They took their positions around four large barracks structures. Rahim and Kur peered in through a window. They were shocked at the numbers of snoring Goths sleeping on cots. They signal to the others in sight to proceed forward with caution.

In Goth disguise, Georgios and Marcus advanced toward a view of the guarded pit area. Now a little closer, they discovered a massive iron cage structure with a gate on top had been entrenched inside the pit. ‘Hostages must be there,’ Marcus said.

‘Let’s move in closer,’ Georgios replied.

Meanwhile, four of the Roman elite soldiers secured positions out of sight near the barracks doors. Six others advanced in silence along the fortress walls toward the Goths on the far ledges. In unison, all 10 Roman soldiers peeked out from their positions. They drew back their bows and took aim at the last four Goth guards patrolling along the upper ledge. From up high, one of the Goth guards caught a glimpse of the suspicious intruders. He turned to alert his three associates, but he was too late, for they were each struck with a volley of arrows. In panic, the remaining Goth sentry turned and faced the barracks to call for help. Again, he was too late, for three arrows hammered into his chest while a fourth shot into his opened mouth. A bloody gurgle was all the sentry could utter as he was pinned against the ledge wall.

Georgios and Marcus ducked behind a water trough in the middle of the fort. Georgios pointed in the direction of two Goth sentries stationed near the pit nearby and signaled for Marcus to strike. Masked by night and Goth attire, Marcus arose, and strolled toward the guard. He drew two plumbata—lead-weighted throwing darts with serrated blades, much like miniature javelins, and concealed them in his palms under his long-oversized sleeves. Georgios, did likewise, passing by on the other side. The two simultaneously approached the tremendous Goth. Marcus waved his arm once, pretending to be a comrade. Unable to distinguish their faces, the guard hesitated a moment, but then gave a half wave back in cautious response. As they drew closer, the Goth