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Thread: [RS 2.1a Roman (Auxiliary) AAR] Serving Your Oppressor [COMPLETED]

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    McScottish's Avatar The Scribbling Scotsman
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    Default [RS 2.1a Roman (Auxiliary) AAR] Serving Your Oppressor [COMPLETED]

    Authors Note: This is going to be a prose-based AAR with lots of writing and little to no pictures, please do not ask me to put pictures in...because I won't...but feel more than free to comment, ask questions, and so forth if you wish.



    (Credit to the VRoma Project)


    Prologue


    What is it to be in the service of those who kill your kindred, who take your land and your freedom and to serve them as if they were your own chieftain? What manner of resentment, bitterness and thoughts of vengeance must we harbor towards them?

    These things and more you, reader, will find out in this account of my life and my travels in the service of an empire of which I was no part. I write, yes I can write, in the language of those who took me away from my homeland and which I was forced to learn to progress in the ranks so that I may be understood by upper and lowers classes, younger and older citizens, and anyone else who may have the time and ability to pick up this volume and find it of interest.

    Let me begin, therefore, by introducing myself in the only way I know how and that is in the manner of names.

    My name is Marcus Laenas, named for the cloak I so commonly employ in times of heat and times when there is a lack of it, a cloak I was given in my younger years and never discarded. This, of course, is not my true name, my birth or given name, but is the name by which I am known. Names are an odd thing, I often thought, they can make things seem harmless or more terrifying and I was not greatly mistaken. Why, would anyone have feared the Persian Immortals if they had been named otherwise? Well, perhaps, they did exude a fearsome reputation but without the name it would not likely have been the same, do you not think?

    Anyway, before I become diverted from my true purpose, and the purpose of these prose, I will continue on with the tale of my life and hope that you take from it what you can, learn from it and, in doing so, avoid mistakes that I made...beginning with one when I was only sixteen years of age.

    - M. Laenus
    Last edited by McScottish; December 18, 2011 at 08:08 AM.

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    McScottish's Avatar The Scribbling Scotsman
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    Default Re: [RS 2.1a AAR] Serving your oppressor





    In bed with the Enemy, Part I

    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    As far as my birth and childhood concern you, reader, whoever you may be, they were both normal for one of my people and not much different from any other youth that I knew as I grew into a man. Now there is a vast difference to me growing into a man and actually 'becoming' a man as I later would. Anyway, I think I ought perhaps to tell you exactly who are my people and how did I come to be serving in the glorious Roman war machine in the first place.

    My birth name was Thiacus and I was born into the tribe which the Romans know as the Dacii or, as I was later to discover, also known as the sons of the wolf. In later years it was interesting and quite humorous alongside, when I was approached even by senior centurions and asked why we Dacii were known as such and, even though I know why, they never found out...for it was not for them to know!

    Carrying on, my mother and father were both successful bee-keepers and our produce of honey was well known in other tribes and our own. My father was also a warrior in times of need, as had been his grandfather and his father before him and so on, the curved sica which I was to inherit having been passed down since the beginning of his familial line and finally into my hands. It is an item and a lethal weapon that shall also be passed to my eldest son in time, gods willing.

    While a young boy growing up I was to become accustomed to a variety of skills which served me well in later life, including hunting, tracking and the best ways in which to kill a man as instructed by my father, though I would not kill a man before many years later. These skills aside, I would play as any other boy, wrestling, chasing and horsemanship coming naturally to me as the years progressed. By the time the day came when I was to leave I was already lean and strong, like the wolf, versed in things that the Romani could never truly understand, but I am again getting ahead of myself now.

    When I finally did meet one of the fabled 'Romans', tales told about these olive-skinned peoples even in my village, I found myself to be somewhat disappointed at what I saw.

    The man, mounted upon a fine looking mare of ashen grey, was certainly darker than we and also somewhat shorter in stature but he held a sort of arrogant authority that I came to know all too well. Speaking through an interpreter of the northern-settled Costoboci he addressed us, our entire tribe gathered to hear this strange man clad in his ornate armour and accompanied by a whole entourage of similar looking soldiers.

    “Greetings from the Senatus Populusque Romanus and our leading citizen Quintus Fabius Maximus,” he began and apparently by way of greeting, “my name is Spurius Popillius Laenas, tribunus militi of the Res Publica, and I have been commissioned to raise a force of auxiliary soldiers for our campaigns in Gaul. You will be well paid, able to keep your traditions and your own weapons, and will be returned to your homes and families when the campaign is over.”

    From this single speech, keen reader, you may be able to tell that I was to take at least one of my Latinized names the man who would become my commander in the years that followed. It would turn out that he was a confident and loyal man of middle age, a knight of the equestrian class and, so it turned out, a publicani or tax collector of the Res Publica.

    Well...these were conditions that any young male would be displeased to see pass them by, and I was no different in that respect. I went straight to my father and told him I was going to volunteer, he never tried to stop me, he simply nodded his shaggy head and passed his sica to me as he told me to bring both it and myself back when my service to these outsiders was complete. To this day I still do not know what he truly thought, or if it was anything different at all. My mother was different and groaned and wailed, grabbing at me and telling me not to go, tears streaming down her pale face and her blue eyes wet with tears, images that still haunt me painfully as I sleep.

    It took a number of years to gather the manpower which was required by this Maximus, required for war against other free people in the west who had been harassing the Romani, occupying one of their cities only to have it retaken from them, and to be used to defend her borders. By the time we had gathered the assorted band, Dacians, Thracians, Getae, Scordisci, Agrianians and even Scythes from their western settlements next to the sea, I had already come of age and was only to get older before we crossed Gallia Cisalpina fully and marched into the lands of the Helvetii.

    “Follow me and glory awaits,” he told us all on the day we departed into what the Latins call Pannonia Superior, “follow me and both your lives and your deeds will be never ending!” It transpired that he would be right about one thing, glory did indeed await us in the lands of the Gauls.



    - M.Laenas

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    McScottish's Avatar The Scribbling Scotsman
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    Default Re: [RS 2.1a AAR] Serving your oppressor



    In bed with the Enemy, Part II

    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    The journey to our eventual destination took us nearly another year and we arrived in previously Gaulish territory by the Roman year of 559 Ab Urbe Condita, or so I was reliably informed by a more 'worldly' Agrianian warrior who claimed to have been recruited in Macedonia after the Romani overran the previous regime under a king named Philippos, a king rather unknown to myself but well known to the many Thracian and Agrianian soldiers that accompanied me on the march. They kept themselves busy with stories of how the Romans had invaded from the coast and taken Pella, Edessa and Thessalonike all in swift succession, such tales boring me and to which I regularly paid no attention whatsoever.

    That summer, as we marched, there was not much to do and I remember gazing about absent mindedly at the land of the Insubres and Ligurians and thinking how fertile it looked, good for the grazing of cattle and growing of many harvests. Sunshine beat down on us all that summer long and it went by,l as summers usually do for younger men, like a blur of making camp and de-camping and marching and orders shouted out in a language that at that time I did not understand.

    Our march through the alpine passes was relatively unhindered, only the ox-drawn wagons holding us back in the slightest, the winding and narrow corridors of mountain and earth blessedly free of snow.

    All through this time Spurius kept himself and us in a jovial mood and urged everyone onwards to our awaiting fortification, due west of the recently built and named Roman legionary camp of Vindonissa. He did not tell us the reason for this, why we too could not inhabit the formerly Helvetian territory with our 'Roman' comrades-in-arms, that we were to be placed in a smaller and less well constructed camp just on the border between Helvetii land and that of their Gaulish cousins.

    Perhaps thankfully for all of us, or maybe just for my cowardly self, the Romans had bought peace from the Gauls by returning to them the re-occupied city of Nemausus and for both that summer and the winter after, even up to the year of 560 Ab Urbe Condita, the Gauls made no violent move against the masters I and my comrades served.

    Although we did not really know it at the time, news travelling as fast as the horse that could carry it, major reforms were being made throughout the Roman military and key cities of both the provinces, as well as all the cities of Italia and Sicilia. Administration was being centralised, arms and armour updated, new structures formed within the military hierarchy and all this while I was still nineteen. Quintus Maximus, in his seventy-fifth year at this point in time, remained the leading man of the senate and thus the state, hated by the plebs yet glorified by the senate and worshipped by his legions even as they changed in shape, armament and form. One of the primary reasons for this, I was told, were the vast number of veteran colonies being built to house discharged soldiers all over the Res Publica and especially in Italia itself.

    That summer, the summer of 560, legions began to be levied in Italia, Achaea, Hispania, Macedonia, Africa, Aegyptus, Rhodos and many places beside. Golden eagles were moulded, sculpted, and given to each and every legion as a symbol of Rome and their patron deity Jupiter although other animals seemed just as prevalent on smaller banners called 'vexilla' in Latin.

    This was also the season that the men of Pergamon decided to blockade the port of Rhodos and therefore, after numerous options to withdraw, became active enemies of the Res Publica. From news received by galloper it came to light that an army under Publius Sergius Catilina trapped the enemy leader, Lysias, between himself and the sea near Halikarnassos and there utterly massacred the Pergamite force.

    It also gladdened my heart greatly to receive news that Dacia, our what the Romans new as the Dacian kingdom, was expanding this way and that to encompass news territories and vast swathes of land. Friction with the Boii to the west was considered inevitable by many and it saddened my previously joyous heart to realise that I had not yet fulfilled my promise and so would remain in the dank, badly built, camp in Gallia Transalpine until my pledge to this dark-skinned stranger was done.


    - M.Laenas

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    McScottish's Avatar The Scribbling Scotsman
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    Default Re: [RS 2.1a AAR] Serving your oppressor



    Interlude I - We're Here Because We're Here!


    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    I apologise, dear reader, for now I imagine you are likely reaching for your watered-down falernian wine and pondering why my entries in this tale, one that is supposed to be my lifes work, are so unfilled with detail or any real 'colour' so to speak? My writing is as dry as your parched throats or the Mesopotamian deserts, perhaps?

    Well think on it no more for the entries previous were mere outlines...sketches of times and places from whence I came to where I have been and now, at my own pace and your own leisure, I may recall to you details in more avidity, fleshed out and more alive.

    How to begin though?

    There are so many moments etched into my memories, sights, sounds and smells, friends and comrades long gone with their various names and personalities, their desires and their loves and their weaknesses...

    It seems only right to me to begin exactly where I left off, at the fort where I was stationed which had swiftly become known amongst the citizen troops as 'castrorum*barbaros' or the camp of the barbarians. I was never quite sure how much my commander was laughed at for having an entire force of 'barbarus' by others of his rank, or senior, but I can imagine now how it must have looked from the outside to those looking in.

    We were a rag-tag group of grunting and muttering savages from outside the known borders of the Res Publica, lacking the discipline, the grit or even the dress code of a proper soldier in the Roman army. For, being told we could, we had kept our native dress and weaponry and only felt out of place once we had left the world we knew to be flung into one which seemed to disdain us even though we were ultimately there to help keep the Gauls from the gates of Roma.

    Where was I? Ah yes...

    The camp itself was of an overly basic type, four wooden palisades and a gate with no ditch, no towers and no ramparts, each wall looking as if it may be knocked down simply by staring at it too hard. It was clearly a disgrace for any Roman troops but for us it was deemed most suitable by the senate and the people of Rome, which made me realise it was no wonder the plebs hated Maximus so much.

    In the interior of the camp not much really changed either, every building in a state of some disrepair and the various training equipment left neglectfully in the small courtyard exactly the same, sword posts splintered and not replaced, blank faced shields flung carelessly to the floor and captured Gaulish longswords rusting beneath the walls shadow. We never found out who the last garrison had been and, to be truthful, we never really gave it much thought in those busy days.

    “Find yourselves a bunk and look in the storehouse for blankets and cloaks, if you need them,” Spurius told us without a second glance, and it was here that I discovered the cloak from which I also derived my name.

    It was a roughly spun cloak of wool, dyed much like our own cloaks in a plaid pattern, typically Gaulish made and as I was to discover also very hard-wearing. From the moment I entered the dusty, squat, storehouse and laid eyes on it I realised it would become as much a part of me as my sica or my shield and in years to come this only proved to be truer than could I have expected.

    Inside the barrack houses, much like the entire place, it turned out to be a disappointment to we many who had never seen Roman 'civilisation' before. There were the usual two-man bunks, four men to a room, but not nearly enough for everyone and, coming from room-fearing folk, most of us took the decision to sleep in the courtyard, or even outside the walls in the grass as long as it meant we were beneath the open sky at night.

    My own destiny led me to drawing lots for a bed and winning, setting me alongside three other outsiders of who I knew nothing. These three would eventually become close friends, and are counted as such by me to this very day.

    First amongst them was a squat man named Breucus from the people of the northern Pannonii, bull-necked and built like a battering ram, a man of quick temperament but just as quick to apologise. Next was a whippet of a man, a Thracian called Dizas of the Tranipsae, an expert in the throwing of the javelin and the running down of both men and deer. Lastly was an Agrianian by the name of Mucatus, from the tribe of the Derrones near the border with Dacia, a sturdy man of a rather advanced age who seemed to look down on everyone with a sort of arrogance usually only held by the Romans we encountered on our marches or standing beside us in battle.

    I am flagging now and my mind is weary...I must rest.

    A mind is like a weapon and to keep it sharp you must use sleep as a portion of the whetstone.


    - M. Laenas

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    McScottish's Avatar The Scribbling Scotsman
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    Default Re: [RS 2.1a Roman (Auxiliary) AAR] Serving Your Oppressor


    (Credit to Bertoldo di Giovanni)


    Interlude I.V. - We're Here Because We're Here!

    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    By our fourth week of arrival I had become accustomed to awaking with cramps in my joints and a stiff back, easily worked out at my youthful age but certainly none the less aggravating for that, these so-called beds with their blocked-in spaces and stiff mattresses were certainly a great change from I and my companions usual sleeping arrangements.

    We were all quite used to sleeping upon the floor of a wide open construct at that time, whether a hut or an even more simple shelter, sometimes even just in the grasses of the open spaces to the north of Macedonia, our spirit of freedom and liberty had not yet been plucked from us by harsh Roman regimentation and sometimes I think that this must have been all that kept us from packing up and returning home at any given opportunity.

    Not that there were not any who tried this, fleeing into the Gaulish wilderness, over the rivers and through the valleys, heading through Italia north of the Po river to return to their own tribe and people. To their credit, or my information anyway, I never heard of anyone being caught, killed, or returned to camp who chose to flee...I'm not even certain that it particularly mattered to our Roman overseers, one barbarian was just like another after all.

    Each morning we would be awoken by a buccina, ordered to assemble in the courtyard for inspection, and looked up and down by our tribunus militi mounted on his grey mare. He would ride up and down our lines, having us leave enough room for him to manoeuvre, and inspect us as if he were a man far above his station. I would learn later that this was his first command and, as an equestrian, made him especially proud even if it was leading a scraggly band of rough-and-ready non-citizen troops. After all, we really were no more than mercenaries really, and this was how we were seen by everyone else.

    “You are a disgrace as Romans,” he would announce to us through his hired, and also mounted, interpretor,” but as fighting men you are invaluable to the Res Publica and provide a service for which you will be amply rewarded.”

    After a few words he would then disperse us into groups, placed together by barrack room, and, along with others, we were left to train in whatever manner we saw fit under his ever-watchful gaze. It is hard to describe, even now, the extreme variety of training that went on inside and outside the walls of that camp-beside-the-river but I can tell you that it was a most interesting spectacle to watch.

    Here-and-there were half-naked Dacians flinging themselves at one another, sika flashing in the sunlight, shields raised to stop incoming blows and injuries ever present amongst these ferocious but undisciplined recruits whilst nearby a bunching of lightly armoured Agrianians would launch their javelins at straw dummies, others wielding their own version of the curved blade which most men present seemed to be accustomed to. The most unusual group amongst us, not related by blood or fighting style, were the Skythes from beside the sea, their foppish garments and neatly trimmed beards belying their advanced skill with the composite bow which many of us watched in awe.

    Through the summer of 560 Ab Urbe Condita we trained hard and, much as it angers me even now, we were also to find out just how much we were despised by the Romans we were paid to protect.

    Near the end of the summer our commander decided that we should see how civilised Romans lived and, as the nearest 'civilised' place was the fort of Vindonissa, that was where we went. Spurius left a skeleton guard under, the supervision of a discharged centurion named Aulus, and marched a number of us to Vindonissa.

    Even before seeing the inside of the legionary settlement one could tell that is was well-ordered, well-built, well protected and in fact much more than a simple military camp. Outside the walls, all around, were a number of thrown-up dwellings inhabited by people much more like us than the stumpy Romans and speaking a language to match their appearance. These were the Helvetii who reasoned that contact with Rome could only bring wealth and prosperity but who were clearly blind to being beneath the thumb of a greater power.

    We marched through the gates in an oddly orderly fashion and the jeers began immediately, jeers in a strange tongue which I did not understand but which I knew our commander also spoke, the tongue which I would need to learn later in my lifetime. Even before I marched over the ditch and into the organised interior I could hear shouts of, what I assumed, to be abuse and when I saw those smirking and simpering Italic faces I knew that my thoughts were not wrong.

    Most of the day passed without incident, myself and two of my barrack comrades sampling Roman food and the pleasures of the Roman baths, a thing we had not experienced before because we were forced to bath in the river near to out encampment.

    This would not last , however, and a disgruntled Dacian who was pushed too far by the Romans around him drew his sika in anger and was promptly gutted like a fish by a number of armed legionnaires. Strangely enough chaos did not suddenly erupt, no other 'barbarian' charging forward to avenge the mans death, only a peculiar silence and the most intense glares of hatred I had seen up to that point in my life. It was also the first time I had seen a man kill another man, my father having kept me well away from any fighting as I grew up, my heart leaping out my chest as his blood spurted forth and stained the ground and the tunics of his attackers with a crimson shade.

    Something was awoken in me that day, a double-edged blade you could call it, like the gladius I would later wield, I felt both cold emotion towards these laughing and cackling Romans who so easily slew an outsider but also an elation that was only to be magnified a thousandfold when I killed my own first man.

    What of the men who killed my countryman, I hear you ask?

    Well they were punished, or so I was told, but not with death and that, my friend, is exactly what they deserved.

    When we returned to our own encampment, Spurius storming away to his private quarters as soon as he dismounted, I went to the shared shrine of the gathered men, a simple altar inside a simple housing inscribed with all our names and the deities we worshipped, and prayed to Zalmoxis that he would grant me battle and perhaps even a worthy death. Equal with this I greeted the wolf as my kin and asked that it grant me its strength and fury in battle.

    I prayed that it would happen soon.


    - M.Laenas

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    Ybbon's Avatar The Way of the Buffalo
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    Default Re: [RS 2.1a Roman (Auxiliary) AAR] Serving Your Oppressor

    A good solid start, well described, and definitely getting a sense of being there. +rep

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    McScottish's Avatar The Scribbling Scotsman
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    Default Re: [RS 2.1a Roman (Auxiliary) AAR] Serving Your Oppressor

    Many thanks ybbon, your own AAR is exceptionally well written and quite a fine read too.

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    Boustrophedon's Avatar Grote Smurf
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    Default Re: [RS 2.1a Roman (Auxiliary) AAR] Serving Your Oppressor

    McScottish, I love it I really do! If you pump out a few more updates it'd be very very interested in reviewing it for the Critic's Quill I love the atmosphere and your writing alot, I wish mine could be as good. Keep up the great work and of course +rep

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    McScottish's Avatar The Scribbling Scotsman
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    Default Re: [RS 2.1a Roman (Auxiliary) AAR] Serving Your Oppressor

    Well...geeze...you've actually quite humbled me there, Boustrophedon! I shall gladly do as you ask and would just as gladly have you review it, though there are far better writers than myself about at the minute. Including yourself, of course! My most modest thanks to you, sir.

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    Ybbon's Avatar The Way of the Buffalo
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    Default Re: [RS 2.1a Roman (Auxiliary) AAR] Serving Your Oppressor

    Quote Originally Posted by McScottish View Post
    Many thanks ybbon, your own AAR is exceptionally well written and quite a fine read too.
    Oh, the History Project, yeah that died, I had to unistall and re-install various times and not played that for ages. Mind you, I have the saves, maybe it's time to resurrect it. He's heading for a D--- otherwise

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    McScottish's Avatar The Scribbling Scotsman
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    Default Re: [RS 2.1a Roman (Auxiliary) AAR] Serving Your Oppressor




    A long peace before the War, 560-564 A.U.C.



    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    The times were changing for Rome, as far as I could tell from within a barrack quarter or a wooden stockade, like a sleeping god waiting to be awoken by the pestering of too many mortals before wreaking heavenly destruction upon them for their impudence. Let it be known now that this is not too far from the truth of what happened in the well-known year of 564 Ab Urbe Condita but, once again, I am getting ahead of myself and will return to these vital events at a later date.

    I surveyed and gathered every scrap of information I could while in the camp of Spurius Laenas, even going so far as to harass disgusted looking Roman gallopers as they attempted to leave the confines of our, by then, more secure encampment. It was through doing this and asking as many questions as I could, with what little Latin I knew, that I discovered outside events as no other comrade of mine and was regularly looked to for news of homelands and what the Romans would do with us next.

    It was through this rather unique channel that I went even further to becoming a man, at least in the eyes and traditions of my people, for on a day not long after my twentieth cycle of life I was approached by a group stern looking men, each wearing a felt cap, and with the swagger of those who could only belong to the tarabostes or nobility of my people.

    “Young one,” the first, and I assumed the leader of the five-man band, said by way of greeting as he neared me, where I sat eating my mornings issue of porridge in the rather placid air of Helvetian land, “I would have words with you about our homeland if you wish to share them?”

    Upon noticing the cap I knelt respectfully before them and lowered my eyes, as it has always been, the bear of a man tutting and bidding me rise so that we may both sit and speak of things. So it was that, as he and I took a seat only an arms breadth apart, his companions milled about around as if some form of bodyguard. As if reading my thoughts the man followed my gaze, gave an enigmatic smile, and spoke up, making me flinch in surprise.

    “My name is Droiaebus and, yes, those are my bodyguards you see standing about us,” his voice was like two rocks being scraped together and I could not help but stare at his grey eyes, eyes that seemed to hold wisdom, loyalty, friendship and love all in one, “I am a younger prince of Teurisci and my father, in his infinite soundness, sent me with this foreigner to assure his loyalty in years to come.”

    Though I had not been sent as a hostage, as this sturdy man had, I nonetheless felt an inkling of the emotion he showed on that day and nodded my head in empathy for his situation.

    “What would you wish of me then, my lord?” I asked, probably raising my eyebrows until they could not be seen beneath my long red hair, “I wish to know everything you have learned about the situation of my brethren, or yours for that matter, as well as your knowledge of these Romans.”

    About three hours it took me, divulging every bit of information I could to this man who I had only just met, but who commanded my respect more than any other in the camp, telling him that our peoples were expanding in all directions and that even some form of unity seemed to have taken hold of all the warring hill-tribes and shepherding people in the lower plains. What I told him seemed to satisfy him and, with a smile on his face, he pointed out a man amongst his retinue who appeared older than any of the others but who stood with a rigid back any Roman would have been proud of.

    “That man there is Arunaza, he is a man of the gods, see him before the sun fades from the sky at the temple of the gods, he will further you advancement as a man.”


    **********


    Before the sun set across the sky, dipping as it was below the horizon, before we were told to head to our barracks for sleep, I approached the fearsome looking man at the temple and was surprised to see him preparing something on the altar. When I questioned him as to the nature of it he simply told me to be silent and carried on moving around, here to there to here and back again, never seeming to remain still for long before, finally, he turned to me and beckoned me approach.

    “Your name, tribe, and people?” he queried, “Thiacus, son of Gatanos, of the tribe of Rhatacense of the people of the Dacii,” I replied in as proud a voice as I could muster when faced with this gaunt but steely-eyed priest, “that will do then...please be seated.”

    He moved about me with a purpose and the first indication I even had of his intentions was when the first, but certainly not last, pin-prick caused me to open my eyes wide in more astonishment than any actual pain.

    “Keep still!” He chided me, “unless you wish to have colours all over you face.”

    So there I sat for over an hour, enduring constant scraping, pricking and dying of the flesh, this sanctified man patterning my flesh from my face down to my navel. It was not a painful process by all accounts, having received far worse myself in the line of duty to Rome, and actually did make me feel more like a man than I had before.

    Arunaza had marked me with the linear and swirling indications of my people, my father having similar markings, though my memory had forgotten that up until this point. Thinking back from that moment I could, almost clearly, picture my father and his linear and swirling patterns of red, black and blue dyed into his physique and how I marvelled at them when he trained by himself or with others on the lush land around or tribal village.

    Now I too, by doing a favour for another, higher, being than myself had earned these marks which would identify as much as my cloak for the remainder of my lifetime.


    **********


    While all this was taking place, it transpired, Quintus Maximus, now far into his twilight years, was still in Roma ordering the senate about. By this news and more did I come by tidings that truly he was remoulding the Res Publican military into a machine of his designs and making.

    Limitations, of land, wealth and the like for military service, had been removed from law and likewise plans for state-funded units of non-citizens were also being put into effect at the time of my hearing this. Surely this must have been a slap in the face for every conservative senator who had lived to see the last forty to fifty years and remembered fights against enemies using maniples and lines, only now to have them split into cohorts and an entirely new hierarchy implemented and, not least of all, equestrians leading newly formed legions!

    The new legions, wherever they were raised, were uniformly supplied with armour, weapons and anything else by the state and the state alone. Each was given a silver or golden eagle blessed by all the senate in a ceremony that lasted a day and was re-introduced every time a new legion was formed. Payment, bounties and the like were all paid from the treasury of the Res Publica and it was not against any laws to steal what you could from a defeated enemy.

    Provinces such as Africa, Hispania, Aegyptus and Cyprus were also given blanket citizenship for loyalty to the Res Publica and, alongside those most recently given this privilege such as Macedonia, Epirus, Rhodos and Lykia et Pamphylia, were requested to raise thoroughly organized and inspected legions from the most Romanised of the local inhabitants. Of course feral tribesmen such as ourselves, Numidians of the African deserts, and only recently conquered Lusitanians from the newly formed province of Lusitania were excluded from such privileged recruitment.

    Legion orders were in latin, the uniforms were that of the Romans, each legionnaire was subject to Roman law, to Roman religion...well Roman everything really...all traces of ethnic identity stamped out so exhaustively that these former provincials may as well not have been outsiders of Italia at all.

    Of course, citizens from Italia or Sicilia were the highest paid, trained and respected and those tribesmen like myself, who did not qualify for entry to a legion, may have been welcome in these 'auxiliary' cohorts which Quintus proposed and which a number of prominent senators backed strongly.

    In the winter of 562 Ab Urbe Condita, sat on guard duty beside a fire next to the gate, I accosted a recent messenger about these changes. He drew back from me because, well, I was a shaggy-haired barbarian who could barely string a sentence of latin together but who could understand it by listening as easily as drinking a cup of water. What I did get from him was information that Quintus had began the formation of these units, drawing together citizens of Italia only into the first cohors millaria of Italica Voluntariorum C.R. which was levied at Tarentum, similar cohorts being raised all over the island of Sicilia from the well Romanised population. Two years later I was to hear of the first cohors Alexandreorum which was raised from native Egyptians at Alexandria.


    **********


    From 560 Ab Urbe Condita, until the winter of 564, skirmishes continued to be fought in the province of Lykia et Pamphylia against Pergamite incursions but no damage was not and every army swiftly defeated. Of a more serious matter was the expansion of a Greek coalition, a gathering of like-minded poleis, intent on destroying the former Roman allies of Sparte and unbalancing the equilibrium present in mainland Hellas at the time. These Greeks even went so far, I hear, as to demand a payment from the Res Publica in return for not declaring war upon them, I need to say that this was promptly refused.

    564 Ab Urbe Condita and the Res Publica stood on the brink of a major invasion, irregular 'legions' or 'numerii' of Illyrian and Dalmatian tribesmen already filtering from those provinces and down into lower Macedonia and Epirus in preparation for something big. Legions were recruited, trained and gathered with all haste, frontier forces girding themselves to fight off any threat from outside the theatre of war and my own commander Spurius almost flushed with joy at the news.

    It seemed that it would not be Gauls we were to fight, even though the Arverni had been attempting to expand into Sequani territory, but the Romans cousins across the water, those cultured and highly sophisticated Greeks. Not only this but, on his eightieth birthday, Quintus Maximus declared officially that we were to wipe out both the rebellious Grecian confederation and the Spartans who had once assisted us in keeping them in their place. They were then to be incorporated into the Res Publica and their fighting men to be put to 'more worthy uses'.

    When a messenger on a light steed rode through the gates of the encampment and entered our commanders quarters we, we barbarians taken from our homelands and still without payment from these wine-drinking Romans, knew what it meant. It meant we were to head into Greece, close to our homelands, and fight a war which was not ours. A perfect place for mutiny and desertion...one might think...

    All I knew was that Zalmoxis, though it had taken him years, had finally answered my prayers.


    - M.Laenas

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    McScottish's Avatar The Scribbling Scotsman
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    Default Re: [RS 2.1a Roman (Auxiliary) AAR] Serving Your Oppressor



    Interlude II - Changing of the Guard - Winter 564 A.U.C to Summer 566 A.U.C



    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    I remember the day we were to leave the fort-by-the-river, the place that had been our home for nearly six years, as if it were that very day. At least in my mind I do, in my body I feel weaker and more frail with every passing day, a sign that I should to bed perhaps but what care you, my faithful reader, as long as I finish my tale, eh?

    The day that our commander, Spurius Laenas, was relieved and ordered to the Hellenic theatre of conflict was a day of extreme cold, I remember. It was not cold in the sense of just an icy mountain range, it was cold as in the cold that seeps into your soul before battle or that paralyses you with fear. In my head I like to think I felt that way because we were leaving and, now that the time I had actually come to move off, I refused in my heart to leave.

    “Salve, Spurius Laenas,” greeted a man on a chestnut mount, raising his hand in the formal Roman salute I would come to learn so well, he rode until he was alongside our tribunus and reigned in beside him, “I am Appius Livius Macatus and here to replace you with my own band of barbarus auxiliaries.”

    Only then, within earshot of the two conversing officers, that I realised what was raising the dust cloud further down the road, not that it took very long afterwards for me to find out by myself.

    Rank upon rank of clearly well-drilled but still plainly non-Roman soldiers marched past our ranks that had been assembled at the roadside to allow them passage, they were men taken from Gallia Cisalpine, from the Insubrii, cavalry from the Ligurii and Cenomanii, large infantry contingents from the Taurinii and more. Tall men, eyes staring forward as they marched in step, with beards and long hair and tattoos which marked their faces and bodies. The Ligurii, atop their more finely kept mounts, had none of these markings but certainly held better equipment than the Insubrii with their hexagonal shields, longswords and easily forged spears.

    Our own ranks, in comparison, held figures of quite some splendour now that they were fully armed and armoured. One group was the large gathering of tarabostes from various Dacian tribes, all hostages I imagined, armed in fine golden scale and bearing both a sturdy shield and a falx to each man, a sign of their status and of their fighting prowess. Even the colourful Skythes, with their loose trousers, tunics and caps of oranges, golds and white outdid these drab looking Celts.

    For my own part I was really not much to look at, being assigned to a group of Getic archers, men of the Getae who like myself had been trained to hunt from a very early age, each one of us given a plain looking composite bow but allowed to keep our secondary weapons beside. Dressed as we were in dark skins and brown woollens we were not much to look at, only my Gallic made cloak causing me to stand out amongst these comrades of mine who I could barely understand.


    **********


    As we marched towards southern Hellas, known to the Romani as Achaea, to wipe both the free-cities and the Spartans from the face of the earth, I had much more time to reflect upon events so far and greater opportunity to study things around me. After all, it was winter! Everything goes slower in winter, whether by the gods design or some unknown reason, the only reason we had been chosen to march was because Quintus Maximus considered our band made up of efferus (or savage) tribesmen from areas where we had become almost immune to the cold. It was one of those typically Roman assumptions which would mar my military career even after my discharge, but I am getting ahead of myself...

    We marched once more through the alpine passes, progress slower this time, avalanches and snow-drifts taking their toll on our numbers before we even got to the stretched out plains of Gallia Cisalpine which were, unlike my previous foray this way, now covered in layer after layer of crisp white snow. If I did not know that these fields were primarily used to power the Roman juggernaut then I would have even said they were beautiful, but anything that could or would be later used to oppress my people was ugly to me and always remained so.

    Weeks of marching and toil sapped us of our strength and, as we neared Illyria, so close to Pannonia and, beyond that, our homelands, there began talk of mutiny and conspiratorial whispers of desertion. I took no notice of these and refrained from informing our tribunus, the weight of the campaign already engraved heavily on his inexorable features, time taking its share of vitality from every man marching with me that winter of 564 Ab Urbe Condita.

    In bits and pieces I heard that two legions, the I and II Macedonica, raised from Romanised Macedonians and Italian veterans, had been mobilised and sent marching towards the northern border of Boeotia that winter and even that Quintus Maximus, along with one of his newly appointed Praetorian Prefects Appius Artorius Trigeminus and two praetorian cohorts, had set sail from Ravenna and directed the nauarchus towards Epirus.

    Anyway...we marched until our feet were bled and blistered and until the only supplies we had left were rather uneatable porridge oats. Many of our men begged the tribunus to allow us to go and hunt wild game but, as we were marching through Gallia Cisalpina and Illyria, both either a Roman province or at least a Roman client state, he ordered that what game there was should be left for the local inhabitants and not the grumbling bellies of offensive Dacian tribesmen. Someone may have even corrected him on the point that we were not all Dacii but, of course, being Roman, we all looked and acted the same to him. There were times when I hated that man and times when I loved him, at this point in time I simply resented him.


    **********


    Many things happened during the summer of 565 Ab Urbe Condita, I advanced a cycle in age for one thing, now nearly midway between how many cycles of life a man ought to live (that being fifty, dear reader), and we finally reached our target position in southern Epirus and on the borders of northern Boeotia.

    Quintus F. Maximus, lead man of the Res Publica, had died on-board ship on his way to Epirus to join his troops and as such the nauarchus was recalled and Sextus F. Maximus, his eldest son, took the reigns of the Res Publica into his own experienced hands. Like his father before him he wanted to be seen as a conqueror, even at the age of sixty-one, and so embarked almost immediately once more as the fleet returned to Ravenna, vowing that he would see his fathers will completed and leaving Roma in the capable hands of the second Praetorian Prefect Manius Tunius Pullus, a loyal and disciplined man equally good to the task of governing cities as to leading cohorts into battle.

    As time progressed we made headway into southern Illyria, near Arupium, and it was here, as we set our camp for the night, that a mixed force of over a hundred Thracian and Agrianian tribesmen decided that they had washed their hands of the Res Publica and fled without looking back. Only in the early morning light, after the buccina awoke us for inspection, did we realise the extent of the desertion but in spite of myself I could not help but smile at the gall of these men. It transpired that even two of my own barrack-mates, Dizas of the Tranipsae and Mucatus of the Derrones, had fled with the rest and, in my heart and silently on my lips, I wished them the best of fortune and luck.

    Lacking over three-hundred fighting men, Spurius flogging a number of us who remained in a vain attempt at punishment, we upped camp and slogged through both Dalmatia and Epirus until we reached Calydon in Aetolia where we were allowed to rest. Some men decided to wash away the dirt and grime of the march in the Grecian river of Evinos while a few, like myself, made pilgrimage to the sanctuary of the Laphrion within the city walls.

    Now, before I regale you with my experiences in the sanctuary, I think it would be prudent to tell you a few things to lay out my context of circumstance.

    I was a twenty-four year old Dacian tribesman, lean, barbaric and considered beneath the social status of most 'civilised' peoples such as the Greeks and Romani. While it is true that I may have been enlisted from a backwater tribe in the middle of Dacia, our largest produce being that of honey and sometimes iron, I was far from the level of stupidity with which the soft southern people would credit me with. Already, in a manner of a few years, I had managed to pick up enough latin to make myself generally understood and certainly enough to be able to eavesdrop without those sneering, wrinkle-nosed, offspring of goat fodder knowing. No, I could not write then and, no, I did not understand the true purpose of anything the Romani did at that time, these things I would learn in later, but what I did know was that my soul craved for battle and that we were heading towards it with all haste.

    Greece, Hellas, whatever you wish to call it, could not have been more different from my homeland and I marvelled at the tall buildings and life-like statues of painted marble wherever I went. I and my bull-necked companion Breucus seemed to empty streets of perfumed Greeks and toga-wearing Romani, passing here-and-there other outsiders like ourselves, my eyes and ears taking in the sights and sounds as we went.

    When we got to the sanctuary of Artemis and Apollo, I remember nearly falling to my knees as I stared up at the towering representations of these two deities, their own eyes gazing down unblinkingly at the mortals who crowded like ants around their base. I also remember, with some laughter, a pair of Greek priests attempting to shoo me and my companion from the inner sanctum of their gods which, I can state now, did not work in the slightest bit. Instead we pushed through them, doing our best to look ferocious and barbarous, and knelt as others did at the feet of the two. It may interest the reader to know that even in the northern lands, where Zalmoxis and the Thracian gods reign supreme, we know of and equally worship those gods which you call 'Greek' or 'Roman' for, as my father used to tell me, “son, it doesn't matter from whence the help comes, just be glad when you're in battle and a god is kind enough to hear your prayers.”

    “Apollo light-bringer and Lycoctonus, son of the she-wolf Leto, bring me glory in battle and the strength to strike down my enemies and let their blood run free along my blade,” I began, probably startling the nearby patrons with my grunting barbarian tongue, “and Artemis of the bow and hunt, let my arrows strike true and fast, let those who would harm me fall before the flight of my arrow and the release of my bow.”

    By then the incense of the place, clogging and irritating to my throat and eyes, had began to get a little too much for me and I was forced to retreat with my Pannonian companion back into the reasonably fresh air of the streets without.


    **********


    It was bought to the attention of my commander, a few days later, that shortly after our own landing Sextus, son of Quintus, had made landfall in Aetolia and was now advancing on our own position. Not only this but an Italian legion, the I Italica, under Gaius Terentius Varro and his son Spurius T. Varro were also sailing with all haste toward the area of war. Later we would find that a separate legion, the I Rhodorum, made up of Rhodian citizens, under Titus Lucretius Triciptinus, were ordered to make their way into Attika and besiege the city of Athenae with all haste.

    Though it seemed to me, in those far off days, that the entire Res Publica must me mobilising for war when in actuality it was no more than a fraction of the strength which the leading man, Sextus Maximus, could call upon if he wished to in times of need. Of course there were other leading families of the time, the Scipii, Aemilii and the Caecilii, but the Maximii controlled the both greatest estates and had the largest support in the senate, for any of these other families to have challenged them at this time would have been suicide of the highest order.

    I would have war soon enough, sooner than I thought, and in the few years that followed this summer I would finally become a man, a fully fledged man, in the eyes of my people and my gods.

    - M. Laenas

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    Boustrophedon's Avatar Grote Smurf
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    Default Re: [RS 2.1a Roman (Auxiliary) AAR] Serving Your Oppressor

    Mhm sweet updates ^^ I usually prefer pictures when reading an AAR but your writing is good enough that you don't really need pictures. Keep up the great work, man! You also chose a very special viewpoint, that of an auxiliary, so I'm interested to see how your story will progress +rep naturally

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    McScottish's Avatar The Scribbling Scotsman
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    Default Re: [RS 2.1a Roman (Auxiliary) AAR] Serving Your Oppressor



    Interlude II.V. - The Day I Understood - Winter 565 A.U.C


    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    Ah yes, you are correct, observant reader, that I did not fully fulfil my promise of bringing to your attention more detail of the events that are drawn from my memory and implanted into these papyri lain out before me. Well, may the gods damn your eyes if you doubted me, for I intend to rectify this mistake immediately...beginning with a very special point in my life indeed.

    Let me tell you, the day I met the leading citizen in all the Res Publica, the son of the great reformer Quintus F. Maximus, was a day that would change my life for both the better and in more emotional ways for the worse, a day with both highs and inevitably the lows that follow.

    It was an unloving winters day in the year 565 Ab Urbe Condita, when no matter how many layers of clothing you piled onto yourself you could not seem to get warm, feet froze and lips cracked and even to a northern barbarian like myself it was an experience that I had never known before. Sat inside a make-shift shelter, snow pattering down atop it, I ate a bowl of half-warm gruel and coughed and spluttered to myself, nearly spitting out the mouthful I forced myself to hold in, with Breucus simply glaring into the miniature fire we had managed to light inside our shared dwelling.

    “They told me that Hellas was supposed to be warm,” he grunted from the darkness, his pale face contrasting well with the snow and the shadows, “but all we get is pissing gruel and our toes falling off. When that pompous Roman turned up at my village promising food and riches, this was the last thing I expected.”

    I could only nod in agreement and slurp down the rest of my watery porridge, thinking on the Pannonians words and even wishing I had had the guts to desert weeks earlier. Instead I had followed our tribunus into the freezing mouth of the underworld and, all around us in shelters similar to our own, men long overdue from their families and hearths were in similar straits. Already frozen bodies, those of former sentries, had been found huddled like a baby next to a tree by their relief, the body count mounting day-by-day, if something was not done soon then Laenas would lose his entire command without a single sword-stroke or spear-thrust from the enemy.


    **********


    When our glories leader Sextus Fabius Maximus, figurehead of the Res Publica and head man of the Roman senate, rode into our encampment on the morning of the very next day the very first thing I thought was how he looked the spitting image of his father Quintus the Reformer. From coins that now lay in my pockets I could tell, even from a distance, that he had the same lack of hair, the same hooked nose and the same unforgiving face as his forbearer.

    Accompanying him were a squadron of cavalry, of a type I had not yet seen before, mounted each on horses of a fine quality, possibly Spaniard bred, and armoured from around the torso in more Sarmatian or Skythian like protection of overlapping scale polished to a burnished shine. As these men thundered passed, Sextus eager to meet our own commander no doubt, I noted the height of the men and the uniformity of the group, as well as the symbols upon their shields, and knew then that these could only be the fabled praetorians that I had heard quite a lot about.

    Awaking the next morning to the sound of the brass buccina, by now learnt to be blown by a Thracian trumpeter, we were assembled in marching order and tramped in the cutting morning air towards a construct I knew had not been there the day before. As I rubbed contemptuously at the remains of Morpheus's dust upon my eyelids, I was wakened even further when the entire world seemed to shake beneath me, the tread of marching feet and the blasting of buccina that smashed the tranquillity of the moment as well as any battering ram breaching a fortress gate.

    From the right of, what I realised was a hastily thrown up dais, they came, marching in perfect unison to wheel away and finally end up standing on either side of the dais. Two full cohorts of praetorian legionnaires and, I tell you now, a distinct shudder of fear went through me and a cold feeling ran down my spine as I looked upon the face of a seemingly unbeatable enemy. I had just witnessed a non-literal example of the Res Publicas might and these men standing before me, in their polished metal shells with their perfectly combed crests, frightened the very heart of me and genuinely made me fear for both my life at that moment and what they may be able to achieve if they were ever to enter the tribal lands north of here. I did not know then that eventually I would come to learn exactly that.

    “Hail Maximus! Hail Maximus! Hail Maximus!”

    My thoughts were shattered by the shouts and I lifted my sullen eyes to look at the man, the man who would personally lead this campaign, mount the dais and make his way to the forefront of it. He was dressed as his men, though his armour perhaps more elaborate, his head uncovered, and lifted his arm in the customary salute before he began to speak. I could see our own tribunus standing a few feet behind him and to the right, a sure sign of favour if there ever was one.

    “Men of the north, welcome to Greece. In the oncoming weeks my desire is to wrench from these effeminate peoples their land and, as you might be more interested in, their treasures. I have decided to accompany you all and your tribunus militi on this campaign, for I feel a safety with you that I doubt I could feel with even my own countrymen. My father, Jupiter keep him, was fond of outsiders and I intend to keep up that tradition starting here and now. Units, official units, are being mobilised in Aegyptus, composed of natives and foreigners, like yourselves, should you ever wish to leave your homes again once this campaign is done then you shall always be welcome amongst their ranks.”

    “Hail Maximus! Hail Maximus! Hail Maximus!”

    I was not certain his words had the profound effect on us that he had been looking for but, in good spirits, he did not seem to mind. As an alternative to our lack of enthusiasm we were ordered to line up in our assigned units and stand to attention, a Roman manoeuvre we had not really learnt, and prepare for inspection by the first citizen of Rome.

    After leaving the podium, the praetorian cohorts continuing to be as still as marble statues, Sextus and Spurius made their way in and out of our ranks, stopping every now and then to survey a particular man. Breucus happened to be one, and was called an ugly looking beast, while who should another man be but myself, me, a simple Dacian with nothing particularly noteworthy about me.

    “This one, an interesting specimen,” he quipped as they both stopped in front of me, “I assume these...markings... mean something tribune?” Spurius looked at my face and creased his eyebrows “I am not certain, sir,” he said and gave a short shrug “so many of them have them I simply assumed them to be a common feature amongst these brutes.”

    I must have grimaced or dropped my face at that because, as soon as I did, Sextus gave me a hard stare and spoke up.

    “Does this one understand latin, tribune?” Spurius looked from me to Sextus and back again, “well?” He questioned, “do you understand latin?”

    With nowhere but the ground to look I simply stared straight ahead but, eventually, I nodded an affirmative and chuckled a little inside when both Romans gave one another a 'look'.

    “What is this ones name, Spurius?”

    We had not been given latin names and it was clear that our tribunus was grasping for one which the first citizen could pronounce.

    “Marcus, sir, his name is Marcus.”

    “Marcus...”, the voice of Sextus was positively full of praise, “...you gave them latin names tribune, a mark of ingenuity on your part. I should recommend that to all commanders of native troops.”

    He then turned back to me and, reaching out, turned my face this way and that to get a better look at me. I remember his slightly wrinkled hands (he was sixty-one years old at this time) were as cold as anyone's on the field that day but his eyes...his eyes penetrated deep into the soul of a man and I do not believe I have ever felt under more scrutiny than I did at that moment.

    “Well, Getae, what are these markings on your face and body, mean anything do they?”

    At first I could not find my voice, or remember the correct words, but I rectified that soon enough.

    “Dacii, sir...I...Dacii. Markings are tribal design, advancement into manhood, symbols of my people and my family. Sir.”

    At this Sextus seemed quite impressed and nodded his head slowly.

    “Well, the latins a bit rusty and the dialect is awful...but I see promise here, tribune, I see promise. At the closure of our campaign you will send Marcus here to me. Until then, carry on.”


    **********


    How can I describe to you, reader, how it felt to be both a slave and a nobleman at the same time? To be so high into the heavens yet so low into the abyss?

    I noticed those guardsmen every time I passed near the first citizens tent, staring blankly into space, unmoving and unyielding representations of what I may one day have to face...what I might one day have to become. I decided then that I would keep my traditions, my customs, my roots alive and no matter how they tried to beat it out of me I would forever be Dacian...forever Rhatacense.

    A double-edged blade was the world and life I knew, staying as far away from the ideals of Romanitas, their ways of life, their trappings of civilisation, the gaining of wealth and at length the corruption that such life could bring.

    Once more I prayed to whatever gods could hear my pleas in this frozen wasteland, I prayed for them to give me battle, give me death, but to do whatever they could to keep me as far away from the enticement and temptation that was the Res Publica of Rome as possible.

    - M. Laenas

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    McScottish's Avatar The Scribbling Scotsman
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    Default Re: [RS 2.1a Roman (Auxiliary) AAR] Serving Your Oppressor

    Quote Originally Posted by Boustrophedon View Post
    Mhm sweet updates ^^ I usually prefer pictures when reading an AAR but your writing is good enough that you don't really need pictures. Keep up the great work, man! You also chose a very special viewpoint, that of an auxiliary, so I'm interested to see how your story will progress +rep naturally
    Many thanks again Boustrophedon, I just don't have the time or the patience for in-game pictures really, I am glad however that you find it an interesting read. Makes the writing worthwhile after all. +rep back at you.

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    McScottish's Avatar The Scribbling Scotsman
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    Hot Greek Summers, Part I - Summer 566 A.U.C



    Spoiler Alert, click show to read: 
    In the blistering summer of 566 Ab Urbe Condita the first thrusts against the Grecian 'rebels' were made, Titus L. Triciptinus landing his legion of the I Rhodorum in Attika, burning and pillaging as they went, before eventually laying siege to the venerable city of Athenae itself. Resistance was nowhere to be seen and it was believed, and true, that in spite of Romani troops gathering on their borders, we had taken the Greeks of each and every poleis completely by surprise.

    A force of irregular Illyrian volunteers, much like our own formation, under the command of Gaius Minicius Fundanus likewise pushed ahead into a rather disinterested Boeotia and surrounded Thebes, siege weapons being built as soon as possible by the hardy and hard working Illyrian tribesmen.

    The I and II Macedonica and the I Italica each advanced through Boeotia at a quickened pace, carrying their own supplies and equipment on their persons, even under the oppressive heat, to enter Achaea and the northern Peloponessos. They camped near the Isthmus of Korinth until they were to be informed that Athenae had been taken, and their rears were not going to be compromised.

    As for me, my tribune, and Sextus Maximus, we formed a pontoon bridge at the narrowest point of the Sinus Korinthiaeus and crossed through Achaea, past the city of Olenus and into the region of Elis. Sextus wished to capture the regions main polis of Olympia and, supported by another irregular force of Illyrians who encamped themselves near Pylos, we laid siege to it within the season. A situation that was quite frankly an insult.

    Lastly, first blood was spilt in Euboea when most of the Roman garrison of Chalkis, made up of veteran citizen soldiers and locally recruited Greeks, emerged to hunt down and destroy an outnumbered and isolated band of Spartans who had long since used all their supplies and were only discovered because of thievery and the blatant killing of Euboeans.

    I must beg your indulgence, dear reader, for I am hurriedly trying to recall the events of consequence during this conflict and such trifles as military manoeuvring cannot be of much interest to those capable of reading this (I am here assuming you are of the upper classes or religious persuasion, that is.) If this is so then, please, bear with a doddering soldier and perchance in the next few pages you may find something a little more to your liking.

    - M.Laenas

  17. #17
    Ybbon's Avatar The Way of the Buffalo
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    Default Re: [RS 2.1a Roman (Auxiliary) AAR] Serving Your Oppressor

    I know you don't do images and that's obviously your style, I was wondering if there was a way to maybe include some maps the state of the Empire if nothing else? If not, no worry, just a suggestion.

    It is an excellent read.

  18. #18
    Ishiyumi no shashu
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    Default Re: [RS 2.1a Roman (Auxiliary) AAR] Serving Your Oppressor

    This is a gem.

  19. #19
    McScottish's Avatar The Scribbling Scotsman
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    Default Re: [RS 2.1a Roman (Auxiliary) AAR] Serving Your Oppressor

    @Diomede: My great thanks Diomede! I don't know about that, but I'm glad you think so.

    @ybbon66: Might be able to...I'll see what I can do.

    All you really need to know is that the Romans (still in the Republic phase) hold Hispania, North Africa, the former Ptolemaic territories, all of Italia up to the Alps along with Sicilia (and Vindonissa of course), the former Greek poleis of Massalia, Rhodos, Cyrene and Cyprus, Byzantion, all the former Macedonian lands, Halikarnassos and the former Ptolemaic territories in Asia Minor.

    Everything else, so far, is in the hands of the original peoples who are expanding in all directions slowly but surely, if you can picture this in context to a RS II map then you should have a good idea of the states of the Republic thus far.

  20. #20
    DarthLazy's Avatar Equites Cohortales
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    Default Re: [RS 2.1a Roman (Auxiliary) AAR] Serving Your Oppressor

    Awesome mate, and my word you sure are fast with the updates!
    Quote Originally Posted by Heathen Hammer View Post
    Real imperialism is shown by Western apologists who are defending Ukraine's brutal occupation of Novorossija.
    Quote Originally Posted by Heathen Hammer View Post
    Sovereignty of Ukraine was recognized by Yeltsin and died with him.

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