Sullla
Patrician Roman Dictator
"Winds of Change"
Written by Sullla
Jochi smiled his thin smile as a soft spring breeze ruffled through his hair. His usually long and thick dark hair was cut short, and for the first time in ages Jochi was clean-shaven without his traditional concealing beard. All the better to fit in though, he thought idly as he adjusted the folds of his toga virilis for what must have been the hundredth time that day; the Romans had very different customs than the Mongols. Some of them quite pleasing, he mused - thinking fondly of the public baths - but on the whole, just different from what was the norm back in Karakorum. And therein lay the danger, since remaining unnoticed was not just a good idea in his profession, but a necessary precursor for survival.
As always when he was in Rome, Jochi marveled at how the ancient and the modern fitted together in an almost seamless amalgamation demonstrating thousands of years of a thriving culture. He was relaxing for a few moments this evening in the Forum Romanum, the legendary heart of the Roman Republic, taking in the statues of the great leaders of the past and the magnificent public buildings that surrounded it. Take the Basilica Julia, for example; it was built by Julius Caesar centuries in the past in the traditional Roman style, but also sported a not-so ancient satellite dish and radio antenna on its roof, along with machine-gun toting guards at its doors. The Rostra, the great raised speaking platform at the edge of the forum, was similarly adorned with microphones and electronic speakers so that delivering an address to the crowds who so frequently gathered here no longer required a stentorian voice to be heard. Old and new, blended seemlessly together into a timeless whole - that was the eternal nature of the city of Rome.
On a quiet night like tonight, however, there were no great masses in the forum, only a few locals out for a stroll and the occasional gawking tourist snapping pictures with a camera. One of the latter flashed a shot at Jochi, apparently mistaking the Mongol for a Senator given his ceremonial dress. That was a good sign; his disguise was working. Here in Rome Jochi was known as Quintus Julius Pullus; he claimed to be a distant relative of the great Caesar. Although the Romans were usually strict about checking their genealogy, enough Mongol gold placed in the right hands had allowed him to pass unquestioned in the highest eschelons of Roman society, even allowed Jochi to win an Senate seat some years past. He chuckled as he remembered the year he had spent working for the Roman government as a quaestor, the junior-most elected position responsible for carrying out various tasks related to state finances and army supplies. No one in Karakorum would have imagined that his unusual path would have led to employment in the service of another country! But the position of quaestor granted life-long access to the Senate, if in a junior capacity, and that had made the year of service more than worthwhile.
Now Jochi was back in Rome for the first time in several years, here to investigate the potential for a military strike similar to what had been done against the Vikings in the past. He was, in fact, due at a Senate meeting in the Temple of Jupiter on the Capitoline Hill in just a few moments, but for now Jochi was simply stealing a few moments to himself to relax.
"Quintus Julius! There you are. Ready to go?" Jochi turned to see another toga-clad figure at his side. Marcus Claudius Pulcher was a handsome young man from the immensely wealthy and powerful Claudian family - but he was also impatient, and unwilling to wait until he grew old enough to obtain the most honored and powerful positions in the Roman state, on the path of the Cursus Honorum. That combination of influence and greed made Claudius Pulcher extremely vulnerable to bribery, and at the moment he was in the pay of Temujin. A few thousand gold and some whispered promises of what he could have when Caesar was overthrown had been more than enough to secure his status as a Mongol quizzling.
"Ah, Marcus Claudius," replied Jochi in perfect Latin without the faintest hint of an accent. "I was waiting for you to arrive. Please, show me the way."
They walked together up the beautiful road of white granite blocks (no cars allowed on these historic thoroughfares!) towards the gleaming dome of the Temple of Jupiter. The two were admitted without question and took their place on the back benches of the room where the Senate would be meeting. The Temple of Jupiter was only one of many possible meeting places, and although comfortably air-conditioned on this night, Jochi prefered the more luxurious modern halls to the stone benches of this ancient assembly.
They were among the last Senators to enter the crowded room, and Jochi had barely sat down before the two consuls entered with their lictors, causing everyone to rise respectfully. Although the consuls were nominally the heads of the Roman state, as usual this year the two men were complete nonentities. The real power in Rome lay in the perpetual dictator, Gaius Julius Caesar, just as it had for as long as anyone could remember, and just as it was likely to remain so long as Caesar lived. So long as he lived... thought Jochi as the famous man himself entered, wearing as always his civic crown of laurel to help conceal his balding head. That could pose some interesting possibilities...
By ancient tradition, the senior consul for the month was supposed to open the night's proceedings. To no one's surprise, however, it was the Dictator Perpetuis who spoke first. "Friends and countrymen, I bid you welcome and good evening," said Caesar in his powerful voice. The contrast in leadership styles between Temujin and Caesar never ceased to amaze Jochi; if Temujin was a spider lurking in the shadows and masterfully pulling the strings of nations, Caesar was the blazing sun burning away all fear and doubt to carry everything before him. They were both undeniably effective at what they did, however.
Caesar had gone on speaking, "...glory that is Rome shall last forever, as it has since time immorial. But we face new threats these days, threats from our neighbors to the north. Threats assail our beloved Rome from all sides. In fact," he commanded in his ringing voice, gray eyes panning the assembled crowd, "in fact, there are traitors within our very own ranks here tonight." And his steely gaze settled directly on Jochi's face. Forgetting himself, the hardened spy gasped in surprise. Caesar knew. That one look said it all.
So it was with no surprise that Jochi found himself hauled roughly to his feet by two faceless Roman guards, his toga rumpling in the process to bare his left arm. "Very clever 'cousin' Quintus," mocked Caesar. "But did you think I don't know my own family tree? You, Claudius Pulcher," he said, indicating the horrified figure receiving equally harsh treatment on Jochi's right, "will be sent into permanent exile, your property and citzenship forfeit as according to our laws. But you Julius Pullus - or should I say Jochi - you are a foreigner with no legal standing whatsoever." The gray eyes hardened into naked steel. "Your fate is to be thrown from the Tarpeian Rock."
Jochi sighed. This was simply not his day.
* * * * *
The wind whistled through Magdalai's dark hair as he rumbled across the grasslands of northern Rome. He longed to be back in the saddle, feeling the muscles of a fine steed gallop beneath his feet, but these new tanks were not entirely bad either. Like stallions of cold steel and uncompromising iron they were, fed on diesel fuel and powered by fiery combustion engines. Magdalai had been the finest cavalry commander in his day, so it was natural that he be placed in charge of tank command during the course of this latest war against the Romans.
Magdalai raised his field binoculars to his face and studied the horizon. Somewhere up there, just a few miles distant, was the front where the main fighting was taking place. He could hear in the distance the deep thunder of artillery barking and every now and then the black puff of smoke in the sky signaling Roman anti-aircraft fire. It was a different kind of war fought these days, with machines and moving fronts rather than set battles with opposing armies lined on up each side of a field. Magdalai knew his place was back at operational headquarters with the maps and charts, not out here in the field in the belly of a tank, but he had to see the battle for himself every now and then, if only to experience what his men did and remember that they were more than simply markers on a chessboard.
A bullet cracked past his head, reminding Magdalai that this area was still far from secure. "Sir, would you please come down from the cupola and shut the top, please?" came the voice of his driver. The poor man would face hell from his commanding officer if a senior general was killed by small arms fire in his tank.
Magdalai complied wordlessly and climbed down into the steaming interior of the machine. It was the heart of summer, and the tank's inside was scorchingly hot with all of its ports closed for battle. The small crew who ran the machine were all pros who knew their job inside and out; even as Magdalai settled himself in, the source of the fire was identified and targeted. The tank's machine gun shouted out a stream of bullets into the thicket they were passing, and while there was no indication of whether anything was hit, no further shots rang out to challenge the tank's passage.
That was the nature of how this campaign was going. The Mongol tanks, supported heavily by massive artillery bombardment and covering air power, had systematically crushed the Roman opposition city by city. Casulties had been low, given the nature of the fighting, and though the Romans were fighting hard for every inch of ground, their homeland was being slowly crushed beneath the heel of the superior Mongol force. It made Magdalai wonder why Caesar had been so anxious to declare war on Mongolia in the first place. But then again, the exposure of Jochi as a spy had likely had a lot to do with that.
The radio at Magdalai's side crackled into life, prompting him for orders as to how to proceed. Recalling the operational map in his head, Magdalai shouted back his reply over the noise of the machine, "Have the 34th armored move further east, to circle around Ravenna to the east. They need to take out those bunkers our fighters photographed there yesterday. And tell the 18th - let me repeat, that's the 18th - to take and hold that hill to the north. That's where the 3rd army will be parking its artillery tomorrow, and we damn well better have a clear road there by then!... What? You tell the captain that he'll answer to me if his men aren't ready to go on my signal."
And so on, as the reports continued to come in. It was another typical day for Magdalai.
* * * * *
Sabotai stared absently at the reports in front of him. He leaned back in his comfortable chair, here in his office in Karakorum, and reflected idly on the situation. Cleaning up the shattered remnants of Rome was turning out to be a major headache, requiring thousands of details no one had anticipated until a problem arose. Nadaam's voice crowed of the latest Mongol military triumphs on the radio behind his head; it was an old speech, one given just days after the war had ended. But it was a popular one, and so the state-controlled media continued to play it even now almost a month after the event. Not that Sabotai was really listening, of course.
A warm early autumn breeze floated in through the open window to stir the papers on Sabotai's desk. Setting them back in place without thinking about it, Sabotai reflected that for once the Mongol propaganda had been accurate. The victory over Rome had indeed been a smashing success, with few personnel killed and total destruction of the enemy achieved. Most remarkable of all, though it could not be revealed to the press, had been Jochi's miraculous escape from Roman detention and flight back to Mongol lines before his schdeuled execution. How he had managed such a feat was beyond Sabotai.
The grizzled general picked up the next report on his desk and idly began scanning through the document. It just so happened to be about the same subject, Jochi's return home to Mongolia. In fact... Sabotai's eyebrows shot up. He carefully re-read the report again to make sure he hadn't been mistaken. If this source was true... The implications could be enormous. Sabotai picked up his phone and barked to his secretary, "Get me Khan Temujin on the line immediately."
"I think I know who our traitor is."
Written by Sullla
Jochi smiled his thin smile as a soft spring breeze ruffled through his hair. His usually long and thick dark hair was cut short, and for the first time in ages Jochi was clean-shaven without his traditional concealing beard. All the better to fit in though, he thought idly as he adjusted the folds of his toga virilis for what must have been the hundredth time that day; the Romans had very different customs than the Mongols. Some of them quite pleasing, he mused - thinking fondly of the public baths - but on the whole, just different from what was the norm back in Karakorum. And therein lay the danger, since remaining unnoticed was not just a good idea in his profession, but a necessary precursor for survival.
As always when he was in Rome, Jochi marveled at how the ancient and the modern fitted together in an almost seamless amalgamation demonstrating thousands of years of a thriving culture. He was relaxing for a few moments this evening in the Forum Romanum, the legendary heart of the Roman Republic, taking in the statues of the great leaders of the past and the magnificent public buildings that surrounded it. Take the Basilica Julia, for example; it was built by Julius Caesar centuries in the past in the traditional Roman style, but also sported a not-so ancient satellite dish and radio antenna on its roof, along with machine-gun toting guards at its doors. The Rostra, the great raised speaking platform at the edge of the forum, was similarly adorned with microphones and electronic speakers so that delivering an address to the crowds who so frequently gathered here no longer required a stentorian voice to be heard. Old and new, blended seemlessly together into a timeless whole - that was the eternal nature of the city of Rome.
On a quiet night like tonight, however, there were no great masses in the forum, only a few locals out for a stroll and the occasional gawking tourist snapping pictures with a camera. One of the latter flashed a shot at Jochi, apparently mistaking the Mongol for a Senator given his ceremonial dress. That was a good sign; his disguise was working. Here in Rome Jochi was known as Quintus Julius Pullus; he claimed to be a distant relative of the great Caesar. Although the Romans were usually strict about checking their genealogy, enough Mongol gold placed in the right hands had allowed him to pass unquestioned in the highest eschelons of Roman society, even allowed Jochi to win an Senate seat some years past. He chuckled as he remembered the year he had spent working for the Roman government as a quaestor, the junior-most elected position responsible for carrying out various tasks related to state finances and army supplies. No one in Karakorum would have imagined that his unusual path would have led to employment in the service of another country! But the position of quaestor granted life-long access to the Senate, if in a junior capacity, and that had made the year of service more than worthwhile.
Now Jochi was back in Rome for the first time in several years, here to investigate the potential for a military strike similar to what had been done against the Vikings in the past. He was, in fact, due at a Senate meeting in the Temple of Jupiter on the Capitoline Hill in just a few moments, but for now Jochi was simply stealing a few moments to himself to relax.
"Quintus Julius! There you are. Ready to go?" Jochi turned to see another toga-clad figure at his side. Marcus Claudius Pulcher was a handsome young man from the immensely wealthy and powerful Claudian family - but he was also impatient, and unwilling to wait until he grew old enough to obtain the most honored and powerful positions in the Roman state, on the path of the Cursus Honorum. That combination of influence and greed made Claudius Pulcher extremely vulnerable to bribery, and at the moment he was in the pay of Temujin. A few thousand gold and some whispered promises of what he could have when Caesar was overthrown had been more than enough to secure his status as a Mongol quizzling.
"Ah, Marcus Claudius," replied Jochi in perfect Latin without the faintest hint of an accent. "I was waiting for you to arrive. Please, show me the way."
They walked together up the beautiful road of white granite blocks (no cars allowed on these historic thoroughfares!) towards the gleaming dome of the Temple of Jupiter. The two were admitted without question and took their place on the back benches of the room where the Senate would be meeting. The Temple of Jupiter was only one of many possible meeting places, and although comfortably air-conditioned on this night, Jochi prefered the more luxurious modern halls to the stone benches of this ancient assembly.
They were among the last Senators to enter the crowded room, and Jochi had barely sat down before the two consuls entered with their lictors, causing everyone to rise respectfully. Although the consuls were nominally the heads of the Roman state, as usual this year the two men were complete nonentities. The real power in Rome lay in the perpetual dictator, Gaius Julius Caesar, just as it had for as long as anyone could remember, and just as it was likely to remain so long as Caesar lived. So long as he lived... thought Jochi as the famous man himself entered, wearing as always his civic crown of laurel to help conceal his balding head. That could pose some interesting possibilities...
By ancient tradition, the senior consul for the month was supposed to open the night's proceedings. To no one's surprise, however, it was the Dictator Perpetuis who spoke first. "Friends and countrymen, I bid you welcome and good evening," said Caesar in his powerful voice. The contrast in leadership styles between Temujin and Caesar never ceased to amaze Jochi; if Temujin was a spider lurking in the shadows and masterfully pulling the strings of nations, Caesar was the blazing sun burning away all fear and doubt to carry everything before him. They were both undeniably effective at what they did, however.
Caesar had gone on speaking, "...glory that is Rome shall last forever, as it has since time immorial. But we face new threats these days, threats from our neighbors to the north. Threats assail our beloved Rome from all sides. In fact," he commanded in his ringing voice, gray eyes panning the assembled crowd, "in fact, there are traitors within our very own ranks here tonight." And his steely gaze settled directly on Jochi's face. Forgetting himself, the hardened spy gasped in surprise. Caesar knew. That one look said it all.
So it was with no surprise that Jochi found himself hauled roughly to his feet by two faceless Roman guards, his toga rumpling in the process to bare his left arm. "Very clever 'cousin' Quintus," mocked Caesar. "But did you think I don't know my own family tree? You, Claudius Pulcher," he said, indicating the horrified figure receiving equally harsh treatment on Jochi's right, "will be sent into permanent exile, your property and citzenship forfeit as according to our laws. But you Julius Pullus - or should I say Jochi - you are a foreigner with no legal standing whatsoever." The gray eyes hardened into naked steel. "Your fate is to be thrown from the Tarpeian Rock."
Jochi sighed. This was simply not his day.
* * * * *
The wind whistled through Magdalai's dark hair as he rumbled across the grasslands of northern Rome. He longed to be back in the saddle, feeling the muscles of a fine steed gallop beneath his feet, but these new tanks were not entirely bad either. Like stallions of cold steel and uncompromising iron they were, fed on diesel fuel and powered by fiery combustion engines. Magdalai had been the finest cavalry commander in his day, so it was natural that he be placed in charge of tank command during the course of this latest war against the Romans.
Magdalai raised his field binoculars to his face and studied the horizon. Somewhere up there, just a few miles distant, was the front where the main fighting was taking place. He could hear in the distance the deep thunder of artillery barking and every now and then the black puff of smoke in the sky signaling Roman anti-aircraft fire. It was a different kind of war fought these days, with machines and moving fronts rather than set battles with opposing armies lined on up each side of a field. Magdalai knew his place was back at operational headquarters with the maps and charts, not out here in the field in the belly of a tank, but he had to see the battle for himself every now and then, if only to experience what his men did and remember that they were more than simply markers on a chessboard.
A bullet cracked past his head, reminding Magdalai that this area was still far from secure. "Sir, would you please come down from the cupola and shut the top, please?" came the voice of his driver. The poor man would face hell from his commanding officer if a senior general was killed by small arms fire in his tank.
Magdalai complied wordlessly and climbed down into the steaming interior of the machine. It was the heart of summer, and the tank's inside was scorchingly hot with all of its ports closed for battle. The small crew who ran the machine were all pros who knew their job inside and out; even as Magdalai settled himself in, the source of the fire was identified and targeted. The tank's machine gun shouted out a stream of bullets into the thicket they were passing, and while there was no indication of whether anything was hit, no further shots rang out to challenge the tank's passage.
That was the nature of how this campaign was going. The Mongol tanks, supported heavily by massive artillery bombardment and covering air power, had systematically crushed the Roman opposition city by city. Casulties had been low, given the nature of the fighting, and though the Romans were fighting hard for every inch of ground, their homeland was being slowly crushed beneath the heel of the superior Mongol force. It made Magdalai wonder why Caesar had been so anxious to declare war on Mongolia in the first place. But then again, the exposure of Jochi as a spy had likely had a lot to do with that.
The radio at Magdalai's side crackled into life, prompting him for orders as to how to proceed. Recalling the operational map in his head, Magdalai shouted back his reply over the noise of the machine, "Have the 34th armored move further east, to circle around Ravenna to the east. They need to take out those bunkers our fighters photographed there yesterday. And tell the 18th - let me repeat, that's the 18th - to take and hold that hill to the north. That's where the 3rd army will be parking its artillery tomorrow, and we damn well better have a clear road there by then!... What? You tell the captain that he'll answer to me if his men aren't ready to go on my signal."
And so on, as the reports continued to come in. It was another typical day for Magdalai.
* * * * *
Sabotai stared absently at the reports in front of him. He leaned back in his comfortable chair, here in his office in Karakorum, and reflected idly on the situation. Cleaning up the shattered remnants of Rome was turning out to be a major headache, requiring thousands of details no one had anticipated until a problem arose. Nadaam's voice crowed of the latest Mongol military triumphs on the radio behind his head; it was an old speech, one given just days after the war had ended. But it was a popular one, and so the state-controlled media continued to play it even now almost a month after the event. Not that Sabotai was really listening, of course.
A warm early autumn breeze floated in through the open window to stir the papers on Sabotai's desk. Setting them back in place without thinking about it, Sabotai reflected that for once the Mongol propaganda had been accurate. The victory over Rome had indeed been a smashing success, with few personnel killed and total destruction of the enemy achieved. Most remarkable of all, though it could not be revealed to the press, had been Jochi's miraculous escape from Roman detention and flight back to Mongol lines before his schdeuled execution. How he had managed such a feat was beyond Sabotai.
The grizzled general picked up the next report on his desk and idly began scanning through the document. It just so happened to be about the same subject, Jochi's return home to Mongolia. In fact... Sabotai's eyebrows shot up. He carefully re-read the report again to make sure he hadn't been mistaken. If this source was true... The implications could be enormous. Sabotai picked up his phone and barked to his secretary, "Get me Khan Temujin on the line immediately."
"I think I know who our traitor is."
That doesn't mean the game is ending, it just means that I have to play all the turns and write all the story instalments. Please bear this in mind and realize that only one chapter is going to come out each week, at best. Currently the next set of turns is in the process of being played and the story will follow when it gets done (turns of Modern Age warfare... take a lot of time). Again, I ask for your patience and thank you for the expressed interest in this game. 
