General Mayhem
Monarch
- Joined
- Aug 30, 2004
- Messages
- 329
Cat fight! Cat fight!
Small typo to point out:
I believe that you meant Her instead of He
Small typo to point out:
I believe that you meant Her instead of He
Pax Romana
- Thread starter Vanadorn
- Start date
Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
It was not the militia’s job.
That sentiment was becoming all too common place as the days had progressed throughout the Roman Empire. There was crowding in the streets, looting in the ghettos, interruption of services, breakdown of sanitation, a general feeling of lawlessness in the overcrowded, burgeoning, over inflated, tightly packed throng that made up the major cities of the kingdom.
When a fire broke out, it was four different fire companies that showed up on the scene, arguing amongst themselves over who had jurisdiction while the three-story wood and thatch structure burned away.
When there was an accident in the streets and the owner of the melon cart slugged the owner of the pottery cart, the brawl often spread amongst the spectators who violently joined sides with their voices as well as their fists.
When a building collapsed it remained a pile of rubble while the clean up crews skimmed the contract money off the top and the local populace picked through the detritus for any trinkets or treasures left behind.
And throughout it all, the same words were often repeated by commoner, craftsmen, colonel, and count; it’s not the militia’s job.
The militia. Overused and under appreciated.
The militia. Short handed and in over their heads.
The militia could help defend the walls in times of trouble. The militia could walk the streets in formation and bluster, parading the avenues and byways in a show of force. The militia could help quell the rousing of the rabble and keep the peace when the people were peaceful.
But the militia could only enforce martial law so far. There was a limit to the effects of armed men in the streets. There was only so much silk one could wear and so much wine one could drink to forget about life in general. There was only so many times the downtrodden and marginalized could go to temple and hear the priests talk of a better life that was coming their way and lay their meager copper coins in the ever hungry collection bowl. There were only so many games one could see in an effort to stave off the crushing despondency that was the lot in life for so…so many people everywhere.
And to make the people happy, was not the militia’s job.
The talks in bars and baths, in the market and senate, everywhere the people of Rome spoke, it was with the same realization; if it wasn’t the militia’s job then whose job was it?
Rome was a great place to live and grow and raise a family and make one’s way in the world, but it needed more than just brass and bronze to keep it that way. If the people of Rome were to be safe in their own country, they would need to reinvent the tools to help keep them safe.
If the streets of Rome needed policing, then the need for police had to be answered. For if the militia couldn’t handle the job, then the police would be called upon to do so.
Whether by gentle or more insistently persuasive means, the towns and cities of the Roman Empire would be kept safe. By whatever means necessary.
That sentiment was becoming all too common place as the days had progressed throughout the Roman Empire. There was crowding in the streets, looting in the ghettos, interruption of services, breakdown of sanitation, a general feeling of lawlessness in the overcrowded, burgeoning, over inflated, tightly packed throng that made up the major cities of the kingdom.
When a fire broke out, it was four different fire companies that showed up on the scene, arguing amongst themselves over who had jurisdiction while the three-story wood and thatch structure burned away.
When there was an accident in the streets and the owner of the melon cart slugged the owner of the pottery cart, the brawl often spread amongst the spectators who violently joined sides with their voices as well as their fists.
When a building collapsed it remained a pile of rubble while the clean up crews skimmed the contract money off the top and the local populace picked through the detritus for any trinkets or treasures left behind.
And throughout it all, the same words were often repeated by commoner, craftsmen, colonel, and count; it’s not the militia’s job.
The militia. Overused and under appreciated.
The militia. Short handed and in over their heads.
The militia could help defend the walls in times of trouble. The militia could walk the streets in formation and bluster, parading the avenues and byways in a show of force. The militia could help quell the rousing of the rabble and keep the peace when the people were peaceful.
But the militia could only enforce martial law so far. There was a limit to the effects of armed men in the streets. There was only so much silk one could wear and so much wine one could drink to forget about life in general. There was only so many times the downtrodden and marginalized could go to temple and hear the priests talk of a better life that was coming their way and lay their meager copper coins in the ever hungry collection bowl. There were only so many games one could see in an effort to stave off the crushing despondency that was the lot in life for so…so many people everywhere.
And to make the people happy, was not the militia’s job.
The talks in bars and baths, in the market and senate, everywhere the people of Rome spoke, it was with the same realization; if it wasn’t the militia’s job then whose job was it?
Rome was a great place to live and grow and raise a family and make one’s way in the world, but it needed more than just brass and bronze to keep it that way. If the people of Rome were to be safe in their own country, they would need to reinvent the tools to help keep them safe.
If the streets of Rome needed policing, then the need for police had to be answered. For if the militia couldn’t handle the job, then the police would be called upon to do so.
Whether by gentle or more insistently persuasive means, the towns and cities of the Roman Empire would be kept safe. By whatever means necessary.
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Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
Delshe raised his musket, taking aim at the charging Incan closing at ten meters. He squeezed the trigger and the weapon fired, cracking backwards into his shoulder and sending another lead bullet flying into the chaotic press of the battlefield before him. The Incan warrior stumbled, his chest running red through the hole in his breastplate, the spiked weapon swinging wildly moments earlier falling limply from his nerveless hands to fall with a forlorn finality to the muddy earth. With creaking ease, he fell over dead.
Delshe Al Liyawi gave his spent musket over to his loader, accepting a fresh one in its place. He placed the far end of the barrel into the yoke and sighing deeply, took aim once more at the seemingly unending number of attackers. “I don’t know,” the Arabian musketeer said with a groan to the brother soldier on his left. “I thought we had broken the backs of these goat suckers when we freed Basra from them? Where do they continue to get soldiers and why do they continue to fight?”
Adjusting his turban, Ahmed Ibn Hurzan grimaced. “That we did, holy brother. We had them bent over backwards and moaning in fear from our Allah blessed might.” He fired off his own weapon, dropping another armored assailant. “Their skin was white with fear and their blood did stain the earth. Their spirits were rent asunder and they had been beaten as soundly as a good man beats his unfaithful wife.”
The Arabian defender nodded. “If that is the case, my friend and supporter, then where O’ where do they get the men to fight us with?”
“From the depths of hell and the brink of madness. There is no ending of these infidels and they are as thick on the ground as sand is on the beach.” Ahmed spat seeing one of his shots go wide. From somewhere else along the line, another holy warrior took out his intended target with a well placed round to the Incan’s knee.
Using the mounded earth as a crutch, Delshe picked his own target from the thousands before him. “And the iron? Did we not deny them the ready source of it from Ise? Did we not pluck the metal teeth from their mouths as effectively as one would defang a cheetah?”
“That we did.”
“Then where did they still get of it then? Where does the metal weapons that they wield and the armor that they wear come from? Surely they could not have a stockpile of it so large as to equip every man, woman, and child with plate of steel and sword and axe?”
The shouts of the Incan charge grew louder as they reached the earthworks but a concentrated withering fusillade drove them back to a safer distance. Ahmed Ibn Hurzan wiped his face clear of the sooty residue from his weapon’s discharge. “Where?” he asked. “From the Latin kingdoms, that is where.”
“Why? Does the Caesar seek to go to battle with us? I understood that we were no longer at odds with one another, swords buried and peace between us.”
“That is true, but the Latin dogs are sly ones. Merchant tricks and false smiles. They do not commit their own troops to the fray, but they supply enough goods for the Incans to not only slow our advances, but to actually hold us at bay.”
Delshe felt his teeth grit. His loader pressed a new musket into his hand; he took it absently, chewing his lower lip in frustration. “They shouldn’t be allowed to do that.”
“But they do. That is the way of it.” Ahmed’s next shot drilled a howling Incan straight through the open space below his helmet. His throat torn out and blood fountaining high, the foot soldier collapsed to the mud; his flailing arms and legs tripping the charging warrior on his right as well. Two musket rounds struck the cursing soldier, ending his life with a pair of whistling cracks. “It is also said that we will soon be facing mounted warriors as well,” he added.
“And how is witchery of this accomplished? There are few herds that escaped our wranglers outside of Basra. Tell me the Latin ones are responsible for this as well?”
Ahmed nodded wordlessly.
“This is most unbelievable! What is our Caliph doing? He should make no uncertain terms the desires of our League that Caesar should NOT be trading these dangerous resources to our common enemy!”
“Ha! It is one thing to tell your neighbor to not do something, but it is quite different to get a country to behave as one wishes.” Ahmed chuckled. “I don’t think there is enough balls in the whole of the League to lay that demand on the table.”
Shaking his head, Delshe continued, “It’s not balls; it’s what right! He should tell the Latin dogs what they should be doing or threaten them with a jihad for snubbing their nose at us.”
“A jihad? Surely you don’t think we would long survive such a thing?”
“Yes I do. Allah is with us. Isn’t he helping us drive the heathen infidels back towards the swamps and the sea? Didn’t he prove that we could indeed take the Latin cities and liberate them from their Caesar’s grip?”
“That was long ago, my friend. If you were to learn what came afterwards, you would not be so anxious to engage in war with them. They had indeed reversed our fortunes and punished us greatly.”
“Lies!” Delshe exclaimed. “Those are false words and you know of it. It is forbidden to speak such heresy; the mujahdeens had expressly forbidden it to be uttered.”
“Just because a thing is not spoken of, doesn’t mean it did not happen.” Ahmed shrugged. “It matters not. If the Latins wanted to march upon us, they would have done so already. If they want to trade goods with the Incans, we can do nothing about it but grumble. The best we can do, is continue to press our advantage against the infidels and hold the lines here until we could once again drive them back and away towards the stone coffins that their cities will become.”
Delshe smiled. “Amen to that, holy brother. May Allah shine brightly upon us.” He fired his musket gleefully into the fray.
“Allah shall shine upon us indeed.” The two Arabian warriors continued their defense of the western lines, their own muskets firing in addition to the thousands of others holy brothers that were guarding the growing homeland of the League from the resurging Incan horde.
Delshe Al Liyawi gave his spent musket over to his loader, accepting a fresh one in its place. He placed the far end of the barrel into the yoke and sighing deeply, took aim once more at the seemingly unending number of attackers. “I don’t know,” the Arabian musketeer said with a groan to the brother soldier on his left. “I thought we had broken the backs of these goat suckers when we freed Basra from them? Where do they continue to get soldiers and why do they continue to fight?”
Adjusting his turban, Ahmed Ibn Hurzan grimaced. “That we did, holy brother. We had them bent over backwards and moaning in fear from our Allah blessed might.” He fired off his own weapon, dropping another armored assailant. “Their skin was white with fear and their blood did stain the earth. Their spirits were rent asunder and they had been beaten as soundly as a good man beats his unfaithful wife.”
The Arabian defender nodded. “If that is the case, my friend and supporter, then where O’ where do they get the men to fight us with?”
“From the depths of hell and the brink of madness. There is no ending of these infidels and they are as thick on the ground as sand is on the beach.” Ahmed spat seeing one of his shots go wide. From somewhere else along the line, another holy warrior took out his intended target with a well placed round to the Incan’s knee.
Using the mounded earth as a crutch, Delshe picked his own target from the thousands before him. “And the iron? Did we not deny them the ready source of it from Ise? Did we not pluck the metal teeth from their mouths as effectively as one would defang a cheetah?”
“That we did.”
“Then where did they still get of it then? Where does the metal weapons that they wield and the armor that they wear come from? Surely they could not have a stockpile of it so large as to equip every man, woman, and child with plate of steel and sword and axe?”
The shouts of the Incan charge grew louder as they reached the earthworks but a concentrated withering fusillade drove them back to a safer distance. Ahmed Ibn Hurzan wiped his face clear of the sooty residue from his weapon’s discharge. “Where?” he asked. “From the Latin kingdoms, that is where.”
“Why? Does the Caesar seek to go to battle with us? I understood that we were no longer at odds with one another, swords buried and peace between us.”
“That is true, but the Latin dogs are sly ones. Merchant tricks and false smiles. They do not commit their own troops to the fray, but they supply enough goods for the Incans to not only slow our advances, but to actually hold us at bay.”
Delshe felt his teeth grit. His loader pressed a new musket into his hand; he took it absently, chewing his lower lip in frustration. “They shouldn’t be allowed to do that.”
“But they do. That is the way of it.” Ahmed’s next shot drilled a howling Incan straight through the open space below his helmet. His throat torn out and blood fountaining high, the foot soldier collapsed to the mud; his flailing arms and legs tripping the charging warrior on his right as well. Two musket rounds struck the cursing soldier, ending his life with a pair of whistling cracks. “It is also said that we will soon be facing mounted warriors as well,” he added.
“And how is witchery of this accomplished? There are few herds that escaped our wranglers outside of Basra. Tell me the Latin ones are responsible for this as well?”
Ahmed nodded wordlessly.
“This is most unbelievable! What is our Caliph doing? He should make no uncertain terms the desires of our League that Caesar should NOT be trading these dangerous resources to our common enemy!”
“Ha! It is one thing to tell your neighbor to not do something, but it is quite different to get a country to behave as one wishes.” Ahmed chuckled. “I don’t think there is enough balls in the whole of the League to lay that demand on the table.”
Shaking his head, Delshe continued, “It’s not balls; it’s what right! He should tell the Latin dogs what they should be doing or threaten them with a jihad for snubbing their nose at us.”
“A jihad? Surely you don’t think we would long survive such a thing?”
“Yes I do. Allah is with us. Isn’t he helping us drive the heathen infidels back towards the swamps and the sea? Didn’t he prove that we could indeed take the Latin cities and liberate them from their Caesar’s grip?”
“That was long ago, my friend. If you were to learn what came afterwards, you would not be so anxious to engage in war with them. They had indeed reversed our fortunes and punished us greatly.”
“Lies!” Delshe exclaimed. “Those are false words and you know of it. It is forbidden to speak such heresy; the mujahdeens had expressly forbidden it to be uttered.”
“Just because a thing is not spoken of, doesn’t mean it did not happen.” Ahmed shrugged. “It matters not. If the Latins wanted to march upon us, they would have done so already. If they want to trade goods with the Incans, we can do nothing about it but grumble. The best we can do, is continue to press our advantage against the infidels and hold the lines here until we could once again drive them back and away towards the stone coffins that their cities will become.”
Delshe smiled. “Amen to that, holy brother. May Allah shine brightly upon us.” He fired his musket gleefully into the fray.
“Allah shall shine upon us indeed.” The two Arabian warriors continued their defense of the western lines, their own muskets firing in addition to the thousands of others holy brothers that were guarding the growing homeland of the League from the resurging Incan horde.
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Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
Guglielmus threw his hands in the air, his face dark and angry. “It just doesn’t make any sense, I’m sorry. We’re not keeping up on production as it is and Zeus forgive me if Caesar is looking for rails and we don’t have any to supply.”
The work floor of his cavernous workshop was filled with every ironworker and engineer he had employed for him. They were milling about, their reddened faces streaked with sweat and twisted in anger and dismay. Almost three hundred of his employees had turned out to voice their disapproval on their boss’s new plan to speed up production.
Marconi continued, “You have to remember, we have to not only provide the finished rails in time for the needed work crews laying them across the empire, but we have to do it in an efficient manner.”
“Boss,” a square jawed ironworker called out, “the problem is that your efficiency is ruining our ability to finish any of our work correctly!” A chorus of agreeing shouts followed. “How the hell do I know that Gricio, who I’m sure is a great iron man, actually did a great job on the rail that rolls in front of me? I can’t attest that when it goes past me, that the next guy down the line doesn’t find it to be flawed and blame it on me and my work. You should leave it where we each work on our own projects and just hire more workers and smiths.”
The bicycle magnate shook his head, drawing more dismayed cries from the assembled mob. “Where am I supposed to put them? Zeus help me, we have almost one hundred and twenty stations as it is. Too many of you are walking over each other now, its not going to work like it is any more and it sure won’t if we hire more people to do so.” He slapped the rail with his free palm. “No, I’m sorry and trust me, I know many of you consider yourselves skilled artisans on the work you do, but this smithy cannot possibly function anymore at this pace; not without some radical thinking and changing taking place. We have to modernize and do it soon or we’ll find ourselves unable to fulfill our contracts.”
More angered grumbling followed. “And what does that mean to us?” came the shout. “Do we see any of this ‘extra’ money you enjoy on the sweat of our labor? It’s unfair!”
“With what you’re proposing,” another worker cried out, “you can get some journeyman or even an apprentice smith to do the small section of the job that would be assigned to me and pay him half what you are to me! Where’s the fairness in that?”
The room exploded with shouting and cries, resounding with the howls of ‘Unfair’ and ‘You can’t do this’. Marconi tried to ease the mob but his voice was muted under the noise the workers were making; his attempts to calm and placate them veritably ignored. A few of the local toughs he had in his employ to keep him safe from accosting vagrants on the streets, emerged from the shadows, working their way over to Guglielmus and placing their imposing bulk before him. Their presence only seemed to infuriate the crowd further.
A few of the most angered workers made a big show of removing their leather aprons and dropping them with great ceremony to the stone floor of the workshop. Sneering at Marconi, they turned on the balls of their feet and stormed out. Surprised at their boldness, almost a dozen more followed suit; leaving the railroad tycoon standing there with his mouth opened in shock. Acting swiftly to prevent any more from getting it in their heads to pick up and leave, Marconi held his hands up high and shouted, “Wait! Wait! Wait!”
A few of the men almost out the door stopped but at least half that had made a show of quitting continued until they were out in the street. “Listen,” Guglielmus said pleadingly, “you all know me. You know how I feel about all of you and what type of respect I have for you. Give me a chance with this, that’s all I’m asking. Twelve weeks, that’s all. If you can give me that time and we can prove that this new work atmosphere and layout of duties is the proper thing we need to do, I’ll give every man that stays with me a share of the profits at year’s end.”
The mumbling stopped. “How much?” one of the more distant figures asked unbelievingly.
“I’ll give each man here a…a…a thousand lira bonus.”
Looks of surprise filled the room. “For each of us?”
Marconi nodded, licking his lips nervously. “Absolutely. I cannot do it without you, but I need your help to make it work.” He held out his hands imploringly. “Please, what do you say? Twelve weeks, that’s all I ask. And if we’re not happy with it, we’ll go back to the old method of individual forges.”
The men spoke rapidly amongst themselves, whispering back and forth as they debated the matter swiftly. Finally, with a series of nods and tentative smiles, they replied, “You have yourself a deal, Boss.”
Guglielmus smiled back in return, trying to quell the fierce beating of his heart and thanking every god, saint, and spirit he could name for not letting every iron worker he had in his employ walk out the door.
The work floor of his cavernous workshop was filled with every ironworker and engineer he had employed for him. They were milling about, their reddened faces streaked with sweat and twisted in anger and dismay. Almost three hundred of his employees had turned out to voice their disapproval on their boss’s new plan to speed up production.
Marconi continued, “You have to remember, we have to not only provide the finished rails in time for the needed work crews laying them across the empire, but we have to do it in an efficient manner.”
“Boss,” a square jawed ironworker called out, “the problem is that your efficiency is ruining our ability to finish any of our work correctly!” A chorus of agreeing shouts followed. “How the hell do I know that Gricio, who I’m sure is a great iron man, actually did a great job on the rail that rolls in front of me? I can’t attest that when it goes past me, that the next guy down the line doesn’t find it to be flawed and blame it on me and my work. You should leave it where we each work on our own projects and just hire more workers and smiths.”
The bicycle magnate shook his head, drawing more dismayed cries from the assembled mob. “Where am I supposed to put them? Zeus help me, we have almost one hundred and twenty stations as it is. Too many of you are walking over each other now, its not going to work like it is any more and it sure won’t if we hire more people to do so.” He slapped the rail with his free palm. “No, I’m sorry and trust me, I know many of you consider yourselves skilled artisans on the work you do, but this smithy cannot possibly function anymore at this pace; not without some radical thinking and changing taking place. We have to modernize and do it soon or we’ll find ourselves unable to fulfill our contracts.”
More angered grumbling followed. “And what does that mean to us?” came the shout. “Do we see any of this ‘extra’ money you enjoy on the sweat of our labor? It’s unfair!”
“With what you’re proposing,” another worker cried out, “you can get some journeyman or even an apprentice smith to do the small section of the job that would be assigned to me and pay him half what you are to me! Where’s the fairness in that?”
The room exploded with shouting and cries, resounding with the howls of ‘Unfair’ and ‘You can’t do this’. Marconi tried to ease the mob but his voice was muted under the noise the workers were making; his attempts to calm and placate them veritably ignored. A few of the local toughs he had in his employ to keep him safe from accosting vagrants on the streets, emerged from the shadows, working their way over to Guglielmus and placing their imposing bulk before him. Their presence only seemed to infuriate the crowd further.
A few of the most angered workers made a big show of removing their leather aprons and dropping them with great ceremony to the stone floor of the workshop. Sneering at Marconi, they turned on the balls of their feet and stormed out. Surprised at their boldness, almost a dozen more followed suit; leaving the railroad tycoon standing there with his mouth opened in shock. Acting swiftly to prevent any more from getting it in their heads to pick up and leave, Marconi held his hands up high and shouted, “Wait! Wait! Wait!”
A few of the men almost out the door stopped but at least half that had made a show of quitting continued until they were out in the street. “Listen,” Guglielmus said pleadingly, “you all know me. You know how I feel about all of you and what type of respect I have for you. Give me a chance with this, that’s all I’m asking. Twelve weeks, that’s all. If you can give me that time and we can prove that this new work atmosphere and layout of duties is the proper thing we need to do, I’ll give every man that stays with me a share of the profits at year’s end.”
The mumbling stopped. “How much?” one of the more distant figures asked unbelievingly.
“I’ll give each man here a…a…a thousand lira bonus.”
Looks of surprise filled the room. “For each of us?”
Marconi nodded, licking his lips nervously. “Absolutely. I cannot do it without you, but I need your help to make it work.” He held out his hands imploringly. “Please, what do you say? Twelve weeks, that’s all I ask. And if we’re not happy with it, we’ll go back to the old method of individual forges.”
The men spoke rapidly amongst themselves, whispering back and forth as they debated the matter swiftly. Finally, with a series of nods and tentative smiles, they replied, “You have yourself a deal, Boss.”
Guglielmus smiled back in return, trying to quell the fierce beating of his heart and thanking every god, saint, and spirit he could name for not letting every iron worker he had in his employ walk out the door.
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General Mayhem
Monarch
- Joined
- Aug 30, 2004
- Messages
- 329
Industrialization coming soon?
Great update, one small typo to point out:
no should be not
Great update, one small typo to point out:
no should be not
Steel General
Master of Temporal Fugue
@Vanadorn - I've just finished reading the entire thread (took me bits and pieces of a couple weeks to do it). I must say that this is absouletely excellent!! Your attention to detail and writing style make it a most enjoyable reading experience. Kepp up your excellent work and good luck on any of your future writing endeavors. 
Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
The campus grounds were in chaos. Most of the student body were arguing loudly outside the dean’s hall, their fists raised high in the air, their voices crying out enmass. At least half of the young adults were armed with a motley of dangerous objects not limited to and including bricks, branches, chair legs, broken statuary and for one enterprising man, the spear like hour hand for the tower clock normally affixed to it’s housing at Julius Commons.
The purpose for the demonstration was the increased cost the college was passing on to the students for the upcoming semester. A general 40% swing across the board had been levied on attending and new students anticipating attendance after the winter break ended. It had been learned than none of the costs were being passed on to the professors or proctors, none of the costs were going towards the assemblage of new books and tomes for the now dated library, none of the costs were even going towards the improvement and refitting of existing classrooms and dormitories. Where was most of this increase going?
Toward the hiring of five new teachers hand picked by the school board at three times the existing salaries of current professors as well as a hefty pay increase for most of the existing board, headmasters, and chancellors that helped to manage the school. A pay increase very close to 40%.
The students responded with great cries of displeasure. They had swarmed out of their classes; books forgotten, teachers unheard. In groups of ten and twenty, they gathered outside the dean’s hall, chanting their dismay in a cadence of voices up to the windows and the surprised and frightened men and women hiding inside. Like a gathering snowball, they swelled and pulsed and expanded until not a student anywhere hadn’t heard of what was happening and wasn’t involved in the protest in some fashion.
Socrates, along with almost fifty other professors, had tried to interpose themselves between their students and the guarded steps of the hall the furious mob was threatening to storm. So far, their entreaties and cajoling had stemmed the tide but everyone of them knew, it was only a matter of time before even the most level headed of the assembled students lost patience and pushed their way past angrily. Something had to be done.
After some short discussion amongst themselves, it was decided that Socrates should be the one to try to disperse the crowd. Being closest to the student body’s age and well known as most liked by the majority of them, he grudgingly accepted. From off near the supply house, a sturdy crate used to cart lavatory goods back and forth from the market was brought over and turned on its side; providing an impromptu platform for the popular teacher to address the assembly from.
As his short and distinctively homely features came into view, poking over the sea of heads and faces that had gathered here today, a lull ebbed over the crowd in response to his upraised hands. “My students. My friends,” he began, his rich baritone carrying far across the grounds. “Your presence here brings warmth and gratitude to my heart as well as the hearts of my fellow teachers. Your desire to see justice and fairness done rings loud and clear to not only we that are with you outside, but surely as well to those who are behind the doors and windows yonder.”
He swept his gaze over them all, picking out faces and smiles with an easy grin; playing to them as he tried to connect with as many of the body he could on a personal level. “What better way to show your strength and unity and desire to be heard as citizens of this great country than by speaking out against the bureaucracy that you feel works against the greater good with your gathering here this day? It warms the hearts of everyone that you fell so strongly on this matter, a matter that has prompted your actions here.”
“However, as much so as your wishes and concerns have been made to those who will now I’m sure listen, your continued presence here might be seen as inflammatory or riotous.” He chuckled, forcing the laughter out with a nervous cough. “Surely that is not your desire, is it? Not when you have demonstrated your point succinctly and respectfully?”
“But it’s not fair!” a heckler cried from the quieting mob. “How are we to afford next semester? And what of your needs and the needs of the other hard working teachers here?”
Shouts of excited assent filled the air, their drowning call shaking the last leaves from the autumn touched trees of the courtyard. Waiting for a lull, Socrates held his hand up again. “I know! I know!” he cried out, struggling at first to be heard. In the distance, he could see the militia had been called out; surely at the behest of the dean’s pleading earlier as the students first approached the hall with anger in their eyes and bricks in their hands. The brute squad had drawn up into a solid line of red clad men, stout clubs and short shields held tightly in their hands. For now they kept their distance, but Socrates felt ill at ease and unsure how long that would be the case.
“The proposed increase was just that, my friends, proposed. Surely after this demonstration, some conversation is sure to ensue and a new budget will be discussed. In this matter, you have said and done what you could and should be proud on what you’ve accomplished. But it is over now so there is nothing more to be gained by staying here except infuriating the school board. So please, I beg you, please disperse. Return to your dorms and your homes and let us know that your actions have born the fruit that you hoped would be.”
For a moment, it seemed as if they were about to listen, many of the gathered students near the back of the crowd were already breaking off in small pockets of excitedly jabbering students. Even those closest to Socrates and his fellow teachers showed a dimming of the fire in their eyes, their forms becoming less tense, less pent up.
From a window on the second floor of the hallway, the interior dim and shadowed, the occupants’ indistinct forms at best; a spinning book flew out and headed straight towards the smiling orator at the head of the mob. Faintly, a stifled exclamation of, “Go to Hades, Socrates,” was heard as the makeshift missile spun end over end and connected with the popular teacher’s shoulder blades. He grunted, pitched forward to land stumbling into the shocked arms of the selfsame students he was trying to calm down and keep from violence.
For almost two slow measured heartbeats, nothing happened.
With a roaring cry of renewed fury, the entire student body stormed the closed doors of the school hall, their pipes and bricks and implements of destruction leading the way. Their reaction was all the signal the peace-keeping force needed to spring into action. With an answering shout of their own, they sped swiftly over the grasses of the courtyard and collided brutally with the rear lines of the chaotic student mob.
Clubs rose and slammed downward into the necks and heads of the now wild students. They answered as best they could; their own bludgeoning weapons trying to drive the squad back and away. Meanwhile, the front of the group found themselves unable to break through swift enough past the barricaded doors of the college hall; the thick portals apparently braced from the inside as well. As for Socrates and the rest of the teaching body, they were overrun and struggling to extricate themselves from the throng that had now run amuck.
Holding his sore head gingerly, Socrates pushed himself to his feet, trying to find a way free from the screaming, tangled, riotous mess he was fully mired in. One stumbling foot at a time, he pushed his way past howling teenagers in a desperate attempt to get out.
Something struck him solidly on the skull, causing flares and sparks to dance before his gaze. His knees hit earth; his palms followed a moment later. Through the lights swimming before his vision, he caught sight of well maintained boots and the dangling edge of a red sashes swaying. Realizing that it was one of the called on brute squad that had assaulted him, he turned upward, trying to explain who he was when the solid black bulk of the descending club smashed into the side of his temple and dropped him bonelessly to the muddy earth.
After that, he saw nothing but darkness and heard nothing but the droning beat of his own heart.
The purpose for the demonstration was the increased cost the college was passing on to the students for the upcoming semester. A general 40% swing across the board had been levied on attending and new students anticipating attendance after the winter break ended. It had been learned than none of the costs were being passed on to the professors or proctors, none of the costs were going towards the assemblage of new books and tomes for the now dated library, none of the costs were even going towards the improvement and refitting of existing classrooms and dormitories. Where was most of this increase going?
Toward the hiring of five new teachers hand picked by the school board at three times the existing salaries of current professors as well as a hefty pay increase for most of the existing board, headmasters, and chancellors that helped to manage the school. A pay increase very close to 40%.
The students responded with great cries of displeasure. They had swarmed out of their classes; books forgotten, teachers unheard. In groups of ten and twenty, they gathered outside the dean’s hall, chanting their dismay in a cadence of voices up to the windows and the surprised and frightened men and women hiding inside. Like a gathering snowball, they swelled and pulsed and expanded until not a student anywhere hadn’t heard of what was happening and wasn’t involved in the protest in some fashion.
Socrates, along with almost fifty other professors, had tried to interpose themselves between their students and the guarded steps of the hall the furious mob was threatening to storm. So far, their entreaties and cajoling had stemmed the tide but everyone of them knew, it was only a matter of time before even the most level headed of the assembled students lost patience and pushed their way past angrily. Something had to be done.
After some short discussion amongst themselves, it was decided that Socrates should be the one to try to disperse the crowd. Being closest to the student body’s age and well known as most liked by the majority of them, he grudgingly accepted. From off near the supply house, a sturdy crate used to cart lavatory goods back and forth from the market was brought over and turned on its side; providing an impromptu platform for the popular teacher to address the assembly from.
As his short and distinctively homely features came into view, poking over the sea of heads and faces that had gathered here today, a lull ebbed over the crowd in response to his upraised hands. “My students. My friends,” he began, his rich baritone carrying far across the grounds. “Your presence here brings warmth and gratitude to my heart as well as the hearts of my fellow teachers. Your desire to see justice and fairness done rings loud and clear to not only we that are with you outside, but surely as well to those who are behind the doors and windows yonder.”
He swept his gaze over them all, picking out faces and smiles with an easy grin; playing to them as he tried to connect with as many of the body he could on a personal level. “What better way to show your strength and unity and desire to be heard as citizens of this great country than by speaking out against the bureaucracy that you feel works against the greater good with your gathering here this day? It warms the hearts of everyone that you fell so strongly on this matter, a matter that has prompted your actions here.”
“However, as much so as your wishes and concerns have been made to those who will now I’m sure listen, your continued presence here might be seen as inflammatory or riotous.” He chuckled, forcing the laughter out with a nervous cough. “Surely that is not your desire, is it? Not when you have demonstrated your point succinctly and respectfully?”
“But it’s not fair!” a heckler cried from the quieting mob. “How are we to afford next semester? And what of your needs and the needs of the other hard working teachers here?”
Shouts of excited assent filled the air, their drowning call shaking the last leaves from the autumn touched trees of the courtyard. Waiting for a lull, Socrates held his hand up again. “I know! I know!” he cried out, struggling at first to be heard. In the distance, he could see the militia had been called out; surely at the behest of the dean’s pleading earlier as the students first approached the hall with anger in their eyes and bricks in their hands. The brute squad had drawn up into a solid line of red clad men, stout clubs and short shields held tightly in their hands. For now they kept their distance, but Socrates felt ill at ease and unsure how long that would be the case.
“The proposed increase was just that, my friends, proposed. Surely after this demonstration, some conversation is sure to ensue and a new budget will be discussed. In this matter, you have said and done what you could and should be proud on what you’ve accomplished. But it is over now so there is nothing more to be gained by staying here except infuriating the school board. So please, I beg you, please disperse. Return to your dorms and your homes and let us know that your actions have born the fruit that you hoped would be.”
For a moment, it seemed as if they were about to listen, many of the gathered students near the back of the crowd were already breaking off in small pockets of excitedly jabbering students. Even those closest to Socrates and his fellow teachers showed a dimming of the fire in their eyes, their forms becoming less tense, less pent up.
From a window on the second floor of the hallway, the interior dim and shadowed, the occupants’ indistinct forms at best; a spinning book flew out and headed straight towards the smiling orator at the head of the mob. Faintly, a stifled exclamation of, “Go to Hades, Socrates,” was heard as the makeshift missile spun end over end and connected with the popular teacher’s shoulder blades. He grunted, pitched forward to land stumbling into the shocked arms of the selfsame students he was trying to calm down and keep from violence.
For almost two slow measured heartbeats, nothing happened.
With a roaring cry of renewed fury, the entire student body stormed the closed doors of the school hall, their pipes and bricks and implements of destruction leading the way. Their reaction was all the signal the peace-keeping force needed to spring into action. With an answering shout of their own, they sped swiftly over the grasses of the courtyard and collided brutally with the rear lines of the chaotic student mob.
Clubs rose and slammed downward into the necks and heads of the now wild students. They answered as best they could; their own bludgeoning weapons trying to drive the squad back and away. Meanwhile, the front of the group found themselves unable to break through swift enough past the barricaded doors of the college hall; the thick portals apparently braced from the inside as well. As for Socrates and the rest of the teaching body, they were overrun and struggling to extricate themselves from the throng that had now run amuck.
Holding his sore head gingerly, Socrates pushed himself to his feet, trying to find a way free from the screaming, tangled, riotous mess he was fully mired in. One stumbling foot at a time, he pushed his way past howling teenagers in a desperate attempt to get out.
Something struck him solidly on the skull, causing flares and sparks to dance before his gaze. His knees hit earth; his palms followed a moment later. Through the lights swimming before his vision, he caught sight of well maintained boots and the dangling edge of a red sashes swaying. Realizing that it was one of the called on brute squad that had assaulted him, he turned upward, trying to explain who he was when the solid black bulk of the descending club smashed into the side of his temple and dropped him bonelessly to the muddy earth.
After that, he saw nothing but darkness and heard nothing but the droning beat of his own heart.
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Yow. The glorious student-worker alliance that Communism proposes is beginning to take form...Will there be a Winter Palace-esque march on Rome? Is this civil disorder in a city, followed by "Civil Disorder Intensifies! The mob has destroyed University!", and a military crackdown?
Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
“Good night, Theadra. Good night, Tycho.”
Theadra looked up, lowering her quill with a gentle grin. “Good night, Callistus,” she said, waving. Tycho merely grunted, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on the report he was preparing for Caesar and the council tomorrow. The princess shook her head ruefully. “Don’t worry, my friend. We’re almost done. We’re only a few minutes behind you.”
Callistus chuckled. Using his free hand, he tipped his hat graciously towards her while the tap-tap-tapping of his cane filled the air as he worked his way out of the office, his stooped back hunched over, his gait measured, aching, and slow. Only when the sound of his passage had long faded away, did Theadra sigh noisily.
Tycho looked up, face disgusted at the interruption. “What?!” he barked, the scarred visage appearing almost like running wax in the dim candle light.
“You could at least try to be understanding,” she said, voice heavy with guilt.
“Understanding? For allowing violence in the street? For failing to do his job? For keeping an old man on the payroll when he is obviously some ten, fifteen years past his prime?” He sneered. “Please, Princess. Do not try to lay any simpering softness on me regarding this matter. Callistus has slipped up and now the country has suffered for it.”
“He’s been here doing his job longer than any of us have,” she retorted, face flushing. “Combined even!”
“Longevity at a job doesn’t mean aptitude, Princess. It means complacency, it means mistakes, it means sloppiness; as recent events have evidenced.” He sniffed, taking a sip of his brandy.
She growled. “You are the most pig headed, arrogant, egotistical, uncaring hunk of horse droppings I’ve ever met! How the hell you get off talking like you do amazes me, Marquis. Don’t you have any feelings?”
He tapped the burns across his skin with the tail end of his feathered quill. “Feelings? No, Princess, I don’t. Healed skin is tough and resilient and is devoid of nerves. And for that I am thankful because otherwise your bleeding heart on a relic that had outperformed his usefulness would be getting all over them.” He pointed to the shared document the three, now two, of them were working on. “And now tell me why we are still here finishing this up and Mr. Callistus has found it in himself to pick up and go home? Where is the fairness in that? Can you tell me?”
Struggling to keep her cool, Theadra reached over and slid Callistus portion of the report in front of her. She began to leaf through the pages. “He finished the portions that he needed to. If you had spent less time griping about it over the last few hours and more actually working on the task at hand, you’d be finished now as well.”
“If he had kept a better eye on the growing state of discontent of the plebeians, I wouldn’t have to waste my time detailing what the interruption of service had done to the production of the empire. He’s a waste and should be put out to pasture immediately. Don’t think if I don’t tell the king that.”
He scratched his words along the paper before him for almost half a minute before he realized that Theadra hadn’t answered him. Gritting his teeth at not having his thoughts and opinions answered by the astute and brilliant girl, he looked up, ready to deliver another purposefully infuriating jibe when he saw her intently reading something that Callistus had written down. “Hey!” he exclaimed, frowning deeply, “Have you not been paying attention to me?”
Theadra blinked, her eyes unfocused at first, catching his gaze. With a sardonic grin, she proffered the page she had been scanning and said, “Your wish is answered.”
“What do you mean, ‘my wish’, Princess. Don’t toy with me and play games.” He snatched the page from her, staring down at the tightly written words Callistus had labored over.
“He’s stepping down,” Theadra said, tapping the page with her forefinger. “And he’s suggesting to Caesar that I take over in his stead.”
“What?!?” the Marquis exclaimed. He read the page swiftly, digesting the entirety of it with a growing snarl and feeling of fury. “How DARE he!”
Theadra appeared confused. “How dare he what?” she asked.
“Now?! At a time when the empire needs him, he decided to quit NOW? That is absurd! Preposterous! Unconscionable!”
“Wait a minute,” she snatched the page away from him. “A moment ago, not even a minute ago, you were saying how he should be removed as counselor and now you’re unhappy with it?”
“Unhappy?” he asked. “Unhappy is when it rains outside. Unhappy is when your meat isn’t salted to taste. Unhappy is when your horse comes in third in a race instead of first. This is as far from unhappy as one can be, Princess. This is very, VERY, short sighted and improper of Callistus, I tell you what!”
“You are a piece of work, you know that,” she laughed aloud. “First you’re pissed off at him and now you are pissed off at him for the entirely opposite reason.” She waved the page. “He’s retiring! Good for him! He’s seventy-five for Zeus’ sake, let him retire.”
“But the timing, the timing of it!”
“So what?”
Tycho slammed the table with his free hand, upsetting the cup of sharpened quills. “You just don’t understand, Princess!”
“Actually, I do!” She laid a hand on his arm. “Believe it or not, I do.” She chuckled again. “So now I guess you’ll have only me to argue with at our weekly meetings.”
The Marquis said nothing, instead correcting the spilled feather pens and replacing them in their cup one at a time. When finished, he dipped his own back into the inkwell and returned to his task at hand. After a few minutes of writing, he stole a glance upward, surprised to find the Princess still staring at him. Conscious of being caught, he grimaced harder and went to return to his duty when she reached over and grabbed his hand at the wrist. Guiltily, he looked up.
She rubbed his scarred skin on his arm gently. “Don’t worry,” she said, trying to smile supportively, “We’ll get through this.”
Feeling the bluster drain away, he briefly allowed his concern to shine through. Patting her hand he felt a weight settle across his shoulders. “I hope so, Princess. I really do. I don’t know how we’re going to get along without Callistus to help us keep it together.”
Theadra shrugged. “We’ll have to all learn how to do our jobs pretty damned fast and learn how to pick up Callistus’ as well.”
Tycho frowned. “I hope that list of people that need to get better includes your brother as well.”
The princess sighed deeply, her youthful face etched with worry. “It absolutely does.” Together, Princess and Marquis lowered their heads and returned to their respective reports; neither one willing to discuss the disturbing matter before them any more.
Theadra looked up, lowering her quill with a gentle grin. “Good night, Callistus,” she said, waving. Tycho merely grunted, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on the report he was preparing for Caesar and the council tomorrow. The princess shook her head ruefully. “Don’t worry, my friend. We’re almost done. We’re only a few minutes behind you.”
Callistus chuckled. Using his free hand, he tipped his hat graciously towards her while the tap-tap-tapping of his cane filled the air as he worked his way out of the office, his stooped back hunched over, his gait measured, aching, and slow. Only when the sound of his passage had long faded away, did Theadra sigh noisily.
Tycho looked up, face disgusted at the interruption. “What?!” he barked, the scarred visage appearing almost like running wax in the dim candle light.
“You could at least try to be understanding,” she said, voice heavy with guilt.
“Understanding? For allowing violence in the street? For failing to do his job? For keeping an old man on the payroll when he is obviously some ten, fifteen years past his prime?” He sneered. “Please, Princess. Do not try to lay any simpering softness on me regarding this matter. Callistus has slipped up and now the country has suffered for it.”
“He’s been here doing his job longer than any of us have,” she retorted, face flushing. “Combined even!”
“Longevity at a job doesn’t mean aptitude, Princess. It means complacency, it means mistakes, it means sloppiness; as recent events have evidenced.” He sniffed, taking a sip of his brandy.
She growled. “You are the most pig headed, arrogant, egotistical, uncaring hunk of horse droppings I’ve ever met! How the hell you get off talking like you do amazes me, Marquis. Don’t you have any feelings?”
He tapped the burns across his skin with the tail end of his feathered quill. “Feelings? No, Princess, I don’t. Healed skin is tough and resilient and is devoid of nerves. And for that I am thankful because otherwise your bleeding heart on a relic that had outperformed his usefulness would be getting all over them.” He pointed to the shared document the three, now two, of them were working on. “And now tell me why we are still here finishing this up and Mr. Callistus has found it in himself to pick up and go home? Where is the fairness in that? Can you tell me?”
Struggling to keep her cool, Theadra reached over and slid Callistus portion of the report in front of her. She began to leaf through the pages. “He finished the portions that he needed to. If you had spent less time griping about it over the last few hours and more actually working on the task at hand, you’d be finished now as well.”
“If he had kept a better eye on the growing state of discontent of the plebeians, I wouldn’t have to waste my time detailing what the interruption of service had done to the production of the empire. He’s a waste and should be put out to pasture immediately. Don’t think if I don’t tell the king that.”
He scratched his words along the paper before him for almost half a minute before he realized that Theadra hadn’t answered him. Gritting his teeth at not having his thoughts and opinions answered by the astute and brilliant girl, he looked up, ready to deliver another purposefully infuriating jibe when he saw her intently reading something that Callistus had written down. “Hey!” he exclaimed, frowning deeply, “Have you not been paying attention to me?”
Theadra blinked, her eyes unfocused at first, catching his gaze. With a sardonic grin, she proffered the page she had been scanning and said, “Your wish is answered.”
“What do you mean, ‘my wish’, Princess. Don’t toy with me and play games.” He snatched the page from her, staring down at the tightly written words Callistus had labored over.
“He’s stepping down,” Theadra said, tapping the page with her forefinger. “And he’s suggesting to Caesar that I take over in his stead.”
“What?!?” the Marquis exclaimed. He read the page swiftly, digesting the entirety of it with a growing snarl and feeling of fury. “How DARE he!”
Theadra appeared confused. “How dare he what?” she asked.
“Now?! At a time when the empire needs him, he decided to quit NOW? That is absurd! Preposterous! Unconscionable!”
“Wait a minute,” she snatched the page away from him. “A moment ago, not even a minute ago, you were saying how he should be removed as counselor and now you’re unhappy with it?”
“Unhappy?” he asked. “Unhappy is when it rains outside. Unhappy is when your meat isn’t salted to taste. Unhappy is when your horse comes in third in a race instead of first. This is as far from unhappy as one can be, Princess. This is very, VERY, short sighted and improper of Callistus, I tell you what!”
“You are a piece of work, you know that,” she laughed aloud. “First you’re pissed off at him and now you are pissed off at him for the entirely opposite reason.” She waved the page. “He’s retiring! Good for him! He’s seventy-five for Zeus’ sake, let him retire.”
“But the timing, the timing of it!”
“So what?”
Tycho slammed the table with his free hand, upsetting the cup of sharpened quills. “You just don’t understand, Princess!”
“Actually, I do!” She laid a hand on his arm. “Believe it or not, I do.” She chuckled again. “So now I guess you’ll have only me to argue with at our weekly meetings.”
The Marquis said nothing, instead correcting the spilled feather pens and replacing them in their cup one at a time. When finished, he dipped his own back into the inkwell and returned to his task at hand. After a few minutes of writing, he stole a glance upward, surprised to find the Princess still staring at him. Conscious of being caught, he grimaced harder and went to return to his duty when she reached over and grabbed his hand at the wrist. Guiltily, he looked up.
She rubbed his scarred skin on his arm gently. “Don’t worry,” she said, trying to smile supportively, “We’ll get through this.”
Feeling the bluster drain away, he briefly allowed his concern to shine through. Patting her hand he felt a weight settle across his shoulders. “I hope so, Princess. I really do. I don’t know how we’re going to get along without Callistus to help us keep it together.”
Theadra shrugged. “We’ll have to all learn how to do our jobs pretty damned fast and learn how to pick up Callistus’ as well.”
Tycho frowned. “I hope that list of people that need to get better includes your brother as well.”
The princess sighed deeply, her youthful face etched with worry. “It absolutely does.” Together, Princess and Marquis lowered their heads and returned to their respective reports; neither one willing to discuss the disturbing matter before them any more.
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Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
Tycho Brahe, Marquis and royal advisor to the king of Rome, stood casually in the hallway of the Mayan ambassador’s house, looking around with false marvel at the frescos and wall displays hung around the greeting hall. He came not for any desire to treat with the ridiculously clothed and feather wearing people, but because protocol demanded he do so. Realizing it had been some time since he voiced anything, he nodded vigorously at his kindly host and said, “Absolutely amazing! Just wonderful. And this is all examples of your country’s, er, art, huh? Very impressed; impressed indeed.”
Spitting Piranha (“What kind of savages were these to name themselves such,” the Mad Marquis thought) beamed kindly, his artificially sharpened canines standing out with stark relief from his gentle and beatific face. “I had figured your lordship would be pleased.” He continued walking, his hand pointing ahead shakily, “But rest assured, this is only the beginning of what I’m sure will completely bowl you over.”
”Just great. More foolish drapery.” Forcing a grin, Tycho tried to appear enthused. “I look forward to it.”
The two men left the portico and walked deeper into the ambassador’s abode. Beyond a great room painted in green with ivy plants trailing from hooks on the ceiling, Tycho found himself led into what could only be referred to as a weapons room. Axes and swords of countless design and age were displayed prominently about, hanging on hooks and pins in such a way to show off their cunning formation and crafter’s skill. Flails and pikes, bows and arrows, crossbows, flintlocks, matchlocks, and even simplistic staff slings had their placing and showcasing about the chamber. However, Spitting Piranha strode past all these and ended up at a display case near the southern window.
Peering through the highly polished glass and brass casing, Tycho saw a lightly constructed strange musket sitting on a fold of red and blue silk. With reverent care, Spitting Piranha opened the back of the casing and withdrew the weapon so the Roman dignitary could more easily see it. Despite his earlier misgivings, Tycho was intrigued by this and his attention perked up as the Mayan began to speak.
“I assume you are familiar with musketry and musket design?” he asked. Tycho nodded momentarily bothered by this. Spitting Piranha continued, “We have long studied the art of gunpowder and projectile weaponry. Although it has been centuries since our brave jaguar warriors had to rely on spears and javelins to keep us safe from distant predators, our love of missile weapons and weaponry has never waned.”
“We first realized the difficult problems associated with the current musket designs. Primarily it was accuracy and range, two dilemma that I understand affect Roman troops as well.” The Marquis ignored the jibe, instead nodding sagely at the ‘cheeky’ wrinkled brown skinned man jabbering away. “A good arrow flies true and far because of a spin placed upon it. The guide feathers are positioned in such a way that the arrow literally slashes through the air, drilling forward and maintaining a level and accurate flight path.”
He patted the strange musket design. “We have taken the same ideas and translated them to the modern day as well.” He tilted the weapon over so its barrel was positioned upward. Taking a small oil lamp, he brought it closer so the front part of the darkened interior was lit. Strange spiraling grooves ran the length of the inside, running presumably back to the base of the weapon.
“What did you do?” the Roman asked.
“We call it rifling. It gives the bullet a spin so when it leaves the mouth of the gun, it will keep its heading, speed and trajectory more readily.”
Feeling magnanimous in light of what he just learned, Tycho nodded pleasantly at his host. “That is very damned fine work. Very fine indeed.”
Spitting Piranha smiled that strangely sharpened grin at him. “Thank you, my friend, but it doesn’t end there.” He turned the weapon around so the base of the barrel where it met the polished wood of the shoulder stock was up close for inspection. The Mayan ambassador and weapons connoisseur pointed to a grooved channel seemingly carved into the hardened iron itself. “Too often, even the best muskets will become so fouled, so jammed with spent paper, flax, ash, and soot, that it takes much time to clean them all the way to the barrel base. It is a laborious process, and not one we’d like to have happen to a soldier while in the field. So what we have done here is breeched the rear portion of the rifle with a cunning slot attached to this handle, allowing easy access to the interior.”
Tycho almost jumped as Spitting Piranha pulled back on the handle in question, sliding a small portion of the rifle’s barrel open and away. “Wha…?” he stammered, brows wide.
The Mayan laughed, the sound of it grating heavily on the Roman’s nerves. “Worry not, my friend,” he said with easy humor. “The removed portion can only slide back as far as the grooved slot the handle sits in allows it to. Any further and it would fall out of the back end of the barrel completely.” He closed the breech. “Notice how a turn here at the end not only fully closes the breech, but seals the chamber once again. Wouldn’t want to fire a round off and have a jet of flame shoot out the barrel near your face.”
“These are all very, very, very impressive improvements. Very engaging indeed.”
“Ah, but there is one more wonder to introduce.” He reached back into the display case and withdrew a hardwood box. Laying it reverently on the countertop, he opened it slowly to reveal ten rows of eight strange brass cylinders. Each one was maybe ten centimeters tall at most and seemed composed of a main brass portion and a lead looking top. Spitting Piranha withdrew one, placing it into the Marquis’ hand.
Tycho Brahe was surprised at how heavy the object was. He had originally guessed it to be hollow but now figured otherwise. He scrutinized it carefully, giving it his undivided attention. He wasn’t sure why, but the appearance of the strangely simple object seemed almost…threatening to him. As he allowed it to the bounce slightly up and down in his palm, he figured out exactly what the object he held casual was with a gasp. “It’s a bullet!” he exclaimed.
His host beamed. “Exactly. Very keen eye you have, my Roman friend. It is indeed a bullet. However, not in the sense that we have traditionally declared one to be.” He took another round from the box, holding it aloft as he explained. “Unlike a traditional minie ball, it is no surprise that a better round is one that has a point upon it, similar to either a quarrel or arrow head. But, the time and energy spent in the heat of battle with shot and powder, paper, flax and tamping rods; it is cumbersome and wasteful of a good warriors skill. This bullet takes care of all that immediately.”
“The bullet itself is pointed lead, coated with a thin layer of copper to keep the round from flash melting while still in the barrel and clogging the gun or spoiling the rifling grooves. It has been pressed carefully into the brass jacket which has been in turn filled with the proper amount of powder needed.”
The Roman grunted. “How do you get the powder to light if the bullet is sealed?”
“Ah. That was the most vexing for some time. But if you look on the base of the bullet itself, you will see a jacketed percussive cap. It is filled with a sulfurous mix and cordite that sparks if ruptured. The trigger pull of the musket drives the hammer down as usual, but instead of striking flint on the flash pan, it instead dents the back of the bullet and fires the primer.” He replaced the round and reached out, taking Tycho’s away as well to put it away. “I thought you’d be interested in seeing one of these rifles at work?” he asked with an ill hidden grin.
Doing his best to keep his face devoid of revulsion at the sharp-toothed smile of the wrinkled Mayan, Tycho forced his own smile on his scarred and ruined face, trying futilely to spook the other man. “I’d love to see one of your rifles in action.” He held out his hand, indicating the other man could lead the way.
As the two of them went outside, Tycho was already committing everything he had witnessed to memory, knowing that he would give Caesar a full accounting of what he had seen as well as force his sometimes too kindly king to implement this new design throughout the empire regardless of cost or complaint. As he thought of it, any people who would willingly sharpen their teeth as a peace envoy with another nation would most likely become an awaken threat at some point in the future.
The Marquis hoped he would do what he could to keep the people of Rome prepared and ready should a day like that ever come.
Spitting Piranha (“What kind of savages were these to name themselves such,” the Mad Marquis thought) beamed kindly, his artificially sharpened canines standing out with stark relief from his gentle and beatific face. “I had figured your lordship would be pleased.” He continued walking, his hand pointing ahead shakily, “But rest assured, this is only the beginning of what I’m sure will completely bowl you over.”
”Just great. More foolish drapery.” Forcing a grin, Tycho tried to appear enthused. “I look forward to it.”
The two men left the portico and walked deeper into the ambassador’s abode. Beyond a great room painted in green with ivy plants trailing from hooks on the ceiling, Tycho found himself led into what could only be referred to as a weapons room. Axes and swords of countless design and age were displayed prominently about, hanging on hooks and pins in such a way to show off their cunning formation and crafter’s skill. Flails and pikes, bows and arrows, crossbows, flintlocks, matchlocks, and even simplistic staff slings had their placing and showcasing about the chamber. However, Spitting Piranha strode past all these and ended up at a display case near the southern window.
Peering through the highly polished glass and brass casing, Tycho saw a lightly constructed strange musket sitting on a fold of red and blue silk. With reverent care, Spitting Piranha opened the back of the casing and withdrew the weapon so the Roman dignitary could more easily see it. Despite his earlier misgivings, Tycho was intrigued by this and his attention perked up as the Mayan began to speak.
“I assume you are familiar with musketry and musket design?” he asked. Tycho nodded momentarily bothered by this. Spitting Piranha continued, “We have long studied the art of gunpowder and projectile weaponry. Although it has been centuries since our brave jaguar warriors had to rely on spears and javelins to keep us safe from distant predators, our love of missile weapons and weaponry has never waned.”
“We first realized the difficult problems associated with the current musket designs. Primarily it was accuracy and range, two dilemma that I understand affect Roman troops as well.” The Marquis ignored the jibe, instead nodding sagely at the ‘cheeky’ wrinkled brown skinned man jabbering away. “A good arrow flies true and far because of a spin placed upon it. The guide feathers are positioned in such a way that the arrow literally slashes through the air, drilling forward and maintaining a level and accurate flight path.”
He patted the strange musket design. “We have taken the same ideas and translated them to the modern day as well.” He tilted the weapon over so its barrel was positioned upward. Taking a small oil lamp, he brought it closer so the front part of the darkened interior was lit. Strange spiraling grooves ran the length of the inside, running presumably back to the base of the weapon.
“What did you do?” the Roman asked.
“We call it rifling. It gives the bullet a spin so when it leaves the mouth of the gun, it will keep its heading, speed and trajectory more readily.”
Feeling magnanimous in light of what he just learned, Tycho nodded pleasantly at his host. “That is very damned fine work. Very fine indeed.”
Spitting Piranha smiled that strangely sharpened grin at him. “Thank you, my friend, but it doesn’t end there.” He turned the weapon around so the base of the barrel where it met the polished wood of the shoulder stock was up close for inspection. The Mayan ambassador and weapons connoisseur pointed to a grooved channel seemingly carved into the hardened iron itself. “Too often, even the best muskets will become so fouled, so jammed with spent paper, flax, ash, and soot, that it takes much time to clean them all the way to the barrel base. It is a laborious process, and not one we’d like to have happen to a soldier while in the field. So what we have done here is breeched the rear portion of the rifle with a cunning slot attached to this handle, allowing easy access to the interior.”
Tycho almost jumped as Spitting Piranha pulled back on the handle in question, sliding a small portion of the rifle’s barrel open and away. “Wha…?” he stammered, brows wide.
The Mayan laughed, the sound of it grating heavily on the Roman’s nerves. “Worry not, my friend,” he said with easy humor. “The removed portion can only slide back as far as the grooved slot the handle sits in allows it to. Any further and it would fall out of the back end of the barrel completely.” He closed the breech. “Notice how a turn here at the end not only fully closes the breech, but seals the chamber once again. Wouldn’t want to fire a round off and have a jet of flame shoot out the barrel near your face.”
“These are all very, very, very impressive improvements. Very engaging indeed.”
“Ah, but there is one more wonder to introduce.” He reached back into the display case and withdrew a hardwood box. Laying it reverently on the countertop, he opened it slowly to reveal ten rows of eight strange brass cylinders. Each one was maybe ten centimeters tall at most and seemed composed of a main brass portion and a lead looking top. Spitting Piranha withdrew one, placing it into the Marquis’ hand.
Tycho Brahe was surprised at how heavy the object was. He had originally guessed it to be hollow but now figured otherwise. He scrutinized it carefully, giving it his undivided attention. He wasn’t sure why, but the appearance of the strangely simple object seemed almost…threatening to him. As he allowed it to the bounce slightly up and down in his palm, he figured out exactly what the object he held casual was with a gasp. “It’s a bullet!” he exclaimed.
His host beamed. “Exactly. Very keen eye you have, my Roman friend. It is indeed a bullet. However, not in the sense that we have traditionally declared one to be.” He took another round from the box, holding it aloft as he explained. “Unlike a traditional minie ball, it is no surprise that a better round is one that has a point upon it, similar to either a quarrel or arrow head. But, the time and energy spent in the heat of battle with shot and powder, paper, flax and tamping rods; it is cumbersome and wasteful of a good warriors skill. This bullet takes care of all that immediately.”
“The bullet itself is pointed lead, coated with a thin layer of copper to keep the round from flash melting while still in the barrel and clogging the gun or spoiling the rifling grooves. It has been pressed carefully into the brass jacket which has been in turn filled with the proper amount of powder needed.”
The Roman grunted. “How do you get the powder to light if the bullet is sealed?”
“Ah. That was the most vexing for some time. But if you look on the base of the bullet itself, you will see a jacketed percussive cap. It is filled with a sulfurous mix and cordite that sparks if ruptured. The trigger pull of the musket drives the hammer down as usual, but instead of striking flint on the flash pan, it instead dents the back of the bullet and fires the primer.” He replaced the round and reached out, taking Tycho’s away as well to put it away. “I thought you’d be interested in seeing one of these rifles at work?” he asked with an ill hidden grin.
Doing his best to keep his face devoid of revulsion at the sharp-toothed smile of the wrinkled Mayan, Tycho forced his own smile on his scarred and ruined face, trying futilely to spook the other man. “I’d love to see one of your rifles in action.” He held out his hand, indicating the other man could lead the way.
As the two of them went outside, Tycho was already committing everything he had witnessed to memory, knowing that he would give Caesar a full accounting of what he had seen as well as force his sometimes too kindly king to implement this new design throughout the empire regardless of cost or complaint. As he thought of it, any people who would willingly sharpen their teeth as a peace envoy with another nation would most likely become an awaken threat at some point in the future.
The Marquis hoped he would do what he could to keep the people of Rome prepared and ready should a day like that ever come.
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Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
The Ballad of Johan Henirus, The Steel Driving Man
Listen to my story, 'tis a story true;
'Bout a mighty man, --Johan Henirus to me an’ you.
An' Johan Henirus was a steel-driver too.
Zeus, O’ Sweet Zeus,
Johan Henirus was a steel-driver too.
Johan had a hammah; weighed nigh fi’teen too;
Ev'ry time he made a strike or two
He drove his spike some five centi’s through.
Zeus, O’ Sweet Zeus,
He drove his spike some five centi’s through.
Johan Henirus’ woman, Lucy, dress she wore was blue;
She had eyes like stars an' teeth like marble,
An' so he named his hammah "Lucy" too.
Zeus, O’ Sweet Zeus,
An' so he named his hammah "Lucy" too.
Lucy came to see him; bucket in her han';
And all th' time Johan ate his snack,
O Lucy she'd drive steel like man.
Zeus, O’ Sweet Zeus,
O Lucy she'd drive steel like man.
Johan’s Cap'n Pabelis, Rome had gave him birth.
He happ’ly paid the might Zulu,
Yet Cap' Pabelis was the cheapest man on earth.
Zeus, O’ Sweet Zeus,
Yet Cap' Pabelis was the cheapest man on earth.
Pabelis often said to others "With Johan on my crew and his hammah's in his han'
Haint no man better on any railroad job
Ain’t no one can beat 'Lucy' an' her steel-drivin' man.
Zeus, O’ Sweet Zeus,
Ain’t no one can beat 'Lucy' an' her steel-drivin' man.
"Bells ring on the engines; runnin' down th' line.
Dinnahs done when Lucy pulls th' cord;
But no hammah in this mountain or any other rings as strong as mine!
Zeus, O’ Sweet Zeus,
No Damned hammah in this mountain or any other rings as strong as mine!”
Listen to my story, 'tis a story true;
'Bout a mighty man, --Johan Henirus to me an’ you.
An' Johan Henirus was a steel-driver too.
Zeus, O’ Sweet Zeus,
Johan Henirus was a steel-driver too.
Johan had a hammah; weighed nigh fi’teen too;
Ev'ry time he made a strike or two
He drove his spike some five centi’s through.
Zeus, O’ Sweet Zeus,
He drove his spike some five centi’s through.
Johan Henirus’ woman, Lucy, dress she wore was blue;
She had eyes like stars an' teeth like marble,
An' so he named his hammah "Lucy" too.
Zeus, O’ Sweet Zeus,
An' so he named his hammah "Lucy" too.
Lucy came to see him; bucket in her han';
And all th' time Johan ate his snack,
O Lucy she'd drive steel like man.
Zeus, O’ Sweet Zeus,
O Lucy she'd drive steel like man.
Johan’s Cap'n Pabelis, Rome had gave him birth.
He happ’ly paid the might Zulu,
Yet Cap' Pabelis was the cheapest man on earth.
Zeus, O’ Sweet Zeus,
Yet Cap' Pabelis was the cheapest man on earth.
Pabelis often said to others "With Johan on my crew and his hammah's in his han'
Haint no man better on any railroad job
Ain’t no one can beat 'Lucy' an' her steel-drivin' man.
Zeus, O’ Sweet Zeus,
Ain’t no one can beat 'Lucy' an' her steel-drivin' man.
"Bells ring on the engines; runnin' down th' line.
Dinnahs done when Lucy pulls th' cord;
But no hammah in this mountain or any other rings as strong as mine!
Zeus, O’ Sweet Zeus,
No Damned hammah in this mountain or any other rings as strong as mine!”
Last edited:
barbslinger
Gun blast'n shot drinker
Wow, this was great late night reading. Keep it up Vanadorn. I look forward to ALL your future writings.
Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
“What the hell do you mean, laid off?”
Socrates found himself sitting in the chancellor’s office. He still had pains in his neck where the sudden riot on campus two semesters ago had spilled into his personal life with the blunt end of a militia man’s club. He had spent a few weeks resting and healing before coming back to teach at the university properly. The days had passed afterwards with surprising speed as he had been seen as a unifying force by pretty much the entire student body. It didn’t matter that he was trying to get them to disperse without violence, just that he was willing to talk with them.
The chancellor, rubbing his nose absently, drummed his fingers across his desk; a sorrowful smile on his lips and almost expectant twinkle in his eye as he tried to make some attempt to commiserate the popular teacher. “We feel that it is for the best, especially since you have been unable to make every class due to your injuries.”
“Are you out of your mind?” he said disbelievingly. “I had a stiff neck and couldn’t ride my bicycle to work. I took the train, and it ran late. How the hell does ONE lateness make me unfit to teach?”
“You must understand, our hands are tied in this matter. I’d love to be able to allow you to stay on board in some capacity, but there is no room in the budget for such an expenditure of funds.” He spread his hands. “I know you understand.”
Socrates felt his face heat as he watched the thinly disguised pleasure the schoolmaster was displaying during their exchange. He was never sure who it was that had thrown the book at him from INSIDE the administration building and therefore sparked off the riot, but seeing this…insect of a human being almost squirm with delight at the prospect of terminating him solidified his half formed guesses into a rude assurance of fact. He tried to reason with the dean of students. “At least allow me to finish out the semester. Most of my class is deeply engaged in a rather lively discussion on the formation of nobility and the eventual watering down of the upper class after the parceling of landholdings had occurred. At least two of them have rather good thesis that they are hoping to present before the end of this year, and the type of open dialogue that runs through my afternoon sessions is crucial to this type of intellectual work.”
“Oh, that’s quite alright. We’ve already assigned Dolomus to take over your students for you. And well, his type of teaching methodology is rather different than yours. So it would be unfair to the students to have them struggle between two teachers unnecessarily when only one is needed.” He shrugged, his pinched shoulders lifting high. “So you see, there is no need for your continued association with the students and the student body as a whole.”
The homely teacher sighed. He knew he was being forced out, and the false diplomacy being exhibited here was becoming almost insulting to him. “Okay, listen here,” he began, finger pointing accusingly at the man before him.
“Socrates, I must warn you,” the chancellor warned with a sneer, “I feel uncomfortable with your tone of voice and the way you are threatening me.”
“Threaten you? I’m not threatening you. I just want some…”
“And now you’re growing belligerent, too?”
“What? Where do you come off…”
“Please, keep your voice down. Don’t hurt me.”
Socrates felt like the conversation was slipping dangerously underneath him, like wet ice on a cold spring day. “Listen to me, sir. I’m not going to hurt you. I just want…”
“Help!” the chancellor howled suddenly, throwing himself backward from his desk. Before his chair could overturn completely, four thick necked guards that had to have been waiting right outside the door they responded so swiftly, burst into the room just in time to see the surprised teacher perched on the edge of his seat, face red and obviously distraught while the chancellor fell backwards, his body bouncing out of his chair to thump noisily on the wooden floor boards.
Cold sweat ran down Socrates spine as he realized the school administrator had just set him up. Before he could make any move to explain the situation or defend himself, he was set upon by grasping hands the size of hams and kicking feet clad in hard soled boots. His head rung, blood filled his mouth, he found himself unable to draw enough breath as his ribs and kidneys were abused repeatedly. With a lurching heave, he was lifted bodily from the ground by each of his limbs and rushed headlong out the door, down the hall, and hurled unceremoniously down the half dozen stairs to roll with a jarring groan onto the grasses outside the administration hall.
“Professor Socrates,” one of the muscle bound assailants growled menacingly, “you are hereby fired from this school. If you make any attempt to return on these grounds or approach the headmaster once more, we will be forced to exact a more permanent punishment on your sorry arse.” He pointed. “Now get the hell out of here!”
Dazed and confused, the popular teacher pushed himself slowly onto his feet, the horizon tilting strangely in the distance as he tried to keep himself upright. When the ringing in his head faded away and he could stand without upsetting the swimming sensation in his stomach any further, he limped slowly away from the dean’s hall and down the cobbled path towards his former office and then the campus gates.
Eyes followed him as he trudged along, both the hired goons of the college and the shocked expressions of the students and faculty. When his step faltered he was shoved rudely from behind. When someone tried to speak with him, he was verbally accosted and abused. With heavy steps and a tearing, blurry vision, he was forced out of the school until the metal gates clanged with finality behind him once he was off the grounds. He went home, boarding the train with the dull expression of a man drowning and unable to save himself. Upon reaching home, he staggered to the room he was letting, fell upon the threadbare mattress he called a bed, and fell into a torpor that did a poor emulation of mimicking restful sleep.
He would have been proud to know that his replacement professor walked into an empty class the following day if he had awaked anywhere before noon. He would have been touched to know that his firing and subsequent treatment had spread across the grounds like wildfire, igniting long stewing hatred between the students and the head faculty once more if he could bring himself to leave his house for even the bare necessities.
He might have even shed a tear of pride and joy to know that over 70% of the student body sat unwaveringly throughout the next day on the great lawn of the campus outside the administration hall. But the days marched on and the battered and bruised Socrates knew none of this even when the selfsame students that he loved so much in his own way, did everything and then some in their power to punish the powers that ran the school for their treatment of him.
The first he heard of it was sixteen days later when the college, facing financial ruin and over two hundred separate acts of petty vandalism across the campus, had the chancellor drop the trumped up charges against him and extend an invitation for him to return to the school at his former position and salary. Like a man grasping at a straw, he happily took the offer and came back to the university and the job he loved more than life itself.
The ability to teach the next generation of bright minds how to think outside the boundaries the world placed upon them.
“What the hell do you mean, laid off?”
Socrates found himself sitting in the chancellor’s office. He still had pains in his neck where the sudden riot on campus two semesters ago had spilled into his personal life with the blunt end of a militia man’s club. He had spent a few weeks resting and healing before coming back to teach at the university properly. The days had passed afterwards with surprising speed as he had been seen as a unifying force by pretty much the entire student body. It didn’t matter that he was trying to get them to disperse without violence, just that he was willing to talk with them.
The chancellor, rubbing his nose absently, drummed his fingers across his desk; a sorrowful smile on his lips and almost expectant twinkle in his eye as he tried to make some attempt to commiserate the popular teacher. “We feel that it is for the best, especially since you have been unable to make every class due to your injuries.”
“Are you out of your mind?” he said disbelievingly. “I had a stiff neck and couldn’t ride my bicycle to work. I took the train, and it ran late. How the hell does ONE lateness make me unfit to teach?”
“You must understand, our hands are tied in this matter. I’d love to be able to allow you to stay on board in some capacity, but there is no room in the budget for such an expenditure of funds.” He spread his hands. “I know you understand.”
Socrates felt his face heat as he watched the thinly disguised pleasure the schoolmaster was displaying during their exchange. He was never sure who it was that had thrown the book at him from INSIDE the administration building and therefore sparked off the riot, but seeing this…insect of a human being almost squirm with delight at the prospect of terminating him solidified his half formed guesses into a rude assurance of fact. He tried to reason with the dean of students. “At least allow me to finish out the semester. Most of my class is deeply engaged in a rather lively discussion on the formation of nobility and the eventual watering down of the upper class after the parceling of landholdings had occurred. At least two of them have rather good thesis that they are hoping to present before the end of this year, and the type of open dialogue that runs through my afternoon sessions is crucial to this type of intellectual work.”
“Oh, that’s quite alright. We’ve already assigned Dolomus to take over your students for you. And well, his type of teaching methodology is rather different than yours. So it would be unfair to the students to have them struggle between two teachers unnecessarily when only one is needed.” He shrugged, his pinched shoulders lifting high. “So you see, there is no need for your continued association with the students and the student body as a whole.”
The homely teacher sighed. He knew he was being forced out, and the false diplomacy being exhibited here was becoming almost insulting to him. “Okay, listen here,” he began, finger pointing accusingly at the man before him.
“Socrates, I must warn you,” the chancellor warned with a sneer, “I feel uncomfortable with your tone of voice and the way you are threatening me.”
“Threaten you? I’m not threatening you. I just want some…”
“And now you’re growing belligerent, too?”
“What? Where do you come off…”
“Please, keep your voice down. Don’t hurt me.”
Socrates felt like the conversation was slipping dangerously underneath him, like wet ice on a cold spring day. “Listen to me, sir. I’m not going to hurt you. I just want…”
“Help!” the chancellor howled suddenly, throwing himself backward from his desk. Before his chair could overturn completely, four thick necked guards that had to have been waiting right outside the door they responded so swiftly, burst into the room just in time to see the surprised teacher perched on the edge of his seat, face red and obviously distraught while the chancellor fell backwards, his body bouncing out of his chair to thump noisily on the wooden floor boards.
Cold sweat ran down Socrates spine as he realized the school administrator had just set him up. Before he could make any move to explain the situation or defend himself, he was set upon by grasping hands the size of hams and kicking feet clad in hard soled boots. His head rung, blood filled his mouth, he found himself unable to draw enough breath as his ribs and kidneys were abused repeatedly. With a lurching heave, he was lifted bodily from the ground by each of his limbs and rushed headlong out the door, down the hall, and hurled unceremoniously down the half dozen stairs to roll with a jarring groan onto the grasses outside the administration hall.
“Professor Socrates,” one of the muscle bound assailants growled menacingly, “you are hereby fired from this school. If you make any attempt to return on these grounds or approach the headmaster once more, we will be forced to exact a more permanent punishment on your sorry arse.” He pointed. “Now get the hell out of here!”
Dazed and confused, the popular teacher pushed himself slowly onto his feet, the horizon tilting strangely in the distance as he tried to keep himself upright. When the ringing in his head faded away and he could stand without upsetting the swimming sensation in his stomach any further, he limped slowly away from the dean’s hall and down the cobbled path towards his former office and then the campus gates.
Eyes followed him as he trudged along, both the hired goons of the college and the shocked expressions of the students and faculty. When his step faltered he was shoved rudely from behind. When someone tried to speak with him, he was verbally accosted and abused. With heavy steps and a tearing, blurry vision, he was forced out of the school until the metal gates clanged with finality behind him once he was off the grounds. He went home, boarding the train with the dull expression of a man drowning and unable to save himself. Upon reaching home, he staggered to the room he was letting, fell upon the threadbare mattress he called a bed, and fell into a torpor that did a poor emulation of mimicking restful sleep.
He would have been proud to know that his replacement professor walked into an empty class the following day if he had awaked anywhere before noon. He would have been touched to know that his firing and subsequent treatment had spread across the grounds like wildfire, igniting long stewing hatred between the students and the head faculty once more if he could bring himself to leave his house for even the bare necessities.
He might have even shed a tear of pride and joy to know that over 70% of the student body sat unwaveringly throughout the next day on the great lawn of the campus outside the administration hall. But the days marched on and the battered and bruised Socrates knew none of this even when the selfsame students that he loved so much in his own way, did everything and then some in their power to punish the powers that ran the school for their treatment of him.
The first he heard of it was sixteen days later when the college, facing financial ruin and over two hundred separate acts of petty vandalism across the campus, had the chancellor drop the trumped up charges against him and extend an invitation for him to return to the school at his former position and salary. Like a man grasping at a straw, he happily took the offer and came back to the university and the job he loved more than life itself.
The ability to teach the next generation of bright minds how to think outside the boundaries the world placed upon them.
Last edited:
Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
Reply time:
Albow: Thanks!
Mewtar & Willow: He's not green, just very nice (still). About 5-8 years emperor so far.
Barb: Nice to still see you, too!
Coolio: Tell me about it! Wow!
Mendi: Headmaster's an ass. Check last chapter.
Dachs: Socrates figures in, have to wait and see.
Gen May: Mia and Andromeda hate each other because they understand the other one exactly. Industialization being studied now, nationalism just finsihed.
Steel Gen: Thanks! Gald you're following too!
Dachs (2): Unhappiness in size 12 cities.
Kjaran: Rome is getting...complicated as it gets bigger.
Dachs (3): He's 75. Been with 3 Caesars. he's tired that's all. And Tycho is a jerk.
Barb (2): 3:55 AM!?!? Go to bed! Read me in hte light of day.
Glad everyone is enjoying. More in a day or two.
V.
Albow: Thanks!
Mewtar & Willow: He's not green, just very nice (still). About 5-8 years emperor so far.
Barb: Nice to still see you, too!
Coolio: Tell me about it! Wow!
Mendi: Headmaster's an ass. Check last chapter.
Dachs: Socrates figures in, have to wait and see.
Gen May: Mia and Andromeda hate each other because they understand the other one exactly. Industialization being studied now, nationalism just finsihed.
Steel Gen: Thanks! Gald you're following too!
Dachs (2): Unhappiness in size 12 cities.
Kjaran: Rome is getting...complicated as it gets bigger.
Dachs (3): He's 75. Been with 3 Caesars. he's tired that's all. And Tycho is a jerk.
Barb (2): 3:55 AM!?!? Go to bed! Read me in hte light of day
.Glad everyone is enjoying. More in a day or two.
V.
General Mayhem
Monarch
- Joined
- Aug 30, 2004
- Messages
- 329
Nice run-on sentence
I think you meant to have the word been after have, and even then it just seems awkward to me, but that could just be because I'm tired.
I take it you traded steam power to the Inca for Nationalism?
alex994
Hail Divine Emperor!
ahh, socrates is a great guy. reminds me of a teacher that my older relative told me about... except the students didn't sit on the campus doing nothing though...
fe3333au
Deity
What a wonderous journey you lead us on ... it took 18 days (well evening/morning sittings) ... well worth the loss of REM 
You have breathed life into the game of Civ ... generating excitement and humour while decribing the actions of the AI's programming routine ... creating pathos and outrage from actions that are achieved with the press of a keyboard button ...
Congratulations Vanadorn you have the gift of the wordsmith
Can't wait to see what develops from the Mia and Andromeda spat ...
You have breathed life into the game of Civ ... generating excitement and humour while decribing the actions of the AI's programming routine ... creating pathos and outrage from actions that are achieved with the press of a keyboard button ...
Congratulations Vanadorn you have the gift of the wordsmith
Can't wait to see what develops from the Mia and Andromeda spat ...
tR1cKy
taking over the world
Great story Vanadorn, as always. It would be nice to see Socrates asking for the insect-man to be fired as a condition to return to its job... 
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