biggamer132
King
What government are you using right now? Republic? If so, you could rush a few knights to slow the advance while your army gets home.
Pax Romana
- Thread starter Vanadorn
- Start date
Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
“Sir Gaius Pellias, Captain 1st Roman Knights, reporting as ordered, General!”
“At ease, Captain.” General Trajan pushed himself back from the Egyptian carved table and stared frankly at the young captain. “Sir Gaius, how fare your men?”
“The men are in fine health and in good spirits, General. Reinforcements have filled in the holes in our roster and our veterans have done an admirable job in bringing the new recruits up to speed.”
He nodded. “Patrols doing fine?”
“The patrols are satisfactory, general. Since the cessation of hostilities with the native Gizians has reached an accord, not surprisingly in time with the proposed peace between Rome and Egypt. Public works are progressing and most areas hardest hit have been cleaned and cleared of rubble and debris.”
“Excellent, Captain.” Trajan stood, looking out the window, the wide stone buildings of Giza stretching far away, looking nothing like Rome. He sighed. “Captain, just want you to be the first to know that I think you’ve been doing a better than admirable job with your company. Simply fantastic.”
Gaius smiled, “Thank you, General.”
“Not blowing sunshine up your arse, just stating the truth.” He picked up a letter packet from the table pushing it at Gaius. “I’ve been awarded the title of Count. My province is to be Northern Rome/Southern former Egypt.”
“General..Sir..Sire!” Gaius went from saluting to bowing, somewhat flustered. “Con-congratulations! Rome has never had a more deserving person than yourself.”
“Thank you, Captain.” He pointed at the letter packet. “That’s yours. Between Iuldias and myself, we’ve completed our reports on the sieges of Egypt; your name features prominently.”
Unwrapping the ties, the knight asked, “How is the General?”
“He’s doing well now.” He rapped his knuckles against the table for good luck. “Hippocrates was able to reduce the swelling of the general’s brain. Crazy doctor drilled a hole right through the General’s skull! Never saw anything like it in my life. Iuldias has lost some hearing and vision in his right side, but he has regained his speech and can now move under his own power. Mercury must be riding that physician’s shoulder or something.”
“The men will be happy to know that the General is making a recovery.”
“Iuldias’ adjunct, Vincus Legatis, has been promoted to General. He’s a tough bird, he’ll do fine as commander of Scipio’s Legionnaires.” He watched carefully as Gaius withdrew the packet of papers and read them. The captain’s gaze went from calm to shocked quickly. “The same way that we feel you’ll do a fine job as General of the Knight Legionnaires.”
Gaius, now General Gaius, looked blankly at Trajan. “Me?”
“Yes, you.” He handed him a second letter packet. “In there you’ll find your marching orders and your next duties. I’m sorry to tell you that you will not have the luxury of learning your job and growing into your position. You’re also going to have to use my adjuncts, captains, and centurions since there is no time for you to find and train your own.” Trajan lowered himself back to his chair, swiveling it so he could peer out the window as well as watch the room. “We’re at peace with Egypt, but we find ourselves at war and beset by another foe. The National Republic of Arabia.”
Gaius was struggling to listen as well as read the notes and marching orders he was being given. “What? Who?”
“Utica has been destroyed. We expect out southern holdings to be threatened and attacked as well. I want you to get the Knight Legionnaires south with all speed and haste. We have no units capable of defending the Roman people down there. Some of our eastern cities have been struggling for the last weeks to cobble together a few companies of knights and pikers, Lord Caesar even emptied the treasury to entice as many young men as he could to join up. But these are stopgap measures. We’re relying on you and your command to get there. Before any more loss of life can occur.”
He clasped Gaius’ hand strongly, trying to project the severity and gravity of the situation to the new General. “Forget the snows, forget the mud, forget reinforcements, trebuchets, or supply lines. Just get your men, our men, down there as soon as possible and stop these attacks on our people.”
“Yes, Gener..I mean, your lordship.” Gaius bowed low, saluted once, and turned to race out the door, his orders clenched tightly in his grasp. Even before the door closed, Trajan was able to hear the cries for “Pages” and “Centurions” from the now running Gaius.
“25 years old,” he muttered, “and we’ve placed him in charge of our most able and strongest fighting units.” He cupped his head in his hands and sighed. “I hope he’s just as headstrong and driven as I expect him to be. As Rome needs him to be.”
He stared out once again at the city of Egyptians and his county, a title and grant he never wanted but now was responsible for. “We all do things and are things that Rome needs us to be. Even if we don’t want to.” He picked up another packet of letters from the table, and returned to his duties.
“At ease, Captain.” General Trajan pushed himself back from the Egyptian carved table and stared frankly at the young captain. “Sir Gaius, how fare your men?”
“The men are in fine health and in good spirits, General. Reinforcements have filled in the holes in our roster and our veterans have done an admirable job in bringing the new recruits up to speed.”
He nodded. “Patrols doing fine?”
“The patrols are satisfactory, general. Since the cessation of hostilities with the native Gizians has reached an accord, not surprisingly in time with the proposed peace between Rome and Egypt. Public works are progressing and most areas hardest hit have been cleaned and cleared of rubble and debris.”
“Excellent, Captain.” Trajan stood, looking out the window, the wide stone buildings of Giza stretching far away, looking nothing like Rome. He sighed. “Captain, just want you to be the first to know that I think you’ve been doing a better than admirable job with your company. Simply fantastic.”
Gaius smiled, “Thank you, General.”
“Not blowing sunshine up your arse, just stating the truth.” He picked up a letter packet from the table pushing it at Gaius. “I’ve been awarded the title of Count. My province is to be Northern Rome/Southern former Egypt.”
“General..Sir..Sire!” Gaius went from saluting to bowing, somewhat flustered. “Con-congratulations! Rome has never had a more deserving person than yourself.”
“Thank you, Captain.” He pointed at the letter packet. “That’s yours. Between Iuldias and myself, we’ve completed our reports on the sieges of Egypt; your name features prominently.”
Unwrapping the ties, the knight asked, “How is the General?”
“He’s doing well now.” He rapped his knuckles against the table for good luck. “Hippocrates was able to reduce the swelling of the general’s brain. Crazy doctor drilled a hole right through the General’s skull! Never saw anything like it in my life. Iuldias has lost some hearing and vision in his right side, but he has regained his speech and can now move under his own power. Mercury must be riding that physician’s shoulder or something.”
“The men will be happy to know that the General is making a recovery.”
“Iuldias’ adjunct, Vincus Legatis, has been promoted to General. He’s a tough bird, he’ll do fine as commander of Scipio’s Legionnaires.” He watched carefully as Gaius withdrew the packet of papers and read them. The captain’s gaze went from calm to shocked quickly. “The same way that we feel you’ll do a fine job as General of the Knight Legionnaires.”
Gaius, now General Gaius, looked blankly at Trajan. “Me?”
“Yes, you.” He handed him a second letter packet. “In there you’ll find your marching orders and your next duties. I’m sorry to tell you that you will not have the luxury of learning your job and growing into your position. You’re also going to have to use my adjuncts, captains, and centurions since there is no time for you to find and train your own.” Trajan lowered himself back to his chair, swiveling it so he could peer out the window as well as watch the room. “We’re at peace with Egypt, but we find ourselves at war and beset by another foe. The National Republic of Arabia.”
Gaius was struggling to listen as well as read the notes and marching orders he was being given. “What? Who?”
“Utica has been destroyed. We expect out southern holdings to be threatened and attacked as well. I want you to get the Knight Legionnaires south with all speed and haste. We have no units capable of defending the Roman people down there. Some of our eastern cities have been struggling for the last weeks to cobble together a few companies of knights and pikers, Lord Caesar even emptied the treasury to entice as many young men as he could to join up. But these are stopgap measures. We’re relying on you and your command to get there. Before any more loss of life can occur.”
He clasped Gaius’ hand strongly, trying to project the severity and gravity of the situation to the new General. “Forget the snows, forget the mud, forget reinforcements, trebuchets, or supply lines. Just get your men, our men, down there as soon as possible and stop these attacks on our people.”
“Yes, Gener..I mean, your lordship.” Gaius bowed low, saluted once, and turned to race out the door, his orders clenched tightly in his grasp. Even before the door closed, Trajan was able to hear the cries for “Pages” and “Centurions” from the now running Gaius.
“25 years old,” he muttered, “and we’ve placed him in charge of our most able and strongest fighting units.” He cupped his head in his hands and sighed. “I hope he’s just as headstrong and driven as I expect him to be. As Rome needs him to be.”
He stared out once again at the city of Egyptians and his county, a title and grant he never wanted but now was responsible for. “We all do things and are things that Rome needs us to be. Even if we don’t want to.” He picked up another packet of letters from the table, and returned to his duties.
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Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
@ Praetor/Silver knight - Thanks for the kind words! Also, Silver, thanks for taking the time to read the story fresh - I know it's a long read.
@Biggamer - A republic? Nay, Senator Gracus had that foolish idea long ago, but Lord Julius Caesar asserted his divine right and had himself crown Caesar, King and lord of all of Rome. It's ok, can still buy off units - did a lot of change to knights and buy, buy, buy.
More later I hope.
V
@Biggamer - A republic? Nay, Senator Gracus had that foolish idea long ago, but Lord Julius Caesar asserted his divine right and had himself crown Caesar, King and lord of all of Rome. It's ok, can still buy off units - did a lot of change to knights and buy, buy, buy.
More later I hope.
V
Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
“Lord Caesar honors me with his presence.”
“Priest Varro, please. It is you that honors me. Sit, the hour is late and the night is chill and wet. Latham!” Caesar called. His servant stepped into the throne room. “Latham, two glassed of warmed, mulled wine please.” Turning back to the priest, Caesar tried to smile. “I trust you’re not too tired for wine?”
The rotund priest patted his amble belly. “If not wine, then I’d be raiding my own larder for something to eat. The wine would be wine and appreciated.” He looked around, noting the general disarray and sloppiness of the normally meticulous chamber. “Is there a reason why you’ve sought my council, my Lord?”
“Actually yes. I’m sure you’ve heard of the sack of Utica?”
Priest Varro bowed his head. “Most sad and horrible what happened to our people.”
“Why did Zeus let it happen?”
“Excuse me?”
Caesar sat back, staring frankly at the priest. “Zeus is the greatest of the gods. He cast down the Titans, controls the heavens, rules the universe.”
“Correct.”
“We offer willing tithes to the temples, shout his name in our prayers, play, and battles. I can think of no god, either here or on Olympus, that we do not offer more homage to than any other.”
“’Tis true,” the Roman priest appeared uncomfortable as this continued.
“Then if that is all the case, why did Zeus allow it to happen? Why did we have no warning, no clue, no omen that his mighty attack was to come and befall our people? We are Romans, we do not know what it means to fail in battle, yet here it not only happened, but it occurred in a single day! If Zeus is truly king of the gods, why did this happen?”
“Lord Caesar, it is true that Zeus is the king of the gods, but remember, there are other gods as well. Even his own wife, Juno, has little respect or love for her husband. His sons and brothers do not often agree with him and his policies, this causes friction and we on earth often fell its caustic results.”
“Your drinks, my lords.” Latham entered, placing two steaming crystal glasses down. He bowed and stepped out quietly.
Caesar lifted his, blew on it lightly, and sipped between tensed lips. Smiling, he sighed contentedly. “That’s good. Sorry, Varro. Let’s see…actually, that’s my point. If Zeus can allow himself to be distracted and diminunized like that, then he cannot be truly all powerful.”
“Lord Caesar. I am not Zeus. I am only a mouthpiece for the Lord, and not a very good one at that.” He drank his own wine, grinning. “That is good! Sorry. Most of the time, I do not know for sure if Zeus is ever there, listening to my brothers or me. If we could get some cosmic sign, some proof that someone is up there…watching us and our movements…guiding us in some way along some goal that we cannot fathom…nurturing us as a people…bringing us hope and life, well, that would be a fantastic thing. But the truth of the matter is that we do not know for sure.”
“Thank you for your honesty, Priest Varro. It is for that reason that I have asked to speak with you. I am a learned man, I enjoy reading, knowledge, and the extension of thought; regardless of the numerous wars and skirmishes that have occurred during my reign.” He sipped his wine again. “I want Rome to be a better place for me having run it. I want Rome to be a beacon of light for the rest of the world to look at with envy and longing. I want the people of the world to look at Rome the same way they speak fondly of the glories of Egypt.”
He lifted a book, old, weathered, fading, from the table, handing it to Varro. “I have been reading a lot as of late, pouring over tomes and scrolls I never knew we had or existed. This book is written by a Roman ancestor some three or four hundred years ago named Aristotle. He talks of many things, but one of them that caught my attention is this ‘theologea’ or a ‘discourse on the gods.’”
Varro cracked the cover, reading the faded words almost reverently. “Lord Caesar. This is a fantastic find.”
“Indeed it is, Priest Varro. As you can see though, it is horribly out of date, naïve in its approach, and obviously wrong about some of the aspects of the world and our place in it. I would like you and yours to research this ‘theologea’, and see if in your studies, you can find out what it is we missed and where we’ve lost track of what was once our destiny.”
The heavy priest nodded emphatically. “Absolutely, Lord Caesar.” He continued turning the pages with wonderment. “Amazing. Simply amazing.”
Caesar sidled his chair closer, turning the pages of the old tome. “Very. Take a look at this section here. I find this avenue of thought very enlightening.” Together, both men, Roman King and Priest of Zeus, read the words of the ancient mystic Aristotle, sipped their wine, and tried to grasp their place in the great tapestry of life.
“Priest Varro, please. It is you that honors me. Sit, the hour is late and the night is chill and wet. Latham!” Caesar called. His servant stepped into the throne room. “Latham, two glassed of warmed, mulled wine please.” Turning back to the priest, Caesar tried to smile. “I trust you’re not too tired for wine?”
The rotund priest patted his amble belly. “If not wine, then I’d be raiding my own larder for something to eat. The wine would be wine and appreciated.” He looked around, noting the general disarray and sloppiness of the normally meticulous chamber. “Is there a reason why you’ve sought my council, my Lord?”
“Actually yes. I’m sure you’ve heard of the sack of Utica?”
Priest Varro bowed his head. “Most sad and horrible what happened to our people.”
“Why did Zeus let it happen?”
“Excuse me?”
Caesar sat back, staring frankly at the priest. “Zeus is the greatest of the gods. He cast down the Titans, controls the heavens, rules the universe.”
“Correct.”
“We offer willing tithes to the temples, shout his name in our prayers, play, and battles. I can think of no god, either here or on Olympus, that we do not offer more homage to than any other.”
“’Tis true,” the Roman priest appeared uncomfortable as this continued.
“Then if that is all the case, why did Zeus allow it to happen? Why did we have no warning, no clue, no omen that his mighty attack was to come and befall our people? We are Romans, we do not know what it means to fail in battle, yet here it not only happened, but it occurred in a single day! If Zeus is truly king of the gods, why did this happen?”
“Lord Caesar, it is true that Zeus is the king of the gods, but remember, there are other gods as well. Even his own wife, Juno, has little respect or love for her husband. His sons and brothers do not often agree with him and his policies, this causes friction and we on earth often fell its caustic results.”
“Your drinks, my lords.” Latham entered, placing two steaming crystal glasses down. He bowed and stepped out quietly.
Caesar lifted his, blew on it lightly, and sipped between tensed lips. Smiling, he sighed contentedly. “That’s good. Sorry, Varro. Let’s see…actually, that’s my point. If Zeus can allow himself to be distracted and diminunized like that, then he cannot be truly all powerful.”
“Lord Caesar. I am not Zeus. I am only a mouthpiece for the Lord, and not a very good one at that.” He drank his own wine, grinning. “That is good! Sorry. Most of the time, I do not know for sure if Zeus is ever there, listening to my brothers or me. If we could get some cosmic sign, some proof that someone is up there…watching us and our movements…guiding us in some way along some goal that we cannot fathom…nurturing us as a people…bringing us hope and life, well, that would be a fantastic thing. But the truth of the matter is that we do not know for sure.”
“Thank you for your honesty, Priest Varro. It is for that reason that I have asked to speak with you. I am a learned man, I enjoy reading, knowledge, and the extension of thought; regardless of the numerous wars and skirmishes that have occurred during my reign.” He sipped his wine again. “I want Rome to be a better place for me having run it. I want Rome to be a beacon of light for the rest of the world to look at with envy and longing. I want the people of the world to look at Rome the same way they speak fondly of the glories of Egypt.”
He lifted a book, old, weathered, fading, from the table, handing it to Varro. “I have been reading a lot as of late, pouring over tomes and scrolls I never knew we had or existed. This book is written by a Roman ancestor some three or four hundred years ago named Aristotle. He talks of many things, but one of them that caught my attention is this ‘theologea’ or a ‘discourse on the gods.’”
Varro cracked the cover, reading the faded words almost reverently. “Lord Caesar. This is a fantastic find.”
“Indeed it is, Priest Varro. As you can see though, it is horribly out of date, naïve in its approach, and obviously wrong about some of the aspects of the world and our place in it. I would like you and yours to research this ‘theologea’, and see if in your studies, you can find out what it is we missed and where we’ve lost track of what was once our destiny.”
The heavy priest nodded emphatically. “Absolutely, Lord Caesar.” He continued turning the pages with wonderment. “Amazing. Simply amazing.”
Caesar sidled his chair closer, turning the pages of the old tome. “Very. Take a look at this section here. I find this avenue of thought very enlightening.” Together, both men, Roman King and Priest of Zeus, read the words of the ancient mystic Aristotle, sipped their wine, and tried to grasp their place in the great tapestry of life.
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Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
“Marakuru is an unblooded boy. I will not listen to his mewling!”
The Zulu youth ripped his flint knapped dagger off his wrist sheath with a single fluid motion and sent it whirling end over end at Omalumi. The razor edge tore through the older man’s hair, nicking his ear deeply, before quivering into the hardwood-paneled wall of King Proaga’s audience chamber.
Omalumi grabbed his ear in amazement, his dark skin paling as he realized what the wild youth had done to him. Snatching his iron knife from his waist, he leapt up, murder blazing from his crazed eyes.
King Proaga Zulu slammed his cudgel across the great table. “SILENCE!” Unable to stop his attack, Omalumi hit Marakuru’s standing form. Instead of skewering him, the younger man caught his wrist and knife with his own hand, twisted, and hunched his hip back and up. Omalumi flipped over, his hand crackling dangerously, as the rest of his body struck the floor. By the time he stopped sliding and rolling, he was out of breath, nursing his wrist, and his own knife was in Marakuru’s contemptuous grasp.
Proaga smashed the table again. “SILENCE! May the gods eat your children, ENOUGH!”
“My apologies, great King,” Marakuru bowed low, his forehead touching the floor. “But a blood insult was hurled at me, and a response had to be given.” He walked to the wall and plucked his own flint knife from the paneling. He absently resheathed and tied the weapon against his wrist and bowed again. “I meant no offense. I repaid his words and blood in kind.”
Omalumi had restood, holding his hand and grimacing. His ear continued to drip blood, staining his shirt and shoulder. Proaga examined both men with squinted gaze. He nodded. “The insult has been paid. Omalumi, there is no retribution for this.” He glowered. “There will be NO retribution. Understood?”
The injured Impi bowed his head. “As King Proaga wishes.”
Marakuru bowed a third time. “King Proaga has shown why he is both a great king and a great man.” Addressing Omalumi, he added, “And just because I was not of age to fight the Egypticans when we were at war with them, does not mean I am unblooded. As I have shown you, a mighty warrior with numerous kills and glories on your family, an unclouded mind and surety of prowess can defeat even the most skilled of warriors.” He handed the Impi his dagger back, flipping it at the last instant so it was presented hilt first. Omalumi cautiously reclaimed his weapon, introspectively studying the younger man.
Ignoring his gaze, Marakuru asked, “If King Proaga would permit me to continue?” The Zulu lord nodded, relaxing once more on his wooden bench. The rest of the warrior council did likewise. Marakuru pointed at Prospero, the Roman that had accompanied him here and was standing quietly throughout the recent altercation. “Our people are a warrior people. We have been as such since the seas first receded and we sprung from the ground. The ways of peace are desirous, but only once there is no excuse for war.”
“In days past, we fought side by side with the Romans. Not a man here has not heard the stories handed down from father to son of the great battles our eastern brothers have engaged in. We have fed on the glories of Rome with the same vigor that we have fed from our mother’s teat.”
“This is Prospero. Many of you know him. He has too often walked our lands, visited our homes, befriended our sons and fathers, uncles and elders. Many have learned what it is to be Roman from conversation with this man. Many have watched his arrivals with a sense of excitement and have watched his leavings with a sense of loss. He has fought with us and fought for us; as all his people have.”
“The Roman’s have always respected us as a people. They do not speak down to us, abuse our friendship, or practice deceit on our people. There are some that say that Rome took its time in the war with Egypticans, but others say that Rome’s actions actually helped hasten the end of the yellow attacks on our people. The Roman people are so good at war because they take the time to understand their enemy before engaging him.”
He pointed at the seated Omalumi. “Take this fine Impi warrior. Most here would hesitate to face him in direct combat. His strength is unmatched, his strike deadly, his aim true. Yet me, a youth…a mewling youth,” he glanced pointedly at the Impi, “of 17 summers had him disarmed and prone. Why?” He once more pointed at Prospero. “Because I have learned what it is that makes the Roman people great warriors; I have learned the importance of patience.”
“I am not as strong as Omalumi. I am not as skilled as Omalumi. I have not had as many kills as Omalumi. But,” he stabbed the air with his upraised finger, “I have more patience. I know when and where to strike my enemy to have the most impact.”
“The Roman people need our help. They have had their lands attacked. This is nothing that none of us or our ancestors have never had to face, however, never before have our attackers completely destroyed any of our cities. Never before have any of our people been obliterated from the earth. That is what has happened to the Roman, and will happen again in less than a month when the Cold Mother relaxes her legs around the earth.”
“King Proaga. I ask you, have the Arabican people ever asked to use our lands?”
“No.”
“But the Roman’s have always asked. Even when the attack against Giza would have gone faster by walking through our country, the Romans never abused their friendship. The Arabican people have ridden hard across our roads, our fields, our cities. They have snubbed our calls to leave. They have ignored our complaints that their feet mar our soil. Are we sheep to their wolves?”
The council chamber resounded with a united, “No!”
“We must be, because they traipsed across our lands like they owned it. We know that the Arabicans and the Egypticans have a shared view. They make their friendship well known. Are we friends of the Egypticans?”
Again, a joined, “No!”
“But we act as slaves or friends to the Arabicans. For we allowed them free passage on our soil and allowed them to attack our friends and kill them to every man, woman, and child. While we, a warrior race since the great beginning, did nothing. We did nothing but watch.”
“Marakuru speaks wise for his years,” said King Proaga. “he has been schooled well by the Roman. But Marakuru forgets that our people are tired of war and desire peace. Peace is something that we have not had for some time.”
The youth bowed low once more. “King Proaga is indeed wise. Wise and just. Wise and strong. But the word you seek to use is not ‘peace’, oh greatest of great kings. The word that best describes what our people desire is posterity. We desire to last forever, remembered for generations to come, immortalized in song, able to sit around the fire and tell the next generation of the glories of our days while still having those glories around us then. Does any man here want to never shout out a prayer to the Red God again? Does any man here not want to feel the heat of battle race through their veins?”
“No!” Even Proaga added his voice to this, raising his cudgel high.
Marakuru shook his head. “No, great King. Peace for the Zulus is not what we want. No Zulu wants to sit by the road and watch armies march unchecked across his lands. No Zulu wants to live without ever knowing the heat of battle and the cries of war.” He took a bundle from Prospero, placing it at King Proaga’s feet. “The Roman’s are asking us for our help. A people who we look up to for war and valor is asking us to help them. What better honor is there? They want us to march against the bloodied banner of the Egyptican lapdogs, the Arabican hordes that despoil our land.”
“In exchange for our support, the are willing to offer us full rights to march if needed across their properties, support of their iron stores and surpluses, and the design and secrets of their mounted warriors and their almost impenetrable armor. Plus, that bundle contains over 5 Roman kilos of coinage. They are willing to do this if we join them in stopping the march of Arabican people from flooding the land with their unruly and evil ways.”
The council chamber stared hungrily at King Proaga. The great king nudged the heavy bundle with his foot, staring at the youthful warrior and the quiet Roman. Finally, he rose to his feet and said, “Marakuru has spoken what is in the hearts of all Zulus. We will aid our friends in this. Come the warming suns and the death of the Cold Mother, we will strike out at the unexpecting Arabicans.”
“The Zulu nation is going back to war.”
The Zulu youth ripped his flint knapped dagger off his wrist sheath with a single fluid motion and sent it whirling end over end at Omalumi. The razor edge tore through the older man’s hair, nicking his ear deeply, before quivering into the hardwood-paneled wall of King Proaga’s audience chamber.
Omalumi grabbed his ear in amazement, his dark skin paling as he realized what the wild youth had done to him. Snatching his iron knife from his waist, he leapt up, murder blazing from his crazed eyes.
King Proaga Zulu slammed his cudgel across the great table. “SILENCE!” Unable to stop his attack, Omalumi hit Marakuru’s standing form. Instead of skewering him, the younger man caught his wrist and knife with his own hand, twisted, and hunched his hip back and up. Omalumi flipped over, his hand crackling dangerously, as the rest of his body struck the floor. By the time he stopped sliding and rolling, he was out of breath, nursing his wrist, and his own knife was in Marakuru’s contemptuous grasp.
Proaga smashed the table again. “SILENCE! May the gods eat your children, ENOUGH!”
“My apologies, great King,” Marakuru bowed low, his forehead touching the floor. “But a blood insult was hurled at me, and a response had to be given.” He walked to the wall and plucked his own flint knife from the paneling. He absently resheathed and tied the weapon against his wrist and bowed again. “I meant no offense. I repaid his words and blood in kind.”
Omalumi had restood, holding his hand and grimacing. His ear continued to drip blood, staining his shirt and shoulder. Proaga examined both men with squinted gaze. He nodded. “The insult has been paid. Omalumi, there is no retribution for this.” He glowered. “There will be NO retribution. Understood?”
The injured Impi bowed his head. “As King Proaga wishes.”
Marakuru bowed a third time. “King Proaga has shown why he is both a great king and a great man.” Addressing Omalumi, he added, “And just because I was not of age to fight the Egypticans when we were at war with them, does not mean I am unblooded. As I have shown you, a mighty warrior with numerous kills and glories on your family, an unclouded mind and surety of prowess can defeat even the most skilled of warriors.” He handed the Impi his dagger back, flipping it at the last instant so it was presented hilt first. Omalumi cautiously reclaimed his weapon, introspectively studying the younger man.
Ignoring his gaze, Marakuru asked, “If King Proaga would permit me to continue?” The Zulu lord nodded, relaxing once more on his wooden bench. The rest of the warrior council did likewise. Marakuru pointed at Prospero, the Roman that had accompanied him here and was standing quietly throughout the recent altercation. “Our people are a warrior people. We have been as such since the seas first receded and we sprung from the ground. The ways of peace are desirous, but only once there is no excuse for war.”
“In days past, we fought side by side with the Romans. Not a man here has not heard the stories handed down from father to son of the great battles our eastern brothers have engaged in. We have fed on the glories of Rome with the same vigor that we have fed from our mother’s teat.”
“This is Prospero. Many of you know him. He has too often walked our lands, visited our homes, befriended our sons and fathers, uncles and elders. Many have learned what it is to be Roman from conversation with this man. Many have watched his arrivals with a sense of excitement and have watched his leavings with a sense of loss. He has fought with us and fought for us; as all his people have.”
“The Roman’s have always respected us as a people. They do not speak down to us, abuse our friendship, or practice deceit on our people. There are some that say that Rome took its time in the war with Egypticans, but others say that Rome’s actions actually helped hasten the end of the yellow attacks on our people. The Roman people are so good at war because they take the time to understand their enemy before engaging him.”
He pointed at the seated Omalumi. “Take this fine Impi warrior. Most here would hesitate to face him in direct combat. His strength is unmatched, his strike deadly, his aim true. Yet me, a youth…a mewling youth,” he glanced pointedly at the Impi, “of 17 summers had him disarmed and prone. Why?” He once more pointed at Prospero. “Because I have learned what it is that makes the Roman people great warriors; I have learned the importance of patience.”
“I am not as strong as Omalumi. I am not as skilled as Omalumi. I have not had as many kills as Omalumi. But,” he stabbed the air with his upraised finger, “I have more patience. I know when and where to strike my enemy to have the most impact.”
“The Roman people need our help. They have had their lands attacked. This is nothing that none of us or our ancestors have never had to face, however, never before have our attackers completely destroyed any of our cities. Never before have any of our people been obliterated from the earth. That is what has happened to the Roman, and will happen again in less than a month when the Cold Mother relaxes her legs around the earth.”
“King Proaga. I ask you, have the Arabican people ever asked to use our lands?”
“No.”
“But the Roman’s have always asked. Even when the attack against Giza would have gone faster by walking through our country, the Romans never abused their friendship. The Arabican people have ridden hard across our roads, our fields, our cities. They have snubbed our calls to leave. They have ignored our complaints that their feet mar our soil. Are we sheep to their wolves?”
The council chamber resounded with a united, “No!”
“We must be, because they traipsed across our lands like they owned it. We know that the Arabicans and the Egypticans have a shared view. They make their friendship well known. Are we friends of the Egypticans?”
Again, a joined, “No!”
“But we act as slaves or friends to the Arabicans. For we allowed them free passage on our soil and allowed them to attack our friends and kill them to every man, woman, and child. While we, a warrior race since the great beginning, did nothing. We did nothing but watch.”
“Marakuru speaks wise for his years,” said King Proaga. “he has been schooled well by the Roman. But Marakuru forgets that our people are tired of war and desire peace. Peace is something that we have not had for some time.”
The youth bowed low once more. “King Proaga is indeed wise. Wise and just. Wise and strong. But the word you seek to use is not ‘peace’, oh greatest of great kings. The word that best describes what our people desire is posterity. We desire to last forever, remembered for generations to come, immortalized in song, able to sit around the fire and tell the next generation of the glories of our days while still having those glories around us then. Does any man here want to never shout out a prayer to the Red God again? Does any man here not want to feel the heat of battle race through their veins?”
“No!” Even Proaga added his voice to this, raising his cudgel high.
Marakuru shook his head. “No, great King. Peace for the Zulus is not what we want. No Zulu wants to sit by the road and watch armies march unchecked across his lands. No Zulu wants to live without ever knowing the heat of battle and the cries of war.” He took a bundle from Prospero, placing it at King Proaga’s feet. “The Roman’s are asking us for our help. A people who we look up to for war and valor is asking us to help them. What better honor is there? They want us to march against the bloodied banner of the Egyptican lapdogs, the Arabican hordes that despoil our land.”
“In exchange for our support, the are willing to offer us full rights to march if needed across their properties, support of their iron stores and surpluses, and the design and secrets of their mounted warriors and their almost impenetrable armor. Plus, that bundle contains over 5 Roman kilos of coinage. They are willing to do this if we join them in stopping the march of Arabican people from flooding the land with their unruly and evil ways.”
The council chamber stared hungrily at King Proaga. The great king nudged the heavy bundle with his foot, staring at the youthful warrior and the quiet Roman. Finally, he rose to his feet and said, “Marakuru has spoken what is in the hearts of all Zulus. We will aid our friends in this. Come the warming suns and the death of the Cold Mother, we will strike out at the unexpecting Arabicans.”
“The Zulu nation is going back to war.”
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Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
[out of game]
Shifted to Theology after Invention. Want to kill the GL asap. Science is ramped up as high as I can make it after force buying a few almost finished knights and pikers. Speed marching the Knight Army (mostly healed) as fast south as possible. Don't want Giza to flip, so don't want to empty the city. Legionnaire army is still there as well as everything else. Did not move the trebuchets out, don't need them for what I'm doing - which is just stopping the 4 or 5 Ansar warriors i see in my terriroty.
Hated to get the Zulu involved, especially since they share a long border with Arabia, but I need their help. Yes, the death toll of the Zulu's continues. Too bad.
More in a day or two. Thanks again to all.
V
[/out of story]
Shifted to Theology after Invention. Want to kill the GL asap. Science is ramped up as high as I can make it after force buying a few almost finished knights and pikers. Speed marching the Knight Army (mostly healed) as fast south as possible. Don't want Giza to flip, so don't want to empty the city. Legionnaire army is still there as well as everything else. Did not move the trebuchets out, don't need them for what I'm doing - which is just stopping the 4 or 5 Ansar warriors i see in my terriroty.
Hated to get the Zulu involved, especially since they share a long border with Arabia, but I need their help. Yes, the death toll of the Zulu's continues. Too bad.
More in a day or two. Thanks again to all.
V
[/out of story]
biggamer132
King
So the Zulu go back to the fighting, eh? You know, this has all really been one huge war.
-Egypt invades Mayan nation and Zululand
-Rome joins war on side of Zululand
-Mayans and Zulu declare peace with Egypt (I think)
-Rome makes gains in war on Egypt
-Arabs join war on side of Egypt
-Rome goes to war with Arabia
-Egypt invades Mayan nation and Zululand
-Rome joins war on side of Zululand
-Mayans and Zulu declare peace with Egypt (I think)
-Rome makes gains in war on Egypt
-Arabs join war on side of Egypt
-Rome goes to war with Arabia
Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
Pretty much. I did make peace with Egypt just after Arabia sacked Utica. Part of the reason I don't normally play pangaea maps is the constant, constant fighting. But, i was planning this game as Rome being and military juggernaut, and..well, that's what been happening. What's funny is I am trying to just get some peace going so I can bolster and replace my sagging defenders, get some libraries going, and soon have to make happy buildings or jugger up the luxury slider.
Ugh. As I said, the Road to peace often lead through war.
More coming soon, I'm writing it out now.
V
Ugh. As I said, the Road to peace often lead through war.
More coming soon, I'm writing it out now.
V
Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
Platus leaned all his weight against the barricade, struggling to keep the battered gates from caving in. The Arabian battering ram rocked forward again, slamming hard into the iron bound doorway. The great crossbeam showed numerous cracks under Platus’ heaving shoulders. From above he heard the cry to fire ring out again, followed by the determined defenders leaning far over the battlement to shoot their longbows into the mass of troops right outside the city portal. From the whinnying and the howls of pain from beyond, Platus judged a fair number of the scarved warriors had been struck and wounded.
But all to soon, return fire arced into and over the walls from outside, sending the doughty defenders of Caesaraugusta to race for cover. There were no longer enough bowmen to stem the attacks, and the number of riders outside were too great for the Roman city to repel for long. Messages had been sent from the aviary over two weeks ago, asking all local lords and knights to race to Caesaraugusta’s aid, but the help had been sporadic at best; odd groups of 10 and 20 men charging to the cities defense each day. The attrition rate had been roughly twice that, so even with the added manpower, the city was still hemorrhaging defenders. Literally.
The land around the city was heavily forested, great copses of trees that aided in the cities production and industry. In this area of the empire, only Pompeii with its extensive mining programs out performed Caesaraugusta in regards to raw constructive power. Those same forests that aided the city, also protected it, giving the defenders enough time to prepare for the attack; preparations the citizens of Utica did not have.
No one wanted to see the same evil that befell their sister city strike here. Not a man under 50 failed to lend their aid to the city’s resistance in some way. Every iron pot, ever leather shirt, every arrow – hunting, target, or bird, was donated to the armory. The lumber stores were emptied and beams, braces, and planks were sent wherever needed to support the city’s defense.
And it worked; for a while. However, home grown militia, and some 2,000 part time spearmen in a city of 120,000 could not hold 4 times that number of determined, angry, armored, vicious Arabian Knights. It was no mystery that the city could not hold out much longer.
Platus was jolted from his reverie by the impact of the ram once more slamming into the fragmenting barricade. The Romans dug their heels in, 20 men desperate and sweating, shoulder-to-shoulder and arm in arm, struggling to keep the great gates whole and closed for one more impact. BOOM. One more impact. THWOOM. One more impact. WHOOM. One more impact.
CRAK-WHOOM-SHRICK.
The massive beam split in full, no longer able to withstand the continuous onslaught of the Arab attack. The gates bowed slightly inward. Platus shoved hard, the entire mass of Roman defenders trying to get the gates closed tight. Again the impact hit, and the gates parted slightly before being shoved closed again. The cry to fire rang out from above, and once more, the ragged remaining archers fired into the mass of cavalry outside the gates. Unfortunately, the Arab commander had anticipated the Roman tactic, and as the red clad archers stood up to fire, they were cut down by a concentrated volley from the enemy outside the gates.
With no support from above, the gate failed to hold. The ram struck forward again, this time powered by heaving Arabian steeds and howling armored riders. The barricades were not only opened, but were prevented from closing by the massive wheeled ram firmly plastered between the portal gates. The defense works of Caesaraugusta had been breached.
Abandoning his now futile attempt to keep the gates closed, Platus swung his spear off his back and thrust its wicked point at the first attacker to come through the opening. He was rewarded with a deep puncture into the ululating warriors thigh. Wounded, he was dragged off his mount and quickly butchered by the Romans. Other guardians had similar results and successes, the mobility of the attackers blunted by the narrow opening they were forced to press through. Mounted knights were dispatched one at a time, none of them living much past the busted gateway they had created.
The gates were forced further apart, widening enough for two warriors to get through, and then three. Suddenly the Roman advantage faded as they could no longer mass themselves at ten or so Romans to each entering knight. The ratios dropped, even as more Romans crowded into the square, struggling to stem the widening rift and turn the tide of the battle. And then it happened, with a grating, splintering crunch, the right hand gate was driven from its mounting hinges and fell with a resounding finality inside the courtyard.
The Arabs poured into the city. At ten, twelve, fifteen at a pop, they cut a swatch of death through the leather clad Roman spearmen. Platus watched as more Romans fell in the next ten minutes than had fallen in the last ten days. And still the screaming hosts poured into the city. He was pleased to note one thing; they did not burn the town as the progressed, something that every Roman had feared would happen. No one wanted to see another Utica.
But pillaging or not, the Arab horsemen washed over the fighting spearmen, putting those to the sword that stood against them. It was obvious that the fight to stave off the taking of Caesaraugusta was over. As if from an unspoken signal, the now depleted defenders lowered their spears and raised their arms, surrendering to the obviously overmatched attacking powers. Platus found himself stripped of his weapon, his armor and eventually herded outside the city.
He was imprisoned with other ragged looking men, some from the siege of Utica, others from his own native home. He was fed scraps of bread and a tasteless gruel as the looting forces stripped the city of its treasures and riches. When the Arabian forces had established their own sovereign body into power, the mass of enslaved Romans and the bulk of the attacking army turned their way south.
South toward the next Roman settlement. The magnificent city of Pompeii.
But all to soon, return fire arced into and over the walls from outside, sending the doughty defenders of Caesaraugusta to race for cover. There were no longer enough bowmen to stem the attacks, and the number of riders outside were too great for the Roman city to repel for long. Messages had been sent from the aviary over two weeks ago, asking all local lords and knights to race to Caesaraugusta’s aid, but the help had been sporadic at best; odd groups of 10 and 20 men charging to the cities defense each day. The attrition rate had been roughly twice that, so even with the added manpower, the city was still hemorrhaging defenders. Literally.
The land around the city was heavily forested, great copses of trees that aided in the cities production and industry. In this area of the empire, only Pompeii with its extensive mining programs out performed Caesaraugusta in regards to raw constructive power. Those same forests that aided the city, also protected it, giving the defenders enough time to prepare for the attack; preparations the citizens of Utica did not have.
No one wanted to see the same evil that befell their sister city strike here. Not a man under 50 failed to lend their aid to the city’s resistance in some way. Every iron pot, ever leather shirt, every arrow – hunting, target, or bird, was donated to the armory. The lumber stores were emptied and beams, braces, and planks were sent wherever needed to support the city’s defense.
And it worked; for a while. However, home grown militia, and some 2,000 part time spearmen in a city of 120,000 could not hold 4 times that number of determined, angry, armored, vicious Arabian Knights. It was no mystery that the city could not hold out much longer.
Platus was jolted from his reverie by the impact of the ram once more slamming into the fragmenting barricade. The Romans dug their heels in, 20 men desperate and sweating, shoulder-to-shoulder and arm in arm, struggling to keep the great gates whole and closed for one more impact. BOOM. One more impact. THWOOM. One more impact. WHOOM. One more impact.
CRAK-WHOOM-SHRICK.
The massive beam split in full, no longer able to withstand the continuous onslaught of the Arab attack. The gates bowed slightly inward. Platus shoved hard, the entire mass of Roman defenders trying to get the gates closed tight. Again the impact hit, and the gates parted slightly before being shoved closed again. The cry to fire rang out from above, and once more, the ragged remaining archers fired into the mass of cavalry outside the gates. Unfortunately, the Arab commander had anticipated the Roman tactic, and as the red clad archers stood up to fire, they were cut down by a concentrated volley from the enemy outside the gates.
With no support from above, the gate failed to hold. The ram struck forward again, this time powered by heaving Arabian steeds and howling armored riders. The barricades were not only opened, but were prevented from closing by the massive wheeled ram firmly plastered between the portal gates. The defense works of Caesaraugusta had been breached.
Abandoning his now futile attempt to keep the gates closed, Platus swung his spear off his back and thrust its wicked point at the first attacker to come through the opening. He was rewarded with a deep puncture into the ululating warriors thigh. Wounded, he was dragged off his mount and quickly butchered by the Romans. Other guardians had similar results and successes, the mobility of the attackers blunted by the narrow opening they were forced to press through. Mounted knights were dispatched one at a time, none of them living much past the busted gateway they had created.
The gates were forced further apart, widening enough for two warriors to get through, and then three. Suddenly the Roman advantage faded as they could no longer mass themselves at ten or so Romans to each entering knight. The ratios dropped, even as more Romans crowded into the square, struggling to stem the widening rift and turn the tide of the battle. And then it happened, with a grating, splintering crunch, the right hand gate was driven from its mounting hinges and fell with a resounding finality inside the courtyard.
The Arabs poured into the city. At ten, twelve, fifteen at a pop, they cut a swatch of death through the leather clad Roman spearmen. Platus watched as more Romans fell in the next ten minutes than had fallen in the last ten days. And still the screaming hosts poured into the city. He was pleased to note one thing; they did not burn the town as the progressed, something that every Roman had feared would happen. No one wanted to see another Utica.
But pillaging or not, the Arab horsemen washed over the fighting spearmen, putting those to the sword that stood against them. It was obvious that the fight to stave off the taking of Caesaraugusta was over. As if from an unspoken signal, the now depleted defenders lowered their spears and raised their arms, surrendering to the obviously overmatched attacking powers. Platus found himself stripped of his weapon, his armor and eventually herded outside the city.
He was imprisoned with other ragged looking men, some from the siege of Utica, others from his own native home. He was fed scraps of bread and a tasteless gruel as the looting forces stripped the city of its treasures and riches. When the Arabian forces had established their own sovereign body into power, the mass of enslaved Romans and the bulk of the attacking army turned their way south.
South toward the next Roman settlement. The magnificent city of Pompeii.
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Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
Mudjah al-Aquim smiled as he placed the silver bracelet on his left arm. Truly it was a glorious thing, much different than the designs he would find back home. His steed nickered as it picked its way across the gentle slopes. He stroked its neck, whispering calmly into the mare’s ear.
“Mudjah al-Aquim, do you seek to have sexual congress with that animal? You whisper so softly into its ears.” The other Ansar Warriors laughed along with Narajim ibn-Halstafa. “You might have been better off bedding one of the Latin animals instead.” More laughter.
Mudjah smiled, showing his teeth openly to Narajim. “Narajim forgets what it is like to whisper anything to a woman, be it horse, Latin woman, or dog, since he has been saddled by his own steed many a time.” This time the laughter was directed back at the red faced Narajim.
“Enough, holy warriors.” Emir Aqui al-Anzar, commander of the Ansar invading forces had ridden up. “Save your anger and your attacks for the Latin people we will ride against soon.”
“The Pharaohess must indeed be weak if she was having trouble with these people. They are weakly defended, ugly and course, and they scream most delightfully just before they are sent to the next world.” Narajim snapped his finger. “There is little to fear from these Latins.” He glanced back at the five dozen or so warrior slaves they had captured, their forms tightly pressed in the caged wagons. “At least they will supply some sport as we continue on. And those that still live will do well as man servants and eunuchs back home.”
Emir Aqui nodded. “This is true. There is little to lead me to believe the Latins will cause us much trouble. We have struck them a blow with only 5 kadons of warriors, and already one of their cities is dust, and the other is in our grasp.”
“Meh,” Mudjah grunted. “Maybe. But they do make great roads.” The rest of the Ansar Warriors murmured their agreement.
Emir Aqui stared at the sky, noting the position of the sun. “We will stop here. I want a small company on watch. We shall eat and drink, and pray to Mecca, giving thanks to Allah and Mohammed for leading us to this place and rewarding us with the victories we have amassed.”
The Arab forces dismounted, setting up camp as they did so. After the fires were lit and the tents erected, scented herbs were thrown over the flames and prayer blankets were unrolled. Armor was removed and stowed away lovingly, each piece carefully handled and folded for donning again tomorrow. Wearing their dishdashas, their white robes, and with the gutras or head cloths firmly worn, the men prepared to pray.
Even without a muezzin to aid in the prayers, the men were more than able to get their voices to ring out together and as one. “Allah Akbar. God is great.” Kneeling on their prayer mats, they all faced west, towards Mecca, the holy site and seat of power for the Arab nation.
Mudjah began to recite the first pillar, the Declaration of Faith. “There is no god but Allah, and Muhammad is the messenger of Allah." Unfortunately, he never got further than that. From all around the Arab encampment, dark skinned warriors with spears and daggers burst from holes that had been covered with woven mats of grasses. They fell upon the unprepared Ansar Warriors, stabbing their fetished weapons at their unarmored foes.
Mudjah felt shock. His prayer, his prayer to Mecca interrupted, by these…these…these dark skinned demons. He feared at first they were efreeti, sent to punish him for some past sin, but he realized that they were instead the squawking Zulu people that he and the other holy warriors had to pass through to lay war upon the Latins.
Once it was known they were men and not spirits or demons, he grew strong in his resolve. Grabbing his scimitar and slipping his left arm into its vambrace, he charged the nearest Zulu. The dark skinned warrior noted Mudjah’s attack and easily blocked the Ansar’s blow with his own hide bound shield. Mudjah was forced to leap back, throwing himself away from the strong blow of the Zulu’s spear. His sword slashed down; splitting his dishdasha and giving him some much needed mobility.
The two warriors traded blows, neither doing more than scratching the other. Around him, Mudjah was disheartened to see that even with the armored company that was patrolling the borders aiding in the struggle, the Zulus were still holding the upper hand against the Arabian swordsmen. He watched as Zakrim ibn-Yani was cut down nearby, and the warrior that slayed him approached Mudjah and his own combatant in an effort to help.
The 2nd warrior was much younger, less than 20 years at best. He was fluid in his strikes, and careful with his blows. Mudjah felt uncomfortable, knowing that the careful gaze of the younger Zulu was as cold as a viper's and as deadly as a scorpion. The Arabian gave ground.
The Latin slaves that had been captured and tortured, their bodies branded and starved, were set free by the dark skinned attackers. Hungry for revenge, the Latins grabbed fallen weapons from dead Arabs and fell upon their former captors like hungry wolves.
Mudjah’s drifting eyes cost him dearly. The attentive Zulu lashed in, scoring a deep thrust into the holy warrior's chest. He coughed, trying to breathe as his lungs filled with blood. He felt his gaze dim and his body fail. Before he died, he was dismayed to see the Zulu that killed him didn’t even have the decency to watch him as he passed; instead he dismissed Mudjah from his thoughts and concerns, and like an animal, went looking for more prey to fall upon.
Mudjah last thought was that he hoped that his allotment of virgins were at least waiting for him as the world turned dark and he faded from the world of man on his way to heaven.
“Mudjah al-Aquim, do you seek to have sexual congress with that animal? You whisper so softly into its ears.” The other Ansar Warriors laughed along with Narajim ibn-Halstafa. “You might have been better off bedding one of the Latin animals instead.” More laughter.
Mudjah smiled, showing his teeth openly to Narajim. “Narajim forgets what it is like to whisper anything to a woman, be it horse, Latin woman, or dog, since he has been saddled by his own steed many a time.” This time the laughter was directed back at the red faced Narajim.
“Enough, holy warriors.” Emir Aqui al-Anzar, commander of the Ansar invading forces had ridden up. “Save your anger and your attacks for the Latin people we will ride against soon.”
“The Pharaohess must indeed be weak if she was having trouble with these people. They are weakly defended, ugly and course, and they scream most delightfully just before they are sent to the next world.” Narajim snapped his finger. “There is little to fear from these Latins.” He glanced back at the five dozen or so warrior slaves they had captured, their forms tightly pressed in the caged wagons. “At least they will supply some sport as we continue on. And those that still live will do well as man servants and eunuchs back home.”
Emir Aqui nodded. “This is true. There is little to lead me to believe the Latins will cause us much trouble. We have struck them a blow with only 5 kadons of warriors, and already one of their cities is dust, and the other is in our grasp.”
“Meh,” Mudjah grunted. “Maybe. But they do make great roads.” The rest of the Ansar Warriors murmured their agreement.
Emir Aqui stared at the sky, noting the position of the sun. “We will stop here. I want a small company on watch. We shall eat and drink, and pray to Mecca, giving thanks to Allah and Mohammed for leading us to this place and rewarding us with the victories we have amassed.”
The Arab forces dismounted, setting up camp as they did so. After the fires were lit and the tents erected, scented herbs were thrown over the flames and prayer blankets were unrolled. Armor was removed and stowed away lovingly, each piece carefully handled and folded for donning again tomorrow. Wearing their dishdashas, their white robes, and with the gutras or head cloths firmly worn, the men prepared to pray.
Even without a muezzin to aid in the prayers, the men were more than able to get their voices to ring out together and as one. “Allah Akbar. God is great.” Kneeling on their prayer mats, they all faced west, towards Mecca, the holy site and seat of power for the Arab nation.
Mudjah began to recite the first pillar, the Declaration of Faith. “There is no god but Allah, and Muhammad is the messenger of Allah." Unfortunately, he never got further than that. From all around the Arab encampment, dark skinned warriors with spears and daggers burst from holes that had been covered with woven mats of grasses. They fell upon the unprepared Ansar Warriors, stabbing their fetished weapons at their unarmored foes.
Mudjah felt shock. His prayer, his prayer to Mecca interrupted, by these…these…these dark skinned demons. He feared at first they were efreeti, sent to punish him for some past sin, but he realized that they were instead the squawking Zulu people that he and the other holy warriors had to pass through to lay war upon the Latins.
Once it was known they were men and not spirits or demons, he grew strong in his resolve. Grabbing his scimitar and slipping his left arm into its vambrace, he charged the nearest Zulu. The dark skinned warrior noted Mudjah’s attack and easily blocked the Ansar’s blow with his own hide bound shield. Mudjah was forced to leap back, throwing himself away from the strong blow of the Zulu’s spear. His sword slashed down; splitting his dishdasha and giving him some much needed mobility.
The two warriors traded blows, neither doing more than scratching the other. Around him, Mudjah was disheartened to see that even with the armored company that was patrolling the borders aiding in the struggle, the Zulus were still holding the upper hand against the Arabian swordsmen. He watched as Zakrim ibn-Yani was cut down nearby, and the warrior that slayed him approached Mudjah and his own combatant in an effort to help.
The 2nd warrior was much younger, less than 20 years at best. He was fluid in his strikes, and careful with his blows. Mudjah felt uncomfortable, knowing that the careful gaze of the younger Zulu was as cold as a viper's and as deadly as a scorpion. The Arabian gave ground.
The Latin slaves that had been captured and tortured, their bodies branded and starved, were set free by the dark skinned attackers. Hungry for revenge, the Latins grabbed fallen weapons from dead Arabs and fell upon their former captors like hungry wolves.
Mudjah’s drifting eyes cost him dearly. The attentive Zulu lashed in, scoring a deep thrust into the holy warrior's chest. He coughed, trying to breathe as his lungs filled with blood. He felt his gaze dim and his body fail. Before he died, he was dismayed to see the Zulu that killed him didn’t even have the decency to watch him as he passed; instead he dismissed Mudjah from his thoughts and concerns, and like an animal, went looking for more prey to fall upon.
Mudjah last thought was that he hoped that his allotment of virgins were at least waiting for him as the world turned dark and he faded from the world of man on his way to heaven.
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Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
There - 5 updates today. I'm done. Tired and going to bed. Impi warriors whacked one of the wandering Ansars. Yea Zulu. I needed them there because it's a long walk to get my support troops there. By the way, more bad news coming very soon. No spoliers, but for some readers, will be as bad as the destruction of Utica and the taking of Caesaraugusta.
Stay tuned. Same Roman Time. Same Roman Channel!
V
Stay tuned. Same Roman Time. Same Roman Channel!
V
deleted_scenes
Chieftain
- Joined
- Jul 20, 2004
- Messages
- 50
5 updates! It's like Christmas in August!
Specialist290
Terracotta Statue Man
- Joined
- Jul 1, 2003
- Messages
- 1,335
I'm guessing that the Arab threat is even bigger than the Egyptian one was.
*Shields self from objects about to be thrown for making an obvious statement*
*Shields self from objects about to be thrown for making an obvious statement*
das
Regeneration In Process
So, the Myth of Arabian Invincibility is shattered now. Glad to see that your allies are trustworthy, because that mine betray me every three turns. 
Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
The horse floundered, lost its footing, and slammed hard into the muddy ground, throwing Gaius clear of the saddle. The exhausted knight rolled to a stop in the cold slime some six miles north of Lugdunum. The charging mass of the Knight Legionnaires slowed, coming to an unsteady stop. “You ok, General?”
Struggling to get his arms under him, the young commander levered himself out of the muck and shook his head clear. “Yeah. Damned horse practically fell asleep while running.” He looked around at his exhausted men, their bodies limply propped in their saddles. Standing he asked, “How is he?”
One of the squires patted the trembling horse’s side. “He’s fine, just a bit spooked. Tired, but fine.”
“Good.” Looking around the countryside in the dim light of dusk, he said, “Get me another steed. Someone fresher. Let him ride to the back with the other trailing steed. We can ride on for another half hour.”
Assorted and assembled groans and complaints filled the air. Gaius scowled. “Hey! Listen up. We’re all tired; we’ve been riding ourselves to death. You, me, the horses, everyone. But in case you’ve forgotten, over 120,000 people died recently. THAT WE KNOW OF!” The complaints died away, the knights silent, ashamed.
“There are no other knights, legionnaires, or heavy infantry south of Lugdunum. The heartland, the very core of Rome is guarded by minimally trained troops. Troopers who should have to do nothing more than split up arguments with peasants and keep the peace. But these brave souls are dying, fighting and dying to stop the horde of invading Arabs until we get there.”
A relatively fresher steed was brought forward. Gaius pulled himself up, settling his sore body gingerly into the saddle. “They’re expecting the cavalry to come riding in and save them. And we’re it. And that means I want to make Lugdunum before we stop. We will rest there the night, restock our provisions, and we will ride out by 9:00 AM. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes.” “Yeah.” “Ay, Ay, General.”
“That is no way to address me. I said, do I make myself clear?!”
“YES, GENERAL!”
“Better.” He turned his mount around. “Men, I’m just as tired as all of you. But rest assured, when the Arabian forces see our army come flying over the land, they’ll give themselves over to screams and tears to get clear of us.” Hoisting his fallen standard high, he gave it a shake, slinging mud off it and allowing the breeze to send it waving. “So let’s go. For Rome!”
“FOR ROME!!”
Kicking his heels into the horse’s ribs, Gaius led the Knight’s Legionnaires back into the darkening night on the road toward Lugdunum and then the southwestern part of the country. He led them to do battle with the forces of Arabia.
Struggling to get his arms under him, the young commander levered himself out of the muck and shook his head clear. “Yeah. Damned horse practically fell asleep while running.” He looked around at his exhausted men, their bodies limply propped in their saddles. Standing he asked, “How is he?”
One of the squires patted the trembling horse’s side. “He’s fine, just a bit spooked. Tired, but fine.”
“Good.” Looking around the countryside in the dim light of dusk, he said, “Get me another steed. Someone fresher. Let him ride to the back with the other trailing steed. We can ride on for another half hour.”
Assorted and assembled groans and complaints filled the air. Gaius scowled. “Hey! Listen up. We’re all tired; we’ve been riding ourselves to death. You, me, the horses, everyone. But in case you’ve forgotten, over 120,000 people died recently. THAT WE KNOW OF!” The complaints died away, the knights silent, ashamed.
“There are no other knights, legionnaires, or heavy infantry south of Lugdunum. The heartland, the very core of Rome is guarded by minimally trained troops. Troopers who should have to do nothing more than split up arguments with peasants and keep the peace. But these brave souls are dying, fighting and dying to stop the horde of invading Arabs until we get there.”
A relatively fresher steed was brought forward. Gaius pulled himself up, settling his sore body gingerly into the saddle. “They’re expecting the cavalry to come riding in and save them. And we’re it. And that means I want to make Lugdunum before we stop. We will rest there the night, restock our provisions, and we will ride out by 9:00 AM. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes.” “Yeah.” “Ay, Ay, General.”
“That is no way to address me. I said, do I make myself clear?!”
“YES, GENERAL!”
“Better.” He turned his mount around. “Men, I’m just as tired as all of you. But rest assured, when the Arabian forces see our army come flying over the land, they’ll give themselves over to screams and tears to get clear of us.” Hoisting his fallen standard high, he gave it a shake, slinging mud off it and allowing the breeze to send it waving. “So let’s go. For Rome!”
“FOR ROME!!”
Kicking his heels into the horse’s ribs, Gaius led the Knight’s Legionnaires back into the darkening night on the road toward Lugdunum and then the southwestern part of the country. He led them to do battle with the forces of Arabia.
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biggamer132
King
Whip 'em good, Vanadorn. That's two cities they've taken. 
Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
“What in Zeus’ name…?”
The hastily trained cavalry mix from Virconium stared with wild eyes at the mass of riding Ansar Warriors that rode across the western lands. The great plains and fertile fields of the Roman peasantry were home to hundreds and thousands of marching Arab horsemen. Their thick leather armor and long boar spears seemed an even match for the cobbled forces that beheld them.
Captain Beliux, Knight and commander of the 3rd Virconium shook his head. Fifty noble scions, a couple of hundred rapidly trained rangers and squires, maybe half again that number of mercenaries willing to don armor for some lira, and an equal number of anxious pikers and militia who’ve never ridden anything better than a nag or a palfrey. He spat. Ah, Mars. I hope you’re getting a good laugh at this.
He looked over his unready and untested men. “Alright,” he said, “This is what we’re gonna do. I want two lines of riders. Just like we practiced, I want you a good ten seconds apart. We’re going to charge those filthy murdering Arabs and hit them with everything we’ve got. After you strike your man, drop your lance. Keep on your horse and draw your sword. Whatever happens; Stay on your horse, keep your left side away from the enemy.” He stared out at their blank faces, inwardly cursing their severe lack of experience.
“Centurions. You know what to do.” Beliux pointed at the standard bearer. “Raise it.” The young man hoisted the long pole over his shoulder, propping it up so the base rode in his stirrup. The waving red and black trimmed flag of Rome flew high, with the green tree standard of Virconium and the “III” crossing the stylized horse perched proudly beneath it. “Form up!” he called.
The Arabian scouts had already noted the Roman approach, and Beliux was able to see their forces string out. Even though his troops had the advantage of the higher terrain and had prepared for the charge first, he became dismayed as he realized the Ansars would be more than ready to receive his attack. “Come on. Come on! Hurry up there! Dress that line, mister!” The Roman horsemen spread out further and further, the knights seeming nervous and low of morale as they prepared for their charge.
The Captain pointed at the company trumpeter. “Blow it.” A single blast sounded out, announcing the Roman intention and alerting the knights that the call to charge would be coming soon. As the 2nd line finished forming, the Arabian cavalry cried out their own horn blast, letting Beliux know that his advantage was about to disappear. “Come on, men! For Rome and Virconium…Charge!!”
The Roman line lurched forward. Lances thrust high and the knights of the 3rd Virconium began their run against the Arabian hordes. Beliux wanted to curse, noting that a full ¼ of the 2nd line of knights had broken ranks, foolishly trotting a few paces out before stopping and waiting for the proper time. This was going to make the 2nd lines impact that much worse. Meanwhile, the Arabian forces cried out their otherworldly yelping and countercharged the 3rd Virconium.
Glancing back, Beliux noted that the rest of his forces had begun their run, the Centurions in charge trying to force the waving front back into a solid line. The cantor that he had been maintaining was switched to a gallop by a gentle squeeze on his horse’s flank. The mass of knights responded in kind.
With both sets of cavalry charging each other, the distance between them shrunk rapidly. On both sides lances were lowered and shields were raised. The two fronts came closer and with a resounding crash, collided.
Beliux was driven back against his saddle, but managed to keep his seat. Dropping his shattered lance, he gripped his broad sword and unsheathed it in a single sweeping blow. Around him, the cries of Arabs and Romans melded together as both sides tore into each other. With a crunch, the 2nd Arab line struck the battlefront, pushing the Roman forces back.
However, the 2nd Roman line followed suit, reestablishing the melee some dozen paces back against the turbaned warriors. The horses reared, hooves slashed. Beliux cried out orders until his voice grew hoarse and broken. His sword fell again and again. Around him, the wild mix of warriors seethed across the plains, making any assumption on the pace and tide of the battle impossible.
“3rd Virconium!” he cried, trying to rally the local men into a tighter knot of attackers. “3rd Virconium!” he cried again. Something banged hard against his back, shoving him forward. He tried to turn, but found he couldn’t turn. Glancing down, he was horrified to see the pointed end of an Arabian spear lance punched through his stomach plate from the wrong side. His guts felt cold and he slipped from the saddle.
The men who had been rallying, watched Captain Beliux fall, shattering their already tenuous morale. Breaking off, they tried to flee, crying, “Run for your lives! The captain is dead!” The panic spread like wildfire over the already unsteady troops. In groups and bands, they poured away from the Ansar Warriors, trying to find safe ground. Meanwhile, the smaller but still fresh 3rd Arabian line, held in reserve for such an eventuality, charged across the plains, wheeling leftward as they did so.
Howling to God and Allah, the counterattacking warriors tore through the demoralized knights, ending the cohesion and threat that the Virconium 3rd Knight Brigade had presented.
The hastily trained cavalry mix from Virconium stared with wild eyes at the mass of riding Ansar Warriors that rode across the western lands. The great plains and fertile fields of the Roman peasantry were home to hundreds and thousands of marching Arab horsemen. Their thick leather armor and long boar spears seemed an even match for the cobbled forces that beheld them.
Captain Beliux, Knight and commander of the 3rd Virconium shook his head. Fifty noble scions, a couple of hundred rapidly trained rangers and squires, maybe half again that number of mercenaries willing to don armor for some lira, and an equal number of anxious pikers and militia who’ve never ridden anything better than a nag or a palfrey. He spat. Ah, Mars. I hope you’re getting a good laugh at this.
He looked over his unready and untested men. “Alright,” he said, “This is what we’re gonna do. I want two lines of riders. Just like we practiced, I want you a good ten seconds apart. We’re going to charge those filthy murdering Arabs and hit them with everything we’ve got. After you strike your man, drop your lance. Keep on your horse and draw your sword. Whatever happens; Stay on your horse, keep your left side away from the enemy.” He stared out at their blank faces, inwardly cursing their severe lack of experience.
“Centurions. You know what to do.” Beliux pointed at the standard bearer. “Raise it.” The young man hoisted the long pole over his shoulder, propping it up so the base rode in his stirrup. The waving red and black trimmed flag of Rome flew high, with the green tree standard of Virconium and the “III” crossing the stylized horse perched proudly beneath it. “Form up!” he called.
The Arabian scouts had already noted the Roman approach, and Beliux was able to see their forces string out. Even though his troops had the advantage of the higher terrain and had prepared for the charge first, he became dismayed as he realized the Ansars would be more than ready to receive his attack. “Come on. Come on! Hurry up there! Dress that line, mister!” The Roman horsemen spread out further and further, the knights seeming nervous and low of morale as they prepared for their charge.
The Captain pointed at the company trumpeter. “Blow it.” A single blast sounded out, announcing the Roman intention and alerting the knights that the call to charge would be coming soon. As the 2nd line finished forming, the Arabian cavalry cried out their own horn blast, letting Beliux know that his advantage was about to disappear. “Come on, men! For Rome and Virconium…Charge!!”
The Roman line lurched forward. Lances thrust high and the knights of the 3rd Virconium began their run against the Arabian hordes. Beliux wanted to curse, noting that a full ¼ of the 2nd line of knights had broken ranks, foolishly trotting a few paces out before stopping and waiting for the proper time. This was going to make the 2nd lines impact that much worse. Meanwhile, the Arabian forces cried out their otherworldly yelping and countercharged the 3rd Virconium.
Glancing back, Beliux noted that the rest of his forces had begun their run, the Centurions in charge trying to force the waving front back into a solid line. The cantor that he had been maintaining was switched to a gallop by a gentle squeeze on his horse’s flank. The mass of knights responded in kind.
With both sets of cavalry charging each other, the distance between them shrunk rapidly. On both sides lances were lowered and shields were raised. The two fronts came closer and with a resounding crash, collided.
Beliux was driven back against his saddle, but managed to keep his seat. Dropping his shattered lance, he gripped his broad sword and unsheathed it in a single sweeping blow. Around him, the cries of Arabs and Romans melded together as both sides tore into each other. With a crunch, the 2nd Arab line struck the battlefront, pushing the Roman forces back.
However, the 2nd Roman line followed suit, reestablishing the melee some dozen paces back against the turbaned warriors. The horses reared, hooves slashed. Beliux cried out orders until his voice grew hoarse and broken. His sword fell again and again. Around him, the wild mix of warriors seethed across the plains, making any assumption on the pace and tide of the battle impossible.
“3rd Virconium!” he cried, trying to rally the local men into a tighter knot of attackers. “3rd Virconium!” he cried again. Something banged hard against his back, shoving him forward. He tried to turn, but found he couldn’t turn. Glancing down, he was horrified to see the pointed end of an Arabian spear lance punched through his stomach plate from the wrong side. His guts felt cold and he slipped from the saddle.
The men who had been rallying, watched Captain Beliux fall, shattering their already tenuous morale. Breaking off, they tried to flee, crying, “Run for your lives! The captain is dead!” The panic spread like wildfire over the already unsteady troops. In groups and bands, they poured away from the Ansar Warriors, trying to find safe ground. Meanwhile, the smaller but still fresh 3rd Arabian line, held in reserve for such an eventuality, charged across the plains, wheeling leftward as they did so.
Howling to God and Allah, the counterattacking warriors tore through the demoralized knights, ending the cohesion and threat that the Virconium 3rd Knight Brigade had presented.
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Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
[rant]
Knight's attack of 4, Ansar's defend of 2. Apparently I offended Fortuna, goddess of luck sometime ago and she was sleeping with the RNG to get back at me. I lost all 3 rushed knights that were built in the area (since they cannot retreat, Ansar is faster), and only wounded and redlined the Ansars. Thankfully the knight army is here soon, so I definately delayed the attack against Pompeii. 1 Full Ansar and 3 wounded will not take the city.
[/end rant]
More soon. Thanks again.
V
Knight's attack of 4, Ansar's defend of 2. Apparently I offended Fortuna, goddess of luck sometime ago and she was sleeping with the RNG to get back at me. I lost all 3 rushed knights that were built in the area (since they cannot retreat, Ansar is faster), and only wounded and redlined the Ansars. Thankfully the knight army is here soon, so I definately delayed the attack against Pompeii. 1 Full Ansar and 3 wounded will not take the city.
[/end rant]
More soon. Thanks again.
V
deleted_scenes
Chieftain
- Joined
- Jul 20, 2004
- Messages
- 50
That is pretty crappy. Hey, at least it fits into the story quite well.
Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
@ Deleted - Brave Romans on both sides of the River Styx thank you for your concern and sorrow at their untimely passing against the hands of the barbarian arabs ( 
)
Was going to write now, daughter just went to bed, but am tired myself, so I'll add some tomorrow. Thanks again to everyone (my god - 3400 views!!!).
V
)Was going to write now, daughter just went to bed, but am tired myself, so I'll add some tomorrow. Thanks again to everyone (my god - 3400 views!!!).
V
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