Pax Romana
- Thread starter Vanadorn
- Start date
Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
Phyricus pressed down on the throttle pedal, giving his motorized vehicle more fuel. The engine chugged louder, popping twice in succession, but lurched forward at a greater rate of speed. He held onto the steering yoke with both hands, steadying the wobbling device as it bounced heavily on the roadway.
He twisted his right arm up and laid it gingerly over the shoulder of the young woman seated next to him. She was just inside of twenty and at this moment was gripping the wooden faceboard in front of the passenger seat. Her hair was a whipping length of brown and blond, tossed wildly in the breeze caused by their passage. She wore a shirt two sizes to large for her tied around the midsection and a faded set of riding pants.
She turned and yelled something to Phyricus who tilted his head to the side quizzically and said, “What!?”
“I said, this is the bestest damned fun I ever did have!!”
He smiled again, heart hammering and cheeks aching from his naked joy. He squeezed her against his side and then returned to the task of piloting his horseless carriage. The road ahead had a low cart being pulled by a dray horse, a pair of locals guiding the animal along ploddingly. Pushing the throttle pedal down a bit more gingerly, he coaxed some more speed from his carriage while turning the steering yoke slightly to the right.
The machine slewed sideways with practiced control, the wheels bouncing over the thin ruts with a few jars and prods. A few seconds passed and then the cart, horse, and walking pedestrians were behind the spitting and popping carriage, a cloud of grit and dust enveloping their surprised and shaken forms.
Portia giggled. “Sweet tarnation! I kint believe exactly how fast we is going!” She hugged his arm, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek. The carriage jogged a bit as Phyricus tried to keep control, face flushing anew in the wake of his pretty passenger’s affection. “Oh, deary!” She laughed, “You are the cutest thing, ain’t ye?”
The swell of her breast rested hotly against his bicep as she leaned into him. Phyricus struggled to keep his attention from wandering away from his driving but knew that unless something changed soon, he was going to say something or do something stupid. The scenery flew by: farms, trees, houses. A couple of other times Phyricus had to guide his vehicle around others on the roadway, passing them at speeds that even the swiftest of steeds would be hard pressed to achieve. But before long they had arrived in the outskirts of town and glumly he slowed the machine’s headlong pace down to what would be best described as a fast walk.
Twenty or so men and women were lined up outside an enlarged lot fenced in with some sort of wooden building. They watched avidly as Phyricus rolled his horseless carriage up to their lot’s entrance and killed the motor with a hard yank on the engine’s choke valve. A final Pop filled the air as the motor died, the momentary silence broken by their steady and enthusiastic applause. “Thank you so very much,” he said, climbing onto the side rail of the carriage and extending an arm to escort his passenger down as well. “I hope that this joint venture of ours will be as profitable as we expect it to be.”
“As do we, Goodsir Phyricus,” one of the men said. He walked up to the machine, placing his hand on the folded metal hood covering the engine. “Might I ask if you have thought of a name for this device?”
“I assumed it would be referred to as a horseless carriage.”
The man chuckled, “We are bandying a few terms about, rest assured about that. No, I am referring to the style of your device. There are others who are attempting to incorporate Rudof Dieselus’ motor into their own horseless carriages, but as the first working successful model, I can assure you that if we are able to build more of these under your design, you would want some name in place to define what will be your vision on the future of carriages.” He grinned, “So I would ask you if you have thought of a name?”
Phyricus cupped his chin in his off hand, his other one still holding his companion’s. He looked up into her eyes and smiled broadly. “Portia.”
She gasped.
“Excuse me?” the man asked
“This design, my design. I want it called Portia.” Daringly he leaned forward, planting a chaste kiss on the corner of her mouth.
“As you wish, Goodsir Phyricus,” He waved his hand toward the building behind him, “If you would follow us we can get the paperwork finalized and some signatures in place.”
Portia pulled Phyricus lower, placing her lips against his ear. “I’ll have you know,” she whispered, “that you are the mostest wonderful man that ever existed.” Pushing forward on her tiptoes, she planted a kiss on that selfsame ear, wiggling her tongue inside briefly before sliding back down.
Later that evening, his sudden fortunes bursting in the form of promissory notes and bundles of liras, Phyricus laid back on the feather pillow of what had been referred to as “the best room in town” and gazed up at Portia’s sweating body as she straddled over his own and smiled. He cupped his hands behind her head and pulled her lower, kissing her soft lips with his own and thanking his lucky stars on exactly how far the inquisitive son of a second rate plumber had gotten in life.
He twisted his right arm up and laid it gingerly over the shoulder of the young woman seated next to him. She was just inside of twenty and at this moment was gripping the wooden faceboard in front of the passenger seat. Her hair was a whipping length of brown and blond, tossed wildly in the breeze caused by their passage. She wore a shirt two sizes to large for her tied around the midsection and a faded set of riding pants.
She turned and yelled something to Phyricus who tilted his head to the side quizzically and said, “What!?”
“I said, this is the bestest damned fun I ever did have!!”
He smiled again, heart hammering and cheeks aching from his naked joy. He squeezed her against his side and then returned to the task of piloting his horseless carriage. The road ahead had a low cart being pulled by a dray horse, a pair of locals guiding the animal along ploddingly. Pushing the throttle pedal down a bit more gingerly, he coaxed some more speed from his carriage while turning the steering yoke slightly to the right.
The machine slewed sideways with practiced control, the wheels bouncing over the thin ruts with a few jars and prods. A few seconds passed and then the cart, horse, and walking pedestrians were behind the spitting and popping carriage, a cloud of grit and dust enveloping their surprised and shaken forms.
Portia giggled. “Sweet tarnation! I kint believe exactly how fast we is going!” She hugged his arm, leaning over to kiss him on the cheek. The carriage jogged a bit as Phyricus tried to keep control, face flushing anew in the wake of his pretty passenger’s affection. “Oh, deary!” She laughed, “You are the cutest thing, ain’t ye?”
The swell of her breast rested hotly against his bicep as she leaned into him. Phyricus struggled to keep his attention from wandering away from his driving but knew that unless something changed soon, he was going to say something or do something stupid. The scenery flew by: farms, trees, houses. A couple of other times Phyricus had to guide his vehicle around others on the roadway, passing them at speeds that even the swiftest of steeds would be hard pressed to achieve. But before long they had arrived in the outskirts of town and glumly he slowed the machine’s headlong pace down to what would be best described as a fast walk.
Twenty or so men and women were lined up outside an enlarged lot fenced in with some sort of wooden building. They watched avidly as Phyricus rolled his horseless carriage up to their lot’s entrance and killed the motor with a hard yank on the engine’s choke valve. A final Pop filled the air as the motor died, the momentary silence broken by their steady and enthusiastic applause. “Thank you so very much,” he said, climbing onto the side rail of the carriage and extending an arm to escort his passenger down as well. “I hope that this joint venture of ours will be as profitable as we expect it to be.”
“As do we, Goodsir Phyricus,” one of the men said. He walked up to the machine, placing his hand on the folded metal hood covering the engine. “Might I ask if you have thought of a name for this device?”
“I assumed it would be referred to as a horseless carriage.”
The man chuckled, “We are bandying a few terms about, rest assured about that. No, I am referring to the style of your device. There are others who are attempting to incorporate Rudof Dieselus’ motor into their own horseless carriages, but as the first working successful model, I can assure you that if we are able to build more of these under your design, you would want some name in place to define what will be your vision on the future of carriages.” He grinned, “So I would ask you if you have thought of a name?”
Phyricus cupped his chin in his off hand, his other one still holding his companion’s. He looked up into her eyes and smiled broadly. “Portia.”
She gasped.
“Excuse me?” the man asked
“This design, my design. I want it called Portia.” Daringly he leaned forward, planting a chaste kiss on the corner of her mouth.
“As you wish, Goodsir Phyricus,” He waved his hand toward the building behind him, “If you would follow us we can get the paperwork finalized and some signatures in place.”
Portia pulled Phyricus lower, placing her lips against his ear. “I’ll have you know,” she whispered, “that you are the mostest wonderful man that ever existed.” Pushing forward on her tiptoes, she planted a kiss on that selfsame ear, wiggling her tongue inside briefly before sliding back down.
Later that evening, his sudden fortunes bursting in the form of promissory notes and bundles of liras, Phyricus laid back on the feather pillow of what had been referred to as “the best room in town” and gazed up at Portia’s sweating body as she straddled over his own and smiled. He cupped his hands behind her head and pulled her lower, kissing her soft lips with his own and thanking his lucky stars on exactly how far the inquisitive son of a second rate plumber had gotten in life.
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Jakt
Chieftain
I liked that installment!I definitely could tell that Portia was a country bumpkin this time. She sounds like a very nice girl.
It's strange, you know? My '94 Corolla is way nicer than that jalopy that Phyricus was driving, but it doesn't have the same effect on the young ladies. 
Hooray
Civ3 Cartographer
That was quite a setup just for a Porsche pun.
Taken me ages to read all this and ive finally caught up.......
now ive got to wait for new posts!
Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
Sorry guys,
Mid year inventory, a business trip to Fishkill and my daughter's graduation from Preschool and subsequent parties afterwards (plus the pool!) have kept me away from free time for a bit - should be back in the roll this weekend!
Be well and Vie Victus!!
V
Mid year inventory, a business trip to Fishkill and my daughter's graduation from Preschool and subsequent parties afterwards (plus the pool!) have kept me away from free time for a bit - should be back in the roll this weekend!
Be well and Vie Victus!!
V
psweetman1590
Emperor
Well, I've been off a while, and I see I've missed a great deal. But never fear, Van, your humanoid spell checker-helper-person-thingie is back.
From your June 6th post:
From your June 16th post:
All that aside, I must (again) commend you for this mammoth of a story! Honestly, this is going to be longer than my huge unabridged dictionary by the time you're done! That's some dedication.
From your June 6th post:
Should be "at".
Should be "your".
From your June 16th post:
Should be "These are", no?
All that aside, I must (again) commend you for this mammoth of a story! Honestly, this is going to be longer than my huge unabridged dictionary by the time you're done! That's some dedication.
Tad Empire_0_o
GAHH... Puberty
FINALLY got done reading this story so far 
Nice story!
Nice story!
Jakt
Chieftain
I hope I don't have to resort to spamming this thread to get you to write more, Vanadorn! 
As a faithful follower of your story, I just have to state that I look forward to seeing your works every time I log on. I hope that all is well with you and we can see more installments soon!
-Jakt
As a faithful follower of your story, I just have to state that I look forward to seeing your works every time I log on. I hope that all is well with you and we can see more installments soon!
-Jakt
carmen510
Deity
Haven't finished reading.
I hope you continue writing though! I don't want to hold up the thread.
I hope you continue writing though! I don't want to hold up the thread.
Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
“Sir, they are regulars from Cori...Corihoyi...Corihauy.er...” the mounted private stumbled over his words, struggling to get his lips to form the strange sounds into the Incan city’s name.
“Corihauyrachina,” Lieutenant Sulla of the 11th Veii offered with a smirk.
“Yeah, there sir,” he saluted, pulling his horse’s reins to the side, slewing his animal around. “Damn it, sir, pardon me of course, but it’s a dumb arsed city name and that’s all there is to it.”
Sulla laughed, nodding in response. “That it is. But difficult name or ‘dumb’, they’ve certainly got a number of men willing to die for a lost cause, don’t you think?”
The battlefield was swollen with thousands of feather adorned Incan fighters, some mounted, most not; engaging the Roman cavalry at almost four to one odds. The crack of rifle fire was a constant staccato, punctuated by the wail and cry of wounded soldiers. Only a few crude matchlock rifles were in the enemy’s arsenal, but the sheer press of ululating warriors brandishing spears and pikes and swords was enough to make even the sternest Roman soldier blanch.
The battle field today was a stretch of grassy hills rising out of the nearby marshes; the sun hot, the wind rank and foul. The stink of rot and ancient mud baked by the oppressive heat made the local insect population rise thick as smog, settling on Roman and Incan alike. When the men and women weren’t fighting, they were swatting and waving the annoying flies and mosquitoes away with futile effort.
“Lost cause maybe, sir,” the private responded, “but they must be as dumb as their city name, cause they don’t seem to realize no matter how many of them they toss at us, we ain’t gonna seem to roll over none, no how.”
The 11th Veii progress had stalled as the Incan warriors mounted a three day offensive designed to shake their position, but instead only caused the shattering of one feathered division after another as spearman, rider, and all manner of melee fighters sought to assault the cavalry’s line. Dozens of Romans had died, and maybe twice as many had been wounded, but like the legionnaires of old, the modern Roman soldier refused to break, refused to yield. And the enemy paid a heavy toll for the assumption otherwise. Sulla’s guesses placed the number of Incan dead at seventeen-hundred, with another three thousand wounded, captured, or incapacitated.
And even with such punishment arraigned against them, the Incans refused to fold.
“I don’t understand,” Sulla muttered.
“Sir?”
“Huh?” he looked up, realizing then that he had spoken aloud. “Sorry. Just don’t think their commander, whoever he might be, has the foggiest idea on how to wage war.”
“The Incans are brave, sir. That counts for something.”
“Mayhap,” Sulla conceded, “but bravery means a pile of dog crap when its wasted on foolishness. I mean, what are they hoping to get out of this? Wave after wave of ill equipped and hopelessly outclassed warriors charging again and again into our firing lines only to be mowed down and broken.”
“Maybe they are hoping we’ll run out of bullets?”
Sulla laughed. “Not with the deals I’ve made to make sure we’re well equipped.” He shook his head. “No, I think they’re doing all they can to keep us bottled up here. Wasting men’s’ lives like this is ridiculous, even for the most moronic of officers.” Snapping his fingers, he withdrew an oft-folded map and sighted down at it. “If we are here,” he traced a line on the page’s surface, “and Corihauyrachina is there,” he spread his fingers wider, “then it seems most of their efforts are along this area here.”
For a few heartbeats Sulla stared at the map, eyes flicking across the marks and checks the cartographers had put upon it. “Vitcos.” He smiled. “Vitcos and Arequipa.”
“Something in mind, sir?”
“Yes indeed, private. Yes indeed,” he chuckled. “I think, maybe, just maybe, the Incan commander isn’t as stupid as he seems to be.” His eyes narrowed. “Private, I need you to send an order to my Centurions, can you do that?”
“Sir, yes sir!” he replied, saluting sharply in his saddle.
“Simply enough, I want the Incan assault broken by nightfall and have our men ready to break lines and ready to ride on the offensive come day break.”
“Consider it done, Lieutenant.” Sulla watched the young man ride off, still smiling to himself as he rechecked his map. “Vitcos and Arequipa,” he repeated. “I wonder what you’re hiding out there that you want me to waste my time here?” He shouldered his own standard issue rifle, chambering a fresh round as he clambered aboard his own waiting stallion. Taking the reins he turned his steed towards the battle line and clicked his teeth against his lips. “Doesn’t matter,” he replied aloud to no one in particular, “I’ll be there soon enough.”
“Corihauyrachina,” Lieutenant Sulla of the 11th Veii offered with a smirk.
“Yeah, there sir,” he saluted, pulling his horse’s reins to the side, slewing his animal around. “Damn it, sir, pardon me of course, but it’s a dumb arsed city name and that’s all there is to it.”
Sulla laughed, nodding in response. “That it is. But difficult name or ‘dumb’, they’ve certainly got a number of men willing to die for a lost cause, don’t you think?”
The battlefield was swollen with thousands of feather adorned Incan fighters, some mounted, most not; engaging the Roman cavalry at almost four to one odds. The crack of rifle fire was a constant staccato, punctuated by the wail and cry of wounded soldiers. Only a few crude matchlock rifles were in the enemy’s arsenal, but the sheer press of ululating warriors brandishing spears and pikes and swords was enough to make even the sternest Roman soldier blanch.
The battle field today was a stretch of grassy hills rising out of the nearby marshes; the sun hot, the wind rank and foul. The stink of rot and ancient mud baked by the oppressive heat made the local insect population rise thick as smog, settling on Roman and Incan alike. When the men and women weren’t fighting, they were swatting and waving the annoying flies and mosquitoes away with futile effort.
“Lost cause maybe, sir,” the private responded, “but they must be as dumb as their city name, cause they don’t seem to realize no matter how many of them they toss at us, we ain’t gonna seem to roll over none, no how.”
The 11th Veii progress had stalled as the Incan warriors mounted a three day offensive designed to shake their position, but instead only caused the shattering of one feathered division after another as spearman, rider, and all manner of melee fighters sought to assault the cavalry’s line. Dozens of Romans had died, and maybe twice as many had been wounded, but like the legionnaires of old, the modern Roman soldier refused to break, refused to yield. And the enemy paid a heavy toll for the assumption otherwise. Sulla’s guesses placed the number of Incan dead at seventeen-hundred, with another three thousand wounded, captured, or incapacitated.
And even with such punishment arraigned against them, the Incans refused to fold.
“I don’t understand,” Sulla muttered.
“Sir?”
“Huh?” he looked up, realizing then that he had spoken aloud. “Sorry. Just don’t think their commander, whoever he might be, has the foggiest idea on how to wage war.”
“The Incans are brave, sir. That counts for something.”
“Mayhap,” Sulla conceded, “but bravery means a pile of dog crap when its wasted on foolishness. I mean, what are they hoping to get out of this? Wave after wave of ill equipped and hopelessly outclassed warriors charging again and again into our firing lines only to be mowed down and broken.”
“Maybe they are hoping we’ll run out of bullets?”
Sulla laughed. “Not with the deals I’ve made to make sure we’re well equipped.” He shook his head. “No, I think they’re doing all they can to keep us bottled up here. Wasting men’s’ lives like this is ridiculous, even for the most moronic of officers.” Snapping his fingers, he withdrew an oft-folded map and sighted down at it. “If we are here,” he traced a line on the page’s surface, “and Corihauyrachina is there,” he spread his fingers wider, “then it seems most of their efforts are along this area here.”
For a few heartbeats Sulla stared at the map, eyes flicking across the marks and checks the cartographers had put upon it. “Vitcos.” He smiled. “Vitcos and Arequipa.”
“Something in mind, sir?”
“Yes indeed, private. Yes indeed,” he chuckled. “I think, maybe, just maybe, the Incan commander isn’t as stupid as he seems to be.” His eyes narrowed. “Private, I need you to send an order to my Centurions, can you do that?”
“Sir, yes sir!” he replied, saluting sharply in his saddle.
“Simply enough, I want the Incan assault broken by nightfall and have our men ready to break lines and ready to ride on the offensive come day break.”
“Consider it done, Lieutenant.” Sulla watched the young man ride off, still smiling to himself as he rechecked his map. “Vitcos and Arequipa,” he repeated. “I wonder what you’re hiding out there that you want me to waste my time here?” He shouldered his own standard issue rifle, chambering a fresh round as he clambered aboard his own waiting stallion. Taking the reins he turned his steed towards the battle line and clicked his teeth against his lips. “Doesn’t matter,” he replied aloud to no one in particular, “I’ll be there soon enough.”
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Vanadorn
Motorcycling Paladin
Kresatim clouted the man on the back of his head with a butt end of a stout wooden peg he kept tucked into the belt at his waist. “That’s for deserting your post.” His gaze was firm and unyielding, boring into the bowed head of the soldier who was being dragged back into a standing position by three other members of the 2nd Pisae Cannoneers. “What in Zeus’ Flaming Arsecheeks, did you think you were doing, soldier?”
“Centurion, I...I,” he tried to talk, eyes searching frantically for anything to help him out of his circumstance.
Kresatim struck him again, this time a solid jab to the midsection; hard enough for the other man to double over and gasp for breath. “Don’t try to lie to me, you piece of chicken livered jackal crap. I’ll tell you what you were doing, you were out getting yourself some trim from some Baghdad slut who wanted out of the war zone over there,” his finger pointed to the smoking walls and defenseworks of the Arabian capital. “And when you were done taking her as well as whatever coin she passed your way, you came back here and thought you could sleep off your efforts.”
“No! I swear that’s not...”
Another strike with the club, this time on the top of the head had him slump over, his words dissolving to a low groan of pain. “You were caught sleeping, you piece of crap. We found the girl, not too many Arabian seventeen year olds wandering the back end of the Roman offensive lines. And whatever alibi you had set up didn’t hold more water than a worm eaten bucket filled gravel and road apples.”
The great cannons roared, massive plumes of smoke rising from their muzzles as their payload of iron missiles soared over the Arabian breastworks to shatter another section of the capital city with almost contemptuous impunity. The angry Centurion pointed at the guns and their crews struggling to load their weapons as rapidly as possible. “You see that? We are at war. Not on some damned holiday where you can get some quim and saunter around with your manhood dangling out. War, damn you! And when you are NOT here doing your job, you are literally SCREWING your brothers in arms who have to pick up the slack for your insubordination!”
Not giving the other man a chance to talk, Kresatim continued his tirade. “Who the HELL do you think you are?! Huh?! Honestly, because I don’t think you have a Zeus damned clue of the way things work around here!” He kicked the man in the stomach, eyeing him dispassionately as he crouched over. “I’ll make sure you know damned well what your job is out here, soldier, mark my ZEUS damned words!”
His gaze lifted, zeroing in on the other soldiers holding him aloft. “I want this sack of wine taken to the center of camp. I want him stripped bare-arsed naked, lashed to a hitching post, and then beaten with a whip for a full twelve count. And then when he regains consciousness, I want him turned over and beaten for another twelve.” He spat. “If he still draws breath, you can have him stripped of all rank, thrust a rifle in his hand, and send him to Lieutenant Howe’s 3rd Syracuse.”
“Centurion,” one of the men asked hesitantly, “Lieutenant Howe?”
“Aye,” Kresatim laughed cruelly, “we call it the ‘Prisoners Unit’. Every manjake who thought he could escape his crime by joining the army was put in there and sent to the front line, first assault. Life expectancy there is something like 6 weeks. If mister ‘abandon-my-post-and-have-sex-and-a-nap’ can make it there, he might get lucky enough to get transferred out to another unit. And then again, he might not.” He pointed to the sobbing soldier, “Get that out of my sight.”
It was only a short while later when he heard the wails of the same soldier in time with the whish-SNAP of the military lash as punishment was being carried out. He cocked his ear briefly to make sure the pace was not too fast before putting the matter entirely out of his mind.
General Vitellius had redoubled his efforts on Baghdad, ordering a staggering number of sorties against the still potent defenses, staging raids and assaults in what could only be considered an unorthodox manner. However, it was having results. The UAL defenders were having difficulty in fending off the multi-pronged attacks, their lines often times thin or at one time, non existent allowing the Roman soldiery to gobble up great swaths of trenchworks with no real combat ensuing.
But most importantly were the iron clad commands that under no circumstances were any of the six cannon units to let up their bombardment of Baghdad. Wagons of shot, ball, and powder came from the fragile supply lines every day; feeding the hungry maws of the cannons as they sent volley after volley into the heart of the League capital. Kresatim didn’t know how the other five units were doing, but his team of large and small artillery were doing all they were capable of. He frowned. Except when some of them took it on their own to desert their post.
Four years of war was grueling, wearing down anyone who was in the thick of it everyday. But that gave no one, man or woman, any excuse to shirk their duty and risk the lives of the other soldiers under his command. In the early days of the war, he would never have been so hard, so unforgiving on any of his men. But in these twilight hours of the League’s stubborn defenses, he couldn’t afford to let anything slip by.
As he walked his unit’s positions, watching his crew with a critical eye, he couldn’t help but notice the cool detachment his men were giving him. They seemed less comfortable with him near, more on edge. The renewed cracking of the whip probably didn’t help the men’s morale. Kresatim hated to admit it, but he knew that if any man here truly had a great chance to escape the rigors of this war, they would do so. It wasn’t much of an effort to look within himself and see the same thing.
Feeling ashamed for even thinking it, the Centurion continued his rounds; stopping every so often to watch the cannonballs fly like Zeus’ thunderbolts to break upon the inner heart of Baghdad. If anyone was close enough, they would have seen his lips move, mouthing the words, “Just fall already. Please. Just fall.”
“Centurion, I...I,” he tried to talk, eyes searching frantically for anything to help him out of his circumstance.
Kresatim struck him again, this time a solid jab to the midsection; hard enough for the other man to double over and gasp for breath. “Don’t try to lie to me, you piece of chicken livered jackal crap. I’ll tell you what you were doing, you were out getting yourself some trim from some Baghdad slut who wanted out of the war zone over there,” his finger pointed to the smoking walls and defenseworks of the Arabian capital. “And when you were done taking her as well as whatever coin she passed your way, you came back here and thought you could sleep off your efforts.”
“No! I swear that’s not...”
Another strike with the club, this time on the top of the head had him slump over, his words dissolving to a low groan of pain. “You were caught sleeping, you piece of crap. We found the girl, not too many Arabian seventeen year olds wandering the back end of the Roman offensive lines. And whatever alibi you had set up didn’t hold more water than a worm eaten bucket filled gravel and road apples.”
The great cannons roared, massive plumes of smoke rising from their muzzles as their payload of iron missiles soared over the Arabian breastworks to shatter another section of the capital city with almost contemptuous impunity. The angry Centurion pointed at the guns and their crews struggling to load their weapons as rapidly as possible. “You see that? We are at war. Not on some damned holiday where you can get some quim and saunter around with your manhood dangling out. War, damn you! And when you are NOT here doing your job, you are literally SCREWING your brothers in arms who have to pick up the slack for your insubordination!”
Not giving the other man a chance to talk, Kresatim continued his tirade. “Who the HELL do you think you are?! Huh?! Honestly, because I don’t think you have a Zeus damned clue of the way things work around here!” He kicked the man in the stomach, eyeing him dispassionately as he crouched over. “I’ll make sure you know damned well what your job is out here, soldier, mark my ZEUS damned words!”
His gaze lifted, zeroing in on the other soldiers holding him aloft. “I want this sack of wine taken to the center of camp. I want him stripped bare-arsed naked, lashed to a hitching post, and then beaten with a whip for a full twelve count. And then when he regains consciousness, I want him turned over and beaten for another twelve.” He spat. “If he still draws breath, you can have him stripped of all rank, thrust a rifle in his hand, and send him to Lieutenant Howe’s 3rd Syracuse.”
“Centurion,” one of the men asked hesitantly, “Lieutenant Howe?”
“Aye,” Kresatim laughed cruelly, “we call it the ‘Prisoners Unit’. Every manjake who thought he could escape his crime by joining the army was put in there and sent to the front line, first assault. Life expectancy there is something like 6 weeks. If mister ‘abandon-my-post-and-have-sex-and-a-nap’ can make it there, he might get lucky enough to get transferred out to another unit. And then again, he might not.” He pointed to the sobbing soldier, “Get that out of my sight.”
It was only a short while later when he heard the wails of the same soldier in time with the whish-SNAP of the military lash as punishment was being carried out. He cocked his ear briefly to make sure the pace was not too fast before putting the matter entirely out of his mind.
General Vitellius had redoubled his efforts on Baghdad, ordering a staggering number of sorties against the still potent defenses, staging raids and assaults in what could only be considered an unorthodox manner. However, it was having results. The UAL defenders were having difficulty in fending off the multi-pronged attacks, their lines often times thin or at one time, non existent allowing the Roman soldiery to gobble up great swaths of trenchworks with no real combat ensuing.
But most importantly were the iron clad commands that under no circumstances were any of the six cannon units to let up their bombardment of Baghdad. Wagons of shot, ball, and powder came from the fragile supply lines every day; feeding the hungry maws of the cannons as they sent volley after volley into the heart of the League capital. Kresatim didn’t know how the other five units were doing, but his team of large and small artillery were doing all they were capable of. He frowned. Except when some of them took it on their own to desert their post.
Four years of war was grueling, wearing down anyone who was in the thick of it everyday. But that gave no one, man or woman, any excuse to shirk their duty and risk the lives of the other soldiers under his command. In the early days of the war, he would never have been so hard, so unforgiving on any of his men. But in these twilight hours of the League’s stubborn defenses, he couldn’t afford to let anything slip by.
As he walked his unit’s positions, watching his crew with a critical eye, he couldn’t help but notice the cool detachment his men were giving him. They seemed less comfortable with him near, more on edge. The renewed cracking of the whip probably didn’t help the men’s morale. Kresatim hated to admit it, but he knew that if any man here truly had a great chance to escape the rigors of this war, they would do so. It wasn’t much of an effort to look within himself and see the same thing.
Feeling ashamed for even thinking it, the Centurion continued his rounds; stopping every so often to watch the cannonballs fly like Zeus’ thunderbolts to break upon the inner heart of Baghdad. If anyone was close enough, they would have seen his lips move, mouthing the words, “Just fall already. Please. Just fall.”
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Could be, but I doubt it. "Undulating" would work, meaning flowing like
waves of water. "Ululating" is a cool word, meaning rising and falling shouts or cries, especially from African or other cultures. I can believe that the Inca's
war screams might sound like ululating. The Roman's war cry would be more
like a full-throated roar!
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