Quinta Macedonica Legio - completed and retitled in honour.

[tomySVK]

Very good narrative and the screenshots of marching army in the last two updates are simply epic. Very nice AAR, I should read it from the beginning

[Diocle]

I'm reading, my repertoire of English words is too limited to tell you how much I like your.....Novel (but one day I'll try!!), great, truly great reading Dominus!!!!.........And now..........the screenshots!!......!!

[Ybbon]

Will we get a big battle as a Christmas present? I think I am as wound up waiting for something to happen as the Macedonica are!

[SeniorBatavianHorse]

Thanks for the praise, guys! As for a Xmas present - now that would be telling! (tomySVK - reading from the begining? Now that is masochistic!)

[Knonfoda]

Excellent, riveting stuff SBH! Finally took the time to read the last two updates. The buildup to this battle has really been immense, and I find myself asking, like others here, what the future (read christmas) holds? :p

[Diomede]

Oh come on, give us the battle, give us the battle!
Repped, of course.

[Bregil]

20 pics - that little? Boy are you in for a treat, Bregil!

Well as a fellow AAR author, I know that using more than 10-15 pics for a battle in a typical update gets extremely tedius. The way you're doing it, however, it seems you could use 4-5 installments for a single battle and it would still be riveting to read.

After all, your entire AAR is about a single unit of the Eastern Roman Empire and your last few updates have all been leading up to you attacking a nearby rebel army. Something I would have covered in a sentence or two is masterfully crafted into multiple chapters.

[SeniorBatavianHorse]

I think that is the beauty of this mod and RTW in general, Bregil - so many things happen in the game which throws up so much potential for writing. That is the art of the AAR genre - you can write epic campaigns or indeed drill down into one tiny unit to follow its fate. So much scope!

[SeniorBatavianHorse]

The Battle of the Merchant's Bane

Who will remember those faces now in these dusty cracked words on this vellum, I wonder? Sebastianus, that old soldier and companion of my dead friend and commander, Palladius; Silvanus whose rings will no doubt live on long after his own body is nothing but ash; that Frank Arbuto with his wild hair and braids; Magnus whose growl and snarl mark him always as a tough and relentless man among his soldiers; and little Barko, whose skin is so leathery that many whisper he is a spawn of some crocodile demi-god down among the Nilus and whose mocking laughter always whistles out from among his broken teeth like a lost wind – and I, Felix, Ducenarius of the Second Maniple, of the Quinta, the Macedonica, those men who hold aloft that poisoned flower we all call the acanthus and whose bloom will never wither despite the blood spilled to nourish its roots. Our faces will fade and our words will vanish as much as the tracks in this Black Desert will be scoured away by the next inconsequential wind – but not our deeds, not our deeds.

And is that not in the end what a legion truly is? Like the armillae and the torcs we wear, this old legion seven times faithful and seven times loyal is nothing but the long litany of those honours. The officers and the soldiers arrive and then pass away like shades and all that remains is the echo and the glory of the Fifth. I write not to memorialise men who were my friends but merely to uphold the honour and tradition of this legion so that there will never be a lacuna in that old fort at Oescus where now our legion resides as more than records and scrolls of the past. These words – as Angelus so presciently knew those many many days ago when he bade me pick up a stylus and write – exist to preserve our legion as much as the legionaries do who stand deep among the acanthus flowers and hold the line. And so we will all pass and fade and disappear as if we never existed but our deeds will live on for the legion will always endure as long as Rome endures – for were we not raised up by Octavian himself who plucked that first acanthus from among the hedgerows and placed its fragile flowers atop our standards and vexilla? That eternal flower of Rome itself? I write to preserve nothing more and wonder on that irony that is itself my own name – Felix . . .

It was the lads under Magnus, those fleet skirmishers and scouts of the Sixth Maniple, who fell back from the outlying dunes at dawn shouting out the curt watchword for alarm – concutio! - that stark litany every legionary fears to hear as he lies wrapped up in his cloak in the little papillio tent – and within a dozen heartbeats, we were up and desperately pulling our gear and girding the weapons. Men around me were shouting out to the exculcatores of the Sixth for more information – but I could see only a grim urgency on those hard faces as they sped past. I gazed out past the rows of grimy tents down past the slopes of the dune we were camped upon and far over to the horizon even as I buckled on my scale corselet and waited for a slave to bring up my helmet and weapons. Magnus stalked past me then and for once he was grinning a fierce grin and I almost imagined him slavering. He jerked his head north then when he saw me and gestured with his fist and fingers over the din of alarm that was spreading through the camp – three thousand, two hours away, he motioned, using the old military code – I nodded back and for one wild moment felt an exultant joy surge though me. Battle would be joined soon. Action and not that endless waiting and tension which comes from an expectation which a soldier fears might never be consummated.

Octavio jogged up beside me, his large shield slapping against his back, and caught my mood in an instant. ‘They are here, then, Ducenarius?’

The echoes of concutio! washed over and away from us like a receding tide and now all around us was that precise mechanism which is a legion gearing up for war and battle. ‘The fools have finally dared to face us, Centenarius. I pity them!’

But we both knew it was nothing but bravado that made me say those words . . . For we were in their desert and their oasis and this was their trap . . . But action always washes away doubt and uncertainty and that has always been a legion’s spine – action and deed in battle. I ordered him to assemble the biarchii and await my return and then hurried to meet the Tribune, Angelus. The slave scurried after me, my kit weighing him down. I did not care. My blood was up even as the sun crested the further dunes and a wild eldritch light seeped over us all. Battle was coming to the Quinta at last and all around me men tumbled out from the little tents cursing and shouting like whores who have discovered their money purses have been stolen. Away to the rear, I heard the neighing of horses and a cavalry tuba cry out in the measured call to arms. To my left, I saw the ragged numeri rouse themselves sleepily and noted with approval that each one already had a sword to hand or an axe tucked in his military belt. Aemilianus may not have thought much of these dirty oriental leftovers after his service under the sacred Julianus but he had at least trained them well . . .

I found Angelus surrounded by his principes and the rest of my fellow Ducenarii and already he was oiled and perfumed, his black hair glistening in the fresh light of the dawn and I knew in a instant that he had already expected this. His dark eyes regaled us all as we toiled up around him, adjusting our cloaks, tightening up the belts, rubbing the bristles on our chins – and he smiled in a cold and efficient way which simply re-affirmed why he was our Tribune and we were merely his Ducenarii. At his feet lay a crude sand-map and one of his aides was drawing rough lines in it with the tip of his spatha. All around us was chaos but now under his imperious gaze we settled down into something approaching order and concentration. I saw by his side, one of the bodyguards to our Dux Cassianus, who was nodding with approval as those lines in the sand took shape. So – orders had already been given and now all that remained was for us to receive them and put them into effect.

For a moment, I glanced over my shoulder, across the heads of the soldiers milling about across the length and breadth of the rough camp, far away to the distant horizon and light and sand, past the Mercator Plaga – and saw an ominous dust cloud rising up like an omen. Magnus had not been wrong. That cloud spoke to thousands on the march who would be here within two hours after dawn had torn the shawl of the night.

‘If the Ducenarius of the Second would care to join us?’

I snapped my attention back from that encroaching sight even as Barko whinnied a low laugh at my side.

‘The Kalb is upon us. The Dux, favoured of the Augustus Valens, was wise to have us camp this night up here among the high dunes as without a doubt the Merchant’s Bane below was a trap for us all. His foresight has allowed us a breathing space to form up for order of battle in a favourable position –'

Magnus growled at that. ‘Foresight curse him! It was you arguing with him. Any fool knows that!’

‘Only a fool would blurt out insubordination in front of his superior officers, Ducenarius,’ rejoined the Tribune with an unforgiving stare. ‘Now we will assemble the Quinta in the Praetorian Camp formation along the down slope here. First Maniple under Sebastianus will anchor the right wing refused – so – Felix hold the Second as the leading edge here – Barko, the Third alongside – Arbuto the Fourth refused – here. Silvanus, take the sagittarii of the Fifth and form them up directly behind the Second and Third Maniples. Magnus order your lads of the Sixth to stand to their rear in support. I trust we all remember how the Praetorian Camp formation works, commilliatones?’

His cold eyes allowed us no room to murmur dissent.

‘What of the numeri and those ironclads?’ asked Sebastianus, studying the sandpit.

‘The Dux has ordered that the numeri skirmishers will assemble behind the lads under Magnus as support – really only a rallying line, nothing more. Do not expect them to achieve greatness here –' we laughed at that but something in me wondered then on their battle tenacity. If I knew anything about Aemilianus it was his thoroughness. ‘The two centuries of the arcuballistae men will each form up in the right and left flank gaps – here and here – between the refused maniples and the two front facing Maniples. So. Now I am told that the Equitum Clibanariorum Palmirenorum under Parthenius will form up on our left flank in two alae. The remaining third ala will be stationed on our right flank with the Dux and his guards. We will break whatever is coming on the flowers of our legion and then these mighty riders will roll forwards and smash them all into blood and pulp. This is a not a fancy battle. I do not want to see heroic charges or desperate rallies, commilliatones. We stand our ground even if it is a shifting one and full of dust - and we let those Saraceni bastards wear themselves out. Is that understood?’ We all nodded solemnly as one. ‘Good. What are we?’

‘The Fifth,’ we returned.

‘And where do we go from here?’

Nowhere. Nowhere. Nowhere . . .

Two hours later and we were all assembled along the higher slopes of the dune in the Praetorian Camp formation – that stubborn line and angle of a legion assembled to hold a line and break the enemy like teeth against iron – and then over the far dune we saw them coming in wave after wave of cavalry and toiling infantry. Dust was their cloak. Sand their banners. The sunlight their everlasting glory and honour . . . The Saraceni of the Kalb, the men and riders of the Sons of the Dog, the bastard offspring of desert jackals and Persian whores, every one of them. On they came. Over that dune. Rank upon rank of horsemen and foot-soldiers wrestling with the large wicker shields so favoured by the desert peoples. Like a river of death pouring without let down upon us. I heard then – on the wind – the high ululating cries of these Saraceni and felt my blood chill if only for a moment. These were fierce tribesmen who called the desert mother and vengeance father and knew only the bond of the feud under an unforgiving sky.

And on they came.

A legionary over to my right shouted out – ‘Heretics! Christian dogs!’

Another picked up on that cry. ‘Nicene traitors! God abjures you all!’

Others laughed at that but then I saw Suetonius at my side frown uneasily. Above him, the draco head stood glistening in the sunlight, its long silk tail whipping left and right with impatience as if eager to be unleashed. ‘I will never understand these Christians,’ he murmured, as if to himself.

‘What is to understand, Draconarius? Kill the man not the faith. That is for their priests to debate.’

He grinned at my simple logic – then glanced past me over to the opposing dune. Alarm filled his young face. ‘And those? How do we kill those, Ducenarius?’

Rank upon rank of heavy cataphracts riders were now topping the dune and beginning to move down towards us. The sunlight gleamed from silk and iron now all burnished into a high bronzen glow. I heard the whinny of horses and caught for a moment the jangle of harness and bit. High banners rippled out from their ranks defying us and Rome – and I saw deep in them the perfidious symbols of the Sassanids. I felt my blood rise then and found myself grinning insanely. What a trap we had marched into! What a bloody fool our Dux was! Christian Saraceni aligned with Persian Zoroastrians now marching against this tiny comitatus of Rome!

Truly the gods use us for their sport . . .

[Diocle]

I'm terribly worried! that the Gods will be merciful with those good guys of the V!

[Ybbon]

This is where a whole load of earthier Latin phrases come into use....

[tomySVK]

Thanks for the praise, guys! As for a Xmas present - now that would be telling! (tomySVK - reading from the begining? Now that is masochistic!)

I didn´t check the first post of your AAR, because I had several job interviews and I didn´t have much free time, so I didn´t know you start at April. Sorry for the impulsive post above.

Thanks for another great update.

[Seika]

Pedica me (yes, it's not an actual Latin expression, shut up), your boys are in trouble, hm?

eis feliciter.

[Diocle]

Waiting with some trepidation for updates by SBH!

Do you want some Latin words?
OK! But these are quite mysterious words, like the future developments of the battle!
This is an Ancient Roman Insciption, you can read this words from the left, from the right, from up, from down: the sentence remains the same from any direction:

SATOR AREPO TENET OPERA ROTAS

S A T O R
A R E P O
T E N E T
O P E R A
R O T A S

.

[SeniorBatavianHorse]

Pedica me (yes, it's not an actual Latin expression, shut up), your boys are in trouble, hm?

eis feliciter.

'Trouble'? Where else would the Quinta be?

And as for earthier latin phrases - I only have to watch the Spartacus TV series for an idea of what they might be, ybbon66.

Diocle - ah the old latin palindrome. Sol medere pede, ede perede melos!

TomySVK - not impulsive at all - just a lot of reading to get through. Good luck if you decide to do that (it might give you a special insight into the deeper themes in the AAR by reading it in one go!).

[Diocle]

SBH nothing escapes your Knowledge!!
Maybe some tribunus or official wrote these words on the sand waiting for the Persians! Just to kill the time before killing the enemies!

[SeniorBatavianHorse]

And All Along The Mournful Front The Angels Weep

We watched amazed as these glittering riders all caparisoned in gold and chased iron trotted slowly into view across the sands. Pennants fluttered among them. Their proud horses pawed carelessly into the desert ground. The sunlight sparkled and flashed from contus-tip and shield-rim. I saw silk banners riding high into the dry air and here and there the coloured feathers of ostrich and eagle adorning their helmets. But what amazed us most as we stood in our silent ranks above that empty and desolate oasis was their discipline – they moved as one single body in an armoured line with all the poise and purpose of Roman cavalry. And there among them all stood out high the ancient Persian banners and symbols. Clearly this ‘Dog’ was no longer a desert tyrant and traitorous Saraceni. Now he was a man with an army at his beck and call.

I remembered that field of broken bones and weapons around the fort of Nasranum. I remembered its Porta Negra. I remembered the mutilated centenarius hung from that gate. I remembered that poor supply convoy and those limitanei who had been escorting it – and I remembered seeing a pearl-encrusted helmet among the Saraceni riders waving his men back away from the battered and ragged Arabi of Aemilianus at the Battle of the Unending Sighs. All this flashed through my mind as we saw those riders trot into view – and now I truly realised how naive our Dux was. This was no desert oasis used by a bandit Arab. This was a trap and a lure for this Kalb to reveal his army in all its glory and allow it to fall in splendour upon a tiny Roman army now far from home. I saw our lads glance warily then behind them and on the flanks to our own heavy cavalry – the Clibanarii under the scarred Parthenius – and wonder for a moment. Our own ‘ironclads’ were marshalled to ride down and break the ranks of the opposing infantry or hold against other equally heavily-armoured riders. These Saraceni cataphracts armoured after the Sassanid fashion would be more than a match for them on the field of battle. Men craned their necks and tried to estimate like for like then and I remember thinking the same myself.

Behind and on the flanks of these cataphracts came hundreds of Saraceni cavalry – some in silk robes and armour riding proud steeds but most being no more than desert rabble carrying that long spear favoured by all the Arabs here in the Oriens. Sprinkled in among the desert riders were scores and scores of slingers and archers, all bedraggled in dirty robes and the long wraps of the desert peoples.

Barko over to my left shouted out to get my attention in that garum mash he called latin. He was pointing over to the far left around our flank – and then I saw something that made me grunt in surprise again. Three solid blocks of foot soldiers were now advancing out from the milling mass of the cavalry. One behind the other. And they were moving in a tight formation and at a steady pace.

The little Aegyptian grinned manically and shouted out across the heads of his men: ‘Aiieee, Felix, what are these – dirty Saraceni or an army, eh?!’

‘Does it matter?’ I shouted back loudly so that my own men could hear in the Maniple. ‘They are still meat for the Quinta!’ My lads laughed at that, some hawking into the sand at their feet to show their contempt. Others jeered the advancing Saraceni as if mocking a condemned slave in the arena.

Behind me to my right among the ranks of the First Maniple under Sebastianus I heard his stern voice order silence and attention. His men were always on the right flank of the legion battle-line – that place of honour where the old First Cohort used to stand – but now they stood ‘refused’ and behind us, the Second, to protect the flank and ward off an enveloping assault. Today, we, the lads of my Maniple, would hold the right of the line and so stand in the most dangerous position. The First would be our support and shield but we would be the sword. Barko and his lads of the Third along with my Second formed the front line of the legion with Sebastianus on my refused right and the Frank Arbuto with the Fourth Maniple to the left and behind Barko. Within and behind us all stood the skirmishers of the Fifth and the archers of the Sixth Maniples under first Silvanus and then the old wolf Magnus. This was the Praetorian Camp formation – a tough defensive line formed up to hold a charge like the walls of a fort. I had heard from some old veterans that the sacred Julianus had used this formation to shatter the Allemani at Argentoratum. I had heard also that it had broken in that same battle.

The last of the slaves retired from among our ranks, carrying what was left of the water-skins with them. Far in our rear, the camp impedimenta was little more now than a straggle of men and animals and the odd wagon. If these Saraceni decided to skirt us and storm it, it would not last more than a few heartbeats. I was confident they would not risk that however. This was a battle the Kalb was waging to cement his new alliance with Persia – and as such he needed a glorious victory over Roman arms. Not a slaughter of slaves and pack animals.

We stood and waited as they approached with a casualness that was almost insolent. Tension hung in the air and was almost as insufferable as the heat and incessant sawing of the flies about us. My throat felt parched and my hands itched with sweat on the pommel of my spatha and belt buckle. Two rows back, a legionary gasped and staggered with the heat and then dropped his shield but his biarchus broke ranks and moved to kick him roundly back into place. He threw me an apologetic glance but I endeavoured to ignore him. Then something odd happened and I forgot about the men around me. The sand beneath us seemed to vibrate slowly as on a drum head. Rivulets of it began to slowly stream away from us down the low slope of the dune. Thin coils of dust rose up like insubstantial snakes from an lost fable. I frowned and gazed down at the cracked leather of my boots. Sand seemed to dance away from them in a sort of drunken frenzy but slowly as in a dream –

‘Here they come!’

That shout brought me out of that lazy reverie – and then I saw the Saraceni cataphracts put spur to horseflesh and advance towards us – at first ponderously and then with gathering momentum. Hooves thundered into the ground as over two hundred armoured riders came upon us, all wreathed now in dust and heat and the shrill neighing of their war-mounts. And the sands of the Harra echoed that clarion ride beneath us.

And I remember grinning like a wolf as the sweat streamed down my face, from under the heavy iron rim of the helmet. And behind me, a low murmur arose like a wave grounding itself on a beach of pebbles; a murmur of voices; of a chant and a litany only ever spun in war and battle. That murmur rose even above the thunder of the hooves and shrill cries of the Saraceni – and I found myself voicing that chant too despite the parched throat and rough lips –

Acanthus bright we fight

Acanthus bloom our doom

Ever loyal ever faithful

The Fifth, the Fifth

And then like a fury from Hades I shouted out the command to release the heavy javelins with my spatha high all silver and full of fire in the sunlight.

[Diocle]

"Ad latus stringe! Dirige frontem!! Junge!!! Legio V Macedonica!! Semper Pia, Semper Fidelis!!!!"

[LegolasGreenleaf]

Congrats on getting third, and best of luck for the next MAARC!

[SeniorBatavianHorse]

"Ad latus stringe! Dirige frontem!! Junge!!! Legio V Macedonica!! Semper Pia, Semper Fidelis!!!!"

I may just use that, Diocle! Thanks.