Quinta Macedonica Legio - completed and retitled in honour.

[SeniorBatavianHorse]

I still haven't got over the disappoinment of the third book in the Ballista series. In terms of plotting and narrative arc, it seemed rushed and anticlimatic. I have yet to read his fourth book. My partner read them and found them overall weak compared to other writers, as well . . .

[Diocle]

Really I found difficult to sleep,.......what is the secret of the life of Felix?...Felix!!...What lies behind his simple and innocent name?......Where does our Ducenarius come from?....What is his true face?.....Too many questions that create a deep mistery.......it is not easy to sleep in this condition!....
Please, give us some update! for the mental healt of the readers!.....although I well know that from each answer arises a new question.............

[Yeepeep]

I don't know about you guys, but I have faith in Cassianus. In my mind he is a slumbering beast, slow to anger but terrible in his wrath. Trust me, that Armenian will bring some major pain to those who oppose him (both on his side and on the other)

[SeniorBatavianHorse]

That Epistle Written in Dust . . .

If a legion can write an epinikia - that ode sent by emperors to all the provinces and cities extolling a crushing victory over the barbarians on some obscure field of battle - then perhaps such an epinikia began that dawn as we filed slowly out of the campaign tent. It began that morning and I alone penned its first halting words. For what was I now if not a chronicler and also an author? It was my words alone which had directed the fate of the legion and my words alone which carved its fate across the brittle papyrus. If a legion can claim to itself a victory ode then we, the Quinta, the Macedonica, ever faithful and ever loyal, alone of all the other legions, would lay claim to that singular writing - for we wrote now an ode of victory and valour above all others for we wrote in blood and in honour to put aside nothing but the shame and the anger of being used. It would be an epinikia like no other - not those penned by the emperor’s panegyrists, not those lauded by the poets of old, nor those sung now by black coweled priests of the old god of Abraham. This letter would be penned in blood, each curlicue of ink nothing but the falling mark of a legionary, each comma and full stop the harsh punctuation of sword and arrow and dart. Our epinikia would be the legion itself and the deeds to come here in the deep deserts of the Saraceni. Our song of victory would be our actions in lifting the acanthus higher than it had ever been held before - for we had the sting of shame in our hearts and it was a barb whose bitterness was a novel thing to us. And I alone was witness and progenitor to it all . . .

We drifted slowly as though recovering from a strange and unhallowed rite from that dim and murky tent, bewildered at the turn of fate, wondering as we stumbled a little into the cool dawn, the faint lick of the rising sun flaming the battlements to the east almost as a harbinger of what we would take into the lands of the Saraceni. We moved in small clumps, raising a hand to our eyes after the smoky dimness of the tent, talking in low murmurs like mendicants who have found that crumb to bolster them for another day. We walked softly unsure of what had happened and seemed to find that dawn about us a strange thing - novel and pristine like a gift from the gods.

I remember walking beside Aemilianus and being one of the last to emerge. He smiled at me in that indulgent way of his that seemed to understand and forgive whatever failings he found in me and I smiled back still in awe of what I had said back in the tent - of the presumption and the haughtiness of it all - that I, a Ducenarius in this legion, should command an army of the empire itself and by doing so change its fate. I smiled back bewildered and a little fierce with the pride of it all - and that sun-burnt face of his indulged me in my hubris. He reached out then and clasped my shoulder and the firm grip made me pause.

We stood then as the others drifted away, mute, and still digesting no doubt the events of that long night. We stood and all about us arose the din and banter of the castellum. Sentries strode the ramparts, some lounging over the stone edges, faces raised into the sun, communing with who knew what deity. Others clustered about the braziers scooping down handfuls of hot gruel, swaddled in the heavy cloaks against the last remnants of the brittle night, looking uneasily as we all filed out. Nearby, the poor tiros were being kicked awake by a score of rough-looking and foul-mouthed biarchii, some of whom were throwing buckets of urine over them and laughing that brutal but brotherly laugh only men who have faced death together have. I saw one tiro rise suddenly and in a strange dancing move trip a biarchus deftly before he could tip the contents over him. The latter rose in anger and then in less than the blink of an eye laughed uproariously and clapped him on the back. Far away, I heard the petulant squealing of the camels and saw the newly-arrived troopers of these mangy animals feeding them and brushing them, swearing and cursing as much as the camels spat back at them. Men were leading the cavalry mounts away from their tethers and placing the saddles on their backs even as the slaves and grooms were sweeping the long run used to charge and practise with the contus lance. A score of clibanarii were already mounted and resting in the horned saddles, their faceplates down, and for all the world appearing like caryatids, frozen, silvered, implacable. Deep in the far shadows I saw the ragged numeri lolling about like vagabonds at a festival, cradling their little wooden toys. Above us more of them drifted about the parapets, each one holding that deadly arcuballista, now loaded, while others moved about all the key points in the fort, alert but playing up their boredom with a stifled yawn or a rub of the eye. In one single moment, I looked up high then and saw him deep in the dark shadow of a tower corner, his copper face still and calm, even as he returned my gaze and swung that crossbow behind him as if it had never existed.

More than that however I saw the men of my legion in all the usual practises of the day - the swopping over of patrols, the unburdening of shield and armour, the doffing of helmet, the cooking of food, the aching stretch outside the papillio tent, the easy humour as tent-mates mock one of their own, the angry words over a bet or lost board game, the flexing wrist and that long silver tongue of the spatha being put through its paces, the cracked boot kicking a slave out of the way, the tall Danubian veteran holding his wife while roughing up the wild hair of his son, the latter already playing with a wooden practise sword, the scarred vexillarius sewing a patch on the century standard while quoting a little Virgil that he has learned from some poor poet, the quarter-master counting again the amphorae of wine and wondering why he is short even as a clump of undress legionaries near him sway just a little too much and laugh all the louder the more they try to stifle that humour at his frantic counting, and, finally, I see Octavio walk towards me with young Suetonius in his tow, an eager look on their faces and I nod back, once, into their anticipation. I see my legion in all its shades about me all the while the hand of Aemilianus remains on my shoulder urging me to halt and reflect - and I understand what it is that he is showing me. We stand there and see the legion not as a hard line of armoured men all still and ready to receive the enemy but instead as over a thousand soldiers with all the imperfections and troubles and joys that such a union of men can have. We stand and for a single almost endless moment watch it all.

The Quinta not in battle but in everything else - and in that moment felt perhaps closer to these men and the legion than I had ever felt before.

That hand released me then. ‘How does it feel, Felix, knowing that you alone have sealed the fate of many if not all of these men?’

I stared back at him. ‘What choice did I have? This is the Fifth. Any other action would have stripped all our honours from us.’

His face hardened and I thought again on that odd look which had warred across his face in the tent when Cassianus had knelt to him and offered up command. ‘How few men left in these times would say those words let alone act upon them? Oh Felix command runs in your blood but I prey you never learn the true cost of that burden.’

He turned and walked away from me, into his numeri, those poor men and rejects of Rome, and they fell upon him like beggars, like thieves, like murders, and he vanished into them, laughing, one arm about a thin man in a frayed tunica, until I could not see him any longer. He disappeared and I remained alone deep in the Fort of Oblivion as all its life swirled around in that dawn. I had never been more proud of my legion and more lonely too . . .

[SeniorBatavianHorse]

Ah Diocle, like layers peeling from an onion - to use Ibsen's metaphor - Felix will be revealed in time as are all men in war.

Yeepeep - the Armenian lion may yet show its teeth for there is an Armenian proverb which I think Felix wrote when he first encountered this Cassianus. It tells all!

[chaplain118]

I bow before one with skill superior to my own.

A beautifully poignant update.

[Diocle]

He disappeared and I remained alone deep in the Fort of Oblivion as all its life swirled around in that dawn. I had never been more proud of my legion and more lonely too . . .

IMHO, SBH is a very good writer! ................
If some demented does not agree with me, well!! I challange him to a duel here and now, last blood o.c.! and being the offended, to me the choice of the arms! remember that I practiced fencing seven years (foil 5 and epeè 2) so the poor moron is advised!

Oh Felix command runs in your blood

So....command runs in his blood...............Ybb! Help!....Ybbon please Help!!....What do you think?.........Felix....The command....the blood.........he might be the son of someone....with an important military or political position......but the name?........and why, at this point only Ducenarius?...........

[SeniorBatavianHorse]

I think Aemlianus is speaking to his character more than his ancestry there (remember, he witnessed Felix arrive to save him at the Unending Sighs and now has seen him set the legion on a path into the east!).

[Ybbon]

Men of the 5th, pick up your arms and fill your bellies for tomorrow we march. On to the wastes of Persia, while the Sarceni dogs howl and yap in the West, bothering the Emperor himself, we'll be enjoying their wives and daughters hospitality - and I've heard they will be very hospitable - and eating their food, drinking their wine. And when they return we'll kill them all and take whatever we want back to Rome. So who is with me then?

[Diocle]

I'm with you dear friend! For the V! But also Roma is with you! And 1200 years of Roman Glory is with you friend! And the True Gods and Goddesses of Roma are with you and with the V SEMPER PIA! SEMPER FIDELIS!!.....and the Ancient and Mysterious Genius of the Empire is with the V for the Honour of Roma!


P.S.: Thanks SBH, the mystery had taken me too far away! ......but this suspended atmosphere....the hypnotic and surreal trial, in that overcrowded tent.....and the new direction of the events.......well! I was too immersed in the mistery.........but as said Ybb now is time to leave toward the Rising Sun!!!...........what a story!

[SeniorBatavianHorse]

Men of the 5th, pick up your arms and fill your bellies for tomorrow we march. On to the wastes of Persia, while the Sarceni dogs howl and yap in the West, bothering the Emperor himself, we'll be enjoying their wives and daughters hospitality - and I've heard they will be very hospitable - and eating their food, drinking their wine. And when they return we'll kill them all and take whatever we want back to Rome. So who is with me then?

Nice - I might paraphrase that!

I'm with you dear friend! For the V! But also Roma is with you! And 1200 years of Roman Glory is with you friend! And the True Gods and Goddesses of Roma are with you and with the V SEMPER PIA! SEMPER FIDELIS!!.....and the Ancient and Mysterious Genius of the Empire is with the V for the Honour of Roma!


P.S.: Thanks SBH, the mystery had taken me too far away! ......but this suspended atmosphere....the hypnotic and surreal trial, in that overcrowded tent.....and the new direction of the events.......well! I was too immersed in the mistery.........but as said Ybb now is time to leave toward the Rising Sun!!!...........what a story!

Ah, the rising sun . . . but that which rises must also set, Diocle. It must also set.

[Ybbon]

Nice - I might paraphrase that!

Well anything that is written as a comment on your AAR is by extension yours and of course it would be an honour

[McScottish]

Curse the rep, for I cannot share, but whence I can I shall. Onward, the brave fifth! Onward to glory, to deeds worthy of any figures of myth and legend. I cannot wait to see what happens next, bring on the updates!

[Diocle]

Ah, the rising sun . . . but that which rises must also set, Diocle. It must also set.

Yes....this is true!............But even in sunset......there may be glory and greatness and beauty!

[Luxchamp]

Are we quoting LotR now?

[chaplain118]

I've been reading this AAR again and again. It still astounds me how SBH has managed to create a world that is completely visible to me, but so hidden away at the same time. Reading this is sometimes discouraging because it makes my writing feel so... what's the word, flat.

How do you do it? How do you create a story that simply draws people into it so easily and effortlessly? How do you describe scenery that puts just enough in our minds to see but gives us the freedom to fill in the missing pieces with our minds?

I stand before my master with a thirsty cup yearning for the waters of knowledge

[Yeepeep]

I've been reading this AAR again and again. It still astounds me how SBH has managed to create a world that is completely visible to me, but so hidden away at the same time. Reading this is sometimes discouraging because it makes my writing feel so... what's the word, flat.

How do you do it? How do you create a story that simply draws people into it so easily and effortlessly? How do you describe scenery that puts just enough in our minds to see but gives us the freedom to fill in the missing pieces with our minds?

I stand before my master with a thirsty cup yearning for the waters of knowledge

Ditto but for me it's a bit more about the characters. I've caught myself on several occasions (not related to anything to do with Twcenter or RTW) now thinking in the lines of "what's Felix up to?" or "what will be the fate of the other guy (the Gaul whose name I can't remember but know him as he-who-took-the-spear)".

In all fairness, the same goes for Chaplain's Titus or McScottish latest Laenas (which I'm way behind on).

Or, you know, just thinking "man, the dux is so bad a$$ that he's the most awesome of them all" as I'm reading the news. Don't ask me what's the connection, there is none

[SeniorBatavianHorse]

The Shades of the Past Renew the Present

In the ancient times the festival of the blessing of the standards had been a sacred act, in which rose petals and palm leaves and other offerings had adorned all the vexilla and the aquila of the legion. Priests had chanted the rites to Jupiter Maximus and swung little orbs of incense while the legate with his tribunes and the centurions had ordered the legionaries to prostrate themselves and re-dedicate their oath to the respublica and the Augustus. It was held at midday as the sun stood over the castellum and all the men of the legion would then eat and drink their fill of sacrifices and offerings, clad in their finest arms and armour, all sporting their torcs and armillae . In this way the standards would be renewed and purified for another year. That evening after the garlanding the men would line up to receive their yearly coin from the legion’s pay chest - somewhat worse for wear and often unable to count correctly - much to the amusement of the veteran soldiers who were waiting to gamble all that coin into their hands . . . It thus remained a sacred moment in the yearly Kalendar of the exercitus of Rome. It echoed still among us but as with all things Chronos loosens his touch and everything withers and fades.

At midday we all assembled on the wide, flat and dusty campus beside Nasranum. The Quinta stood in the centre with its six maniples in full formation, the sunlight gleaming from helmet, shield rim and lancea tip. A little forwards were the vexillarii of the centuries, twelve all told. In front of them stood the lonely draconarii, Suetonius among them, of the maniples. Before us all, in honour, was the old aquilifer of the legion - a lean and sparse veteran from the rugged lands of Anatolia we all called ‘Canus’ for his white hair - while the Ducenarii and Centenarii ranged themselves in a long line before the rankers. All were spotless in white tunicas and yellow cloaks. Crests had been fitted to our helmets and the scale and chainmail armour was burnished clean of rust and dirt. On our right stood the Clibanarii, faceplates raised and holding in their hands the reins to their proud Nissaean horses. The latter’s manes and tails were all bound up in scarlet ribbons, the bridles and saddles adorned with gold coins and medallions. At the head of the vexillation stood three vexillarii and then, all alone, the troop’s draconarius. On our left were ranged the two Arabum numeri with their own thin standards that seemed drab and thread-bare compared to ours. Behind us, stood the newly arrived camel troopers of the Ala Antana Dromedariorum usually based at Admatha but now detached to us as escorts and messengers. These latter were all of Arab stock and were as filthy and greasy looking as their mounts. The camels were kneeling in the dust to the rear, snorting and eyeing us all with their great rheumy eyes, all the while chewing and spitting.

Before us, lay a wide rostrum upon which stood our Tribune, Angelus. Beside him was Aemilianus, praepositus of the Arabi, Parthenius, Vicarius of the Clibanarii, and to one side the praefectus of the camel troop, Tusca, sweating in the midday heat. Before them all stood our Dux, Cassianus, resplendent in silver-chased armour, clasping a massive helmet in the crook of one arm. A rich scarlet cloak draped his shoulders. Along the front of the rostrum at ground level were his guards, all equally magnificent in armour and helm which contrasted oddly with their harsh Illyrian faces. In the centre of all rose the labarum of Christ, emblazoned with the emperor’s icon.

It was midday under the scorching heat of the Harra and we began that ancient rite, the Rosalia Signorum.

Cassianus began then by praising the generosity of the emperors, Valens and his brother Valentinian, their concern for the welfare of the respublica, the valour of the legions and the vexillations and the auxilia in defending the empire from the barbarians. He raised his voice in the dusty air and mouthed the usual formulas of piety and devotion that were required. He talked of service to state and god and emperor that we had heard a dozen times over and again at this time in the ritual Kalendar of the exercitus of Rome. His words were dry and thin like a papyrus being slowly torn asunder by a bored hand. I remember looking slowly around and seeing men beside me, their heads lolling in the heat and the dry air. Sweat fell into the dust at our feet from their brows. Behind me, I saw Suetonius lean in against the pole of the draco as if using it for a support. Its long silk tail was flaccid. Up and down the long lines of the soldiers, the little red flags of the centuries seemed faded and thin, already covered in that dry sand of the Harra. And his voice droned on as that magnificent and awful sun blazed high over us all and I felt a drowsiness fall like heavy chains over my limbs and I blinked to clear my eyes.

Something happened then and for one unlucid moment I felt as if I had slipped into a dream state and that a vision was ensnaring me. Something brushed my face as if cold water had been thrown across it. I rose my head and frowned.

There upon that rostrum the Armenian was pulling off his armillae one by one and throwing them into the dust below. He was silent now and that dark face of his was sombre like a man who has seen an unwelcome truth in his heart. Each golden arm-band spun through the air and landed with a dull thud. Little tufts of sand marked where they fell. Lastly, Cassianus unclipped the massive gold torc about his throat, held it for a moment before him as if weighing up a decision, and then too threw it away from him. It sparkled for one solitary moment as it flew away from his open hand. The sound of its landing was marked by the silence of all of us who stood arrayed before him.

He stood divested of his medals and awards. In his face there seemed to war a strange thing - vanity, pride, ambition - but against these brittle humours another arose and asserted itself and that thing which possessed his face was the thing which made him strip away his external show: shame . . .

Shame possessed Cassianus. I saw it as bile in his mouth and repressed anger in his eyes. I saw it in the clenched fists as he pulled off each golden arm-band. In the manner in which he threw them away from his body. I saw it in his stiff jaw that seemed to want to shout and rail against a thing unjust and uncalled for. But he did not rail or cry out. He stood alone surrounded by his officers and guards shorn of honour and reward. He stood mute, his eyes blazing with an anger that only shame can stoke up. Below his feet lay those gold ornaments all abandoned and neglected.

All around me, men stiffened and I felt a sudden tension coil about us all.

He looked up at us then and smiled the smile of an Armenian lion. ‘Commilliatones, I came here in arrogance and pride. I rode the imperial steed of authority and resented that I had under me nothing but worn-out legionaries and forgotten soldiers. I chaffed to be posted to a lost fort that no-one cared to remember or even name. I desired nothing but service under the sacred Valens and battle in the north of Cappadocia against this usurper called Procopius. What did I care for Nasranum and these Saraceni who drift out here like locusts? What honour or victory could lay out here in a desert peopled only by bandits and vagabonds and thieves? And so I came here on the cloak of arrogance and bitterness. I abandoned men in battle. I left Romans to die. I deserted the castellum under my command and marched north to a fruitless victory in an oasis lost to water and respite. I opened the west to these thieves and tent-dwellers no better than beggars. This fort is a broken fort now. It holds nothing but shame and dishonour. I have betrayed you one and all. We all stand now in oblivion and I alone am responsible.’ He paused for a moment then and his eyes fell upon the glittering ornaments in the dust and sand at his feet. ‘We are all alone now here in the Black Desert. This enemy I have despised has swept through us without even battle or challenge, we are so low in their eyes. They have swept on past us, laughing and spitting upon us. They ride now west into the respublica, the eyes of their riders shining with contempt, the banners and standards flowing high in the wind of triumph. They ride west and leave us behind as worthless, as scuff and rags on the wind. I have been robbed of honour and dignity and the truth of it is that it was I who did this. I alone am responsible. And so I throw away now the marks and emblems of my pride and hubris. I throw to my feet these gaudy baubles. They are nothing but a mockery in my eyes.’ He reached up then and unclasped the rich scarlet cloak at his shoulder so that it fell lifeless to the floor. ‘I have betrayed Rome. I have betrayed the emperor.’ He tossed away the helmet as if it were nothing but a broken wine vessel. ‘I have betrayed you all and am not worthy of standing here under your gaze.’ He reached down then and unsheathed his spatha. It was a magnificent weapon encrusted with gems around an ivory handle crowned with the head of an eagle. He unsheathed it and held it across his hands as if offering it up. His dark eyes glittered - and he raised it above his head, high. ‘This alone I retain. The sword of Rome. This sword. It took the words of one man here among you all to make me realise what all of you knew in your hearts. He spoke and I saw the truth in his heart. He spoke and I saw that far from being of no worth and being held in contempt, these Saraceni and their Persian pay-masters have committed a grave sin. They have left us all alone here far behind them as they sojourn into the west. And I ask what shall we do? What shall we do now that they have swept over us as if we are of no worth? And this man among you made me see that it is we who should be feared. It is we who should be marching with our eyes bright and our weapons sharp. It is we, Romans, who should be falling upon our enemies in vengeance and blood. He spoke those words and all here on this rostrum heard them and not one here disagreed. I made a pledge then. I place down the command of the Dux Palaestinae and all that it holds. I place aside that imperial title and its authority as I have these baubles. It is said that there is another title lost to Rome as we have become lost to Rome. A title stolen in battle over a hundred years ago far in the east by the Euphrates. It sank in ignominy as our pride has sunk. Last night deep in the gloom of anger and shame that title was offered to me as a final crown of thorns and I embraced it. I took it up and wrapped it about my head. I stand now before you all not as a commander appointed by the sacred Valens but instead as a commander raised up by the Tribune of the Quinta, saluted by the commander of you ragged men I abandoned in my hubris, honoured by the acting commander of these clibanarii famed across the Roman world. I stand alone now as the Dux Ripae, the Commander of the River - and the authority I wield is nothing but this sword. As this title has no honour left so I too will not bear gold or silver trinkets. I stand before you as nothing but a Roman soldier vowing to avenge this insult. I will march to the Euphrates and reclaim that title in battle among the corpses of our enemy. I will march east towards that scorpion which is Persia and mark that march in blood and vengeance - not for God or the little gods still left in your hearts, not for the emperor and his glory, and not for the vanity of triumph or the idle boast. I will march and carve out of the bodies of these Saraceni one word alone and that word is honour. I will march east until I cannot march any longer and the last thing I will hold in this hand will be this sword. That sword alone will redeem you all, this I swear on my life.’

He gaze swept us all then and by all the gods and goddess I have ever known, in battle or peace, in day or night, in passion or repose, I saw not a man upon that rostrum but something else. Something divine touched him then and it was as if another stepped into his flesh to own and use it. He stood there, his arms high, that naked sword offered up, his face filled with shame and that desperate yearning to wipe it clean - and I saw something few Romans had ever seen. I saw not a man but one dedicated now to death and sacrifice. I saw the ancient Roman act of devotio and knew that although he stood there above us on that rostrum, his officers all phalanxed about him, he was already a dead man pledged to offer up his blood not to save us in battle but instead to wipe away that shame which marked us all. A shiver ran through me then and all around me, in the ranks and the files of the legionaries, among the iron-clads of the cavalry, and even among the numeri and the tiros all herded together to one side, something moved through us; a sweet wine; a breeze which caressed our limbs in a cool balm - and it was as if the gods fell upon us to watch and breathe in this act. I heard a distant murmur at my back and felt rather than understood that ancient Etruscan litany Octavio always uttered. Those dark words encased not so much my ears but my soul and I felt the heat vanish and the sun fade away until all I could feel was the cold touch of the underground gods who feast on sacrifice and blood. The earth underneath me shelved as if a great beast was emerging below. I stared wildly about but all I saw were men whispering old chants to themselves or repeating without understanding those blasphemous Etruscan words - words whose syllables tasted like black wine on the lips - while others repeated the names of the saints in honour of a martyr who yet lived above them. A shiver swept through us all and it was the breath of the gods of the dead marking one for their own.

‘Dux Ripae . . .’

It was Arbuto, that Frank, with his blond hair always untamed, who uttered that phrase which broke the spell over us. He uttered it and stood forward stripping his own decorations and rewards as he did so. There was something wild in his Germanic eyes and I saw a grim fatalism as if he gazed upon the end of his gods which I had never seen before. He strode forward and threw down his armillae and he tore off the torc from his neck and then he drew out his own sword and pledged it high to the Armenian above him - and then his men followed slowly, pulling off golden arm-bands, ripping away the torcs, throwing them all into the dust, while raising up that dull iron of the sword in both hands. And then all around me, men were flinging away their honour and their awards as if they were nothing but cheap copper or bronze trinkets. Gold littered the campus. One after the other, the spatha was held up and from each mouth rippled out that new command, ‘Dux Ripae’, and I saw knuckles whiten about the blades and handles of the swords. That command echoed out across the wide ground, across the desert, across the broken black ground sheathed in bone and detritus. It rolled up against the walls of the castellum like a battle-cry. It housed itself deep in the soul of every man there. And there was not one single man left who had not divested himself of all the honours he had earned.

We, the Exercitus Euphratensis, stood before our lord and commander, our weapons raised to honour him his sacrifice and I saw blood drip from the blades. It ran down the hands, the arms, across the white tunicas, to fall gently into the sand at all our feet. As he pledged himself to us so we pledged ourselves back to him under that high midday sun deep in the Harra, as Romans, as legionaries, as soldiers, as comrades.

Cassianus nodded then, once, and in a fluid movement swept his sword down and into his sheath. He stepped forwards to the edge of the rostrum and bellowed out the command which heralded the ritual:

‘Standards, Down!’

And one by one, the labarum, the eagle, the dragon and the red flags dipped, ready for the blessing and re-dedication . . .

[SeniorBatavianHorse]

Dear SBH do you mean 'That' Robert Howard???.....Robert Ervin Howard?.....the man who created Conan?........The Great True King of Heroic fantasy?.....The friend of Lovercraft?....SBH you are like a tresaure full of wonderful surprises, even when you post your replies!.........R E Howard,......well, well, welll........here a large reprint has just begun...........




Sorry Lux, (if you was referring to me) but actually not any quote of LotR but only the Gulf of Genoa I was watching from the window here, in one of its wonderful and glorious Tyrrhenian sunsets!!

Yes, the very man! I grew up on his prose and poetry and recently re-bought all his fiction work to travel down nostalgia lane! Wonderful stuff.

Ditto but for me it's a bit more about the characters. I've caught myself on several occasions (not related to anything to do with Twcenter or RTW) now thinking in the lines of "what's Felix up to?" or "what will be the fate of the other guy (the Gaul whose name I can't remember but know him as he-who-took-the-spear)".

In all fairness, the same goes for Chaplain's Titus or McScottish latest Laenas (which I'm way behind on).

Or, you know, just thinking "man, the dux is so bad a$$ that he's the most awesome of them all" as I'm reading the news. Don't ask me what's the connection, there is none

I like 'He who took the spear' - very evocative!

[Diocle]

Chaplain said exactly what I thought but I was not able to explain! Thanks!!!.........+rep!