carmen510
Deity
Will you publish this? (An instant NY Times Bestseller) 
Pax Romana
- Thread starter Vanadorn
- Start date
Mewtarthio
Emperor
- Joined
- Apr 14, 2004
- Messages
- 1,930
Hm... I wonder how well Jiwe's marketing techniques work in real life... I'll have to try that sometime ("I want an annual salary of four hundred thousand dollars and some Visine to clear out your horrible visage, you hideous whoreson!")
fe3333au
Deity
No Man ... can't you see that he is flirting and being flirted with 
Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
Orvillus upended the last bucket of sand over the smoldering tabletop, extinguishing the final flames from the furniture. A haze of wispy smoke filled the workshop from the ceiling halfway down, the reek of soot, spilled oil, and charred wood filling the spacious enclosure. Discarded buckets once holding sand and water lay scattered about the floor, the sodden remains of some still hissing piece of machinery cooling on the hard packed clay. The elder Wrigtheous brother looked around the fire damaged workshop and let the bucket he was holding clatter noisily to the floor. “Fine,” he said dejectedly, “go ahead and say it. I know you’re dying to.”
Wilbrium lowered the two fresh pails of water he was walking in with and shrugged. “I was right. It’s going to explode.”
With a simpering sneer, Orvillus flipped his younger brother a single finger salute attesting to his opinion on the comment and sat down with a ‘whuff’ on an upended parts crate. “How in the hell are you supposed to get the fuel to flow other than gravity then unless you design a pump?”
“I told you the pump should not be open to the air. All that raw air wide open on an engine bouncing and clattering about is good for one thing,” Wilbrium wiggled his fingers together like a tube and then shoved his arm over head, blossoming his limbs apart with a dramatic flare, “sending hot flaming fuel out along the side of the machine and causing it to explode.”
Orvillus picked up a wrench from the floor, spinning the metal shaft through his fingers absently. “Without a fuel flow from one chamber to the next, the only thing we are going to experience is the first piston bursting out the side of the engine like a cannon.” He pointed to the west wall of the shop, a fist sized patch of beaten tin tacked up on the damaged wood. “And we’ve already had that bit of excitement.” With disgust he tossed the wrench underhanded so it fell noisily amongst the other discarded tools littering the workbench. “As much as I like Dieselus’ ideas, and mind you, they ARE good ideas, I don’t think they are applicable beyond the paper they were written on.”
“So what is that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know. I don’t really care either.”
Wilbrium scowled. “You’re giving up? YOU?!”
“So what if I am?”
“What about all our work? What about all we said we were going to do? What about Bernoulli?”
Orvillus frowned. “So what? Sweet Zeus! I’m 35 damn it! What the hell am I supposed to do? Set fire to our damned workshop every Sunday with another failed engine idea?” He pointed his hand to the house accusingly, “And as for Bernoulli, I don’t see his arse out here helping us any!”
“Because you told him to butt the Hades out!” Wilbrium kicked the side of the doorjamb. “Last time I checked, he was airborne and flying long before either you or I ever was. Maybe, just maybe, you should listen to his ideas once in a while instead of just discounting everything he fricking says!”
“I don’t need this. I don’t this crud from you.” He stormed to his feet, marching past his brother with a deliberate bump against his shoulder.
“Where are you going?”
“To get drunk. As if it’s any business of yours!”
Wilbrium goggled, sputtering, “What!? What about this mess?!”
“Clean it up or burn it down. I don’t care either way.” Orvillus made his way to the wooden gate, kicked it open as he strode through, and then let it slam behind him as he turned left towards the main hub of Pompeii.
Muttering below his breath through clenched lips, Wilbrium tossed one bucket of water after the other into the now depleted emergency trough near the furnace, face etched with angered despair. He walked along the interior, throwing shutters wide to let the lingering haze of smoke hiss through the open windows, the gentle breezes enough to stir the air clean and clear. He cleaned the worst of the soot and fuel from the table before placing the still warm soaked and fire damaged engine back upon it. Hammers were replaced on hooks, screwdrivers returned to drawers. With a stiff brush he scoured some of the burns clean and a wet rag treated some of the other places. Finally he refilled the sand buckets and topped off the water trough from the pump in the yard before closing the doors and sliding the hasp latch closed.
It was past midnight when the weary Wilbrium entered the house, the wooden screen door banging softly closed behind him. He wandered to the pantry where he took a spiced sausage off one of the drying hooks and bag filled with semi-stale bread. He sat at the table, absently cutting pieces of meat free and chewing them without interest, occasionally dipping torn off clods of bread free into a shallow plate of olive oil.
A candle moved down the hall and turned into the kitchen, the glow spilling over Wilbrium and illuminating the care-worn face of Bernoulli from underneath. “Hey boy,” he said with sleep soaked voice, “What are you doing in here?”
“Just getting something to eat.”
“Mmm.” Bernoulli sat down cautiously, taking a piece of bread and letting the oil sop into it. “Where’s your brother?”
Wilbrium said nothing.
“Oh. It’s like that?”
“He said he quit.”
“Heh. He says that a lot.”
“I think he means it this time.”
“Then let him.”
Wilbrium’s brows rose in surprise. “What? I can’t believe I heard you say that.”
Bernoulli smiled. “Your brother needs a break. Let him quit. Maybe not being a part of it for a while will make him long to return to it again.”
“And maybe he’ll give up on it entirely and not return at all. What about that?”
“Wilbrium, you have to live your own life you know. Let Orvillus live his.”
The younger Wrighteous brother sighed, looking out the screen door to the night sky. “But we’ve BEEN up there. We really have. We’ve flown higher than anyone before, taking balloons above treetops and hills to places only birds have been. I just know that once you’ve touched the sky, been where only gods and Icarus alone have been, everything else is just…not the same.”
Bernoulli smiled benignly, resting his free hand on Wilbrium’s back. “I know, son. I’ve been there too.”
“How could he NOT want to return?”
“That’s for him to decide.” Bernoulli pushed himself upright, staggering slightly as he caught his balance. “But you should worry on what your dreams are, and let Orvillus find his own. Do you want to fly?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to soar like a bird?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want your engine idea to work?”
Even quieter, Wilbrium nodded, “Yes.”
Bernoulli grunted. “Then it’s up to you. You have to make it happen.” He smiled. “As for making things happen, these creaking bones are making me go back to bed. You should do the same.”
Wilbrium watched Bernoulli leave, taking his flickering candle with him. “Hey,” he called out.
“Yes?”
“I can really use some help.”
The elder aviast grinned. “I’ve always been here willing to.” He nodded. “Good night.”
Wilbrium felt his eyes moisten, a knot lifting from his shoulders. “Good night,” he replied.
Wilbrium lowered the two fresh pails of water he was walking in with and shrugged. “I was right. It’s going to explode.”
With a simpering sneer, Orvillus flipped his younger brother a single finger salute attesting to his opinion on the comment and sat down with a ‘whuff’ on an upended parts crate. “How in the hell are you supposed to get the fuel to flow other than gravity then unless you design a pump?”
“I told you the pump should not be open to the air. All that raw air wide open on an engine bouncing and clattering about is good for one thing,” Wilbrium wiggled his fingers together like a tube and then shoved his arm over head, blossoming his limbs apart with a dramatic flare, “sending hot flaming fuel out along the side of the machine and causing it to explode.”
Orvillus picked up a wrench from the floor, spinning the metal shaft through his fingers absently. “Without a fuel flow from one chamber to the next, the only thing we are going to experience is the first piston bursting out the side of the engine like a cannon.” He pointed to the west wall of the shop, a fist sized patch of beaten tin tacked up on the damaged wood. “And we’ve already had that bit of excitement.” With disgust he tossed the wrench underhanded so it fell noisily amongst the other discarded tools littering the workbench. “As much as I like Dieselus’ ideas, and mind you, they ARE good ideas, I don’t think they are applicable beyond the paper they were written on.”
“So what is that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t know. I don’t really care either.”
Wilbrium scowled. “You’re giving up? YOU?!”
“So what if I am?”
“What about all our work? What about all we said we were going to do? What about Bernoulli?”
Orvillus frowned. “So what? Sweet Zeus! I’m 35 damn it! What the hell am I supposed to do? Set fire to our damned workshop every Sunday with another failed engine idea?” He pointed his hand to the house accusingly, “And as for Bernoulli, I don’t see his arse out here helping us any!”
“Because you told him to butt the Hades out!” Wilbrium kicked the side of the doorjamb. “Last time I checked, he was airborne and flying long before either you or I ever was. Maybe, just maybe, you should listen to his ideas once in a while instead of just discounting everything he fricking says!”
“I don’t need this. I don’t this crud from you.” He stormed to his feet, marching past his brother with a deliberate bump against his shoulder.
“Where are you going?”
“To get drunk. As if it’s any business of yours!”
Wilbrium goggled, sputtering, “What!? What about this mess?!”
“Clean it up or burn it down. I don’t care either way.” Orvillus made his way to the wooden gate, kicked it open as he strode through, and then let it slam behind him as he turned left towards the main hub of Pompeii.
Muttering below his breath through clenched lips, Wilbrium tossed one bucket of water after the other into the now depleted emergency trough near the furnace, face etched with angered despair. He walked along the interior, throwing shutters wide to let the lingering haze of smoke hiss through the open windows, the gentle breezes enough to stir the air clean and clear. He cleaned the worst of the soot and fuel from the table before placing the still warm soaked and fire damaged engine back upon it. Hammers were replaced on hooks, screwdrivers returned to drawers. With a stiff brush he scoured some of the burns clean and a wet rag treated some of the other places. Finally he refilled the sand buckets and topped off the water trough from the pump in the yard before closing the doors and sliding the hasp latch closed.
It was past midnight when the weary Wilbrium entered the house, the wooden screen door banging softly closed behind him. He wandered to the pantry where he took a spiced sausage off one of the drying hooks and bag filled with semi-stale bread. He sat at the table, absently cutting pieces of meat free and chewing them without interest, occasionally dipping torn off clods of bread free into a shallow plate of olive oil.
A candle moved down the hall and turned into the kitchen, the glow spilling over Wilbrium and illuminating the care-worn face of Bernoulli from underneath. “Hey boy,” he said with sleep soaked voice, “What are you doing in here?”
“Just getting something to eat.”
“Mmm.” Bernoulli sat down cautiously, taking a piece of bread and letting the oil sop into it. “Where’s your brother?”
Wilbrium said nothing.
“Oh. It’s like that?”
“He said he quit.”
“Heh. He says that a lot.”
“I think he means it this time.”
“Then let him.”
Wilbrium’s brows rose in surprise. “What? I can’t believe I heard you say that.”
Bernoulli smiled. “Your brother needs a break. Let him quit. Maybe not being a part of it for a while will make him long to return to it again.”
“And maybe he’ll give up on it entirely and not return at all. What about that?”
“Wilbrium, you have to live your own life you know. Let Orvillus live his.”
The younger Wrighteous brother sighed, looking out the screen door to the night sky. “But we’ve BEEN up there. We really have. We’ve flown higher than anyone before, taking balloons above treetops and hills to places only birds have been. I just know that once you’ve touched the sky, been where only gods and Icarus alone have been, everything else is just…not the same.”
Bernoulli smiled benignly, resting his free hand on Wilbrium’s back. “I know, son. I’ve been there too.”
“How could he NOT want to return?”
“That’s for him to decide.” Bernoulli pushed himself upright, staggering slightly as he caught his balance. “But you should worry on what your dreams are, and let Orvillus find his own. Do you want to fly?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to soar like a bird?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want your engine idea to work?”
Even quieter, Wilbrium nodded, “Yes.”
Bernoulli grunted. “Then it’s up to you. You have to make it happen.” He smiled. “As for making things happen, these creaking bones are making me go back to bed. You should do the same.”
Wilbrium watched Bernoulli leave, taking his flickering candle with him. “Hey,” he called out.
“Yes?”
“I can really use some help.”
The elder aviast grinned. “I’ve always been here willing to.” He nodded. “Good night.”
Wilbrium felt his eyes moisten, a knot lifting from his shoulders. “Good night,” he replied.
Last edited:
psweetman1590
Emperor
Finally! After a month and a half of reading this story for an hour or three every night and between classes, I've finally finished.
Vanadorn, I cannot possibly say anything new as tribute to this story. It's all been said already. And I endorse every word of what your supporters have had to say (that includes publishing this, and about your becoming a writer by trade). My hat is off to you. May you continue to write for many many years!
Having now reached the end, you can expect me to be a regular participant in this thread. Now I, too, will be able to guess where the story is going next. Good fun, good fun indeed.
Thank you, Vanadorn.
Vanadorn, I cannot possibly say anything new as tribute to this story. It's all been said already. And I endorse every word of what your supporters have had to say (that includes publishing this, and about your becoming a writer by trade). My hat is off to you. May you continue to write for many many years!
Having now reached the end, you can expect me to be a regular participant in this thread. Now I, too, will be able to guess where the story is going next. Good fun, good fun indeed.
Thank you, Vanadorn.
Globetrotter
...wherever i may roam...
I just started reading this story, and got immediately hooked... Is there anyone out there who compiled the whole thing into sort of a word document so i can easily catch up? (it would be great so that i can print it out and read it while taking public transportation to and off work) 
Edit: Great Job by the way!!!
Edit2: Found out that you can download the thread in .txt - Gosh, the forum surely has improved since i last checked in!!!
Edit: Great Job by the way!!!
Edit2: Found out that you can download the thread in .txt - Gosh, the forum surely has improved since i last checked in!!!
fe3333au
Deity
Someone actually did print it a while back and it was about a reams worth of A4 
Lord Parkin
aka emperor
Indeed. It's incredible that after (very nearly) 100 forum pages, and well over two years of actual real-life investment, you're still going with this. You're certainly a very committed guy, Vanadorn.
Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
Orvillus wiped his eyes clear on the back of his shirt sleeve and blearily squinted upward at the smoggy sun above. The scent of urine and filth was redolent as the bicycle maker licked his cracked lips and struggled to stand. The pounding thud hammering in his head made him stagger backwards against the mildewed wall of Hirithium’s Bar, the same drinking establishment he vaguely remembered sitting in last night until he passed out.
And today he woke up in the alleyway behind it.
The elder Wrighteous brother frowned as he recalled his disappointment, the black realization that he had somehow failed once again to do what he had hoped to with his life. With deliberate movements, he dragged himself aloft and plodded his way step by step down the refuse strewn backway and towards the busy streets of Pompeii.
At the mouth of the alley, he stopped; body resting on the corner wall as his vision swam sickeningly in the undimmed glow of the sun above. He took stock of himself, dissatisfied to see his rumpled, filthy, stained condition. He knew his hair was matted on the side of his head and he was sure there were unsightly flecks of ‘whatever’ staining his lips, cheeks and chin.
“Hey, Brother,” a voice said to his left, “you look like you can use some help.”
Orvillus turned, his aching eyes focusing with slow care at the samaritan standing at his shoulder. He was dressed in a well cut jacket and pants, some sort of military insignia on his arm, a row of small colored medals decorating his chest. “I’m fine,” the bicycle maker said with grudging pride.
“Maybe,” the man rubbed his chin, sizing up Orvillus swiftly as he pondered the poor man’s inebriated state. “But I think you can use a place to sit down. Maybe get something inside your belly to fill you up and get your head clear.”
He must think I’m a drunkard, or a bum, Orvillus realized, embarrassed at himself for not only his state, but for allowing himself to get in that condition. “It’s ok. Just gotta get home and clean myself up before I gotta open up the store the morning.”
The other man chuckled, forcibly placing a friendly hand on Orvillus’ shoulder and steering him down the street. “Since it’s a bit after two in the afternoon and it sounds like you’ve tied a few on last night, I’m going to guess that either your store isn’t opening up today, or if you have a business partner, they’re taking care of things without you.”
“But...”
“No buts,” he interrupted, “I think you need to sit and talk with me for a bit, get something down your throat that isn’t wine or beer, and maybe feel a clean shirt and razor against your skin.” He chuckled. “Oh, by the way, I’m Centurion Polatius. And you are?”
“Orvillus. Orvillus Wrighteous.”
“Nice to meet you, Orvillus.” The two men continued down the main street for a few more minutes, the Centurion keeping up a friendly banter along the way, until they arrived at the wide open doors of a squat story and a half office building. Blurrily the still fazed aviast was able to make out ‘People and Senate of Rome’s Office of Military Recruitment’ in bold letters above the lintel.
The interior was furnished with second hand desks, chairs and tables, the entire left wall covered in huge filing cabinets with mismatched drawer fronts. A haze of tobacco smoke colored the air from the ceiling down to just about eye level, muting the overhead electric bulbs and the sunlight that came through the open slats of the shuttered windows. Maybe thirty people were visible, roughly 2/3rds of them dressed in uniforms similar to Centurion Polatius’ and not all of them men. The remaining eight or nine were dejected looking specimens of Roman citizens sitting down with worried expressions, fidgeting with bowls of steaming broth of mugs of hot liquid. Orvillus wondered if he should turn around now and leave but his stomach suddenly rumbled aloud, causing him to uncontrollably belch and redden in shame at his state and reaction.
The Centurion laughed. “Come on,” he said good naturedly, “I know what will fix that up.”
“You know,” he replied, hesitantly following, “I really don’t belong here.”
The two men walked through a short hall into a well stocked kitchen. Pots were cooking over the wood ovens and the scent of baking bread was heavy in the air. “Where does one really belong?” Polatius asked. “Do you think you belonged in that alley you slept in?”
“No,” Orvillus replied sheepishly.
The Centurion ladled a brimming bowl of soup from one of the pots. “Didn’t think so. I also don’t think you really belong where ever you were BEFORE you got drunk either. Know how I know that?” He handed the bowl over, some of the hot liquid spilling onto his thumb.
“How?” he replied, taking the soup gingerly while following the Centurion back into the offices.
“Because something made you drink to that level.” They sat down at one of the empty desks, Orvillus using a wooden spoon to feed himself some of the hearty meal. Polatius continued, “A man doesn’t just drink himself sick for no reason, Orvillus. A man does that when he feels frustrated, like something in his life is far out of his control. So, by making a conscious effort to drink, especially that much, knowing that inherently it isn’t good for you, you are trying to correct the imbalance that you are experiencing in your life.”
“You don’t know what I was thinking. You can’t know about my life.”
“Don’t have to. It doesn’t matter the person you were before I saw you today, what I saw today was a man who had reached as far down as he could go; so far down that it was a destructive path leading only to one place. The gutter.” The Centurion leaned back in his chair. “What I am thinking of is to offer you a second chance. A path that maybe you haven’t thought of to guide your life back out of whatever morass you’ve been lodged in.”
“I’m not interested.”
“Sure you’re not. That’s why you’re still sitting here, listening to me, eating a hot meal with no intention of leaving.” The Centurion grinned. “And don’t tell me about some job you have, because you didn’t care about it this morning. Or some family member you have to get back to, since you didn’t think of them either. No, what you thought of was your misery and the only option seemingly open to you was to wallow in it and proverbially toss your hands in the air while guzzling cheap booze.”
“That’s not it at all.”
“You awoke in the gutter. It IS it. Look at you.” He pointed. “You’re covered in filth and vomit and piss and look like you haven’t slept well since Zeus knows when. Your clothes are a shambles and there is a hollow look in your eye as you think long and hard about returning back to whatever disappointment you RAN from in the first place. I am offering a different path.”
Orvillus grunted, but said nothing, watching Polatius as he continued. “I am offering you a chance to enlist in one of the military branches available to the People and Senate of Rome. There you will find yourself part of something greater than yourself. You will earn hard lira for your service, the amount is open to you and your advancement in the ranks and organization. You will learn skills and trades that you would never have the opportunity to in the public sector. You will visit exotic places and wonderful people from one side of this great world to the other. And you don’t have to enlist for life. Standard contact is for two years. Two short years and you will have a tidy fortune and a sense of purpose, a discipline and iron will that will help you to be a better person, a stronger person than you are today.”
“We’re at war. I don’t to go to some Saracen hellhole and get myself shot.”
The Centurion shrugged. “It’s a big world. And the military is an efficient organization. If your skills are ill suited for rifled combat, then I know for a fact you would be sent elsewhere. Not everyone who enlists is given a red coat and a rifle.”
“I don’t know. I want to think about this.”
“That’s your prerogative. Think all you want. It’s a good sign when a man thinks, it means he’s considering his future, judging when is the best time to sail with the tide.”
Orvillus’ brows rose. “Sail? Say, what about the navy. What about that?”
The Centurion grinned. “This is an excellent time to join the navy. Our fleets are some of the best in the world. Technologies are springing up left and right. A strong navy is a sign of strong men. And I know that well rounded men willing to try harder is what the navy needs. I know a man like you of your caliber would be perfect.”
“Hmm,” Orvillus nervously looked for the door. “I’ll give it some thought. Sounds good, but I don’t know if military service is right for me.” He made to stand but something in the Centurion’s gaze kept him rooted to the chair.
“You can go. I won’t stop you,” Polatius said. “But I’m no fool. Many men have sat here and listened to me and ate a hot meal while I went on about nobility and sacrifice and a better life. But once they leave that door, very few of them return.” He reached into his top drawer and pulled out a thin folder, sliding it over. “In there is a blank enlistment form that you would fill out, pledging yourself to Rome and her needs for two years. You would be given a monthly stipend of 1,000 liras to do whatever you wish with. But, I am offering you something else for this one time only.” He flipped the cover open to reveal not only the page he mentioned, but a smaller scrip as well.
Polatius ran his finger across the scrip’s surface and shoved it so it fluttered in front of the aviast. “That is a cash voucher for signing up now. It can be drawn at any bank in any city in Rome, and I am offering it to you if you want it.”
With a disbelieving smirk, Orvillus took the paper and turned it over. His eyes widened when he saw the amount printed upon it.
“Ten thousand liras. And it’s yours right now, if you enlist.” The Centurion plucked a pen from the jar on his desk and laid it on top of the open folder. “But only if you do so now. If you go off to ‘think’ about it, the deal will never come your way again.” He smiled. “The same way we want men who are strong and men who give thought to their actions, we also want men who can make intelligent decisions at a moment’s notice. The flux and wave of a battlefield often demands a person who is able to think on his feet.”
“So here it is, Brother Orvillus. The moment of truth. Either take the pen and enlist, or turn about and leave. Just remember, when you leave that door, whatever problems and person you had and were on the other side is still waiting there for you. A bowl of soup won’t change who you were when you woke up covered in urine behind some bar.” He patted the desktop with his fingertips. “The choice to change who you are is here now. In front of you. And only you can make it.”
Later on that night, Wilbrium was closing up the door to the bicycle shop, anxious to go search for his missing brother, when he noticed an official looking envelope sticking out of his postal box. Curious he opened it, reading the short document contained within with growing disbelief, glancing at the smaller paper clipped to the side of it with an open mouthed display of shock.
He ran back to the house and burst through the door shouting, “Bernoulli! Bernoulli! Come quick!”
The middle aged aviast came jogging down the stairs, cinching his robe shut and looking wildly about. “What? What’s wrong? Has your brother come home?”
“No,” Wilbrium held up the letter and stood there dumbfounded. “No. The dumb arsed moron went out and joined the Zeus bedamned NAVY!!”
“He what?!?” Bernoulli snatched the letter from the younger Wrighteous brother and scanned it swiftly.
“He joined the navy! Said he needed to find himself, whatever the hell that means, sent us a bank scrip for 5,000 liras, wished us well, and joined the rutting Navy!” Wilbrium fell backward, slumping into the kitchen chair with a groan. “I don’t believe it.”
“Oh my boy,” Bernoulli said, voice heavy with emotion, “I am so sorry.”
Wilbrium sighed, eyes misting over with unspilt tears. “I just don’t believe it.”
And today he woke up in the alleyway behind it.
The elder Wrighteous brother frowned as he recalled his disappointment, the black realization that he had somehow failed once again to do what he had hoped to with his life. With deliberate movements, he dragged himself aloft and plodded his way step by step down the refuse strewn backway and towards the busy streets of Pompeii.
At the mouth of the alley, he stopped; body resting on the corner wall as his vision swam sickeningly in the undimmed glow of the sun above. He took stock of himself, dissatisfied to see his rumpled, filthy, stained condition. He knew his hair was matted on the side of his head and he was sure there were unsightly flecks of ‘whatever’ staining his lips, cheeks and chin.
“Hey, Brother,” a voice said to his left, “you look like you can use some help.”
Orvillus turned, his aching eyes focusing with slow care at the samaritan standing at his shoulder. He was dressed in a well cut jacket and pants, some sort of military insignia on his arm, a row of small colored medals decorating his chest. “I’m fine,” the bicycle maker said with grudging pride.
“Maybe,” the man rubbed his chin, sizing up Orvillus swiftly as he pondered the poor man’s inebriated state. “But I think you can use a place to sit down. Maybe get something inside your belly to fill you up and get your head clear.”
He must think I’m a drunkard, or a bum, Orvillus realized, embarrassed at himself for not only his state, but for allowing himself to get in that condition. “It’s ok. Just gotta get home and clean myself up before I gotta open up the store the morning.”
The other man chuckled, forcibly placing a friendly hand on Orvillus’ shoulder and steering him down the street. “Since it’s a bit after two in the afternoon and it sounds like you’ve tied a few on last night, I’m going to guess that either your store isn’t opening up today, or if you have a business partner, they’re taking care of things without you.”
“But...”
“No buts,” he interrupted, “I think you need to sit and talk with me for a bit, get something down your throat that isn’t wine or beer, and maybe feel a clean shirt and razor against your skin.” He chuckled. “Oh, by the way, I’m Centurion Polatius. And you are?”
“Orvillus. Orvillus Wrighteous.”
“Nice to meet you, Orvillus.” The two men continued down the main street for a few more minutes, the Centurion keeping up a friendly banter along the way, until they arrived at the wide open doors of a squat story and a half office building. Blurrily the still fazed aviast was able to make out ‘People and Senate of Rome’s Office of Military Recruitment’ in bold letters above the lintel.
The interior was furnished with second hand desks, chairs and tables, the entire left wall covered in huge filing cabinets with mismatched drawer fronts. A haze of tobacco smoke colored the air from the ceiling down to just about eye level, muting the overhead electric bulbs and the sunlight that came through the open slats of the shuttered windows. Maybe thirty people were visible, roughly 2/3rds of them dressed in uniforms similar to Centurion Polatius’ and not all of them men. The remaining eight or nine were dejected looking specimens of Roman citizens sitting down with worried expressions, fidgeting with bowls of steaming broth of mugs of hot liquid. Orvillus wondered if he should turn around now and leave but his stomach suddenly rumbled aloud, causing him to uncontrollably belch and redden in shame at his state and reaction.
The Centurion laughed. “Come on,” he said good naturedly, “I know what will fix that up.”
“You know,” he replied, hesitantly following, “I really don’t belong here.”
The two men walked through a short hall into a well stocked kitchen. Pots were cooking over the wood ovens and the scent of baking bread was heavy in the air. “Where does one really belong?” Polatius asked. “Do you think you belonged in that alley you slept in?”
“No,” Orvillus replied sheepishly.
The Centurion ladled a brimming bowl of soup from one of the pots. “Didn’t think so. I also don’t think you really belong where ever you were BEFORE you got drunk either. Know how I know that?” He handed the bowl over, some of the hot liquid spilling onto his thumb.
“How?” he replied, taking the soup gingerly while following the Centurion back into the offices.
“Because something made you drink to that level.” They sat down at one of the empty desks, Orvillus using a wooden spoon to feed himself some of the hearty meal. Polatius continued, “A man doesn’t just drink himself sick for no reason, Orvillus. A man does that when he feels frustrated, like something in his life is far out of his control. So, by making a conscious effort to drink, especially that much, knowing that inherently it isn’t good for you, you are trying to correct the imbalance that you are experiencing in your life.”
“You don’t know what I was thinking. You can’t know about my life.”
“Don’t have to. It doesn’t matter the person you were before I saw you today, what I saw today was a man who had reached as far down as he could go; so far down that it was a destructive path leading only to one place. The gutter.” The Centurion leaned back in his chair. “What I am thinking of is to offer you a second chance. A path that maybe you haven’t thought of to guide your life back out of whatever morass you’ve been lodged in.”
“I’m not interested.”
“Sure you’re not. That’s why you’re still sitting here, listening to me, eating a hot meal with no intention of leaving.” The Centurion grinned. “And don’t tell me about some job you have, because you didn’t care about it this morning. Or some family member you have to get back to, since you didn’t think of them either. No, what you thought of was your misery and the only option seemingly open to you was to wallow in it and proverbially toss your hands in the air while guzzling cheap booze.”
“That’s not it at all.”
“You awoke in the gutter. It IS it. Look at you.” He pointed. “You’re covered in filth and vomit and piss and look like you haven’t slept well since Zeus knows when. Your clothes are a shambles and there is a hollow look in your eye as you think long and hard about returning back to whatever disappointment you RAN from in the first place. I am offering a different path.”
Orvillus grunted, but said nothing, watching Polatius as he continued. “I am offering you a chance to enlist in one of the military branches available to the People and Senate of Rome. There you will find yourself part of something greater than yourself. You will earn hard lira for your service, the amount is open to you and your advancement in the ranks and organization. You will learn skills and trades that you would never have the opportunity to in the public sector. You will visit exotic places and wonderful people from one side of this great world to the other. And you don’t have to enlist for life. Standard contact is for two years. Two short years and you will have a tidy fortune and a sense of purpose, a discipline and iron will that will help you to be a better person, a stronger person than you are today.”
“We’re at war. I don’t to go to some Saracen hellhole and get myself shot.”
The Centurion shrugged. “It’s a big world. And the military is an efficient organization. If your skills are ill suited for rifled combat, then I know for a fact you would be sent elsewhere. Not everyone who enlists is given a red coat and a rifle.”
“I don’t know. I want to think about this.”
“That’s your prerogative. Think all you want. It’s a good sign when a man thinks, it means he’s considering his future, judging when is the best time to sail with the tide.”
Orvillus’ brows rose. “Sail? Say, what about the navy. What about that?”
The Centurion grinned. “This is an excellent time to join the navy. Our fleets are some of the best in the world. Technologies are springing up left and right. A strong navy is a sign of strong men. And I know that well rounded men willing to try harder is what the navy needs. I know a man like you of your caliber would be perfect.”
“Hmm,” Orvillus nervously looked for the door. “I’ll give it some thought. Sounds good, but I don’t know if military service is right for me.” He made to stand but something in the Centurion’s gaze kept him rooted to the chair.
“You can go. I won’t stop you,” Polatius said. “But I’m no fool. Many men have sat here and listened to me and ate a hot meal while I went on about nobility and sacrifice and a better life. But once they leave that door, very few of them return.” He reached into his top drawer and pulled out a thin folder, sliding it over. “In there is a blank enlistment form that you would fill out, pledging yourself to Rome and her needs for two years. You would be given a monthly stipend of 1,000 liras to do whatever you wish with. But, I am offering you something else for this one time only.” He flipped the cover open to reveal not only the page he mentioned, but a smaller scrip as well.
Polatius ran his finger across the scrip’s surface and shoved it so it fluttered in front of the aviast. “That is a cash voucher for signing up now. It can be drawn at any bank in any city in Rome, and I am offering it to you if you want it.”
With a disbelieving smirk, Orvillus took the paper and turned it over. His eyes widened when he saw the amount printed upon it.
“Ten thousand liras. And it’s yours right now, if you enlist.” The Centurion plucked a pen from the jar on his desk and laid it on top of the open folder. “But only if you do so now. If you go off to ‘think’ about it, the deal will never come your way again.” He smiled. “The same way we want men who are strong and men who give thought to their actions, we also want men who can make intelligent decisions at a moment’s notice. The flux and wave of a battlefield often demands a person who is able to think on his feet.”
“So here it is, Brother Orvillus. The moment of truth. Either take the pen and enlist, or turn about and leave. Just remember, when you leave that door, whatever problems and person you had and were on the other side is still waiting there for you. A bowl of soup won’t change who you were when you woke up covered in urine behind some bar.” He patted the desktop with his fingertips. “The choice to change who you are is here now. In front of you. And only you can make it.”
Later on that night, Wilbrium was closing up the door to the bicycle shop, anxious to go search for his missing brother, when he noticed an official looking envelope sticking out of his postal box. Curious he opened it, reading the short document contained within with growing disbelief, glancing at the smaller paper clipped to the side of it with an open mouthed display of shock.
He ran back to the house and burst through the door shouting, “Bernoulli! Bernoulli! Come quick!”
The middle aged aviast came jogging down the stairs, cinching his robe shut and looking wildly about. “What? What’s wrong? Has your brother come home?”
“No,” Wilbrium held up the letter and stood there dumbfounded. “No. The dumb arsed moron went out and joined the Zeus bedamned NAVY!!”
“He what?!?” Bernoulli snatched the letter from the younger Wrighteous brother and scanned it swiftly.
“He joined the navy! Said he needed to find himself, whatever the hell that means, sent us a bank scrip for 5,000 liras, wished us well, and joined the rutting Navy!” Wilbrium fell backward, slumping into the kitchen chair with a groan. “I don’t believe it.”
“Oh my boy,” Bernoulli said, voice heavy with emotion, “I am so sorry.”
Wilbrium sighed, eyes misting over with unspilt tears. “I just don’t believe it.”
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fe3333au
Deity
Excellent V
Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
The bunker exploded with a burning crash, sending men and equipment to flail wildly through the busy corner, shredding apart as they collapsed against buildings, cobbles, and fences as so much wreckage. Two walls of the nearest tenement housing collapsed as the stonework supporting the buttresses gave way, dropping kilotons of masonry and rubble to the chaotically choked streets below.
A smog of fire born and gunpowder fueled smoke hung over the western provinces of Fustat city, muting the sounds of the city as the Roman occupiers overran the final few defensive points the United Arabic League still had in place. Screams filled the air as women were dragged howling from homes and sent staggering into the street. Shots rang out as resistors were brutally dealt with, gunned down without thought of quarter or mercy.
A squad of thundering Romans on horseback emerged from the haze, rifles spitting flame and death as they took one of the side streets eagerly looking for any knots of fighters still holed up. From a broken window on the second floor, determined Arabians took aim on the mounted soldiers and let fire. Bullets tore through flesh and horsemeat, dropping the lead few to the unyielding stone and hampering the remaining Romans from advancing any further. From behind them, a triple handful of Saracens emerged from sewer grates and bombed out houses, striking the cavalry’s rear with deadly insistence.
With no way to go, the remaining Romans were gunned down, the last two at point blank range after they tried to surrender, dropping their weapons and sliding off the backs of their dead mounts. There was a brief pause as the League fighters shouted something at the two shaken men, angrily rattling their weapons before pulling the trigger, putting their enemies down. Knives came out and flashed, cutting ammo belts free and slicing noses off the faces of the dead. Within moments they fled the streets, back into the mist and haze.
A platoon of Saracen defenders were pinned down in what might have been a school at one time, encircled by hundreds of Roman soldiers. The steady stream of rifle fire forced the Arabians back one at a time into the dubious safety of the stout walls. What few tried to remain out in the open were picked off by the encircling horde arrayed against them. A wagon stuffed with burning hay and flaming sticks was shoved at a loping pace towards the building’s entrance, a satchel of gunpowder tossed on the buckboard seat as it whizzed by one scar faced Roman. It clattered over the uneven stones, losing only little of its speed before plowing into the doorframe and lintel of the school.
Only a moment passed before the powder caught fire as well, bursting in a spray of orange and red sparking flames that set the nearest defenders ablaze. The shrill cry of burning men filled the air along with the whoosh and crackle of the spreading fire as it consumed wood, carpet and cloth; eating the body and building the Arabians were holed up in. Gibbering calls for help and aid came from the broken and smoking windows but only bullets answered as the Roman offensive slaughtered anyone who tried to escape or offered a clear shot for the riflemen.
Mosques were torched, shops looted, streets overrun as pockets of defenders were beaten and smashed. Not every exchange went in the Roman’s favor, but most of them did. The encroaching ring of red and black clad fighters cut off avenues and roads of escape while patrolling fighters mounted on horseback gunned down any who slipped through the tightening noose about Fustat.
The concept of surrender was ignored and the ideal of quarter given to non-combatants was severely marginalized. The old, the young, men, women, children, healthy and infirm; anyone who presented an obstacle to the Roman military, even just by surviving, were taken howling from their homes and beaten, raped, and shot. A trail of gutted homes torched businesses, and blood splattered corpses trailed behind the Roman advance from the suburbs outside of town to the very block they were engaging the Arabians in.
Fustat wouldn’t fall this day, and it might not fall the next; but its demise was imminent and the tens of thousands of loyal Arabians who lived and worked there knew it.
But it didn’t make them trust to the non-existent mercies of the Roman hordes.
They knew there wasn’t any.
A smog of fire born and gunpowder fueled smoke hung over the western provinces of Fustat city, muting the sounds of the city as the Roman occupiers overran the final few defensive points the United Arabic League still had in place. Screams filled the air as women were dragged howling from homes and sent staggering into the street. Shots rang out as resistors were brutally dealt with, gunned down without thought of quarter or mercy.
A squad of thundering Romans on horseback emerged from the haze, rifles spitting flame and death as they took one of the side streets eagerly looking for any knots of fighters still holed up. From a broken window on the second floor, determined Arabians took aim on the mounted soldiers and let fire. Bullets tore through flesh and horsemeat, dropping the lead few to the unyielding stone and hampering the remaining Romans from advancing any further. From behind them, a triple handful of Saracens emerged from sewer grates and bombed out houses, striking the cavalry’s rear with deadly insistence.
With no way to go, the remaining Romans were gunned down, the last two at point blank range after they tried to surrender, dropping their weapons and sliding off the backs of their dead mounts. There was a brief pause as the League fighters shouted something at the two shaken men, angrily rattling their weapons before pulling the trigger, putting their enemies down. Knives came out and flashed, cutting ammo belts free and slicing noses off the faces of the dead. Within moments they fled the streets, back into the mist and haze.
A platoon of Saracen defenders were pinned down in what might have been a school at one time, encircled by hundreds of Roman soldiers. The steady stream of rifle fire forced the Arabians back one at a time into the dubious safety of the stout walls. What few tried to remain out in the open were picked off by the encircling horde arrayed against them. A wagon stuffed with burning hay and flaming sticks was shoved at a loping pace towards the building’s entrance, a satchel of gunpowder tossed on the buckboard seat as it whizzed by one scar faced Roman. It clattered over the uneven stones, losing only little of its speed before plowing into the doorframe and lintel of the school.
Only a moment passed before the powder caught fire as well, bursting in a spray of orange and red sparking flames that set the nearest defenders ablaze. The shrill cry of burning men filled the air along with the whoosh and crackle of the spreading fire as it consumed wood, carpet and cloth; eating the body and building the Arabians were holed up in. Gibbering calls for help and aid came from the broken and smoking windows but only bullets answered as the Roman offensive slaughtered anyone who tried to escape or offered a clear shot for the riflemen.
Mosques were torched, shops looted, streets overrun as pockets of defenders were beaten and smashed. Not every exchange went in the Roman’s favor, but most of them did. The encroaching ring of red and black clad fighters cut off avenues and roads of escape while patrolling fighters mounted on horseback gunned down any who slipped through the tightening noose about Fustat.
The concept of surrender was ignored and the ideal of quarter given to non-combatants was severely marginalized. The old, the young, men, women, children, healthy and infirm; anyone who presented an obstacle to the Roman military, even just by surviving, were taken howling from their homes and beaten, raped, and shot. A trail of gutted homes torched businesses, and blood splattered corpses trailed behind the Roman advance from the suburbs outside of town to the very block they were engaging the Arabians in.
Fustat wouldn’t fall this day, and it might not fall the next; but its demise was imminent and the tens of thousands of loyal Arabians who lived and worked there knew it.
But it didn’t make them trust to the non-existent mercies of the Roman hordes.
They knew there wasn’t any.
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psweetman1590
Emperor
Campaign's going well, I see. How much longer 'til replacable parts? That'll give you all the edge you need.
I had grown used to the rhythm of the story -- politics and military
at the center, with plenty of intrigue and conspiracies to go around.
Updates like this tale from Fustat that graphically show how war is truly hell.
Even the tales of labor unrest before the revolt to communism had a
similar blood-stained detachment.
The navy stories were/are infused with the freshness of the salt air,
and a sense of adventure that comes with seeing a horizon without land.
They touched on military realities, but were cut from different cloth.
Sailcloth , perhaps
And the science stories were pleasant interludes. Character sketches that
noted when certain advances were received, and some cool interweaving
of famous names.
Now, V, you have taken the story to a new place -- where the scientists and
engineers have emotions, feelings, and have crossed over to the salt air
and freedom of the sea. And, I suspect, the carnage and brutality of war.
Where *will* Orvillus travel, and what will he see? After all, it was the crew
of the Snarling Narwhal which first began tinkering with the wireless...
who knows what technical marvels await us on the seas.
at the center, with plenty of intrigue and conspiracies to go around.
Updates like this tale from Fustat that graphically show how war is truly hell.
Even the tales of labor unrest before the revolt to communism had a
similar blood-stained detachment.
The navy stories were/are infused with the freshness of the salt air,
and a sense of adventure that comes with seeing a horizon without land.
They touched on military realities, but were cut from different cloth.
Sailcloth , perhaps
And the science stories were pleasant interludes. Character sketches that
noted when certain advances were received, and some cool interweaving
of famous names.
Now, V, you have taken the story to a new place -- where the scientists and
engineers have emotions, feelings, and have crossed over to the salt air
and freedom of the sea. And, I suspect, the carnage and brutality of war.
Where *will* Orvillus travel, and what will he see? After all, it was the crew
of the Snarling Narwhal which first began tinkering with the wireless...
who knows what technical marvels await us on the seas.
Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
Ruchius yanked the pull line twice, trying to get the warning whistle to sound before giving up in disgust. “WATCH OUT!” the foundry worker cried as he gave the hanging chain platform a hard shove with his leather boot, sending it wobbling slightly as it made its way down the line to the next station.
The factory was on extended hours again, most of the men opting to take the extra time and money in their checks. Some of the stations were doubled up, two or four men working on shaking catwalks and elevated stations where half that number worked prior. Because of the added pressures, tempers had grown short and nerves frazzled. But the wear and tear on the machinery was the most infuriating, many of the gates, platforms, rotors, and chains barely functioning at all.
The men on the station to Ruchius’ left gave a startled yelp as the platform the Roman factory worker had pushed in their direction slipped forward unexpectedly, actually ringing against the fenced lower portion of their perch. “Hey!” one of the roared, shaking his fist in the air, “What you is doing? Trying is you to kill us?”
“I called ‘Watch Out’! What do you want from me?” he called back.
“Use whistle! It what it be is there for!”
Ruchius shook his head, pulling on the lanyard thrice to show the whistle’s inoperation; shocked to find it was working once again. “Oh for the love of,” he muttered disgustedly. Shooting a narrow-eyed glare at the steam powered alert above. “Sorry,” he called. “It wasn’t working a moment ago.”
The two men on the other platform said nothing, merely giving the veteran factoryman a withering stare. Grumbling to himself, Ruchius picked up the catchbar from the hook and made himself ready to get the next creaking platform as it wound his way towards him.
“So,” his partner asked, slapping him square on the shoulder blades, “are you making friends?”
“Shut up, Claytius,” he answered through grit teeth. He swung the catchbar out, hooking the wide “D” ring on the passing platform’s base, and pulled it off the main overhead chain track and into his station’s work spur. “The fricking whistle didn’t work,” he stubbornly repeated. He replaced the bar on the hook and took his wrench and a handful of nuts out of his leather apron, setting to work on the unfinished product before him.
“Don’t worry,” his friend replied with a chuckle, taking a small ball pean hammer from his belt loops and began tapping the extended stays on the left side of the device in place. “They’re probably pissed because some dirt farming camel grubbing relation of theirs lost their entire harvest of yak hair during our army’s assault last week.” Claytius laughed louder, actually snorting as he thought more about it.
“Real nice.”
“It’s true.” His eyes flicked up, snaring Ruchius’ pensive look. “Aw, come on, your not going to tell me that you took offence to that?”
“Not me. Them,” he pointed with the head of his wrench. “I am doing my damnedest to look at them not as foreigners here, but as fellow Romans just like you and I.”
“They aren’t like you and I. Admittedly I’m sure they put on pants like we do and have sex in similar fashions as well,”
“You’re so bad,” Ruchius interrupted.
Claytius continued with a grin, “but they aren’t Romans. Not by any stretch of the imagination. They don’t look the same, don’t talk the same, don’t walk the same. They eat weird food and smell strange. They have mysterious accents and wrap their heads in scarves. They stand too close when you talk to them and are willing to do what a Roman would do for 70 liras per centlira.”
“It could be said the Egyptians had the same problems and our grandfather’s never held it against them?”
“My grandfather spent most of his flat on his back, drinking bad wine out of poppy laced cups, moaning about the advantages of horse drawn carriages and how he once caught a glimpse of Caesar during the Festival of Grapes.” He switched places with Ruchius, going to work on the opposite side with a steady beat. “It’s a different world we live in, plain and simple. And I just wonder if we are taking in too many of these ‘poor starving’ Saracens too fast.”
“Oh? So you have a better idea for the Senate to pursue? Something along the lines of take over swaths of the United Arabic League and leave broken infrastructure and shattered lives and homes behind the army’s wake?”
Claytius shrugged. “I don’t know. How are the Mayan’s doing it? You never hear anything in the broadsheets or from the corner criers about the lands they have conquered from the Saracens. Usually there is some blurb about troop counts and casualties or some sort of really obscure reference to a battle at some strange sounding river or hill or gorge. Never anything about what difficulties the Mayans have assimilating the Saracens they’ve ‘liberated.’”
“I heard there was fighting in someplace called Yamama recently.”
“Really? I thought they were still fighting in Damascus?”
Ruchius shrugged. “Don’t know. Maybe both?”
“Could be.” Claytius gave his work a critical eye. “Their general has got to be doing a better job than our general.”
“How can you say that?”
“The way I understand it, our troops get holed up tighter’n a crab’s arse during a hurricane while butting their heads on some dinky city. But the Mayans can seemingly take on two of the Saracen’s without issue.”
Putting his wrench down, Ruchius grunted in response readying his foot against the floor of the hanging platform. “I wouldn’t put too much stock into that. Papers aren’t going to tell you everything you want to know or even be honest about it.”
Claytius chuckled. “Don’t worry, I’m no fool. I’ve swallowed enough yellow journalism to make me crap mustard.” Both men laughed aloud as Claytius reached up and gave the warning whistle a pull.
Something gurgled overhead and the safety valve on the whistle’s side burst open with a hot rending snap. Superheated steam jetted out, coursing down at an angle across the two men’s platform. Ruchius cried, clutching his left arm as he fell back against the tool post, shielding his eyes and trying to twist away from the hot vapors. He glanced through the metal slats of the platform, horrified to see a growing number of workers gathering below.
There, lying broken on the ground, impaled grotesquely on the upthrust piping of the steel bins below, was his lifelong friend Claytius; his even redder face and chest wet with cooling steam and swelling blisters. Even with the hiss and wail of the broken steam fitting crying incessantly overhead, Ruchius was still able to hear his own voice as he shouted morosely to the dead man four meters down.
“Claytius!”
The factory was on extended hours again, most of the men opting to take the extra time and money in their checks. Some of the stations were doubled up, two or four men working on shaking catwalks and elevated stations where half that number worked prior. Because of the added pressures, tempers had grown short and nerves frazzled. But the wear and tear on the machinery was the most infuriating, many of the gates, platforms, rotors, and chains barely functioning at all.
The men on the station to Ruchius’ left gave a startled yelp as the platform the Roman factory worker had pushed in their direction slipped forward unexpectedly, actually ringing against the fenced lower portion of their perch. “Hey!” one of the roared, shaking his fist in the air, “What you is doing? Trying is you to kill us?”
“I called ‘Watch Out’! What do you want from me?” he called back.
“Use whistle! It what it be is there for!”
Ruchius shook his head, pulling on the lanyard thrice to show the whistle’s inoperation; shocked to find it was working once again. “Oh for the love of,” he muttered disgustedly. Shooting a narrow-eyed glare at the steam powered alert above. “Sorry,” he called. “It wasn’t working a moment ago.”
The two men on the other platform said nothing, merely giving the veteran factoryman a withering stare. Grumbling to himself, Ruchius picked up the catchbar from the hook and made himself ready to get the next creaking platform as it wound his way towards him.
“So,” his partner asked, slapping him square on the shoulder blades, “are you making friends?”
“Shut up, Claytius,” he answered through grit teeth. He swung the catchbar out, hooking the wide “D” ring on the passing platform’s base, and pulled it off the main overhead chain track and into his station’s work spur. “The fricking whistle didn’t work,” he stubbornly repeated. He replaced the bar on the hook and took his wrench and a handful of nuts out of his leather apron, setting to work on the unfinished product before him.
“Don’t worry,” his friend replied with a chuckle, taking a small ball pean hammer from his belt loops and began tapping the extended stays on the left side of the device in place. “They’re probably pissed because some dirt farming camel grubbing relation of theirs lost their entire harvest of yak hair during our army’s assault last week.” Claytius laughed louder, actually snorting as he thought more about it.
“Real nice.”
“It’s true.” His eyes flicked up, snaring Ruchius’ pensive look. “Aw, come on, your not going to tell me that you took offence to that?”
“Not me. Them,” he pointed with the head of his wrench. “I am doing my damnedest to look at them not as foreigners here, but as fellow Romans just like you and I.”
“They aren’t like you and I. Admittedly I’m sure they put on pants like we do and have sex in similar fashions as well,”
“You’re so bad,” Ruchius interrupted.
Claytius continued with a grin, “but they aren’t Romans. Not by any stretch of the imagination. They don’t look the same, don’t talk the same, don’t walk the same. They eat weird food and smell strange. They have mysterious accents and wrap their heads in scarves. They stand too close when you talk to them and are willing to do what a Roman would do for 70 liras per centlira.”
“It could be said the Egyptians had the same problems and our grandfather’s never held it against them?”
“My grandfather spent most of his flat on his back, drinking bad wine out of poppy laced cups, moaning about the advantages of horse drawn carriages and how he once caught a glimpse of Caesar during the Festival of Grapes.” He switched places with Ruchius, going to work on the opposite side with a steady beat. “It’s a different world we live in, plain and simple. And I just wonder if we are taking in too many of these ‘poor starving’ Saracens too fast.”
“Oh? So you have a better idea for the Senate to pursue? Something along the lines of take over swaths of the United Arabic League and leave broken infrastructure and shattered lives and homes behind the army’s wake?”
Claytius shrugged. “I don’t know. How are the Mayan’s doing it? You never hear anything in the broadsheets or from the corner criers about the lands they have conquered from the Saracens. Usually there is some blurb about troop counts and casualties or some sort of really obscure reference to a battle at some strange sounding river or hill or gorge. Never anything about what difficulties the Mayans have assimilating the Saracens they’ve ‘liberated.’”
“I heard there was fighting in someplace called Yamama recently.”
“Really? I thought they were still fighting in Damascus?”
Ruchius shrugged. “Don’t know. Maybe both?”
“Could be.” Claytius gave his work a critical eye. “Their general has got to be doing a better job than our general.”
“How can you say that?”
“The way I understand it, our troops get holed up tighter’n a crab’s arse during a hurricane while butting their heads on some dinky city. But the Mayans can seemingly take on two of the Saracen’s without issue.”
Putting his wrench down, Ruchius grunted in response readying his foot against the floor of the hanging platform. “I wouldn’t put too much stock into that. Papers aren’t going to tell you everything you want to know or even be honest about it.”
Claytius chuckled. “Don’t worry, I’m no fool. I’ve swallowed enough yellow journalism to make me crap mustard.” Both men laughed aloud as Claytius reached up and gave the warning whistle a pull.
Something gurgled overhead and the safety valve on the whistle’s side burst open with a hot rending snap. Superheated steam jetted out, coursing down at an angle across the two men’s platform. Ruchius cried, clutching his left arm as he fell back against the tool post, shielding his eyes and trying to twist away from the hot vapors. He glanced through the metal slats of the platform, horrified to see a growing number of workers gathering below.
There, lying broken on the ground, impaled grotesquely on the upthrust piping of the steel bins below, was his lifelong friend Claytius; his even redder face and chest wet with cooling steam and swelling blisters. Even with the hiss and wail of the broken steam fitting crying incessantly overhead, Ruchius was still able to hear his own voice as he shouted morosely to the dead man four meters down.
“Claytius!”
Last edited:
psweetman1590
Emperor
Ack! I didn't like that slacking bigot, but that was a cruel way to die.
RoddyVR
Veteran Board NESer
I just KNOW it!!! Revolution is comming!!! that's how it happened last time, worker's lives suck, they throw up a revolution.
psweetman1590
Emperor
I doubt it.... Communists tend to be more resilient than monarchies when it comes to "pacifying" the populace.
Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
Sulla handed his horse’s reins to the guardsman he was with, and straightened the length of his coat with a pull at the hemline. Checking the lines of his hat with an upward glance, he strode confidently to the hovel door and knocked sharply on the jamb. “Citizens of Fustat. Come forth and be accounted for.”
From within he could hear the shuffling of feet on the hollow floorboards and the muted hisses of whispering voices. He knocked on the door again, harder and with more insistence. “Citizen of Fustat. By order of the Senate and People of Rome, come forth and be accounted for.”
Some more noises came from behind the walls and windows, but Sulla was happy to hear the sound of the wooden bolt sliding out of place just before the doorway opened. A middle-aged man clad in patched yellow and black robes held onto the doorframe with gnarled hands tortured with arthritis. His head was wrapped in the tightly bound turbans the Arabians were prone to wearing, and the scent of old cinnamon and bay leaves came from his simple clothing. “Go on your way, Roman,” the patron intoned, his voice weary and strained, “we have no quarrel with you and suffer no visitors of your kind as well.”
Sulla smiled toothlessly, the expression never reaching his eyes. “Quite,” he said without humor. “You might have missed out on the last few months or so, but Fustat is under the protectorate and nominal control of the Senate and People of Rome. Hence, when you refer to me as a ‘Roman’ in that tone, you are also insulting yourself as well since you are now liberated as a ‘Roman’ citizen as well.”
“You and your marching and guns and words,” the Arabian proclaimed softly, “might make you feel you have a place in the world. Make you feel like you are on top. But the rock at the top of the mountain is no different or better than any of the other rocks that lie beneath it.”
“Charming. I’ll be sure to note your wisdom to the Chairman next time we are sharing a glass of wine.” Sulla withdrew a leather book and cracked it open to the marked page. “How many live here?”
“Why?”
“Because I asked.”
“Why do you want to know?”
Sulla glanced back at his retinue of soldiers, almost thirty strong. They were hardened men, seeing three years of warfare in such a way that gave them an edge as sharp as flint and an unwavering attitude to boot. “I have been to sixteen homes so far today, forty yesterday, and thirty-five the day before. I am here, doing my job, getting what information I need before I make decisions that, trust me old man, will have DIRECT impact on you and your family’s lives. I have been lied too, spit at, derided, insulted, and ignored.” He snapped his fingers.
Instantly ten of his followers unshouldered their rifles, working the bolts in smooth motion and chambering fresh rounds. As one, they pointed their loaded and now deadly ready weapons at the Arabian’s house, fingers poised carefully at the stiffened triggers. Sulla continued, “I have also exacted what retribution was necessary to ensure I was able to continue my job efficiently.” His voice lowered two registers. “Don’t force me to ask you again less politely.”
The Arabian nodded, most of the defiance and bluster gone from his ashen face. “Eight live here.”
Sulla smiled. “There. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” He penned the number down on a blank line. “These eight, besides yourself, who are they?”
“Myself and my wife. Her mother. My brother and his son. My own two children and Huragi.”
“Huragi?”
“A young boy we took in two weeks past when his parents’ and their home were destroyed by a cannonball.”
Sulla nodded. “Regrettable. My condolences on the boy and his family.” The Arabian muttered something but Sulla chose to ignore it. He continued. “Eight. Then you are in luck. In a show of beneficence and goodwill to our new brothers and sisters, Chairman Nero has instituted the ‘Recruit and Work Program’ for all of Fustat and Fustat province.”
“Oh. And what does this entail?”
“As patriarch of this family, you get to pick two members to come to the ‘worker’s establishment camps’ we have set up on the western side of the city. There they will be given gainful employment and valuable skills to help beautify and modernize this our newest landholding and partner province in the Senate and People of Rome.”
“Wait. I don’t understand.”
Closing the book, Sulla sighed deeply and motioned towards the still smoking ruins of the western suburbs of Fustat. “Workers. We need workers. Valued members with strong backs and a willingness to work to fix roads, lay rails, and establish telesermo lines. My orders are to take one person of four from each household. There are eight here. So I am taking two.” He pointed to the Arabian with the butt end of his book. “And you get to choose who.”
“That’s unfair!” he exclaimed.
“I really don’t care for unfair or not. You have three minutes to send two people from your household out with clothes and personal belongings not to exceed one bag or I will send my men in to take two of their own choice and vent their frustrations out on being forced to behave like that on any of the other six members of your household they are able to lay their hands on.”
“How…how could you? Are you not a man? Were you not a person once?”
Sulla shrugged, pulling a pocket watch from his trousers and glancing meaningfully at it. “I would say you now have two and a half minutes remaining.”
Some time later, four of his men went off with a teenaged girl and a forty-something year old man to the worker’s camp and four of his men returned from their own rounds of delivering indoctrined citizens of Fustat as well. Giving his hand drawn map a short glance, Sulla put a hash mark next to the symbol for the house he just visited and looked down the road to the next peasant’s hut. He sighed, grumbling to himself as he led his team onward, wondering if the Arabian’s in the next home would be as willing to cooperate as the last ones were.
He also idly wondered how he would react if someone came to his family’s door.
He didn’t like the thoughts that came from that line of musing. He didn’t like it one bit.
From within he could hear the shuffling of feet on the hollow floorboards and the muted hisses of whispering voices. He knocked on the door again, harder and with more insistence. “Citizen of Fustat. By order of the Senate and People of Rome, come forth and be accounted for.”
Some more noises came from behind the walls and windows, but Sulla was happy to hear the sound of the wooden bolt sliding out of place just before the doorway opened. A middle-aged man clad in patched yellow and black robes held onto the doorframe with gnarled hands tortured with arthritis. His head was wrapped in the tightly bound turbans the Arabians were prone to wearing, and the scent of old cinnamon and bay leaves came from his simple clothing. “Go on your way, Roman,” the patron intoned, his voice weary and strained, “we have no quarrel with you and suffer no visitors of your kind as well.”
Sulla smiled toothlessly, the expression never reaching his eyes. “Quite,” he said without humor. “You might have missed out on the last few months or so, but Fustat is under the protectorate and nominal control of the Senate and People of Rome. Hence, when you refer to me as a ‘Roman’ in that tone, you are also insulting yourself as well since you are now liberated as a ‘Roman’ citizen as well.”
“You and your marching and guns and words,” the Arabian proclaimed softly, “might make you feel you have a place in the world. Make you feel like you are on top. But the rock at the top of the mountain is no different or better than any of the other rocks that lie beneath it.”
“Charming. I’ll be sure to note your wisdom to the Chairman next time we are sharing a glass of wine.” Sulla withdrew a leather book and cracked it open to the marked page. “How many live here?”
“Why?”
“Because I asked.”
“Why do you want to know?”
Sulla glanced back at his retinue of soldiers, almost thirty strong. They were hardened men, seeing three years of warfare in such a way that gave them an edge as sharp as flint and an unwavering attitude to boot. “I have been to sixteen homes so far today, forty yesterday, and thirty-five the day before. I am here, doing my job, getting what information I need before I make decisions that, trust me old man, will have DIRECT impact on you and your family’s lives. I have been lied too, spit at, derided, insulted, and ignored.” He snapped his fingers.
Instantly ten of his followers unshouldered their rifles, working the bolts in smooth motion and chambering fresh rounds. As one, they pointed their loaded and now deadly ready weapons at the Arabian’s house, fingers poised carefully at the stiffened triggers. Sulla continued, “I have also exacted what retribution was necessary to ensure I was able to continue my job efficiently.” His voice lowered two registers. “Don’t force me to ask you again less politely.”
The Arabian nodded, most of the defiance and bluster gone from his ashen face. “Eight live here.”
Sulla smiled. “There. That wasn’t so hard, was it?” He penned the number down on a blank line. “These eight, besides yourself, who are they?”
“Myself and my wife. Her mother. My brother and his son. My own two children and Huragi.”
“Huragi?”
“A young boy we took in two weeks past when his parents’ and their home were destroyed by a cannonball.”
Sulla nodded. “Regrettable. My condolences on the boy and his family.” The Arabian muttered something but Sulla chose to ignore it. He continued. “Eight. Then you are in luck. In a show of beneficence and goodwill to our new brothers and sisters, Chairman Nero has instituted the ‘Recruit and Work Program’ for all of Fustat and Fustat province.”
“Oh. And what does this entail?”
“As patriarch of this family, you get to pick two members to come to the ‘worker’s establishment camps’ we have set up on the western side of the city. There they will be given gainful employment and valuable skills to help beautify and modernize this our newest landholding and partner province in the Senate and People of Rome.”
“Wait. I don’t understand.”
Closing the book, Sulla sighed deeply and motioned towards the still smoking ruins of the western suburbs of Fustat. “Workers. We need workers. Valued members with strong backs and a willingness to work to fix roads, lay rails, and establish telesermo lines. My orders are to take one person of four from each household. There are eight here. So I am taking two.” He pointed to the Arabian with the butt end of his book. “And you get to choose who.”
“That’s unfair!” he exclaimed.
“I really don’t care for unfair or not. You have three minutes to send two people from your household out with clothes and personal belongings not to exceed one bag or I will send my men in to take two of their own choice and vent their frustrations out on being forced to behave like that on any of the other six members of your household they are able to lay their hands on.”
“How…how could you? Are you not a man? Were you not a person once?”
Sulla shrugged, pulling a pocket watch from his trousers and glancing meaningfully at it. “I would say you now have two and a half minutes remaining.”
Some time later, four of his men went off with a teenaged girl and a forty-something year old man to the worker’s camp and four of his men returned from their own rounds of delivering indoctrined citizens of Fustat as well. Giving his hand drawn map a short glance, Sulla put a hash mark next to the symbol for the house he just visited and looked down the road to the next peasant’s hut. He sighed, grumbling to himself as he led his team onward, wondering if the Arabian’s in the next home would be as willing to cooperate as the last ones were.
He also idly wondered how he would react if someone came to his family’s door.
He didn’t like the thoughts that came from that line of musing. He didn’t like it one bit.
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Dreadnought
Deity
I havent posted much, to not interrupt it, but keep up the good work.
