Pax Romana

Specialist290: No. No relation that I know of. Just similar (and opposite) sounding names.

Smellincoffee & MSTK - Thanks! A week to read it? Try a month plus to write it. Whew! Seriously, thanks again to everytone who reads and responds. It's nice to get feedback and questions.

V
 
Good, good. Very charismatic, that Vario person. You should make him a general.

I can't wait until the encounter with the Arabs.
 
“On the count of three. One…Two…Three! Pull!”

The six strong-armed Romans yanked hard on the ropes, falling to their backs in an effort to avoid being hit be the flying crossbeam. The far end of the newly created war machine flew up, lifting its 30 lb payload in a long arc and sent it soaring across Ioral’s practice field. The slowly spinning boulder reached its height and continued its fall to earth, smashing hard into the target wall down field.

“Excellent, Ioral. Excellent!” Caesar and his guards and advisors braved the biting temperatures of the Roman winter to make the trip to the science advisor’s work area. “That’s 10 shots in 40 minutes. And the accuracy seems better than our current catapults. 3 of the 10 shots hit roughly the same spot on the walls. Very impressive.” He nodded to the catapult team and looked up at the newest machine. “And you say that you can build a full size model of this in 3 months.”

“Yes, Lord Caesar.” Ioral looked over his pages, trying to keep his aging body warm under the fur-lined cloak he wore. “Barring any more storms and availability of resources and men, I can build a full size model for you.”

Vegetius, recently returned to Rome from the Egyptian front, asked, “I’ve heard that the Egyptian walls are thick and well defended. Stones piled high and braced with ramps of packed sand and earth. If our troops are to successfully storm their barricades, they must be brought low.” He waved his hand at Ioral’s war machine. “Is there a way that you can improve the accuracy of this…thing?”

“Trebuchet.” Ioral offered. “From the Latin word ‘trans’ meaning ‘over’ and ‘but’ meaning ‘throw’. Specifically, this is a traction trebuchet.” He walked to the firing platform where the 6 pullers were still standing. “And as for keeping the trebuchet’s strikes accurate, we have improved over the catapult’s accuracy by 300%. We use standardized boulders, I’m having a group of mason shape the ammunition for us as we speak.” He pinched the bicep of one of the men and grimaced. “Unfortunately, we can have a tendency to over or under power the throw of the machine if the firing team can’t pull in unison. As for left and right drift, you noticed it was less than 10’ from impact point.”

“Maybe pulleys would help the men even the firing?”

The scientist shook his head. “We tried that. Actually decreased the range by some 50 to 70 feet on the average. Pulley added another point where the force changes direction, causes drag, and, well, trust me, it didn’t work.”

“I for one am most pleased.” Caesar stood back, admiring the great machine. “I am looking forward to a quick end of hostilities with Cleopatra. Come the spring, I want 4 of these smaller machines send to General Iuldias for the liberation Bapedi. Then, I want our existing catapults refitted and upgraded to these newer throwing engines you’ve designed.”

Ioral frowned. “Lord Caesar, that will be expensive. Both machines use different materials, ammo, means of tension and firing. I would be more comfortable building you a new series of siege engines to be used in conjunction with your existing armament.”

“No,” said Caesar, fixing his audience under his furrowed brows. “My father wrote quite at length the amount of time spent on scouting the kingdom for the proper size and girth oaks and pines. Then there is the hewing, planning, shaping, joining, tightening, and finally tuning and testing the machine; I do not want to still be embattled with Cleopatra come next winter. If we bring the existing catapults back to say…Syracuse, we should be able to recycle and refit them to your requirements and specifications.”

“Lord Caesar, that will cost money. There will be many engineers, laborers, and materials required to perform this.”

“How much?”

Ioral paused, thinking of a way to break the news to Caesar. “Based upon your own remarks earlier about the state of the treasury, most likely more than we have to do them all.” He held up his hand, forestalling Caesar’s next outburst. “We can afford to refit 3 of them with what we have now. I promise you they will be ready to use by the 1st thaw. We can always refit the other 3 at a later time, perhaps one each month or two, assuming the funds are available?”

The Roman king mulled over this, weighing options in his mind. “Ok, Ioral. Unfortunately, I’m going to have to curtail our costs and research for a while.”

“Caesar! We dare not!” Ioral wrung his hands together, pleading with his Lord. “There are already so many mysteries and skills that the Egyptians possess that we are still stumbling through. My scribes, alchemists, and scientists are working round the clock to try to understand not only how these things were accomplished, but how our northern neighbors came to achieve them in the first place.”

“What would you have of me, Ioral? We must continue our advance into Cleopatra’s territory. The extra income we enjoyed from the Undying Queen in exchange for our trade goods and luxuries has dried up.”

“Caesar, I am not looking to anger you, I am merely trying to get you to understand our position as a people.” He pointed to his great machine. “From what the Egyptians already can accomplish, it is by divine luck and providence that our soldiers are not facing a dozen batteries of these trebuchets in the field already. The concept, although brilliant and unknown to us until recent, is not beyond the skills of them. This frightens me greatly.”

“Why?” asked Caesar.

“Because if they are not constructing these machines, then what do they devote their time and thoughts to? What can they be working on that is greater than the force and might of these trebuchets?”

Caesar and his audience frowned. “I concede, Ioral.” He sighed heavily. “Something must be done. Do you have any suggestions? Anything?”

“Lord Caesar, when I find myself vexed with a problem of mathematic and constructional confoundedness, when the Muses deign to not visit me and reveal the truths I am blind to see, I discuss my theories and logic with other men of the same mental ilk as I.”

“You want to create a, a…a symposium? An order of thinkers?”

“No. Nothing so grand as that. Lord Caesar, I meet these men at the Augustus Royal Library, near the shrine of Apollo. Do you know of it?”

Caesar nodded.

Ioral hesitated briefly, and then said, “Lord Caesar…you should commission other libraries in other cities around the empire.”

“What?!” His eyebrows rose. “Do you know exactly how expensive and undertaking that would be? The amount of time to construct them, copy manuscripts and written logs from the Augustus Library? Not to mention the fact that just about every city in the kingdom is devoting most of its excess resources and man power to the formation and training of companies and brigades to march against Egypt. You’re asking me to abandon this?”

“Caesar, each library will act as a hub of thinkers, like companies on a battlefield. You would not mass all your troops in a single company, but instead assign them to different Centurions and captains to be more effective.”

“Go on,” Caesar smiled, seeing where Ioral was going with this.

“The same hold true for this. The amount we lay out now will pay for itself in the long term. You would not have to devote so much money and resources to all your best minds here in Rome, but also in other cities: Antium, Veii, Virconium, Carthage.”

“Not Antium.” He said. “They are working on the castellan’s palace for me right now and the policing effect that will have on my thieving nobles has a greater impact on the kingdom than a library there could do.”

Ioral nodded. “Fine, Lord Caesar. I say, let us finish the companies and brigades that we are training now. These men can then march on Egypt as needed, their presence more than enough to bolster our already numerous troops on the front. By this time, we should be finishing our war against Cleopatra and can turn our thoughts to more peaceful and useful endeavors. Do you see my thoughts clearer now and call for these libraries?”

“Indeed I do.” He shook his advisor’s hand. “Libraries, huh? Marc Antony told me that many of Cleopatra’s cities have libraries in them.” He shook his head, his lips pressed into a tight smile. “Perhaps our own citizens will not look upon the Egyptian people with envious eyes, if they see and learn that our own history and culture is just as grand.”

Ioral shrugged, looking back at his trebuchet. “Maybe, Lord Caesar, maybe. I have little respect anymore for the plebian and the common man, since one of them in an fit of anger, snuffed the life of the one whose exceptional mind helped create this.”

“I’m sorry again, my friend.” Caesar bowed his head. “I think that the first library we finish, we shall call the Pythagorean Royal Library.”

Ioral smiled sadly. “Thank you, Lord Caesar.” He tried to keep his eyes from tearing up and failed, turning away to stare out at the distant target wall. “Myelus,” he muttered under his breath, offering a prayer to his departed mentor and Pythagoras’ father, “continue to guide me and guide Rome. I feel lost too often and like a fraud as I struggle to perform my duties as science advisor when I only barely understand the concepts I’m explaining.”

He wrung his hands together, feeling tired and every one of his 58 years. He did not notice or hear Caesar and his company leave the inventor to his heavy thoughts in the cold, snow filled winter of Rome.
 
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“
“And that was the hospitality of Vilcabamba. Neptune’s Beard, Master Kirus, these Incas have got to be the nicest people I’ve ever heard of.”

“Ya know, Pratius,” Kirus said, tossing another bag of fresh food recently delivered by another Incan canoe into the hold of the Furious Thundercloud, “my pappy used to say, ‘The only thin’ of value a man gives freely is his laughter and his courage. Everythin’ else you have to pay for.’” He grabbed two more roughened sacks and tossed them to the deck hands below. “The Incans ain’t bein’ friendly because they want to be, they’re bein’ friendly cause they want somethin’ from us.”

Pratius looked over the port side rail, watching the majestic Incan city if Vilcabamba float by. “Maybe, Master Kirus. But they sure are nice to us now. Maybe they’re getting what they want from us already and they just want to pay up a debt.”

The deck master looked up, frowning. Being this close to the equator, winter barely touched the land around here, but even so, he felt a shudder run down his back. “What ya meanin’ there, Pratius?”

The young lookout stared raptly at the rising hills and mounds of the Incan land. Most of the tallest hills had some sort of fanciful statuary or building upon it, carved from the volcanic basalt that littered the landscape and decorated with numerous pictures of men and beasts cavorting around them. “Well, we’ve been commercing with them now for some 2, 3 months, see? And we know they’ve been very sheltered since that Egyptian Count, Caliph Abu, has been keeping them from crossing his border. So they don’t know all the great things that the rest of the world has to offer them and they’ve been like that for some dozen, dozen, dozen years and such.”

Kirus nodded, “Go on.”

The land was green and rich, with copses of jungle growth next to fields of lush grasslands. Unlike most Roman cities, the Incans did not see the need to plants farms and irrigation ditches everywhere, oftentimes allowing the natural abundance of the surrounding countryside feed and nurture their people. It showed a great harmony and respect for the earth that the Roman’s had not seen displayed from any other people.

Sighing at the not too distant shore, Pratius continued, “Have you noticed that every fishing village and town we’ve passed, we’ve been invited to spend a few days or a week enjoying their local hospitality?” Kirus nodded. “And everywhere we sit and talk, one of their felanosi, their scribes, comes and sits down, writing everything we say.” Again Kirus agreed. “Well, it occurred to me while we were in Vilcabamba, the people I was talking to seemed to already know a lot of our language, but we had never been there before. They also knew most of our stories and tales about our homes and they wanted to hear different stories. I even heard some of them talking about aqueducts and running water in Cuzco. They’re a hungry people, hungry for knowledge. And they’re smart and unafraid, willing to ask us anything they want to know. I think they’re learning from us, a lot more than we realize. And we’re learning nothing from them.”

Kirus threw the last bag down and waved the sailors below away. “Ya know, Pratius,” he said, pulling the hatch closed and setting the peg. “Although you’re a bit paranoid and still a wee young, I think you’ve gotta point there.” He yanked the oilskin tarp over the sealed hatch and quickly lashed it down, sealing the hold closed and dry. “What can we do ‘bout it?”

The look out shrugged. “Don’t think there’s anything we can do for it. We’ve been yammering with the Incans for some time now, doubt there’s nothing about home they haven’t already heard from one of our mouths, wrote down, read, and deciphered what the hell it meant and how they can use it.” He walked toward the stern, Kirus following. “They seem friendly enough, but if they’re as smart as they seem to be, it might be like putting oil on fire. All this knowledge, all these concepts, all our stories of lives and better ways of living and wars with Carthage and Egypt and talk about the Mayans, Zulus, and Iroquois; it might be too much too soon.”

Reaching the rigging for the crow’s nest, Pratius swung one leg over and began to climb, leaving Kirus with a final thought, “Just hope that one day, the Incans don’t sail by our shore with a vessel we don’t understand and arms and armor that puts ours to shame. We don’t have their giant library so we’d have to rely on their good will and handouts.” With that, the wiry sailor scrambled up the ratlines and climbed into his perch high above the deck.

Kirus continued walking to the stern, giving small orders and commands along the way to whatever seamen he passed. Captain Thrium was giving Perus some tips on how to handle the rudder of the great galley. “Cap’n,” Kirus interrupted, “beggin’ your pardon, but a word with ya?”

Nodding, Thrium said to Perus, “Good job, man. Remember; keep your right hand firm and your left hand slack. Let her have her head, but keep the shore no less than 4 hands from the port bow and no more than 7.”

“Ay, Ay, Captain Thrium!”

Clapping him on the shoulder, the captain turned and walked a few paces to join with Kirus. “What’s up?”

“Cap’n, I think we should bypass our visit to Cuzco.”

Surprised, Thrium asked, “Why? It’s supposed to be beautiful and the Sapa-Inca himself send us invite.”

Kirus pointed up at Pratius. “I’ve been watchin’ and listenin’ to the boys and the Incans, Cap’n. And it’s been rubbin’ me the wrong way, to say the least, but until today, didn’t know why. Pratius there is smarter than he puts on, some times. And I think he hit it on the ‘ead.”

“What? This doesn’t make sense.”

“Cap’n, I think the Incans have been writtin’, or felanoshiyin’, or whatever the hell they want to call it, all our stuff because they’re usin’ it to get a leg up on us.”

“What?! That’s preposterous. Most of the things that are absent from Incan life took Rome 2, 3 or even 4 generation to work on and build. Hell, we share a long border with Egypt and we’ve never just learned how to do things just because they know! It doesn’t make sense.”

Kirus frowned. “Cap’n, ya can believe me or not, but I’m tellin’ ya, we should just give up on talkin’ to the Incans and sail home. They’re robbin’ Rome, robbin’ us of what we know, and we’re getting’ nothin’ for it, except food, water, and some drink.” He smacked the railing, “Hell, we wouldn’t make a trade with the damn Mayans without a bucket o’ jewels spilled across the deck; and they’re our friends! But these Incans are takin’ from us with one hand, and offerin’ nothin’ back with the other. And we’re too trustin’ and tired from a year and half plus at sea to realize it.”

Thrium stared at Kirus, his lips pursed, his mind racing. “Alright, Master Kirus. I’ll give you your points. But I say we still go Cuzco. I want to meet this Sapa-Inca and I want to see the giant library of theirs. I’ll keep our conversation light and our topics tame. Give us a day and a night at harbor and we’ll be off at following light, what say you?”

Kirus nodded. “Fine. One more thin’, Cap’n. Keep the shore leave limited to 20 men, 10 from the Thundercloud and 10 Legionnaires. I’ll stay here and keep the ship fully rigged and ready to lift anchor at the drop of a hat. Do me that favor, and you’ll have your day and night.”

The Captain smiled. “Sometimes you push your authority around too hard, Kirus. Fine, 20 men it is.”

Waggling his fingers at Thrium, the deck master replied, “If thin’s go foul and we’ve gotta raise sail and send out runners, you’ll be thankin’ me for a month o’ Sundays.”
 
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“
“Roman Thrium, that is not the question we asked.”

Captain Thrium tried to keep his expression neutral. He and 19 of his command were seated at the glorious palace of Sapa-Inca Pachacuti in the Incan capital city of Cuzco. They had spent most of the day walking the roads and boulevards of the massive capital, visiting the sites and hospitalities the beautiful city had to offer. After ending their tour at the great library and seeing the mass of incredibly accumulated knowledge and antiquities the proud people had gathered, they had followed their host back to his palace for, as he called it, “drink, food, and conversation.”

Unfortunately, shortly after the first course had been laid out, the pleasant meal had turned into a long list of rudely demanding and rapidly fired questions at the Roman visitors. Thrium had done a masterful job at belaying his answers and replying in only the most pale of details, but 3 hours and 7 courses in to the meal and talk, he had reached a deadlock with the Sapa-Inca finally showing some belligerence and disgust.

“Sapa-Inca, my apologies,” Thrium said, keeping the weariness from his voice. “Maybe the better answer is that I do not know how heavy the armor was that our troops wore at the siege of Leptis Magna.” He reached for his glass of fruity flavored wine the Incans were fond of drinking and hosted it in the Incan ruler’s direction. “Sadly, Sapa-Inca, the lateness of the hour and the overwhelming majesty of your fair city have exhausted my men and I, turning me into a stumbling conversationalist at best in comparison to your majesty. As we will be sailing on when the tide is high tomorrow, I would ask to take our leave of you.”

Only the scritch-scritch of the felanoshi scribing away in the corner could be heard in the silence following Thrium’s latest attempt at ending the painful meal. Pachacuti remained still, a scowl still on his proud face, his form rigid and squarely seated on his throne. After waiting a few heartbeats, he said, “Roman Thrium, you did not answer our question. We asked it of you and you did not answer. Your answers to all our questions have been very lacking in substance. When Sapa-Inca asks a question, it is usually answered to our liking. Plus, we informed you that you would be our guest in Cuzco for 6 nights and 7 days. That is what will happen.” He rose from his throne, the rest of the amassed diners, both Roman and Incan, did as well. “This meal is over. Tomorrow, we expect to have better exchanges with the Romans.” He turned from the table and walked out of the great hall.

Once gone, servants scurried out of the kitchens, clearing away the food, plates, and crumbs from the meal; once the Sapa-Inca was finished, everyone was finished. Most of the other visiting Incans clustered about the room, pointedly ignoring the Romans, seeing as they had insulted their leader in some fashion and fallen out of favor because of it. Proximo, the young Centurion, said in a low voice, “Well, I guess that didn’t go well.”

Thrium grimaced. “No, it didn’t.” He glanced about, seeing one of the felanoshi was coming closer to write down whatever the Romans had to say. “Neptune’s Beard!” Thrium swore. “We need to get out of here, pissing off the Incans or not, we’re not staying a week.” Motioning his retinue to follow, he started walking to the exit.

“Roman Thrium, a moment please.” Yrzmah, Pachacuti’s oily advisor and chief of defense, called out, stepping rapidly to the departing Romans. “Await please. The halls and streets of Cuzco are safe for Incans to walk, but Priests of Cauximahal, the Blood God, are always looking for vessels to appease their thirsty master.” He clapped his hands, and a company of 30 Incan warriors stepped into the room. “These men will take you safely to your chambers and insure your protection.” He bowed low, “Pleasant rest, and I hope to enjoy your company again tomorrow.”

Forced under the guard and watchful eyes of the Incan warriors, Thrium allowed him and his men to be escorted through the palace to the east wing and the large room that had been set aside for the Romans to use. Once inside, the guards left. A moment later, the telltale sound of the locking bar sliding across the frame outside sounded, telling Thrium that he was not going to leave out that doorway.

“Well, that’s a fine how do you do,” he said, testing the door and finding it unmoving. “I guess we’ve been outmaneuvered. We’re not leaving now and we’re not leaving that way.”

“Captain, what’re we gonna do?”

Thrium looked around, shaking his head. “I’ll say one thing we’re not going to do, and that’s stay here another minute. Damn! After one day and we’re unofficially prisoners. Can you imagine what’ll happen to us in a week?”

“I’ll bet we wind up on one of their bloody altars, that’s what.” “Here, here.” “Not if Captain Thrium can help it.”

The captain held his hands up, signaling the men to be quiet. Pressing his ear against the door, he heard the muffled sounds of the guards still outside, most likely listening to his men and their conversation. Since they hadn’t burst in, it was most likely that they hadn’t clearly heard the recent exchange but Thrium couldn’t count on his luck holding.

Looking about, he smiled. “Proximo, help me with this, would you?” He walked to one side of a heavy carved cube; decorated with the fanciful carvings the Incans were fond of using. It stood almost 5 feet in height and had to weigh some 800 to 1,000 kilograms. Pointing his chin at the door, he nodded at the great art and smiled. The Legionnaire grinned back. The soldiers all crowded about the block, found some sort of grip and slid/lifted the heavy stone until it was blocking the door.

While the ten soldiers worked on blocking the door, Thrium pointed to some of his crewmen. “Redium, Hantha, Gregorus, I want you three on that window now. Get it out of its frame and get it opened. The rest of you, Get every piece of furniture that weighs anything and prop it up in front of the door. I want it done fast and I want it done quietly.”

“Ay, Ay, Captain.”

For the next few minutes, the Romans worked feverishly, carrying out Thrium’s orders. Every bed frame, footlocker, chair and stand was piled around the entrance, blocking any chance their hosts would have on gaining easy access to the Romans. Meanwhile, the simple mud and wattle framing of the barred windows was removed easily and the barrier lifted free.

“Good job, boys.” Thrium complimented. “Good job.” Looking over the sill, it was some 12 feet to the ground below. Cuzco was a quiet city, its people happy and content, so unlike most Roman towns, there were no patrolling guards and militia strolling the streets.

With the coast clear, Thrium waved the first man over. “Gregorus, I want you down there now. Don’t hurt yourself, just get down.”

“Ay, Ay.”

Sliding his legs over the low sill, the Roman sailor held onto the frame tightly and dropped his body over the side, dangling with his feet some 4 or 5 feet. Steeling himself, he lurched his body away from the wall and fell to freedom outside. Steadying himself, he grinned up to Thrium and gave the thumbs up.

“Excellent. Proximo, I want you next. Just in case we’re discovered, I want your sword down there.”

“Yes, Captain.”

One by one, the Romans slipped out of the room, until Thrium himself came down last. Once they were all gathered and on the shadowy street, they began their westward trek to the harbor.

They slid past the royal quarters, the noble estates, the temple district and the crafting halls without incident. It wasn’t until they were half way across the merchants’ quarters and could see the harbor in the distance that they heard the cries of alarm and calls from the palace behind them.

“Damn it!” Proximo shoved Thrium in front of him, gripping the captain’s arm tightly. “Time to go. Legionnaires, you know what to do.” Each soldier drew his gladius with one hand and grabbed a sailor with the other. Pushing their charges, the Romans ran for their ship, throwing subtly and caution to the wind.

“What the…” Thrium sputtered. “What the HELL are you doing?!?”

“My job, Captain,” The Centurion said, “I’m doing my job.” He picked up speed, driving the captain before him. “I don’t tell you how to navigate your ship or discipline your crew, don’t step on my toes.”

The calls of the Incans were getting louder and angrier as the alarm spread out from the palace and across the capital city. The Romans burst across a town square, surprising the few citizens that were gathered there this late at night. On seeing the pale skinned Romans running and hearing the cries in the dark, they began pointing and yelling, rousing the locals to the fleeing men.

Proximo reversed his grip on his sword with an expect flip, bracing the wide blade against his forearm. As they finished their run across the square and left the markets for the harbor district, two Incans tried to step in front of the charging Romans. Twisting Thrium’s arm, he spun the captain behind him and drove the pommel of his blade into the temple of one of his blockers. The man crumpled, stunned and unconscious from the blow. As his companion began to fall, the second Incan was dispatched by a blow to the throat, Proximo stiff-arming him with his forearm. Spinning again, he reasserted his grip on the surprised Thrium and continued his dash for the sea.

“My god!” Thrium panted. “I hope you didn’t kill them!”

Proximo scowled. “Of course not, Captain.” The corners of his mouth turned up, “And what did I tell you about doing my job?”

A few other Incans tried to stop or slow down the Romans, but were similarly dispatched; rendered unconscious or incapacitated by the skilled Legionnaires. In a short time, their sandaled and booted feet were pounding not on packed earth and stone, but on the wooden docks of Cuzco’s quay. The deep hull of the Furious Thundercloud prevented the great galley from tying up at the docks, so it was anchored some hundred yards off.

Quickly scanning the canoes and skiffs, Thrium shook free of Proximo’s grip and leapt onto one of the low riding barges. “Get on! Get on!” The Romans followed Thrium’s lead, piling onto the flat boat. Swinging his gladius, Proximo cut the mooring lines free and shoved the barge away from the dock.

“Poles and paddles!” He commanded. Sailor and soldier alike grabbed whatever they could from the floor of their commandeered vessel and propelled themselves as fast as they could to their own galley. The calls behind had grown loud now, with sailors and citizens of Cuzco crowding the docks. From somewhere in the crowd, a spear flew out, splashing into the water just behind the fleeing Romans.

“Faster, men! Faster!” Thrium plunged the box top he was using as a makeshift paddle harder into the Incan bay, watching as the distance to the Thundercloud grew smaller and smaller. Another spear fell into the waters, followed by a pail, an oar, and at least half a dozen large stones.

With a cry, the Incan people gave way as the 1st of Cuzco’s soldiers reached the docks. The trained spearmen launched their weapons, 4 well thrown javelins just clearing the space between them and the barge. One thunked solidly into the wall of the barge, one splashed just on the starboard side. A third was deflected by a well-timed swing from a Legionnaire’s paddle. The fourth slammed into Duanas, one of Thrium’s sailors. The sharpened point tore threw his collarbone and chest, flooding his lungs with blood and killing him quickly. A cheer went up from the docks as the Incans saw one of the Romans drop.

“Kirus!” Thrium called out. “Raise anchor! Prepare to set sail!” From the side of the Thundercloud, the crew and peoples stared out at the scene, the Roman delegates paddling madly on a low riding barge and the hooting and hollering Incan hordes filling the docks and launching canoes to give chase.

Another volley of spears fell out of the night sky, none of them striking the now too distant Romans, and all falling behind them into the sea. The fishing nets were thrown over the sides of the galley, dangling down into the water, offering a quick ladder for Thrium and his men to scamper up. The barge tapped the side of the Thundercloud with a dull thud and the men quickly climbed the net to the eager hands of waiting crewmen.

Lavaticles fell screaming from the net, his leg pierced from a well-thrown javelin, hurled from a closing canoe and a snarling Incan warrior upon it. Kirus leapt overboard, tackling the still howling legionnaire and keeping him from sinking. “Pull!” Thrium cried, grabbing the net and drawing it up. “Pull them up!” Snarling his hands into the net, Kirus gripped tightly, holding the soldier before him, his arms braced under the other man’s.

They were lifted from the water and pulled up the side of the Thundercloud. More spears and javelins fell about them. “Arrows!” Kirus yelled. “Arrows now! Drop them! Shoot!” A ragged volley of arrows was launched from the decks, raining amongst the closing canoes and forcing the attackers upon them to dive overboard or get struck. A second volley, much stronger and tighter, flew out, hitting the next line of approaching skiffs and boats. More Incans dove for cover or fell howling, clutching quivering shafts as they pierced their bodies.

Kirus and Lavaticles were hauled aboard and dropped to the deck. “Runners!” Kirus commanded. “Runners out! Don’ wait for the wind boys, Neptune’s too busy right now!”

The great oars of the Roman galley were placed and set, their scoops resting lightly in the Incan bay. The great drum beat once, signaling the 68 rowers to grip their handles. A moment later, the drummer beat out a steady cadence and the galley rowers rocked forwards. 34 runners, 17 to a side, dug into the water and pushed the great vessel ahead. At the end of their stroke, the ends lifted free, slid back towards the bow, and then reentered the water, paddling again.

Slowly at first, but with increasing speed, the Furious Thundercloud pulled away from the Incan capital and their pursuers. The drums continued beating and the runners pulled the great ship to safer waters. Lavaticles was under the care of the ship’s medic and some of the men were already knitting sailcloth together to bury Duanas in. Only when there was no sign of pursuit and the dark waters did not echo with the cries of Incan warriors, did Thrium visibly relax.

“You ok, Cap’n?” Kirus asked.

Thrium looked about, still amazed that he had escaped the Pachacuti and his men. “Yeah, Kirus. I’m ok.” He stared out at the black waters, saying nothing.

Kirus watched his friend and captain carefully and backed away silently; leaving the man to his thoughts and looked after the Thundercloud and her crew.
 
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The best chapter yet! Is the Thundercloud going past the boundries or back towards Rome? We'll see. Quite exilarating. :misspell maybe: I hope this story continues until the end. Win or lose. You're a very good author of Civ material. Accountant my ass! Get your head together and persue your dream. Be a Tom Clancy. Study what it takes and write. I'll buy the first book.
Please give us a screenie of the continents so we can better understand the battlelands and personally print them. Then I can place different pieces and keep track of this. I'm loving this.
On another note, I personally invite you to an SG whenever you are available, after you finish this. The stories will be better then when you get up towards diety. Very tricky then.
Please don't let anything interfere with your writing. Your doing great and I read a lot of stuff as do many here. We're all enjoing this and looking forward to culmination.
 
As Requested, I had my wife (patient and loving because I SUCK on photoshop!) touch up the small map so I can give you guys something as to what you've been reading.This is roughly how the world looked at this time of the story. Note, I've detailed Abydos and Byblos so as to give a reference.

The Furious Thundercloud is located on the north western edge of the Incan peninsula. The top most city is Vilcabamab, and the one south, in the slight cove was Cuzco.

Thanks again to everyone who's been reading - there'll be more in a day or two.

V
 

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Another excellent story, Vanadorn. Thanks for the reference map!
 
Anather fell to the cold mud, his back aflame with agony, his vision dull and fading. Again, he felt the lash tear across his poorly covered skin, trailing another stripe of blood on his already ravaged flesh. He pushed his face free of the cold, clinging dirt and turned to his tormentors.

Pain snapped into his jaw as the Roman taskmaster kicked the Egyptian rebel with his hard-bottomed boot. “Don’t give me that look, you yellow jackal!” The Roman snarled, slashing his lash across Anather’s chest this time. “You will dig and dig now! No more of your lollygagging and feet dragging!” He kicked the Egyptian slave again, this time in the gut. Anather curled over his heaving stomach, trying to keep himself from choking. Rough hands grabbed his arms, hoisting him to his feet. Trying to clear his vision, he felt the roughened handle of his dropped shovel placed in his grasp.

“There’ll be more of this treatment for the lot of ya if you don’t get your asses in gear! Zeus’ Boils! You’ve got to be the laziest sons of jackals I’ve ever seen! If I don’t see the terrain leveled, mud flying, and roadbed laid in the next hour, I’ll crucify every bleeding one of ya!”

Anather limply held his shovel, bracing his wavering body against it. When the spots finally cleared from his vision and he was able to breathe without choking, he returned to the task of digging the road for the invading Romans. He tried not to cry as the wooden spade grudgingly dug another scoopful of earth out of the still cold ground. Winter’s grasp was still felt even though the snows had changed to rains and new grasses were poking through. He thought back to his garden, a small plot of perfect land in Byblos, the finest lilies grew from its rich soil. His wife would often kid him that he spent too much time looking at beautiful flowers instead of her.

Alanya. She was a gift from Osiris. Her dark hair smelled of juniper, her kohl-rimmed eyes teasing, the softness of her ripe body. He jammed his shovel into the ground again. The Romans came, beating against the walls with their rocks and their swords. One by one, the defenders fell. Owls and pigeons were sent to Giza begging Cleopatra for aid. Riders and messengers drove wildly to the great city, pleading the Pharaohess for aid and succor. What troops she did send died foolishly on assaults against the strongest points of the Roman siege. The Ivory Cavalry came haphazard at best, in groups and pockets, spread over time. They all failed to reach the city. Before the ground froze, the warlike barbarians had swarmed into the city, looting and burning, claiming the great Byblos as their own.

Anather felt his body warm under the feeble sun and the toils he performed. Alanya’s brother, Kuhopep, normally a young man of few ideas and minimal of interest, became vocal as the Roman noose tightened. He spoke of armories and hidden caches of weapons. He tried to organize the people into resisting the barbaric Romans. Many flocked to his honeyed words and fine ideals. Reclaimed Egypt, he would call it, spewing his rhetoric in secret meetings and crowded food lines.

Anather was swayed by Kuhopep’s words, much to Alanya’s dismay. She tried to tell him that the Undying Queen would be long in coming to the liberation of Byblos. She spoke of the aggression against the Mayans and the Zulus and keeping what could be held. Anather did not listen, instead he chased after Kuhopep as a dog, anxious to do his works and free the people of Byblos.

The resistance was in full swing, Reclaimed Egypt was scrawled in alleys and on posts. And everywhere he could be, Kuhopep worked the crowds into a boiling fury at the Romans. He convinced farmers to spoil crops and woodsmen to burn trees instead of harvesting them.

For a time, it worked. But the Romans were efficient if nothing else. Armor clad men with huge shields and crested helms began patrolling the streets. Roustabouts and hulking brutes would oftentimes wade into a crowd of growling Egyptians with their cudgels swinging, cracking heads and felling men and women. Farmers were forced back into the fields, those that refused had their homes burned and their livestock slaughtered. Slowly, the grains and meats flowed back into the city. Carpenters and masons were gathered as well, with 1 in 8 crucified on the spot and the remaining craftsmen sent home. The next day, many men returned to work, chopping trees, making bricks, and manning the quarries.

Kuhopep grew frantic as the weeks passed by and the resistance faltered. Finally he commanded his last loyal men to a daring raid on a Roman outpost. He reasoned that with better weapons in the Reclaimed Egypt’s hands and the shock of Roman soldiers killed, the horrid invaders would loosen their grip on the city.

Behind him, he heard the clacking sounds as barrels of stones were strewn about the dug up earth, laying the foundation of the soon to be Roman roadbed. It wasn’t just Egyptian slave gangs working the land outside of Palmyra, but hardworking Roman men and women as well. From what he could gather, they were sent to this corner of one time Egyptian land to speed up the paving. It was no secret that the Roman army had already broken winter’s camp and was no more than a few days behind, on their way to attack the Egyptian garrison in Bapedi.

He sighed, wondering how it all fell apart. Alanya begged him not to go. He should have listened. Not everyone in Reclaimed Egypt was sincere in their allegiance. The Romans had been tipped off to the attack and the surprised became the surprisers. The last he saw of Kuhopep, the young Egyptian had his hand loped off at the wrist and was buried under the stabbing spears of the Roman soldiers. He tried to run but was captured. His stay in the jails was brief, his torture short and brutal. He thought he would decorate a cross before the next moon but instead he was branded a slave of the Roman Empire on his back and hands. A metal collar was fitted around his neck; the ends joined by a hot rivet and pounded flat.

Alanya tried to see him, to buy his freedom. The Roman magistrate had often allowed captured or imprisoned men to be bought free from friends and family. But he and the others in Kuhopep’s group were not to be released. They were to remain enslaved, proof to any others what would happen to those who dared to slap the “hand of Roman patience and friendship.” The last he saw of his beloved was her tear-streaked face being held back from embracing him as he was shoved out the door.

Anather worked. The other Egyptians worked. No one worked hard. There was no reward for doing so. Hard work was recognized as the new level for all slaves to perform at. So instead they did what was required of them, and no more. He dug into the cold earth, his back itching with dried blood, calluses forming on his hands, his belly growling, his shoulders aching, and his future miserable. On all this he mused and wished with all his soul that he could go back in time and listen to his Alanya, to hold her hand and agree with his beloved.

To be a free Egyptian in the Roman Empire.
 
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“And so, it is with the blessings of almighty Osiris, I give you the mighty, the eternal, the bounteous, Pyramids of Memphis! Forever may our cities be a beacon of light to the barbarians beyond, and may our people never go hungry again!”

Amidst the screams and cries of the thronging multitude of hundreds of thousands of wildly cheering Egyptians, Marc Antony could not tear his gaze from the Undying Queen, Cleopatra. He had bribed many mullahs and emirs to get this close to the Royal Pavilion. The Queen of all Egypt was wearing a complex outfit of veils and beads, her hair framed behind the nemis she wore, the crook and the flail tightly gripped in her hands. Her face was both rapturous and calculating, taking in the sights and sounds of the crowds, noting where the dissenters were and their own reactions.

Egyptian politics was different and similar to Roman, but through it all, everyone from serf to majadheen paid homage to Cleopatra. Her word was law, here whims were mandates. He had spent many years wandering the Egyptian people, learning of them and their ways, finding what weaknesses existed and forwarding his knowledge to Lord Tiberius back home. He spoke their language with exacting clarity, even able to affect the haughty dialect of Elephantine or the provincial twang of Thebes. His skin had been tanned under the Egyptian sun so long, that even in the winter months, he still blended in seamlessly.

There had been great concern over the completion of her Pyramids. Many of the caliphs and major lords had complained most loudly over the time, effort, and money that was being devoted to this project. With Egypt rocking between 3 wars in just 4 years, the cry came up that this type of frivolous expense was going to bankrupt the Kingdoms. From what Marc could see now, not one of the one-time complainers showed anything short of glorious adulation at this point.

Cleopatra lowered her symbols of office and the crowd grew still. “Mighty Osiris, Lord of the Undying Lands, God amongst gods, has blessed us with greatness and plenty. He, who rules on high, has aided me in punishing the Mayans for their effrontery and their raids on Alexandria. He, who rules on high, has aided me in bringing the boot of Egypt on the neck of the Zulu cities of Intombe and Bapedi. He, who rules on high, has aided me in punishing the Romans who assaulted our southern cities, sending their soldiers to face the judgment of Sobek, the spears of our warriors still in their corpses.”

The cheering had risen in volume during her speech until it shook the ground and filled the plains. Marc watched carefully, listening to the spin she was putting on recent events and her body language as doing so. She waited for the cheers to quiet down before continuing. “For all that has been done to glorify the name of Egypt and its people, it is time for me to rain that honor down on you. Osiris has decided that I shall choose 11 new suitors from the masses here. You will be lifted from common to the left hand of the goddess. Pleasure and bliss shall fill your cup. Joys and plenty shall shroud your form.”

She swept her hands wide, sending forth yellow lilies on small kites of silk. The breeze caught the flowers, carrying them into and over the crowd. “Whoever has a lily, shall be my suitor.” The tightly pressed crowd went wild.

Men clubbed each other in an effort to remain under the wafting prizes. Marc watched as many of the blossoms were lifted and hurled far over his head and deep into the crowd. Two of them were falling near his perch, their kites slightly damaged and unable to catch the wind well. The assorted merchants and nobles that made up the crowd he stood in began shoving and hitting one another, trying to get positioned under the falling flowers. Someone rammed an elbow into his eye, shoving him back and under the crowd. Marc found himself being trampled.

Grabbing onto the nearest person, he pulled hard, dropping the surprised landlord to the ground, but giving him a chance to drag himself to him feet. Looking, he saw that the flowers were almost overhead. Thinking quickly, he shimmied right to the railing of the platform and climbed upon it. The decorative wood was already groaning and shaking under his feet and a glance back showed it was some 20 feet to the ground behind and the corral of livestock there. Balancing himself, he crouched into a hunched stance, took great care as to where the flower was, and jumped.

His shoving feet busted the rail before he could clear it. Instead of soaring over the heads of the assembled Egyptians, he found himself falling hard. He smashed into the edge of the platform and spun crazily over the side. He plummeted to the ground below, falling in and on the camels and horses. His chest burning and his eyes glazed, he remained astride two of the upset mounts, waving his feet in an effort to keep from falling further. The crowd above was wild as the blossoms were caught one by one. He heard Cleopatra’s voice cry out as each one was snatched from the air, “Seven!… Eight!… Nine!… Ten!… Eleven!!!”

Groaning in both pain and dismay, he rolled off his perch, found his feet barely able to support his weight, and staggered to the gate. Closing the pen behind him, he lowered his aching form to the ground and passed out.

He awoke some time later to the feeling of swaying and the smell of junipers. Opening his eyes, he found himself staring into the sultry gaze of Cleopatra. “Wha..,” he tried to talk, but was silenced by the Pharaohess’ finger against his lips.

She smiled, her carmine lips upturned with some private thought. “Osiris has brought you back from the dead. I saw your daring leap.” She tapped his chest. Looking down he saw that he was stripped of all his clothing save a loincloth about his waist. His ribs were a mass of black and blues, but a yellow lily rested upon his muscular stomach. “Such bravery and desire to please me should not go unrewarded.” She pulled the string of her gossamer robe, peeling the silken cloth from her body.

Marc couldn’t believe it. His eyes fastened upon the body that he had until this day only dreamed about. Her flawless skin, her black hair, her scent, her form, her shape; he could only stare helplessly.

Smiling, she grabbed his limp hand and placed it upon her swelling breast. It felt like coals beneath his fingertips. “Suitor,” she purred, her voice husky and drawn, “it is time to please me.” She leaned in, brushing his lips with hers.

Marc felt stirring across his body, heat flushing through him. Unable to stop the shaking of his limbs, he lifted himself from the hammock he was lying upon and devoted his attention to fulfilling his fantasy and Cleopatra’s request. As the passions washed over him, his last coherent thoughts were, “My duty is to my lord and my country. The things I do for my country.” And with that, Marc Antony, soldier of Rome, spy for Lord Caesar, son of the descendants of Romulus, lost himself in the heaving arms and erotic indulgences of the Undying Queen of Egypt.
 
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Vario Pellias rode about the battlefield. “I don’t get it, Corporal Omani,” he said, addressing the lanky man riding next to him.

“What, sir?”

He swept his hand before him. “This. What has the egg sucking Egyptians so worked up that they are willing to hurl their forces at this particular stretch of road?” The Theban highway had been easily torn up last year, leaving only the connecting road between Abydos and Byblos in place. The 4th Syracuse and 3rd Lugdunum Pikers had been stationed here for almost half a year now after their successful pillaging of the Theban countryside. Their ranks had healed and been refilled from recruits back home. But even with the late spring showers and numerous successes, Vario was still ill at ease.

“I mean, look at this. It’s the same damn thing, time after time. The puke gut jackals come scrambling over the rough country, their mounts tired, morale sagging. Then, without an even ‘Hey you rotten Romans’ or a ‘How do ya do?’, they hurl their troops at our position. I mean, Mars’ Left Testicle!” he swore. “We’re on a fricking hill! We dug in bile spewing be damned trenches. We’ve got punk sticks and pit traps all over the place. And if they can get through it all, were mostly standing there with pikes out and waiting for them.” He wiped his head, flinging his rain soaked hair out of his eyes.

Corporal Omani said nothing, looking out at the churned up battlefield. The earth was nothing more than a sickly thick mud, so rain soaked and water logged, that a decent sized wagon could sink up to the axle, even unloaded. Dead horses, bloated corpses, fat crows, and scavenging peasants dotted the land. “This was, what Centurion, the 4th attack?”

Vario punched his hand into his palm. “Damn straight! It wouldn’t bother me so much if they were massed together. Not that I want to teach the filthy buggers anything about tactics, but, use your cobweb filled head! They should have swarmed us with those attacks all at once! Not spaced out over half a year. God blasted, gutter stinking, useless, good for vomit licking, Egyptian morons!”

Omani had gotten used to Vario’s outbursts since his promotion, often times letting the grizzly Centurion ramble on for hours on end until parched throat and exhaustion finally quelled his anger. “On a better new, Centurion,” he offered, trying vaguely to distract the hand waving warrior from becoming worked up, “the men have certainly honed their skills in battle. Even the worst of the 4th Syracuse could hold his own to any man, in any unit, any where.”

“You’ve got that damned right, you do! With Egyptian attacks lasting days to weeks at a clip, our boys are some of the strongest, nail chewing, oxen tough pikers around.” He sneered. “Even Rusty Ass and his 3rd Lugdunumers have proven themselves to be better than useless. Filthy whoresons that they are.” He spat. “I’m glad the pride of Rome is spanking the yellow weasels as they cross our line in the sand, but I don’t know what Cleopatra has up her sleeve.”

“I heard they finished that Pyramid of there’s up north. Supposed to be tremendous, largest thing ever built by man.”

“So?”

Corporal Omani shrugged. “Just seems that now that they finished it, they’ll devote more time and attention to making troops to remove us from our positions.”

Vario nodded. “Thought of that too.” He squinted, taking Omani’s measure from head to toe. “You’re not that dim, Corporal.” He grinned, teeth showing. “Not dim at all, you sod.”

Looking across the ground once more, he shook his head, turning his steed back to the Roman position fortified on the low hills to the south. The Corporal followed, both men riding back. “Let’s just hope that the gutless, yellow snake kissers don’t have someone like you in control. Come on.” Kicking his steed’s ribs, the horse picked up its gait, carrying its rider back to camp.
 
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“Look out!”

Hearing the cry over the sound of clashing swords and howling warriors, Trajan glanced back, disgusted to see that the new war machine had misfired again. The swinging crossbeam of the trebuchet had become entangled with the traction team again, spoiling another shot and wasting precious minutes. Looking ahead, the Egyptian troops had successfully cleared the sally ports in Bapedi’s walls and were already lining up to charge the Roman position.

General Iuldias and Scipio’s Legionnaires were embroiled in a massive battle on the northern hills of the city and the Roman 1st Cavalry under Captain Gaius was still held down on the southern front, their mighty steeds still unable to end the melee there. Trajan watched as the 6th Lugdunum, the 2nd Veii, and the 1st and 3rd Virconium Pikers all readied themselves to receive the charge of the Egyptian heavy infantry. The narrow gulleys and unsure ground made the placement of the pikemen defenders difficult at best. The original sorties against the city had gone well, but as the days dragged into weeks, the Roman thrust had been blunted.

The Egyptian offensive in Zulu territory had stalled with Bapedi. With the invasion of the Roman army, whatever troops Egypt had at her disposal were called back from the attacks on Isandahlwana and reinforced here. This had proven to be catastrophic on the Roman attacks. The troops behind the wall were rested and eager for a fight, anxious for the chance to punish the Romans for their trespassings. The 1st Antium Knights had already been routed as well as the 2nd and 3rd Roman Pikers, the 2nd Virconium Pikers, the 1st Carthage Heavy Infantry, and the far from home, 2nd Sabratha Legionnaires. The new trebuchets were not as effective as was expected, and the casualty list climbed by the scores and hundreds daily.

Of the 4 pike units available, Trajan noticed that none of them were able to muster a full complement of men, the Centurions shuffling lines and spreading ranks to bolster the flagging strength of the defending units. Meanwhile, the Egyptian infantry seemed anxious for another chance to attack. The unit flag was unfamiliar to Trajan, meaning it was another here to fore, unused and fresh group of soldiers from Bapedi’s garrison. The polished armor, bright helms, weapons swinging freely in the sun; the Roman Captain felt a sinking sensation in his gut that whatever pike unit was struck first, would suffer heavy casualties.

The trebuchet fire properly this time, sending stone to fly against the roughened walls. More of the city crumbled away as the eastern battlements fell into the streets below. With the number of defending unit whittling away and new units from the Roman heartland still not at the Egyptian front, General Iuldias would have to pull the army back from the city or risk losing the war machines to the enemy.

“Captain Trajan,” Iuldias had told him, before striking out with Scipio’s Legions to assault the northern positions, “I am leaving you in charge. Under no circumstances are you to engage the enemy. I want them to blunt their swords on our defensive works. Keep the trebuchets and catapults firing and let them do all the work. Until the 3rd Roman, 1st Carthage, and 2nd Veii Knight brigades finally make it to the front, your soldiers are the only other heavy attack force in the area. I don’t want you and your men wasted on some useless attack.”

He pounded his thigh. If he did attack, he could surprise and route the Egyptian infantry, but risk his entire unit if the attack failed. If he didn’t though, the tired Roman pike line could very well fail and the trebuchets could be destroyed or worse, captured. He felt confused, struggling with the two options, neither of them clear cut correct or obvious.

Making a decision, Trajan whirled around and vaulted into his saddle. Lifting his horn, he blew a long solid blast, summoning his men to mount up and come to order. “Hurry, men!” He cried. “Hurry! The enemy is drawing near and Rome needs our help.” His troopers grabbed shields and lances, checked their swords, fastened their helms and grabbed their reins. “Hurry men! Squires! I want those wagons moved now. You!” He pointed at one camp hand racing to help with the carts, bringing the man to a stop. “Take a message to Septarius. Tell him to form up but to NOT engage the Egyptians. I want them lured to that position. Tell him we’ll flank them and smash them good. Run. Run boy!” Nodding, the youth dashed away to the pike companies.

Around him, Trajan’s knights had assembled into 4 ragged lines of 150 men or so each. The rest of his men were still struggling to get their armor buckled and their horses saddled. In the distance, he heard the high-pitched blast of the Egyptian horn. Rising in his stirrups, he was horrified to see the yellow sashed infantry had begun their attack, marching out from the clearing before the city and charging the still unsure pike lines. Grabbing the company standard, he held it overhead and waved it wildly. “2nd Roman Knights! Charge!”

His warhorse lunged forward, spurred on by the kick in its ribs. Behind him, those troops that were ready followed, their lances raised, trailing their red and grey banners. The rising ground to their right obscured the city and Egyptian forces from their view as Trajan led the 2nd Romans around the hill and through the northern valley. The thundering hooves filled the air as the lines drew close together and the men were forced to ride on the slopes and gulleys. The rains had ruined most of the normal roads, but the fast moving waters had swept through these passes earlier, leaving the earth firm beneath a thin layer of clinging mud. His steed began blowing as it exerted more effort to not only maintain its gallop, but to do so while climbing. Keeping the standard held high, he leaned over his horse’s neck, spreading his weight over the creatures back.

The top of the valley rose into view as the charging knights circled the northeastern hill on their right. The first thing seen was the city of Bapedi, it’s main fields and sally ports empty of infantry. As more of the land became visible, Trajan began to worry. Where were the Egyptians? Had they already struck the tired defensive lines? Did they know of Trajan’s desperate attack? He watched as the crest of the valley rose up under his horse’s hooves and the battlefield returned to view.

The Egyptian infantry had closed to within a few hundred meters of the Roman artillery. The 3rd Virconium was already in place, lined up, weapons at the show. From above the field, Trajan experienced eye showed him the many weaknesses and holes in his countrymen’s defense works. Glancing back, his Knights had almost reached his position. Without waiting, he continued his gallop over the valley’s zenith and raced toward the closing infantry.

The clatter of stones, the rumble of hundreds of armored steeds, the noise of shield and lance and men; it swept over the plains, signaling to the Egyptian attackers the approaching knights and their quest for valor. Their flank dangerously exposed, the Egyptian right turned southward, attempting to present a solid front against the charging knights. Shields were braced and weapons lofted. From within the square, a dozen ragged longbows fired, the normally devastating weapon of little use with only a few arrows fueling it. The main front slowed, the Egyptian commander unwilling to split his forces or stretch his line, instead he drew the left flank and rear back towards the center and tried to wheel his forces to present a wedge for Trajan’s soldiers to beat their attack against.

It was not to be. With the wind behind them, and the slope in front, Trajan’s company sped rapidly down the hill, the first wave striking the right flank full on. Lance heads punched through shields and skittered off plate steel. The snapping of dozens of lance heads sounded as one, rider and steed trampled their way through the chaotic line, finding themselves 4, 5 or even 6 ranks deep in the Egyptian formation.

After leaving his lance head buried in one man’s chest and the rest of his weapon skewering another, Trajan drew his broad bladed gladius from his saddle sheath and hacked downward at the frightened Egyptian blocking his way.

“Clear!” he cried, bludgeoning another soldier with the heavy pommel. “2nd Rome, get clear!” He felt hands clawing at his legs, trying to pull him from the saddle, and heard the 2nd line of his knight close to striking distance. The sound was deafening. The entire 1st line of infantry was blown away, their bodies disappearing under the churning hooves and flashing steel. Once again, the mass of knights found themselves far inside the Egyptian wedge, but were not alone.

Trajan side stepped his mount to another 2nd Roman and linked up with the armored knight. “Clear! Get clear! Make for the west!” His horse reared up, pawing and kicking a poor Egyptian that was trying to crawl his way to safety. He was pleased to note most of his men had heard his order and were wading with determined valor to make for the western edge of the infantry block.

At least half of his 1st wave was lost, and the men of the 2nd were starting to whittle away when the scream of horses and crash of armor rang out, signaling the arrival of the 3rd line of the knight company. The Egyptian wedge dissolved along the front, the formation resembling a fattened “C” now. The ranks were thinning as the Egyptians struggled to maintain order in the face of the brutal punishment they were taking.

Trajan finally broke free, galloping off some 40 meters to the west to survey the damage. As the number of men that rode free of the still dangerous block grew, Trajan ordered, “Wheel north! I want their rear engaged! Cut them in half from behind!” His men nodded, swinging around to the back of the Egyptians, and charged in again, striking their slow responding formation at the same time the 4th wave struck the front.

When the cacophonous squeal of tortured metal and dying screams began to fade, there was no longer any order to the Egyptian defenses. The front and flanks had broken away, splitting the once solid block into 3 much smaller bands of soldiery, the largest group containing less than 200 men. Trajan rode back into the melee, trying to keep his own men from breaking into smaller groups, keeping his lines whole when able to.

The remnants of the 2nd Roman Knights rode up, their undamaged lances offering just as much punishment as their brothers’ earlier attacks did. By the end of the hour, the last remnants of the once proud Egyptians routed, dropping their swords and spears, racing for the safety of the city walls. Trajan’s men gave chase, capturing those that surrendered, killing those that ran on.

Once the dead had been counted and the horses recovered, only 140 knights lost their lives in the attack that killed over 800 of Egypt’s finest heavy infantry. Men from the catapult brigades, the camp followers, the piker units and Trajan’s own knights credited the great victory and aversion of disaster on the Captain’s quick thinking and excellent tactics.

After General Iuldias returned and heard of the battle, he at first berated the brash captain for his recklessness and insolence in betraying a direct order, stripping Trajan of his captaincy rank. Leaving the front under the control of Captain Gaius, he had Trajan dragged back to Palmyra where a board of inquiry was drawn up and the General heard about the battle from dozens of eyewitnesses and supporters. Trajan was called upon to testify. He gave a full accounting of his actions and his thoughts and reasonings for the steps he took.

During the inquest, the knight companies from Veii and Carthage arrived, the commanders of these companies called into the proceedings to hear of Trajan’s deeds. After 2 weeks of hearings, General Iuldias refused to return Trajan to captain of the 2nd Rome Knights. “You’re disregard for my standing orders proves you’re unable to answer to my commands. It has been shown without the shadow of a doubt, that when I placed you in charge, you chose to ignore something I had instructed you to do!”

Trajan nodded, unable to deny the charges. “Sir, yes sir.”

“Hmmph.” The General fingered a small box on the desk in front of him, rapped its top with a knuckle, and scooped it up. Striding to Trajan, he shoved it into his surprised hands. “Here. If you won’t answer to my orders, and you think that when I leave you in charge, you’re allowed to make your own decisions, I don’t want you under my command anymore.”

The court and audience gasped, unable to believe what they were hearing. Trajan looked down at the small box, emblazoned with the Royal Roman seal. Lifting the lid, unsure what he would find, he was shocked to discover the design and golden brooch of the Roman army.

Iuldias pulled a sheathed sword from behind the table and presented it to Trajan. “By the power vested in me and the approval of Lord Caesar, in recognition of quick thinking, uncommon bravery, excellence in leadership, and exactingness in tactics, I present you with the sword and badge of the rank of General in Rome’s army.”

Trajan stood, his mouth agape, his eyes wide.

Iuldias continued. “We don’t need you to captain the 2nd Rome, we need you as the general of the Legion Knight Army. I want you to get the 2nd Rome, 1st Carthage, and 2nd Veii companies up to snuff and able to ride as a full army in less than a month.”

The courtroom burst into applause, the assembled soldiery and plebian showing their support for the decision and promotion of Trajan.

Trajan…General Trajan, commander of the 1st Legion Knight Army of Rome.
 
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Bapedi would not fall. Cleo had a lot of units in there, plus I was attacking defenders in a 7+ city, on a hill. I had a bad run of trebuchet and catapult fire. There were too many pikeman in the area and not enough decent, fully healed attack troops. I was pounding the walls and decided to use my last, tired, elite knight unit in the area for a last ditched effort and...Army! Alright! It was time for a knight army. A knight army, my legionnaire army, a lose unit of knights, 4 pike men, 3 catapults, 3 trebuchets - this damned city couldn't last much beyond this! I have other units on the way, but it's a long trip.

Thanks again to all who are reading. more in a day or two.

V
 
Map at last! Thanks!
 
“Ya Zeus spoilt hunk of hairy flea bag!” Kellum cursed his oxen. As usual, the patient animal ignored the sotted Roman and continued dragging the plow. “I know ya can hear me.” The weaving farmer tried to swat the animal’s hindquarters but his unsteady hand missed the creature’s flank. “Ah! Yar lucky there ya are.”

The plow snagged against another buried rock, skewing the furrow some 5 decimeters to the right. Kellum pulled hard on the plowshare, guiding the metal head back on track and mostly behind his plodding ox. “Kellum, get yar sorry self outside! Kellum, get the durned field plowed! Kellum, we gots no wheat, barley, peas or corn planted! Kellum, ya drinking too much! Kellum stop hanging with them shifty no gooders over on Ulthium’s land!” He swung his hand aimlessly again and spat. “Damn woman!” He successfully smacked his ox this time. “Ya hearded me! That damn woman! Always goin on about me and what I don’t do ‘round the stead. Well, let me tell ya bout all the things I do do. Thars so many things I’m a doin, I needs to take care of meself.” Turning back to the distant farmhouse, he shouted, “YA HEAR THAT, WOMAN?!?”

Grumbling, he pulled the oxen to a stop, coaxed the sleepy beast into a turn, and began the long drag back across the field. “Forty-eight,” he snarled. “I’m forty-eight. I don’t havta answer to that shrew bout what I’m a doin or how much I’ve had ta drink. Been livin here since me pappy had this land and his pappy afore him. My dagnamit family’s been here since the durned city was run by Hannibal and Lord Utica was a Carthage noble, not a Roman Baron. And through it all, we’ve always had enough food to carry us through, and ENOUGH TIME TO DRINK AND RELAX LIKE MEN ARE S’POSED TO DO!” The last was once again shouted at his cottage home as well as his wife who was most likely doing her best to ignore his constant ranting.

For the better part of the next hour, Kellum cross plowed his plot of land, all the while keeping up a lively banter of things he’d tell “that no good hussy of a durned nag wife he had” as soon as he’d finish as well as taking a steadying break after each furrow was dug. When his oxen would walk no further, bellowing for relief as well as water, Kellum happily unhitched the metal plow and gave the beast a swat on the tail.

Sitting his back under a spreading elm, he lowered his body to the ground and pulled his hip flask out. He took a long drink, feeling the hot applejack cider run down his throat, cooling his thirst as well as bringing a flush to his cheeks. Smiling, he took a second drink, smacking his lips contentedly. The sun was past noon, but still riding high and the clouds were far away and wispy. He watched the leaves flutter in the branches and felt the early summer breeze lull him slowly to sleep. Before he knew it, his eyes closed and he drifted away.

Some time later, Kellum awoke to a pounding headache and gummy, crusted eyes. Rubbing them, he blinked the spots away, and realized that the sun had long ago set. The moon had risen and the breeze had turned cold. “Zeus take me fer a durned blasted fool!” He leapt to his feet, looking wildly around. “Life sucking harridan’s gonna give me more than an earful this time.” He could not see where his oxen had ridden off to, but his plowshare was still lying on the ground where he left it. Shouldering the farm tool, he began trudging back to his cottage. “Ox mustav gone back home to feed.” He stretched, feeling his tightened muscles loosening up. “Good fer him.” He frowned. “Good for nuthin wife’d better have supper sittin around for me.”

Approaching the house, he was surprised to see a pair of strange horses tied up by his porch. They were sleek animals, their saddles well made, saddlebags filled. Neither beast whickered at his approach, which unnerved the Roman farmer. He was pleased to see his ox had indeed returned home, but was harnessed and tied to one of the steed’s saddle horn. “Wha’ the hell? If that tight grabbing, lira pinchin, chicken stealin excuse of a tax collector for Baron Uticus is here to take my ox, I’m gonna lay him out flat!”

He swung the plowshare around, holding it like a bludgeon, stormed up his porch, and kicked his door open, yelling, “What in Zeus’ Boil Filled Backside is goin on here?!?” He stopped short. The inside of his home was trashed, the meager furnishings scattered and broken. His wife was unconscious, her hair and clothes in disarray, a large purpling bruise coloring her cheek and eye. Two well groomed, bronze skinned men with shaved heads and quilted armor trimmed in yellow were seated at his table, dipping hunks of bread into his wife’s stew pot.

Kellum’s abrupt entrance caught both men by surprise. Although normally lazy and taciturn, Kellum could tell that these were not only not representative’s of Rome’s tax collectors, but were in the process of looting his home and had probably accosted, raped, and maybe killed his wife. His vision blurred, turning red and hazy. In three steps, the muscular farmer was already in a full run, his legs throwing his shaking body at the two men struggling to get to their feet. He dimly noted that both men wore sword belts and were trying to stand fast enough to draw their weapons.

“Gaaaahhhh!” The now weeping Kellum swung his plowshare in a large, scything arc. The thin metal edge whistled through the air, fully connecting with the now risen looter on his right. There was a dull thud as the plow struck him behind the ear. His neck twisted, crackling as it was torturously ripped from his shoulders. The partially beheaded man fell, hurled across the table, landing in a broken heap.

The 2nd looter had fully drawn his sword. Taking a quick measure of Kellum and his longer, heavier, yet awkward weapon, he lunged in, trying to skewer the farmer in the thigh. Kellum twisted, parrying the blow slightly but still getting a deep cut across his leg. He tried swinging his plow again, but the swordsman danced back. After avoiding the blow, he came back, cutting twice quickly, drawing blood across the Roman’s cheek and his left bicep.

Kellum hissed in pain, but attacked on. This time, he caught the swordsman with a lucky blow against his weapon, the lighter sword ringing loudly in the hut as it flew out of the looter’s hand. Dancing back, the disarmed man grabbed for the fireplace poker. Twisting the short spear in his grip, he stabbed it down at the now close and angry farmer. The hot point of the metal shaft plunged through Kellum’s foot, pinning it to the ground and hissing as the hot metal burned his skin.

“Brrraaaaaagggggghhhhhh!!” Howling in agony, Kellum slammed the end of the plowshare into his attacker’s chest and shoved with all his might. The man lost his balance and was thrown head first into the fireplace. His quilted clothing caught fire, spreading rapidly across his body. “Yaaa! Ya! Aaaahhh! Heeeeelllllpppp!”

Ignoring the screams and the flailing man. Kellum kept his weight pressed against the plowshare, forcing the burning assailant down amongst the embers and flames. When he could no longer hold the man down, he dropped his end of the wooden plow, grabbed the pinning poker with both hands, and tore the hot metal loose from the ground and his foot. Once free, he staggered back away from the feebly crawling and screaming man as well as the flames he was spreading about the hut. The thatched roof caught, the fire crawling rapidly overhead.

Limping, Kellum lunged over to his wife’s unmoving body. Grabbing her still form under her arms, he dragged her slowly out of his burning home and down his porch. From inside, he could still hear the man moaning in pain. Not caring if the man within lived or died, Kellum lifted his wife onto the back of one of the horses and slowly climbed into the saddle himself. Taking one last look as his now wildly burning home, the Roman farmer guided the horse he rode and his always-calm oxen eastward, towards the keep of the local lord and walled city of Utica.

He laid his bleeding hand on his wife’s throat, happy to find it warm and pulsing under his fingertips. “Thank Zeus ya still live.” He glanced up, meeting the brown judging eyes of his ox and scowled. “Yeah! I’m thankful the crone still lives,” he said. “She’s got a lot of work ta do makin it up to me fer savin her durned fool life. Damn witch. I know somehow or ‘nother, she’s gonna say this was all my fault.” Grumbling, he watched as the distant burning home fell, sending a cloud of sparks to light up the sky.

He laid his hands on the saddlebags, noting they were full of papers and scrolls. His leg was still bleeding and his foot felt itchy with the pain. Grimacing, he nudged his steed a bit, coaxing the animal to ride faster. “Whoeva they were,” he said, “Lord Uticus is gonna wanna read these pages and find out wat it is they wanted here.” He patted the horse’s neck absently and reached for his flask. Drinking the last of his cider, he lifted his wife’s unconscious form so she sat cradled in his arms, and stroked her hair with his free hand.

“Whoever they were,” he softly whispered to his wife’s closed eyes, tracing the edge of her bruise with a quivering finger. “I’m gonna make sure they pay for it.” With tears running down his cheeks and astride an Egyptian scout’s steed, Kellum rode on into the night, a man alone with his thoughts and his pain.
 
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Woo! Nice chapter! IS this Zulu afoot? Whats with the scrolls I wonder. Like the new character a lot.
 
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