Pax Romana

LMAO!!! I love the end of that..

That should be a good enough inside joke IMO

They're in there, you just have to find them.

The request for comedy has been answered.

“Sara-rin Quehoc, allow me to introduce King Proaga Zulu.”

“King Proaga, a pleasure to meet with you.”

The dark skinned king bowed low and then lowered himself into the padded chair. He scowled as he felt the cushions support his wide frame, but kept his comments to himself.

Lord Caesar lifted the scroll tube from the table and offered it to the Zulu king. “King Proaga, the cities of Intombe and Bapedi. I think you’ll find my exqueshers have cataloged everything in question. At your word, I can have my legions removed from the garrisons and returned to Roman lands.”

Proaga watched Caesar carefully, his eyes narrowed as he looked the Roman king carefully up and down. “Rome has been a good friend to Zulu. Rome has also been a lacking partner in some cases. We have seen often that the passage of time to a Roman is different than the passage of time to the rest of the world.” He glanced at the deeds and inventory scrolls in Caesar’s hand. “The citizens of Intombe and Bapedi have insulted the Zulu people. They allowed themselves to be swallowed; eaten by a lioness with no claws. A true Zulu would have pried stones from the streets. A true Zulu would have sent their children and wives with spear, rock and club to repel the invaders. A true Zulu would have fought until his spirit was cut free and even then, his ghost would have haunted his slayer for a dozen moons. But the people of these weak cities did not do that. They allowed themselves to be beaten in battle and then opt to live as slaves to a master. They are weak, and the Zulu do not harbor the weak. Let the weak stay under the skirts of the Romans. Let the weak guard the weak.”

Caesar felt the scrolls grow heavy in his grasp, the weight of them pulling his hand down and out of its offering position. Diplomacy with the Zulu nation had always been difficult, its people and kings proud and headstrong to a fault. They were the types of men to hurl insults and scorn as easily as the winds blow. Keeping his temper in check, Caesar responded, “I do not understand, King Proaga. Rome has fought gallantly and with honor side by side with the Zulu and Mayan people. We have spilt our blood in the battles against our common enemy.”

“You took the long way. Abydos. Byblos. While you were frittering away at her own cities, your inactions allowed ours to be taken. You deliberately struck her where she was unprepared, proving your disdain for actual combat. True warriors would have struck her at her strongest point.”

Trying to keep himself calm, Caesar attempted to reason with the belligerent Zulu. “King Proaga, there was no way we could get our troops through your territory fast enough to be of any use to prevent the fall of your cities…”

“They are no longer our cities.” He interrupted.

“Fine. Whatever. To prevent the fall of Intombe and Bapedi. We have tried for many years, through my reign and yours, and our fathers' as well, to come to an agreement about the use of each other’s lands for trade and transport.”

“The Zulu lands are for the footsteps of the Zulu people. This is our most sacred law. We will break it for no one.”

“You see,” Caesar said, “you yourself have just said that you would not have allowed us on your lands. You cannot have it both ways.”

King Proaga frowned. “You are trying to trick me; confuse me with your double words and hidden meanings.” He shook his head. “It will not work. Rome did not fulfill the extent of its abilities to help the Zulu. It is that simple.” He stood, grimacing as his thick fingers sunk into the thick seat cushion. “The Zulu do not want the weak cities returned to us. If they were, we would have to slit the throats of all of its citizens and color the Mgombo red with their blood, begging the war spirits to forgive them as they cross over. Rome is welcome to the flawed people.”

Caesar stood as well, his face downcast as he felt the ties that bound the Roman and Zulu people together part one by one. “If this is King Proaga’s wish, than Rome shall honor it.”

“Lord Caesar is wise. Because of our friendship and our long past with each other, I want to let you know that once I leave here, I am going to meet with the Undying Queen. I am going to accept her request for peace.”

The Roman king couldn’t disguise his amazement. “Peace? Peace with Egypt? But, why?”

The Zulu screwed his face up, trying to find the words. “Our goal was to free our territories from Egyptian hands. That has happened. This war is unpopular with my people. The Horse people attack us from the west. We will gladly spill their blood for the treachery they have committed. Rome does not need us to fight Egypt. Rome does what Rome wants. The fact that Rome is at war with Egypt makes this war unpopular with my people. So Zulu is to fight no more.”

“King Proaga must do what is best for his people.” Caesar had to struggle to keep his voice clear of disappointment. Planting a forced smile, he shook the Zulu king’s hand. “I hope that King Proaga and his people find what it is they are looking for in life. May your ancestors favor you and guard you and yours from harm.”

“May your ancestors keep you strong and bring your victory.” Clasping Caesar’s hard firmly, Proaga also gripped the Roman’s arm, squeezing slightly in a rare show of emotion. “Fare thee well, King Caesar.” And with that King Proaga left the throne room, closing the door firmly behind him.

Shaking his head, Caesar turned back to his Incan guest. “I’m sorry about that, Sapa-rin Quehoc.” He sat back down. “The Zulu people are a proud and noble race, but often headstrong and limited in their view of the world.”

“That is fine, Sapa-Roman Caesar. That is fine.” He swirled his goblet once and swallowed some of his wine. “This is a better beverage than anything our people have crafted. The grapes in your country must grow fat and plump.”

“That they do." Dropping his grin, he continued, "I don’t mean to be rude, but after King Proaga’s visit, I have forgotten most of what we talked about; except I remember you tell me that you have news of my ship and lost crew.”

The Incan dignitary nodded. “It is most vexing. Your Furious Thundercloud and its captain sailed into our waters many, many moons ago. They came with stories and tales. They spoke at length with our people. They spoke of the wonders of your home and the people who lived there. In exchange for their tales, we sought to keep them supplied with foods and needs as they visited our homes and towns.”

He frowned. “While dining with our Sapa-Inca Pachacuti, they became guarded. They spoke of nothing. Pachacuti gave them orders to stay and then to speak less guarded on the next day. Instead, they ignored Pachacuti’s direct order, broke out of their room, ran for their ship, and sailed away, but not before injuring 28 of our war…citizens and killing 7. Since then, they have ignored all further attempts to return to Cuzco for punishment.”

Lord Caesar said nothing, studying Quehoc’s face and bearing as he told his story. “I…see.” He absently fingered his goblet. “And you want…what from me?”

“We want you to outfit us with a similar vessel so that we may give chase and capture your men, return them to the Sapa-Inca, try them in our courts, and then remove their hearts on the Altar of Justice.”

Caesar just stared at him. The Incan’s face was earnest and set, attesting to the fact that he did not believe his request to be over the top or inflammatory. I just don’t believe it, he thought, first the Zulus and now this. Aloud, “Is there another way that we can just repay compense for this…I’m sure…mistaken confrontation? The Roman people want peace with their neighbors. However, we do not have such a ship available, and I would be hesitant to commission a crew to do what you have asked.”

“Our Sapa-Inca is a fair and wise king. He suggested that this might be the case.” Taking his satchel, he placed the heavy bag on the table between them. “We are willing to allow your vessel to continue on its journey, unscathed and absolved of past wrongdoings. In exchange for safe passage through our territory, we understand that your people are lacking in the concepts and construction plans of cathedrals. These mighty temples offer succor and support to your citizens, often times centered around whatever god your people are partial to.”

He continued, “We are willing to exchange this knowledge with you for your own promise of safe passage in your waters, and the knowledge you have on the building of your mighty cavalry. We know of armor, although our own land is spare of easily mineable iron. But the great construct of plates and mail, the armor and barding on your steeds, the majesty and presence of your cavalry, all this and the fact that these men seem...better...somehow than typical soldiers. Give us knowledge in this and a small stipend of gold to help us on our way, and we will no longer accost your vessel.”

Caesar pursed his lips, fingering the side of his jaw as he mulled over the Incan’s offer. Safe passage, both sides, they’ll lay off my ship and crew, we’ll finally learn the construction plans and secrets that Cleopatra has been hoarding, in exchange for our chivalric code and plate mail designs. He grit his teeth. That’s our big advantage. Allows us to ride hard against Egypt. He sighed. Well, the Incans are not Egypt, and with the Zulu backing out, our continued aggression against her is going to end as well. Small stipend of gold? I’ll have Tiberius work up the figure, something to please them but not break our treasury.

Nodding, Caesar said, “Done, Sapa-rin Quehoc. Rome is happy and pleased to enter such an arrangement with our new friends, the Incas.”

“The respect and good sense of the Roman people is reflected in it leader.” The Incan stood, shaking Caesar’s hands. “Now that this is completed, I would ask of you for a room to sleep in and a felanoshi to bring…I’m sorry, you call it a scribe. A scribe to bring me whatever texts and notes we would need to begin this transfer.”

“I’ll send our own Magister Ioral to your chamber. He is our highest knowledge in our kingdom. Will that suffice?”

Quehoc smiled. “It will.” Bowing once, he said, “If Lord Caesar will excuse me?”

Bowing back, Caesar said, “Of course.” He watched the Incan leave and then sat down heavily. Zeus protect us, he thought, I hope I did the right thing just then. He waited but as expected, he heard no answer; just the same thought tumbling around his head.

I hope I did the right thing.

Well, the Incas have a couple of other countries to go through before they can reach Rome, so as long as those nations are on your good side and can fight them off, you're fine.

Don't the Incans have the GL? That was nice getting a tech swap with them. Really enjoying this Vanadorn. Wish I was smart enough to hack your computer to see where the game stands at present time. I'm anxious to see how this game turns out.

Yes they do, but their contact is limited obviously. At this point, I did not know who they had spoke to besides the Arabs and I (maybe the iroquois, but who knew). So although they built the GL, it wasn't paying them off very much until my galley wandered into their territory (need to know 2 civs that have the tech). I was checking them every turn until I noticed a tech they had that I didn't - Monotheism. Since no one was going to trade it with me, and I had a monopoly on Chivalry, I opted for the trade and right of passage.

Thanks again for the interest and the reading. I want to kill the usefullness of the GL so I was debating on leaping to education when invention was finished and then returning to gunpowder afterwards.

More soon. And barbslinger, careful hacking in, I've got a SOD of red clad pikemen standing around as IC. (j/k).

V

Carcasus leaned back from the table, his arms waving overhead as if he was gripping a spear. “So here I am, falling off my horse, some slimy skinned Egyptian clawing at my back, and I still can’t get the other dead bugger off my spear.” He laughed, the rest of the commanders joining him in his chuckle. “Well, I fall on the cudger-bucket that’s pulling me down, crushing him; and the dead guy flips over my horse, falling on me! Ha, ha, ha. Poor turd couldn’t crawl after the flattening he received.” Righting his chair, me mimed an elbow strike at the captain to his right. “Just to make sure I didn’t wind up with a pig sticker in my kidney pie, I busted him twice in the ribs and left him for dead.” Hoisting his flagon high, he toasted, “To the Egyptian soldiers and all their people; thank Zeus we’re kicking their ass.”

“ZEUS!”

The barracks and command center of Intombe was still in a serious state of disarray, but a operational staff from the Son Tsuvius Military Academy had recently arrived and began to set the governing forces and militia bodies in place. The commanders and leaders of the Roman forces were gathered for their afternoon meal and meeting.

Before the blustering Carcasus could launch into another story of his bravery and prowess, the clattering sound of a fast moving horse sounded from outside. A few heartbeats later, a winded and dusty rider entered the room. Saluting with a quick fist over the heart, he asked, “Iuldias? Message for General Iuldias. From Rome.”

Lifting his finger, the General motioned the rider over. “Here, soldier.” Taking the proffered satchel, he added, “Thank you soldier. It’s hot, more so in these climes than home. Rest your horse and yourself. Excused.”

Saluting again, “Sir, thank you, General.” Bowing to the rest of the assembled staff, the messenger left quickly to tend to his steed and hit the mess hall.

“What news from Rome, General?”

Unstrapping the ties, Iuldias laid out the 3 bundles within across the table. Taking the first, he read quickly, “From some magister named Archimedes. Routed here from Veii. Hmm. There’s some book or body of work the Egyptians should have in their person. It’s Roman in origin, Latin in text. Details some sort of arms and armament from a Leonardo Vincius. Stolen plans and tech that could improve our weapons and war machines.”

The gathered soldiers murmured amongst themselves, some nodding, other shaking their heads. “Nujian, go get that surly Egyptian lord in here.” The assigned Centurion rose from the table and left. “We’ll see if he knows anything about this.” Taking the second bundle, he read, “To our most glorious and noble…blah, blah, blah. Yeah…Uhm hmm. Ioral, magister to Lord Caesar, encloses to you modification plans and revised range charts and diagrams for the trebuchets…blah, blah, blah. Extensive testing…alterations have proven to be an improvement…What the?”

“What, General?”

Iuldias flipped to the 2nd page and then back to the first. “Esberon, did you send some reporting back to Rome during the Intombe and Bapedi sieges?”

The nervous Magister nodded. “Yes, General. Why?”

“Well, according to this, they’ve worked out a solution to your problem that not only reduced your needed manpower for each trebuchet, but pinpoints accuracy to within 20 feet of target, increases firing rate, and boosts range by half again!”

The table burst into excitement. “No, really?” “It can’t be true.” “Let me see that.” “Zeus’ Boils! We’ve got those Egyptians by the short and curlies this time.” “Can we actually do this?” “Was this tested?” “My god! It’s so simple!” “Carpenters. General Iuldias, I need 3 dozen more carpenters, right away!”

Esberon, the 7 other magisters from the other siege engine crews, and a dozen assorted Centurions and engineer minded commanders got up from the tables, frantically passing the precious notes from Rome back and forth. “Esberon!” Iuldias called. “How soon till we can see this in action?”

“4 days, General. Give me 4 days. Vulcan save us! This is fantastic!” The men left, already crying out to their respective units and companies to gather together and bring their tools.

“This is good news, General.” Trajan said. “Damn good news.”

Iuldias smiled. “If all goes well, I want the army ready to march in 2 weeks. We’re going to try these improvements on Giza’s walls before the harvest gets underway.”

“HUZZAH!”

Iuldias was reaching for the last bundle when Centurion Nujian returned, gripping an older, bronze skinned Egyptian tightly by the elbow. “Vizier Ankhamun, as requested, General.”

“Good man, Centurion.” Motioning to an empty chair, “Sit, Vizier. Wine?”

Stiffly, Ankhamun sat. “No wine, General.”

“Something to eat then?”

The Egyptian faintly smiled. “No. I would like my freedom though, if you are in the mood to offer me things.”

The Romans about the table laughed. “Funny, Vizier. Very Funny.” Wiping tears from his eyes, the General continued. “Seriously though, I find myself in need of your council. Seems there is a book or something like it, that was wrongfully taken from a Roman citizen while we was studying in your country. A text on weaponry. Ever heard of it?”

The Vizier smiled. “Nothing. Never heard of this.”

Iuldias frowned. “Really? Seems like a big thing to not hear of. Don’t you have royal ties to Ptolemy? You would think he might have mentioned such a thing.”

“Yes I am Ptolemy’s 2nd nephew, but I do not know of this work you speak of.”

“There you have it,” Iuldias beamed, smiling at his men. “He’s never heard of it. Well, then,” he slapped his thighs and stood, “sorry to have wasted your time. Nujian, please escort Vizier Ankhamun back to his cell.”

Grabbing the Egyptian’s elbow again and bidding him to rise, the Centurion replied, “Yes, General Iuldias.”

“And on the way, have him beaten to within an inch of his life. I want his back striped and bleeding.”

“General!” Ankhaumn shook. “Please no, I beg of you!”

“Hold, Nujian.” The Centurion stopped. “Then tell me something that might make me change my mind.”

“I don’t know anything!!”

“Fine. Carry on, Centurion.” Nujian lifted the now sobbing Egyptian to his feet, holding both of his hands firmly behind his back, his elbows bent at a painful angle.

“General, please! Please! Mercy!!!”

Iuldias held up his hand, signaling the Centurion to stop. “Mercy? Like the mercy you showed the people of Bapedi when you had the rebels buried alive? Like the mercy you showed the Zulu nobility of Intombe by throwing their children into the crocodile pits? Like the mercy you showed the former army here, by gouging their eyes out and sending them to wander the cliffs naked in the winter?” He backhanded the groveling Egyptian. “Don’t speak to me of mercy. You live because you are worth money to me alive as opposed to dead. The moment the ransom for your saggy carcass falls through, I’ve got a nice cross picked out for you to decorate my garden so I can hear your whimpering screams until you die.” Spitting, he asked, “For the last time, do you know of this body of work I’m talking about?!?!”

Trying to hold back his tears, the frightened Egyptian bobbed his head up and down wildly. “I do. I do. We all do. It’s a wondrous bit of work, filled with the best of ideas and fanciful plans and designs. The sages in Alexandria are studying it day and night. They’re building a workshop around the smelting principles as well as the drawings for better arms. They’ve had the information only a few seasons, but the excitement is high.” He lost control of his emotions, dissolving into blubbering tears at the Roman’s feet. “That’s all I know. P-p-please don’t hurt-t-t me!”

Iuldias kicked the hysterical Vizier off his legs. “Nujian, take this retch from my sight, and give him 2 lashes. One for wasting my time when I first asked him for an answer, and a second to give him something to cry about.”

Saluting, the Centurion bodily lifted the wailing Egyptian off the ground, and dragged him from the room. “Calapis, I want this information sent to Rome and to that magister in Veii as soon as possible.” He reached for the 3rd bundle, unwrapping its cover.

“Ay, ay, General.”

Reading the cover page, Iuldias’ expression went from disgust to anger. As he continued to read, he grew more heated, bouncing slightly in his seat, his face flushing. Finally, when he could read no more, he flung the bundle across the table into Trajan’s lap. “Mars bedamned fool!” he swore.

Trajan took the pages and began to read, “What, General? What news from…No…No! They can’t do this!”

The other commanders about the room became yammering for an explanation. Iuldias punched the table, seething in anger. “It seems,” he growled from clenched teeth, “that the Zulu’s have decided for peace with the Egyptians.” Quieting the angry outbursts, he continued. “PLUS! Plus…they have abandoned the return of Intombe and Bapedi. They have ceded the cities and rights to them to our control. And from the tone of the report from Lord Caesar himself, he’s seriously contemplating a meeting with Cleopatra to sue for peace as well.”

The tumult about the room grew loud. Not a man present was anything other than furious. Finally, Trajan asked what everyone was questioning, “General, what are we going to do?”

Grabbing the letter again, Iuldias skimmed over its pages, his eyes flashing as he devoured the document. When finished, he read it again, and then a third time. Putting it down, he smiled broadly. “It means we have a short time to launch an attack on Giza.”

“What!” “That’s treason!” “Yeah, let’s destroy those scum!” “We can’t! Caesar forbids it!”

“Ah-ah-aaah!” Iuldias waggled his finger, showing more teeth. “Not once in the letter does Caesar say we are to stop our attacks and advancement against the Egyptians.”

“But that’s what he means.”

The General waved the papers violently, their crinkling sound loud in the chamber. “But he does NOT say it! I don’t read entrails, I don’t KNOW that’s what he means. Trajan?” he asked. “What say you?”

The younger General reread the letter as well and nodded. “Don’t see anywhere that we shouldn’t smash the Egyptian capital to rubble.” Grinning as well, he stood up. “In fact, with the plans for the improved trebuchets and the fact that the yellow bastards stole OUR military plans, I think that Lord Caesar wants us to continue our aggression against those thieving low lives.”

“YEAH!”

Iuldias clapped his hands. “It’s settled then. Captains, Centurions, I want this army ready to march in 2 weeks. Send messenger to the 3rd Lugdumun and 4th Syracuse to abandon the Theban Highway and get their asses here. I want them keeping order and replacing our units the day we abandon this city.” Gathering the letters from Caesar, Iuldias rewrapped them tightly. “I want not a word of this amongst the common soldiery. Speak not of it, ever. If they do ask, tell them as Trajan had said it, Caesar practically wants us to crush the Undying Queen and her treacherous people. Do you get me?!”

“Sir, yes sir!”

“Then move it men. We’re going back to war! To Giza!”

“GIZA!!!”

Great stuff - keep it comin'

Looking out the carriage, Caesar scowled as he watched the battery of Roman trebuchets fire in the cold morning air. Even though this country didn’t get much of a winter, the rugged hilly terrain and higher altitudes added a crisp edge to the atmosphere.

“Battle line’s jus’ up ‘head t’ere, Lord Caesar, sir,” the driver called back. “You sure you wanna get righ’ up t’ it?”

“Yes, Latham,” he replied. “Bring me to Generals Iuldias’ and Trajan’s tent.” Feeling the carriage pick up speed, Caesar grit his teeth. His back was sore from the long ride north from Rome. His ire was up from the lack of intelligence reporting coming from his generals and the armies. It took Tiberius and his own network of men to inform Caesar that his own troops were no longer stationed in Intombe, but had marched northward to Giza and were laying siege on the Egyptian capital. It also explained why his missives to Cleopatra had gone unanswered in his request for talks.

As he was driven through the sprawling encampment, he looked around. The men seemed well fed and happy. There was no lacking in discipline in either the play or the drill they soldiers were practicing. The tenting was in good repair, the animals clean and healthy, the camp followers jolly and well tempered.

As the carriage turned north past an impromptu quarry, it was forced to slow down, allowing Caesar to see that some of his troops were not pure Romans or Roman-Carthage descent, but the ebon skin of the Zulu nation. These tall, dark warriors wore the red tabard and Roman style armor as the rest of his men. They seemed quite at ease amongst his people, and the same could be said in reverse. He was surprised to see the Zulu troops were not gathered under a single flag or company, but sprinkled liberally as reinforcing soldiers amongst the different companies.

To the north, he could just make out the glistening walls of the city of Giza. A pang ran through him as he remembered his last visit there and the narrow escape he made from Cleopatra’s attack. At least 10,000 Roman soldiers were besieging the mighty city, engaging the defenders on the walls and in the hills around it. The trebuchet’s fired again, 8 humongous rocks flying with deadly accuracy to the same section of the wall. Caesar noted the extreme range the missiles had been hurled, as well as the design change that Magister Ioral had suggested had been implemented.

“Mars’ be damned!” a soldier cried out, pointing. “That’s Lord Caesar’s carriage! Lord Caesar! Lord Caesar!” Soldiers, camp support, and Centurions alike all stopped what they were doing, swarming the carriage and crying their greetings to their King and Lord.

“Git!” The driver yelled, trying to clear a path amidst the press of humanity. The carriage was forced to a stop. “Move! Move it you silly basta’ds!”

“It’s alright, Latham,” said Caesar. “I’ll talk to them. The Generals don’t even know I’m coming, so it’s not like they’re waiting for me.” Opening the door, Caesar stepped out and was almost deafened by the cheers and cries thrown his way.

“HAIL, CAESAR! HAIL!”

Forcing a smile and trying to hide his surprise, Caesar waved to the massed crowd, amazed as he watched it continue to swell as news of his arrival spread about the camp. “Hail and well met, soldiers of Rome!” He called back.

A fresh wave of cheers met him, the sound of it rolling across his skin like a wave. Holding his hand up, he motioned for silence, and had to continue motioning to get the exuberant crowd to quiet down enough for him to continue speaking. “I have traveled from Rome to be here; to speak with your Generals about this…this attack on Giza.”

He found himself once again unable to be heard as the gathered mob went wild. Spears, swords, and flails pierced the air as the thousands of warriors cried out in praise of Rome. Helms were tossed high in the air, their owners showing their joy at what was assumed to be Caesar’s approval of their siege. “Damned Egyptians!” and “Lord Caesar’ll lead us to victory” echoed across the valley. “Victory! Victory! Victory!” The chant grew, carried across the mob and sent loudly through the mountains for the besieging and besieged soldiers to hear.

Caesar frowned, unable to deny the affect his presence was having on his troops. He found himself doubting his original purpose of stopping this attack. The smiling faces and cheering throng struck hard at the foundation he built on his argument to sue for peace against the Egyptians. For the first time in Roman history, the mob was not aiming its power and frustration at the foundations of civilized society, but channeled through its king, it thrust its intensity at the enemy of Rome. The mob was roiling faster and harder in its anger at Egypt and the call to victory.

The Roman king was shocked. If he were to continue with his desire to upbraid his Generals and remove the attackers from Giza, it would demoralize his men and most likely, sink his entire country into revolt and anarchy. He realized that for now, the attack against Egypt would have to continue.

Clearing his throat, he bellowed into the crowd. “Soldiers of Rome! Please. Soldiers…Soldiers of Rome! Hear me!” The frantic cheers died down to a low roar, allowing Caesar to be heard. “I have traveled to speak with your Generals about your attack on Giza!” He repeated. “I have come to say…the strength and might of Rome is behind its sons all the way! I have come to see the walls of Giza shake beneath our mighty war machines! I have come to see the people of Egypt watch their most powerful city fall beneath the slings and arrows of Rome! I have come to see the finest soldiers the world has ever known as they marched…marched onward to VICTORY!”

The tumultuous cry drowned out everything, each man, woman, and child adding their voice to the consuming mass of cheers that echoed across the landscape. Through it all, the chanting call of “Victory” was shouted over and over again, acting as a heartbeat to the wild howling of the frenzied Roman mob.

The distant edge of the gathering parted as a dozen riders in the finery and armor of the Roman elite rode toward Caesar and his carriage. Squinting, he noted that Trajan and Iuldias were in the pack that approached. This fact was asserted as their names were shouted by the men that gave way for them, until the obviously nervous generals and their staff came abreast their king and his transport. Iuldias spoke first, “Lord Caesar, hail!” he saluted. “To what do we owe this great honor?”

Lord Caesar said nothing, watching his commanders through narrowed lids. He saw his men begin to fidget, glancing sideways at each other. When he let the silence stretch long enough, he said, “I have come…to see the mighty host of Roman soldiery…lay waste to the Egyptian city of GIZA!”

Once more, the mob went wild. As they screamed and hollered, Caesar leaned in to his generals and said in tones low enough for them to hear alone, “If you ever go against my wishes again, I will have your bodies strung up on Hundred Cross Hill. Do I make myself clear?”

Cowed, both men answered, “Yes, Lord Caesar.”

Staring them down, Caesar added, “You have 6 months to break Giza. If you succeed, the war ends and you will both be awarded titles and lands; as well as removed from command of your respective forces. I won’t strip your ranks, but you will never command again. Understand?”

“Yes, Lord Caesar”

“Good. Cause if you fail, the war still ends, and I have you both dragged in for treason, your bodies torn apart by wild bulls, your families evicted, and your names blotted from the history texts and reviled in song until the breaking of the world.” Fixing them both with a hard glance, he finished with, “So it is in your best interest to succeed. You wanted this fight, you finish it. Now smile for the crowd and remember that you are still soldiers of Rome.”

“Yes, Lord Caesar.” Sitting taller in their saddles, both Generals waved along with Caesar at the mass of humanity that was chanting their sonorous cry; “Victory, Victory, Victory!”

“Now Latham,” Caesar said, giving the mob a final wave, and then reentered his carriage and closed the door. With a lurch and a jolt, the driver got the spirited steeds moving, the crowd giving way for their Lord and King; Caesar, King of the Romans.

Marc Antony opened his eyes slowly. The distant pounding of his countrymen’s trebuchets had stopped for the night. Giza was asleep, or as asleep as she could be with the Roman army struggling to break down her walls. The long winter nights had begun to shrink, the early rising sun belying the fact that spring was rapidly approaching. He glanced about the chamber noting that the other 5 suitors were still deeply asleep.

Reaching out, he felt for the earthenware mug by his scented bed and smiled. The first few weeks here as Cleopatra’s lover had passed by with alarming speed and a severe lack of clarity. Eventually he had noticed that he spent most of his time lounging around, honing his muscles, and making love to the Undying Queen. None of it with any sense of purpose or the passage of time. It wasn’t just him, but the other suitors as well seemed to wander about in a fog; a happy one, but a fog nonetheless.

Taking a hunch, Marc avoided finishing his nightly beverage and woke up the next day, his head clearer and his thoughts more lucid. He realized that he was being fed opium extract. It made him content and dull of wit. It turned him into a slave to Cleopatra’s desires and whims.

Since that time many months ago, he had done everything he could to avoid the tainted foods and drinks. As his faculties returned, he was able to once again perform his duty as a spy for Rome. He noted Cleopatra’s comings and goings, what heads of state and church spoke with her, what guards wandered the halls and when, the times of the watch change, the layout of the north and western wings of the palace. Unwilling to trust this information written down and possibly found, during his runs, once a week, he would scribe down the newest data, stuff the paper into a leather flask, and toss it into the waste channel where the flowing waters would rejoin the Mgombo River and bring his findings to his people.

It had grown easy for him to disguise himself as still under the influence of the drugs, allowing him a level of anonymity that made most people forget he was even there. Even Cleopatra was often loose with fairly important information, speaking of troop strengths and vital facts about the Kingdom while he was still in the room.

He sighed. Cleopatra. Her body was his temple to pray upon. He worshipped her skin, her form, her flesh. The carmine lips, the perfumed hair, her swells and curves, the feel of her nails against his back, the strength of her legs as they embraced him. He could not think of a time when he did not feel such contentment and satisfaction with a woman. He also knew that she felt something for him as well. As the number of suitors was parsed down over the weeks and months, he not only remained in her harem, but was called on to fulfill her sexual whims almost every other night. However, as intoxicating his time was with the nubile queen, he was still and always, a servant of Rome.

It was his awakened senses that had roused him from his slumber. From the Undying Queen’s chamber, he noted a flickering light was shining under the door and low voices could be heard beyond as well. Rolling lightly out of bed, he cautiously placed his feet on the cool floor and picked his way silently across the chamber. Laying his palms against the frame, he leaned his ear upon the thin wood and listened to the conversation beyond the portal.

“…I believe we have already…Caliph Abu.” The dulcet tones of Cleopatra’s voice sounded, most of her words audible to the listening Roman.

“Your people…most generous. We…Inca has had contact with these Romans. They…highly of them.” The other voice was definitely male, deep toned and confident sounding. The accent was strange, trilling with no identifiable correlation to any known Egyptian province. Unsure what he was hearing, Marc tried to concentrate harder.

“…so mighty as they…is true we have underestimated…strength, but with King Proaga bought off, we can…”

“The…sheiks, masters of…sword…horses, our…ready to march…months at most.”

“Egypt hopes so, Caliph Abu. We have allied…Arabic nations…Mecca cannot empty…I fear for Giza. We have begun…to Alexandria and Elephantine.”

“…wise precaution, Pharaohess. Even if…falls, the citizens will…Roman rule.”

“The Roman’s have…Very hard on conquered provinces. I will not…mistake again.”

“…digress. The deal is done. Unless there is more, I…away from here as soon as possible…am discovered by the Romans.”

“Although Egypt thanks you, I would…you personally.”

“Ah, Pharaohess! We hoped that you would…kill the lights.”

The glow from under the door faded, followed by the unmistakable sounds of the Egyptian Queen’s rousing passion; sounds that Marc had summoned from her velvet throat on many occasions. Making his way back to his pallet, he lied down upon it, his mind furiously racing.

Who were the Arabic people? Were they another province of Egypt? He doubted it highly, since they had never been shown or mentioned in any of the cities he had walked through. Mecca. Sounded like a proper name. City? Count? Location? He did not know, but would let Tiberius be aware of it. Some sort of alliance had been struck, as supported by Cleopatra and her sexual congress with this Caliph Abu. Troops, sword and horse, would be moving out in less than a year, but more than a month. It didn’t take much mental exercise to know that his own people were to be the target.

He would have to run by the city run off again tomorrow. A message must be sent to Rome about this…Arabic Nation, and the growing threat they proposed to Rome. He rolled over, closing his eyes, but it was a long time until sleep took the troubled Roman.

That Cleopatra...What a harlot..
That's why I love her
Keep up the great work..and don't forget the occasional screnie

“
“Hand me that strut, Leo.”

Reaching up, he shoved the end of the long beam to Archimedes who lined up the holes with the outer frame and drove the pin home. “It’s in. Attach it to the base.”

Leo repeated the exercise with the lower end of the beam, attaching the last piece to the contraption the two men had been working on. The magister in training climbed down and looked over Leonardo’s shoulder. The engineer looked back scowling. “Hey! I’m doing it right. It’s my design.”

“It may be your design, but if we left it to you, it’d remain a drawing in your cramped book, or that ridiculously small model you tried to cobble together.” He slapped the parchment-covered machine they had finished building, a smile crossing his face. “It took me to actually get this damn…whatever thing built.”

“Ornithopter. Come on say it.”

“Bird machine?” Archimedes made a face. “Stupid name. Aeroglider. I still like that name.”

Leonardo snapped his fingers. “You invent something, you get to name it. I like ornithopter. It’s more real sounding.”

“Whatever, I’m still the one bank rolling this. Magister Ioral’s going to kill me if this doesn’t work. And anyway, I’m the one that got you into painting birds – you were beginning to creep me out with those models you had traipsing about the flat.” Archimedes shuddered, “I know the dowager, Miss Lisa, liked the thought of naked men posing, but it’s not what I wanted to come home to after a long day scribing copies.”

“It’s art, you peasant,” he jested good-naturedly. “The muscles, proportions, body styles and human form, it shows the artists not only the beauty of the human body, but also the engineer in one how the body works.”

Archimedes shrugged. “It’s naked men making muscles in the kitchen. Call it what it is. If you want to study the human body so much, go down to Hundred Cross Hill and bribe the Optio there to let you poke a deader.” He smiled. “Just don’t you dare bring one of them home!”

Both men laughed. The sky was clear and the weather warm. They were some 2 miles north of Veii on one of the many Roman roads that crisscrossed the land here. A team of ten horses was hitched up to a large, unwalled wagon. On the wagon, their construct was perched. It appeared to be a geometrical representation of a bird constructed of stout oaken beams and thick sheets of broad paper. The “wings”, designed to move up and down through a series of gears and pulleys, were 20 feet long each and had a swept back design to them. The Roman flag was emblazoned in red and black on both sides of the “tail”.

Glancing at the sky, Archimedes noted the lack of clouds in the pale blue above. “Well, this is it.” He looked longingly at the ornithopter. “Any chance you’d let me fly it while you drive the wagon?”

Leonardo shook his head. “You invent something, you can fly it. No way I’m giving this up.”

“Lucky bastard.” He grumbled. “Well, get on, you reprobate.”

Grinning, Leonardo pulled himself up the side of his ornithopter and into the body and seat build there. Using a pair of leather straps, he tied himself into position and grabbed hold of the handles before him. Giving them a little test, he watched the wings lilt back and forth. The same occurred to the tail as it twitched side to side.

“Looks good!” Archimedes called from the ground, watching the response from outside.

The engineer then placed his feet on the treadles and pushed. In response, the ornithopter’s wings bobbed up and down. “Feels good in here.” Noting the empty road and lack of wind he called out, “Time waits for no man. Let’s try it.”

Giving the thumbs up, Archimedes climbed onto the buckboard of the wagon. Reaching back, he made sure the bracing ropes holding the ornithopter to the wagon were still held under the lock bar. Satisfied that they were, he called out, “Are you ready?!”

Leonardo tried to slow his rapid heartbeat down. Trundling the pedals once more, he grinned. “Let’s do this!”

The magister in training grabbed the reins of the team of horses and with a light flick, started the wagon moving. The hard packed road had been smoothed by Archimedes and Leonardo over the last 3 days, so the increasingly fast moving wagon bounced very little. The horses went from a trot to a cantor to a gallop, the wind from their passage whipping their manes and rustling the great machine they towed.

Leonardo felt his stomach churn strangely, followed by a hum that whistled through the frames and supports that surrounded him. With ever growing lurches, the ornithopter lifted off its perch, held tight by the ropes that kept it from flying free. Holding the controls with sweating palm, the engineer twisted the wings backwards and pumped the treadles hard.

The great machine lifted off the wagon bed, yanked the ropes that bound it hard, and remained aloft for 4 wildly thumping heartbeats. It clattered back down with bone rattling thump, rocking the wagon slightly.

Teeth showing in a wild grin, Leonardo repeated the actions. Once more, the ornithopter took to the air and landed with a crunch. “NOW!” he shouted. With wonderment and screaming fear, he watched as Archimedes lifted the locking bar, releasing the bracing ropes from their harness. The wind caught the mighty machine, threatening to spill the ornithopter to the ground. Holding tightly, he once more cupped the wings to scoop the rushing air and worked the treadles hard, trundling the pedals to keep the wings flapping.

With a whoosh, the ornithopter lifted off the wagon and climbed into the air. It soared 10 feet..20 feet..30 feet high! With wondrous amazement, Archimedes watched their great invention actually fly; flying as a bird might with outstretched wings and soaring majesty.

“EUREKA! WE’VE DONE IT!” He hollered, waving his hands as Leonardo was born even higher into the air.

Leonardo was sick with fear, his stomach lurching wildly as his senses spun. In front of him, all he saw was sky, and the ground to his right was creeping further into his vision. He struggled to keep his legs pumping, forcing the wings to give his creation greater lift and power. The controls in his hands felt sluggish, the hawsers and gear works grinding as he tried to bring the horizon back in line.

Pulling mightily on the left wing control, he was able to flip the ornithopter more in line with a level bearing. Unfortunately, the forward momentum from the initial launch was fading and at the height of 40 feet, he felt the front of his machine begin to nose down. The sky was replaced with the distant horizon line, which slowly changed to the ground. The speed of his machine increased as it angled towards the earth, some of its stolen momentum returned as it flew rapidly towards the road. Defiantly, Leonardo tried to force the wings to cup back even further, a low fearful scream coming from his clenched lips.

On the other hand, Archimedes had seen the problem earlier. The ornithopter had fallen behind and seemed to stall in the air. Afraid that it would then drop like a stone, he slowed the team down trying to stop them so he could help his flying friend somehow. But then the wedge shaped bow if the machine pointed downward, and the flying contraption seemed to charge out of the sky. He saw the ornithopter grow larger, its wings beating and Leonardo struggling to keep it aloft, screaming in terror

The great machine tried to level out, its wings rigidly held. Abandoning his ride, Archimedes leapt from the wagon, hitting the unyielding ground with a thump, rolling out of the way of harm. He came to a stop in time to see the ornithopter strike the wagon and horses. The underside crumpled, tilting the entire machine onto its left side. The wing hit the ground, splintering as it gouged a furrow into the grasses. It flipped on edge, dragging the wagon and bodily lifting the rear 4 horses kicking and screaming from the ground.

The paper housing tore away, shredding the ropes and ties that held the frame together. Gears and planking burst from the underside. The lead animals, whinnying in fear were dragged to a stop, their harnesses tearing across their flanks, bits ripping from their mouths. The huge right wing blew out of it socket, slapping a frantic steed across the head, felling the beast with a broken neck. The momentum of the shredding ornithopter rolled it over once more, maiming another 2 horses in the process before it rocked to a stop, an unrecognizable mass of busted struts, torn paper, and loosely spinning gears.

Stunned at the amount of wreckage, Archimedes ran to the downed machine, calling, “Leonardo! Leonardo!” trying to be heard over the high-pitched screams of the wounded horse team. “Leonardo!” he clambered over the tilted over axle of the wagon. “Leonardo!!” he grabbed a piece of the busted ship, bodily dragging the heavy wreckage aside.

The horses’ screams were piercing his mind with their shrill cry. Squinting to alleve the pain, he crawled under the leaning remains of the left wing, punching his way through the paper membrane to reach the cockpit. There he saw his friend, dangling lifeless, one of the busted controls still gripped in his hand, his body strapped against the chair that he had piloted from.

“LEO!” Archimedes cradled the limply swaying form, drawing a knife, he severed the bindings, allowing the engineer’s body to fall free. Laying him flat, he took in his bruised and battered form, his torn cheek, lacerated hands, the bloodied shirt where it stuck to his midsection.

He almost fainted when he realized that his friend’s chest rose and fell, slightly and shallowly, but still he was breathing. Giving thanks to Vulcan, Zeus, and every other god that ever graced the shrines of Rome, Archimedes grabbed Leonardo from under the arms and dragged his still living body from the crumpled remains of the ornithopter.

The flying machine that for the briefest stretch of mortal time left terra firma and flew upon the wind borne sky, before coming to rest once more and with finality in the unyielding embrace of mother earth.

You play magic the gathering dont you?

Long before MTG came out, Leonardo DiVinci drew up a tremendous number of plans, one of which was a fantastic flying device called an ornithopter, a machine similar to a hang glider/proto-pane based on the dynamics of flying birds.

Not Urza's "0" point artifact from Antiquities that is perfect for blocking weenie flyers or as a suicide wall vs. dragons and serra's. No I don't play MTG, what do you mean . Been a player since Legends, but don't let the ornithopter here confuse the two subjects. It's known that DaVinci never actually built such a contraption of full size, models only. Others have built ornithopters since then, and some of the earlier test (unmanned) models had a tendency to stall and crash - not enough power and frame was too heavy.

Anyway, thanks again for reading. More today if I get the chance.

V

Dushotop ducked low, his back pressed against the rocking stone. When the tremor ended, he peeked over the ruined parapet once more. The land outside Giza was littered with the dead. Thousands and thousands of dead lay across the land. Osiris would have to spend a year just to sort through the mass of fallen bodies that filled the valley. Romans, Egyptians, it mattered not who lied dead, their eyes would see no more, the hearts would beat no more. The Romans were like the waves, crashing against the rock that was Giza, always crashing against it. They would hit the walls and slide off only to regroup and hit again. And again, and again, and again. Beating their bodies sore, their skin raw, their bones bloody. Each wave left more of their dead littering the ground.

His own countrymen fared no better. When the waves of Roman fury crested over the tops of Giza’s defenses, the blood of Egyptians flowed with no less vigor, no less readiness to spill across the earth. He had lost track how many times the Roman’s had achieved a gore-splattered handhold on the shoulder of Giza. He knew that Egyptians died whenever this happened, died on the order of 6 to 1, throwing their carcasses at the red clad invaders, trying to drag them down with the sheer weight of their expired forms.

The dead might very well outnumber the living. So many men on both sides have had their bodies carved from their souls, so many husbands and sons would not be returning to their homes. Dushotop could not help but weep, the hot tears rolling down his dusty bronze cheeks.

The Roman war machines had moved closer over the weeks, throwing larger stones because of it. Many of the buildings had been destroyed; most of the people now lived in the ruins, desperate for food, hungry for succor, screaming for the ever-flying rocks to just stop. It would not be long now. The mighty city of Giza would fall. Maybe today, maybe tomorrow, but this thing Dushotop knew. When the Undying Queen abandoned the city less than a fortnight ago, the populous lost hope. When the great palace was stripped bare, the soldiers grew fearful. Banditry and brigands ran rampant through the avenues. Lawlessness had gripped the heart of Giza, and was squeezing the life out of it.

He could not understand these Romans. How could men throw their lives away as they did? How could they see their shield mates and comrades fall to their left and right and still advance, press on? The stories of the Romans were true; they drank blood, lived on fear, and would stop at nothing less than conquest and domination of all other peoples.

He gripped his weapon tightly, knowing that it would serve no purpose if he were found. Once more the wall shook, vibrating under the impact of another Roman missile. He closed his eyes and prayed to Osiris. He prayed for help in this his hour of need. The wall he was pressed against burst inward, ruptured from the trebuchet stone that blew through it. The 200 lb rock crushed his spine, his ribs. It hurled his body from its perch and cast it to the ground below.

Dushotop never knew it. He had gone to join the dead in their ever-growing queue to see Osiris.

Hippocrates wanted to cry. 16 hours straight. For the last 16 hours, he had been setting bones, stitching wounds, mixing poultices, dragging bodies, and removing limbs. The stink of blood had soaked through his hands weeks ago. Everything he ate smelled of blood. Everything he touched smelled of blood.

He looked down at the raggedly breathing youth laid out before him. With limbs too long and only a light down on his cheeks, he couldn’t be older than 16. Yet here he lie, his right leg a mangled mess of bone splinters and hemorrhaging flesh. Hippocrates was going to have to cut the leg off, sever it at the knee. This poor boy that answered the call of arms, who came to Rome’s beck and call, would go home a cripple, never able to run or jump or dance again.

Assuming he lived through the amputation.

Nodding to the two burly helpers, they laid their weight against the unconscious youth, holding him down. Hippocrates began cutting. The serrated saw edge squealed as it scored through the knee plate and the between the two leg bones behind it. Dull and numb to the sound, he continued chopping and sawing until the youth’s leg, his own body part, was no longer a part of him. He watched with morbid fascination as another assistant scooped up the grisly remains with a shovel and fling it from the table, onto the ever-present pile of discarded arms, legs, hands, and feet.

Lifting the heavy iron pan from the stoke forge by his table, he pressed the cherry red metal against the meaty stump, nearly passing out as the retch of burning flesh filled his nostrils. The youth woke up howling. Both helpers had to latch their fingers across the edge of the table to keep the screaming soldiers from bolting away. As soon as Hippocrates pulled the hot iron away, the young man collapsed once more. Checking his pulse, he nodded to his assistants that the soldier still lived. With blind motions and numb hands, he salved the burned wound and wrapped it in wine and herb soaked bandages. Motioning with his chin, the two helpers lifted the youth from his operating table and bore his body away with the other post surgery wounded.

He tried to think about something other than the next boy or man that would be staring up at him. Every so often, he was able to hear the sounds of the battle outside when it wasn’t drowned out by the wailing in the surgeon’s tent. The howls of the men, the roar of the charges, the whoosh of the trebuchet’s; like some symphony of war ever playing in the background until you couldn’t hear it anymore.

He looked around woodenly, noting that the men working now were not the same men that he had started the day with. He scowled. Too often he would put more time and effort into saving the lives of those who crossed under his hands than the supposed betters he had to answer to. Perhaps they lost sight of what it was they were doing. Perhaps they no longer realized that this wasn’t a job or a task, this was saving the life of some unfortunate wounded on the battlefield. There was nothing finer or nobler one can do with their life than try to save another.

His helpers returned, lowering a weeping soldier with a rented sword slash across his chest. “Aghhh!” He howled, grabbing Hippocrates by the arm. “Help me please. Please! I don’t want to die! Ah, Mars! I don’t want to die!!”

Laying his hand comfortingly across the wounded man’s forehead, he bent lower. “I’ve got you. I won’t let you die.” Taking an ether cone, he placed it over the sobbing man’s nose and watched him pass out. Drawing in a deep breath tinged with the metallic stink of blood (always of blood), he grabbed his knife from the sideboard and quickly went to work on the Roman soldier. Cutting away his armor, followed by the padding and the tunic beneath, he revealed the wound to the open air, pleased to not see the tell tale whiteness of the bones below.

Maybe I can keep my word, he thought. Maybe if I keep working, I can keep enough men from dying.

Iuldias felt numb. He could no longer hear the fighting about him. His skin felt neither cold nor hot. His vision was blurred, all thing swimming and indistinct. He knew he still stood, he felt the ground beneath his feet. He was sure he still gripped his sword; he felt the weight pulling his right arm down. Blinking rapidly, he unsnapped his chinstrap and allowed his twisted helm to fall off his sweat-matted head. He drew in great lungfuls of air, sucking them in with his mouth wide.

Intelligence had pointed that the defenders of Giza could not stand for much longer. With the summer drawing high, he had wanted this engagement closed. Trajan had the trebuchet’s pounding the walls night and day, opening larger and larger holes for the Romans to enter. Iuldias held the troops back. The Egyptians were getting pounded; they found themselves unable to repair the damage as fast as it was occurring. Every wagon, cart, or running person who tried to leave was captured by the Romans and sent to the slave wagons.

After the rains had come and the walls were more rubble than defenses, the Roman Generals sent the armies on the move. A final battery of stones paved the way for the advancing units. Legionnaires and heavy infantry stormed the walls, hacking and chopping anything that barred their way. The assembled knights struck the city from the eastern front, trampling the soldiers that had gathered there. They swarmed into the sally ports, tearing the gateways and portcullis away, opening more holes into Giza’s stony skin.

Trajan had ridden out earlier this day, heading the column of the Legion Knight Army. They had entered the main gates, over 2,500 strong. Their pennants whipping, lances flashing, horses snorting, the pride of Rome’s military flooded the wide streets of Giza, attempting the wash the Egyptian defenders from their holes, walls, and barricades. Iuldias couldn’t remember hearing from any of the army’s runners if Trajan was still alive and his troops victorious. It had been many hours since any of his runners returned with news at all.

Scipio’s Legionnaires, Iuldias’ own directly commanded troops had scaled the walls and barriers along the southeastern gates, overwhelming the pike men that were positioned there. With over 2,000 swordsmen at his back, he launched an invading attack toward the heart of Giza. The outer buildings and thoroughfares fell easily, unable to stand up against the sheer number of dedicated attackers striking their position. But as the hours wore on, the progress toward the heart of the city slowed. Buildings had been dropped across major roadways. Archers, wielding their superior bows and longer arrows, struck the Roman lines from concealed and elevated positions. Groups of determined yellow clad warriors charged out of sewers and alleys, their swords, flails, and maces denting and hammering at his soldiers.

The constant press and the passing of time had worn away Iuldias’ troops. Most of his men were lost, either dead, wounded, or cut off from the main column in its ever-trudging path toward the Undying Queen’s Palace. His legionnaires numbered 1 in 8, following their General through grit and obedience, staving off exhaustion with their stoic wills alone.

And here he was now, the last square before the palace of Cleopatra. The gates were closed and guarded on both sides by furiously desperate fighters. The littered dead, both Roman and Egyptian, belied the fact that other troops had made it this far, but even dealing their damage, had been unable to dislodge the defenders from their post. He had expected to be struck with the withering arrow fire the Egyptians had used up till this time, but he realized just by looking around at the fallen forms that most of the shafts had probably already been fired.

His men had attacked on his command, charging the gates with the same fervor they had shown through every engagement he had led them on. Seeing their goal in sight had added strength to his doughty legionnaires, powering them as they fell upon the defending units. But the energy was spent quickly and the damage was too little to send the Egyptians scattering. The pace of the fight began to swing the other way. Less warriors in yellow fell below the Roman swords, and those that did were reinforced from fresher fighters from within the palace compound.

In a short time, Iuldias had seen the folly he committed. His men were too few and too wounded to take the position on their own. He had underestimated the number of defenders he was to face. With no place to retreat to and no reinforcements of his own, he felt control of this latest battle slip from his fingers.

It was then that the most unbelievable thing happened. From within the defending walls of the palace grounds, a boulder sailed over the walls and landed amongst his own men.

The Egyptians had finally built a trebuchet.

The stone, no more than 40 kilos at most, had killed over a dozen of his troops, wounded twice that many, and had ended its flight after clipping the Roman General across the helm. Gripping the nearby wall, he struggled to stay standing. If he fell, if he even sat down, the heart would go out of the rest of his men, and that would be it; the attack on Giza would be over, with Rome unable to assure her victory.

He felt the side of his face, surprised to feel it unfamiliar and swelling under his numbed fingers. He knew that the blow was bad, his crushed helm attested to that. He could not hear, could barely see, and felt like he was wrapped in gauze, every sense numb and dull.

He felt the cold ashes of defeat form in his mouth, and he did not like the taste. Spitting, he raised his sword over head, pointing its bladed length toward the blurry gates of Cleopatra’s palace and shouted with a voice he could not clearly hear, “SOLDIERS OF ROME…ATTACK!!!!!”

He faintly heard the answering cry from his remaining Legionnaires as they stormed the gates, anxious to bring this fight to a close, struggling to fulfill their general’s and inspiration’s orders. He felt the ground shake as the battle ensued, and eventually his muted hearing told him when the gates were finally thrown wide. Hesitantly, he walked on shaking legs, across the clearing to the broken defenses. Once there, he lowered his tired form onto the rubble that was piled there, his sword held flat across his armored lap. From within the compound, he heard the victorious cry of “Rome” echo out as the remaining garrison was put to the sword or ceased their fighting.

After a time, a hand pressed against his neck and a voice said timidly, “General? General Iuldias?”

Struggling to focus, he answered, “Yes soldier?”

“General, I wish to report that have taken the final defenses of Giza and struck the yellow and white flag from the palace. We’ve won, sir.”

Iuldias smirked, wincing as his purpling face was twisted by his grin. “Excellent, soldier. Excellent.” Holding his arm out, he allowed the legionnaire to help him to his feet. Squinting, he took in the destruction and conquest of the pride of Egypt’s crown and allowed himself a sigh and a smile. “We’ve done it soldier.” He placed his foot victoriously on the rubble before him and nodded. “We’ve done what we set out to do.”

“We came. We saw. We conquered.”

[out of story]
Giza's fall was long and bloody, on both sides. Cleo had many many units in the city. Each turn, my trebuchets would fire, wounding who and what I could, then my armies would attack and what legions or infantry I had would try to kill defenders as well. I was losing units fast here, with only my armies winning more often than not. But they were getting low on hp's. Very low.

Finally, on the last sortee, my trebuchets rang out, and I counted only 5 defenders left in the city, all reduced to yellow. When I attacked though, I was surprised as heck to be struck by a trebuchet! She must have built it IBT.

Grr. My knight army attacked 3 times, killing one group each time. My legionnaire army was down to 3 hp's, and I didn't want to lose it here. There was 1 pike and 1 MDI left. My 1st Knights attacked and died, promoting the pike. My 2nd knights attacked and retreated. I had 3 Legionnaires left. Legionnaire 1 attacked, killing the pike. Legionnaire 2 attacked the MDI, red lining it, then died, promoting the MDI. Legionnaire 3 attacked and faced the defender from hell as we died, didn't wound the MDI at all, but promoted it again!!!

Decision time here. I have 4 pike units and a 3 hp Legionnaire army against a 3 hp elite MDI. I had no other units able to attack or do anything this turn. Most everything in the area is at red line and we need to heal badly. I decided to attack with my badly wounded army. We traded damage back and forth, but my guys won, with 1 hp left.

Giza was mine.

This was about the point where I decided to heal up, maybe strike out at Thebes to kill her damned Ancient Cavalry maker and then call it a war and regroup and rebuild. Best laid plans of mice and men. Read on, it doesn't work out exactly like I planned.

Thanks again to all who are reading. Haven't heard a lot of feedback this last week. Hope everyone's enjoying the story. More in a day or 2.

[/out of story]

V

Great installment. An army gone Keep up the battle and I look forward to the next chapter.

I think the rest of us are awed in silence. Great job. I look forward to the continuing story.