Struggle for Survival: France

[Gilder]

Civ: France
Size: Standard
Landform: Continents
Water: 60%
Barbarians: None
Opponents: Random
Climate: Wet
Age: 5 Billion?
Difficulty: Regent

Charlemagne sat on his throne; the crown of France, signifying the despot’s supreme power was on his head, tilted. His royal garb, a crimson robe and golden sash were wrinkled, stressed. A crystal orb, another relic of his house rested in his lap, dulled. Charlemagne’s appearance greatly reflected his mood.

How long had it been since the last war with Rome in the east? Barely ten years had gone by before the aggressive Julius Caesar invaded France. The Roman ruler still held a grudge against Charlemagne for conquering the city of Rome and demanding Neapolis as war reparations.

His expression was grim, his eyes upon the orb. The heir to France had been slain in a sneak attack on the now-French city of Rome. Caesar was desperate to snatch back his old capital. So now, the line of the Carolingians would end with him. His sister had a son, whose name was Charles as well. It would have to do. For Charles the Bald, Emperor Charlemagne among the people, was widowed. His wife died giving birth to his son, and so the aging Emperor was grieved.

The doors to the throne room opened and a messenger stepped inside.

“Julius Caesar has sent his reply my lord,” said the messenger.

Charlemagne raised his head. “And?” the ruler of France pressed. “Will he consort for some sort of peace treaty?”

“Nay, Emperor Charlemagne,” answered the messenger. “Not on reasonable terms. If we were to make peace, we were to return all old Roman lands, the majority of our own, and all knowledge we have.”

Charlemagne smiled slightly. “I suppose Alain told him no?”

The messenger nodded. “Yes, your foreign advisor declined it, and swore several times at Caesar’s name. He is busy with other affairs at the moment, meeting with a new country called Germany.”

The Emperor grunted. “Good, summon Geoffori, it is time to marshal our defenses. I know some of the southern cities are weak, train more archers and horsemen cavalry. Tell my servant to bring me my mail and brand.” He straightened his crown and wiped the Orb on his robes. “Charlemagne is back to where he belongs. War.”

“Not entirely advisable sir,” a new man entered through the doors, young, but still looking very competent.

“Geoffori, just the man I wanted to see,” Charlemagne stood and clapped the man on the back. “Although not for those reasons you stated.”

“You’re getting too old, sire,” the commander of France’s armies said bluntly. “If you were to die now, who would lead the empire? Your nephew, the next Charles in line? He is but a few years old. He has not even lived for a decade, and now you are naming him the lordship of an Empire. Have you not sued for peace?”

“Aye, I have. But Caesar and I have old hatreds that run dim in my mind, but not in his. His anger is still fresh from the humiliation Rome suffered ten years ago. I will lead a charge on the town of Lugdunum. It will show old Julius the Rat who is boss: strength and tactics, not pride and folly. After that, maybe his heart will have softened.”

“And if you do not come back?”

“The young Charles is now my heir Geoffori. There is no changing that now, as I have no young kin left. If I fall on the fields of Rome, then let my sister rule as regent for a maximum of sixty seasons. If at any period of time the true heir of Charlemagne wishes to claim his lordship, the Crown, and the Orb, then my good sister must yield to his son.”

“As you wish Emperor, though the people may be hardened against a female regent,” said Geoffori. “I will go rouse the archers and horsemen cavalry asleep in the barracks.” He exited.

“Now messenger,” said Charlemagne. “Come get your next task! I need you to station yourself in Rome, and wait to accompany Alain to sue for pardon. You expect to wait only a few months, if Caesar does not wish to lay siege to his old holdings.”

The messenger nodded and left. Charlemagne, expander of France and Emperor of the French, sat back down on his throne; he was off to war again.

[Freedom]

Looking forward to this, although more pictures would be nice.

[Gilder]

“Do you see anything private Odilon?”

“Nothing Captains Pons,” answered the watchman slowly. “They have made camp on that hill, they are still within bowshot though.”

The two were on high, newly built walls in the city of Rome, once the nation of Rome’s capital, but now simply a French foothold and province.

“Ha! Foolish Romans!” said Captain Pons. “They make camp on a hill well within range of bowshot.”

“They appear wary sir, appearing to boost their defenses by having a score of men fortified on the guard.”

“Hmm, yes,” muttered Captain Pons. He squinted. “I see only archers on that hill Odilon, do my eyes deceive me?”

“Nay, that is plain as day. We saw them move in at dusk,” replied Odilon. “And no movements at all from them.”

“Very well, we shan’t assault them. It is too risky. But, if they try something, fire what you can, and horsemen cavalry will mow the rest down.”

The private’s fingers were idle on his bow. “At least they have not claimed the iron to the south, otherwise we may need to recede beyond the Somme.”

Pons nodded his head. “Very true. Word has come that no assault has been made on Neapolis at all. That is strange, but for Julius the Rat, perhaps he values his old capital then a small town that could prove vital in winning a war against us.”

“Yes, but there are still-,”

“Quiet, what was that?” Captain Pons stopped him with a motion of his hand.

“What is it Captain?”

Pons was legendary for his exceptional hearing. There was not a whisper or a breath he could not hear for many feet. Which was the reason he was captained on so many night watches. But now there was a sound, somewhere…a soft padding, now a small creak…

Pons knew the sound; he had grown used to it with the Archer Assault ten years prior.

“Down! All of you! Get down!”

But it was too late to react. The Roman archers, coming up by stealth of darkness had crept up to a closer range of the city’s walls. At least five scores of twangs were let loose, and the arrows shot into the flesh of the guards. Few fell, one near Odilon was smote in the breast and flung off the wall. Pons tackled Odilon as five or more whizzed where he was not a second before.

Pons got up quickly. “Hasten to your feet! Return fire!”

What archers were left (about thirty-five) returned fire quickly, before the enemy could reload. Unfortunately, the Roman’s numbers weren’t as dented as much as they would have liked, and they were forced to duck and covered as another hail flew at them.

“Open the gates! Let the cavalry through!”

Odilon could see the cavalry as they rode through the gates. Shadows lined their faces, with grim frowns and not a trace of sleep on them. They were elite, trained under the Statue of God in Paris and rode hard many miles south to the captured city. Now they charged through the gates, holding spear and shield, making a beeline for the archers.

It was a massacre; Pons and Odilon could tell that even without light. They could hear the heavy hoof beats of the steeds, the war cries of the men, and the screams of bloody murder from the Romans. Many a shrill were cut off from being skewered with a spear, or trampled to death by the horses. When all were slain or fled, the cavalry came back, the gates opened and they entered. The gates were shut and many a man was sent to the healers.

“That was…scary.” Odilon admitted slowly.

“Aye…” breathed Captain Pons. “It will be a sight to look on in the morning. Those are the horsemen cavalry, trained to show no mercy to enemies of the Emperor. We have many more on the way to this city to strike back at Rome and defend our territory.”

“It makes me glad my job is just to defend the walls.”

“Yes,” agreed Pons. “I am glad for it too. But look! Fires still burn on the hill, there are more archers encamped there. Julius the Rat will never let us have that hill while we are at war. It is an old devised strategy of his; always keep someone protecting the hill. We cannot take it, as we have few too soldiers on this field. And if one unit of men were to die, then the city would be in peril.”

“Do you think they’ll make another assault?” Odilon asked nervously.

“No, not after that massacre. They will want to remove their dead, and wait for reinforcements. We shall do likewise.”

“Yes sir.”

[Concona]

Nice story!!

[Gilder]

Several hundred cavalrymen rode down upon the wilderness from Orleans. They had left the city before dawn had broken, and now rode towards Rome. According to the last messenger, it had a great host of archers staked out on a hill within bowshot of the city. More men were needed; archers were shot down from the battlements daily. However this unit of cavalry was not the only troops moving south. Ahead of them by a day was more archers, and behind them by a week was another cavalry, and before and after more archers. They were primarily used in warfare, the best anyone could come up with. French scholars had found the way to make swords, but there was no iron, for Rome or for France.

Thibault rode in the back of the pack, one of the newer recruits, having completed his training not but a fortnight ago. And now already, he was off to war. The pay was good for a horseman cavalry. You had to have a hard heart, nerves of steel, and show no mercy. He was young; then again, every horsemen cavalry was young. You either died on the field, or retired before your hair turned grey.

So now he was on the road to war like the rest of his fellow comrades. They had hills to their left, but they were smoothing into wide plains quickly, or going along the coast. This was good land, wide-open grasslands and fine fodder for the steeds. The company rode until the sun deepened into dusk and they took camp in-between the starting of a forest and the rising hills.

The captain of the cavalry turned his great steed around to address the men. “By tomorrow we should be at Rome. If the defenses there look adequate, we will receive our next mission. For now, sleep light. First watchmen, you have-whoa!”

The good captain’s horse reared and neighed, frightened by something that had flown down nearby. It was a wooden shaft, stuck into the ground at an odd angle.

“Ambush! Ambush!” someone cried.

“Shields! Shields! Up with the arm shields! Hurry!”

Thibault panicked, all training drills had left him. Arm shield?

“Private Thibault! The shield strapped to your arm!”

Of course, how could he be so thick? The small rounded shield strapped to his arm. Thibault chuckled.

“No time for laughs Thibault! Up! Shields up!”

Instinctively, his arm went up, mostly because of the need he felt to protect his face, not the captain’s orders. Five low thuds pounded on the small shield. Five arrows with small red bands had embedded themselves on top the shield. Roman arrows.

“They come from the hills!” the commanding officer barked. “In formation! Charge!”

When Thibault looked back on the events later when he got to Rome, how he and his steed began charging would be a blur. He wasn’t sure at all how it happened. One minute he was feeling lucky to have blocked five arrows, the next he was digging his heels into the sides of his horse, urging him on as he gripped his spear.

Few arrows were shot on the oncoming cavalry. Most fell too short distance or too long distance away from them. The scattered few that did hit the pack we stopped by shields. The shots were more frantic now, as the archers fled south in fear, hoping to escape the stampede.

They were at the foot of the hills now, losing a bit of momentum as the horses adjusted to the slope. But they quickly regained their speed and swiftly came to the crown of the hills. The archers had only just made it to the bottom. But only just.

From the hill, a few of Thibault’s fellow cavalrymen threw their spears, most finding their mark in the backs of the fleeing Romans. There were only a hundred of them, a measly weak unit.

“After them! Charge!”

The captain sprang down the hill; the rest of the cavalry followed him. Once again Thibault found himself swept up in the spur of the moment, riding down hard on the archers.

They had not made it far before the first hooves trampled them speedily. Those had been lagging behind, but the swifter ones were farther ahead. Still, they kept at them and soon began to overtake the main force.

Thibault found himself thrusting his spear into Roman after Roman, only managed to get a few before they were all overcome. The Romans had been outnumbered by at least five to one. They stood no chance against the most fearsome branch of France’s military. There were no survivors or prisoners of war.

The captain ordered them to halt when all was done. He beamed at his men, albeit glaring a bit. “Good, good. We could have used a few for interrogation. But it doesn’t matter.”

His horse trotted towards the west, where the sun had almost fully set. “We must press on without rest to Rome. I daresay that pitiful five score men was used to ambush us.”

“Indeed sir,” one solider spoke up. “Perhaps it was a scouting party.”

The captain adjusted his helm and stroked his chin. “Perhaps, though horses would have suited better. At any rate it is all the more reason to hasten to Rome. We are but a few hours journey now. It could be a large assault on the city aside from siege, or an attack on the homeland of France. Come, ride now!”

Like the rest of the evening’s events, the rest of the ride to Rome was a blur. He remembered wind rushing past his ears, a sore bum, and the sigh of relief as the walls of Rome came into view, and he passed through the gates to the safety of France’s strongest stronghold in the south.

[secretninja]

WOW great story post more

[conquer_dude]

Very good story.

[Makonnen5]

interesting i love the action, im following

[502nd PIR]

Thats very good. I'm planin on being a writer and I think you have a huge amount of talent. Well written all around. Good show old chap!

[secretninja]

502nd PIR--sweet quotes

[502nd PIR]

Hey thanks.