Quinta Macedonica Legio - completed and retitled in honour.

[McScottish]

Excellent, as usual! An example to take into account for myself, and one to follow for others, I'm sure.

[Merula]

Great update mate, I foresee a power struggle brewing

[Knonfoda]

Amazing, absolutely amazing. The tension is brilliant, it just builds and builds and builds, there is never a moment of respite for the tired men of the Quinta. Your style is as always very enjoyable to read and the screenshots are a treat too.

[SeniorBatavianHorse]

Thanks, guys! It's nice to get feedback that is so encouraging especially as there are a bunch of really good AARs knocking about here as well!

I am back into 10 hour shifts now so the updates will not be so regular alas. Oh the joy of minimum wage!

[SeniorBatavianHorse]

The Wind Of Fate Is Constant And Bears No Relief

I remember that it was the night after we returned to Nasranum with Aemilianus that the omen in my dreams began to arrive. I woke up drenched in sweat, the sound of a hollow banging deep in my head and the vague memory or portent of something hideous, unnatural, emerging from a mist outside the fort. That first night it remained unclear – the details hazy and rough as though I were peering through a wall of thick water which was suspended before me – a frozen waterfall – and behind it this deep atavistic shadow emerged to the sound of that endless banging – the bronze drum of a god marching down into blood and betrayal. I woke covered in sweat, my hands shaking as if weary from holding a spatha, my eyes wide with fear – and I rose and fled into the night and the ordered rows of papillio tents, the tramp of men on the walls, and the reassuring flicker of fires in braziers which lay dotted around the fort like comforting beacons.

Every night from then on, that omen haunted me in my dreams.

In the morning after that first night, I wandered north onto the campus we used for drill and practise outside the fort. Word had arrived from the Tribune that I and the men of the Second were to rest up a day in return for our efforts on the previous day. Barko was overseeing his maniple in scutum and spatha and I tarried awhile watching the legionaries work up a sweat in the endless heat here in the Auranitis. The little Aegyptian had arranged for two slaves to erect a temporary palm leaf shelter and was now squatting under it with a bladder of wine watching the men with a casual but hawk-like gaze. On the flat baked ground, I saw them separate out into their tent-sections and then pair up, the primi against his secundi and then marshal the shield and sword in the various guard positions each legionary was taught as a matter of course. The biarchus of each tent-section or contuburnium was shouting out various drill commands – low sixth guard - the shield in close and the spatha down low pointed up for a disembowelling thrust – sixth guard the spatha held close and horizontal to the shield for a sudden deep stab out along the arm – fourth guard – the shield pushed forward into the enemy and the spatha high and back over the shoulder for a downward cut across the open body – and so on and on. Again and again, the biarchii yelled out the guard commands and each primi and secundi in the tent-section practised these drills. It was a scene played endlessly in the legions since that first eagle was raised for war and battle. It was eternal and should have been a balm to me but it was not. I remember looking back at the dusty walls of the castellum, seeing the glint of helmets on the battlements, hearing a tuba rouse its dull cry above the drill commands – and feeling only that dark shadow of the dream omen in my heart.

The gods mock us and use us for their sports as we thrust captives into an arena – and I wondered on what capricious deity now used me to laugh hollowly down at us here deep in the Harra.

Barko, sensing my mood no doubt, smiled one of his toothless smiles and thrust the wine bladder into my hands. The shade under the palm-leaves was paltry but it was better than nothing. His maniple was the Third Maniple and the men in it like my own – tough rankers who bore scars and tattoos and the tight cropped hair common to fighting men. They worked and sweated under the morning heat in careful groups, rotating from attack to defence, their spathas flashing in the sunlight. Occasionally, a biarchus would rap the flat of his blade over a legionary’s haunch if he was not fast enough or was too lazy in the manoeuvre. Dust swirled around their feet like tiny drunken zephyrs.

I think I remember Barko asking me in his mixed-up Latin and Coptic what was wrong with me and I must have evaded his queries for presently he began distracting me with gossip about Cassianus, the Dux. This Armenian had arrived all covered in blood and dust in the early morning demanding entry to his castellum and had then ridden in with his guard and the Clibanarii in tow wanting an immediate audience with the commander. Naturally, Angelus had summoned all the maniple commanders into the principia tent and then without let this Cassianus had cursed at them all for not having scouts out awaiting his arrival. He had blamed Angelus for the loss of his men – the Arabi and the Saraceni Foederati – all now rotting out in the Harra and then called for wine and water. In-between his shouting and cursing, Barko told me that he had learned that the Dux was much more informed about what was happening out here than we had been back at Bosana. This piqued my interest and I flung the wine back at him demanding more. He laughed at that and stretched back into the flimsy shade.

‘Ah, my friend, it seems our legion is always first and last! First into the battle and the last to know who and what it is we fight – war is our doom and war is our salvation!’

‘As the gods are our witness,’ I agreed. ‘It has always been thus with the Quinta.’

I saw him sober up then, a hard light in his eyes, and the easy grin falling away as a serpent sheds its skin. ‘Edessa has fallen to the Sassanid demons. The Dux informed us that it fell after a month’s siege and was sacked in a brutal and bloody fashion. This Shapur – their King of Kings – butchered every Roman inside the walls leaving neither man, woman nor infant alive. They say he ordered his armoured riders to trample over the bound captives as if they were a living causeway.’

I was shocked. Edessa fallen? The great city of Rome in the Oriens? ‘What of the emperor? Surely he will not leave this insult unavenged?’ I asked.

Barko shook his head. ‘The Dux advised us that our sacred emperor is too busy up in Anatolia defeating this usurper, Procopius. The Persians have struck when Valens is least able to resist them. Listen, my friend, there is more . . .’

He told me that the Persians were pouring north and west over the Euphrates and into Roman territory. The legions and border troops left here were crumbling like dykes before a flood. Hence the presence of the Dux Palaestinae here in Nasranum. The emperor was desperate to strike back and distract Shapur so as to allow him time to defeat this usurper and then march back east to engage the Persians with the full might of the imperial legions. In order to do that, Cassianus had been ordered to assemble an expeditionary force here at Nasranum and then advance east up to the Euphrates and into the soft underbelly of Assyria. The emperor hoped that by doing so, Shapur would be compelled to pull back and defend his heartland. However, neither the emperor nor Cassianus had reckoned with the ‘Dog’.

Barko spat into the baked ground at his feet then. ‘He is nicknamed the ‘Dog’ though some say that that is his tribal affiliation – Bani Kalb – the tribe of the Dog – He is the one who ordered his Saraceni to ambush us west by the Seleucid Needle and is now roving the Black Desert here. Cassianus believes he is receiving aid from the Sassanids and has been tasked with raiding and guarding these deserts this side of the Euphrates. This ‘Dog’ rules now here and slaughtered the supply annonae and also ambushed this Dux on his way here.’

I laughed out loud at that and for some reason heard the faint echo of bronzen drums deep in my heart. I laughed and saw little Barko gaze up at me with curious eyes. ‘Truly, the Quinta is damned, my Aegyptian friend! Don’t you see? Our Christian emperor orders us to attack the Persians and instead we fall into exactly the same ploy that the Persians have played on us!’

‘By all the gods, Felix’ replied Barko. ‘Every time I hear you laugh I feel as if Hades itself is opening beneath my feet!’ He laughed too and drained the last of the wine.

It was then that a distant shout from the battlements roused our interest. A javelin tip sparkled in the sunlight, pointing northwards, and we stood free of the palm-leaves to follow it. I raised my hand and shaded my eyes – even as Barko cursed silently and threw the wine-bladder away into the dust. Far away, on a little crest, rested a tiny rider. Nothing more than a speck on the horizon. For a moment, he hung there, all disdainful, and then he whirled his horse about and was gone as if he had never existed.

The ‘Dog’ was showing his face now and like all dogs he was getting bolder in the doing of it.

That night the dream omen came again, bathing me in the pounding drums, that heavy shadow falling towards me and the fort like a doom, its black shape emerging all wreathed in sweat and steam, like a colossus, a monster from the mythic past – and when I woke up on that second night, I swore I had seen something in that shape that made me tremble like a babe in its mother’s arms.

[julianus heraclius]

I am simply lost for words. This is worthy of a published novel.

[SeniorBatavianHorse]

Hmmm not sure about that - it is provoked by the mod's game elements and visuals so in essence as a writer I am re-acting to the game mechanics and using it as a story generator. A lot of credit must go there too!

[Knonfoda]

It is very good. The effects on that last particular screenshot are amazing, you really do a lot with very little. The writing is as always gripping and leaves us wanting more. I agree with JH, you should publish some of these as essays or short stories maybe.

[McScottish]

Thirded! I look forward to reading your first novel SBH Can't wait to see him fight the oliphants wee devil beasties. Gaein tae be ah richt ryal rammie bygae, aye, an nae mistak!

[SeniorBatavianHorse]

Ah thanks for the wee lingo there (I am in Glasgow by the way!) - as for my first novel I wrote that back in 1986. 'The Arthuriad' - a bad attempt at a historical/fantasy Arthurian story.

As for 'eliphants' - I have no idea what you mean?!? Honest, guv'nor.

Knonfoda - the screen effects are all achieved online by photobucket. It has an online pic editor. It is basic but works for me! As for publishing, is everyone aware that next month is the National Novel Writing Month - look here for details. I might enter this year if anyone wants to join me and we can support eachother?

[Ybbon]

Is this a Chain of Dogs? Because references to Malazan stories would be just fabulous.

I was reading a movie review the other day which referenced Alien and Aliens, and how in particular Alien ramped up the tension all the time and oddly enough it made me think of this too, the ever increasing tension and knowing something is going to happen yet only ever getting small episodes that just add to the overall sense of impending doom.

I think maybe you are not crediting yourself enough. Hell, I've read some right skanky old novels which weren't a patch on this, twists that were straight lines and characters who wouldn't survive being plugged into a resuscitation unit much less be revived by it.

[SeniorBatavianHorse]

Malazan? No, I have never heard of that book series until you mentioned it! The 'Kalb' is an ingame character general name and it is derived from the Bani Kalb tribe or tribe of the Dogs who are famous to those of us who read obscure Late Roman histories for a particular woman who - ah, but that is another story . . .

I know what you mean about the 'old' novels but the beauty here is that I am writing episodes in the manner of a Dickens magazine so that the structure is very different to that of a sustained novel! The crazy thing is that I spend all my spare time (apart from this!) writing plays and attempting to get them taken up. All to no effect so far. Only two days ago I failed another playwrighting mentoring scheme here in Glasgow. The good news is that a theatre company 'Theatre Found' likes my work and may allow me to stage it myself soon . . .

[Ybbon]

Malazan Book of the Dead by Steven Erikson. 10 in total, the 4th book House of Chains is all about the Chain of Dogs. They're science fantasy so maybe not everyone's cup of tea. There is a character in one of them called Kalb - so maybe the author has a liking and knowledge of ancient Roman literature too.

[Knonfoda]

Knonfoda - the screen effects are all achieved online by photobucket. It has an online pic editor. It is basic but works for me! As for publishing, is everyone aware that next month is the National Novel Writing Month - look here for details. I might enter this year if anyone wants to join me and we can support eachother?

Wow really? Just with photobucket? That's amazing. Can you automatically crop pictures too by any chance?

I was reading a movie review the other day which referenced Alien and Aliens, and how in particular Alien ramped up the tension all the time and oddly enough it made me think of this too, the ever increasing tension and knowing something is going to happen yet only ever getting small episodes that just add to the overall sense of impending doom.

Ah Alien and Aliens, two of my favourite films, Aliens being one of those few sequels which actually equals its predecessor, a very rare thing in film. I'm really interested in seeing how Prometheus is going to turn out, Ridley Scott has not disappointed me once, so I doubt he will start with this franchise.

Malazan? No, I have never heard of that book series until you mentioned it! The 'Kalb' is an ingame character general name and it is derived from the Bani Kalb tribe or tribe of the Dogs who are famous to those of us who read obscure Late Roman histories for a particular woman who - ah, but that is another story . . .

All to no effect so far. Only two days ago I failed another playwrighting mentoring scheme here in Glasgow. The good news is that a theatre company 'Theatre Found' likes my work and may allow me to stage itmyself soon . . .

Ohh a story! Do tell! Also, what kind of plays do you write? And congratulations with the theatre company, I expect to see a gripping tale of treachery honour and betrayal in a theatre near me soon enough!

[SeniorBatavianHorse]

My lips are sealed but she defeated a number of Roman field armies and her daughter went on to marry one of the most succesful Roman commanders in this period. This man was with Julian on his Persian Excursus and also survived the Hadrianople debacle under Valens.

Yes, check out photobucket and its edit options. There are some nice options there!

As for the theatre company - it's a while away yet but we will see!

[SeniorBatavianHorse]

Weep For The Honoured For They Know Already Their Doom

‘Felix? Ducenarius?’

The words of my Centenarius Octavio, that small nut-faced Italian who carried Etruscan blood in his veins, broke through my thoughts and brought me to my senses. For one moment, all I heard was that cursed pounding of drums and the hideous tortured shriek of something vast, black, rising up out of my dreams - and that world the gods moved in deep in my heart. For one moment, I imagined I stood on a hellish battlefield swathed in blood and the wreck of war and that dark shadow was towering above me, its harsh smell falling on me like a rotten shroud stained with too many dead, its weight suspended like a doom – and then the words of Octavio broke through and I found him leaning in over me on my cot, his face framed by that Mithraic raven. His hand rested on my arm and I found something infinitely comforting in that iron grip.

‘Ducenarius – it’s time.’

I rose without ceremony. I threw the tunica on and then belted on my spatha and settled the military cloak about my shoulders. Dawn would be here soon but the chill of the Black Desert would take a while to dissolve in the rising sun. Lacing up my boots, I paused for one moment and then reached down and picked up the heavy knife. It lay clean and purified on a small square of black cloth. I sheathed it and strode out of the papillio tent with the Centenarius in my wake.

The castellum was sleepy in the pre-dawn air. Sentries moved along the battlements softly exchanging watch-words to each other and those who came to relieve them – Pia – Fidelis – sometimes with a hollow laugh at the awful legacy which always followed the soldiers of the acanthus legion. The sun was not yet up and the interior of the fort was drowned in gloom. The shapes of the long lines of the tents were indistinct about me as we threaded our way down the lane towards that portal known as the Black Gate. Men stirred uneasily inside the leather tents – I heard the occasional oath or muttered imprecation. One man wept as if in madness. Another I heard laugh like a child even as a voice near him cursed and promised violence if he did not fall into sleep. The dim shape of legionary drifted across our path once but the man’s gaze lay in another realm, distant and uncaring, as if the gods were whispering to him of an Elysium he would never see. Tears lay on his cheeks.

The guards at the Negra Porta stood back as we approached and allowed us to pass without a word. Octavio had already prepared them and I knew that in their hearts they would secretly wish to be with us this dawn. The great wooden gates were open despite military protocol but both of us knew there was no danger tonight of punishment or death. For one moment, as we passed beneath that looming portal, a darker shadow enveloped us and then we were out from the fort and I found my feet crunching over that carpet which was the Harra, the Black Desert, that ground of death and oblivion. Above our heads, a carpet of stars gleamed fitfully like diamonds – and far away hanging above the distant dunes lay Selene, pale and imperial, her white glow suffusing everything now in a deathly shroud.

Ahead I could see small clumps of legionaries moving away and over a low rise. Harsh murmurs drifted back to me – men attempting to banish the cold and tiredness with jokes and mock rivalry. One man walked alone hooded in an old Celtic paenula. I smiled when I saw that silhouette. Not even the old leather style of that Gallic cloak could hide the bearing of an imperial officer of Rome. Those around him instinctively veered away from this figure, deigning not to notice him with a nonchalance that was almost theatrical.

‘Word has spread, Ducenarius. I’m not surprised,’ murmured Octavio at my back.

I smiled. Neither was I. Far away, in the little light thrown down by the moon, I saw the dim figure of the Nabatean tower rising up amid its jumble of black rocks. I thought for a moment on that nameless centenarius who was buried in its hallowed ground and gained some solace from the fact that no matter where he was now in the afterlife, gold coins would help him pay his way.

We gained the lip of the dunes and followed the clumps of legionaries down into a small palm grove. The trees were sparse and bedraggled. Once there had been an oasis here – a stopping-off point on that long drive east to west from the Euphrates to Damascus and back again – but the engineers who built the fort had sourced that water and opened it up as a well for Nasranum and now the palm trees here were all that was left, clinging on to a small sift of dust and sand in a low hollow amid the endless plains of the Harra. Men were already filing in among these palm trees – and I saw low candles and torches being lit and passed around. The moon hung low over the tops of the palm trees gilding them all in a silver light.

I shucked off the cloak and passed it to Octavio without a word. He wrapped it around one arm in the old senatorial style. Around me, the men opened up to let me pass through. I saw legionaries from the Quinta and also a few of the ragged men, those limitanei who stood under the standards of the two Arabi numeri. All were muffled up against the cold in heavy cloaks. All carried skins and bladders of wine. One man turned to look at me as I passed deeper into the crowd and for one moment I saw that curious ‘V’ scar on his forehead and for the second time we exchanged nods.

Then I was in the centre of the clump of palm trees. I stood alone among my brethren surrounded by the low murmur of anticipation, the gleam of candles and torches, the fitful wink of moonlight from hilt and torc. I breathed in the night air and felt its coolness seep down my neck like ice-chilled wine.

And there in the east it rose – the purple haze of the dawn, a welt under the velvet of the night sky, washing away the diamonds like a spreading cloak of imperial glory. A single line of fire arced across the lip of a dune – a scar, a cut of light against the night. I smiled then. Behind me, Octavio began whispering the ancient Etruscan litany, his words dim and faintly grotesque, raising the hackles on my neck. These were ancient words. Words which stood at the founding of Rome. Words which echoed our glory across the world, the imperium itself. He sung those words at first in a low whisper and then in a rising cadence to match the rising light of the sun. Above us stood the eternal majesty of Sol and Selene, conjoined together as Great Father and Great Mother, and as their light commingled so began also the Kalends of Quintilius, the ‘fifth’ month, known also as the month named after Julius Caesar himself – Quintilius, the month honoured as the founding date of our legion also known as the Quinta, the Fifth, by divine providence. So began the first day of the most auspicious month for us in this legion, high above our heads and the tops of the palm trees. Together, the sun and moon merged, our day began, and the legion would arise anew in honour and memory under the auguries of the ancient gods of Rome.

I heard a soft neighing then. I heard Octavio reach the climax of his Etruscan litany, the words lilting and soft and somehow obscene – then he ceased. A stillness fell over us all in that decaying oasis. Dawn had arrived on the Kalends of Quintilius. We all turned with only that silent movement that legionaries have trained into them. There, caparisoned in silver and gold, stood the white horse, that beautiful animal, her intelligent eyes on me as if Selene herself now reposed in her. My horse – won on the field of battle; pristine; magnificent; a charger worthy of an emperor or a demi-god like Alexander or Achilles. She stood there alone bearing a silver and gold-chased saddle, its horns gleaming from the light of a score of candles and torches. Her mane fell down one neck like a white waterfall.

I reached down and unsheathed the knife and raised it high above me so that it sparkled in the fresh sunlight.

‘For the Fifth’, murmured Octavio, at my side.

‘Always’, I responded.

[Knonfoda]

Interesting. Good to see the depiction of some traditional ceremonies. I wonder if the sacrifice will be well received however?

[SeniorBatavianHorse]

I too wonder that, my friend!

[Ybbon]

"No animals were hurt in the making of this AAR".... ?

[SeniorBatavianHorse]

You mean apart from all the Saraceni horses? Of course not!