D'Artagnan59
The Gascon
God, I need to get to reading this.
200th post!
200th post!
Pax Romana
- Thread starter Vanadorn
- Start date
TheLoneMan
The Original Reindeer
Well... mine's a palindrome!
Eat that!
Eat that!
Keroro
Dororo: Ninja Frog
2003 isn't a palindrome...
I'm on page 8 at the moment (long way to go
), and I've noticed that you are using Zeus as the main Roman God. It should really be Jupiter. Sorry if someone else has brought this point up somewhere in the 92 pages that I haven't read.EDIT - Someone else did bring it up on page 12, sorry, ignore that question.
Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
“Nice ta see ye again Centurion.”
Kresatim smiled, giving a nod to his adjuncts as they saluted him casually. The 2nd Pisae Cannoneers was part of the massive troop movements heading south across the war torn landscape of outer Fustat. Slave labor and press gangs were rapidly repairing the torn up roads the Romans had destroyed in their bid to subjugate the one time Arabian province. Teams of draft horses and yoked pairs of oxen were pulling the limbers behind them; shuttling the precious heavy weaponry and artillery to what had already been spoken of around the camps as the Baghdad front.
Centurion Kresatim felt a tightness in his legs as he walked, mute testament to the punishing injuries he had taken during the stalled offensive to take Fustat city. He had been given an honorarium for his pain and was offered a rank promotion to Lieutenant, but the thirty-odd year old cannoneer had turned it down when he realized he would have to give up his day-to-day efforts and staffing in the 2nd Pisae. He knew that he would feel his injuries till the day he died, but for the valorous works he and his men had achieved so far for the Senate and People of Rome, it was a small price for any soldier to pay.
A bugler trumpeted three short blasts from up ahead, and Kresatim held up a clenched fist, shouting, “2nd Pisae, HALT!” He glanced at his pocket watch. “Lunch break. Chow time. Check the gear, tend the animals, and get something to eat! One hour!”
He stalked through his company’s impromptu camp, his watchful eye looking over the men and their equipment; a kind and encouraging word where he saw fit, a scathing reprimand where he felt it was needed. The four great guns were being minded by their crew, the large pieces unhitched from their draft teams and managed with critical care. Wheels and axles, stays and bolts, the barrel, the breech, and the tools to man the gun; everything was being viewed, tweaked, and adjusted if need be.
“How are things here?” he asked, his Optio and second in command Omigus snapping to attention at his question.
“All things considered, Centurion, we could be worse.” He patted the knobbed and worn length of the weapon’s barrel the same way most men might pet a faithful hunting hound. “She’s tired and weary, but we’re doing all we can to make her days easy so she can give them Saracen bastards a what for.”
Kresatim laughed. “I’m sure you are.” He rubbed his chin, feeling the beginning of stubble forming there under the palm of his hand. “We’ve put these babies through a bunch, don’t have to tell you that.”
Omigus chuckled in kind, along with the other men nearby. “Hell no, sir. Zeus knows we’ve done what we could both on field and off to keep everyone working as well as upright.”
Some more ready laughter followed until the Centurion noticed something at the rear of the cannon. “Say,” he said with sudden seriousness, “that breech cover looks a bit worn. Should send word back to Rome we need a replacement.”
The joviality amongst the soldiers ended with some uncomfortable coughing. “We did, Centurion.”
“You did?” Kresatim asked in surprise. “Then why don’t you use them?”
“On account that the threads don’t line up.”
“What?” he scowled. “What in Hades… Why would they not line up? It’s a god damned breech loading cannon thread.”
Omigus shrugged with distaste. “I know. You would think, wouldn’t you? But according to the ironworkers that sent it to us, there are different weights and styles and unless they actually had our cannon on hand, they were forced to use what they referred to as their ‘best estimate based on latest efficiency data’.”
“Are you serious?” Kresatim threw his hands in the air. “I don’t think there are many twenty kilo cannons being used in the Zeus’s Beard sucking private industry, do you?!” He blew out his lips with exasperation. “So what the hell did you do?”
Sighing, Omigus answered, “We packed the base of the breech with clay, fired it, and sent it back to the iron workers with as many details on the specifications we need in order to get a proper breech cover back.”
“How soon?”
“Hopefully sooner than this one gives up the ghost and blows off the back of the gun.”
Kresatim frowned. “Hardy, fricking, har,” he said.
“Sorry, sir,” the Optio replied sheepishly, “bad joke. They couldn’t say. Promised to get it to us on the next boat out of Luetitia.”
The Centurion grumbled. “Fat lot of good that would do us today if the damned Saracens decided to launch an offensive.” He shook his head. “Fine. We’ll make do. Keep the powder to a fine mix in here, and I want an extra load of flax each time this baby is loaded. Anything we can do to extend the life of the breech is on the table.”
One of the soldiers asked innocently, “What if we pull the gun off the line, Centurion, until the new breech cover arrives?”
Kresatim frowned. “Because in less time than we’d like, we are going to beating down on the door of what is most likely the best defended, toughest walled, strongest garrisoned city in the entirety of the United Arabic League. We will be up against a rock like nothing we have been arrayed against before. And because of this, the Chairman and the Senate are demanding that we do everything we can in our power to take down every resistance barring our path from total victory in Baghdad.” He snapped his fingers. “And that means as long as I am Centurion here, every cannon we can muster to make sure that happens, is on the line doing its duty.” He narrowed his gaze at the cowing artilleryman, “Just like every soldier. Understand?”
“Sir, yes sir!!”
“Then carry on.” He turned away, proceeding to the next weapon and team in the line. “Oh, and Omigus?”
“Yes, Centurion?”
“You let me know the instant that breech cover arrives.”
The Optio snapped off a rigid salute. “Will do, sir.”
Kresatim stalked away miserable. Damned stupid way to run things, he muttered. Someone better come up with a better way to make parts on these damned weapons or so help me, we’ll lose this damned war.
Kresatim smiled, giving a nod to his adjuncts as they saluted him casually. The 2nd Pisae Cannoneers was part of the massive troop movements heading south across the war torn landscape of outer Fustat. Slave labor and press gangs were rapidly repairing the torn up roads the Romans had destroyed in their bid to subjugate the one time Arabian province. Teams of draft horses and yoked pairs of oxen were pulling the limbers behind them; shuttling the precious heavy weaponry and artillery to what had already been spoken of around the camps as the Baghdad front.
Centurion Kresatim felt a tightness in his legs as he walked, mute testament to the punishing injuries he had taken during the stalled offensive to take Fustat city. He had been given an honorarium for his pain and was offered a rank promotion to Lieutenant, but the thirty-odd year old cannoneer had turned it down when he realized he would have to give up his day-to-day efforts and staffing in the 2nd Pisae. He knew that he would feel his injuries till the day he died, but for the valorous works he and his men had achieved so far for the Senate and People of Rome, it was a small price for any soldier to pay.
A bugler trumpeted three short blasts from up ahead, and Kresatim held up a clenched fist, shouting, “2nd Pisae, HALT!” He glanced at his pocket watch. “Lunch break. Chow time. Check the gear, tend the animals, and get something to eat! One hour!”
He stalked through his company’s impromptu camp, his watchful eye looking over the men and their equipment; a kind and encouraging word where he saw fit, a scathing reprimand where he felt it was needed. The four great guns were being minded by their crew, the large pieces unhitched from their draft teams and managed with critical care. Wheels and axles, stays and bolts, the barrel, the breech, and the tools to man the gun; everything was being viewed, tweaked, and adjusted if need be.
“How are things here?” he asked, his Optio and second in command Omigus snapping to attention at his question.
“All things considered, Centurion, we could be worse.” He patted the knobbed and worn length of the weapon’s barrel the same way most men might pet a faithful hunting hound. “She’s tired and weary, but we’re doing all we can to make her days easy so she can give them Saracen bastards a what for.”
Kresatim laughed. “I’m sure you are.” He rubbed his chin, feeling the beginning of stubble forming there under the palm of his hand. “We’ve put these babies through a bunch, don’t have to tell you that.”
Omigus chuckled in kind, along with the other men nearby. “Hell no, sir. Zeus knows we’ve done what we could both on field and off to keep everyone working as well as upright.”
Some more ready laughter followed until the Centurion noticed something at the rear of the cannon. “Say,” he said with sudden seriousness, “that breech cover looks a bit worn. Should send word back to Rome we need a replacement.”
The joviality amongst the soldiers ended with some uncomfortable coughing. “We did, Centurion.”
“You did?” Kresatim asked in surprise. “Then why don’t you use them?”
“On account that the threads don’t line up.”
“What?” he scowled. “What in Hades… Why would they not line up? It’s a god damned breech loading cannon thread.”
Omigus shrugged with distaste. “I know. You would think, wouldn’t you? But according to the ironworkers that sent it to us, there are different weights and styles and unless they actually had our cannon on hand, they were forced to use what they referred to as their ‘best estimate based on latest efficiency data’.”
“Are you serious?” Kresatim threw his hands in the air. “I don’t think there are many twenty kilo cannons being used in the Zeus’s Beard sucking private industry, do you?!” He blew out his lips with exasperation. “So what the hell did you do?”
Sighing, Omigus answered, “We packed the base of the breech with clay, fired it, and sent it back to the iron workers with as many details on the specifications we need in order to get a proper breech cover back.”
“How soon?”
“Hopefully sooner than this one gives up the ghost and blows off the back of the gun.”
Kresatim frowned. “Hardy, fricking, har,” he said.
“Sorry, sir,” the Optio replied sheepishly, “bad joke. They couldn’t say. Promised to get it to us on the next boat out of Luetitia.”
The Centurion grumbled. “Fat lot of good that would do us today if the damned Saracens decided to launch an offensive.” He shook his head. “Fine. We’ll make do. Keep the powder to a fine mix in here, and I want an extra load of flax each time this baby is loaded. Anything we can do to extend the life of the breech is on the table.”
One of the soldiers asked innocently, “What if we pull the gun off the line, Centurion, until the new breech cover arrives?”
Kresatim frowned. “Because in less time than we’d like, we are going to beating down on the door of what is most likely the best defended, toughest walled, strongest garrisoned city in the entirety of the United Arabic League. We will be up against a rock like nothing we have been arrayed against before. And because of this, the Chairman and the Senate are demanding that we do everything we can in our power to take down every resistance barring our path from total victory in Baghdad.” He snapped his fingers. “And that means as long as I am Centurion here, every cannon we can muster to make sure that happens, is on the line doing its duty.” He narrowed his gaze at the cowing artilleryman, “Just like every soldier. Understand?”
“Sir, yes sir!!”
“Then carry on.” He turned away, proceeding to the next weapon and team in the line. “Oh, and Omigus?”
“Yes, Centurion?”
“You let me know the instant that breech cover arrives.”
The Optio snapped off a rigid salute. “Will do, sir.”
Kresatim stalked away miserable. Damned stupid way to run things, he muttered. Someone better come up with a better way to make parts on these damned weapons or so help me, we’ll lose this damned war.
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Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
The Twisting Albatross rolled to her starboard side as she slid off the apex of the wave’s crest and fell into the six-meter trough with a spray of sea foam. Seaman Orvillus, newly commissioned sailor and member of Rome’s navy gripped the guard rails of the lookout perch with whitened knuckles and tried to keep himself from screaming aloud. The timbers of the galleon groaned as they flexed under the pummeling impact of the ocean’s power while the sailcloth snapped taut with a renewed influx of gusting tradewinds. “Holy Zeus!” he cried out, mouth puckered into a narrow “o” while he felt his insides churn and burble uncomfortably.
“Ye’ll git used to it, greenback,” the younger sailor in the crow’s nest with him chuckled, only a single hand placed on the guard rail to keep him from pitching over. With her new heading and full sails, the Albatross was no longer wallowing in the gulfs and valleys of the angry Serenic, which made for smoother sailing in her eastward voyage out to sea. “Just dunt puke o’er th’ wale here if’n ye kin help it.”
“Why’s that?” Orvillus asked weakly.
“Cause ye’ll end up vomitizin’ on all yer crewmates b’low.” He laughed out loud, actually holding his stomach as he did so. “And trust me when I tells ye, greenback, eventually ye’ll have ta git outta this nest an’ bunk b’low. An’ any mother’s son who took to th’ sea kin tell ye, gittin’ spewed wit’ anuddder man’s stomach juices is a sure fired way ta make e’en a Zeus-empowered chaplain give thoughts ta a blanket party an’ a midnight beatin’.”
The former cyclist nodded, smiling wanly as he answered, “Your point’s made. I just hope its not gonna be this rough the entire trip.”
His fellow sailor shrugged. “Mayhap it will, mayhap it wont. Me two liras says it wont.”
“Why’s that?”
“We gots a good headwind, an’ wit’ th’ coalfired engines an’ th’ new screws, e’en in th’ most taciturn o’ winds, we kin still claw our way outta th’ roughest spaces o’ Neptune’s briar patch.” He leaned to the side, giving the midship deck below them a narrowed gaze. “I kin tell ye though, if’n ye gots a good head fer heights, I would rather be up here in th’ ratlines then down b’low lashin’ bales ta th’ deck boards an’ wringin’ salty spume outta me hair an’ jerkin.”
Orvillus smiled, grinning broadly and with ease. “A head for heights is not my problem. You wouldn’t believe how good my head is.”
“Well…we’ll see how tha’ goes th’ longer yer out here. I know sum lads git all full o’ themselves cause they scaled a few trees in their youthier days, but it takes a special personage ta brave th’ cold an’ lonely crest an’ summit o’ th’ upper stretches o’ a goodship.”
The former aviast said nothing, not wanting to challenge the elder seaman even though he knew he was right. Instead he tapped the edges of the closed box mounted to the base of the nest and asked, “So we use this to let the Captain know if we see anything?”
“Aye-yup,” he replied with a snort. “Telesermo they call it. Bah. Sorcery says me. T’aint nat’ral I tells ye. Ye tap tap tap on th’ lever thingie inside an’ sumone on th’ udder end kin hear ye tappin’. Sounds like plum-starved witchery if’n I dunt e’er heard o’ it afore.”
“Meh,” Orvillus shrugged. “I think its pretty neat. I’ve heard of them before, but where I was living, we never had any telesermo lines around. Gotta be faster than the post or aviary.”
“Eh, I’ll give ye tha’, greenback. But jus’ cause sumthin’ is new, dunt mean its better.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” He opened the box, looking carefully at the oilskin paper tacked on the inside cover, reading the list printed on there. “So I guess I better learn the telesermo alphabet?”
The elder seaman laughed. “Aye, greenback. Ye better. ‘Cause I ‘ssure ye as rain is wet an’ ye is too ‘ahind yer ears, yer gonna need ta tells sumone b’low wot yer seein’ up here ‘afore wot ye be seein’ kin pop a cannon ball inta yer hat holder.”
Orvillus nodded, feeling the Twisting Albatross move back and forth far beneath him. For a brief moment, he thought how much Wilbrium would enjoy this.
But the thought lasted only a moment.
He couldn’t spare his sorrow for anything more than that.
“Ye’ll git used to it, greenback,” the younger sailor in the crow’s nest with him chuckled, only a single hand placed on the guard rail to keep him from pitching over. With her new heading and full sails, the Albatross was no longer wallowing in the gulfs and valleys of the angry Serenic, which made for smoother sailing in her eastward voyage out to sea. “Just dunt puke o’er th’ wale here if’n ye kin help it.”
“Why’s that?” Orvillus asked weakly.
“Cause ye’ll end up vomitizin’ on all yer crewmates b’low.” He laughed out loud, actually holding his stomach as he did so. “And trust me when I tells ye, greenback, eventually ye’ll have ta git outta this nest an’ bunk b’low. An’ any mother’s son who took to th’ sea kin tell ye, gittin’ spewed wit’ anuddder man’s stomach juices is a sure fired way ta make e’en a Zeus-empowered chaplain give thoughts ta a blanket party an’ a midnight beatin’.”
The former cyclist nodded, smiling wanly as he answered, “Your point’s made. I just hope its not gonna be this rough the entire trip.”
His fellow sailor shrugged. “Mayhap it will, mayhap it wont. Me two liras says it wont.”
“Why’s that?”
“We gots a good headwind, an’ wit’ th’ coalfired engines an’ th’ new screws, e’en in th’ most taciturn o’ winds, we kin still claw our way outta th’ roughest spaces o’ Neptune’s briar patch.” He leaned to the side, giving the midship deck below them a narrowed gaze. “I kin tell ye though, if’n ye gots a good head fer heights, I would rather be up here in th’ ratlines then down b’low lashin’ bales ta th’ deck boards an’ wringin’ salty spume outta me hair an’ jerkin.”
Orvillus smiled, grinning broadly and with ease. “A head for heights is not my problem. You wouldn’t believe how good my head is.”
“Well…we’ll see how tha’ goes th’ longer yer out here. I know sum lads git all full o’ themselves cause they scaled a few trees in their youthier days, but it takes a special personage ta brave th’ cold an’ lonely crest an’ summit o’ th’ upper stretches o’ a goodship.”
The former aviast said nothing, not wanting to challenge the elder seaman even though he knew he was right. Instead he tapped the edges of the closed box mounted to the base of the nest and asked, “So we use this to let the Captain know if we see anything?”
“Aye-yup,” he replied with a snort. “Telesermo they call it. Bah. Sorcery says me. T’aint nat’ral I tells ye. Ye tap tap tap on th’ lever thingie inside an’ sumone on th’ udder end kin hear ye tappin’. Sounds like plum-starved witchery if’n I dunt e’er heard o’ it afore.”
“Meh,” Orvillus shrugged. “I think its pretty neat. I’ve heard of them before, but where I was living, we never had any telesermo lines around. Gotta be faster than the post or aviary.”
“Eh, I’ll give ye tha’, greenback. But jus’ cause sumthin’ is new, dunt mean its better.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” He opened the box, looking carefully at the oilskin paper tacked on the inside cover, reading the list printed on there. “So I guess I better learn the telesermo alphabet?”
The elder seaman laughed. “Aye, greenback. Ye better. ‘Cause I ‘ssure ye as rain is wet an’ ye is too ‘ahind yer ears, yer gonna need ta tells sumone b’low wot yer seein’ up here ‘afore wot ye be seein’ kin pop a cannon ball inta yer hat holder.”
Orvillus nodded, feeling the Twisting Albatross move back and forth far beneath him. For a brief moment, he thought how much Wilbrium would enjoy this.
But the thought lasted only a moment.
He couldn’t spare his sorrow for anything more than that.
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Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
Ahh - vacation's over. Hope everyone had a great holiday time. Busy time at work, but I'm back on the saddle again on this tale tonight
V
V
CoolioVonHoolio
Quit WoW, back to Civ.
I know you have probably heard this before vanadorn. but this thread has been up longer than i have been here.. over 2 years.
collect all of it into one large file, publish it. end of story. this is amazing.
collect all of it into one large file, publish it. end of story. this is amazing.
Luckymoose
The World is Mine
Put it all in one large file and upload it her so I don't have to go through the thread.
Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
Jiwe Mwanamume pulled the collar of his starched shirt away from his throat with a curled finger, twisting his neck side to side and grunting aloud.
“Stop fidgeting, you overfed oxen,” Bathesba hissed, the ample bodied Zulu-borne woman smacked Jiwe twice stingingly on his forearm, her gaze set and unforgiving in the warm afternoon light.
“You have no right to talk like that to me, woman,” Jiwe retorted, actually slapping one free hand out to resound loudly against Bathesba’s thigh. “You eat twice what any man three times your weight should, and it shows everywhere on your flesh that it would on a typical cow as well.”
She sucked her breath in with a gasp, twisting her fingers painfully into his side and pulling his skin from underneath his shirt. “I should rend your eyes from your head and feed them to the dogs since it’s obvious they aren’t doing you any good to actually see.”
Jiwe contorted in pain, but refused to cry out no matter how hard Bathesba pinched him. He reached down, grabbing her hand and squeezing gently yet insistently until her curved fingers relaxed. He sighed. “When this is over, I am going to take a long vacation from you, you miserable she-bi'ch.”
“Ha. What makes you think I would care what you do?” She tilted her head back, turning her nose up in his direction. “I shall make it MY business to travel to Isandahlwana and look after MY business opportunities there.”
“What?” he snapped. “I am going to Isandahlwana – and they are MY operations. Keep your talons out of them and back into whatever road kill you are apt to feed upon here.”
“My oil. My money. My mines. I am supporting them and paying for them.”
“You mistake yourself, woman, they are mine. Standard Oil’s. Not yours.”
“I own royalty percentages.”
“I own controlling portions.”
She laughed once, an open mouthed mirthful snort close enough to rock Jiwe back a step. “You couldn’t control a deaf mule.”
Jiwe’s lids narrowed. “You couldn’t control your mouth.”
“Well, you couldn’t control your temper!”
“Well, YOU couldn’t control your appetite!”
“Well you CAN’T control your ERECTION!!” Bathesba roared.
The gathered crowd gasped in shock. The Roman prelate standing on the top step of the dais turned a deep shade of crimson, the open prayer book he was referring to quivering in his hand.
Bathesba blushed as well, the red stain coloring her cheeks and darkening her flesh made the glaring neckline of her wedding dress stand out even more against her skin. Realizing she may have gone too far, she lowered her eyes without defiance and muttered, “I am sorry.”
Jiwe opened his mouth wordlessly in an ineffective attempt to answer when his bride to be continued with, “I don’t mind it. Your lack of control that is.” She lifted her gaze to meet his. “It makes a girl proud to know that she can get a man all…excited like that.”
It was the president of Standard Oil’s turn to change color, stammering aloud as he made a halfhearted attempt to clear his throat. “Ahem..Well..Uh..Then that’s…good. Real good.” He smiled wanly. “I guess…it would be nice if you came to Isandahlwana with me.”
She smiled back, both of them entwining their fingers in one another’s hands. “Sorry, Padre,” Bathesba said to the priest, “you can continue.”
The Roman priest swallowed and grinned, desperately wishing he was anywhere else in the world at that exact moment instead of here. “Then, yes well, oh my. Ah, where were we…Oh yes! Well. Ah…Marriage. It is a blessed union. A union of two people joining their lives together to form the bonds of a single soul. A melding of two beings into one; of one mind, one flesh, one spirit.”
The priest’s voice continued on unabated for several minutes, his droning tone carrying lightly across the gathered reception as Bathesba and Jiwe stood hand clasped together before him. It was a quiet affair, unmarred by any further interruption except near the end when Jiwe reached up to pull at his starched collar once more and was rewarded by a sharp slap against his wrist and a hissing admonishment of, “I told you to stop Zeus-damned fidgeting, you dense bag of weasel droppings!”
“Stop fidgeting, you overfed oxen,” Bathesba hissed, the ample bodied Zulu-borne woman smacked Jiwe twice stingingly on his forearm, her gaze set and unforgiving in the warm afternoon light.
“You have no right to talk like that to me, woman,” Jiwe retorted, actually slapping one free hand out to resound loudly against Bathesba’s thigh. “You eat twice what any man three times your weight should, and it shows everywhere on your flesh that it would on a typical cow as well.”
She sucked her breath in with a gasp, twisting her fingers painfully into his side and pulling his skin from underneath his shirt. “I should rend your eyes from your head and feed them to the dogs since it’s obvious they aren’t doing you any good to actually see.”
Jiwe contorted in pain, but refused to cry out no matter how hard Bathesba pinched him. He reached down, grabbing her hand and squeezing gently yet insistently until her curved fingers relaxed. He sighed. “When this is over, I am going to take a long vacation from you, you miserable she-bi'ch.”
“Ha. What makes you think I would care what you do?” She tilted her head back, turning her nose up in his direction. “I shall make it MY business to travel to Isandahlwana and look after MY business opportunities there.”
“What?” he snapped. “I am going to Isandahlwana – and they are MY operations. Keep your talons out of them and back into whatever road kill you are apt to feed upon here.”
“My oil. My money. My mines. I am supporting them and paying for them.”
“You mistake yourself, woman, they are mine. Standard Oil’s. Not yours.”
“I own royalty percentages.”
“I own controlling portions.”
She laughed once, an open mouthed mirthful snort close enough to rock Jiwe back a step. “You couldn’t control a deaf mule.”
Jiwe’s lids narrowed. “You couldn’t control your mouth.”
“Well, you couldn’t control your temper!”
“Well, YOU couldn’t control your appetite!”
“Well you CAN’T control your ERECTION!!” Bathesba roared.
The gathered crowd gasped in shock. The Roman prelate standing on the top step of the dais turned a deep shade of crimson, the open prayer book he was referring to quivering in his hand.
Bathesba blushed as well, the red stain coloring her cheeks and darkening her flesh made the glaring neckline of her wedding dress stand out even more against her skin. Realizing she may have gone too far, she lowered her eyes without defiance and muttered, “I am sorry.”
Jiwe opened his mouth wordlessly in an ineffective attempt to answer when his bride to be continued with, “I don’t mind it. Your lack of control that is.” She lifted her gaze to meet his. “It makes a girl proud to know that she can get a man all…excited like that.”
It was the president of Standard Oil’s turn to change color, stammering aloud as he made a halfhearted attempt to clear his throat. “Ahem..Well..Uh..Then that’s…good. Real good.” He smiled wanly. “I guess…it would be nice if you came to Isandahlwana with me.”
She smiled back, both of them entwining their fingers in one another’s hands. “Sorry, Padre,” Bathesba said to the priest, “you can continue.”
The Roman priest swallowed and grinned, desperately wishing he was anywhere else in the world at that exact moment instead of here. “Then, yes well, oh my. Ah, where were we…Oh yes! Well. Ah…Marriage. It is a blessed union. A union of two people joining their lives together to form the bonds of a single soul. A melding of two beings into one; of one mind, one flesh, one spirit.”
The priest’s voice continued on unabated for several minutes, his droning tone carrying lightly across the gathered reception as Bathesba and Jiwe stood hand clasped together before him. It was a quiet affair, unmarred by any further interruption except near the end when Jiwe reached up to pull at his starched collar once more and was rewarded by a sharp slap against his wrist and a hissing admonishment of, “I told you to stop Zeus-damned fidgeting, you dense bag of weasel droppings!”
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Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
Plutarch smiled at the young girl as she wheeled the food cart next to his desk, causing the pretty maid to blush and leave with a clumsy curtsey. It was early in the morning and the sound of the swallows calling in the trees from the courtyard signaled to the busy official that another day was dawning. He grinned, reaching over to take a piece of toasted bread from the cart. A new dawning day for most of Rome, but for the ex-priest, he had been awake for the better part of two hours and at work for the better part of that time.
As the years had moved forward and his hairline moved back (he chuckled, running his palm across the top of his head absently) Plutarch had found himself needing less sleep. Instead of sitting alone and staring at the wall, he figured he might as well make some use of his time and come in to work.
Efficiency. He sighed. To some in Rome, they bandied the word around like it was a mantra to defeat anything that stood against them. By claiming efficiency, they might reduce whatever failings they had or furthered without suffering under any blame of their own. Reality didn’t work that way – no matter how many inspectors, reviewers, or committees you had answering to you.
He took another bite, this time dipping the bread lightly into an open plate of jam. This early morning he was looking over the annual crop number for the empire, a tedious job that would require his attention for the next week plus and then some. Plutarch didn’t mind, especially since he was able to do his work without having to worry about the capricious presence of Chairman Nero looming over his shoulder.
He often thought back on his last two and a half decades of service to a man he still couldn’t explain why he followed. From a frightened minor novitiate in an overrun section of the one time kingdom, he had been drawn to Nero like a moth to the flame. He found himself abandoning his congregation, pledging himself to the charismatic man’s service without thinking through the gravity of such a vow.
Working with the Chairman was far from easy, and as the years had gone on, there had been more bad times than good. However, since the death (he refused to think of it as an execution) of Matron Mia, there had been a calming tone to Nero’s rule. Rome was still an often time turbulent place, but the current incarnation of the government had a broader and softer hand than the original ruthless establishment had been found using.
He was reaching for a linked sausage, ready to spear it from the plate with a two pronged fork, when a telesermo operator entered with a brisk knock and even faster salute. “Brother Plutarch,” he said crisply, holding a folder paper out for the ex-priest to take. “Urgent news for you, Brother.”
“Thank you,” taking it, Plutarch unfolded it and held it under the dim bulb of the electric lamp so he could read the tightly spaced letters.
Plutarch dropped the paper and leapt from his chair. “To the telesermo office, now!” he ordered, running out of his chambers and down the still empty halls of the governing building. The operator followed close behind the racing official, both men’s feet pounding loudly on the flagstones as they ran.
Down one half flight of stairs and across a short hall brought them to the telesermo agency. A bank of machines were lined up along two of the walls, fresh faced operators manning their devices with somber expressions and watchful eyes. Plutarch ripped a fresh sheaf of paper from the waiting pile, a graphite stick snatched clumsily from a nearby cup.
With broad strokes and a heavy hand, he scribed a short message across the brownish page before signing off on the bottom and thrusting it to the nearest operator with a frantic, “Here! Send this immediately to Huamanga, Aden, and Fustat! It MUST get to the Chairman’s eyes as soon as possible!”
The operator took the page, turned to his machine, and began tapping out a sequence of short and long pulses on his metal transponder, reading the missive aloud as he translated it.
“Brother Plutarch,” the original telesermo operator said, placing his hand on the ex-priest’s forearm. “The message will only get as far as Luetitia. It will then have to travel over the Serenic Ocean by ship. Once across the waters, a telesermo operator there will have to send it to its final destination.”
“What!?! Is there no other way to get warning any faster!?!”
The operators shook their heads grimly.
Plutarch watched the men and women working their machines feverishly, sending his message again and again to wherever it needed to go. “Zeus save us,” he muttered. Numbly he turned and left, walking with a shuffling gait back to his office.
Before he had made it half way back, Plutarch found himself falling back on what he knew best to do. He found himself praying.
As the years had moved forward and his hairline moved back (he chuckled, running his palm across the top of his head absently) Plutarch had found himself needing less sleep. Instead of sitting alone and staring at the wall, he figured he might as well make some use of his time and come in to work.
Efficiency. He sighed. To some in Rome, they bandied the word around like it was a mantra to defeat anything that stood against them. By claiming efficiency, they might reduce whatever failings they had or furthered without suffering under any blame of their own. Reality didn’t work that way – no matter how many inspectors, reviewers, or committees you had answering to you.
He took another bite, this time dipping the bread lightly into an open plate of jam. This early morning he was looking over the annual crop number for the empire, a tedious job that would require his attention for the next week plus and then some. Plutarch didn’t mind, especially since he was able to do his work without having to worry about the capricious presence of Chairman Nero looming over his shoulder.
He often thought back on his last two and a half decades of service to a man he still couldn’t explain why he followed. From a frightened minor novitiate in an overrun section of the one time kingdom, he had been drawn to Nero like a moth to the flame. He found himself abandoning his congregation, pledging himself to the charismatic man’s service without thinking through the gravity of such a vow.
Working with the Chairman was far from easy, and as the years had gone on, there had been more bad times than good. However, since the death (he refused to think of it as an execution) of Matron Mia, there had been a calming tone to Nero’s rule. Rome was still an often time turbulent place, but the current incarnation of the government had a broader and softer hand than the original ruthless establishment had been found using.
He was reaching for a linked sausage, ready to spear it from the plate with a two pronged fork, when a telesermo operator entered with a brisk knock and even faster salute. “Brother Plutarch,” he said crisply, holding a folder paper out for the ex-priest to take. “Urgent news for you, Brother.”
“Thank you,” taking it, Plutarch unfolded it and held it under the dim bulb of the electric lamp so he could read the tightly spaced letters.
TO CHAIRMAN NERO SENATE OF ROME STOP ROMAN CONSULATE OVERRUN IN CUZCO STOP STAFF IMPRISONED STOP TORTURED STOP EXECUTED STOP EMBASSY TORCHED RECORDS AND ASSETS SEIZED STOP ELEVEN OUT OF TWO-HUNDRED SIXTEEN ROMAN AMBASSADORS ESCAPED CAPTURE STOP INCAN ASSAULT IMMINENT STOP TAKE WHATEVER MEASURES NECESSARY STOP END
Plutarch dropped the paper and leapt from his chair. “To the telesermo office, now!” he ordered, running out of his chambers and down the still empty halls of the governing building. The operator followed close behind the racing official, both men’s feet pounding loudly on the flagstones as they ran.
Down one half flight of stairs and across a short hall brought them to the telesermo agency. A bank of machines were lined up along two of the walls, fresh faced operators manning their devices with somber expressions and watchful eyes. Plutarch ripped a fresh sheaf of paper from the waiting pile, a graphite stick snatched clumsily from a nearby cup.
With broad strokes and a heavy hand, he scribed a short message across the brownish page before signing off on the bottom and thrusting it to the nearest operator with a frantic, “Here! Send this immediately to Huamanga, Aden, and Fustat! It MUST get to the Chairman’s eyes as soon as possible!”
The operator took the page, turned to his machine, and began tapping out a sequence of short and long pulses on his metal transponder, reading the missive aloud as he translated it.
“TO CHAIRMAN NERO STOP INCAN ASSAULT AND DECLARATION OF WAR STOP GET OUT OF FUSTAT ADEN OR HUAMANGA IMMEDIATELY STOP PLUTARCH STOP END.”
“Brother Plutarch,” the original telesermo operator said, placing his hand on the ex-priest’s forearm. “The message will only get as far as Luetitia. It will then have to travel over the Serenic Ocean by ship. Once across the waters, a telesermo operator there will have to send it to its final destination.”
“What!?! Is there no other way to get warning any faster!?!”
The operators shook their heads grimly.
Plutarch watched the men and women working their machines feverishly, sending his message again and again to wherever it needed to go. “Zeus save us,” he muttered. Numbly he turned and left, walking with a shuffling gait back to his office.
Before he had made it half way back, Plutarch found himself falling back on what he knew best to do. He found himself praying.
Last edited:
Jakt
Chieftain
Not to nitpick, but I am confused: I have seen the spelling as Haumanga, Huamnaga, Huamanga... OK, OK... that WAS a nitpick. Seriously, though: Could you give some sort of description, either in story, or OOS, of where in the world Huamanga and our dear leaders are currently at? When I read your passage from November 30th, I was under the impression that it was territory that the Romans had recently captured from the UAL. I didn't realize that it was in Incan territory.
Great story, Vanadorn! This latest chapter is a real nailbiter!
Great story, Vanadorn! This latest chapter is a real nailbiter!
Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
Hey Jakt. Damn - misspell the crap outta that word, don't I? Rotten computer should have let me take over a coastal city with an easier name. 
Huamanga is (or was ) the western most Arabian city on the other side of the continent - and the 1st one I had taken over from the UAL. HOWEVER, it, Ica, and Fustat all butt up against the Incan kingdom - and frankly with a declaration of war - thems nasty jungle dwellers is gonna pour 'cross my borders thicker'n mule flies onna three day road kill - i tells ye wot.
I get a chance, I'll check my modified map and post it here for you tonight. Plan on writing (actually started the chapter last night but was too tired and decided to read instead) tonight so unless something comes up, should do more story later.
See you all soon!!!
V
Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
Chairman Nero was laughing with his staff and the provincial governors at a recently reopened restaurant in Fustat. The joke had been something along the lines of three portly lumberjacks, a buck toothed badger, two kilograms of whipped butter and a sleeping woman with a glass eye. The day was warm, a humid breeze blowing in from the nearby harbor and the Serenic Inlet. The Roman dignitary was having a poached fish with some local potato as a side while his cousin, Cincinnatus was carving into a flank steak smothered in a spicy marinade sauce. The mood was jovial, light, and boisterous as the military governors of Fustat made it their business to show not only the sectarian violence had been all but eliminated, but that the one time Arabian city was well on its way towards becoming a model province for the expanding Roman Empire.
One of the Roman Captains had stood up, hands in front of him in an attempt to mime the struggle a lumberjack would have while using a greased axe against a tree when the right side of his head exploded, showering the gathered diners with flecks of skull and gory chunks of gray and red brain matter.
“What the fu…” one of the waiters began to exclaim, a local businessman and long time resident of Fustat, when something punched into his neck, tearing a hole in his windpipe and ripping the back of his throat to shreds. He collapsed backwards, rebounding off a nearby table and upending the soup and bread cart in the process.
Someone tackled Nero, slamming the Chairman to the ground with harsh efficiency, while two other quick thinking soldiers kicked the dining table over to be used as makeshift cover. “Get the HELL off of me!” Nero snarled, hunching his shoulders and trying to roll to his feet while the whip-crack of bullets hissed through the air.
“Chairman,” a colonel growled, teeth clenched tight as he drew his sidearm from his vest holster, “I highly Zeus damned recommend that you stay the RUTTING ARSED down!!” To accentuate his order, one of the cooks running out of the restaurant suddenly pitched over, his left arm struck by a soaring round. He keened loudly, holding his wounded limb with quaking fingers as he tried to find some sort of cover.
Cincinnatus had disappeared inside the restaurant briefly, only to return with a low dolly laden with sacks of flour. Using them like impromptu sandbags, he and some of the other soldiers filled in the gaps between the upended tables while other men ferried more materials from inside to be used as cover. “I thought you said there was no more resistance, you sack of wine!?” he cursed at one of the governors.
“I can assure you it’s NOT the damned UAL.”
More gunfire erupted overhead causing the men to duck low until the volley passed. “Go and get the garrison here in 10 minutes or I’ll personally see your intestines dragged out from a hole in your neck,” Nero commanded a grim faced Optio who saluted sharply before leaving at a low sprint. The Chairman turned back to the governor and pointed over the barricade that had been erected. “If it’s NOT the mewl-sucking League, then it must be the hosts of Mars because SOMEONE is assaulting this flea speck of a crap-hole town!”
The bugle call of the approaching army sounded louder as the still undefined enemy forces drew closer. The sound of rumbling hoof beats filled the air as enemy cavalry moved closer into position. A few of the recently repaired buildings around Fustat had begun smoldering again as fires took their toll on the thatch and wooden structures. Any large assemblage of citizenry that attempted to flee invariably drew the lessening distant rifle fire, adding to the chaos and mounting terror.
The clattering sound of iron shod wheels on cobbles reached the knot of Nero’s command group as a half dozen soldiers from the nearby armory rode their laden wagon over the grassy expanse and into the restaurant’s courtyard. Renewed enemy gunfire met the stoic soldiers as they disembarked, one of the young men slain outright, his jaw blown straight off his face. The others got down, one of them reaching over to the chain holding the buckboard closed and yanking the locking stay free. A score of cavalry rifles and boxes of ammunition spilled free, the arms scooped up and handed out rapidly to the eagerly waiting defenders.
“We came as soon as we saw the fighting,” one of the guards volunteered, doing a double take when he realized the person he was handing a loaded rifle to was none other than the Chairman of Rome himself. “Great Caesar’s Ghost!” he swore, almost dropping the gun. “Chairman, sir! Let me get you to safety!”
Nero smiled grimly. “Don’t worry, Centurion,” he answered. “I was pot shotting enemy snipers when I was a few years younger than you; I think I can handle myself against some inbred half-brainer’s attempt at a frontal assault.” He settled himself next to Cincinnatus, peering through a gap between two tables, still unable to clearly make out the milling forces arraying against them. “So, cousin,” he grunted, “I would really like your take on things.”
Cincinnatus was aiming, shifting his grip on the rifle’s stock slightly before squeezing the trigger. A distant figure crumpled over in response to his shot. “Still putting it together.”
Nero took aim as well, leading his target slightly as he fired. He missed, shifted the barrel a bit to the left and fired again. He smiled as someone else fell over. “Any time you want to come to a conclusion, just go ahead and do so.” More soldiers joined the Chairman’s swelling knot, coming up in pairs and trios; by horse and by foot. More gunplay ensued as the Roman’s position strengthened. “I am going to boil Vitellius alive in his own blood for this incompetence.”
His cousin laughed. “As much as I am sure some of your staff members would love to see that happen, I am not so convinced that this is a League threat we are facing.”
“Huh?”
Cincinnatus grunted, giving up his position to a waiting rifleman. “Think. There is no sign of any resistance movement in Fustat.”
“The could have come from outside of Fustat.”
“I agree. But if they did, then their assault here is not in tandem with any sectarian forces still at home in the city arrayed against our occupation.”
“Hmmph.” Nero chuckled cruelly. “Nice way of saying we conquered their wretched arses.”
“You know me, putting a positive spin on everything.” Both men laughed. Cincinnatus continued, “Seriously though, if this is a frontal League assault, they are showing little of their skill and tactics we’ve come to respect and work against.”
“Maybe we’ve bled enough of their strength out of them.”
“Maybe, but I doubt it.” He looked north and then to the east, frowning. “Also, if they were to strike at us, even if it is some grand standing ploy to reclaim territory we’ve annexed, wouldn’t it make more sense for the forces to come overland from Mecca? As it stands to reason, the League would have had to load up a number of transport vessels, sail them across the Serenic Inlet, and then reassemble them HERE before launching an assault on us.”
“So, you’re saying it’s Admiral Vespasium’s fault?”
Cincinnatus frowned, shaking his head. “No. Our admiral has done a fantastic job in wiping the League’s entire navy off the waves.” He grit his teeth. “It’s something I’m just not seeing. Something simple.”
His musings were cut off as one of the Centurion’s shouted, “Brace yourselves!” Brass trumpets tore through the air as enemy soldiers dressed into neat lines and formations presented their weapons at the ready and stormed the Roman defenses. Their weapons cracked as hundreds of rounds of ammunition tore into the restaurant and nearby homes, forcing the Romans to stay low and attempt to weather the fusillade. Where able to, handfuls of Roman fighters returned fire into the growing press of smoke shrouded warriors approaching their position. A number of assaulting soldiers collapsed, but not enough to halt the approaching horde.
It wasn’t until the range had shrunk to 40 meters or less that a keen eyed Optio spied something though the haze of gunpowder. “Zeus’ Balls!” he roared. “It’s the INCANS!”
An almost collective unison of voices replied with an unbelieving, “What!?!”
The Optio pitched back as he was struck a glancing blow ripping along the side of his ribcage. More rifle play followed and Nero’s group found themselves pinned down by the superior numbers of the still closing Incan formation. The deadly insistence of the attacking enemy was felt as their hundreds and hundreds of rounds chewed away at the flimsy barricades and defense works the Romans’ had tried to put in place. One by one, Nero watched as his soldiers were struck and wounded, some of them dying horribly, under the withering fire of the Incan assault. Someone had grabbed the Chairman and shoved him bodily into the better defense of the stout walls of the restaurant, yelling at him to ‘stay down’.
Daring to peer through the shattered glass of the kitchen window, Nero was infuriated to see a formation of almost eight hundred Incan riflemen arrayed against him, with an almost double number of mounted cavalry and reserve ground forces drawing position just outside of Fustat’s ragged and already war torn borders. “Zeus cursed Incans!” he spat. “I’ll see they get theirs for this treachery.”
And then something struck the broken glass in front of him and lancing pain tore through his cheek and shoulder. He blacked out almost instantly, only the wailing cry of his cousin Cincinnatus shouting his name reaching his dulling senses before he fell over, head striking the hardwood floor of the kitchen like an impacting hammer.
One of the Roman Captains had stood up, hands in front of him in an attempt to mime the struggle a lumberjack would have while using a greased axe against a tree when the right side of his head exploded, showering the gathered diners with flecks of skull and gory chunks of gray and red brain matter.
“What the fu…” one of the waiters began to exclaim, a local businessman and long time resident of Fustat, when something punched into his neck, tearing a hole in his windpipe and ripping the back of his throat to shreds. He collapsed backwards, rebounding off a nearby table and upending the soup and bread cart in the process.
Someone tackled Nero, slamming the Chairman to the ground with harsh efficiency, while two other quick thinking soldiers kicked the dining table over to be used as makeshift cover. “Get the HELL off of me!” Nero snarled, hunching his shoulders and trying to roll to his feet while the whip-crack of bullets hissed through the air.
“Chairman,” a colonel growled, teeth clenched tight as he drew his sidearm from his vest holster, “I highly Zeus damned recommend that you stay the RUTTING ARSED down!!” To accentuate his order, one of the cooks running out of the restaurant suddenly pitched over, his left arm struck by a soaring round. He keened loudly, holding his wounded limb with quaking fingers as he tried to find some sort of cover.
Cincinnatus had disappeared inside the restaurant briefly, only to return with a low dolly laden with sacks of flour. Using them like impromptu sandbags, he and some of the other soldiers filled in the gaps between the upended tables while other men ferried more materials from inside to be used as cover. “I thought you said there was no more resistance, you sack of wine!?” he cursed at one of the governors.
“I can assure you it’s NOT the damned UAL.”
More gunfire erupted overhead causing the men to duck low until the volley passed. “Go and get the garrison here in 10 minutes or I’ll personally see your intestines dragged out from a hole in your neck,” Nero commanded a grim faced Optio who saluted sharply before leaving at a low sprint. The Chairman turned back to the governor and pointed over the barricade that had been erected. “If it’s NOT the mewl-sucking League, then it must be the hosts of Mars because SOMEONE is assaulting this flea speck of a crap-hole town!”
The bugle call of the approaching army sounded louder as the still undefined enemy forces drew closer. The sound of rumbling hoof beats filled the air as enemy cavalry moved closer into position. A few of the recently repaired buildings around Fustat had begun smoldering again as fires took their toll on the thatch and wooden structures. Any large assemblage of citizenry that attempted to flee invariably drew the lessening distant rifle fire, adding to the chaos and mounting terror.
The clattering sound of iron shod wheels on cobbles reached the knot of Nero’s command group as a half dozen soldiers from the nearby armory rode their laden wagon over the grassy expanse and into the restaurant’s courtyard. Renewed enemy gunfire met the stoic soldiers as they disembarked, one of the young men slain outright, his jaw blown straight off his face. The others got down, one of them reaching over to the chain holding the buckboard closed and yanking the locking stay free. A score of cavalry rifles and boxes of ammunition spilled free, the arms scooped up and handed out rapidly to the eagerly waiting defenders.
“We came as soon as we saw the fighting,” one of the guards volunteered, doing a double take when he realized the person he was handing a loaded rifle to was none other than the Chairman of Rome himself. “Great Caesar’s Ghost!” he swore, almost dropping the gun. “Chairman, sir! Let me get you to safety!”
Nero smiled grimly. “Don’t worry, Centurion,” he answered. “I was pot shotting enemy snipers when I was a few years younger than you; I think I can handle myself against some inbred half-brainer’s attempt at a frontal assault.” He settled himself next to Cincinnatus, peering through a gap between two tables, still unable to clearly make out the milling forces arraying against them. “So, cousin,” he grunted, “I would really like your take on things.”
Cincinnatus was aiming, shifting his grip on the rifle’s stock slightly before squeezing the trigger. A distant figure crumpled over in response to his shot. “Still putting it together.”
Nero took aim as well, leading his target slightly as he fired. He missed, shifted the barrel a bit to the left and fired again. He smiled as someone else fell over. “Any time you want to come to a conclusion, just go ahead and do so.” More soldiers joined the Chairman’s swelling knot, coming up in pairs and trios; by horse and by foot. More gunplay ensued as the Roman’s position strengthened. “I am going to boil Vitellius alive in his own blood for this incompetence.”
His cousin laughed. “As much as I am sure some of your staff members would love to see that happen, I am not so convinced that this is a League threat we are facing.”
“Huh?”
Cincinnatus grunted, giving up his position to a waiting rifleman. “Think. There is no sign of any resistance movement in Fustat.”
“The could have come from outside of Fustat.”
“I agree. But if they did, then their assault here is not in tandem with any sectarian forces still at home in the city arrayed against our occupation.”
“Hmmph.” Nero chuckled cruelly. “Nice way of saying we conquered their wretched arses.”
“You know me, putting a positive spin on everything.” Both men laughed. Cincinnatus continued, “Seriously though, if this is a frontal League assault, they are showing little of their skill and tactics we’ve come to respect and work against.”
“Maybe we’ve bled enough of their strength out of them.”
“Maybe, but I doubt it.” He looked north and then to the east, frowning. “Also, if they were to strike at us, even if it is some grand standing ploy to reclaim territory we’ve annexed, wouldn’t it make more sense for the forces to come overland from Mecca? As it stands to reason, the League would have had to load up a number of transport vessels, sail them across the Serenic Inlet, and then reassemble them HERE before launching an assault on us.”
“So, you’re saying it’s Admiral Vespasium’s fault?”
Cincinnatus frowned, shaking his head. “No. Our admiral has done a fantastic job in wiping the League’s entire navy off the waves.” He grit his teeth. “It’s something I’m just not seeing. Something simple.”
His musings were cut off as one of the Centurion’s shouted, “Brace yourselves!” Brass trumpets tore through the air as enemy soldiers dressed into neat lines and formations presented their weapons at the ready and stormed the Roman defenses. Their weapons cracked as hundreds of rounds of ammunition tore into the restaurant and nearby homes, forcing the Romans to stay low and attempt to weather the fusillade. Where able to, handfuls of Roman fighters returned fire into the growing press of smoke shrouded warriors approaching their position. A number of assaulting soldiers collapsed, but not enough to halt the approaching horde.
It wasn’t until the range had shrunk to 40 meters or less that a keen eyed Optio spied something though the haze of gunpowder. “Zeus’ Balls!” he roared. “It’s the INCANS!”
An almost collective unison of voices replied with an unbelieving, “What!?!”
The Optio pitched back as he was struck a glancing blow ripping along the side of his ribcage. More rifle play followed and Nero’s group found themselves pinned down by the superior numbers of the still closing Incan formation. The deadly insistence of the attacking enemy was felt as their hundreds and hundreds of rounds chewed away at the flimsy barricades and defense works the Romans’ had tried to put in place. One by one, Nero watched as his soldiers were struck and wounded, some of them dying horribly, under the withering fire of the Incan assault. Someone had grabbed the Chairman and shoved him bodily into the better defense of the stout walls of the restaurant, yelling at him to ‘stay down’.
Daring to peer through the shattered glass of the kitchen window, Nero was infuriated to see a formation of almost eight hundred Incan riflemen arrayed against him, with an almost double number of mounted cavalry and reserve ground forces drawing position just outside of Fustat’s ragged and already war torn borders. “Zeus cursed Incans!” he spat. “I’ll see they get theirs for this treachery.”
And then something struck the broken glass in front of him and lancing pain tore through his cheek and shoulder. He blacked out almost instantly, only the wailing cry of his cousin Cincinnatus shouting his name reaching his dulling senses before he fell over, head striking the hardwood floor of the kitchen like an impacting hammer.
Last edited:
nodikus
It's Elementary...
Good update.
Do you have a unit in Fustat representing nero or did you just put him there for the story?
Do you have a unit in Fustat representing nero or did you just put him there for the story?
Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
He's visitin' th' conquered locales lad! an' was in wrong place at wrong time.. (story purposes)
V
V
psweetman1590
Emperor
Wow. If he's dead, I'm guessing Plutarch takes the lead? Or perhaps Vespasium and Vitellius duke it out (Stalin vs Trotsky)? Oh wait, Stalin wasn't a general, but Trotsky was.
Final answer: Plutarch vs Vitellius.
Final answer: Plutarch vs Vitellius.
Maybe, but Cincinnattus might take over instead; a Caesar's been in charge throughout the story so far.
Indeed.
Gilder
Deity
Of course Cincinnattus will do it. It's a part of Roman history Vanadorn will be hard-pressed to ignore, especially if the Chairman is out for the count.
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