Author’s Note: Most people, including Muslims, do not know that early Islamic societies often told the story of St. George’s sacrifice, just with an Arabic name.
Dragons are part of our people’s folklore. Every Briton learns about them. But no one ever thought that we were likely to meet one in the flesh. We were sure they belonged to the ancient days when heroes still roamed this land. Then the Romans came and planted their eagle standard upon our soil, taking what parts of our myths they liked and mixing them into their own. But they had not taken our dragons. No, they were forever a sign of our fierce spirit, which even the invaders could never fully quell.
Yet we still could not believe our eyes when one such terrifying creature appeared on the hillside, spreading its wings, wider in span than even the greatest bird of prey, and swooping down upon our valley villages. Its breath was as bright as the sun, raining fire down upon us and consuming our thatched huts. It would carry off villagers to its lair, and only their bones would be left, standing out snow-white upon the lonely hillside.
We thought perhaps these attacks were a punishment from the gods because our sacrifices had been too meagre. So we took our finest sheep and oxen and slit their throats over stone altars at the base of the mountain. We were risking starvation when winter arrived, but felt we had little choice. Yet for all our efforts, the dragon came again, stealing away more of our people. Soon we turned to even more drastic measures, and our druid selected members of the community to be sacrificed.
Nevertheless, the attacks still did not abate. We wondered if perhaps the creature itself was a messenger from the gods, or indeed a god itself. Some of our elders recalled stories of the gods coming down to mate with human women, and so we made offerings to the creature of some of our unwed virgins. Then and only then did the attacks upon the villages stopped.
Word of our plight travelled not only among the tribes of the Britons, but even reached Rome itself. Strangers would arrive from all corners of the empire, accepting our hospitality and bragging of their past deeds, only to go up the mountain and never to be heard from again. Still they kept coming here; still they kept dying here.
One spring evening, as I worked serving customers at my father’s inn, I found myself staring at another one of these men, a centurion by the looks of his scarlet tunic. He was sipping a flagon of ale at a corner table.
“Do you see that, Rhodri?” Father said, pointing at the man. “That’s the finest stuff he’s drinking, there. He might as well enjoy it, as it’s sure to be his last.”
“He’s been acting rather peculiar for a Roman,” I observed. “He hasn’t ogled Eira once since he came in. Travellers usually fall over themselves around her.”
“Give him time, son,” Father insisted. “He’ll be making moon eyes and begging her for favours soon enough.”
Naturally, being a gambler at heart, I responded, “Shall we wager?”
And so we watched him for nearly an hour. I am pleased to say I won my little bet. Every time Eira tried to make flirtatious small talk, he was polite but reserved, refraining from letting his eyes roam. She seemed rather smitten, however. No doubt she thought that he was a bit exotic, with his olive skin, thick curly hair, aquiline nose, and keen dark eyes.
“Oy! Keep your hands to yourself!”
“Ha! I knew I would win!” Father crowed, turning around from the mead barrel. “Oh no. Never mind,” he muttered sourly. “It’s just Derwen.”
I rolled my eyes. Derwent was always a bit of a troublemaker in the village, towering over most locals in size and using it to intimidate them. Drinking did not improve his usually surly temperament. Eira had turned her back on him to walk away when he rose from the table, grabbed her arm, and spun her around, slurring obscenities at her.
The centurion now stood up as well. “Let her go on about her business. She has a lot of customers…”
“Who asked you, Roman?” Derwen snarled, turning towards him.
The centurion tried to defuse his anger. “Just leave her to get on with what she needs to do, and I’ll buy you another drink.”
But the stocky herdsman just shoved him. “I don’t want any bloody drink!” he bellowed, and turned back towards the bar where Eire was filling up some flagons.
“There now,” said the centurion, his voice a little robust this time. “I really think it would be better if you sat down and let me buy you a drink…”
“You don’t bloody listen, do ya?!” Then Derwen pulled back his meaty fist and sent it swinging at the centurion’s face.
With impressive reflexes, the centurion rolled his head with the punch, and got behind Derwen. He effortlessly slipped him into a strangle, and in a matter of moments, he was put to sleep. Then the centurion dragged the now semi-conscious and disoriented herdsman to his feet, and driving Derwen’s arm behind his back, pushed him briskly towards the doorway of the inn before throwing him out. As the centurion returned to his table, the other patrons gaped in awe at what they had just seen, but as the centurion turned his head back towards the bar, they turned their attention back to their own drinking so as to avoid catching his eye.
I could not contain my admiration at such an impressive display, so I walked over to his table to congratulate him myself. “That was very fine work, if I do say so myself.”
The centurion looked slightly embarrassed by the attention. “I’m a centurion. Dealing with people who insist upon being belligerent, it’s what I do.” He gestured for me to sit down with him, and I gladly obliged.
“So where are you from?” I asked. “Rome itself?”
“Not quite, though I am a citizen of Rome. My father was an officer stationed in Palestine and my mother was a slave taken from one of the desert tribes. He favored her and eventually set her free.”
“Tell me about Palestine.”
“It’s home,” he said, smiling. “You would no doubt find it very hot and dry. But even with all the rock and sand, there is fertile soil, valleys and beautiful oases. And the best dates and olives to be had in the world.”
“Have you ever been to Rome at all?” I asked, wondering what it was like to visit the city that ruled the world.
“Yes. It’s busy. There are so many people coming and going, you can feel alone in a crowd, yet that itself can be a boon. You can have solitude without leaving the convenience of civilization. My father had a house outside the city, where we brought trees from Palestine to plant in the orchids. I always miss them when I have an assignment far from home.”
“What made you want to come all the way here?”
“I believe you have a dragon that needs slaying,” replied the centurion.
Just then, my father emerged from the kitchen. “Rhodri, get up off your lazy backside! There’s work to be done!”
I suddenly became overcome with a yearning for adventure beyond my daily drudgery here at the tavern, and found myself blurting out, “I can guide you up the mountain!”
My fathers eyes nearly popped out of his head. “Have you lost your mind, boy? You’re only four and ten years!”
“I’ll be five and ten soon!” I protested.
“Are you sure you are willing to take the risk?” said the centurion. “Are you able to defend yourself when the time comes?”
“I’m the best in the village with a bow,” I stated. “I have a mighty good eye! Ask anyone!”
“I need you here at the inn, not chasing dragons up the mountain!” interjected my father in exasperation.
“Of course I will pay both of you for the trouble,” said the centurion, pulling out a purse full of old silver coins of the older type, not the cheap billon- and silver-washed copper coins the Empire in its degraded state had issued in recent years.
My father looked on greedily, but then seemed to shake himself out of it. “No”, he refused, turning to me again. “You are not going.”
“Are we going to let outsiders fight all our battles while this dragon keeps taking all the maidens from our village? Shouldn’t one of us at least help?” I stood up from my seat. “What about Gwenda?” I said, referring to my younger sister of seven years of age. “If this evil is not stopped, surely the day will come when the beast will devour her as well!”
My father’s face paled, realizing the magnitude of the dilemma. Then very reluctantly, he nodded his head. “Go then, if you must.”
The centurion left the money on the table. “I’ll do my best to see that your son returns and that your daughter is spared from the sacrifice.”
As the centurion and I stepped outside the tavern, I introduced myself. “My name is Rhodri, what is yours?”
“George,” he replied, and we shook hands.
***
The journey up the mountain was slow. It was steep for a war horse that was more accustomed to sprinting movement than the constant grinding endurance of a climb. When we stopped midway to eat some bread and cheese, we struck up a conversation about our respective mythologies.
“Have any of your heroes slayed a dragon before?” George asked me, lifting a goatskin to wash down the food with some weak wine.
“Yes,” I told him. “But they are long dead, and our people have yet to replace them.” I turned to him excitedly. “I heard strange beasts like this dragon exist across the world. You Romans have stories—”
“Indeed. The poets say we once had a heroic age, where gods and heroes were said to interact regularly with mortals and battle these creatures. But that was many years ago, if it ever really happened.”
“You seem doubtful.”
George shrugged. “Faith and doubt share a knife’s edge, and the situation warrants which of the two should be employed.”
Soon we set off again, going higher as we continued up the trail. I began to wonder if the dragon lived here or if it simply came down to retrieve the sacrifices. It was possible that we could end up searching every corner of this mountain to no avail.
But then the trail went through a clearing.
The skeletal remains of both animals and humans were scattered there. I heard George murmuring something to himself, and I imagined it might be a prayer to his gods.
“Meménto, homo, quia pulvis es, et in púlverem revertéris.”
I figured I should pray myself, both because of the danger and because most of these people had been my fellow villagers. The druids said that, unless bodies were properly burned or buried, they might be hindered from journeying to the Otherworld. I felt sorry for these poor lost souls, doomed to haunt the mountain for ages to come.
We continued through the clearing. The further down we went, the more human remains we found. Then George and I heard chanting and came to the place where an old man with a long gray beard stood over some freshly dug graves, burning incense in his hands.
“Cynfran,” I greeted him. “What are you doing here? It’s dangerous…”
“I must bury as many of them as I can,” replied the druid. “All deserve the chance to be part of the next cycle.”
George shook his head in distress. “How can you deliver human beings to such a death, like sheep led to the slaughter?”
“I have not done so lightly,” the old man replied. “I was responsible for these people. They turned to me for guidance. Do you know what it was like for me to look into the eyes of those I once broke bread with and tell them only their deaths could save the village?” Cynfran pointed at the grave. “I did what I had to. This is all I can offer them as recompense for their sacrifice.”
“You yourself taught us that the gods make demands which we must obey,” I said, laying a hand on the old man’s shoulder. “You did only what you had to do.”
“All life is sacred,” George stated. “Whether the villagers you grew up with or the slaves you callously threw at the monster. None of this should have been entertained.”
Cynfran bristled. “Go back to where you came from, stranger. You know nothing of these things. This dragon is a god, or a weapon wielded by one. Either way, mortals cannot oppose it. There is no point in you trying. It will only cost two more lives, yours and boy’s.”
“The dragon is not a god,” George insisted. “It is a creature, no greater than you or I.”
“How can you say such things?” said Cynfran. “Its power is unrivaled!”
“What kind of power needs to eat? Needs to rely upon humans for sustenance? That is no god, it’s clearly vulnerable.”
“If you want to throw your life away, go ahead. But send the boy back. We’ve lost enough of our youths to this scourge.”
“No, I will not run, not anymore,” I refused. I could not keep living this way.
“Let me make you an offer, druid,” George stated. “If we slay the dragon, and defy the powers you believe to be invincible, will you swear never again to sacrifice human beings to any creature under heaven or any god you may worship?”
I was shocked to hear this bold proposal. Had my comrade gone mad? He was not just offending our deities, but surely his as well.
“You blaspheme the gods!” Cynfran cried.
“Well, the gods will have a very clear chance to smite me, won’t they? You have nothing to lose, only to gain.” He tilted his head. “Do you accept my challenge? Do you swear you will never again sacrifice another human being, whether free man or slave, should I return victorious?”
Cynfran sighed. “If you return victorious, I would be willing to believe anything.”
“I am glad to hear that,” said George with a grim smile.
Taking our leave of the druid, we continued up to the summit of the mountain.
“Do you know what you’ve done?” I asked George, aghast. “You’ve invited the wrath of beings you have no hope to defeat. They have ruled the world since it has existed. I know you Romans often think our gods are the same but with different names, other times not. Yet either way, there is an innate fear and respect. Both our people tell stories of what happens to men who do not respect the gods.”
“My mother was a slave, yet she made me free from such fears,” George replied, “And any god that sees her as something to be consumed or bartered is no god.”
“Even the slaves I have known worshipped the gods,” I retorted. “There must be something else behind your views.”
George paused, a pondering look on his face. “There are ways of thinking emerging from our empire that are fundamentally changing how we see the world.”
“Such as?”
“I…” George cleared his throat. “There are many philosophers with different perspectives on how to live a worthy life, and most importantly, a virtuous one. The Stoics, for example, strive to detach themselves from worldly goods and to behave ethically. I admire them. But the ideals of Stoicism have absolutely no influence on the soul. Many Romans believe when they die and go to Hades, they will be rewarded or suffer based on the devotion they had to the gods, not for the good they have done. Then they drink the waters of forgetfulness and move to their next mortal life to repeat everything again.”
“But that is the way of things,” I countered, “No matter how much we dislike it, this is existence.”
“Is it, though?” George gave me a penetrating look. “What if virtues are far more important than the gods? What if they are everything to the soul?”
“No one believes this.”
“You are wrong,” he countered. “My father may have raised me to revere the old gods, but my mother…she taught me another way. And no matter what my father said, her God seemed so much more real to me than the statues in the temples. This God embodies the same virtue He instructs us to follow. This God asks for no sacrifice of human life, not even slaves. No, He sacrificed himself instead for the remission of our sins. I would follow such a God to gates of hades, precisely because He suffered so I would not reside there. I believe He is the one true God, and all others are not worthy of worship.”
I understood now. George was a Christian, like the man Alban who had been put to death here in Britain. This strange cult had been spreading rapidly across Roman territories, and the emperor feared its growth might undermine the unity of the empire.
I opened my mouth to form some sort of reply, but was interrupted by a tremendous roar, one that had haunted my dreams for months. And then I saw the dragon flying above us. Its body was larger than the size of four oxen and snake-like in form. Its wings were like that of a bat, and its face had ridges and horns like a lizard. Part of me wanted to turn and flee for my life, but I saw the look of determination on George’s face and steeled myself for the ordeal.
Our horse broke into a gallop as we followed after the dragon, knowing all the while the monster might turn and breathe fire down upon us. But I noticed George was making sure the horse’s strides were measured, keeping us just a bit behind the flying creature. Finally, the dragon landed between some rocks. We got off the steed, slowly trotting until it was some distance away. George slung his spear onto his back, then armed himself with his shield, sword, and a gladius. I, meanwhile, picked up my bow and slung my quiver of arrows over my shoulder. I comforted myself with the thought that at least we had the high ground.
“When I say so, I want you to be ready to run to the horse,” George told me, pointing at the rocky crevice. “Shoot at the dragon, and when I give the signal, get on the horse and ride towards the crevice as swiftly as you can. Its bones are most likely hollow, like those of birds and bats. With such a large body, flying must not be easy for it, and a little damage should be enough.”
I notched an arrow, aiming it toward the dragon. My hands were shaking, I tried to still them, but they continued to tremble. “I can’t,” I rasped.
“There’s no bullseye here,” George insisted. “Just shoot at the wings.”
I did as I was told, releasing the arrows in rapid succession. My practice in the village square must have paid off, as the beast roared in pain. Still I continued to shoot. The dragon rose up slowly, struggling to launch into flight with its now damaged wings. I shot the last of the arrows in my quiver as the dragon made a failed attempt to take to the air once more. Then it turned toward us as it landed on the ground and charged.
“Run!” screamed George. “Get to the horse!”
I turned and sprinted as fast as my legs could take me. I could hear the air hiss and felt it grow hotter. I recognized that sensation from when the dragon rained flaming terror down upon the village. I jumped on the horse and kicked it, setting it to a gallop toward the crevice. I looked over my shoulder to see the dragon gaining on me, its wings folded over its back, twisting left and right as it ran like the lizard it resembled.
The brave steed galloped into the crevice, with the dragon bounding along in pursuit. On instinct it tried to flap its wings to fly, but the narrowness of the crevice prevented it from spreading its wings. I nearly whooped for joy, when disaster struck. It was a dead end. I turned to see the dragon heading in my direction. I had gained a good start over it, but now it was closing the distance rapidly.
And then it cried out, struggling to turn in the cramped space. This gave me a moment to dismount and lead the horse scrambling up the steep, rocky side of the crevice. I turned around to see George attacking its legs with his spear. The horse galloped toward George. He ran towards the steed, his only hope of escape. The dragon took in a deep breath as George jumped on his horse, and as it breathed out, he galloped out of the way. I had never seen such synergy between a horse and rider as I saw that day. George raised his shield as the Dragon’s breath was spent. As it inhaled, he charged, thrusting his spear into its neck.
At first I rejoiced. This was the most damage I had ever seen inflicted on the beast, even when the whole town had tried to take it down with arrows. It was always flying too far above us, raining fire out of the range of our bows. Today, we hit a treasure trove of luck and managed to move within shooting distance. It was tactical intelligence to seize the moment and trap this monstrosity within its own mountain home.
Finally! We had the dragon vulnerable…
But I soon realized that while the flesh of its wings was delicate, its scales were tough. George drove his spear with all his might, but it could only penetrate so much. And then, once again, we were reminded just how little power we had over such creatures of legend, for my comrade’s spear broke, lodged inside one of its scales. Perhaps the gods had heard George’s blasphemous words about them and were now venting their wrath.
George drew his gladius, raised his shield, and charged. The dragon breathed fire at him, and he cried out as his shield became red like steel fresh from the forge. He clung onto it regardless of the pain, for to release it would mean certain death. He slammed the edge into the ground, embedding it into the earth, allowing him to release it without losing cover.
Seconds after he moved away from the shield, it melted. George was now only armed with a small sword. My heart pounded fast. What hope did we have now?
Then, to my surprise, George began to calmly chant something in an eastern language. At the time, I did not understand the words, but now I know them well. I will translate them in the tongue of the Britons:
Our God comes
and will not be silent;
fire devours before Him,
and around him a tempest rages.
He summons the heavens above,
and the earth, that He may judge His people.
As he continued to sing, George slowly walked forward, his sword and chin raised in defiance. The dragon’s throat glowed red as the flame was held within, but it did not exhale. Some strange force was restraining the creature, as if it was at war with itself. I wondered if the will of the old gods was battling against the will of the centurion’s God.
George kept singing.
The dragon swallowed its flame, and instead when it opened its mouth, a sort of whine came from it, like a dog begging combined with a bear’s bark. It was not a pathetic noise, but rather bestial and terrifying. But it was so different from anything else the creature had emitted before.
George lowered his sword, his dark eyes meeting with the dragon’s snake-like pupils. The beast’s mouth watered as if hungry, yet its eyes looked at him as if struggling to recognise him. It was as though the creature had a dual nature.
Then, to my shock, the dragon lowered its head and presented its belly to George. I had been around animals enough to know what that meant: it was a sign of submission, even trust. It trusted George. I still marvel over it, even now as I write this. Yet he had tamed one of the most ravenous creatures. It seemed my friend was more in touch with the subtleties of the mystic realm than any druid I had known.
George gingerly went over to it and gently removed the broken spearhead from the creature’s wound, extracting some scales in the process. The dragon rolled back to its feet and climbed up the crevice slowly. It spread its wings and jumped off the mountain. While it could no longer fly and raise its elevation through flapping, it could clearly still glide, and it drifted in the opposite direction from our village. I watched until it was only a speck against the horizon.
***
We returned to the village where we were met by the astonished people, chief among them the druid Cynfran. I told the druid what happened, and showed him the dragon scales. He was astonished, but did not doubt my words.
“Don’t forget to keep your end of the bargain,” George reminded him firmly.
“We will have to see if the creature is truly gone for good,” the druid stated. “We will set sentries to watch for it at the base of the mountain.”
And so we waited for days, even weeks. On George’s insistence, we did not send any more villagers up to heights as sacrifices, but we did present some cattle just in case. But we later found the cattle peacefully grazing on the foliage along the mountain trail. Weeks turned to months. The dragon did not return.
And so Cynfran kept his word, and declared to the people that there would be no more human sacrifices in the village, to placate the dragon or any other power, for the power that George served had been proven itself to be greater than all others. And soon the villagers, even the druid himself, became greatly interested in learning more about the Christian God. George, who was now hailed as a hero, would stand in the village square day after day, preaching to the people about his faith. After some months spent here, he garnered more than a few converts.
I was among them, and George baptized me with his own hands along with the others. I spent most of my days studying more about my new faith, even traveling to far-off Londinium to study with some of George’s fellow Christians. I thought them to be strange people, refusing to hate their enemies but instead forgiving and praying for them. I had originally heard from the Roman centurions stationed nearby my old home that they must worship a weak God to keep turning the other cheek, but I came to realize that their courage was of a purer kind, and their God was fiercer than even the dragon we had faced. I knew I had begun to walk a hard path, but I believed that it was one worth walking.
George’s actions did not escape the attention of the Roman authorities. The emperor’s hostility towards Christians was well-known, and the persecutions against them were increasing at a rapid pace, especially against soldiers professing Christ as Lord. George was ordered by his superiors to stop preaching about his crucified God or risk the imperial wrath. But George, having already bested a dragon, was not about to be cowed by threats. He even threw down his eagle standard before them as a form of protest.
Sure enough, the authorities seized him and had him hauled to the temple where they tried to make him offer incense to the Roman gods. I always knew George would refuse, and he paid dearly for it. Even some of the pagans protested his punishment, for they could not deny his bravery in the face of the dragon. But the Emperor Diocletian needed to set an example, for if a hero like George could be punished for forsaking the gods and encouraging others to do so, then anyone could. And so they took him to a hill just outside the walls of Londinium and decapitated him.
And so I write the deeds George the Dragon slayer, so that they may never be forgotten. I write in the language of the Britons, so that they may know by what power George could perform such a marvelous deed. For by saving us, the God of the Christians became a part of our history as well. If your eyes rest on this document, I pray that George’s example may lead you to the true God just as it led me.
This short story and others originally appeared in Tales of Chivalry: A Medieval Anthology.