Dance of the Worlds

Table of Contents:
Introduction
The Ancient Age:
Chapter 1: Chieftain
Chapter 2: The Rise of Rome
Chapter 3: Empire Between Rivers
Chapter 4: The Fall of Carthage
Chapter 5: The Iberian Conquests, Part One
Chapter 6: Axe and Stave
Chapter 7: Plots and Betrayal
Chapter 8: The Iberian Conquests, Part Two

I've been a lurker around here for the past year or so, and after reading quite a few excellent stories on the forums I've finally settled down and created an account on here. This thread will be the start of a new AAR.

This story will tell the tale of history as it unfolded on an alternate earth. Twelve civilizations out of thirty-four will be "POV civilizations" that I will be playing in the game, using multiplayer Hot Seat mode. This AAR will span all of that world's history, from the dawn of civilization to well beyond the 21st Century. Essentially I'll be using the game as a means to create an epic, one that will hopefully be entertaining to you all.

Feedback is much appreciated, especially constructive criticism. It'll let me know what I'm doing right and what I could improve on.

Game specifications:



Mod: This AAR is played in a custom mod with a 40 civ dll. The mod contains 34 civilizations on Rhye’s Huge earth map, in somewhat historical, semi-random starting positions. The aim of this AAR is to present an alternate earth history from the dawn of time to the modern age, played from the POV of twelve different Civilizations. Otherwise identical to Civ4 BTS.

Settings:

*Require complete kills.
*Aggressive AI.
*Raging Barbarians.
*No city flipping from culture.
*Conquest victory

______

Anyway, let's begin:

Dance of the Worlds

The New Translation, with Commentators

Translated by Vikus Trajanus​

By Vikus Trajanus​

Arguably the greatest epic ever put to pen by a Roman writer, Caius Aurelius’ Dance of the Worlds has, I think in part survived into the current century because of its universal message. Everyone, Roman or no, who reads the words set down by this man cannot help but be impressed by his deft grasp of human character, something that no doubt Aurelius has captured in all of his works. But Dance of the Worlds, arguably greatest work and certainly his last, is a tale epic in scope, a tale of the empires of the ages.

The tale attempts something which few writers have ever attempted: to weave a coherent narrative of the history of the earth, from the earliest settlements to rise of the Internet, the space age, and everything in between. However, Dance of the Worlds is no mere historical account; though its use in fields of historical scholarship is unquestioned (Its accuracy in some areas has been debated, of course). No, Dance tells the tale of the civilizations from the point of view of their inhabitants, not just the rulers, but also the common people, the soldiers, the generals, and the servants.

The advantages of this approach are many. By telling his epic in a fast-paced manner from the point of view of the men and women who had witnessed these events, Aurelius is able to capture the shared threads of humanity and ultimately captures the essence of the human spirit.

However, Dance is no mere children's tale of civilizations. Aurelius unabashedly writes about the dark side of human character as well, discerning the idealism or cynicism that motivated each ruler’s action. Throughout history, every civilization has used politics, religion, science, and war to further their agenda, many cynically, others truly believing they did the right thing.

Aurelius does not judge. He allows us to form our own opinion, while capturing both sides of the struggle. The men and women who make up the cast are formed and fleshed out in meticulous detail as the epic is read, whether they are conqueror, slave, dictator, or prophet. Aurelius gives a clear window into their lives and is able to therefore capture the humanity of these long-ago figures, many of whom have had only a cursory examination in historical texts.

Because of this, I think, Dance is Aurelius’ best-known and most widely available work, and has been translated into countless tongues. The work is required reading today for Roman scholars, and the work guaranteed Aurelius eternal fame as the “weaver of civilization”. To this, however, Aurelius would protest, saying he had merely opened a window into the epic of earth. Indeed he has. And because of this, the people he wrote about, many dead for thousands of years will not be forgotten.

Dance of the Worlds was originally written in three parts, the first and last volume of Dance published eight years apart from each other. The last volume was published two years before Aurelius’ death, though many include his notes on the current era in an appendix to the third volume. Since his death, Aurelius has gained worldwide posthumous fame for his work, which has been translated into over sixty-three languages.

Despite this, Dance has received criticism, some historical, others philosophical. The historical criticism ranges from “Aurelius mixed up the dates of two events” to “Aurelius misrepresents the actions of this general, his plan was actually…” While much of this historical criticism is unfounded, Aurelius’ knowledge of some very early civilizations is relatively sparse in comparison to later eras, and any oversights on his part here can be forgiven.

The other major criticism is that Aurelius only focuses on a few of the most powerful civilizations, and that his work was not large enough in scope to be a definitive account of all history. It is undoubtedly true that certain civilizations and people (particularly immortals) get more detailed treatment in his work. However, Aurelius had never claimed Dance to be a definitive historical text, indeed, using his window analogy; it only captures some of what earth’s history has to offer.

Nevertheless, Dance of the Worlds remains Aurelius’ greatest work, and is indispensable for any interested in history, the influence of humans, or cultural evolution. The reader is urged to follow Aurelius’ advice, and look through the window into the epic of history.

Whenever possible, I have included the notes of the historical commentators’ voices alongside Aurelius’, excepting in the cases in which it disrupts the flow of Aurelius’ narrative. At times, I will include my own notes, explaining a certain term that Aurelius would have assumed his audience to be familiar with, or simply to make an observation on the text or the notes of the commentators. I have divided the narrative into Aurelius’ three parts, with his remaining notes forming an appendix to the third section.

Translating a work of this scope can be a long affair; indeed, the amount of help I have had with this translation will have to be covered in full in my acknowledgements section. Here I would like to thank Dr. Helena Aloise, who assisted my German translation of Dance and has been exceedingly helpful with the English as well. Dr. Marius Decius, professor of linguistics at the University of Cumae, my family (of course) for putting up with me throughout two years of rendering the Aurelius epics in German and English, and my editor, Remus Cato, who has been invaluable in catching countless linguistic errors and in translating the scope of Aurelius’ vision into English. Any further errors are, of course, solely my own.

So...new blood.


Welcome, Young writer, to the land where the strong control all and the weak "cultured" people burn, where the advanced destroy the primitive, where the UN is a tool for world domination, where democracy is just a means of building things quicker while communism is the most effective economy for large empires more often than not, where those who conquer the quickest and than keep control of their spoils are the most respected, where men love to start as cavemen on their trip 2 the cosmos, the heavens fall twice with incantations of unbelievable power, where the ultimate religious authority is a white, radioactive rock that can burst forth sometimes with the radiance of a thousand suns[1], where the forecast is continued war in a hell-hole of eternal war against EurasiaEastAsia with a 100% chance of mushroom clouds, or have been forced to abandon their own home due to thermonuclear warfare for the stars. All at the dance of those voyaging writers, who place with the lives of trillions for the purposes of their game.

This is Civfanatics. Only The the strong will flourish under its members iron rule and titanium fists. The weak will be perished, the strong ganged on, the cunning survive.
Do you have what it takes, Oh maybe wise and definately greedy writer?

Greetings young writer, may the forums be with you...

Thank you for the welcome! Anyway, here is the second update.

Trajan
​

The scent of burning flesh rose from the flames and for a time smoke lingered above the head of Trajan, son of Julius. Many of the tribe had turned away from the flames which consumed their fallen, but Trajan still stared intently as the flames washed over his brother’s body, six other warriors who had fallen in battle lying beside him. It was night and the Thousand Stars gleamed above their heads, but neither Trajan nor the tribe noticed them.

Augustus dead, thought Trajan grimly. I’ve lived too long.

Even now, it was still hard to grasp the fact that their mightiest chieftain had fallen. Augustus son of Julius was Trajan’s older brother and everything Trajan had wished to be. Where Trajan was taciturn and seemingly sullen, Augustus had been the greatest lord the Roma Tribe had ever known. Trajan still remembered the day when they’d hailed Augustus as their chief, after the Yuezhi barbarians had been defeated in battle. They had named him their leader- princeps.

And now he was dead, and half the tribe with him.

The light from the fire bit into Trajan’s tired eyes, and at last he was forced to look away. His brother was little more than ashes now. The flames had taken him, as they had taken their father. One day they would take Trajan as well.

But not yet, he vowed. There was still much he had to do before the gods called him. It was their grandfather who had led the Roma across the Narrow Sea, through empty lands devoid of tribes and filled with animals. It was their father who had established control over this region, and their brother who had subjugated the Yuezhi, another tribe that was an offshoot of another group of settlers who had journeyed across the Sea.

It had not been the Yuezhi who had brought his brother down. It had been another Roma tribe who had followed that of his grandfather across the Narrow Sea. The tribe was passing through the area they currently were encamped in, and it had come to battle. They’d had superior numbers, and it had only been because of his brother’s bravery that his Roma tribe had not been slaughtered.

What lay ahead for them now? Trajan wondered. A tribe without its chief was like a broken club- useless and meaningless. Trajan wondered if their tribe would simply cease to exist. He knew many of the families would be wont to seize control of the tribe, in the same way his grandfather had taken control of his Roma tribe. Battle could erupt easily, he knew, in tribes with no leader.

As much as I do not like it, I must lead them. There are too many threats we face from the inside and out. The Roma tribe who attacked us will be back to finish us, I know they will.

Trajan rose to his feet. He watched as, slowly, the other mourners followed suit. It was done, then. All of those fallen in battle had been consigned to the flame, his brother and the six being the last.

“I, Trajan, claim leadership over this tribe of the Roma. The gods are my witness. Does anyone challenge my rule?”

It was the custom of the Roma people. A chief had to be chosen by right of battle, it was a rare occurrence, if ever, when the Roma were led by a chieftain elected by unanimous vote. As the brother of a chief who had fallen in battle, Trajan did not expect to be elected peacefully. One of the tribe’s families would challenge him. He wasn’t sure which, however.

A muttering passed through those gathered there. Trajan surveyed the men gathered around him, saw their wives, daughters, and sons watching and whispering among themselves. Several of the heads of families exchanged meaningful looks, but Trajan had no time to dwell on them before a voice, harsh and biting, rang out.

“I, Cato, do.”

“Challenger,” said Trajan. “You honor me with your claim. May the man the gods deem worthy win.”

“The gods did not deem your brother worthy,” hissed Cato as he stepped forward. “Why should you be any different?”

The outline of his scarred face could be seen, illuminated by the white of the moon and the red of the fire. Cato was certainly intimidating. He cut a tall figure and was armed with a heavy war club. His eyes glittered dangerously, reflecting the light of the flames.

Trajan’s fingers tightened around his own war club. The heads of families formed a half-circle around them, the fire blocking off any other way to retreat. Cato smiled, and lifted his war club.

He believes the tribe to be behind him.

But Trajan knew otherwise. Many were doubtless convinced he would lose, but others had been his brother’s staunch supporters. He could hear the hushed arguments that always came before a duel, as men stared at the two men, one of whom would rule their tribe.

Cato charged. The first strike of his club was a heavy blow with all of his strength behind it, but Trajan lifted his own weapon and deflected the blow. For a moment, the blunt weapons vied against each other for purchase, then Cato withdrew and Trajan lunged forward, aiming for his challenger’s chest.

Cato was a large man, but also quick on his feet. He dodged the clumsy strike, and Trajan barely had enough time to block as the club descended upon him. Even still, his hands throbbed from the force of the blow.

Sensing weakness, Cato closed in. He lifted the war club and smashed it down toward Trajan, three times almost knocking the weapon from Trajan’s hands. Cato was forcing Trajan backward, toward the fire.

As Cato swung his club down, aiming at Trajan’s weapon arm, Trajan sidestepped the blow and brought his own club down, aiming to crush Cato’s skull beneath his weapon.

Their weapons collided midair and Trajan grit his teeth against the pain as Cato’s club smashed into his hand. He could hear the crack of bone, and felt the war club go limp in his hands.

Trajan’s last thought before Cato’s war club descended was the fate he knew would become of her if Cato won.

No! Trajan threw himself to the ground, landing on his back a moment before Cato’s war club would have snapped his neck. Cato had put all of the momentum into his strike, which caused him to stumble, off balance, toward the flames. As he staggered Trajan threw his war club at Cato’s leg with all of his strength. There was a jarring thud, and Cato gave a gasp of pain as he fell, stumbling into the fire.

Trajan was on him in an instant. Grabbing both his and Cato’s weapons, he grabbed the hand of his challenger, who writhed in the flames like a fish out of water. He pulled his struggling challenger free of the fire and threw him to the ground, where Cato quickly beat out the flames. Trajan saw his leg was badly injured, possibly broken, where his club had struck the challenger.

“I yield,” Cato gasped, knowing what came next. The price of attacking the rightful princeps was death, and Trajan was princeps now.

But rather than slaying him, Trajan threw the war clubs aside. “There will be no more death today,” he said, addressing the entire tribe. “My brother has gone to his rest among the Thousand Stars, and we will need every one of our warriors to rebuild this tribe.”

Pity was not his motive. Cato was a challenger, but he was the princeps, and he needed every man alive for what he planned. No doubt his tribe expected him to strike back against the Roma tribe that had killed his brother, and yes, Trajan planned to do so. But he also planned more.

“It is highly unusual-” said Cassius, one of the family rulers, but Trajan cut him off.

“I am princeps. My word is law.”

Cassius bowed his head in acknowledgment of his victory, and the other families followed suit. That was all that Trajan needed. He was their chief.

“I will share my plans with you in the morning. We will remain here for tonight, and honor the fallen Augustus, our great leader. Cassius, post two sentries, in case another tribe has decided to take advantage of our weakness.”

Cassius nodded and walked off. Cato, his head lowered, walked away to his tent, shunned by the rest of the Roma.

He will bear watching, Trajan thought as Cato vanished into the night.

Trajan turned his gaze back to the dying embers of the flames and the ashes of his fallen brother. Only one person remained with him as the tribe dispersed, his sister Cassia. She was the last living member of his immediate family. Augustus had sired no children before his death, and Trajan was the last of Julius’ sons. His two younger brothers had died, one lost to sickness, another to the Yuezhi.

“Your people have vested absolute power in you,” Cassia said as the flames slowly burned out. “What will you do with it?”

Trajan smiled, but it was grim, mirthless.

“I will build a tribe that will stand the test of time.”

I highly recommend you liberate Germany. It appears that They have been invaded by nazis.

Daedwartin said:

I highly recommend you liberate Germany. It appears that They have been invaded by nazis.

Click to expand...

That can be Trajan's next mission after he finishes subduing the rest of his neighbors.

A true Roman would go for the beaver next. Rome needs beaver.

PS, I predict you will regret letting Cato live. He hath that lean hungry look.

Update 3. If anyone has anyone has any feedback on the story so far, speak up. I'd like to hear what y'all think so far...



Commentator's Notes: The Roman people did not continue their nomadic lifestyle after the death of Augustus, but instead remained just south of the largest great lake, later known as Roma. The origins of the Roman ethnic group are known, but they seem to be Indo-European settlers who migrated from their original homeland through Northeastern Asia across the Narrow Sea c. 4090 BC.

By 4000 BC all of the Roma tribes had been united under Trajan in a rapid series of bloody battles. In just five years, Trajan had brought all of the Roma under his rule. The Yuezhi were likewise driven off, though not defeated. However, in 4000 BC Yuezhi incursions were a thing of the past. That nomadic people headed northward, away from the Roma.



Rome was founded on the edge of Roma Lake during Trajan’s first decade as Princeps. It was during this early age that the Romans (Rome being the name that Trajan had bestowed on his city and on his unified tribe) began to develop as a culture set in a specific area, rather than merely a wandering band of nomads. The founding of the city can be traced by to Trajan the Immortal in 4000 B.C. Roman mysticism remained a primitive thing for many years, with no shamans or mystics to guide them, and so the people looked to Trajan, the first recorded Immortal in history, as their ruler.



It was also in 4000 BC in the first year of Trajan’s rule that the Romans encountered the Asiatic people known as the Tang, who had also founded a permanent settlement known as Beijing. Like the Romans, the Tang people were a nomadic group that had traveled across the Narrow Sea, but were closer kin to the Yuezhi barbarians than the Romans. Between the two cities the Tang and the Romans held the heart of this land between them, and coexisted in an uneasy peace. Both primitive settlements knew that the other could one day destroy them or both could be swept aside by an outside force such as barbarian incursions.



By 3060 BC, in the 45th year of Trajan’s rule over the tribe, tensions had begun to build between the Tang and the Romans. The chief of the Tang at that time, Tang Ruizong, had been slain in battle, and the chief who followed him, Tang Xuanzong, had expansion in mind. However, with the culture of the Romans pressing in on his borders, Xuanzong sought to first take control of the city of Rome. He began training military to that effect.

However, Trajan was faster in his plot to take over Xuanzong's city, and had the unified might of the Roma behind him. Xuanzong ruled one tribe, Trajan ruled six, and thus could field more armies. It took some time to prepare for the conquest of the Tang, but once the full might of the unified Roma tribes was behind him, the Romans invaded Tang lands with their army, which numbered close to eight hundred warriors. Xuanzong, in contrast, was only able to field three hundred Tang.




War Chief Brutus inspected his war club, bearing his teeth in a feral grin. He had answered the call of Trajan, who had declared war upon the city of the Tang. Now, as the Romans approached Beijing, where the Tang ruler had made his home, Brutus knew that he had made the right decision. The city would fall, of that much he was certain. How could it not, against the odds that had been fielded against it?

Brutus, who had been chosen as one of Trajan’s military commanders, knew weak prey when he saw it. The Tang was weak, and would therefore be destroyed.

Like all of the chieftains that ruled land centered on the city of Rome, Brutus wore a helm made of wood and was painted blood red. The helm did not cover his face and would offer little protection, but it was a powerful symbol of status nevertheless.

“Sir,” The voice jerked Brutus from his thoughts of conquest. He looked up to see a young Roman man, little more than a boy, really, standing before him. The warrior lowered his head in deference to his war chief. “The princeps would like to see you.”

Brutus grinned at the prospect of facing battle once more. He set aside his war club and stepped outside his pitched tent, where he saw the two other war chiefs, Cato and Commodus. Cato was one of Trajan’s oldest allies, but Commodus held him in low regard. The man was in his fifties, old and weak, and they said Trajan had once bested him in single combat, but spared his life.

He must have been too weak to take his own afterward, thought Brutus disdainfully.

Trajan the Immortal was different. Brutus had seen their princeps many times, and he knew a hard, strong man when he saw one. Trajan looked no older than his mid-twenties, but he was nearly the same age as Cato. What mystical ability had allowed him to retain his youthful vigor Brutus couldn’t guess, but the less reputable sources said that he had cheated Death himself from his prize. The title they gave him was princeps immortalis- immortal ruler.

Well, thought Brutus. Who knows if he’ll really rule forever? Men have lived longer than fifty, and I’m sure he could be killed.

Seeing Brutus looking at him, Trajan turned his dark eyes on the war chief. “Brutus,” he said. “Are your men ready?”

Trajan always spoke slowly and never shouted, as if he weighed every word before it was spoken. This, in Brutus’ eyes, made him more fearsome. The best chiefs were those who never raged, but stayed calm and collected before their men at all times.

“Yes, princeps,” said Brutus.

“Then gather them together,” said Trajan. “We attack the city tonight.”

“Now?” asked Cato. The man’s voice was throaty and hoarse. “It is a risk, princeps. We could be defeated, and the Tang left entrenched still firmer in their city.”

“I know,” said Trajan. “But it is a risk we will have to take. The Tang will not come out and fight. Even their working men have withdrawn behind the city walls. Battle is our only option, before Xuanzong rallies more men to his cause.”

“As you say, princeps,” said Commodus.

Brutus nodded once to his ruler, and then turned his back on the gathering. He could see the warriors massed behind him, could feel their eagerness to do battle.

“Gather here,” said Brutus to his commander. Raising his voice, he yelled out, “Tonight, we attack!”

As the rest of Trajan's army rose as one, Brutus lifted his club and charged the city.




The battle was over by sunrise. The defenders of the city fought bravely, but were in the end overwhelmed by the Roman force of numbers. Brutus strode through the fallen city as the Roman warriors slaughtered the few remaining defenders. The victory they’d won here had been a great one, if fairly costly. Brutus’ soldiers had led the detachment that had prevailed against the city’s last organized

Even now, as his soldiers systematically looted the city, Trajan was meeting with other war chiefs about what to do with the city, leaving Brutus to consolidate the victory. Beijing, or Mycenae in the tongue of the Romans, was a city bordered on two sides by water, making it a valuable defense post.

Brutus suddenly sensed someone sneaking up on him. His first thought was that it was an enemy, and he whirled around, only to be confronted by a Roman warrior, bearing a war club.

“War chief, the princeps has ordered me to deliver you a message,” said the man. “He has named you the governor of the city of Mycenae. He would have informed you personally, but he is attending to the leaders of the conquered Tang. Will you accept this position?”

For a moment, Brutus was stunned. In the tribal society of the Romans, this position made him one of the most powerful men in the two cities of the Romans. The appointment was unexpected, but as Brutus thought about it, it made sense: Trajan valued strength just as much as he did.

A smile spread across Brutus’ face. “Tell him that I do.”

You be in north America, Roma. Also, try and make hitler Jewish. Just for irony

Commentator's Notes: Across the Narrow Sea, to the East of the Roma, other cultures were developing. Between the Twin Rivers of the east later known as the Yellow and the Yangtze, another group of nomads had settled to build their first city. The Indian people were originally from the Spanish Peninsula, and were Indo-European, but adopted the mannerisms and culture of the local people there, who were closely akin to the Tang. This eventually led to an Indo-Chinese culture developing. The Indian people were hardly the upper class, but mingled freely with the native people there, until over two centuries their culture was a mishmash of two worlds, with the Indian heritage of their culture steadily growing smaller.

The first recorded ruler of the Indians in myth was the Bhaskar the Conqueror, who unified the Indian tribes and proclaimed himself emperor. Legends say that he went to war with his older brother, the Flame Emperor, and defeated him and his armies. After his brother’s defeat Bhaskar faced the Lord of the South, an unpleasant character by the name of Damdar Chao.

Chao was by all rights a very unpleasant character, the legends say he invented war and rode into battle with an army of magicked swordsmen mounted on elephants. There were certainly no swordsmen, magical or otherwise, in 4000 B.C., and no record of any elephants. In any event, the legends say that Chao was defeated in a brutal battle immortalized in Indian legend as the Battle of the Fei River by the Conqueror.



Delhi had, by this time, grown into a larger city, supporting a fairly large population for the time period. Bhaskar’s son claimed rule over the Indo-Chinese after his father’s death from the village of Delhi, and was the first man to take on the epithet of “Emperor between Rivers”. His son ruled wisely and well, and passed the throne on to his grandson, the Sage Emperor, who also ruled in peace.

During his reign, the Indian domain stretched north of the Yellow River and his outposts there were the first to encounter the Mongolian tribes who ruled the steppes above India. The Sage Emperor met personally with the chieftain of the Mongols, and the two swore out a peace. He also did the same for the Kingdom of Goryeo who were the rulers of the Korean peninsula to the east.


The great-grandson of Bhaskar, the myths say, was known as Bhaskar II, but his men called him “The Cruel”. He began his reign by making war on the wandering tribes that separated his domain from that of the Goryeo. While this managed to conquer them, in most part thanks to his brilliant military commander Rahcah Dhun, the victory was not without casualties, and the land itself had no geopolitical significance. Bhaskar II was the first emperor of the Indians to be hated, as his namesake never had been.

After subduing the last of the tribes and realizing the emperor was in a bad position at the worst possible time, Rahcah is said to have called the army together and ask them if they would follow him. The army acclaimed him as emperor of a new dynasty, the Dhurid. Rahcah led his warriors back to the capital at Delhi. When they arrived the garrison threw open his gates, and the people overwhelmingly came over to Rahcah’s side. Bhaskar himself was preparing to evacuate the city when his lieutenants caught him and sliced off his head, which they delivered to Rahcah. Rahcah turned the emperor’s body over to the people, which they burned.

Rahcah took the mantle of emperor, but was contested by the younger brother of Bhaskar II, Gobind, who had raised a small army from the river tribes which followed him. Rahcah’s men eventually annihilated the army in battle in the tenth year of his reign, but Gobind survived and continued to stir up the river tribes, undoing almost all of Rahcah’s initial conquests. The emperor himself prepared to lead an army to finish the river tribes once and for all, but in the thirteenth year of his reign Rahcah suddenly died.

The empire was thrown into anarchy for a time following his death. Rahcah had, unwisely, indulged himself with many concubines, and his many children all wished to be crowned. Gobind, hearing the news of his enemy’s death, took the opportunity to move deep into the Indian heartlands. The kingdom might have devolved into civil war, were it not for the actions of Rahcah’s brother and most loyal supporter Korah.

Korah rose to power only because he poisoned anyone who disagreed with him, it is said he killed all of Rahcah’s sons but two with poison or assassins within a year. Korah then threw his weight behind crowning Rahcah’s youngest son, a four-year old known as Harisha. Racah’s older son contested the claim, but Korah’s assassins found him two days later and slit his throat.

With all of Rahcah’s sons dead but the youngest, the court agreed to crown Harisha, and named Korah regent. Under Korah’s regency, Gobind was defeated in battle, captured, and executed as a traitor. The last descendant of Bhaskar the Conqueror and final claimant of the Bhaskarid Dynasty had been slain.

After the defeat of Gobind, Korah’s puppet emperor reigned for two more years, after which Korah saw fit to rule in name as well as in fact. The histories of this time (who universally despise Korah) agree he had Rahcah’s last known son killed by poison and that then Korah seized the throne. During his twenty-two year reign, Korah grew steadily more brutal, exiling or executing any man or woman he suspected to be a traitor. Eventually the army staged a coup d’etat against Korah and put their general on the throne, Kimur. Korah was killed in battle, but Kimur spared all of his brothers and wives except Korah’s infant son, whom he had killed.

Kimur reigned two years, then died of illness and passed the throne on to his son (known as Kimur II the Just) peacefully. The age of anarchy had ended, and the Kimurid Dynasty would remain emperors in Delhi for the next century.

Is it just me, or did india settle right on the location of Beijing?

TheMistborn said:

Update 3. If anyone has anyone has any feedback on the story so far, speak up. I'd like to hear what y'all think so far...

Click to expand...

I like it so far. If you're looking for critiques, I suggest two:

1- Pics are nice, but use them where they'll count. If a screenshot is mostly black, you can probably crop it or shrink it with your image editor. Anything over 1080 pixels wide will force the text to scroll horizontally if you don't post the pics in "hide" boxes (the spoil button in the post editor).

2- Florid narrative is nice, but try to avoid word-stuffing. For instance, instead of writing

TheMistborn said:

It was also in 4000 BC in the first year of Trajan’s rule that the Romans encountered the Asiatic people known as the Tang, who had also founded a permanent settlement known as Beijing.

Click to expand...

... you could have written: "In 4000 BC, the Romans encountered the Tang, who had founded Beijing."

But mostly this is good. I like the details forshadowing some troubles with the Yuezhi by giving us some background from their nomadic days. There's some mods in the scenarios forums that actually recreate the worlds of Civ before 4000 bc.

Also, smart move running over the Tang asap. You must've loaded up on the warriors PDQ, focusing on hammers more than gold to get so many units. Did that put you behind in the tech race? That's my main weakness in Civ4, having just come over from Civ3. Gold and beakers are so hard to come by early on if you want to build stuff, that it's easy to be a tech-laggard behind the AIs if you're not careful. There might be a small continuity problem calling your Roman tribe the Roma, by the way, since there really was a nomadic tribe in Europe called the Roma who weren't related to the Romans at all.

I said before I don't trust Cato. But now I really don't trust Brutus. After the war, Trajan should've had him whacked by that clubman.

The Indian narrative is confusing. I keep looking around my tech tree for Magic, which I guess allows you to build the elephant-mounted Swordsman unit, but I can't find it. You're gonna run two narratives side by side on multiplayer? More than two maybe? I've thought about doing that, but I feared it'd be time consuming. The story there seems more like a data-drop instead of a tale of rise and conquest like the Roman chapter. But the approach of an Indian-Chinese hybrid civ has me curious for more.

Last bit of advice: I don't think you should trust a Mongolian who preaches things like "Peace is the way." Think about hiring a Roman clubman to go whack this Toregene Khatun character, ASAP.

Thank you for your feedback! I see what you mean about overly florid sentences, I'll be more careful of that, thanks.

Alex Dog said:

Also, smart move running over the Tang asap. You must've loaded up on the warriors PDQ, focusing on hammers more than gold to get so many units. Did that put you behind in the tech race? That's my main weakness in Civ4, having just come over from Civ3. Gold and beakers are so hard to come by early on if you want to build stuff, that it's easy to be a tech-laggard behind the AIs if you're not careful. There might be a small continuity problem calling your Roman tribe the Roma, by the way, since there really was a nomadic tribe in Europe called the Roma who weren't related to the Romans at all.

Click to expand...

No, it didn't really set me behind tech-wise much, though holding two cities this early can often lead to a gold penalty. But, yeah, rushing units like that isn't always a wise decision, but in the case of the Tang it was basically a necessity.

And yeah, I know about the Roma...that's one of the major reasons after they settled down they became the Romans instead.

Alex Dog said:

I said before I don't trust Cato. But now I really don't trust Brutus. After the war, Trajan should've had him whacked by that clubman.

Click to expand...

XD. Yeah, Trajan's got quite a few enemies, both inside and outside his empire.

Alex Dog said:

The Indian narrative is confusing. I keep looking around my tech tree for Magic, which I guess allows you to build the elephant-mounted Swordsman unit, but I can't find it. You're gonna run two narratives side by side on multiplayer? More than two maybe? I've thought about doing that, but I feared it'd be time consuming. The story there seems more like a data-drop instead of a tale of rise and conquest like the Roman chapter. But the approach of an Indian-Chinese hybrid civ has me curious for more.

Click to expand...

Well, the magic swordsmen thing is a joke, it's to show how anachronistic the ancient Indo-Chinese were in their legends. So far as I know there is no such unit or tech. And the story will have quite a few narratives running side by side, in this game I'm running twelve civs, though I've made it quite a bit further and some have been destroyed.

As for the confusing Indian chapter, it was a historical background chapter rather than a POV chapter. It is rather confusing though, I agree. I tried to explain in the introduction that the historical narrative is an additional commentary and not part of the original work. Maybe there should be more detail on that...

Alex Dog said:

Last bit of advice: I don't think you should trust a Mongolian who preaches things like "Peace is the way." Think about hiring a Roman clubman to go whack this Toregene Khatun character, ASAP.

Click to expand...

Yeah, the Indians are bordered on all sides by aggressive, ambitious civs, something which will become a major problem for them later on.

Never trust Mongols. Or Aztecs, for that matter.

As the sun began to set beneath the clouds, Antiochus stood among the massed Seleucid army encamped outside the city of Carthage. The fifth king of Seleucia had been plotting the conquest of the city for months now, and it had fallen to him, as the younger son of the king, to lead the army into battle.

Carthage sat between the two great rivers of the east, the Tigris and the Euphrates. Carthage was a great power, among the strongest of the day, and was an impressively large city. Antiochus knew it was only thinly defended, and that it would fall without the need for a protracted siege.
His father Seleucus had made it clear that the city was to be razed to the ground. It was not in an advantageous defensive position, and the Gulf to the south was prone to flooding. Antiochus would have to set up his base of power further north, away from the head of the sea.

Antiochus stared up again at the city which loomed before him. Carthage was a large city, twice the size of Seleucia, and was far more than a collection of huts. The people had built an impressive irrigation system that ran through their city in order to control, if not completely tame, flooding. Antiochus could see the plants twining among the wooden buildings, many of which were far taller than anything in Antioch.

It was a shame, he reflected, that his father had ordered him to raze it to the ground. The Seleucid king was not just planning a war against Carthage. This city was to him merely an annoyance to be swatted out of the way like an insect. No, Seleucus meant to challenge the powerful hegemons of the north, the Assyrians. The Assyrians were allies of both the Seleucids, who ruled the land at the far western edge of the great sea, and the Carthaginians. The three great powers held all of the riverlands between them.

Seleucus meant to change that, to make Seleucia the sole power in the riverlands. Even now, his craftsmen were preparing a secret weapon Seleucus was sure the Assyrians would be powerless against. Not even his generals knew the secret; Seleucus had only told Antiochus and his elder brother, the crown prince.

The only thing that stood in the way of their conquest was the city of Carthage, which would no doubt come to the aid of the Assyrians if they were attacked. On the other hand, the Assyrians would not help the Carthaginians, and it was a weakness Seleucus planned to exploit.

Now it was time. It was time for the city to fall, and for the world, from the Epirotes of the lands north of the Black Sea to the proud city of Byzantium to the west that the power of Seleukia had been unleashed. It was time for Antiochus to bring low the city of Carthage, which stood proudly between the twin rivers and the Great Gulf- but would not stand another day.

Antiochus lifted his favored weapon, a heavy war club. It was unlikely he himself and his elite division would have to do any of the fighting, unless the Carthaginians proved stronger than estimated. Carthage had no walls to speak of, and its only fortifications would be easily overrun. Antiochus barked the order to attack, and his men sprang into action. As he watched, the men overran the first Carthaginian defense outpost and raced toward the city. The brutal melee rang with the screams of the wounded and dying as the Carthaginians were slowly pushed back, toward the heart of their city.

Antiochus grinned in triumph. The Carthaginians were panicked, his men were disciplined. This could only end with the city’s fall.


But as he watched the tide of the battle began to swing the other way as more Carthaginians charged from the city, fighting tooth and nail against the Seleucid invaders. He watched as one of his division commanders, Kurus, fell beneath a Carthaginian war club was killed, watched his division overwhelmed by Carthaginian warriors.

The second division was already making for the fortifications, which now bristled with armed Carthaginian soldiers. As he watched, his men were slaughtered almost to man and forced from the walls, scattering beneath the onslaught.

The next division did more damage but was scattered and slaughtered in the same manner by the defenders. The Carthaginians still held the parameter of the city, in spite of Antiochus’ efforts. However, they were weakening, and Antiochus knew it was unlikely they’d hold out much longer if he committed his own forces to the battle. Gritting his teeth in anger at the impassioned resistance of Carthage’s people, he gave the order to charge.

At the heart of the melee it was pure chaos. The Seleucids shouted and cheered when they saw their commander amidst the battling warriors, but Antiochus knew that if these forces could not overwhelm the defenders everything was lost. They’d already taken casualties far beyond what he’d estimated, and if his forces were scattered and he was slain the battle was over and Carthage would continue to stand.

The thought of the proud city remaining unbowed lit rage in Antiochus’ heart. He fought with fury, cutting down any Carthaginian who came near him or his men. He could see little through his haze of fury, but he was dimly aware that the Carthaginian defenses were falling apart, their forces too few to prevail. Within minutes it was over, and his forces, battered but victorious, were pouring into the city.

What followed was a slaughter as the men took their spoils of war. Antiochus himself did not participate in the looting, for he knew his men would burn the city to the ground. Fires raged among the tall wood buildings of Carthage, and soon the city would be nothing more than ruins.

Looking about the battlefield, Antiochus could see that the Carthaginian men who had fought against him were wiped out almost to a man. But the battle had cost the Seleucids far more than he’d anticipated. Of the five divisions he’d attacked the city with, only one remained- his own. The Carthaginians had slaughtered the rest almost completely.

Antiochus grinned with satisfaction as he watched Carthage’s buildings fall, burning into rubble. He no longer wished to rule over the Carthaginians as governor in his father’s name. These people that had cost the empire so much deserved to be dragged back to the capital as slaves.

Now, on to Assyria, he thought. Father is no doubt by now be ready for the attack.

In the shadowy twilight, Carthage burned.

Lord_Herobrine said:

Is it just me, or did india settle right on the location of Beijing?

Click to expand...

Yeah, they did. The map has a semi-random starting thing.

Dumanios said:

Never trust Mongols. Or Aztecs, for that matter.

Click to expand...

Words of wisdom. I'm used to Genghis and Monty both declaring war on me for no readily apparent reason...time will tell if Toregene Khatun has the same trait.

Next update. Thanks for the comments and feedback so far, and to anyone else reading this remember that if you have any questions/comments/critiques to offer please leave a comment.


Commentator's Notes: Scholars can trace the beginning of the Iberian civilization to 4000 B.C. The first Iberians were closely related to the tribes which roamed the interior of Europe in the years before. By 4000 B.C., scholars are sure that the city of Berlin was founded, a small village at first, but one that grew quickly.

The culture of the earliest Iberians was one of survival of the fittest. The world beyond, they taught, was unpleasant, ruled by twelve dark demons who judged the souls of the weak and the strong. The Iberians had no hereditary monarchy, the strongest ruled while the rest either plotted revenge or accepted their fate. Often after the old king’s death a struggle for power would erupt that would leave the Iberians weakened. Around this time, the Iberians also discovered how to make and utilize bows, though the use did not become widespread in war for another half century.

Within a century Berlin had come beneath a unified monarchy, ruled by a dynasty of warriors who sought to turn the ambitions of the people outward. For centuries the Sumerians, under the ruling dynasty of Akkad, had been the greatest power in Europe, governing much of central Europe from Uruk on the Akkadian Peninsula.


The second king of unified Iberia was the first to muster enough strength for war against the Sumerians. The king of Sumer, Urukagina son of Sargon was old, and king Aleudaric took the risk, attacking the Sumerians and invading Akkad with an army led by trusted general Theuderic.

At that time, the Sumerian army was in northern Europe, attempting to subdue several barbarian tribes. As soon as the crown prince, Ur-Nammu, heard the news of the declaration of war, rather than defending the city against the attackers (which he may have considered doomed) he turned his army south and moved on Berlin, intending to crush the city.

Aleudaric had predicted this and had prepared a reserve army to meet Ur-Nammu’s before he brought his army to the city. A protracted siege while the army was away in Akkad could cause revolt, and the first unified monarchy itself might fall to pro-Sumerian forces.

Alaric
​

The air rang with the clash of weapons as Alaric searched the battlefield for any sign of the enemy. The battle had virtually been won by now, and Alaric was sure that the Sumerians had been driven from the field. The few that still fought on did so against his father’s horde, and Alaric was sure they could not possibly hold out much longer. The power of the Sumerians was nearly broken, and soon their city would belong to the army as well.

Twelve Demons! Thought Alaric as a club descended toward his skull, almost striking him head-on. Alaric dodged to one side, lifting the weapon and deflecting the blow. The Sumerian hissed something in his own language, but the frustration was evident in his voice. As he swung his weapon at Alaric again in a blinding blur, Alaric brought his own weapon down on the head of the Sumerian. The Sumerian collapsed limply to the ground.

Alaric was a career soldier and felt no sympathy for the fallen Sumerian, nor did he take any pleasure from his death. To him, the battle simply was. He’d fought against various tribes that had attempted to resist their dominance over the peninsula, he’d fought the Sumerian defenders outside the walls of the city of Uruk, and he’d fought the Sumerians inside their city.

Now he again obeyed the orders of his father and general: make sure none of the Sumerian soldiers were allowed to flee the city. The war was still in progress, Ur-Nammu, the Sumerian prince, led an army toward the capital of Berlin even as the battle of Uruk raged on.

If any of the Sumerian warriors escaped capture or death and reinforced Ur-Nammu, the result would be dangerous. Theuderic, his father, was counting on Ur-Nammu to be unprepared for the full strength of Iberia that could be fielded against him, and reinforcement to the Sumerian army was something neither Alaric nor Theuderic wanted.

An Iberian soldier raced toward Alaric, covered in blood. “Sir! The Sumerians are advancing. Their king leads them into combat!”

Alaric tensed, his body tight as a bowstring. “Where is General Theuderic?” he asked. “How did the Sumerians evade them?”

“Your father and his men were fighting stragglers around the palace,” said the soldier. “There has been no word from him since.”

Alaric grit his teeth. The stench of smoke made his nostrils flare as fires burned all around him “That king must die. No doubt he plans to abandon the city and rendezvous with his son.”

“Do not risk your life, commander,” said the soldier. “Your father could be dead, and if we lose you as well…“

“My father will not appreciate if the king slips through his grasp,” said Alaric. “I will not die today; I swear it by the Twelve Demons of Rashar. It’s the general you should be worried about.”
Alaric lifted his bow. He was no archer, as the men who used this weapon regularly were called, but if he could pick off the king with arrows before he drew any nearer, then the battle was won. “Where was the king last spotted?”

“Near the fount of Inanna, commander,” answered the soldier.

Alaric nodded, and then raced into the melee once more. He passed many knots of struggling combatants, but no Sumerian tried to stop him as he reached a guardhouse, raced up the staircase and ran across the walls. They were spiked in traditional Sumerian fashion, the heads of Iberian prisoners from earlier battles staked and rotting upon them. Alaric quietly vowed to avenge the insult to his people by killing the king.

Rashar will have many more souls to judge tonight, thought Alaric coldly as he passed more of the gory crenelations.

He could see the fountain of Inanna, a Sumerian goddess of war, below the walls as he reached another guardhouse. Two Sumerians stood outside, and charged toward him, weapons raised. Alaric kicked out at one and he stumbled, tumbling over the parapet and into the darkness below. Alaric spun as the second swung his club, and the force of the two weapons colliding flung the Sumerian to the floor. As the Sumerian attempted to stand, Alaric floored him again with a mortal blow to the skull.

Alaric made ready his bow as he saw that the fountain was ringed by battling warriors, including fifty or so of Akkad’s most fanatical loyalists. Alaric could see the king’s crown glittering in the midday sun below. The old man was being carried upon a litter made of wood and cloth which was badly damaged and didn’t hide him well. His men acted as a human shield, protecting the Sumerian king from attack.

Alaric’s lip curled as he knocked an arrow to his bow and took aim. The man was clearly a coward, allowing his men to fight and die for him. As he made ready to fire, Alaric whispered a plea to the dark ones. Twelve Demons, grant me this one shot if it is your will for this loathsome coward to die.

Alaric’s first shot missed the king altogether, striking a soldier standing behind. The second hit the king’s litter. The third, however, took the king between the eyes.

The Sumerian king gave a cry and toppled from his litter. He attempted to rise to his feet, but then collapsed limply on the ground. The shouts from below confirmed what Alaric’s keen eyes already knew: the king was dead. The Sumerians broke formation and the battle turned, once and for all, against them. By the time Alaric had descended from the keep, the battle had become a rout and the Sumerians had scattered. Through the baleful haze of the flames Alaric could see the Iberians give chase.

A warrior clad in a jerkin made of rough leather strode up to him, shouting his name. Alaric recognized him immediately as Recerred, one of his father’s most trusted commanders. “What is it?” he asked. “Have the Sumerians been subdued?”

“Not yet, but it looks like their will to fight is broken. It is now only a matter of time,” said Recerred. “But-

As soon as he saw the ashen look that crept over Recerred’s face Alaric knew the truth, even before the man had finished speaking. No, He thought. Surely the demons would not be that cruel, not now.

It’s your father, commander,” said Recerred shakily. “Theuderic, general of Aleudaric, is dead.”


The men were offering up their prayers to the gods, savage prayers for victory and vengeance.

Ur-Nammu, king of Sumer, watched from the camp’s firepit as his men prayed to the goddess of war for victory against the Iberians and also for the families they’d left behind in Uruk, families that they would likely never see again. Ur-Nammu himself knew he would never again speak with his father, sisters, brothers, mother, or cousins: the Iberian army had executed them all.

It had been four days since the messenger from the town of Eridu to the north had brought news of the city’s fall. Uruk had been overwhelmed by a massive army of Iberian soldiers, who had pillaged and devastated the city. The messenger had said some of their men were on their way home to Berlin, taking hundreds of captives from Akkadia with them.

Ur-Nammu’s army was currently encamped in the range of mountains that separated Iberia from the tribes beyond, preparing to advance into Iberia itself. Ur-Nammu’s force numbered well over four hundred well-trained men; about half of the number the Iberian general Theuderic had sacked Uruk with.

The rest of the army was badly bloodied, and would likely not return any time soon from the Akkadian peninsula. From the messenger’s report the country was still resisting the rule of the Iberians. Those who returned bringing captives were a small number, and Ur-Nammu was sure that if he sacked Berlin his men could hold the city against the returning army indefinitely. The Iberian army was in disarray, the messenger had reported Theuderic himself was dead, slain in the battle.

His death gave Ur-Nammu little satisfaction. Until the whole country of the invaders had been brought down and their city and towns burned, in the same manner that they had taken Uruk, his thirst for vengeance would not be quenched.

His men were wondering what they would do now that the city had fallen. Ur-Nammu’s army was one whose people were almost beaten, their city fallen and their hold on the land surrounding the Akkadian peninsula wavering. Ur-Nammu was torn between advancing into Iberia and returning to Uruk to destroy the invading army. However, the report from Akkadia gave him little hope of overwhelming Theuderic’s army, which was firmly entrenched now in Uruk and was seizing the surrounding countryside rapidly. Berlin’s defenses were unknown, but with the army away from the city it could not be heavily garrisoned.

The firepit had burned into ashes. Ur-Nammu rose to his feet, stepping into his tent where his generals were waiting. Many of the greatest commanders of Sumer were with him, another factor that gave Ur-Nammu hope for victory. He and his commanders were far superior to they who commanded the remains of the army in Berlin. Even if their army did outnumber his Ur-Nammu was certain he and the remaining Sumerian leaders could defeat them.

“Hand of Marduk,” said commander Lugalbanda, bowing to the king as Ur-Nammu entered the command tent. “We have received word that one of Theuderic’s commanders, Recerred, is moving toward Berlin with a force of two hundred soldiers and one hundred captives from Uruk. He will cross into the mountains tomorrow. Perhaps we should turn to meet him in battle?”

Ur-Nammu could see that the two other war leaders, Aki and Enkiru, were undecided, neither committing to Lugalbanda’s plan nor acknowledging the original strategy. It was a good plan, and Ur-Nammu considered it for a time. The victory would reunite some families and perhaps raise the morale of his men. But it would also give Berlin time to prepare for an attack, something Ur-Nammu was loathe to do. Taking Berlin would already be dangerous enough without giving them time to realize the Sumerian army was encamped on the edge of their heartlands.

Ur-Nammu made his decision then.

“Prepare the army to advance into Iberia at the break of daylight tomorrow,” said Ur-Nammu. “The plan is tempting, but will lead us away from the city. Once Berlin has been captured we will defeat this Recerred.”

“Hand of Marduk, I beg you to consider otherwise,” said Lugalbanda. “I thirst for vengeance your family just as much as you. But this plan to attack could lead us to disaster. If our army is destroyed, it will be the end of our people. Many villages still resist rule by Iberia, but your death would put an end to any hope for Sumeria’s survival. On the other hand, freeing hundreds of Sumerians from a weak army would make you a hero, and the resistance would continue.”

“I know,” said Ur-Nammu, his voice soft yet carrying the undertone of a growl. “But if we turn back into the mountains now hunting Recerred, Berlin will have time to mobilize a bigger army from all across Iberia. While we wait here, Theuderic’s army will regain its strength, the war will end in Akkadia, and we will be caught in these mountains, trapped between Theuderic’s army and Aleudaric’s.

“This is my plan,” Ur-Nammu continued. “We will advance into Iberia before word can reach them of our approach. No doubt they suspect my army is coming, but they will not expect a sudden attack in the heart of their lands. Once we have seized the outlying villages and provoke Aleudaric’s militia into meeting us on the field we will seize Berlin and enslave the Iberians who resist. From Berlin we can hold off attacks from the Iberians. Then, when the entire peninsula is behind us, we will march back to Uruk and retake the city of our gods.”

“We-” Lugalbanda said, but then broke off when Ur-Nammu gave him a stony glare.

“I am the Hand of the god Marduk and supreme commander of Sumeria and this army,” Ur-Nammu’s voice was calm, but stony. “The king of Sumer and Akkad and chosen of the gods. If you continue to defy me I will punish you. Inanna will grant us victory against the Iberians. I have foreseen it.”

Next update should be out by the end of today.

Shadows flitted like moths through the dimly lit throne room of the Assyrian Empire. King Ashurnasirpal II, son of Ashurbanipal I, clenched his stave in hand until his knuckles turned white. Enemies were everywhere. He knew it. Even here, in the heart of his empire. Ashurnasirpal paced back and forth across the beautiful throne room, which was decorated with a bewildering array of tribal decorations taken from the conquered peoples the Assyrians had subdued.

But now it was Assyria that was under attack instead, by an enemy more fearsome than any they had yet faced.

News had reached the Assyrians about the fall of Carthage, brought about by the Seleucid prince Antiochus. He’d been concerned, but it wasn’t until the monstrous bronze-wielding axe warriors had laid siege to his city that Ashurnasirpal had been worried.

His men hadn’t dared inform him of the Seleucid siege until he’d seen the armies of Seleucia camped outside his capital city, Assur. The king had been furious, and had slated two of his advisors for public execution that afternoon. This was spite of the ongoing siege, but was absolutely necessary. His enemies were everywhere, both outside the city and within.

Take those fools who masqueraded as his advisors, for example, those fools who lied to his face, feigning concern for their rightful sovereign and pretending they carried out his commands, swearing allegiance to him daily while inwardly conspiring to seize his throne. Or those cowards who wished to surrender to the Seleucids and their terrible axe-wielding menaces encamped outside the city. Just a week before they had annihilated the army he’d dispatched to the Seleucid-Assyrian border. He’d never seen the axe-fighters in combat before, but they were clearly formidable.

Now Ashurnasirpal was expecting the siege to break at any moment, and for the Seleucids to flood the city with their armies. If-when- that happened, Ashurnasirpal would face the general in single combat. Or better still, the prince’s son. They said Antiochus was slaughtering his way into Assyria one village at a time, and Ashurnasirpal expected him to reach Assur before the siege broke.

Ashurnasirpal tensed. He would kill the invaders when they came, every one of them.

He was king of Assyria; no upstart ruler from the west would depose him. So why did all of the prophets insist on preaching doom? They’d always preached victory before, knowing full well that was what the king wanted to hear.

Ashurnasirpal saw a shadow creeping toward him. He whirled around, tension rising in his chest, stave in hand- only to be confronted by the transparent face of a sculpture carved from melted sand known as “glass”. It was a peculiarity, the one and only of its kind, as far as he knew. The sculpture was missing a nose, broken in the raid, but was still lovely, depicting the face of a beautiful woman in tribal gear.

Through the glass, Ashurnasirpal could see his own distorted reflection staring back at him, tall and fit, without an inch of superfluous fat on his body. He wore a long beard, in the fashion of the kings of Assyria, corded and braided in pure gold looted from a village near Carthage. His eyes were red-rimmed from lack of sleep. The king let out an unintelligible roar of rage and flung out an arm, knocking the glass statue to the ground, where it shattered into thousands of fragments.

Immediately Ashurnasirpal felt the tension in his body begin to relax. Regarding the broken thing on the floor, he let out a gasp of satisfaction. No foreign intruders were allowed in his throne room. She was dead now, and deserved it for startling him. After the siege was done Ashurnasirpal decided that he would burn the rest of the trophies in this room. They were corrosive; he could feel their treachery, the same treachery he felt when he thought of his advisors or of the Seleucids.

“My king?”

Ashurnasirpal drew his stave and lashed out at the voice, then relaxed. It was the slave known as Ankir, not a foreigner. Ankir’s family had fallen into debt and sold Ankir to the crown as a servant. The boy was a skilled craftsman and servant, and had risen to the position as chief of all slaves in the castle and Ashurnasirpal’s personal retainer by the age of eighteen. Now, one year later, the boy stood almost as tall as Ashurnasirpal himself, and wore slave’s garments and a fine cloak the king had never seen before.

Ashurnasirpal gave the young man a flinty smile. Unlike the others, this one had never tried to sweet-talk or lie to him. He rarely spoke at all, which suited them both just fine. “Ankir. What is it?”

“Lord Buryn has asked me to inform you that the Seleucid Axemen have breached the city’s defenses. They are within the city.”

Ashurnasirpal felt the dark weight settle once more upon his shoulders like a heavy cloak of office. “What of the garrison?”

“The garrison has been demolished and the city is in flames, my lord. Those that remain surround the palace, preparing to wait out a siege. The Seleucids are scattered throughout the city, which brought them time to mobilize defenses. Still…it looks bad, my liege.”

“We can hold the city,” said Ashurnasirpal. “I will not surrender. Tell that to Lord Buryn.”

“But-“began Ankir. “My lord-“

Rage filled Ashurnasirpal. The whelp was no different from his other advisors after all, and was questioning his commands. The king gnashed his teeth together and grabbed the boy by his collar. “You will do as I tell you, boy!” he snarled. “I am the king of Assyria, and I will prevail against these threats. I will make my cowardly people who fled before the Seleucids, and they will prevail! No Seleucid will enter the palace as long as I live.”

“In that case, I have another message,” said Ankir. Ashurnasirpal slowly felt the sudden fury subside as he clenched his hands around the boy’s collar. He slowly let go, and when he spoke again his voice was carefully controlled.

“Yes. Deliver the message and then get out of my sight,” he hissed.

The slave drew a weapon from beneath the mysterious cloak. Ashurnasirpal’s eyes widened as he realized it was made of the ore known as copper. The blade gleamed in the shadows of the throne room. Even though he’d never seen one before, Ashurnasirpal knew what it was.

A Seleucid weapon. An axe.

“Prince Antiochus sends his greetings to the king of Assyria,” said Ankir, then buried the axe in Ashurnasirpal’s chest.

The Assyrian king gave a gasp of shock and pain, one that was abruptly cut off as Ankir tore the axe free from the king’s body. Ashurnasirpal fell to his knees, wordless curses on his lips. He gasped out a single word. “You…”

Ankir cut the head from the king’s body before he could speak again. The corpse crumpled to the ground.

Ankir’s eyes were dispassionate as he stared at his former master. He hadn’t obeyed the man who’d ordered him to kill the king because he believed in his cause, or even that he’d said Ashurnasirpal was mad. He had been promised freedom, and his family would be well taken care of under the new rulers of the city because of his treachery. That was all he needed to know.

“You were right, you know,” the slave said idly as he stepped over the decapitated corpse. Ankir stared into the glassy eyes of the dead king. The spark of insanity within had faded forever. “No Seleucid entered the palace…while you were still alive.”

The Battle of Assur​

______________________________________

A half hour later Ankir was called into the presence of his master. In the reception room outside the main throne room Lord Buryn stood with the other Assyrian lords and the Seleucid general, Pathius. All were surrounded by axemen bearing the standard of the Seleucid king. From their expressions and the presence of the Seleucids
Buryn saw him approach, and favored the slave with a tight smile. “Is it done?”

Ankir held up the head of Ashurnasirpal in answer.

Pathius lowered his head in deference to the Assyrian lord. “Thank you, Lord Buryn. Your courageous action has saved many lives, both Seleucid and Assyrian alike.”

Buryn smiled, but this was different from all of the others Ankir had ever seen on the lord. It was genuine. “Thank you, my lord Pathius. If I may be so bold, what is your next plan?”

“I will return to the capital,” Pathius’ voice was like the grinding of an axe. “After meeting with Prince Antiochus. We will then march west with our armies.”

“And I…”

“Will be the governor of Assur, as promised. However, I will be leaving half my army with you, including my second, Ceraces. He will ensure that you do not step out of line, Lord Buryn. You nobility can keep your titles, if not your power. We will appoint Seleucid lords in your place.”

The other nobles looked discontented, and Buryn looked furious. He opened his mouth, but no words came. Ankir decided it was his turn to speak.

“Lord Buryn, what of the gifts you promised my family?”

“I am afraid he will not be able to make good on that promise,” said Pathius, before Buryn could speak. “You see, what you did saved lives, and I have thanked Lord Buryn for his service. However, the people will want to see their lord avenged. It would set a bad precedent to let Ashurnasirpal’s killer go free. Indeed, if his killer is not made to pay, we may face further rebellion."

“I don’t understand, my lord,” said Ankir, but he felt dread seep into his heart as Pathius spoke again.

“Lord Buryn’s first act as vassal governor must be to execute the traitor responsible for King Ashurnasirpal’s death. The people did not love their king, but there must be a scapegoat. You and your family will be ours. I am sure you understand.”

“You mean to kill me? My family?” Ankir felt the hope he’d carried with him for the past week he’d spent in Buryn’s service wither and die. “But I did so because Lord Buryn ordered me to!”

He thrust an accusing finger in the face of the former lord, but Buryn still seemed shell-shocked. He stared at Ankir uncomprehendingly, just as stunned at this turn of events as he was.

Pathius’ voice was matter-of-fact, without any trace of regret. “You should have stuck to your work, slave. Who can trust the word of a kingslayer or his kin?

“In the name of King Seleucus, king of Antioch and Assyria, I, Pathius, sentence you and your family to die. Guards, take this criminal away. He will be executed publicly as soon as governor Buryn can arrange it.”

Ankir screamed in rage at the Seleucid as two burly axemen grabbed his hands and dragged him away from the gathering. His screamed echoed through the palace, and then abruptly stopped as the wooden hilt of an axe struck his head. Ankir gave a final moan of disconsolate anger and disbelief, then sank into merciful unconsciousness.

TheMistborn said:

In the shadowy twilight, Carthage burned.

Click to expand...

Deja vu!